I have no idea if you take requests or not but if you don’t then just ignore this😭 anyway so like Damien Wayne x reader but reader is like super poor and always is worrying about money and never asks for help because she’s embarrassed and thinks Damien deserves better, I just kinda find it funny tbh😭
You ask and you shall receive :)
Pairing : Aged Up Damian Wayne x Fem Reader (can be read as a gender neutral reader)
Warnings : financially rough childhood mentioned, possibly ooc damian, vague restaurant setting, fluff, comfort, damian is whipped and confesses his love
“… are you listening to me?”
You blink rather rapidly as Damian’s tanned hand wafts in front of your face, snapping you from your face. You clear your throat and lean back, straightening your posture and instantly looking to his face for context clues.
What had you just been talking about with Damian? Oh, right—
“Of course I am,” you force a scoff, eyes rolling in disbelief that he’d think you weren’t paying attention to him. Even though that’s exactly what had happened. “You were talking about that restaurant you ate at during your visit to Germany.”
Damian’s sharp green eyes seem to bore into you despite the fact that you answered him correctly. He knows you spaced out, and yet the fact that you managed to answer him without missing a beat means he can’t call you out for zoning out again. Instead, he hums in approval and begins to drum his slender fingers onto the table top.
But it’s not like you meant to zone out. The environment of the fancy bistro is enough to send waves of anxiety through your body, burrowing an anchor-sized weight into your stomach at the thought of the expensive payment cheque at the end. It was hard enough to try and find somewhere to eat that’s well within your budget—somewhere that Damian approves of as well as somewhere that won’t give up the fact that your wallet is running on metaphorical fumes.
Damian doesn’t need to know about your financial struggles. He’s a truly incredible boyfriend; attentive to your needs and whims, always ready to drop whatever he’s doing to be at your side if that’s what you want. And as much as you’d love to embrace his willingness to do anything for you, you simply can’t find it within yourself to take advantage of his kindness like that. Because what if he one day starts to believe that you’re only with him for his money, when that isn’t the truth at all?
You were raised in a family where money was always an issue. It was practically cemented into you from a young age that spending unnecessary money was a huge no-no. And from your early years, you’ve been pretty switched on and careful with your finances, including pocket-money allowances that your parents miraculously gave you (if they could afford it). But even a crumpled $1 bill was sacred, and more often than not your parents would have to “borrow” it back again to stretch their funds until payday—and the cycle always repeated itself.
And now as an adult yourself, you’ve found yourself in a similar boat as you were in growing up. With your fulltime job barely covering rent, utilities, groceries, and car payments, it’s a wonder that you’re even sitting here across from Damian and indulging in lunch.
This’ll just mean you’ll have to walk to work for the next two weeks until you can recover from the expense of this lunch.
“Good afternoon. My name is Millie, and I’ll be your server for today. Can I get you both started with some drinks and appetisers?” A round-faced woman asks, her fingers clutching a square device in her fingers and an electronic pen in the other.
Damian looks to you expectantly—ever the gentleman and allowing you to order first.
You force something that you hope resembles a relaxed smile. “Please may I just have some water?” You ask, eyes staring straight at the waitress and not at the way Damian glances suspiciously at you.
Millie taps her pen to the device and nods her head, then looks to Damian expectantly. “And for you, sir?”
“I’ll have two of your fresh lemonades—both with ice. As for appetisers we will have your bread basket with the olive oil. Thank you.” Damian gathers both yours and his menu and hands it to the waitress, letting her take them away as she disappears to prepare the order.
You turn your attention back to Damian, head tilting curiously at his order. “Thirsty?” You tease.
Damian’s eyes don’t twinkle at the jab. “One is for you, beloved.”
You feel your heart sink. “Oh, but I’m okay with just a water, Dami—“
“You are being modest,” Damian interrupts with a firm shake of his head. “Do not be modest with me. I am paying for lunch, remember?”
You open your mouth then close it again. “You don’t have to pay for my lunch—“
“I do,” Damian says without hesitation, his thick brows furrowing. There’s an insistence upon his expression that brokers no room for argument, but with the burning shame inside your stomach and chest, it’s all you can do but argue that he doesn’t need to spend money on you like this—or at all.
It’s then that Damian reaches across the table and gently grasps your hands. The very same hands that are calloused from years of training and experience with violence; they’re warm to the touch and instantly fill you with ease.
“What is mine is yours,” he firmly states, like it’s a fact you need reminding of. “Why do you fret about expenses? I will never leave you without.”
And here you had believed you were being subtle about your anxieties, the shame that swallows you whole and leaves you restless at night. The fear of a simple indulgence could easily be your financial downfall, and yet Damian doesn’t seem deterred by it at all. He looks worried, yes, but not worried that you’ll drain him dry of his money.
Rather, he looks worried that you aren’t relying on him at all.
“I just…” you swallow at the lump in your throat, the one that makes it feel impossible to confess your worries out loud. If you don’t nudge it free, you’re bound to start tearing up in the middle of the restaurant. You avert your gaze downwards so you’re staring at your hands interloped with his, watching as his thumb rubs soothing circles into the backs of your hands. It’s comforting.
“It’s stupid,” you finally mutter, shaking your head and wishing to be done with the conversation.
Damian frowns. “It is not stupid if you are troubled by it, believed. Talk to me—please.”
Damian never pleads. This might’ve been the first time you have ever heard him say that word. He doesn’t beg, he demands. But here he is, pleading with you to be open with him.
You lift your gaze to meet his, and it very nearly knocks the air out of your chest with the way he’s staring at you so intensely. “You deserve someone more like you—someone capable of handling their finances like an adult, a responsible adult. Don’t you get tired of offering to pay constantly?” You bite your lip as you add on a small whisper: “don’t you get tired of me?”
Damian falls silent, and immediately you know he’s going to pull back and realise that there’s truth to your anxieties.
But then he lifts your hands to his mouth and begins to press firm, tender kisses to each and every digit. Only when he’s finished does he meet your gaze again, and he offers a reassuring squeeze of your hand inside his.
“Your doubts of my devotion to you are insulting,” he answers, but it’s lacking the usual bite of if he were actually offended. “You are mine, beloved. I am yours. It does not concern me to spend money on you. I do not fear that it is expected of me. I do this because I love you and nobody else—there is nobody in this universe whom I’d rather be with.”
His face starts to blur as tears sheen over your eyes. You try and pull your hands free to cover your eyes and wipe them away, but Damian gets there first and cups your face gently into his palms, his thumbs moving out to swipe the tears away. You feel the way your skin burns hot with the humility of it all, the fact that you’re crying in the middle of a nice restaurant due to your boyfriend paying for your lunch as well as announcing his love for you in public.
“I could never tire of you.”
Your mouth wobbles as you try to smile through the clashing emotions of crying from happiness at his confession and the embarrassment you feel for thinking otherwise.
You open your mouth to say something—maybe to confess your love back to him, or maybe to insult yourself for being so stupid and silly. But as you speak the first syllable of his name, Millie the waitress returns with the lemonade and bread platter.
It slides onto the table between the two of you, and your eyes snap to the two glasses of lemonade. Damian frees one hand and slides one of the glasses closest to you, a silent command of his that tells you to take a sip without worry.
Millie holds up her digital notepad and twirls the electronic one between her fingers, blissfully unaware of the emotional moment she has just interrupted. “Are you both ready to order some mains?”
“Yes,” Damian says firmly. His hand remains placed atop of yours, soothing and grounding you. “My love, will you go first?”
You look him in the eye for the confirmation that he’s truthful of his confession, that he truly doesn’t mind sharing his money with you. And when you see no doubts staring back at you, no second thoughts on his confession, you resolve that perhaps it is okay.
You clear your throat with a subtle cough and look up to Millie, who’s waiting with a patient and friendly smile.
“Could I please have the…”
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