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akairawrites · 2 days ago

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When the Silence Breaks | Damian Wayne x Reader

At Gotham Academy, no one asks too many questions—especially when your past is too heavy to carry out loud. Y/n L/n is no exception. The daughter of a once-feared mob figure, she hides behind sharp eyes and graphite sketches, trying to stay invisible while the weight of her childhood still claws at her spine. When a school project unexpectedly pairs her with Damian Wayne, the two begin to orbit each other in quiet, careful steps.

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The room is quiet except for the soft creak of rope-bound wooden floors. The air smells of incense and sweat. A small girl— Y/n L/n, nine years old—kneels in seiza at the center of the dojo. Her hair clings to her damp forehead. Her arms tremble, her knees bruised beneath her training gi.

Across from her stands her father, KENJI L/N, in an immaculate three-piece suit. His tie is loosened, but his posture is perfect. He stares down at her with the unflinching calm of a man who’s broken people for far less than weakness.

“Again,” Kenji says, his voice smooth as glass but sharp underneath.

Y/n’s eyes flick up. “I—I tried.”

“You hesitated,” he snaps. “If this were real, you’d already be dead.”

She flinches. He doesn’t miss it.

“Stand.”

She rises, shaky on her feet. Her fists clench at her sides. She’s small, but she’s trying—desperate to earn something from him.

Kenji reaches into a lacquered box beside him and draws a wooden training knife. He tosses it onto the mat with a heavy clack.

“Pick it up.”

Y/n kneels slowly, retrieves it with both hands like a sacred object. Her knuckles are white.

“Attack me.”

She hesitates—just a blink—but that’s all he needs.

“Now.”

She lunges at him, surprisingly fast for her age. He sidesteps her and grabs her arm, twisting it behind her back. She hits the mat hard with her elbow.

Again.

And again. Her breathing grows louder, more ragged as sweat drips from her chin.

He doesn’t hold back. Not even when she gasps. Not when her knees buckle. Not when she stumbles and coughs—

And then—

A deep gag. Her body clenches violently.

She vomits onto the mat, retching until there’s nothing left. Her body crumples in on itself.

Kenji remains motionless, offering no assistance

His silence is deafening as he watches his daughter in a puddle of her own vomit. Finally, he speaks, his voice cold and accusatory, “You’re weak because you choose to be.”

With that, he turns but just before he walks away, he turns to look at her “Clean this up. Training resumes tomorrow.”

Moonlight streaks across Y/n’s ceiling. She lies awake in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the shadows on the wall.

Down the hall, behind her closed door—voices rise.

“You pushed her too hard!” her mother’s voice—Elise—shakes with fury and fear.

“You weren’t there,” Kenji replies, his tone level, emotionless. “She broke form. She needs discipline.”

“She’s nine, Kenji! She vomited on the mat!”

A pause.

“She’ll thank me when it saves her life.”

“No. She won’t.” Elise’s voice cracks. “Because she’s not going to survive you.”

Silence.

Then, quieter: “She’s our daughter. Not your soldier.”

Y/n turns to face the wall. Her expression is blank, her eyes hot. She pulls the blanket over her head, as if it could shut out the voices—or the truth. But it’s not enough.

“I wanted a son.”

Y/n flinches like she’s been struck. Her breath catches.

“And I made do.”

GOTHAM ACADEMY – MORNING

The campus looms like a Gothic castle swallowed by Y/n. Spires reach into the sky, arched windows reflect the gray clouds above, and the courtyard hums with life—students laughing, rushing to classes, voices echoing against the cobblestone paths.

A black town car idles at the curb. The rear door opens.

Y/n, fifteen now, steps out.

She moves with silent precision, her uniform immaculate—blazer fitted, skirt pressed, tie flawless. Her hair is pulled into a sleek bun. No loose strands. No distractions.

But her eyes?

Cold and guarded.

As the car pulls away behind her, she walks alone through the courtyard. She doesn’t smile or wave. She doesn’t need to.

Inside the school the late morning light filtered through the tall stained-glass windows of Gotham Academy, casting shards of color across the stone floor. The scent of old books, waxed wood, and expensive perfume lingered in the halls like memory. Everything about the school is old money and prestige. But here is where whispers follow Y/n wherever she goes.

“She’s the mob kid, right?”

“Her dad’s in prison.”

“I heard she’s crazy smart. Like scary smart.”

“She never talks to anyone.”

She doesn’t acknowledge any of it.

Instead, she moves with quiet purpose—like someone who’s already calculated the most efficient path from class to class, including exits.

ART ROOM – FIRST PERIOD

Y/n takes the back-left seat. Not hidden, but isolated. She sets down her sketchbook without a sound. The other students chatter. One of them is loud and animated—Max, an aspiring filmmaker always in Y/n’s orbit, never quite her friend.

“You’re gonna love this prompt,” Max says to no one in particular. “‘Self-portrait as emotion.’ Intense, right?”

When the teacher walks in the room finally settles

“Alright class today’s focus? Expression. Let it hurt if it needs to.”

Y/n opens her sketchbook. Her pencil touches the page.

And stops.

Her hand trembles.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

Then she begins to draw. Slow, controlled. A face forms on the page..she quickly realizes it’s not her.

It’s a younger version. A shadow behind her, tall and cold.

She shades it in without a word.

Y/n walked slowly down the corridor after the bell rung, her shoes making no sound against the polished floor. Students passed in waves around her—laughing, bumping into each other, already swapping answers for second period chemistry. She moved through them like smoke—seen, maybe, but never touched.

She stopped at her locker, spun the dial, opened it. Inside: everything in order. Textbooks lined up by subject. A notebook tucked behind the last one—thick, black and unmarked. The only thing that felt like hers.

As she reached for her literature binder, she heard the voice behind her.

“Y/n L/n, right?”

She didn’t flinch, but her jaw tightened.

Turning slightly, she saw Max standing there. All camera bag and chaotic energy, his lopsided grin already halfway to a question she didn’t want to answer.

“You got moved up to AP art?” he asked, shifting his weight. “That’s kind of awesome. They don’t usually let first-years skip the basics.”

“They made an exception,” she said, voice even and distant

Max chuckled, not taking the hint. “Must’ve been a hell of a portfolio.”

She closed her locker slowly. “It was.”

There was a pause—him waiting for her to ask something, anything but she didn’t Instead, she turned and walked.

LUNCHROOM – NOON

The clatter of trays, the rise and fall of a hundred conversations—Gotham Academy’s lunchroom was never quiet. Everything was polished stone and long wooden tables, too grand for something as mundane as eating.

Y/n moved through the crowd with the same silence she wore everywhere else. No one called her name. No one tried to sit beside her.

She didn’t expect them to.

Her table sat tucked beneath a tall arched window, vines creeping in along the stone outside, filtered light casting soft green shadows across her tray. She sat, opened a book she wasn’t really reading, and pushed her food around like it had wronged her.

Then—

A shift in the air.

She looked up.

Across the room, half-shielded by the central column, someone was watching her.

A boy she didn’t recognize. New. Dark uniform jacket worn like armor, collar still stiff, posture too upright for a place like this.

He wasn’t whispering. Wasn’t laughing. Just watching. Eyes unreadable.

Damian Wayne.

Their eyes met for only a second.

Y/n blinked. Looked back down.

Probably just curious, she told herself. New students always stared. It would pass.

Still—

She flipped a page she hadn’t finished reading.

The bell rang for a final time that day, echoing across the marble halls like a final verdict.

By the time most students had reached the gates, Y/n had already slipped past them. Her steps were careful. Not rushed, just… intentional. She didn’t like crowds. Didn’t like the way they pulled at your thoughts, the way noise tried to settle into your skin.

The black car wasn’t waiting for her today. Her mother had texted something about a charity brunch that “couldn’t be missed.” Y/n didn’t answer.

She didn’t need a ride.

The garden behind the science wing was a forgotten corner of the campus. Most students didn’t even know it was there—just overgrown hedges, a dry fountain, and a crooked bench that looked like it might collapse if you breathed on it wrong.

Wind rustled through the hedges. Old ivy crept up the walls. The broken fountain hadn’t worked in years, but she liked that about it. No one else came here.

She sat cross-legged on the cracked stone bench, notebook open across her lap. The page was half-filled with lines—sharp, precise, too calculated to be personal.

Her pencil hovered midair, unmoving.

That boy’s face kept flickering at the edge of her thoughts. The way he didn’t avert his gaze. The calmness in it. It wasn’t judgment. Not interest, either.

It was something else.

She exhaled slowly and shook it off.

Then—

Footsteps.

Too controlled to belong to any of the usual idiots who smoked behind the gym.

“I figured I’d find you out here,” said a voice behind her.

Y/n turned, just enough to see him.

Damian Wayne. Hands in his pockets. Eyes steady. Posture too perfect for a fifteen-year-old. His tie was loosened just slightly, like he knew the rules but didn’t care enough to follow all of them.

She blinked, once. “I didn’t realize I was being followed.

“You weren’t,” he said. “You’re just predictable.”

Her brow lifted slightly. “That supposed to be charming?”

“No. Just honest.”

He didn’t sit. Didn’t ask to. Just stood in the half-shadow of the crooked tree overhead.

She glanced back at her notebook. “Most people say hi before analyzing me.”

“I’m not most people.”

“That much I’ve gathered.”

He was quiet for a moment, watching her sketch. “Your technique’s military. Taught, not learned.”

Y/n’s pencil paused.

She looked at him again, slower this time.

“You get that from one glance at lunch?”

“No,” he said. “I get that from knowing what to look for.”

His expression didn’t shift, but there was something different in his voice. Something softer.

“Someone who isn’t pretending.”

Y/n stared at him, her pulse just slightly out of rhythm.

He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to.

She closed her notebook slowly. “You still haven’t said your name.”

“Damian.”

“Of course it is,” she muttered.

And for the first time all day, the corner of her mouth lifted—just barely.

The campus gates creaked shut behind her.

The streets outside Gotham Academy were lined with skeletal trees and cold stone buildings. Not the parts of the city people took photos of. These sidewalks didn’t care if you were alone.

She walked with her hands in her coat pockets, the late afternoon light slanting gold and gray across the pavement. One earbud in. The other left dangling—not for safety, but habit. She liked having one foot in the silence.

A kid on a bike sped past. Y/n didn’t turn. Just kept walking. Past the coffee shop that changed names every six months. Past the pawn shop that still had her father’s name burned into the window glass, long faded.

She looked away before she could think too hard.

Her family’s house sat at the end of a long block, tucked behind iron gates and trimmed hedges. It was the kind of house that pretended nothing bad had ever happened inside it.

The lights were on.

The house sat behind a tall wrought-iron gate, its bars curled like vines, black paint flaking at the edges from years of salt and rain. Beyond it, a long stone path cut through a perfectly trimmed lawn, the kind that looked untouched by weather or time—maintained, immaculate, performative.

The house itself was old Gotham money. Three stories of dark gray brick and sharp lines, with tall windows framed in black and ivy crawling up the eastern wall like nature trying to take something back. The roof was steep and slate, the kind that made the whole place look like it could fold in on itself at any moment.

White shutters. Heavy doors. A porch no one sat on.

It was beautiful in the way museums are beautiful—silent, imposing, full of things no one talks about.

There were no welcome mats. No bikes left out. No plants in pots or cracks in the concrete.

Everything was in its place.

As if that meant nothing had ever gone wrong there.

As if that could make it true.

The front door clicked shut behind her.

Silence.

Y/n toed off her shoes, set down her bag. Her movements were quiet. Automatic. Like a ghost returning to its haunt.

From down the hall, the sound of a knife on a cutting board echoed faintly.

“Y/n?” her mother called. “There’s food. I made that soup you used to like.”

Used to.

Y/n didn’t answer right away. She stood in the foyer for a long moment, staring at the framed family photo on the side table. She was seven in it. Grinning too hard. Her father’s hand on her shoulder like a claim.

She turned it facedown before making her way to the kitchen.

The lights were low, warm gold humming against the cold marble counters. The soup on the stove hissed quietly, the scent of ginger and garlic thick in the air—too familiar. Too heavy.

Her mother stood at the island, sleeves rolled to her elbows, chopping scallions with mechanical focus. Her hair was pinned up, a little uneven, like she’d done it in a rush. Her eyes flicked up the second Y/n stepped in.

“Hey,” her mother said gently. “How was school?”

“Fine.”

“Did you eat lunch?”

“I always eat lunch.”

Her mother hesitated. “You can tell me if you didn’t.”

Y/n didn’t respond. She pulled a glass from the cabinet, filled it with water.

“You look tired,” her mother tried again. “Was it the art class? Is it too much on top of everything else?”

Y/n’s hand paused.

“I’m not tired,” she said. Not exactly a lie.

Her mother set down the knife. Wiped her hands on a towel. “I just want to help, Y/n.”

The way she said it—it landed too soft, too careful. Like someone trying to tiptoe through a minefield they helped build.

The silence that followed had weight. Her mother crossed her arms, leaned slightly against the counter, as if bracing herself.

“You barely speak to me anymore.”

Y/n didn’t answer.

“I know what I let happen to you. I know what he did. And I know I should’ve—” her voice broke, just barely—“I should’ve stopped him.”

Y/n turned slowly. Her expression didn’t change. Not much. But something behind her eyes shifted—cold, hard, and aching.

“You didn’t try,” she said. “You watched.”

“I was scared, Y/n.”

“I was a child.” The words hit like glass breaking.

Her mother took a breath, shallow. “I kept telling myself it was for your protection. That what he was doing would make you strong. I thought—” she shook her head. “I thought I could keep you safe by staying silent. But I see you now and I know I was wrong.”

Y/n’s jaw clenched.

“I never wanted you to be a weapon. Never. But I let it happen anyway. I let him turn our home into a training ground.”

She looked down at her hands—still shaking slightly from the cutting. “I remember the night you threw up in the dojo. You were nine. I tried to tell him he was pushing you too hard, and he… he made me feel small. Like he always did. I’m so sorry I didn’t fight harder.”

Y/n stared at her for a long time. She remembered that night. The night those words he said echoed in her head. The apology landed, but it didn’t soften anything.

“I didn’t need you to fight harder,” she said quietly. “I just needed you to choose me.”

Her mother’s eyes welled up, but she didn’t let the tears fall. “I’m trying to now.”

Y/n stepped back.

“Now is too late.”

Then she turned. Walked out of the kitchen without another word.

Her mother didn’t argue. Just stood there, hands still damp, soup bubbling behind her.

Y/n grabbed her bag off the floor near the door and headed up the stairs to her room.

The door clicked shut behind her.

She dropped her bag by the desk, peeled off her blazer, undid her tie. Everything folded, hung, aligned. She stood at the window for a long time, staring out into the city.

Somewhere out there, Damian Wayne was probably sitting in some marble mansion, pretending not to care about anything. Just like her.

She wondered if he had to sit through quiet dinners and pretend not to remember every bruise disguised as “training.”

She wondered if he ever wished someone would call it what it was.

Pulling her sketchbook from her bag, she sat on the floor by her bed and flipped to a blank page.

This time, the pencil didn’t hesitate.

She started to draw.

A boy. Watching her. Still and sharp as shadow. But the expression she gave him—there was something behind the eyes.

INT. WAYNE MANOR – DAMIAN’S ROOM – NIGHT

The room was dark, save for the soft blue glow of the screen in front of him. Lines of code flickered by—encrypted feeds, Academy records, external cameras. Nothing he hadn’t broken through before.

But he wasn’t looking for information tonight.

He was watching the garden again. The one behind the school.

Her.

Damian sat back, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes sharp even in the dim light. He’d replayed the conversation five times in his head already. The way she didn’t flinch. The way she didn’t ask questions he wasn’t ready to answer.

She’d looked right through him.

And didn’t turn away.

Titus, curled beside the desk, let out a quiet huff in his sleep.

Damian reached over and absentmindedly scratched behind the dog’s ears, but his gaze stayed on the screen. Then he shut the laptop.

He didn’t need surveillance to know she wouldn’t leave his mind tonight.

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pomegranatelifethis · 21 days ago

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Family day

Her hands trembled as she carefully placed the cake in the center of the table. A chocolate masterpiece, adorned with delicate frosting that spelled out "Family Day" in her neatest handwriting. She’d spent hours in the Wayne Manor kitchen—flour dusted her fingers, sweat beaded on her forehead, and her heart raced with a fragile hope. This was her chance to prove something. To show Dick she was worth his bright smiles, to earn Jason’s gruff but protective glances, to hear Tim’s sleepy gratitude, and maybe even coax a rare nod of approval from Damian.Today was supposed to be “Family Day.” Dick had mentioned it offhandedly weeks ago: “One day a week, we all get together, you know, like a real family.” That word—“family”—had pierced her like a shard of glass, but it had also sparked something in her. So she baked the cake. She waited for them.Hours ticked by. The sprawling manor was silent except for the faint rustle of Alfred dusting somewhere far off. She checked her phone obsessively—no messages, no calls. Maybe they’re on patrol, she told herself. Maybe there’s an emergency. But a small, broken voice inside whispered the truth: They forgot you.It was nearly midnight when the front door finally creaked open. Laughter spilled into the halls, familiar voices overlapping. Dick was cracking a joke, Jason firing back with a sarcastic quip, Tim muttering something incoherent, and Damian letting out a disdainful “tt.” Her heart leapt. She glanced at the cake, then took a hesitant step toward the door. But no one came to the kitchen. The sounds drifted to the living room—they’d turned on a movie, sprawled across the couches. They didn’t call for her. They didn’t even see her.She stared at the cake. The chocolate frosting had started to melt, the words “Family Day” smudging into an illegible mess. A weight settled in her chest, suffocating her. Her hands shook as she grabbed the cake, and in a surge of raw, blinding anger, she hurled it to the floor. The plate shattered, chocolate splattered against the walls, and glass shards scattered everywhere. The crash echoed through the silent manor, but no one came. No one cared.She sank to her knees, heedless of the broken glass. A jagged piece sliced into her hand, blood trickling down in a thin, crimson line, but she barely felt it. Rage, disappointment, and loneliness churned inside her, spilling out in silent tears. She clenched her fist, driving the glass deeper. “Why don’t they want me?” she whispered, her voice fragile and lost. Blood dripped onto the floor, mixing with the ruins of her cake, as the realization hit her again: She wasn’t their family. She was just… extra.From the living room, Dick’s voice floated through the air: “Man, tonight was awesome, huh?” Jason chuckled. “Yeah, a real family night.”

But she wasn’t part of it.

Tag:@jscrawls @Welpthisisboring @lilyalone @itsberrydreemurstuff

#batfamily x reader #batfam x reader #yandere batfamily x reader #yandere batfam x reader #yandere x reader #bruce wayne x reader #yandere dc #damian wayne x reader #batfam #batfamily #the neglected reader #batfam x neglected reader #neglected reader #x reader #yandere jason todd x reader #jason todd x reader #damian wayne x female reader #tim drake x reader #yandere dick grayson x reader

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dark-l-angel · 5 days ago

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hi pookie <3 just wondering if you could write for Jason and dick (separately) with a fem!spidersona who's a little on the thicker side (not dumb, like thick thighs.) Luv ur stuff!!

Batfam x thick fem!spidersona reader :

Jason Todd

Jason is feral for your body, point blank.

He especially loves your strength.. the way your thighs lock around enemies (or him…), and he feels it. Will tell you shamelessly:

“Could crush a man with these thighs. Lucky it’s me, huh?”

When you’re web-swinging, he watches like it’s the best show on Earth. Says it’s to “study your technique,” but we all know.

Loves pulling you into his lap, big hands sliding over your hips, saying in that rough voice: “C’mere, lemme feel you.”

After missions, if you’ve got a tear in your suit, he’s inspecting every inch, fingers brushing your skin longer than necessary.

Definitely a thigh guy. Loves having his head between them or just resting his hand there when you’re relaxing together.

If someone else stares too long? Jason’s arm is around you immediately, staring them down with a look that promises violence.

Dick Grayson

Dick is the definition of an ass man and a thigh man. He’s absolutely shameless about admiring you.

He’ll watch you move in the suit with open appreciation: "You’re gonna distract me, babe. And I mean, I’m not complaining…"

Constantly offers "training assistance" (especially flexibility exercises) just an excuse to have his hands all over you.

Praises your body like it’s poetry.

"You’re a masterpiece, you know that?"

"Perfect curves in all the right places."

After patrol, he’ll pull you close, run his hands over your hips, and murmur: "We need a cool-down, don’t you think?"

Loves to tease with feather-light touches over your skin, especially if you're sensitive, watching you shiver under his hands.

He’ll take any excuse to cuddle you, all tangled limbs, his hands smoothing over your curves like you’re something precious.

Tim Drake

Tim is flustered but obsessed.

He tries to play it cool, he really does, but you catch him staring all the time.. especially at your thighs when you perch on rooftops.

He has a weakness for seeing you in your suit after a mission, sweaty, breathing hard, curves on full display.

Cue Tim.exe has stopped working.

Loves laying his head on your thighs while working on his laptop. You’re his favorite pillow, bar none.

He gets adorably awkward when you catch him staring, mumbling: "You just… you look really good, okay?"

If you tease him about it, he turns red but leans into it eventually. Gets bolder with time, hands lingering longer.

Surprise kisses when you least expect it, pulling you into his lap to feel the weight of you against him.

Damian Wayne

Damian acts unaffected at first.. but inside? Absolutely not.

He adores your strength and body. He respects power, and you radiate it.

Will absolutely admire your form during combat and not hide it.

"Your physique serves you well in battle. It is… impressive."

Always ends training sessions with subtle compliments: "Your power is admirable. Continue honing it." (Translation: I can’t stop thinking about you.)

If anyone dares disrespect or objectify you, he’s ready to draw a blade.

Loves quiet, intimate moments where you’re both tending to injuries, his fingers brushing your skin gently but lingering over your curves.

If you sit beside him, he subtly pulls you closer, almost like he needs to feel you next to him.

Bruce Wayne

Bruce is quietly obsessed.

He’s a man of control, but you.. especially in that suit, especially with those curves.. make his restraint fray at the edges.

Watches you with a sharp, dark gaze, cataloging every movement.

He adores your strength. You handle yourself so well in fights, and he watches with a glimmer of pride… and something far more heated.

When you’re alone, he lets the mask slip:

"You’re… extraordinary. Every inch of you."

Big, warm hands exploring your curves, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing you.

Very much about subtle possession.. a hand on your lower back, guiding you, keeping you close in public.

In private? Deep kisses, his hands gripping your hips like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

A/N : hey honey, I can also give u extras if u want:

- bedroom headcanons or even mini scenes

- How they react seeing u in new suits (tight ones… ahem.)

- Jealous moments (if someone flirts with u or touches u accidentally…)

- First time intimacy with each of them.

- How they’d mark u… ya know. With kisses or more.

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theobservatory · 9 days ago

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What's in a Name｡⁠.ﾟ★ ˎˊ˗

｡⁠☆Synopsis: how they would name their children

｡⁠☆Cw: gender specific, talk of reader being pregnant

｡⁠☆CH: Damian ☆ Duke ☆ Tim ☆ Jason ☆ Dick ☆ Bruce

✧Bruce✧

Classic names for sure. He tends to lead very masculine for boys and very feminine for girls. It's not that he doesn't like gender neutral names, but it's not the natural place his brain goes when naming his kids.

Since he already has so many kids I doubt he would want anymore unless you did, and since he has almost entirely boys I'm giving him a girl lol. I already know that poor girl is going to find him insufferable when she becomes a teenager. He is the most overprotective dad around, he's not gonna want her to do nothing lmao.

For boys: Thomas, Arthur, Bennett, Dominic, Theodore, Charlie, Liam

For girls: Clara/Claire, Charlotte, Francesca/Francis, Theodosia, Lorelei, Evelynn, Alice

✧Dick✧

For girls: Summer, Josie, Mary, Leona, Elise, Simone, Willow

He loves sweet sounding names. He keeps it very wholesome. Every name he brings up is going to be soft and sweet, tho I wouldn't be surprised if he wanted a junior or a child named after his parents.

I did a poll and most people agreed he's a girl dad, but I can't help but imagine him with a son who's the spitting image of him, but also a momma's boy lol. In the end I went with an older girl and a younger boy a year apart. He's probably the best dad here tbh, I feel like he's just the type to go above and beyond for his kids.

For boys: John, Oliver, Adrian, Leo, Elias, Jonas, Henry

✧Jason✧

For boys: Roscoe, Demetri/Demetrius, Arlo, Thatcher, Adonis, Nicolas, Maximus

Leans towards stronger sounding names for either sex. Gender neutral names are brought up just as much as very masc or fem names. Like you can't tell me his favorite superhero isn't Wonder Woman, I would not be surprised if the first name he suggests is Diana.

Twin girls. Can you imagine his face when you tell him not only are you pregnant, but it's twins? He might pass out on the spot. I can also see him with another girl maybe a few years later, but whether she was planned or an accident is up in the air lol.

For girls: Cleo, Demetria, Vivian, Sloan, Devin, Blake, Ananias/Anias/Anania

✧Tim✧

For girls: Samantha, Erin, Kayla, Alexis, Monica, Alicia, Sydney

Gender neutral guy all the way. Just neutral names in general. He would probably bring you a baby name list that's just the top 20 names in the US rn, or he would go crazy trying to figure what the next most popular names are to get ahead of the curve. I also wouldn't be surprised if he wanted a junior or a kid named after his parents.

Tim is a boy dad, I don't think he could handle a girl in all honesty. Just one, maybe two, but with a giant age gap between them. Like I have an 18year age gap with my little sister, and if you have kids young I can definitely see this happening to y'all.

For boys: Luke, Derek, Ethan, Evan, Dakota, Jesse, Zachary

✧Duke✧

For boys: Lucas, Enzo, August, Everett, Amari/Amarion, Brooks, Dion

He also tends to go for names that everyone already has. He's perfectly fine with names not standing out in the slightest, I think he'd let you take most of the lead on naming a baby tbh.

I think after moving into the manor, he wants his children to grow up with a big family like he did. I can also see him as a foster parent or a social worker outside of his vigilantism, so maybe two or three biologically, but you still end up with a full house. The genders of your bio kids ? Still up in the air for me idk.

For girls: Mia, Parker, Nora, Eliana, Avery, Naomi, Zoey

✧Damian✧

For boys: Khari, Amir, Kylian, Imani, Nasir, Princeton, Isha

Like Jason, he also wants a strong sounding name. Though, I think he'd also want to incorporate his culture from nanda parbat into at least one of the names as well. I could also see him wanting something sweet or dainty for a girl, like he sees this tiny baby for the first time and just goes... No... You will be no warrior bc I will protect you forever. So dainty and small, like a tiny flower. I can also see him naming his children after anything royal or whatever, bc he's pretentious (adoring) like that.

Twin boys, and a girl a few years later. Much like Bruce I can already see his kids finding him unreasonable. Damian's a strict parent (unlike Bruce), but he's also incredibly overprotective. None of his kids can go anywhere or do anything without their father fretting over them.

For girls: Kala/Kali, Aaliyah, Aisha, Zahrah/Zaharah, Nyla, Ali, Meira

Tell me which names you like best, and your opinions on these headcanons as well (⁠＾⁠3⁠＾⁠♪ I will be picking from some of the names provided for any kid fics, unless one of y'all give me a better name, so feel free to give suggestions/tell me your fav baby names ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

Thank you to my fav name consultant on tiktok and reddit for making this possible lol. Tbh I know people with a lot of these names, like I have a cousin named Nasir, and another named Imoni, and my little sister's name was almost Francesca. The websites just made me actually start considering them for what they are.

Also, my fav name from this list is Naomi. I've loved that name for years, idk what it is, but I adore that name. My least favorite name on this list is Thatcher. That shit is ass bro. It reminds me of the game I Want To Fuck Mr.Hatcher... just... Yuck.

｡⁠☆Requests Open

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marinersapartmentc0mplex · 4 days ago

Text

Never Let Me Go

Damian Wayne x Journalist!OFC

Chapter Sixteen: HUMBLE.

Ao3 Link & Previous Chapter

“You finally surfaced,” Amrita said, without looking up, pencil tapping against the page. “I was starting to think the Gazette had absorbed you completely. You’ve been running around like a headless chicken all week.”

Elena slid into her usual seat at the corner table with Amrita and Lila, scooting her tray next to theirs, which were already half-empty. Amrita had a math exercise book open in front of her as she worked through some textbook questions she left last minute. Meanwhile, Lila’s attention was focused on the fashion history magazine in front of her—a new addition to the large pile she kept in her bedroom.

“It almost did,” Elena said, spearing a tomato with her fork. Today’s lunch special was mushroom risotto with blistered cherry tomatoes and a side of garlicky green beans. “I just need to grab a few more photos from the art room after this and then it’s ready to go to layout.”

“Is that the exhibition spread?” Lila asked, jutting her chin toward the folder Elena had haphazardly chucked onto the table. “The one with everyone’s dreamy European cities?”

“Dreamy is subjective,” Elena said through a mouthful of risotto as Lila reached out to grab the folder and flick through Elena’s interview notes and pictures. “Someone did Las Vegas.”

Amrita made a face. “A choice.”

Elena shrugged. “Anyway, I told Derek I’d help him with the football game tonight. Still shots, post-game interviews, the usual. So, I might be a little late to the sleepover.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie—Derek had asked. She just hadn’t committed until last night, when she figured she needed an excuse to be there. Something that wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows from her friends who were already beginning to suspect things—the wrong things.

“That’s fine,” Amrita said. “We’ll set up the air mattresses while we wait.”

“And the snacks,” Lila added. “I’m bringing like six different kinds of candy. Also, I found some pretty Mehndi patterns on Pinterest that Amrita can practice on us.”

Elena stabbed another tomato, chewing fast as she nodded along.

Lila caught the speed at which she was inhaling her food and raised an eyebrow. “You good?”

“Yeah, just—need to get to the art room,” Elena said, waving her fork. “The senior who made the New York skyline model’s only around at lunch, and if I don’t get the progress photos now, he’ll vanish into the void again. Like last time.”

“You mean the guy who wouldn’t answer any of your emails?” Amrita asked.

Elena rolled her eyes at the memory of having to stalk him outside of his European History class when she finally had enough of his radio silence. “Yeah, that one.”

“I swear,” Elena said, setting down her fork with a sigh to reach for her apple soda, “this art spread has taken over my life. I haven’t had a full lunch period all week.”

Lila looked up from admiring a photo of a watercolour painting of Paris. “Didn’t you open up that extra Gazette spot for arts and culture after Jared was kicked off?”

“Yeah,” Elena muttered. “Except no one’s even asked about it. Like, not a single person.”

Amrita looked up slowly and exchanged a glance with Lila—one of those shared looks that made Elena immediately suspicious.

“What?”

Lila hesitated, her lips pressing together for a second. Then, “Okay, don’t shoot the messenger, but… Jared’s been talking.”

Elena blinked and frowned confusedly. “About me?”

“You and The Gazette .”

Amrita set her pencil down, shut her exercise book and leaned forward. “He’s been telling people you kicked him off because he had an opinion. That you’re some control freak, who only wants your friends involved at the Gazette, all that crap.”

Elena stared at them. “Are you kidding?”

“Wish we were,” Lila said.

“That’s not what happened at all!” Elena whisper-exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “He made a racist joke about somebody else. That’s not censorship, that’s basic human decency.”

“Yeah, we know that,” Amrita said calmly. “But not everyone does.”

“And now no one wants to apply for the spot because they think I’m some kind of editor tyrant?” Elena asked, incredulous. “I thought everyone knew about what he said.”

Her friends both shrugged helplessly. “He’s twisting it now to claim you bullied him off the Gazette and lied about why he was kicked off. Wants to make you look bad,” Lila explained, voice turning a little angry. “He’s milking it a lot though—I had enough of it by fifth period English yesterday, I had to tell him to shut up in front of the whole class. Mr Hazelwood didn’t seem to mind.”

“What do I even say or do?” Elena grumbled, leaning her head against her hand. “Does he seriously not think his actions have consequences?”

“He’s a dick,” Amrita concluded. “If I were you I’d tell the headmaster, or another teacher. Before it gets out of hand.”

“Why?” Lila frowned. “She’ll be forever known as the girl who snitched.”

“Hammer already threatened my scholarship once, I don’t think he’ll care if I’m in the midst of a rumour mill about bullying.”

“He might if Jared tries to report it.” Amrita pointed out, “maybe it’ll blow over, but be careful.”

Elena sighed, “I just need someone to fill in his spot—I don’t have a single artistic bone in my body. I feel like I’m having an aneurysm during every interview.”

“You should probably start approaching people if it’s that bad. I don’t know where everyone’s enthusiasm has gone; this time last year you were drowning in applications.” Lila suggested

“They all think she’s a dictator,” Amrita added dryly.

Elena bit her lip in thought. “It’s a good idea actually. I should go through the past applications for that spot and see if anyone is still interested.”

Lila beamed, shutting the folder and sliding it back towards Elena. “I’m just full of amazing ideas.”

She tapped the screen of her phone to check the time and let out a groan. “Ugh. I’ve got like seven minutes before that guy disappears into the ether again.”

“May the odds be ever in your favour,” Lila said, holding up her fork like a salute, quoting the Hunger Games which she’d recently become obsessed with since they binge watched all the films in a single night over the break. While Elena and Amrita had read the books, Lila wasn’t at all familiar with the books or the movies, and so she’d described it as a ‘transcendent experience.’

“Get those photos. And maybe guilt him into answering emails like a normal person,” Amrita added with an amused lilt to her voice.

Elena stood sliding the folder in her bag. “I’ll see you both in PE,” she waved them off and made her way to the return station, dumped her tray, and pushed into the quieter hallway heading towards the art classroom.

She passed two freshmen sitting cross-legged on the floor leaning against a set of lockers, huddled around a phone. They shared a single set of earbuds, watching something animated and laughing under their breath. A sandwich sat forgotten in a plastic wrap between them.

Elena moved past the cream lockers and the English classrooms, up a small set of steps, and she made it to the art classroom. The air around this area of the school always bared a heady scent of acrylic paint mixed with the chemical tang of spray fixative. Personally, she rarely ever ventured out to this part of the school; only ever in her freshman year when it had been mandatory to take an artistic subject. But more recently, she and Damian had used it on occasion to talk about their investigation. Only if need be.

Peering through the long narrow window on the door as her hand settled on the metal handle, she expected to see the senior she was supposed to be meeting. When she couldn’t see anyone, Elena huffed exasperatedly and pushed the door with defeated hopes that he just might be in there.

The hinges creaked quietly as she stepped inside—and paused.

Damian was there.

But, of course, no sign of George.

Damian’s blazer was neatly hung on one of the wooden peg hooks by the door at the front of the classroom, alongside his coat and backpack. Meanwhile, he was sat near the back, focused on something.

“Hey.. have you seen Joshua Tan?”

“No, not since twelve,” Damian said looking up from the large piece of paper in front of him.

Elena sighed, stepping further into the room as the door swung shut behind her with a soft clunk. “Great, I swear he’s avoiding me on purpose.”

Damian arched a brow. “Understandable,” he said, turning back to his work.

Elena narrowed her eyes at him in faux offense. “Thanks for the sympathy.”

He didn’t answer, shoulders hunched over whatever he was doing. Curious despite herself, Elena took a few more steps forward, craning her neck to see what exactly he was working on.

It was a charcoal drawing—bold, deliberate strokes of stark black highlighted by much softer shading used to create a ripple effect for the waters beyond Gotham’s harbour. The city skyline was brought to life through the monochrome lines in an eerie rendition, that to Elena encapsulated Gotham perfectly.

The sleeves of his white button-up were rolled to the elbows, revealing tan forearms dusted with light smudges of charcoal. They were surprisingly muscular—but then again, not that surprising. Elena had seen how fast he could run a lap around the school grounds during PE. It was practically inhuman.

She, on the other hand, got stitches after running for like five minutes and usually ended up just walking the rest. Coach never noticed—he stayed parked on the bleachers with a whistle and a clipboard he didn’t even write on. So she’d just slow down dramatically and pretend to be out of breath whenever she neared him.

“Wow… is that Gotham?” she asked once she drew close enough to catch a clearer look at the drawing,“It’s beautiful.” She paused, “Not like back of a postcard beautiful, but more like Tim Burton cinematography beautiful,” she clarified. After all, Gotham was not known for having the most glamorous of aesthetics, mostly renowned for its insanely high crime rates.

“Tim Burton?”

Elena sighed through her nose and moved to sit next to him. “Seriously? What kind of siblings do you have? First you haven’t watched Home Alone. Now, you’ve never watched The Nightmare Before Christmas, or Corpse Bride?”

Damian only shook his head. “I am unfamiliar with his works.”

“Tim Burton’s a filmmaker—pretty good one too,” she told him. “Pretty dark cinematography but whimsical too, it’s quite unique. He’s really popular.”

“TT, mass appeal usually means the work has been diluted to accommodate all sorts of audiences.”

Elena laughed. “You sound like one of those pretentious film fanatics who refuse to watch anything that isn’t shot in black-and-white and French.”

Damian didn’t rise to the bait. He reached into the metal tin perched on the desk beside him and flipped it open with a click, revealing a neatly arranged collection of tools—pencils of varying darkness, sticks of vine and compressed charcoal, white charcoal, a razor blade for sharpening, and a smudged, pliable lump of grey putty nestled in the corner like a chewed up piece of gum.

“Why’d you need that many charcoals?” she asked, curiously scanning the range of artistic utensils.

“I used a range of charcoals in this piece,” he said. He picked up a long, almost black stick and held it out between two fingers. “This one’s compressed. It is denser, so gives sharper lines—better for the skyline. But for the water and the haze, I used vine. It’s softer and more fragile.”

Elena leaned forward, her brows lifted, eyes flicking from the stick to the grainy texture on the page. “That’s why the waves look so realistic.”

He nodded, dipping his fingers into the tin again to pull out a stubby, battered-looking pencil with a faded H on the side. “These are Conte crayons—technically pastel chalks, but I only use them to add midtones. Most of this was built with the charcoal and my fingers.”

She reached out to touch the grey lump in the corner of the tin. “And this? Looks like playdough.”

“Kneadable eraser,” he said, lips twisting at the comparison of the tool to something as childish as playdough. “You mould it to shape. Perfect for lifting off just enough pigment without tearing the paper. Watch.”

He pinched off a piece and rolled it into a wedge between his fingers, then gently dabbed at the fogged-out section just above the docks in the drawing. The charcoal lifted softly, creating a faded glow around one of the taller buildings.

“Huh.” Elena sat back. “I had no idea there was so much… technique to it. I always just thought of charcoal as that super messy stuff that makes your hands look like you’ve been mining coal. I hated using it in freshman year.”

“It is messy,” he said, flexing his fingers. The dust clung under his nails, smudged faintly across the expanse of olive toned skin stretched across lean muscle. “But I found it represented Gotham most. I prefer paint as medium, but charcoal captures Gotham’s dark essence better.”

Elena’s gaze drifted over the drawing again, finding herself admiring it even more. “Did you ever think of going to art school?”

“Art is not something that should be taught. It should be mastered through experiences and inspirations. Not handed over in neat little assignments with rubrics and gold stars.”

Elena tilted her head in amusement. “You really are beginning to sound like a snobby artist.”

“Perhaps. But I have seen too many people reduce it to aesthetics and precision. To praise technique and completely ignore the intentions of the artist—it is an insult to the art itself.”

Elena reached for his kneadable eraser again and idly pressed her thumb into it, shaping it into a lopsided pyramid. “Huh, I never knew you were so passionate about art.”

Damian didn’t react—he simply continued refining the edge of a boat in his piece with the side of his pinky, smudging the charcoal ever so slightly for depth.

She let the eraser slump back into its chewed-gum blob and sighed, resting her chin in her hand. “I came here to get Joshua’s final progress photos for the Gazette’s art spread and he’s vanished—again. It’s like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands.”

Damian’s brow ticked. “You’re chasing him down personally? Is there not someone else on the paper who can—”

“No,” she said quickly. “Because we don’t have a full team anymore. I took up all of Jared’s responsibility after I kicked him off, except he literally did nothing I assigned him to do. I don’t mind covering the artsy stuff—I guess it’s a good challenge; can’t let myself get too comfortable in what I’m good at.”

“It is beneficial to constantly challenge yourself, but you are overworking yourself.”

She sighed again, deeper this time, scrubbing her hands over her face like she could erase the stress through sheer friction. “I know. But I can’t just let the Gazette fall apart. It matters to me, you know? And after everything with the mini-farm article, people are actually paying attention to it and reading. I can’t afford for it to look sloppy.”

Damian nodded once. “And yet your efforts are being undermined by a petulant liar with a bruised ego.”

“Exactly.” She let her head fall to the desk with a soft thud . “God, I hate him so much—and I know hate is a strong word. But how can he be so sick and twisted to just casually drop a racist joke in a room full of people, then expect us to laugh. And when he had to face the consequences he decided to turn around and lie, ” she ranted incredulously.

She huffed and lifted her head up, “so, I’m guessing you’ve heard the rumours about me being a bully and a censorship machine too.”

Damian reached for the damp cloth folded neatly on the edge of the desk, rubbing his fingers meticulously—one by one. “I overheard a group of sophomores in passing, parroting whatever they had overheard with little context,” he confirmed. “They didn’t seem particularly invested; their voices lacked any conviction. Just regurgitating whatever spiel Hollis has made up.”

“Still,” she muttered, glaring at the desk like it personally betrayed her. “That’s all it takes. One twisted version of events passed around enough times, and suddenly I’m Regina George with a press badge.”

Damian raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Right. You’ve never seen Mean Girls . That one doesn’t surprise me at all actually.”

“I do not make a habit of watching films with such uncreative titles.”

“Which is a loss for you, honestly,” she muttered. “Although I doubt you would like it.”

He turned over to her once he’d finished wiping the pinky of his right hand, and looked at her from her slumped position over the desk, eyes sharp beneath the thick fringe of his lashes. ”Anyone with half a functioning brain would know Jared is spinning this because he doesn’t want to be labelled as a racist. It would tarnish any chances of applying to college if they hear about his disgusting views on Arabs or any ethnic group,” Damian said. “You were right to remove him, you should not question your judgement.”

“Thanks. I think.” She swallowed, finally straightening her posture, with a small crack in her back. “And I’m not questioning my judgement. I stand by what I did, there’s no room for racism or discrimination in any team I lead.”

He nodded, folding the damp cloth neatly, having already put all his art supplies back into the metal tin. As he adjusted the cuffs of his white shirt, he asked her, “Will you be staying after school until the game or going back to the home and returning later?”

“I need to go back to grab the bag I’m taking with me to sleepover at Amrita’s,” she explained, standing up and fixing her skirt, brushing imaginary dust from the hem and smoothing out the pleats.

Damian slid his tin shut with a soft click, the latch snapping into place. “I’ll drive you.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I’ll take you to the home and back in time for the game,” Damian said, calm and certain, like he’d already made up his mind for the both of them. “Afterwards, I’ll drop you at your friend’s house. She lives near Cherry Hill Park, correct? It is on the way to the manor.”

Elena folded her arms. “You really don’t have to. You might want to hang out with Jon after—celebrate or, I don’t know, console him if they lose. I don’t want to drag you into chauffeuring duties all night.”

Damian paused just long enough to give her a flat and unimpressed look.

“I assure you,” he said dryly, “if Jonathan requires consolation, he has an entire boyband of emotionally available teammates for that.”

She snorted. “Still, I’m not your problem.”

“No,” he said, cool as ice, “you are not my problem, but I certainly do not want to hear about my ally being mutilated in seven different ways by the Joker, because she had the smart idea of taking the subway at night in Gotham.”

“Okay, firstly, you have a pretty grim imagination. Second, I think we are past being ‘allies’ and It’s not that big a deal.”

He stared at her like she’d just announced she intended to hitchhike across Gotham to Amrita’s house.

“Gold,” he said, voice deadpan. “You do realise it will be pitch black by the time the game ends?”

She shrugged. “I’ve done it before.”

“Which says more about your alarming lack of survival instincts than anything else.”

“I’m not helpless.”

“No,” he agreed, “you are no damsel in distress, but you are reckless. Foolish, even, if you think walking alone in your school uniform at night through Gotham and then catching the subway is a good idea.”

“I’m not afraid,” she said, a little defensively.

“Of the subway? No,” he said dryly. “But of Titus, yes.”

Her lips parted, indignant. “I’m not afraid of your dog.”

He stepped past her to pick his blazer, coat and bag from the front of the classroom and she followed behind him, already gearing up to defend herself from his recent uptick of accusations that she was afraid of his great dane.

“You are,” Damian said over his shoulder, adjusting his blazer over his shoulders. “You consistently take the longest route around the penthouse to avoid him.”

“I do not,” she protested.

“You were willing to walk at night during a snowstorm to avoid getting into a car with Titus.”

She made a frustrated noise, reaching the threshold of the art room as he held the door open for her. “Okay, maybe I prefer to maintain a safe distance from a creature the size of a small horse, but that doesn’t make me afraid. In fact, it completely contradicts your point about my lack of survival skills.”

“He’s seventy-eight kilograms. Hardly the mass of a horse.”

“What even is that in pounds?”

“A hundred and seventy-two pounds,” he converted the value in a split second.

“See! That’s literally heavier than me, which means if he sat on me I could suffocate.”

Damian let the door swing shut behind them and started down the hall, coat folded neatly over his arm. “He is trained, obedient, and more well-mannered than most people we know.”

“He also has an extremely unsettling stare,” Elena recalled, shuddering at the thought of those yellow eyes. “I can barely focus around him without worrying he’ll pounce.”

“Dogs do not pounce. You are being ridiculous, Gold, Titus is a trained dog who will only attack on my command.”

“I’m being realistic,” she said, jabbing a finger in his direction. “You know what else was probably trained and obedient? The raptors in Jurassic Park. ”

Damian sighed at what felt like the millionth film reference in the span of twenty minutes. “Titus is not a genetically resurrected predator.”

Elena rolled her eyes, mouth opening to form another witty comeback before she stopped herself short and her face brightened as she let out a shocked laugh, “Ha!! You’ve seen Jurassic Park. Finally, a movie we’ve both watched.”

Damian’s jaw tightened, as though he regretted the slip the moment it left his mouth. “I was forced to watch it.”

Elena’s eyes gleamed as a mischievous grin pulled at her lips, “you still watched it, and you paid enough attention to understand my reference immediately.”

“It was scientifically inaccurate.” he shot back dismissively.

“And you still watched it,” she practically sang, drawing out the words like a victory lap as they walked side by side. She then paused, a thoughtful look crossing her face, “you know, you kinda remind me of that guy from Casablanca.”

“I suppose you are referencing a movie titled Casablanca and not the destination itself.”

Elena nodded, proudly, “you’re finally catching on.”

After leaving the stairwell, they’d both headed toward the PE block, splitting off before they reached the building—Elena ducking through the side entrance while Damian took the longer route around the science wing. It was a precaution they both started to take once Elena mentioned her friends beginning to take notice of her and Damian spending time together. The last thing they needed was anyone catching onto their investigation.

By the time the final bell rang, Elena and Amrita had already zipped up their bags and exited their English Language class to meet Lila by her locker. The hallways were already buzzing with the pre-weekend chatter and friend groups who had plans to attend the football game tonight.

“I’ll see you guys at the sleepover later,” she said casually, placing her backpack down on the floor to put her coat on. “I’m going to stop by the Spanish class. I already finished the chapter of the textbook we’re working through in class, and Mrs Herera said she had some extra exercises I could try.”

Lila smiled and bumped her shoulder into Elena’s playfully. “You’re such an overachiever.”

“Languages just come easier to me,” she shrugged, flashing them both innocent smiles.

Amrita smiled, squeezing Elena’s arm affectionately, “‘kay, we’ll see you later.”

Elena waved them goodbye as they walked toward the exit. And once they turned the corner, she slipped into the nearest girls’ bathroom, and lingered, pulling out her lip gloss and dabbing it on with unnecessary care. She dragged a comb through her hair, checked for smudged mascara except she’d forgotten to put some on this morning, and even spent a solid minute smoothing her eyebrow hairs in an attempt to make time pass faster.

She lingered by the sinks, tapping her foot, reading and rereading the faded poster on handwashing techniques. When a pair of girls came in, chatting about practice schedules and weekend plans, Elena ducked into the farthest stall and waited them out, letting their voices fade before stepping back into the quiet.

Five minutes after they’d left. checking the time on her phone, she deemed that enough time had passed for the car park to have somewhat cleared. And so she washed her hands, smoothed her hair out once more, and exited into the now dead silent corridors.

Somehow, she managed to make the two minute walk from the bathroom to the student parking lot turn into a five minute journey that involved dragging her feet across the checkered floors of the school. Once she’d finally walked out into the weak afternoon sun, she spotted Damian’s Aston Martin parked in a sea of empty parking spaces, his figure leaning against the passenger door.

Damian glanced up the moment she stepped into view, his eyes catching hers across the open lot. He didn’t say anything. Just pushed off the passenger door and opened it for her without a word, stepping aside as she approached.

“Thanks,” Elena muttered, sliding in and pulling the strap of her bag across her lap. He just shut the door with a quiet click, rounded the front of the car, and slipped into the driver’s seat.

Being in his car again, she was reminded—again—how unsettlingly quiet it always was in here. No old engine rattle. No creak of the seats. Just the soft, purring hum of a vehicle that ran incredibly smooth. And, of course, no music. Every time she’d been in Damian’s car before, it was like stepping into a mobile sensory deprivation chamber. Just silence, road noise, and some occasional back and forth between them. She hated it. What kind of psycho drove with no music?

As he pulled out of the student lot and turned onto the main road, she let it sit for a beat—just one beat—before breaking the silence.

“Do you ever play music in this thing?” she asked, glancing at the sleek touchscreen interface in the center console, already itching to tap into it. However she resisted; spending time at the penthouse had taught her that rich people lived in the future when it came to technology. How does a singular remote control every single function in the penthouse? “Like... ever?”

Damian didn’t look away from the road., focused on driving safely first. “It does play music.”

“Because every time I’ve been in here, it’s just you and the hum of the engine.”

“I didn’t realise I needed to provide entertainment.”

“I’m not asking for a live band,” she said, slumping back against the leather seat. “Just a playlist. Come on, you don’t watch movies, surely you listen to music.”

He tapped a few buttons on the console without a word, and a moment later, the car filled with the sound of whatever song Damian had last been listening to. Something slow and orchestral, and suspiciously... pompous. Strings swelled, a piano trickled in. Elena frowned, “this sounds like a funeral march.”

Damian’s brow ticked, just slightly. “It’s Rachmaninoff.”

“Right, of course it is,” she muttered, staring out the window as the dramatic composition washed over them. “God forbid you listen to something that wasn’t composed by a guy in a cravat. You know, in these past three hours, you have fully convinced me you’re a snob when it comes to the arts.”

“What do you listen to then?” he asked, tone neutral, ignoring her accusation that he was an elitist. “Pop?”

She turned to him, one eyebrow raised. “What’s with the pop slander? It’s popular for a reason, and you seriously aren’t helping your case.”

“There is no case. I simply do not find pleasure in something as mundane as a synth beat over flowery lyrics.”

“There is nothing wrong with a fun beat, Damian,” she shot back. “And for the record I don’t only listen to pop. I appreciate all genres.”

“Including hip-hop?” he said, with a tone that seriously suggested she would say no.

“Yes, including hip-hop. Don’t you dare stereotype me.”

He hummed, clearly unconvinced. “It’s just speaking rhythmically over harsh instrumentals. There is little melody actually involved.”

Elena turned to stare at him like he’d just insulted her personally. “Did you seriously just reduce an entire genre to ‘talking over music’? You’re allergic to taste. Kendrick Lamar won a Pulitzer for his album ‘DAMN’—do you have any idea how historic that is? First non-classical, non-jazz artist to ever get that recognition. That’s not just ‘talking.’ That’s art.”

Damian glanced sideways at her, and for the first time, there was no disapproval in his expression. Just quiet curiosity. Then, without a word, he tapped the touchscreen again. Spotify loaded on the console.

“One song,” he said, voice cool. “You pick.”

Elena’s lips curled into a grin, her fingers already reaching for the display. “I’m about to change your life, Wayne.”

A few songs later, Damian pulled up in front of the home, the low humming of the Aston Martin’s engine softening as he shifted into park. Elena was already unbuckling before the car had fully stopped, reaching for her backpack at her feet.

“I’ll be five minutes,” she said, already pushing the door open and hopping out.

True to her word, she moved fast. Inside, she refilled her pink metal water bottle at the kitchen sink, the bottle clinking against the tap. Upstairs, she stripped out of her school uniform and pulled on a maroon sweater, followed by black jeans and her long black trench coat. She had combed her hair earlier in the school bathrooms but still smoothed her stubborn baby hairs down with her fingers, slung her overnight bag over one shoulder, and shoved her charger, earbuds, and a crumpled paperback into the side pocket. On her way out her room, she grabbed the red and white striped paper bag of pick-and-mix sweets she’d filled at the corner shop yesterday and was out the door in record time.

Damian stepped out of the car the moment Elena emerged from the house, and met her at the bottom of the driveway without a word, hand outstretched before she even had to ask. Elena passed him the overnight bag with a grateful nod, still juggling her water bottle and the red-and-white striped paper bag of sweets in her other hand.

He took the bag from her and turned back toward the car, popping the boot open with a flick of his wrist, placing her bag inside.

Damian slid back behind the wheel, pulling it shut with a mechanical click . Elena buckled herself in, balanced her water bottle between her legs when she found it too big to fit in the bottle compartment, and rustled open the bag of pick-and-mix sweets in her lap.

“You want one?” she asked, offering it out between them.

Damian didn’t even spare a glance at the bag. “No.”

“Oh come on ,” she said, nudging the bag toward him. “I made sure they’re all vegetarian. No gelatin or anything. Nothing that used to moo or cluck, I swear.”

He gave her a look, but said nothing.

“You are exhausting , ” she muttered around the sweet, already popping another one shaped like dracula’s fangs into her mouth as he pulled away from the curb, the bag nestled in her lap.

Without dignifying her with a response, Damian changed the subject of their conversation seamlessly, “We will be sitting with the Kents.”

Elena glanced sideways, tearing her attention away from a fizzy rainbow stripe. “Jon��s parents?”

“Clark and Lois,” he affirmed. “Try not to say anything that would compel Lois to file a restraining order.” She let out a sharp scoff. “Wow. You really are on a roll today. I knew I’d regret offering you candy. That was, like… almost a joke.”

Damian said nothing, and Elena found it so infuriating how easy it was for him to look so innocent after making a joke at her expense. Probably the first joke she ever heard from his mouth. But of course, it just had to be a snarky one. The fact she found it slightly funny was worse.

She rolled her eyes, brushing the sugary remnants on her fingers and reaching out to put a song on, having now figured out how to get her own playlists up on the fancy touchscreen. “Whatever. I’ll allow it. Just this once. Even if it was at my expense.”

Damian watched the players stretch and sprint through warmups on the field. Elena sat beside him, hands wrapped around a cup of strong-smelling coffee she bought at the concession stand, eyes restlessly scanning around the bleachers for Kade. She was quiet apart from the occasional quip about how funny the football kits look, leg bouncing up and down—a habit of hers that he had picked up on. The bag of pick-and-mix sweets rested between them, an open invitation for him to help himself at any point despite the fact he’d told her ‘no’ at least five times.

Kade still hadn’t arrived. Not that it concerned Damian. When analysing all the footage at other schools’ sports games, Kade often turned up midway through warmups, right now, warm ups had only just begun.

Footsteps clicked up the aluminum steps.

“Hey, son,” Clark’s familiar voice sounded, deep and warm.

Damian looked up as Clark and Lois reached their row. “Clark, Lois,” he acknowledged them in greeting.

“Damian,” she said fondly, before her eyes moved past him to the girl beside him. “Hi.”

Elena shifted slightly, posture tightening. Probably starstruck.

Clark glanced at her with a polite expression, offering a kind smile. “I saw you with Damian at the last game,” he said. “I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to introduce ourselves. I’m Clark.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine. I was in a rush since the coach was going to leave without me,” she said quickly, shifting up so Damian could shift closer to her and make room for the couple. “My name’s Elena.”

Lois perked up at the name. “As in the Elena from the school paper?”

Elena didn’t respond immediately. Yeah, completely starstruck, Damian thought.

She then gave a small nod. “Yeah. That’s me.”

“Your exposé on the mini-farm was great. You have a strong voice,” Lois complimented.

“You read my articles?” Elena asked, pink dusting her cheeks.”

Lois nodded, “Mhm, Damian brings the school paper round with him when he comes over for dinner after school sometimes.”

Elena glanced at him but he kept his eyes trained on the spot he expected Kade to sit in, ignoring her pointed stare. Countless hours spent analysing footage of dull sports games had not only taught Damian when exactly Kade would arrive, but also where he would sit. And so Damian planned accordingly, seating himself and Gold where they would have a greater vantage point.

Glancing to his right, he noted the quick, repetitive flick of Lois’ thumb over her screen. Mouth pressed tightly as if she was expecting something.

“Where are the twins?” he asked.

Lois answered without looking up. “Their friend from school invited them for their first sleepover. I don’t like the idea of being out of the city while they’re in Metropolis.”

Damian said nothing. Clark offered his wife some reassurance. “They’ve been asking for weeks. They’ll be alright.”

Damian knew Lois’ worry likely had less to do with it being the twins’ first sleepover, and more with the fact that she was worried about their Kryptonian powers kicking in at any given moment. He couldn’t imagine it would be pleasant trying to explain why laser beams just shot from a five year old’s eyes. While it was unlikely their powers would kick in so you, after all, Jonathan got his at eleven, that fact didn’t quell Lois’ worries at all.

Elena shifted beside him, clearing her throat and looking at him with pointed eyes as she tilted her head. Not toward him, but toward the opposite end of the bleachers.

Damian’s gaze followed slowly, not wanting to raise suspicion from Clark and Lois. After all, one had superhearing, and both were journalists.

There.

Near the far stairwell, second row from the top (exactly where Damian expected him to sit), occupying the corner seat was Elias Kade.

He sat alone, wearing a grey wool coat that brushed his knees, sleeves cuffed neatly over the wrists of his navy jumper. Legs crossed, back ramrod straight. A leather notebook rested on his lap, pen poised. But he wasn’t watching Gotham’s players. His eyes tracked the Metropolis side exclusively, following their players through drills with unsettling focus.

Throughout the first half of the match, Kade didn’t look up once to actually enjoy or cheer for the game. He flipped between pages of his notebook methodically, scribbling observations and then returning his gaze to someone on the Metropolis team except they couldn’t pinpoint who out of the clusters of players. Elena narrowed her eyes slightly and whispered, "Creepy."

Between keeping their watchful eyes on Kade and cheering for Jon whenever he made an excellent play, Damian and Elena picked up on a few stares from Gotham Academy students who had come to watch too. They were likely wondering why two students were cheering for the opposing team, but the duo couldn’t care less.

Halftime approached. The buzzer sounded and players jogged toward their respective benches. Kade stood, shutting his notebook and clutching it as he descended the steps toward the stands.

Damian stood too, followed by Elena, which earned them strange looks from Lois and Clark. "Concession stand?" he suggested boredly.

"Sure," Elena replied quickly, catching on.

They made their way down the opposite stairwell, keeping Kade in their peripheral vision as he turned down a narrow hallway toward the bathrooms and food vendors.

"What’s the plan?" Elena whispered.

"We wait and follow his path. Get a closer look."

She huffed. "That’s too slow. How about I bump into him? Maybe he drops his notebook and I could get a peek."

"He won’t drop it."

"Just make me laugh," she said, eyes lighting up as she pivoted mid-stride, walking backwards in front of Damian. "Just say something ridiculous and I’ll throw myself into him."

Damian narrowed his eyes. "That is ridiculous."

"Perfect. Keep the energy. Just do it."

A few seconds later, she turned back to see if he was there. She saw Kade re-emerge from the vending area, walking at a steady pace but too absorbed in reading something in the notebook to be fully aware of his surroundings. Without breaking stride, Elena whispered, "Now. Say something."

Damian, who for all his training knew to function efficiently in the most stressful of situations, did not know what to say that she would find funny. Gold seemed to find his unfiltered opinions quite amusing so maybe he should think of something snarky…

Although, seeing the blank look on Damian’s face as he racked his brains must’ve been enough to amuse her. Elena barked a laugh, loud and unbridled, and slammed into Kade, faking a stumble and letting her coffee cup hit the ground with a splash. "Oh my God, I’m so sorry!" she said, eyes wide with mock horror as Kade’s notebook went flying from his hand and skittered across the concrete.

"Shit," he muttered, crouching down.

Elena beat him to it, snatching the notebook from the ground. As she handed it back, her eyes scanned over the page it was open on.

"Are you a scout?" she asked, handing it over with a sheepish smile.

Kade took the notebook from her hands without so much as a thank you, flipping it shut with an audible snap. His expression, usually so polished, tightened with irritation as he straightened to his full height.

“I don’t need questions from nosy kids who can’t walk in the right direction,” he said flatly, brushing past her, bumping his shoulder against hers hard enough to make her stumble.

Elena just blinked—more surprised than hurt.

Before she could even process a response or deflection, Damian stepped behind her and cleared his throat.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“I believe she apologised,” he said, voice cutting through in a tone Elena knew she never wanted to be on the receiving end of. “Not that you deserved it.”

Kade stopped mid-step.

Damian’s eyes were locked on him in a withering glare—green eyes unblinking.

“If your reaction to a minor accident is to belittle someone who offered you kindness,” Damian continued, stepping just slightly closer, “then I wonder what you would do if you actually felt threatened. Or is it a habit of yours to hurt young women?”

Kade didn’t reply or even attempt to challenge him. With a mumbled apology that lacked any true meaning, he turned and walked—faster this time, footsteps stiff.

Only once Kade’s back was fully turned did Damian’s stance soften slightly as he turned to Elena. “Is your shoulder injured?”

“No, I don’t think so. It’s fine, just hurts a little,” she said, hand subconsciously brushing over her shoulder blade.

Damian nodded. “Well, pray tell, Gold. Did your ‘master plan’ work?”

He had expected her to beam up at him triumphantly like earlier when he understood her film reference or like when he accepted her Christmas gift. That wide smile that told him just how ecstatic she was. Instead she looked up at him with wide and uneasy brown eyes, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she bit at it nervously in contemplation.

“Gold?”

Elena blinked, as if snapping out of it, and looked up at him. “He had a name written in the notebook.”

She glanced around as if to ensure Elias Kade wasn’t still lingering, and once she deemed it safe to say, she leaned in closer, “J.Kent, number 6, Metropolis High… he’s tracking Jon for this phantom scholarship.”

Damian’s gaze hardened, “were there any other notes?”

Elena nodded as she tried to recall what she saw in the few seconds she had, “I saw that gene mutation you told me about—ACTN, and there was ACE I think it was?”

“ACE… it’s a mutation that regulates an enzyme. It’s tied to endurance and oxygen efficiency. Athletes with the ACE I-allele recover faster, fatigue slower,” he explained.

“You really have been doing your reading, huh? He thinks Jon has both,” she said, and he watched as she really snapped back to herself—the sharp-minded girl determined to pull through no matter what. “Have you told him about our investigation?”

“No, I have not.”

She nodded. “Okay. I think you should now though. I’m not sure how much you want to tell him, but you should at least warn him in case Kade and Luthor try to lure him in.”

“Jonathan is too curious to only be told part of a story. He will want to know every detail.”

“So..?”

“You would not mind if I told him we were working together.”

“No, of course not. He deserves to know the truth, especially if it means keeping him out of danger. He’s your best friend Damian.”

Damian didn’t respond at first.

Elena didn’t know the full picture—not yet. She didn’t know the most important detail: that Jonathan Kent was half-Kryptonian. That he could fly across the planet in under ten minutes, that his hearing could pick up a whispered conversation from miles away, that under a yellow sun, his strength could crack concrete with a casual flick of a finger.

She didn’t know that Jon was more than just a stellar football player with a heart of gold—he was, quite literally, a symbol of hope. And that made him a target in more ways than one.

Damian had thought about telling him. More than once. Anything for the Supersons to be back saving and protecting lives. Jon would jump into this investigation without hesitation if it meant saving even one life—truth, justice, and the American way, etched into his bones like a birthright. However, Damian kept it from Jon from the beginning for some reason beyond him. Then he knew he couldn’t tell Jon when Lex Luthor’s name skyrocketed to the top of their suspects list.

Luthor was a man who hated everything Superman and co represented. A man with the intellect to weaponize that hatred dangerously, who was able to synthesise kryptonite in a lab with nothing but his own brilliance and time.

Elena pursed her lips, “hey. I know you’re probably worried about him in your own weird little way. I get that you want to protect him from this weird scholarship thing, but keeping him in the dark is more dangerous than telling him. I know there’s enough common sense in you to know that.”

“I’ll tell him,” Damian agreed. “After the game.”

“Good,” she said. “Because I really don’t want him to disappear before I meet the boy who somehow managed to become best friends with you. And if something happened to him because we stayed quiet, I don’t think I could forgive myself.”

“Me neither,” he admitted.

“Come on, let’s go buy something before Mr Kent and Mrs Lane think we ran off.”

The rest of the game unfolded without incident. When Damian and Elena returned to the bleachers after halftime, it was with a steaming box of fries between them. Damian had offered to buy two—one smothered in meat for her, the other simple and plain with cheese for himself—but Elena had insisted they share.

“We don’t need to be greedy,” she’d said, popping a fry dripping with cheese into her mouth. “Besides, I prefer sweet stuff over savoury.”

“I noticed,” Damian replied dryly, eyes darting to the crumpled bag of pick and mix she had steadily been eating through earlier.

They stayed like that for the rest of the game—close, heads sometimes tipping near together in quiet commentary as they were finally able to let their guards down and watch the football game. Kade’s name wasn’t whispered once between them.

Metropolis High lost in the end. The score wasn’t embarrassing, but it was decisive—Gotham Academy’s midfield proved too strong, and Jon’s relentless stamina couldn’t carry the whole team.

As the final whistle blew, the stands erupted in a mix of cheers and groans. Players from both teams began shaking hands near the sideline. Elena was already zipping up her coat.

“I’ve got to go help Derek with post-game interviews,” she said, brushing crumbs from her lap. “Coach always lets the Gazette hang back near the tunnel when it’s a home game. I can meet you in the car park after.”

Damian stood with her. “I’ll walk down with you.”

Elena arched an eyebrow but didn’t argue, handing him the empty fry box as they made their way toward the stairs.

Lois and Clark had made their way down to the field to comfort Jonathan before bidding him farewell. Lois kissed his sweaty forehead despite his sheepish protests and Clark squeezed his son’s shoulders in support before they headed back to Metropolis since Jon was spending the night at Wayne manor.

Damian and Elena stepped onto the field just as Lois and Clark were parting ways with Jon, the glow of the stadium lights casting long shadows behind them. Jon was grinning despite the loss, tugging off his wrist tape as he spotted Damian approaching.

His grin widened. “So… that’s her?” he said under his breath, nodding toward Elena, who was already a few paces ahead, fiddling with a camera that Derek handed over to her.

“Who?”

“Your reporter girl.”

“She is not my reporter girl.”

Jon laughed, grinning like he was in on a secret. “I saw you walking down with her. Looked kinda date-like.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. “It’s not—”

Jon leaned in, cutting Damian off. “Dude. If you’re bringing her around my parents, this has to be serious. I’ve never seen you—”

Damian glared at him. “If you finish that sentence, I’ll knock your teeth out.”

Jon laughed, clearly unbothered. “Yeah, yeah. You can tell me about her later. Or not. I’m just saying, she seems cool. Way too cool for you.”

“Jonathan.”

Jon held up his hands in surrender, still grinning as he backed away. “Alright, alright. I’ll go shower before you punch me in front of the press.”

He jogged back toward the locker room, throwing a smile at Elena as she made her way past with a notebook and pen in her hand, Derek walking beside her, now carrying the camera.

Damian’s gaze followed her across the field, watching her flip a page in her gesture for a player to come over for a quote. Her brow furrowed in concentration, expression confident, but approachable. She was fully in her element.

Many brief interviews later, Elena wrapped her final interview with a quick nod, jotting one last note before offering a polite thank-you to the player and stepping back. Damian watched from the sideline, arms loosely crossed as he tracked her movement. She spoke briefly to the boy from the Gazette—Derek—and then turned, cutting across the field toward him.

“Ready to go?” she asked.

“We need to wait for Jon,” he said simply, eyes on the building where the locker rooms were. “He’s staying at the manor tonight.”

She blinked once, then nodded. “Right. Cool. I could have caught the subway if you told me.”

“That is exactly why I didn’t tell you.”

A few moments passed before the locker room door creaked open, and Jon emerged into the cool night. His hair was still damp from the shower, dark curls pushed back loosely. He wore a red hoodie zipped halfway up, dark jeans, and a pair of scuffed trainers. His glasses caught the glow of the stadium lights, and as soon as he spotted them, he jogged over with a relaxed grin.

“Hey,” he greeted, eyes flicking between them. “Sorry, took longer than I thought.”

Elena raised a hand in a small wave. “Hi. I’m Elena.”

Jon grinned wider, “I know—”

He abruptly cut himself off when Damian shot him a death glare.

“—I mean, nice to meet you, Elena. I’m Jon.”

“Sorry about the game, by the way. We were both rooting for you,” she smiled apologetically. “For what it’s worth, this is the first time in years that Metropolis High has made it this far in the league.”

Jon rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a small laugh. “Yeah, Coach said the same thing. Still stings, though. Especially since Gotham’s midfield plays like they’re psychic.”

Elena laughed, “more like psychopaths. I’ve seen those guys analysing game footage for hours.”

“They are better trained,” Damian said as he unlocked the car, frowning as Jon shot him a smirk when Elena wasn’t looking and bolted to claim the backseats, forcing Elena to sit up front with Damian.

“Wow,” Jon muttered, smirk dropping comically fast as he opened the back door. “Thanks for the support, man.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t good,” Damian replied, eyes narrowed at his best friend—if he could even call that traitorous swine that. “Just that the team is not good enough.”

Jon rolled his eyes and slid into the back middle seat while Elena climbed into the passenger side, grinning at the back and forth between the best friends, completely unaware of the micro expressions being exchanged. Damian, as usual, took the driver’s seat in silence, the sleek hum of the engine filling the quiet as they pulled away from the stadium.

The car settled into a comfortable rhythm as the city lights blurred past the windows. Damian drove smoothly, eyes trained on the road—but still catching snippets of conversation as Elena twisted slightly in her seat to face Jon.

“So,” she said, glancing over her shoulder, “are you from the Midwest?”

Jon nodded, “the accent gave it away? My dad’s from a town in Kansas called Smallville, his Ma, my grandma, lives there with my older brother.”

She smiled, “is it nice there?”

“Yeah, I like working on the farm over the summer. Grandma also cooks better than my mom and dad—cooking’s a group effort in Metropolis but we get to kick back and relax in Kansas.”

“You guys have animals on the farm?”

“Yeah, we’ve got a few cows and chickens. My dad said back before his Pa passed, we used to have sheep, but it was harder for my Ma to keep the farm going with dad in Metropolis and grandpa gone, so she sold them. Now she has my older brother Conner to help her.”

“That’s nice. Does he prefer the farm life over the city?”

“Yeah, for sure. I think he finds it more peaceful,” Jon cleared his throat, leaning an elbow on Damian’s headrest. “Actually, you know who else prefers the farm life over the city life?”

That earned him another glare from an angry Damian through the rear view mirror. Damian was on the verge of stopping the car in the middle of the road, throwing the Kent out, and running him over.

“Who?” Elena asked when Jon didn’t respond immediately.

He paused for a moment, daring a glance back at Damian’s steely green gaze before turning to the girl, “Damian.”

She hummed, “that doesn’t surprise me at all. You’re the first person I’ve heard that keeps a cow in Gotham.”

Jon coughed, “you told her about Batcow?”

“Batcow?” Elena scrunched her nose, “Oh my god, you named your cow Batcow? Why?”

“She has a bat-shaped mark on her face.”

Elena smiled, resting her elbow against the car door. “How long have you had her?”

Damian gripped the steering wheel tighter. Oh, he was going to kill Jonathan in fifty different ways. “Since I was eleven.”

“Pretty cool, right? So, I’m guessing he’s told you about all his pets.” Jon started, trying to shift the subject over to Damian, but the car slowed as they pulled up outside a large townhouse with warm porch lights glowing. Amrita’s place.

Elena began unbuckling her seatbelt. “Thank you, Damian—and Jon, you’re good company, it was nice meeting you.”

“You too,” Jon waved as she exited the car and grabbed her bag out the back.

Damian reversed the car, and once she made it inside, he turned around. “Say one more word and I’ll lace your shampoo with liquid kryptonite.”

23 notes · View notes

rapz-rites · 5 days ago

Text

Doing Better

Damian Wayne x Singer!Reader

After your and Damian’s breakup, you both think the other is doing better

A/N: This is inspired by all the TikTok edits I see to We Hug Now by Sydney Rose. If you haven’t listened to it before, please do. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone do this before, so I hope I start something. If any Tumblr writers see this and are inspired by it, plz tag me in your versions 🙏🏾

Word Count: 1.5k

Warning(s): heartbreak 💔

You needed to move to LA for your music, and Damian had responsibilities in Gotham, Robin and his father’s company. Long distance was NOT an option.

The two of you had done long distance for a slightly over six months, and it was horrible. You two were supposed to alternate weekends to visit each other, but due dates and missions, and life got in the way. So you ended up not seeing each other for nearly 4 months, and considering you saw each other every day for years, that was hard. That's why when you reunited, you both promised to never do long distance again.

Neither of you wanted to break up, but you had to.

I have a feeling you got everything you wanted

And you're not wasting time stuck here like me

You're just thinkin' it's a small thing that happened

The world ended when it happened to me

It's been roughly six months since the two of you broke up. You’ve moved to Los Angeles with your label to start producing music for your first album.

They never talked about how difficult it is as an artist. It wasn’t necessarily difficult, but a lot at once. Yeah, you've got to move to LA and do what you love, making music, but they barely talk about the negotiating at every turn, the amount of time and energy and money it takes to make and produce an album. Then you also have to promote it. Then there are the events. Being on social media as long as you have, you have made some mutuals and online friends, but that’s not much. Even though you talk to them at events, they have other friends that they’re much closer to. So oftentimes you’re just wandering alone.

But what they never talk about is the constant cameras in your face and the baseless rumors. Don’t even get started on the hate. It’s as if they have nothing better to do than hate on you for small, petty reasons.

But most of all, you missed him. You missed Damian. When you moved to LA, you got a cute, cozy apartment for yourself. You had to stop yourself from getting a larger one because you forgot Damian wasn’t going to be joining you. It was pet-friendly too for Titus and Alfred the cat. You would stay up late into the night waiting for a certain vigilante to come through your window, only to realize he wouldn’t be coming. He’s back in Gotham, and the two of you aren’t even together anymore.

But after a while, you got used to everything. The people, the events, your hectic schedule, and you went to bed at a reasonable hour.

Now, you wouldn’t say you were an obsessed ex, but you couldn’t help yourself. When you and Damian first started dating, your Google would slowly start suggesting news articles about the Wayne family, more specifically, Damian. Eventually, as time went on, you would look for the funniest article you could find and tease Damian about it. So naturally, when you opened Google and saw the words “Damian” and “Dating” in the same sentence, your heart dropped.

You and Damian had kept your relationship a secret from the media. Of course, your families and friends, including the League and other heroes, knew. The two of you didn’t want the press in your business and thought it would be easier on both of you. It was only a plus that you both also preferred calmer, more intimate dates. So you two would drive hours to get away for a weekend or go to hidden gems that not many people knew of.

Your social media always showed that you were taken, but never specified who, same with Damian. So when you were asked by someone about your dating status and you said you were single, your followers who were with you before you blew up flooded your DMs asking what happened.

You didn’t plan on dating anyone else anytime soon, or at all, even. You thought Damian would have felt the same, that’s why seeing that article was such a surprise. You didn’t bother reading the article and just stared at the picture. Though a small part of the girl showed in the photo with Damian, you knew who it was just by the hair: Raven, his first girlfriend.

You knew deep down they weren’t dating, and were most likely together due to them both being heroes. Of course, no one wanted their boyfriend around their ex, but you had to get used to it while you were dating him. You loved him, but most importantly, you trusted him enough to know he would betray and hurt you like that.

But seeing that photo still hurts. There was a small smile on his face, and you couldn’t help but think, ‘Maybe he’s better off without me.

I have a feeling you got everything you wanted

And you're not wasting time stuck here like me

You're just thinkin' it's a small thing that happened

The world ended when it happened to me

Usually, while you and Damian were dating, if any tabloids got out that suggested he was dating or seeing someone else, he would immediately have it taken down. But this time he was too late, it had been up for a little over a week.

He contemplated messaging you to assure you it wasn’t what the media made it out to be, but the two of you agreed not to stay in contact. Neither of you deleted the other's number or removed each other from your socials. Staying in touch would have just made the breakup harder than necessary.

He wouldn’t admit this to anyone, but he missed you. More than he ever thought he could miss a person. Once you were gone, so was a part of him, the best part of him.

As you were friends with Stephanie before you and Damien even started dating, she would constantly show off photos and videos that you would post and send her. Naturally, as time went on and you got busy with your career, you didn’t send as many updates to her, but still continued talking to her, which is how Damien would know what you’re up to.

He would see on your social media, photos and clips of you at events, having a good time and smiling.

God, he missed your smile. He missed everything about you.

He especially missed the way he could be himself around you, and he could talk to you about anything. Right now, he was going through a lot. He was thinking about his future, whether he would continue as a hero under his father or branch out to become his own hero, he contemplated going back to the league, or even stop being a hero completely. If only you were here right now, one conversation with you and he would know exactly what to do, but you weren’t.

Damien continued to look at photos and videos you would post, thinking how you might be doing better. Better off without him.

Years Later

It had been years since you’ve been in town since you left. Crime has gone down, the air is less polluted, and overall, the people of Gotham are doing better than they’ve been in years.

You returned to attend a charity event hosted by Bruce Wayne. It had been hours, and you greeted and talked to a lot of people, including your best friend Stephanie, whom you hadn’t seen in months. Despite being famous and constantly attending events, you would always need to take a break and get some air.

On the rooftop, you just stared at the starry sky. When you lived here nights when you could see the stars, were far and few between. The air didn’t smell as dirty as it used to.

As you stared at the sky, you felt a presence watching you. Considering you dated Damien Wayne, a former assassin, and constantly had cameras on you, it wasn't difficult for you to know when you’re being watched.

“Are you going to keep staring at me or say hello?” You asked out loud as you continued to look up at the stars.

“I wasn’t staring, simply observing,” a deep voice said.

You could feel your heart skip a beat while you turned to face the man. He stepped out of the shadows to reveal himself. He was easily over 6 feet tall. His olive skin glowed under the moonlight. His emerald green eyes still mesmerized her to this day. He was clad in a dark emerald suit, which was tailored perfectly for him.

“Damian,” you said breathlessly. You hadn’t expected him to be here tonight. You heard from Stephanie about a year after you left, then Damian returned to the League of Assassins. Not only to take over, but to transform it into something better.

You continued to stare at him as he walked closer to you, closing the distance between you. He brought his hand up to gently cup your cheeks.

“Hello, Beloved,” he said just before bringing his lips down to meet yours.

Are they gonna get back together??? 👀😏

Tag List:

@firephoenix2020

@devotedlyshadowytheorist

@Manonptv

@inmymonologue

@Findingnolia

@thereal5limshady

@blackrockshooter780

@lillian-morningstar

#damian wayne #damian al ghul #damian wayne x reader #damian al ghul x reader #damian wayne x female reader #damian wayne x you #batfam #Spotify

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delusionsofgrandeur13 · 5 months ago

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your boyfriend, damian wayne’s instagram

tim drake is next! still taking requests :)

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minorlyatfault · 7 days ago

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you make me feel stupid, but it’s the kind of stupid that i like, from vi !

ᰔ pairing . . . d. wayne !

ᰔ with . . . a hopeless romantic reader !

ᰔ . . . how damian wayne deals with his hopeless romantic partner in texts.

ᰔ category . . . smau

ᰔ look around . . . m. list && detective comics m. list

ᰔ tags . . . liz buxbaum coded!reader. a lil dirty joke. ooc. fluff. aged up!damian wayne.

────── vi whispers . . . ᰔ

001. requested by my moot, @auriieee !! i lost your ask bb 😭😭 im sorryyyyy

002. the third picture was based here !! ( well this smau was based there anw )

003. I WAS CHATGING W SOMEOEM WHILE MAKING THDIS D

004. vi uses "and" here IN ONE(?) SLIDE because idk. she felt like it.

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sunkissedmayu · 1 month ago

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Damian Wayne is the type of boyfriend who'd try to play your favourite video games just to join you on your gaming sessions. You're a gamer, and your boyfriend isn't. He probably never touched a game ever in his life (you know, he's trained to be an assassin and he became a vigilante at a young age). Damian never thought about even handling a game console until you asked him to play a game with you.

At first, he'll refuse saying "it's just a waste of time." Although deep inside, his system is panicking because he doesn't know how to play and overthinking since he doesn't want you to be sad that he refused you. You're not sad that he refused you. Sure, maybe you're having melancholic feelings that you and your boyfriend don't share the same interests but at the same time, you understand that both of you didn't grow up in the same environment. And maybe, you distance yourself to him just for a while.

You guys made up after he noticed your behaviour and asked you what's up. You assured him that it's just something petty and will eventually fade. But of course, Damian Wayne won't allow that. When you and him made up, he asked you to play your favourite game.

Everything has to be good, even his relationship with you. So when you ignored him, he actually tried to study your favourite games. He didn't even sleep a wink trying to master the game and even asked for the other bat family members how to play video games while on patrol.

He was confident in his skills when he asked you. Of course, those sleepless nights of practicing need to be fruitful of better results. But in the end, he's frustrated because he keeps on dying(which is something you find cute). He'll be throwing shade on his character, saying they're not competent enough to be playable by him.

Even if the two of you have different interests, he'll definitely make an effort to study your favourites and accompany you on scrims.

═══════════════════════

@sunkissedmayu's thoughts 💭 GAMER! READER HERE WE GO! as a gamer myself, i'm really imagining to have this type of relationship. #needthat ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

#damian wayne #damian al ghul #damian wayne x female reader #damian wayne x y/n #damian wayne x you #damian wayne x reader #batfam x reader #batfam #fanfic x reader #fanfic #dc universe #dc comics #dcu #need that #headcanons #headcanon

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stcrpalaqce · 7 days ago

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❝ ‎secrets out ! ❞ — damian wayne x fem!reader

warnings .ᐟ kissing, swearing, damian may be ooc a/n .ᐟ enjoy!! summary .ᐟ batboys find out damian has a girlfriend.

The soft hum of the city felt distant as Damian stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him. It was a quiet night, the type where the world seems far removed, leaving only the warmth of the room, the soft scent of your perfume, and the steady rhythm of his heart, still pounding in his chest from the adrenaline of the night.

He sat on the edge of the couch, watching you with a rare soft expression that he didn’t realise crept onto his face. The dim light from the lamp beside you cast a warm glow, flickering softly in time with the music you were listening to. You were just a few steps away from him, currently flipping through the book you were reading, but the distance between the two of you felt like miles.

He hadn’t meant for this to happen — his feelings for you, this stolen moment in your bedroom when he was supposed to be on patrol, the way his heart sped up with every smile you sent his way. It was… new. New, but worth it.

“You’re staring,” you say without looking up from your book, a teasing smile tugging at your lips.

“I’m not staring,” Damian shot back, his voice cool but a slight flush creeping up his neck betrayed him. “I’m observing.”

“Sure you are,” you quipped, lowering the book a little to give him a look. “So, should I be worried about the intensity of your ‘observing’?”

Damian smirked, “No more than usual.”

You turned towards him with a smile, the kind that made his breath catch for a moment. It was the same smile that had been quietly unravelling him for weeks. The kind that said you made this all worth it — the danger, chaos and secrets. But in that moment, all that mattered was being here, with you.

He closed the distance between you in slow, purposeful steps, his usual confidence slipping away in favour of something a bit more vulnerable. Your hand reached towards his, the touch soft, a promise of something uncomplicated, something just for the two of you.

Neither of you said anything to each other at first — words felt unnecessary, and the silence between the two of you was more comfortable than anything he’d known. As if compelled by an invisible force, he took your face in his hands, gently cradling you like something precious. He leaned down, and pressed a soft kiss to your lips.

It was lighter than anticipated, tentative almost. You responded immediately, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, slow and heated, a spark igniting between the both of you. His heart seemed to hammer harder, the thrum almost deafening in his ears, as his hands moved towards your waist, his body betraying his pretense of control.

Just as the quiet moment reached its peak, a sudden crash made him freeze. His hand instinctively held onto your waist tighter, as he turned towards the window, his heartbeat thudding for a completely different reason than before.

You on the other hand didn’t notice. “It must have been the wind,” you said casually, but Damian wasn’t convinced.

The sound came again, louder, a thunk that made both of you pause.

The feel of his comm in his ear made his heart drop into his stomach. He slowly turned it back on, forgetting he silenced it before he had come up onto your balcony.

The channel was crackling with static for a moment — and then a voice came through, loud and unfiltered.

“Uh… guys?”

It was Tim.

“Does anyone else see that? On the second floor of the apartment building right there… that’s not a target. That’s Damian.”

Damian’s heart sank. You blinked, sitting up straighter. “Wait. Was that Tim?”

Before he could respond, another voice came through, louder and way too amused.

“No way. No way.” Jason this time. “Little D’s in a girl’s room. Making out.”

Damian moved to shut the comm off again, but it was too late.

“Wait, wait, wait—” Dick’s voice cut in, laced with disbelief. “Is that Damian??? In the window??”

“Oh fuck…” Damian sighed and put his head in his hands, the embarrassment colouring his skin, as you just smiled, amused by the entire situation.

There was a beat of stunned silence before the line exploded into chaos—Jason laughing so hard he was wheezing, Tim going “I KNEW IT,” and Dick trying (and failing) to sound responsible while still clearly freaking out.

You looked at Damian with wide eyes. “They saw us?”

Damian, red-faced and seething, crossed the room in a flash and yanked the curtain closed in one motion. “Apparently so.”

“Is that—are they watching us?” you asked, trying not to laugh but utterly failing at hiding your amusement.

“They are dead men,” Damian muttered, pressing two fingers to his temple as if it would somehow block out the sound of his brothers’ voices, which were still coming through the comm, loud and relentless.

“DAMIAN HAS A GIRLFRIEND—WHAT.”

That was Dick again, definitely shouting.

You doubled over in laughter now, unable to contain it. “Oh my God.”

Damian just groaned and sank back onto the couch, burying his face in your shoulder as you wrapped an arm around him.

“They’ll never let me live this down,” he mumbled into your sweater.

You kissed the top of his head, still laughing softly. “Probably not.”

#damian wayne x reader #batfam x reader #fem!reader #damian wayne x female reader #manyamuses

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lavilavs · 7 days ago

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୨୧ ── Starts with a cliché, ends with a cliché

› Pairing: Damian Wayne x Fem!Reader

› Scenario: Life is full of clichés, no? It just so happens that its favorite is Damian and the stuck-up rich heiress that he met on his first day of school. He can't stand being your shojo-manga-made love guru (that sucks, sadly) anymore if you keep on having angst as your genre.

› Warnings: Light cursing and light KMS jokes

› Notes: English is not my first language + Reblogs and likes are very appreciated! + Is it obvious I like friends-to-lovers? + 80% backstory, 20% present time (jk) .. 4k words

A sigh leaves his lips. It was difficult to finish one chapter without you popping inside his mind. You've been dancing around in his train of thought the whole day. Memories of the past have resurfaced without reason.

Perhaps he misses you that much.

Damian sets the first manga you've lent him with care by the side. The bustling street across his windows entice him to stand up. It's time to do something else other than read. Apparently, reading manga fuels his desire to visit you after a week of no communication.

You've been silent since you've fought with your first normal boyfriend.

Through his window, he noticed the old bookstore a few streets down to the west was now gone. Damian watches the cranes and construction workers build something new on top of it. That store had sentimental value for both of you. You used to sneak with him there after class to recommend some manga.

His reflection on the mirror adds another thought to his head. He's changed so much. Damian was taller and mature than he was before. Everything has changed since he went to Gotham. Even when he wasn't born, everything has changed.

Change is the only thing permanent in the world. Everyone knows that. Humans have lived and gone through change that nobody could disagree with. Damian learned and accepted change at a young age, believing that it is the only thing constant in a world that is different every day.

That's what he used to believe—until he met your annoying, spoiled ass one random Monday at school.

"You're handsome. I like you, you're mine now."

"What did you just say?"

"You're mine."

And it ends up being one of the famous last words of a spoiled heiress who just got thrown onto the floor by a boy who grew up being trained since he first learned how to walk.

You pointed at him and declared that with no warnings whatsoever; how couldn't he react harshly? If you expected him to drop down on his knees to solemnly pledge his love for you like the stories your nanny told you before bedtime, you were dead wrong.

In fact, your nanny was wrong about everything! Not all men who look like a prince act like one. Even the Beast would be put to shame if they cast this little twerp as his younger brother with rabies, if he had one. Sadly, he'll be scouted as a dog in romcoms who bites nuts instead. Because he for sure looks like he will when prompted to.

To think that a fresh 14-year-old Damian Wayne would be the one to forcefully push you out of your Disney princess phase and into your typical teenage girl fixations phase. Puberty held their hands up and slowly walked away on having their job stolen away.

"Hmph."

He scoffed when he saw tears threatening to spill from your eyes as you dusted and straightened your blouse and skirt. The women in the League of Assassins was obviously much stronger and tougher than you, but it didn't make his disappointment any less.

Being surrounded with people who had a 'kill or be killed' mindset and then thrown into a normal society where safety is a given with all these superheroes protecting them... It's throwing him off.

It was apparent that you were one of those stuck-up rich kids with the way you acted. Judging with the book of cliches in mind, you'll cry about this to your parents later and have him arrested and put into a life behind bars for eternity.

Good luck with that when he has Bruce Wayne and Talia Al Ghul as his parents. Although, he can easily break out by himself.

But there was one mistake. One that cost him a life's worth of embarrassment in school. After all, "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth." That arrogance of his cost him his family jewels getting kicked by you.

He missed the other cliché—crying makes you stronger.

Oh, and this backstory? Yeah, totally not related to the first paragraph. It's just Damian reminiscing back to the old days because he's appalled that you're still a hopeless romantic that makes him doubt that change is permanent.

Damian Wayne-Al Ghul is sitting here listening to your girl problems. Not just any girl problem—it's your love problem! A recurring yet still difficult topic for both of you.

And how is it difficult, you may ask? Simple—the boyfriends you pick certainly aren't the brightest or the kindest, so even the logical Damian Wayne is troubled by how your boyfriend of the week is acting.

The use of their intelligence surpasses even his, and not in a positive way. How can he even begin to comprehend that one time when a guy who almost took you out on a date unhingedly recommended you not to search him up?

You must've thought, "Holy shit, is he a celebrity from another country?" and that would've been ideal if he weren't included in the local wanted list! That gorgeous specimen had charges of multiple felonies, arson, theft, and a lot more.

When you cried about it to him, you were more concerned about the fact that he specifically told you not to search him up. Like—just be quiet, bro. You didn't have to say all that. And the fact that he didn't even use a fake name? clever. Wow, Einstein would be turning in his grave from having his title of world's smartest man stolen.

With that pretty face of his, you wouldn't even think he'd do all of that, to be honest. But pretty privilege doesn't work on Damian. No matter who they were, they deserved a background check. Or perhaps a Google check would be fitting given the circumstances. Thank God he did. What could he have done when something happened to you?

Another funny, ironic cliché has happened to poor, little Damian. Fate rolled his dice of cliché, and it somehow ended up being the "the more you hate, the more you love" cliché that happens to characters that start off sour but end up falling in love with each other.

Only that it was one-sided—at the moment!—on his part.

His confession ended up being a total failure when he realized you didn't like him anymore like you once said you did. Damian still thought you did because of your words—those words of declaration you did 6 years ago, that is.

The flowers in his hand wilted downwards, saddened by the surprising rejection of their buyer.

"You told me I was yours?"

"Did I? I don't remember."

That stupid look on your face almost made him crash out.

"Do you even remember how we first met?" He groans, threading his fingers through his hair.

"What? You didn't just spawn in my life?!"

It was a miracle Damian didn't go berserk, Damian couldn't find the energy to be furious when that surprise in your voice was genuine. Did he throw you too hard, perhaps? If he did, he wanted to go back in time just to give you your own kick to the nuts. Not that you had one! Just figuratively speaking.

Damian dreads the thought of hurting you again. But if you were going to turn out less of a stuck-up rich kid and his friend? It was a small sacrifice to be made. But also... with a little hint of revenge 'cause that shit still hurts his pride.

Oh—so many conclusions in his mind that he's starting to laugh slowly like a maniac.

"None of that matters anyway! We're friends, Dami. This confession is the worst that could happen to us." You laugh at his face while having him in a headlock.

That chippy smile on your face looked so annoying to see, and yet, it also served as his tranquilizer.

How could he be mad when you already looked so happy to have him in your life? It slowly dawned on him that it wasn't that bad to be just your friend.

Only until you went on a spree with love interests that were...

1.) Had the brain of a rock

Whether emotional or plain intelligence, the contenders could never have both. Having both was only a myth. A story you would only hear from your other girlfriends. It was amazing that they were blessed in the boyfriend department. Guess God really makes all of us equal with situations like this.

And the worst of the worst,

2.) Criminals

It's self-explanatory. If that's not enough to hear, Damian swears he wants to bash his head every time you tell him about your villain hear-me-outs. In exhibit A we had Poison Ivy and Arkham Knight. It was understandable at some point. When he asked you what part of them is attractive, he wasn't ready to hear your answer.

"First of all, are you too busy fighting for your life that you can't see Poison Ivy's gorgeous face? Dude, every stolen picture of her is totally hot! She's so photogenic."

"I could hear you out on Ivy, but Arkham Knight? Please, elaborate." He was so done with your bullshit. The way you even prepare yourself into that pose before you speak into an imaginary mic has him dumbfounded.

"I can't see his face."

"Pardon?"

"All aura. No face. Very hear-me-out material." You nod in agreement at yourself whilst the boy shakes his head sideways.

And then we have Exhibit B... Yeah, no. Not elaborating.

"Hear me out on Psimon."

Before Damian could process what you said, you had already passed by him with your friends. It wasn't of importance, just another hear me out. Then it clicked.

"The big-brained midget?!"

If only he wasn't in school, he would've yelled that with all of his might. The best he could do was whisper-shout with a disgusted look. It was just too shocking for him to not say it out loud. That information was something that needed to be spat out.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, his ears perking up at that custom notification sound he set up for you.

: As if you aren't? :p

Damian suddenly felt cold. Have you developed super hearing all this time? How long have you had those powers? Oh, shit—if you have super hearing, then all the compliments he whispered into the air, you heard all of that? Okay, no need to linger on it any further, Damian! What matters is that she didn't understand the compliments you said in Arabic.

With the secret out, he typed back.

: Super hearing... That's impressive.

Within a few seconds he already got your reply.

: Do I look like Superman's secret love child? My parents are the blandest and most boring people here in Gotham, dude. How can I have powers?

: Besides, this goes to show that I know you well enough to know what you're thinking. <3

He erupts into steam, his eyebrows furrowing at the small heart at the end of the message. The warmth in his ears teases him, a reminder of his feelings for you. It wasn't even intended that way, and he still finds it cute.

Ah, where were we?

Right, going back to your dating history—it was either academically and emotionally challenged ones or plain criminals.

Have you dated the mentioned criminals above?

No, you didn't. It was just crushes.

Ask Damian about it, and he'll tell you that exhibit A and exhibit B would be far better than the criminals you actually date. Because they actually have brains that the exhibit C of criminals—don't! The Google guy about 46 paragraphs ago is one of the prime examples of exhibit C.

Either way, Damian Wayne is still your best friend through and through, even if you are... questionable. You're one of the first to have broken down his walls.

You didn't soften the devil child with love. It wasn't that you saved him from a dire moment either because let's be honest with ourselves—who'd win in a fight? A sheltered heiress who rebels or a child born from a lineage of assassins and skilled crime fighters? It was such a coughing baby vs. hydrogen bomb question.

Everything started when you started reading shojo mangas after the incident with Damian on the first day of school. You were too preoccupied by your manga that you bumped shoulders with him making you drop it onto his feet.

Damian already recognized you as the girl who kicked his nuts. A grimace on his face when he looked at the book that was once in your hands.

He picked up what you were reading and was immediately entranced by the wonderful colors the panel had. The romantic dialouge that was written with heart and soul was speaking to him so poetically. There's no context or any understanding about the story and yet he felt every word in this new profound piece of literature.

"If you want one, go ask your mommy or daddy to buy you one, because I am not sharing with the likes of you."

You really have a way of annoying him.

The confident strut you have in your walk annoys him further. It has arrogance like his. The others weren't important as long as you had fun and remained yourself. Even so, he's drawn in. He made sure to find you in recess.

Damian finds you alone in the center with that book up in your face. It was no smiling matter but he was glad there was less people around you. Guess people can't keep with your stuck-up attitude too, huh. His own attitude falters with each step he takes towards you, it was getting hard to approach you after all that planning inside his head.

Was he shy? No way! Damian Wayne Al Ghul can't be shy now. Especially not to a girl who has her head up high in the clouds. He's just here for those books of yours.

He smoothly sits down across you, eyes meeting anything but yours. And when it does, you're both surprised at the softness it held. Your mouth wants to say something. Something mean, something sassy, anything to push him away.

"Why are you here?" Your mind wants him to stay.

Otherwise, you wouldn't have questioned him.

"What's that book you're reading?" He stretches himself to get a closer look at the manga.

A big smile adorns your face. You repeatedly slap the seat beside you, getting him to stand up.

"I'm glad you asked! And correction, it's called a manga." Damian doesn't find your eye rolls annoying now that he knows there's a humorous undertone to it.

He receives the manga with a smile when you held it out for him.

"I'm Damian Wayne. You are?"

And that was just the start of Damian Wayne learning more about romance. With the help of mangas and his family, he learned to care about others and that there was different kinds of love. There was no denying that you were a big factor in creating who he is now. Thanks to you and your 'weird' interests.

It's just ironic that the knowledge he got from it is now used as reference for your bestie therapy. Damian wants to joke that you might've gotten him hooked on shojo's to make him your own love guru.

And let's face it—even if Damian was helping you by comforting and giving advice... his only experience with love was the time he liked you and prior knowledge about how couples act from shojo manga alone.

To put it simply, he wasn't the best love guru you could've picked.

Still, he tries his best for you. Damian still had you in his heart. No hard feelings if he was only your friend. All that he wants now is for you to finally find your match here in Gotham.

He once recommended you to try long distance relationships. The men in Gotham aren't exactly romancable when they have a chance of having a criminal record. And as your best friend and love guru, candidates involved in crime is a no-go.

But you refused, you only wanted a man from Gotham.

"I mean, you and Dick are from Gotham, you're both decent. Along with Bruce... I guess. So, there's hope!"

When you finally found a decent boyfriend who graduated college and has no criminal record, it was as if the heavens have heard both of your prayers to find you a man in Gotham who lives like a saint.

And yet, you're here. Crying in Damian's arms more than ever.

You clearly loved this guy more than everyone you dated. He was just a guy. And that's why you love him. And because he was just a guy, he had the balls to cheat—cheat on you of all people!

"Saint my ass, the only thing blessed about him is his looks. If he didn't have that, he would be nothing! Can you imagine waking up early in the morning to go to gym, go home, doomscroll, eat, and sleep? God, I'd kill myself."

He knows he shouldn't laugh.

"It's okay to laugh, that's how I get through knowing my roster of ex lovers." You show him a sarcastic laugh that slowly makes him cease. He puts his hands up in mock defeat with an apologetic smile on his face.

"I'm sorry. Just... still not used to your words like that. It cracks me up." He laughs again. Yes, this is your emergency contact as well by the way.

"I'd seriously kill myself if I lived like that, Dami. Imagine a life like that—imagine it was completely opposite to the one you have now—you'd kill yourself too, right?!" You were so adamant with your words that he can't stop laughing. That dead serious stare was too much.

Damian ceases his laughter for your sake, having enough of clowning the situation and focusing on the real issue at hand.

"I get that this is your coping, beloved, but you'll have to tell me everything that happened for me to help you." His soft voice almost makes you cry again. Damian's gaze has you melting beneath his sight, full of affection for you to handle just yet. You nod slowly.

"Okay, okay, but let's do that."

"We'll do that, don't worry."

Damian plops you down on his bed, shutting his blinds and locking the door before you felt the bed dip beside you from his weight. The blanket flies up in the air and landed on both of you. His scent on the fabric surrounded you, basking you more with his warmth.

It was too dark to see, just like you wanted it. He wouldn't see your face, you wouldn't see his. It was perfect to say everything without worrying about the other.

His hands search for your face, cupping it gently. As you felt his arms cage your body close to his, it was your sign to start talking.

"I don't understand how he could betray me like that. How they all could betray me. I've thought about it a lot. I can't seem to find any reason for them to leave." You notice your words and Damian could already feel how nervous you are with your slip up.

"Not that I say that in a negative way, I just—"

"I know. I know you. You've changed."

You haven't and Damian prays you won't ever change.

He feels your hold tighten around him. You're scared to lose him too.

"I say that there shouldn't be any reason for them to leave because I know our boundaries, I support them whatever and whenever I can, I give them assurance, I earn their trust, and I love them with all of my heart." Damian pats your head as you ramble.

You were tearing up, making a stain on his shoulder. He hears your hiccups beside him, struggling to contain it any longer.

"Do I have a quality that I can't see that makes people leave? Is it that unlovable and hideous? Dami, can you see it? If you do... tell me why I'm so hard to love."

The silence is agonizing for you. Damian can't even speak about it. You're overthinking that maybe you do have a bad quality that's unnoticeable to you. Is he thinking how to sugarcoat it? That only makes it worse. What's the point of doing this if he'll turn back on the agreement of saying nothing but the truth?

"Before I answer you—may I ask you a question, beloved?"

Happiness swells in your heart when you hear his voice. He smiles when he feels your nod against his chest.

"Do you think they know your worth if they treated you like that?"

You feel his eyes stare at you through the darkness. You'd know it was him based on the warmth it radiates. So intense... and it was all directed at you. He shifts you closer before speaking again.

"Even a real diamond loses its worth if its seen as a fake' heard that before, beloved? And I'm sure you've noticed the way they treated you." Damian's anger was evident in his last sentence. He was pissed that they let you think you were below them.

"If it was up to me, I'd treat you right. Even better than them."

He feels your head snap at his words, gazing back at him in the darkness. This wasn't the usual advice he gives. It doesn't sound like it came from a manga. It wouldn't have been if it came directly from Damian's heart.

He had no mangas to help you today, no mangas with wisdom to share about your predicament, no cheesy quotes to relieve you off your stress... just his heart. It was words written by his heart long ago. The unsent letters it wrote inside of him was about to be delivered by his mouth unrelentlessly.

"I'd love you right, until you're reminded of your 'worth'." Fuck, how you wish you could see him right now. You want to see his face as he tells you everything that will cure your anxiety.

The horrible dating history has left you with fear that if you let Damian in, he'll also notice that bad quality of yours that makes everyone leave. It terrifies you to even think of it. You can't handle getting your first love and friend taken away from you too. People just leave when they get to know you... or after they get something from you.

You seclude yourself to avoid that pain again. Damian understood that overtime. He also failed to see who you really were beneath that persona you created for yourself. But now that he's gotten to know you a lot better. Best believe that he'll make you feel that the 'worth' you fret so much about is as high as his inhertitance combined.

"But, do not base yourself on that metaphor. You are no diamond with an unstable 'worth'. You are you; a person worth loving." He sounds apologetic for bringing that diamond thing in the first place, but surely, you must've understood his intentions behind it... hopefully.

"And...—" A sudden bright headlight seeps through his blinds, giving you a clear view of his warm face staring at you as if you were the most precious person he's ever laid eyes on. It was quick to disappear as it was to appear, the dark room had nothing but both of you in Damian's bed having a second chance with confessions.

Has your name sounded this angelic with his tongue before? Yes, many times.

His big hand clasps with yours, the other pushes a strand back in your ear.

"I'll have various words to replace the word 'hard' in the words 'You aren't hard to love'. Be it difficult, punishing, strenous, heavy, tough, tiring, hellish, complicated—and a lot more, but shit, how can it be when its so easy for me to love you?"

Ah—don't cry, don't cry, don't cry!

Too late, you're sobbing.

He chuckles while wiping your tears away.

"Love has different forms, right? I was content having a platonic one that made loving you a dream. But if the men who can't even dream of loving you like me can have you—then, stay by my side instead." As if that wasn't making you cry, Damian wasn't done.

"I'm not difficult to love as well. I'm happy alone with the thought that the woman who taught me how to love—has learned to love me back after all these years."

His body melts at your touch, gently caressing his face with the warmth he longed for.

"Dumbass. I learned that years ago."

How cliché can this be? You've loved him all this time.

extra scene - 01

It felt right for everything to end and start this way. If only your taste in men wasn't questionable enough to make you question yourself if you're lovable, you would have been snuggling like this with Damian years ago.

He hears you grumble about it.

"We've always done this before, beloved?"

"Platonically we did!"

Okay, ouch?

Damian stays silent, trying to mask his laughter with fake cries. You feel a pang in your chest, feeling bad for what you said.

Damian doesn't stop with his noise that it starts to feel fake.

You know he couldn't see your deadpan face but he can hear you.

"Are you finished?"

The doors shoot wide open revealing Dick and Jason with their feet up high. Of course they're the ones busting down doors but why?!

At the far back, there was Alfred holding a sign that said—WHAT THE FUCK?

"Say no to teenage pregnancy, say no to teenage pregnancy!" Jason and Dick chant by the door until they walked and surrounded both sides of the bed. They both apprehended you. Dick easily held your hands behind your back with his own and Jason had to pull out ropes to keep Damian contained.

"What is this about?!" Damian tries breaking free.

"Master Dick said something about the curfew of having a girl in your room, Master Damian."

"We weren't even doing anything."

Dick flashes out a big, bright flashlight from his pants. You both look at him confused.

"I saw you both through the blinds. And Damian, your eyes... they never lie." The eldest brother gives him a questionable look.

Through the blinds? Damian's eyes? What is he saying—then the flashlight seemed oddly familiar. Damian figured it out before you.

"I thought it was just a truck."

"You don't know what it is 'til it hits you, kid." Dick smugly grins at him.

"You climbed up until the 3rd floor?"

"That's not the issue here, beloved..."

Damian groans. "I am not that type of guy anyways."

Jason laughs at his younger brother then goes silent in a flash.

"I know what you read." Damian gulps.

"What is it?" You pop in. "No—Todd, wait—"

"Best friends to lovers, 20k words, slow burn, romance, fluff, misunderstandings, light angst, heartbreak, hurt/comfort, and eventual smu—"

"TODD!"

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akairawrites · 1 day ago

Text

When silence breaks | Damian Wayne x Reader

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The halls buzzed with tired energy. Rain had come early—light drizzle misting the stained glass windows, the scent of wet leaves curling through open corridors.

Damian walked the halls like he belonged to the building. Not to the people inside it. His backpack slung over one shoulder, boots silent against the tile.

Eyes followed him. They always did.

But his were searching.

Then—

There.

Y/n.

Standing by her locker, head tilted slightly as she flipped through her notebook. Her hair still damp from the walk in. She looked as composed as ever, but something about her felt different. Quieter. Like something in her had shifted overnight and hadn’t quite settled.

Damian watched her for a second too long.

She noticed and their eyes met.

This time, she didn’t look away.

He didn’t either.

Someone bumped into his shoulder in the hallway, but he barely registered it.

Then, without a word, she turned and walked into her first period class.

Damian stood there for another beat.

Then followed.

The bell rang sharp and sudden. Lockers slammed, voices rose, footsteps scattered in every direction. But just past the main stairwell, where the hallway dipped into shadow and the stained-glass window muted the morning light, it was almost quiet.

Y/n stood near the wall, her back against the cool stone, notebook clutched to her chest. She wasn’t hiding—but she wasn’t trying to be found either.

Then she heard steady and familiar footsteps

She didn’t need to look up to know it was him.

“Most people don’t avoid classrooms this early,” Damian said, stopping beside her. Not blocking her path. Not too close. But close enough to feel.

“Most people aren’t me,” she replied, eyes still forward.

He studied her face, the faint tension in her jaw, the way her fingers pressed just a little too tight into the notebook’s spine.

“You didn’t sleep,” he said quietly.

Y/n’s gaze slid to him, sharp. “You watching me again?”

“No,” he said simply. “I noticed.”

She held his stare. Didn’t blink.

“Noticed,” she repeated, like it tasted strange in her mouth.

Damian shifted slightly, arms folded now. His voice dropped a little lower. “You looked… different today.”

“Different how?”

“Like someone who’s trying not to break.”

That landed harder than either of them expected.

Y/n looked away first, exhaling slow through her nose. “Well, if I break, at least I’ll do it quietly.”

A pause. Not awkward—just dense with everything unspoken.

Damian stepped closer. Barely. “You don’t have to.”

She slowly blinked.

“Don’t have to what?”

“Pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

Her throat tightened.

No one had ever said that to her. Not once. Not her mother. Not her teachers. Not the friends she’d stopped trying to make years ago.

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Because her silence wasn’t distant now. It was heavy.

And Damian didn’t push.

He just stood there with her, in the quiet.

The sounds of the school faded—the bell’s echo distant now, footsteps dying off, voices swallowed by closing doors. The hallway had emptied around them, the light from the stained-glass window painting fractured colors across the floor like some holy spotlight meant only for them.

Neither moved.

“I should probably go,” Y/n said softly, almost to herself.

Damian didn’t answer.

And she didn’t move.

The silence stretched, not cold—just… honest. Something rare between two people who had learned too early to guard everything.

Finally, she slid down the wall, settling cross-legged on the smooth stone floor. Her bag dropped beside her with a soft thud. She pulled out her sketchbook.

Damian followed, wordlessly. Sat beside her, knees drawn up, elbows resting on them, eyes forward.

“I don’t usually let people see these,” she said without looking at him.

“I’m not most people.”

That pulled a small breath from her nose. Not quite a laugh. But something close as she remembered her words from earlier

She flipped past blank pages. Past half-finished scenes. Past the ones she didn’t want anyone to see. Until she stopped—last night’s drawing.

The boy. Watching her. That familiar, unreadable gaze.

Damian caught sight of it before she could turn the page again.

His brow twitched. Just a flicker of recognition.

“That’s me,” he said, quieter than before.

Y/n tensed.

“I wasn’t going to show you that one.”

“You didn’t need to.”

He leaned slightly closer, studying the sketch—not for vanity, but something else. The detail was unmistakable: the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes held more than they gave away.

“You drew me like I’m waiting for something,” he said after a beat.

Y/n looked at the page, then away. “Aren’t you?”

Damian didn’t answer.

But his silence wasn’t dismissive.

It was an admission.

The two of them sat there, still as statues in a room the world had forgotten. Y/n started sketching again—slow lines, soft shading, letting her hands speak where her mouth never could. Damian didn’t move. Just watched. Not intruding. Not analyzing.

Just being there.

For once, neither of them was pretending.

Time stopped trying to hurry them.

Y/n sketched with quiet concentration, her pencil moving in slow arcs and soft shadows. Damian stayed still beside her, his presence not pressing or distracting, just there. He didn’t ask what she was drawing now, didn’t lean over to look.

He simply sat.

The hush between them was warm. Not something either of them was used to. But neither spoke it aloud, afraid the words would make it disappear.

Outside, rain tapped gently against the high windows. The colored light from the stained glass shifted, casting soft blues and golds over Y/n’s sketchbook, over the curve of her wrist, over Damian’s shoulder.

He glanced at her, once.

She looked peaceful. Or as close as he’d ever seen her to it.

And for once, he didn’t feel the need to say something clever, or defensive, or distant.

He just let her be.

Let himself be.

Then suddenly a door creaked open at the far end of the hall.

“Miss L/n. Mister Wayne.”

The voice was sharp and unamused British accent

Y/n froze, pencil pausing mid-line.

Damian didn’t move.

Mr. Howarth—Literature—stood near the stairwell, his gray cardigan hanging off one shoulder, coffee cup in hand, disappointment already blooming in his expression.

“I assume there’s a reason you’re both loitering here while the rest of the school is attending class?” he asked, walking toward them with slow, deliberate steps.

Y/n closed her sketchbook quietly.

Damian stood first, smooth and unapologetic. “We were studying independently.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Mr. Howarth arched an eyebrow. His gaze flicked between them. “Interesting posture for independent study, Wayne.”

Damian didn’t flinch. “The classroom was too loud.”

The teacher turned his eyes to Y/n, expectant.

She didn’t offer anything. Just hugged her sketchbook to her chest and stared forward, chin high.

Mr. Howarth sighed. “Your reputations precede you. Try not to make skipping class part of them.”

He paused—almost like he wanted to say something more—but then just turned and walked off, his footsteps fading back into the hum of the school.

They stood in silence.

Y/n spoke first.

“We should go.”

Damian didn’t argue. But as she started walking, he fell in step beside her.

Not a word passed between them on the way to their next class.

But the space between them?

It wasn’t empty anymore.

Damian followed Y/n in silence as she crossed the courtyard, the drizzle barely clinging to their shoulders beneath the overhangs. She walked with quiet intent—like she wasn’t sure what she wanted, only that she needed to keep moving.

They reached her classroom door at the same time.

Y/n turned to him, arching a brow. “You’re following me now?”

Damian blinked once, then reached for the door handle. “I have this class too.”

She huffed softly. Almost a smile. “Of course you do.”

They stepped inside.

The classroom was warm and bright, high ceilings draped with hanging student work—charcoal sketches, oil-painted portraits, a mosaic made from broken mirror shards in the far corner. Twenty-something students turned to look as the door creaked open. A few poorly hidden smirks and a few whispers and giggles.

Y/n kept walking. Damian didn’t blink.

Their teacher, Ms. Elara Greaves, a tall woman with white streaks in her dark hair and an artist’s permanently ink-stained hands, glanced up from her desk, brow arched.

“How lovely of you both to join us. Please, do find your seats—though you’re a bit behind.”

Y/n slid into the nearest empty stool. Damian took the one beside her without waiting to be told.

Ms. Greaves tapped the chalkboard with a piece of soft white pastel. “Today, we’re beginning our Renaissance crossover project—art meets analysis. You’ll be recreating a famous Renaissance work of your choice… but with a twist.”

She turned, gesturing to a canvas already on display: Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, reimagined in a dystopian neon cityscape.

“You’ll reinterpret the imagery—through your own lens, through the modern world—but preserve the symbolism. One of you will take on the visual execution,” she nodded to Ivy’s desk, “and the other will compose a historical and symbolic breakdown of the piece, comparing it to the original.”

A few students groaned.

“And before you ask—yes, partners were already assigned based on last week’s seating chart.”

Damian’s fingers tapped once on the desk. Y/n straightened.

Ms. Greaves gave them a look—half amused, half warning. “Which means, Mr. Wayne and Miss L/n, as the last unpaired souls… you’re together.”

Neither of them said anything—Y/n just opened her sketchbook, flipping past the earlier pages with swift, practiced fingers.

Ms. Greaves smiled like she knew exactly what she was doing. “You’ll have until next week. I suggest you use your time wisely.”

The class had broken into low murmurs and the scratch of pencil on paper. Students were already flipping through books of Renaissance art, picking their pieces, tossing ideas back and forth. Y/n and Damian remained at their table, a quiet island in the noise.

She finally looked over at him, eyes narrowed. “Okay, so… what now?”

Damian leaned back, arms folded, his voice calm. “We pick something that means something. Not just the first pretty painting in the book.”

“I’m assuming that means you already have one in mind.”

He tapped his finger twice on the edge of the desk. “Caravaggio. Judith Beheading Holofernes.”

Y/n raised a brow. “Of course you’d pick the one with a decapitation.”

“It’s a study in power,” he replied, matter-of-fact. “Control. Fear. But the fear isn’t in Judith—it’s in the man. Her expression is calm. Almost surgical.”

Y/n tilted her head, thinking. “You want me to redraw that?”

“Reimagine it,” he said, now watching her sketchbook like he could already see it happening. “Put her in Gotham. Let her be someone else. Someone real.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her pencil tapped against the paper. “Judith doesn’t look like she wants to be there,” she murmured.

“That’s the point,” he replied. “She does it anyway.”

They sat there, the energy between them shifting again. Not exactly comfortable—but not cold either.

After a beat, Damian stood, sliding his books into his bag.

“You should come to the manor after school.”

Y/n blinked. “The Wayne manor?”

He nodded. “There’s space to work. Quiet. No interruptions.”

“And your butler doesn’t mind you bringing home random classmates?”

“He likes artists,” Damian said with a shrug, already heading for the door. “He won’t mind.”

She watched him for a second, the absurdity of it sinking in. “So what—you’re just going to bring me to your mansion like it’s a coffee shop?”

Damian turned at the doorway, eyes steady. “Would you rather work in the school library where they still think we skipped class to hook up in the hallway?”

Y/n glared at him. He smirked.

She grabbed her bag. “Fine. But I’m not impressed.”

“Didn’t ask you to be.”

The sky had turned heavy and gray by the time the final bell rang. The sidewalk outside the academy was flooded with students spilling out into the fading light—laughing, griping about assignments, making plans.

Y/n stood at the bottom of the stone steps, arms folded, sketchbook under one arm. She scanned the school lot half-expecting Damian to have ghosted her.

But he was already there. Leaning against the sleek, black limo parked at the curb like it was no big deal.

Of course he was.

He glanced up as she approached, straightening. “You came.”

“I wasn’t going to let you rework Judith without me,” she said, stopping in front of him. “And I’m still half-convinced you live in a haunted castle.”

He opened the limo door. “You’ll see.”

The inside was just as ridiculous as she imagined—leather seats, tinted windows, soft ambient lights humming overhead. She slid in with a skeptical glance, and he followed, shutting the door behind them with a soft click.

The car pulled off smoothly, the city starting to blur past the windows.

They didn’t speak at first.

“So do you have, like… secret passageways in this place?”

Damian didn’t smile, but his voice carried the faintest flicker of amusement. “More than a few.”

Y/n raised a brow. “That wasn’t a no.”

The limo turned onto a long, winding drive framed by old trees, their bare branches like reaching fingers. The manor came into view slowly—massive, gothic, and almost too quiet, perched at the edge of the hills like it was watching the city from a distance.

Y/n stared out the window. “Okay. Haunted castle confirmed.”

Damian said nothing, just stepped out and motioned for her to follow. The giant wooden front doors creaked open before they even reached them.

Alfred stood there, warm but precise as always—pressed vest, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, hands folded in front of him like he’d been expecting them all day.

“Miss L/n,” he said with a small nod. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

Y/n blinked. “Have you?”

“Only flattering things,” Alfred added quickly, stepping aside. “And a bit of worry. Master Damian rarely brings people home. You must be exceptional.”

Y/n looked at Damian, who stared straight ahead like Alfred hadn’t said anything at all.

She stepped into the manor, trying not to gawk—but the grand staircase, the polished wood, the portraits on the walls made it feel like walking into another century.

“This place is insane,” she whispered. “Do you have a dungeon?”

“Two,” Damian said without missing a beat. “But the west one’s out of service.”

They settled in a quiet study tucked deep in the manor—bookshelves to the ceiling, an enormous desk in the center, and a soft pool of yellow light from an old brass lamp. Y/n laid out her sketchbook, pulling out pencils, pastels, a small set of charcoal sticks.

Damian stood behind her for a moment, watching her set up with careful precision. Then he placed a thick, leather-bound volume on the desk beside her—an original Caravaggio collection. Well-worn. Annotated.

“You’ve actually studied this,” she said, flipping through it.

“I don’t like guessing.”

Y/n nodded slowly, flipping to Judith Beheading Holofernes. She stared at the image for a long time.

“She’s not afraid,” she said softly.

“No,” Damian replied. “But she’s not proud, either.”

Y/n set her pencil to paper, beginning to sketch. “I don’t want her to be a hero. I want her to be tired.”

Damian sat across from her, pen in hand, beginning to write. “Then that’s where we start.”

And in the stillness of the manor—quiet but not cold—they worked.

Side by side.

In silence that didn’t demand anything from either of them.

Just presence.

The room had settled into a kind of quiet only old houses could hold—deep and steady, the tick of the antique clock on the mantle barely noticeable beneath the scratch of Y/n’s pencil and the soft rustle of turning pages.

The drawing was taking shape now.

Judith stood in an alley, bathed in the flickering orange of a neon sign above her. The sword in her hand wasn’t clean. Her eyes were sharp—but exhausted. Hair wild. Clothes torn. She didn’t look like a goddess.

She looked like a girl who had been pushed too far.

Across the table, Damian read in silence. Notes lined his page already—clean, thoughtful, dense with meaning. He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask for more. Just kept working in tandem with her, like they’d done this a hundred times before.

Eventually, Y/n set her pencil down.

Her fingers were smudged dark with charcoal.

She leaned back, stretching. “You know, this is probably the most peaceful I’ve felt in days.”

Damian didn’t look up from his notes. “It’s the quiet. Most people don’t realize how loud the world is until they step outside it.”

Y/n nodded. “I try to make things quiet at home. Doesn’t really work.”

He glanced up. Said nothing.

She hesitated, then looked down at her hands. “My mom and I… we don’t really talk. Not about anything that matters. We exist around each other.”

Damian watched her closely, still silent.

“I guess she’s trying now. But it’s hard to forget when someone chose silence for so long.” Her voice dipped softer. “Especially when they could’ve said something. Done something.”

She didn’t mention her father. Didn’t need to. The edge in her tone, the way her posture tensed—it said enough without details.

Damian leaned forward slightly. “You blame her.”

“I used to,” she said. “Now I just… I don’t know what to feel. She made a choice. I lived with it.”

Another beat of silence.

Then Damian said, “She may regret it more than you think.”

Y/n looked up. “Is that what you think about your parents?”

There was a flicker in Damian’s eyes then. The rarest break.

“No,” he said. “Mine weren’t together long enough to regret anything.”

Y/n blinked, surprised—but didn’t push. That was enough honesty for now.

He leaned back again, studying her. “You should stay for dinner.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is that an invitation or a command?”

“Does it matter?”

She smirked. “A little.”

His lips twitched. Almost a smile. “Then yes. It’s an invitation.”

Y/n looked down at her sketch again, quiet. Her voice was softer now. “I haven’t had dinner somewhere like this in… I don’t know how long.”

“You get used to it,” Damian said. “Eventually.”

She looked back up, something gentler in her eyes.

“Alright. I’ll stay.”

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