''Dami,love, can I have...''
''COULD YOU STOP DOING THAT FOR GODSAKE!?''
feat. d.wayne x fem!reader
wc:1171
“This is the last time I let Tim surprise me with restaurant ideas.”
Across from me, Damian Wayne looked personally betrayed by the existence of the menu.
To be fair—the menu was insane.
Everything had unnecessary adjectives.
“Deconstructed truffle air.”
“Emotionally evocative risotto.”
“This place serves sparkling water in wine glasses,” Damian muttered, glaring at the table like it had insulted his bloodline. “That is pretentious.”
“You own a sword collection.”
I bit back a smile and flipped another page.
“Oh my god,” I whispered. “They have squid ink pasta.”
“That should remain in the squid.”
Before I could answer, the waiter approached.
Young. Polite. Slightly nervous in the way waiters always became around Damian’s resting expression.
“Good evening! Have you two decided?”
Instantly, I straightened slightly and looked at Damian with carefully manufactured hesitation.
“…Can I have the ravioli?”
The waiter looked between us.
I lowered my eyes slightly, giving the performance of my life.
“The truffle ravioli,” I clarified softly. “It sounded good, but…”
“But what,” Damian asked cautiously.
I watched the exact moment Damian’s soul left his body.
The waiter’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
“Oh,” they said slowly. “Um… yeah. Of course you can.”
Damian sat up straighter.
“Yes,” he said immediately. “Obviously she can.”
His eyes widened just slightly.
“I have never been upset over ravioli.”
The waiter was now staring at him with the subtle concern usually reserved for men who punch drywall.
“I’ll just give you guys another minute,” they said carefully.
“No,” Damian said instantly. “There is no need for—”
I took a sip of water to hide my grin.
Across from me, Damian turned with terrifying slowness.
“You implied I am controlling your dietary choices.”
“I was being considerate.”
“That was not consideration. That was psychological warfare.”
I gasped softly. “Wow. That’s kind of a strong reaction.”
“A little,” he repeated flatly.
He immediately looked more suspicious.
“You have that expression.”
“The one you wear before creating problems.”
Before I could respond, the waiter returned with bread.
“Yes! I’ll have the truffle ravioli…” Then, quieter: “…if that’s alright.”
Damian looked moments away from developing a stress-induced migraine.
“It is,” he said tightly.
“Because I can get something cheaper.”
The waiter’s eyes snapped to him.
Damian stared at me in genuine disbelief.
“I am not restricting your financial autonomy.”
“Oh my god,” Damian muttered under his breath.
“I’ll have the steak,” he said quickly, trying to salvage this. “And she will have the ravioli she independently selected using her own free will.”
The waiter scribbled that down with the careful energy of someone documenting evidence for court.
“Great,” they said weakly.
“And if you need anything, just let me know.”
I lasted exactly three seconds before bursting into laughter.
Actual, painful laughter that made me fold over the table.
“Oh my god,” I wheezed. “Your face.”
Damian looked deeply betrayed.
“You are attempting to publicly defame me.”
“Because you were behaving bizarrely!”
I wiped tears from my eyes.
“Because now that waiter believes I monitor your spending and food intake like a controlling psychopath.”
I tilted my head innocently.
“I paused because your behavior was irrational.”
“Mm. Sounds controlling.”
“That is unfortunately true.”
I grinned victoriously and reached for the bread basket.
Damian watched me carefully now.
Like a man diffusing a bomb.
I waited until I picked up a breadstick.
He actually looked offended.
“Because I am literally sitting here.”
The twitch meant I was winning.
“You are deriving far too much amusement from this.”
“You’re so easy to fluster.”
At that exact moment, the waiter walked by again.
And I looked at Damian nervously.
“…I’m still kind of hungry.”
“You may consume as much bread as you desire.”
“Oh my god,” Damian whispered.
I bit the inside of my cheek so hard trying not to laugh.
“Really?” I asked softly.
The waiter looked one second away from sliding me a domestic violence hotline number.
“I hate you,” Damian muttered.
“No,” he admitted grimly. “I do not.”
The food arrived a few minutes later.
The waiter placed my ravioli down with the gentleness of someone handling a rescue animal.
“There you go,” they said kindly.
I looked down at the plate.
His eyes widened immediately.
“…Can I put parmesan on it?”
A nearby couple looked over.
Damian visibly recalibrated himself.
“You can put as much parmesan as you wish,” he said in a terrifyingly calm voice.
The waiter looked at him like he belonged on a true crime documentary.
The second they left, Damian dropped his forehead into his hand.
“You are enjoying my suffering.”
“I’m literally just a girl.”
“You are a tactical threat.”
I leaned forward conspiratorially.
“You know what the funniest part is?”
“There are multiple parts?”
“The waiter definitely thinks you’re some terrifying billionaire boyfriend who controls my every move.”
“And you keep making it worse.”
“I am attempting damage control.”
“You shouted about parmesan.”
“Because you asked permission to use cheese!”
I dissolved into laughter again.
He stared at me for another long moment before finally—finally—something in his expression softened.
“You’re ridiculous,” he said quietly.
I grinned. “And you’re panicking.”
“You looked like you were about to call your lawyer.”
“I was considering legal action against you.”
I reached across the table and hooked my foot against his ankle under it.
His expression softened again despite himself.
“You know,” I said, smiling, “you’re kinda cute when you’re stressed.”
“The eye twitch says otherwise.”
Damian pointed at me slowly.
A/N: i want raviolis so bad
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