DAMIAN WAYNE X TITAN!READER
A/N: yeah I did say requests are closed. yeah I wrote this anyway. I hate it here
WARNINGS: language, mild embarassment, slightly suggestive?
MASTER LIST in BIO
It's pure panic the moment his deceptively skinny fingers come into view.
It's not unusual for him to pluck your phone or a book out of your hands to see what you're doing. Less so for you to do the same. You're nosy people, and it's a weird display of trust. I trust you with my things, with this device that could reveal all my secrets; I trust you not to pry.
You should've known better. You should have expected him to get curious when you were tucked into a corner, squinted down at your phone screen when you could have been swapping incredulous and judgmental glances with him as you listened to Beast Boy and Cyborg's argument over– what was it? Proper burrito filling?
You'd been a little too wrapped up in a story a close friend had sent you. Honestly, you should have known better than to open anything they sent you while you were in public. You should have shut the entire damn device off when you spied an Archive of Our Own link. You should have chucked it out the window when you read the attached message, for you, my horny little Gothamite.
Unfortunately, you're an idiot. Worse, you're a curious idiot. So you opened it.
What you found on the other end of that link was an uncomfortably well written, three-chapter fan fiction about Gotham's one and only (this year) Robin. And goddamn it all to hell, it's really well written.
It absolutely does not help that you've been dating this person for three months, or that you'd been crushing hard for the most of the friendship that came before. Or that this author has written his character just on the right side of accurate.
You'd never thought anyone would write fan fiction about him. It makes sense, in retrospect—it makes complete sense. Friends who don't know all your secrets (and some who sit in this very room) have spent hours giggling around a phone or laptop with hundreds of romantic works about a plethora of other heros (or themselves).
Maybe it was different because you know Robin so personally. Maybe you just liked to think he was yours and only yours.
(He still is. Realistically, you know you've got nothing to worry about. He'd commit a handful of felonies before he betrayed your trust. But hey, monkey brain and all. Plus, he told you once that it's kind of hot when you get– what'd he call it? Territorial.)
There's a scream lodged in your throat as he tries to pull it from your hand. You cinch a death grip on the poor thing, its screen squeaking out a warning that's lost on you. You stare at him wide-eyed with a nervous half-smile that he clocks a mile away. This is the exact same expression that cracked across your face when he caught you raiding his stash of sweets last year.
It only stokes the flames of his curiosity higher.
"If you love me, you'll let go and never speak of this again," you whsiper.
There's a agonizingly long moment where his face barely changes, except for his jaw ticking as he contemplates. You try to click the power button, to darken the screen or something, but his palm is covering it.
"Don't take this the wrong way," he starts slowly, and you feel your whole body tense, "I do love you, very much, but at this exact moment, my curiosity is outweighing it." He jerks the device out of your grip with a twist that cancels out your grip.
Your expression shudders into a co*cktail of discomfort and panic. You scramble forward, reaching for it, but he anticipates it and keeps it well out of reach. You hiss profanities, mindful of the ompany you're in who will also definitely come investigating.
The saying curiosity killed the cat is about to get a whole new meaning, and you're about to catch a charge for first-degree murder. Maybe more than one.
He bats you away with one hand, avoiding any decent hits with strategic side-stepping that only works you in a circle. You give up when he scrolls. You deflate the brighter his eyes shine.
You're never going to hear the end of this.
You're gonna have to leave him at the alter when he brings this up in your vows. You'll rise from the grave to beat the sh*t out of him when he mentions it at your funeral.
He turns to face you slowly. The only way you can describe his expression is cruelly delighted.
You, on the other hand, appear utterly defeated. Pouting. Perhaps verging on manslaughter. "I deserve a trial before you sentence me to public embarrassment."
He co*cks an eyebrow. Like the dick he is. "Do you really?"
"My friend sent it to me–"
"You're on chapter two–"
"Well I had to avoid suspicion–"
"You could have lied–"
"It's really well written, okay? Like—you read it! Tell me that isn't good writing!"
He looks back at your phone passively. "I will give you that; I've read published books of worse quality." He scrolls again and his eyebrows raise. He pulls it closer, as if he needs to be sure he's reading it correctly. Or he feels he should hide it. "How much of this have you already read?"
"I got the part where you get to the rooftop– Why does that matter? What happens next?" You shuffle over quickly, leaning into his space to see for yourself.
It's possibly the most graphic make-out scene to ever grace your general vicinity. Your grandmother would be gawking. You could get arrested for playing this out in public. He keeps. Scrolling. It's like a car crash with copious sexual tension. You can't look away.
The two of you stand there for several minutes too long, huddled together in front of your phone, slowly scrolling down through the last paragraphs of the chapter.
At the bottom of the screen, you catch the words bedroom door, and, knowing he reads faster than you, promptly snatch it from his grasp. "Well that was great, let's forget it ever happened." You click back to your homepage (without closing the tab, of course) and shove the phone into your pocket.
When you look at him again, bravely, prepared for the next few weeks of relentless, albeit good-natured, teasing, you find his stupid smug little smile.
He crosses his arms. He co*cks his head. Still wearing that smug expression that drives you up walls for a lot of different reasons. Yet, no ribbing remarks.
Until:
"You know, if you wanted a little more excitement in this relationship, you need only ask." He steps closer, uncrossing his arms to slide his hands into his pockets. And like the suave motherf*cker he's come to be for you, he leans a little closer. "After all, why bother with fiction when you have the real thing at your fingertips?"
