tim drake winces at the clatter of ceramic against wood. he reaches over, swiftly snatching the invitation from damian.

"fancy," he murmurs, gliding his fingertips across the weighted paper. he types the name written next to yours into the search bar of his laptop.

"marriage is supposed to be about love and partnership," dick laments, "in sickness and in health, 'til death do us part!"

"they almost put me in one, too," jason comments, "but then i came to gotham."

"how far did you get?" damian asks.

"just past the introduction period, maybe two of twenty rounds."

"does nobody believe in love anymore?" dick groans.

"hey, your ex's new partner is real shitty," tim chimes in, scanning the bullet points from his preliminary search. "linked to organized crime, embezzlement, murder...and two previous marriages that ended due to financial abuse."

suddenly, dick pushes back from the table, his chair screeching against the floor.

"we have to help your ex," he declares with much certainty.

"not my ex," damian corrects sharply. "it was a political arrangement."

jason pumps his fist in the air.

"hell yeah, count me in! i've always wanted to crash a wedding!"

damian turns to his father, eyes pleading for an out to this ridiculous suggestion. dread courses through his veins when the thoughtful expression on bruce's face passes.

"when is the wedding?"

"tomorrow," tim replies.

bruce nods.

"we'll leave as soon as we finish patrol tonight."

"i will expedite the preparation of your formal attire," alfred states.

damian pinches the bridge of his nose, pondering how on earth did matters escalate from a quiet breakfast to orchestrating a plan to crash a wedding? he reaches for the only logical argument he has left.

"the invitation is addressed to damian wayne, not damian wayne plus four guests!"

but it falls on deaf ears as the conversation dissolves into flight times, departure schedules, and color coordination. damian sighs as dick throws his arms in the air, bickering with jason over who gets to wear grey and who gets to wear black.

he tunes them out as discussions of tie colors and pocket squares spiral around him, his thoughts circling back to the invitation sitting on the table. the image of your name written beside another's stirs something uncomfortable in his chest. the engagement had belonged to a previous version of himself, one dictated by the league. though he's left that life behind, he never considered that someone else might step into the future he abandoned. once upon a time, it was supposed to be his name beside yours on the invitation, not his name solitary on the front of the envelope.

~

damian tugs on the collar of his dress shirt, a crease forming between his brows. if someone told him yesterday morning that he'd be halfway across the world aboard the batwing alongside his father, grayson, todd, and drake, he would've accepted it without question. if they added that they were on their way to crash a wedding in three-piece suits proudly prepared by alfred, however, he would have narrowed his eyes and informed them they're sorely mistaken. unfortunately, both scenarios have somehow become reality.

"this is entirely unnecessary," he grumbles.

tim turns to him with a smug look on his face.

"then why did you shove me to get in first?"

"i did not."

"you did though?" jason prods. "we all saw it?"

"your eyesight is deteriorating with age."

"for a private ceremony," bruce notes, eyes skimming the ground below, "the venue is strangely open."

jason squints out the window.

"not a sniper in sight, either."

"...convenient," dick mutters.

"intentional, maybe?" tim suggests.

you tilt your head toward the sky to watch the batwing initiating its descent. it casts a looming shadow across the enormous stretch of land with perfectly manicured-grass, colorful flowerbeds, and not a singular obstacle to prevent them from an easy landing. your lips curl up into a smile.

"right on time."

though it's been years since you last met, it takes damian mere seconds to find you amongst the crowd. you're older now, both of you are, yet for a fleeting moment, the wedding venue blurs with the memory of a different ceremony—one where you both stood stiffly side-by-side beneath the watchful eyes of the league to officiate the engagement. back then, a future where damian is your spouse was a certainty. now, he's to watch someone else take his place.

adrenaline rushes through his body. he's moving without thinking, ripping off his seatbelt and shoving todd and drake aside to get out.

"watch it!" jason yelps.

"the batwing is still moving, damian," bruce warns.

he ignores them completely, stepping onto the ledge before the batwing has touched down.

"damian—"

he leaps anyway, landing hard in the grass. gusts of wind tear through his hair and suit jacket, rendering alfred's careful styling and ironing to complete ruin.

"STOP THE WEDDING!"

everyone turns to look, expressions ranging from shock to horror, but damian keeps his gaze on you standing by the altar...alone.

alone?

he looks around the venue, at the bouquet in your hand, the chairs, the guests, and the officiant holding an open book.

behind him, bruce, tim, dick, and jason catch up, each taking in the scene before them. it has everything a wedding should have except for—

"where is your betrothed?" damian demands.

"he's just arrived," you smile, staring straight at him.

"what...?"

in the front row, he spots duke thomas, stephanie brown, cassandra cain, and his mother?? duke offers an enthusiastic wave. steph is blatantly biting back a fit of laughter. cass has her phone raised high for babs to see through a video call.

talia al ghul looks her son over once. twice.

he immediately straightens his posture. her eyes linger on the crooked tie hanging slightly askew around his collar, the singular crease on his shirt, and the loose strands of hair falling over his forehead.

sufficient...barely.

then her eyes shift to bruce. his expression tightens slightly as she arches a singular brow. she says nothing. she doesn't need to. bruce looks away first.

"you intentionally arranged this!" damian accuses, pointing a finger in your direction.

"you would never come to our wedding willingly, so i had to come up with something," you muse.

damian turns to find his father, grayson, todd, and drake are no longer standing behind him. instead, they're making their way toward a row of reserved seats, each marked with personalized name cards. todd is openly laughing now, hollering that damian just got played. grayson isn't doing much better based on the way he slaps a hand over his mouth. drake looks seconds away from joining in on their antics. meanwhile, father is trying to get them to settle down, but his efforts are futile.

"i was about to crash my own wedding...!"

"can't really crash it if it's yours, can you?" you point out, extending your hand toward him. "come on, i spent a long time on these vows."

a/n: my take on an arranged marriage trope with damian but make it crack lol hope you enjoyed!!

you brought him over to get him more acquainted with your parents, he's your boyfriend after all.

this isn't even the first time he's been here but he's the only man your parents have allowed to sleep in your room. door shut and a single bed in sight.

the first time, naoya curled his teeth up in a disgusted snarl like he was in disbelief and said 'your folks are fucking braindead, who lets a man sleep in their daughter's room like this?'

then he bent you over, shoved your face into the pillow and fucked you so hard you could not form a single coherent thought. not when naoya was fucking you through your orgasm, especially not when he was shooting his seed deep in your cunt.

naoya's hips draw back to thrust deeply, your pussy stretched past her limit to take him. cream is collecting around his base and dripping down his balls. a nasty slurry of cum and stringy liquid that seeps from you.

just how long has he had you pinned under him? just how many times has his cock entered you again and again?

your bed is faintly creaking under the weight but with whatever restraint he conjures up, he manages to not send your headboard slamming into the wall.

truly if he wanted to fuck your cunt open at a voracious pace he'd make you kneel on the floor so he can do as he pleases. naoya has done it before and no, he doesn't care if your knees wind up bruised!!

your parents are down the hall, entirely oblivious to what he does under their noses.

his hand draws back from your face and you sharply inhale, body trembling.

his eyes narrow, he usually isn't this mean. "you want to be my pretty little wifey, right?" he tilts his head, he looks so angry. at what? you are not entirely sure.

naoya cups the backs of your knees, practically folding you in half and draping his heavy body over yours, all while his thick cock is being harshly fucked into your weeping hole.

"want it—mmhm." you babble, preening as naoya's face comes closer to yours. you're so dumb for him, he has destroyed you. he drives his heady cock into you with brutal force, like he is punishing you for every aspiration you voiced earlier.

your pussy is squeezing him like she never wants to let go, gushing on him like she's encouraging his mean thrusts. begging and crying for more.

you are lost in a daze, hardly stifling moans and cries cause you are too caught him in the heat of his body over yours. in the way his muscles bulge and flex and how handsome he is—why does he have to look this good? how can ever stay away?

your hands are shaking when they cup his face, sliding down to his neck as your noses and lips brush.

you're a sweet little thing, sickeningly so. it's hardly your fault, your parents sheltered you and then sent you out into the world, one with men like him. you think he's so good but naoya never claimed to be.

"cause that's where you belong. on your back and doing shit for me. but you think you're so fucking smart." he snarls in your face like a man unhinged. then his lips pucker and he spits into your open mouth, uncaring that some splatters rather than going straight onto your tongue.

and you swallow it down.

your tongue comes out to lick your lips and any residual saliva that stains your skin.

"couldn't eat in peace because of your bullshit. you think your grades matter? and your fucking parents were just encouraging your shit." naoya hisses, sucking his teeth as his hips lurch forward again, much harder, swollen cock head battering so deep you almost make your lip bleed with the way you bite down.

"you think a bitch like you should be out there? think you can handle it?" his eyes flick over your teary ones, naoya wants to tie you down and lock you away.

"oh, baby. you're just a stupid slut, you need a real man to put you in your place. one to give you a ring and some babies to take care of. you need your daddy, don't you?" he's sin incarnate. naoya has gorgeous features and why are you thinking about how they would look mixed with yours? if he gave you his baby?

precum spurts in a hot glide from his tip, splashing against your womb. it only makes your pussy squeeze him tighter.

you find yourself nodding through broken moans, ones you can hardly contain.

when your parents met him, they approved. naoya has a reputable job, he's a well respected man and so what if he's a couple years older than you? you and naoya have so much in common! right?

if only they knew this highly regarded police officer acted like this. his broad body covering yours almost entirely. his firm, muscular chest pressing down on your smaller body, keeping you pinned.

you like it, perhaps you're not any better than him.

"daddy, please." you whine, hands slipping into his hair, body jolting with every rough pound of his hips. it all hurts so good.

"oh, fuck." naoya lowly grunts before a laugh reverberates through his throat, like you're a joke to him.

finally, after what seems like an eternity he leans down to kiss you. all rough and mean, tongue darting into your mouth with languid strokes. his eyes are open and yours are tightly shut then he takes your bottom lip between his, sucking hard enough to bruise.

"please what, baby? want me to stop talking sense into you or do you want me to fuck that useless brain right out of your skull?" his sticky balls hit your ass as he slams in from spilling cock-head to base. you writhe under him, your skin stinging from the impact but you do not run much less push him away.

your cunt clenches hard, feeling every ridge and vein of his swollen erection, his pre-cum coating your walls in excess.

"m'doing well n' i'm making em' proud." you speak through a slick web of spit pooling in your mouth. it isn't the answer he wanted. he scowls, your parents had praised you during dinner, chattering endlessly about your future career. it all sounded like nails on a chalkboard.

that's not how naoya sees you.

he wants you barefoot and pregnant, by his side. tied to him with no way out.

what business do you have being out there pretending to be independent?

his hands hurt where they hold you. his thrusts are even and deep, cock leaking and pulsing.

"what a fucking joke. you think you should be runnin' round going to lectures, trying to be a fuckin party girl. good bitches like you belong on your back, with your pussy split open, getting filled up until you're carrying my kid." he hacks a thick wad of messy spit between the valley of your barely there breasts before he crowds over you more to lick it all up with possessive drags of his tongue.

spillage seeps in a messy net around his cock and from your pulled wide hole. every spurt of pre-cum makes your eyes widen, every hot splurge makes your back arch.

you are hardly able to contain your moans, choking down every single one as naoya keeps fucking you.

pressure builds up in your stomach, his balls smacking your skin loudly and you can only hope your parents are ignorant to what is going on within the four walls of your bedroom.

"it hurts, naoya." you sob loudly, tears soaking the sheets beneath your head, "mmhngh, daddy it hurts." you warble and then your hips buck up to meet his, your body aching and craving every bit of his roughness.

"hurts? s'good. that should teach you to listen to your man instead of trying to be like every other bitch."

he captures your bitten raw lips, kissing you sweetly, kissing you like he's desperate for you. naoya nips them despite how sore they are, he hums when you whimper, his tongue stroking along yours.

even when he pulls away you try to follow, you try to keep kissing him. "you don't have to go to school or work some bullshit job. i'll take care of you—i'll keep this pussy fucked and i'll keep you fed, that's all a girl like you needs."

why are you beginning to like the sound of that? as long as you're with him.

your chest heaves, pussy clenching tighter, creaming more. "but—i like university n' my degree n—" you say in whatever means of resistance, your voice breaks, drooling as your head lolls back. the relentless pounding jolting your body.

naoya's laugh comes out cruel and loud, it only makes him fuck you harder, it makes the bed frame shift just a fraction.

"but you like getting your brains fucked out more." he can say it with absolute certainty. he doesn't have to ask because he knows. it is far too obvious. "look at you, girl. crying so much while your cunt milks my cock." he presses a sweet, gentle peck to your lips. then naoya kisses you tenderly, as soft as he can be before resuming the brutal pumps of his hips.

naoya releases your leg to instead reach down for your overly sensitive clit and rub mean circles that make your eyes roll back.

you swear it only makes you feel more, every throbbing inch of him, bare inside you. every hot spurt of pre flooding within you like a promise for what is to come.

your hands clamber on his shoulders, nails scratching his pale skin.

"daddy." it sounds different now, somehow. naoya's heart stills for only a second, callous expression softening just barely.

his thrusts sink his cock deeper, more deliberate as he nuzzles your cheek. "your daddy's right here." he coos, voice losing some of its edge but still so condescending.

he presses a soft kiss to your forehead, slimy tongue slipping out to lap at the salty trails of your tears before kissing you. slower, sweeter, open mouthed and all tongue and so incredibly possessive. naoya kisses you like he wants to leave his mark on you, inside and out.

"you should drop out, tomorrow sounds like a good day. you can move in with me." you whimper at his words. he nods and you do too. you only cling to him harder. you claw at his skin like you cannot handle him leaving you for even a second. "you can wait for me at home, don't have to waste anymore time on exams. you can have my baby instead."

sick, he's a sick man.

you're as sick as he is.

naoya's blunt cock head prods your cervix over and over, each rough slam making your back arch as you writhe. jolts of pleasure-pain shoot through your used pussy. you can feel his pre leaking, it's always so much, warm and insistent. it is enough to make you feel so full.

"s'too deep. gonna—m'gonna make a mess." you spit unintelligibly.

"that's the point, baby." naoya likes you this way, bending so easily to his will. he rubs your clit in quicker strokes, groaning at the way you clench. "i'll knock you up so you can't even think about leaving me." not like he would ever allow it. "you'll be my perfect little wifey. cook for me, fuck for me, cry for me when i need to remind you who's in charge."

you clamp your palm over your mouth, sounds hardly muffled. the quiet room is filled with the wet noises of your pussy being fucked open, it is all sloppy, obscene and if anyone listened carefully they would surely know.

"your parents might hear how much you love being my dumb slut." he grips you tighter, control beginning to fray as your walls tighten. "such a tight pussy, g'na fill you up with so much seed you won't be able to get it all out." his thrust grow uneven and frantic, muscles flexing as he pins you under him. owning your body with every stroke of his fat cock.

"fuck—holy shit." naoya hisses through gritted teeth, your walls clenching unbearably tight before your pussy spasms. you milk him, creaming in messy rivulets through muffled sobs.

his hips stutter, slamming in deep as he cants them forward like he is attempting to shove further but there is no where left to go. your pussy lips flush and spread at his pelvis, hole pulled wide for his cock and his balls mushed to your ass.

naoya shudders, face flushed and teeth barred as thick ropes of cum splurge from his slit deep into your womb.

your body rocking up to meet his at the sensation of heated shots of cum. naoya waits for a second, drawing his cock back midway before slamming so hard you shriek.

he keeps you plugged full of his seed, dropping more of his weight onto you. somehow, the way he borderline crushes you is comforting.

your chest is heaving as you uncover your mouth and naoya leans down to pepper kisses all over your face. "this pussy's so good for me."

you cling to him like he is the only thing keeping you afloat. it's the only way naoya wants you, dependent on him. you don't need to think, just look at him, he'll do it all for you.

"that's my baby." his breaths are still laboured, and once more he fucks his hips like he has a point to prove as he sloshes his seed and pushes it deeper. "you feel that? s'your future right there—a swollen belly, waiting for your daddy to come home and fuck you senseless."

you hum, nodding.

when naoya smiles down at you, it's all worth it. he kisses you again, slow and deep. he threads his fingers through your hair to caress you softly.

you'll stick around.

you and 20 other people who are high out of their minds and too intoxicated to be coherent. none of your friends are here.

you start to understand why your parents always fed you words of warning. you would not have been in this position if you had simply listened.

the adrenaline you felt earlier is nothing compared to the regret that settles in your bones. the hum of fluorescent lights is the only sound ringing in your ears and every word said by the people scattered all over the station melds into meaningless murmurs.

the dress you are wearing does little to preserve your modesty. it was easier to wear it when your friends were showering you with compliments but now you are under the leering gaze of police officers. there is nothing innocent about their intentions.

they are all looking at you. except him.

"naoya." a man addresses him. you stop paying attention to their conversation after that.

you see his eyes narrow at the shorter male. it only emphasizes how large he is. every inch of him commands attention. he props his hands on his hips, his broad shoulders pull the fabric of his uniform taunt and his biceps strain against his sleeves.

every ripple of muscle on his back is outlined against perfectly tailored fabric, it hugs his trim waist and your eyes linger too long as he adjusts his gun holster and his arms flex.

every movement is precise and powerful, like it is what he is made for.

he looks otherworldly. he looks unreal.

he is the most handsome man you have ever seen, you do not think another man could possibly exceed his prowess.

the air leaves your lungs when his intense gaze finds yours. it is almost unnerving. it is the first time he has acknowledged your presence, like you were hardly anything worth noticing before. you are insanely cold, you have been shivering for the past hour but since meeting his eyes you have never felt warmer.

he shifts his weight and you swear you forget how to breathe, how to think, you are completely disoriented. you can decipher the firmness of his chest from here, your eyes focusing on the steady rise and fall with every breath he takes. he is built for more than this job, his mere presence announces that.

it is impossible for you to look away. not when everything about him screams control and strength. not when every inch of him is demanding your attention.

and- wait. why are thinking that at a time like this?

you need to get yourself out of this situation. you have long sobered up and naoya might be your best bet. he looks like a good listener, he looks reasonable, he looks decent. unlike them. you would rather plead your case to someone dignified like him than the sleazy men who have been ogling you all night.

you muster up every ounce of courage in your body as you approach him. the minute the other officer leaves, you are in naoya's sight.

he tilts his head in curiosity.

you are a pretty little thing.

"officer naoya." you speak meekly. you are unsure of what to say or where to start. something in him is stirring, something he has never felt before. just who are you and what business do you have saying his name like that?

"you skipping the line?" he quips, the last thing he wants to deal with are some drunk college students. he was against his co-workers busting that stupid party in the first place, there are far more important matters to deal with.

"no." you anxiously refute his words, although that is exactly what you are doing. "i just." you fumble for words, your hands clenching at your sides. naoya thinks you look so fucking stupid right now. "i've been waiting for a while and i really need to know what's going to happen because i've never done anything like this. i've never been in this situation before-"

you keep talking, you are rambling on and on about excuses naoya has heard countless times but the difference is you are genuine. he can hear the shakiness in your voice, he can see how glossy your eyes are. you are fighting tears, your lip is trembling.

there is no denying that lascivious warmth growing within him.

"do you ever shut up?" he sneers, his voice is low and irritated. you flinch at the aggressive tone, your words die on your tongue. "i need to see your id, i don't have all night to listen to you."

although, if he was honest, he likes the sound of your voice. it is not displeasing.

not in the slightest.

he observes you as you fumble for your wallet, you slip him an id. a fake one. one your college friends gave you, they all have one and it was fun when they were buying drinks before that party.

you start to realise that there is absolutely no humour as naoya reads the name off the card.

"i hope you didn't spend money on this, it's really shitty." he rolls his eyes. "where's your real one?"

you think you should protest, you should stand ten toes down that it is real and his accusation is false but naoya does not seem easily convinced.

he is not stupid.

"i don't have it." you left it at home. you will curse yourself from now until thy kingdom come.

he huffs, impression completely unimpressed. he leans back on his desk yet he still towers above you. "what's your name?"

"yn."

naoya tilts his head "any proof?"

"what?"

"can you prove that's your name? or are you lying again?" he sneers, his eyes are accusatory as they look you up and down.

"i'm not lying."

"sure. i'll need contact information for your parents." he has to bite back a grin at the way your panic. "judging by your outfit, they don't seem very present." you are far too distraught to respond to his smart comment.

"why do you need to call them? you can't call them." you are shifting your weight between your legs, you anxiously crack your fingers. oh, you are just a pretty doe eyed thing that has landed right into naoya's lap.

"it's the only way i can verify your identity. do you have something to hide?"

"no but i wasn't suppose to be there. they don't know i was there. please, there has to be something else i can do."

"hm." he leans closer, his arms folded across his chest, his muscles bulging. "underage drinking, drug use, fraud. i don't accept bribes for stupid shit like that."

"i'm not trying to bribe you." you are all choked up. naoya can see the tears springing in your eyes. he can see you anxiously picking at the skin around your nails. you can barely keep eye contact with him.

"sounds like you're trying to mislead the police. you don't seem very bright but i'm sure even you know that's a felony." he cannot help but bite his lip the longer he looks at you. you are swallowing hard, you are fidgeting endlessly. he finds himself noticing how long your lashes are.

"i know what i did was wrong but please don't call them." naoya feels like you need to be taught a lesson. a please does not fix anything.

"you shouldn't have been there if you didn't want mommy and daddy to know." he sees the way you crumble with just a sentence. he wants to see you crumble more, he wants to see what you look like when you are destroyed. "you're not special, every other sorry fucker here is spouting the same bullshit. you can take a seat until you're willing to cooperate."

he would not mind having you in his line of sight for the next few hours. although he doubts you will take that long to break. in a few minutes he expects you to divulge those digits you are so desperate to keep unknown.

and you will be gone and naoya will never see you again.

a pretty thing like you is bound to be too shaken up to ever repeat these rebellious actions.

he feels something tugging on his sleeve, just above his wrist. there is no force behind it. too dainty, too meek. too easy to corrupt.

he looks over his shoulder.

your eyes are all glossy, and pretty.

"please, i'll do anything." naoya likes the desperation in your voice. he likes how softly you are speaking.

naoya wants to make you loud. he wants to know if you would be suppressing the noises you make as he is pounding inside you or if you will lose all restraint. if you will spill every watery moan for him to hear.

his eyes skim over his watch.

"hear what, i'm feeling generous. give me your address and i'll take you home. whatever bullshit excuse you have to tell your parents is your problem." 

---

things change quickly.

one minute you are sitting quietly in the officer's personal audi. the next he is pulling up on the side of the highway and telling you to get in the backseat.

"what?" you fumble, if looks could kill you would be dead because the glare he sends you is poisonous.

you are still far from home and you are panicking. he has your phone. he has a gun. and he is getting out of the car.

you barely remove the seatbelt before he rounds the vehicle and he is aggressively pulling you out. "i know your brain doesn't work but i thought at the very least your ears did."

your eyes are all wide and you are trembling. he can see goosebumps all over your body.

you are so scared. it only makes his cock ache further. he has been hard since you sat down in his car. he glimpsed at you a few times and you were clueless to the fact that your dress rode up so far he could see your underwear.

he towers over you, his hands cupping your face as he invades your space. he is looking at you and he is admiring you. naoya thinks he could adore you if you were not like every other bitch.

his gaze trails over your hair, he smoothes it down before gripping your face harder than he should. he forces your head back so you have no choice but to look at him. he hums, your lashes are long and full, your lips are dry but he can see the residual stain of lipgloss. he wants to feel them against his.

"you're really fuckin' pretty. it's a shame you're a whore." his voice is low. you try to shift away but his grip is bruising. it is an unspoken threat.

"i'm not." your voice is barely audible. you are too petrified to process what is happening.

the corner of his lip tips up in amusement, the look in his dark eyes only worries you more.

"what did you say?" his voice is all sweet, like he is a nice man. he is the furthest thing from it. his right hand strokes your cheek before it harshly connects with your face.

you yelp, your nails digging into his wrists. he is barely touching you but you cannot move.

"you're not a whore?" naoya swipes his thumb over your lips "but these look like they're only good for sucking dick."

he makes you take a step back to look at your scantily clad body. he is no different than those men in the station.

"and this dress." he whistles lowly. "did you go to a party or were you selling pussy on a street corner?" 

you have never been spoken to like this.

"i wouldn't do that." your voice is all broken, he wonders if you are always this quiet.

"how much would it cost to stick my cock in you?" your brows furrow in distress, your lips part but you do not have a response. "you shouldn't charge a lot for used up pussy."

naoya opens the back door to sit you down. he pulls out a thick wad of cash from his back pocket and drops it into your lap. "honestly, a bit pricey for a girl like you."

he sees your lip tremble before he sees the tears. your sniffles are loud though you try not to be. you would have stayed at home if you knew all of this would happen.

you should have known better.

you shift further inside the car. he does not know why you are hiding when there is no where to go.

"c'mon, you wanted to bribe me but i'm the one paying now. you should be happy." his pants are far too tight, it is borderline painful. he is torturing himself just to make you cry a little more. you hate that he looks so handsome, you hate that he smiles and it is perfect. he slips in beside you and you are left flinching as he slams the door.

he takes his gun holster off and places it under the seat before dexterous hands find his belt and open his pants. his teeth pull back in a sneer as he adjusts his cock.

"fuck, c'mere." he lifts his hips to shove his pants just low enough to reveal his cock. you stare in awe at the hefty length, his cock is twitching and throbbing. too long and too thick. liquid seeps from his head and trails downwards over every ridge and every bump and you can see a prominent vein along the underside desperate for any attention.

naoya brings your hand to his cock, a grunt escaping him because your hand is so small it does not even meet around the perimeter of him. he makes you stroke him, he drags your hand over his head to collect the syrupy liquid and makes you coax your hand along his heated member.

your hand is soft, it is so soft and it feels like heaven. he keeps thinking about how your cunt will feel on him. if just your hand is breaking him down so easily, you will decimate him entirely once he stuffs you to the hilt.

he curses, throwing his head back as he starts moving faster, his hips buck up into the space between your hands, his fingers around yours closing tighter.

you glimpse over his expression, he bites down on his full bottom lip before his jaw drops with an elicit moan. he is pretty, you can see the faintest freckles on his cheek and blush decorates his cheeks.

naoya's free hand slips into your hair bringing you closer, his nose brushes yours as he pants "don't stop." his proximity takes away any coherent thought in your head, your tugs at his cock are unsure and uneven but it still has him fucking up into your grasp.

naoya's hand is big, just like he is. his fingers are long but they are thin, his palm has callouses and you feel them as he trails it down your sternum before groping your breast.

"you barely have tits. m'not not into this shit, y'know." he is lying. he is lying because just feeling the soft flesh of your boob in his hand makes his hips stutter. it makes his cock pulse in your hold, the blushed head gets coated with an onslaught of sticky liquid being spewed from his slit.

dextrous fingers hike your dress up, those panties he had been eyeing earlier are finally exposed. they are pink with lace trim, there is a bow in the middle. naoya does not think he has ever been this turned on in his life.

his fingertips brush your stomach before slipping past the hem of your underwear. you let out a soft whimper and suddenly naoya has gained all this bearings even as you touch him. even as you rub his cock over and over again.

he has to keep his eyes on your face.

he has to see your expression when he is stretching you out.

he rubs your slit, you are so wet. how can you be this soaking? how is your pussy leaking this much?

"you like seeing my dick or are you just easy?" his fingers are slipping inside before you can respond. you cannot even gather your thoughts.

he keeps his eyes on your face or he would miss the way you shakily breathe as he fills you. your eyes are glossier, your lids are low and fluttering endlessly. he does not want to deprive himself of seeing your brows knit together or your lips contort to the shape of his name.

he thinks he dies and goes to heaven every time you say his name so innocently with your whore mouth.

he cannot help it, he cannot control himself. this is all your fault. the two digits he has deep in your tight gummy cunt are shoved in at an alarming speed. he is pounding your pussy open and soaking himself in sticky wetness, you like it.

and there is no denying it when you are dripping all over his hand and letting him stretch your tight hole.

naoya is going so fast, you have stopped stroking him, instead your nails are digging into his bicep for dear life. he has a grin on his face, a devious one. you are bucking your hips, you are riding his fingers. you can barely keep yourself upright and the sight of you reduced to nothing but a sex crazed slut is all too delightful.

"what would mommy and daddy think if they saw their little girl like this?" he needs to see your cunt, he needs to know what your pussy looks like when it is taking his fingers or his cock. you barely have any clothes on but somehow it is too much. "where'd you tell them you would be tonight, huh sweetheart?"

his fingers are stroking your silky walls, they are going too deep. your brain has practically liquified. his hand encloses around your throat and he shakes you but he does not stop pulling your pussy apart. a good man would give you a break but naoya never claimed to be one.

he enjoys the way tears are leaking down your face, he likes the way it only messes up your already smudged makeup. "answer me." his voice is gravelling and low and he is close enough that his lips are brushing yours.

he does not know why he is thinking about kissing you. it makes him angry. you are nothing special so why are you in his head? why does he have his fingers stretching you out when you are nothing but a warm body?

"doing a project with my friend." your words are broken by moans, his eyes flick up and down your face. the mess between your legs is all sticky, he can hear every squelch of your pussy as he fucks his fingers inside. "mmngh, naoya." why are you doing that? why are you saying his name like that? it's driving him insane.

"fucking stupid. that's the best lie you could come up with?" his chest is heaving. your legs are trembling and when he slips out, your back arches and your hips move because you simply have no restraint. not anymore.

his fingers have started pruning up and you are all expectant like a ditzy puppy. he knows your cunt is clenching uncontrollably, he knows you are aching to be fucked.

you do not have to worry because he will definitely fulfil your every desire.

"take your clothes off." he squeezes his neglected cock before undoing the buttons of his uniform shirt. you kick off your sneakers, tugging your dress over your head to reveal, soft mounds of flesh that barely swell on your chest.

that should not be such a turn on.

you are looking at him just the same. his biceps were already straining against his shirt but there is more. there is a lot more beneath the fabric. his chest is full, there are faint indentations of abs along his abdomen and veins are evident on his lower stomach. and the lower your eyes go, they find his cock.

"don't act like a prude." he quips the second you head turns away as if you have been scarred. you are tugging down your panties to discard them on the floor of his car. so much slick between your legs that the material practically peels away from your cunt.

naoya shifts to the middle of the backseat, strong hands gripping your body to position you on top of him. it is nice almost, his touch feels gentle.

that is until he shoves you down onto the centre console. he lowly curses, his hands grip the flesh of your ass, roughly groping you before he spreads you open to his prying eyes.

you are a flustered mess, your protests fall on deaf ears.

why would naoya pay attention to you when he is captivated by the sight of your drooling pussy?

it is a hot sticky mess, your hole is begging him to fill it up. with his cock? with his cum? he is stuffing it full with both regardless of what you have to say.

your pussy is leaky and swollen, it is dripping and soaking. naoya will not be able to get this image out of his head. it will never leave his mind.

he feels like if he has you to fuck at the end of every shift he would be a better man.

"your pussy is pretty like your face." he is in a trance, he is delirious, he feels like he can smell your cunt and it is destroying him. he swears the scent is filling his senses and wreaking any bit of his self control.

two thick, lengthy digits are slipped into the vice confines of your syrupy cunt, your back arches at the intrusion but you are squeezing down like you do not want to let go.

he slowly pumps them into you, groaning lowly at the sight of his fingers coated in copious amounts of wetness.

he slips them out to the tips of his digits before roughly pounding them inside of you. you are whining, you are whimpering and he can see how tense your shoulders are.

he is really trying to stretch you out but you are just so fucking tight. there is nothing he can do when all your walls want to do is clench and grip him like a vice.

he cannot wait. he cannot. your pussy clenches down and slurps when he has his fingers deep inside, he does not have anymore resolve.

he settles a large hand on your nape, holding you down as the other taps his reddened tip to your slit.

"you g'na be a good girl for me right? g'na take it like a good bitch?" he huffs, smacking his cock head against your weeping entrance. you are all sensitive and flinching at the feeling. strands of your slick cling to him and then he nestles the tip in your folds. you scream when his hips surge forward and he shoves his thick, heady cock into you.

"it hurts!" you cry, your fingers scramble to grip onto anything in reach. you would probably move if his hand was not searing into your skin and keeping you immobile. he swears he short circuits, his brain blanks and scrambles at the same time. your cunt feels like heaven, you have this oasis between your legs and this is only his first time experiencing it.

he does not think one time could ever be enough.

a part of him has already decided he cannot just have you once and leave you alone. that part of him is already too fond of the feeling of your body.

naoya ignores every whine, every flinch and every cry as he bullies his cock past the small opening of your soaking cunt. he is far too big for you but he does not care. you take it like you are made for it.

"you're so pretty, babygirl. real fucking pretty when you're full of cock." he is at the hilt, he is balls deep in you. he has you wrapped around every inch of him. you are incessantly clenching, you are so tight he loses any semblance of sanity.

he does not wait, no, you do not have any time to adjust even though he is pulling you so wide you are drooling. even though he has you stretched open and you cannot think straight.

he can see every bit of you, he can see your cunt spread around the perimeter of his cock. he can see where he has pulled you apart and opened you too wide.

"how's it feel, girl? got my cock in you raw. think i paid you enough for that." he grins, naoya shallowly pumps his hips into yours. his cock slipping out, the entire length covered in you before he thrusts it deep inside.

both his hands squeeze your waist, his grip is no where near gentle. maybe it should have been a warning because the pace naoya fucks into you with is voracious.

he is moaning, he is moaning louder than the smacks of his muscular body meeting yours. he is moaning loader than your guzzling cunt squelching every single time he slams into you.

it hurts. it hurts.

"fuck, oh fuck. tightest cunt i'ver had. i swear." naoya groans, gripping you tighter before he grits his teeth and he pounds your cunt harder. you can feel the car rocking every time his hips meet yours so hard it stings.

you are squirming under him but he pays no mind, it is not like you can go anywhere because he is so strong.

he is holding you down and fucking you like a sex doll.

you have gone stupid. drool drips from your mouth and there might be hearts in your eyes because his cock is dragging along your pulsing walls and hitting your insides too perfectly.

you never thought it would feel this good.

you never thought of it at all.

"taking it so fucking well, baby." he grunts, his head lolling back and his hips roughly piston to meet yours. "feel so fucking good, you're so fucking good."

you should not enjoy it but you like the word baby rolling off his gruff voice. you like hearing it more than you should.

"never knew there was pussy like this. where the fuck have you been?" a low laugh rumbles in his chest before breaking into something close to a whimper.

"imagine if your daddy knew your project involved getting fucked in a backseat like a whore." he slams into you particularly hard, your back arching and your cry watery as your cunt clenches uncontrollably.

your legs are trembling. naoya can see it.

he fucks your pussy with reckless abandon. sweat has coated your skin and his, the smell of sex is the only thing infiltrating his senses and creamy liquid has started frothy up at the base of his cock.

his brows furrow, you are so soft and pliant under his touch. "hey, you think you can call me daddy?" he does not even realise it crossed his mind until it already escapes his mouth.

it should be concerning that you do not hesitate.

"daddy." you brokenly cry in the prettiest voice that has ever graced his ears. oh. you're crying. he did not realise you were sobbing this much. he almost feels bad.

his hips stutter all because of one simple word.

he did not anticipate you saying it. it is the first time he has ever been called that. he never wanted it, not until you.

but here he is, balls deep in your precious little cunny, that has ruined him entirely and you are crying and you have just called him your daddy.

it lights something inside him that he never knew existed.

"shit, come here." naoya gathers you up in his arms. he binds you up in his embrace and you sits you down with your back flush to his chest.

his cock hits deeper than before and you both shudder at the feeling.

his rough hands coax over your stomach, caressing your body before settling on your breasts. naoya is much bigger than you, in every way.

soft lips find your shoulder, pressing wet kisses to your skin as he savours the feeling of your battered cunt.

naoya grips your jaw, bringing your face to his. tears have made your pretty eyes their home. your lashes are damp and clumped together. you whine when he nuzzles your face.

you just seem so desperate for any bit of his attention.

he should not be cooing at your stained cheeks or snotty nose. he should not be melting because of your pouting.

you can feel him throbbing inside you but you are ignorant to the fact that it is because naoya thinks you are such a pretty crier.

"oh, my baby. don't cry." he sounds so condescending. but you cannot find it in yourself to care because he is pecking your lips and it is the first time you have received that affection from him. you cries become muted.

"just need a few kisses, huh? that's all it takes to shut you up." he is so close and he smells so good and he looks so handsome.

and you have completely lost your mind.

he presses his lips against yours in a soft innocent kiss. it rids your mind of any and every thought.

naoya pulls out of you, you hiss at the feeling, your insides clenching as you are no longer filled to the brim.

he presses you down, your back meeting the cool material of his leather seats and he is on you almost immediately.

this time his mouth finds yours in a messy exchange that you cannot follow.

his tongue is in your mouth and you do not have the slightest clue what to do.

"you're pretty shit at this." he laughs.

he laughs right in your face but he kisses you again, his mouth moving along yours and you try to follow but he feels your teeth scraping his tongue every time he slips the slick muscle in your mouth.

"are you trying to bite my tongue off?" his tone is mocking. tears are still streaming down your face, they never stopped.

you look so embarrassed, you look ashamed.

if naoya was a better man he would conceal the pleased look on his face but he does not even try to suppress his smile.

he leans in again, invading your space. "hey, is this your first time?"

your hands wipe your cheeks, trying to dry the tears but they are endless. they are never ending and it is impossible to ignore him. not when you are stripped bare under him and you are at his mercy.

"i asked you something." he roughly grips your face, shaking you.

"it is." you warble.

it was obvious enough, you have no clue why he needed confirmation.

"why didn't you say anything? i would've left you alone, virgins aren't my thing." his voice is incredulous. like he lacks an ounce of sanity. "or ... did you not want me to leave you alone? is this what you wanted? for me to fuck you brainless? you're really fucking gross." he laughs at you like you are stupid.

naoya swipes his cock head between your sodden pussy lips before he bucks his hips and he is feeding his cock back into your drooling cunt.

"you can tell me. you can tell me that you wanted me to bend you over and fill you with my cock." he huffs, for the second time he has stretched your little hole out and his pelvis is flush to yours.

he kisses you, he kisses you hot and deep and sloppily.

"yeah? you like this. fucking love it cause you're a ditzy whore." he nods and you find yourself nodding too.

he cups the back of your knees, folding you in half and slipping so deep you swear he is touching your cervix.

"daddy. m'too full." there it is again. he falters. he crashes and burns. "daddy, you're too big." your smaller hand pushes at his abdomen. he is unmoving, the veins impressing beneath your palm pulse.

"you like having daddy deep in your guts?" he wrings your hand so meanly you cry before he leans over you and his hips roughly piston to shove his cock way too deep.

he cants his hips, pounding your cunt open. you are such a mess, your pussy is leaking incessantly. pouring copious amounts of liquid that drips between your ass and splatters with every rough fuck of naoya's hips.

it stings as his muscular thighs meet yours but every time you cry or say that it hurts naoya is muffling you with messy kisses.

"you like daddy fucking you like this, huh pretty baby? like it so much, i know you fucking do."

his balls smack against you, they are heavy and sodden in your messy liquid. naoya groans lowly, licking into your mouth as he crowds over you more. his chest heaves, his muscles straining, bulky thighs flex and biceps bulge as he slams into your leaky slit.

"you're really perfect you know that? this slutty cunt was made for my dick." he grunts, his hips stuttering before his grip on you tightens and he goes harder.

harder and faster, sinking in rougher and deeper.

you scream. your nails scraping down his chest before the dig into his back.

naoya wishes he took this stupid shirt off, he wants your nails cutting into his back and desperately ripping through his flesh.

you gasp into each other's mouths, the corner of his lips tipping into a smile as he breathily asks "you g'na let daddy cum in this cunt? g'na let me cream your messy little fuck hole? 

"uh huh." you bob your head before brokenly whining. he clenches his jaw pounding into your cunt with no restraint. you look prettier when you are like this.

naoya likes you obedient, he likes you pliant to his touch and completely for his taking.

he feels you pulsing along every inch of him, he feels you clamp down and grip him so tightly he loses his mind.

your pussy squelches so loudly when she is getting fucked full.

he cannot take it.

his mouth finds yours, he sucks on your tongue, your body rocking beneath his as he slams into you over and over.

your cunt battered and used. and naoya cums so hard he loses control of his hips. his thrusts are unsteady but they are still deep. still go so far his cock hits spots that make you see stars.

your cunt slurps all the sticky, heady cum that naoya is spilling deep inside you.

he has fucked you dumb. you have no thoughts in your head.

he kisses you again. it is not something he would usually do but he likes kissing you. he likes how soft your lips feel on his.

he likes how perfectly you fit with him.

you mutely whine when he drops all his weight on you. naoya is heavy, he shallowly pumps his hips into yours like he has to ensure you have received every drop.

he breathes in your scent, he could get used to your feminine scent mixed with his.

he straightens up, your spent body exposed for his eyes and he slowly pulls out.

syrupy streaks of milky liquid seep out of your stretched hole and naoya shudders at the sight. he needs to see it again.

he needs to have you like this again.

it leaks onto his pristine leather seats and if it were anyone else he would be infuriated.

he cannot find it in himself to be mad at you. 

it was his fault anyway, he shot a load in you. he filled up your pussy and he was the first one to do it.

his eyes rove over the sight before moving off of you. if he stays around you he will get hard again.

he will get hard and then he will keep fucking you and he will never be able to leave you alone.

although he feels like it is already too late.

naoya wipes his cock off with the skimpy fabric of your dress before he gets out of the car. he buttons up his clothes while you're in his backseat being a crybaby.

when he settles in the driver seat you are still unmoving. you look too cute, you are too pretty.

"fuck are you waiting for? get in front, i'm taking you home." you scramble to do as he says. he can see the stains on your dress. he knows it is all his doing.

your puffy eyes and swollen lips. your bruised skin and your crying. he does not think you will ever stop.

it is all his doing.

you are shivering whether it is because you finally came to or because he has the a/c on high, naoya is not sure.

"i'll get you home. where you should've been."

you are barely listening. you have been staring at his hands for a while.

your legs have parted slightly, your cunt bare on his seat and his cum seeping out of you.

it stirs something in him. he wants to lay claim despite doing it already.

naoya feels your nimble fingers experimentally touch his firm bicep, he has half a mind to shrug you off but he does not.

that is all you need to hug his arm to your trembling body and lean your head on his shoulder.

you are still sniffling, he can feel you shaking against him.

you poor little thing.

a hard fucking and no aftercare.

he almost feels bad for you. perhaps, you have made him aware of the heart in his chest because he finds himself pressing soft kisses to your forehead and letting you intertwine your fingers with his.

you are far too naive for your own good.

your eyes are half shut, your body completely lax against him as if he is someone to feel safe around.

he pulls up to your house a moment later, jolting you awake.

you do not even let go of his hand. you glance up, an unsure expression on your face.

naoya was suppose to fuck you. he was suppose to get his fill and send you home in your scanty dress that he turned into a cum rag.

right now, he is not certain if that is what he wants.

naoya thinks you need a daddy who will not believe your stupid lies. you need someone who will keep you in check.

someone like him.

he squeezes your hand, gaining your attention.

you flash him pretty doe eyes and pouted lips.

"if you need a place to stay for the night. you can come by."

your eyes trail over his face and you lean in. usually he would not approve but because it is you he finds himself enjoying your kiss.

"i'll stay with you."

naoya thinks he will stick around.

Nobody would have taken Damian as the type to form emotional attachments.

When he first arrived at Wayne Manor, the only person he tolerated was Alfred and he’s not even related to the British man. Then after a few months, he slowly warmed up to everyone else. He started tolerating his brothers and even started referring to Bruce as “father” rather than “Mr. Wayne”. But still, nobody assumed that the reserved eighteen year old would be interested in anything romantic given how he was opposed to even a decent family relationship.

Habibti,

I miss you dearly. Life in Gotham is not terrible, in fact, I quite enjoy it. The crime levels are very high and it gives me a chance to practice many of the maneuvers father is teaching me in training. I like being Robin, I like living in Wayne Manor, I like being with my father and my brothers, but it is nothing without you, Rohi. I beg of you to find a break from the league and come to see me. I miss you, beloved. You are my wife and I need you here. I’m sure my mother would let you visit Gotham if you told her you were coming to see your husband. I beg of you, beloved. I love you, come see me.

All my love, Damian

Nobody knew that Damian was married. He moved to Gotham a few months after his eighteenth birthday and given that he was so young, who would assume that he was married?

Your marriage with Damian had been an arranged one but the two of you had been best friends, raised together in the league. You’d trained together, gone on missions together, and when the time came for the two of you to be married, neither of you were upset. Who would you marry besides your best friend?

And then, only a month after the wedding, Talia had sent Damian to Gotham and required that you stay back with the league to continue training.

His goodbye had consisted of a chaste kiss and a gentle squeeze of your hands and then he was gone. You dare not cry in front of Talia and Ras Al Ghul, you would surely be considered weak. So you saved your tears for the pillows of the bed you shared with Damian. It was hard to be separated from your best friend of eighteen years for the first time ever. And you missed him dearly, but you both did what the league required of you, even if it required that you be several thousand miles apart from your husband.

My Darling,

I appreciate your prompt response and I once again beg that you make the flight to Gotham. I will pay, all you need is my mother’s permission. My bed is cold and I need someone to help me deal with Drake, he irritates me the most of all my siblings. I think Jason would like you and I think father would appreciate knowing that I at least had one friend who looked out for me in the league. There is a gala in two days time and I wish for you to accompany me if you can. I love you, Habibti. And I miss you, you have my heart in the palm of your hand five thousand miles away.

Yours always, Damian

You did not arrive in time for the gala, such to Damian’s despair.

My husband,

I love you more than I can express to you through words. I miss you every minute you are apart from me. I have asked your mother repeatedly and she brushes me off every time. I’m getting so desperate to see you again that I’m becoming tempted to offer her an heir in return for letting me see you. Are you opposed to having children out of bribery? Please return me an answer for this offer quickly so I am not making false promises to the woman that could easily kill us both. I love you, Damian. I am trying my best to return to your side.

Aching for you, your wife

Damian hated going to galas without you. He knew you would love them. The fancy dresses, high heels, jewelry, and booze. Plus an opportunity for Damian to show you off to all the rich people in Gotham and brag about his beautiful wife.

But you were still in Nanda Parbat so he stood awkwardly against a wall nursing a glass of champagne and missing the feel of you by his side. An endless line of women had been coming up to him all night, making poor attempts at flirting and then sulking when he shot them down with sharp words and a glare.

But by his sixth champagne, he was getting sloppy. The room was beginning to spin and the faces of the people around him were melting and doubling and shifting.

He’d let his eyes close for only a few seconds, the alcohol was making him sleepy and when he closed his eyes, he could perfectly picture your face.

Then all of a sudden, a cloying sweetness invaded his nose and something hot was against his mouth, arms around his shoulders. For a second, his brain told him that maybe it was you. Maybe you were here afterall. But no, his beloved did not smell like cheap perfume and bourbon, you smelled like the spices from his homeland and satin. You always let your fingers slide into his hair and you had this way of smiling against his lips when you kissed him after missing him for a long time. This was not you, this was an intruder.

His dark green eyes snapped open and the girl currently attached to his mouth was very much not his wife, just as he’d guessed. His arms shot out, shoving her back with the strength and practice of a trained vigilante, sending her stumbling back into several people which elicited shouts of concern and confusion.

“Hey!” he shouted, his voice thick with intoxication and panic. “I am a married man! Keep your hands off of me, woman! I love my wife!”

He wiped his mouth aggressively with his hand, looking disgusted with both himself and the woman. The back of his hand was stained pink from the woman’s lipstick and it made his stomach churn. “My wife is hot! And she’s not here but I’m hers! Married! Stay back!”

Within moments Jason and Dick had Damian by both his arms, carefully leading him out of the ballroom.

“Hey bud,” Dick started softly, helping Damian into a car. “You’re really hammered, huh?”

Damian scowled and tried to shrug his brother off as Jason started the car and headed out towards the manor.

“No, I am in a perfectly sane state. That woman tried to touch me, my beloved would be quite upset. Richard, my wife will be furious! I cheated! That evil woman kissed me! Oh no, what am I supposed to tell her?!”

Dick laughed and tried to keep Damian upright in the back seat. “Buddy, you’re not married. You’re just super drunk. It’s okay, that lady shouldn’t have kissed you if you didn’t want her to but you didn’t cheat on anyone.”

That seemed to really piss off Damian. “Nonesense. I have a wife back in the League of Assassins. She’s beautiful and stunning and she's deadly. I’m obsessed with her. She will be so angry with me, Richard. You’re really not comprehending the havoc she will wreak.” He gasped softly, equal parts nervous and excited. “She will kill that lady. She’s a very jealous woman. My queen.” He hummed, seeming to become a little smug at the thought of you being possessive over him.

Dick sighed and shook his head fondly, deciding that his brother was probably just inebriated and speaking nonsense “Okay buddy.”

Beloved,

I come to you with a serious crime I have committed against the sanctity of our marriage. I got quite drunk at the gala yesterday and a woman kissed me. I pushed her away obviously but I never should have put myself in a position to be in that situation in the first place. I apologize, my love. I am sorry, truly and deeply. I am battling the worst hangover I have ever experienced as punishment for my crimes. I miss you deeply. And no, I am not opposed to bribery children. Just come see me. I love you.

With undying devotion, Damian

Damian was unsure of how you would react to his most recent letter. Obviously you would be upset that another woman touched him but surely you would forgive him, no? After all, he had rejected her so violently that he had to be escorted out of the gala. He expected a letter back, maybe a phone call if you could get your hands on one in Nanda Parbat.

“Master Damian, you have a visitor,” Alfred called, knocking Damian out of his contemplation.

He half expected it would be a reporter there to interview him about his outburst at the gala, maybe the lady who had kissed him at the gala with a team of lawyers here to sue him for pushing her away.

But when Alfred opened the door and stepped out of the way, there stood… you.

And fuck, you looked gorgeous. You were dressed in a deep green and black dress, sporting the colors of the league per usual. Your hair was let down instead of pinned back like it usually was for training. You’d somehow only grown more incredibly gorgeous in the few months since he’d left for Gotham.

Damian sat there gaping at you like an idiot, shocked and happy and a little bit hard.

“Hello Damian, are you going to greet me or only stare?”

That broke Damian out of his stupor and he flung himself at you, for once losing his facade of cool control and hugging you to his chest as tight as he possibly could.

“Beloved, you’re here! I expected a letter warning me of your arrival.”

You hummed, looking a little smug. “I thought I should surprise you. After all, I heard that some people need reminding that you are a married man. And that your wife will absolutely murder anyone who attempts to touch you.” You slid his engagement ring from a hidden pocket from within the skirts of your dress and offered it to him. “I figured I should also bring this back with me to send the message more clearly.”

He laughed lightly before kissing you, his mouth sliding over yours, his tongue pushing past your lips in a way the both of you had desperately missed. Then he pulled back with a wet pop, a small string of saliva connecting your lips and then breaking when the distance between your mouths increased too far. 

“Thank you, beloved. I’ve been missing this.” He smiled, so uncharacteristic for him but he seemed to glow in your presence. He slid the gold band onto his ring finger on his left hand without hesitation, admiring it for just a moment. The gold of his ring matched yours; only yours was inset with several small colored stones, a larger diamond, and intricate metal bindings to hold them all in.

You giggled and pressed your lips to his ear, keeping your voice low so as to not let any of his gathering family members hear. “And we do owe your mother an heir, I promised. That’s the only reason she allowed me to come and interrupt my training back with the League.”

Damian’s cheeks turned pink and his fingers dug into your hips. “Ah yes, we will have to get on that so we don’t anger the dragon. She is quite strict about promises.”

You hummed softly and your nails dug into his bicep just slightly, possessive. “I think I may stay permanently. Clearly you need someone to bat away the women for you. A video of you shoving that lady off and having your little outburst has made its way onto the internet. I knew you were genetically perfect but I didn’t know they wanted you that bad.”

Damian laughed softly and opened his mouth to make some smart comment but was quickly cut off.

“What the fuck is this, Damian?” Jason interrupted, looking at Damian like he was looking at a stranger. “Who is that? And why are you wearing a ring?”

The rest of the family had gathered at this point, Dick, Tim, Bruce, Cass, Steph. They all looked equally as confused.

“Oh yes, this is my wife. Isn’t she perfect?” Damian said proudly, pulling you a little closer to his side.

Dick gaped. “This is the wife you were going on about the other night?! Holy fuck-”

taglist ~

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"Wayne!" You call out as his sleeve slips out of your fingers, stopping in your tracks right in front of him—blocking the exit. "Damian, please."

His head tilts to cast you a disapproving expression. "My word of advice, is to gain enough respect for yourself to not be bothered by what others think."

Your lips pull together into a frown, but you refuse to be dissuaded, not when you've already laid all your cards on the table. You didn't expect it to be easy, and you had already prepared yourself for his vicious tongue.

"My self-respect has already been trampled on when they decided to send me the invitation." You state honestly. "It's scheduled for its revival in five weeks, after the party. I'll be a changed person by then, scout's honour."

His brow pulls higher, as if silently questioning if you had even part of the Gotham Scouts, but you're not done.

"But before then, I plan on being the pettiest, deranged person in all of Gotham University." You declare. "And that includes you in my plans, because you, Damian Wayne, are the only person who checks all my requirements of a fake boyfriend."

"I'm honoured." He mocks, gaze flickering past towards the hallway.

"You are Walter's role-model, he would kiss the test tubes you lay your fingers on. Paige has a Pinterest folder labelled with your name, and it has all your news sightings saved by colour coordination."

"Sounds like your issues derive more from the company you keep." He mutters, expression pulled together in disgust.

"Point besides, I want it to be you, Damian Wayne." You confess.

It sounds ridiculous, but this was fully concerning your pride and something you've forgotten in your years of working yourself away for your dreams, which was the taste for controlled chaos. He blinks once, staring at you incredulously as if deciding where to place you in his ranking of newly discovered lunatics.

"You're the only person who will drive them as insane as they've made me." Your voice chokes, filled with determination or buried rage, the difference didn’t seem to matter. "You could walk in there for just an hour to save my life, and I know that you won't have the slightest chance of complicating things, or falling in love with me—and that's what makes this perfect. This may sound crazy to you, but you're the only person that's made sense to me ever since my life was turned upside-down."

Your chest heaves, and your arms are still outstretched to stop him from leaving the lab. You're nothing like this—impulsive, frantic, verging on insanity—but you're also done being complacent. Of letting things go just because it's the right thing to do.

After what feels like eternity, Damian's expression flickers. Implicit and almost undetectable, but his gaze is on you as if he's finally registering your existence and trying to catalogue you into a different box than the one he's placed you in.

"Send the spreadsheet to my email." He answers apprehensively, as if he can't believe the words coming out of his mouth. "I will review through the calendar on its... feasibility. Expect a response by eight p.m.."

You let out a held breath, a smile finally breaking through. "Thank you, really—"

"On the condition that I expect you to finish your section by tonight."

Your expression freezes. "Tonight?"

"To prove your desperation's worth considering." He tosses you a mocking smile, all sharp edge and nothing considerable of warmth. "You have ten more hours before my interest wanes."

Your smile weakens, blinking rapidly as you calculate your remaining time to draft something of substance. "Okay, sure— that's not going to be a problem."

It's worth it. Dealing with Damian Wayne is going to be worth it.

From: [email protected] Subject: 'Fake-Dating Operation' Spreadsheet Review

I have reviewed through your spreadsheet in detail. Do answer my enquiries on my comments below. - I believe watching romance comedy as 'theory practice' is highly inefficient and prone to fantastical expectations. Do amend this. - As for my 'meeting' availabilities, I am free on Thursdays and Fridays at noon to two, on the condition that at least an hour be reserved for actual assignment discussions. You are required to provide evidence of actual progress for the assignment, or this arrangement will be considered void. - Provide me a list summary on details for answers regarding possible interrogation questions during the party. It will be more efficient as compared to you providing me the details in person. As for the assignment, your section draft is acceptable, and I expect our lab findings to be updated into your table by the following lab session next week.

Regards, Damian.

You can barely contain your grin, kicking into the sheets despite the exhaustion that plagues your bones from grueling non-stop over the section and multiple tabs later. He had looked through your multi-coloured spreadsheet calendar, and actually considered it with his own enquiries. Typing out your own response, you give serious thought into his enquiries.

To: [email protected] Subject: Reply: 'Fake-Dating Operation' Spreadsheet Review

Thank you for your detailed consideration of my spreadsheet. Your efforts are acknowledged and appreciated. - I believe we are required to watch at least one rom-com that involves fake-dating. Neither of us have had previous experience in this department (unless you'd like to share valuable information), and it will boost our success rate. - Perfect! I'm available on Fridays, and scout's honour, I promise to have my progress brought for each meeting session. - As for the list, I will provide you possible answers, but some may require in-person explanations. I'll explain more this Friday! Can't even express my thanks on how grateful I am, you're the best Wayne in history!

Signing off your name, you close your laptop with the giddiest smile you've had since—at the reminder, your grin falters. Your chest thuds faintly, as if reminding you that the fun you've just experienced can still be dampened by reality. No, you refuse to let it ruin your enjoyment.

This is the most alive you've felt in weeks, and you're going to make the most of it. If your life feels like it's finally picking up through colourful spreadsheet rows and columns, and waiting on an email reply from the most terrifying student in Gotham University—so be it.

Damian slides your extremely lengthy list across the lunch table, and you can barely hide your shock that he actually printed it out—before you catch sight of many red circles marked neatly around your points.

"Your least favourite vigilante is Robin?" He interrogates.

You blink in surprise, not expecting him to start there. "Well, he's not exactly original—I mean, c’mon, they’re multiple versions of him."

His lips part, aghast in a half-caught scoff. "He's one of the most prominent vigilante figures in Gotham."

You shrug. "Spoiler's cooler."

He clicks at his tongue. "You have horrible taste."

"You are not telling me that you, Damian Wayne, have a favourite and that is Robin?"

He doesn't blink. "There are several other questionable details in your list."

"Yes, I can see that." Peering back at your list, your brows furrow. "What's wrong with liking Gotham's Pizza?"

"Only that you're clearly fond of days-old grease and artificial cheese."

"Hey, that's where it gets its flavour."

He shakes his head, disgusted. "I refuse to be associated with someone who has non-functioning taste buds."

"Fine—we'll say we often have dates at Romeo's instead." You shrug. "Not like I'll be caught there after our agreement's expired."

He raises a brow. "Expired?"

Pointing at your open tab, you reference a newly added row. "Our break-up, scheduled for Monday after the party."

He stares at the date, before his gaze roams over you with a questioning look. "Despite my lack of experience, should you not consider the likely suspicions if you were to end a relationship three days after the party?"

Your lips part into an 'oh'. "I thought you would want to get it over and done with as quickly as possible."

His expression closes in, gaze narrowing. "I will not put my reputation at stake by agreeing to this facade, if it means having our efforts go down the drain because of an obvious flaw.”

Your grin slips out uncontrollably. “You just said ‘our’ efforts. Look at us, the perfect team.”

His expression remains impassive, before he raises a slow brow. “Switch to the assignment tab.”

“Yes, sir.”

Resting below a willow tree, your third Friday with Damian is spent resting below the shade on your picnic cloth—one you used to share with Paige. The sight of its red plaid, stuffed behind your piles of clothes in your wardrobe, was getting sad—even for you.

Damian’s back is resting against the tree bark, shoulders nearly taking up the width—brows impossibly furrowed as his gaze narrows on your laptop displaying ‘To All The Boys I Loved Before’.”

“This movie is non-sensical.”

“I think it’s romantic.” You shrug.

He tosses you a judgmental glance. “Having your own blood betray you by revealing your own personal letters, is your idea of romance?”

“I mean Lara Jean and Peter, Damian.” You snort. “That’s our main source of inspiration.”

“He’s hardly appealing.” He scoffs, arms crossing over the other. “Is this the standards you expect from our arrangement?”

“If this is mediocre—” You respond, aghast. “You have no idea how dire love can be nowadays.”

His frown deepens. “You are not expecting me to perform in this manner?”

“What—falling in love with me?” You grin. “No, I do not expect you to be Peter Lavinsky.”

He stares at you with barely concealed frustration. Before you can tease him further, something purple is tossed into your face.

A yelp escapes your mouth, the light weight of an object falling into your lap.

“That’s—the discontinued, limited edition Spoiler cap!” You gasp, eyes widening in realisation. “How did you get this?”

He shrugs begrudgingly. “My sister used to be a collector. She doesn’t mind giving it away.”

“Giving it away?” You mutter incredulously. “This is actual gold. Your sister is my favourite person on Earth.”

His brow twitches. “I bargained for that cap.”

You snort. “What did you exchange it for, your dignity?”

“You have no clue on my sacrifice." He grimaces.

“Your sacrifice is acknowledged." You tease, before letting out another huff of amazement. “This is the best day of my life.”

When your gaze falls back to the cap, tracing your fingers over the logo—you miss the twitch of his lips into a semblance of a smile.

To: [email protected] Subject: Reminder on Friday Meetings

You missed today’s meeting without prior notice. Not that your absence has affected my ability to resume our assignment, but after your frequent reminders to not miss on our mandatory meetings—it leaves me with doubt that you intentionally missed our sessions on your end. Do update me as soon as possible on your status.

Regards, Damian. (Sent yesterday, 1.20 p.m.)

Subject: Reply: Reminder on Friday Meetings

I feel I must reinstate that my previous email regarding your absence, as well as this reply, should not be twisted in its meaning as more than a mere enquiry. Given previous evidence of the average speed of your responses, a full 24 hours with a lack of response prompts me to send another email. Do respond when you are able.

Regards, Damian. (Sent today, 1.32 p.m.) Three respectable knocks resound against your dormitory’s door. A groan escapes your lips, your head pounding from the cold you’ve caught from a late night running through pouring rain. You had missed the bus and had to make it back before curfew, and now your body is reminding you of its frail mortality, chills shaking throughout your limbs and rendering you heavily immobile.

The knocks echo again when you shift your head deeper into the pillows. You muffle curses into the cotton, gripping at your sheets to steady yourself as you force your body upright. The world sways on its axis as you make your way—shifting pathetically with every step, towards the door.

Missing your lock a few times, you finally grab a hold of the chain and slide it off, clicking the door open. You’re immediately faced with a broad chest, donning a familiar black sweater. Shifting your gaze up, you’re met with Damian Wayne’s narrowed gaze, sweat trailing down his temple.

“Damian?” Your voice croaks, and even the attempt of speaking hurts. “What are you doing here?”

He takes one glance, and immediately, his expression contorts in… concern? You barely have time to explain about the cold, or an apology for missing the meeting, when you feel the warmth of his palm press against your forehead.

You blink, stunned as he measures your temperature. He shakes his head slightly in a disapproving manner. “Your temperature is too high.” His tongue clicks with his observation.

You suppose he was right. You did feel one wrong step from keening over and lying on your welcome mat.

“I got caught in the rain.” You explain, trying your best to pull together a more reassuring expression, one less filled with nausea-induced tension. “I’ll be fine—just need rest.”

His frown creases deeper. “Have you taken medicine?”

You try shaking your head, but that loses whatever balance you had left. The world actually tilts, or maybe you are the one who's obeying gravity—but strong arms catch you before you collapse.

“Look at your state.” Damian grits, pulling you back upright but closer. There's barely any space left between the two of you. “This fever, has it worsened considerably?”

“Yeah—but I didn’t have anyone to call.” You mutter in truth, cheek still smushed against his chest as support. “I ran out of medicine a while ago, and by the time I woke up—I couldn’t get out of bed.”

You feel his arms tense around you. Above the crown of your head, you feel a soft sigh. “You have me.” He mutters, almost reprimanding.

Your brows furrow in confusion. “You would get me medicine?”

“That would be a start.” He states, his grip shifting with his words.

The world shifts again when his hands wrap around the under of your thighs, lifting you into his arms gently to not worsen your state. If your mind wasn’t completely swarmed by the symptoms of your cold, you’d stop to think of how strangely sweet it was that Damian had come all the way to your dormitory, and that he was carrying you bridal-style towards your bed.

”It’s not usually this messy.” You feel the need to point out, words muffled against his sweater. “You just have impeccable timing.”

His lip twitches involuntarily as he sets you down against the thrashed sheets. “Organised according to your system?”

You smile weakly at the thought of your colour-coded spreadsheet. “Exactly.”

He places his palm against your forehead again, and you subconsciously find yourself leaning into his touch. “You’re like—really warm.” You murmur. “Do you always run hot?”

He swallows, touch lingering on your skin. “Your temperature is dysregulated. I’ll return soon with medicine. Rest. I won’t be gone long.”

“Okay.” Your lids fall shut, the pounding lessening with your head burrowed into the pillows, and his touch a gentle anchor. “You know—you’d be a great boyfriend for someone one day.”

You don’t hear a response, and your honest thoughts continue to tumble out from your skull like a cracked jar. “You’re really nice, Dami.” The shortening of his name feels like cotton candy stuffed in your mouth, and you barely register the stiffening of his fingers. “Fierce, but I like that about you. I like you a lot, actually. Not in a swooning way, but in a—I’m really glad I met you kind of way.”

He doesn’t pull away when your lips finally clamp shut, but the silence is almost deafening. You peek open with one eye, catching his expression. He’s staring at you… as if no one’s ever said that to his face—ever.

“Don’t make it weird.” You tease softly, voice tethered with exhaustion. “I’m just giving you your deserved five stars.”

You hear the soft echo of his scoff, withheld from its usual bite, but you don’t hear much else after. Only that the lingering touch of his fingers over your skin stays put till sleep catches up on you, and the world falls silent under the weight of Damian’s gaze. Okay, maybe you were lying a little about the swooning.

Fevers fade, but the warmth that lingers seems to seep past the well-defined borders of a spreadsheet, or the predictable order of a list—like the one currently in your hand.

"Favourite vigilante?" You quiz, red pen bitten between your lips as you laid stretched on the wooden bench.

"Spoiler." He answers, tossing you an expression as if to convey that he couldn't believe you even bothered with such a question.

"Good job." You tease, fiddling with the cap of your pen, attached at the end. "Favourite date spot?"

"Gotham's Pizza." He huffs.

You blink. "Hey, it's supposed to be Romeo's."

"You prefer Gotham's." He mutters.

"But you don't." You remind him.

Averting his gaze to your lips, his fingers loop around the red pen, dragging it gently out from your teeth's grip, and adjusting the answer with a cross. "That's irrelevant. I'm merely pointing out an inconsistency."

Your lips quirk up into a smile. "You don't even need this list anymore. Why bother keeping it?"

Tension pulls briefly at his jaw, but it relaxes before you can trace it to an emotion. "You haven't tested me on all the questions."

You lean in, the crinkled paper resting below your fingers as you gaze into his eyes. "Alright? Something off the books." You hum. "What do I think of Damian Wayne?"

He blinks, surprised. You wait patiently, the warmth of summer carrying the scent of grass blades past the picnic table, the world narrowing into the space between the two of you.

His lips part after a moment. "Fierce." He answers. "Though you're one of the few who doesn't run from it."

"What's there to run from?" You hum. "I think he's nice, you should give him some credit for that."

His brow raises, amusement flickering in his gaze. "That's not a common perception."

"Yeah, but no one else gets to experience him being their partner." You tease. "He even offers to rearrange your dormitory to a better system if you're lucky."

He scoffs lightly. "That's only considering if the existing system barely works."

"Just say you hate colour-coding, Dami." You snort. "I know you're itching to fix our spreadsheet."

His expression flickers for a moment. "Not exactly."

You tilt your head, questioning. His gaze averts to the open spreadsheet, something familiar after the weeks spent together. "It's grown on me."

Grown on him—despite it being everything he initially found horrendous, from the many details pasted in long paragraphs into the comments, and the bright colours for the special shared Fridays between you two. Something warm pools in your chest, and you find your gaze trailing to the red pen held between his fingers instead.

"You're more prepared for this party than I am." You admit softly.

You feel his attention switch onto you, trained on the nervous tick you have where you hyper-focus on something brightly coloured. He twirls the pen once, considering.

"You don't have to go through with this." He says. "Just say the word. I'll honour whatever decision you make."

His reassurance makes you consider it, you really do. With the dreaded anticipation finally reaching its peak, with the party being tonight—you have stopped to think if it was worth it. To show up in a room where the story's long gone sour, and your presence is more likely to be a blight than a welcomed gift.

Then again, you hadn't prepared this all for nothing. You hadn't gotten to know Damian—for nothing.

"No, it'll be fun." You smile, meeting his gaze. "We'll be just like Lara Jean and Peter, but with better standards."

Damian's mouth twitches, almost imperceptible. "Agreed."

Your fingers catch onto the silk-like fabric of your dress. Once bought as a birthday present, you never had the chance to wear something like this. Walter had called it overkill, and you convinced yourself that you’d eventually find a day to wear the gorgeous shade without feeling inadequate for it. Nothing required overkill more than tonight.

Damian's promised to pick you up, even when you had reassured him that meeting at the venue was fine. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and something quivers in your gut.

You don't feel as brave as you'd like, not even in your favourite dress. The thought of the two people you once trusted most being together, exchanging normal niceties with you as if nothing had ever happened—you're seriously beginning to overthink just how horribly awkward this situation was going to be.

What if it wasn't like the movies? What if Damian saw too—just how horribly small you felt—and decided you weren't worth the spreadsheets and lists and medicine kit he over-splurged on when you caught that cold?

The party was going to be over in an hour, you had promised Damian the both of you would be present for no more than that duration—and now, you feel ridiculous in your own skin. You're tempted to text him if he wanted to ditch and just head to Romeo's instead—when you hear the signature three knocks of his against your door.

You swallow your fear-induced nausea back into your gut, and force yourself to open the door with something akin to a smile. Your expression freezes in place at the sight... of Damian tidied up.

You knew he was handsome, you obviously had eyes, but to see him in that white collared shirt that made his green eyes pop, loosened at the buttons, with his hair pulled back and just—wow. Damian Wayne, you were seriously going to the party with this guy? As your fake boyfriend?

You don't notice the way his own expression completely falters at the sight of you. Nor the way his fingers tightened into a fist, digging into his palms.

You only notice how the silence stretched out between the two of you lingers long enough to matter.

"Hey, handsome." You start, trying to regain your composure. "You cleaned up nice."

He blinks, as if stunned. His response comes out delayed, brows pinching together into something honest. "You are beautiful."

Not you look—as if he's only noticed. No, he emphasised the 'are', as if he's always seen it. Your heart doesn't quite know what to do with that information, or how to catalogue the way he's looking at you as if he's—not pretending.

"Thank you." Your voice comes out weaker than you intended, because for all his intensity, Damian being soft is what renders you stunned. "I still don't know if I should do this."

His gaze clears, something steady offered to you when you return it. "You don't need to be sure." He answers, offering his hand. "That's what I'm here for—so you will not be alone."

He's right. Despite your doubts, seeing him in front of you reminds you of the steady presence he's offered from the very beginning. Through your nonsensical email threads, the Friday lunches, the rom-com binging, rushing to the store to buy you cold medicine—your fears always quieted when Damian was near. Your smile brightens, taking his hand in yours. "Let's get this operation over with."

Walter catches sight of you first. His vision is perfectly facing the entrance, your ex's gaze meeting yours as soon as you step through the doorway—and he immediately taps on Paige’s shoulder. An insincere smile arrives on his expression, but it freezes in place the moment Damian enters with you.

He isn't the only one to notice. You knew the effect Damian had on others, standing out without even meaning to, much less in an environment like this. Damian doesn't seem bothered at all, because you feel his attention acutely trained on you instead. His hand rubs a soothing notion over your lower back, as if you're the only person he's aware that exists in the room.

Walter's gaze drifts, from the dress he hated to Damian’s hand wrapping around your waist. He puts the facts together, faster than you had when he and Paige had approached you with the news. The warmth leaves his welcoming expression, and he whispers something into Paige's ear.

Damian registers this entire exchange in under a second, and his hand tightens briefly on your waist, as if reassuring you that he was right beside you.

The distance closes in between you and the two people your life once revolved around, and you train your gaze on Walter, because you can tell immediately that Paige is struck by Damian's appearance, more so by his hand on your waist.

"It's been a while." Walter starts off, though his gaze barely lingers on you before switching to Damian. "Wayne, I don't believe we've been properly introduced."

"There hasn't been a need." Damian shuts him down.

The atmosphere turns icy the moment Walter registers the tone of Damian's voice. He laughs, astonished—and embarrassed. Paige finally recovers in an attempt to salvage the situation, pulling together her best smile.

"Well, it's lovely to have you both here." Paige starts, and her voice is distant—nothing like the girl you used to know, hidden under the blankets of your beaten IKEA sofa when watching Scream for the tenth time. "You look amazing, and—sorry, I'm just curious on how the two of you know each other?"

Her question is directed towards you, but Damian takes the lead. "She's my partner."

"Partner?" Walter chokes on his breath. "As in—"

You finally find your voice to speak. "We are seeing each other." It comes out levelled, matching Damian's.

Their shock registers in different levels. Walter's nears disbelief, while Paige—looks at you, betrayed.

"I didn't know about this." Paige stammers.

"Yes, you didn't." You answer shortly.

She stares at you as if she's seeing a stranger. "Right. I guess it's been a long time since we've caught up."

You're tempted to laugh. A long time is an understatement. You can feel Damian's low scoff against your shoulder, and the absurdity of the situation feels less gut-wrenching with him by your side.

"You know she's a real mess." Walter speaks involuntarily. "Like her apartment's an actual hazard. Isn't that right, Paige?"

Paige freezes, lips parting into a gap, but Damian's faster.

"I am aware—that she has her own unique system." Damian states, gaze narrowing in discontent. "It didn't take long for me to understand it, or to appreciate it."

"Appreciate it?" Walter sneers. "Are you sure you're talking about the right person?"

"Yes." Damian doesn't hesitate, eyes steady, fixing yours. As if he was conveying it to you instead of the audience, he answers. "I'm sure."

You swallow dryly, unable to hide the softened smile you usually reserved for him only when it was the two of you. Both of them catch sight of it, and you can sense the question becoming less of whether it was real, and more of the how.

It's easy to act in love when Damian's this close, muttering words like that, with his familiar warmth grounding you through the stagnant conversation. So instinctive, that you think it's easier than breathing.

You sense Paige shifting closer and you force yourself to focus, and casting her another glance, only to finally catch a glimpse of the girl who used to be your closest person.

“Hey, can we talk?” Her expression is vulnerable, tentative in her offer. "Y'know, catch up in private."

Damian immediately shifts you back slightly with his weight, but you place a hand tentatively on his arm. His gaze locks onto you, reading into your expression. His brow raises as if to ask, 'You're sure?'. You give him a nod.

"Fine by me." You murmur, because despite everything—maybe a part of you still wanted to hear the honest truth. For her decision, on when she decided you should’ve been cut out of the picture then forcefully glued back into what they envisioned to be the perfect way to continue their lives. Maybe you just wanted to see if the Paige you knew still existed.

The moment you enter an unoccupied bathroom, Paige presses the door shut and immediately turns to you. "You have to spill."

Your brows furrow. "On?"

"Damian Wayne." She points out as if it's obvious. "You don't even know him."

You blink once then twice, and something colder settles in the cavity of your chest. "Things change, Paige."

“I’m just worried. It's all just so sudden.” Her hand reaches out to grasp yours, and you resist the instinctive flinch. “You’ve always been sensitive, and a guy like him is just bad news. I mean—Damian Wayne? I get that it feels exciting, but he barely knew of your existence before and now, he's suddenly dating you? I just want us to be on the same page here, that it doesn't really make sense."

A scoff rises up your throat, barely constrained as she continues on, her softened voice a perfect replica of how she had been when you first made your decision to break up with Walter.

“You know I’ll always support you if you need me.” She reassures. “You can tell me anything.”

The anger bubbles so violently, and it hits you. That despite everything, you had came into this party hoping that maybe a fraction of the girl you knew—who cried with you on bathroom floors when you experienced homesickness, who celebrated when you managed to pass your first year of medical school, who was there for your entire life in Gotham—would still exist. That something would give way, and her leaving would make sense, to have a reason. You realise now, that you've only been giving her excuses on the basis of what she used to mean to you.

Your wrath gives way to something cold, absent of grief—only the need to rip your hand out of hers. You do just that, and her shock barely registers before you open your mouth. “No.” Your voice carries a finality, strength you’ve been trying to garner since the day you lost her. “You don’t get to define my relationship with Damian, when you never addressed ours.”

She blinks, affronted. “Is this about Walter? We've already explained—we only felt what we did after the two of you broke up—”

“No, this isn’t about Walter. This is about us.” The coldness in your tone finally strikes something honest in her expression. “You broke my trust, Paige, and then you invite me to this party cause you thought it would help make amends? I thought you brought me in here, to at least explain to me on what happened to us."

"You should've told me." She says, a frown stretched at her lips. "If you weren't comfortable being around me and Walter, we wouldn't have forced you to come."

We—the word runs through your mind like a tire screech.

“Yes, I wasn't comfortable—I nearly died inside when it happened." You raise your head. "I lost my best friend, who drove me to karaoke night whenever I needed to forget about home. I lost the girl who swore to re-watch all rom-coms that ever existed in the 90s before we both turned fifty. I lost the only person I trusted since I moved into this city, over what—a man? Was it worth it, was our friendship worth it?”

She swallows thickly, and you see a fracture of the girl you recognise under the glitter, and the tears collecting at her lower lashes. “I thought you understood—that I love him differently than you did.”

Your gaze doesn’t flinch at the admission. “You were by my side when he broke up with me, when I told you that he called my dresses ugly, when he said my attitude was too much, when he made me smaller because it was more convenient for him when I was quieter, and you still got together with him. Maybe I thought you loved me enough too, to understand why I wasn't comfortable with it.”

Her expression shatters, and tears drip down her cheeks before she harshly wipes at them, smearing her eyeshadow. “You don’t get to say that.” She spits out. “Making it seem like I chose Walter over you, when you brought in Damian Wayne.”

Your brows contort. “What are you talking about?”

“You decided to come to the party to—prove you suddenly became better than us just by being with a Wayne?” She snaps. “You're acting like this because you think he's going to stay—but you don’t seriously believe it’ll actually last when Walter could barely stand you?”

That anger, buried deep, comes alive with a roar. You take a step forward, causing her to inch backward as you close in. “That's all you’re taking from this?" Your scoff resounds coldly. "Damian was the one who was there for me when you left—so yeah, I have more trust in him to treat me like an actual person."

She flinches, her lips parting in the same way she had done earlier when Walter tried to make you small. Silent, and unable to do anything but lay there in her guilt of absorbing an idea of who you are in Walter's head, and erasing what made you human in her eyes.

"Rest assured. You will never gain my trust again to even know what’s going on in my life and the people in it, and you never will.”

Taking a step back, you look at her one last time. Of the mess of her makeup, the same puffy eyes whenever she cries that you used to immediately follow up with the instinct to comfort her. You feel none of that now. “Goodbye, Paige.”

She doesn’t call out your name when you turn your back on her, and she doesn’t come after you. You needed that, more than you needed her to be the person you thought she was. To be blunt, and truthful to yourself—even if no one but you believed in it.

The euphoric lightness of your body from finally severing the bond doesn’t last long, when a rough hand grabs at your wrist. Being twisted around, you’re faced with Walter’s accusing expression.

“What did you say to her?”

“What I discussed with Paige stays between us.” You answer coldly, tugging at your wrist.

His hand tightens more, almost bruising. “You’re bringing in that attitude of yours, when we were kind enough to think of you? To let you stick around our lives?"

You’re sick of this narrative, of acting like you should’ve been grateful they thought to include you into this sick little group from your past life as if they hadn’t completely burnt it into flames.

“Walter, get your hands off before I shove—“

A fist slams into the side of Walter’s face before you even have a chance to finish your sentence. Screams erupt from the crowd, or cheers—you can barely tell because your eyes are locked onto Damian, who’s grabbing Walter by the collar with chafed knuckles.

Multiple eyes are on them, but your own gaze is fixed on Damian’s expression, who has gone completely cold. Nearly murderous, and filled with uncontained wrath. His glare, almost deadly, is trained on his target in a way you’ve never seen him before. The composed, distant Damian—is nowhere to be found.

"You stay away from her." Damian growls.

"What the hell, man!" Walter spits, blood sprayed over his nose. "Do you seriously think she's worth—"

Damian drags him closer by the collar, and something inhuman flashes past his concentrated gaze. "She's worth more than you ever will dream of trying to be. You are nothing, and even daring to lay a hand on her is something you will pay for."

“Damian!” You shout.

That finally reaches him, past the simultaneous gawking and murmurs. It’s as if he’s reentered his own body, and Damian immediately drops Walter to the ground with a loud thud. Walter lands embarrassingly on his bottom, and his entire face has gone red with shame.

His gaze switches to you, and his wrath fades immediately into concern. His eyes fall onto your bruising skin, and his emotions fall apart into something colder. You have a feeling if you don’t get him out of this room, this fight may escalate into something much worse.

Pushing through the forming crowd, you reach out. “Let’s get out of here.” You plead, holding out your hand.

His gaze drops to your fingers, then back to the forming outline of a hand gripped around your wrist, and you see his calculating assessment. Damian leans lower, muttering something low into Walter’s ear. It is quick, but you see the way Walter completely freezes in place—his struggle evading from his body like a statue. When Damian’s eyes meet your frightened ones once more, he doesn’t hesitate a second longer before grabbing your hand.

Damian doesn't waste time in leading you through the crowd, towards the exit and away from the escalating noise—and into the night breeze. When the cold wind finally hits your skin, his hand remains firmly intertwined with yours as he guides you somewhere far away—the fact still lingers that Damian, perfect track record and Wayne prodigy, just punched someone for you.

“You punched him.” You mutter faintly, seated at a bench you’ve both found, crisp leaves surrounding you with the faint singing of crickets.

“He was hurting you.”

“Damian, the whole school’s going to talk about this.” You stress. “You’re going to get in trouble, possibly a suspension.”

His jaw clenches. “I am your partner.”

Damian’s agitated. Over the situation, despite there no longer being any witnesses to his supposed protection. His shoulders are tense, jaw clenched and his gaze—you recall how he had looked at Walter when he landed that first hit, the pure anger that seized him.

“Not a real one.”

He flinches, as if struck, and you knew immediately that your words landed wrongly. His emotions topple over the other, and you’re unable to name any that arises before it all falls apart like his body’s regained consciousness. Concealed, and distant.

“My mistake.” He mutters. “I’ve forgotten my standing.”

“Damian—”

“I do not wish to inconvenience you.” He states, words leaving in a bitter rush. “I have overstepped, I realise that.”

“Damian.” You call out for the second time, fingers reaching for his—and he finally breathes when your warmth seeps through his skin. You’re relieved he doesn’t pull away. “That came out wrong. I’m not mad you punched the jerk, I would’ve done it myself. I am glad you stood up for me, but I’m just confused on why you did it, because there's nothing at stake for you, only something to lose.”

His expression stiffens at the verbal admission of his visible frustration. This conversation sounds much too real, and the lines that have been carefully drawn are erasing themselves, leaving behind uncharted territory. One you weren’t sure how to navigate.

“You do matter to me, as more than a role.” You plead. “I don’t want you to think you’re someone I chose out of convenience. Please don’t believe that.”

His breath exhales low, controlled. His gaze flickers with the briefest uncertainty, and you realise how selfish you’ve been. This arrangement had been perfect for you, that you simply assumed it was the same for him.

“No, you are not at fault.” He mutters after a moment. “It is not your responsibility to handle the consequence of my actions. We had agreed on no complications, and I have done exactly that.”

His jaw tightens, before he finally spits it out. “I punched him because the boundaries of what was was real or imagined between us has never made a difference to me. He had hurt you, not only physically—“ His gaze shifts to your reddened wrist, and it darkens completely. “—but he is a culprit to your existing pain. I was angry, because I couldn’t comprehend that I was finally faced with the two morons who thought losing you was even a consideration, and to see them hold no remorse for it made me forget my place.”

“I’ve always excelled in being what others expected of me.” He mutters. “When you approached me, it was the first time I had not wanted to be confined to a role. I did not want to partake in a façade, because—I had wanted your request to be for something real. Then, you mentioned that you picked me because I had not the slightest chance of falling for you. It was ironic, and I knew then that I should've rejected your request."

"But I started to earnestly believe—that I could separate emotion and duty. I could be in your presence, and not feel the consequences if the arrangement ended—because nothing would be real.”

“Till I realised—how much it affected me to not have you truly at all.” He confesses. “I should’ve been honest, that this arrangement had become the opposite of what we’ve agreed upon. But I was afraid, of admitting that I wasn’t capable of control, of driving you away."

“Damian." Your frown deepens. "You’re not going to lose me.”

“I don’t know.” He blurts honestly. “I do not know how to handle want. I am built of structure, of worth to prove why I deserve to keep my position, that has always been what I’ve provided. I do not know how to want without providing substance to covet a person.”

“But I want you.” He exhales. “Not once has it been pretend for me, not when it had already existed before our arrangement. Every moment I reached for your hand, every time I checked that horrendous shaded calendar of yours. I rushed over the moment you went missing when you were sick, because I had wanted to look for you. I have never once hesitated in calling myself your partner, even knowing the role was temporary. I want you, in the real, complicated way—that I've failed in being what you needed me to be."

"That's not true." You break. "That's not what I need you to be at all, Damian."

He finally looks at you, a little less restrained—and almost startled at your words.

"If you had been real about this the entire time, Damian, then so have I." You admit. "I chose you because I thought you wouldn't have fallen for me, that is true—but that is because I also thought it was safe because I knew I was going to fall for you."

"I wasn't kidding when I said I like you." You confess. "In all of the complicated, real sense of the word, and you were always going be the one I was going to choose. Even if you had said no, I wouldn't have asked anyone else. I wanted you from the start, Damian, and that hasn't changed. I was going to ask you at freaking Romeo's after this, if you wanted this to be real too."

The moment those words leave your lips, Damian closes in. His fingers tug you by your waist, his hand wrapping around the nape of your neck, and his lips are on yours. Damian Wayne, who still has forming bruises at his knuckles from a fight he landed in to defend you, is kissing you on a park bench in the middle of the night—and you're not dreaming.

It's clearly his first, but there's something so tenderly sweet about it that your heart trembles uncontrollably—enough to render something wet at your lashes by the time he's pulled back.

He pulls apart just to meet your gaze, and you've never seen him this relieved. "This is real." He restates, as if he can't quite truly believe it.

“We did just have our first official fight.” You murmur, cheek pressed to his chest.

"Official." He hums in acknowledgement. "I like that."

Your smile teethers into something soft when you feel the soft press of his mouth against the shell of your ear. "Yeah, guess our operation tonight ended in a success."

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

Synopsis: It started as a simple trip to the park on a Sunday, your self-care day. This was the day you dedicated to your weekly restarts: you spent time away from your phone, went out, tried new foods, took an "everything" shower, watched a drama, and simply relaxed.

But this day wasn’t like the others. After your time at the park, you came home with something attached to you.

The morning had been too quiet to mean anything good.

Fresh dew from the incoming spring season clung to the grass, soaking the hem of your skirt as you sat on an old bench. The air felt... untouched, as if no one had sat there in a long time. But you liked that—having a space of your own, a moment of calm while it seemed the world was falling apart.

You opened your bag, grabbed your current favorite book, and began to read. You were barely through the first page when you felt something light and fluffy brush against your leg. Your initial reaction was to flinch back, looking down as if offended, only to soften immediately at the sight of a fluffy white cat. Its coat was clean and silky, and its eyes shone like yellow amber as they looked right at you.

The cat mewled softly, making your heart melt. Book forgotten, you knelt, allowing it to sniff your hand before its head ducked and nuzzled into your palm.

“Aww…” you effused, murmuring other incoherent words, happy to be chosen by such a precious creature. The cat turned, its tail swishing as it began to walk away. “Bye-bye…” you frowned, but then it stopped.

Those yellow amber eyes met yours again, waiting…

“Do you want me to follow?” you spoke gently. The cat swished its tail again as if to say yes. And foolishly, you slipped your book back into your bag and began to follow. It led you deeper into the park, towards an area you hadn’t even known existed. The trees were thicker here; the air was colder and thinner, making you shiver despite it being a nice spring day.

“Aren’t we a little… far?” you murmured, as if the cat could respond. But it kept going, stopping just before a split in the tree line.

There was a path of fluffy grass—fresh and untouched. The cat stopped here, looking at you expectantly. “Oh… I lead the way now?” you questioned. The cat just meowed. You swore you saw it shrug before it turned its back to you once more and walked ahead.

Obviously, something was wrong; a strange cat leading you here raised several red flags. But staring down this path, something in your chest tightened, the hair on your arms standing up as if you were instinctively aware that you were no longer alone. You took a step forward, wrapping your arms around yourself and keeping your head on a swivel.

You were always the type to do random things "for the plot," but for once, you felt like listening to your instincts. You looked away from the cat, glancing toward the trees on your right. All of them felt oddly sentient—perfectly scattered, breathing with you, watching you. Then you looked to your left, sensing only stillness. Noticing a strange lack of life, you stopped short and looked ahead for the cat… but the white ball of fluff was gone. You were left stranded in this odd limbo.

You looked ahead where the trees stretched on, then looked behind you, but the park scene was gone. That sense of unease grew as you spun around, no longer knowing which way was forward and which was back.

You looked down at the plush grass, searching for your footprints, but even they were gone, as if you’d never walked there. That feeling of being watched grew worse; you looked up, and it watched you from behind; you looked right, and it stared from the left, and so on. You held yourself tighter, stepping back and constantly checking every angle.

You took another step back, your spine colliding with something hard. Your heart stopped, then painfully thumped against your ribs as you jumped and turned around… nothing. No one. Whatever it was, its presence told you to run in the other direction.

And you happily did so, rushing back down that path of grass until the tree line closed once more and spat you back out into the park. The cat was forgotten. 

You were a fool to trust such a cute face. 

One last chill ran over you, like sharp nails clawing at your cheek, down your jaw, and over your nape.

You walked faster, taking deep breaths to calm yourself as you made your way back toward the main park. Though the feeling of eyes on you never left.

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You returned home in the late evening, after straying to take a quick trip to the store for ingredients to make an easy meal. Upon entering your apartment, you expected the warmth of the space to embrace you like a familiar hug, but tonight, the air felt thin.

The incident at the park refused to leave you; that phantom chill still clung to your skin like a film of oil. To drown out the silence, you flicked on the TV, letting a familiar sitcom provide a hollow sense of security. You retreated to the kitchen, intent on doctoring a bowl of ramen into something substantial.

The moment you turned your back to the stove, the air curdled. That presence was back—not just a feeling, but a heavy, suffocating pressure inches from your neck. You spun around, heart hammering against your ribs, only to catch a smudge of shadow dissolving into the corner of the room. Panic flickered in your gut. Suddenly, the kitchen felt exposed.

Too tired to play sentry in your own home, you abandoned the stove. You needed an excuse to stay in the light. Grabbing your phone, you ordered your usual comfort meal, the delivery app already knowing your cravings. You retreated to the couch, curling into the cushions to wait.

The living room was a battlefield of light and shadow, fought between a dim lamp and the flickering glow of the television. As you scrolled through your phone, your eyes drifted toward the TV—and snagged on the darkness behind it.

Your brow furrowed. You rubbed your eyes, desperate to blame sleep deprivation or the strain of a long work week, but the void in the corner didn't dissipate. It seemed to pulse, absorbing the light from the screen. You stared until your vision swam, tracing the faint, jagged geometry of what looked like a face. Before the silhouette could sharpen, a sharp knock at the door shattered the tension. Your phone buzzed. Dinner was here.

You glanced back at the corner. The shadow was gone, replaced by the mundane dullness of the wall. “Absolutely not,” you muttered, your voice thin and brittle. You avoided that corner like a physical wound as you retrieved your food.

Safe under a plush blanket again, you ate with frantic speed, wishing to swallow your fear with the food. But as the clock crept toward midnight, exhaustion won. The TV watched you more than you watched it. Your head lolled back against the pillows, and you slipped into a heavy, suffocating sleep.

You woke to a world that felt "wrong." The TV was off, though you were certain you hadn't touched the remote. The silence was absolute—no hum from the AC, no drone of cicadas from the street. It was the silence of a vacuum.

Stiff and aching, you stood to clear away the remains of your dinner. As you reached for a throw blanket to tidy the couch, something shifted in the periphery of your vision. A tall, spindly figure ducked behind the TV. You froze, waiting for the outline to reappear, for the face to show itself. When nothing moved, you made the mistake of looking away.

In an instant, your muscles turned to lead. You were rooted to the floor, unable to even tilt your head. Dread, cold, and paralyzing, flooded your veins as you heard the floorboards groan behind you. Something was manifesting in the dark—something heavy, something ancient.

The chill returned, but this time it was physical: sharp, invisible nails dragged slowly up the length of your spine while another set raked across your hip. You tried to gasp, but your lungs refused to expand, as if the darkness itself was leaning on your chest. The sensation peaked when a massive, freezing hand—far too large to be human—pressed firmly against your stomach.

A strangled whimper broke from your throat. Your world tilted, the floor falling away.

Suddenly, you gasped awake.

The TV was blaring. The dim lamp hummed beside you. You hadn't moved; you hadn't even stood up. A dream? Sleep paralysis? You sat up, hissing as a searing heat radiated from your back. Your head throbbed with a rhythmic, violent pulse.

Desperate to prove it wasn't real, you stumbled into the bathroom and wrenched your shirt over your head. In the harsh fluorescent light of the mirror, the truth stared back. Deep, angry welts—five distinct claw marks—were already scabbing over your spine. They weren't just scratches; they were brands. Bruised and raw, they pulsed in time with your heartbeat. You weren't alone in the park, and you weren't alone now.

You spent the remainder of the night barricaded in your bedroom. The door was bolted, with a heavy dining chair wedged under the handle—a pathetic, wooden prayer against whatever predatory force had managed to reach through your dreams and draw blood.

Determined to never be that vulnerable again, you moved with frantic precision. You latched the windows, drew the curtains tight to seal out the peering night, and checked the closet until you were certain only clothes hung in the dark. You even forced yourself to look under the bed, holding your breath until you saw nothing but dust. Only then, with your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, did you dare to lay your head on the pillow.

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The next day arrived with a crushing weight. You had managed only four hours of fitful sleep, having spent the night watching every corner of your room until your body simply gave out.

Now, you stood before the bathroom mirror, brushing your teeth in the dark. When you’d first flicked the switch, the light felt like a physical blow to your eyes. You moved through your routine on autopilot—washing your face, applying makeup to mask the hollows under your eyes, and dressing for the office.

The morning was choked with a thick, unnatural mist. You began your walk to the station with a single earbud in, trying to drown out the world while remaining hyper-aware of it. That was when you heard them: footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, and undeniably masculine.

You snapped your head back. The sidewalk was empty.

You sucked in a sharp, jagged breath, trying to steady your heart as you pressed on. But the moment you turned away, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud returned. You glanced over your shoulder again—nothing but the swirling fog.

You decided to run. If you didn't give in to the fear, it couldn't hurt you—that’s what the stories said, right? But the faster you moved, the faster the phantom steps followed, matching your desperate pace until you were sprinting. You ducked into the train station just as the air behind you seemed to coalesce into a freezing pressure.

You were left breathless, with visions of that nightmare pressing into your mind.

Work was a blur of mundane misery. You answered phones, fetched your boss’s lunch, and forced a receptionist’s plastic smile for every patient. It was meant to be a temporary job to get you through college, yet here you were—a degree on your wall and no will to leave the front desk.

When lunch finally rolled around, you couldn't stand the quiet of the office. Couldn't stand the idea of that thing appearing again.

You needed a crowd.

You navigated the bustling city streets until you reached your favorite deli. They had your sandwich ready before you even reached the counter—the perks of being a regular. As you walked back, clutching your brown-bagged lunch, a small storefront caught your eye.

Madam Seraphina’s Emporium.

You doubled back, drawn by a strange, magnetic pull. The moment you stepped inside, the atmosphere curdled. The heavy scent of frankincense swirled violently, and the candles lining the shelves guttered as if hit by a sudden draft. It confirmed the dread you’d been carrying all day: the thing from the park hadn't just followed you. It had attached to you.

Before you could even offer a greeting, an older woman emerged from the beaded curtain at the back. She didn't look like a fraud; she looked like a warning. Her face, once beautiful, was now set in a mask of intimidating elegance.

"What have you brought into my shop." she snapped. It wasn't a question; it was an accusation.

"I... I think I need help," you stammered, your voice trembling.

"There is a rot on your soul," she whispered, beginning to circle you like a lioness evaluating a wounded animal. "A shadow that does not belong to you."

"I know," you sighed, the weight of the last twenty-four hours crashing down. "I went too deep into the park. Past the tree line. Something weird happened there, and ever since then, I haven't felt alone."

You hesitated, then reached for the hem of your blouse. With trembling fingers, you turned your back to her and lifted the fabric.

"I had a dream last night," you whispered. "But I woke up with these."

The woman leaned in, her eyes widening as she took in the angry, scabbing claw marks etched into your skin.

Madam Seraphina let out a sharp, hissed breath, and every candle in the shop suddenly extinguished at once, plunging you both into a suffocating, violet gloom.

"Child," she whispered, her voice trembling for the first time. "That was no dream. You’ve been marked for a harvest, and the collector is already standing right behind you."

The words hit you like a physical blow, a surge of cold terror so sharp that tears pricked your eyes.

“Can you help me?” you whispered, your voice cracking into a plea.

“This…” She shook her head slowly, stepping back into the shadows of her own shop. “This is beyond my domain. I deal in spirits and stray energy. This is something older.”

“Please,” you choked out.

“I cannot,” she snapped, her eyes darting to the space just above your shoulder. “Besides, he has made it very clear that I am not to interfere.”

“He?” The word felt heavy, like lead in your mouth. Your eyes went wide, and though the room remained a blur of violet gloom, the air behind you suddenly solidified.

The presence was no longer just watching; it was pressing into you. You felt a terrifying, phantom weight against your back—a cold, dominating heat that felt less like a haunting and more like a claim. You couldn't see him, but you could feel the invisible tether tightening, possessive and absolute.

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You returned home that night utterly defeated. The weight of his presence felt deceptively lighter, but the air still hummed with the tension of a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Skipping dinner entirely, you grabbed a meager snack and bolted for your room. You refused to linger in the hallways, terrified that if you stayed still for even a second, he would materialize out of the woodgrain. After a frantic, paranoid shower—the thought of his gaze on your bare skin making your stomach churn—you buried yourself in the most oversized, frumpy pajamas you owned. You barricaded the door exactly as you had the night before, fighting against a mounting headache and the siren call of exhaustion. Something told you that if you stepped back into the hallway, you wouldn't be coming back.

By 3:00 AM, the madness of the last twenty-four hours finally broke you. You were drifting in a haze of semi-consciousness, your head lolling to the side as your phone slipped from your numb fingers and clattered onto the floor.

You jolted awake to find your bedroom door standing wide open. The dining chair lay on its side, useless. A familiar, suffocating darkness had swallowed the room, leaving only the silver, spectral glow of the full moon bleeding through the curtains.

This was wrong. You had locked the door. You had barricaded—

Your thoughts slammed into a wall of pure terror as a pair of massive hands clamped around your ankles. Another pair of arms braced against the mattress, the bed groaning under a sudden, colossal weight. This was no longer a shadow or a phantom chill; this was flesh, bone, and crushing power. You were pinned, blinded by a veil of darkness, your muscles locked in a state of primal paralysis.

"You're trembling..." the voice murmured, the sound vibrating through the very springs of the bed. It was taunting, savoring the rhythm of your racing heart.

A weak, pathetic whimper was all you could manage.

"Look at me," he snarled. When you hesitated, a hand—calloused and impossibly strong—seized your jaw, forcing your head up. "I said, look at me."

Your gaze finally collided with his, and the sheer heat of his presence made your skin burn. Towering over you was a nightmare made manifest. Four crimson eyes glowed with a predatory hunger, tracking your every breath. His face was a mask of sharp, cruel lines—a jagged jaw and a dominant, regal nose, framed by a shock of pinkish-red hair.

He was barely human, a humanoid titan with four massive arms covered in intricate black markings that seemed to writhe in the moonlight. His broad chest and corded muscles were so expansive you felt tiny beneath him, certain he was as wide as the mattress itself. You weren't just being haunted anymore; you were being claimed.

He leaned down, his face inches from yours, the heat radiating from his skin like an open furnace. Two of his hands remained pinned to your wrists, while a third traced the scabbing marks on your spine with terrifying tenderness.

"You modern playthings are all the same," he rumbled, a dark, guttural chuckle vibrating against your chest. "You go poking into the rotted corners of the world, chasing 'stories' and 'fun' as if they were nothing more than ink on a page. You stepped onto the grass of a sanctuary that has been hungry for a thousand years."

He gripped your jaw tighter, forcing you to meet all four of those burning, crimson eyes.

"The cat wasn't a guide, little fool. It was a herald. By following it past the tree line, by treading on untouched soil and answering its call, you didn't just find a hidden park. You walked into a court and offered yourself as tribute. That 'tightness' you felt in your chest? That was the contract sealing."

He shifted his weight, the mattress groaning as he hovered over you, his massive silhouette blotting out the moon.

"There are no 'random things' here. You didn't do this for the hell of it; you did it for me. You crossed the threshold into my domain, you felt my eyes, and you stayed. Every step you took deeper into those trees was a word in a vow you can't unsay.”

“W…why?” you managed to choke out, your throat so dry it felt like swallowing glass.

The shift in the air was instantaneous. His grip on your jaw didn't loosen; instead, his thumb traced the line of your lower lip—a gesture that was sickeningly slow, a predator tasting his kill.

"Because the world has grown thin and weak," he murmured, his voice dropping into a register that made your blood run cold. "I have no interest in a vessel that will shatter under my weight, nor a servant who will wither in a week. I watched you in those woods. You have a fire in you that hasn't been snuffed out by this soft, modern life."

He moved then, shifting his massive weight until he was caging you completely, his chest a wall of radiating heat pressing you deep into the mattress. One of his lower hands slid from your ankle, moving upward with a terrifying, possessive certainty until it rested flat against your abdomen—the same place he had branded in your "dream."

"You have the constitution I’ve been searching for," he hissed, his four eyes narrowing, tracking the frantic pulse in your neck. "My blood is a curse that most cannot carry. It burns. It destroys. But you... you are a vessel primed for something greater than mere possession."

He leaned closer, his breath ghosting over your skin, smelling of ozone and ancient, rusted iron.

"I am not here to simply haunt these halls or hide in your shadows. I am here to leave a legacy that this world will never forget. You are the soil where I will plant my heir."

Every bone in your body went rigid. This couldn’t be real. This had to be another layer of the nightmare, another trick of a sleep-deprived mind. “You—”

“I will have you,” he interrupted with a snarl, the words low, vibrating through your skin and settling into your bones like a death sentence. “And you will learn to crave the weight of your King.”

His hands roamed over you with a casual, devastating strength, the fabric of your pajamas shredding like paper beneath his touch. "Pathetic..." he sighed, the word vibrating against your skin.

The frigid air of the room rushed over your sudden nakedness, sending a violent shiver through you. Even as your legs trembled and your skin pebbled in the cold, a traitorous heat began to coil deep in your belly, leaving you slick and aching.

The shame of your own reaction burned hotter than his touch—why did a part of you crave this?

He looked down his nose at you, his four eyes tracking the flush spreading across your chest, scenting your arousal in the air. "So easy," he murmured, his tone dripping with bored superiority. One set of hands kept you pinned effortlessly to the mattress, while another slipped down to cup the wet heat between your legs.

The moment his calloused palm brushed over your center, you writhed, your hips bucking instinctively away from the intensity. The defiance earned you a sharp, heavy slap right against your core. The sting was sudden and jarring, forcing a ragged gasp from your lungs as you whimpered into the dark.

You glanced down in a haze of shock, watching as a jagged slit tore open across his muscular abdomen. An unnatural, massive mouth appeared, its long tongue unfurling like a velvet ribbon to lap greedily at your heat.

He chuckled at your expression, his primary eyes locked onto yours with cruel amusement while the mouth at his stomach busied itself with tasting you, expertly teasing you toward the edge. To your horror and delight, another mouth split open in the center of his palm, its tongue dragging from your taint to your core in a wet, rhythmic stroke.

The sensation was a sensory assault—monstrous, overwhelming, and utterly perfect. It drove every coherent thought from your mind, leaving you as nothing more than a trembling instrument for his pleasure.

Your head pressed back into the pillows, exposing the desperate arch of your throat to him. He seized the invitation, leaning in with his primary mouth to claim the soft skin, sucking and biting with a rhythmic, bruising pressure until he drew a copper-tang of blood. A low, guttural groan vibrated from his chest straight into your heart; he was revelling in the taste of you, intoxicated by the intoxicating mix of your arousal and your lifeblood.

His tongues worked in a wet, relentless symphony, driving you closer and closer to the precipice. Every moan robbed you of your breath as you began to unravel, your body arching violently into his touch, your legs spreading wider in a silent plea for more.

The massive hands that kept your arms pinned above your head shifted, his thick fingers threading through yours. It was a strangely intimate gesture—a tether of bone and muscle that felt more like a brand than a simple hold.

He remained silent, his four eyes fixed on yours with a terrifying, unblinking intensity as he drove you to the edge of madness. You were seeing stars, your vision blurring as a frantic, white-hot itch built deep within your marrow—a craving for a cure that only he could provide.

You were left panting and shivering as he pulled away, wasting no time in maneuvering you into position. He cleared the bed with a violent sweep of his arms, throwing pillows and blankets to the floor so you had nowhere left to hide.

He settled between your thighs, two hands gripping your hips and two pinning your knees back toward your chest. The robes at his waist fell away, revealing the terrifying reality of his biology—two thick, pulsing members, one set above the other, both stone-hard and waiting.

Your expression crumbled into pure horror as he reached down, dragging your own slickness back toward your rear entrance. His fingers massaged the sensitive skin with clinical precision until you puckered for him, before he returned his grip to your thighs to anchor you.

Then, he decided you were ready. He lined himself up at both entrances simultaneously and pushed inward without a hint of remorse.

Your hand slapped over your mouth, eyes rolling back and crossing at the sheer force of the breach. The staggering fullness satisfied a hunger you hadn't known you possessed, filling every void with a single, devastating thrust.

But he was barely getting started. Keeping your legs pinned and your body crushed into the mattress, he began a brutal rhythm, pounding into you with enough force to rattle your bones. Your insides felt like they were catching fire, tightening instinctively around him as he claimed every inch of you.

You couldn't form words; you could only endure him. He was relentless and dominating. The only sound you could manage was a jagged scream—a sound that served only to confirm his prowess and drive him to hit you even harder.

The bed rocked violently, the headboard slamming against the wall in a rhythmic staccato that kept time with the wet, heavy sound of your coupling.

Under his assault, your mind finally fractured. You melted into the mattress, your thoughts blurring into a haze of white noise as a new knot of pleasure began to coil deep within you—a release he deceptively allowed you to reach.

"Did I tell you that I was finished?" he snarled, the vibration of his voice cutting through your daze.

You froze, your tear-filled eyes immediately locking onto his.

He hummed, a low, cruel sound that vibrated in his chest as he shifted positions once more. His multiple hands moved with terrifying coordination, dragging you across the bed until he was seated with his back against the headboard, holding you wide open before him.

In the mirror at the end of the bed, you were forced to confront the sight: your body splayed, his thick members lined up and waiting. His nails bit into your thighs as his other set of hands forced your knees up into a full nelson, exposing you completely to the glass.

"Watch," he commanded.

He snarled the word into your ear, ensuring your eyes stayed on the mirror as he resumed his rough lovemaking. You bounced on his lap, a helpless, whining mess, watching in a daze of shame and ecstasy as he stretched you open.

If a demon had to haunt you, a dark, primal part of you was glad it was this one. Your mind went blank and primitive as he drew yet another release from you, your whines growing low and desperate against the backdrop of his guttural groans. Each growl vibrated through his massive chest and over your skin, driving you to the brink.

His earlier words echoed through your mind like a bell—Legacy. Heir.

Your breathing grew shallow, your vision blurring until the mirror faded away. You settled into the heat of him, anchored by his strength. As he hit that precise, devastating spot one final time, he let out a deep, primal growl, drawing out his own release and cementing the claim he had made in the woods.

The violence of the moment ebbed into a heavy, pulsing silence, broken only by your ragged, broken gasps for air. He didn't pull away immediately; instead, he adjusted himself, draped over you, a mountain of dark muscle and cooling heat that pinned you deep into the mattress. One of his primary hands moved to your throat, not to squeeze, but to feel the frantic, terrified gallop of your pulse against his palm—a rhythmic reminder that you were alive, and you were his.

"Mine," he rumbled, the word vibrating through your exhausted frame like a death toll.

He withdrew with a slow, agonizing deliberation, the sudden absence of his heat leaving you feeling cold and dangerously hollow. He didn't offer a blanket or a word of comfort. He simply sat at the edge of the bed, a titan in the moonlight, watching you shiver with those four unblinking, crimson eyes. You realized then that the locks on the windows and the chair under the handle hadn't been to keep him out—they had been to keep you in.

When the sun finally began to bleed through the curtains, you jolted awake, your body screaming in protest. The room was deathly quiet. The door was shut, and the dining chair sat perfectly back under the handle, exactly as you had placed it before the madness began.

For a heartbeat, you allowed yourself the desperate hope that it had all been a fever dream, a manifestation of the trauma from the park. But as you tried to sit up, your legs gave way, trembling violently from the memory of his strength. You looked down, your breath hitching as you saw the distinct, darkening bruises in the shape of massive fingers marking your thighs.

Squeezing tighter, he kneaded the supple flesh, strengthening his hold as he adopted a quicker, rougher pace.

"O-Oh, yes! Ngh! Kuri-Kuri f-fuck," you keened, the air in your lungs slowly but surely leaving you. "Feels s'good!"

Your cries drifted far past the room, so far that the Sweet General was sure the servants within the maid's quarters could hear them.

But he wanted you louder.

He wanted you shrieking.

He had wanted this for so long, wanted to feel the way you fit him.

Wanted to hear the way you spoke his name wrapped in pleasure.

Everything of you, he wanted.

Needed.

Katakuri needed you.

Somehow, he'd managed to hold out for this long, but his luck wouldn't last with the way you were clawing the comforter, moans rising as he switched angles.

But in an instant, it was all snatched away.

Breathless, Katakuri shot straight up in his bed, heart thundering in his chest.

Swallowing thickly, he quickly glanced down at his lap, his cum hot and sticky against his skin, and his half-chubbed length angrily confined by his boxers.

It happened again...

A faint flush of pink rose to his cheeks at the sight, the Yonko commander swiftly brought back to the countless other nights where he had awoken to the same scene.

There was something about you, something about your presence that instantly returned him to his teen years—where an ass and a couple of moans could make him cum in his pants.

God, this was wrong.

You were so kind, so sweet, yet his dreams consisted of nothing but ruining you for any and every other man to follow him.

Unable and unwilling to reckon with what your image had just done to him, he settled for flopping back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling with a blank, annoyed look.

How the hell was he going to face you tomorrow?

"Ah, Commander!" you beamed, warmly waving to the man as he entered through your large door. "I was just about to send Kota."

Quickly, you scurried toward your display case, pulling out the tray with ten, normal-sized doughnuts of varying flavors.

"I've got the samples you ordered right here. Freshly glazed."

Silently, the man nodded, fighting off the flush threatening to rise to his ears as he crossed his arms over his chest.

He avoided all eye contact with you, making a point to look anywhere but your smiling face as he leaned against the wall.

Every time he met your gaze, images of last night would flash in mind, further adding to the pit of guilt already sinking in his chest for thinking of you in such a way.

It made him feel dirty, and suddenly undeserving of your kindness

"Kota, come box these up for me, yeah?" you called, your young apprentice quickly scurrying to your aid.

"Yes, ma'am!" he nodded, carefully taking the tray before returning to the back room

His eagerness made you smile, the sight intensifying the rhythm of Katakuri's heartbeat as he watched you return to your work.

"I know it's not your usual, but I think you'll like the new blueberry lemon doughnut I made this morning," you attempted to strike up a conversation, going back to glazing the rest of the morning's doughnuts. "Smoothie came by earlier and said it's her favorite so far."

Katakuri hummed, seemingly uninterested in what you had to say as he glanced around your huge bakery—the size was accommodating to commoners as well as those of his height.

Confused, your face slightly fell, unsure of what you did to warrant such a cold response.

Sure, the Minister of Flour was not the warmest person you'd ever met, but he certainly wasn't this icy.

Especially not to you.

You figured the both of you were far past this stage, having gone through the whole "stoic and silent" rigmarole months ago.

It took ages to get the Minister of Flour to warm up to you even a little bit, but when he did?

The change was like night and day.

He turned off his observation haki for the first time in...well, who knows how long.

He allowed himself to participate in easy conversation.

Hell, once you could've swore he let out a quiet chuckle at a joke you made.

But all of that seemed to be completely gone now, as if it were never there.

You were one of the Big Mom Pirate's closest and most trusted personal bakers, so you had dealt with your fair share of volatile personalities.

But his was odd, even for a Charlotte.

Just then, the bell on your door let out a delightful little jingle, snapping both yours and Katakuri's attention to the familiar face walking in.

Your eyes went wide, before your brows quickly furrowed in an unsavory scowl.

"Get out."

At that, the man laughed, amused by your somewhat poor attempt at intimidation.

"That's how it is? No hello or how are ya?" he sneered, slowly walking up to the counter.

"Get the hell out of here, Gino! I told you I never wanted to see your face again!"

"(y/n)... baby... c'mon... you really meant tha—?"

"Every damn word," you swiftly answered, taking a large, tentative step back as he continued to approach. "Don't come any closer!"

"Or what? You'll bake me to death? Turn me into a jelly doughnut?" he smirked, mockingly.

You scoffed, quickly turning around and rushing into the backroom, "Kota! Get my bat!"

Annoyed, Gino let out a harsh sigh, moving to lean against the counter before glancing at the Sweet Commander.

"Women, amiright?" he griped, rolling his eyes as he pointed his thumb in your direction. "All this drama for what? Gimme a few minutes to talk and she'll be crawlin' back in no time."

He chuckled to himself, seemingly proud of this "fact".

"She always does."

A vein bulged in Katakuri's forehead at the statement, the furrow in his brows deepening and muscles tightening in an instant.

As he watched your interaction, he waited patiently, gauging your reaction to the man and the danger level in order to plan his response accordingly.

'Looks like they had some sort of romantic relationship... an ex-boyfriend, perhaps?'

Audibly, you were rummaging around in storage, frantically searching for your father's prized baseball bat.

'If she feels such a need to arm herself, then he must have a history of violent behavior... an interaction like this must've turned physical before.'

The man's jaw clenched at the thought, a certain feeling bubbling in his stomach the he had never felt before.

It made him want to gag and flay Gino's remains after a Mochi-flavored beat-down.

'It's settled then.'

"Hey, I just realized... aren't you the—?"

Without hesitation, Katakuri cut off his sentence, his mochi arm wrapping tightly around the scumbag's neck before hoisting him in the air and dragging him forward, until he was finally at his level.

"I am only going to say this once. Fail to follow direction and I will not hesitate to kill you along with your entire family... understand?"

Frantically, the man nodded, utterly wracked with fear.

"Good... now, when I release you, you are going to take the first ship off Whole Cake, continuing to travel on until you make it to Cacao Island. There, you will effectively leave Mama's territory and begin your pitiful attempt at surviving in the New World without her protection."

His grip tightened, further constricting the man's airflow as he continued on.

"If you do not get on that ship, I will know. If you turn around, I will know. If you do not reach Cacao Island by the end of the day, I will know."

Suddenly, an imaged of you flashed in his mind, reminding him of the ultimate reason for his fury.

"And if you so much as look at... think of... or utter my fiancée's name in my presence again... I will see to it personally that your body is put six feet under the ground."

Pulling him closer, Katakuri didn't stop until his face was right in front of Gino's, his fiery, ruby red eyes blazing fiercer than the pits of hell.

See, what Gino couldn't have possibly known was that last night the Sweet Commander had attended an emergency summons from his mother, where he learned that he was engaged to be married to one of Whole Cake Island's most eligible bachlorettes.

You.

Of course, it was a strictly political contract between his mother and your father, and given your rather normal reaction to seeing him in the shop today, he figured your father had failed to tell you yet about the arrangement.

But even still... he now had a responsibility to you.

A responsibility he would not take lightly.

"Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear?"

Unable to speak, Gino simply nodded in agreement, practically paralyzed with fear.

With that response, Katakuri swiftly tossed him to the ground, allowing the man to scurry to his feet like the vermin he was.

"Good... now get out of my sight."

The Sweet Commander didn't even fully finish his sentence before Gino was already on the run, sprinting toward the nearest port like a madman.

The sight almost brought a smile to Katakuri's face, were it not for his haki predicting your well-timed approach.

"All right, asshole, you wanna try me now!" you spat, bursting from the backroom with bat in hand.

But, to your surprise, your ex-boyfriend was nowhere to be found, only Katakuri remaining within your small lobby.

"Huh? Where'd he go?" you asked, raising a brow in confusion.

"Away," he answered, curtly, crossing his arms over his chest once again.

"Damn... I really wanted to use this on him..."

"Commander Katakuri, sir!" Kota rushed forward, running out from behind the counter before presenting the man your signature box. "Your sample doughnuts, as requested. I apologize for the wait."

Taking them, he offered a thankful nod, carefully tucking them against his side.

"No need. I understand the... odd circumstances," slowly, his gaze turned to you, his expression somehow turning more serious than it already was. "But doughnuts aren't all I came here for."

For the first time in a long time, nerves seemed to be fluttering in his belly, rendering him partially immobile under your soft gaze.

But he was doing what had to be done.

A woman deserved to know she was getting married before the day of her wedding.

And a woman deserved to know why.

"(y/n)... you and I need to talk... Alone."