My Beloved (Damian Wayne x Reader)
Summary: Not knowing how to express his feelings any other way, Damian resorts to calling you pet names in his mother's tongue in order to air out his pent up affection.
“Habibti, can you hand me the yellow frosting?” Damian was in deep trouble - absolutely terrible, hideous trouble.
“Of course!” You reached over to your left and handed him the buttercream, the arabic pet name flying over your head.
In his language, Habibti was a sign of endearment given to your lover, usually meaning something along the lines of My Love or Darling - but to you, he was utterly convinced that you believed it was a form of belittlement similar to Idiot.
Of course, Damian was too afraid to correct you and he was not sure if you would believe him if he tried. He would rather keep it a sweet secret to himself, even if his fragile heart was practically leaping its way out of his rib cage to expose itself to you.
“You know, if you want to call me something mean at least make it so I can understand you.” You laughed, a noise that would certainly haunt him late at night when he was alone and longed for your presence.
“But it’s much more fun seeing you like this.” You scruched your nose, your forehead creasing with the movement. Your lips were parted but no words came out. It was an adorable look he had grown to love despite how dorky you appeared.
You retaliated with a poorly placed handful of orange frosting along his cheek, your lips twisting into a pout that only served to make the fantasies of kissing you worsen.
Orange was an obnoxiously disgusting color but he would bathe in a lazarus pit full of orange frosting if you wished it.
He ran his thumb along his cheek and licked away whatever frosting was there. Alfred’s special buttercream frosting really was to die for. Damian enjoyed the way your eyes slightly widened, relishing in the fact that it wouldn’t have been noticeable to anyone else. He liked to think that the scarlet decorating your face was because of him being undoubtedly sexy, and not the fact that it was because it was a hot summer’s day.
“You’re staring, ya amar.” He smirked. “And I believe that cookie has way too much frosting, it looks like Picaso threw up all over it.”
Ya Amar had to be Damian’s second favorite pet name for you, translating to my moon. He often recalled the way his mother praised the moon for its beauty, treating it similar to a guiding life force. More than anything, Damian wanted to be the sun that illuminated your countenance - to be the man who kept you steady and loved you even if you just saw yourself as a clumpy rock. The name suited you perfectly. You were his beautiful, crated moon with star imbued eyes and a body that reflected the power of an inescapable black hole.
“Hey, are those cookies almost finished? B wants them set out within the hour-” Tim walked in, his under eye bags accentuated further with the distasteful dark blue sweater he threw on.
His brother paused, rolling his eyes at the state of the dining table. Damian hoped that the kitchen disaster was enough of a distraction for him not to notice the lovey-dovey eyes he assuredly was giving his best friend.
“We’ll clean it up, Tim. Sorry about that.” You replied quickly. “But most of the cookies are done, Damian still has a few to finish though.”
You nudged him with your elbow, grinning wildly like the Cheshire cat.
“Just don’t get distracted flirting with each other, I don’t want to deal with an irritated Bruce.”
“Shut up, Timothy. At least we aren’t aggressively making out like how you and Conner were at the last gala.” Damian shot back.
Tim frowned. “I’m too tired to deal with this. Try not to explode anything, okay?”
Damian waved off his brother and went back to decorating one of the cookies for the large event at Wayne Manor tonight. It was a charity event to raise awareness of the increase in homeless population on the streets of Gotham, and alongside the event, his family was hosting a soup kitchen for any struggling person on the streets. Along with a hearty, full course meal, they would be served one of the cookies being decorated by the two of you.
Although Damian’s father normally did not allow any friend’s to charity events, you were always an exception due to the fact that if you weren’t there, Damian would blow a gasket and murder someone if he was in a suit for too long. Your presence beside Damian was often looked over when you were both younger, but now that a few years had gone by plenty of journalists speculated the possibility of “a secret blooming relationship.”
The common theory circulating around Gotham was the idea that his father was disapproving of them being together since you were a “commoner,” therefore excusing the lack of concrete evidence of the relationship existing. Damian had found the notion completely ridiculous; even if his father disapproved of you in that context, that would not stop him from loving you the way he always dreamed, consequences be damned.
You treated the whole situation with carefree ease, giggling at the awful pictures and wack job theories concocted by 40 year old men looking to sell half-baked news. On one hand, Damian was pleased that the unwanted attention did not bother you, but deep down he also felt a pang of poison seep its way into his bloodstream. Was the idea of being his lover that much of a joke?
The clicking of a phone keyboard brought him back to reality. Damian peered over your shoulder and saw Safari pulled up.
“What ever are you doing, habibti?”
“I’m trying to decipher what you are calling me.” You said. “Can you repeat that last word for me, please?”
The youngest Wayne felt every single pour in his body drip in sweat, excess saliva pooling in his mouth. Perhaps if his blood was functioning properly, then he would have found a better response other than a simple no.
It was very rare for Damian to be properly caught off guard. He should have thought that you would have looked up the words he was repeating, should have come up with a game plan instead of looking like a strangled goose.
His first instinct was to snatch the phone away and cut it up with the plastic, buttercream decorated knife. Damian could pretend to be possessed by a ghost and buy you a better phone with specially installed programs that inhibited your ability to look up any Arabic term. Yes, that was a wonderful idea-
“How are there zero search results?!!” You exclaimed, turning to him. “Did you make up a language or something? Why are there absolutely zero results??”
Damian looked at your phone again. You certainly took some liberties with the spelling of the pet name, letting him relax into his seat. It was nowhere close to how the word was spelled. He couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Why are there two y’s in the word?”
Your cheeks flushed. “Well maybe if you told me the other 20 languages you spoke I’d get somewhere.”
For the next 15 minutes, you angrily punched in 17 different ways to spell Habibti, all massively incorrect and leading to nowhere. You eventually threw your phone on the ground with a huff while he cackled.
“This is so unfair. I demand restitution for the amount of time I have lost thanks to you.” Damian hummed.
“I can’t give you back those missing minutes, but I can pay you back with your favorite meal and my full attention tonight.”
You pretended to ponder over the offer, but Damian knew you could not say no to Alfred’s cooking. “Okay, fine. But only because I love Alfred’s food and nothing else.”
The moon peered over the horizon, the stars twinkling like falling fairy dust on a navy blue canvas. Hundreds of Gotham’s richest filled Wayne Manor, most of which were dressed with gaudy colors and bedazzlements, with feathers and overpriced jewels.
Damian was dressed in a dark green suit, one that Alfred had picked a little while ago. He was fully aware of the lustful stares he was given by the woman (and some of the men) there but he could care less. There was only one person he cared about impressing and that said person was “discreetly” stuffing themselves with a plate full of food in the corner.
As an attendant of the Gala, you were in a stunning dress that fit every single curve of your body marvelously, all courtesy to Stephanie who helped you pick out the dress to begin with. Heat rose to his cheeks and he began fumbling with his tie.
Damian was not the only one there to notice your beauty either. As you were trying to polish off your plate of food, several men had made attempts to woo you onto the dancefloor. Thankfully you declined all of their advances - Damian was not sure what he would have felt if you did. If it weren’t for the hundreds of other people present, he would have unquestionably sliced off the suitors hands if they tried to touch you again.
“Ya Helo, you look…” His throat clogged as you stared up at him. “You look stunning…”
Damian was convinced that your smile was the brightest thing in the universe; he was also sure that it could cure any bout of irritation or sadness possible.
“About time you showed up! Are you done flirting with the 70 year old women yet or does your dad want you back in there?” You poked his chest, the touch feeling like an electrical transfer.
“You know that I would never flirt with those women back there, Habibti. My dad just wanted me to manipulate them into giving more of their money to charity.”
Before you could pull your hand away, he clasped it and brought it closer to his heartbeat. Your hands were a pebble compared to his own and yet they still managed to fit perfectly together like Incan architecture.
“I-I…” You looked away with a crooked smile. “I know that, obviously. I just wanted to tease you a bit!”
When you turned towards him once more, he noticed the way your eyes trailed down his visage, strawberry lips parting ever so slightly. Your laughter died in your throat. The scene felt like the ridiculous romcoms he analyzed from time to time while you were over. All he had to do was lean in a little bit closer and his dreams would be fulfilled-
The tight grip of someone’s hand seized his arm, effectively pulling him away from his darling. The movement caught Damian off guard (the second time that day). There was only a select handful of people who were able to sneak up on him like that…
“Mother.” Damian seethed, turning to gaze upon the woman with a cold glare. “What are you doing here?”
Fitted for the occasion in a sleek black dress, Talia crossed her arms and matched her son’s glare. “Is a mother not allowed to visit her son, especially when he has not messaged her in months?”
Damian stood in front of you, his hands slightly raised in case Talia decided to activate her mother bear mode. Talia’s eyes furrowed, her lip pursing.
“How about you and your little friend follow me upstairs. You can tell me all about how you two met.” She suggested but her voice made it sound more like a threat.
Damian hated how your smile disappeared and was replaced with an apprehensive grimace. He reached for your hand and squeezed.
“It’ll be alright habib albi…” He whispered, squeezing your hand once again. As the three of them climbed up the stairs, the soft tune of the violin faded into nothing, not even background noise.
“Mother, I find this hardly necessary. Could you have interfered in my life some other day?” Damian groaned.
“Of course not, my son.” Talia shut the door of the room they entered. “If I had, I wouldn’t have been able to meet the girl who stole my beloved’s heart.”
Damian’s heart dropped. “I- what?”
“Y-you must be mistaken. Damian and I…Damian doesn’t like me like that!” You stuttered out with nervous laughter.
Talia raised a single eyebrow. “I find that extremely hard to believe considering what I heard him call you.”
Fuck. Damian mentally slapped himself. He should have known that his mother would have heard him call you that. The pet name was just so natural to him, slipping off his tongue like sweet honey, he forgot that his mother would have been able to understand.
You tilted your head towards Damian then back to Talia, reflexively playing with your hair. “I…maybe you misheard? He calls me these made up names, they really have no meaning.”
“Wait, so he has not told you what they meant?”
“No, he refused to tell me and when I looked it up, there were no search results.” You said.
Talia raised her hand to silence him. “I can’t believe you have been lying to her, Damian! I have raised you better than that. She deserves to know that you are calling her Love of my heart and Darling in Arabic!”
You snapped your head towards Damian, who was internally screaming a colorful variety of cuss words towards his mother. He expected you to look horrified and slap him away, to run for the hills and never speak to him again.
Instead you had this beautiful awestruck look in your galaxy-filled eyes. Your face was a deep crimson.
“Dami…” You hesitated. “Is this true?”
The hopeful tone in your voice was as intoxicating as a few shots of bourbon.
Damian imagined that the day he confessed to you would be atop a starry hill with perfectly blooming jasmines and evening primroses. He would pull you into his arms and whisper his love for you when the moon was at its peak, ending it with a kiss if you let him. It would have been perfect, if fate allowed it to be.
However, there were no starry hilltops or sweetly smelling fragrances - no moon that would peer over them and give its blessing. But you were there with him, an arm's reach away. As long as you were there, wasn't that all that mattered?
Damian glared at his mother, who was in the background with a smug smile, pretending to not overhear the conversation. When she didn’t get the message, he cleared his throat as loud as he could.
“Fine. I suppose I’ll leave you to it - but I expect you to message me afterward since I did the hard work for you.” Talia sauntered her way out of the room, leaving you and Damian alone.
“You didn’t answer my question, Dami…” You glanced up at him with a shy smile. “Were you really secretly giving me pet names in Arabic?”
Reaching for your hands, Damian pulled you close to create a few inch gap. “Yeah…I wanted a way to show you how much I…how much I loved you without you figuring out.”
You giggled, the vibrations of it causing his heart to flutter. “You’re a dork, you know that? I would have reciprocated your feelings no matter what, but it would have been nice if you had told me sooner.”
Your finger trailed down his neck to his collarbone, leaving a trail of lightning in its wake. “I demand more restitution for the time lost.”
Damian hummed, pretending to think of the perfect solution despite him already having one. You edged closer to him.
“How about,” he began, “I kiss you until your lips are as blue as this night sky?”
But before you could respond, Damian already brought his lips to yours. The dreams and fantasies he had did not live up to the actual softness of your lips - the subtle taste of raspberries filling his senses.
Your hands tangled into his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. “Shouldn’t we go back to the Gala?”
Damian looked back at the door, contemplating how mad his father would be if he ditched the rest of the party. It was waning closer to midnight anyway and he could just say you were tired.
He turned back to you, his smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “He’ll be fine. Besides, I would rather be with you than flirt with 70 year old women.”
Your attempted giggle was covered with the rougher press of his lips against yours, causing you to fall backwards onto the guest bed. After years of calling you Habibti, now he could finally say it without you thinking it was an insult.
Damian is a simp with huge dimples. Fight me.
