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summary: you're convinced your betrothed, damian wayne, despises or at most—tolerates you for the sake of his duty. it takes only one moron to try and steal your hand to prove that damian takes the promise of being your future husband as a role he will never let anyone else fulfill.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: arranged marriage, protective and jealous damian!
"There you are, Beloved."
A trying suitor's expression falters at the sight of Damian, tall and imposing, wrapping his arm around your waist as if it had always belonged there.
"I was worried I had lost you." Damian murmurs aloud, though his gaze never leaves the suitor, sharpened into a knowing taunt.
It doesn't take long, it never does. Like a scurrying rat, he was gone in the blink of an eye.
"There's no need to call me that." Your plastered smile doesn't falter when your hand graces Damian's arm, leaning into his ear. To the other guests, it merely seems as if you were a fiancée whispering sweet nothings to your lover. "Your patronizing tone is more than enough to send them running away."
Damian's lips finally form its familiar, scathing smirk. "Would you rather I say it outright that you are to be my wife? I assume you'll find that more displeasing."
He is right. It infuriated you that he knew where to push your buttons.
"To-be." You remind him. "I wouldn't get so comfortable with addressing me as your wife so soon."
"Ah." He drawls. "Shame. I was ecstatic at the thought of rifling the crowd."
Rifling was an understatement. Despite his cold demeanour, Damian was a fan of dramatics. After all, the first time you had met your betrothed, he nearly ended your life.
You still remember your first glance of his forest green eyes, when he had pinned you down with a blade to the throat, believing you were an outsider to his territory. If the apprehending voice of Damian's grandfather had been a second later, he wouldn't have had a fiancée and you wouldn't have lived to see your seventh birthday.
His gaze when he had looked down at you all those years ago clings like an aching, never healing wound. Disappointment. He must've expected someone greater, who rivalled him in his physical prowess and intelligence. Instead, he had you pinned to the ground, shame colouring your features that silently screamed burden.
The worst part was that it was the complete opposite for you— because you admired him greatly. It didn't matter which version of him. Damian Al Ghul, who sharpened himself into a living weapon—a cold-blooded ruler, before he became the Bat's new protege. Damian Wayne, who somehow eased his way into less begrudging smiles, who fails to notice his pets' fur still clinging to the cuffs of his sleeves, who makes ill-timed jokes from his catalogue stolen from his older siblings.
That rare warmth he found here in Gotham hasn't and never will be extended to you. Still, you refuse to remain a burden, not to him.
You play your part as a useful shield in the one arena Damian still struggles to conquer—the social world. Despite his striking looks and quick wit, Damian's always held a shared disinterest in the politics of social snakes who mingled solely for their own selfish gains.
Maybe it was a guilty pleasure. For one single night, Damian was your betrothed, and you were his. Even if his fake smiles were plastered on too tight, or the brush of his fingers over yours set the scene of young lovers much too convincingly, you could let your mind rest and rely on his presence just this once.
His hand extends, placed at the small of your back as he leads you through the room to somewhere less crowded. Unconsciously, he occasionally rubs his thumb in comforting circles, sending goosebumps down your skin. It's easy to smile and exchange repetitive niceties while Damian's gaze remains locked ahead of his path. The polite act engraved into your bones, functions as your greatest defence for the both of you, slithering your way through.
You had already memorised the layout of the room before even entering it, and you know he knows that. So, Damian's decision to keep his skin in contact with yours, guiding you, must be purely performative. Skin-ship to lure the wolves into falling for the bait, as you eye many envious onlookers distancing themselves from Damian at the unseemly sight of his arm wrapped around your frame.
"Have you chosen a city for your further education?" Damian murmurs into your ear.
You have. Though you could never predict his line of thinking that could’ve possessed him to show vague interest in your decision. This wasn’t the first time his impulsive questions took you off guard from the routine you’re used to.
Your gaze narrows on him, trying to find his reasoning. "How I take my coffee in the morning wasn't enthralling enough for you?"
"Is Gotham one of your options?" He asks briskly.
Ah. Your gaze drops to the swallow in his throat, the tension in his question. He must be hoping you'd say no. Lesser the chances to be stuck in a suffocating room with you, performing duties for a faceless audience.
"If I say it is?" You test.
His gaze flickers, surprise adorning his features. It wipes itself away as quickly as it comes, and he gives a brief, imperceptible nod. "There are adequate institutions in the city. I can provide recommendations."
You raise a brow. "Of course, a future doctor already providing unneeded advice."
His expression thickens. “You think my chosen field does not suit me."
It blurts out before you can stop it. "No, I think it does."
He pauses. You wince.
"You do?" He asks, almost disbelieving.
"Is it that hard to believe?" You mutter, eyes fleeting around for a much-needed drink.
"I only wish to understand your sudden agreement." He pushes, unsatisfied with your vague answer.
"Damian." You sigh. "Of course you'll be an amazing doctor."
He watches you, trying to detect any deceit. His immediate suspicion triggers your nerves. You may not be able to stand him, but that didn't mean you were blind to his abilities or the empathy he tries to hide behind his permanent frown.
If he hadn't held a semblance of a heart, he wouldn't be here plastering on a fake mask much to his displeasure so you wouldn't bear the night alone.
He wouldn't be out at ungodly hours, working himself to the bone to ensure that there was always a protector in the night, to save someone's life so they could make it home.
He wouldn't have signed up for the most brutal course at Gotham's top medical university despite already having an inhuman schedule.
"If I thought you lacked the heart to save others, I would've laughed at your decision to remain with your father in Gotham." You don't know why you feel this need to explain yourself. It hardly mattered if you understood his decision. He wasn't someone who needed the approval of others before making his own.
"Gotham has changed you." You answer. "For the better. If I had to put my bets on anyone to be the best doctor in this entire city, it'd be you."
If it had been anyone else other than you, maybe they wouldn't have caught the parting of his lips, the rare astonishment in his eyes. It's brief, but enough to tell you that you have spouted enough nonsense for it to feel as if you ripped open a gaping wound for him to spit at.
"I need a drink." You mutter. "I'll be right back."
Your quick escape seems to have finally sent the message for a much-needed break from his presence. Compared to other occasions, he was—you wouldn't use the word 'clingy', but he was certainly acting as a guard dog around you tonight. Then again, there were newcomers at this ball who seem to be unaware that you're Damian's betrothed, opting to try for your hand whenever he was separated from you for too long. It should be a relief that he bothered to protect you—but it distracted your senses, being around him for too long.
It still stings that even after all these years, your complete belief in him hasn't faded at all. Or maybe it was the fact that he didn't even try to consider the possibility of you having faith in him.
Your glued frown finally serves a purpose, contrary to your mother's nagging, as it scatters the fidgety chickens around you to distance themselves, along with their prodding questions. Downing a glass of wine, it doesn't do its mandatory job of easing the vulnerability still pattering around in your chest.
"If it isn't the future Mrs. Wayne!"
It seems one wolf in particular has blinded senses of walking into the wrong territory.
Joaquin Reanes. A filthy, money-laundering jerk who pawns off his father's money from an instable empire that takes advantage of its many debtors to use as animals for unpaid labour.
"Reanes." You greet shortly, not even bothering to turn your body fully to grace him with your attention.
"I'm not surprised Damian's left you all alone, miserable at the bar." He sneers. "He's never been good company."
Your brow lifts slightly. "And what gave you the impression that you could talk down on my fiancé in front of me?"
"Admit it." He mocks coldly. "He's never going to go through with the engagement. Your finger will remain bare for as long as he desires, and from the looks of it, he doesn't seem so keen on having you as his."
Your grip on your glass tightens. A flash of his corroded hair, dead from extensive bleach, drowned in wine, appears in your mind. You swirl your glass once, considering.
"I, on the other hand—" His teeth gleams with predatory intent. "—wouldn't mind taking second-hand scrapes. How would you like to be a Mrs. Reanes?"
Your laughter, cold and piercing, echoes through the air. His smug expression falters.
"Over my dead body." You hiss, slamming down your glass to push your palm roughly into his chest, sending him stumbling back. "Even if Damian hadn't been my betrothed, I would rather die alone than end up with the miserable likes of you."
His mask drops, revealing an ugly wrath that matched his true colours. His hand swipes a free glass from the bar on instinct, as if he's done it many times before.
In a blink, a cold sensation drenches your shoulders. Your gaze drops down, unable to hide your disgusted shock. The bastard purposely spilled wine on you.
Your expression darkens, meeting his narrowed eyes that were filled with wicked intent.
"Oh, my apologies." His act doesn't even come close to the twisted excitement in his gaze. "My hand slipped."
To cause this display in a Wayne charity ball is declaring war. You didn't wait for any passersby to notice—no, you're fully prepared to start this alone. You can already imagine his rotten, bleached head smashed with glass and wine to match the stain on your shoulder, ruining his gleeful expression—only for a firm hand to wrap around your waist, brushing your drenched shoulder against a broad chest.
"Reanes." Damian's greeting barely registers past the goosebumps that spread along your exposed skin when you dare a glimpse of his expression. His eyes, swallowed by his darkened pupils and narrowed into sharpened blades, is filled with such loathing that even you're rendered speechless.
"Wayne." The slimy git greets, carefully manoeuvring his glass to hide his mocking smirk. "I was just having a lovely talk with your wife."
"Oh, wait." His pretence is an awful act. "My mistake. She is merely your fiancée. Has been for awhile according to the papers."
Damian's grip unconsciously tightens around you, puling you back discretely, his shoulder shielding you from the creep's intentional gaze.
"Having doubts, Wayne?" He taunts. "I've made my own concerns clear, though she seems to have mistaken my empathy. I was only conveying that if you take any longer to put a ring on her, it might suggest to others that she's easy to snatch away."
The atmosphere freezes. To say you're astounded at his audacity, his utter foolishness to not be terrified of Damian's wrath isn't enough. You're sure this moron has a death wish.
"Your confidence in your lacklustre charm is worth applause, Reanes." Damian's tone is so unbearably cold that it even makes you flinch. "Let's see if your will to survive is stronger than your pride."
"Is that a threat?" Reanes muses, but you detect his hesitation. "As the next Wayne heir, I doubt your decision to threaten me, a useful business partner, is particularly clever."
"You mean your tycoon built off your father's buried scandals and contributions to corruption with the previous Minister?" Damian announces casually.
Several figures within hearing distance have shifted their heads towards Reanes at the sound of Damian's accusation. Finally, sweat has begun to pool at the rat's brows.
"How did—" Reanes's attempt at recovery is poor, his face seizing into an awful mess in realisation of his mistake of trying to find Damian's weakness. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Yes, of course." Damian's glare has narrowed into what could only be his hunting eyes. "Hypothetically, let's say you were to ever come near my betrothed again. I will have every piece of evidence—invoices, letters, emails, phone calls—all prepared into a file sent to the GCPD by tomorrow morning. How long do you think your family has before they come knocking down the doors?"
Reanes's face has lost all its colour.
"You're bluffing." He stammers.
It was satisfying to see all of his obnoxious confidence shrink into oblivion.
"You made an advance on my wife. You made a pathetic attempt of a threat against me." Damian hisses. "I haven't thought of all the possible ways to make you suffer just yet, Reanes. Stripping you of your stolen power is only the start."
"Unlike your father and his poor disguise of power as his empire collapses on itself." Damian taunts. "I protect what is mine."
Dread fills Reanes's expression. "Wayne, I misspoke. I won't so much as look at her."
Damian doesn't look close to satisfied. There's a want in his gaze, to torment him further. "Apologise to her."
Reanes grits his teeth, shame flooding his vile features. Forcing himself to look at your feet—not daring to meet your eyes, he spits it out. "I'm sorry."
"You are to never show yourself in front of us again." Damian declares. "Consider your offered partnership declined."
Reanes's entire expression sours, but one flick of Damian's brow has him scurrying off into the crowd, not even bothering with apologies when dirty looks are casted on him for pushing his way out to escape.
Damian's glare is still pinned into the crowd, and you sense his restrained bloodlust, something you haven't felt to this degree in years. The boy you once knew, who harnessed the blade better than anyone in its ability to end a beating pulse, has sprung out with his fangs and claws.
You unconsciously place one hand onto his chest in an attempt to soothe him, guide his attention back to his own body. He flinches, as if he had forgotten he was in the very room.
His nearly feral expression finds its way to the state of your ruined dress, the stain on your shoulder. He lets out a short breath, rationality kicking the gears in his mind. "We need to get you cleaned up."
You nod discreetly, at a loss for words as his hand comes up to grab yours, intertwining your fingers together and leading you away to a desolate hallway.
His fingers, covered in rough scars from countless battles, are caressing yours more gently than you could ever imagine. He's still refusing to look at you, gaze pinned straight ahead to the nearest bathroom.
Pushing open a door with a sudden force, you're dragged in with such a swift movement, that you barely have time to scout the room before your vision is blocked by his gaze pinning you down.
The barely visible green in his eyes are swarmed by his dilated pupils, filled with bitter rage and conflict. You've never seen him this—unguarded. The events that unfolded earlier seems to have affected him more than you expected.
His lips part to say something, but his eyes flicker down to your drenched shoulder, covered in red. His eyes narrow into a vicious glare, and he lifts himself off the door, pulling something out of his pocket.
A napkin. He must've snatched it on the way without you noticing.
There's not enough shock generated in your veins to truly comprehend what just happened. Damian just called you his wife. It still rings in your ears like some prank that's been orchestrated to throw you off your beliefs on everything you were convinced he's thought about you.
"Damian."
He's turned towards the sink, running the napkin over running water, but his entire posture is off. Tense. Coiled into restraint that's bound to burst.
"I am fine." Even as the uncomfortable feeling of dried wine lingers on your skin, there's something about Damian's change in demeanour that pushes you to reassure him. You're not used to being unable to read him. "There’s no point of putting on an act here. I am perfectly capable of cleaning up after myself."
"Is that what you think this is?" He spits out, still refusing to look at you.
You freeze. His tone, which has always carried the Al Ghul's familiar patronisation, has descended into a cold rage that's never been directed on you before.
He exhales slowly, his mask slipping back into place as he turns around, cloth in hand as he approaches you slowly. Stopping in front of you, his eyes are narrowed—and the light in them has nearly extinguished. Leaving behind a darker shade of green that consumes you whole.
"He was looking at you like you were a piece of meat to consume." His voice has dropped several octaves, and his gaze is unfocused—still trapped in his wrath. "As if you weren't mine."
Your eyes widen, steps instinctively moving backward but his arm wraps around your waist before you can retreat any further.
He doesn't make a single sound as his fingers wrapped around the napkin comes to touch your shoulder, stained with dried wine. His touch is frighteningly gentle as he wipes your stained skin, his lip curled in displeasure.
It's horrifyingly intimate, and the sound of your own quickened breathing is mortifying on your senses—knowing he could hear the effects of his strange, impulsive behaviour on you so clearly.
"I can do it myself." It sounds weak coming out from your mouth, even to your ears.
"Yes, you would like that, wouldn't you?" He mutters, sounding desolate. "Never letting yourself depend on me."
You scowl. "Why would I depend on you?"
"As much as you would like to pretend it doesn't matter." He grits. "I will be your husband. I will be the one who will lay down my promises and swear my life to yours. Now and even in death."
Leaning in, you feel his breath tingle against your skin as he whispers into your ear. "Do you think I am someone who takes my promises lightly?"
You resist a shudder, your lashes fluttering involuntarily. "No."
He scoffs. "Yet, you question my choice to defend you."
His breath lingers over your skin, right over the spot he's just cleansed free of wine, still cool to the touch from the dampness of the cloth. The tension is thick, making it difficult to think clearly when he's all but crowded the remaining space between the two of you.
He's only irritated that he's been indirectly insulted when Reanes pulled that ploy on you. You know how this will go. He'll wake from his delirious temper, fold back into the cold statue you know to be your betrothed, and remember the line that has been established.
He won't cross it. The boundary that's been drawn by you from the very beginning, in respect for whatever remaining autonomy the two of you had left in this arrangement. You're sure of your predictions... till you spot his expression. It seems that only now—the lack of distance has kicked in for him. The sudden stillness of his frame reveals something you never thought you'd see in your betrothed. Hesitation.
Nothing could've prepared you for what comes next. Damian's entire body leans in, caging you against the door. Tentatively, he places a soft, almost imperceptible kiss on your shoulder.
The oxygen in your lungs vanishes. Speechless, you can do nothing but stare at him with widened eyes, unable to comprehend what he just did. What it means.
"If you still have doubts about my loyalty." He mutters, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, an unfamiliar intensity sealed in his. "Consider that my mark of a promise, which I intend to fulfil for the rest of my life. It was my mistake to make it seem as if you were easy to steal—because that will be impossible starting today."
This up close, you can count the freckles dotted under his eyes. He's always been dangerously tempting, but now, after he's defended your honour and stands before you looking the most wrecked you've ever seen him—you want to do something foolish.
Something you might regret but have been wanting to do from the moment he marked you as his.
It's instinctive, almost natural when your lips press against his. It's brief, slotted at the wrong angle from his height that automatically has you wincing. You're quick to pull away, unprepared and desperately trying to come up with some excuse to forget the ordeal ever happened, when you see it.
The crack in his mask, over the single action of your lips pressed against his, unravels a devotion you've never seen before. Laying right in front of you, bared in the open. That is not the look of a man who despises you. If anything, he looks as if his restraints have finally snapped.
That brief glimpse is all you see before he pulls you in. His arms cage your body, drawing you towards him until your bodies press together. With no sense of hesitation from earlier when he had marked your shoulder, he presses you back against the door, and kisses you.
No, how could you have hallucinated his hesitation? The way he kissed you now, mapping your lips with devout intention, it's as if he's been wanting—waiting to do it for ages.
You didn't realise it either—how starved you've been for him till this very moment. You had been so focused on how trapped you felt under the expectations of your family, the firm belief that he felt the same way, that you buried the attraction that ran deep in your veins.
You hated it, that this kiss was the admission of how he was your weakness in the first place. That he knew exactly how to unravel you, turn your world upside down with his decisive behaviour that commanded the entire room. That the match between the two of you pleased you more than it should, driving you to push him away because... only he could invoke such insanity from your shattered composure.
"A few minutes ago, you couldn't even stand me." You manage out against a brief pause for breath, pushing your palm against his chest.
He pulls away just enough to cast you a look of frustration.
"What I couldn't stand was my betrothed always attempting to push me away." He reveals. "Do you understand the frustration you've caused me?"
His gaze flickers between your bitten lips and your half-lidded gaze, hunger bleeding through his eyes. "You see all of me. Without even trying to, it was as if you were placed in my life to be my one, singular weakness. You already had me wrapped around your finger, drawing all of my attention—making it impossible to forget you even for a moment."
"My wife." He says it slowly, as if savouring it. "It is only because of you, that it feels as if I've been waiting my whole life to say those words. So, forgive me, for finding it difficult to restrain my displeasure when the woman of my devotion acts as if she would rather be paired with any other man than me."
Your brows furrow together at his words. "Why would I want to be paired with anyone else?"
His gaze locked onto you, narrows. "You claimed our match was a disaster waiting to happen."
"Yes." Averting your gaze, your admission comes out frail. "...Because I was compromised from the beginning. Even before our families put us together, I admired you. When my personal feelings got involved, the arrangement felt like a punishment."
"To be paired with someone for life that wasn't of my choosing was one thing, but for that person to be someone that actually mattered?" You swallow. "I pushed you away, because it hurt less if I made the decision to do so, rather than having to see your disappointment. Instead of being left to wonder that if you ever had the choice, would you even glance twice in my direction?"
He stares at you incredulously. "You believed that I did not want you?"
You pause at his tone. You didn't know what to believe, not with his actions just mere minutes ago contradicting everything in your system. You had been so focused on keeping your walls high, that you never thought to truly look into his gaze and search for what he saw in you instead.
"There isn't anyone else in the world that I would've sworn my life to." He declares abruptly. "If I had been given the choice in the first place, I would still be here before you. Yours."
"If you want my decision, I'll state it outright." He says, fingers coming up to grasp your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes. "I choose you. I had long erased myself of the expectations of what others want from me. My life is led by what I envision for myself, and you are in it. You always have been."
“I don’t believe that the choices of others define us.” He answers. “Even if this marriage hadn’t been arranged, I would have chosen you. I would’ve come back for you over and over—and asked for your hand. If you had other suitors, I would’ve rid your mind of all possibilities but me, because there is no one for me but you.”
"So, tell me." He says, and there's a vulnerability you never thought possible in him, echoed in the softening of his tone. "If you will choose me too."
Had he always looked at you this way, in such a soft, yet unyielding manner, as if his gaze had already been attuned to you in habit?
“If you feel unsure, I won’t force you to decide.” He offers, but his crestfallen expression pleads otherwise. “I won’t let you be bound by the obligations of our families. I want you to choose me—willingly—just as I have chosen you."
Has that ever been a question for you? Even in your denial, your fear of being rejected by the one person you were meant to spend the rest of your life with, you never doubted that the side of your heart had already engraved his name in secrecy.
You had always been his, even when you weren't sure if he was yours.
"I choose you, Damian." Your answer feels akin to offering your beating heart, only to reveal that it had always known the very same truth uttered through your lips. "That's never been a question. It's always been you, from the start."
His expression, tightened in exact preparation of being wounded, finally softens. He lets out an unsteady breath, his forehead dropping to rest on yours. In the quiet of this moment, you realise Damian looks devastatingly beautiful like this. Soft, vulnerable, and completely yours.
"I would very much like to kiss you again." He admits. "May I?"
You finally break out your own smile, and you sense the tension in his shoulders drop at the sight. "Only because you asked nicely."
His fingers still caressing your chin gently lifts your lips to his. This kiss is different from the first. It wasn't an explosion, a burst of restrained emotions over years of pining. No, it was softer. Gentle, in a true attempt to memorise your lips against his, shaping into a quiet whisper of a promise that this won't be the last.
When he parts, there's a soft quirk in his lips, as if he can't help himself from feeling that warmth in his chest.
"I still can't believe you called me your wife." You mutter, still unable to wrap your mind around it. Lifting your empty hand, you can't help but tease. "You're going to start a rumour on how a Wayne can't afford to gift his own wife a ring."
"You are right." He mutters in displeasure, and you suspect his mind has already wracked on another situation steps ahead just from your words alone.
"I suppose we'll have to arrange a marriage ceremony soon." Damian decides casually. "The last thing we need is more wolves thinking they have even a chance of your hand."
You think he's joking. You certainly were.
Yet, looking at his gaze which has now flickered to your ring finger, already analysing the measurement, you think there's a miscalculated understatement about your soon-to-be husband's proactiveness.
"What's going to happen to Reanes?"
Damian's merciful act earlier did nothing to fool you. He wasn't the type to leave loose ends.
His gaze darkens immediately, but his expression doesn't so much as shift when he says. "He'll be dealt with."
"The Al Ghul way?" You lift a brow. "Or the Wayne way?"
His lips quirk up imperceptibly. "I'm sure my siblings have creative interrogation methods they've been meaning to find an outlet for."
Pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, he mutters. "...I'll just have a leading hand for tonight's patrol when we infiltrate Reanes's warehouse."
"So, the worst of both worlds."
A dark smirk crosses his lips. "Only what he deserves, Beloved."
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
pairing: luke castellan x reader
synopsis: you and Luke Castellan always find your way back to each other, even when things are complicated
included in this fic: ANGST, hurt w occasional comfort, miscommunication, post-quest Luke, original character included as a love interest for reader, jealousy, pre-lightning thief, tiny diet zero calorie fluff if u squint super hard, title from the joji song, no use of y/n, childhood bsf Luke, ex bf Luke
word count: 2.0k
notes: first fic...kinda nervous
You and Luke's relationship was…interesting.
And that was being nice—because it seemed everyone else you asked had something else to say.
Annabeth said it lacked communication.
Silena said you two were meant to be together.
Clarisse simply called both of you idiots.
So when you finally classified your relationship—for yourself and yourself only, since you decided it was too complicated to classify to the general public (also known as the demigods in camp who clearly have bigger problems)—you repeated it into your head every time you saw him.
Frenemies.
That was all you were.
However, frenemies didn't describe the feeling of talking to him every day since you were six years old. Frenemies didn't describe how your heart swelled the first time you kissed him. Frenemies didn't describe the ache in your chest when he broke up with you. And frenemies definitely didn't describe how Luke was yours at one point, and you were his. How it was always like that. You and Luke against the world.
Until it wasn't.
His reason for breaking up with you?
Him.
You hated him. You wanted to kill him. You wanted to scream at him for taking Luke away from you. And you didn't even know who "he" was.
"He's corrupted my mind," Luke had said to you under Thalia's tree. The exact place where you saw your best friend die before she even reached the camp border.
Your brows had furrowed. "Who? Who's corrupted your mind? Tell me, and I'll—"
"It doesn't matter!" he said, his voice growing frustrated. "This is for your own good."
You remembered the feeling vividly. Your stomach slowly dropping. The dread creeping into your veins. "What are you saying, Luke?"
"I'm saying that you—" he stopped. As if he was debating saying it.
The next time he spoke, everything inside you ripped apart.
"I'm saying that we should break up."
Since that moment, you barely remembered what happened. Crying. Lots of crying. And anger. Probably even more anger than crying.
This was Luke. Luke who had held your hand in the dark of your closet when your mom drank too much. Luke who had admitted to pining for you ever since he met you as a sticky-fingered toddler. Luke who always reassured you, even when your heart didn't want to believe it. Luke who snuck into your cabin when you both arrived to camp and got separated, just to hold you through the nightmares of Thalia's death. Luke who loved you more than anything else in his life. Luke who made you finally open up to someone.
You couldn't fathom how that same Luke ended up being the one to make you never want to be vulnerable ever again.
He was always the clingy one in the relationship. The one who would constantly look for you. The one who was practically your shadow. And somehow he was the one who ended the relationship.
It wasn't fair. Nor did it make sense.
Though you were unaware of his own struggle.
Luke loved you so much it hurt. So much it made him certain he would do anything—absolutely anything—for you.
So when Kronos entered his mind a week after he returned from his quest for the golden apple, promising a better life for all demigods, he was fully ready to accept.
Until Kronos said he would have to betray you. When he said no, of course, Kronos threatened you. He told Luke that your fate was to die brutally, alone—surrounded by fear.
It made Luke sob and beg for mercy.
So he did it. He accepted Kronos's offer.
He began to give Luke orders. They were small at first. To not hold your hand. To Luke, it felt like he was holding up the sky.
Then they got bigger. Forget to go to one of your secret meetings after curfew. Stop sneaking into your table at dinner. And finally, break your heart. Which meant breaking his own heart, too.
The sight of you crying tortured him. The thought of knowing that you were crying because of him? That practically executed him.
And then there was Aiden.
Aiden Mankov. Unclaimed kid. Same age as Luke.
He was Luke's best friend that wasn't you or Annabeth. He immediately welcomed Luke into the Hermes cabin with open arms when he first came. Over time, he became your friend too.
He had comforted you during the breakup. Spoke to you gently. Told you about how he had noticed change in Luke. How his smile didn't reach his eyes. How he didn't make jokes like he used to anymore.
Luke began to hate Aiden.
He was always jealous of him. The fact that he was charming, joyful, got along with everybody. The fact that Aiden had explained he was in the Hermes cabin because there was somehow a mistake, and he had gotten claimed by both Apollo and Aphrodite back when he was an infant. How he never knew who his mortal parent was. How he was an amazing archer, musician, poet, healer, all things Aiden had desperately done to get Apollo's attention, since he clearly liked Apollo more than Aphrodite. And it didn't help that Aiden was getting incredibly close to you now. So much so that the campers practically thought you two were dating.
Luke tried to deny it at first. Told himself it was just camp rumors. But one night, he saw Aiden walk you back to your cabin. The way you used to with him. And he realized that maybe—just maybe—Aiden had replaced him.
Somehow, a few months after the breakup, you and Luke had begun to talk again. Slowly. It was strange. It felt like you were talking to a new person, not the same person that had been your best friend for years—and the one who at one point had been the love of your life.
You had also heard things. Rumors of Luke being seen crying, him waking up on the floor and saying he had just "fallen out of bed." Him constantly sleeping, supposedly whispering your name into the dark. You chose to not believe them for your own state of mind.
During the day, you and Luke would sometimes spar. Teach lessons to the newbies, even. You often scolded yourself for how you could swear you felt tension. There would be satirical remarks about the breakup, as if they were lyrics to the beat of your bronze weapons clashing together. Then, during the night, you would sometimes find each other. By Thalia's tree, united in grief. By the docks, where you often laid together in the past. In the woods, when you both wanted to get away from the noise of the bonfire.
About a year after the breakup is when the frenemies thing started. It gave you false closure. You liked having a label on it.
No matter what you did, it was like your soul was chained to him. Like you were two souls who had been ripped away from each other before you were brought to earth.
"Hey," you said once, the light of the moon making the moment feel strangely intimate.
He was on the docks, his converses beside him as he swung his bare feet in the water. He didn't even look back. He could recognize your voice from miles away.
"You're stalking me now?" he said lightly.
"Don't act like you didn't sneak into my cabin yesterday night," you replied.
He chuckled slightly, feeling a bit more carefree. He always felt like when he was around you, nothing else mattered.
You eventually sat down next to him, putting your own shoes beside you.
That was all you did. Sit there.
The silence was different. It didn't feel like the silence when you were alone with him during the day. This silence was calm. Filled with re-mended promises. It was almost…comfortable.
After a while, he spoke.
"This is where our first kiss was."
The comment was like a blow to your senses. You and Luke never mentioned your past relationship, aside from the remarks you said during sparring. However, you always felt like that was simply strategy. A way to knock the other off balance. But now, you were realizing that maybe it was more that just a physical fight.
He continued. "I was so happy. I had been waiting for that moment since forever."
You shifted on the dock, putting your hands in your lap. "Yeah, well. That was a long time ago."
He finally risked a glance at you, then leaned back on the palms of his hands, staring up at the moon. "You're right," he sighed. "But it feels like it was yesterday."
A bit of heat ignited in your chest. "No offense Luke, but you're the one who ended the relationship."
You could have sworn you felt him flinch beside you. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds passed, then he sighed again. "I was never enough for you."
Oh.
Oh.
Well, now you felt bad.
"I'm not like Aiden, or..or any of your other ex-boyfriends. They were all…stable. Aiden's stable. I'm…me. I'm broken. All I do is hurt you. I mean, you shouldn't even be talking to me right now. I ruin everything I touch. I'll ruin you too. I don't get how you can just—just, sit there and pretend like I'm good for you. I'm not. Because I'm me. I'm a wreck."
Your heart ached at his words. After all, this was still the same boy who you knew since you were a kid. "You're not, Luke. Don't say that."
"I'm saying it because it's true."
"No it's not," you said sternly.
You let your words echo in the slight breeze for a second, calculating your next ones before you say them.
"You're Luke Castellan. Luke Castellan is the opposite of a wreck. You're the one who causes the wreckage."
He lets out a watery laugh, and you can't help but laugh too.
"I'm serious!" You say. "Like, if this camp ever ignited on fire, I think you'd be the first one on Chiron's list of suspects."
He turns to you, grinning, his eyes slightly glassy. "You're not any better than me!"
You mock-gasp. "I'll have you know I'd be innocent!"
"Sure," he says sarcastically, shaking his head and turning back to the moon. "Whatever you say."
You giggle, and for a second, it feels like old times. It feels like you can just lay your head in his lap if you wanted to. He would run your fingers through your hair and tell you it was all going to be okay. That he would never hurt you.
But of course, those were old times.
You go back into the silence. Staring at the moon. You wonder if it's staring at you back.
"It's so pretty," you mumble under your breath.
He turns to face you again. "What is?"
"The moon."
He hums in response, and you swear he's still staring at you when he says the words "It's beautiful."
The haze of the night causes your vision to blur slightly. The exhaustion of the day catches up to you, and before you know it, your head is on his shoulder. His arm slowly drapes around you, as if he's unsure if he still has the right to. You feel his hand rubbing up and down your arm, generating warmth. You're asleep.
You don't know what happens after. You don't know if he'll wake up hating you again. You don't even know if you still hate him. But you do know one thing—through thick and thin, through ups and downs, you and Luke Castellan always find your way back to each other.
"It's me and you against the world," he had said to you once. "In every universe. Through every good and bad situation. Always."
Always.
It was such a complex word.
And after years of knowing Luke Castellan, maybe you were finally believing it.
i like shiny things, but i'd marry you with paper rings
pairing: luke castellan x reader
synopsis: luke wants to give you every single thing you've ever dreamed of, even if it costs him. but since he cant, he gives you what he can afford.
included in this fic: fluff, pre-established relationship, idiots in love, sweetheart luke, pre-betrayal luke, no use of y/n
word count: 1.2k
notes: based off this request. what is it with me and docks? idk. had this in my drafts for a hot minute ty marcy for proofreading, idk how i feel abt this its kinda corny
"Look at these boots! Okay, y'know what, forget everything I said earlier. This is my first item."
Luke groaned. He had heard you say that same sentence about ten times in the past five minutes alone, and you two had been here for an hour.
It was partially his fault. You had run up to him after dinner, a magazine in hand from your friend Silena. And since Luke was utterly and hopelessly obsessed with you, he had made a bad idea.
He asked you what was in your hand.
Which is how he found himself in this situation. Both of you on the docks, lying on your stomachs, sipping cans of Diet Coke that Luke stole from Mr. D. The magazine was spread out between your bodies, the gentle sound of the waves a soundtrack to your eager speaking.
You were pointing out items in the magazine, happily telling him how those would be the first things you bought when you got out of camp. If you ever got out of camp. But Luke liked the word "when" more than he liked the word "if."
He liked to imagine a future with you. He had made an elaborate plan with you one night after sneaking into your cabin to cuddle.
You had gone through no less than forty potential places.
Manhattan? Too close.
Sweden? Too far.
Greece? Too connected to your demigod past.
He wanted to leave it all behind. The gods, the camp, everything. He just wanted to wake up next to you in bed, the sunlight pouring into your room. He wanted to cook you food when you had a rough day. He wanted to wake up, sleep, eat at whatever time he felt like it. He wanted to be able to go out and spoil you with every damn thing in that stupid magazine.
Right. The magazine.
He snapped out of his trance to look at you, a grin on his face. "You're going to make future me go broke."
"Good," you say, swinging your feet back and forth as you flipped a page.
He rolls his eyes, but he feels no true annoyance. He would go homeless if it meant you'd be happy.
Luke turns onto his side, propping his head up with his elbow so he can look at you better. His free hand finds itself playing with a strand of your hair, twirling it around his finger. He follows your gaze as it lands on an expensive-looking ring. Not that the other stuff you pointed at wasn't expensive, but this ring was probably worth more than sixty times the land that camp took up.
Of course you liked the most expensive thing there.
He watched as you turned the shiny page again. A simple, silver bracelet was on it. Cheaper than everything there. Yet you still looked at it for a hot second.
"You like that?" he asks, pointing at the bracelet.
You hum in agreement. "It's cute."
He nods, ripping the page, folding it, and putting it in his pocket. "Good to know."
"Luke," you say sternly, knowing in your gut he would probably save up his mortal dollars to buy something similar for you on his next quest.
He simply grinned in response, flipping the page for you.
The wrong way.
You were face-to-face with the ring again, and you couldn't help but gasp.
Something in Luke's chest ached. He didn't quite know what it was. Maybe it was the fact that he could tell you didn't have much hope for your plan to leave. Maybe it was the expression on your face, dreamy and slightly sad. Maybe it was just the fact that he was super in love with you.
His hands move on instinct. He picks up his empty Diet Coke can, ripping a strip of metal off and forming it into a ring shape.
"Hm?" you say, snapped out of the ring's trance after he had said your name.
"Will you marry me?"
You stare at him, dumbfounded, for a hot minute. Then you both burst out laughing.
You eventually stop, catching your breath, only to burst out laughing again for a good ten minutes.
"You want to marry me?" you say, raising an eyebrow when you finally stop gasping for air.
He wipes a tear from his eye. "Of course I do. Or…actually, maybe not. You'll spend all my money."
You playfully shove him, and he grins in response.
"C'mon, give me your hand."
"No, you dork."
"Please?"
"No."
"Please?"
"No."
"Please?"
"Luke."
"Please?"
"Luke, stop it."
"Please?"
You give him your hand.
He slides the ring on your finger, grinning. "It goes well with your skin tone."
"It is quite literally a strip of metal."
"It is the finest grade exclusive essence of aluminum. A super limited design, mind you. Imported straight from Long Island. It's one of a kind."
"So, basically, a strip of metal?"
"A special strip of metal."
"Ah, I see."
He brings your knuckles up to his lips, kissing the ring. "One day, I'll buy you anything and everything you want."
"You promise?"
"I swear."
Just then, the sun begins to set, painting the sky in orange and purple hues. And as you look down at the ring, you see it's reflecting the colors. Almost as if it was a mosaic.
"Luke, look!"
His eyes move from your face to your hand, still held in his. A chuckle leaves his lips, tender and whispered into the air.
"Told you. Finest grade."
"Maybe it is a special strip of metal."
His thumb gently brushes against the ring. "Of course it is. It's my promise to my favorite girl. I can't give you diamonds, but I can give you a sunset."
A warm smile touches your lips. You let yourself stare at him for a bit, your mind reeling. The sky engulfs you in a warmth that can only come from hanging out with Luke. It's as if the sky itself wants you to hope and believe. Maybe it will work out. Maybe, just maybe, you'll end up somewhere far away from this place, waking up on his chest every morning. Maybe one day.
But on this day, you turn back to the magazine, the sky now turning more cool toned. "So, I also really liked this one…but I think this one is better. And this one—"
He groans, but once again, he feels no true annoyance. He loves listening to you yap. Your voice is probably his favorite sound in the world.
So he lays there with you for the rest of the day, carefully discussing every item in the magazine until there's none left. And then, just to hear you talk again, he suggests rating everything from the beginning, which you happily agree to.
One day, you'll live your dream. One day, you'll both live alone together.
But quite frankly, Luke doesn't care. As long as you're by his side, talking his ear off, sitting in the sunset—he's the happiest guy in the world.
He may only be able to offer you a soda can ring for now, but to him, he's lucky that he's the guy that you accepted it from. He's lucky that he's the one that you go to when you want to fantasize about a glamorous life. He's lucky that he's the one who gets to give you a sunset. He's lucky that he's the one you love to annoy.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Pairings: Platonic! Batfam x Law Student Batsis Reader, Wally West x Law Student Batsis Reader
Synopsys: The forgotten daughter of the Wayne family quietly builds a future of her own after years of being overlooked, forcing the Batfamily to confront just how little they truly know about her.
Word Count: 1.4k
Notes: Okayyy im making a fic series! lemme know if yall like this and i will continue itt! Ive seen like one or two wally x neglected batsis fics but I wanted to do one aswellll. Obvi the ages have been either aged up or down to align with the fic and yeahhh. Hope you enjoy reading!
Ever since you were young, you knew something was wrong with your family. You were the blood daughter of the notorious billionaire playboy, Bruce Wayne, after all.
From the outside, everything looked perfect.
The Wayne family was admired across Gotham. Every gala photo showed smiling faces. Every newspaper article praised Bruce's generosity. Every interview painted the Waynes as a close-knit family that had overcome tragedy together.
People loved the story.
They loved Bruce Wayne and his children.
They loved Dick Grayson, Bruce's golden son. They admired Jason Todd's resilience. They respected Tim Drake's intelligence. They adored Damian Wayne, the youngest heir. Even the family friends seemed to have a place in the carefully crafted picture.
Everyone fit somewhere.
Everyone except you.
You weren't sure when you first noticed it.
Maybe it was when you were six and came running into Bruce's office with a drawing you'd spent hours making, only for him to promise he'd look at it later…
Later never came.
Maybe it was when you were ten and sat through an entire family dinner without anyone asking how your day had been. Or maybe it was when you realized that every member of the family could list everyone else's favorite food, favorite movie, and favorite color!—
…but nobody could answer those questions about you.
At first, you told yourself it wasn't intentional.. hell you even asked Alfred if they loved you!
He sighs, "Young Master, I'm sure they love you." he threads his fingers through your hair, "But you must undertsand, they have.. certain circumstances.." And you got that point, you swore you did.
Bruce is always busy.
Dick lived in another city.
Jason was always coming and going.
Tim practically lived on coffee and three hours of sleep.
Damian barely tolerated most people.
Everyone had something important happening.
Something more important.
You became good at understanding. Too good. So subsequently in due time, you gave up.
You stopped interrupting conversations.
Stopped asking for help.
Stopped sharing things you were excited about.
It was easier that way.
Less disappointing.
Over time, people stopped expecting to hear from you.
The manor was loud most days. You heard your brothers' voices echoing through the halls. Damian and Jason having arguments over breakfast. Someone was always training, complaining, or stealing food from the kitchen.
Yet somehow, you'd never felt more alone.
You lie alone, in your room. Staring at the accomplishments you oh- so truly desired to share. Just for one singular second for someone. Someone. To give you the recognition you wished for. Your eyes panned across the room. Gymnastic awards, science awards, leadership awards, writing and advocacy— Hell you even took some drama performances! All these accomplishments, only to be overshadowed and overlooked by the ones who deemed to love you most.
You stare softly at your desk which had an envelope you had opened moments prior, it read
Date: July 20th 20XX
Dear Miss (Name) Wayne,
It is with great pleasure that we offer you admission to Gotham Law Academy for the upcoming academic year.
After careful review of your application, academic records, personal statement, and recommendations, the Admissions Committee was impressed by your outstanding achievements, dedication to your studies, and strong potential to excel within the legal profession.
Your exceptional academic performance, critical thinking skills, and commitment to justice distinguished you among a highly competitive pool of applicants. We are confident that you will make valuable contributions to our academic community and uphold the standards of excellence that Gotham Law Academy represents.
As a student of Gotham Law Academy, you will have access to rigorous coursework, experienced faculty, internship opportunities, and a network of legal professionals dedicated to preparing the next generation of advocates, attorneys, and leaders.
To secure your place in the incoming class, please submit your Enrollment Confirmation Form by [August 19th 20XX].
On behalf of the faculty, staff, and administration, we congratulate you on this remarkable achievement. We look forward to welcoming you to Gotham Law Academy and supporting your future success.
Congratulations, Miss Wayne.
Sincerely,
Dean Victoria Hayes
Dean of Admissions
Gotham Law Academy
"Justice begins with those willing to pursue it."
You hum, "Well, atleast there's one thing I can be excited about." You roll on your bed with a groan. Knock knock. "Yes?" You answered,
You sat at the dining table one evening, absently pushing food around your plate while the others talked.
Dinner at Wayne Manor was loud.
It always was.
Dick was halfway through some story about Blüdhaven, waving his fork around as he talked.
"I'm serious," he said. "This guy thought hiding in a dumpster was a genius escape plan."
Jason snorted.
"Was it?"
"No."
"Then why are you telling the story?" Jason raised a brow, "Because he stayed in there for three hours." Dick grinned.
Tim nearly choked on his drink.
Damian looked disgusted.
Bruce rubbed his temple.
The conversation continued around the table while you sat quietly at your usual spot.
A few months ago, you would've tried to join in.
Maybe told a story of your own.
Maybe mentioned something interesting that happened during your day.
Maybe brought up the fact that you'd been accepted into Gotham Law Academy.
Now?
You couldn't find it in yourself to care.
As you finished your food and ready to head upstairs you get interrupted,
"(Name)," It was Bruce, steady eyes gazing at you as if expecting something. All eyes turn to you , what the fuck? You think as you muster up a reply, "What?" You stare back, head titling ever so slightly to the side. Bruce clears his throat, "Where are you going?" He replies coolly. The soft rain pattering by the glass windows. You blinked, "To my room?"
The answer came out more like a question.
Bruce frowned slightly. "As soon as dinner ends?" A beat of silence followed only the sounds of rain could be heard. You looked around the table.
Dick looked confused.
Tim had finally put his phone down.
Damian was staring like you murdered his family.
Jason looked like he was waiting for a punchline.
You honestly didn't know what they wanted from you.
"Yeah," you answered. Bruce grumbled, "...Why?" what the hell is going on. "What do you mean, why?" You asked.
Bruce exchanged a glance with Dick.
It was subtle.
The kind of look people shared when they thought something was off. You almost laughed. Now they noticed? After years?
You put up a polite smile, "I usually go to my room after dinner."
"No, you don't," Tim said automatically. You looked at him. Tim looked back.
Then his expression shifted.
Slowly.
Because he realized he had no idea whether that statement was true or not. The silence stretched. You sigh and folded your arms. "Actually, I do."
Nobody responded.
Because nobody knew.
Not a single one of them.
Jason leaned back in his chair. "Since when?" He asked, raising a hand.
You shrugged.
"A while."
"A while being...?" Dick asked.
"A couple years, maybe."
The dining room fell silent. You almost felt bad for them.
Almost.
The looks on their faces suggested they genuinely hadn't noticed.
Bruce set his fork down. "You spend that much time alone?" There was something strange in his voice.
Concern.
Confusion.
Maybe guilt.
You couldn't tell. And maybe you weren't interested enough to find out.
"I guess."
"You guess?" Damian repeated harshly.
You glanced at him. "Does it matter? I've spent 18 years in this house doing the same things without anyone noticing." The sentence wasn't hostile.
It wasn't angry.
If anything, it was tired.
That seemed to hit harder.
Because suddenly nobody had anything to say.
You pushed your chair back. "I have things to do."
Bruce straightened.
"What things?"
You paused.
For a second.
Just a second.
Then you remembered the acceptance letter sitting upstairs in your room. The enrollment forms. The plan of becoming a lawyer. The future you were quietly building by yourself.
The future none of them knew existed.
A small smile tugged at your lips.
"Just planning some things."
Dick frowned, "What things?"
You grabbed your plate and placed it in the sink, "Nothing important."
The words slipped out before you could stop them. The irony wasn't lost on anyone. Not when every accomplishment, every award, every achievement in your life had become something "Not important."
Not important enough to ask about.
Not important enough to notice.
Not important enough to remember.
The smile disappeared. "Goodnight."
This time, nobody stopped you.
You walked out of the dining room. The door clicked shut behind you. And for the first time in years, the conversation didn't immediately start back up.
Because downstairs, for the first time, the Wayne family was left with a realization they didn't quite know what to do with.
