Reader have no idea that they're dating the batboys for a quite some time already, although reader does hope for it, they just thought that the batboys being so nice to them, while the batboys waiting for reader to be ready to do couple stuff, they just thought reader is shy 😭
I been thinking this for a while now
Reader: what you mean we're dating?!?!
Batboys: we've been dating for a while now???
“I like you so much, and you don’t even know it.”
Sorry lowkey disappeared again.Im having my daughter next month,scared asf💔💔.My fanny is gonna be DESTROYED.also random does anyone else hate podfics.Like it will have the perfect plot and then say” podfic” like turn that shit off omg.
Batboys x Reader: clueless Reader
Bruce Wayne
The “exclusive relationship” was IMPLIED, apparently
•Bruce thought things were very clear.
• In his defense:
•you spend most nights at the manor
• he takes you to galas
•Alfred refers to you as “Mr. Wayne’s partner”
•Bruce literally kisses you goodbye before meetings
•So naturally he assumes:
yes, this is my significant other.
•Meanwhile you’re spiraling internally every day.
•Because Bruce Wayne is:
•holding your hand
•buying you things
•resting his forehead against yours when tired
•But he’s never technically said:
“Will you be my partner?”
•So your brain goes:
Maybe he’s just emotionally confusing.
•The realization happens because someone at a gala says:
“You and your boyfriend make a lovely couple.”
•You laugh awkwardly.
“Oh..we’re not-“
•Bruce looks over immediately.
“…Not what?”
•You stare at him.
“Dating?”
•Silence.
•Bruce blinks once.
“..We’ve been exclusive for eight months.”
“EIGHT??!”
•You almost choke on your drink.
•Bruce is now deeply confused.
*“You sleep in my bed.”
“AS A FRIEND.”
“I kissed you.”
“PEOPLE KISS CASUALLY SOMETIMES-“
•Bruce just stares at you like your operating system is corrupted.
• Then realization slowly dawns on him.
“…You genuinely didn’t know.”
• You hide your face immediately.
“I thought you were being nice because you liked me as a person.”
•Bruce physically has to sit down.
•Because somehow this is more stressful than fighting Bane.
⸻
Dick Grayson
Actually devastated you didn’t know
•Dick is the MOST affectionate naturally.
•So this misunderstanding gets BAD.
•This man:
• calls you baby
•kisses your forehead
•cuddles you constantly
• takes you on dates
•says “missed you”
•introduced you to the Titans
•And you STILL think:
He’s probably just emotionally open.
•Dick genuinely thinks you’re just shy about labels.
•One day he casually says:
“My girlfriend’s coming over later.”
•You:
“Oh? Who?”
• Dick laughs.
•Then stops laughing.
“…You.”
•You stare at him.
“Wait.”
•He stares back.
“WAIT.”
“You didn’t know we were dating?!”
“I THOUGHT YOU WERE JUST REALLY FRIENDLY.”
•Dick falls backwards onto the couch dramatically.
“I HELD YOUR FACE AND TOLD YOU I ADORED YOU.”
“YEAH BUT YOU’RE DICK GRAYSON. YOU SAY THINGS.”
•He’s losing his mind now.
“I TOOK YOU ON ROMANTIC ROOFTOP DINNERS.”
• “I THOUGHT YOU WERE TESTING LOCATIONS.”
•He actually laughs so hard he can’t breathe.
•Then immediately crawls across the couch to grab your face.
“Okay,” he says, still laughing,
“just so we’re SUPER clear now-”
•Kisses you directly on the mouth.
“Boyfriend. Dating. Romantic. In love with you.”
•You’re bright red.
•Dick thinks this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to him.
⸻
Jason Todd
• Jason absolutely assumed you knew.
•Because from his perspective:
•you wear his hoodies
•you sleep at his place
•he threatens people for disrespecting you
•you’ve made out multiple times
•Clearly:
Relationship.
• But you’re an overthinker.
•So every time something romantic happens you internally go:
Don’t assume. Don’t ruin the vibe. Stay calm.
•The realization happens when Roy casually says:
“So how long have you two been together now?”
•You immediately answer:
“Oh we’re not together-“
•Jason:
“…What.”
•Roy:
“…WHAT.”
•You panic immediately.
“I MEAN-unless-“
•Jason is staring at you like his soul just left his body.
“Baby.”
“DON’T BABY ME RIGHT NOW.”
“I literally told a guy at a bar you were my girl.”
“I thought that was… metaphorical.”
•Jason actually puts his hands over his face.
“How are you alive.”
•Then he starts laughing.
HARD.
“Oh my god,” he says between laughs,
“you really thought I was just casually obsessed with you.”
•You hide in your hoodie immediately.
His hoodie.
•Jason notices. Smirks.
“You know normal friends don’t share apartments keys either, right?”
Silence.
“…oh my god.”
⸻
Tim Drake
•Tim honestly can’t blame you because he ALSO never formally asked.
• But he thought the relationship progression was obvious.
•You:
•have toothbrushes at each other’s places
• share passwords
• nap together
•hold hands constantly
•went to a wedding together
• Tim categorized this as:
Relationship Acquired.
•You categorized it as:
Extremely emotionally intimate friendship.
•The moment happens because Kon asks:
“Wait, did you never ask them out officially?”
•Tim pauses.
“..I thought I did.”
• You immediately look over.
“You WHAT.”
•Tim starts mentally replaying every interaction you’ve ever had.
“I said ‘you’re my favorite person.’”
“THAT ISN’T A CONFESSION.”
“I BOUGHT YOU FLOWERS.”
“AS A FRIEND???”
•Tim puts his head in his hands.
“This explains SO MUCH.”
“LIKE WHAT?”
“WHY YOU LOOKED PANICKED EVERY TIME I HELD YOUR HAND.”
•You whisper:
“I thought I was imagining things…”
• Tim looks up immediately.
“…Wait, you LIKE liked me?”
“YES???”
⸻
Damian Wayne
Actually offended you thought he behaved this way platonically
•Damian is NOT naturally affectionate.
•Which means from his perspective, this should have been EXTREMELY obvious.
• He:
•seeks you out voluntarily
•touches you first
•allows prolonged physical affection
•lets you hold Titus
• says “beloved”
•In Damian Language this is basically a marriage certificate.
•Meanwhile you:
He’s just… intense.
• The realization happens when you say:
“You’ll make someone really happy one day.”
•Damian stops walking.
• Slowly turns around.
“…Excuse me?”
“What?”“What do you mean ‘someone’?”
•You blink.
“Your future partner?”
•Damian stares at you in complete disbelief.
“Beloved. We are together.”
You laugh nervously.
“Wait, seriously?”
He looks genuinely disturbed now.
“You believed I was behaving this way PLATONICALLY?”
“YOU NEVER ASKED.”
“I ALLOWED YOU IN MY PERSONAL SPACE.”
“…that’s fair actually.”
•Damian pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I have called you ‘my love’ repeatedly.”
“I thought you were being poetic.”
Long silence.
Then:
“…Father was correct. You are catastrophically oblivious.”
Yall I don’t UNDERSTAND THERES A ONION IN MY FRIDGE THATS JUST BEEN FUCKING GROWING WITH NO ASSISTANCE. No water no soil just AIR. WTF me and my man are just leaving it at this point cuz now we are so damn curious but science tumbler please help.
synopsis: you think damian wayne is an arrogant, entitled prick. and damian? oh, he thinks it’s far too amusing to watch you get all heated up over him.
wc: 3.2k
warnings: reader with a temper, perhaps not the best description of combat (i tried to research, but idk how well i was able to portray it)
request: no
a/n: i lowkey don’t like how this turned out, which is unfortunate, because i thought my initial idea was really cute. ngl i’m just posting this bc i told you guys i would + to get it out of my overflowing drafts
em’s masterlist | damian wayne masterlist
“Stop playing around, Damian!” Your loud voice echoed in the open room of the Batcave—balled fists held high. Your chest was heaving, short puffs of air escaping your open mouth. With a sluggish motion of your fist, you beckoned the green-eyed man to come closer.
Damian observed you from where he stood, only a few feet away. You were looking a hot mess; sweat beading on your forehead, hair sticking in every direction from your momentary scuffle mere minutes ago. Pure chaos.
Damian al Ghul Wayne, son of the Bat and the Daughter of the Demon, wasn’t one for chaos. He was above that. In fact, it was quite the opposite.
From a very young age, Damian had been taught exactly what control meant in this world, which was, of course, power. So it was no surprise that he came to be deliberate in everything he did, meticulously so.
The youngest son of the Dark Knight excelled at about anything he attempted to master, and he did so with ease. One that stemmed from the extensive training he underwent as a child in Nanda Parbat, the hidden city high in the Hindu Kush mountains of Tibet.
Damian was his mother’s son. He had bled, ached, broken ribs, and alike—all before he had even learned to talk properly. For that was what was expected of him; the supposed heir to the Demon’s Head. Just like Talia once had.
Although his childhood was definitely not the average, rosy one most had, Damian knew that his mother’s atypical parenting choices played a major role in what made him as competent in battle as he was.
But an upbringing like that? It inherently shapes you.
He despised a lack of discipline, just as he despised a lack of initiative. Recklessness borne from the belief that he always knew best, well, you could count it as one of the many sins of his teenage years.
Damian had improved in that regard as he got older. With the years, he became more experienced and also more mature. Now as a young adult, he knew better than to underestimate his opponents or to get ahead of himself—for the most part, at least. Though if we’re completely honest, that smug Wayne flair never truly goes away, does it?
Of that, you were sure. Most of all, whenever you’d fight him, and his know-it-all attitude would drive you crazy.
Sparring with you was never just about the fight. You were far too emotionally involved for that to be the case. But Damian didn’t mind. Tempers like yours proved to be excellent fuel for a real challenge. On no occasion had it ever been boring to face off with you.
You, on the other hand, loathed nothing more than to be underestimated, and although Damian hadn’t outright done so—as he was fully aware of your capabilities—his complacent demeanor provoked you like no other.
How dare he not take you seriously? How dare he not give his all when fighting you? The blood in your veins boiled at the sheer audacity. You were seething even considering that he might be going easy on you.
You gritted your teeth, before bellowing, “Fight me!” A simple raise of his eyebrow, and you grew even more agitated. Your impulsive nature won over as you chose to take the first step. Or in this case, the first lunge.
You really should have kept your cool, because Damian had seen through the attempt before you’d even gotten somewhat close to him. He had to give it to you though; the fervor you put into the attack could’ve been effective if your move hadn’t been so blatant.
He caught your fist ahead of impact with his shoulder, and his hand closed around it firmly as though to make a point. With the minimized distance between you, you could hear his amused tut loud and clear.
Oh, he did not just click his tongue at you.
Like you were a goddamn kid. Like you were a little girl that still needed to learn how to control her emotions.
You mentally cursed him out when he then used his grip on you to push you backwards, one-handedly, mind you. Ugh. What a show-off. You glared at him for only a split second before yanking yourself free of his hold with an unnecessary amount of force.
A swoosh of air reached his ears, and Damian barely registered it in time to lean back. He scarcely missed your sharp nails that reached out to scratch up his infuriating visage. Actually, you did manage to slightly graze the bridge of his nose with the tip of your pointer finger. You certainly weren’t above utilizing your freshly manicured and filed nails to claw up his pretty boy face.
Taking advantage of the moment he required to regain his balance, you took a few swift steps back. You needed to gather some distance between you two again in order to recalculate your strategy.
With his narrowed eyes pinned on you now, you circled around each other, anticipating the other’s next step. “You’re too impatient.” His voice was even, vexingly undeterred by the given circumstances.
You rolled your eyes at his unsolicited advice. Here he goes again, sounding like he’s your mentor or leader of sorts, when he wasn’t. You weren’t a member of the Teen Titans for a reason. That unbelievably irritating reason stood right in front of you in all his self-assured glory.
God, why did you even give in to this nonsense again? It was like you physically couldn’t resist the opportunity to stick it to him.
“And you are too confident for your own good,” you countered with a sarcastic grin spreading across your face. Damian shook his head, dark chocolate strands falling onto his forehead in an effortlessly attractive gesture. “No. I think your ego is simply too fragile to accept the truth.”
A disbelieving scoff left your now downturned lips. The sour expression on your face spoke for itself, but of course you couldn’t let his claim simply stand as such. “And what would that be?”
“That I am merely better trained than you.” Swish!
In a sudden twist, Damian rushed forward and retaliated with the attack that you’ve been asking for; quick, sudden, and powerful. His newest course of action stood in stark contrast to the previous half-hearted jabs he had granted you. Was Damian finally coming out of the defense and actually fighting you?
The prospect sparked something alive in your chest, eagerness and adrenaline warming up your body already. Damian’s words only added fuel to the all-consuming fire building up within you—heat and flames that embodied your fury in the most familiar way you knew it.
His strike had come unexpectedly, but it hadn’t been quite cunning enough for you not to evade it. You quickly ducked, before throwing your own punch upon reaching your full height again.
A flurry of blows and parries were exchanged as the fight turned into a kind of dance around the training area—the flow of your bodies’ movements graceful in spite of their violent nature.
The recognizable sound of fists meeting hard muscle sounded through the cave, while the whirlwind of attacks prolonged itself until you eventually succeeded in landing a good hit on the tall boy. Right in the abdomen, with a vigor that sent him staggering backward.
Damian grunted at the collision. And you? You smirked at him with prideful satisfaction. Thinking quickly, you lifted your foot to kick him down.
Unfortunately for you, Damian had been even quicker to grab your leather boot and send you sprawling onto the cold floor instead. A beat later, he was pressing you into the ground. The weight of his body was near goddamn smothering you, and you thanked him for it by spewing vulgarities at him. Damian’s hot breath hit your cheek as he reached to pin your hands above your head. Coarse fingers wrapped around the smooth skin of your wrists.
Afterwards, he allowed himself a moment to take you in; subdued, and yet still burning with a passionate kind of anger. Even like this, you were an inferno of havoc.
Damian couldn’t help his chuckle, quiet as it was. He tried to conceal it by turning his face to the side, but that didn’t help his case at all. “Fuck you,” you hissed at him, annoyed by the fact that he took joy from this.
He angled his face back toward you—cold, piercing eyes meeting your own that reflected white-hot rage. “How charming.” That smug smirk that you’d repeatedly fantasized about tearing off his stupid face motivated you in your pursuit of escape.
With the restricted mobility of your arms and one of his knees settled right between your legs, you considered every single one of your limited options. You were fast to conclude the most logical choice. Funnily enough, in this case, it was something that any decent self-defense class would teach you in about a day. At least in Gotham, that is. After all, there is simply crucial knowledge one must obtain to survive even a week in the city of crazed clowns, crime bosses, and dangerous metahumans.
So after creating a hip bridge, you thrusted your hips up as high as possible, making use of momentum. Simultaneously, you tried to drive your hands down towards your sides.
Your frantic movements forced Damian to shift his hands from your wrists to the ground, so that he could keep himself from falling over. Quickly taking that as your cue, you not only trapped his right foot with your own but also did the same with his corresponding arm. Lifting your hips with as much strength as you could muster, you rolled your shoulder to the right.
Having taken away his ability to stabilize himself, Damian couldn’t do a thing to prevent himself from rolling over to his right side. Moving fast, you reversed your previous positions and mounted him now.
Not wasting a second, you caged his thick thighs between your knees and grabbed his wrists. You pressed them into the ground, hard and unforgiving. You didn’t care if it hurt him. Never mind, you hoped it hurt. You hoped that Damian liked the taste of his own medicine.
Your heart was pounding in your chest as you bared your teeth at him in satisfaction. “Oh, I am more than just charming,” you told Damian in the midst of heavy breathing. You leaned in just enough to fully absorb his reaction, and then you added with a sneer, “Though that might be hard to believe for a person as arrogant as you.”
Pools of jade lured you in, but you remained steadfast. So what if he had pretty eyes? He was still an egomaniac. “You take things too personally, Ya Majnouna.” His comment made your fingers twitch in anger.
Oh, of course, that was beneath the great Damian Wayne as well. Could he ever shut up? Or at the very least, stop acting like he was superior to you for once? Damian knew how to turn anything into a lesson, and you were sick of it.
“Please, if anyone is crazy here, it’s you for thinking you know the first thing about me,” you replied in a tone that was uncharacteristically condescending for you as a person, yet absolutely befitting the dynamic you shared with the youngest member of the Wayne family.
Unlike you, Damian wasn’t rushing to escape your grip. From a bystander’s perspective, one could even go as far as saying that he was right where he wanted to be. But he couldn’t have been enjoying being at the mercy of your unleashed ire, could he? And yet…
Damian was raised to be a highly trained assassin from birth. He became Robin at the age of ten. Under the—at first unwelcome—guidance of his father, he grew into his role as Gotham’s newest Boy Wonder throughout the majority of his teenage years.
All this to say, Damian had been taught at least a dozen ways to get out of a situation where he was pinned down just like this. He was choosing not to.
“I know more than you imagine,” he declared as though he knew it to be true. You almost laughed in his face at that. So he assumed that he knew even this better than you would? For a moment, you wondered if this was some kind of absurd joke. Then you remembered that Damian really wasn’t the humorous type.
Tilting your head to the side inquisitively, you voiced your doubts, “What would you ever know about me?” You took notice of the corners of his mouth hinting upward. The ghost of a smile painted itself on his handsome face, and you despised yourself for the fleeting thought that passed through your mind.
Lips like that shouldn’t have been wasted on a guy like Damian. They looked soft and inviting. Far too kissable.
His keen eyes had already caught the attention before you could snap out of it, but thankfully he left your indiscretion uncommented, for now anyway. “You hate routines,” he began. “You never stick to the rules and always let your feelings control your actions. Even when you know that they are likely misleading you.” Your face scrunched up.
You were about to interject, but Damian continued before you could cut in, “You are impulsive, most likely a product of that fiery temper of yours.” Bending forward, you snapped at him, “I do not have a temper!”
Damian chuckled. The same man you had seen laugh so rarely that you could count the number of times he had done so in the past month on one hand. “Are you sure about that?” he asked you cockily, and you almost groaned out loud. You knew that your reaction didn’t help prove him wrong whatsoever.
“Listen, Wayne.” You were so close to his face that you could feel his exhales on your cheek. He silently waited for you to continue, which surprised you more than you would like to admit.
Being a good judge of character was something you had always prided yourself on being, and you had decided long ago what kind of guy Damian Wayne was. Patient wasn’t one of the characteristics you’d attributed to him. The picture you had of him in your mind was more or less something along the lines of, well, a narcissistic asshole with a crippling superiority complex.
Okay, perhaps that was a bit harsh of you considering that you’d never really gotten close to him, but letting go of grudges wasn’t your expertise. And first impressions clearly weren’t his, as you not-so-fondly recalled.
Regardless, Damian was completely at your disposal like this, though you weren’t sure why he wasn’t struggling against you more. His lack of resistance usually would have insulted you, but in this case, you could tolerate it. If that meant he would finally shut up and listen, you could accept his odd behavior. I mean, there’s a reason people say you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
“You noticed some superficial shit about me? Big deal,” you spat out, words dripping with venom. The grip you had on his wrists tightened. Someone with a lower pain tolerance surely would’ve winced at the added pressure, but Damian accepted you driving his hands into the ground like one would accept a gift. That spoke for itself. “But you know what? I could also tell you a thing or two.”
Oh, this was becoming more amusing to him by the second. He used to never understand why his father would let Selina boss him around at times. Damian felt like he understood him now.
To the untrained eye, it would’ve seemed like his facial expression remained the same. You, however, saw the brief flash of curiosity in his eyes, and it filled you with a sick kind of glee. Clearly, you had some sort of effect on Damian. And god was there something gratifying in knowing you had power over the powerful.
It wasn’t that you were the kind of person who enjoyed hurting people. You wanted to help others, encourage them, and bring hope to the hopeless. Becoming a vigilante was a dangerous decision as it is, but to fight crime in a city like Gotham? That’s like willingly walking into the lion’s den. And still, it was a choice you were willing to make exactly for those reasons. But you were only human, and if anyone had ever made you want to believe in karma, it was the man currently beneath you.
“You act like you are above others. In fact, I think you truly believe you are always the smartest in the room. Oh, and don’t let me forget the way you constantly lecture others, because you are so convinced that your way of dealing with things is the only correct one.”
He didn’t bother with trying to interrupt you. Instead, his intense gaze flickered across your face like it held the answer to some kind of problem he was determined to solve. His lackluster reaction would have frustrated you if you weren’t so elated. It felt like a weight was lifted off your chest, telling Damian all these things to his face rather than thinking them in your head.
You smiled contentedly, before moving your lips right next to his ear. He felt them brush against the sensitive skin there, before you whispered something to him like you were sharing a secret. “But you know what I think the truth is? You’re just a brat, Damian. A brat that seriously needs to get humbled. But don’t worry.” Your tongue swept over your lips. “That’s what I’m here for.”
“Ahem.”
You turned your heads at almost the exact same time. Alfred stood there, looking at you two in the somewhat suggestive position you were in. In hindsight, it made sense, of course, that you didn’t seem like you were just straddling him in the name of restraining him. Surely not when there weren’t any signs of struggle from his side.
Alfred cleared his throat before announcing, “Master Damian, I am afraid your father is looking to have a word with you. Though considering your predicament, perhaps I should inform Master Bruce that you are quite busy—” Your eyes widened at that. Laughing awkwardly, you scrambled off of Damian and up to your feet again. “Oh, there’s no need for that! Thank you, Alfred!” you told the butler, whom you’d grown to respect immensely.
“Damian and I were just about done here,” you added with a growing grin on your face, before shooting said man a look full of rotten promise.
Afterwards, you turned to exit the Batcave, and Damian propped himself up on his elbows to watch you leave. You looked good walking away from him, he noted.
Alfred shot him a knowing glance. “I shall grant you a moment to collect yourself, Master Damian.” The subtle undertone of amusement in Pennyworth’s voice hadn’t gone unnoticed by Damian, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Perhaps you were the only person who hadn’t yet noticed that Damian liked the way you stood up to him; that he found exhilaration in having met his match.
Damian al Ghul Wayne really wasn’t one for chaos.
Unless chaos came in the form of the most beautiful, spirited—and frankly oblivious—woman he had ever met.
''What did you say was your fifth favorite colour?''
''Damian I swear to god—''
married!Damian x Pregnant!Reader
wc; 1050 words
A/N:Reader is implied to be arab
✶—Masterlist
You had long suspected that your husband would be extra when yougot pregnant.
But you haven’t expected this.
Not the mountain of gift bags in the corner of your bedroom.
Not the velvet boxes stacked on the dresser.
Not the bespoke crib imported from somewhere you couldn’t pronounce.
Not the fact that he’d commissioned—yes, commissioned—a lullaby from a Gotham Philharmonic composer.
At nine months pregnant, waddling more than walking, you stared at the latest offender in Damian’s hands.
“Damian,” you said slowly, “what is that?”
He looked insulted you even asked.
“A push present,” he replied simply.
You blinked. “Qalbi, you’ve already given me twelve.”
“Thirteen,” he corrected softly, placing the box next to you. “This one is from the tiger.”
You two didn’t have a tiger.
You sighed, but her heart melted anyway.
Because Damian, for all his meticulous stoicism, was glowing as much as you were—though he’d die before admitting it. He sat beside you on the bed, one hand automatically slipping to your swollen stomach. His thumb brushed along the curve like it belonged there.
“How are you feeling?” he asked for the fourth time this 5 minutes.
You pretended not to notice.
“Sore. Hungry. Your daughter is doing parkour in my ribs.”
“She kicks too hard,” he grumbled, glaring down as if Amira could see him. “She will be grounded immediately.”
You snorted. “She’s not even born yet.”
“She will be grounded preemptively.”
You laughed and leaned into him, watching his expression soften as he pressed his forehead against yours.
“She’ll be here soon,” you whispered.
His eyes fluttered shut.
“And I will be ready.”
TWO WEEKS LATER,you had never seen Damian run so fast.
To be fair, your water had broken on his favorite persian rug.
But he acted like an entire terrorist organization had declared war on the Wayne household. He swept you into his arms, barking orders in Arabic, English, and whatever League-of-Assassins battle language he defaulted to when panicking,and at the same time calling his whole family.
“Damian—put me down—”
“No.”
“But—”
“No.”
He practically flung you into the backseat of the car—gently, but with the urgency of a man who would fight God and win if necessary. He drove like Gotham’s entire road system offended him personally.
“Habibti, breathe.”
“I am breathing!”
“Breathe better.”
“Damian—!”
The contraction hit; your nails dug into his palm. He squeezed you hand back fiercely, jaw clenched even tighter than hers.
“You’re doing well,” he murmured. “You’re perfect. She’s almost here.”
His voice, low and trembling at the edges, steadied you in a way the hospital staff couldn’t.
And when Amira finally arrived—tiny, weirdly red, furious—he froze.
Damian Wayne, heir of the Demon, hardened vigilante, the man who had once stared down death itself without blinking—
Started crying.
Real, quiet tears slipping down his cheeks as he held his daughter for the first time.
He brought her to your chest carefully, reverently, like he feared she might disappear.
“She looks like you,” he whispered.
You shook your head, exhausted and glowing. “She looks like us.”
Amira yawned—this impossibly small little breath—and Damian made a sound so soft you thought your heart might break open.
THE NEXT MORNING,you woke up to five new gift bags.
Five.
“Damian,” you croaked. “What did you do?”
He stood by the bedside, holding coffee for you, eyes bright with sleep deprivation and love.
“They are post-push presents.”
“There is no such thing.”
“There is now.”
You opened the first bag: a necklace with Amira’s name.
The second: a bracelet with Amira’s birthday engraved.
The third: silk pajama sets “for recovery.”
The fourth: a custom mother-child hand-carved wooden sculpture.
The fifth: a handwritten letter.
Her breath hitched as she opened it.
My beloved,
You have given me a life I did not think I deserved.
You have brought into this world a daughter who will know love, safety, and joy—things I once believed were myths.
I will spend every day proving I am worthy of the both of you.
—D.
You wiped your eyes, sniffling.
“Damian… this is—you’re spoiling me.”
He frowned.
“And I am enjoying while doing it.”
You stared at him—at the dark circles under his eyes, at the softness in his shoulders, at his hands still trembling from holding their daughter.
“You’re ridiculous,” You whispered fondly.
He nodded solemnly.
“Yes. I am aware.”
AT HOME,their bedroom had transformed.
The bassinet was set up beside y'alls bed.
Warm fairy lights glowed.
A rocking chair stood in the corner—another one of Damian’s midnight purchases.
You watched him bend over Amira as she slept, brushing a thumb over the dark shock of hair on her tiny head.
“She will be unstoppable,” he murmured. “She will be brilliant. And kind. And dangerous.”
“Damian,” she said gently, “she’s the size of a loaf of bread.”
“A fierce loaf of bread.”
You laughed so hard your stitches hurt.
He turned to her then, eyes warm, voice soft in a way he saved only for her.
“You did so well, habibti.”
She cupped his cheek.
“And you’re doing amazing too,hayati.”
He leaned into your hand like he needed it to breathe.
“I am grateful,” he said quietly, words heavy with sincerity. “For you. For her. For this family.”
Her heart swelled.
“Come here,” you whispered.
He slid into bed beside her, curling around you gently, one arm protectively around your waist, the other resting lightly on the bassinet.
You kissed his jaw.
“Damian?”
“Yes?”
“No more push presents.”
He paused.
“…Define ‘push.’”
“Damian.”
He pressed a kiss in your forehead.
“We’ll discuss later.”
They both knew he would not stop.
You didn’t mind.
He whispered, so quietly you almost missed it:
“Thank you for giving me Amira.”
A/N: Requested by an anon! Sorry for the you/she stuff. I AM SLEEPY
🔖 𓂃⋆.˚:: @simpingmyassoff @shootingstargirl2001 , @dreamerwhofell , @gothamwing , @amiratheangel , @virtaideen , @asterwriter221 , @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore , @supahnohvaa , @vivian-555 , @piatosniathenie , @sonyboos , @beanxiv , @animegamerfox , (if you want to be added comment down below!!)
''You smudged my makeup''
''Do you want me to smudged more?''
''What if you shut up?''
feat. d.wayne x moroccan fem!reader
wc: 1456
✶— Masterlist
Culture Day at Gotham Academy is always a little chaotic.
Tables crowded with flags. Posters taped slightly crooked to display boards. The gymnasium filled with the smell of food from a dozen different countries—spices, sweets, grilled meat, baked bread. Students half excited, half embarrassed to stand beside projects they rushed the night before.
Normally, no one pays much attention to Damian Wayne.
Or rather—people look, but they know better than to stare.
Today, however…
People are absolutely staring.
Because Damian Wayne in a white thobe is unfair.
The fabric is bright and perfectly pressed, falling cleanly along his tall frame. The long sleeves sit neatly at his wrists, the collar sharp against his neck. His dark hair contrasts starkly with the white cloth, and the overall effect is… striking.
He looks composed.
Elegant.
Like he stepped out of a royal portrait instead of a university hallway.
Jon elbows him as they stand beside their display board.
“You know everyone’s staring at you, right?”
Damian adjusts one of the small placards on their table without even glancing up.
“I am aware.”
“You look like a prince.”
“I am.”
Jon folds his arms, grinning.
“Yeah,you say that a lot.”
Damian ignores him.
Their table is simple but meticulous—because Damian refuses to do anything halfway.
Photos of architecture and historical landmarks are neatly arranged. Small descriptions are written in precise handwriting. There are images of ancient cities, mosques, markets, and landscapes.
A few small cultural artifacts sit carefully placed at the front.
Damian has already memorized every fact on the board.
But all of that momentarily stops mattering when the gym doors open.
Because you walk in.
And suddenly—
Half the room goes quiet.
You step inside wearing a pink Moroccan takchita.
Soft rose silk layered with delicate embroidery that glimmers under the overhead lights. The belt around your waist is intricately decorated, cinching the dress perfectly. The long sleeves move gracefully when you walk, and the fabric flows around you like liquid light.
Your hair falls loosely around your shoulders.
You look radiant.
Not just pretty.
Radiant.
The kind of beautiful that makes conversations stop mid-sentence.
Steph whistles loudly from across the gym.
“Okay! I see you!”
You laugh nervously, smoothing the skirt of your dress.
“I feel overdressed.”
“You look amazing,” Steph insists.
You scan the room.
And then your eyes land on Damian.
You stop walking.
Because wow.
The thobe somehow makes him look even taller.
Sharper.
More composed than usual.
Like he belongs in a palace courtyard somewhere, not standing beside a folding table with a poster board.
Your eyes lock.
For a moment the noisy gym fades away.
You walk toward him slowly.
Damian watches every step.
And that’s when he notices something else.
Other people are watching you too.
A group of students near the food tables whisper.
Someone openly turns their head as you pass.
A guy from another class nearly walks into a chair because he’s staring.
Damian’s jaw tightens.
Jon notices.
“Oh,” Jon murmurs, amused. “That’s new.”
Damian doesn’t answer.
You stop in front of him.
“Hi.”
For once—just once—Damian Wayne struggles to form a sentence.
He studies you from head to toe.
The embroidery.
The silk.
The way the belt rests against your waist.
“You look…” he starts.
You tilt your head.
“Yes?”
He clears his throat.
“…beautiful.”
Then, softer—
“Truly beautiful, habibti.”
Your cheeks warm.
“You look really good too.”
Jon leans between you both.
“You two are being disgustingly polite about how hot you both look.”
Damian shoves him aside without looking.
“Leave.”
Jon laughs and walks off.
But Damian’s attention is already back on you.
His gaze lingers a moment longer than usual.
“You should stand closer to the table,” he says.
You blink.
“Why?”
“So people stop staring.”
You glance around and notice several people doing exactly that.
You smile slightly.
“Are you jealous?”
“I am observant.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Damian exhales quietly.
“You are attracting attention, azizati.”
“And?”
“And I do not appreciate it.”
Your smile grows.
“That definitely sounds like jealousy.”
He mutters something under his breath in Arabic.
You catch part of it.
“Was that a complaint?”
“Yes.”
You laugh softly.
Their presentation goes well.
Mostly because Damian knows everything already.
Students stop by the table asking questions.
You explain Moroccan celebrations with enthusiasm—weddings, festivals, traditional clothing.
Damian talks about architecture and history with calm precision.
But the entire time—
He keeps noticing people looking at you.
A little too long.
A little too interested.
One guy lingers at the table and asks you three questions he clearly didn’t need answers to.
Damian answers the fourth question before the guy can ask it.
In Arabic.
Flawlessly.
The student blinks in confusion.
“…Okay.”
And leaves.
You elbow Damian lightly.
“That was rude.”
“He was staring.”
“He was asking questions.”
“He was staring while asking questions.”
You laugh under your breath.
“You’re unbelievable.”
He leans slightly closer to you.
“You find this amusing, ruhi?”
“Maybe a little.”
“You should not.”
“You’re cute when you’re jealous.”
“I am not cute.”
“You absolutely are.”
Eventually the presentations end and the gym becomes loud again.
Music starts playing. Students wander between tables eating and taking pictures.
Damian leans toward you slightly.
“Come with me.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere quiet.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“That sounds suspicious.”
“Do you trust me, qalbi?”
You smile.
“Obviously.”
He leads you out through a side hallway.
The noise fades behind you.
The corridor is empty and sunlit, tall windows casting warm light across the polished floor.
You exhale.
“That was intense.”
“You handled it well.”
“You too.”
There’s a quiet pause.
You’re standing closer now.
Without the crowd.
Without the noise.
You look at him again.
“You really do look unfairly good in that thobe.”
“Unfairly?”
“It’s distracting.”
“I could say the same.”
He steps closer.
The silk of your dress brushes lightly against his sleeve.
“You are very beautiful today, hayati.”
Your breath catches slightly.
“That sounded serious.”
“It is.”
You fiddle with the edge of your sleeve.
“You look like royalty,” you say.
“I am not.”
“Still.”
You reach up and smooth a small wrinkle near his shoulder.
The contact lingers.
Damian’s hand settles at your waist almost instinctively.
His palm rests against the embroidered belt.
You don’t pull away.
The hallway suddenly feels very quiet.
You look up at him.
“You’re staring.”
“You started it.”
“I did not.”
“You walked into the room dressed like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like a distraction.”
You grin.
“Is that a complaint?”
“No.”
His thumb traces the edge of the embroidery.
The touch sends a shiver up your spine.
“Damian…”
Your voice is softer now.
He leans closer.
Your foreheads nearly touch.
“You smell like jasmine,” he murmurs.
“That’s the oil my mom sent.”
“It suits you, hubbi.”
Your fingers grip the front of his thobe lightly.
The fabric bunches beneath your hands.
“People might come out here,” you whisper.
“Then we should be quick.”
You laugh breathlessly.
“You’re terrible.”
“Yes.”
And then he kisses you.
It starts soft.
Just lips brushing.
But the moment they meet, the tension that’s been building all day snaps.
You pull him closer by the front of his thobe.
The crisp fabric wrinkles between your fingers.
Damian’s hand tightens slightly at your waist.
The pink silk presses against his chest.
The kiss deepens.
Still gentle.
Still careful.
But definitely not innocent.
Your fingers slide along the collar of his thobe.
“You’re going to wrinkle it,” you murmur between kisses.
“I do not care.”
You laugh against his mouth.
He kisses you again, slower this time.
Like he’s savoring it.
When you finally pull back slightly, you’re both a little breathless.
“You’re impossible,” you say.
“You kissed me back.”
“True.”
He studies your face for a moment.
Then gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“You look beautiful in this,” he says quietly.
“My beautiful habibti.”
You glance down at your dress.
“I feel like a princess.”
“You resemble one.”
“And you look like a prince.”
He huffs quietly.
“That title is inaccurate.”
“Still.”
You kiss his cheek quickly.
“Come on. Before people start looking for us.”
Damian straightens his sleeves.
“You wrinkled my thobe.”
“You survived.”
He offers his arm.
You take it.
As you walk back toward the noise of the gym, the pink silk of your sleeve brushing the white fabric of his thobe—
Students immediately look up again.
Jon notices first.
He grins.
“Okay yeah,” he mutters to Steph. “They definitely snuck off.”
Steph smirks.
“Worth it. Look at them.”
Side by side.
White thobe and pink takchita.
Looking far too good for a simple Culture Day.
And Damian’s hand remains lightly, possessively at your waist the entire way back.
A/N: In my defense i'm ovulating
🔖 𓂃⋆.˚:: @simpingmyassoff @shootingstargirl2001 , @dreamerwhofell , @gothamwing , @amiratheangel , @virtaideen , @asterwriter221 , @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore , @supahnohvaa , @vivian-555 , @piatosniathenie , @sonyboos , @beanxiv , @animegamerfox , @desertwhisperer . (if you want to be added comment down below!!)
''You look as pretty as always,habibati...''
feat. d.wayne x reader
wc: 1373
✶— Masterlist
The mirror faces the sea.
It’s an odd place for it—propped against the wall of a quiet coastal house that no one visits anymore, where salt gathers in the corners of the windows and the wind hums through the cracks like something half-alive. The glass is old, slightly warped, as if time itself has pressed its fingers into it.
Damian keeps it anyway.
He keeps it because it was yours.
Because you once stood in front of it, tilting your head slightly, like you could see something in it he couldn’t.
“You don’t like it?” you had asked, barefoot on cold floorboards, the ocean stretching gray and endless behind you.
“It is impractical,” he’d replied.
You smiled—soft, knowing. “That’s not what I asked.”
He hadn’t answered then.
He doesn’t answer now.
The house is always dim.
Even during the day, the light comes in muted—filtered through clouds, through salt, through something heavier than weather. It settles over everything in pale grays and washed-out golds, like a memory already fading.
Damian stands in front of the mirror.
Still.
Unmoving.
There’s a bruise on his shoulder—dark, spreading. He hasn’t treated it. Pain is easier when it has a shape.
This—
This does not.
The reflection looks back at him.
Unchanged.
Unfeeling.
Alone.
“You’re staring again.”
Your voice comes from behind him.
Soft.
Familiar.
Wrong.
Damian doesn’t turn.
“I am observing.”
A quiet exhale—almost a laugh.
“You always say that when you don’t want to admit something.”
“I do not avoid admissions.”
“You do when they matter.”
He closes his eyes briefly.
The sound of the sea presses closer, louder—like it’s trying to fill the silence you leave between your words.
“I am not avoiding anything,” he says.
“You won’t look at me.”
“I can see you.”
“That’s not the same.”
No.
It isn’t.
But it is what he has.
You move closer.
He doesn’t hear your steps.
He never does.
But he feels it—the shift in the air, the way the room seems to narrow around your presence.
“You’re hurt,” you say quietly.
His gaze flicks—just slightly—to the side of the mirror where your reflection should be.
It isn’t there.
It never is.
“It is insignificant.”
“You always say that too.”
“Because it is true.”
“Or because you don’t know how to say anything else.”
His jaw tightens.
“That is inaccurate.”
“Is it?”
Silence.
The kind that stretches too long.
The kind that aches.
“You used to argue more,” you murmur.
“I am still arguing.”
“Not really.”
Your voice softens.
“You’re just… tired.”
That lands deeper than anything else.
He exhales slowly.
Measured.
Controlled.
“I am functioning.”
“You’re surviving.”
“I am sufficient.”
“You’re alone.”
His breath catches.
Barely.
But you notice.
You always notice.
“You’re here,” he says, quieter now.
A pause.
Then—
“…Am I?”
The question lingers.
Unanswered.
Unanswerable.
The sea is restless today.
Waves crash harder against the cliffs, sending up sprays of white that catch the dim light like shattered glass. The wind rattles the windows, hums low and constant, like something grieving.
You used to love it.
You said it sounded like the world breathing.
Damian thought it sounded like something breaking.
He was right.
He just didn’t know what.
“Do you remember the first time we came here?” you ask.
He does.
Of course he does.
Every detail.
Every word.
Every shift of light and shadow.
“Yes.”
“You hated it.”
“It was inefficient.”
“You said that about the ocean.”
“It serves no functional purpose.”
You laugh softly.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Yes.”
“You stayed anyway.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
The memory presses in—sharp, vivid, unwelcome.
You, standing at the edge of the cliff, wind pulling at your clothes, your hair wild in a way he never quite understood.
“You don’t have to like it,” you had said. “You just have to stay.”
“I do not understand the appeal.”
“You don’t have to understand everything.”
“I prefer to.”
You turned then—looked at him like he was something complicated and human and trying.
“I know,” you said softly. “That’s why you need things like this.”
“Things like what.”
“Things that don’t make sense.”
He frowned.
“That is illogical.”
“That’s life.”
“I prefer structure.”
“And I prefer you.”
That had stopped him.
Completely.
“Those are not comparable.”
“They are to me.”
Silence.
Then—quieter:
“Stay anyway.”
“I stayed,” he says now.
The words feel heavier than they should.
“I know.”
“I remain here.”
“I know.”
“I did not leave.”
Your voice is soft.
Too soft.
“You didn’t have to.”
Something fractures.
Small.
Sharp.
Immediate.
“I chose to.”
“No,” you whisper. “You didn’t.”
His hands curl at his sides.
“I am here.”
“You’re stuck.”
“I am not—”
“You are.”
Your voice doesn’t rise.
Doesn’t push.
It just… settles.
Truth, quiet and inescapable.
“You never left that night.”
The words hit like a blow.
Damian’s breath stutters.
“I returned.”
Too fast.
Too sharp.
“I came back.”
Silence.
“I was delayed.”
Nothing.
“I had responsibilities.”
Nothing.
“I—”
His voice breaks.
Just once.
“I didn’t know.”
And there it is.
The truth.
Ugly.
Unforgiving.
Real.
The memory comes anyway.
It always does.
Rain.
Cold.
Relentless.
He had meant to go.
Had planned to.
Had every intention of keeping his word.
But Gotham demanded something else.
Violence.
Urgency.
Blood.
He chose it.
Because he always does.
Because he always will.
By the time he remembered—
It was already too late.
“I waited,” you say softly.
The words echo.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
“I know.”
“You always know after.”
His throat tightens painfully.
“I thought you were hurt.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I thought something happened.”
“Something did.”
Silence crashes down.
Heavy.
“I stood there,” you continue. “For a long time.”
“I know.”
“I kept checking my phone.”
“I know.”
“I kept thinking you’d show up.”
“I know.”
“I did show up,” he insists.
“You were late.”
“I came.”
“You were late.”
“I—”
“You were late.”
The words don’t need force.
They settle like weight.
Like something irreversible.
“I found you,” he says, quieter now.
That part—
That part he never forgets.
The street.
Too empty.
Too quiet.
Lights flashing.
The space where you should have been—
And weren’t.
“I found you,” he repeats.
Your voice softens.
“I know.”
“I was there.”
“You were.”
“I stayed.”
“I know.”
He presses his hand against the mirror.
Cold.
Unyielding.
“I did not leave.”
Your reflection doesn’t appear.
It never does.
“You never do,” you whisper.
The house feels smaller now.
Or maybe he does.
“You can’t stay here forever,” you say.
“I can.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“I will.”
“Why?”
He doesn’t answer.
Because the answer is unbearable.
Because leaving would mean accepting.
And he does not accept what he can still fight.
“I remember you,” he says instead.
“I know.”
“I see you.”
A pause.
“…Do you?”
He closes his eyes.
And for a moment—
just a moment—
he can almost feel you.
Warm.
Alive.
Real.
“You’re in everything,” he says.
The wind rattles the window.
The sea crashes harder.
The mirror reflects only him.
“You’re in this house.”
Silence.
“You’re in the ocean.”
Silence.
“You’re in me.”
His voice breaks.
“I did not lose you.”
The lie hangs there.
Fragile.
Transparent.
Shattered by the truth that follows.
“You died.”
The words come from him.
Quiet.
Final.
The room stills.
Completely.
No voice answers.
No presence lingers.
No warmth remains.
Just the sound of the sea.
Just the mirror.
Just him.
He opens his eyes.
And for the first time—
there is nothing behind him.
No you.
No voice.
No illusion stitched together from grief and memory and refusal.
Just absence.
Cold.
Endless.
Real.
His hand slips from the glass.
Falls to his side.
Empty.
“She died,” he says again.
And this time—
there is no one left to argue.
No one left to soften it.
No one left to stay.
The mirror reflects a man standing alone in a quiet house by the sea.
Bruised.
Exhausted.
Grieving.
And behind him—
nothing at all.
Only the memory of you.
Only the ghost of a girl who waited in the rain.
Only the echo of a voice that no longer exists.
The ocean breathes.
The house creaks.
The mirror holds its silence.
And Damian—
finally—
has nothing left to hold onto
but
the memory
of your reflection.
A/N: For the anon who keeps asking for damian Wayne angst 😭
— or, Damian's habibti who's is allergic to flowers, and Damian Wayne commits an act of devotion anyway
She loves flowers.
She says it like a confession, every time.
“I know they make me sneeze,” she’ll murmur, eyes watering, “but look at this one. Isn’t she so pretty?”
She’ll cradle a daisy like a holy relic. Brush her fingers reverently across petals in the florist shop window, sighing like she’s greeting old friends. Her voice goes soft around the names of them — freesia, peony, jasmine. Like each one is a poem she’s memorized in another life.
And then she’ll sneeze.
Violently.
Five times in a row.
Damian once watched her nearly pass out because she insisted on keeping a bouquet of lilacs in her room for “vibe purposes.” Alfred had to intervene.
It makes no logical sense.
Why would someone adore something that actively harms them?
He tells her so.
“You know you’re allergic,” he says one day, watching her hold a wildflower with tears in her eyes and blotchy cheeks.
She beams. “But they’re so hopeful, Damian. Like tiny living declarations of beauty for no reason.”
He squints. “That’s irrational.”
“That’s romantic.”
“They make your throat close.”
“They make my heart open.”
He almost chokes on the sheer emotional recklessness of it.
That night, Damian goes to the greenhouse behind the Manor.
The one Cass tends to like it’s her sanctuary.
He enters with surgical gloves and no expectations.
He leaves three hours later, covered in dirt, vaguely pissed off, and carrying a seed catalogue.
Two weeks pass.
She doesn’t hear much from him — patrols, League interference, Bat drama. She doesn’t push. He’s not much of a texter, anyway. But when she rounds the corner into the Wayne Manor west wing one afternoon, Alfred gently guides her to a door she’s never seen before.
“Master Damian asked me to escort you,” the old man says with a subtle smile.
“…To a horror movie set?”
Alfred simply opens the door.
Inside — is a room.
Not large. Not ornate.
But it glows.
The walls are covered in soft white drapes. Fairy lights snake across the ceiling in warm lines. A low wooden bench sits in the center, surrounded by pots of—
“Wait,” she breathes.
There are flowers.
Everywhere.
Lilies. Marigolds. Poppies. Violets. Not a single one real — but perfect. Crafted from fabric, glass, paper, even delicate origami. Each one clearly made by hand. Folded and cut and painted with so much care her knees go weak.
She touches one. Petals like satin. No pollen. No sneezing.
There’s a small tag attached to the nearest pot.
“They won't hurt you. But they’re still yours.”
— D.W.
She spins around—
And he’s there. In the doorway. Arms folded. Face impassive.
“I had to study seven different origami guides,” he mutters, clearly embarrassed. “And burn the tips of my fingers with glue four times.”
“You made these?”
He shrugs.
Her heart squeezes like a vice.
“You made these.”
“I logically deduced that the artificial replicas were the safest way to approximate the aesthetic effect without the accompanying allergic reaction.”
“Damian.”
His jaw twitches.
She crosses the room slowly, stopping just in front of him.
“I love them.”
“I know.”
“No, like—this is insane. You folded an entire bouquet of calla lilies.”
“I had blueprints. Cass helped with the iris. Hers looked better.”
She cups his face before he can duck away. Holds it in her hands like something sacred.
“Say it again.”
“…Cass helped with the—?”
“No. The other thing.”
His throat bobs. He looks away.
“I know,” he says again. Quieter this time. “I know you love them. I wanted you to have something beautiful that doesn’t punish you for wanting it.”
Her eyes sting. (Not from allergies this time.)
“Damian.”
He finally looks at her.
And then—
She kisses him.
Soft. Certain. Like pressing her lips to the quietest part of his soul.
Later, the Batfam finds out.
Because of course they do.
Jason walks in and sees the room. Stops dead. Blinks. “Yo, who built an allergy-safe fairy cottage in here?”
Stephanie gasps so hard she chokes. “Did Damian Wayne do a Pinterest project?!”
Tim silently walks in, takes one look, and walks right back out. “I can’t. I’m gonna cry. I have midterms. I can’t process this.”
Dick just grins. Grins.
“Little D made a flower garden for his girl. Guys. He’s in love.”
He turns to Damian, who looks like he’d rather spontaneously combust.
“Tell me you at least kissed her in here.”
Damian doesn’t answer.
But She walks in wearing a flower clip in her curls made from folded gold paper, smiling like she carries the sun in her chest.
So yeah.
They know.
The room stays.
Sometimes Cass sits in there and folds more blooms. Sometimes she brings music and sings while paints new petals.
Sometimes Damian just… sits in silence. Watching the light shift across the room he built for a girl who loves the very thing that makes her suffer.
He doesn’t believe in many things.
But he believes in her.
And now—
She has flowers that never make her cry.
Only smile.
Tags: [mlw][mdni][arranged marriage][friends to lovers][loss of virginity][unprotected p in v][just the tip][oral (f!rec.)][fingering][aged up][nipple play][petnames][ra's you little matchmaker]
────୨1ৎ──── ꨄ ────୨2ৎ──── ꨄ ────୨3ৎ────
"I'm sorry, what?" Bruce's brows raise, nearly meeting his hairline as he stares at Jason, who only nods his head enthusiastically.
"Damian had a bride. Like... They were married, had a ceremony and everything. It was actually really beautiful, I cried." Jason hums softly before extending his legs out in front of him, booted feet crossing at the ankles.
"And you want us to get this girl, why?" Tim questions, a brow raising.
"Damian's lonely." Dick states. "So... It would do him some good to be around someone he knows. Like... Properly knows."
"For his birthday." Barbara chimes in. "He's turning 19 and he's a virgin. And he's definitely not gay."
"The turtlenecks could've fooled me." Jason snickers softly, before glancing at Bruce's turtleneck, and raising a brow, almost suspiciously.
"We'll get the girl."
────୨ৎ────
"Is this a house?" Your voice is quiet, almost meek and timid as you look around at the architecture of Wayne Manor, before your eyes move towards the light switches. And you gasp.
"Lights?" You breathe out. "You have magic within your walls?"
They don't know how to react. They don't know if you're joking or if you're serially disadvantaged.
Until you let out a snort of laughter.
"Nah, I'm just messing with you." You snicker, your hands tucked into the pockets of the oversized hoodie you're wearing and you look around.
"You have a lovely home, Mr Wayne. It's lovely to see that there aren't a lot of staff." You smile. A polite, and genuine expression and Bruce damn near melts because shit. maybe Ra's picked good for Damian.
"That's the opposite of what Damian said." Bruce hums and you feel your heart nearly stop in your chest as you repeat the name.
"Damian?"
"Beloved?"
Damian's voice is a quiet murmur, the thick, wooden spined book tumbling from his limp hand as he stares at you, emerald pools wide and pink lips parted to let out the shakiest of breaths.
It feels like time stands still.
You hadn't seen him in so long. The last you can remember is waking up to the sound of screams and clashing blades, blood seeping into the Egyptian rugs that covered the floorboards and you'd found assassins slain.
Body after body after body.
He looks older. Boyish features remain but tinged with the sharpness of maturity, broad shoulders and muscles in place of lean, slender limbs. But that couldn't be anyone else.
The scent of oud and cinnamon musk clings to the air as he takes tentative steps towards you, shaky hands cupping your cheeks and making you look up at him.
You have the same mischievous eyes, your iris flecked with that metallic hue that always seemed to suit your eyes, your face still fits so perfectly in his hands. You're taller than you were, you weigh a bit more, your hips are fuller. Grabbable. There's a sensual dip in your waist that he'll be sure to explore later.
And Damian's forehead rests against yours, feeling the contact of your skin and he lets out a shuddering breath.
"I missed you." You whisper quietly, your voice filling the silent air of the foyer and Damian nods his head.
"As have I." He murmurs quietly. "More than you could imagine."
────୨ৎ────
You sit anxiously on the edge of Damian's bed, and you watch as he steps out of the ensuite bathroom, steam rising from his tanned skin and rivulets of hot water dripping between the cords of his muscles. His hair is damp, a towel low on his waist before he moves towards you, standing between your thighs and he looks down at you, a hand lifting to cradle your cheek.
Watching the way you peer up at him through your lashes, tilting your head ever so slightly, capturing his thumb between your full lips. And you watch the way that slow blush creeps up his features.
"Still so easy to fluster." You tease him softly, and you watch as his eyes narrow.
"Still such a raging asshole." He retorts, before leaning forward, pressing the softest kiss against your forehead.
You lean back against the headboard, Damian's head resting on your lower belly, fingers idly tracing patterns on your hips, exposed by where the T-shirt had ridden up.
"Your head is still fat." You murmur, your voice a soft sound against the sound of Gotham's pouring rain, streets and sidewalks soaked with rain and slippery to the touch.
Bruce had given Damian the night off, and it would be a lie to say Damian doesn't intend to make the most of the night.
Whether it be losing his virginity or falling asleep in your arms like when times were... Ridiculously simple. When his focus was taking lives and not protecting them.
"I can see the hair on your forearms." Damian mocks, and he watches as you tuck your hands behind your back, a snort of boyish laughter tumbling from his lips. He reaches behind your back, pulling your arms forward before pressing the sweetest kisses to your palms.
"I'm just kidding." He reassures quietly. "I like that you're a Sasqua-" Damian's words are cut off when you push his head back into your stomach, and you can tell by the tension in his shoulders that he's going to argue.
So you card your fingers through those raven strands, scratching his scalp lightly and you watch the way the muscles in his back relax, and a minty sigh leaves his lips.
"You're lucky I love you." Damian mumbles, his voice muffled by the slight pudge of your belly and your fingers still just a bit in his hair.
"Still?" You question, almost incredulously and Damian lifts his head, staring up at you from beneath furrowed brows.
"The years apart doesn't diminish the fact that you're my wife." Damian murmurs. "My grandfather may have been a dick but he made a good choice to make my best friend my bride."
Your heart swells and thuds. Your eyes feel the tiniest bit misty and almost immediately, your free hand reaches for the bedside lamp, switching off the light and shrouding the bedroom in shadows and silvery moonlight.
"Are you crying?" Damian asks, a tinge of humour in his voice as he sits up, your thighs tossed over his and his hands move to your cheeks.
"...no."
You sniffle, tears dropping down your flushed cheeks in fat droplets, rolling until Damian's thumbs brush them away. His hands are warm against your cheeks, palms just a bit rougher than they were and you feel the way his lips press sweet kisses to your eyelids.
"You complete me." Damian whispers. "Emotionally, not physically." He adds, almost like it needs clarification and you let out a teary snicker.
"Wow, thank you so much for clarifying that." You answer sarcastically, before your hands move to cradle his face, just like you used to after a particularly hard day of training and you watch the way the moonlight illuminates his features, and you watch the way his eyes soften at the action.
Eyes closing to commit the sensation to memory once again and he lets out an almost unsteady breath.
Leaning forward to rest his cheek against your chest, before feeling the familiar feel of a ring that you've chosen to keep on a chain instead.
"It felt rather... Peculiar without it." Damian murmurs under his breath, reaching for one of the drawers of his bedside table, and tugging it open, and he rifles through the bits and bobs until he finds the tiny satin satchel he was looking for.
And he opens it up, turning the light on but on a dimmer setting, before he pulls the ring out of the baggie.
A tungsten carbide wedding band, two thin strips of gold on it, divided by flakes of gold and emerald, encapsulated.
Reaching for the clasp behind your neck, you slide the necklace off and remove the ring. Your wedding ring.
An ornate gold band, the centre stone being an upside down, pear-shaped emerald, accented by two diamonds on either side.
The rings had been too big for either of your fingers, so you'd simply held onto them. But now, you're both old enough.
Old enough to know that the arrangement could be nullified, and old enough to know that neither wanted that.
Damian slides your ring onto your left hand, the act so intimate as he stares up at your face, scanning for any hints of hesitance but he only sees adoration. A hopeful expression of love.
And you mimic his actions.
And there isn't a lick of doubt in his expression, not even a flicker of hesitance, just pure... Relief. Contentment. Adoration.
Damian interlocks your hands with his, enjoying the warmth of the metal against his fingers an he presses his lips against yours in a sweet, adoring kiss that lingers for far longer than one of the friendly pecks you'd given back then.
He savours the feeling of you near, his bare chest pressed against yours, only kept apart by the soft fabric of the cotton between you and he pulls back.
Watching the way you stare up at at him through fluttering lashes, kiss-reddened lips parted to let out sweet symphonies of quiet breaths.
And you see his pupils dilate even more in the dim light, as his hands disentangle from yours, moving to rest on the swell of your hips.
You pretend that you don't notice his shaking hands as he reaches for the edge of the T-shirt you'd snatched from his closet, and you pretend you don't notice the way those shaky hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they pebble while his knee slots between your thighs, kisses slowly pressed against the soft skin of your neck.
Your hands move to rest on his biceps, manicured nails tracing over the faintest of scars marring his perfect flesh and you feel him gently guide you to rest back against the thick, Egyptian covers, his hands anxiously roaming along your sides.
"Does this feel good?" Damian questions softly, his lips sucking a mark into the sensitive skin right over your pulse and you swallow, nodding meekly.
You wet your lips when he lifts his head, looking down at you from beneath thick lashes and his muscular thigh presses against your core, feeling the way your pussy throbs against the stretchy, soaked fabric of his boxers that you'd stolen as well. Only to peel it away in the next few seconds.
Damian's sweet when he's guiding your thighs to rest over his broad, sinewy shoulders.
Pressing sweet kisses along the flesh of your inner thighs, hands gently kneading the fat of your hips with so much reverence that it makes your toes curl.
Especially when his hands move to aid him, thumbs pressing against the puffy, plump flesh of your pussy and parting the lips, watching the way your slick and slippery folds twitch and Damian takes a deep breath.
"How much teeth do you suppose I use?" Damian questions softly, and the amount of stress that runs through your body is insane.
"None at a-or... Oh..."
Your lips form the cutest little 'o' shape when Damian drags his tongue through your folds, juniper gaze locked on your expression that he finds as a mixture of surprise and aroused.
Your hands move to his hair, fingers carding through them affectionately. And Damian takes that as a sign that he should keep doing that. Long strokes of his tongue have your fingers clutching at his hair, brows knitting into a twitchy frown, your hips nearly bucking.
And you need to stifle a loud and pitchy gasp when he circles what he assumes to be your clit.
"Is that it?" Damian asks softly, before you nod your head, swallowing down every sound that possibly threatens to spill in the quietness of the manor.
And Damian lifts his head, locating the exact spot he just laved over and committing it to memory.
"But... Not all girls' are like... On the same spot..." You breathe out quietly, still trying to teach him while he's slowly flicking his tongue along your needy clit.
"I only need to know where yours is." Damian hums, the low vibration causing the pleasure in your belly to build like an accumulating wildfire. And your lashes flutter, a whine slipping past your lips as Damian suckles at your clit, teasing the sensitive button before he lifts his head.
His chin is wet with your slick, and he spits at your hole, watching the way your pussy pulses the tiniest bit before he goes back to lapping at your clit. And one of his muscular fingers slowly push past ring of muscle, and his brows furrow at the way you twitch around his finger.
And your toes curl as his digit crooks.
"Shit, shit, shit..." You whimper, your chest heaving as you feel your orgasm building and Damian slowly adds a second finger, slowly fucking you with his digits, eyes watching the way your body shivers and shudders.
And you grab a pillow, muffling your moan as you come around his fingers, and Damian swallows, licking up any of the mess and keeping your hips anchored with one of his forearms, resting across your pelvis.
Damian slurps, the sound is lewd and it makes your hips b uck harder.
He's gentle. Licking at your clit, teasing the bud until it peeks out from beneath the hood, oversensitive and slippery against his tongue, before he lifts his head.
His chin is shiny in the moonlight that pours in and the low light of the lamp beside the bed. He peels off the towel from around his waist, tossing it to the carpet in a fuzzy puddle before he watches your bleary gaze lower.
He's... Thick. Perfect in literally every way. A flushed tip, leaking beads of precum down his long shaft, a pretty and prominent vein on the underside and Damian gives himself a few shy strokes.
Not to excite himself, obviously. Just so the obscene sound fills the silence, and he lets out a shaky breath, before he brushes his tip along your sloppy folds.
The feeling is... Surreal.
Your toes feel like when you put your lips against a TV, a muffled gasp slipping past your lips every time his slit catches against your clit, and Damian shifts, resting your legs against his thighs.
"Are you ready?" Damian asks quietly, his free hand fiddling, thumbing your clit sweetly and you nod your head.
"I'm ready." Your voice is a soft murmur. "Are you?"
And he nods his head, before notching himself at your entrance.
"Tell me if it hurts." Damian instructs, before he slowly pushes into you. It's... Uncomfortable. The slightest pinch of pain, but not unbearable and your hands fist at the sheets, before Damian stops abruptly.
Taking your hands and placing them on his tightly toned lower belly, the faintest and thinnest sliver of dark hair between your palms.
"This is so you can... Control the depth." Damian mutters.
Control.
Damian's never given that to anyone. Especially not over his own body.
And slowly, Damian pushes until his whole tip is nestled snugly inside you.
"H-... How is it?" You mutter shyly, your gaze locked on where the two of you meet, and he swallows.
"Tight... Warm... It's so wet..." Damian shudders, a cool sweat prickling across his skin. "You're so perfect."
"Would you rate it 5 stars?" You question teasingly and he lets out a huff of laughter. A cute snort of laughter and he leans forward, his hands moving to rest on the mahogany headboard,, fingers absentmindedly tracing the decadent carvings in the wood.
"4.5." Damian answers. "Because you asked me to rate it."
You watch his stomach muscles flex, his abs rippling beneath his tawny skin before the watch on his wrist beeps. And he lets out a quiet groan, looking down at you with those sweet, adoring eyes.
"I'm sorry- I-" "You don't need to explain." You reassure quietly, kissing Damian sweetly when he leans close enough and he pulls out of you.
"I'll be back before you know it, beloved."
────୨ৎ────
"Why do you smell like pussy?" Jason questions over the intercom, his voice staticky over the connection.
"How dare you?" Damian scowls, bringing his hood over his head, obscuring his face in the shadow of the fabric.
the apartment door clicks open at nearly 3 a.m., and you’re on him before he even gets both boots off.
“okay, first of all—hi. second of all, where were you? third of all, you missed the biggest disaster of a night because—get this—my neighbor tried to deep fry a turkey inside. like in her kitchen. jason, i swear—”
he drags a hand down his face. “baby. please. one sentence at a time.”
“i am doing one sentence at a time!”
“then shorten the sentences.”
you ignore him completely, following him like a shadow as he trudges into the kitchen. he’s exhausted, bruised, and covered in that “i definitely got thrown through a wall” silence that usually means he wants to brood.
he doesn’t get the chance.
“so anyway,” you continue, leaning on the counter, “the fire alarm goes off, the hallway smells like Thanksgiving and shame, and this woman’s screaming about how the turkey betrayed her—”
“stop,” he mumbles, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, “you’re making my headache worse.”
you tap his arm. “i’m making it better. i’m distracting you.”
he shoots you a look. “…you think talking more is gonna cure a headache?”
“scientifically, yes.”
“that’s not—that’s not true.”
you grin. “prove it.”
he groans again, but it’s softer this time. you can tell he’s unwinding, even if he’d rather die than admit your chaos actually helps.
you trail after him to the couch, still talking, still gesturing wildly.
“and THEN she tried to blame me for not stopping her, like—ma’am, i don’t work for the FDA, i’m literally just in pajamas—”
he sits down heavily, head leaning back, eyes closed…but he pats the spot next to him without looking. that’s his version of begging you to stay.
you plop down immediately.
he doesn’t say anything. not for a solid minute. you’re mid-rant about someone’s chihuahua wearing a Spider-Man costume when he suddenly reaches out and rests his hand on your thigh.
his thumb strokes slowly.
you don’t notice at first, too busy reenacting the dog’s dramatic spin move. but when you do, you pause.
“you okay?”
“tired,” he mutters. then, quieter, “keep going.”
you blink. “wait—you want me to?”
he rolls his eyes, but his voice is rough around the edges. “yeah. just… talk. i like hearing you.”
so you keep going, softer this time, leaning into his side. his arm moves behind you, pulling you in until your head rests against his chest. he smells like smoke and leather and whatever detergent you use because he steals your laundry soap. he won’t admit that either.
your voice spills into the quiet, warm and familiar.
eventually his breathing evens out, slow and steady.
you look up.
he’s out cold.
you smile, brushing a bit of hair from his forehead. “told you my voice is calming.”
but he’s already asleep, hand still curled around your thigh like you might float away.
and you don’t stop talking, just quieter though, because even if he’s unconscious, you know he’s still listening in whatever soft, stubborn way he always does.
''You're so blind sweetheart''
''I was just playing along,habibati''
feat. d.wayne x f.reader
wc: 946 words
✶—Masterlist
Your hands were still warm when the artist finally finished the last swirl of henna.
Deep brown paste curled along your palms, weaving across your fingers, wrapping your wrists like delicate vines. The design was intricate, traditional, and stunning — little flowers, drops, constellations of dots, and fine-lined details that looked like they were drawn by a goddess herself.
Diana had insisted you get your henna done for the embassy gala.
You had insisted on hiding one very specific letter in it.
The Arabic د — dāl. Damian’s initial.
Hidden where skin met pulse.
A secret stitched into your bloodstream.
Your mom had only smiled knowingly.
“She’s in love,” she told the henna artist, who nodded as if she could see it in the way you kept giggling and kicking your feet.
By the time you made it back to the Manor, the paste on your hands had dried into rich dark shapes that clung to your skin like lace. You kept staring at your palms, smiling like a girl with a crush and a secret.
You didn’t even hear Damian enter your room.
He appeared silently — like usual — his presence slipping in like shadow, like smoke, like breath.
His voice was low, soft, teasing:
“Habibti.”
You jumped so hard you almost hit the ceiling.
Damian sighed. “You must grow accustomed to my footsteps. I am not trying to assassinate you.”
“You move like you are!” you snapped, pressing a hand to your chest. “My soul left my body—”
Your hand froze.
Damian saw.
And his brows knit.
“You got henna.”
You brightened immediately. “Do you like it?”
He reached for your wrist — carefully, reverently — turning your hand over in his own. His gaze traced every curve and swirl with serious, almost analytical focus.
“It is beautiful,” he murmured. “It suits you.”
You tried not to smile too hard.
He kept looking, eyes sharp.
Studying.
Scanning.
Searching.
Oh no.
You swallowed.
Don’t find it. Don’t find it yet. You’ll combust—
“There is something…” Damian muttered.
He lifted your palm closer to his face.
His frown deepened.
His eyes narrowed.
He tilted your hand toward the light.
You held your breath.
“…wrong with this section,” he said finally, tapping his thumb on the patch of patterns above your pulse. “The symmetry is off. Perhaps the artist—”
“NO!” you yelped, way too fast, way too high-pitched. “Nothing is wrong! It’s perfect! Amazing! Gorgeous! Don’t you have to, like, go sharpen a sword or glare at someone?!”
Damian stared at you.
Suspicious.
Very suspicious.
“…Habibti.”
Your face burned.
“You’re hiding something.”
You squeaked.
He stepped closer, the tip of his nose nearly brushing your cheek as he angled your wrist again. This time, his tone dropped, soft and dangerous in that way only Damian could manage:
“Do you truly think you can hide anything from me?”
Your heartbeat could probably be heard from space.
He traced the inside of your palm with his thumb — slow, deliberate, warm. Goosebumps erupted up your arm.
He found it.
He froze.
Then—
Very slowly—
Damian whispered:
“د.”
You squeezed your eyes shut.
“I can explain—”
But you didn’t get the chance.
Because he lifted your hand.
And pressed his lips to the letter.
It wasn’t quick.
It wasn’t shy.
It was deliberate.
Slow.
A kiss meant to be felt.
Your knees nearly buckled.
Damian didn’t look up. His lips brushed the dried henna again, softer this time, a whisper of devotion.
“Mine,” he murmured against your skin.
“Written on you.”
Your breath caught.
“And me?” you whispered. “Are you… are you going to pretend you didn’t spend five minutes pretending you couldn’t see it?”
His ears went red instantly.
“I was giving you time to confess,” he snapped.
You giggled.
“You couldn’t find it,” you said.
“That is false.”
“You were squinting.”
“I was analyzing the geometry of the design—”
“You put my hand under the lamp!”
“That is called thoroughness, habibti—”
You threw your arms around his neck, laughing as you pressed your forehead to his.
He grumbled, but his hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer.
“Habibti,” he muttered, annoyed but soft, “stop laughing at me.”
“I can’t!” you gasped. “You kissed the henna—!”
“That is what you wanted.”
You froze.
“…what?”
His voice lowered, becoming something warm, something serious, something that could melt bone:
“You wanted people to know you belonged with me.”
A pause.
“And I wanted to honor that.”
Your breath shook.
“You like it?” you whispered.
Damian didn’t answer with words.
He lifted your hand again and kissed the letter a third time — slower, lingering, like a vow.
“You carved my name into your skin,” he said quietly. “Of course I like it.”
Your heart felt too big for your body.
Then—
He suddenly stepped back, looking at you with the most serious expression in the world.
“We are going to take a photo.”
“What—”
“I want you to put your hand on my chest so the henna is visible.”
“Damian—”
“I am updating my lockscreen.”
You blinked.
“Your… lockscreen?”
“Yes,” he said, as if this were obvious. “People must know.”
“Know what?”
He kissed your wrist again.
“That you are mine,” he said softly. “And I am yours.”
Your whole face melted.
You lifted your other hand — the one without henna — and cupped his cheek.
“I love you,” you murmured.
He didn’t blink, didn’t hesitate, didn’t shy away.
“I love you more,” Damian Wayne said, and meant every syllable.
And when you took that picture — your hand on his chest, the د glowing dark over his heart — he stared at it like a treasure he’d kill for.
Which, knowing Damian, he would.
A/N:WE CAN TELL I FINISHED EXAMSSS
🔖 𓂃⋆.˚:: @simpingmyassoff @shootingstargirl2001 , @dreamerwhofell , @gothamwing , @amiratheangel , @virtaideen , @asterwriter221 , @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore , @supahnohvaa , @vivian-555 , @piatosniathenie , @sonyboos , @beanxiv , @animegamerfox , (if you want to be added comment down below!!)
– or, the language of devotion from a boy who was raised to conquer, not to love
✶—Masterlist
It starts with the ring.
An emerald, cut sharp like a blade, set into gold with ancient Arabic filigree etched so fine it’s barely visible unless the light catches it. She finds it on her nightstand one morning—wrapped in black silk, warm as if it had been held in a palm all night.
The note is in his handwriting. Neat. Small. Precise.
“For your hand, which should always be protected.
She wears it. Of course she wears it.
She doesn’t expect the next gift—two weeks later, an anklet. golden, thin and elegant, a tiny د (the Arabic letter dāl) dangling from the chain. Damian doesn’t say anything when she finds it.
He just kneels down during a quiet hour in the Manor and clasps it around her ankle himself. His hands are steady. His touch reverent.
“I want them to know,” he says simply, eyes flicking up to hers. “Wherever you walk, you’re mine.”
She forgets how to breathe.
“Okay, but like,” Steph says later, eyes wide, “that’s not just romantic. That’s spiritual warfare.”
Jason whistles low. “Man’s out here forging rings like it’s Lord of the Rings, but hot.”
Dick smirks. “I told you. He’s an intense little poet when it comes to her.”
There are other gifts. A hair comb, made of dark wood and inlaid with jade. A carved pendant with lines from a pre-Islamic Arabic love poem, words so old they taste like desert wind and firelight.
He gives her a dagger once.
Not large. Not flashy.
But beautiful.
Etched down the spine, in Arabic script so fine it’s almost hidden, it reads:
“Whoever touches what is mine will bleed.”
She isn’t scared. Not of him.
She understands what it means—what he’s never been able to say without wrapping it in old language and older steel:
That he was raised by people who saw love as weakness.
That he is fighting to unlearn that.
That when he gives, it isn’t casual. It’s sacred.
They sit alone on the rooftop again.
Gotham sprawls below. The stars are faint. She’s wearing the anklet. The ring. A new necklace now—another gift, this one with a pressed green stone the color of his eyes, suspended above her collarbone like a vow.
“You’re mine,” he says softly, fingers brushing the pendant.
“Mm,” she murmurs. “Yours, huh?”
“I don’t mean that lightly,” he says. “I mean it the way temples mean prayer. The way altars mean blood.”
She smiles. “I know.”
“I would kill for you.”
“You have,” she says.
“I would die for you.”
Her hand finds his. “You don’t have to.”
Damian looks at her for a long moment. The kind of look that feels like burning incense and ancient gods and poetry that doesn’t rhyme.
Then he says, voice barely above a whisper:
“You are not mine like a thing to be owned.
You are mine like breath is to lungs. Like fire is to a blade.”
She closes her eyes, heart thudding. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m yours too,” he says.
Tim finds the dagger a week later.
Jason reads the inscription and whistles. “This boy’s out here writing Arabic death vows.”
“Poetic menace,” Steph mutters. “I love that for her.”
Dick just grins, arms folded. “Told you. He doesn’t love. He consecrates.”
And maybe that’s what it is.
Not love like hearts and flowers and Hallmark cards.
But love like carved emeralds and sacred steel.
Love like an altar.
Like devotion.
Like the whole world could burn—and he’d still reach through the smoke to clasp her wrist and whisper:
“rūḥī…”
i don't really what how i feel about this one
.Taglist🏷️: @simpingmyassoff , @shootingstargirl2001 (if you want to be added,comment down below!)
''It tastes pretty good actually''
''I've tasted better things''
''Like what?''
''Your lips''
feat.medicine major!d.wayne x law major!fem!reader
wc:1250
✶— Masterlist
Midterms have reduced you to something fragile.
Not weak—never that. Just… worn thin.
Your apartment looks like a crime scene, but instead of blood there are casebooks, sticky notes, and half-empty mugs of cold coffee scattered across every available surface. Highlighters bleed neon across pages. Legal terms loop in the margins like incantations.
“Mens rea,” you mutter, staring blankly at the same paragraph for the seventh time. “Actus reus. Consideration. Duty of care—oh my god, I don’t care anymore.”
You drop your head onto the table with a soft thud.
“I’m going to fail. I’m going to become one of those cautionary tales professors tell to scare first-years.”
A beat.
“…I’m going to end up working corporate law.”
The horror in your voice is genuine.
The window slides open.
Soundlessly.
Of course.
You don’t even lift your head.
“You know,” you mumble into the wood of your desk, “one day I’m going to install a bell on that window and ruin your entire personality.”
“I would remove it within seconds,” Damian Wayne says as he steps inside.
You groan. “See? This is why you have no whimsy.”
He takes in the scene in one sweeping glance—books, notes, the tight set of your shoulders, the exhaustion written into the way you haven’t moved in what looks like hours.
“You have not slept,” he says.
“I blinked slowly a few times.”
“That is not sleep.”
“It’s adjacent.”
He walks over, nudging a stack of papers aside just enough to sit on the edge of your desk.
“You are deteriorating.”
“Thank you,” you say flatly. “That’s exactly what every stressed law student wants to hear.”
“It is an observation.”
“It’s a mean observation.”
His gaze softens—just slightly.
“You are overwhelmed, habibti.”
That—
That lands.
You lift your head, eyes tired, hair a mess, expression somewhere between annoyed and on the verge of tears.
“I have three exams,” you say. “Three. Constitutional law, criminal law, and contracts. Do you know how evil contracts are? They pretend to be boring and then suddenly you’re arguing about whether a napkin counts as a legally binding document.”
“…It can,” Damian says.
“I know,” you groan. “That’s the problem!”
He studies you for a moment.
Then—quietly:
“Come with me, ya amar.”
You blink.
“…Where?”
“Out.”
“I can’t go out, Damian, I have—” you gesture wildly at the chaos around you—“this.”
“You have been staring at the same page for twenty-three minutes.”
“…You timed me?”
“I observed.”
“That’s worse.”
He stands, already moving toward the door.
“You require a break, qalbi.”
“I require a law degree.”
“You will not obtain one by collapsing at your desk.”
You squint at him.
“You’re suspiciously right.”
“I am often correct.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
But you’re already pushing your chair back.
Already grabbing your hoodie.
Already letting him pull you out of the apartment before you can change your mind.
—
The café is small.
Warm.
Quiet in a way that doesn’t suffocate.
There’s soft music playing, something instrumental, and the smell of something earthy and sweet hanging in the air.
You exhale the second you step inside.
“…Okay,” you admit. “This is nice.”
“I am aware.”
You nudge him lightly. “Don’t be smug.”
“I am not smug.”
“You’re always smug.”
They step up to the counter.
You scan the menu, blinking slowly.
“…What is matcha.”
Damian follows your gaze.
“…A powdered green tea.”
You tilt your head. “Why is it so aggressively green.”
“It is derived from ground tea leaves.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“It is the answer.”
You hum.
“Okay, but like—should we try it?”
Damian looks at you.
At the slight spark returning to your eyes.
At the way you’re leaning into curiosity instead of drowning in stress.
“…Yes,” he says.
—
They sit by the window.
Rain taps lightly against the glass, soft—gentle, not the kind that feels like it’s trying to drown the world.
You wrap your hands around the cup, watching the steam curl upward.
“It’s so green,” you murmur again.
“Yes, habibti.”
“It looks like it’s judging me.”
“That is unlikely.”
“You don’t know that.”
He watches you carefully as you lift it.
Take a sip.
Pause.
Your entire face goes very, very still.
“…Oh.”
Damian raises a brow.
“…That is not a positive reaction.”
You lower the cup slowly.
“…It tastes like grass.”
He considers that.
Then takes his own sip.
And immediately—
Regrets it.
His expression tightens.
Subtle.
Controlled.
But unmistakable.
“…This,” he says carefully, “tastes like henna.”
You choke.
“Henna?!”
“It has the same earthy bitterness.”
“You’ve tasted henna?”
“I have encountered it.”
“That is not the same thing!”
“It is similar.”
You stare at him.
Then—
You start laughing.
Not a polite laugh.
Not a quiet one.
A full, bright, unrestrained laugh that turns heads and makes you clutch your cup like you might drop it.
“Oh my god,” you wheeze. “You hate it.”
“I do not hate it, ya amar.”
“You hate it.”
“I find it… questionable.”
“You look like you just licked a tree.”
“I did not—”
“You did! You did! That was a full ‘I regret my life choices’ face.”
He exhales, slow and controlled.
“It is an inefficient beverage.”
“It’s tea.”
“It is poorly executed tea.”
You laugh harder.
And there it is.
The thing he came for.
The thing he needed to see.
Your shoulders aren’t tense anymore.
Your eyes aren’t glassy with stress.
You’re just—
You.
“You’re so dramatic,” you say, still smiling.
“You are the one who insisted on acquiring it.”
“And you let me.”
“I was evaluating your judgment.”
“And?”
“It is flawed.”
You grin. “You love me anyway.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Yes, qalbi.”
Your smile softens.
Just a little.
“Good answer.”
You take another sip.
Winces.
“…Okay, yeah, no, this is bad.”
“I told you.”
“You didn’t tell me, you just silently judged me.”
“That is my primary method of communication.”
You nudge his foot under the table.
“Next time we get something normal.”
“Define normal.”
“Coffee.”
“Acceptable.”
You lean back in your chair, sighing softly.
“Okay. I feel… better.”
“I am aware, habibti.”
“You’re not allowed to say that like you engineered it.”
“I did engineer it.”
“You suggested coffee.”
“I executed a strategy.”
You roll your eyes.
But you’re smiling.
And you reach across the table—absently, without thinking—and hook your fingers around his.
Grounding.
Warm.
Real.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
He studies you.
The faint exhaustion still there—but lighter now.
Manageable.
“You will succeed,” he says.
“In law?”
“Yes.”
You snort. “That was very confident.”
“I do not make uncertain statements.”
“And if I fail?”
“You won’t.”
“But if I do.”
He squeezes your hand—just slightly.
“Then we will adjust, ya rohi.”
We.
It settles in your chest like something steady.
Something safe.
“…Okay,” you murmur.
A pause.
Then, lighter again:
“But you’re never allowed to insult my drink choices like that again.”
“I did not insult—”
“You said it tastes like henna, Damian.”
“That is an observation.”
“That is violence.”
He almost smiles.
And you catch it.
Of course you do.
“You’re smiling,” you accuse.
“I am not.”
“You are so smiling.”
“I am not.”
“You are!”
“I am—”
You lean forward.
Grinning.
“Admit it.”
He exhales.
Defeated.
“…Perhaps, habibti.”
You beam.
“Wow. Midterms cured and I got you to smile. I’m unstoppable.”
“You are insufferable.”
“And you love me.”
“…Yes.”
And somehow—
Between the bad matcha, the rain against the window, and the quiet warmth of his hand in yours—
ᯓ➤ “اللمس هو آخر أشكال الأُلفة التي نعرفها” master list ! - damian wayne x gn!+fem!reader
summary ⊹₊ ⋆ a series of messy one shots showing two people finding domesticity
⤷ now completed .ᐟ.ᐟ
scene 1 : did I mention I'm Batman? ཐི^. ̞.^ཋྀ
scene 2 : you're a queen nonetheless
scene 3 : a doe's touch 𓃴
scene 4 : tangled feet and charecters -🖋
scene 5 : eat a cookie from your lips༝༚༝༚
scene 6: did I mention I’m robin .ᐣ
scene 7 : damian, can batman come to our wedding?
authors note! please please please let me know what you think it gives me so much motivation to write and you will be getting a new work sooner if you do
← ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ⋮ ⌞ jason todd ✘ reader + platonic! damian wayne ✘ reader ⌝ .ᐟ .ᐟ
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ Damian has a family. He finds one more with you two. And in a way, Jason accepts the one he has.
scene 0 : your mom will make you soup later yeah?
scene ✗ : Just us two…" "Oh, that would be wonderful!" "…Three?"
scene ✗ : glitter pens mean we are family
scene ✗: 'parent'-teacher meeting ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1/2
scene ✗ : 'parent'-teacher meeting ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2/2
scene ✗ : Damian is NOT doing split custody ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1/2
scene ✗ : Damian is NOT doing split custody ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2/2
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