#damain wayne

Damian Wayne had been stabbed twice, poisoned six times, almost lost a finger, and very nearly attacked by a Caspian cobra that had mysteriously appeared in his closet—though, in the end, he simply adopted the serpent and named it Caspian.

He wasn’t upset about any of it.

In fact, he was starting to consider it foreplay.

Most people wouldn’t interpret a tripwire on the staircase or a gas-emitting bookshelf as romantic gestures. But Damian was not most people.

You were, after all, an assassin—one of the most lethal in the world, a Black Widow. And also, his wife. Which meant that affection came with a few… complications.

Like needing to sniff his tea before every sip.

That morning, he sat in the garden beneath the soft canopy of climbing vines, a leather-bound Persian manuscript resting in one hand, a delicate china teacup in the other. You floated into view like a vision, carrying a fresh tray of biscuits, teapot and a suspiciously serene smile that usually meant something was about to happen.

You refilled his cup with practiced grace, the scent of jasmine rising between you. He brought it to his lips, took one measured sip, then paused. His nostrils flared slightly. He sniffed again.

“Belladonna?” he asked, not looking up from the page.

You set the tray down, gently brushing crumbs off your fingers. “Only a trace.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “Too floral. It throws off the jasmine.” Another sip. “Next time, try aconite. It blends better.”

You leaned down, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Noted.”

Your attempts came and went like the seasons—some subtle, some so absurdly theatrical it was almost comical. Once, you’d rigged the library’s fireplace to release a sleeping gas if the wrong book was pulled from the shelf. You knew Damian would figure it out. And he did—of course he did—though he was a little smug about it.

He crouched by the hearth with a small, curved blade in hand, dismantling the delicate mechanism with an ease that irritated and impressed you in equal measure.

“I almost admire the mechanism,” he said dryly, flicking a piece loose and catching it mid-air. “You’re improving. The trigger delay was clever.” He glanced over his shoulder, eyes glinting. “You’ll have to try harder next time.”

And you had.

The following week, you’d set a spring-loaded dart trap just outside the hallway near the greenhouse—timed perfectly to his morning routine, right as he turned the corner, casually eating an apple.

The dart whistled through the air.

Damian shifted to the left without so much as blinking. The dart missed him entirely—only to pierce straight through the apple and embed it into the wall with a soft thunk.

He stared at it for a moment. Then calmly walked over, plucked the dart free, and retrieved the apple.

“You’re getting lazy,” he remarked, holding the dart up to the light, examining its make. “This one’s off-balance. It veered left.”

“Maybe I just wanted to nick you,” you said breezily as you strolled past, lips twitching into a grin. “You did mention needing to work on your reflexes.”

He chuckled under his breath, biting into what remained of his apple.

“How considerate, beloved,” he muttered.

But then came that Sunday afternoon.

Damian’s brothers had come over—against his better judgment—for what they claimed would be a “simple brotherly brunch.” 

Within minutes, he regretted opening the door.

His home was louder than usual, filled with overlapping voices, the clatter of silverware, and the relentless stream of bickering that passed for affection in the Wayne family. The pancakes were drowned in ungodly amounts of syrup. Someone had opened a bottle of orange juice with their teeth. 

And worst of all? Someone—he still didn’t know who—had touched his katana display. There were smudges. Smudges. Left on the usually pristine, sparkling glass. He said nothing. But he made a mental note to run a full scan later and find out exactly which one of those imbeciles had committed the crime.

He had just excused himself to fetch something from the west wing and only made it half way across the dining room when it happened.

A soft click.

He froze mid-step. Looked down.

A pressure plate.

From his seat, Jason glanced up, a fork halfway to his mouth. “What was that?”

The ceiling above them shifted with an ominous creak.

And then—whoosh.

A pendulum blade, polished to a mirror shine, dropped from the rafters and arced through the air like something straight out of the Addam’s family. It missed Damian by less than an inch as he pivoted smoothly to the side, ducking in one seamless motion. The blade swung past with a rush of air, that ruffled his hair.

The others froze mid-bite, forks suspended in the air, expressions shifting from confusion to outright horror.

Before anyone could react, another panel hissed open—this time along the wall. A rapid click—shhhk echoed through the room as sleek, retractable knives launched from hidden compartments, hurling straight toward Damian.

He moved like water—graceful and effortless—spinning out of the way, one hand casually snatching a blade mid-air. While another knife sliced cleanly through the fabric of his sleeve, but didn’t touch skin.

He exhaled, long and put-upon. 

“Again with the ceiling blades,” he muttered.

The others, however, were not so composed.

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!” Jason barked, nearly flipping his plate as he bolted upright.

Dick stood, wide-eyed, gaze darting to the now-settling blades embedded in the wall. “Are you okay?! What the hell just happened?!”

Tim was already pulling out a compact scanner from his pocket, frantically scanning the room. “Is the house booby-trapped?! Did someone breach the security grid?! Is there an intruder?”

Damian remained exactly where he was, unbothered, as he studied the captured blade that was held delicately between his fingers.

“No intruder,” he said annoyed at the clear overreactions. “This was my wife’s work.”

All three stared at him in horror.

Tim blinked. “Your wife just tried to impale you,” he said slowly, carefully, as if explaining a basic law of physics to someone who should’ve known better.

Damian hummed to himself, turning the blade between his fingers, letting the light catch the polished steel. “She’s improving,” he remarked. “These ones actually had decent balance.”

Jason just stared. “Why the fuck are you so calm?” he snapped. “SHE JUST TRIED TO KILL YOU.”

Damian let out a slow sigh, clearly irritated by the dramatics. “She didn’t try to kill me,” he said, as if the distinction was obvious. “If she wanted me dead, I would be.”

“Damian,” Dick said, cautiously, as if speaking to a feral animal.

“She’s just being affectionate.”

Tim blinked. “That’s not affection, that’s—”

“It’s her love language,” Damian interrupted, stepping around the still-swinging blade without a flinch. “She’s very dedicated to making sure I'm aware of her love.”

Dick looked like he was about to pass out. “You’re telling me this happens regularly?”

Damian shrugged. “You’re just upset no one’s ever loved you that much.”

Moments later, you strolled in, utterly unbothered. Silk robe tied neatly at the waist, not a single hair out of place. In one hand, a steaming cup of coffee. On your lips, a soft, pleasant smile that nearly made it hard to believe you were the architect of the carnage around the room.

“Good morning,” you greeted cheerfully, leaning in to press a kiss to Damian’s cheek before casually glancing at the embedded blades. “Did the new blade wall trigger too soon?”

Damian nodded as he tucked you to his side. “Off by two seconds. Adjust the fuse delay.”

You let out a quiet sigh. “Noted.” 

Your gaze shifted to the blade still turning slowly from the ceiling. You tilted your head. “Is that one still rotating? I meant to fix the alignment—it’s drifting too far left.”

“I told you to aim for a clean ninety-degree arc,” Damian added, glancing down at you. “You’re losing power on the backswing.”

You made a soft, thoughtful noise. “I was worried about overcompensating.”

“Next time,” he said, without missing a beat, “use a counterweight.”

Jason looked at Dick. Dick looked at Tim. Tim looked like he was ready to drag you both to Arkham and check you two in under a shared room. The three of them turned back in unison, staring at the two of you standing there—utterly calm and composed, as if you were discussing home décor and not lethal traps embedded into the manor’s infrastructure.

Jason blinked. “You’re two are joking, right?”

“Of course not,” Damian replied coolly, taking the coffee cup from your hand with ease and pressing a kiss to your cheek. “We’re a team. I only wish the best for my beloved.”

“I don’t think the feeling is mutual,” Tim muttered under his breath.

Damian rolled his eyes and took a slow sip of the coffee. He paused, considered the taste, then added matter-of-factly, “This is poisoned, isn’t it?”

You tilted your head, smiling sweetly. “Just a touch of cyanide.”

He took another sip, unfazed. “The coffee was already bitter. This just makes it more obvious. Try strychnine next time—it’s cleaner.”

You giggled and kissed his cheek again. “You’re so picky, darling.”

Dick stared at the two of you, eyes wide, colour slowly draining from his face. “I—I think he’s going to die.”

“No,” Damian said simply, sliding an arm around your waist as the two of you turned and began walking away—utterly unfazed by the blades, the scorched wall, or the stunned expressions behind you. “We made vows, Grayson. I promised to love her, cherish her—and survive her.” He glanced over his shoulder. “This is just the life of marriage.”

And for Damian Wayne, it was everything he could have ever asked for.

The sound of wood striking the mat cut short. His staff faltered mid-swing, balance wavering for a fraction of a second before he steadied himself. Not fast enough to hide the way his head jerked toward you, eyes wide, pupils dilated slightly.

“…What did you just say?”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “What? Did I say it wrong?”

He lowered the staff slowly, brows drawn together, ears betraying him as they pinked. His lips parted slightly, as if he had words ready but couldn’t decide which to use—or whether to say any at all. Finally, he cleared his throat, exhaling sharply, attempting control.

“You shouldn’t—” He paused, gaze darting away, then back, restless. “…You shouldn’t say things like that so casually.”

“Casually?” you echoed, stepping lightly onto the mat. “You say them all the time, hayati.”

He stiffened, then visibly relaxed by a hair’s breadth, shoulders dropping, but his jaw clenched. His green eyes flicked to yours, sharp and searching, as though he were measuring the danger in your smile.

You let the silence stretch, then spoke deliberately, soft and steady: “Beloved.”

The staff slipped from his fingers and hit the mat with a muted thud.

“Beloved,” he repeated, voice low, almost reflexive, as if trying to remind himself that he wasn’t imagining it. His lips twitched, caught between incredulity and restraint.

You smiled and took another step closer. “What?”

His jaw tightened, and his cheeks were faintly flushed. He looked like he wanted to argue, but couldn’t find the words, couldn’t muster the strength to fight it.

You reached out, fingertips brushing his hair. He didn’t pull away—just swallowed hard, pulse quickening under your touch.

“…Say it again,” he murmured, barely above a whisper, eyes downcast, lashes brushing his cheek.

You leaned in, voice soft, lips near his ear: “Hayati.”

His reaction was subtle, but it struck you more powerfully for it. A sharp breath, caught halfway between a laugh and a sigh, escaped him. His forehead brushed against yours briefly, a tiny, almost involuntary gesture of surrender. He didn’t pull back, but you could feel the tension leaving him in micro-movements—an exhale here, a slight loosening of his shoulders there.

He stayed like that for a long moment, forehead resting lightly against yours, chest rising and falling unevenly. You felt him tremble just slightly under your touch, enough to make your chest tighten.

Finally, he peeked up at you from beneath his lashes, green eyes wide, but wary. “I—” His voice caught. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

You smiled softly, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “Shouldn’t have done what, Damian?”

He swallowed, gaze darting to your lips. “…You’re evil,” he muttered, faintly, his own lips twitching.

You stepped closer. “Do you want me to stop?”

His laugh was low, shaky, restrained—but not unkind. “Do you think I’d ever want you to stop?” He let his hands rest on your waist, gripping just enough to anchor himself, not in surrender so much as in habit, a quiet acknowledgment of trust.

“Good,” you whispered, voice dropping slightly. “Because I’m not even close to done yet.”

You let another nickname fall, measured and soft: “Qalbi.”

His chest stiffened, lips parting faintly. A faint, sharp intake of breath, and then he pressed just a little closer, forehead nudging yours once more, eyes closing for a brief moment. “Stop,” he murmured, voice low, caught between plea and protest. “I can’t—”

“You can’t what?” you teased gently, smiling.

He groaned softly, face buried near your shoulder, to hide his embarrassment, succumbing to the effect you had on him. “You,” he huffs in frustration, gripping you tighter, voice muffled, “are lethal.”

You laughed softly, hand running down his back. “Maybe,” you murmured, brushing a kiss along his temple, “come to bed now, habibi.”

He hesitated—just a moment—before giving a faint, reluctant sigh and letting you guide him. Later, when the two of you were laying together, his arms wrapped around your waist and face buried in your hair, he mumbled, “Say it again?” in the softest, sweetest voice, and who were you to deny him? 

a/n: its my first time writing for DC and I only got into it fairly recently, so if he seems OOC I apologize :\ honestly this is the most nervous i've ever been to post something If you have any recs/things I have to read to get a better grasp on any of the characters, feel free to tell me!!