#quillschristmasparty

[quillsareswords]

Soft as Snow

DAMIAN WAYNE X READER

SUMMARY: You and Damian finally get to enjoy a Chistmas in your new home.

A/N: Merry late Christmas and happy holidays! I meant to do a writing week along side this, but things got kind of crazy. This was actually part of a Secret Santa I participated in with some other writers here on Tumblr! I drew @unmotivatedwrit3r! Hope you like it bb :)

Other participants: @citrinesparkles @birdy-bat-writes @glorified-red

WARNINGS: language

MASTER LIST in BIO

DECEMBER 5TH

   He hadn't expected you home until this evening, but your shoes are sitting beside the landing table, beneath the coat hooks, when he gets home. "Beloved?" he calls, hanging his peacoat beside yours.

   "Kitchen!"

   He follows the sound of your voice down the entry hall. He habitually glances into the living room on his way past. Your canvas shopping totes are set on the coffee table, shades of red and green peeking out from inside. He recalls you commenting this morning that you'd stop for groceries on your way home. He should've expected this.

   You're standing in front of the coffee machine when he rounds the doorway. In front of you, stacks of mugs. You smile brightly at him. "Hey! You're home early."

   He peers into the cupboard as he sidles up beside you. You've pulled every mug from the shelves; all shapes and sizes spread and stacked between the wall and the edge of the counter. He hadn't realized there were so many. "So are you."

   You shrug, setting the last of them—a white mug with some vulgar phrase written in cursive—among the rest. "I finished up sooner than I thought, so I got groceries."

   He snakes an arm around your waist, rolls his eyes knowingly. "Let me guess: you went to get groceries, but got distracted and walked away with a new collection of trinkets."

   A wry smile. You reach into the closest bag. A red, green, and white monstrosity spotted in flat black deer outlines. "Christmas mugs don't count as trinkets. Obviously."

   He hums mocking agreeance. "Right. Of course not, dearest." He glances over his shoulder for emphasis, "I assume those are also definitely not trinkets?"

   You smile brightly. "Nope. They're Christmas decorations. Definitely essential."

DECEMBER 11TH

   He tries so hard not to wake you. You'd been busy all day, then gone to bed late because you wanted to see him off for his nightly patrol. You idiot.

   It's not like he doesn't appreciate it. His night always starts off on the wrong foot when he doesn't get a kiss from you beforehand. (It's just bad luck, at this point.) Even so, it's not a good enough reason for you to stay up.

   He won't argue about it again. He won the argument about you waiting up for him to get back; he doesn't like his odds for getting you to bed at a decent time.

   He sneaks around the house carefully, guided only by the light of the Christmas tree and the night lights always glowing in the hallways. He pins his arm to his chest and swerves through the living room, the kitchen. If not getting blood on your carpet was a sport, he'd win the Olympics. Between you and Alfred, he's pretty sure he could get stabbed and leave no evidence in an entirely white room.

   Luckily, it's only a few minor cuts that are dribbling crimson through his suit. All he needs is a few butterfly stitches and some bandage for the worse graze on his forearm.

   Unluckily, he realizes a little too late that the First-Aid kit in the kitchen has not yet been restocked. Which means the only fully stocked kit is the big one…in the master bathroom. The one on the other side of his bed. Your bed. Where you're sleeping. Damn it.

   He's a professionally trained assassin. He's a goddamn ninja, literally. He can sneak up on any person, into any building. You have no formal training. He once witnessed you sleep through an actual earthquake. Somehow, he always wakes you up.

   Not this time. This time, he will not wake you up.

   The Christmas lights wound around your potted plants light his way. He picks across the bedroom, around a pile of the day's clothes, across the rug. He steps over a stray Amazon box. Reminds himself to pick it up later. He's four feet from the door. Victory is close at hand.

   "Damian?"

   You're joking. When he turns, you're propping yourself up in bed, scrubbing sleep out of your eye. How! He didn't make a single sound!

   "You gonna take that off before bed, or..?"

   He sighs, tiredly. "I'm not going to bed yet. Go back to sleep, I won't be long." He whispers, still steps lightly, even if there's no point. He steps close, rests the rough palm of his glove on your cheek, and presses his lips against your temple. "I promise. Go to sleep."

   You hum, still half asleep. "What're you doin'?" You reach up absently, always wanting touch, always seeking him out. Your fingers brush up his arm, and then, wide awake– "You're bleeding. Why are you bleeding?"

   He shakes his head, smoothing a thumb along your cheekbone. "It's only a cut. Nothing to worry about."

Of course, you won't accept this as an answer. He can't convince you to get back into bed once you clamber out from under the blankets, so he follows you into the bathroom and sits on the edge of the bathtub.

You only use the light over sink, leaving the room just light enough to see. The dim lighting echoes the early hours somehow. Neither of you say much, directions aside. It'stoo early for much conversation. You smooth white straps over the minor cuts, a patch on a scrape up his cheek, carefully wind the gause around his arm.

When he's no longer dripping blood on the tile, you go and get a clean set of pajamas while he peels off the uniform and dumps it into the tub. Then, you both shuffle back to the warmth of the bed like moths to flame.

Despite the bandage, his arm is still a comfort when wrapped around you.

DECEMBER 14TH

   "What are you…doing?"

   He looks up from his hands, eyes wide, confused. "I'm– I'm wrapping gifts?"

   You cock your head to one side. You squint. "Oh. That's a box?"

   He blinks once. Twice. "Of course it's a box. What are you talking about?"

   Your face twists like you're not sure if you should laugh or not. "Baby. Look at it."

   He looks back down at the bundle of scotch tape and green wrapping paper. Sure, it doesn't follow every crisp line, and some of those straps of tape are way too long, and when did that corner get torn off? Oh, it's stuck to that piece of tape. Or is that a different corner?

   "Have you ever wrapped a gift before?" You ask slowly, tentatively. You only now realize that maybe you really shouldn't be laughing, if he's never wrapped a present before. He'll take it mockingly, answer defensively, close himself off to save himself the embarrassment.

   His nostrils flare as he stares down at it. "No," he says pointedly. "I don't usually have the time. Pennyworth wrapped them. If I did have time, I used a gift bag."

   You nod, sly little smile working its way across your face. "Makes sense. Is that why everything you give me is small?"

   He blows out a surprised noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. He finally looks up at you again. "You've never complained before. We both know I'm awfully skilled with all sorts of things; the size never matters."

   You roll your eyes. "Oh, sure. Do you want me to show you how to wrap it or not?"

   He chuckles, steps aside, gestures that he's made room for you.

   You step in beside him, in front of the dining room table. In typical Damian Wayne fashion, the workspace is perfectly organized; scissors and tape set neatly on your right, a roll of shiny green wrapping paper on your left, the lumpy mystery package in the middle.

   He lays one hand on the table beside the scissors, leans on it, and props his other hand on his hip. "Please, show me the magical ways of gift wrapping."

   So, you do. You carefully salvage what you can, flatten it, trim it, tape it down. You smooth the edges crisp around the Amazon box. You explain it as you go, even though you know he could watch you do it once and copy it step for step.

   He watches you closely. First, your hands. He really did want you to teach him how you get the gifts under the tree to look so nice. But, he's a weak man at heart when anything concerns you. You always get this look on your face when you're working with your hands. It appears when you fold laundry and wash dishes, too. He catches himself looking at you instead of your instructions.

DECEMBER 20TH

   "That is definitely my sweater."

   "No, it isn't." You have a really bad poker face. Your eyes sparkle too much.

   He crosses his arms, mindful of the cut, still tender on the outside of his arm. "I bought that last year. At your suggestion, if memory serves."

   "I don't know what you're talking about." You upend the hot paper bag in your hand, spilling popcorn into a festive plastic bowl. "This was in my closet."

   "We share a closet."

   You wave your hand dismissively. "Potato, pa-tot-oh." You sprinkle on some salt and hold the bowl out for him.

   He takes it in one hand and waits for the next item. "I don't mind. You know I don't. I do wish you would admit that it's mine."

   You scoff, dumping a box of holiday chocolates into a matching bowl. "Why on earth would I do that?"

   He doesn't answer right away, waits until you glance over at him. "Because I like it when you wear my clothes."

   Your facade washes away under the tides of a grin you can't contain. You turn away instead, pretending to put all your focus on the candy bowl.

   He and his stupid sweet face. He shouldn't be allowed to wear sweaters or smile like that. He smiles at you all the time, much to your joy, but every once in a great while, when the mood catches him right, he gives you this world-healing, puppy-yipping, kitten-soft smile that makes you feel like you're floating. It should be illegal. He should at least give you a warning.

   You decide the fluttering in your chest is a little too much for two o'clock in the afternoon, snowstorm or not, so you change the subject. "What movie should we start with?"

   He takes the cue, he lets you do it; but he keeps staring at you like you like you're the only thing in the house worth looking at. "You decide. You're the better judge."

DECEMBER 25th

   It's been twenty-two minutes since you woke up. You've been killing time, between your phone and the morning newscast on the television across from the bed, but now you're getting suspicious.

   He'd been far too excited for any man who wakes up before sunrise. Christmas Day could be an exception, you suppose—fathers and guardians springing out of bed to watch their children rip open gifts. But Damian? You've never seen him so lit up before lunch.

   Stay in bed, he'd said, the moment you rolled over for a kiss. You did get one, but he leapt out of bed so soon after that you wondered if you should be offended. You should probably explain that be right back usually doesn't mean a half-hour.

   At minute thirty, you debating going and checking on him. You can hear noise, if you strain your hearing over the news anchor. Sizzling? Clanking, definitely. Clinking.

   Footsteps in the hallway. The door knob rattles. Alfred the Cat perks up by your feet. Muffled swearing. Not in English, but you know the tone.

   "Do you…want help?"

   "No," he replies quickly. "Stay in bed."

   You prop yourself up against the pillows and cross your arms. "Don't have to tell me twice."

   There's a long pause behind the bedroom door, before the knob turns and the door swings open. You're pretty sure you see a socked foot reel back out of sight.

   And then, he appears. Despite the brightly colored fleece pajama pants that match the shirt you slept in, he's still all poise and grace with a tray in his hands. He looks awfully proud of himself, like a cat prancing around with a fat mouse in its mouth, green eyes glittering.

   You laugh incredulously. "What is that?"

   He practically struts around to your side of the bed, sets the tray across your lap. "Breakfast, my darling."

   Sure enough, there's enough food to feed you, he, the cat, and the news anchor. Two mugs of coffee, a stack of Christmas tree shaped pancakes, a platter of scrambled eggs, and a bowl of fruit-chunk-filled yogurt.

   He takes your stunned silence as an opportunity to crawl over your legs and settle back down on his side of the bed.

   "What– Why?" You're still laughing, grinning ear to ear. "I mean, this looks delicious, but why?"

   He's smiling, too. "Well," he sighs, "I knew you were excited about Christmas, especially for dinner." Dinner, which was supposed to be held at Wayne Manor tonight, but had to be canceled to accommodate the weather, which decided to cover every side-street in two feet of snow and every major road in ice. "So I decided to…make up for it, I suppose."

[quillsareswords]

I loved your take on only one bed. Making up with someone you love after a fight is just something else. Do you think maybe you could also do the conventional “only one bed” where they aren’t in a relationship yet but both harbor feelings for the other please? Thank you so much!

WARNINGS: some cheap shots in a verbal argument; capability insecurity; pretty minor language

MASTER LIST in BIO

"You've got to be kidding."

Damian drops his duffle bag with a sigh. It his the cheap hotel carpet with a suspiciously metallic thunk. He makes straight for the open bathroom door, toothbrush and toothpaste in hand. He'd spent about thirty minutes complaining about not having a chance to brush his teeth two days in a row. Back-to-back recon will do that to a person.

You're still standing by the door of the hotel room and his bag. You dramatically whip your head from him to the bed. "What are–? Are you not going to react to this at all?"

He's still hunched over the sink, mouth lined in minty white foam as he scrubs his gums viciously and glares at you.

You wait patiently for him to spit the excess into the sink.

You're honestly surprised he didn't say something about this first. He doesn't like sharing a bed. He really doesn't like sharing a bed. You've known him for a good few years now, and not once in the entire course of your friendship have you ever slept within six feet of him. Even on the odd occasion you fell asleep on top of a textbook in his room, he either moved you to the neighboring guest room, or moved himself.

He braces muscular arms on either side of the sink and licks his teeth for a second. His nice, clean, smooth teeth. Finally. Then, he looks at you through the open door. "It's a queen-size bed. There's a loveseat around the corner, isn't there?"

You sling your backpack from your shoulder and into the corner by the chest of drawers on your way farther into the room. Let's see...a queen-size bed, two tables, two lamps, a desk, a dresser, an armchair...no loveseat.

"One of the doors down the hall was open for the cleaning–"

"There's no couch."

"See, it's– What?" He comes around the corner with a clean mouth. You stand there with a blank stare, watching him run the exact same sweep as you. And then, "Shit."

"Uh-huh. And you heard what's-his-face at the front desk—they're completely booked out because of the snowstorm. And this is the only hotel in town."

You both stand there for a long moment, just looking at one another.

You wouldn't mind if your best friend shared a bed with you. You've crammed yourself I to a twin sized with an entire other person before, a queen-size would be a piece of cake.

Sharing it with the boy you've been in love with for months, however—that's a different beast.

"I'll take the chair," you declare. He spent the entire plane right shifting around in his seat; you know his back already hurts. Probably because he fell out of a semi truck and landed flat on his back not twenty hours ago.

He immediately starts shaking his head. "Nonsense–"

"Don't be ridiculous, it's fine," you chuckle quietly. "It's not a big deal. Really. You slept like shit on the plane."

"And you didn't sleep at all on the plane." He fixes you with that look. That stern little cross between Bruce's bat-dad-glare and Dick's worried brother brow furrow. Hard features, soft eyes. Your heart feels heavy in your chest. "You take the bed."

He doesn't mention that you deserve the bed: partially because the only reason he got any sleep at all was because he knew you were watching his back.

It goes back and forth for a solid thirty minutes. You think he should take the bed, he thinks you should take it. Somewhere in the middle of it, you start yawning.

And then he starts yawning, and then he starts complaining because he's only yawning because you started it.

"Why do we just both take the bed?" you half whine, gesturing tiredly to the crisp white sheets. "I know you don't like it but I'm not gonna sleep very well if I know your squished into that chair."

He exhales slowly. He stares at the bed. Studying the surface area, calculating just how much space there is.

It's not that he doesn't want to sleep next to you. It's not that he doesn't sleep well when you're around.

It's the exact opposite.

You fell asleep in his bed one time. It was a few years ago, just after you'd started getting close. You'd been watching a documentary for school—something poorly edited and amateurly filmed—when you fell asleep. No big deal. He'd write the last part of the paper and you can write the first.

He doesn't sleep around other people. It leaves him too vulnerable. It doesn't matter how sure he is they don't mean him any harm; he just can't rest. Not even dozing off on his brother's shoulder.

But ten minutes laying next to you with a history lecture droning on, and he was out like a light. So out, in fact, that he woke up two hours later with the pillowcase creases printed across his skin.

He's careful not to keep you too close after that.

Well, until now, anyway.

"Fine," he relents.

So, you change clothes in the bathroom, and he changes around the corner.

He has to talk himself up. He sits there on the side closest to the door, and he talks himself up. To sleep.

He won't let himself sleep that hard. He's not that tired anyway.

You flop into bed before he even realizes you're back. You yank up the covers, roll your back to him, and switch off the lamp.

He blinks. He stares at your back. Soft sleep shirt. He starts to wonder how soft, but be doesn't let it get far.

He slides down the mattress, carefully tugs the blanket over himself, and flicks the lamp off.

And in the dark, he stares up at the ceiling.

For twenty minutes, he tells himself that this is fine. It's no big deal. He's been put through much, much worse. Sleeping beside you is nothing compared to it. And you're not going to hurt him.

He lets himself doze. And then drift.

And maybe he wakes up drooling, one arm slung over your back. But does he panic?

Well. Yeah.

But that's tomorrow's problem.

[quillsareswords]

OMG PLEASE can you do the winter trope of snowed in with only one bed with Damian please?!?!

Happy holidays! In the process of writing up the Only One Bed trope as we speak...

WARNINGS: swearing, an argument

MASTER LIST in BIO

"This is such– who even booked this?"

Damian's completely silent, sitting on the stone hearth in the living room, fiddling with the settings on the gas fireplace in the living room.

Well, living room is generous.

It's really all one room. A big almost-square, with a kitchen and a living room, and a dining area. The bathroom is huge, taking up the back half of the cabin. The bedroom is only separated from the dining area by a single wall, leaving it open to the face the living room and the corner of the kitchen.

As soon as it leaves your mouth in a spiteful growl, it makes sense. Tim was the one who handled most of the prep. It's his mission, after all—you and Damian are only filling in because he broke his ankle last weekend, and therefore can't brave the icy sidewalks of this stupid little mountain town. At the time, he probably thought he was doing the two of you a favor, booking you a honeymoon suite in this romantic, secluded corner of the states.

But that was before your adorable, lovey-dovey screaming match in the middle of the Bat Cave.

And, in his defense, it did happen with exactly 24 hours of check-in. Which, as your luck would have it, was one of the few stipulations the romantic cabin resort had. No cancellations or re-bookings within 24-hours of check-in.

It's the long story of how you ended up snowed in to a two-room, one-bed cabin smack in the middle Buttfuck, Nowhere.

Oh yeah. You'd almost forgotten about the absolute fog of a snowstorm raging outside. The one that knocked out most forms of communication, the television, and the internet. And, of course, has already stacked snow halfway up the car and rendered the roads undrivable. It took both of you ten minutes to dig the door out enough to get inside, after the lock was thawed.

Safe to say, you won't be getting out any time soon.

He's still trying to get the ten-year-old gas fireplace to light.

You're shoving folded clothes into the dresser on the right side of the bedroom.

The silence is tense. Loud.

It's made hollow by the knowledge of what should be there. You should be chuckling while you threaten to snuggle him to death to chase off the cold. You should be cracking jokes how Tim should've checked the weather. He should be grinning and running a hot bath. He should be offering to make dinner with the groceries the resort luckily had the foresight to stock you with.

Instead, you're filing clothes away so you don't have to look at him.

"I mean, jesus, were you even watching? Did you go blind in the five minutes I left you alone?" You've never seen someone take gloves off so aggressively.

You rip your mask off. "Are you joking? Tell me you're joking."

He spins around so fast that even Tim, who's standing several yards away, reacts. "Why would I joke about your incompetence? Do you think it's funny?"

You know he's scared more than angry. You know he just watched you leap out of the way of a getaway car that probably would have run straight through you if you'd been less than a second late.

It scared the shit out of him.

And the way he screamed for you lends itself to that.

But he's never been good with fear. He's getting better, of course, and you couldn't be prouder of the man you get to watch him grow into—but you don't think he's ever really going to able to handle the fear he feels for you.

"No, but I do think you're being a huge dick right now," you reply, trying your best to keep your voice level and low. "I was doing my job. I already told you, it came around the corner without any lights on, and slammed the gas before I even knew it was on the street!"

"You should have been more alert! I was gone for all of five minutes—I can't babysit you all the damn time!"

Something about strikes a match. The belittlement, the question of capability, the insinuation that you can't handle yourself—it stokes something old and angry, primal and furious, deep within the very core of your heart.

You stalk straight into his space. "Who's babysitting, Damian? You? You think you're so much more capable than I am? Do you honestly think I need you?" There's a certain kind of venom in your voice, low and slithering straight to the pit in his soul. "I don't need you, your help, or your protection. I was just fine before you, and I'll be just fine after you."

The rest doesn't matter. He spit back something far less poisonous that his previous comment, and you let him storm off. The next time you saw him was boarding the jet to get here.

You hadn't slept well. Neither did he, by the looks of things.

Because while your point was valid and true—you don't necessarily need him, you are your own entire person—you method of delivery was a low blow.

I don't need you. How cruel. You know it's an insecurity of his, just as he knows your independence is one of yours. He likes to feel needed, to feel irreplaceable, because of the way he's been treated by his mother in the past. The cloning, the false conception, the lab experiment his whole creation was—it's always made him feel replaceable.

Even if he pulled the same card of insecurity, at least his made sense. You couldn't have heard and reacted to the car in time, but you might've seen it sooner if you were watching your surroundings instead of his back. But, that's an entirely different argument.

Neither of you eat dinner. You choke down a granola bar while you're changing into pajamas, and you think you hear him do the same. But you go to bed peckish. And cold.

Because despite Damian's efforts with the fireplace, the whole cabin is still somewhere below comfortable.

He takes the couch without a word. Stole a second set of sheets and a pillow while you showered, and leaves the king-size bed for you.

You still hesitate in the dining room, eying the way he's already twisting around trying to get comfortable. "Hey," you call.

He stops fussing with the pillow and peers over the back of the couch almost immediately. Like he'd been hoping you'd see him wrestling the folded sheet and offer some aid. The scheming little shit.

You pick at a welt of paint on the wall between the dining room and bedroom. "Are you, uh– Are you sure you don't want the bed? You're doing most of the leg work, anyway, once the weather clears up."

He shakes his head. "All yours," he mumbles, already turning back around.

You'll get through this. You know you will. You always do.

Still.

You spend the next two hours in pitch black, staring blankly at a wall. All you can think about is that argument. That you wish you could take it back. That you'd love nothing more right now than to roll over and tuck yourself under his arm and pretend you'll never be cold again.

You can hear him in the other room. Every thirty-odd minutes, the papery sheets rustle or he makes some irritated noise that he's obviously trying to stifle for your sake.

It's midnight.

You're tired, and cold, and sad, and worst of all—you're awake to feel it all.

So, you have no choice but brutally pummel all three birds with one very warm stone.

It's just as dark and cold in the rest of the cabin, you find as you creep through the darkness. You find your way with some difficulty, but you do eventually catch the back of the couch with outstretched hands. You lean over slowly and listen to his breathing stop.

"Hey," you whisper. Pointless, because you're the only two people for a quarter-mile and you're both wide awake.

He starts breathing again. "Hey."

You lean your elbows on the couch back for a long minute, gnawing on the inside of your lip.

"I tried to get the fireplace to work," he says suddenly. "The internal is already on."

He thinks you came out here to complain about the cold. He's apologizing, in that roundabout way he always does.

He likes to feel needed. He likes to feel useful.

"I know," you promise, so soft and gentle that he stops breathing again to focus on trying to make out your facial expressions.

You take in a deep breath. "I'm sorry about what I said. I didn't mean it like that. I know you were just–" he doesn't like the word scared, "–worried. I know you had my best interest at heart, even if you were a huge jerk about it." You smile down at him.

He exhales so slowly. So relieved. He reached up blindly and paws around for your hand. "I did, I was, and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gotten so angry. You're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself—you've never needed me, or anyone else to baby you. I shouldn't have said it. I don't think that little if you."

You wrap your fingers around his so tightly. You press a smile to them. "Apology accepted. Now can we go to bed for real? Because I'm still cold and–"

"And I burn like a furnace, yes, I know. You never let me forget it," he fakes annoyance, untangling himself from the web of sheets he worked up just so he can jump over the back of the couch and pull you clear to the bed. "Anything to get off that god forsaken couch." You can hear the grin in his voice.

[quillsareswords]

Hiii! I absolutely love your stories and wondered if I could request a fem!reader x Damian

So i was thinking Damian and the reader are super competitive and they do sled racing but unfortunately as they were racing, they ran over a snowman and now they have to say sorry to one of his brothers and it's all fluffy and cute

(Sorry this is the first time I requested anything lol)

I'm your first request?? Aw babe 🥺 thank you so much

Anyway happy holidays bb

"It was your fault," you hiss.

"My fault?" He shrills lowly, eyes narrowing on you. He would be gesturing angrily, if he wasn't dragging your sled beside him and dangling his own over his shoulder. Ever the gentleman. "You're the one who suggested spraying cooking oil on the sleds, you idiot!"

Ever the gentleman.

"Hey, hey, hey! I was just trying to give you a chance! Last time I try and be nice to you."

"Chance," he scoffs, "as if you could have hoped to beat me without driving me into a snowman."

"Driving you–?"

"You know what you did!" He crows. "You drifted straight into my line like a damned–!"

"Lane?" You stare at him wide-eyed. "It's a snowy hill, Damian! There are no lanes!"

"What are you two arguing about?" Dick asks, cocking an eyebrow. He's crouched down on his haunches, peering over at the two of you while he helps a six-year-old Mari Grayson fix her bright purple mittens.

Damian stops dead in his tracks, and you're right beside him.

Damn it, how'd you get up the hill so fast? He hasn't even had time to think up a decent lie.

You look at him expectantly. Shamefully. Your house, your family, your niece—you handle it.

He furrows his eyes in bewilderment. Me? She may as well be your niece too! You tell her!

You reel back, eyes wide. Me?! You knocked it over! I don't want to die—I'm too pretty!

Okay, well—he may have been making the last bit up, but it doesn't matter.

Jason pops up behind Mari, hands on his hips. He narrows his eyes suspiciously. "You're doing that thing. With your faces. What'd you do? Who's dead?" His head swivels around dramatically. "Has anybody seen Tim recently?"

Mari looks from her eldest uncle, to her father, to the two of you, and tries her best to copy Jason's expression and stance.

You're screwed.

Damian looks at you in a nearly undetectable panic. Fix it, oh my god, sweet jesus christ, please fix it. Because you're perfect in every way, you can fix any problem because you're the most capable person I've ever known.

Okay, well—maybe you're making the last part up. But definitely not the first part.

"Well, I mean– See, it's a really funny story, now that I think about it–"

"They killed Mister Frosty," Tim blurts out from the patio, where he's sitting with Bruce, nimble fingers wrapped tightly around a mug of hot chocolate. "I saw the whole thing. I've got video evidence. It'll hold up in court."

You've got half a mind to charge him right now. Right this second.

"Mister Frosty?" Mari asks quietly, her little frown faltering. You can see it in her eyes. The heartbreak of a child who's just lost a friend she was very emotional my attached to. Even if she only put it together fifteen minutes ago.

Damian deserves death, he realizes. Horrific, bloody, painful death.

You—well, maybe a week of community service.

"We'll help you, uh– fix him! Yeah. We'll take you back down the hill with the sleds, too. Then we'll fix him."

Damian nods quickly. "We could make him better," he supplies, slinging the sled from over his shoulder and back onto the ground, careful not to hit your legs.

"Really?" She looks skeptical.

"Of course!" You grin. "You know I'm great at fixing stuff." You cannot possibly count how many stuffie surgeries and superglue emergencies you've handled over six years of assistant babysitting the little space princess. "And Damian," you glance at him teasingly, "well, I'm sure we can find something to keep him busy."

He rolls his eyes and drops the rope handle of your sled, as if in defiance. It seems to do the trick for Mari; she's grinning again, pale cheeks rosy red against jet black hair, pretty pink against a purple scarf.

"Okay!" She cheers, shuffling through thigh-high snow in her puffy snow pants.

"Yeah!" You agree. "Who do you wanna ride with? Your favorite, or the snowman murderer?"

Damian slaps your arm.

[quillsareswords]

Of Elves and Exhaustion

DAMIAN WAYNE X READER

@alloftheprompts Christmas romance prompt, "Character A is Santa's helper. Character B has a small child/sibling." Soulmate AU-ish because yeah I've seen too many of mom's stupid Hallmark movies and my soul yearns for true love at first sight and we all know that's just NOT in dame's wheelhouse naturally

Send me some Christmas prompts!! I wanna get in the spirit

WARNINGS: swearing, mentions of a brother and father, Bruce Wayne in a Santa costume

MASTER LIST in BIO

He's gonna kill Timothy.

It's not a debate. It's not a question. It's a decided fact. This time next week, Timothy Drake will be corpse-cold dead.

He's got the whole thing worked out—beginning, middle, end, get-a-way.

He's had all day to stew on it. Pennyworth dropped him off at eight-fucking-o'clock, and now it's two-fucking-fifteen.

Drake is going to die.

If not for winning the world's stupidest rigged bet, then for this absolutely abhorrent shade of green.

A fucking elf.

He's dressed like a fucking. Elf.

Not even a decently interesting, respectable, Lord of the Rings, Dungeons and Dragons elf. A Christmas elf, of all things. Plastic ears, crushed velvet red and green costume and all.

In the middle of a goddamn mall.

He's just glad he'd undercover. If he were here as himself, he'd probably just have to launch himself into the fountain and drown himself. Not to be dramatic, or anything.

At least these little brats aren't touching him. That's the only thing holding this entire operation together. His father is the one dressed up in the red suit, fluffy white beard triggering a sneeze every six and a half minutes.

There's an eternal cycle of snotty, sniveling, slimy children that Damian ushers from the front of the line, to his father's lap, and then back out of the roped off section.

Parents are snapping photos and Damian knows he's only dodging every fifth one. The best ones don't even acknowledge him—too wrapped up in the overflowing excitement of being in the presence of Santa Clause. The worst ones are sobbing hysterically, blowing snot bubbles, and fearfully wailing as their parents expect him to help drag them toward a comparatively massive stranger.

Drake is going to die.

Just as soon as Damian shucks this itchy monstrosity if a costume and Drake gets his ass out of the security guard uniform.

The next kid in line seems like a good one. Far more subdued than the others. Definitely not as excited. After the screaming toddler he just shoved into a father's arms, he almost breathes a sign of relief.

He looks past the kid's pop-pop topped beanie. Jeans, sweatshirt, phone in hand—and then–

And then he almost trips on a rogue fake present. You're gorgeous.

You look up from your screen at the quiet commotion, but he's already righted himself and kicked the empty wrapped box away. Pretending his shame was inside said box.

You look exhausted.

Oh, but it's not enough to dampen your beauty.

You meet his eyes, for just a moment. There are bags under your eyes, but he can't fathom that he's making up the way your eyes light up just the slightest bit. Something like recognition.

"Uh, Jake," you mumble, nudging the kid with you, "go."

Oh right. He almost forgot for a second there.

The kid groans softly, shoulders slumping, head dropping. "Do I have to?"

"Yeah," you sigh, following he and Damian up the few steps. "Dad's gonna be done shopping in a few minutes. We'll just get this done, meet him at the Macy's entrance, and talk him into ice cream."

Damian doesn't have to do a damn thing. He just needs to stand off the the side and wait to escort you to the other side of the winter wonderland. It's not his fault that his spot just happens to be next to you while you snap pictures.

You lower your phone. Jake glances over at you conspiratolally. Then, he leans in to Bruce and start whispering. Bruce, of course, makes a point to listen dramatically.

You snort. "He acts like he's too old for any of this, but he's only seven."

Damian nods slowly. He tries to pretend his brain isn't short circuiting. Because oh my god you're talking to him and you initiated it which means you're interested which means it's mutual which means–

"So how'd you end up on elf duty? Decent pay?"

He looks over at the lazy smile, the crossed arms, the half-lidded eyes. Babysitting duty, maybe. Still, there's that little gleam of nervousness that even exhaustion can't bury. Did you hair look that soft earlier?

Oh shit, you asked him something.

"Lost a bet," he answers. "Believe me, I'd rather be absolutely anywhere else." Preferably wherever you're heading. He bites his tongue.

"Yeah?" You laugh. You look back to your brother. Not because his eyes are just too pretty. Or anything. Confidence. You a strong, independent person. You can do this. Just talk to the pretty guy. Speak. English. "Well, I don't know when you go on break, but I'll be in the food court until about five. My dad's doing all his Christmas shopping today, and my brother hangs out in the arcade right there by the Chinese booth. If, ya know– If you wanted to hang out, or something."

He's gonna faint.

You know what? Maybe Tim can be allowed to live one more day. Might as well give him some time to say goodbye to Steph.