In DC/Young Justice with the Omnitrix/Ultimatrix and a Chat Group

Barbara Gordon's pov:

The first time I saw him standing in Headmaster Hammer's office, I didn't know what to make of Samael Morningstar.

White hair, crimson eyes, and a posture that suggested he'd rather be anywhere else - he was unlike anyone I'd ever encountered at Gotham Academy.

"Barbara, thank you for volunteering," Hammer said, though 'volunteering' was a generous description for being summoned between classes.

"This is Samael Morningstar, our new student. Mr. Wayne's ward."

That last detail caught my attention. Bruce Wayne didn't take in strays. Ever. Whatever circumstances had led to this arrangement must have been extraordinary.

"Nice to meet you," I said, extending my hand professionally. "Barbara Gordon. Academic scholarship student and your designated guide to all things Gotham Academy."

His handshake was firm but brief. "Samael. Thanks for the assistance."

As I led him through the campus, I observed him with mild curiosity. He wasn't like the other students - there was something measured in his movements, analytical in his gaze.

He asked direct questions about the academic programs but showed little interest in the social aspects I mentioned.

"You look like you're enduring torture," I commented as we walked between buildings.

"That obvious?" A hint of genuine response, the first crack in his careful composure.

"Only to someone who's watched her dad suffer through these events for years," I replied. "These galas take practice."

By the end of our tour, I'd categorized Samael Morningstar as intellectually interesting but socially reserved - someone I might encounter occasionally in advanced classes but who would likely keep to himself. Nothing more significant than that.

I had no idea how wrong that assessment would prove to be.

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The Wayne Foundation Summer Gala changed everything.

I attended as the Commissioner's daughter, a role I'd played at countless Gotham social functions.

The evening was proceeding with its usual predictable rhythm until Madison Crowne cornered me at the end of it near the refreshment table, her perfect smile not quite reaching her calculating eyes.

"So, Barbara," she began, voice dripping with false sweetness, "I saw you talking quite intimately with Wayne's ward earlier. I didn't realize you two were... acquainted outside of school."

I maintained my composure, having navigated Madison's social probes for years. "I showed him around on his first day. We have some classes together."

"Mmm," she hummed skeptically. "Well, he's certainly... unusual. Those eyes. That hair." She paused meaningfully.

"Several girls have already expressed interest, you know. Clarissa thinks he's 'exotic.'"

I didn't know why at the time, but her words, irked me.

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The next day at school, the whispers were everywhere. Somehow, Madison had transformed our brief interaction at the gala into a full-blown romantic narrative.

By lunch, half the school seemed convinced that Samael and I were secretly dating, while the other half believed I was pathetically pining after Bruce Wayne's mysterious ward.

After our earlier brief encounter, I found him a couple days later in the library, methodically working through advanced physics problems that were definitely not part of our assigned curriculum.

"We need to talk," I said, sliding into the chair opposite him. "Remember Madison's rumours?"

He looked up, those unusual red eyes focused and clear. "How could I possibly forget them?" he answered with tiredness in his voice, something that almost caused me to chuckle.

"Yeah, they're quite annoying. The usual high school variety. That we're dating, or that I want to be dating you." I stated, a bit of exasperation in my voice. "It's creating some... social complications."

He considered this with the same analytical approach he seemed to apply to everything. "Does this affect you negatively? Should I speak with Madison?"

The question surprised me - not concern for himself, but for how it might impact me. "God, no. That would make it worse. But we should have a strategy."

"What do you suggest?" he asked, setting aside his work with full attention.

"We have two options," I explained. "Deny everything, which nobody will believe and will just fuel more speculation. Or..."

"Or?" he prompted when I hesitated.

"Or we lean into it. Not actually date, obviously, but let people think what they want. It would give us both some social cover -

you from Madison's crowd who won't stop pursuing you otherwise, and me from the usual suspects who think the Commissioner's daughter is an easy target for boosting their reputation."

He was quiet for a moment, considering the proposal with unexpected seriousness. "A strategic alliance, then. Mutually beneficial."

The clinical description made me smile despite myself. "Exactly. A fake relationship for practical purposes."

"Logical," he agreed. "I accept your proposal."

As I walked away from that conversation, I felt an unexpected lightness. What had begun as a pragmatic solution to an annoying problem had somehow become... interesting.

Samael Morningstar approached social dynamics like complex equations to be solved, yet there were moments - brief glimpses - of something more beneath that analytical exterior.

I told myself my growing curiosity was purely intellectual. After all, how often does one encounter someone so fundamentally different from everyone else at Gotham Academy?

The first two weeks of our "strategic alliance" were carefully choreographed.

We established routines - sitting together at lunch twice weekly, walking between certain classes, occasionally studying in the library - just enough to reinforce the relationship narrative without overplaying it.

"Remember," I instructed during one of our study sessions, "we're aiming for believable but not excessive. Too much public affection would seem performative."

"Understood," he replied, making notes in his precise handwriting. "Calibrated visibility in high-traffic social areas, minimal contact, consistent but not constant proximity."

I laughed despite myself. "Has anyone ever told you that you approach social interaction like a scientific experiment?"

He looked up, a flicker of something almost like humor in his eyes. "Is there a more efficient approach?"

That moment - the tiny crack in his carefully maintained composure - was the first time I felt something shift. A curiosity that went beyond our pragmatic arrangement.

By the third week, our conversations had begun to extend beyond the necessary coordination of our social strategy.

During lunch periods, we discussed everything from theoretical physics (his clear passion) to Gotham's political landscape (my natural territory as the Commissioner's daughter).

"Your analysis of the mayor's corruption scandal is impressively thorough," he commented one afternoon as we reviewed my government class project.

"Most people focus on the obvious financial improprieties rather than the underlying power structures."

"Most people see what they expect to see," I replied. "The real story is always in the patterns that don't fit the expected narrative."

Something shifted in his expression - a flash of genuine respect. "An astute observation. Pattern recognition is indeed the foundation of meaningful analysis."

These moments - when his careful composure gave way to authentic engagement - became increasingly important to me, though I wouldn't admit it even to myself.

The fourth week brought an unexpected test of our arrangement. Madison cornered Samael after Advanced Chemistry, inviting him to her exclusive study group with a transparency that fooled no one.

"Samael and I already have study plans," I interjected smoothly, appearing at his side with practiced timing. "But thanks for thinking of him, Madison."

Her perfectly plucked eyebrows arched in challenge. "I'm sure he can speak for himself, Barbara. Unless you make all his decisions now?"

I felt a momentary panic - we hadn't prepared for this specific scenario - but Samael responded with surprising naturalness.

"Barbara and I have developed an effective study methodology," he said, his hand lightly touching my arm in a gesture that appeared casual but felt electric.

"But I appreciate the invitation."

As Madison stalked away, I realized something important had changed. Our performance was becoming more fluid, more intuitive.

We were developing a genuine partnership, even if its foundation remained strategic.

"That was well handled," I said as we walked to our next class. "The touch was a nice detail. Very convincing."

"I observed that physical contact, even minimal, tends to reinforce relationship narratives in social contexts," he replied matter-of-factly. "Was it appropriate?"

"Perfect," I assured him, ignoring the lingering warmth where his fingers had brushed my skin. "Just the right amount of casual intimacy."

By the fifth week, I found myself looking forward to our arranged interactions with an enthusiasm that had nothing to do with social strategy.

Our conversations had expanded beyond school subjects into broader intellectual territories - philosophical discussions about justice and power, theoretical explorations of quantum mechanics, even occasional debates about literature and art.

"I find Shakespeare's exploration of human nature remarkably accurate despite the temporal distance," Samael commented during one lunch period.

"His understanding of power dynamics and psychological manipulation remains relevant."

"You sound like you've made a study of manipulation," I observed, half-joking.

His expression turned thoughtful. "Understanding how influence operates is essential in any social context. Shakespeare simply codified patterns that exist in all human interactions."

"Including ours?" I asked before I could stop myself.

His eyes met mine with unexpected directness. "Our arrangement is transparent and mutually beneficial. Manipulation implies deception or unbalanced advantage."

"So we're the exception to the rule?" I pressed, suddenly needing to understand how he categorized what was developing between us.

"Perhaps," he said after a moment's consideration. "Or perhaps we've simply acknowledged the underlying mechanics that most people prefer to ignore."

The conversation shifted to other topics, but something had changed - at least for me.

I found myself increasingly aware of him not just as a strategic partner but as someone whose mind fascinated me, whose perspective challenged my own in ways that were both frustrating and exhilarating.

The more time passed, the more our "fake relationship" had developed its own rhythms and patterns.

We had inside jokes, preferred spots in the library, an unspoken understanding of when to give each other space and when to present a united front.

Madison and her crowd had largely accepted our relationship as established fact, though occasional testing of boundaries continued.

More significantly, I had stopped thinking of our arrangement purely in terms of its strategic value.

The time when the invitation for Wayne Manor came during this period - Samael mentioned casually during lunch that Alfred had suggested I might join them for dinner sometime-

"to maintain the credibility of our social narrative," as he put it.

I said I would contemplate it, yet despite my outward casualness I inwardly felt a strange anticipation. Wayne Manor represented more than just an impressive estate;

it was Samael's private domain, a space where he might be less guarded than at school.

In the end I decided to unannounced, having built up the nerves, and not wishing to lose them again.

He invited me to stay for dinner and it in and of itself was revelatory. Without the pressures of Gotham Academy's social hierarchy, Samael was different - still analytical and precise in his thinking, but more open, more engaged.

We discussed everything from quantum physics to classic literature, finding unexpected common ground in our approaches to knowledge if not always our conclusions.

"You know," I said as Alfred served coffee after dinner, "we should do this more often. Our 'relationship' would be more convincing if we actually spent time together outside of school."

"A reasonable point," he agreed. "Though I suspect your father might have questions about you spending too much time at Wayne Manor."

I smiled, feeling unexpectedly pleased by his acceptance. "Dad trusts Bruce completely. Besides, he's just happy I'm spending time with someone who can discuss something other than fashion or sports."

"Then yes," he said, with what seemed like genuine preference rather than mere strategic calculation. "We should do this more often."

As Alfred drove me home that evening, I found myself confronting an uncomfortable truth: somewhere during these weeks of pretense, my feelings had shifted from intellectual curiosity to something deeper and more complex.

I wasn't ready to call it anything significant. Not yet. But I could no longer pretend my interest was purely practical.

The next day brought a new challenge. Despite our established "relationship," Madison had continued to pursue Samael with remarkable persistence, culminating in multiple invitations to her exclusive yacht party.

"She's invited me three times now," Samael mentioned during one of our study sessions. "I know I accepted going with you, but I had to refuse her here, for I know how it would look to the academy.

Yet still each refusal seems to increase her determination."

"Madison views rejection as a personal challenge," I explained. "She's probably convinced herself that you're just playing hard to get because of your 'thing' with me."

"Just endure till we attend together.

We'll make a brief appearance, establish our 'relationship' definitively in front of everyone who matters, then make an early exit."

My answer was logical, practical, yet the implications still sent a thrilling sensation through me at the thought of it.

 "A strategic appearance to reinforce the established narrative will Indeed help." he stated.

"Exactly," I stated, ignoring the flutter in my stomach at the prospect of attending a social event with him that wasn't just for show at school.

"One appearance together at a major social function would silence the rumors about whether we're 'really together' or just friends."

"Indeed" he conceded reluctantly. "Though I will warn you again my yacht party small talk is severely underdeveloped so you'll have to save me sometimes." 

I laughed, finding his discomfort with social niceties oddly endearing. "Don't worry. I've been navigating these waters since I was twelve.

Just follow my lead and try not to look too much like you're plotting quantum equations in your head."

"I make no promises," he replied with a slight smile that made my heart beat unexpectedly faster.

The night of the party, I spent more time than usual preparing - selecting an emerald green dress that complemented my red hair, styling it in loose waves rather than my usual practical arrangement.

I told myself this extra effort was simply about maintaining our cover story effectively. The strategic appearance required strategic preparation.

But as I examined my reflection, I couldn't deny the truth any longer. Somewhere during these weeks of pretense, I had developed genuine feelings for Samael Morningstar.

What had begun as mild curiosity had evolved into intellectual respect, then genuine enjoyment of his company, and finally into something I could only describe as attraction - not just to his mind, but to him as a whole.

The realization was both exhilarating and terrifying. Our entire relationship was built on the premise that it wasn't real - a strategic alliance for mutual benefit.

What would happen if he realized my feelings had changed? Would it compromise our arrangement? Would he withdraw from the partnership entirely?

These questions swirled in my mind as I arrived at the dock where we had agreed to meet.

When I saw him waiting, uncomfortable yet dignified in his navy blazer and crisp white shirt, my heart performed a complicated maneuver that confirmed everything I'd been trying to deny.

"You look fine," I assured him as we approached the yacht. "Stop fidgeting. You're supposed to be a scientific genius, not a nervous teenager on his first date."

"I'm not nervous," he replied truthfully. "Just calculating the minimum time requirement for this appearance to achieve our strategic objectives."

I laughed, linking my arm through his in a gesture that had become familiar during our weeks of pretense but now felt charged with new meaning. "Two hours. Any less would be conspicuously brief, any more is unnecessary torture."

"One hour and forty-five minutes," he countered.

"Done," I agreed with a smile. "Now remember the plan."

The plan seemed simple enough - make our appearance, circulate strategically, dance once to establish appropriate couple behavior, then make our excuses and leave. A straightforward operation with clear objectives.

What I hadn't planned for was how natural it would feel to move through the party with him, how our coordination had developed to the point where we anticipated each other's reactions without discussion.

Or how, during our obligatory dance, the carefully maintained distance between us would suddenly feel like an artificial constraint rather than a comfortable boundary.

"Madison at two o'clock," I murmured as we moved across the dance floor. "She's been watching us since we stepped onto the floor."

"Is she always this persistent?" he asked, his hand warm against my waist.

"Madison collects people like trophies," I explained, finding myself increasingly distracted by his proximity. "Especially those who represent something unique or valuable.

Bruce Wayne's mysterious ward with the unusual appearance and brilliant mind? You might as well have a flashing 'must acquire' sign over your head."

The music shifted to something slower, and couples around us adjusted accordingly. I moved closer, my hands resting lightly on his shoulders as he placed his at my waist.

The practiced formality of our movements maintained appropriate distance while still presenting the image of a couple to observers.

"This should be convincing enough," I said quietly, though part of me wondered who I was trying to convince. "After this song, we can start our exit strategy."

But before we could implement that strategy, Bruce Wayne's unexpected arrival changed the dynamics of the evening.

The commotion that followed - a fight breaking out on the lower deck, guests rushing to the upper level to watch the drama unfold - created a crush of people that forced us closer together than our careful choreography had ever allowed.

"Sorry about this," I murmured as another surge of people pressed us further into the corner. "Madison's parties always seem to end with some kind of drama."

"At least it's providing excellent cover for our exit strategy," he replied, his voice closer to my ear than it had ever been.

The next surge of the crowd pushed me forward, and he caught me instinctively, his hands steadying my waist as I braced against his chest.

Our faces were inches apart, and in that moment, weeks of carefully maintained pretense collided with the reality of my feelings.

"Madison's watching," I whispered urgently. "Perfect opportunity to sell this."

I closed the distance between us, pressing my lips against his in what would appear to onlookers as a passionate kiss between a young couple caught up in the moment.

The contact lasted only seconds, but it changed everything - for me, at least.

Because while my mind had framed it as a tactical decision, my heart knew better.

The softness of his lips, the warmth of his hands at my waist, the surprising rightness of the contact -

all registered with an intensity that had nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with the feelings I'd been carefully avoiding acknowledging for weeks.

When I pulled back, our eyes met, and I saw something in his expression I couldn't quite identify - surprise, certainly, but also something more complex.

"That should remove any lingering doubts about our relationship status," I said quietly, feeling a flush creep up my neck that wasn't entirely performance.

"Effective tactical adaptation," he replied, his composure remarkable despite the circumstances.

As the crowd on the upper deck began to disperse, I stepped back slightly, though we remained closer than our previous calculated distance.

"I think our mission objectives have been thoroughly accomplished," I said, my voice steady though I couldn't quite meet his eyes. "Shall we implement that exit strategy now?"

"Agreed," he replied, and I wondered if I was imagining the slight change in his tone.

We made our goodbyes strategically brief, citing early commitments as our excuse. On the small boat back to shore,

I maintained a slight distance, trying to process what had just happened - not just the kiss itself, but the realization that what had begun as a practical arrangement had become, for me at least, something genuine.

"That was... not exactly how I planned our exit," I said finally, keeping my voice low.

"Adaptability is essential in any operation," he replied with characteristic neutrality. "Your tactical decision achieved our strategic objective efficiently."

I glanced at him, finding unexpected amusement breaking through my confusion. "Only you could describe a kiss that clinically, Samael."

"I meant no offense," he said, sounding almost defensive. "It was... well-executed."

A small laugh escaped me. "Well-executed? That might be the strangest compliment I've ever received."

"I'm not particularly experienced in providing feedback on such matters," he admitted.

My expression softened as I realized he was, in his way, as affected by the moment as I had been - just less equipped to process it emotionally.

"I know. I myself am not either really familiar with this. And I probably should have given you some warning. It just seemed like the perfect opportunity to cement our cover."

"It was logical," he agreed, though something in his tone suggested he was wrestling with thoughts beyond pure strategy.

When we reached my home, he walked me to the door as protocol dictated. Standing there in the soft porch light, I found myself at a crossroads.

Weeks of pretense had led to this moment of truth - a kiss that was supposed to be strategic but had revealed feelings I could no longer deny.

"Thank you for tonight," I said, my tone more genuine than the social persona I'd maintained at the party.

"Mission accomplished, I'd say. Madison and her friends should be thoroughly convinced of our 'relationship' status now."

"An efficient partnership," he acknowledged. "Your social navigation skills are impressive."

I smiled, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with strategic success. "We should do this again sometime.

The partnership, I mean. Not necessarily the yacht party or the... impromptu tactical adaptations."

"I'd like that," he replied, and something in his expression suggested he meant it sincerely.

Later that night, after Dad had gone to bed, I sat at my desk staring at my phone, composing and deleting messages multiple times before finally sending: "Mission accomplished. Madison cornered me after you left to 'apologize' for her behavior and ask if we were 'serious.' Consider Operation Relationship officially successful."

His reply came quickly: "Efficient teamwork. Your social navigation skills are impressive."

I smiled at the screen, finding his formal phrasing endearing rather than distant. After a moment's hesitation, I typed: "High praise from the scientific genius. Same time next week for dinner at the manor? No yacht required."

The brief pause before his response felt longer than it probably was. Finally: "Agreed."

One word, yet it filled me with disproportionate happiness. As I prepared for bed, I found myself replaying the events of the evening -

particularly that moment against the railing when what had begun as a strategic alliance had transformed, at least for me, into something I wasn't quite ready to name but could no longer deny.

In seven weeks, Samael Morningstar had gone from an unusual new student I was assigned to guide, to a strategic partner in a mutually beneficial arrangement, to someone whose presence in my life I valued beyond any practical considerations.

The irony wasn't lost on me. We had constructed an elaborate pretense of a relationship to manage Gotham Academy's social politics, only for me to develop genuine feelings in the process.

Our fake relationship had led to real emotions - at least on my side.

The question now was whether he felt the same, and if so, what that might mean for both of us going forward.

Was it possible to transition from strategic alliance to something authentic without destroying the foundation we'd built?

As I drifted toward sleep, I found myself hoping that somewhere beneath his cold approach to everything, that somewhere in his heart he felt the same warmth towards me that I felt towards him.

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(Author note: And cut! Good lord that was difficult!

I am really not good when it comes to writing girls.

Especially romance, I'm trash in that.

Yanderes and obsession though is so much easier! I just got to write the most possessive and perverted words possible and I got it.

Barbara though is not that, plus her intelligence made her a lot harder to write - this not counting me being quite tired right now.

So yeah, do tell me how you found it and I hope to see you all later,

Bye!)