ㅤ ⁞ 𝓐ND 𝓨ET, 𝓣HE 𝓗EART ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ (𝓔VER 𝓢O 𝓕OOLISH) ㅤㅤ
ㅤ ⁞ 𝓦HISPERS 𝓨ES.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ 𐔌 ⋮ d.wayne x fem!reader ꒱
«لا أعلم كيف أنتمي إلى هذا العالم»، يقول، «لكنني أظن أنني قد أنتمي إليكِ».
—୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ you're on a date at a carnival with damian wayne & get caught by his bat siblings! ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ
© fromdove— All rights reserved. Reposting, translation, or modification of these works is strictly prohibited, regardless of whether credit is given.
∿ . `💭` ㆍ
It begins on a Tuesday. Because Tuesdays are the most humiliating of days.
Damian Wayne does not do carnivals.
He does not do sticky-fingered children shrieking with laughter, cheeks streaked with frosting and dirt like war paint. He does not do the scent of frying oil clinging to every inch of breathable air, or the grotesque mascots wobbling about with their oversized foam heads and eternal grins, or the synthetic prizes that look like they’re filled with sorrow and asbestos in equal measure.
He certainly does not do funnel cake. (He doesn’t even understand funnel cake. What is it funneling? Why is it called a cake? Is it some kind of regional inside joke he’s not privy to?)
And yet— Here he is. 6:28 PM. Ankle-deep in trampled woodchips. Sweat beading beneath his glove where your hand brushed his a moment ago. Heart thudding like a war drum, idiotically hopeful.
He promised your parents he’d have you home safely before 9.
You're beside him. Smiling. Laughing at something he didn’t quite catch because he was too busy watching the way the late sunlight breaks in your hair like gold dust. You’re looking up now, head tilted toward the Ferris wheel as it turns slow and skeletal against the peach-blue dusk, and Damian thinks—sudden and uninvited—that this is the kind of moment people write poetry about. Or terrible love songs. Or die over in operas.
(Repulsive.)
But he gets it now. He hates how much he gets it. That breathless kind of ache. The quiet terror of wanting. Of hoping. That unbearable softness in his chest like something is growing there, tender and glowing and completely beyond his control.
“You good?” you ask, nudging his arm with your shoulder.
He startles slightly—just barely—and then blinks. You’re watching him with that half-smile you wear, all crooked charm and warm amusement. His gaze flickers, unsteadily, to your mouth. He looks away too fast.
He clears his throat like it might help. “Fine,” he says, stiffly. “Perfectly functional.”
You laugh. Quiet and real. Not at him, exactly—more like with him, even if he hasn't laughed yet. It’s a sound that does something catastrophic to his chest.
He prays no one is filming him. Because he’s smiling now. Actually smiling. Not the close-lipped, diplomatic expression Alfred coached into him for Wayne Foundation photo ops—but something uneven and unsure and human. The kind of smile that might belong to a boy. A person. Not a weapon honed into precision.
“Wanna do the ring toss?” you ask. “I’ll warn you, though—I’m unbeatable.”
Damian scoffs. “Unbeatable? Beloved, I was trained by the League of Assassins.”
You raise your eyebrows. “Cool. I was trained by YouTube.”
(He beats you. Three times. Of course he does. But he lets you win the fourth.)
You don’t call him out on it. Just bump your shoulder against his again and say, “Maybe you’re not totally hopeless.”
And Damian, who has faced death more times than most people have faced a dentist, feels something unfamiliar and terrifying settle in his chest like a promise.
He thinks it might be joy. Or worse—hope.
── .✦
He buys you a plush duck the size of a small planet. It’s hideous—lopsided eyes, neon yellow fuzz, a beak stitched on upside down. It looks like it lost a fight with a sewing machine.
You adore it immediately.
You squeal when he hands it to you, arms barely fitting around its squishy girth. “He’s perfect,” you declare. “I’m naming him Reginald.”
Damian feels like the stupidest, proudest person alive.
And then— It happens.
The horror movie moment. He hears it before he sees them: that voice, carried across the carnival on a gust of pure doom. Loud. Teasing. Unmistakable.
“Is that our little demon on a date?”
Damian’s soul leaves his body. No. No no no no no.
He whips around like a soldier under siege. And there they are. The Batclan. Every last catastrophic member. Lined up like a Renaissance painting done by someone high on.... something. Something illegal definitely.
Jason’s holding a pretzel in one hand and an oversized soda in the other, grinning like a man with nothing to lose. Tim’s already filming, phone tilted like he’s documenting the downfall of Rome. Stephanie’s waving with both arms like she’s flagging down aircraft. Cass is halfway to your booth already, serene and smiling like a forest spirit coming to bless your crops. And—God help him—Dick is looking at you like this is his niece-in-law and the wedding is next Thursday.
Damian takes a physical step back. “No,” he breathes. “No no no—how did they find me?”
You blink, confused but amused. “Um. Friends of yours?”
He turns to you, face pale with the betrayal of fate. “Define ‘friends.’ Then subtract about seventy percent of the dignity from that word.”
You laugh, too delighted. And then—you wave at them. With your entire hand.
Damian stares at you, betrayed. “You’re encouraging them.”
But it’s too late. Dick Grayson is already bounding over, the human embodiment of serotonin. His smile could power Gotham for a week.
“Hi!” he says, a little breathless. “You must be [Y/N]! I’m Dick. Damian’s favorite brother.”
“Objectively false,” Damian mutters, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Jason saunters up next, shoving the rest of his pretzel in his mouth. “Don’t mind him. He’s just shy.”
“I’m not shy—” Damian starts, but—
“Sure, baby bat,” Jason says, eyes glinting. “That’s why you look like you want the earth to swallow you whole.”
Cass gets to you next and, without hesitation, hugs you. It’s silent and warm and grounding, the way only Cassandra Cain can manage. Damian watches with wide eyes like he’s watching a hawk land on someone’s shoulder. Cass doesn’t hug just anyone.
“Your aura’s soft,” she says simply, then steps back like that explains everything.
You beam. Stephanie shrieks, “Those shoes are so cute, oh my god.” And before Damian can react, she’s already offering you lip gloss and a scrunchie from some mysterious pocket in her jacket. You accept both like it’s perfectly natural.
Then— Tim.
Tim slides in beside Damian, not looking up from his phone as he asks, “So. Are you two, like. Dating?”
Damian short-circuits. You glance at him, expectant, curious. There's a beat of silence.
“We are in the process of engaging in a trial romantic exploration,” he blurts, hands rigid at his sides like he's about to be arrested.
Tim stops filming.
He blinks.
“So… yes?”
You burst out laughing. Damian wants to disappear into the woodchips.
There’s cotton candy in your hair. You’re grinning so hard it scrunches your nose. Your laugh is bright and uncontrollable. You’re wearing his hoodie now because it got cold, the sleeves swallowing your hands. The monstrous duck—Reginald—is tucked protectively under one arm.
And somehow— Somehow—
Damian’s not mortified anymore.
He’s just… soft. Full. Quietly radiant, in that fragile, terrible way love makes you feel. Like you’re being held even when no one’s touching you. Like you’ve opened a door in your chest and trusted someone not to slam it shut.
Tim’s still filming. Jason is genuinely stunned. Steph is saying something about a group selfie. Dick is already inviting you to the manor for family movie night. Cass is holding your hand like she’s decided you’re hers now.
And Damian Wayne, child of shadows and sharp edges, just watches you smile at all of them and thinks—
Maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world to be seen. Especially if it’s like this.
── .✦
Later, after the others have (finally) dispersed into the night—chasing cotton candy and reevaluating their life choices—you and Damian settle onto a weathered bench just beyond the carousel. The lights have dimmed to a soft glow, the music now a distant lullaby mixing with the rustle of night breeze. Above you, the moon hangs low and silver, casting long, quiet shadows over the fairground.
Between you rests Reginald—the monstrous plush duck—looking somehow smug, like he owns this ridiculous moment.
You break the silence first, nudging Damian’s leg with a light elbow. “So. That was fun.”
Damian groans, the sound low and a little reluctant. “If by ‘fun,’ you mean psychologically scarring and a clear violation of personal boundaries, then yes.”
You smile, nudging him again, softer this time. “Come on. They love you. All of them.”
His gaze shifts out toward the twinkling lights of the rides, distant and impersonal. The glow reflects faintly in his dark eyes. He’s quiet for a long moment, like weighing the truth.
“…They tolerate me,” he says finally, voice rough around the edges. “Sometimes.”
You pause, then tilt your head, voice gentle but firm. “You know, love isn’t always quiet, Damian. It’s not always soft and clean. Sometimes it looks like Jason stealing your Oreos so you’ll chase him through the carnival. Or Steph sneaking embarrassing pictures just to have ammunition for blackmail. Or Dick planning your wedding after two dates and acting like it’s the most natural thing in the world.”
Damian blinks at you, expression blank but you catch a faint twitch of amusement in the corner of his mouth.
A beat passes. Then, quietly, with all the seriousness in the world:
“…Are we getting married?”
You laugh, the sound warm and light. “Slow down, Romeo. Let’s survive the Ferris wheel first, then we’ll talk.”
He folds his arms, but there’s no retort—just a soft exhale, like he’s letting something settle inside. The air between you thickens, charged with something fragile and unspoken. A kind of gravity you can’t quite name—like the moment right before the first kiss, when everything holds its breath.
Then, soft as a shadow:
“The world is cruel,” Damian says, voice low, almost a confession.
You glance at him, heart hitching.
“But you… you make it tolerable.”
That’s Damian’s version of a compliment—awkward and clipped, but sincere beneath the surface.
He doesn’t meet your eyes. Instead, he stares up at the stars, as if sharing his truth with the indifferent sky.
His fingers twitch beside yours, restless—like he wants to reach out, but something inside holds him back.
Your heart stutters—a stupid, messy thing. Real.
You close the distance instead, your hand sliding gently into his. His fingers don’t flinch. Don’t pull away.
You squeeze once. Quietly.
And somewhere, just beyond the carousel’s glow, the Batfamily is definitely spying again.
But Damian doesn’t care anymore.
── .✦ 𝓐FTER 𝓣HE 𝓓ATE:
True to his word—and to the cautious trust of your parents—Damian got you home before 9 p.m.
Your room is warm.
Unreasonably warm for Gotham, where the cold usually hangs on. But tonight, in your very room, it’s lamp-lit and soft, filtered through linen curtains that ripple slightly like waves.
You’re both still marked by the evening: sugar-crusted sleeves, the scent of fried dough clinging to your hair. Damian wears the glow-in-the-dark wristband you foisted upon him at the ring toss booth. It glimmers faintly under the lamplight, absurd against the clinical precision of his wrist bones. He hasn’t taken it off. You suspect, with some quiet fondness, that he won’t.
Reginald, your plush duck, lies beneath a blanket like royalty in repose. His beady eyes peer out from a pink pillow with the blank stare of a veteran. You insisted on tucking him in. Damian had watched silently, the corners of his mouth twitching at your ceremonial fluffing of the pillow, your grave whisper: “He’s had a long night.”
Privately, Damian suspects Reginald is an elaborate surveillance device.
He leans against your desk. Arms crossed. Body honed sharp, but curiously at ease—as if, just for tonight, he’s chosen not to be a weapon.
You sit beside Reginald’s throne, cross-legged. You’re quiet. So is he.
The air between you is full of unspoken things, spun gold in the lamplight. Everything in the room is soft-edged.
You pat the space beside you. Carefully, so as not to jostle His Royal Duckness.
Damian moves slowly. As if unsure whether sitting beside you might trigger a pressure plate. As if the room might demand proof of intention.
He sits. Not touching, but close. A hairbreadth away. A choice away.
And God, you want to choose.
The silence thickens. Not tense. Not awkward. Just weighted. Like the kind that forms between people who are beginning to orbit each other without permission.
He doesn’t speak right away. His fingers twitch against his biceps.
“I’ve surveilled targets in crowded spaces before,” he says, clipped and serious. “But I don’t believe that qualifies.”
You blink. Then snort. “So. Yes.”
He looks at you, flatly accusatory. You raise your eyebrows.
“…Are you collecting intel?” he asks, wary. But there’s no real bite to it.
You smile down at your hands. “Maybe. I just… I want to get it right. For you.”
You didn’t mean to say it out loud. But there it is. Floating in the space between your hands and his silence.
He looks at you then—really looks. Like someone realizing a song they’ve been humming under their breath for years actually has words. Like every version of him—assassin, son, boy—has been quietly orbiting the moment your eyes met his.
“You already did,” he says, voice like thread pulled from a tapestry. Quiet. Final.
You look at him. Your throat is full of sparrows. You nod, just barely.
The city is gone. The world is nothing but your breath and his.
And then—
“Can I kiss you?” he asks.
No calculation. No control. Just a boy sitting too still in the hush, asking like he might never ask again.
“…Yes,” you whisper.
Eyes wide. Doe-eyed. A little doomed.
He leans in.
He kisses like someone unsure the world will last long enough for a second try. Like your lips are a holy place and he’s trespassing with muddy hands and shoes. His mouth moves against yours slow and cautious, like he’s memorizing the shape of safety.
You tilt into him.
His hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw like he’s sketching the borders of a country on a map.
And in that moment, Damian Wayne is not a soldier. Not a son. Not an heir to shadows.
He is just a boy. Warm and breakable and yours.
No tactics. No retreat.
Just this. Just you.
When you part, it’s soft. Reverent. As though the kiss has weight, and letting go might shatter it.
Your foreheads touch. Breath shared. Heartbeats learning how to dance in tandem.
“I’ve killed men,” he murmurs, voice close and dangerous and infinitely tender, “for less than what I feel for you.”
You pull back, just enough to meet his eyes. “That is… hands down… the most terrifyingly romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
A smile flickers across his mouth.
Real. Brief. Crooked like a secret.
You decide—then and there—you decide that you’ll spend your whole life earning that smile again.
And again.
He stays a little longer. Close, but not clinging. You talk. Or something like it. Laughter. Stories. Accusations about Tim’s dart game. The lingering warmth of the night still glowing in your bones.
Eventually, the room feels stretched. The spell thins.
He stands. Moves to your window like it’s instinct. The night folds around him like a cloak.
You follow him, toes quiet against the carpet. He steps onto the sill, the city licking at his boots.
He glances back.
Face neutral. But eyes like firelight—alive. Human.
“Sleep well,” he says.
“You too.” Then, lighter: “Tell Reginald goodnight when you land. He’s fragile.”
Damian doesn’t laugh.
But his smile tilts—barely. A bowstring loosed, if only slightly.
And then—he’s gone.
Gotham swallows him, and you are left blinking.
You press your fingers to your lips.
You've shared your first kiss with none other than damian al ghul wayne.
🎺 HEAR YE 🎺 HEAR YE 🎺
All gather to witness the best Damian Wayne fic on this godforsaken app! Revel in the purely amazing characterization and portrayal of the young dark protector of Gotham! Bask in the glory of the delightfully sweet carnival date between Damian and his girlfriend! Laugh at the twists of fate!
