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damiwaynesupremacy · 4 hours ago

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I FOUND ITTTT😭😭

Could you do 'I only ask for your laughter' with Damian? Thank you ♡♡♡♡

don’t know if this is what you had in mind but thanks for requesting!!

“Ask him to get this colour.”

Jon Kent has this way about him, this air of sweetness and innocence that acts as a brilliant cover for the true diabolical intelligence he possesses in the crux of his soul. It’s wonderful, really. Astonishing. You can’t love him more if you tried.

“It’s hideous,” you say, taking the paint chip from him for closer inspection. “It looks like….I don’t even know which specific gross thing it is but my god.”

“Right?” he laughs.

“Where’d you find this?”

The aisles of the home improvement store you’d been loitering around in are mostly unoccupied for a Saturday morning. With high ceilings filled with monotonous items and the constant low hum of machinery coupled with the stark lack of human existence; it’s almost like being in liminal space. You can’t complain about that though. For once, it’s pleasant enough to monopolize each other’s time without the company of a doting crowd.

Hanging around with Damian always meant extra attention. People flocked to him in droves. If it wasn’t because he was a Wayne (the polished, pristine kind of Wayne that flashed his black AmEx card with a smile), it was because he was unarguably, unfailingly attractive (the kind of attractive that made the buttcrack of dawn on a Saturday seem bearable) and that’s something you had to be honest about.

Being his best friend—and Jon’s by extension— meant that you were subject to a lot of that. Honesty. Where Superboy was a, “Hey, I love you but I can’t let you do/say/eat this thing,” type of truthful, Damian was, “Don’t lie to me right now, my training allows me to see through it.” Somehow even when they were on the same side, they managed to oppose.

It was good, healthy even, to have a decent amount of exposure to those who were incapable of fallacies. The practice of truth kept you on your toes. This meant you’d curbed your behaviour to resemble integrity at all junctions. This was key when it came to Damian and matters of the heart.

Contrarily, the truth had been the bargaining chip that had gotten you out of bed in the first place. Saturdays were cemented as days for overeating and petty squabbles in a rotation of each other’s abodes. This one had come to fruition because Damian had lamented that he had errands to do, couldn’t put them off any longer without backlash and he would rather suffer through his responsibilities with his friends than without.

With the days until the fall semester winding down, it’d become easier to give in to each other’s whims even when they were ridiculous. But Damian had settled for Yale in September, Jon for Metropolis U and with your own documents checked and dorm room assigned, you were on the same train of irreverent change that came with college. You supposed that these were the last vestiges of clingy childish chastity that you each could savour before the distance killed the sparks.

So you sucked it up, let Damian drag the both of you out and held your tongue as he hefted around a cart of supplies and household items and a strange array of bits and bobs that had Jon catching your eye with a pointed, ‘are you going make the dirty joke or should I?’ type of glance. Jon’s full of amused reverie as he answers your question, “I asked them which one sells the least.”

And of course, it would be a bright yet stale looking snot green.

“Brilliant.”

“Now make sure and ask him nicely.”

“You do it. He’ll listen to you.”

“Nah,” Jon shakes his head. “He listens to me when it’s important but he’ll do whatever you ask him to, whenever you do.”

“That’s not true, Kent. Shut up!”

“Yeah, Kent. Shut up.” Damian comes down the aisle at a leisurely pace, somehow managing to make pushing a trolly with one arm and cradling a heavy-duty water hose with the other look regal. “Why are we telling Kent to shut up— not that I’m surprised, I could hear his big mouth from all the way over there.”

Your deflecting, “Doesn’t matter. Did you get the paint you wanted?” collides with Jon’s offended, “Hey!” and Damian’s mouth quirks up at the corner, the way it does when he wants to smile but he doesn’t want you to know he’s amused.

The colours he’s selected are warm and neutral and exactly what you’d expected from him. He slips the chips of sage grey and dove out of your fingers after you’ve finished surveying them and a startling crimson takes their place.

“Check the name,” he explains.

And you turn the chip to find ‘Robin Red’ sitting on the back in a small neat print. Mirroring his guarded expression of amusement from earlier, you pass the chip to Jon. Damian doesn’t take the bait though and that’s what spurs it out of you.

“I picked a colour for your accent wall.”

“Why? I don’t need an accent wall.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No. I don’t. What’s the point of an accent wall.”

“The point of an accent wall,” you hiss, breaking enough to wave the hideous snot green sample under his nose, “Is to accent.”

“Eloquent, aren't you?”

“Look at it,” Jon chimes in helpfully.

Damian’s features pinch up as he looks at the both of you, twin expressions of feigned innocence falling flat. He recognizes the game, calls your bluff and plays his hand. The colour is an eyesore and it’s going to make Alfred question his sanity but there’s no room for valiant decisions in friendly warfare.

“Gorgeous,” he says. His eyes are locked into yours when the word leaves his lips and there is a second where your body reacts before your brain can process; you shiver, he sees it and his mouth falls open inquisitively. That’s a different game. A far more dangerous one that you absolutely can’t play with him because the stakes are so far out of the earth’s stratosphere. “Well if you want it, we’ll get it, then.”

He pays while Jon leans on your shoulder with a pout and argues the merits of how having a colour named ‘Super Blue’ is far more understandable than Robin Red. You goad him just enough to raise Damian’s hackles into an argument that lasts the entire car ride back to the manor; Jon holds his triumphant grin the entire way.

There’s furniture to be moved (“I feel like you guys are taking advantage of my super-strength,” “Would we ever do such a thing?”, “YES,”), tarp that has to be laid out over pristine hardwood floors and secured and a brief conundrum with a reel of painter’s tape that’s solved with a batarang before any of the actual painting starts. Jon stays long enough to see the neutrals go up. He bails with a bored, “Gotta fly!” that makes him sound scarily like Conner.

You’re left standing next to a paint-splattered Damian with a full gallon of booger green sitting mockingly between you. The paint is easily the most hideous colour either of you have laid eyes on.

“Not too late to back out, D.”

“And deprive you of the chance to see this in all its glory? I’d never do that to you.”

“How chivalrous of you,” you concede.

“My love knows no bounds,” he quips back and you have no choice but to busy yourself with the task at hand to prevent the words from carving out a permanent place in your heart.

For no other reason but his own amusement, Damian takes every opportunity to drip the cold, viscous green onto you— in your hair, down the back of your shirt, harsh drips on your toes. He plays it off with a weak show of faux innocence that you can see right through. He’s always been more parts grace and decadence than clumsy teenage boy.

The final blow is a wet smack against your cheek and then you’re fuming, slapping your own paintbrush right down his face and stalking away from him as he cackles. After that, he acquiesces and lets you pout behind him without a comment. You watch him handle the roller brush with just enough pressure to paint a solid, straight line onto the wall. From then, it’s hard to resist the urge to stare. With the room devoid of curtains, the afternoon sun seeps in and stings. You’re covered in a layer of sweat and a little uncomfortable but it’s worth it for the way the light catches the lines of him. It’s like he’d grown into something unknowable while you were preoccupied with holding onto the parts of him you had always known best. His shoulders are broader, the muscles of his back bunch up and release in his movement. Dark, sweat-damp hair meets the nape of his neck with a seamlessness that you couldn’t stop agonizing over. The need to touch feels inescapable. But then the strong smell of drying paint laying tacky across your skin reminds you that he’s still a bit of an asshole and the urge recedes, shameful and meek.

“Why’d he bail?”

You’re lying on your back, staring up at the ceiling rafters at this point. The sound of crunching plastic and shuffling feet indicates his accomplishment of painting, followed by the thud of his body dropping down an arm’s length to your left.

“Cuz he’s worried everything we do together until we leave is ritualistically the last triumphs of our friendship and that we’re just saying goodbye over and over.”

“He told you that?”

“Yes,” you say. “Hasn’t he told you?”

“No.” Damian is quiet for long enough that you have to roll over and look at him, checking for any signs of anger or betrayal. “I’m not offended. Both of you have a malignant habit of hiding your feelings from me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means.”

“If I knew what it meant I wouldn’t be asking would I?”

“Whatever.”

“Why paint the room now?” You’re leaving. I’m leaving. No one here needs a freshly painted room, reveal your secrets to me, Damian Al Ghul.

“Commissioner Gordan told Richard that painting Barbara’s room before she left for school made it easier.”

Your response is the answer to an unasked question, “It takes the familiarity away. So she had one less thing to miss.”

“Your brain is still intact, I see.”

“Why Yale?” You don’t want to indulge him and you’d been itching to ask again. It’s a sore, turgid spot to poke. But Jon isn’t in the room to balance the recklessness of your feelings for Damian with the carelessness he has with your heart. You want to say why not me but that sounds far too much like a “pick me, choose me, love me,” speech and you promised yourself you would never give one to him.

“You can’t ask that like you aren’t leaving either. Don’t just ask because you want to start an argument.”

“I’m not trying to start anything.”

And that is too much, too soon and too close to home.

“Of course you're not. You’d never start anything. Why would you?”He flails his arms above his head. You’re caught by the sudden movement and distracted by corded muscle. When he speaks again, there’s an emotion in his voice you can’t name. “Do you have a problem with me leaving?”

“No, I have a problem with your stupid face.”

“Classy.”

“Damian we’re not dead, we’ll still see each other.”

“That’s not it. Please don’t be obtuse with me.”

Your own anger startles you, “Why is it that I always have to be something with you?”

There’s a terrifying moment, where you realize that you’re sitting up, looking down at him with all of your cards on the table. He can’t lie to you, you can’t lie to him. The truth sits in the open and neither of you moves to grab it.

And then slowly, in the pace of him surging up to meet your eyes, he says, “Kent was right. What he said earlier; anything, any place, any time, anywhere. Ask for it and it’s yours.”

This Damian—the one that had sprung into being in the parallax of your vision, the one that chose Yale and looked at you like he wanted….just wanted— this Damian liked truth and dangerous games. He was all at once, everything you knew him to be and a stranger.

The words wash over with a sting. Eyes shut and hands clenched, you count your breath. In and out until you can remember the reason you’re avoiding this with him. Until the urge to lean over and kiss him sits down.

He lets you let it go. Because he feels the same way you do and neither of you are willing to push. Neither of you are ready too.

“Your wall is the colour of Mike Wazowski.”

And then, like magic, he laughs. “I’ll paint a mural over it.”

“You really shouldn’t have gone along with it.”

“Maybe I’ll learn how to say no to you after tertiary education gets a hold of me.”

It’s bright and heartbreaking and honest. Maybe we’ll be good for each other someday. You thank him for it with a nudge to his shoulder. He nudges back, and you think that maybe you are not ready for him yet, but you can live with laughing beside him for the time being.

#finally #i can rest easy now #damian wayne #damian wayn x reader #fanfiction #it took so long but it was worth it

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