Hiiii I was wondering that if you have time could you write Damian or dick or Jason(I love them all) with a super clumsy reader. Like she is smart and pretty and kind but she drops everything and trips on air and is always getting hurt because of it? ⭐️
someone has to keep you from breaking your neck
plot! just damian with a clumsy girl and how you two met! (aged up damian ofc)
a/n: thanks for the request sweetie!! i chose damian mostly because i've written the least about him but all bat boys would be so cute to imagine with a clumsy reader!! lmk if you want the other versions!!
The first time Damian Wayne notices you, it’s not because you spoke up in class. Not because of your clever answer that made the teacher blink in surprise.
No—it’s because you tripped.
You hadn’t even been walking fast, just moving from your seat toward the board when the strap of your bag somehow tangled with the leg of a desk. A second later, the whole classroom went silent as you pitched forward, arms flailing, notebook flying out of your hand.
Damian, sitting two rows back, exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening. Tt. Of course. He pushed back his chair, crossed the space in two swift strides, and caught you before your face could meet the tile.
You blinked up at him, eyes wide, cheeks flaming red. “Oh my god—I—I’m so sorry—”
“Stop apologizing” he muttered flatly, pulling you upright with a strength that seemed unfair for someone his size. He bent down, scooped up your notebook in one fluid motion, and handed it back. “You’re alive. Barely.”
Your mouth opened, then shut again, words failing under the sharpness of his green gaze. He turned before you could answer, sliding back into his seat with the kind of grace you’d never have.
And yet… when you sat back down, embarrassed and flustered, you caught him glance at you again. A flicker of something unreadable, quickly hidden.
Two days later, in the school library, you tried reaching for a book on the top shelf. A perfectly reasonable task, except you were standing on the very tips of your sneakers, stretching too far, when your balance betrayed you. The book slipped from your fingers. You flailed, hit the shelf, and somehow managed to send three more books tumbling down like dominoes.
Before the avalanche could continue, a hand shot out and grabbed the shelf steady.
“You are a menace to yourself” Damian’s voice cut low, right behind you.
You froze. “Damian—hi. I was just—uh—” You pointed weakly at the single book on the floor, cheeks hot. “Research.”
“You were attempting suicide by bookshelf,” he corrected flatly. He bent, picked up the book you wanted, and pressed it into your hands. “Next time, ask someone taller.”
You couldn’t help but laugh a little, nervous but amused. “Thanks. You… always show up right when I’m about to make a disaster.”
His brows drew together. “Someone has to keep you from breaking your neck.”
There was no teasing smile, no light tone, just blunt fact. But the way he hovered an extra second, watching as you set the book safely on the table, said something else entirely.
It became routine. You tripped on air in the hallway? Damian grabbed your elbow.
You dropped your pencil case, scattering pens everywhere? Damian wordlessly crouched down and collected them faster than you could blink.
But the time you scraped your knee in gym class, that’s when you saw another side of him.
You’d been running laps, sneakers slapping against the floor, when your foot caught the edge of a mat. Down you went, sliding across the polished gym floor in a mess of limbs. The sting on your knee was sharp, immediate, and blood welled quick.
Everyone gasped. You sat up, embarrassed. “I’m fine, I’m fine—”
“You’re bleeding” Damian said, appearing out of nowhere. He crouched beside you, voice sharp enough to silence the crowd. “Stay still.”
You blinked at him. “It’s just a scrape—”
“It’s still an injury” he snapped. His hand was already tugging a small first-aid kit from his bag. (of course he carried one) He opened it with precise efficiency, cleaning the scrape with antiseptic before wrapping it with steady hands.
His touch was careful. Deliberate. You could feel the warmth of his hand even through the gauze.
When he finished, he sat back on his heels, eyes narrowing. “You have no awareness of your surroundings. Do you realize how easily you could get seriously hurt?”
Your lips twitched. “You make it sound like I’m a danger to national security.”
“You might be” he muttered, but his hands lingered half a second longer before pulling away.
It was weeks later when you finally confronted him.
You’d tripped in the cafeteria this time, nearly spilling your tray. Damian had steadied you again, as always, with a sigh and a muttered tt.
This time, instead of blushing and hurrying off, you looked at him. Really looked at him. “Why do you keep helping me?”
He blinked, caught off guard. “Because you’re incapable of functioning without supervision.”
You tilted your head, smiling softly despite yourself. “That’s not the only reason.”
For the first time, Damian hesitated. His lips pressed together, his jaw tightening. His gaze flicked away, then back to you.
Finally, he said, low and reluctant: “Because I don’t like watching you get hurt.”
Your chest tightened. You tried to lighten it, teasing. “So you… care?”
He rolled his eyes, already walking away. “Don’t make me regret admitting it.”
But the faintest color dusted his cheeks, and you knew.
It was early morning in Wayne Manor, and you had decided, against all logic, to cook breakfast for Damian.
You weren’t a bad cook. In fact, you were quite good. The problem was… coordination.
When Damian walked in, hair still damp from training, he paused in the doorway. His sharp green eyes scanned the scene: eggshells on the counter, flour on the floor, a half-filled kettle wobbling precariously on the stove. And you, apron crooked, pan in one hand, spatula in the other, were trying not to trip over your own shoelace.
“Tt.” Damian crossed the room in three swift steps, plucking the kettle away just as it began to hiss. “You’re going to burn the manor down.”
You flushed. “I was making breakfast for you.”
“By destroying the kitchen?” he asked, voice bone-dry. He set the kettle aside and moved past you, taking the spatula from your hand. “Step aside.”
“No.” His tone brooked no argument. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
You puffed your cheeks in protest but obeyed, sliding onto a stool. Watching him move with controlled precision, cracking eggs one-handed, flipping pancakes like it was second nature, you sighed. “You’re annoyingly good at this.”
“I was trained to survive in hostile environments” he replied matter-of-factly. “Cooking is not difficult compared to evading assassins.”
Still, when he placed the plate in front of you, perfectly cooked, there was a quiet softness in the gesture. “Eat before you injure yourself again.”
You smiled, heart warm despite his tone. “Yes, chef.”
He scowled. “Do not call me that.”
You weren’t a vigilante, not like him, but you’d gotten used to helping behind the scenes, maps, research, strategy. One night, you insisted on joining him on a rooftop for “just five minutes” to see the skyline.
You tripped over the lip of the roof almost instantly.
Damian’s heart nearly stopped.
His arm shot out, grabbing your wrist in a steel grip and yanking you back to safety. You crashed against his chest, breathless, your heart pounding.
“Are you insane?” His voice cracked sharp with fury, sharper than you’d ever heard. “Do you have any comprehension of what could have happened?”
“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“You could have fallen. You could have died.” His eyes blazed, grip trembling just slightly as he held onto your arms. “You do not get to take risks like that.”
You looked up at him, wide-eyed. “Damian… I’m okay. You caught me.”
His jaw clenched. His breath came heavy. Then, without warning, he pulled you tight against him, arms crushingly firm around your back.
“I can’t always catch you” he muttered into your hair, voice low, ragged. “Don’t ever make me test that."
Your throat tightened. You nodded against his chest. “I won’t.”
Back in safer territory, the manor, you still managed chaos.
It happened in the study. You were curled up on the couch with a book when your elbow caught a glass of water on the side table. It tumbled, shattered, and in your panic to clean it up, you immediately stepped straight onto a shard.
Damian’s voice cut like a whip as he entered, only saying your name. In an instant, he was kneeling beside you, taking your ankle carefully in his hand. His thumb brushed against the cut as he examined it, and his lips thinned into a grim line.
“You always act first” he muttered, pulling tweezers from his pocket like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Never think.”
“I was trying to fix it” you said sheepishly, wincing as he pulled the shard out.
“And instead you made it worse” he replied, disinfecting the wound with infuriating precision. His eyes flicked up to yours, sharp and unyielding. “You have to let me protect you. Do you understand?”
You bit your lip, touched. “Yes, Damian.”
When he finished bandaging, he lingered, his hand still curled gently around your ankle. Finally, softer, he added: “Stop hurting yourself. I… don’t like seeing you bleed.”
It was inevitable, you were clumsy, and he was always there.
This time, you stumbled in the hallway, tripping over absolutely nothing. Damian caught you by the waist, steadying you. You gasped, flustered, hands pressing against his chest.
“Honestly, beloved” he sighed, exasperation threaded with fondness. “Do you fall just to test my reflexes?”
“No!” you protested, cheeks burning. “I swear it’s not on purpose.”
He raised a brow, but before you could say more, you shifted in his hold, too quickly. Your forehead bumped his chin, your nose brushed his cheek, and somehow, impossibly, your lips landed against his.
Then Damian’s grip tightened slightly on your waist, his eyes dark, unreadable. “You’re infuriating” he muttered, before leaning down to kiss you properly. Controlled, intentional, nothing accidental about it.
When he pulled back, he smirked faintly. “At least this time, your clumsiness led to something worthwhile.”
