#dc superman

[akairawrites]

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.

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.

Taglist

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[sudsmactav]

Oh my Shayla (I love him so much y’all don’t understand)

Y’all can interpret whoever got their hands on him🤭

Here’s a ver without his glasses because I liked both

I love him sm OMGOMG I’m so excited for the new movie I’m going to be all over that screen

[mama-imscared]

When will Batman accept Superman’s affections? The true mystery of the century.

[jirachuuu]

Them🫶🏼

[tarta-de-limon]

I had to join 💀

I don't think you want to see him again, Dami...

Edit: I FORGOT THE "INTO A COOKIE" NOOO

[night0rchlds]

“thank you dan mora” we all say in unison

[the-fyre-flie]

Bruce and Clark Family Swap Au (aka Clark having to manage like a dozen Robins and Sidekicks while Bruce has a perfectly okay time with Kon, Jon, and Kara)

Bruce is well liked by Jon, obviously, and thus Jon is very well behaved for his best friends dad. Kon and Kara are chilling mostly. No metas in Gotham means the Kyrptonians are tasked with just laying low and hanging out until the families swap back. The most exciting thing that happened is Jon hanging out with the Batcow and Bruce taking photos.

On the other hand, Clark is struggling. Dick and Jason have decided that pissing off Tim is their life goal, Damian has tried to fight every villain they come across, Cass and Steph have been missing the entire time and when Duke is questioned, he shrugs and says "snitches get stiches". Despite none of the kids having powers that would make them hard to catch, Clark just can't keep up with a bunch of acrobat and combat trained teens/young adults. He resorts to a bunch of those toddler monkey backpacks, and by the time the families swap back, Jason is ducktaped to a wall, and there are reports of Cass being found in Italy.

[cowboybeepboop]

Late Night

Pairing: Clark Kent x fem! Reader 

Genre: Smut, gentle and romantic

Word count: 3.7k

Summary: Your friendly neighbor Clark Kent comes to your door one evening, allowing for the two of you to finally grow your relationship.

Warnings: This is not proofread what so ever, gentle/sort of shy Clark, unprotected sex, oral fem receiving, p in v sex. 

a/n: Idk rn but I genuinely can't wait for David Corenswet to be Superman (Henry Cavill is so hot tho...). I’m already imagining how perfect he's gonna be as Clark Kent. As always, send me any requests you have and I hope you enjoy!

For months now, you had been quietly pining for the man who lived across the hall from me in our unassuming apartment building. His name was Clark Kent, and there was something about him that was utterly endearing. It wasn't just his chiseled jawline or the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, but the kindness he exuded, the way he always had a helping hand ready for anyone in need. 

You had become something like friends, sharing the occasional awkward small talk as we passed by with our shopping bags or recyclables. You had seen him in various stages of undress, coming back from his midnight runs, his superhero-like physique hidden under loose-fitting t-shirts and sweatpants. 

Something that had fueled your evening pleasure sessions, everytime your eyes fell closed you could remember the image of his hardened abs, his huge and muscular arms. 

On a warm summer evening, there was a knock at your door. It was Clark, the guy from across the hall. He stood there sheepishly, his hand running through his black hair. 

He wore a white shirt that was unbuttoned and messy. He held a bottle of wine in one hand. "Hey", he said. "I hope I'm not disturbing you. I was wondering if I could get a favor?"

“Sure what’s up?” you give him a small smile, your eyes fall on his exposed chest before quickly flicking back to his face. His heart rate increased as he realized that you could see through the thin fabric of his shirt the toned muscles of his chest covered in a light layer of hair.

He cleared his throat, composing himself, holding up the bottle of wine. "I, umm, I was wondering if I could borrow your corkscrew. I lost mine."

“Yeah, of course. Come on in.” you move to the side, allowing him to come in. Your mind clouding with desire as he towers over you, his cologne filling your senses. 

He steps into your apartment, the tight space meaning his body brushes against yours slightly as he passes. The contact between you both is brief, but it's enough to send a shiver down his spine as he enters.

Your cheeks flush slightly as you realize your own appearance, wearing just a button down top that is unbuttoned enough for him to see your cleavage and your underwear. You awkwardly lead him to the kitchen, arm subconsciously moving to cover your breasts as you turn around, handing him the corkscrew. 

"Uh, thanks." He says as he takes the corkscrew from you. Even with your arm draped over yourself, he can't help but notice the glimpse of exposed skin, his eyes lingering before he catches himself and averts his gaze, forcing himself to stay focused on the task at hand.

He starts to open up the bottle, the action allowing him to look away from your figure for a moment and compose himself, his hands shaking slightly as he tries to concentrate. 

Your hand reaches out, fingers brushing over his. “Oh yeah this thing is weird, you kinda have to do it a particular way.” you murmur, taking the bottle from him as you fumble with the screw. 

He bites his lip as your fingers brush over his, his stomach swirling at the touch of your hand. He watches as you take the bottle from him, his eyes fixated on your every movement as you try to open the bottle.

"Thanks," he mutters, his voice low and a bit shaky. His eyes wander down, his gaze drawn to the way your top fits, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of your cleavage. 

“Mhm,” you reply as you pull the cork out, a small splash of wine staining your collar. You bite down on your lip while setting the bottle down, fingers rubbing the fabric. His eyes widen slightly as he watches the droplet of wine slide down your collar, the stains on the fabric making it even more translucent. 

Clark swallows hard, his mind wandering to inappropriate and ungentlemanly thoughts. He clears his throat, trying to look away, but he can't help but notice the way your fingers are now rubbing at the fabric, the motion only drawing his attention further to your chest.

You glance over him, hand falling from your shirt as you give him a soft grin, noticing the way his gaze lingers. 

His gaze flicks up to meet yours, his cheeks flushed. He realizes he's been caught staring, his eyes having been fixated on the way your hand moves over the fabric of your shirt, the motion stirring something deep within him.

"I, umm..." he stutters, his words failing him as he feels his throat dry up. He swallows slowly, forcing himself to focus on something else. "Thanks, for helping me open the bottle," he manages to say.  He shifts on his feet, trying to discreetly adjust himself as he feels his jeans becoming a bit tighter.

“Of course, do you want to share the bottle? Or do you have someone waiting for you?” you move slightly closer to him. 

His heart quickens as you come closer, his mouth going dry as your proximity makes it all that much more difficult to concentrate. He glances down at the bottle sitting on the counter, his mind racing with desire and indecision.

"No," he says, his voice low and a bit huskier than usual. "There's no one waiting for me." He looks back up at you, his eyes locking with yours, his gaze intense and filled with a mixture of nervousness and something more forbidden. "I'd like to share the bottle with you."

“Perfect.” You smile, stepping closer as you reach for the cabinet behind him, your chest pressing into his ever so slightly. You open the door, reaching for two glasses ​​his breath hitches as he feels your body press against him, the sensation sending a jolt of heat through him. 

Your chest rubs against his, and he can feel the weight and softness of you against his body. The proximity is driving him mad, his mind clouded by primal desires he's trying to keep in check.

He bites his lip, his knuckles turning white as he grips the edge of the counter, trying to maintain his composure. His eyes flutter shut for a moment before he opens them again, his gaze fixed on your every move.

You step back, with the glasses in hand. “We could watch a movie?” you prompt as you pour some wine into the cups, silently enjoying the way he reacted to your touch. 

He nods, his mind still racing as he tries to calm his racing thoughts and the growing hardness in his pants. "Yeah, a movie sounds good," he mutters, his voice coming out a bit more hoarse than he'd liked.

As you pour the wine, his eyes follow your every move, the way your fingers grip the bottle, the way the liquid flows into the glasses. It's all too tantalizing for him. "What do you feel like watching?" He asks, trying to keep his voice level and casual.

“How about you choose?” you hand him a glass, taking yours in hand along with the bottle as you walk into the living room. Taking a seat down on the couch you sip on the wine, your eyes follow his every move, drinking in his muscular form. 

He tries to stay composed, forcing himself to look away and focus on the task at hand. Clark walks over to the DVD collection and scans the titles, his mind unfocused and his thoughts still lingering on you. After a moment of browsing, he picks a movie at random, inserting it into the player.

"All set." He says, returning to the couch and taking a seat beside you. You pull at the hem of your shirt, trying to prevent it from riding up too much while taking another sip of your drink. 

“Great.” you smile, sucking your lip between your teeth as you admire his side profile. He can't help but notice the way you fidget with your shirt, the action drawing his mind to places he shouldn't be going at the moment. 

He struggles to keep his eyes focused on the screen, his gaze keeping wandering over to you, admiring your features and the way the fabric clings to your body. Clark takes a long sip from his glass, the alcohol doing little to calm his racing thoughts and desires. He shifts in his seat, trying to discreetly adjust himself as his jeans grow even tighter.

“Is everything alright?” you notice his movements and set your cup on the coffee table, scooting slightly closer to him. His eyes widen slightly as you move closer, the proximity sending a fresh wave of desire through him. He swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry.

"Yeah," he responds, his voice a little hoarse. "Everything's fine, just...adjusting." He glances over at you, his gaze lingering on your figure, his eyes tracing over the curves where your shirt clings to you, the way your position inadvertently exposes more skin.

“Clark?” your knee brushes against his thigh as you scoot closer. He stiffens as your knee brushes against him, the casual touch sending a jolt through him. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, his hands gripping the edge of the couch as he tries to maintain his composure.

When he hears his name, the way you say it, so soft and gentle, almost a whisper, it sends a shiver down his spine. He looks over at you, his eyes locking with yours, his gaze intense and filled with desire. "Yeah?" He manages to respond, his voice a bit shaky.

“Are you.. seeing anyone?” you chew on your cheek as you search his eyes. At your question, a mixture of surprise and uncertainty crosses his face. He holds your gaze, his eyes searching yours for any hint of insincerity.

"No," he says finally, his voice steady and sincere. "I'm not seeing anyone." He swallows, his nerves getting the better of him as he wonders where this conversation is going. He can't help but feel a flicker of hope and anxiety at the same time.

Your eyes light up as you press a hand to his thigh, “Then… well I hope i’m not misreading the situation,” you murmur, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. It's unexpected, but oh so welcome. 

His eyes widen for a brief moment, before closing as he melts into the kiss. Every cell in his body seems to come alive, the taste of your lips on his sending him into a dizzying spiral of emotions.

His hand comes up to cup your jaw, his touch gentle as he leans into the kiss, deepening it as he loses himself in the moment. His tongue brushes over your bottom lip as he presses his chest against yours, pushing your back into the plush fabric of your couch. 

Your bodies meld together, your back sinking into the cushion as he bears down on you. His tongue teases your lip, requesting entry which you give him without hesitation.

His heart races as he feels the soft give of your body against his chest, the heat and pressure of your bodies mingling together.

His hand runs over your side, his touch gentle but firm as it moves over the curves of your body, his hand sneaking under the fabric of your shirt, needing to feel your skin against his. You lean back, gasping for air as his fingers explore your body. 

He takes your gasp as an opportunity to trail his lips along your jaw, his breath hot against your skin as he nips and kisses his way down your neck.

His hand moves under your shirt, slowly, his fingertips dancing across your bare skin, mapping out each contour and dip of your body. He groans softly against your throat as he feels your warm, supple flesh under his fingers. You feel so good against him, it's almost overwhelming.

“Clark..” you gasp his name as he unbuttons your shirt swiftly. He loves the way you say his name, the sound of it coming from your lips making his own name sound like a prayer.

He unfastens the buttons of your shirt, revealing more and more of your body to his hungry eyes. He peels back the fabric, his hands roaming over your now-exposed skin, his fingers tracing over your stomach and up to your chest.

He presses his mouth to your collarbone, his teeth grazing over the sensitive skin, tasting your scent, committing it to memory. “Clark..” you moan his name again, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he kisses down your chest, hands landing on your breasts. 

His name slips from your lips again, the sound like a sweet melody in his ears. He can feel the pressure of your fingers on his shoulders, the touch driving his desire even higher.

His mouth travels down your chest, his kisses feather light and seductive as he moves over your breasts. His hands follow his mouth, palms cupping your breasts as he starts to massage the soft flesh.

He moans against your skin, his touch almost reverent. His body thrums with an aching need, the desire to be closer to you nearly overwhelming as he captures your lips in another hungry kiss. He cups your breasts in his hands, his fingers kneading the supple flesh as they press into your skin. His touch is soft but firm, his hands large enough to cover them completely

Clark pulls back slightly, breaking the kiss but keeping his eyes locked with yours. His breath is ragged, his chest heaving with anticipation. He can feel your heart racing beneath his palms as he gently caresses your breasts. "Are you sure about this?" He whispers, his voice thick with desire. "I don't want to rush you." His eyes search yours for any sign of hesitation or doubt.

You smile up at him, placing a soft hand on his cheek. "I've never been more sure about anything in my life," you reply, your voice barely above a murmur. The sincerity in your tone sends a thrill through him, confirming that this is what you both want.

He nods, his expression serious as he leans back down to kiss you again. This time, the kiss is slower, more deliberate. He savors the taste of you, the feel of your body pressed against his. His hand slides up to the back of your neck, cradling it as he deepens the kiss, exploring every inch of your mouth with his tongue.

As the kiss lingers, he slowly starts to unbutton the rest of your shirt, taking his time to reveal each new inch of your skin. His eyes never leave yours, watching for any signs of discomfort or hesitation. You melt into him, your own hands sliding up to tangle in his hair as the fabric of your shirt falls away.

The moment your skin is fully exposed, the air in the room seems to crackle with tension. He leans down to press a line of soft, wet kisses along your collarbone, feeling your body shiver beneath his touch. He takes a moment to just look at you, his eyes filled with a mix of awe and desire. "You're so beautiful," he murmurs, his voice low and rough.

Your cheeks flush with pleasure as he says the words, his eyes devouring your exposed flesh. He takes his time, kissing and caressing every inch of your body, his hands moving in a slow, tantalizing dance that leaves you trembling with need. Each touch is a promise of what's to come, each kiss a declaration of his desire for you.

The room is filled with the sound of your mingled breaths and the soft whispers of your names on each other's lips. The anticipation is almost unbearable, but you both know that the slow burn of this moment is only making the fire between you grow hotter.

Clark finally takes one of your nipples into his mouth, suckling gently as he rolls the other between his thumb and forefinger. You arch your back, gasping at the sensation, your hands tightening in his hair. He teases and worships each peak, his tongue swirling and flicking, drawing out your moans of pleasure.

As you lay there, the warmth of his mouth on your skin, the softness of the couch beneath you, and the gentle pressure of his body above, you can't help but feel that this is exactly where you're meant to be. With each tender kiss and caress, he's claiming you, and you're willingly giving yourself to him.

The movie on the TV becomes background noise as the only thing that matters is the connection growing stronger between you both. His kisses trail down your stomach, his hands skimming over your hips to the waistband of your underwear.

He kisses the skin just above the waistband, the heat of his breath making you squirm. "I want to make this perfect for you," he murmurs, his eyes looking up at you for approval. You nod, unable to form words as your breath catches in your throat.

He takes his time, pulling down your underwear in one smooth motion, exposing your most intimate parts to his gaze. His eyes darken with desire as he looks at you, but he keeps his touches feather-light, his mouth hovering just above your skin without making contact.

Clark takes a deep breath, savoring the moment as he gazes down at your exposed body. He gently kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs, moving closer to the apex of your legs. His eyes are filled with a fiery hunger that makes your heart race even faster. He presses a soft kiss to your mound, feeling you tense up at the contact. 

Then, with a gentle caress, he parts your legs wider, his gaze never leaving yours. You can see the desire in his eyes, and it only fuels the fire burning within you. With a soft sigh, he lowers his mouth to you, his tongue tracing the seam of your folds with the lightest touch. You moan, your body trembling as he starts to explore you, taking his time to learn every curve and sensitive spot. 

Each touch is a declaration of his intention to worship you, to take things slow and savor every second of this shared intimacy. His fingers join his mouth, gently teasing and exploring, bringing you closer to the edge with every stroke. The room is filled with the sounds of your mingled breaths and soft whimpers, the only soundtrack to this passionate symphony of desire.

Clark continues his gentle exploration, his tongue circling your clit with a patience that borders on agonizing. He's not in a hurry; he wants to savor every moment of this, to make sure you feel loved and desired. His fingers slide into your wetness, curling gently as he begins to stroke you internally, matching the rhythm of his tongue. 

You can't help but whimper, your eyes squeezed shut as the sensations build within you. He's so attentive, so in tune with your body's responses that you feel like you're floating on a cloud of pure pleasure. Each kiss, each caress is a testament to the connection growing between you, and you know that this is just the beginning of a night that will change everything.

Clark's eyes never leave yours as he shifts his position, aligning his body with yours. His hand moves to guide himself, and with a gentle nod from you, he begins to press into you. His movements are slow and deliberate, his expression one of intense concentration as he tries to read your every reaction. You can feel the tip of him pushing against your entrance, the anticipation of what's to come making you squirm.

As he enters you, he whispers sweet nothings into your ear, his voice a soothing balm to the building passion. He's so big, so thick, but he's so gentle that it's almost a surprise when he's fully sheathed inside you. You gasp, your eyes flying open, and he stills, giving you a moment to adjust to the sensation of being filled by him.

He waits, his eyes searching yours for any sign of pain or discomfort. When he sees none, he starts to move, his hips rocking in a slow, steady rhythm that makes your toes curl. Each thrust is met with a soft moan from your lips, his name slipping from your mouth like a prayer as he fills you completely.

The feeling of him inside you is unlike anything you've ever experienced. It's as if your bodies are made for this, as if every inch of him is meant to be connected to every inch of you. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, your hands sliding down to grip his firm ass as he moves within you.

The room seems to spin around you, the only constant is the feeling of him, the sound of your hearts beating in sync. He kisses you again, his movements becoming more urgent as the passion takes over. You can feel him thickening, growing even more inside you, and you know that he's getting closer to the edge.

You whisper for him to go faster, to give you more, and he responds eagerly, his strokes deepening and quickening. Your body responds in kind, your hips rising to meet his, the friction between you building until it's almost unbearable. You're both so close, the tension coiled tight in your stomachs, ready to snap.

And then, with one final, deep thrust, it does. You cry out, your body arching off the couch as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. He follows shortly after, his own release shaking his body as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

For a moment, you just lay there, your bodies entwined, your hearts racing. Then, with a soft sigh, he pulls back, his eyes searching yours for any signs of regret. But all he sees is pure satisfaction, a mirror to what's reflected in his own gaze. He leans down to kiss you gently, a soft promise of more to come.

[little2nerdy]

as someone who once had a single parent who was dating i kind of imagine dick having some interactions with clark after he starts dating bruce that go something like this

bruce: so dick, as you know clark and i are dating

dick: *silent glare*

bruce: we wanted to talk to you today becaues we wanted to see if you would be okay with clark staying here sometimes *bruce & clark are sweating bullets*

dick: no.

bruce: no? *clark looks like he's going to cry*

dick: no. last time he was here he ate the stash of animal crackers i had in the cave.

----

*bruce & clark coming back from a date but the batcave entrance won't open. tries to go into the manor entrance but the door is locked and the key won't work. no overrides work. alfred isn't answering. finally dick answers the phone.*

dick: what.

bruce: can you let us in chum? it's getting kind of cold out here.

dick: only if he leaves.

bruce: come on dick, it's late and clark is supposed to spend the weekend here with us.

dick: no. he's not allowed.

*clark flies them up and gets in through the window of bruce's bedroom*

dick: i told you he wasn't allowed.

*cue shrieking from bruce & clark who were not expecting dick to be sitting on the bed*

(based on an interaction i had with my dad's gf when i was like nine, i would try to lock her out of the house...)

----

dick: hey, i'm home! look what i did at school tod---

*bruce & clark kissing in the kitchen, pull apart so fast clark hits his head on a cabinet*

dick: you desrved that, you're so gross and i hate you.

[iwannabealice]

clark: i met this boy last night that seemed to really hate you

bruce: that could be anyone, what did he look like?

clark: tall, white, dark hair, really big-

bruce: ah, that’d be jason. my son

[callieisto]

This is Kali’s fault. @killakalx

Minors Dni- includes. Slight dirty talk? But? Loving?, marking, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, cumming inside, kind of sappy pillow talk, dom!Clark, fem!reader

Clark Kent is strong enough to pick you up and use you like a fleshlight. He doesn’t, usually, because that’s mean and he doesn’t want to accidentally hurt you or anything.

But there are rare occasions, when he’s had enough of being Superman, when he’s had enough of being Clark Kent, where he lets himself tap into those desires to just… use you.

He’s got you pinned to the wall of his apartment, feet not even scraping the floor, his tongue so deep in your mouth you swear he’s trying to make you choke on it. (Doesn’t help that his is a little bit longer than a normal person’s, and his sharp little fangs don’t help much either.) He’s holding you up by your waist, his grip bruising, and when he pulls back he’s out of breath.

“I need you,” he whispers, and it’s the last semblance of a boyfriend who’s gentle or careful with you that you’re going to get for a few hours. His glasses are askew, his hair is ruffled, his shirt has already been halfway unbuttoned thanks to your wandering hands. “Please.”

When you say “okay”, he’s on you faster than he’s ever been on anything in his life. Ripping your shirt down the middle- your bra, too- he’s setting you down on unsteady feet before basically attacking your chest, biting and sucking his way down your body, coming to where the hem of your pants hugs your waist before he stops. He looks up at you, blue eyes nearly eclipsed by his pupil, blown wide with arousal.

They flash gold when they catch the light.

Clark looks like a proper predator, and suddenly you understand why villains get all prickly when they’re dealing with Superman. He’s scary. Your sweet, loving boyfriend, who has never once even raised his voice at you, is downright terrifying.

“I can smell you,” he chokes out, and his voice is dark. Your pants are gone before you can even register his movements, and your underwear are also the unfortunate victims of his super strength. “Can hear your heart beating,” he breathes, a little laugh escaping him as he presses his mouth against the soft skin of your stomach. “Your blood, I can… fuck…”

Aaaaand you’re suddenly on the couch, Clark is between your legs, and he’s eating you out like he’s never had a meal before in his life. Usually he’s careful, controlled, wants to make you feel good before anything else. But right now, he’s just hungry, and he’s getting more enjoyment out of your desperate attempts to squirm away from him and the noises you’re making more than anything else. He makes you cum three times while he mutters about how you’re ‘such a good girl’, and then he’s cradling your face in his hands, cooing at you while you come back down to earth.

“You prepped? Y’ready to take my dick, sweet girl?”

(His southern accent is thick; he looks and sounds drunk on you, chin covered in your slick, big blue eyes meeting yours.)

He doesn’t let you answer, mostly because he knows you can’t. And he knows his dick is huge- he goes slow, usually, but tonight he just needs to feel you cum on his cock otherwise he’ll go insane, he’ll go crazy.

Clark feels properly awful about how you’re already squirming and whining when he presses his tip at your entrance. He wants to do something, but then the tip slips in, and he’s gone.

He pushes in the rest of the way with a wet shlck, curling his body over yours so he can see the way your pussy looks speared on his cock. “Fuck.” He rumbles. “Look at you, taking me so deep. God, it’s like you’re made for it, made for me…”

He thrusts into you, keeping his forearm above your head to brace himself- when your hands curl around his bicep and squeeze all desperate, he blacks out for a second. When he wakes up again, you’re squealing, and he’s rubbing circles against your clit with his free hand, and you have some bite marks that are stark against your skin.

“Cum for me.” He begs, and his voice doesn’t even sound like his own. “Cum for me right now, I know y’can do it, I want you t’do it, you’ve been so good f’me, so fucking good, the best, taking me so deep and hard like it’s what you were made for- please give it t’me, darlin, please.”

When you sob all high and pretty and spasm on his dick, he feels like he’s seeing stars. Actually, it’s better than stars, because he’s just looking at you, at the tears slipping from the corners of your eyes, at the red marks you leave when you dig your nails into his skin. Clark sees everything.

And then he cums, pushing deep inside, a choked gasp of your name dropping from his lips. He screws his eyes shut, his nose wrinkling in that cute way it does when he’s thinking. He moans low and just for you.

… when he comes back to his senses, you’re softly squirming under his weight, grumbling about how heavy he is. He pulls back- and out- watching with amazement as a bit of cum starts to trickle out. He barely resists the urge to follow it with his tongue, because he thinks you’d kill him.

“My sweet girl.” He croons instead, pressing soft kisses to your face. “So good, so pretty. Took me so amazingly.”

“You almost killed me,” you complain, pouting at him. “Women on this planet are not built to handle seven orgasms, Clark.”

He tilts his head. “I only remember four.” He says, raising an eyebrow. “… but I can make it seven, if you want. Really test the limits of the human body, y’know-”

You hit him in the side of the head with a throw pillow. He relents.

[akairawrites]

When 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.

Previous | Next

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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[miaowmelodie]

Imagine with me:

Batman made new suits to make all the batfam impossible to detect through any means because of a villain from the future with super advanced technology (possibly a future where the technology has been advanced through hybridization with alien technology or something).

What if the technology he uses for the suits make it so they're not only undetectable to the villain but to Superman too?

Like poor Clark could be just chilling with a book or something and out of the blue he stops hearing the heartbeats of the whole batfam?

He'd try to call them but since they need to be 100% undetectable the first thing they did was get rid of their phones.

It would be especially hilarious if when Bruce made the suits he didn't realize they were Clark-proof as well.

Like the day after he goes to the league's meeting that they'd planned and everyone's wearing black and mourning them while Clark's in front of a board with red string with pictures of all the villains that Batman's ever pissed off trying to understand who did it...and Bat's so confused.

[marskiiii]

clarkie

[ckducky]

My Adventures at the Daily Planet costume contest

a redraw of one of my favorite Superman panels

In the style of MAWS

[iceiceicecold]

so long and goodnight