(-M0CHI_DR3AM-)

for as much trouble as delinquent ! deuce spade spreads throughout the streets of clocktown, for as many fights as he starts and ends for one petty reason or another, when it comes to your relationship it’s like he becomes a completely different person. or, well, a mostly different person. being with you, loving you, doesn’t make him any less of a troublemaker or a delinquent (he needs a far bigger push to finally leave that lifestyle behind, after all), but it does make him think a bit more about what he’s doing when you’re around, and it does make him a bit softer around the edges with you and because of you. so the same but different in a way that speaks of potential for more, and that’s got to count for something… right?

while he may have pretty much abandoned all hope when it comes to his own academic career, deuce still does what he can to try and support you with yours. he’s imperfect in his approach and can sometimes encourage you to fall back on the same bad habits as him, namely skipping school and not the terrorising town part, but more often than not he is a pretty supportive partner… just don’t ask him to help with your homework because while he may, may, try, you will not be getting far at all

he is incredibly protective over you and after you two start getting close it becomes common knowledge amongst the local delinquents to never talk about you around deuce because that’s the quickest way to get his attention — and if what they’re saying is at all negative, or alternatively borders on locker room talk, the fastest way to get on his bad side… and earn a beating for your trouble. so needless to say you won’t ever have to worry about getting into any sort of trouble with him by your side (because he takes care of things before you even start to suspect anything)

his own efforts to bleach his hair have, admittedly, ended up with a rather inconsistent look, so if ever you offer to do the job for him he’d gladly (though feigning reluctance because image is everything, even with you) accept your help. just don’t ask to dye over it as he just won’t let you… with him it’s either his natural hair colour or the bleached look, and no amount of puppy dog eyes is gonna get him to change his mind on the matter

him and dylla aren’t exactly on the best of terms at the moment, but one of the very few things that they can discuss without things getting too strained is you. after all, deuce is always more than happy to gush about all of your achievements and how much he loves you, and dylla is always happy to hear about the only positive thing in her son’s life during this rocky period. granted these conversations can sour if the topic strays out from you to the circumstances surrounding your relationship and deuce’s delinquent friends… but it’s always nice while it lasts, and it’s nice to know that your boyfriend’s mum likes you

he tries to keep you out of his more… questionable activities. the success of these efforts is, of course, entirely dependent on what type of person you are, but at his core deuce is very keenly aware that his behaviour and actions are wrong and he’d much rather not drag you into the mess he’s gotten himself into. even if he himself is not ready to leave that same mess behind yet

he’s very casually affectionate with you. or, rather, he’s very casually touchy with you in line with how the other boys in his circle tend to be with their partners — he’s just more respectful about how and where he touches you, and cares enough to respect your boundaries without ever making a fuss about it. beyond getting embarrassed in a very typical teen-boy kind of way if you call him out on it, but that never lasts long and is always followed by the most earnest apology he can muster

that being said, he is incredibly easily flustered and caught off guard by you being all cute and affectionate with him. especially so if that affection involves being very tactile and calling him pet names that border on sickeningly sweet — and while being showered with love by his favourite person doesn’t bother him per se, he will at that point put some physical distance between you while he tries to compose himself… and sevens help him if you do this in front of his buddies because he will not live it down (delinquents don’t show mercy to each other and you will have doomed him to a lot of teasing until he blows his gasket and beats some sense into them…)

being with delinquent ! deuce means accepting that you will be seeing him bloodied, scraped up, and bruised a hell of a lot more frequently than you may want to. and while he will make an effort to clean himself up before seeing you if he knows that you’re squeamish, his memory isn’t perfect and there will still be times where you’ll catch him looking a lot worse for wear — and if you can’t deal with that, then you’re best off not getting into a relationship with him until a while after he settles into his future ‘honour student’ dreams over at night raven college

DAILY PLANET | MARCH 19TH DOES DAMIAN WAYNE HAVE A CRUSH ON SUPERGIRL? Article written and edited by Catherine Grant 

This morning, an alien attack struck upon Metropolis around 9:43 am — a race coming from another galaxy wanting to destroy Superman; common routine. The Man of Steel immediately got into action, and as he bought time by negotiating with the chieftain of the invaders, other Supes such as Supergirl and the Superboys assured that the population was properly evacuated and far away from the zone of the inevitable, impending battle that was soon going to take place. 

The laser cannons went off at 9:47 am, and by that time, most civilians had been warned about the looming attack and were on their way to LordTech Field, where Superwoman and Superboy (the one with the punk fashion sense) were already stationed to protect the population. Out of all the areas, the only one who still hadn’t been properly evacuated was the business district, as the LexCorp building apparently proved to be particularly difficult to clear from all the employees. When the attack started, only a few establishments still had citizens inside, including Wayne Tower. 

We’ve already talked in yesterday's article about Damian Wayne’s — son of famous billionaire philanthropist Bruce Wayne, as well as top executive and heir to Wayne Enterprises — sudden arrival in Metropolis, supposedly because of an important work meeting with S.T.A.R. Labs. Reliable sources claim that Mr. Wayne was one of the last people to exit the building, as he apparently made sure that everyone was out before even thinking about running away from the building himself. 

“He waited until we were all on our way to the emergency exits before running to the staircase leading to the upper floor,” says Lynn Porter, 23, interning at Wayne Enterprises and survivor of the attack. “He said that other people were still there — that he had to make sure everyone got out safely.” 

Mr. Wayne’s bravery didn’t come without a price, as he was still in the building when the mothership’s attack reached the business district. Fortunately, Supergirl intervened quickly, and all remaining employees were escorted out either into the waiting ambulances or to LordTech Field. However, the most remarkable out of all the victims has to be the youngest Wayne himself, who openly refused to let go of Supergirl as she came to extract him from the rubble. 

The paramedics’ body cam footage was leaked not even an hour after the attack ended, and shows Wayne holding on tightly to Supergirl’s neck as she bridal carries him. When the superheroine tries to lie him down on the ambulance’s stretcher, the video shows the man screeching and holding onto her shoulders tighter — quite a comic sight, considering that Damian Wayne is usually considered to be around 6’2” and Supergirl is clearly shorter than him. 

The footage could be seen as a simple show of a trauma response — if it wasn’t for the fact that before the paramedics managed to get him down in the stretcher, he left a kiss on Supergirl’s cheek. 

This is undeniable — as the kiss cannot only be seen, but also heard, as a loud smooching sound is clearly distinguishable in the body cam footage audio. Before the leaked video ends, Supergirl can be seen laughing and patting Mr. Wayne’s chest as he finally settles over the ambulance’s cot, telling the very perplexed paramedics, “Oh, this one must’ve hit his head hard,”

Damian Wayne has, in fact, reportedly hit his head pretty hard, and was transferred to Metropolis General Hospital with a grade 2 concussion. Netizens have already begun commenting on the short video, some outraged about Mr. Wayne’s behaviour, others speculating about the possible entanglement between a superheroine and the son of a billionaire. 

The thing that has mostly sparked controversy, however, is the known fact that Mr. Wayne has been off the dating market ever since he was a teenager, and has a years-long relationship with Miss Kent, the daughter of well-known reporter and multi Pulitzer Prize winner Lois Lane. The two have always been quite private about their relationship, but Mr. Wayne’s kiss to Supergirl has since led to speculation that they have since broken up. 

Sources very close to the couple state that they’re as in love as ever, and that a simple moment of affection towards a heroine who saved Mr. Wayne’s life is not nearly enough for them to start doubting the other. Although, the only question we all have right now is: does Damian Wayne have a crush on Supergirl?

You angrily slam your phone on the dinner table. “I knew she didn’t call just to wish me happy birthday earlier today!” 

Lois sips placidly her coffee, reading the article on her laptop. “Your birthday was four months ago, honey, you should’ve known.” The smile on her lips tell you everything you know — she’s too flattered by her mention as a multi Pulitzer winner to be bothered with her friend’s breach of privacy in your life. “I think the article is brilliant.” 

Your father has been sulking ever since he finished reading it. “Yeah, because at least she mentions you as her mother,” he whines, resting his forehead on the counter. “I’ve known Cat for twenty years and she bothered to only mention you. She could’ve at least said in passing that you didn’t make her on your own — that Clark Kent has helped, y’know. What am I now, chopped liver?” 

You blink, pushing your glasses up. “Hello? Are we forgetting that she called me earlier to ask me if everything was alright after the attack and instead only cared about how me and Damian were doing?”

“Aw, you know Cat, sweetheart,” your mother hushes, waving you off. “Remember when she wrote that article about you finally being potty-trained?”

Clark deadpans. “She just wanted to write something that would’ve caught the eye of mothers with small children to expand her audience. And she used one of our daughter’s darkest times to do it.” 

You tug on your hair. “Do you know how hard it is to go around like nothing’s wrong when there’s still copies of that article going around? I’m haunted. Grandma still has her copy hung up on the living room’s wall. I once asked Damian to buy all the copies he could find of that just to burn them and instead he kept them.” You’d never felt more betrayed in your entire life before then.

“Just stop answering her calls,” Jon suggests, still a bit weirded out by the video of his best friend kissing his sister — albeit the two of you have been dating for years now, he’ll never get over how weird it feels. “I did when she used my acne as an excuse to write that article about pimple remedies.” He leans over the table, voice as serious as ever, “Grandma has that one framed too, by the way.”

“Horrible, horrible woman,” your father agrees, still not recovered from his colleague’s utter dismissal of his fatherly role in raising you. “Do you know how many diapers I have changed? How many tantrums I had to tame? I even participated in all the dance recitals that strictly requested the mother to participate. I wore tutus for you!” 

“Hey, don’t blame this on me,” you rebut. “That’s your coworker — tell her you’ve won a couple of Pulitzers too, I don’t know,” you open your arms with a puzzled expression, “besides, how is it that she wrote more articles about me and Jon than you guys did?” 

Your parents share a look. “Well, the two of you are the closest people she has to rely on for the younger audience. While me and your father keep our mentions of you for birthdays and TV reportages, she can be a bit nosey.” Your mother's nose scrunches. “I remember clearly the time when everyday she was coming up with a different article on how I was undoubtedly a member of Superman’s supposed harem. She wrote tens of those — more than she's ever written about you.” Another sip of her coffee, “Otherwise, I would've intervened. Your privacy can't possibly get more breached than mine did.” 

You let out a frustrated groan. “I thought she genuinely forgot about my birthday and remembered when she found out Damian was injured in the attack.” 

“I love you with all my heart, honey,” Lois starts with a grimace, “but sometimes, I think that you and your brother took too many traits from your father to properly work in a society — you guys trust people way too much.” 

“You say that because if we weren’t related, you’d probably be worse than Cat,” you grumble. 

Your father nods, spirited, “Yeah– all those articles about Superman when I first debuted? You were so mean about it — and I even gave you all the interviews you could’ve ever wanted!” 

Your mother shrugs. “Sue me — an opportunity is an opportunity.” She gets up from the couch to wash the now empty coffee mug over the sink, “By the way, how’s Damian? He must’ve been pretty out of it if he really kissed you in front of paramedics while you were in your costume.”

You sigh, “I’ll visit him at the hospital as soon as I’m halfway done with the essay that I’ve got to turn in by today– Dick and Bruce came to visit him and when I called, he was already babbling something about Vicki Vale and how much he hates her.” 

Jon raises an eyebrow. “Vicki Vale wrote an article about what happened today? I thought she only wrote about Gothamite things.”

“Technically, this is a Gothamite thing,” you huff, “because the son of the Prince of Gotham just kissed Supergirl, and she’s pissed about it.”

GOTHAM GAZETTE | MARCH 19TH HAS DAMIAN WAYNE CROSSED ALL ESTABLISHED SOCIAL BOUNDARIES? Article written and edited by Victoria Vale 

This morning, after an alien attack struck Metropolis, a video of Damian Wayne — who, for all living under a rock, is the son of billionaire playboy and supposed Prince of Gotham Bruce Wayne — kissing Supergirl — speculated daughter or relative of the Man of Steel — got leaked. The footage has sparked controversy on the Internet as people began to question the role of female superheroes and how Wayne seemingly took advantage of the situation to fulfill some kind of depraved fantasy of his. 

We’ve known of the Waynes’ entanglement with superhero society for a while now (click here for the article about Batman and Bruce Wayne’s speculated affair, here to read about the latter’s disastrous date with Wonder Woman, and here to know all about Dick Grayson’s on-and-off relationship with known alien superheroine Starfire) but this was probably a pairing that not even the most creative fortune teller could've predicted. 

Damian Wayne has always been an elusive figure in high society, especially for what entails his love life. It’s a known fact that he’s been in a relationship with the daughter of Daily Planet’s reporters Lois Lane and Clark Kent since high school, but other than that, he’s always refused to elaborate more during interviews and social gatherings.

Miss Lane has participated in the celebrations for Wayne Jr’s birthdays, and has been a new presence to this past New Year’s Eve Wayne Gala (click here for more on that). 

This secrecy about what should be an established relationship has sparked scandal on socials like Instagram and TikTok, where netizens harshly criticized the new Prince of Gotham — as really, Bruce Wayne is starting to get a tad bit too old for that title — for not sharing every little aspect of his private life like his father does. This, added to the leaked footage of this morning, has users wondering if the supposed relationship is still going strong or if tensions have arisen within the couple. 

Meanwhile, some users are outraged not rather by the supposed cheating, but by the treatment of female superheroes in modern society. “She (Supergirl) handled it very well, but I doubt she would’ve shown otherwise with the already stressed paramedics in front of her”, one comment under the leaked video suggests. “Men’s audacity managing to stay strong even during a literal alien attack never fails to amaze me”, another reads, leading to the debacle on the role of superheroines and their perception by superhero fanatics. 

Users are mostly worried about Supergirl’s well-being, as she found herself harassed by someone she was supposed to be saving. Some could argue that Wayne was in an utter state of confusion caused by the concussion he was later on found to have, but most are convinced that it was a calculated act to try and establish a predominance over a woman, even if said woman is considered to be one of the most powerful beings of Earth.

The primary question we’re all asking ourselves is: how should civilian women be able to feel safe around men, if not even superheroines are spared of their unwanted advances? And what does trust really mean for them, considering that even Damian Wayne, who has never shown an ounce of emotion to the public and has always been deemed as a feminist, did not hesitate to betray his girlfriend with Supergirl as soon as the opportunity presented itself? Stay tuned and subscribe to our newsletter to be updated as soon as Wayne's representatives come out with a statement on the situation. 

“I will go back to my old ways just to murder her,” Damian grumbles, still high off the pain medication. He rises on his elbows, still dizzy, “Father– order a jet to Gotham now, I’ve decided I’m killing this wench–”

Dick — who has barely managed to contain his laughter this whole time — tuts and has him lie back down, patting his shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry — B’s lawyers have already got it handled. Just try to get some rest, will ya?”

“She didn’t even say the kiss was on the cheek!” Damian slurs, “This is insulting — the whole time, it looks like I violated her!”

“Well, if you were a stranger, I guess you would’ve,” Bruce mutters grimly, his eyebrows knitted ever since he entered the hospital room and showed his son the article. “The thing is, you weren’t, but you can’t exactly go around to say that now, can you?” 

“I was disoriented!” your boyfriend screams, outraged. “I was hit in the head by a very heavy piece of rubble! I just wanted to show gratitude towards my girlfriend!” 

“And thought it was snuggle time,” Dick adds, amused, thinking back to how Damian had clung to you like a monkey very clingy towards his favourite tree branch. The latter glares at him, “You say that now, Grayson, but I still haven’t forgotten that one time when you jumped into Starfire’s arms at the haunted mansion in the fair.” 

His brother shrugs. “I wasn’t being recorded, at least. Poor Dami here instead got his lovey-dovey footage leaked, and now everyone thinks he’s a creep.” 

Damian’s left eye twitches as Dick hugs and pats his head like he’s still a kid, “Just kill me now. Ten years of feminist statements, ruined by a little peck.” 

Bruce lets out a heavy sigh, crossing his arms, “At least it wasn’t Tim’s accusation of breaking into the government’s archives to find out what really happened to Marilyn Monroe — I had to pay off federals, Damian, federals. The lawyers have already sent Vicki a very coloured letter — you’ll be out of the trenches in a matter of days.”

Damian grumbles, his words still a bit mushed from sleep and the concussion. “Where’s she? I didn’t ask to be taken to Gotham General just so she could come see me.” 

“The subway’s still down,” Bruce replies easily. “Clark said she wanted to come flying, but paparazzis probably would’ve followed her to have the exclusive on what really happened between the two of you, so he’s giving her a ride — but try to remember that a fifth of the city’s still destroyed. They could take a while.” 

Damian blindly reaches for his phone, seated on the nightstand beside the bed, and nearly rips out his IV in doing so. Dick catches the mobile when it almost falls to the ground, then holds it out of his brother’s grasp. “Lemme call her,” your boyfriend whines, in an uncharacteristic show of actual emotion. Grayson coos, “Aww, and what’s the magic word, honey? Come on, say it, I know you can do it,”

“Dick,” Damian hisses — with in mind anything but his actual name. Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. “Stop bullying your brother, Dick — while he’s in a hospital bed, at least refrain from doing so.” 

Grayson sing-songs the whole time as he unlocks his brother’s phone, coos at the wallpaper picture of the two of you at your birthday dinner, and positively squeals when he sees your contact name. “You’ve got her saved as Beloved — and I got my full name? Not even Raven has me saved as Richard John Grayson! I think not even the government knows me like that!” 

“Suck it,” Damian says, in an actually very characteristic show of pettiness. “Gimme the damn phone.” 

You reply on the third ring, but to him, it feels like a lifetime. “Hi, Dami, how are you doing?”

“Where’re you?” he demands, words slurred on his mouth. “You save me and next thing I know, Vicki Vale is calling me a sexist patriarch who molested Metropolis’ golden girl.” 

“I’m sorry about that,” you tell him softly, honestly — you’ll make sure to patch the situation up as soon as you get back into the costume, maybe ask your mother to interview you about the incident. “If it helps, Cat Grant described you with far more gentle words — something about how you bravely made sure that everyone was out of the building before thinking about getting out yourself.”

“Right before calling me a cheater,” he grunts. “Where are you? I wan’ you here.” 

“Picking flowers,” you hum, as peaceful as ever. “Roses or lilies?”

“You,” he replies without hesitation. 

You laugh, and he’s sure he could get drunk off the sound. “Chrysantemum it is,” he can hear a hushed conversation with your father in the background, and the chirpy voice of the cashier as she asks if you’d like to add anything else to the total. “I would’ve gotten there earlier, but you know, the city’s still half destroyed and I still have to turn in that exam by today, and I bet that once I get there, you won’t let me out of your sight.”

He lets out a noise of agreement, sending a pointed look to Dick — currently picking on his nose from behind his hand, probably thinking he’s so discreet — and Bruce — on his phone, trying to look like he’s not listening into the conversation as he replies to the lawyers’ emails. “I don’t think I will. I’m stuck here with a bully and a cop, so you’d be the best upgrade I could ever think of getting.” 

Bruce turns to Dick, stunned. “Did he just call me a cop, when you’re right here?” 

“Don’t worry,” you assure your boyfriend, “I’ve packed a bag to stay overnight. I’ve got my computer with me so you can help me with the essay with that little bandaged head of yours.” You’re acting like it’s not him who always asks you to help write his essays — but it’s okay, it makes him feel useful and you know he needs to hear it sometimes. “About that, how’s the concussion?”

“Hurts,” he whines, definitely faking it out for you just so you’ll get to the hospital faster. Bruce raises an eyebrow at him, having rarely seen his son complain about injuries, as Dick finally bursts out laughing. “When are you getting here?”

“Oh, shush, you big baby,” you chuckle into the phone, the sound of a car door opening and slamming back closed resounding in the speaker. “I got you in time, didn’t I? You’re fine. You’ve handled worse.” 

“Is it Damian?” Jon’s voice — probably from the backseat — rises as he recognises the voice of his best friend coming from the phone. “Hi, Damian! Hope those rocks didn’t hit you too hard!” 

You can basically hear Damian deadpan. “Oh, yeah, guess you’re there too. You didn’t pack a bag, did you? Because I don’t want you here tonight.” 

Jon rolls his eyes even if his friend can’t see him as Clark laughs. “Don’t worry, cowboy, I won’t be the one who stops you from going to town this evening.”

Your father chokes on his breath and nearly hits a street lamplight at the joke, and you lean over the backseat to repeatedly smack your — by now not so much little — brother. The phone must’ve fallen on the backseat, because all Damian can hear is vague insults and the screeching of tires, and then your father’s voice yelling at you two to stop fighting. A chorus of “I didn’t start it!” can be heard before two smacks echo, and your voice comes back to the speaker after what feels like endless shuffling. 

“Damian,” you grumble, “Jon here just tried to murder me.” 

“It’s you who took out the heat vision–”

”Anyways,” you cut your brother off, “we’ll be there in five, ‘kay? Hang on tight for me until then.” 

The yelling starts again right before the line goes silent, and Damian wonders how possibly he has managed to survive the last twelve years with the both of you always at the other’s neck. You and Jon love each other and he’s never doubted it, but the love-and-homicide relationship between a brother and a sister actually needs to be studied. Thankfully enough, Cass has yet to try to murder him. 

The hospital door opens a few minutes later, and you emerge from the hallway, a big bouquet of chrysantemums in your hands. “Bonjour!” Jon is right behind you, hair looking a bit ruffled — no doubt from the scuffle the two of you had — and a floating, bright yellow GET WELL SOON! balloon in his hand. You pause, “Or is it bonsoir by now? I don’t remember anything about French.” 

“It’s bon après-midi," Damian’s pronunciation is as good as ever, but he grumbles when you first greet his father and brother instead of running to him. “Hey! I’m right here!”

He catches Jon’s attention instead, and he immediately drops the balloon in the air to smother him amidst his friend's various protests. “Aww, poor baby! Don’t worry, Nurse Jon is here now, everything will be alright!” He leaves a wet, fat kiss over his cheek as he cradles his head to his chest comically, not caring a single bit about Damian’s shrill screams. “Release me, heathen! I did not call for you — get away from me!” 

You laugh as Dick takes out his phone to snap a picture of the moment for his blackmail folder, and settle the bouquet in the vase sitting over the window counter. “Sorry, sorry — Jon, c’mon, he’s injured, let him go,”

”Does little Dami have a boo-boo?” Jon coos, voice high-pitched as Damian continues to thrash in his hold, “I’ll fix you up in no time–”

“Jonno,” Clark’s voice comes from the door — he’s just entered the room, jacket slung over his arm, “be nice to him — he’s got a concussion, bud.” 

This just escalates Jon’s teasing, even as you rip Damian away from his arms and into yours. “A concussion! You must be the first person on Earth to get one. I’ve never heard of it.” 

High school has taught Jon to finally tease people around him — and he takes every opportunity he can to pay back his best friend for years of being picked on. You swat your brother as your boyfriend settles with his cheek over your stomach, whining softly. “Leave him alone,” 

Your brother chuckles, softening up a bit before poking Damian in the arm. “You’re so fake, man — I’ve seen you handle broken bones with less fuss.” 

Clark sends a concerned glance at Bruce as the three of you bicker, retrieving the floating balloon from the ceiling. “How is he, actually?”

Bruce shrugs — he probably considers this more a facade than anything, as normally, his son would already be up and about. “Well, he has had worse. The doctors would like to keep him here for the night, see if he gets any nausea or other symptoms, but overall he should be out of here by tomorrow.” 

Your father raises his eyebrows — he sometimes hates the way your mother has rubbed off on him being nosey all the time, but it’s his daughter’s boyfriend they’re talking about, and he needs to know if Damian is a wimp whenever someone’s not looking. “So he is faking it.”

Bruce presses his lips into a thin line and nods, sighing. “He is.” 

“It’s like he’s a whole different guy whenever she’s around,” Dick whispers, his tone conspirational. “It’s either those alien genes you guys have got, or he’s down bad.” 

Clark scratches the back of his neck. “If it’s about genes, I’d say it’s the Lane ones working far too well. I don’t have that much appeal compared to my wife.” 

His friend hums. “I agree. Lois is ten times more interesting than you.” 

Your father frowns — the article only citing Lois as your parent coming to his mind. He’d lie if he said he wasn’t still a bit hurt by that. “What’s that supposed to mean, now?”

You and Jon have already settled on both sides of Damian — you on his right, seated on the cramped table chair with your computer open in your lap, and Jon on his left, sprawled over the bed chair for visitors’ overnight stays. While you’re mostly unbothered by it, your boyfriend has been glaring at him ever since he sat down. “I would say that chivalry has fallen on low ends, but that would equal saying that you’re supposedly a knight, and that would be insulting to all cavaliers.” 

Your brother snorts, “So what, you’d define yourself to be a knight?”

Damian huffs presumptuously, crossing his arms. “I would.” 

Jon cackles, “Since when do knights get saved by their ladies?”

“Since ladies started having superpowers. That doesn’t mean I don’t treat her like a lady whenever I’m not in need of saving.”

“Boys, behave,” you say absentmindedly, fingers tipper-tapping over the computer’s keyboard. “I’ve got this assignment due at midnight. I can’t waste any more time lecturing you two about manners.”

By the time your essay is turned in, the sky outside is pitch black, and both your father and brother have left. Dick’s snoring on the bed chair when Bruce nudges him awake, nodding to your form — finally rising from your uncomfortable seat, stretching your limbs out. “That has to be a new record for the most difficult spot to finish a document.”

Grayson yawns as Damian stares at him, disgruntled. “I’ll leave the couch to you,” he tells you, still a bit sleepy, “I assume you’ll stay here?”

You plug in your by now almost dead computer to its charger and nod enthusiastically. “Oh, yeah! Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on Damian for the night. Feel free to go back to your hotel.” 

When it’s finally time for the two of you to be alone, your boyfriend demands, “Beloved.” 

Still hunched over your backpack to find a hair clip, you reply, “Yes, Dami?” 

He scooches over the side on his bed, patting the now empty space. “You’ve been far too away for far too long.” 

You laugh, trotting over to his side and settling beside him — noting the way he instantly relaxes, cheek dropping to your shoulder. “I was here the whole time, hun.”

“Yes, but out of touch. Far too away, as I just said.”

Shaking your head, you take your phone from the nightstand, muttering something about how dramatic he is. “So– should we still be together? I mean, you literally cheated on me.”

His groan is the glorious crowning to a whole evening spent under Jon and Dick’s remarkable teasing, and he smushes his face against your bicep in pure, unadulterated annoyance. “Do we really have to talk about this? I don’t think I want to.”

You have to hold your laughter in just to avoid falling off the bed from it, because you know that once it comes out, it will probably never stop. “I already see tomorrow’s headlines — Damian Wayne, misogynist or result of years of Wayne patriarchy?”

“It was a kiss on the cheek!” he protests, “Vale didn’t even specify it — by reading her article, you’d think I had shoved my tongue up your throat!”

“I know that– but did you read the article about your father allegedly having an affair with Batman? Pure gold. I don’t know what that woman’s on, but I want triple the dose she has of it daily.” 

He muffles an exasperated groan on your arm, pressing a soft kiss on the exposed skin. “Years of being a gentleman at galas and with the public — gone with a kiss. And now everyone thinks I’ve violated you.”

You trace the moles on his cheek, “Well, I mean, I guess superheroines are more sexualised and all of that —and, you know, if you weren’t you, I would’ve let you down so fast you wouldn’t even have had the chance to pucker your lips before your ass was back on the rubble.” You shrug, poking where his dimples usually show, “The nice thing about being a girl and a hero, aside from wearing skirts and heels with your costume without being judged, is that you can beat creeps all you want without ever fearing how they might respond to it.”

The kiss you leave on the small unbandaged part of his forehead feels like it’s made of — what was it? Sugar and spice and everything nice? “So, when the reporters inevitably ask, I will tell them that if I was uncomfortable, I wouldn’t have been so nice with you. And that if I did perceive your behaviour like the one of a creep rather than the one of someone who had just hit their head and was clearly very disoriented, I would’ve just kicked you into the ambulance instead of being so polite.” 

Damian finally allows himself some rest, resting his head on your hip as you doomscroll over the monstrosities that are comments left under the leaked footage. “Look– there’s this girl saying ‘Don’t you guys dare lie and say that you wouldn’t have done that, because I would’ve snatched a kiss so fast that one might’ve called me the Flash’.” you giggle like a kid, “Those comments are so fun. I didn’t even realise I was so high on the Hot Heroes List up until now.” 

Your boyfriend grumbles, barely awake, his hold on your sides tightening slightly as you press a soft kiss over his temple. “Don’t get too excited now, it’s not creepy only when I do it.” 

Twirling a strand of his hair with your index finger, you hum. “Sure it isn’t, cuddlebug.” 

DAILY PLANET | MARCH 20TH SUPERGIRL SPEAKS UP AGAINST DAMIAN WAYNE’S ALLEGED HARASSMENT Article written by Catherine Grant, edited by Lois Lane

After yesterday’s incident in the business district, we’ve all been wondering how Supergirl took the situation, as this is a first for Metropolis’ heroes in general. As this morning the Supes gathered to help with cleaning up the rest of the rubble left behind by the alien attack, our staff has managed to snag an exclusive, even if brief, interview with the Girl of Steel. 

The first thing we ask is, of course, how she feels about the scandal that has taken over the Internet in the last few hours — but she just smiles, bright as ever, like all our conspiracies are just nothing more than that. I mean, I didn’t even know who the guy was until I saw the news, she replies easily. Even if it’s not really unusual, saving a big shot with this kind of job. 

When we question her well-being, she just laughs. Now, c’mon — we’ve all seen the footage; poor dude was totally out of it. This happens all the time, mostly with kids– they see something in me that reminds them of their mother or their little sister and they start clinging like crazy. It’s a totally normal, common trauma response. 

Next up is the elephant in the room — the allegations accusing Damian Wayne of harassment in her regards, brought on by the netizens and Gotham Gazette’s reporter Vicki Vale. Supergirl looks surprised, almost embarrassed at the mention of it. Well– not to undermine the gravity of any mishaps my female colleagues might have had with other men, but if a guy bothers me, I make sure he knows of it. Had he bothered me, I would’ve dropped him. 

Of course, cleaning up the city has a priority over responding to such trivial questions, so she soon left us to go back to helping the workers and the other Supes; her answers are however vital to let Damian Wayne off the hook, as they align with the version told by the latter’s lawyers on the official statement published this morning. 

Wayne’s lawyers state that he had sustained a major head injury and so was mostly incoherent during the time of the saving, attaching various medical records that seem to fully clear him of all charges of malicious intent. 

In the end, just like Supergirl said, he has probably just 'hit his head really hard’. We wish Mr. Wayne a fast recovery and leniency from Miss Kent, who has yet to speak up about the situation.

Finally out of the hospital and sat on one of the chairs in your kitchen, Damian side eyes you over his copy of the Daily Planet. “Poor dude really hit his head hard, huh?”

Swinging your legs under your kitchen table, you hum, unbothered like always. “Don’t worry, I love it when you look dumb. It makes me feel like the smart one in the relationship.” 

The unreliable fiend in question just laughs muffled against your shoulder. You roll your eyes. The fact of the matter was the only reason you had yet to get out of bed and carry Izzy back to hers was because of the insistent weight of a vigilante lying across your back as you talked to your girl. 

“He doesn’t always, babe; sometimes he sleeps on the couch,” you reply as you wiggle under the weight of Dick. He doesn’t shift.

Izzy’s eyes water, bottom lip pressing out. Before you even know what happened, she’s crying. That finally gets Dick moving, climbing off of you to scoop Izzy up and pile into bed together. You slink close, admitting defeat for the night as Dick coos at her and settles Izzy between you both.

Dick murmurs to Izzy in soft, dulcet Romanian that you don’t quite understand, his hand rubbing her stomach to soothe. She babbles incoherently in return, and Dick softly reminds her, “We can’t help you if we can’t understand you.”

She takes a heavy breath, “Mommy’s mad at me.”

“Oh no,” you sink closer, curling your arm around her and nosing against her temple as you meet Dick’s gaze with a pinch of worry, “I’m not mad, sweet girl. Why would you think that?”

“You said- you said-” she stutters through her breaths.

“Breathe, Iz.” you remind, “Everything’s okay.”

She pauses talking, and Dick breathes performatively against her ear until her panic settles, breath matching his. He mumbles, “That’s better. Tell us why you think Mommy’s upset.”

She takes another steady breath and sniffles, “Mommy said I was like when you sleep on the couch. Daddy only sleeps on the couch when you're mad.”

Her frown deepens as you realise the connection she’s made. You're quick to rectify her confusion, “Oh my sweet girl. That's not what’s happening. I love you so much, and I wish you could sleep in my bed forever and ever, but that’s not how things work. I don’t sleep in my mommy’s bed, do I?”

She sniffles again, rubbing her eyes, “No.”

“See,” you hum as your hand meets Dicks where it rests on her belly. 

He grins at you as he adds, “And daddy doesn’t only sleep on the couch when mommy’s upset. Sometimes I do it when I get in so so late. I don’t want to wake her up.”

“I… know,” Izzy frowns, but she melts between you. 

You and Dick have a silent conversation over her head before you speak again, “You can sleep here tonight, but tomorrow it's back to your big girl bed, okay?”

She blinks at you then looks at Dick. he smiles at and kisses her nose before agreeing, “Mom’s right. You gotta sleep in your own bed.”

“Okay,” she mumbles before she’s curling up between you, eyes droopy, sleep already dragging over her. Her eyes flutter shut. You and Dick look at each other again.

“You so easy,” you tease softly, “one elephant tear and you folded.”

“You’re terrible,” he mumbles, “you were just gonna let her cry?”

You scoff, squeezing his fingers. “No. But she does need to get used to sleeping in her bed.”

“I know that,” he replies, “just want my baby to stay a baby.”

“I'm sure you'll say that when she kicks you in the nuts,” you snort as you settle back against the bed, eager to fall back asleep.

Dick shakes his head, mimicking you, “She's never kicked before.”

“Times change, baby,” you hum before you follow Izzy to sleep. 

The next time you wake its to pained groans muffled by a pillow.

“Told ya,” you mumble, not moving to help other than to shift Izzy straight on the bed.

“Tomorrow night,” Dick muffled, voice cracking in a way that makes you want to laugh far too loud for the late hour.

-----------------------

Masterlist

🕸️| Peter was a nervous wreck when the two of you cuddled for the first time. You having been his first relationship made him place a high bar for himself, meaning that if he messed something up — he’d feel awful and want to curl up into a ball, all while dying on the inside. However, once he gets used to the warm and soft feelings he gets when he eases with you, he’s practically purring like a kitten.

The only sounds that could be heard while you and your boyfriend laid in each other's arms were your heartbeats and soft breaths. Albeit, the situation was a little awkward.

Peter’s arms were wrapped around your waist, yet instead of closing his eyes, he just stared at the ceiling. You were peaceful, but his mind was running wild with uncertainties and endless questions. Should he pull you closer? Was this fine for you? Would it be okay to stare at your pretty face for a bit while you slept serenely? No, no that’d just be creepy.

This fruitless dilemma went on in his head for almost half an hour, before your voice broke through the air. A low whisper left your lips, “Peter?”

“Yes?” He quickly answered, voice cracking. This made you flip over to look him directly in the eyes, causing him to sheepishly grin at your expression. “You know you can relax, right?”

“Yeah, yeah I know…” By the look on his face, he was definitely not relaxed. In fact, he looked like you just caught him redhanded doing something he wasn’t supposed to do. “You’re tensed up as if Aunt May just scolded you again for getting hurt.”

Peter sat up, a far off look in his eyes and an uneasy frown on his face. Maybe even a sliver of guilt. “Look, I’ve never done any of this romantic stuff before so I’m nervous.”

His admission was endearing, earning him a reassuring grin. “And that’s okay.”

“I’ve only seen this stuff in movies or tv shows.”

“And that’s okay, too.”

Then, he was pushed down, allowing the plushness of the mattress to ease the pains of the day’s crime fighting. A pair of arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him in for a loose embrace. Before he could even get ahold of it himself, one of your hands reached for the edge of the blanket, pulling it back over the both of you. “Just try to calm down and enjoy the comfort of the bed.” You muttered, nestling your head into his chest.

Warm, soft, even dreamy. That is what the feeling of your body against his felt like.

Slowly, his arms encroached around your own body. The nervous tension was still present, but it melted as soon as he came into contact with the soft fabric of your shirt. Surrounded by your presence, the velvety blanket that covered you, the pillows that were just the right amount of fluffiness — the moment was perfect.

As he began to feel drowsy, he released a content sigh. “This… is nice.”

This made you chuckle, smiling to yourself. “You’re cute, Peter Parker.”

“I’d argue with that, you’re cuter.”

“You can flirt but you can’t cuddle?”

“They are two very different things!”

You don’t budge, eyes purposely wide as saucers, hoping your pleading's visible enough to coerce his sleep-deprived brain cells to work on something that wasn't the large Bat-Computer, illuminating a spotlight on his eye-bags.

He sighs. “Fine. It shouldn’t be that hard to think of.”

“I guess..” He mutters distractedly, multitasking your strange request and his work and an indulgent sip of his over-steeped tea. “He hates clumsiness? One time, Dick knocked over his printed Bat-Cow mug and even though he caught it immediately, you should’ve seen the look on Damian’s face.”

Not off to an amazing start. You don't dare recall the amount of times he’s caught you from face-planting in your shared apartment—or the number of plates you’ve broken when they slipped from your hands while washing them.

“Right. Clumsiness.” Your laugh comes out forced. “Anything else?”

“Hoarders.” He mutters through another sip, even as his nose scrunches at the bitterness. “I keep a bunch of files in the Bat-Cave, because forbid a man for wanting physical archives in case the Bat-Computer’s compromised. He snapped at me on the amount of useless cases I had collecting dust in the corner.”

Your heart squeezes traitorously, already aligning yourself with the trait before you could even deny the semblance. You didn’t expect him to accurately describe someone like.. you?

Your collection of junk is still stored inside a designated cardboard box, keeping letters he’s given you throughout your relationship, receipts from closed-down restaurants, or even the bed that's littered with your worn plushies. You rarely threw away anything as long as it held a small amount of sentimental value.

“Uh-huh.” You mutter distractedly—thinking back on your shared apartment and the amount of drawers you took up.

“I suppose—people who can’t protect themselves?” Tim shrugs apathetically. “He’s already so strict on his own training regime, I doubt he could possibly understand anyone who doesn’t know self-defence.”

You feel like you’re going to pass out. Tim finally stops, looking over to your distressed expression. “Oh, I wasn’t referring to you.” His mug’s 'Best Detective' claim flashes at you, sipping awkwardly at the realisation that he may have made a huge error with his words. “I just think he naturally has a lower tolerance for anyone that isn’t you.”

Tolerance, something that wears out in time. What if Damian was holding in all these things and it could potentially lead to resentment that you’re a combination of all the traits he finds annoying?

“Don’t take it to heart.” Tim says, his expression akin to one trying to disarm a bomb. “Seriously, hell will freeze over before that demon spawn ever hates something about you. You’re like—his only exception.”

You nod faintly, mind too preoccupied to truly listen. Your phone buzzes, lighting the lock screen and a notification for one of your packages has arrived. “Ah, I better get back! Nice seeing you, Tim. Thanks for the.. information.”

“No problem?” He answers, sounding unsure. “Don’t tell Damian I said anything!”

—

“Beloved?” Damian calls.

You barely hear his voice over the furious typing on your laptop, much less his trained footsteps that you could never detect. You raise your head, casting him an over-enthusiastic smile. “Hey, Dami!”

He tugs his coat off, placing it on the coat rack—gaze lingering on your laptop. “What are you doing?”

You feel as if you’re caught in the middle of a heinous act. “Um—” It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong. Maybe he might even be proud that you’re being proactive about improving your self-defence. “I’m signing up for a martial arts class.”

His brows furrow, his expression perplexed. “All of a sudden?”

“Just thought I’d try something new.” Your white lie slips out easily. “With how Gotham is, I realise I should probably learn some moves. Just in case.”

He frowns. “Is there something concerning you regarding safety?” Looking around the apartment, he analyses the astounding upgrades he’s done with a displeased frown. “I was thinking of thickening the window’s glass to have an increased bullet-proof rebound rate. Or installing motion cameras-”

“No! No.” You stop him, already detecting the pattern of his mind, unravelling into a never-ending state of over preparation. You’re sure that even if the Earth splits into two, your apartment would still be standing unscathed with what he’s already done to the structure. “It’s just a hobby, Dami. You did a great job already.”

The last thing you wanted was to add on more burdens for him. He’s been taking on more cases than usual, back on another silent war with Tim on a silly tally-off, not like either has been keeping a fair count, and him being away for more hours meant that you had time—the chance to show him this improved side to you.

He pauses in his fretting, blinking slowly like a feline before beckoning himself over to where you laid, chin tucked to your neck as you hoarded your favorite corner of the sofa.

Brushing your hair aside, he places a soft kiss on your forehead. “Alright. Anything you want.” He obliges. “You’ve already charged it to my card, yes? If you feel anything inadequate about the instructor, cancel it immediately. I’m more than willing to train you myself.”

From the way he’s looking at you, it’s almost like he wants you to say you prefer his suggestion. You almost do, tempted to let him teach you instead—because a hot trainer who is also your boyfriend sounds like a match-made in heaven, then you remember Tim’s words. I doubt he could possibly understand anyone who doesn’t know self-defence.

If Damian saw you with his own eyes on how ill-equipped you were to protecting yourself, what if he sees you as even more inadequate? You shake your head, a perfect vision of Damian's disappointment swarming your thoughts. “I’ll see how the first class goes. Apparently, it’s super beginner-level so it should be perfect for me.”

He stares at you, and you can feel his mind racing in its analysis before he nods slowly. “Alright. I’ll join you.”

“What!” You splutter.

“I have to ensure the instructor is truly capable in teaching you.” He states casually.

“Damian. You’re probably more knowledgeable than he is.” You deadpan. “It’s going to feel like how advanced calculus was for you. Toddler’s work.”

His expression doesn’t so much as shift, but you spot tension in his shoulders. “He? Even more reasons to join then.”

Oh god, what did you just unleash?

—

“Welcome to ‘Gotham Martials-Beginner’s Class'!”

The instructor is in the tightest, most neon-green outfit you’ve ever seen and under the intrusive lights, it nearly blinds you with its reflective power. Damian doesn’t bother hiding his grimace at the sight.

“Don’t be intimidated, folks. I've only held a black belt in Taekwondo for the past fifteen years.” He boasts. “If there’s anyone who’s going to make you Nightwing-material, it’s yours truly!”

The mention of his brother sours Damian’s expression, visible in the tick of his jaw. Sibling rivalry was only ever intensified among him and his brothers. He schools it into perfect nonchalance when you look over at him, trying to contain your laugh.

“Now, who’s a willing volunteer to come up and let me show them the ropes?” The instructor calls out. “As I always say, learning from example is better than theory!”

The instructor eagerly scans the room, and his mark makes its target. “What about you, lady? You look excited to start your journey in becoming a Martial Arts expert!”

It must’ve been your nearly-dying expression over Damian’s scowl that caught you in the web of his gaze. Your smile drops, feeling nervous with the numerous eyes on you from the other trainees. “Well—”

”There’s no need.” Damian calls out, his hand brushing against yours in reassurance. “I volunteer.”

“Ah! An enthusiastic young man.” The instructor claps. “Very well, come on to the front.”

Damian casts you a grimace, before he strides to the front. It was almost a comical sight with how he towers over the instructor, his arms crossed in disinterest. His gaze flickers over to you, clearly unimpressed.

“Ah, the first rule is to never cast your eyes off your opponent—”

It happens in a flash. One moment, the instructor is charging at Damian, and the next, he was on the ground with a loud bang!, with Damian pinning him down.

“Agh!” The instructor chokes out, and a chorus of gasps echoes through the room.

Damian lifts himself off, brushing his hands against his shirt. “You were saying?” He says dryly.

Your own hand is clasped over your mouth, but unlike the others, you’re trying so hard not to laugh. Damian's clearly terrified the rest in the room, as the circle of trainees distance themselves from the spectacle.

The instructor lifts himself off the ground, gripping onto his lower back for dear life. “Ha-ha—Right! I was going easy on you. Good example, folks. This is exactly how you pin someone down.”

His eyes avert Damian’s raised brow, sweat pooling at his brows. “Now, let’s resume the class at its usual distance. I’ll be in the center, and all students will be behind the red circle.” He points down at the faded drawn line, suddenly not willing for an up-close demonstration.

The class continues on with a series of stretches followed by beginner poses. You doubt any moves you were taught would actually save you against an actual criminal on the streets, but seeing Damian being forced to do such minimal movement with a disgusted expression made it all worth it.

“I think I gained a six pack just by watching you.” Your core was still burning from the restraining laughter as he inserts the key to the door of your apartment. “Never seen you so—restrained.”

He casts you an unimpressed look. “The mystery of how this city has so many civilian kidnappings was all answered by that lacklustre session. If that’s the highest rated ‘self-defense’ class in Gotham, it’s no wonder this city’s crime rate hasn’t gone down.”

“It must’ve been a pain for you." You sympathise as best as you could with an Al Ghul prodigy. "Even if the session had been a hundred times better than Mr. Neon Tights, I doubt it would’ve been useful compared to your experience.”

His narrowed eyes soften, hand kept extended to hold the door open for you. When you enter, he swiftly closes the door, arm still hovering over you and cornering you in. “That wasn’t my intention.” He says. “If I had attended for self defence, that would’ve been highly unproductive. But—”

His free hand comes up to caress your chin, guiding your gaze to meet his eyes fully. “My intention was to spend time with you. And seeing you have a good time, regardless of the quality of the session, had always been the goal.”

Your cheeks warm, and he’s doing that weird thing again where he makes you feel special for doing absolutely nothing. “You’re cheesy.”

“Hm.” He hums. “Maybe I’ve been too affected by Mr. Neon Tights.”

You can’t help the laugh that slips out, and his smile deepens—highlighting a soft dimple that you secretly obsess over. Falling into character, you clear your throat. “Aren’t you aware, Mr. Wayne? It’s not always about the result, it’s the journey.”

He huffs in amusement. “I wasn’t aware of such peculiar words of wisdom. From now on, you’ll be training with me. No more of that nonsense, even if it entertains you, beloved.”

“What?” You pretend to gasp. “Whatever shall I do without his neon tights to motivate me, Dami? You’re cruel.”

Leaning in, he murmurs. “I can think of other ways to motivate you.” Hands parting from the door, they wrap comfortably around your waist, gently pushing you back against the wood as he leans in. His lips press softly against yours, and it’s the soft moments of domesticity like this that you wish so desperately to stay longer.

By the time he parts from you, your lungs were screaming for more air than they’ve ever did in that class.

“How’s that?” He taunts lowly.

“Not bad. I feel pretty motivated to do a push-up right now.” You affirm, a little dazed.

Damian’s rare laugh is heavenly to the ears.

—

Damian’s away on another patrol, and in the midst of his absence, you’re uncovering your hoard of memories that look more kindled to trash now that it’s laid out on the floor. Damian’s letters, still too precious to ever even consider throwing away are stacked in a pile to your left, and your childhood stash is on the right.

You stare seriously at your pre-school drawing, a horrible attempt of drawing the Bat with fangs coming out under his mask. It's abstract, and you're much too biased to throw away a four year old's masterpiece. Maybe you could use it as a birthday card for Bruce?

“Beloved, what are you doing?”

You quickly hide the card, your body covering the junk as Damian enters the bedroom from the window. He’s covered in soot, but no blood is seen on his suit. Your immediate relief soothes your body, but his gaze set on the mess behind you seizes you to stand.

“Dami!” Your voice sounds way too chirpy to be anything but suspicious. “Nothing, I was just cleaning out some old stuff.”

“At 3 A.M.?” He asks incredulously.

“Cleaning jitters.” You shrug.

“Alright.” He says slowly. “I’ll take a quick bath, then I’ll assist in sorting it out with you.”

“No, it’s fine!” You quickly interject. “You must be tired after patrol. I’ll just quickly clean this up. So you can go to sleep, I know you don’t like mess.”

His hand lifts to detach his domino mask. Nothing stops his trained eye from sweeping the floor for this supposed ‘mess’ you’re talking about.

“My letters?” He asks, surprised.

“Oh, I just wanted to store them somewhere safely.” You explain. “If it hadn’t been for the letters, we.. wouldn’t be here now. I didn’t want dust mites to get to them.”

His lips quirk up faintly, softening at the memory. He looks over to the corner, where Mr. Paddington, one of your remaining childhood plushies was stuffed into a paper bag.

“Why is Mr. Paddington there?” He interrogates.

You swallow, averting your gaze. It's just a bear. A bear who's been through your ups and downs for the past decade. “I realised he’s—in really bad condition. And I keep hoarding things because of sentimental value, but it’s taking up space over the apartment. Like the bed is 55% my plushies and I don’t want you feeling like you’re running out of space because it’s your apartment too.”

He stares long enough that you start to feel it dig into your skull, before he turns fully and stops in front of you, lowering himself to your eye level.

“Is this an indirect method of asking me to expand our living quarters?” He asks, straight to the point as ever. “I can have us a new apartment by the end of the week.”

“No way.” You say flatly, his words stoking a flame of protectiveness over your shared home.

It’s an understatement to say you love this apartment. Call it being biased, but it was the first place you and Damian truly created into a home, and the memories stored within the brick walls (another addition you love), is something that will have to be pried, tooth and nail, from your cold hands.

“I just—I want to be more considerate, of the space and my junk. You may need more hanger space for your 10% shade differences in sweaters.”

He doesn’t so much as shift at your teasing, a blunt attempt at distraction to his skeptical eye. “Whatever is mine is yours.” He emphasises. “I got us this place because I wanted you to have a comfort space. I want you to use it.”

He bends, taking Mr. Paddington into his arms and patting away some dust that’s gotten on him. “You’re right, the stitching in his eyes has come loose. I’ll send it over to Alfred. He has been itching for something to do ever since most of us moved out, and he’s adequate in sewing.”

You don’t know why, but Damian being so considerate despite you having full evidence of your hoarding habit splattered over the bedroom floor tugs your heartstrings hard. You can’t resist hugging him, even when his suit is dirty. He holds you tight, Mr. Paddington squished between the two of you.

“Is there anything else you want?” He asks gently, his other hand gently rubbing your back. “You can always ask, beloved.”

You shake your head. “No, this is perfect.”

He hums. “Leave it be. We’ll sort it out tomorrow, together. I’ll run a quick bath, so why don’t you put Mr. Paddington back on the bed where he belongs, and I’ll accompany you to sleep as soon as I’m done?”

He’s perfect. It’s almost terrifying how easy it is to lean into his arms and accept his help. You should take care of your mess, not give him another task to do when he’s already tired from patrol. Still, when he places a soft kiss over your forehead, you find it hard to disagree tonight.

When he sinks into the bed, the faint smell of his body wash envelopes your senses. His weight tips you towards him, but even gravity isn’t as quick as your boyfriend’s instincts, pulling you into his arms till his frame shields yours. His chest moves in synchronicity with your breathing against your back, and the thought hits again that you don't deserve him.

Somehow, against all odds of your bad luck where he’s discovered your flaws two times in a row now when you're only trying to improve them, the softness in his gaze has never shifted, annoyance never once making its way into his expression.

Was Tim really right? That Damian’s intolerance for the flaws he listed out fades when it comes to you? You want to ask, but hearing Damian’s slowed breathing, meaning he’s fallen asleep—you think not all hope is lost yet. There’s still one more flaw you could work on, to make his life a little easier for all the times he’s loved you despite your flaws.

—

If you’re not going to get better at self-defence or the habit to hoard, at least you’ll master tackling your clumsiness. You’ve managed in avoiding plate arson for the past week, and call it over-confidence, but when you spot the clock’s hand frozen over the kitchen, you think it’s finally time you get over your fear of ladders.

“Beloved? What are you doing?” Damian calls out, a hint of distress in his voice when he spots you, on the second highest level of the ladder, hands fumbling with the clock.

“Taking out the clock.” You answer, distracted with the hook that’s stuck onto the nail. “Its battery needs changing.”

“I can do it.” He offers, his hands coming up to stabilise the ladder. “You need not concern yourself with small matters like these.”

”Yeah, but I want to.” You answer, finally unlatching the clock. “Got it!”

When you feel your balance tilt, you realise your miscalculation. With both your hands on the clock, you’re no longer holding the wall, and your feet stumble as your back arches backward. You yelp, falling backwards—right into Damian’s arms.

The clock is still in your hands, covering your face halfway to hide your shame as Damian stares at you, and you see the waver of relief, worry, and amusement playing out in the flickers of his gaze.

“That’s so embarrassing.” You mutter to yourself, still using the clock to shield your face from his prying eyes. “Let me down. Oh—can we please pretend that never happened?”

He doesn’t respond, hands still firmly wrapped around your torso, leaving your feet dangling in the air as he pins you under his gaze. “No, I think I quite favour this position.”

“Don’t tease, Damian.” Calling him by his full name doesn’t do the trick. If anything, it makes his smugness triple in size. “I seriously thought I accomplished getting over my fear of ladders. Now it’s hyper-intensified and my fears have turned to actual trauma.”

He snorts softly, carrying you over to the sofa and settling down. You lay there in his arms, which is admittingly, very comfortable, making it difficult for you to climb out of his hold. Not like he’d let you, the only time his arms wasn’t wrapped around you was when he took one hand to tear the clock out of his hands, settling it at the coffee table.

“What is bothering you?” He finally asks.

You freeze. “What do you mean?”

“First, the training classes, then Mr. Paddington, and now, the clock?” He lists out. Damn him and how observing he was. “Something’s bothering you.”

You hesitate. It’s irrational, but what if you list out the traits he hates, and he realises that you’re really all the things he despises? Your mind knows Damian loves you, but at moments, your heart wonders why.

”Well..” You swallow. “Promise not to get mad?”

“I could never be mad at you.” He answers immediately.

You don’t even know where to start. “You always take care of me. And you rarely complain. So I was starting to wonder if there was anything I did that could.. piss you off that you never mentioned.”

His brows pinch together. “Was there anything I did to make you reach that assumption? I know my communication of my feelings still needs.." He grimaces as he manages the word out. "Improvement. If I ever made you feel at unease, it was never my intention. I’ve never felt that way about you. Ever.”

“No—no.” It’s a relief to hear him say that, but it’s much harder to sound convincing when he’s looking down at you with his unbridled concern, his gaze softer than you’ve ever seen. “I just didn’t want to accidentally do something in habit that irritates you when you’ve been nothing but good to me.”

Averting eye contact, you focus on the jammed hands of the clock. “I asked for a list about what you hated and—it felt as if each description pierced right through me, so I panicked and over-compromised.”

His gaze sharpens. “What list?”

“Um—” You discreetly feel Tim’s lifespan shortening. “Just a couple of things. Hearing them made me realise that I could be a burden to you because of all the annoying things you have to deal with—so I tried to improve them. I don’t want you feeling like you have to take care of me because I’m not good in doing it.”

He shakes his head, mouth pursed and ready to argue but not quick enough to avoid the finger you place on his lips. “It’s not that I don’t want you taking care of me, because I love that you do. I appreciate it so, so much that I’m scared that I’m relying too much on you.” You admit, feeling a lump growing in your throat. “And I’m scared that taking care of me gets tiring.”

He gently caresses your wrist, pulling it aside so he can speak. “I want to take care of you.” He reassures you.

“But you hate clumsy people.” You croak out.

“I love your clumsiness.” He answers in a factual tone. "It's easier to get you into my arms."

“And you hate people who hoard.”

“I hoard things you gift me.” He bites back. “It’d be hypocritical of me to judge you for that when I partake in the same habit."

“You—“ Somehow, his easy way of dissuading your worries is working, and you can’t think of much else. “You hate people who can’t protect themselves.”

“Then what is my purpose, beloved?” He asks. “If not to protect you. If I could not fulfill even that duty, I would condone that hatred on myself. Never you.”

“Then what has this week been for?” You moan. “Felt like a humiliation ritual—Like I was horribly incapable as Damian Wayne’s partner.”

His lips quirk up. "Adorable." He whispers, as if he can't help himself. "You are capable. Of more things than you think.”

“You understand people better than I do, which is why you tried to be considerate of me by doing this.” He adds. “I appreciate your efforts, beloved, but you don’t need to be anything more or change yourself because I cherish you as you are. You’re already perfect for me.”

Damian’s love has always been shown through his actions, his unwavering patience he’s harnessed just for you, evident by his siblings’ complaint of unfair treatment. Yet, to hear him say it so directly—you can barely think of what to say back without sounding like an emotional mess.

“Where did you obtain such an unreliable list?” He asks after a moment.

You wince. He stares and stares, akin to a falcon, till it comes out of you. “…Tim?”

He scowls, gaze hardening with a familiar murderous intent. “I’m going to kill Drake.”

“Please don’t.” You plead. “It’s my fault, really. And if it hadn’t been for him, I would still be avoiding this conversation and I wouldn’t have gained the guts to say it out loud.”

His lips purse in a thin line, which is his best attempt at consideration. “I’m still not pleased that he indirectly made you feel unworthy when that’s never been the case. But you are right.” His free hand brushes over your cheek, growing serious. “Next time, if you ever feel this way, tell me first. I’ll listen, always.”

“And believe me when I say—you could never irritate me.” He declares. “You’re my gift in this world, and there’s no other person who brings me peace the way you do. You’re not meant to exist without flaws, and I love every single one of them. It makes you human, and more precious in my eyes. So don’t hide your worries from me. Bear them with me instead, and I’ll reassure you.”

Your eyes feel wet when you blink, your lashes clumping together, and your heart is thumping louder than it should. “Oh, man.” You mutter. “You just made me fall for you all over again. That’s not fair.”

His lips twitch into a soft smile, and presses a feather-light kiss over your forehead. “Then you’ve been unfair on me too. I suppose I'll have to be more unbearable in my affections to not let such silly worries get to you. I haven't been doing a good job in my duty if you could believe in a list like that."

“And for the record.” His gaze softens. “I didn’t see anything we did this past week as a burden. I enjoyed spending time with you, at the martial class, and the morning we spent organising your childhood memories, and even now—because that’s the reason I want to be with you. To be in your life, to be your support, your person.”

Your throat clogs together, and if he wants to succeed in making you a wreck, he's done it well.

“Cause..” He murmurs. “You’re mine. And I’m yours. Isn’t that what we promised?”

“Then, do you also solemnly swear, Damian Wayne—” Lifting up your pinky finger to him, you muster your most serious expression. “That you’re truly in this even with my flaws, on the good and bad days?”

He links his pinky with yours, wrapping it close to his chest right above his heart. “I solemnly swear.”

Damian always keeps his promises. You could ask him to capture the Sun for you, and he'd somehow find a way to do it before Monday.

“What else did that lunatic say?” Damian interrogates.

Your mind scrambles for anything to save your future brother-in-law’s life. “Tim did say I was your only exception.”

He huffs. “I suppose there’s one thing Drake finally got right.”

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After 3 weeks and 2 days, Damian's prized portrait is done. He holds it up in front of himself, eyes darting proudly over his work. There in the canvas you stand in a sprawling field of your favorite flowers, your clothes and hair flowing in the wind as you smile brightly. The sun highlights every curve and angle on your pretty face, making you glow like some ethereal being. Which, to Damian, you are.

He nods in satisfaction, setting the canvas down on his desk. He adds a little signature in the bottom right corner, denoting the date and boldly adding a little heart.

Now there's just one thing he has to do.

"Todd," he barks, a determined scowl on his lips. "I need you to take me to the store."

Jason rolls himself out from under the Batmobile, wiping his grease-stained hands on his jeans. "The craft store again, kid?"

He shakes his head. "Well…yes, but we'll need to stop at the grocery store first. I require a gift bag and…flowers."

Jason breaks out into a grin. "Baby bird's got a date?"

"I've no such thing," Damian snaps. "I'd merely like to deliver them a present. With complementary flowers."

Jason shakes his head in fond amusement. "Yeah, I'll take you, bud. Give me five minutes."

Damian nods. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

The ride on the back of Jason's bike was…unpleasant, to say the least. But it's all Jason would agree to take to drive Damian around, so it'd have to do.

He pulls his helmet off, shaking out his dark hair. "I hate this death machine," he mutters snottily. "It messes up my hair and makes me feel like I'm coming within an inch of my life."

"You're still alive, though, aren't ya?" Jason counters, removing his own helmet and placing it atop the bike. 

Damian scoffs. "Barely, Todd." He pauses briefly, looking at Jason expectantly. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Where is my money?" Damian asks. 

Jason laughs. "I never promised you money, Dames. I promised you a ride."

Damian's nose turns up. "Well, it's part of the package deal. I also need money for the bag and flowers." He holds a single hand out. "Pay up, Todd."

With a dramatic eye roll, Jason whips out his wallet and fishes for a $10 bill. Just before the paper can touch Damian's palm, he yanks it away.

"That is dirty," he grumbles. "And nobody uses cash anymore. Give me your card."

Instantly, Jason shakes his head.

"I won't drain your account," Damian insists. "I swear on…on Batcow that I'll only buy the 2 things I promised."

Jason looks at him. "I'm taking all your damn animals if you lie to me."

"C'mon, Jason," Damian groans. "Card."

The moment the heavy rectangle lands in Damian's awaiting hand, he's off. His strides are long and determined as he enters the grocery store, headed straight to wear the gift bags are.

"Hmm…" He rubs his chin. "Pink, white, blue, or…" 

A grin spreads over Damian's face. "Green. Yes, green it is." He yanks the green bag off the rack. His color for his lover.

Next stop: flowers. 

Damian makes his way to the floral section, feeling overwhelmed by all the choices. However, he knows exactly which type is your favorite, and he darts to those. This time, he opts for a simple yellow flower. A bright, radiant color for someone as glowing as you.

As promised, Damian exits the store bearing only a gift bag and flowers. He flicks the card back at Jason, who catches it lazily while leant against his bike.

"I told you I'd be good," Damian humphs. He bags the painting and fastens his helmet. "Let's go. And don't go so fast this time; I don't want the flowers to be ruined."

Jason looks up from his phone. "When're you just gonna admit you're in love with them, man?"

Damian blanches. "Nonsense."

"Ohhh, you're so in love," his brother insists. "Who else have you painted for and bought flowers for?"

"…Nobody."

"Exactly. Okay, maybe it's not love, but you've definitely got the hots for them, Dames."

He scowls. "Do not call it 'the hots.' That sounds scandalous."

Jason chuckles, shaking his head in amusement and putting his own helmet on. "Whatever, kid. Are you ready to go?"

The ride to The Happy Loom is slow and steady, as promised. The moment the bike is parked, Damian is frantically looking over the flowers to check for any damage. "Good job, Todd. The flowers are untouched."

"It's practically criminal to go below 50 on a bike this nice, dude," Jason scoffs, shaking out his hair. "Jesus, the things I do for you."

Damians eyes roll as he brushes down his shirt, taking a deep breath. "Okay," he sighs. "You don't have to wait up. I'll probably be a while."

"You can walk yourself home. It's not far, only like…4 blocks away."

He nods. "I suppose I will walk home," he concludes, pausing. "…Thank you for the ride, Jay."

Jason laughs. "Anytime, sap," he says. "Go on, go inside. Are you sure they’ll even be there? The door says they closed at 6."

Damian resists the urge to roll his eyes again, walking himself toward your store. "They always wait for me. It'll be open, don't worry."

The overhead bell chimes softly upon his entry, and he watches enamored as your gaze darts up to greet him. His hands remain behind his back, your flowers and gift hidden from sight.

"Dami, hi!" you chirp sweetly, shutting your phone off. "I was wondering when you'd make your daily appearance. How are you?"

Fuck, you're so sweet. His heart seizes violently in his chest as his eyes dart over your face. It takes him a bit to snap back to reality, shaking his head softly. "Hi, hayati. I'm well, you?"

"What's that mean?"

"What?"

"What you just called me," you clarify. "Because I know that wasn't my name," you chuckle.

Damian blanches. Well, shit, he fucked up. What kind of idiot calls someone they barely know that they're totally in love with their life? "Ah, it's just an Arabic, uh, term," he stutters for an explanation. "Disregard that. I brought you something."

Your smile is so bright as you watch him approach you at the counter. "Oooh, a present. For me?" you giggle. "I'm flattered, Mr. Wayne."

His lips quirk up ever so slightly. "Yes, for you," he confirms. "First, I have these."

Your lips part in awe as he holds out the big bouquet to you. The golden yellow color of the petals is insanely beautiful, and oh, he knew exactly what your favorites were.

"Dami," you sigh, gently taking the flowers from his grasp and giving them a sniff. "Oh, they're gorgeous. I love them, thank you!"

He nods, a full blown smile adorning his lips now. "You're welcome. But that's not all."

The small, surprised 'oh' you let out is so precious, Damian wants to leap right over this counter and kiss you senseless. 

Wait, what? His brows furrow, as if shocked by his own thoughts. What has gotten into him?

"Yeah, 'oh,'" he chuckles, pulling the bag out from behind his back. "I…I made you something."

Your eyes glimmer with gratitude and excitement. "With your pastels?" you query instantly.

"Ah, hayati, you've caught onto me," he tsks. "Here you are. Open it."

Your fingers brush his as you accept the bag, and a violent spark erupts within you. The feel of his warm skin against yours—even for just a fleeting second—is otherworldy. It wracks your entire body, making you feel like energy is radiating off you in waves.

"One day, Dami, you're going to tell me what 'hayati' means," you tease warmly. "Making up names for me without even explaining them? Not gonna fly, mister."

He smiles. "Would you just open your present?" he persists.

With a playful eye roll, your fingers take hold of the item in the bag, gently pulling it out. He knows the precise moment you register what he painted, because your eyes widen and your lips part. "Wow, Dami…"

"You like?"

"It's so beautiful," you say breathily, brushing your fingers against the intricate painting. "Oh, there's so much detail! Damian," your gaze meets his, glassy and appreciative. "I love it."

And I love you, he thinks, though he shoves the thought away almost as quickly as it came. "I'm glad."

"You got my eyes perfect," you say, thumb brushing over the irises of oil pastel-you. "And my flowers…you even put my flowers in the painting!"

"I spent 3 weeks on it," he informs you, stuffing his suddenly-shaky hands into his pockets. "I…I wanted it to be perfect for you, beloved."

You smile. "I'm beloved now, hm?"

He freezes. "I— uh… I didn't mean to say tha—"

"—Shhh," your pointer finger grazes his plush lips, shutting him up immediately. "It's okay. I didn't mind. It's a sweet name."

"It suits you," he murmurs against your finger. Your hand leaves his mouth to cup his cheek. He lets out a soft, hitched breath.

He whispers your name. "Please…"

Slowly, so painfully slowly, your lips inch closer and closer to his. Until finally, you're just close enough that he can dip down and press his mouth to yours.

The kiss is soft and slow, and as Damian's hand finds its spot on your neck, you're glad you stayed 10 minutes after closing. You knew Damian wouldn't miss one of his daily pop ins, but you never expected this one to end this way.

He breaths softly into your mouth, pulling you closer by a hand on the small of your back. You go happily, your chest pressed to his own. After a bit, he's the one to pull away first, but he doesn't go far. His forehead rests against yours.

"Ya qalbi," he sighs softly. "I've wanted to do that for so long."

You smile. "Me too," you admit. "Every time you've come in here, even after you left, you were all I could think about…"

His thumb brushes over your carotid, the clear sign of life soothing him in ways he never expected. "I only come in here for you, y'know."

Your eyes dart back to his painting. "Well, looks like you've gotten pretty good at it."

"Only when I'm drawing you."

You blink. "What?"

He turns your head softly, forcing your gaze back to his. "I tried to draw a landscape. I tried to draw my pets. Hell, I tried to draw my brother. I was only satisfied with the outcome when it was you I was using as my muse."

"Dami…" you whisper. "I lo…" The words are lost to the wind, breathy and quiet.

"I know," he nods. "Uhibuk aydan. More than you'll ever know, yeah?"

You nod. "How did we get here?" you ask suddenly. 

He chuckles. "Oh, beloved. I have no idea," he says, standing up to his full height and removing his hand from your neck. "I've no complaints, though."

"Me neither. I've gotten a damn good biochem partner out of this," you tease, giggling.

"Tt. Brat," he tsks, but the smile on his face betrays him. "Let me take you out tomorrow," he asks suddenly.

"Where to?"

"What do you like?"

"Hm… Italian."

He nods. "Very well, then we will get Italian tomorrow at 8. Okay?"

You grin. "Sooo, we have a date tomorrow, then?"

"Yes, hayati, we have a date," he murmurs, ducking to kiss your lips once more. 

"And since you're oh so curious," Kiss. "Hayati means 'my life,'" Kiss. "And qalbi means 'my heart,'" Kiss. "And uhibuk aydan means 'I love you, too.'"

Your smile grows with every fleeting peck he presses against your mouth. "You'll have to teach me more," you hum, hands finding his wrists and bringing his hands to your cheeks.

He hums in agreement. "Very well. Your first lesson will be over dinner tomorrow."

a/n: he's my cutie pie i love him

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