⤷ damian, can batman come to our wedding?
damian wayne x fem!reader
“اللمس هو آخر أشكال الأُلفة التي نعرفها” master list ! [this series]
summary ⊹₊ ⋆ You have a nightmare so Damian comes over and does your mehendi (henna)
aka ›››› "Bruce Wayne could pay for Batman to show up right?"
word cnt. 2.8k
⤷ authors note .ᐟ.ᐟ Okay this might sound self indulgent but come on who wouldn't want to have Batman at their wedding. [mehendi = actual design, henna = the paste]
hayātī (حياتي) – my life; used to express love and closeness, like “my life” or “my everything.”
ʿasalī (عسلي) – my honey or sweet; affectionate, often romantic or familial.
“Stay still,” he murmurs again, the words barely breaking the hush of the room. His grip on your hand is feather-light, almost reverent, like he’s afraid that pressing too hard would break the spell. The cool henna touches your skin in small, deliberate motions; you can feel the faint drag of the cone, the warmth of his breath every time he exhales a little too close. The air smells faintly of cardamom and tea leaves and that soft earthy sweetness that always seems to follow him wherever he goes.
Damian sits cross-legged in front of you, posture loose and unguarded, the lamplight painting soft gold across his features. You’re curled up with your knees to your chest, one hand resting easily in his. It’s late—far too late—and you should both be asleep, but you’d called him, half trembling from a dream, and he’d come. Of course he had.
The kettle hums gently in the background, a comforting, living sound in the stillness. It's on that little plug in stove you're not allowed to have in your dorm but do anyways, right next to your candles. Every once in a while, the little Batman night-light flickers, throwing your shadows in slow waves across the walls. His cowl glows faintly blue, loyal and watchful from the corner of your desk. You bought it at a school book fair when you were eight, and he’s guarded your sleep ever since.
Sometimes Damian teases you for it—quietly, fondly. He goes as far as to not kiss you in front of it. But not now. Now, his eyes are lowered in concentration, his expression softened in a way few ever get to see. He looks like he’s painting something sacred.
“You’re good at this,” you murmur, your voice still hazy from sleep as you reach over with your free hand to pour tea into two mugs—Batman again, of course. Much to his dismay.
“Mhm.” He doesn’t look up, just hums softly, the corner of his mouth twitching with something that could be amusement. “You’re just bad at it.”
You scoff, setting the mugs down with exaggerated care before inching a little closer. The persian rug beneath you is soft, worn in all the right places, and still carries the faint scent of old incense and sandalwood. Its your favorite, the one you make all who enter your dorm take off their shoes if they want to sit or stand on it. Damian, the darling he is, knows to take his shoes off at the door. He shifts wordlessly, spreading his legs a little to make space for you, his knees bracketing your body without touching. You can feel the warmth radiating from him—steady, quiet, unspoken.
He keeps working, tracing slow, intricate patterns that make your skin feel alive beneath his touch. You watch him like you’d watch the last moments before dawn—his thick, dark lashes casting faint shadows, the small furrow between his brows when he’s thinking, the careful press of his thumb against your wrist to steady you.
The light seems to love him. You seem to as well.
“Why are you so serious about it?” you whisper, half teasing. “It’s fine if you mess up—”
He glances up through his lashes, eyes darker than the night-light glow. “Because you asked me to do it.”
The words land quietly, but they echo in your chest. He looks down again almost immediately, though the faint pink at his ears betrays him. His thumb lingers where it shouldn’t have to—warm against your pulse—and your heartbeat stumbles right beneath it.
You take a sip of tea to hide the small, ridiculous catch in your breath. The steam curls between you, drifting lazy circles through the air. The quiet stretches—not empty but full, heavy with everything neither of you say.
Damian exhales softly, leaning back just far enough to see his work. His fingers trail along the fore-arm of your hand, not with intent, just a kind of quiet wonder. He smudges a tiny edge with his thumb, then hums, almost to himself.
“Beautiful,” he says before he can stop it.
You blink, caught off guard by the softness of his voice.
The night-light flickers once and steadies again. Neither of you speaks. The tea grows colder on the wooden floor next to the rug. His hand is still wrapped around yours.
It feels like nothing could ruin this—nothing at all, Damian thinks, as he sets your finished hand carefully on his knee. The henna gleams wet and perfect beneath the warm lamplight. He reaches for your other hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles once, twice, three times, memorizing the shape of you. He knows he won’t be able to touch it again once the color starts to set, so he steals these small, harmless gestures like they might sustain him.
Then, your voice drops, soft and playful: “...Can you draw the bat signal on my middle finger?”
…Maybe something can ruin the moment.
Damian freezes, looks up with a face that could make marble blush. You’re biting your lip, trying to swallow a smile.
“Is that a no, Mr. Wayne?” you ask, tilting your head, scooting closer just enough that your feet nearly brush his dress pants.
He exhales—a sigh, a surrender—and starts carefully drawing the tiniest bat symbol beneath your nail. “I don’t think Batman would approve of this,” he mutters, though his lips twitch at the edges.
“He’s a crime-fighting vigilante,” you hum, smug and soft. “Do you honestly think he’s never flipped anyone off?”
He refuses to dignify that, choosing silence instead. His brow furrows again as he moves to trace the patterns along your wrist. His thumb ghosts over the faint blue veins, and he frowns, quiet and genuine.
“God, we need to get you on iron…” he mutters.
You huff, scooting forward until your bare toes brush the fabric of his pants. “And we clearly need to get you on vitamin D.”
That earns a small, startled laugh—a sound like a crack in the stillness. His hand stills where it rests against your wrist, fingers splayed and warm. The laughter fades, but something softer takes its place, something that hums quietly in the air between you.
For a long, lovely moment, neither of you moves. The world is only the warmth of the room, the soft hum of the kettle cooling, the scent of henna and tea leaves, and the sound of two people breathing in rhythm.
You murmur, voice low, “You were right. Grocery store cones are ass compared to this one.”
“It’s just my wonderful talent,” he says lightly, tone barely masking his own fondness.
“That too,” you reply with all the gravity in the world.
Damian blinks, caught by how easily you say it—how you mean it. His reply catches in his throat, unspoken but written somewhere deep in the quiet between you.
The henna on your other hand begins to dry; the tea cools in its mugs. The night moves on, unhurried and soft around the two of you. Damian is almost finished—his strokes careful, reverent—when your voice slips out, sweet and casual as a lullaby, and yet the words land with the peculiar sharpness of something meant only for him.
“Write your name there,” you murmur, watching him eye the narrow space on your left ring finger as if it were a landscape to be mapped.
For a beat, every movement in his body stills as if a bird had flown into glass. Damian tries—briefly, hopelessly—to mask the way his features rearrange, but the attempt is futile. He looks up at you with wide green eyes that reflect the lamplight. “Uh—sorry?”
“Your name,” you repeat, keeping your tone light and airy, as if you’re asking for the time or the salt. You can feel, very clearly, that you are asking for something far more delicate. “Maybe in Arabic, if you don’t want anyone in biology lab to know. Or—” you add, voice fluttering like a page in a soft breeze, “—if you’d rather keep it for yourself.”
He inhales, the sound small and sharp in the quiet room. “Do you know what it means?” he says, stating the weight of it as if language itself might carry consequences. There is no bravado in the question; only a careful, searching thing that looks for steadiness in your face.
You falter for a moment, considering the truth of his question. The room seems to narrow to the crescent of light over your hands. You think of the many ways meaning gathers around a name—how it can be a promise, an emblem, a private spell. You want to be gentle with this. You want to let him choose what he gives you.
“Consider it…practice,” you say at last, flitting your gaze down to your left hand so you don’t have to watch him discover what this means to you. Your voice is half-joke, half-rehearsal of something braver. “For when you do my bridal one. You’ll need to make sure you keep it straight. I’ll kill you if you do it crooked. I’ll even postpone the wedding. I’ll do it—trust me, I will.”
You are rambling—small, quick sentences spilling out before you can smooth them. You blink too fast; the room swims with the soft edge of lamplight. You cannot see how his face shifts when he hears you: the way his jaw loosens, the lightness that presses at the corners of his mouth, the very small, very real melting that happens behind his composed soldier’s mask.
Still, you feel it in the pressure of his hand. Where his grip had been attentive and exact—almost protective—it softens. Yet, oddly, it also cages your fingers a little more carefully, as if by enclosing you he is protecting the fragile thing you have just asked for. His other thumb grazes the small knuckle of your ring finger in a hushed, almost ceremonial motion, as though he is learning the geography of the place you have offered him.
The kettle’s hiss, the hum of the nightlight, the faint scent of cardamom and henna—all of it seems to lean closer, as if the room is listening. He watches your face with a focus that is wholly new: not the tucked-away attention of a study partner, but the deliberate, steady regard of someone cataloging a miracle. The shadow across his brow is softer now; courage, perhaps, or the careful unspooling of a world he has kept so neatly rolled up inside himself.
“You mean it?” he asks, voice lower, smaller—an admission wrapped in a question.
You meet his eyes then, finally. There is no grand gesture, no trumpeted declaration—just the small, fierce tenderness in your look that has always been your truest speech. “yes,” you say simply, and the single syllable is enough: clean and true.
He exhales through his nose, a quiet sound that might be a laugh or might be a little prayer. Then, steadying himself, he tilts your hand so the light catches the soft plane of your finger.
There is so many options he could chose from.
“ابن الخفّاش” son of batman
“داميان واين” Damian Wayne
“داميانالغول” Damian al-Ghūl
If he thinks back to lectures of his childhood and titles he's parroted to others since he was ten, he thinks he could find more.
Damian’s penitent, deliberate strokes hover for a moment, nearly invisible, before he begins to draw. The room narrows to the close work of his hand, to the tiny inked shapes that mean so much more than their size.
You do not rush him. You watch, breath held and steady, as the letters take their place on your skin—an intimate map, a private signature. The act itself is small and simple: a hand guided by affection, a line made whole by care. Yet the atmosphere around it thickens with recognition, the tiny, hush-like knowledge that something between you has shifted toward a new, more honest light.
For a long moment, Damian simply studies your left ring finger, the wet henna still dark against your skin, while your hand rests lightly in his as though it were always meant to be held, quiet and patient, without demand or expectation. He dips the cone again, slow and deliberate, each curve and line drawn with care, as if every movement might carry the weight of something sacred, and he doesn’t speak because the moment itself doesn’t need words.
When he finishes, you look down and your chest tightens. There it is: “داميان”—just his name, simple and unadorned, and in that act, it feels as though he has shed every other burden, every expectation, every shadow that has ever clung to him. To you, he wants to be nothing more than Damian, and the last thing he would ever do is let any curse he carries touch your skin.
He lingers for a moment, thumb brushing softly over the air above your knuckles without touching the letters, honoring them as if they are fragile and precious. The quiet gathers around you, full of unspoken understanding, the faint scent of henna and the soft glow of your night-light wrapping the room in warmth.
When his eyes finally lift to meet yours, there is nothing between you—no hesitation, no mask—just him, present and unguarded. And in that gaze, you feel it all: he is yours, and you are his. Just Damian.
When he finishes, he does not smile extravagantly. Instead, he presses his forehead to your fore-arm for a single, brief moment—half gratitude, half vow—then releases your hand with the gentleness of someone who has been given something sacred. You feel it then, as plainly as heat under the skin: the weight and the warmth of what you have asked and what he has entrusted.
Outside, the night leans its long, patient ear against the world. Inside, your small place glows with the kind of quiet that keeps secrets safe and lets promises begin, softly and without spectacle.
“…Do you think you can draw the bat signal on our wedding day too?” you mumble, voice so small it barely reaches him.
Damian’s head lifts just enough for his eyes to meet yours, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying—failing—to hide a smile. You’re close enough that the movement brushes your noses together, that shared breath so soft and fragile it feels like it might break if either of you speaks too loud.
“Yes, ḥayātī,” he hums, his voice low and full of quiet amusement. “Anything you want.”
He leans in until his forehead rests against yours, and the world seems to settle into that single point of contact. You can feel him smile—small, secret, pressed into your skin. The scent of henna lingers between you, faintly sweet, and his breath fans across your lips like a promise.
“Damian?” you whisper, and something in your tone makes him hum in reply, eyes still closed, too content to open them.
He’s too busy memorizing the feel of your hair against his temple, the way your breathing syncs with his, to suspect that the next words will be anything but soft.
“Your dad’s rich, right?”
That earns you a blink. A small one, but visible. “I suppose,” he says slowly, as if testing where this is going.
“Like… billionaire rich, right?” you press, and there’s a spark of mischief curling at the edge of your voice.
Damian’s lips twitch again, and he hums obligingly, “Mhm.” Still indulgent. Still humoring you. Still not catching on.
You pull back a little, just enough to look at him properly. The lamplight turns the green of his eyes to something molten, soft and fond and dangerously open. You shift closer again, until your lips brush the shell of his ear. Damian goes very still, breath hitching like you’ve whispered something sacred already.
“Do you think…” your breath ghosts over his skin, your voice barely above a murmur, “...he can pay for Batman to come? Like– Like how those Ambani's paid for Justin Bieber to show up at their wedding?”
There’s a beat of perfect silence. Damian’s brain short-circuits. You can practically feel the moment his romantic composure collapses.
He doesn’t even answer you at first—he just huffs a quiet, incredulous laugh against your neck. Then, before you can say another word, he nips your ear in retaliation, just sharp enough to make you yelp.
“OW—Damian!” you hiss, half laughing, half scandalized.
“You deserved that,” he murmurs against your skin, voice warm and low, his smile audible.
“Admit it,” you grin, rubbing your ear against the edge of his shoulder and pretending to glare at him, “it’s a good idea.”
He leans in again, close enough that you feel his breath when he speaks. “You,” he says, tone caught somewhere between exasperation and affection, “are absolutely insufferable.”
And then softer, so soft it’s almost a secret:
“Yes. Yes,ʿAsalī, anything you want, I'll make sure Batman is at our wedding.”
And Damian Wayne never lies to you.
You squeal for joy and he has to protect your hands that still have the wet mehendi as you wrap your arms around his neck.
ᵈⁱᵛⁱᵈᵉʳ ᵇʸ ᶜᵘʳˢᵉᵈ⁻ᶜᵃʳᵐⁱⁿᵉ
“اللمس هو آخر أشكال الأُلفة التي نعرفها” master list ! [this series]
authors note! I hope you enjoy and if you want to be put on a tag list for this fandom/boy comment and I will add you! ദ്ദി˶ｰ̀֊ｰ́ ) my asks are always open for drabbles and just to talk or ask questions 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 ; (◞‸◟)
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