a morning with damian and the latest guest in your home, or — in which, he realizes he has two spoiled girls on his hands. damian wayne x fem!reader too much fluff . now playing : ( fairuz ) يسعد صباحك – فيروز
Damian hummed, glancing briefly at where you stood in the doorway. “And toast. Come sit, you’ll get fed.” It’s an act of bravery from him, you think, and a great show of strength to be bare footed against the cold floors at this hour of the morning.
There’s a hypnotic softness within his voice though that coaxes you near, and your feet move without much thought, tiptoeing — or trying to, with little yelps along the way — across the cold tiles.
January was always one of the coldest months in Gotham, where mornings came with glowy windows slick from condensation and the silent stillness of wintertime.
January, the month of new things, like the rug Bruce gifted you both after the announcement of your engagement that you dreaded having to clean, like Damian’s Peds rotation that had him extra soft on you lately, because being around newborns will do that — not that you would ever complain when you get to have him home in the mornings, sweatpants hung loose, dark hair mussed from sleep and a Gotham U thermal sweatshirt big and soft over his impossible shoulders.
A soft meow came from atop one of the kitchen stools and Damian sighed. “Yes, ya Sultana, you’ll get yours too.”
New things, like the cat that has made her way into your lives. A fluffy white thing, ragdoll-ish and always frowning unless she gets her way. Sultana, Damian called her, because clearly he’s a servant in his own house.
“She’s not pleased, you missed her breakfast time,” you murmured, scooping the cat into your arms and settling yourself onto the stool. “Aren’t you, Sully?” The kitty meowed long and low, a grumble of frustration from her feline throat that spoke only of neglect.
Damian slid a small plate across the counter — a small slice of toast, no crust and a dollop of labneh. He hunched next to you with a butter knife and his eyebrows drawn tight. “Sully?” he questioned, inquisitive.
“Short for Sultana,” you shrugged.
“Like the Federal Agent?” Damian spread the labneh diligently.
“Isn’t it so cute? We could have it printed on her little pillow.” You hummed in response and he shook his head, raising to his full height again to eye the work he’d completed.
“She does not pay rent. I don’t recall these living arrangements,” he grumbled.
The unwanted guest in question meowed once more, a paw outstretched towards the plate, and Damian, in the middle of his culinary assessment yanked it away, his brows lifting with realization. “Not yet.”
“Well, neither do I,” you said, suddenly distracted by the sight of him crossing the kitchen and reaching an arm up to the highest cabinet, the sleeve of his sweatshirt slipping down to his elbow.
A muscle twitched in his forearm, a vein peeked out too and you swallowed.
“Your name is on all the paperwork, do not insult me.” There was a small glass jar in his hand, and with expert movements, he moved it in front of him and out of your view before you could question it.
“Soon to be our name?” you grinned wolfishly. “Which do you think suits me best, Wayne or Al Ghul?”
“Both are yours,” Damian took the plate away and hunched over it at the corner of the counter like an evil scientist in his laboratory. Sultana meowed and you tried to take a secret glimpse, to no avail. “As well as the one who was born with them.”
“So romantic…” you sighed wistfully. Then your nose twitched at a smell; you knew that smell, earthy and sharp like fresh herbs.
Without a second lost, you rose from your seat. “Damian—”
“I would advise you not to—”
“Is that your mother’s za’atar?”
He winced. “There’s barely any in the jar, I’ll have to contact her soon.”
This did not deter you, as you stalked closer, one of your cold palms slipping under his shirt and meeting the warm flesh of his bare back.
On the counter there was his magnificent display of a dish worth The Sultana’s time, from which he had probably realized that a pretty sprinkle of za’atar on the top was all that was missing from his masterpiece. But the jar next to him was damn near full. “You’ve been hiding the za’atar from me?”
“You put it on your ice cream, ya rouhi.” Damian argued. The memory alone made his shoulders tighten.
“To see how it would taste!”
“You are not mentally well,” he picked up the plate and moved to serve the displeased cat who still sat perched and impatient for her breakfast. “And as your doctor…” he whipped back around to grab the jar before you could beat him to it. “I would advise you not to have any today.”
“You are not my doctor,” you pouted, and Sultana only meowed, happily accepting the dish placed in front of her. “Damiannnn,” you whined.
“I won’t be persuaded,” he turned his back to you, inhaling sharply through his nose. “Go sit down.”
“This is unfair!” You complained childishly. “How come Sultana gets za’atar but I can’t have any? What is this favoritism?”
At the same time, the poor cat sneezed. Definitely the za’atar.
“Bless you, Sully.” “May the Most High prolong your reign, Sultana.” Came simultaneously.
“And this is the cat you don’t want?” you trailed behind him like an invasive shadow, following his every turn, even when he poured the qahwa into your favorite mug, leaving it out to cool. You were by his side when he reached for another plate — or rather, melted into his side — as the loud click! of bread popping up from the toaster took his attention.
“My exact words were that I did not recall any agreed upon living arrangements,” he said. Again, he cut the crusts off — not that you ever once asked him to — and spread labneh onto the toast, the magical jar of za’atar next to him still unopened. “I’m open to options regarding her staying.”
“But you’re not open to sharing the za’atar?” you mumbled, smooshing your cheek against his arm, peering up at him with big, pleading eyes. His jaw twitched, yet his resolve remained.
Damian closed his eyes and sighed. “No.”
“No, you’ll have too much and it will make you ill.”
“Do not beg,” he sighed. “It’s beneath you.”
You deflated, snaking your arms around his middle. His hand rested atop yours briefly before he broke off a piece of labneh covered toast and brought it to your lips. “Where’s yours?” you asked mid chew.
“I ate last night,” he answered.
You shook your head. “You’ll eat with me,” your fingers found the toast and you reached up to feed him a piece. He accepted it, one of his canines grazing your thumb. “Good?”
He hummed in satisfaction. Your fingers brushed a crumb from his bottom lip and he took your hand against his mouth, pressing a kiss to your palm. “Missing something,” he murmured into your skin.
“Like… your mom’s za’atar?” you smiled cheekily, lifting your head to kiss his cheek, then the corner of his mouth.
He pressed a peck to your nose as you pulled away. “Perhaps.”
“Damian…” you pouted, placing a kiss to his jaw. Your eyelashes fluttered against the skin of his cheek and you felt his lips curve upwards in a smile. Then you suckled at the little sweet spot under the curve of his jawline where his pulse beats your name.
He squeezed his eyes shut tight, one hand wrapping around your waist to pull you closer to him through that facade of restraint. “Seduction tactics are also beneath you,” he whispered, in that low throaty voice.
A giggle left your throat. “I’m not doing anything…”
Damian sighed, long and heavy. “You’re a better liar than that, beloved.” He tilted his head down and kissed you for real this time, your mouths moving together softly.
Your fingers grasped at the front of his sweatshirt to pull him closer as he hummed against your lips, open mouthed and wanting more.
Brazenly, and mid kiss, you reached your other hand blindly onto the counter for the za’atar jar, but he grasped your wrist in his gentle hold, bringing it up to rest against the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Damn him and his assassin senses.
Across the way, Sultana meowed hungrily. You pulled away, lips swollen, and burst out laughing.
Damian was quick to work on more labneh toast, his brows drawn as he murmured with faux disbelief, “I am a servant. I am a servant in my own home.”
With a sprinkle of za’atar he turned to serve Her Highness, but paused to break a piece of the toast, coated in labneh and now dusted with za’atar, bringing it to your overexcited mouth.
You chewed happily with a squeal and wiggle of your knees.
“Spoiled,” he said, the smile on his face contradicting his words. Then, he leaned down to steal a kiss from your lips, flavored with za’atar and the assorted spices of loving him. He bumped his nose against yours. “You were wrong. It did not require the za’atar.”
“What was missing?” You followed close behind him.
He took your hand in his as he sat down next to the hungry cat, pulling you across his lap. Sultana padded gracefully towards her awaiting plate and began her feast.
“You,” Damian brought the back of your hand to his mouth, placing soft kisses along your knuckles. “Now it tastes like home, ya rouhi.”
🗒️ had to post a dami fic, sick and tired of ppl playing in his face also where are the dami fic writers pls hmu so i can binge read 😔 #myrobin
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