Luxen

You usually call Jason “baby.” He’d given you grief about it the first few times, looming over you to ask Do I look like a baby? You’d smiled and nodded, reaching up to hold his cheeks as you repeated the sentiment. Although he’ll never admit it, he melted into your touch and accepted the love-filled sentiment. Now he replies to baby faster than anything else you could say.

Tonight, you’re reclined on the couch with your legs thrown across Jason’s lap as you tell him about something that happened while you were out running errands. He watches you as you speak, offering nods and scoffs when you glance at him for approval that you’re not blowing this out of proportion. His hand moves gently along your leg, keeping you close as he gives you his full attention.

“And I just don’t understand why she’d say that, you know?” you continue, waving your hands as you speak. “I didn’t do anything to her. I don’t even know her name, bro!”

Jason’s hand stops on your ankle, his brows raising. He tips his head and mentally reviews what you said to confirm that you called him bro.

You’re still talking about the woman who tried to pull you into her own drama, ignorant of Jason’s wondering. Then it happens again: “I know we’d never talk to practical stranger like that, bro, so I just don’t get it.”

Jason doesn’t reply, so you look up. It’s then that you notice he’s staring at you, his fingers closing slowly around your ankle.

“What?” you inquire.

Jason just continues to stare, confused. He has no idea where you got the audacity to call him — your boyfriend, the Red Hood, your baby — bro.

“Baby?” you murmur as you sit up.

“Now I’m baby?” he grumbles.

“Ah,” you sigh as you take his hand. “Sorry, baby. I was just distracted by the story.”

“You have other bros?”

Laughing, you pull your leg out of his hold and shift to sit on your knees. “You know you’re the only guy in my life, baby.”

Jason hums, unconvinced until you shift forward and kiss a pale scar on his temple. His hands raise to your waist as he falls back against the couch, giving you access to the most vulnerable parts of him.

“My baby,” you murmur between kisses. “You’re still my best bro, though.”

Jason grunts in protest.

“Who else listens to my work gossip?” you remind him.

“Just ‘cause your enemies are mine, too,” he argues lowly.

“Ah, I see. Then thanks for listening, baby.”

“That’s better.”

“Are you kidding me?!”

The exasperated question slips out when Dick climbs into your bedroom window, drenched in rain and coated in mud up to his knees.

“I just cleaned the floor, dude!” you groan as you drop your head back.

Dick’s guilty smile falls, his eyes widening as he watches you.

“Just… don’t move,” you instruct before turning toward the bathroom.

When you return with a handful of towels, Dick has removed his suit and tossed it over the open windsill with the muddy parts outside. He shifts on his feet, watching you like he’s scared you’ll toss him out next.

“Not exactly what I meant,” you murmur as you walk toward him.

When you’re within reach, Dick takes your hands and falls to his knees, looking up at you with glassy eyes and a pout that softens something in you. You’re not sure what’s left to soften, though.

“Why?” Dick asks.

“I… What are we talking about? The floor?” you inquire.

“I’ll clean the floor and it won’t happen again, I promise,” he says before pressing his face to your stomach.

“Dick, I’m not mad, I just wasn’t expecting to walk in and see you dripping dirty water everywhere,” you explain as you brush your fingers through his hair.

Dick shifts one hand to wrap his arm around your hips and pulls you closer. He says something, but you can’t hear him with his face buried in your shirt.

“I can’t hear you, my love,” you remind him, tugging his arm gently.

When he leans back onto his feet, he blinks up at you and asks, “Your love?”

You realize then why he’s being so dramatic and can’t stop the laugh that escapes.

“My love,” you promise. You pull his wrist until he jumps to his feet, then wrap your arms around his waist. “You’re freezing!”

Dick traps you against his cool skin, shaking his head when you try tot pull away.

“Sorry, my love,” you sigh, accepting your fate. “Maybe you should keep a change of clothes at the manor so you don’t have to track up our floor next time.”

“Why would I go to the manor when I can come home?”

“So you could come inside in more than your boxers, maybe.”

“Just don’t call me dude again,” he stipulates. “Makes me think you don’t have any more love for your baby.”

So dramatic, you muse as you usher him toward the shower.

Tim never knows what you’re going to call him. It’s his own fault, really, because he doesn’t usually realize you’re talking to him until you say something weird to get his attention. This week alone, you’ve called him espresso bean, bubbles, Timmy, and Robert — because Robin and Robbie both failed to make him look away from the computer.

When you walk into the cave and say, “Timothy,” however, he returns to the present without delay.

He blinks like he just woke up, then looks at the calendar on the batcomputer. With his lips pressed together, he turns slowly to face you.

“It’s not our anniversary,” he says. “Alfred didn’t put any appointments on the calendar, either.”

With your brows furrowed, you step toward him and say, “You didn’t forget anything.”

“Then why’d you call me Timothy?”

You press your hand to his forehead dramatically, smiling when he swats your hand again. “I hate to be the one to tell you, but your name is Timothy.”

He watches you with narrowed eyes for a moment before deciding to request, “Please don’t.”

Dropping to sit on the arm of his chair, you tug his cowl off to see his face.

“What would you prefer?”

Tim considers the question, then murmurs, “I didn’t hate espresso bean.”

You sigh and push his hair off his forehead. “Alright, espresso bean. You do know that our anniversary isn’t on that calendar, right?”

Tim spins quickly, but catches you without looking to pull you into his lap. With your hand pressed to his chest and your legs over the side of the chair, you take a shaky breath.

“I bet Jason deleted it,” he murmurs as he creates a new calendar event.

“Maybe… That’s the wrong date, espresso bean.”

Duke took three weeks to find what he deemed ‘the perfect pet name’ for you. You had no problem finding something that fit. “Light of my life,” “honey,” and “sunshine” all fit him too perfectly, so you cycle through them easily, overjoyed when he reacts happily to them.

Tonight, you’re leaving the manor after a late-night gala and he’s telling you about something Tim and Damian did. You’re listening, but when he asks what you would have done, you’re more focused on the story than him.

“Something meaner than what you did, buddy,” you answer lethargically.

Duke stops walking, his hands slipping out of yours. Instantly, you realize that you said the wrong thing and are suddenly wide awake. When you turn, Duke is looking at you like you just told him you don’t love him. His bottom lip pushes out into a pout, his eyes soft and vulnerable.

“I’m so sorry,” you rush to say. “I’m just tired and was thinking about Damian.”

“He’s your buddy, but we’re of the same importance,” he muses, dropping his head before he kicks at a rock.

The dramatics must be a result of living in the manor.

“Sunshine,” you coo as you take his hand again. “You’re the light of my life, remember? Think you can forgive me for slipping?”

“Only if you don’t do it again,” he counters. “I didn’t like that.”

“How do you think I feel? Your pout is like a knife to the heart.”

“‘S your fault,” he reminds you.

“My sincerest apologies, honey.”

Duke takes your hand again and leads you toward the car. When he kisses you goodnight, you know you’ve been forgiven. He’s too bright for Gotham.

You’ve picked up your boyfriend’s and his brothers’ habit of referring to Damian as “little wing,” “D,” and, on rare occasions, “baby bird.” He's never complained or expressed distaste, so you keep doing it.

Damian is in your kitchen after school, avoiding Bruce and telling you about a project he's not exactly excited for.

"Do you share my opinion that group projects should be outlawed?" he wonders. "It feels as though I'm being forced into a gang under duress."

Instead of laughing like you want to, you decide to be a responsible adult and encourage Damian to do his best.

"The goal is to get you to engage with your peers," you explain.

"My peers are incompetent, at best.”

"Don't tell your teacher that opinion unless you want to hide another parent conference from Bruce, pal.”

"We are not pals," Damian argues. "I came to you as a confidant, and if you cannot recognize that we are equals at this moment, I must-"

"Let me stop you, D,” you interrupt with a glance at the door. It's good that you're alone, because your boyfriend doesn't need to know Damian was about to threaten you. "I didn't mean to belittle you. I'm sorry.”

Damian hesitates, then nods. "I understand.”

You don't bother explaining further, not with the risk of losing his already limited affection.

"Darling," Bruce scoffs over the comms when Terry finishes telling him about your last date.

"Jealous?" Terry taunts, avoiding a punch from a new joker.

The fight ends quickly, so Terry turns his mic off and makes a quick stop at your home. He slips in through your window and finds you hunched over a keyboard, working.

"Hey,” you greet without looking up.

Terry sits at the foot of your bed to wait. When you log off and sigh, he straightens up. He knows what comes next - you'll kiss his forehead, say, “Hi, sweetheart” or “There’s my darling,” and make sure he's safe.

That routine is set, a constant. That's why he's so appalled when you forgo the kiss and sigh, "I can't take this anymore, bestie."

Terry goes rigid as his mind races. When you say something else, and call him "pookie,” he stands and steps directly in front of you.

"No,” he begins. "I'm Batman.”

With a brow raised, you reply. "I'm aware.”

"Your fierce, strong, handsome, loving boyfriend,” he adds. "You know what I'm not? I'm not your bestie.”

"Oh,” you murmur. “Maybe I just forgot since you never visit-“

“ I was here last night,” Terry interrupts smugly. “Try again.”

Smiling, you loop your arms over his shoulders and step into his space. He sighs, holding your waist as he drops his gaze to your lips.

"Hi, sweetheart," you murmur before stretching to kiss his nose.

"Glad you remembered what we do," he taunts before lifting you and crashing his lips to yours.

You tend to call your boyfriend's dad Bruce or Mr. Wayne depending on where you are and who’s around. After a gala that stressed you out, he asks you to explain what made it harder than the others. You start speaking quickly and accidentally call him “B” because you’ve heard Dick and Jason do it so many times. When you pause, prepared to apologize, he doesn’t comment, just nods for you to continue.

When you’re pacing in the batcave a few months later, scared and panicking because your boyfriend is hurt, you call Bruce “dad.” This slip, unlike the other, gets a reaction. Bruce freezes, then turns slowly to look at you. You can’t understand it, but everyone else in the cave sees the moment that Bruce realizes he would tear Gotham apart for you. Even if your relationship ended, Bruce would still give everything for you.

“Fantastic, Master Bruce,” Alfred murmurs. “Another child for you to become overprotective of. Shall I prepare a plan of action in the event that she is kidnapped or otherwise involved with the nightly activities?”

“That may be wise, Alfred,” Bruce says, speaking carefully as he blinks away tears.

Probably a good ten seconds after Hancock had spoken, you let out a muffled, "hmm?", cheek smushed into the couch so you could keep staring at him.

Those black eyes, momentarily distracted by the Jet in his hands, turned to find yours again, crinkled at the corners. His smile, ever charming, lingered on the verge of turning mean. He did like to tease you about being a lightweight.

Instead, he leant to the edge of the couch and hooked you by your socked feet, tugging them into his lap, dragging you a few inches closer to him.

"Nothing, sweetheart."

He patted one of your knees placatingly, the way one pet a startled a horse. Or (you thought, a few painfully slow seconds later), that was to say, the way one used to pet a startled horse. Seeing as they were extinct now, or possibly mutated into something hideously unrecognizable.

Hancock's hand, warm on your knee, disappeared after a minute. Or after a few seconds, seeing as trying to keep a grasp on time on Jet was a losing game. He dug into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Ever generous, he offered you one. You nodded, but could seem to make your hand rise up to take it from him.

He grinned, placing it between his lips. You wanted to disagree with this, but your vocal chords didn't want to respond either, and no words were coming to mind anyway. Sober, you would realize these were the classic signs of the Jet comedown, that momentary disconnect between body and mind, which unnerved you enough to take a few days off before finally succumbing to Hancock's next offer.

High, though, you were left to watch as Hancock raised the lighter to the cigarette, lighting it with a deep inhale, before plucking it from his mouth and passing it over. He blew the smoke teasingly into your face, laughing when you scrunched your nose in distaste.

"All the drugs a person could need. A warm bed, semi-clean streets." He said, a new cigarette between his teeth, "Honestly, I don't know why outsiders are always badmouthing Goodneighbor. Best fucking place in the Commonwealth."

Slowly, like an overloaded computer rebooting, your body came back online. You picked the cigarette from your lips, flicked ash from the end of it, ignored the thought of how it had been in his mouth before yours.

"You might be a bit biased, Hancock."

He laughed back at you, gravelly, that mix of ghoul and smoker and just pure... him.

He had been dropping these comments increasingly over the last few days, probably picking up at your unease. It was probably why he had suggested the two of you stay up in his office getting high for the night instead of going down to the Third Rail. Crowds made you antsy, the heat from bodies and the din of echoing small talk reminding you all the more of the open, fresh air you were missing.

Hancock was clever, he knew what was coming even without you spelling it out for him. Over the months since you'd discovered Goodneighbor, you'd been crashing in the Statehouse whenever you found your way to this area of Boston, preferring it to the stifling atmosphere of Diamond City. (Or so you told yourself, the truth might be you preferred the company).

He also clearly knew some of the affinity you held for him, the way you'd let him charm you into sticking around almost a week after you'd planned to leave.

"Still," He said, "One of the better places to be, hmm? Well, as long as you stay on the Mayor's good side." He winked at you.

Yet, he was too proud to come right out and beg for you to stay.

You could always ask him what he wanted. But you worried that his answer might be enough to sway you.

"Oh yeah," You deflected instead, ignoring the spark his wink shot down your spine, ordering your traitorous heart not to beat faster. "Heard the guy's a bit of a dick."

"Oh, he's a lot worse than that," His hand snuck back onto your leg, making a slow path up your calf, "But not to pretty things like you."

It was your turn to laugh, ignoring the heating in your cheeks, ignoring the goosebumps his touch left in it's wake. "John," You said, mock scandalized, "I thought you were an intellectual. Is a pretty face really all it takes?"

He had been slowly easing closer to you, or maybe he had been pulling you closer to him. When he leant over to stub his cigarette, his shoulder brushed yours.

"'M not easy. But I'm smart enough to know that when you find something this pretty in an ugly world, you hold on tight." He'd moved in close, hand reaching your upper thigh. With the other, he plucked the cigarette from your lips, down nearly to the filter, and flicked it to the side, not breaking eye contact. You could feel his breath tickling your nose, smelling like cigarettes and the slightly metallic taste jet left in your mouth. It made you lightheaded, entire mind screaming that he was about to kiss you, finally, after months of flirting and opportunities neither one of you had taken.

Instead, though, he squeezed your thigh and pulled back, eyes trained on you, a curious glint in them, like he was watching your reaction.

For just a moment, like you were a magnet following his pull, you followed after him, hand sliding downwards as if to bring his hand back to where it had been, keep it there, keep him there.

Then, the rational part of your brain, offline since before you'd accepted that hit of Jet, kicked in, screaming at you about everything that could go wrong. Taking this from a friendship to... something more would complicate everything. You didn't have the time or the energy to spend on a relationship, you didn't want to be chained to a settlement. If word got out about your... whatever it would be, you might lose out on deals with some of the seedier members of the community, you might lose trust with others. In other places, a relationship with a Ghoul might even be enough to have you barred from entry.

But, a traitorous voice from the back of your mind whispered, none of those really mattered. The truth of it was, after everything that had happened to you, if you were to let this go any further and something were to happen to him, it would break you.

So, you pulled back, shutting your eyes and taking a steadying breath. Your hand, halfway to grabbing his, stopped and balled into a fist, dropping back to your side.

You wracked your brain for something to say, something joking to diffuse the tension and return things to the way they were.

You heard Hancock shift besides you and allowed yourself a little breath of relief, assuming he'd gotten the hint and backed off, tired of waiting for someone who chickened out at every opportunity.

Instead, though, you were surprised to find his warm hand on your cheek, felt the corner of his hat press softly against your forehead. You opened your eyes, found him looking at you, almost desperate.

"Maybe I'm wrong," he started, voice pitched low and quiet, less sure of himself than you were used to, "In which case you just tell me. But I get the feeling it ain't that. I see the way you looked at me. I know you know how I've been looking at you."

You swallowed, traitorous body responding before your mind can butt in. You nodded, hand coming to grasp onto his bicep, wanting more than anything for him to move closer, to remove the patch of air the two of you were both breathing.

"So tell me," His voice had dropped to a whisper, like he was speaking with a startled animal. "Why won't you kiss me?"

You exhaled, a shaky thing. For some reason your eyes stung, and suddenly you were fighting off the urge to cry. Your grip on Hancock's arm tightened, not wanting him to let go.

Words escaped you, but you worried he'd take your silence the wrong way. You used your free hand to move the front of his hat high enough that it wouldn't poke you and leant your forehead to his. You shut your eyes again, partly to hide the tears that you couldn't seem to stop from forming, partly to embrace the moment better.

Hancock's thumb stroked slowly across your cheekbone. He whispered your name. Worried your voice would break, you nodded against him, eyes still squeezed shut, afraid of moving from this moment, of going forward or pulling back.

Quiet, he said, "Please kiss me."

You dug down, finding the person who sleeps under the open sky of the wasteland, who fights off hordes of ferals, sneaks through Gunner camps, takes on Deathclaws and survives.

You pressed your lips to his.

Warm, softer than you had envisioned, just like the man himself. Hancock's other hand rose to your cheek, so he was cupping your face in his hands, pulling you even closer. You let him take the lead, tilting your head gently, licking against your lips. You opened your lips for him easily, your hands wrapping around the back of his neck, leaving the two of you chest to chest, you halfway in his lap as he licked into your mouth, ravenous as if he had been starving for you.

You never wanted it to end, wanted to spend every moment of the rest of your life pressed to him, feeling his hands on you, his lips on yours, his tongue exploring your mouth.

When the tears slipped out, you almost thought it wouldn't matter, thinking you could keep the kiss going, sure you would survive without breathing, so long as he didn't stop kissing you.

But then a hitching sob rose from your chest and you were pulling away despite yourself, tucking your wet face into the crook of his neck. His hands wrapped around your waist, settling you properly against him.

You swallowed any other rogue sounds, blinked rapidly to try to rid yourself of the tears, trying to pull yourself together so you could face Hancock again. One of his hands was rubbing soothingly along your back, the other having worked it's way up to your hair, gentle fingers smoothing out tangles, rubbing along your scalp.

It took longer than you would have liked to pull yourself together, and a bit longer than that to gather the courage to look at Hancock, sniffling lightly.

His smile was tight, self conscious, as if he genuinely believed you could have been crying because of his kiss.

You didn't even let him get through his dejected, "That bad, huh?" before you were spitting it out, desperate for him to understand that it wasn't his fault, "I'm leaving Goodneighbor tomorrow." You got it out fast, as if it left a bad taste on your tongue.

He blinked, insecurity fading from his expression, replaced by genuine confusion.

You continued, desperate to repair your faux-pas, to make him understand your thought process, why it would lead you to tears; "This just... makes it that much harder to go."

You ran your hand down his chest, anxiously fiddling with the stitching on his lapels, "Hanc- John, please believe me, I've been wanting to do that for fucking ages, I just-"

The gentle press of his lips against yours cut you off, a quick press of heat and then gone again. This time you did chase after him, managing to get in a peck against upturned lips before he was pulling away.

It was your turn to be confused, pulling back to look at his smiling face, wondering if all that drug use had finally fried his brain.

"That's what's got you so worried?" He asked, voice soft.

You blinked at him before giving a small nod, expecting him to tell you to just stay with him, pressure already building behind your eyes as you imagined explaining to him that you just weren't made for sitting idle.

"So, then, when do we leave?"

"We?" You whispered, not trusting your voice.

"If you're alright with delaying the departure a bit, I should probably wait for the ne'er do wells to sleep off the hangover to give a little speech, pretty sure it's bad form for the Mayor to up and vanish. Then again, it's me we're talkin' about, they should know better than to–"

You pressed your lips to his, partly from exhilaration, partly for him to shut up long enough for you to process the information he'd presented you with. You'd never considered asking Hancock to leave his town. In your mind, he was Goodneighbor, the very best of it.

You pull away, running a finger across Hancock's cheek, feeling the muscles jump under you as he gives you a soft smile.

"Are you sure?" You ask.

"Love, I'd like to see anyone try to stop me."

Notes:

You were waiting for the moment that words finally appear there, giving you the certainty that your soulmate wasn't going to make you wait much longer.

But you expected something cuter. Or anything that wasn't a literal insult.

The day was already draining you enough. The weather was shit, work sucked and you got held up by your annoying neighbor downstairs, then these stupid words appeared and - oh god you forgot to buy groceries.

So, you make your way to the nearby grocery store 20 minutes before closing. You get the most important stuff, mainly something to eat for dinner, and go to the checkout.

From inside the brightly lit store you see a guy running down the street, nothing unusual. You just hope it wouldn't inconvenience you.

You step outside again, the cold air hitting your face painfully.

The rain wasn't as harsh anymore, still you wished you brought your umbrella. Whatever. You take a step forward, leaving the protection of the grocery store roof and about to make your way back home when a guy pushed you out the way shouting: "Out the way, dipshit."

What the fuck.

That was Red Hood. You were pretty sure of that. 

No, no no no no. That can't be. That was just your luck.

You were still standing in the rain a minute later, your apparent soulmate long gone. And you had so many problems with this.

Not only the stupid words but also, did your soulmate have to be a guy in a mask fighting crime? 

When you get home, you're completely soaked and just want to sleep. You don´t even bother with dinner, you take a shower and are knocked out in bed in less than a few minutes.

The next day, you get woken up by the sun painting your bedroom in a gentle golden tone. 

You look at your phone. It is 9 am already? 

It takes a moment to remember that today was your day off, so you relax a bit more, enjoying the warmth of your bed.

Throughout the morning, you tell yourself that today was going to be your day. You definitely needed a day full of positivity and rainbows. And if you ever meet the guy again, you would tell him to fuck off. If you had to walk around the word dipshit permanently on your body, he had to live with that. 

No, you were not petty.

Later that afternoon, you decide to go visit the bookstore around the corner. 

It was a cute, small store. Packed with shelves and the shelves overflowing with books. It even had a seating area, inside right in front of the big window that was adorned with the store's name. 

When you arrive and step inside, you notice how empty it was today. Often, when you came here, at least a couple of other people were already browsing the shelves.

Oh, this was going to be a good day. 

You head to your favorite section first, hidden behind a corner. There you see a guy already browsing through the books.

He was huge, the shirt pulling over his back muscles. When he turned a bit you could see his face. He was unfairly attractive. 

The guy noticed your staring and looks up, then down on the book he was holding again.

You've already read the book, just recently for the second time. You gather all your social energy that was left from yesterday.

"It´s good." 

His head shoots up. Eyes narrowing.

"What?" His voice is rough, like he didn't sleep enough.

"The book. It´s good." You fiddle with your hands, suddenly feeling very stupid for saying anything.

He just keeps staring, like he is trying to solve some very hard equation. The equation being you.

"Is everything alright?" He still doesn´t say anything. "Okay, sorry I bothered you." You turn to leave this awkward situation, when he clears his throat.

He looks uncertain. "Not to overstep, but did that not ring a bell?"

"What are you talking about?" You have genuinely no idea what he meant by that.

He tried to discreetly show off his forearm. It was covered by his shirt tho, so no luck there.

He notices your confused look and sighs heavily.

"What are your first words?" 

"That´s none of your business." What a freak.

You must have looked at him like he was being a weirdo because he defensively shoved up his shirt to reveal the words "It´s good" marking his skin. 

You scoff and he looks more confused than before.

"I´m guessing yours match?" He tries a smile but it turned into a frown when you still seemed like you wanted him out of your sight immediately. "I don´t understand what´s wrong."

"What´s wrong? First you shove me out the way and then," you pull up your sleeve, "you call me dipshit? I don´t know, you tell me."

An "oh" is all you got in response. 

But before you could turn away again and leave he catches your arm.

"Sorry. Can I buy you a coffee?"

"No." 

"Lunch?"

"No."

"A book? Anything?"

You hate to admit it, but he looked genuinely apologetic. "I´ll think about it," you say, waiting for him to let you go.

He does, but follows you when you make your way outside.

"Can I at least get your number?"

You take a deep breath, at least he seemed sorry? Still, you were going to make him work for it.

"What´s your name?" you ask.

"Jason. Yours?"

You give him your name. Then ask for his phone. You type in your number.

"Text me when you planned a real date."

Jason blinks.

"A real date?"

"One that makes up for calling me a dipshit."

He actually laughs.

"For the record, I've definitely called people worse."

You point at him. "Not helping."

A couple of hours later, it is already dark outside, you get a text.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your expression freezes. "Tonight?"

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

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

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

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

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

Regards, Damian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shrug. "Spoiler's cooler."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He raises a brow. "Expired?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

“This movie is non-sensical.”

“I think it’s romantic.” You shrug.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Subject: Reply: Reminder on Friday Meetings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Gotham's Pizza." He huffs.

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

"You prefer Gotham's." He mutters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your brows furrow. "On?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did you say to her?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You stay away from her." Damian growls.

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

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

“Damian!” You shout.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He was hurting you.”

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

His jaw clenches. “I am your partner.”

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

“Not a real one.”

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

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

“Damian—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

✨Bro has some of the prettiest henna/mehndi designs ever. You know he’s come back from visiting his home in the Scalding Sands solely because of his arms and hands, decorated with that good long-lasting dark stain henna.

✨He’ll admit, he didn’t always enjoy the duties that came with being a prince. But having his mehndi/henna designs done was something he did enjoy. Minajael’s skin would always have the most intricate, delicate designs - flowers with shade hatching, net-like patterns, and fingers tipped in dark brown stain.

✨Over the time you sit together on the bench, the soft scent of the henna paste wafts up to you. After talking, you decide on doing a design similar to his. That way, even after you’ve parted ways, you still have a bit of him with you, as cliche as it is. Minajael is certainly on board - He’s partial to jasmine flowers and looping swirls in his own designs. You’re no exception. And soon enough, your own hands are decorated with floral designs that compliment his.

✨he definitely hides his name in your design. It’s written in the language of the Scalding Sands, but you can tell it’s something. “Hey, that doesn’t match the pattern. What is that?” Minajael merely waves you off, “it’s nothing, now stay still. The lines will turn out crooked.”

✨Don’t be fooled, keep talking. Minajael literally snuck away from RSA’s group just to spend as much time with you as possible. Pretty soon, he’d have to pack up and go back to the Scalding Sands, and then it was back to entertaining the countless suitors and suitresses being thrown at him. But for now, he’d take some refuge in your company, with your hand in his as he tries to show a fraction of his feelings for you in the henna paste decorating your skin.

“Done,” he leaned back. You gasped in awe, lifting your hands up to admire them. “Minajael, its gorgeous!” The soft scent of the paste wafted in the summer air. Beyond your hands, he smiled. “Yeah,” he agreed, eyes still locked on your smile. Gorgeous, indeed.

You stretched, being careful not to smudge the henna paste. “Perhaps you should head back,” he said quietly. It was already late. The sun was already setting. Still, you were loathe to leave Minajael, and it seemed he was too.

“Yeah, just… maybe in a minute?” Gingerly, you rested your hands on the bench, “Just until it dries?” Minajael snorted, shaking his head. “Sure.” Nevermind that your henna was already as dry as could be, flaking off onto the ground beneath you.

You rested your head on his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. It was only when you’d finally drifted off to sleep, Minajael finally got the courage to slip his hand into yours.

He brought your hand up, studying the design. Unfurling jasmine flowers blossomed up your arm, framing the intricate mandala on your palm. Loops and swirls twisted up your fingers, and on your palm was an open flower. Selfishly, Minajael found himself turning your hand over to see your palm.

It didn’t take him long to find it. Among the mini flower petals, hidden in the design, was his own name written in his original tongue. He brushed his thumb over it wistfully, leaning his head on yours.

It was selfish of Minajael to write his name on you, and he knew it. He, who loathed the idea of being married off, hiding a part of him in your henna design. It was normal for engaged couples to hide their names in the others’ henna designs, and maybe he’d just wanted to see what it would be like. Having your name in his, and his name in yours. He snorted softly. Maybe he wouldn’t be so defiant of the suitors and suitresses who paraded into his palace if one of them was you.

As Minajael stared at your hand, the thought dawned on him. He snorted with a half-smile. The irony of his name placement on your hand wasn’t lost on him.

Of course he’d written his name there. You had him in the palm of your hand, after all.

*slams the door open*

THIS IS MY OFFICIAL CONTRIBUTION TO THE RSA HYPE THANK YOU FOR READING!!

Can’t wait to write more when rsa gets fully revealed!! Until next time~

Xoxo Calci!! <3

Setting the stage:

Having no friends or family in Twisted Wonderland can be stressful. There is no one to return to while on break, no one to call when you miss home, no one to laugh with over memories - and no one to rely on in case of an emergency.

Which just so happens to be your predicament. Getting your wisdom teeth removed is no joke, and you'll be vulnerable for hours after the procedure. The nurse can't tend to your every need and Grimm is positively hopeless. The only option left is to find someone you trust enough to help.

Oh all mighty seven, please do not let anything embarrassing occur. Especially since he has volunteered to be your caretaker.

Cater Diamond

"Volunteer," perhaps is a stretch in vocabulary when it comes to Cater. He had been caught gossiping during class, and as consequence was given community service hours for the week. Specifically in the nurses office, since he couldn't be trusted anywhere with possible distractions.

He was in the loop about your surgery prior to this though. You had been anxious about it for weeks, and he is your go-to for ranting. You would help him paint the roses, and he would talk your ear off. Normally he would have to pry information out of you, but last week you had been more than willing to spill the details

Cater had already planned to pay you a visit during recovery, but now? He's posed with an ultimatum: file deskwork for hours or watch over the prefect overnight.

He picked the sleepover, obviously. One night while you're a bit loopy and drowsy is nothing compared to boring desk work.

He's there before you're put to sleep, the nurse explaining that he'll be watching over you as the laughing gas calms your nerves.

"Dr. Cay-Cay is on the case! Don't worry prefect, I promise not to put any of your hilarious outbursts on magicam!"

He is greatly tempted to start recording when the gas begins to take effect. You're mid-rant about the correct pronunciation of caramel and he's laughing his ass off as the IV-drip slowly makes you drowsier.

Before falling asleep, you look at him with a droopy grin, "I love you so so much Cay-Cay, thank you for being here with me- you're the best-est"

He giggles lightly into his fist, patting your hand and exiting the room until the operation is over.

Cater takes the confession with a grain of salt, clutching one fist to his chest as he waits in the lounge area. The other holds his phone, which is toggling to random apps in an attempt to distract him. You couldn't have meant it. It was the gas talking - he knows it.

And yet? Hearing those words made his heart stutter. If only he recorded, then he could hear them over and over again. Maybe play them back for you and gauge if there was some hint of truth?

That would be too painful, he thinks, and waits for the nurse to call him in.

Time passes, and Cater is pushing you back to Ramshackle in a wheelchair. Events from earlier are still lingering in his mind, but you're so chipper that it makes for a good distraction. You likely won't remember any of this anyways, so he takes the chance to have some fun.

Now that you're stable, he takes plenty of selfies with you. Back at the dorm he sets you up for the night and leaves you to rest in the living area, while making himself at home and enjoying the empty dorm.

Y'know, a glass of fresh juice, floral scented bubble bath, music playing through his phone speakers, and rare silence that he does not get back at Heartslabyul.

When they wake up, all effects from the anesthesia will be gone, he reminds himself. You won't remember anything, and he'll get to tease you with all the goofy photos and secrets you spilled while loopy. All he has to do is forget, because it didn't mean anything.

He wishes it did

but for your sake, he won't say anything. No matter how much he wants to.

Kalim Al' Asim

Scared to stay alone in Ramshackle, you had asked him to house you in Scarabia on for the day of your surgery.

More specifically, you had asked Jamil. Although Kalim was present and made the decision on the vice-leader's behalf. He doesn't ponder on why you asked Jamil instead of himself. The answer was obvious, with Jamil being the best caretaker out there! He would know just how to care for someone healing from surgery.

Which is why Jamil is going to teach Kalim everything there is to know about caring for a sick person. Why? Because while you are under his dorm's care, he is going to do everything in his power to make sure you are comfortable. He had agreed to helping you, not Jamil, so Kalim is going to be there every step of the way.

This includes before your surgery. He has a room prepared for you, and lets you get settled in before taking you to your appointment. He holds your hand when you're seated in the operating chair, and continues to keep you distracted as the laughing gas is administered.

He's telling you about the most recent letter from his siblings when your hand tightens around his, and his attention is all yours. He delicately squeezes back, and notes that the nurse is putting in your IV on the other arm.

"Nothing to be scared of! It's just a quick pinch and you'll be all better," he grins, wrapping his other hand around the one he is already holding.

You let out an airy chuckle, "I'm not scared. I love you too much to be scared when you're here," and his eyes widen to the size of saucers.

Kalim asks you to repeat yourself, but the IV has taken full effect and the nurse is asking him to step out until the procedure is over.

He wants to protest, but Jamil (who was in the waiting room) appears and drags the star-struck boy out.

He can't hold it in, and quickly spills everything he heard to his best friend.

You returned his affections. Kalim was convinced and Jamil could only hang his head in resignation. Unless you said otherwise, Kalim was taking your confession seriously and nothing will stop him.

After your surgery, the medications are still in effect. Kalim can't wait another second, and as you're being wheeled out is asking you if you love him.

Each time you say 'yes', his heart twirls. Jamil insists that you might not remember anything, that you're not in your right mind, yet it flies by the love-sick dorm leader.

Back at Scarabia, Kalim has you resting in his room instead of the guest room. He wouldn't dare share a bed with you, but he wants to be the first person you see when the medications wear off and you wake up.

He sleeps on the floor next to his bed, and makes sure to wake up periodically to check on you. In the morning, he goes out to get fresh flowers, brew a pot of tea, and prepare soft snacks for when you wake up.

He wants to hear it again. Say you love him, and not just because he asked this time.

Floyd Leech

“You’ll be staying with us, right little shrimpy?….right?”

The Leech twins have been extremely overprotective of you ever since Azul’s change of heart. Not only do they owe you an unspoken debt for saving their childhood friend, but you’re actually pretty interesting. Life’s never boring when the prefect is involved - something that is common knowledge among the students of Night Raven College.

Floyd in particular seems to have a much stronger and obvious attachment compared to Jade. What’s more is that he doesn’t even try to hide it. If he finds you spending too much time with other students then he gets jealous, and drags you off without asking. Crowley loading you with work? If it cuts into his prefect time, then you’re not doing it. He’ll tell the headmaster off personally if it bugs you that much. What’s he going to do, expel him? Does he dad need to get involved?

He notices instantly that you are not in class one morning. Normally that wouldn’t be weird, but your loud pet is still attending despite your absence. Other students observe in fear as a dark aura begins to surround Floyd as he glares daggers at the doorway. Jade somehow tames him to hold off interrogations until lunch, but Grimm’s luck runs out quickly-

“Oi, cat! Why isn’t my little shrimpy with you?”

Grimm tries to act tough, saying that he isn’t your babysitter and doesn’t know or care.

Unfortunately, Floyd doesn’t feel like asking twice. All he has to do is growl a bit and Grimm’s spilling the details. You’re at a consultation and having surgery tomorrow? And you didn’t tell him?

He goes to the nurse’s office, arriving just as you’re stepping out. Let’s get one thing straight - you will be staying with him tomorrow. Not in a guest room but in his dorm and where he can watch you

Why? Because he said so. You don’t need a better reason <3 Now let him squeeze you, its the least you can do after “worrying” him

he was so bored in class without you to annoy

The next day comes, and Floyd is at your front door first thing in the morning. He did not bother telling you his plans, and you instead found hum leaning against the front fence while waiting for you to come out

He teases you on the way. Nothing too serious, but enough to make your nerves act up. Floyd finds it funny how your hands tremble as the nurse guides you into the operating area. They tried to kick him out, noticing that he was the source of your distress

Did not work lol. Nice try though

He watches from the doorway as the laughing gas is administered, suddenly silent as he glares down the surgeon administering your IV. Your delirious ramblings aren’t ignored, it’s just that Floyd has no reason to play nice if you can’t focus on him anymore

Aka. You are now vulnerable and Floyd is in protective mode.

You gasp and for a moment he thinks the surgeon hurt you. Floyd’s half way off the wall when he hears it

“Floyd? Is dat you?” and he’s chill. Two big strides and he’s leaning over your head with a shark-tooth grin.

“Oh mY sEvEn iT iS i’m not hallucinating your handsomeness, right? Doctor this stuff doesn’t make you hallucinate, right?”

Oh so you think he’s handsome?

“G o o d. Listen I know that soon my mouth is going to be all bloody, but I love you so you’ll have to deal with my kisses anyways, okay?”

Oh, so you love him?

Floyd laughs loudly, planting a large kiss on your cheek as you drift off into sleep. The surgeon takes his moment of euphoria to nudge him out and he doesn’t fight back. Instead he shoves both hands into his pockets and moves to wait outside of the door.

Now that he knows you love him, all he has to do is wait and see if you remember. If you do? Cute. Prepare to be smothered. If you don’t? Watch out. He’s been itching to have some fun

Ace Trappola

After everything you have done for this twat, he better take care of you after your surgery

Ace was one of the first to find out something was wrong. The way you would clutch your mouth in pain occasionally, overkill brushing your teeth (putting Trey to shame), and constantly check in the mirror after meals? Definitely not subtle in the slightest.

Ace is also the one to make you see the nurse. He passes it off as being annoyed at your habits, but Ace is actually concerned for your health. You’re always busy looking after everyone else, so someone has to look out for you, y’know? Not that he would ever admit it.

He even offers to go with you for the consultation, but you owe him lunch. Ace is very snarky about giving up his time until he hears your name and surgery in the same sentence

He is the one who is actually scared on your behalf. Not because of the surgery, but more-so about your response to it. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that you aren’t from twisted wonderland, but for Ace it is something he thinks about every day

You’re his best friend. What if the procedures they use in TWST aren’t normal for your body? What if they hurt you?

He pushes this down, eyeing you from his peripheral vision to gauge your reaction. Good thing he did because you look like a nervous wreak

“H-hey. It’s not so bad, y’know? Everyone gets it done at some point and you’ll even get a few days off from school,” he tries to comfort you, placing a stiff hand on your shoulder and walking you home.

He doesn’t offer to stay with you. He wants to but thinks that someone more responsible like Riddle would be a better fit.

Ace can’t resist when you ask him though. He sighs casually and shrugs as if to say, “it can’t be helped,” but on the inside is panicking. He can barely take care of himself, let alone another person?

On the day of the surgery you are much more calm than he expects. He jokes around, saying things like “it’s because i’m here,” and “you can’t do nothin’ without me huh?” all while expecting you to fight back. Ace is confused when you shrug him off yet don’t deny it

“Just say if anything hurts, alright? They know what they’re doing but don’t keep anything to yourself,” he feels the panic rising again when you’re given the laughing gas and IV drip. He gently holds onto your knee, standing next to the bed as you begin to passionately rant about the hell the students and staff at NRC put you through

Panic disappears quickly, believe it. The poor surgeon is now baring witness to an all out verbal brawl between their half-conscious patient and a hotheaded idiot

“OH SHUT. UP. I wouldn’t be stuck with with half the shit I am if I wasn’t in love with you! Be f*cking grateful and let me sleep!”

…….

O_O

He is out. Ace doesn’t even wait until you are fully asleep to leave. The moment those words leave your lips he is out the door and sitting in the waiting room and whipping out his phone

Man’s sweaty ass hands can’t hit dial quick enough