fatassbetrayer

Damian, who was prone to being harsh with his words, but had never gone out of his way to hurt you on purpose. You had even considered it a charm of his, because there had always been something tender laced within his actions, that always spoke louder than his words.

When he quietly swapped his plate with yours, a quiet consideration without ever once looking up, having memorised your allergies without you realising.

When he subtly placed his hand behind your back in galas, chasing off vultures who aimed for your status, with a silent glare that places you under his direct protection.

When he carried you all the way to his bedroom after a bad sprain on your ankle from a bad fall down the stairs in his manor, with biting remarks and a tender caress over your swollen skin as he applied an ice-pack, worry creased into his brow.

Was it all a ruse?

The wound is only inflicting on itself with every memory torn apart and searched for any evidence, any signs for his dislike. You trusted Damian, which is why it hurt so much to hear him talk about you this way. As if those small moments were all mere inconveniences for him, that burdened him. You had assumed he at least reciprocated your friendship, but now… if only he had faced you instead, with an honest willingness to express how uncomfortable he was.

If it was space Damian wanted, he should have communicated it with you. Instead of mouthing it to his brothers behind your back, without allowing for your voice of input to clarify on the boundaries he wanted.

You don’t notice time passing, standing in the corner of the hallway, your heels digging into the soles of your feet—till you felt a heavy hand on your shoulder. You flinch, brushing the sudden grip off only to find Damian in your swarmed vision. Concern flickers in the green flecks of his eyes… or was it annoyance? The ability to read through his mask, it feels as if it’s been an illusion all along.

“Spaced out?” Damian taunts, one brow cocked at your strange behaviour. "I told you not to come."

I told you not to come. You’re not sure what is the appropriate response, not when you feel a clog in the back of your throat. You never had to think twice on your words before, not in front of him.

“Tired.” You admit, because at the very least, that word carried a semblance of truth. You’ve never felt more exhausted in your life, and the culprit was standing in front of you, completely unfazed. “I think I should head home.”

His eyes widen imperceptibly, not expecting you to take his words so literally. You were never one to skip out on a dance before a gala has ended, no matter how boring the event was. Often, you’d drag him by the arm as your partner, only because the look on his face was easily the best memory of the night. At least, it should’ve been.

His lips part, ready to form his signature 'I told you so', but your ghastly expression makes him hesitate. He clears his throat, offering his hand and slotting himself by your side. “Very well. I’ll escort you.”

“No.” It blurts out quick, desperate.

His surprise slips through his impassive expression. His hand still outstretched—freezes, doubt etched into the crease of his mouth.

“You should be with your family.” You reply, straining a smile. “I won’t take up more of your time.”

It was meant to sound considerate, but the quickness of your tongue made it sound like a solemn promise.

His eyes narrow in puzzlement but you’ve already turned, moving out of his reach towards the exit. He doesn’t make an attempt to stop you, and it hurts that maybe, part of you still hoped he would. To prove his statement wrong, that you mattered more than being a nuisance.

You’ll give him what he wants. Space. Maybe you needed it too, to understand the emotions weighing on you. This hurt—betrayal—shock, you needed time to process it. To reevaluate what Damian Wayne really means to you.

Damian hasn’t heard from you in two days. In the past forty-eight hours, he has tracked your location to ensure you weren’t kidnapped, or lost your phone. Both suspicions were refuted, and the only anomaly that remains is your uncharacteristic silence ever since that night at the gala.

His gaze flickers back to the opened message channel, where his text ‘Have you arrived?’ remains unread. Running a hand through his locks, this may be Damian's first—for his conclusions to come up empty. His text was a mere front, an opening to ask about your wellbeing. His confidence in your reply was absolute, and he never once considered ending up in this standstill. Despite being apart from your constant presence, he finds that you’re somehow occupying more of his mental capacity.

He should’ve went after you the moment he saw that strange, desolate expression on your face when he found you, hidden alone in the corner. Your solemn attitude rang caution bells, concern—which is why he offered to bring you back. It was instinctive, natural. He never expected your rejection. The sting caught him off-guard, words of concern trapped in his throat. He didn’t master the skill of comfort as easily as you did, with sweet, honey words easily coming to your forefront.

He’s overthinking the situation, analysing it till the details have gone runny in his hands—blurry aside from the clear vision of your back turned towards him. Still, there was something about your goodbye… that left him strangely unsettled.

"There you go again." He hears your teasing voice, already memorised in his mind—a poke of your finger against his cheek. "Overanalysing the situation. Just ask me, Dami."

He shakes his head, trying to dissuade the many possibilities that ended in zero conclusions. It’s not a big matter. Today was one of the rare occurrences where his biology classes coincided with yours, leaving a lunch break where he could demand for answers. He’s sure that once he sees your usual, brightened expression—the discomfort in his chest will disappear.

Damian waits with strained patience outside your lecture hall. Various eyes are casted onto him—a rare, Gotham Times worthy sight of a lone Wayne waiting for some mysterious figure, but the attention is none of his concern. His eyes are locked on you instead, watching you pack your bag through the open gap of the door, the AC blasting a cold breeze against his nose bridge.

You’re laughing at some unheard joke from this distance, and it should soothe his worries—to see you refreshed compared to your exhaustion two days ago. He understands better than anyone how exhausting those galas are, which is why he tried to dissuade you from attending in the first place. Still, you had insisted on accompanying him, much to his chagrin. He at least hoped you didn't flunk your midterms today by overexerting yourself, despite his previous warnings, or else he really wouldn't be able to restrain himself from saying I told you so.

All fleeting thoughts of teasing you are discarded at the sight of an unknown blond male, chatting you up and making you laugh as hard as you did. His foot taps in a repeating manner, discomfort swarming in his chest the longer he watched, before catching his own fretting and forcing himself to stay still. This unknown variable is not a problem. Once you spot him, you'll come to his side instead—naturally.

This reassurance paces his impatience, waiting for you to notice him as you made it towards the door. His chest rises, anticipation creeping in as your head raises—and meets his gaze.

You smile, like you always do, and it has the same application of a soothing balm over the minor migraine he's formed from over-checking your coordinates. Waiting for you to come to him, his lips part with a ready excuse for why he came to find you instead of meeting at your usual lunch spot.

Only for you to walk right past him.

He blinks, unable to process what just happened. Impossibly in a single moment, he became invisible to your eye. His mind works in overdrive, unable to piece the facts together that you just walked past him. The probabilities calculated don't align with reality, but his body reacts faster. His hand reaches out, grabbing onto your wrist impulsively—right as you made your turn towards the hallway.

You stumble, gaze flickering down to his grip in surprise. “...Damian?” You blink as if stunned, like you hadn’t just walked past him like he was a ghost.

“You haven’t responded to my messages.” He blurts out with almost immediate regret. Now, his position comes off as a confrontation, and that blond is staring at him with vague amusement. Pathetic, he feels shame burn in the back of his throat. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

You stare at him unblinkingly, before your mouth parts in acknowledgment. “Ah, that. Tim should've updated you, did he not?”

Tim. A heated frustration arises in his chest, but he can’t figure out what exactly is stoking the fire. The realisation that you prioritised Tim's messages over his, or your strange nonchalance to his concern. “You’ve been conversing with Drake?”

“I needed his help with finding a new collection—he’s also a fan of the series.” You shrug. "With the midterms and his constant updates about the shipment from Japan, I must’ve missed yours."

“Your business with Drake isn’t my concern.” He spits out, harsher than intended. An uncomfortable slither of emotions is writhing in his chest, and the thought that you and Tim have been conversing in secret all along these past two days, bonding to something he wasn’t privy to... it was irritating.

Why had you gone to Tim instead? If you had asked him, he could've easily gotten you the collection.

“What is our relationship then?” You implore casually, eyeing his reaction. “If your concern is so situational."

Whatever he was expecting, he didn’t expect that. His lashes flutter, his composure all but ruined as his mind tries and fails to merge the you he knows, and the you in front of him. You don't seem angry. So, why was he beginning to feel a sense of dread?

“Weren’t you the one who always decided the labels for us?” He asks after a moment, his voice rough against the unexpected impact of your question.

Your expression finally flickers, disappointment slipping through the cracks of your smile. His response has displeased you, even he could read into that.

“I’ll let you answer for us this time.” You reply, and it’s distant—cold. Unlike you. “You can choose whichever you deem fit.”

“Wait.” His rushed voice sounds desperate even to his own ears. The sight of your back turned towards him is something he never wanted to see again. His gaze flickers between you and the blond, questioning. “Are we not supposed to have lunch together?”

You turn back, staring at him with an unreadable expression. Your smile reappears, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m having lunch with Lawrence, so it’s okay. You don’t need to accompany me.”

Damian views the world akin to a battlefield. There are allies, enemies, changes in fronts and positions. He has fought hard to feel deserving of every position in his life, whether it had been his grandfather's heir, his father's blood son, or Robin. Right now, he feels as if his position beside you has been ripped out of his hands. Accompany? Is that how you saw it, like some sort of duty imposed on him that you could dismiss him of whenever you pleased?

"See you around, Dami." Even his nickname given by you comes off flat from your tongue. As if you were going through the motions, interacting with him from behind a wall that's suddenly been constructed without his notice.

You weren't completely ignoring him like he suspected, but this distance... feels much worse.

There was something, very obviously wrong.

You aren’t sitting beside him. In the seat reserved for you, that’s meant for you.

It had been set from the very start, maybe initially because the two of you were the only children ever-present during family business dinners... and later, with your constant chattering that the adults found had an amusing effect on him.

He's gotten used to exchanging cuts of his meals with yours, or swapping his glass if his had more ice cubes in them, because you liked your beverages freezing cold. Used to you whispering unrelated stories and jokes into his ear when his father talks business with your father, and he has to resist a quirk up his lips because it would mean that you won in your little game to crack his exterior. Now, it's as if an entire routine has been disrupted, and Damian was a man of routine.

He watches you, eyes like a hawk over your every movement, trying to detect any pause in this unreachable mask of yours. You slice your steak without fault, placing your cut between your lips as you nod along to your father's words, seated at his right hand. You don't blink an eye in his direction, and he's tempted to walk right over and drag you out of that very chair.

To corner you in a space without prying eyes, and... what? He swallows dryly, forcing himself to look back down at his untouched meal. What could he say without sounding like a lunatic?

That he suspects that he's done something wrong merely because you've switched seats today? Or that you've been skipping out on lunches with him. Or all the way back to that cursed gala, when you had refused his hand to escort you back home.

Another troubled ‘Tt’ slips past his gritted teeth, and that finally reaches your ears.

When he meets your curious gaze, a silly gust of hope appears so quickly in his chest at the luck that he's finally caught your attention. He raises a brow, a silent question, gesturing to head to a private room with the tilt of his head. You've always understood his silent words better than anyone else did.

Which is why it shocks him when you merely cast your gaze back to your father, leaving his question unanswered. He wasn't deluding himself in this occasion. You're clearly rejecting his gesture, pretending as if you never saw it.

His grip tightens, crumpling into the table cloth, shame colouring his features. He has to put an end to this. Regardless of your coy act, he knows you. Maybe you had a bet with one of his brothers—who knows what schemes they've configured after their constant interrogations during the gala, successfully running a fuse on his temper.

Or maybe, he’s displeased you with an inadequate response. You had mentioned it before, the term 'labels'. Honestly, he never once considered trapping you in something so jarringly concrete. Bonds, human connections—they were always needlessly complicated.

What you meant to him, it expanded beyond the limitations of languages. You, who saw past his sharp exterior and pushed him beyond his limits, and him, who found himself staying despite every rational thought pleading him not to expose his weakness so easily out in the open.

It was simply natural from the moment he met you, instinctive to remain by your side just as you always found a place to slot beside his. Terrifyingly easy, that he refused to let anyone see the softness you evoked out of him. It was meant for you, and only you. Now, the strike of your absence, despite being only a few feet away from him, is running a deeper cut into his conscience, tracing back to the questions that's been bombarded on him by his siblings.

But—what does she mean to you, Dames?

What would your life look like without her?

In a desperate attempt to brush off questions that aroused a panic he had never felt before, he came up with quick, venom-filled words to dissuade his brothers. Oddly enough, he never wished to reveal what you meant to him, not aloud.

It made it feel too real, too vulnerable. As if the world could swallow you whole if he admitted just how irreplaceable you were, that he couldn't envision a life without you by his side. His grandfather had made it so—that any weaknesses should be removed from its roots.

He did not want to remove you from his life, so you are not his weakness.

He's tempted to curse his brothers to oblivion. If only they hadn't sprung such obnoxious questions, then these thoughts wouldn't be invading him, and the universe wouldn't have punished him for it.

He had already felt the brimming inevitability of something bound to go wrong the moment he was faced with vulnerability. If it had been anyone else, he would have retreated in a similar manner as he always had. To not show weakness, to prove that he was above silly affections and attachments to others—but it's you.

He has to fix this. Whatever it is that's wrong. If only you would look at him, then maybe you'd see his desperation too and let him in.

Damian doesn't receive an opening till the next gala. A cruel twist of fate the universe has decided to play on him, as if openly mocking his distress, to end up right back where the entire fiasco started.

He's barely kept himself sane. In these past two weeks, you've only responded to his messages—horrible attempts of reconnection, with mere one word replies, and visited the manor to hang out with his other siblings. When he had caught you lounging on Tim's bed, ranting about the new series you both were so invested in, he nearly tore the door straight off its hinges.

He craves for your silly rants during lunches. Your presence dipping the corner of his bed as you sketched doodles of his family in their vigilante costumes. Your warm laughter that soothes a long night of patrol.

He misses you... terribly.

It doesn't help that you're a vision tonight, only worsening the trembling ache in his chest. Dressed in your favourite colour that make you so strikingly vivid, already seared into his mind as he stares unblinkingly, he doesn't realise he's been holding his breath till your heels click with an ever-increasing volume towards him. Your nearing approach is what finally snaps him out of his daze, and his hand immediately shifts. Out of mere habit, for you to hold onto his arm as always.

Your hand doesn't lift to meet his, remaining stuck to your side. It pushes him off balance, and he has to force himself to respond when you greet him.

"You...look beautiful." He admits, his voice a weakened imitation of itself. He hates this, and you look—you are beautiful. So much so that it hurts. Even if he tried to reach his hand out for you, he has the suspicions that you’ll only back away from his touch.

"Thank you." You smile politely, and the tone of your voice, practiced and composed, stings.

His lips part, ready to pull you aside and ask what he has done wrong. He is ready to do whatever you ask, to plead for forgiveness so long as that look in your eyes finally fades, anything to get you back. The real you, not hidden behind cruel distance and polite masks.

A familiar, dreadful face cuts in before he can. Damian’s gaze hardens, trained on the blond that's been trailing after you since two weeks ago, who currently has his hand outstretched for you. His scowl falters, panic swarming his instincts—when your own hand reaches out to take the stranger's invitation.

He utters your name, a weak pulse forming a lump in his throat.

You turn back, casting him a quick glance like his existence was an after-thought. "Lawrence offered to dance with me earlier. We'll catch up later, Dami."

His chest seizes completely. He doesn't process the alteration of his own steps, only finding your wrist captured between his fingers, his shoe stepped in between the gap of you and your dancing partner, functioning as an opposing barrier.

“I’m afraid—” His voice cuts in, deadly calm. “—she already has a partner for tonight.”

Your head whips around, unable to hide your shock. His jaw clenches, eyes narrowed at the suitor who's dared to try for your hand. Perhaps it's his building paranoia stemming from your continued absence, but the sight of someone taking you away by your willing hand is truly driving him mad.

It doesn't take long before Lawrence registers the message Damian sends with a single, warning glare. Hands off.

Finally able to breathe once the bastard's been chased off, he turns back to meet your gaze and is surprised to find the barely concealed anger in your eyes. You've never looked at him this way before.

That same discomfort that's plagued him constantly for the past two weeks builds in his chest at the thought that you even entertained the possibility of dancing with Lawrence. Damian had always been your dancing partner, no matter how much he claimed to dislike partaking in galas like these. If anyone was going to deal with sore feet from the accidental missteps of your heels, it will always be him.

“Is that the label you’ve decided on?” You ask, the first words uttered without that strange, distant tone you've used before. “Partners?”

“Does it displease you?” He presses, trying to gauge your reaction. “I will change it to whatever you prefer.”

You purse your lips, conflict arising in your gaze. “I don’t understand you.”

He exhales lowly. “I should say the same for you. You are the one who’s—” His jaw twitches, desperation slipping past his façade. “—drifting away.” From me, why are you acting as if I don’t matter—as if this doesn’t matter?

He shouldn't have drank all that wine from earlier.

Alcohol doesn’t affect him, not with its supposed dizzying sensation and loss of control when recklessly consumed, but it did make him bolder, his tongue sharper. Yet, seeing you trying to evade him—out of his reach, he found himself doing something he sworn to never do—being impulsive.

At the lack of your response, his hand still wrapped around your wrist tugs gently, a quiet plea for you to say something. He feels useless, small—and you're the only thing he desperately needs. To help him make sense of the chaos that's consumed his every waking thought, that's plunged and follow him into his dreams.

Eventually, you sigh. "We should talk."

A small hope reignites at this chance you've given him. It's automatic, already mapped out in his head as he guides you to an empty room on the second floor. You don't rip away from his hold at the very least, but from your strained steps, you're not ecstatic to be with him either.

Shielded from prying eyes once he shuts the door, you're quick to pull your hand out of his hold. His own mask fractures at the loss of your warmth—but when he forces his gaze away from your disconnected hands, he finally sees you shed your own to reveal your honest expression. You look tired, a mirrored reflection of the agony that’s been inflicted on him these past two weeks.

You settle at the loveseat, head resting on your palm as if the very weight of your unreadable thoughts have consumed you, leaving you exhausted. If only he could reach in and unravel them himself, to understand the change in you.

“Drifting away?” Your voice muses at his words, and it lands like a punch. Do you truly not understand what you've done to him? “You’ve seen me the entire week.”

He shakes his head adamantly, coming to stand before you, neck craned down to face your averting gaze. “I won't be easily fooled. You’re avoiding me. Standing in places you’re not supposed to be.”

It sounds childish. God, he was being driven insane the longer you stood there, finally in his sights and he just couldn’t stop drinking you in.

“Opting for the furthest seat. Skipping lunch breaks. Accepting another dance partner. Ignoring my messages. Not being by my side.” It pours out without stopping, even as he feels warmth burn at the back of his neck, reaching his ears. “Your behaviour has changed. Even when you're close, you’re out of reach.”

“And you say I’m the clingy one?” Your expression flickers, a mix of hurt and solemn amusement.

His brow creases. “When have I ever—”

His own voice echoes in his mind, in a taunting afterthought. “She’s clingy.”

The gala. The interrogations. Your sudden change in behaviour. You overheard his callous comment. His reckless mistake.

He calls out your name weakly. The gravity of his mistake—it feels as if the entire universe is collapsing onto him.

You let out a sigh, and the acceptance in it terrifies him. As if you’ve already prepared yourself in these past two weeks, to fully be out of his life.

“I overheard you at the charity gala.” Your admission coincides with his guess, and your unwavering gaze leaves him stripped of all his defenses.

It's dawning on him in quickening alarm, with how each passing day, you must've lost hope in him. That his careless words must've wounded you deeply, leaving you to rightfully pull away. That he is a complete and utter idiot, who has hurt the one person he swore to protect.

"Do you feel less smothered? After all, wasn’t space what you wanted?” You ask, and there is no anger in your voice—only apathy. "It was what I needed."

The admission silences him. His heart is thudding so hard that he hears the rush of blood in his eardrums.

No. It wasn’t what he wanted. Your absence has ruined him, and it wasn’t the faults of his brothers, or revealing his vulnerability. It was all on him.

“Isn’t it better for us both, if we kept our distance?” You propose. “Since we’ve gone past the line of hurting each other. It’ll be convenient for the both of us, and less burdensome for you.”

Your calm demeanour is a bigger slap to his face than you shouting at him, demanding for him to apologise or to make things right. In the face of your acceptance, it’s as if you expected that this was the outcome he wanted.

He has a paralysing realisation, that if he doesn't beg for your forgiveness, you'll never come and seek for his repentance ever again. With every passing second, he feels time running out of his hands as your expression closes at the lack of his response, ready to abandon the room. Abandon him.

Desperation strips Damian bare of his pride when his knees hit the ground, landing harshly before you in the lowest form of begging. He doesn't give you time to process what he’s done before his fingers gently wrap around yours, caressing them with a firm grip.

“Damian!" Your expression warps in shock, meeting the intensity seared in gaze. "What are you doing? Get up—"

“I was wrong.” He admits without hesitation. “All the words I said, not a single one of them holds the truth.”

Your shock dampens, and he sees the barest hurt displayed on your expression. It pushes him to strain past his walls, to keep speaking if it meant not seeing your back turned towards him.

“You asked me to define us once, by labels.” He recalls. “I am not good with words. It has always been—difficult. To understand when to push further and when to fall back. To not act as if every situation is a death sentence if I bared my vulnerabilities out in the open, but—I know that my faults are not an excuse for my actions."

"I have broken your trust and left you feeling unsure of your position in my life, and I must correct it. You are not clingy, or a burden. You are the most important person in my life."

“The lies were nothing more than a cover... my brothers had caught onto my attachment and wouldn't give up on their interrogations.” He admits through the grit of his teeth. “They were always more observant of what I tried to push down, and my behaviour around you—it was obvious that you had an effect on me. It's as if you are the center that I gravitate towards, pulling me in towards your every whim and desire.”

“They tried to help me make sense of it, and I panicked. Selfishly, I wanted to keep my weakness a secret only known to the promises I've made for you in my mind. My fondness for you felt like a curse if I revealed it.” He whispers. “I had always assumed that what you held closest to your heart is what you should guard the most."

“I uttered those foolish words because I had assumed that if only I knew the extent of my devotion towards you, you would be safe. That we could continue as we always had, without declaring a target on your back, so that the world wouldn’t rip you away so easily.”

“I was a coward.” He murmurs, pleading in earnest. “I have mistreated you and taken you for granted. I tried to convince myself that lies were better than revealing the truth, which is that I have always coveted to by your side."

"I am deeply sorry. For ever making you feel that you're anything less than.” He breaks. "That couldn't be further from the extent to which I adore you. To which I need you. I can’t imagine a life without you, so—"

"Please—" He's never been taught to beg, but he can't lose you. Even if it takes him years, decades to regain your trust, it doesn't matter. "—it is selfish of me to beg for your forgiveness, but I will do anything. I will explain the full truth to my family. I will take on any punishment but—I can’t lose you. These past two weeks have been torture, and... I miss you."

Finally, after his chest is heaving with the burn of his confessions and a lack of oxygen, does he quiet. In the face of your coming judgement, he has never been more nervous in his life.

"Damian." You mutter. "I have not forgiven you."

His breath hitches, and despite all he's done to expect this outcome, he couldn't have been more unprepared for the impact of the blow. His hands falter around yours, and his knees have gone weak.

"W—What do you want me to change?" He can barely hear his own voice over his rapturing heartbeat. "Is it something I said? My behaviour, my actions—I can improve. I can fix this."

You give him a look that signals that you're not done. He forces himself to quiet, lips pursed as he slowly—painfully waits.

"In these past two weeks..." You admit. "I really tried to reevaluate what you mean to me."

"I understand you, more than anyone else has because you've let me in." You answer. "But just because I see you—and I know that's a vulnerability you don't easily show to people—doesn't mean that you get an easier way out."

"You did hurt me. I'm acknowledging that, and because I care about you, it hurts even worse." You reveal. "It wasn’t fair that you brought up such harsh words to describe me behind my back, and it’s not going to be something I can brush over easily, no matter the reason. I don't think we can fully go back to how it was before, not without moments where I will feel doubt. That's a trust you have to rebuild, not just with one big apology, but through your words and actions, every single day."

He nods, hanging onto every word you're willing to give him, even as your vocal admission of him hurting you feels like a vicious whip.

"But I am willing to give you that chance—to heal the hurt you've caused me, to prove that you won't pull away when you're scared I'm getting too close." You declare. "I'm giving you a chance to fix your mistake, because I know you, Dami. I know you'll keep your promises, and that you have a heart. One that's willing to change."

He lets out a shaking breath, and he finds your fingers caressing over his in a gentle touch. Not forgiving him completely, but reassuring in its warmth.

"I—" Left bare after pouring his heart out, the adrenaline rush that came from his full vulnerability has finally left his chaos-ensued mind blank.

From the very moment you had entered his life, it was an undeniable fact he had only grown to understand, to not fear—and it was that he loved you. The same distant concept he once viewed through the multiple perspectives of others, now existing right there in his beating heart. Yet, it didn't feel right in this moment. Not when you were giving him this chance to rebuild the trust he has broken. He will wait, for as long as you'll let him, he will cherish anything you'll give him.

"I know." You whisper, silently reading what he’s trying to convey through a single glance. "We'll figure us out together."

He sighs, head falling against your lap, lips brushing over your intertwined fingers—a soft, imperceptible kiss to your knuckles. It's natural, instinctive, everything he could ever want. To rest in your presence that’s finally allowed him to breathe again, surrounded by your warmth and voice.

"I thought you hated dancing." You muse.

"Not when it's with you." He admits quietly. "I haven't trained myself to bear the crushing of your heels, just for someone to take my place."

"I can't believe you called me the clingy one." Your amusement doesn't displease him, not in the slightest.

"Perhaps I shall reinstate our relationship to my brothers then." He murmurs. "I'm sure they'll have a field day once I admit that I'm the one who can't bear to be without you."

Finally, he hears the familiarity of your laugh. He has missed that.

"I'd like to see that."

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dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

He's towering even down there, his broad shoulders filling the space between your legs, making you feel small and in control as you tower over him from your perch. You've been tormenting this quiet nerd for weeks—tripping him in the halls, stealing his books, whispering insults in his ear during class—but right now, with him kneeling like this, he looks pathetic and hot all at once, completely at your mercy.

“What are you waiting for, dork?” you sneer, uncrossing your legs slowly and spreading them wide, your panties already soaked. “You think you can handle this? Prove it, or I'll make sure everyone knows what a loser you are.” Phainon's cheeks burn red, but his hands shake as they slide up your thighs, rough palms contrasting your smooth skin.

He pushes your skirt higher, hooks his fingers into your panties, and yanks them down, the fabric sticking to your wetness before peeling away.

“ I... I don't know if—“ he starts, but you cut him off by grabbing a fistful of his soft white hair, yanking his head forward lightly. The pull makes him gasp, his braces catching the light again as his lips part.

“Lick it, nerd. Eat my pussy like the desperate little virgin you are,” you command, your voice dripping with mockery. He hesitates for a split second, but you pull harder, and his tongue finally darts out, tracing a shaky line up your slit.

You moan softly, guiding his head with your grip on his hair, pulling him closer until his nose presses against your mound.

It's tentative at first, but you grind against his face, smearing your juices over his glasses and mouth. “Deeper, idiot. Use that tongue for something useful for once.” He groans, the vibration buzzing through you, and he dives in properly—lapping at your folds with sloppy, eager strokes, his mouth wide and messy as he sucks your clit between his lips.

Wet sounds fill the room—his licks turning messy, saliva mixing with your juices as he sucks on your folds. You rock your hips against his face, smearing your wetness across his glasses, fogging them up. He groans into you, the vibration shooting straight to your core, and you pull his hair harder, making him whimper.

You laugh softly, the sound cruel as you watch him struggle. His strong build shifts on his knees, but he's still so submissive, nose buried in you, tongue thrusting inside your hole now, fucking you with wet, noisy slurps. Saliva drips down his chin, mixing with your arousal, pooling on the floor.

You clamp your thighs around his head, trapping him there, his ears pinned between your legs. “That's it, Phainon. Slobber all over it like a good boy. Bet you've dreamed about this while jerking off to your stupid comics.” He whimpers into you, braces grazing your sensitive skin. You grind down, chasing your high, until your orgasm crashes over you—your pussy clenching around his tongue as you flood his mouth with your cum. He laps it all up greedily, not pulling away even as you tremble.

He pulls back gasping, lips glistening, eyes dazed and pleading. “P-please... did I do good?” His voice is soft, that sincere warmth peeking through, but you just shove him away with your foot on his chest, making him topple onto his back on the cold tile. “Good? It was barely passable, loser,” you taunt, His cock strains against his pants, huge even from the outline—way bigger than you anticipated for this quiet nerd. “Look at you, all hard from eating me out,” you tease, getting off the desk and onto the ground crawling on-top of him, reaching down to palm him through the fabric. He bucks into your hand, a soft whine escaping him.

“Such a pathetic virgin,” you whisper, nipping at his jaw, tasting the salt of his skin. “Never even touched a girl, have you? All those brains and no balls.” He nods frantically, braces flashing as he bites his lip, his cock straining against his pants. You reach down, unzipping him roughly, and pull out his length—god, it's massive, thick as your wrist, long enough to make your mouth water despite yourself. Veins throb along it, the tip slick with pre-cum. Your hand wraps around it, stroking hard and fast, making him buck and moan like a bitch in heat.

“Look at this monster,” you mock, rubbing the head against your thumb. “Bet you think this makes you tough, huh? But you're still a nerd.”

Your hand grips his fat cock tight, the skin hot and smooth under your fingers. It's so thick your small hand can't wrap all the way around it, fingers straining to hold on as you start to pump up and down.

The shaft jumps in your palm, veins bulging hard against your touch, and a drop of pre-cum leaks from the slit, making your strokes slick and messy. Phainon's chest heaves, his blue eyes locked on your hand working him, glasses fogging up a bit from his heavy breaths. A deep groan rips from his throat, low and rough, his tall body shaking above you.

You squeeze harder at the base, feeling how full and heavy his balls are below, tight and drawn up already. Your thumb presses into the underside, rubbing that sensitive spot right under the head, and he bucks his hips forward, shoving his cock deeper into your fist. “Fuck,” he whimpers, voice breaking like glass, tears starting to form in those bright eyes. His white hair sticks to his sweaty forehead, braces shining as his lips part in a gasp. You speed up, hand flying now, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room, his pre-cum coating your fingers and dripping down to his sack.

His strong legs wobble, knees bending as he leans over you, so much bigger and heavier, his frame covering your body. Moans pour out of him, turning into whines that sound needy and broken, like a puppy begging. “Nghh—Please... oh shit, your hand feels so good,” he blabbers, words tumbling fast and sloppy. Tears spill down his cheeks, wetting his face, and he doesn't wipe them, just lets them fall while his cock throbs wild in your grip. You twist your wrist on the upstroke, milking more slick from the tip, and he cries out loud, a sob mixed with a moan, his whole frame jerking like he's about to break.

“You’re so pathetic,” you grin wickedly, your voice dripping with that sharp edge that makes his cock twitch even harder in your grip. Your free hand slides down, cupping his heavy balls, feeling their weight and heat against your palm.

You roll them slow and soft at first, fingers kneading the soft skin, tracing the seam right in the middle. Then you tug them lightly, just enough pull to send a jolt through him, and that's when he breaks completely—sobbing loud and messy, his words spilling out in a rush, “Gonna cum, fuck, don't stop, I need it so fucking bad.” His voice pitches up high and shaky, braces clicking together as he bites down on his lower lip, trying to hold back but failing. The moans keep ripping from him, wet and raw, turning into choked cries as his whole body locks up.

Hot spurts shoot from his thick cock, coating your hand in thick ropes of cum, sticky and warm, dripping down your fingers and splattering onto your wrist. It pulses hard in your fist, one last throb before he slumps a bit, spent but still trembling. You stare at him then, disgust at the face all flushed and tear-streaked, that strong body reduced to a quivering wreck under your touch, it's gross how easy he falls apart, how his nerdy cheerful side breaks into this needy mess, but fuck, it turns you on seeing him like that, vulnerable and owned.

And he looks back at you with those big blue eyes, all watery and wide like a kicked puppy, pleading silent for more even as the aftershocks make him whimper, lashes clumped with tears, begging without words to keep going, to not stop now that you've got him hooked.

“Ready to take my pussy?” You smirked, rubbing his thick cock against your entrance.

You sink down inch by inch, his girth stretching your pussy to the limit, walls clenching around him. It hurts so good, the burn mixing with pleasure as you take him deeper. Halfway in, you feel the pressure low in your belly, pressing a hand there to feel the outline of his cock bulging inside you. “Fuck, you're rearranging my guts, nerd. So deep already—gonna split me open?”

Phainon's vivid blue eyes fix on you from behind his glasses, his messy white hair splayed across the floor as you straddle his broad hips. He's enormous compared to your frame—his well-built chest rising and falling steadily beneath you, making your body look delicate perched atop him like this. You try to keep the rhythm going, lifting up just to sink back down, but each drop makes your thighs tremble, the overwhelming fullness hitting you harder than expected.

Your pussy grips him tight, fluttering around his throbbing length, but the stretch borders on too much, your breaths coming in short gasps as you grind forward.

The pressure coils tighter in your tummy with every thrust downward, his tip nudging spots that make your vision blur. You're close, so close, riding him relentlessly until your thighs quake.

Phainon groans low, his braces catching the light as his mouth opens wider, but he holds back, letting you think you're winning. When your orgasm crashes over you, your eyes roll back to your head—your walls spasm wildly around his cock, milking him as you cry out, body shuddering atop him.

Your body shakes hard as the waves crash through you, pussy squeezing his thick cock over and over like it never wants to let go. You slump forward a bit, hands pressing into his wide chest, feeling how much bigger he is under you—your small frame looks tiny against his strong body, the desk edge digging into your knees from the effort. Drool slips from your lip, mind going fuzzy from the high, everything feeling too good, too full, thoughts scattering like papers in the wind.

Phainon’s hands slide up your sides, steady and warm, his fingers digging in just enough to hold you still as you tremble on top of him. His blue eyes lock onto yours through those glasses, sharp and hungry now, like he’s been waiting for this. You’re still catching your breath, pussy clenching around his thick cock, slick and messy from your release, but he doesn’t let you rest. With a low grunt, he bucks his hips up hard, making you jolt forward, a whine slipping from your lips.

“Nghh—!” It’s all you can manage, your mind already fuzzy around the edges, thoughts melting into the wet heat between your legs where he’s buried so deep. He’s so much bigger than you, his body filling your entire view, chest broad and solid under your small hands that press against it for balance. His hips wider than yours, making your thighs spread extra wide just to take him.

He smirks, braces glinting in the dim light as his mouth curves up slow and teasing. “Look at you, already making those silly little sounds. Can’t even talk right, can you.” His voice stays calm, but there’s a rough edge to it now, like he’s enjoying every second of watching you unravel. One hand comes up to your face, thumb brushing over your lower lip soft at first, wiping away a bit of drool from your earlier high. Then, without warning, he pushes it inside your mouth. You suck on it on instinct, tongue swirling around the pad, tasting the salt of his skin mixed with your own mess. But he doesn’t stop there—he shoves deeper, past your teeth, making your throat tighten up quick.

You gag a little, eyes watering as spit builds up and spills down your chin, dripping onto his chest below. He watches it all, eyes darkening behind his glasses, white hair messy and sticking to his forehead from the sweat. “That’s it, choke on it for me,” he murmurs, voice dropping lower, his free hand gripping your hip tighter to keep you from squirming away. He thrusts up again, slow this time, dragging his cock along your sensitive walls, the stretch making your pussy throb around him. You try to moan around his thumb, but it comes out muffled, “Mmph—nghh!”

“Good girl,” he murmurs, pulling his thumb out with a wet pop, only to replace it with two fingers. They stretch your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, and you gag again, harder this time, body shaking as he thrusts up into you once more. Your pussy flutters around him, the fullness making everything spin. “That’s it, choke on them. You’re so dumb when you’re full like this.”

Your head spins, the fullness in your mouth and pussy overwhelming everything else. You nod weakly, or try to, but it’s just another gag, throat working around his fingers as he starts guiding your hips down harder. He lifts you up a bit with his grip on your waist—his arms strong, making it easy despite how much larger he is—then drops you back onto his length, the slap of skin on skin echoing loud.

Your thighs burn from the effort, knees scrapping against the floor, but you don’t care. Each bounce sends his tip nudging deep inside, hitting spots that make your vision blur at the edges, sparks shooting up your spine.

“Nghh—Phai—ahh!” The words slur out around his fingers, barely coherent, and he chuckles low, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. He loves it, you can tell from how his cock twitches inside you, growing even harder if that’s possible. He pulls his fingers out halfway, letting you gasp for air, but only to smear the spit across your lips and cheeks, marking you messy. “Can’t even say my name right. Just moaning like you’re brainless. Keep going, take me harder—I want to feel how wet you’re getting.”

You do, lifting yourself up on shaky legs, sinking back down with a wet squelch each time, your juices coating his balls and thighs below. His length stretching you to your limits, the burn mixing with pleasure until you’re chasing it desperately. His hand on your hip helps, pulling you down to meet his upward thrusts, faster now, the rhythm building until your body bounces uncontrollably. Sweat slicks your skin where you touch his, your hands sliding on his broad chest, feeling the muscles flex under you.

The coil in your tummy tightens again, too soon, but you can’t stop—the way he fills you, the teasing words, it all pushes you closer. “Please—nghh—more!” you whine, dumb and needy, and he grins wider, braces flashing as he bucks up rough, making your tits bounce with the force.

“Not yet,” he says, voice firm, and suddenly he’s sitting up, his free arm wrapping around your waist like you weigh nothing. His strength surprises you, even though it shouldn’t—he flips you both with one smooth motion, the world tilting as your back hits the ground soft. Now you’re under him, legs splayed wide, knees hooked over his elbows as he looms above, caging you completely. His white hair falls forward, messy and wild, glasses a bit crooked but those blue eyes still piercing, locked on your flushed face.

He noticed a bulge forming on your stomach every-time he thrusted inside of you, he pressed on it with his thumb making you cry out loud and get closer to your orgasm.

“Ahh—! Nghh—too much!” Your cry is broken, hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into the skin there. But he just grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head with one large hand, his fingers wrapping around both easily. The other hand trails down your side, over your hip, to where you’re joined, thumb pressing on your clit hard.

“Too much. That’s all you can say now, huh.” He teases, leaning down to nip at your neck, teeth grazing before his tongue soothes the spot. His braces catch lightly on your skin, a cool contrast to the heat of him. Then he starts moving, pulling out slow so you feel every inch dragging against your walls, coated in your slick and his pre-cum, before slamming back in hard.

“Nghh—! Ahh—yes—Phai—!” Moans spill from you nonstop, high and desperate, no real words left as he fucks you deep. His cock hits that spot inside over and over, the angle perfect now that he’s on top, making your back arch off the floor. He’s relentless, hips snapping forward, balls slapping against your ass with wet smacks that fill the room.

He releases your wrists to grab your thighs instead, pushing them back further, folding you almost in half so he can go deeper. “Look at you, moaning like a dumb slut. Can’t think with my cock in you, can you. Just take it—squeeze me tighter.” His voice is rough now, breath hot against your ear as he grinds in circles, tip pressing right where it hurts so good. You do squeeze, pussy clenching around him involuntarily, the stretch burning sweet as he stretches you wider.

“Nghh—! Cumming—ahh—!” It crashes over you harder than before, body convulsing under his weight, walls spasming wild around his thick length. Juices gush out, wetting his thighs and the sheets below, your moans turning to sobs as you shake. He doesn’t slow, thrusting through it, making it last longer, drawing out every wave until you’re limp and whimpering.

“Fuck,” he moans, feeling you milk him, but he pulls out suddenly, cock glistening and throbbing, slick with your cum. You whine at the loss, empty and aching, but he flips you over quick, onto your stomach. “Not done yet. Ass up for me.” His hands pull your hips up, knees spreading on the floor, face pressed on the ground as he kneels behind. Your body arched perfectly for him, pussy exposed and dripping.

He slaps your ass once, light but stinging, then lines up and thrusts back in, deeper from this angle. “Nghh—!” You bury your face in the hands, muffling the sound, but he grabs your hair, pulling your head back gently. “Let me hear your moans. Don’t hide them.”

He pounds into you now, hips crashing against your ass, the sound filthy and loud. Each thrust makes your body rock forward, his cock dragging slow on the out-stroke before ramming deep. He’s wilder here, one hand on your hip, the other reaching around to rub your clit again, keeping the fire going even as you come down. “You love this, don’t you. Getting fucked like you can’t get enough. Say it, moan for me.”

“Ahh—yes—nghh—more!” It’s all broken pleas, mind blank, just chasing the next hit of pleasure. He leans over you, chest to your back, his larger frame covering yours completely, breath hot on your neck. His thrusts turn erratic, harder, chasing his own edge now. “Gonna fill you up. Take my cum, every drop.”

With a deep groan, he buries himself to the hilt, cock pulsing as hot spurts flood your pussy, creampie spilling deep inside. You feel it all, the warmth spreading, leaking out around him as he grinds slow, pushing it further. Your walls clench in response, a smaller orgasm rippling through from the sensation, making you whimper soft.

He stays like that a minute, breathing heavy, before pulling out careful, cum dripping from your swollen folds onto your thighs. You collapse fully, body spent, mind foggy and warm. Phainon rolls you over gentle, his touch soft now, wiping the sweat and tears from your face with his thumb. “You okay, yeah.” It’s not a question, just checking, his blue eyes warm behind the glasses as he straightens them.

“Mmm—nghh,” you mumble, too wrecked for words, but you nod, smiling hazy up at him. He’s even hotter now, hair all messy, braces peeking as he smiles back, that strong body still looming but caring. He grabs a soft cloth from his shirt, cleaning you up slow—between your legs first, gentle on the sensitive skin, then your face, kissing your forehead light.

“You were amazing,” he says, voice sincere, pulling you into his chest. His arms wrap around, holding you close, his larger frame making you feel safe and small. “All those sounds you made. Drove me crazy.”

His fingers trace lazy patterns on your back, under the hoodie, soothing the sore spots. “You took it so well,” he says, sincere like always, that idealistic side peeking through. He tilts your chin up gentle, blue eyes meeting yours, glasses pushed back up his nose. “Wanna go out sometime. A real date. Dinner, maybe a walk after. Just us.”

Your heart flips warm, the words hitting soft after everything, and you look up at him, You scoffed. “Fine, but it better be a good restaurant.”