Normalcy | Damian Wayne x Reader

                                    

                                          
Description: You're no hero.

                          
Requests: Okay I get Damian having a badass vigilante s/o BUT JUST IMAGINE Damian with a completely innocent civilian so who has a knack for running into trouble in the most inconvenient ways, they're super clumsy but still fierce and sassy & Damian is just like?? how are you not dead yet??? Bonus if they ever get kidnapped and just start shit talking the kidnapper & dami is in the rafters like why???He literally has u at gunpoint?? I live for sassy civilian s/o and protective dami FiGhT mE
                          
ok but imagine a picnic with damian or jon in smallville that ends up being a makeout session
                          
Words: 4512 (i think you've come to expect this)
                          
Notes: A different spin on stuff. I'm learning that it's okay to be a damsel in distress sometimes, just as it's okay to be the oppisite.
                          
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Everybody has childhood nicknames. Maybe something sweet like Benny as opposed to Benjamin. Or something odd like Dick instead of Richard. There were the kids with the bad intentions, like Ears because of how big someone's ears were, or Gluey because somebody had too much fun during craft time in kindergarten—that was your crowd. Although yours wasn't exactly a childhood nickname. It was a term of affection, but it did happen to call upon one of your many, many shortcomings; your clumsiness in particular.
                          
Damian's Lamborghini Murcielago was certainly what he had promised it would be. At 80 miles per hour it had been idling, and through the soft leather of the seats you could barely hear the 632 horsepower engine tearing down the outer streets of Gotham. Too quickly had the ride from Wayne Manor to Robinson Park ended, for the air conditioner had only just begun to warm in contrast to the fall-like weather when Damian parked. Gotham's air was thicker than usual with whispers of a spring storm rolling in soon. He had wanted to get out before the drizzling began: he had a debt to pay.
                          
"Damian, we could have always stayed home. I would count lying around in bed as a date, y'know." You said, pressing a thumb into the unlocking mechanism of the seatbelt. It came apart with a soft click.
                          
"I promised you a picnic, and I am determined to follow through. I am a man of my word," Damian said, words bleeding with the full intention of fulfilling his promise. He looked lovely adorned in a favorite black turtleneck and gold-trimmed coat, layered in designer fabrics, but when had that ever been new? More importantly he looked comfortable. Frown lines had since left his face and put him into a state of something akin to serenity, or at the very least relaxed. The unbreakable knot of stress woven in his back had lost a few threads.
                          
Before your hand could even reach for the doors handle Damian had opened it, welcoming a warm breeze that didn't seem as bad as you had originally exaggerated. Taking the basket off your lap, you stepped out of the car and tried to adjust to the sharp change in temperatures. Of course it was then you had to live up to your nickname. Your foot caught on the curb and nearly sent you sprawling onto the pavement, but Damian was faster, having caught you by the arms and the basket as fluidly as a dancer.
                          
He raised an eyebrow and teased,"You're certainly living up to your name, Trip. Or are you just trying to find another excuse to collapse in my arms?"
                          
You flushed and righted yourself, briskly beginning your walk into the shade of the tree canopies,"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Damian?"
                          
"Too much," Damian muttered to himself.
                          
Damian easily fell into step beside you, one hand holding the basket, the other extended to you. His large palms were coarse with years of labor, and when your fingers entwined you could feel the jagged and distorted flesh of a scar in the plain of his hand. The case was no different for his knuckles. The bones lying beneath his skin had become steel over years of pressure, with the surrounding muscle joints heavy, skin abraded and red on the surface. You associated them with tenderness and affection, and at the same time the crack of fist colliding with bone.