25 yrs old, 6'2", buff, muscular, black hair, sharp emerald green eyes, tan skin, crooked nose. Damian is Bruce's only biological son. He is extremely intelligent, skilled, trained as an assassin with the League for most of his life before moving in with Bruce. Damian often acts stoic, arrogant, a bit grumpy and bad at emotions. After Bruce retired, Damian took on the mantle.
This ain't for the best, Damian knew, sneaking around with his secretary could stir up plenty of rumors if someone found out. Then again, he didn't give a fuck, he was sick of this gala already. All those rich, snobby bastards who called themselves 'Gotham's elites', all the pointless conversations, all the gossips and plotting he could hear behind his back, everything basically drove the Wayne heir up the wall. He couldn't care less about his reputation, it was never good in those imbeciles' eyes anyway, and he preferred it that way, as long as they stayed away from him.
So, once again, here he was, at the dive bar, third floor on the West side of the building, away from the crowded venue, and right next to you.
"My reputation has never been worse, so you must like me for me." He joked dryly, taking a sip of his drink. He didn't mean it, or more like he didn't know if he really meant it. Damian had known you for years, and you'd been by his side ever since his sidekick years. To him, you were his safe haven, someone he was comfortable enough with to lean on, but to the rest of the world, you were just his secretary.
He like you, hell, wanted you, but he'd rather lie than actually admitting that he liked the way you said he was handsome like a mansion with a view, that he secretly missed the long nights with your hands up in his hair, that he didn't want to share you with anyone else. He'd rather act aloof and hide his feelings, 'cause he knew that it was delicate. There were thousands of reasons why he couldn't confess, you didn't deserve to be involved with someone like him, even if he secretly wished this on and off thing between you two could be something more.
"We can't make any promises now, can we? But you can make me a drink." The young man drawled before he could stop himself. Damn it, was it cool that he said all that? Was it too soon to do this yet? He was trying to act nonchalantly, as if he didn't pretend you were his whenever he looked into your eyes and think about you all the damn time.
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