SHE DOES, MINE
SYNOPSIS: Damian Wayne has never been the kind of man to fall in love halfway. And when he loves, he does it with all the ferocity and devotion of someone who was trained to safeguard what he holds most dear So when the girl he loves shines—he makes sure the world never dims her PAIRINGS: Aged Up! Damian Wayne x Reader TAGS: Alternate Universe, Romance, Fluff, Implied Dick x Kori, Implied Tim x Kon
🜼 :: i've seen too much alpha male content on tiktok i had to write this masterpiece to calm myself
🜼 :: i get that this might be ooc for damian—like i said, i'm not very familiar with the canon material yet—but i don't care because this is my fic and i can do what i want with it
🜼 :: i wanted to post this before part three of my tim fic just 'cause that one isn't quite done yet. i'm not yet satisfied with the way i've written it so this is a little something to have while you guys wait for that one.
There’s something in her—
Something radiant.
It’s not loud or dramatic.
Not desperate or flashy.
It’s just… bright.
The way she walks into a room and transforms it, like someone opened the windows and let the sunlight in—suddenly everything feels warmer, clearer, alive.
Damian fell in love with that brightness.
And the moment he did?
He made it his job to protect it.
One Year Ago
He showed up on her window balcony with a dislocated shoulder and a look that said: don’t ask.
So she didn’t.
She just opened the window, said, “You’re bleeding on my basil,” and went to get the first aid kit.
They weren’t dating then. Not really.
He was Damian Wayne. She was the girl who sat beside him in class—lip gloss always perfect, boots too pretty for Gotham grime, with a knack for saying something ridiculous and making it sound profound.
They met in a Philosophy 101 elective.
He thought she was an idiot for quoting Barbie.
She thought he was repressing sixteen years of rage and probably slept with his fists clenched.
Both were right.
But they also partnered on a debate project, complained about their annoying classmates, and kept running into each other at increasingly inconvenient moments.
He’d show up to class with split knuckles and a stitched lip, and she wouldn’t ask. She’d just pass him an ice cold water bottle, slide her hoodie over for him to use as a makeshift ice pack, and keep talking like nothing was unusual.
One time he came in with blood drying beneath his collar. She only raised an eyebrow, moved her takeout box closer to him, and said, “The garlic bread is still warm.”
When he disappeared for five days and returned, knocking on her door—limping, face paler than usual and shoulder stiff—she didn’t ask where he’d been. She just opened her door, pointed him to the couch, made soup, and put on a movie he once mentioned he enjoyed.
He stopped showing up anywhere else after long nights. Only her window.
They weren’t supposed to fall in love. He wasn’t supposed to fall in love
There were too many unsaid things between them—too much shadow in his world, too much light in hers. He carried weight in his shoulders like he was always bracing for war. She wore joy like armor, all sunshine and clever comebacks, like she could survive anything as long as she stayed golden.
But he kept coming back. For her. For the way she patched him up in glittery pajamas and brewed him coffee the way he liked it. For how she met every argument he made—disarming his logic with a well-placed “actually”—and still managed to be gentle about it, like she was offering correction with a ribbon tied around it.
For the way she made being brilliant look fun—and made him feel things he wasn’t supposed to. Things he didn’t have the time or luxury for.
It drove him insane.
He called her infuriating. She called him dramatic.
He kept coming back. And she let him.
Eventually, he told her. About Robin. About the League. About the fact that he wasn’t just bruised from bar fights, but from chasing actual death through rooftops and gutters.
She blinked. Took a breath. Then asked, “So that’s why you’re so bad at texting back?”
He stared.
She handed him his coffee. “Cool. That explains a lot.”
Now
Damian Wayne doesn’t do anything halfway.
Not in battle. Not in love.
So when it came to her—there was never going to be anything halfway about it.
He calculated the risk, weighed the consequences, and still handed her the keys.
He didn’t accidentally fall in love.
He didn’t casually let her into the Bat-side of his life.
And he’s sure as hell not going to keep living under the same roof as his gossiping, nosy, emotionally invasive brothers when he could be waking up next to her in a place of their own.
So yes.
The only logical next step?
Move out. Take her with him.
“Damian. Baby. Love of my life. Please do not fold my dress like it’s a tactical vest.”
She didn’t even look up from her side of the room, where she was carefully organizing makeup into a padded case like it was crown jewels. Damian, meanwhile, was frowning over her favorite silk dress, currently flattened into a rectangle.
“It wrinkles when you pack it like that,” she said, tone calm but pointed—clearly watching him out of the corner of her eye.
“It’s more space-efficient,” he said flatly, still folding.
“It’s Dior.”
“That doesn’t make it less wrinkle-prone.”
She sighed, standing up and crossing the room to peel the dress from his hands. “This is why you’re not allowed near my closet unsupervised.”
“I rescued a civilian diplomat in less time than it’s taking you to pack makeup,” he muttered, watching as she delicately re-folded the fabric with a practiced roll.
“And yet here you are,” she said softly, “ still showing up for me anyway.”
He flies her to the new place—not because it’s far, but because he likes the way her eyes light up when he does things like that. Private jet. Window seat. Her favorite drink already waiting.
The residence is technically still in Gotham.
Discreet. Reinforced. High above the noise.
A penthouse—three levels of clean lines and curated light.
The kitchen looks like it was designed for a cooking show.
There’s library already holds all her annotated books, shelved just the way she likes them.
Their bedroom has blackout curtains, soft sheets, and her favorite throw blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed.
She’s silent for a long moment. Then:
“You decorated.”
“Tt. I’m not a savage.”
The adjustment, the rhythm, the quiet luxury of building something together.
It doesn’t happen all at once. But the space eventually starts to feel like them—like a home.
Damian, ever precise, takes to domesticity the way he does combat: intensely, instinctively, and with startling dedication.
He remembers—too clearly—those nights she wordlessly cleaned the blood from his knuckles, nudged a warm bowl of fresh soup toward him, handed him a fresh shirt and didn’t ask questions.
Back then, he hadn’t known how to say thank you. So now, he shows it in the only way he knows how: by making her life gentler wherever he can. By handling the sharp corners before she gets near them. By protecting her from the quiet exhaustion she never complains about.
It starts small.
She’s humming—soft, distracted—while folding towels on a quiet Sunday afternoon.
Damian walks in.
Pauses. Frowns slightly.
“Beloved.”
“Hmm?”
“You shouldn’t be doing that.”
“It’s laundry. I’m not battling Deathstroke.”
“Still.”
Two days later, every piece of clothing she owned—including ones she didn’t remember buying—was folded, hung, and steam-pressed in perfectly color-coded rows.
No explanation.
Just a silent housekeeper named Marta, who appears twice a week like clockwork.
“Why?” she asks later, a little amused.
“Because you were humming,” he says simply. “And your voice is better when you’re not tired.”
She doesn’t cook. Unless you count heating water for tea.
Every morning, she wakes up to a pre-set breakfast bar tailored to her weekly cravings.
Avocados? Already sliced.
Eggs, soft-boiled for exactly six minutes? Naturally.
Chocolate-dipped strawberries on Tuesdays? Of course.
She once jokingly asked for pancakes shaped like bats.
The plate was waiting the next morning—complete with tiny edible batarangs.
“You know I can cook, right?” she once mumbled, more puzzled than insistent.
Damian, without looking up from his tablet, “You could also write a thesis in glitter gel pen. Doesn’t mean you should.”
She doesn’t grocery shop. She’s never had to.
The fridge is always stocked. The pantry never dips below half. The fruit is always fresh, the snacks never stale, and somehow, everything she loves appears just before she realizes she’s craving it.
The exact brand of instant ramen she lives on during final?
Local lemonade she swears tastes better than store-bought?
Her favorite brand of oat milk that always sells out?
It’s just there. Always. As if the universe anticipated it
—or Damian Wayne.
He’d hired a private grocer before they even moved in. Arranged deliveries on a rotating schedule. Commissioned a smart inventory system that flagged replacements before she noticed anything missing.
There’s no grocery list taped to the fridge, no scribbled reminders on the counter, no panicked “we’re out of milk” moment. It just… never happens.
“Did you go to the store?” she asked once, squinting at the restocked shelf of her favorite jam.
“No,” Damian said. “The store comes to us.”
She doesn’t clean.
Not because she’s lazy.
Because Damian has built a life where she simply doesn’t have to.
The housekeeper arrives exactly when they’re out.
The vacuum runs on a silent schedule while they sleep.
There’s a scent diffuser system that releases calming scents like warm vanilla and fresh linen.
The kinds of scents that say: You’re home.
She tried to vacuum once.
He unplugged the cord without a word, handed her a cup of tea, and delegated the task to Marta.
“This feels excessive,” she said once, laughing.
“No,” Damian answered. “It’s called priorities.”
“Priorities?”
“Yes. You have better things to do than chase dust bunnies.”
She huffed a laugh. “Like what?”
“Being brilliant. Annoying me. Tending to your garden of plants you call your children.”
“Your attention is a resource I refuse to waste on dust.” he said simply.
The only time she ever picked up a broom was to threaten Jason with it.
She asked him once.
“Is this a power thing?” she’d asked, curled in his lap on their couch.
“Are you trying to take care of me because you think I can’t?”
He had looked at her then, calm and deadly sincere.
“No. I’m taking care of you because you shouldn’t have to waste your time doing menial things. Because your time is valuable. Because your mind is extraordinary. Because I can.”
She didn’t answer right away. Just rested her head against his shoulder, eyes soft.
“You know I’d do the same for you, right?”
“I know,” he murmured, brushing his fingers through her hair. “That’s why I won’t let you beat me to it.”
“You protect the city,” she tells him once. “And I don’t even do the dishes.”
He looks at her like she’s lost her mind.
“You protect me.”
He said it like a fact.
And she didn’t laugh. Didn’t roll her eyes or argue like she usually might.
It was ridiculous. Over the top. The kind of thing people say in movies, in poems, in love songs whispered between verses.
But the thing about Damian Wayne was—
To him, her happiness wasn’t a luxury. It was a metric. A criteria for what was worth her time, her effort, her energy.
If it drained her, it was cut. If it bored her, it was handled. If it made her pause too long before smiling, it was gone by morning.
“But Damian—”
“If it doesn’t make you happy,” he said, quietly, forehead pressed to hers, “it doesn’t belong in your day.”
One of the things she does do—without fail—is wait up.
Damian came back with blood on his sleeve and exhaustion in his bones. The patrol had gone longer than expected, and the gash across his arm told her more than any debrief ever could.
She met him at the balcony window, arms crossed, your expression sharp with worry poorly disguised as irritation.
“We are having words,” she said firmly.
“I neutralized a threat—” he started, voice hoarse.
“No,” she interrupted, stepping forward and grabbing his uninjured wrist. “We are having nourishment, then words. In that order.”
He grunted something unintelligible, but didn’t pull away. Let her guide him out of his boots. Let her steer him to the kitchen. Let her fuss over him even as he rolled his eyes and muttered that he was fine.
Damian Wayne might be a soldier, might be lethal, might have faced down warlords and monsters—
But in her hands, he was just a man who needed soup, stitches, and someone to tell him not to bleed on the countertop.
And she always did. Every time.
“You disobeyed a direct girlfriend command,” she said, dabbing antiseptic on his scrapes and bruises. “I should revoke your forehead kisses.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” he grunted.
She simply leaned in, kissed his brow—gentle, lingering, a silent promise—and whispered, “Next time you come home bleeding, I will.”
It makes her happy, he knows.
To help.
To protect him the way he protects her.
To be part of this secret thing that is his, and now, theirs.
And because he has her…
He trains harder. Fights harder. Smarter. Cleaner.
He fights with her voice echoing in his ear, and with the knowledge that if he slips—if he falters—it will scare her.
“You did good tonight,” she says after every patrol. “Come home safe. That’s all I want.”
So he does.
Because she keeps him steady.
Keeps him from going too far, from losing himself in the mission.
From the silence that used to follow him home.
It was the first time she’d ever hosted anything in their penthouse.
She’d sent the invite on impulse, halfway through raiding the pantry for snacks. Damian hadn’t said anything when he saw the group chat name pop up. He only raised a brow and muttered something about “surviving one evening of meddling.”
The Gotham Partners Support Group™ hangout? snacks, drinks, and possibly unsolicited love advice
KORI: absolutely, i will bring flowers!! KON: on my way as long as no one makes me play charades DICK: lies, you love it
She laughed out loud reading it, already half-buzzing with excitement.
Kori’s heels click against the polished marble, echoing softly through the open space.
Kon lets out a low whistle when he sees the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Dick stops in front of the kitchen island, eyebrows raised. “Is that real marble?”
Tim pretends not to be impressed, but his fingers haven’t stopped tracing the edge of the built-in espresso bar for five solid minutes.
There’s music—soft. Lighting—warm, romantic. Scents—floral and calming.
And in the middle of it all is her, radiant in pink silk shorts and a cardigan she didn’t button up all the way, offering fresh lemonade in glasses that chill themselves.
Kon accepts his with both hands, eyes wide as he takes in the curated calm of the space.
“This is what you live like?” he asks her, somewhere between awe and disbelief.
Tim doesn’t look up from where he’s adding a lemon slice to his own glass. “This is what Damian insisted she live like.”
Kon whistles low. “Damn. I get it now.”
Kon finds the in-house massage chair. Within seconds, he’s flat on his back, eyes closed, muttering something about never leaving.
Dick discovers the balcony garden—rows of herbs, sun-warmed terracotta, and a vine-draped bench with a throw pillow. He whistles low, brushing his fingers over the rosemary. “Didn’t know Damian had a green thumb.”
“He doesn’t,” she calls from the kitchen. “I do. He just bought the balcony.”
Kori, meanwhile, opens the walk-in pantry—and promptly gasps. “You have an entire section just for different kinds of honey??”
“I like options.”, she beams.
Jason hasn’t even shown up yet, and already the place is buzzing.
Kon’s half-asleep in the massage chair, murmuring threats to anyone who tries to make him move. Dick is crouched in the garden corner, dramatically sniffing potted herbs and assigning them names with far too much confidence. Kori’s opened three jars of honey for “taste-testing purposes” and is now trying to convince Damian to try the lavender one on toast.
Tim is loitering by the drinks counter, drink in one hand, the other typing furiously on his phone, pretending not to laugh at the chaos around him.
And through it all, she’s just laughing—at ease, perfectly unbothered—as Damian leans against the kitchen island behind her, watching it all unfold with a look that says: this is his personal hell and also he’s never been happier.
They gather around the low table in the lounge—pillows everywhere, soft throws tossed over laps, bowls of popcorn and fancy chips within reach, half-finished drinks sweating on coasters. Laughter echoes off the high ceilings, warm and unhurried.
Kori nudges her with a grin, eyes sparkling.
“So you really don’t cook?”
“Nope.”
“Or clean?”
“Not once.”
“And Damian doesn’t mind?”
Before she can answer, Damian—seated beside her, legs crossed, perfectly composed, fingers idly brushing her knee—scoffs.
“Mind? I’d be offended if she tried.”
Jason, fork in hand, lazily gestures toward her as he leans back into the cushions.
“So what do you even do in the penthouse all day if you’re not cooking, cleaning, shopping, or doing laundry?”
The question wasn’t malicious. Just curious. Playful, even.
Damian answers before she can—calm, certain, unapologetic.
“She studies, she writes, she drives me insane by reciting musicals.”
Tim snorted into his drink. “You’re spoiling her.”
“She deserves it,” Damian said simply.
Jason raised a brow. “What’s she ever gonna do if you’re not around to handle everything?”
“Thrive,” Damian repeated—cold, final. His gaze didn’t waver. “Because I’m building her a life where she can.”
Damian leans back, calm and unaffected. “I don’t understand why her not doing chores surprises you. My mother never lifted a hand to sweep a floor in her life. And no one dared question her capability.”
Dick raised a brow. “Your mother also runs an empire of assassins.”
Damian doesn’t miss a beat. “Exactly. And she never wasted time on tasks that diluted her strength.”
Because Damian Wayne may live under Bruce’s roof, fight under the Bat’s symbol, and protect Gotham’s streets—
But the foundation of his worldview?
That was all Talia al Ghul.
“I grew up watching people serve my mother. Not because she demanded it, but because her time was valuable. You don’t train the world’s most dangerous woman to hand-wash her robes. You let her focus on what makes her extraordinary.”
His gaze flicked to her, sitting beside him—pink silk and soft joy wrapped in confidence.
“So I made sure my beloved—who is, in her own right, extraordinary—lives the same way.”
Kori nodded slowly. Kon glanced her way, thoughtful.
Damian spoke without hesitation. “Why would I ask the person I love to waste time on things I can pay others to handle—when she could spend that time with me, pursuing her passions, or simply existing in peace?”
Dick leaned back, arms crossed, mulling it over. “So it’s not spoiling her.”
“It’s honoring her,” Damian corrected, voice calm but absolute.
Jason scoffed, grinning. “And here I thought you were just whipped.”
Damian raised a brow. “Oh, I am. Fully. Willingly.” A pause. “You should try it.”
Everyone stared at him for a moment. Then:
Kon let out a low whistle. “Honestly? I get it. She glows in this place. Like she owns the world.”
“She does,” Damian replied, calm and certain. “Mine.”
And somehow, that was the final punctuation.
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