𝙸 𝚢𝚊𝚙 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚝 🤷‍♀️

JASON TODD

He doesn't get it.

He doesn't fucking get it.

You— you— want him? All the time? Every second of every day? You, with your soft hands and your pretty smile and your laugh that sounds like something he doesn't deserve to hear— you want Jason Todd, the dead Robin, the black sheep, the one with blood under his fingernails and a body count longer than his book collection?

"Again, sweetheart?" he rasps, and his voice cracks, actually cracks, because his throat is raw from moaning your name, and his thighs are shaking, and there's a bruise forming on his hip from where you grabbed him too hard and he didn't even notice because he was too busy moaning like a whore.

You nod. Just nod. Like it's nothing. Like you're asking him to pass the salt.

His heart lurches.

He's scared. Not of you— never of you— but of the moment you realize you can do better. The moment you wake up and think why am I wasting my time with this broken, angry, fucked up excuse for a man when I could have someone better?

So he fucks you like his life is depended on it.

Every time. Every single time.

"Alright," he says, rolling on top of you even though his arms are jelly, even though he came so hard ten minutes ago he nearly blacked out, even though he's so tired he gonna pass out at any moment— "Alright, c'mere, I got you, I got—"

"Jay." You catch his face in your hands. "You're crying."

What? No he's not. He's not— shit.

He scrubs at his eyes, pissed, embarrassed, and you're looking at him with that soft, worried expression and he can't handle it, he can't handle this.

"I'm fine," he lies, "I'm fine, I just— I got something in my eye, it's fine, do you wanna do it from behind this time or—"

"Why are you crying, baby?"

Baby.

The word break something in his chest. Something that was already cracked. Something that's been held together with spite and rage and the desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, he's allowed to have nice things.

"I-I don't know," he chokes out, and now he's really crying, ugly sobs tearing out of his throat, "I'm just s-so overwhelmed and I-I *sob* I don't d-deserve you *sob* you should be with someone who isn't a—a—a—"

You kiss him.

You kiss him through the tears and the snot and the self loathing, and you don't pull away, and you don't look disgusted, and your hands are so gentle on his scarred skin, and he just— he just breaks down.

But it's just because he's overwhelmed by sex, okay?

He buries his face in your neck and sobs and you hold him, you hold him like he's something precious, something worth keeping, and his stupid dick is still half hard against your thigh because he doesn't know what else to do.

"I want you," you whisper into his hair, "just you, Jay. Always."

"...Promise?"

"Promise."

He pulls back, eyes red, face blotchy, looking like a mess.

And then he laughs— his cracked, broken laugh.

"Okay," he says, "okay. But if you're gonna kill me with sex, at least let me grab some water first. And maybe a snack. I'm not dying of dehydration before I make you come again."

You grin.

Yeah his girl's so pretty.

"Alright."

He's still crying a little. He's still hard. He's still certain he doesn't deserve this.

But you're here.

And you want him.

So he'll keep going until his heart gives out, because dying in your arms sounds like the best way to go.

TIM DRAKE

He has a spreadsheet.

No, wait, hear him out— it's not weird, okay? It's organized. It's practical. It's what any rational person would do when confronted with a girlfriend who wants to have sex literally all the time and he needs to make sure he's— that he's—

Meeting expectations.

Performing adequately.

Being a good boyfriend.

Column A: date. Column B: time of day. Column C: position. Column D: duration. Column E: number of times you said his name (sub column for "just Tim" vs. "oh god Tim" vs. the rare, precious "Timmy" that makes his whole body shudder). Column F: notes. (You like it when he flick his tongue. You didn't like when he tried to flip you over and almost dropped you. He needs to work on his upper body strength. He'll add more pull ups to his training regimen. Done. Noted.)

He's on his third coffee and it's 3 AM and you're asleep next to him— finally, finally asleep, worn out after four rounds and a fifth that he had to tap out of because his vision started doing that staticky thing—

And he's updating the spreadsheet.

Because he loves you. And love means making sure you're comfortable. Love means making you happy. Love means making sure he's the best possible version of himself for you, that he's anticipating your needs, that he always make you cum, that he never, ever falls short—

"What's that?"

Oh fuck him.

You're awake. You're squinting at his laptop screen. He slams it shut, but it's too late, you already saw the color coded tabs, the pie chart (yes, there's a pie chart, he was curious about the distribution of positions, sue him).

"Tim." Your voice is still sleepy and it does things to him, weird things, his body is already responding and he just finished updating a row that said he couldn't go again, scientifically, medically, his body has limits—

"It's nothing."

"Timothy Jackson Drake."

Full name. He's in trouble. He's so in trouble. His stomach flips and his dick twitches and god, why does you being like this make him harder—

"It's— a spreadsheet."

"Of our sex life."

"...Yes."

...

Why aren't you saying anything?

You're in shock aren't you? You're in so much shock you can't even talk.

Of course. You just saw your supposed normal boyfriend as the obsessive freak that he is.

"I'm sorry," he blurts, "I know it's weird, I just— I wanted to make sure I was doing a good job, that I wasn't missing anything, that you were— satisfied— because you want it so often and I thought maybe I wasn't enough and I had to do something—"

"Tim."

"—and I know it's creepy, I'm creepy, I'm a creepy insecure little bitch who can't just enjoy things—"

"Tim."

He shuts up.

You're smiling. A soft, fond, adoring smile.

"You want to know if you're doing a good job?"

He nods, throat too tight to speak.

"Come here."

He crawls into your arms and you pull him against your chest and he can hear your heartbeat and it's the most beautiful sound in the world.

"You're doing amazing," you murmur, stroking his hair, "you're perfect. You're so good to me, Tim. The best."

Best.

The words hit his bloodstream like a drug. He makes a sound— a high, needy, embarrassing sound— and presses his face into your collarbone, his whole body trembling.

"I love you," he whispers, "I love you so much, I'm sorry about the spreadsheet, I'll delete it—"

"Don't you dare. It's hot."

"...What?"

"Knowing you put that much thought into making me cum is honestly..." Your hand slides lower, and he sucks in a breath. "The sexiest thing anyone's ever done for me."

What the fuck?

"You— really?"

"Mmhmm. Now... you said that you couldn't go again, but maybe we should test that hypothesis?"

He's already kissing you before you finish the sentence.

He's going to need a new row. And a new coffee. And possibly a medical professional.

Worth it.

DAMIAN WAYNE

This is absurd.

You are absurd. Your libido is absurd. The fact that he— Damian al Ghul Wayne, heir to the League of Assassins, Robin, the son of the Batman— is currently hiding in the bathroom like a coward because his Beloved crooked her finger at him for the seventh time today is—

"Damian~"

Tt.

He clenches his jaw. His body betrays him instantly, heat pooling low in his stomach, his cock stirring traitorously against the zipper of his tailored slacks.

He is not a beast. He is not ruled by base urges. He was trained from birth to master his desires, to transcend the weakness of the flesh—

"Habibti, please, if you need release I will happily provide it, I am more than capable, but we have already—" his voice drops to a whisper, "—six times today, and I have a Wayne Enterprises board meeting in an hour—"

"And?"

And. You says and like it's nothing. Like his legacy, his reputation, his carefully constructed facade of professionalism isn't crumbling around him because of a woman who looks at him like he's a three course meal she hasn't finished.

He emerges from the bathroom.

Big mistake.

You're on the bed. His bed. Dressed in nothing but his shirt— the one with his family crest embroidered on the pocket, the one he wore the first time you fuck him— and you're looking at him with those lustful eyes—

"I missed you."

"You saw me twenty minutes ago."

"Too long."

He's already walking toward you.

Why is he walking toward you?

He should be walking away. He should be asserting dominance. He is a master of seventeen forms of martial arts and he cannot, for the life of him, make his feet move in the opposite direction of you.

"I have a meeting," he says, but his voice is pitiful, needy, and he hates how much he wants you, hates how you've turned him into this— this creature who craves your touch more than anything—

"Cancel it."

"I cannot cancel a board meeting, Beloved, there are protocols—"

"Tell them your girlfriend needed you."

"They will not accept that as a valid excuse—"

"Then make them."

Make them.

The sheer, casual authority in your voice sends a shiver down his spine.

You speak like you own him. Like he should do as you say. Like he should obey every order, as if—

He has his phone out before he can stop himself.

"Pennyworth. I will be... indisposed this afternoon. Inform the board the meeting is postponed."

"Very good, Master Damian. Shall I prepare a nutrient rich smoothie? You've been quite occupied lately."

He can hear the amusement in Alfred's voice.

Very amusing Pennyworth. Very amusing indeed.

He wants to die. He wants to crawl into a hole and never emerge. But then you're crooking your finger again and all thoughts of dignity evaporate like morning mist.

"I canceled the meeting," he says, approaching the bed, trying to maintain some shred of his pride, "I hope you are satisfied—"

You grab him by the tie and pull him onto the bed.

He yelps. He yelps. Like a startled cat. Like Titus when the vacuum cleaner turns on. And then you're straddling him, pinning him down with your body, which shouldn't be possible given his training but his muscles have apparently decided that being pinned by you is exactly what they want—

"I am never satisfied," you murmur against his lips, "not when it comes to you. You know that, right?"

His heart— his cold, closed off, carefully guarded heart— warm up a little.

"Beloved..."

"You're mine, Damian. Every inch of you. Every minute of your day. And I'm going to enjoy what's mine. Understood?"

He swallows hard.

"...Understood."

"Good boy."

His face flushes a deep, humiliating red, and his whole body trembles with the desperate need to hear those words from your lips, to know that he has pleased you, that he is worthy—

One day, he'll tell you. One day, he'll confess how much he needs your approval, your praise, your love. One day, he'll stop pretending he's above these feelings.

But not today.

Today, he'll just lie back and let his Beloved have her way with him for the seventh time, and he'll bite his lip until it bleeds to keep from begging, and when it's over he'll hold you like you're the most precious thing in the universe—

Because you are.

Tt.

He's getting hard again.

Pathetic.

But at least he's happy.

Happier than ever.

𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗒 𝖽𝖼 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𖹭

“just ignore them,” you try to tell him, subtly patting the inner part of his elbow. “come on, let’s go get a drink. or sit.”

it’s just a suggestion. something to remind him he has a purpose here tonight and it isn’t just to mingle with performative rich people.

“hm.”

the huff is short, to anyone else it’d look like he’d rather be anywhere else but at your side, yet he’s letting you pull him along to a long table full of champagne flutes.

you grab one, taking a sip. it sizzles on your tongue and down your throat.

“try!” you encourage, bumping your elbow against his arm.

damian barely budges, turning his nose up at you putting a toxin in your body.

“you’ll ruin your liver.”

you roll your eyes at his dry tone, the smile never leaving your lips.

“oh please. it’s just one glass! just for tonight. please?”

despite all the teasing, your tone comes across surprisingly sincere and damian doesn’t miss it.

his green optics meet yours, calculating and just a little bit softer.

“if you must.”

your megawatt smile makes his heart tumble in his chest in a way he’d never admit aloud.

“i do!”

Unfortunately for him (and much joy to you), your seats were assigned. He couldn't move even if he wanted to, therefore being stuck with hearing you constantly trying to get his attention or talk about topics he had no interest in.

"Psst!"

He didn't bother in giving you a single response much less of a side eye, he was far too busy looking at his paper, where he scored a 97%. He stared at it, uncaring at first— simply looking over the flaw in his work.

"Damian!"

Hm, there seems to be a lot of flies today. He decided to look over and caught your gleaming eyes.

From there on, Damian felt as if it were now a requirement to wear sunglasses anytime he dared to look at you.

If the light of the sun that culminated from the window beside his desk didn't blind him, your smile alone would do the job.

It was unbearable to look at.

"Dami, look! I scored a 100%!"

This time he wasn't staring at your disgustingly bright face that glimmered with happiness, making him look comparable to a glooming sloth.

"Do you expect me to leap for joy in your honor?"

"hmm your acknowledgement is enough for me!" You let out a soft giggle.

His eyes locked onto that large red mark with a 100%. At first he didn't care, So what? He made a one time mistake. It'll take more than a measley 97% to drag him down.

Until it did, and he was stuck—one score below you.

It must've been fate's cruelest joke in making him have almost each class with you. Almost Every single time. Yet It was just when in every single class, he was seated next to you.

---🫧

You noticed the pattern, you were ecstatic to say the least. you liked your gloomy next door! well..desk.

You found yourself always prodding at his work.

"woah..i finished that question earlier! Need help?" Unknowingly to you, this irked Damian.

You wanted to help him out! You knew he was smart but it was a great excuse to get closer to him.

"I'm perfectly capable of solving this on my own [✿]"

Sure, he can be a tad bit cold at times, but that was the charm! You really liked Damian, ever since your transfer from your previous public school, you managed to get here through a letter of recommendation.

As long as you kept up with your grades, you were permitted to study at such a prestigious school such as Gotham Academy. Even if your social standing here was practically 0%, you never let it bring you down.

You spent a good first half of the semester focused on your studies, occasionally chatting with the second social outcast.

Initally, you were a bit intimidated. You figured Damian would've been quite popular since he was Bruce Wayne's son and more so a Genius.

You were dumbfounded to see that most students avoided him. Considering most people didn't want to be friends with the poor girl, you figured you would shoot your shot in befriending Damian.

You understood that some people simply didn't mind being alone, maybe that was his case considering he didn't mind being on his own—but it also doesn't hurt to try every now and then to chat with someone, even if it was a short conversation.

So then, your 'trying to slowly befriend Damian Wayne' mission was ongoing. You'd sometimes comment on some questions you were stuck on, and even ask Damian's opinion on it and he would often respond —

"It's nothing too arduous, perhaps you should guess."

He would respond with an undertone that was condescending.

You came to the conclusion he was teasing. Therefore, you may or may have slightly lacked a bit when knowing someone was being rude.

"ha, Seems you got this in the bag then!

Even if you did catch onto his backhanded remarks, you always responded in kind.

Maybe he was having a bad day? You shrugged it off and proceeded to give him a small silly drawing of him and you as little cats to try and cheer him up.

He ignores you? Yeah you get it, some days you're simply too tired and you leave it at that. You could always talk to him some other time!

--- 🦇

"Hey Dami!"

"Look at this Dami!"

"psst Dami!"

Damian hated that god forsaken nickname you had given him. Always bothering him. The best he could do was send you a look that spoke on many levels of 'shut your mouth and focus'. Meanwhile you would only send him a fat grin and pull up a small doodle you made of him drawn as a cat.

--- 🦇

You have been promoted to minor annoyance to constant migraine.

Even so, despite of you constantly favoring the art of vexation. Damian had to admit. You were—

"Exceptional."

You blinked.

Did.. Damian just compliment you? It was a shock even for you. That shock didn't last long as you let out a large smile.

"Really?"

Damian paused. He really hadn't meant to say that aloud enough for you to hear. He never does that. He never slips up. So why now?

"no, i was joking."

You blinked..you felt a hum leap out from your throat.

"pf..-pfft! Hehe! Wow—I didn't know you were so funny, You were so serious, i couldn't tell you were joking!" You said, trying to stifle your laughter.

Why were you laughing. That was an insult.

Damian for once had been embarrassed, he kept his head forward to the board. He felt stiff. He knew if he looked to his side, you would still be looking at him. Have you no shame woman?

---🦇

What a pain you are. No matter what he does he always manages to be one step below you. He doesn't care for social status, he already knew he was the best of the best.

Why does he want to prove himself now?

"Man that random poor girl managed to pull one over on wayne.."

"yeah! She's on top of the scoreboard.!"

No. He doesn't want to prove to others how much better he is. He wants you to see how better he is.

Damian cares very little about your lack of wealth. However he never lied about how exceptional you are academically.

That is what irks him. How you mostly fool around yet somehow score higher than he does!

Damian has always been disciplined. From birth to now. Supposedly it is his best and worst trait. He finds himself.. befuddled. How is it that you—with so little discipline. Managed to be better than he was?

--🫧

You found yourself conflicted at the moment. You were in the library studying during lunch. having a slight problem with a certain math question. You barely even moved your pen, your leg bouncing our of sheer anxiety.

You then heard a chair slide over next to you.

"Damian?"

He placed his work books and notes beside you.

"This area is for more quiet. The other students come in here to chat more than study"

You blinked at him before smling

"Well I certainly appreciate the company!"

"I promise you this will only be a one time occurrence."

"uh huh? And you totally don't like my presence?" you chuckled

"I have no reason to like it."

"well, i can certainly name a few!"

Your earlier anxiety had been forgotten. Damian's presence alone had managed to clear up to air. Even if he wasn't a chatter box like you. He listened, you could tell when he did even if he seemed annoyed.

"Oh please, amuse me."

Damian rolled his pretty green eyes. Only showing a small faint smile. As if the thought of you having any sort of redeeming qualities was something humorous to him.

You never noticed how green it was. They were really pretty.

"Pardon?"

You froze.

"oh uhm..see! My charisma is definitely a good quality since I complimented your eyes!"

Yeah great save you dunce.

Your cheeks were getting warm, your fingers fidget with the ends of your mechanical pencil.

"..you are, exceptional."

You perked up, blinking.

"Despite your social standing, you shine brighter above others."

Your jaw slacked.

"uh-..wow thanks Dami...it means a lot coming from you. I always thought you were pretty cool."

You let out a big smile towards him.

--- 🦇

He really hated your smile. Who do you think you are smiling like that? What gave you the right to make him feel so unguarded. With that candid smile of yours.

Your eyes glistened beautifully, the sunlight that peeked from the window framed you like a painting. A photo would've been too simplified in your case.

Damian felt his heartbeat thump, only a second faster before turning away from you.

He released a small breath, keeping his heart and voice steady.

"tt, focus on your work."

He didn't bother looking up as he held his pen and leered down at his work. But he heard it. Your hearted giggle before speaking.

"Yes sir, I won't be too much of a bother!"

Naturally he would find himself responding with something back handed. Something like—

'You've been a constant bother.'

Or maybe

'A highly impossible task for you.'

He couldn't find the words. Nothing other than—

"hm"

Only a faint hum. It was all he could release, probably the nicest way he could dismiss you. A small hum of approval.

-- 🦇

The days passed in which soon, Damian started viewing you.. differently. He still considered you a formidable foe in academics, yes.

But he found himself enamored with different parts of you. Maybe details others would brush off. It started small.

He noticed whenever you would often scratch your right brow whenever you were thinking hard.

Whenever the room was cold you'd always lick your lips.

You'd yawn constantly, that he already knew. He also could tell you were embarrassed about yawning in public anytime you covered your mouth and blinked around to make sure no one saw.

He did, but you didn't need to know that. He was exceptionally fast in making sure you didn't catch him staring.

you would also refrain from rubbing your eye to not smudge your mascara, no matter how tired you are.

Damian began to talk to you more.

Well, mostly remind you of things.

"tt, stay awake. stop making me remind you."

He glared at you. He was still annoyed at the fact you could likely could be barely half-awake and still out-class his best grade.

He wants you at your best so he can beat you at your best.

"you're doing this wrong."

You perked up, blinking as you reread your work.

"huh? I could have sworn—..oh? Thanks Damian! Yeesh always here to save the day huh?"

Hm yes, He did do that a lot, but that was a secret you didn't need to know.

-- 🦇

Speaking of his other persona. He had a tendancy to..look over you anytime he was on patrols.

Outside of school, he found you in other places. He was no fool to know how dangerous your side of town was.

No, it's not an excuse to see you. He's just patrolling and you happen to be nearby.

He noticed you were unaware you are at times, earbuds plugged in as you walked around. Seriously? You know this is Gotham right? Your either brave or foolish.

Luckily he didn't have to step in, but he kept an eye from afar.

--🫧

You were happy Damian talked to you more! He even joined you in the library during lunch most days now!

He calls it 'studying' and that you should be following his steps. Quite frankly, you lost interest in studying as soon as he sat next to you.

There was always something you wanted to talk about. I mean no one bothered you but they didn't exactly try to befriend you either.

It was only natural you would be a radio station to Damian. Rambling about different topics outside of advanced classes.

--

Edit note: uhm okay guys. I may have accidentally pressed post when i was trying to edit more in. im so embarrassed rn, it's NO WAY near finished so uhm..unless yall want a part 2, ill get to work..

Your package had finally come in. Which was good because you’d been brushing your teeth in the shine of your shitty cookie-scented candle for two weeks now. You probably could’ve just gone into town and bought a lightbulb. But the thought of going into a Lowes or Home Depot made your heart drop to your ass. You just wanted a lightbulb. That’s all. You hoped that when you opened the box it would be a nicely bubble-wrapped white bulb. If you opened it and it was in crumbles, you’d have to actually log into your Amazon account. You’d spend ten minutes typing out a scathing review. For twenty minutes you would sit in the joy of hurting someone’s feelings before you’d feel guilt biting at your shoulder. Then you’d scramble to delete it and spend the rest of the night figuring out what scent you wanted your bathroom to be. 

 Kitty next to you whined as you tapped the top of the brown box. You glanced down at her, frowning. 

 “Yes, okay, fine. Needy little thing, aren’t you?” You groaned. You tucked the small box to your hip, tugging Kitty’s leash up your arm. Kitty wagged her tail as she skittered out of the mail room. She was faster up the stairs than you were. She’d stop every few steps to sit and watch as you caught up. Which was more taunting than her tugging at her leash. You finally caught up to her on the landing of the second floor. Whoever built this building hated renters because they decided the best spot to put the stairs was across every single hall. So you'd have to walk past every apartment number between the ground floor and yours.  You hated it because it meant you almost always ran into someone on their way out of their apartment. 

 Kitty dragged you down the hall. She abruptly stopped, sniffing at a welcome mat. You tried to tug her away, repeatedly making kissy noises. You froze as the door swung open. A huge gray Great Dane stepped out. It hung its head, sniffing at Kitty. You felt your heart stall at the sight of the man behind it. He was built and sharp. He looked like he could cut through stone with his chin. His thighs were rippling with muscles that you couldn’t decide if you wanted hidden. If he was wearing anything other than his tight running shorts, you may never see such stunning thighs in your life. If they were hidden, your mouth would still be closed. And his arms could snap someone’s neck. And you didn’t think you were particularly interested in violence, but the curves of them still made you raise a brow. 

 “Oh. Apologies.” He said. His voice. You must’ve hit your head on the way up the stairs. He couldn’t be real. He sounded like the smell of the ocean fresh in the morning. You could remember the one time you went on vacation to the coast. It had started raining, and everyone went inside. Your friend had complained about it. But you sat on the front porch and let the rain soak through your clothes. It smelled amazing. It was like a mixture of earth and salt. And you didn’t mind that you were shivering because the ocean was screaming at you with its waves. You couldn’t imagine a better way to spend your time. Your friend made you take off your shoes before you came in, but-you snapped your eyes from his thighs. 

 “Jesus. I’m sorry. My dog was sniffing at your mat. I swear I wasn’t just standing around waiting for someone to pop out.” You said, laughing at yourself. The man nodded. He pulled a leg up, swinging it over the back of his dog. The dog’s head bumped against his stomach. 

 “Your dog is huge.” You stated. God, a good-looking guy could really make you look like a complete fool. The man glanced down like he just noticed the size of it. 

 “He’s a Great Dane. They’re quite big.” The man responded. Okay, cool, so he wants you dead. You nodded and tugged at Kitty’s leash. He wanted you gone, clearly, and you were taking up this beautiful man’s time. Kitty sat sturdy as stone in front of his dog. You grimaced and glanced up at him. 

 “Sorry. Kitty is really stubborn.” You tried, laughing again. Were you always this pitchy? You cleared your throat, looking down at Kitty. She didn’t bother giving you any attention, sniffing at the big dog. 

 “Kitty? That’s a Bull Terrier.” The man stated like you had to be the stupidest person on the planet. 

 “You and dog breeds, huh?” You joked. He stared at you blankly. Someone should come up behind you and take you out of your misery. You sighed. 

 “Well. Her name is actually Katherine. I named her after Shakespeare's play, but Katherine is a bit long. So I shortened it to Kat and then obviously that turned into Kitty.” You explained, tugging on her leash again. The man nodded, taking it in. 

 “I also named my dog after Shakespeare.” The man declared. He gestured down at his dog as you had forgotten about it. You nodded. 

 “Titus.” He added. You nodded again. You couldn’t flirt if you were held at gunpoint. 

 “Awesome.” You decided. He fell silent, staring at you. You really couldn’t handle the green of his eyes locked on you. You broke the contact, staring at the floor. You blew your cheeks out. He smacked his lips together. 

 “I need to start my run.” He declared. You gasped. 

 “Oh, of course. Yes, let me get out of your hair.” You said. You dipped down and gathered Kitty into your arms. She whined as you pulled her away from Titus. You quickly spun away from him, practically running from him. You made it to the first step of the stairs before he yelled something at you. You turned back around, finding him in the center of the hall with his dog standing next to him. 

 “What?” 

 “I said, Have a good day.” He clarified. You winced in embarrassment. 

 “Yeah, thanks!” You shot back, racing up the stairs. You got up to the next floor before you set Kitty down. She glared at you before prancing in front of you. 

 “Yeah, thanks? Who says that?” You scolded yourself. Kitty led you back to your apartment. Which you were thankful for because your mind was still stuck on the man. You never got his name. You hadn’t seen him around the building before, which was interesting. You weren’t social by any means, but you’d memorized a lot of faces. Usually when you had to take Kitty out, you’d run into people. 

 Your lightbulb for the bathroom came in perfect shape. It wasn’t broken, which was good. It fit, which was good. It wasn’t the clinical hospital light that you were scared of, which was good. But you couldn’t stop thinking about how much of a fool you were. But at least you’d never see him again. 

 Fuck you. Seriously. Why’d you have to go around telling yourself dumb shit like, at least you’d never see him again. Two weeks later, you were sitting on the bench next to the front door to your apartment building. Kitty was squatting in the grass, taking care of her business. You were glad it was an odd hour of the night so your neighbors wouldn’t have to witness you leaning over with a bag. Thankfully Kitty hadn’t subjected you to that shame just yet. She was still shaking with effort. 

 The bad part was you could see Titus and his owner down the sidewalk. And he wasn’t alone. A man his age and equally built was running with him. He had a dog too, which made you wonder about how many pets were in this building. They both were drenched in sweat and running faster than you ever had. You were suddenly realizing you were still in your pajamas and slippers. You looked like your life was falling to bits, and this bitch was out here running at 2 am. Did he not have a job? He slowed as he and his friend approached the door. The other man gently took Titus’ leash from his owner. 

 “See you in, Damian.” The man called, running towards the door. He looked to you. He winked a blue eye at you as he pushed through the front door of the building. You looked to Titus’ owner in confusion. He was standing across from you on the sidewalk, huffing with his hands on his hips. Poor Kitty was still straining between the two of you. You supposed his name was Damian, but you weren’t going to say it out loud until he gave it to you. He lifted his eyes, staring at you through his top lashes. You parted your mouth as he watched you from across the grass. You turned your head to the side, scratching at your cheek as a cover. He had to be aware of how intense his eyes were. He had to be aware. You can’t possibly be 20-something with those eyes and not know how they look. You turned back to him. 

 His eyes had left you. He pulled at the edge of his shirt and wiped his face of its sweat. You stared at his stomach, your eyes widening at the sheer number of abs. Damian dropped his shirt back down, walking around your dog. He stopped a few paces in front of you. He sighed at the ground before meeting your eyes again. 

 “There’s a dog park around the corner.” He stated.

 “Yeah. I’ve seen it," You replied. He coughed, patting his chest. He grimaced and cleared his throat. 

 “We could walk Titus and Katherine together, if you wanted to,” he offered, raising a brow. Was he? He wasn't, right? Why else would he want to take his giant for a dog on a walk with your dog? Kitty didn’t even reach your knee. She was the runt of her litter. And she was still taking a shit. 

 “Should I take her to the vet?” You asked, pointing at your dog. Damian paused, glancing back at her. Katherine? That’s her name, yeah, but it wasn’t really. He’s full legal naming her. 

 “Well, how long has she been straining like that?” He asked. You shook your head. 

 “Like 40 seconds, I think.” You said. Damian shrugged. 

 “Check it for blood when she’s done. It’d probably be good to take her.” He stated. You nodded. You pressed your hand to the sandwich bag under your thigh. You hadn’t taken Kitty on a walk in a month. You had lost her doggy bag holder weeks ago. Then you actually ran out of the bags, and you couldn’t remember where you had gotten them from. You couldn’t imagine that someone as put together as this Damian guy actually wanted to take you out. Granted, you weren’t even sure if the dog park counted as a date. It’s not like you could dress particularly cute to the dog park. You hated the thought of Kitty shitting and you having to scoop it up with your sandwich bag in front of Damian. Especially because he was rather hot, it would suck even more if he truly spent time with you. 

 You could see him dating you for four months before something something, and then you snap, and he sees the real bits of you. The parts that apparently made you so unbearable that no relationship of yours lasted more than a year. Your friendships died like hamsters. They’d crawl into air vents and keel over from lettuce. You never dated anyone longer than five months. They usually started bright and then fizzled out. Like your half-burnt cookie candle. One of the three wicks went out a week ago, and you never bothered to wrap the thing in foil to even it out again. You just let it burn crooked. 

 “So, the park?” He reminded. You pulled your eyes from Kitty, looking up at him. 

 “Do you think you’re a bad person?” He furrowed his brows. 

 “What?” 

 “Well, I just- I think I’m a bad person. So I’m trying to see if it’s like a universal thing or if it’s just me.” You explained. Damian shook his head. 

 “I don’t think you’re a bad person.” He whispered. He pulled his arms over his chest, watching you with a concerned look. You squinted up at him. 

 “Yeah, but you don’t know me.” You countered. Damian shrugged with one shoulder. 

 “I have impeccable judgement in people,” Damian said. You snorted. You tried to find the humor in his face, but he was serious. He was an odd man. Yet you weren’t getting that feeling of dread settling into your stomach when the man you had been slobbering over wore flip-flops. 

 “I lost her poop bags weeks ago. I’ve been using sandwich bags.” You confessed. Damian nodded. 

 “You can have some of mine.” He offered. 

 “I burn candles unevenly because I just can’t be fucked to fix it.” You added. 

 “I’ll buy you new ones,” He whispered. 

 “I was belting out a song-naked-in my bathroom. I swung my towel over my head and smashed my lightbulb. I didn’t want to go to a hardware store, so I ordered one online. I mean that’s pathetic.” 

 “I can go to the hardware store.” 

 “I clogged my kitchen sink, and I can’t figure out how to fix it. I’ve been washing my dishes in the bathroom sink. To candlelight! Because of my fucked lightbulb!” You stared up at him. He shook his head. Kitty’s leash loosened as she ran up to you, rubbing her face against your leg. 

 “I know how to fix it.” 

 “I suck, seriously. I haven’t dated anyone for more than five months. I mean, I can hardly stand who I am; I doubt anyone else could. My friendships never go longer than a year. There is something innately unbearable about me.” You declared. You dropped your hand to Kitty’s head, petting at her fur. Damian stared at you. You didn’t look away this time. You hoped he’d turn and join his friend inside. But he stood right there. 

 “There’s a first time for everything.” He whispered. What a dick. He wouldn’t even let you wallow in your own self-pity. He just had to have a solution for everything. You kissed your teeth, turning your face away from him. 

 “You’re irritating.” You grumbled. He hummed. 

 “You’re beautiful.” He replied. You glared at him. 

“Flattery gets you nowhere.”  You snapped. Damian shook his head. He unfolded his arms. 

“I’d like to take you out.” He offered, pressing his fingers into his hips again. You hummed. 

“Okay.” You decided. Damian smiled at you. He pulled at something on his hip. He held out the thin black plastic to you.

“Take your dog to the vet,” He whispered, slipping through the building’s front door. You sighed through your nose. You waved the poop bag at Kitty. She only stared at you with pure childlike love. 

“You’ve liked me longer than a year, haven’t you, Kitty?” You asked, scritching behind her ears. Her tongue dropped from the side of her mouth. 

“But you eat shit, so I’m not sure you have good taste.” You added. Kitty coughed, dropping back to the grass. She rolled over onto her back, showing you the span of her belly. You leaned over, scratching at it. 

“I never gave you my number.” A man grumbled from behind you. You screamed, startling up and glaring over your shoulder. Damian gave you a guilty look. 

“Jesus!” You yelled in frustration. 

“Damian, actually. Apologies. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He whispered. His shoulders tipped inwards in shame. You shook your head. 

“It’s okay. I was having a rather boring conversation with Kitty.” You shook your head, trying to shimmy off your fear. 

“You can have a boring conversation with me.” He offered. You reached to the side and patted the bench. 

“Okay.” Damian smiled at your response. He closed the door gently behind himself and settled next to you. Kitty jumped from the ground and started nosing his thigh for pets. The apple really doesn’t fall from the tree. He didn’t look at you. You turned and looked forward. All that was ahead was the sidewalk and the parking lot for your apartment building. Despite you complaining to yourself every time you took Kitty out about how boring it was, you didn’t mind it now. 

“I think I’m a bad person too,” Damian whispered. He didn’t look away from the parking lot. You kept your eyes on the bland landscape. You scooted a hair closer to him, pressing your side to him. 

“That’s alright. We can be awful together.” You both spent the rest of your energy next to each other. It wasn’t terribly long before you both decided it was too late to be staying out. But the few minutes you spent in silence were incredibly relaxing. You hadn’t felt so calm in a long time. It was like rain soaking through all your clothes again. His presence really was quite relaxing to bask in. 

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He had never understood the quieter species of it. He had never understood that fear could bloom inside a warm apartment on an ordinary evening, with rain tapping gently against the windows and dinner cooling untouched on the kitchen counter. He had never known that terror could arrive without an enemy, without warning, and take the person he loved somewhere he could not follow.

You and Damian had not been together for long. Four months, three weeks, and two days, though he would have denied counting if you ever asked. The relationship was still new enough that some of your belongings looked foreign beside his: your shoes by the door, your preferred tea tucked beside the bitter blends he favoured, the soft jumper you had abandoned over the arm of his sofa several nights earlier. New enough that he occasionally woke with your head against his shoulder and experienced a split second of astonishment before the warmth of recognition settled through him.

You were there. You had chosen to be there.

Damian had spent much of his life learning that affection was conditional, temporary, and sharpened by expectation. Loving you had not come cautiously, despite what he told himself. He had fallen with all the subtlety of a building collapsing. The realisation had simply arrived late, standing amidst the wreckage with dust in his lungs and your name carved into every surviving wall.

He had not told you the precise depth of it yet. He worried the words might be too large for something so new. He worried they would sound like a vow spoken before an altar rather than what people were apparently supposed to say over breakfast.

He loved you with a devotion that frightened him only when he examined it too closely.

That evening, he was telling you about Titus’ refusal to surrender one of his boots when he noticed you had stopped listening. The change was small. Most people would not have recognised it. Your gaze slipped from his face and fixed somewhere beyond his shoulder, though there was nothing behind him except a bookshelf and the narrow hall leading towards the bedroom. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the kitchen counter. The knuckles blanched, then flushed as your grip shifted. Your breathing grew shallower, each inhale catching high in your chest as if something inside you had begun closing its fist around your lungs.

Damian’s voice trailed into silence.

You stared ahead without appearing to see anything.

“Beloved?”

The endearment usually drew a smile from you. Sometimes you teased him for it, claiming he spoke as though the two of you had been married for forty years and maintained a shared estate haunted by at least three ghosts.

This time, you flinched.

Damian went still.

The reaction struck him with the force of a blow. You had never flinched from him. Not even during your first weeks together, when he had still moved around you with the rigid awareness of someone terrified of making an error he could not undo. You knew what he was capable of. You knew the violence that lived in the history of his hands, and you had still reached for them.

Now your shoulders curled inwards as though protecting your ribs, and the sound of your breathing began to fracture.

“What is wrong?” Damian asked.

He moved towards you instinctively. You recoiled so quickly your hip struck the counter, sending a spoon clattering to the floor.

“Don’t.”

The word barely escaped you. It was thin and raw, dragged through a throat that seemed to have forgotten how speech worked.

Damian stopped as though an invisible command had locked every joint in place.

His first thought was poison.

His eyes swept over the kitchen in a rapid assessment: the vegetables he had prepared, the pan still hissing quietly on the stove, the mug from which you had taken several sips. His mind dissected possibilities at a speed that had saved lives before. Toxins, allergic reactions, neurological events, respiratory distress. He catalogued the symptoms and found too many possibilities, none of them fitting cleanly enough to offer certainty.

Your chest rose and fell too quickly. Your lips trembled. The pupils of your eyes had widened until the colour around them seemed almost consumed.

“Are you injured?” he demanded, then immediately hated how harsh the question sounded.

You shook your head. The motion was frantic, almost imperceptible.

“I can’t—” You swallowed, pressing a palm against your sternum as if you might force your heart into a slower rhythm. “I can’t breathe.”

Damian’s own heart lurched.

He had seen people suffocate. He had watched lungs collapse beneath broken ribs, had held pressure over wounds while blood bubbled between gloved fingers. There had always been a procedure. Secure the airway. Control the bleeding. Call for extraction. Act quickly and decisively.

He reached for you again.

You made a strangled noise and stumbled sideways. “No touching. Please, please don’t touch me.”

His hand dropped at once.

Fear entered Damian without permission. It was unlike anything he knew. There was no assassin concealed in the apartment, no gas leaking beneath the door, no weapon he could wrench from an attacker’s hand. There was only you, shaking so violently the counter rattled beneath your grip, and the unbearable understanding that he did not know how to help.

For the first time in his life, Damian Wayne was afraid because there was nothing he could fight.

He turned off the stove because it was the only sensible action his body could remember. The hiss of the burner died, leaving the apartment oppressively quiet except for the rain and the ragged drag of air through your throat.

“I will call Leslie,” he said, already reaching for his phone.

“No.” You squeezed your eyes shut. Tears gathered beneath your lashes and escaped down your cheeks. “No hospital. It’s— It’s a panic attack.”

The phrase slowed his hand.

Damian knew what panic attacks were. He understood them clinically. He had read medical definitions, encountered them in case files, and witnessed the aftermath of fear in civilians pulled from collapsing buildings. None of that knowledge resembled seeing you trapped inside one.

“Have you experienced this before?”

You nodded, then shook your head as though even the movement had become too difficult to control. “Yes. Not— Not in a while.”

“What do you require?”

“I don’t know.”

The answer terrified him more than anything else had.

Damian forced his hands to unclench. His fingernails had carved crescents into his palms. He made himself breathe slowly, though every instinct urged him to close the distance between you, to lift you from the floor when your knees finally buckled and you slid against the cabinets.

He did not touch you. Instead, he lowered himself several feet away.

He sat on the kitchen tiles in trousers that probably cost more than the monthly rent of your apartment, folding his legs beneath him with deliberate care. He kept his palms visible against his knees. He remembered training frightened animals, remembered how sudden movement could transform concern into threat. The comparison felt insulting until he understood it was not about reducing you to something skittish. It was about accepting that love did not entitle him to your body, especially when your body had become a place of terror.

“I am here,” he said.

Your breathing hitched again.

Damian searched desperately through everything he knew about you. You disliked being crowded when overwhelmed. You preferred dim lighting when you had headaches. You counted stairs beneath your breath when climbing them, always ending on the wrong number because you became distracted halfway through. You slept better when there was some kind of sound in the room, usually rainfall or his voice reading aloud.

His voice. Damian softened it.

“I will not touch you,” he said. “I will not leave unless you ask me to. You are in my apartment. The kitchen light is on. It is raining outside, but the windows are closed. There is no one here except us.”

Your gaze flickered towards him, unfocused but no longer fixed upon nothing.

He continued. “Titus is at the Manor because Father claimed he missed him, though we both know Pennyworth bribed him with steak. The meal on the stove is likely ruined, but that is of no significance. I can prepare another.”

A fractured sound left you. It might have been a sob. It might have been the ghost of a laugh.

Damian clung to it. “You are wearing the jumper you insist is green, though it is objectively closer to grey. Your left sock has begun sliding down your ankle. You complained about it earlier and refused to change it because, according to you, that would mean the sock had won.”

Your eyes found him again. They did not remain, slipping away almost immediately, but they found him.

“That’s it,” he murmured, though he had no idea whether praising you was the correct thing to do. “You need not look at me. Listen only.”

The air continued to scrape in and out of your lungs. Damian counted the seconds between each breath, silently assessing whether you were beginning to hyperventilate severely enough to lose consciousness. The thought turned his stomach cold.

“Do not attempt to force a deep breath,” he said, recalling something he had once read. “Simply allow the next one to be slightly slower. Nothing more. You are not failing if you cannot.”

Your fingers flexed against the floor.

Damian began describing the room. He told you about the tiny crack in the tile beside your knee, one he had intended to repair for two months. He listed every plant on the kitchen windowsill and informed you that the basil had survived only through your intervention, since apparently his method of watering it had been “aggressively inconsistent.” He recited the ingredients he had used for dinner, then translated each one into Arabic when English became repetitive.

His voice filled the kitchen in an unbroken current. He did not stop when his throat began to ache.

Slowly, painfully, the terrible speed of your breathing began to ease. The pauses between your inhales lengthened. Your hands still shook, but they no longer clawed helplessly at your chest. Colour returned unevenly to your face, blooming beneath your skin in blotches.

Damian did not permit himself relief. Not yet.

Your eyes settled on his hands. He noticed because he noticed everything about you.

“Would you like me closer?” he asked.

Several seconds passed before you nodded.

Damian moved only one knee across the tile. He waited.

When you did not recoil, he moved again, narrowing the distance in increments until he sat within reach. He could see the damp tracks of tears over your cheeks, the pulse beating frantically in your throat. Every part of him ached to gather you against his chest, but he kept his hands where you could see them. “May I hold your hand?”

Your lower lip trembled. “Just my hand,” you whispered.

Damian turned one palm upwards and placed it on the floor between you.

He did not reach.

You stared at it for several breaths before extending your own. Your fingers touched the centre of his palm tentatively, so lightly that the contact might have been accidental. Damian remained perfectly still. Gradually, your hand settled into his, cold and damp with sweat.

Only then did he close his fingers.

The pressure was gentle. Barely there. You latched onto him with sudden force.

Damian’s chest tightened. He anchored his arm so you could grip as hard as you needed without pulling him off balance. Your nails pressed into his skin, and he welcomed the pain because it was tangible, because it was something he understood.

“You are here,” he said. “The floor is beneath you. My hand is in yours. Nothing is required of you except to remain.”

Your eyes closed again, but this time you did not disappear behind them.

The attack receded reluctantly. It did not end in a clean break; it loosened piece by piece, leaving exhaustion behind like debris after a storm. Your body sagged against the cabinets. Your breathing remained uneven, interrupted by shudders that travelled through your shoulders and down your spine.

Damian stayed exactly where he was.

Minutes passed. Perhaps twenty. Perhaps forty. He lost count, which disturbed him almost as much as anything else that evening.

Eventually, you whispered, “I’m sorry.”

His brows drew together. “For what?”

“For that.”

The shame in your voice was immediate and ugly, a bruise forming beneath every word.

Damian shifted closer before stopping himself. “You have nothing for which to apologise.”

“You didn’t sign up for this.”

“I was unaware relationships came with contracts.”

Your mouth twisted, but the expression vanished quickly. You looked down at your joined hands. His skin bore small red crescents where your nails had pressed.

“You were scared,” you said.

Damian considered lying. He had been trained to disguise fear before he had been old enough to name it. Confessing it still tasted like vulnerability offered to an enemy. Yet you were not an enemy, and devotion without honesty was merely another performance.

“Yes,” he said.

Your hand began to withdraw. Damian held on—not tightly enough to trap you, only enough that you would feel the request in it.

Your eyes lifted to his. He had never seen you look so fragile. Not weak. Damian despised the way others confused the two. Fragility was not an absence of strength. It was the condition of being breakable and continuing to exist anyway.

“You’re going to leave,” you whispered.

The words struck somewhere beneath his ribs. “What?”

“Maybe not tonight.” Your gaze slipped away from him. “But after. When you’ve had time to think about it. We haven’t been together that long, and this is a lot, and you’ve already got enough to deal with without me falling apart in your kitchen.”

Damian stared at you. It was incomprehensible at first. You had just endured something that had left your body shaking and your lungs aching, and your greatest concern was not that it might happen again. It was that he had witnessed it. That he might love you less now that he knew.

He released your hand only so he could shift fully in front of you. He remained careful not to touch anywhere you had not permitted, but he made himself impossible to ignore.

“Look at me,” he said. You did, reluctantly. “I was afraid because you were suffering and I did not know how to help you. I was not afraid of you.”

Your eyes filled again. “I don’t know when it’ll happen again.”

“Neither do I.”

“I might not be able to tell you what I need.”

“Then we will determine it together.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“No,” Damian said, the word edged with sudden fierceness. “Do not decide what I should endure on my behalf. I am capable of making my own choices.”

You flinched, not from fear this time, but from the force of him. Damian exhaled and gentled his voice again.

“I am not leaving because loving you requires knowledge I do not yet possess. I have lacked knowledge before. I rectify the deficiency.”

Despite everything, a damp laugh escaped you. “You’re going to research my panic attacks?”

“Extensively.”

“Damian.”

“I will consult reputable medical sources. I will speak with Leslie if you permit it. Tomorrow, when you are rested, you can tell me what has helped before and what has made matters worse. We can create a plan.”

Your expression crumpled slightly.

He lifted his hand, then waited with it suspended between you. “May I?”

You nodded.

Damian touched your cheek with the backs of his fingers. The contact was feather-light, a question even after permission had been given. When you leaned into it, something inside him finally loosened. His palm settled against your skin, warm and steady, his thumb brushing beneath your eye to gather the last wet trace of tears.

“I do not love only the portions of you that are convenient,” he said.

The confession emerged before he could contain it.

Your breath caught, and for one horrible second Damian worried he had frightened you again. “You love me?”

He had imagined telling you under better circumstances. Perhaps after dinner at the Manor, when the night was calm and the gardens smelled of summer roses. Perhaps in bed, your limbs tangled with his beneath clean sheets, when the darkness made honesty easier. He had not imagined sitting on a cold kitchen floor while a ruined meal congealed behind him.

It was not elegant. It was, however, true.

“Of course I do,” Damian said. “I thought that was evident.”

A sound broke from you, half laugh and half sob. You leaned forward slowly enough that he understood what you were asking. Damian opened his arms, and you folded into them.

He held you as if the world had narrowed to the exact shape of your body. One arm curved around your back. The other cradled the base of your skull, careful and protective without forcing your face against him. You pressed your ear to his chest, directly over the heartbeat that had not yet fully settled.

Damian lowered his mouth to your hair.

“I will not always know what to do,” he admitted. “There may be moments when I respond poorly. You must tell me when I do.”

“I’ll try.”

“And I will learn.”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t stop talking yet.”

Damian’s hold tightened by a fraction.

He told you about the rain. He told you about Titus stealing his boot and Alfred pretending not to find it amusing. He described the painting in the hall, the one you insisted looked like Bruce being haunted by the concept of emotional availability. He recited poetry in Arabic when ordinary words ran thin, translating each line quietly against your hair.

His voice vibrated through his chest and into your cheek, something deeper than sound. Something solid. A path laid one stone at a time through the dark.

Hours later, after you had managed water and half a piece of toast, Damian helped you into bed. He asked permission before every touch, even after you began reaching for him first. He lay beside you without crowding, one hand resting palm-up on the mattress between you.

You slipped your fingers through his.

“Will you still be here when I wake up?” you asked, your voice softened by exhaustion.

Damian brought your joined hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss against your knuckles.

“Yes,” he said.

It was not merely an answer. From Damian, it was an oath.

When your eyes closed, he continued speaking until your breathing deepened into sleep. He told you quiet, inconsequential things, his voice becoming a thread you could follow even in dreams. Only when he was certain you were resting did he allow the fear he had held at bay to move through him.

It left him shaken. It also left him certain.

Damian had once thought love was proven by the battles one was willing to fight. He understood now that sometimes love was measured by restraint: by hands kept open instead of grasping, by questions asked before contact, by remaining on a cold floor when every instinct demanded action.

“She is dating who?!” were the words spoken by the oldest brother.

“I don’t know!” Duke tries to explain for what feels like the hundredth time, “All I heard was her say was that us and the teams don’t know about them and she doesn’t want us to be weird about their relationship so she needs more time but will tell us soon.”

“We are never dramatic!” Jason yells.

The room goes quiet in disbelief. “Okay Fine. We are dramatic! But we have every right to be… especially with this news.” he corrected.

“We have to assume it’s one of our friends on the hero teams right?!” Tim asks, “That’s the only logical reason why she would hide it and be scared to tell everyone about it.”

“She was not scared to tell Father.” Damian stated.

Dick wonders, “How could she be scared to tell us but not Bruce?”

“Why don’t we just ask Bruce?” Duke suggests.

“No!” The other boys shouted in unison.

Damian states, “Father would never tell Sister’s secrets.”

“And if we ask him, he’ll tell her.” Dick says. “Knowing her, she’ll be really upset at us for being in her private business.”

“Then we will blame Thomas for being the reason why we know about her romantic relationship.” Damian stated.

Duke gasps, “Why blame me?”

“Because you were the one listening to her phone call outside of her bedroom… when you could have just walked away.” the young boy explained,“And then told us her secret when you could have kept the information to yourself.”

“I wasn’t listening to her conversation on purpose.” Duke defensively says, “And I only told everyone here because I thought you would want to know.”

“We do want to know so thank you.” Tim says, “But we won’t hesitate to throw you under the bus if she finds out.”

“So this is what it’s like to have brothers.” Duke mutters under his breath, while rolling his eyes in annoyance.

“Welcome to the family!” Jason exclaims, pulling him into a brotherly side hug. “But back to the important matters at hand…”

“Other than Bruce… who else do we think could know?” Dick asks.

“The specific people who could know about the relationship plays a part into who she is dating.” Damian stated. “Because we are suppose to not know until she is ready means that she is dating someone that we personally know.”

“Do we think Cassandra knows?” Tim asks.

“She definitely knows… but we can’t ask her.” Jason answers.

“Sisters would never share each other’s secrets.” Dick stated, “It’s apart of the Girl Code.”

Duke looks over at Dick with a questioned expression, “What do you know about Girl Code?”

Dick puts his hands up in defense, “I pay attention to women!”

Jason snickers, “Yeah, we know that.” earning a shove that nearly pushed him off the couch from Dick.

“You could just patiently wait for Madame to be ready to tell you about her romantic relationship.” Alfred says, catching them off guard, walking into the room with a requested plate of snacks.

“Do you know about her relationship?” Tim asked.

Dick added to the question,“More importantly, who she is dating?”

Alfred answers their question as he places the plate of food on the coffee table, “I don’t share the families’ secrets.”

“The butler knows about sister’s relationship but not us?!” Damian exclaims, “No offense Pennyworth”, looking apologetically at him.

“This is your sister’s first relationship as an adult, let her decide when it is the right time to tell her brothers. Don’t go and try to figure it out on your own time.” Alfred ordered, giving a generous smile to the boys then walking out of the lounge room.

The five brothers dropped the conversation, to be able enjoy their snacks while watching the sports game… but the curiosity of your secret relationship still lingered in their minds.

They couldn’t be mad at you for choosing to keep your relationship a secret… if anything, they’re mad at themselves for not noticing anything going on between you and one of your mutual friends.

They’re going to try and find out, one way or another…

As the daughter of one of the world’s greatest daughter… it wasn’t hard to notice that something was going on in the Wayne Manor.

For the past two weeks, you felt like eyes were on you at all times.

Dick and Jason, who don’t live full time at the manor, have been spending their free-time here… You love when your older brothers come home; but something felt rehearsed about these visits.

“I’ve noticed you’ve been reading a lot of romance books lately.”

“Romance is the best selling book genre in the world, Jason.”

“It’s just an observation.”

“An observation that I read books?!”

“It’s an observation that you are what you read.”

“Last time I checked… I’m not a Princess Bride.”

Whether you were in the Bat-Cave, one of the lounge rooms, the library, the main dining room, the courtyard, or your bathroom… Either one of your older brothers always tried to start up conversations with the feeling of intention to figure something out.

“I know I haven’t been around at the manor… but has anything important happened in your life lately that I should know about?”

“That is a bullshit lie!”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“I’m not talking to you about my life while trying to clean up after an ambush from The Condiment King.”

“Why not?! It’s the perfect time to talk!”

“No! I need to take a bubble bath!”

“What about after—”

“Get out of the bathroom Dick!”

Tim has been stalking you; not literally but figuratively.

Whenever you try to leave the manor; he always appears right at the front entrance and starts asking questions… You would think he’s created a spreadsheet of who you’re hanging out with and where you’re hanging out at with the all of the answers you’ve given him.

On the other hand; Damian has been avoiding being around you.

If you walk into a room, he’s making an excuse to leave. If you try to make plans with him, he’s busy that day and the next few days. He refused your offer to go on patrol with him… and even when the two of you are around each other, he’s not paying attention to you; his eyes are focused on your phone as if he’s anticipating it to go off.

The only brother who seems to be acting normal around you is Duke, but his behavior wasn’t enough to reassure you that nothing strange was going on with your other brothers and their behavior… and it really didn’t help that he didn’t seem to notice anything strange.

“Do you think I’m being paranoid—”

“I think you are being paranoid.”

“How could I not be?!”

“I think you’re overthinking every little thing…”

“Dick and Jason refuse to leave my side when they’re at the Manor, Tim keeps asking me questions every time I leave, and Damian avoids me but tried to steal my phone, TWICE!”

“I think they just want to spend time with their little sister more, Tim is being Tim, and Damian might be going through a phase.”

“Ugh… If this behavior doesn’t stop soon, I’m going to tell Dad.”

You couldn’t help but think it was all in your head.

It wasn’t that you thought your brothers were doing something wrong, it just didn’t seem like they were doing something right.

And your mind spiraled trying to figure a logical reason for this.

One reason crosses your mind… which causes you to go from laying comfortably in bed to sitting straight up with a fast beating heart.

They couldn’t know about it… How would they know?!

The people who know about the relationship wouldn’t tell them…

You didn’t mean to hide it for as long as you have, but it’s only been a few months since you started dating… and you deserve privacy.

But if they know… They would tell you that they know, right?!

The sound of your phone ringing snapped you out of your thoughts.

Looking over at your nightstand, you couldn’t help but to smile when seeing the name of who is calling on the phone screen… and immediately picked it up to answer.

“Hi my love!”

You couldn’t resist giggling when they responded with your name.

If time was on your side, you would stay talking on the phone until they’re home but unfortunately, they had just a few minutes to talk.

After asking about your day and getting an update on their mission.

You received some good news.

“The mission should be completed by the end of the week… and instead of going back to the Watch-Tower, I was thinking about coming straight to Gotham.”

“To see me?!” you flirtatiously asked.

“Of course Babe!” they laughed, “Also because… I thought about it since we told our friends, it’s time to tell your brothers.”

You couldn’t help but sigh, “You think so?”

“We can’t delay telling them much longer before they find out.”

“I have a feeling they know… something already.” you stressed.

“Well then… if they’re already suspecting something, we should just rip the band-aid off.” They stated, “It can’t be worse than Batman catching us making out in a private room at the Watch-Tower.”

You laughed, “Maybe not… but never underestimate them.”

“You know your brothers love you. They’re protective not controlling, just like your dad, your sister, and even the butler… I think I have more to be nervous about when we tell them about us.”

“You know them, you’ve known my family for years… You never had anything to be worried about.”

Before they could respond, you hear some recognizable voices in the background. You know this call lasted longer than it should have…

“Just think about it, cause I’m ready when you’re ready.”

“I think I’m ready… I’m just anxious about it,”

“Don’t overthink it. Everything will be fine.”

“I know… I know.”

“Okay, Talk to you later.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” you say before ending the phone call.

The 5 brothers were gathered in one of the Manor’s lounge room.

The room where they found out about their sister’s relationship.

Duke scheduled a “Brothers’ Meeting” when all five boys would be at home because of his conversation with you about your paranoia.

There were some things needed to be addressed.

Duke stood at the front of the room, just a few feet away from the long couch the other four boys were comfortably sat on.

“None of you followed Alfred’s orders?!” Duke asks with crossed arms, “Because when I talked to our sister the other day, all of you have been acting strange around her and she’s getting paranoid.”

“You’re the one who’s being paranoid.” Jason teased.

Dick answers, “We haven’t been acting strange at all.”

“Agree to disagree because based on what she told me; You and Jason won’t give her space when you’re at the manor, Tim is stalking her, and Damian tried to steal her phone twice—”

Damian interrupts, “It was actually three attempts.”

“And I’m not stalking her…” Tim defensively says.

Jason pointed at him, “You created a spreadsheet with the data you collected from her hang-outs over the past 6 months!”

“At least I’ve been able to narrow down the possible candidates of the relationship.” Tim argued. “You keep thinking that the music she listens too will give you some sort of clue!”

He exclaims, “She has a music playlist titled with a heart emoji and filled with love songs; I think the color heart is a hint to who, we have a lot of friends associated with different colors.”

“The heart emoji is pink… that’s a symbol of love.” Dick says.

Tim shouted. “Who cares about the emoji!”

“I can’t believe our sister is in love.” Jason admits.

Damian scoffs, “I can not believe our sister is in love with one of your friends.”

“If y’all don’t stop being weird soon… she’s going to tell Bruce, and we all know he will quickly figure out what’s going on.” Duke stated.

“Dad will figure out what?!” You innocently asked, walking into the lounge room, only having heard the second part of the sentence.

Your presence caught them by surprise.

How could they have not heard your footsteps?

They panicked to give you an answer.

“Figure out nothing!” Duke laughed, “Nothing for him to know.”

“We’re just having some good brother bonding time!” Tim exclaims, wraps his arms around Jason and Damian, who were sat next to him.

“He’s lying.” Jason stated, then pointed to the youngest Wayne. “Damian tried to drive the BatMobile… again.”

“Excuse you, Todd!” Damian exclaims, “That did not happen… yet.”

“If it does happen, We’ll handle it before Bruce finds out..” Dick calmly stated, before a fight could start between the brothers,“But, Like Tim said… We’re just all hanging out in here.”

Duke spoke, “You’re welcome to join us if you like!”

“Actually, I came in here because there’s something I’ve been needing to tell all of you for some time…” You nervously said.

In less than a second, all their focus is on you.

Dick’s right leg is bounding, Jason leaned back against the sofa.

Tim is fidgeting with his necklace, Damian is locked in place.

Duke is standing as normally as he could be.

You take a deep breathe.

With a nervous smile on your face and your fast-beating heart.

You make the announcement.

“I’m in a relationship… My partner and I been together for a few months but, now that that it’s the right time to tell everyone.”

There’s a pause, your heart skipped a beat, then came the reactions.

“Wow! A relationship! That’s great!” Dick exclaims.

Jason clapped his hands together. “What a surprise!“

“We didn’t have any idea about this!” Tim stated.

“We’re happy for you.” Duke truthfully says.

Damian spoke, “Congratulations Sister.”

You give them all a smile.

“We planned to tell you together, this weekend actually… But there was a change in plans and they couldn’t make it to Gotham.”

When the boys communicated with each other using their eyes; your suspicions of something going on between them was confirmed.

And you would not spend another day with a paranoid feeling.

“Is something going on?” you asked.

There no was quick response.

The brothers broke their stares with each other to look at you…

Damian clears his throat before speaking, “Dear sister, all of us knew of your relationship for weeks because Thomas overheard a phone call between you and your partner. So this is not new information.”

Duke gasped at the betrayal as the others brothers couldn’t help themselves to not laugh, “Why did you throw me under the bus?!”

“You attempted to throw ME under the bus!” Damian shouted.

“That wasn’t me! That was Jason!” Duke defensively argued.

“If you had not lied, Todd would not have had to lie.” he stated.

“I only came up with a lie because the brother bonding lie was too suspicious.” Jason said.

“How was it too suspicious?!” Tim questioned.

Dick admits with a shrug, “I thought it was a good lie.”

“It was a good lie…” You tell, “But all of you can’t lie to me to save your lives… so, I had a feeling that something was going on.”

All hell broke loose.

The other brothers tried to argue that they weren’t acting suspicious.

Dick and Jason insists they weren’t trying to get personal information from your conversations, but instead that they were trying to bond with their little sister.

Tim tried explaining that his spreadsheet was for a research project and not that he was stalking you to figure something out.

Damian claimed that your phone was evidence for the mission case. (The Case of the Mysterious Miss or Mr).

“The only one who wasn’t suspicious was Duke!” You exclaimed.

“Thank you! Wait… that’s a good thing right?”

“Yes Duke… but you’re not off the—”

Duke interrupts, “We knew that you are in a relationship, but we don’t who you’re dating.”

There was a silent pause with the sudden realization.

“All of you knew I’m in a relationship… but you didn’t know who?” You suspiciously questioned. 

Your brothers look at each other and then nodded.

“We suspected it’s one of our friends from the League based on Tim’s spreadsheet.” Jason replied.

Tim stated. “There’s a few possibly candidates.”

You admit, “You aren’t wrong about it being one of our friends..”

All eyes were on you now.

The weight of anxiety from overthinking this moment for months.

The fear in your mind of what is going to change moving forward.

Your heart was beating out of your chest.

This relationship will no longer be your little secret.

It was a scary feeling but, at the same time, freeing feeling.

Knowing there was one question your brothers needed answered…

Who Is She Dating?!

this post was written with NO HELP from Artificial Intelligence!

Magnolia is in love! but with who is your decision!

When creating my Batsis!Reader/OC, I never planned on her having just one love interest, so you can imagine her mystery partner as any (age appropriate) character in DC.

I tagged a few character x reader tags on who I would be willing to write fanfictions using my Batsis!Reader in the future. (I couldn’t tag every character because of the 30 tag limit, but these are the most popular character tags).

If you have a story ideas or story requests, send them to my Inbox!

dividers: @/diviniyae and @/zclhs

"Yes, father, The Happy Loom," he snaps, scowling out of pure embarrassment. "I need some colorful stationery for my schoolwork—perhaps it will make it more enticing. Is that okay with you?"

Bruce nods, sliding his glasses back on and returning to his task at hand. "No problem here, Damian. None at all."

What Damian doesn't tell Bruce is that he doesn't give two shits if his notes are "colorful" or "enticing." What he does care about, however, is seeing you.

You, the absolutely beautiful person he sees sitting a few rows down in nearly every lecture hall he's been in. He tries, he tries oh so hard to focus on the lesson and pay attention, but his eyes always drift to your lovely face. Lately, he's ended up with barely half a lecture's worth notes, but he does have the color of your eyes memorized.

So when he found out that you worked at a small craft store not too far from school, he'd been finding every reason to visit. This is the third time he's come in and asked you for help "finding the perfect [Y/E/C] crayon." He did not stop until he'd found one the exact shade of your beautiful eyes.

"Hello, welcome in," your voice chirps softly, eyes focused on the computer in front of you when the bell over the door chimes. 

Eventually, you look up and a big smile overtakes your face. "Oh, Damian, hi. You're back," you say, stepping away from the computer to give your attention to him. So cute, he thinks despite himself. So cute, putting all your focus on him.

He nods. "I am back, yes. Today, I am here for paint."

"Paint?"

"Yes, paint. I've decided to take up watercolors," he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. 

You grin, rounding the counter to take him to the painting section. "What, you trying to find ways to cope with the hell that is pre-med?" you joke softly.

While he doesn't find it funny—he takes his education very seriously—he lets out a small chuckle. "It is not so bad," he replies, following by your side. "Are you doing okay?"

"In my classes? Yeah, to an extent," you explain, fiddling with your pant drawstring. "Biochem is kinda getting me."

Well, perfect. "Oh? Perhaps I can help you?"

You glance at him, your eyes so kind and full of life. Something must be wrong with him; he's never felt so giddy in his life, let alone to help someone.

"What, like a tutor?"

"Exactly that. I promise I'd be of good use."

"I might have to take you up on that, Damian. Thank you." He loves the way you say his name. You turn into the paint aisle, gesturing to all the different mediums. "You said watercolor, yes?"

He nods. 

You grab a few palettes off the wall, handing them to him. "So, I like this one best because I feel like the pigment is stronger, but it's more expensive. This other one is cheaper—sort of for beginners—and allows more room for error, I'd say."

He looks up at you through his dark lashes, smirking softly. "And you're not a beginner, I assume?"

A blush coats your cheeks, your head ducking. "I don't know. I dabble."

"You dabble, hm?" he echoes. "You're not going to like…whip out the Mona Lisa and say it's yours, right?"

You snort at his dumb joke. "I've been doing art since I was younger, but I feel like I'm better with oil pastels."

He nods in understanding. "Okay. Where will I find the oil pastels?"

"You…want to use pastels now?"

"Yes. I'll try both."

You look at him for a moment, his bright green eyes staring rather gently into yours. There's something in his gaze that you can't quite place. Something gooey and raw and soft.

"…Okay. I'll get you some pastels, too, then," you murmur, fighting to contain your smile. "Follow me."

Damian returns back to Wayne Manor not much later. In one hand he holds a plastic bag full of brushes, palettes, pastels, and canvases galore. He even bought a small easle to display his work. 

And to top it all off, a small, sweet little smile curls at his lips. There's a slight pep in his step as he makes his way up to his room. However, he's stopped by an all too happy Richard Grayson.

"Watcha got, baby bird?" he lilts, sauntering on over to his brother. He squints to read the writing on the bag. "'The Happy Loom Craft Store?' So, you craft now, huh, Dami?"

He scowls, the smile vanishing entirely. "Shut up, Dick. I wanted to paint something. So what?"

Dick laughs, a full and loud belly-laugh. "Damian Wayne painting?"

He merely nods.

Dick snorts just as Jason descends the steps to join the group. "I call bullshit," Dick says, nudging Jason with his elbow. "Jay, does Damian paint?"

The big man frowns. "No…? When has Dami ever been a painter?"

"Exactly! Baby bird doesn't paint. I mean, when was the last time the kid had a hobby?"

Of course, now Tim is coming down the stairs. "Oh, good," Damian sighs. "Timothy. Help me out here! Dick and Jason say I don't paint."

Tim looks up from his phone, blinking the sleep from his eyes. "You don't."

A low growl escapes Damain's lips. "I hate you all. I can paint if I so choose."

"Who paints?"

"Goddammit!" Damian exclaims, rubbing a hand down his face at the sound of Bruce's voice. "Really, father? You choose now to pull yourself away from work?"

Bruce chuckles, his arms crossing over his broad chest. "You paint, Damian?"

"…I suppose."

"Is that why you went to the craft store?"

No. "Yes. But it's none of your business." He wags his finger at his siblings. "Or any of yours!"

He begins his way up the stairs, stomping. Of course, he's being awfully pouty, but rightfully so! God forbid he wants to see the most ethereal being just a little more outside of class? You would think he had committed a crime.

As Damian enters his bedroom and shuts the door behind himself, he makes a promise: he will get insanely good at both oil painting and watercolor. He will find every excuse to buy more art supplies at your little store. And one day, one day,he will enter The Happy Loom and get your number.