FUCK YOU to everyone who's posted memes under the harry potter x reader tag. all there is in the top section of the tag are memes. bitch fuck outta my face i wanna read fanfic not your horrible attempt at being funny
The soft glow of your bedroom lights bathed the walls in a warm hue as you lay sprawled across your bed, a tablet propped up against your knees while lo-fi music hummed gently from the speakers. It was late afternoon at the Tower, and the kind of peaceful quiet that followed a day without villains or rogue.
You had your window cracked open, more out of habit than anything else. Somewhere far below, you could faintly hear the city’s buzz. But up here, it felt like your own little sanctuary—until you heard the distinct clink of the latch sliding open.
You didn’t flinch. Instead, a slow smile tugged at your lips as you glanced sideways toward the tall windows just as they cracked open fully, letting in a gust of wind and a very familiar, curly-haired boy who stumbled in with a bit more flair than necessary.
“Peter,” you drawled without looking up, “you know there’s a door, right?”
He straightened, brushing wind-tangled curls out of his face and grinning. “There's no fun in that."
You turned your attention to him, a smile pulling on your lips as you placed the tablet away. You stood up from your bed and walked over to him, placing a soft kiss on his lips that he flourished into. Peter's hands found your waist as he moved you both from left to right earning a giggle from you. Time felt like it slowed down every time you kissed Peter. He was always so soft, so loving- so unreal.
You pulled away first, wrapping stray pieces of hair around your finger and twirling it. His eyes were glued to you-full of admiration and love. He let out a sheepish laugh before he removed his hands from your waist to pull his backpack off.
"Almost forgot, I have a surprise." He mentions, crouching down so he could unzip his backpack before rummaging inside.
"A surprise?" You ask, eyebrows furrowed.
Peter looked up at you through his lashes, a small awkward smile tugging at his lips. "I, uh… brought something. It’s kinda nerdy. Okay, it’s really nerdy. But I was thinking—maybe you’d wanna do it with me?"
You let out a breathy laugh at your boyfriends remark. "Pete, I don't care how nerdy it is if it means I get to spend time with you."
He chuckled nervously before pulling out a LEGO set. It had a massive gray spaceship and a number that read '7,541 pieces', the unmistakable title in the corner: Millennium Falcon.
Your mouth fell agape. “Peter, that thing’s huge.”
He laughed, cheeks flushing. "Ned and I pooled together some money a while back to buy one, and we built it together over a couple weekends. But then this one went on sale, and I kinda… saved up again. I was gonna build it solo, but I thought it'd be more fun with you."
Your heart warmed at the thought.
He looked up at you then, eyes a little uncertain. "I know it’s dorky. I just thought—if you don’t want to, it’s totally fine—"
You leaned forward, reaching out to cradle his face with your hands. "Peter, that’s really sweet of you. I’d love to."
Relief washed over his face like a tide. He beamed, leaning forward to kiss your cheek before immediately beginning to unload bag after bag of LEGO pieces from his backpack. Within minutes, your floor was covered in numbered plastic packets, the massive instruction manual flopped open.
You settled onto the carpet, legs crossed beneath you. Peter sat opposite, already sorting out the first few bags.
"Okay, so bag one is all the base plates," he said, eyes skimming the instructions. "And fun fact—did you know the actual Millennium Falcon in the movies was twenty-five meters long? The UCS model is over thirty inches! They had to build a full-size cockpit for some of the original shots."
You let out a giggle at his comments, "Really?" you asked teasingly. You loved it when Peter would give you random fun facts and would become completely absorbed in his interests.
Peter’s eyes lit up. He nodded eagerly, clearly thrilled you showed even a dime interested. "Yeah! But I think this is the updated model,” Peter murmured, nose buried in the instruction book.
“It’s more accurate to the Force Awakens version—but it still has the classic round dish instead of the rectangular one, which is way better, honestly.”
You smiled as you sorted. “You sound like you’ve memorized the schematics.”
“I have. Pretty much.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
Peter shot you a proud look. “Did you know the Falcon’s hyperdrive is a Class 0.5? That’s faster than an Imperial Star Destroyer. Han bragged about it all the time.”
“Oh really?”
"Also," he added, glancing up, "did you know that its hyperdrive was a class 0.5? That’s one of the fastest ratings in the galaxy."
You gasped dramatically. "Scandalous."
“And the reason it looks so weird is because George Lucas originally designed it as a flying saucer, but changed it at the last minute. The final design is based on a hamburger with an olive on the side.”
You paused, mid-sort. “Wait. What?”
Peter grinned. “Yeah. The olive is the cockpit.”
You reached across the instruction booklet to boop his nose. "You’re such a nerd."
"You love it," he teased.
"I do."
An hour in, your floor was buried in baggies, bricks, and half-assembled engine cores. You’d lost count of how many times Peter had given you little Star Wars facts. Every single time, you smiled and gave him soft, amused responses:
“That’s so cool.”
“Really?”
“You’re kind of amazing, you know that?”
He always flushed a little when you said that. It made you want to keep doing it just to watch him try not to squirm.
The Falcon began to take shape. Compartments, smugglers’ holds, the cockpit frame. Peter showed you how the dish connected, and you helped him attach the forward mandibles. Each piece that clicked into place made the whole thing feel like a game.
You were reaching for another gray tile when the door cracked open behind you.
“Hey, kiddo, I was gonna ask if—”
Tony Stark stopped cold in the doorway. His brows furrowed as he took in the scene: you and Peter Parker sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor, surrounded by a colorful minefield of LEGO, instruction books, half-built Falcon parts, and a disturbing amount of laser blaster minifigures.
He tilted his head slowly, eyes narrowing.
“What’s Spider-Boy doing here?”
Peter stiffened like he’d been hit with a stun gun. “Uh… hi, Mr. Stark.”
You looked up with a calm, practiced smile. “He wanted to hang out. We’re building LEGO's.”
Tony squinted. "That’s aggressively nerdy."
"Dad!"
He held up his hands in mock defense. “Hey, hey. Not judging. Just… observing. Judging a little, but still.”
Peter smiled awkwardly. “It’s a really advanced set.”
“I can see that.” Tony squinted. “Wait—when did you get here?”
Peter blinked. “Uh… not long ago?”
Tony’s eyes narrowed. "Wait a sec. When did you come in? I didn’t see you at the door."
Before Peter could speak, Tony looked at the two of you- then the window.
Tony pointed at Peter and looked directly at you. "Did he come through your window?"
Peter and you tried to speak at the same time once again- but were cut off.
"How long has that been going on? Is this, like, a nightly thing? Is he Batman-ing his way in here every week?"
“Dad,” you sighed, “we’ve been over this—”
Tony held up a finger. “You know what? Nope. Gonna circle back to that later. But in the meantime—Peter, dinner’s at seven. You’re staying. No arguments.”
Peter nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”
“And next time,” Tony added, walking toward the door, “just use the damn door, kid.”
The hours passed in a whirl of bricks and giggles. Peter occasionally scooted closer so you could see the finer parts of the manual. Your arms would brush, and he’d blush, but neither of you mentioned it. At one point, he explained how the Falcon’s sensor dish was knocked off during the Battle of Endor, and that’s why it has a rectangular one in The Force Awakens.
Suddenly, Peter began looking around. He checked beside his legs and around the partially built spaceship. "Where’s the trans-clear radar tile? The one with the circular etching?"
You looked around, then frowned. "It was right here a second ago. Did it fall under the rug?"
The two of you searched every corner of the carpet. Peter was halfway under your bed, legs sticking out like some kind of reverse-spider-crab.
"Got it!" Peter popped back up, hair sticking out in every direction and holding the piece triumphantly. "I found it!"
You grinned. "Oh, my hero!"
He placed it delicately in your palm like he was bestowing a rare jewel.
By the time you reached the final few pieces, the sun had dipped beneath the skyline, casting golden light across the floor. Peter clicked the last turret into place and leaned back, breathless.
You both stared at the completed Falcon. It took up nearly half the floor space between you. In Peter's words, it was 'the second most beautiful thing ever made because you came first.'
Peter exhaled, satisfied. “I’m really glad I got to spend today with you.”
You turned to him and gently cupped his face in your hands. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than with you.”
He blinked, clearly trying not to melt.
“Even if it’s just building LEGOs and me nerding out about Star Wars?”
You smiled, thumb brushing his cheek. “Especially that.”
He gave you that crooked, sunshine smile you adored—one that lit up his whole face.
Right on cue, FRIDAY’s voice filled the room:
“Miss Stark, Mr. Parker: dinner is ready. Mr. Stark has requested your presence. His exact words were: ‘tell the lovebirds to wash their hands and drag themselves to the kitchen before I come up there and hose them down.’”
You and Peter both burst out laughing.
Peter ran a hand through his curls, grinning. “That’s definitely your dad.”
You groaned with a smile, pushing off the floor and stretching. “I should’ve known he’d call us out eventually.”
He gave you that boyish, shy smile that made your heart melt. “You sure he’s not gonna kill me?”
You looped your arms around his neck. “If he was going to, he would’ve the first time you came through my window.”
“…So just mild intimidation tonight?”
You grinned. “Very mild.”
Right then, the door swung open without warning. You were greeted with none other than your father, who looked mildly annoyed.
“You two elope and forget to RSVP to dinner?”
You rolled your eyes, pushing yourself up slightly. “We were on our way.”
Tony stepped further into the room, gaze narrowing just slightly at Peter, who immediately sat up straighter, like being caught slouching was somehow the real offense.
“You okay there, Underoos?” Tony asked, lips twitching. “You look like I walked in on something scandalous. Should I knock next time?”
Peter’s face turned an impressive shade of red. “N-no! I mean—no, sir. We were just building the—uh—Falcon. That’s all. Just the Falcon. LEGO Falcon. Nothing else.”
Tony gave you a knowing look. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
“Dad.”
He smirked. “Hey, I’m just saying—you tell your daughter and her spider-boyfriend dinner’s at 7:00, and 7:10 hits so I come looking and find his hands suspiciously close to your knee and you sitting there making oogly eyes at him."
Peter let out a noise that might’ve been a panicked laugh.
“We were literally talking about Star Wars,” you deadpanned.
“Uh-huh. Nerd foreplay,” Tony muttered. “The most dangerous kind.”
You gave him a look. “Can we not, please?”
Tony held his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. You’re right. I trust you. Mostly.” He gave Peter a long look. “Sixty percent.”
Peter squeaked out a “Thank you?”
Tony’s gaze dropped to the LEGO Millennium Falcon laid out in all its half-built glory. He tilted his head.
“Huh. Not bad.” He gave a small nod, then added, “I could probably build it faster.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Sure you could.”
He smirked. “Excuse me, I’m a mechanical genius. That thing’s like baby’s first blueprint.”
“You still couldn’t figure out how to open a cereal box this morning.”
“That was sabotage. Who triple seals Frosted Flakes?”
Peter tried and failed to stifle a laugh, to which Tony turned, mock-offended. “Oh, so now you’re on her side?”
Peter put his hands up, smiling nervously. “I’m neutral! Switzerland!”
Tony pointed at him. “Stay that way. Smart man.”
He took a final glance around the room, nodding once more before backing out. “Wrap it up, lovebirds. Dinner’s getting cold and I’m not reheating lasagna for two teenagers who chose LEGO bricks and whatever the hell you two were doing up here over my homemade masterpiece.”
You snorted. “You didn’t make that lasagna. FRIDAY ordered it.”
“Semantics,” Tony called over his shoulder as he disappeared down the hall.
₊⊹ Busy thinking about Jason Todd not caring that you break his hand during labor.
Your water broke just as you were rolling over for bed, of course you were expecting it, your due date was right around the corner and you swear Jason's been fussing over you more than usual.
Jason was up and panicking the second you poked him and humed that your water had broke. Springing out of bed in just a pair of black boxers and fumbling around in the dark- cursing quietly when he stubs his toe off the dresser edge.
Amused as you were at first by his reaction, you soon found yourself groaning in pain as contractions started rippling through your lower stomach. Jason, sweet Jason, freezes the second he hears your pained sigh and finally seems to snap out of his head.
"Okay, 'Ma. Let's get you to the hospital, yeah?" He shrugs into a pair of jeans and a red sweatshirt before quickly rounding the bed and wrapping one thick corded arm around your back and the other under your thighs, you rest your head on his chest and breathe through a particularly painful contraction.
You don't remember the driver to the hospital, nor the stripping yourself into a hospital gown with Jay's help but soon you find yourself on a hospital bed and the doctor is hovering over you telling you it's time to start pushing.
Jason's hand is wrapped around yours, his eyes pained and murmuring words of encouragement as you scream and cry with every push. He hates that you're in pain, that there are tears trailing down your cheeks and he can't do anything but wipe them away and kiss your sweaty forehead.
Every time the doctor tells you to push, your fingers squeeze around Jason's hand tighter, tight enough to cut off the circulation and he feels his bones creaking under the pressure but his entire focus is on you.
Finally, the doctor tells you both that she can see the head and to push one last time and you do, you drop your head back on the pillows and push, hand clamped tightly around Jason's as you grit your teeth and breathe out a pained breath, the bones in Jason's hand snap just as a baby's cry pierces the room.
Jason feels tears prick his eyes as he sees his daughter, you have a babygirl. The doctor gently lays her on your chest and her wails dull almost immediately as you wrap a protective hand around her little body and let out a quiet sob, your other hand still wrapped in Jason's and your eyes find his, mutual neverending love flowing from both of you for the baby you both made.
"You're so perfect, you both are." Jason's voice breaks as he brings your hand to his lips and kisses the inside of your wrist reverently before pressing your hand to his forehead, any pain he might have felt in his hand is non-existent as he watches you and your daughter nap later that night.
He only realizes his hand is broken when Dick points it out to him the next day when you both bring the family in. His pointer finger and pinky in particular are a deep shade of purple.
Jason shrugs, his eyes trailing back to you, giggling with Steph and Cass as you hold your daughter and Steph fawns over her. A broken hand is nothing compared to what you gave him in exchange, the pain you went through.
When your eyes meet his and you beam at him, he knows he'd sustain another broken hand without a second thought if it means you and him stay in this bubble forever.
a.n: I am nothing if not a girl dad Jason truther
: ̗̀➛ More from me!
c. @.mrbusinessman, 2026. Do not steal, edit or repost my work.
summary: damian wayne is at a total loss in the matters of love and winning over your heart, so much so that he dreadfully ends up on each brother’s doorstep seeking love advice.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader (featuring dick, tim & jason)
content: flufff, absolute chaos and only one bat brother comes out on top in teaching damian the ways of yearning, not that he needed help for that in the first place.
“You—” Dick’s grin is barely repressed, chest puffed in pride of being the first confidant Damian thought of. “—seek dating advice?”
Damian makes a non-committal shrug. “I admit that I may harbour feelings towards her that differ from my usual disdain to the average person.”
Dick’s laugh escapes his lips, but quickly conceals itself into an overly serious nod when Damian’s glare pierces through him.
“And you… travelled all the way to Blüdhaven to ask me for help?”
Damian would much rather be stabbed with a jagged-edged blade than admit that. There was always a price to pay for relying on others, especially when it came to his tooth-grinning brothers.
“Would you like to tell her.. about these feelings?” Dick tries again, settling for a more emphatic approach.
Damian winces, averting his gaze—trying to displace the sudden lodge in his throat. “I assumed there were more steps that entail to a courtship. You’re clearly well-versed in them.”
Dick clears his throat. “It isn’t like a routined dance, Damian.” At Damian’s furrowed brow, he continues. “Falling in love—dating, it comes naturally between two people. It’s the million little moments, built upon each other that no practiced motion can recreate. It happens regardless of choices, and that’s the beauty of it.”
“Naturally.” Damian tests the word on his tongue, but like he suspected, it ran off with a bitter taste. While he has been deemed a prodigy, a perfect weapon—being a normal human was not something trained into his veins, but rather suppressed.
“Maybe it is for you, Grayson—but where I was raised, details of courtship and emotional connection with another person were never discussed. My body is not programmed to have these natural decisions come forth to my mind, and I-”
It feels like swallowing glass when he mutters. “I require your assistance to explain it to me.”
Dick’s gaze softens in pity, which weighs heavier, worse than his laughter earlier. “Hey, we actually started off on the same boat. If anything, at least you didn’t have to experience Bruce’s attempt at explaining it. He’s more an expert than any of us when it comes to emotional suppression.”
“Love..” Dick ponders. “It hits you when you least expect it, but spending time together does test if the feeling is reciprocated.”
“I suppose there are some steps that you could follow.” Dick murmurs, thumb trailing his chin in thought. “Alright, here’s the plan.”
Damian may not be well-versed in the matters of courtship. However, standing stiffly in competition with the street lamp beside him, his nose buried into his green scarf more so to hide his shame rather than from the winter cold, his regret grows tenfold with every passing minute for even agreeing to this.
You're bound to arrive at any moment, and he'd rather suffer in his regrets than leave you stranded on a date his brother suggested. Not that he used that term, he could barely handle deeming it a hang out.
In his earpiece, Dick’s voice echoes with irritating amusement.
“Damian, you need to relax. You look like an assassin waiting for your target to appear.”
“Train to be one from the moment you were born with a family legacy on your shoulders and see how that affects your posture.” Damian grumbles.
“It’s okay if you’re nervous. I’ll guide you if you freeze, remember?”
“I’m not nervous—”
His peripheral vision recognises your silhouette before he can even finish his retort. All sound seems to fade past the stuttering in his chest, including his brother’s teasing, and maybe time slows too—he wouldn’t put you below that possibility. You’re busy with your scarf that’s loosened enough to reveal your lips, and you don’t even notice that you’re speed-walking right towards him.
It’s instinctive, not at all pleasing when his hands reach out just in time to grab onto your shoulders before you slam face-first into his coat.
Your eyes widen comically, but it doesn’t appease the thundering of his pulse, not especially when you smile at him like that, bashful and sweet. “Damian! Fancy bumping into you here." You tease.
“Perfect meet-cute.” Dick whispers to himself. “Tell her it’s fine—that you actually think it’s cute.”
“What?” He snaps, feeling ashamed at the mere suggestion.
You blink twice at his sudden reaction. He needs to recover quickly, say something.
“Watch where you’re going.” He slips out.
He can hear the sound of Dick slapping his own forehead, echoing in his eardrums.
Thankfully, you don’t seem deterred by his slow-witted response, grin still in-tact. “Apologies for almost ruining your luxurious scarf. Though I’ll must say, green looks really good on you.”
He tenses. This is the moment, he must say something right this time.
“Brings out the colour of my eyes.” Dick offers through a sigh.
Perfect. Something witty, and completely appropriate for the situation.
“Brings out the colour of my eyes.” Damian’s delivery is completely robotic, unlike the one he heard in his ears, carrying none of the light-hearted tone that made it sound right.
Miraculously, it only cracks a laugh out of you.
“She’s an angel.” Dick groans, almost pitifully.
He winces, letting you go before offering his hand. “The snow’s slippery.” His excuse is well-rehearsed, recovering back into the steps Dick gave him.
Your expression brightens, taking ahold of his hand. It’s a perfect fit, your glove in his and a warm glow is forming behind his ribs—an unsteady, pleasant feeling, almost enough to forget the mistake he made.
“Smooth recovery.” Dick comments in approval. “Bring her to the next location.”
If Damian could, he’d mute Dick's channel immediately if he was going to be reminding him every second. It was distracting and nerve wracking to be multi-tasking two tasks at once, especially when you easily compelled him to lose all train of thought.
The skating rink is crowded, more than he’d like, but he wasn’t up for improvisation after his earlier attempt. It’ll have to do, and he’s sure his withering glare can clear enough space for the two of you.
“I’ve always wanted to try ice skating.” You’re brimming with glee with your gaze glued to the ice, and his eyes trail over your excitement with a tender patience. He’d like to sketch it out when he was back home, but even the thought of ending this moment was incomprehensible, so he settles on bending down to tie your skating shoes.
”Just to warn you—” Your joyful glimmer falters into a rare bundle of nerves. “I’ve never skated—like ever. You’ll need to teach me the ropes.”
His lips quirk the slightest lift. “You have the best teacher in all of Gotham.”
“Really?” You tease, leaning down slightly that he feels the warmth of your breath over his nose, sending goosebumps down his arms. “That’s a bold claim.”
“I was raised on snow mountains since I was an infant. A skating rink in Gotham is a small feat for me, and it shall be for you.”
“Less bragging, more swooning.” Dick’s voice echoes in his eardrums.
Damian’s expression clamps shut as he leads you towards the ice. He takes the first step and balances himself perfectly on the naturally formed ice. You enter immediately on the wrong angle, and slip. He doesn’t think, his free hand wrapping around your waist before you fall.
He freezes, and you do too. Caught at the entrance of the rink in the corner where no one is watching, you’re wrapped so closely in his embrace—his body instinctively shielding and protecting you. He feels his entire face burning up from the lack of distance.
“Maybe ice and me are less compatible than you think.” You whisper, as if the ice would crack and swallow you whole if it heard you.
It’s enough to kick him back into his senses, and he quickly lifts you back up to your feet. Gently letting go of your waist, he ignores the jittering in his fingers by taking hold of your hands instead.
“Hasn’t been proven yet.” He answers, looking down at your feet. “Mirror my stance.”
Your own gaze shifts down, and you adjust the blades of your shoes into the same V position. You’re shuffling less, which is already a sign of improvement.
“Alright, now one step forward, and the other leg lifts like a kick.” Damian instructs.
You try, but your feet wobble at your first kick, making you fall into his arms again. Not that he minds.
“You’re lifting too early.” He notes. “You’ll have to glide with your other foot first.”
Your brows furrow together, an adorable concentration creased in the centre as you try again. You manage it the second time, and he finds it despite himself, vulnerable to smiling when you let out a huff of joyous laughter as you glide with him, his hands still holding onto you.
“I guess you proved yourself right.” Your focus is still on your feet, but when you lift your gaze, you’re leaning close to him just like before when he had caught you—with such pure, content bliss that the word ‘beautiful’ fails to describe your features. “You are a good teacher.”
Dick’s muttering something in his ear, but the erratic signals shooting through his brain fries all comprehension of what he’s supposed to do next other than stare at you speechless like a bumbling fool.
He messes up his next step, and before he knows it, he’s tumbling down to the ice, and you fall down with him through your connected limbs. His body shields you from the freezing ice, but nothing protects him from the shame that drowns his entire conscience—of falling onto the ice which he has never done in his lifetime, and dragging you down with him.
He hears Dick clearly now, laughing so hard that it stings his eardrums from the high frequency.
“Damian!” You call out, and your gaze is half worry, half shock. “Are you okay?”
His ears flush with blood at your question, most likely reddened as if there wasn’t enough to mope about.
“I would very much like for the ice to swallow me whole.” He mutters dryly. “Other than that, I am uninjured.”
“I so have that captured.” Dick howls through the earpiece. “I’m calling it, this is going to be the topic of discussion for our next family dinner.”
Damian discreetly rips his ear-piece out and shoves it into his coat’s pocket when your gaze averts to an elderly couple stopping by the two of you like his fall is some tourist attraction, asking if he needed any help to get back to the entrance.
He is never asking Grayson for help ever again.
The Bat-Cave, Wayne Manor
(Drake’s Secondary Home)
“You sure you have the right person?” Tim guffaws, his expression a mixture of horror and fascination. “Haven’t you tried—”
“Grayson, yes. He has failed.” His scowl has dug deeper if possible, the faint memory of Dick’s laughter still penetrates his eardrums when he isn’t preoccupied with his responsibilities.
Pointing an intrusive finger to his new prey, he speaks. “You are to prove yourself more worthy than he is, as the next best in line for successful courtships.”
Tim raises a brow. “Didn’t know you kept track.”
Damian scowls. “Your methods are unconventional, but there are no other better alternatives.” Imposing and distracting with his crossed arms, casting a shadow over the littered papers, his presence eventually forces Tim to detach from the case he was working on.
“Alright, what’s her name?” Tim sighs, his fingers switching to a new tab where the identity search bar flickers.
Damian stiffens, defensive. “Why would you require her name?”
“To search for her, genius.” Tim comments as if it’s obvious that an illegal identity search is the best course of action. “I can have her interests, dislikes, and her entire profile mapped out in less than five minutes.”
“That’s dishonourable.”
“It’s efficient.” Tim fires back. “Or else we’ll be here all day. Why waste time on the uncertainties when you can already mould everything to go perfectly?”
“My respect for you shrinks by the second, Drake.”
Tim snorts. “As if you had any in the first place. Don’t act like you haven’t done your own illegal searches. Suddenly, it’s your crush and I’m not allowed to look into it?”
The back of Damian’s neck grows hot at the mere use of the word ‘crush’, dumbing his feelings down to something so.. pathetic. “Fine, I’ll do it myself. You’re not allowed to so much as glance at her.”
Tim’s hands raise in mock surrender. “I would never.”
As Damian settles into the seat, given the privacy as Tim launches himself into the spare chair, spinning it backward with his back facing the Bat-computer, he can feel the latter brewing with something to say.
“Spit it out.” Damian huffs.
“I just—” Tim starts. “Never thought I’d live to see the day of you softening up for someone. I mean—it’s even made you come all the way for my assistance.”
“I did not come for assistance.”
“Advice is practically the same thing.” Tim remarks. “You may have called it dishonourable, but can you truly claim you love a person if you don’t know them fully? I think falling in love means having a curiosity so strong for someone that you would like to know them as deeply as they know themselves. Isn’t that what it means to love?”
Damian’s gaze flickers to Tim who yawns widely, tucking his head into his elbows over a long drought from sleep after staying up for two days straight. It… resonated with him, his never-ending greed to learn the intricacies of your emotions and actions, to know the depths behind each story you held in your mind.
He’s spent long, treacherous months avoiding even the mention of your name anywhere outside the confinements of his mind, aside from the occasional scribble and tear of his paper, and his hunger has become an obstacle that even he can’t tackle any longer. With a mental push, the mere action of typing your name numbs his fingers from the anticipation.
Your social media accounts pop up—one is public with your name listed, and another is a photography account. There’s not many photos, but there’s enough that it feels like he’s peeking into something intimate, a catalogue of your life that has his heart quickening.
He remembers vividly of you asking to exchange social media accounts when you had first met, before he quickly shut it down, commenting that he refused to have such useless applications.
Yet, here he was—frozen, mesmerised at the sight of your smile captured on your digital camera, unable to scroll further past your most recent post. It didn’t capture the true essence of your joy like he remembered so clearly from that failed date, but it still struck him all the same.
Even his denial falls silent when he’s looking at you, because he’d be a fool to pretend away the quick pattering of his heart, or the small smile etched into his lips caused by you. His mind has formed a despicable habit—a quiet, dreadful longing whenever he envisions even a frame of you in his mind.
He has fallen for you quietly—strongly, and even as he scrolls further, to the latest bookstores you’ve frequented, or your blurred snapshots of sunsets along the Gotham horizon, he’s not satisfied. What is the use of seeing these images if he wasn’t there to witness it or hear from you in person?
He wants to be in your life, not just a mere bystander, but he doesn’t know how to say it.
“You’ve been deathly silent for ten minutes.” Tim comments. “It’s kind of making me curious—”
“I will gouge out your eyes myself, Drake.”
There’s only one person he has left to ask, and as he pierces a coffin-burying glare into Tim’s prying gaze, he wasn’t sure if he’d get the answer he needed.
89, Skirley Apartments, Park Row (Crime Alley)
(Todd’s Rebellious Man-Cave)
Jason whistles, leaning against the door to his mess of an apartment. “You must be desperate if you’ve come to see me.”
The disgruntlement in Damian’s expression comes mostly from embarrassment and partly from the state of disarray he finds from one single swipe past the gap of Jason’s shoulder and the door frame. Motorcycle gear is splayed out over the scratched floorboards, signaling another random side project.
Barely lived in, and somehow a complete mess that would have Alfred over in a snap with his emergency cleaning set.
“Grayson’s overly optimistic and Drake’s downright creepy.” Damian huffs.
“And that leaves me..?” Jason’s brow raises, a taunting smirk on his lips.
“As the last option.” Damian grits.
Jason steps back, his back pushing against the wood to allow Damian into his less-than-adequate living quarters.
“Well, sorry to break it to you, kid—” Jason plops down onto the couch, and the pillow-seat sinks under his weight. “But my understanding of love is barely any better than yours.”
“You’re still the second oldest.” Call it desperation, Damian isn’t sure if he’s above that anymore after the failure of his two other brothers. “You must’ve had some experience.”
“Now, age matters?” Jason mocks. “Well—if you want my two cents, I suppose I can give it.”
“There’s no point beating around the bush.” Jason states. “If you really like her, you just have to say it. Even if it hurts, especially if you’re scared it’ll hurt. That means there’s something worth to lose, and to never ask, it’s always gonna hurt worse than knowing.”
“That’s the whole point of love. It takes being brave, and realising the possibility of something real right in front of you—and fighting for it. You only have so few chances in the world to experience it, and you’re going to waste something like that over fear of what—rejection?”
“Have a heart-to-heart. That’ll always mean more than some hidden message, hoping she’ll notice and give in first.” Leaning back, Jason eyes Damian with a rare look he doesn’t recognise, because there is no possibility in the world that wisdom could exist in that big-head of his. “If she doesn’t return how you feel, that sucks. You’ll live barely, then it’ll heal and you move on. If you never answer the question? It’s gonna haunt you for life. The one that got away.”
The thought of losing you to cowardice, of being a permanent outsider to your life, nearly ruins him. Damian can’t afford that, not when there’s never been a person he desired for more than you. This week has made sure of that.
Even more of a horrifying realisation is that of all people, Jason Todd was the one that got through to him. His trained eyes scan the perimeter for any signs of a secret partner, a reason for this sudden shift in his usual, thick-headed sibling. “Where did you obtain such knowledge?”
Jason’s lips quirk up. “Jane Austen, you should try her sometime.”
135, Kane Street, Otisburg
(Damian's Last Resort)
Damian has only felt the urge to puke on two occasions this past year. Firstly, when he discovered old photos of Dick’s first Nightwing costume in an old album, and had to wash his hands twice with anti-bacterial soap. Secondly, when a rare poison seeped into his bloodstream that he had not already trained to be immune to.
Never had the nauseating feeling of nerves scale till the point of trembling fingers and stiff legs. He just needed to tell the truth, so why did the matter seem so petrifying?
He’s been standing outside your door, letting the winter frost bite at his exposed skin—like a pathetic loser for the past fifteen minutes and if he stood there any longer, he might as well brand himself as one. His hand comes up to knock in three measured beats, and he waits with the patience of Dick’s pit-bull for a belly rub.
The door unlocks, and your tousled hair greets him first. His heart tugs at the sight of you in your home attire, with your loosened shirt and pajama pants dragging against the floor. You’re utterly beautiful, even as you’re slapping your cheeks lightly to coerce yourself awake. It takes a few seconds for the realisation to hit your half-asleep features before your eyes nearly pop out.
“Damian? It’s five in the morning! What are you doing here?”
“I have romantic feelings for you.” He blurts with the subtlety of a ramming gun.
“If you reciprocate, I would like to..” He pauses, his thoughts competing with the rapid pace of his heartbeat. “Wait, I didn’t think this through.”
You blink slowly, shock blasted over your face, before a soft, warm smile creeps over your lips. “No-no, go on.”
He wants it to be perfect, but his words were too direct, too harsh. He wasn’t like Dick, who was naturally charismatic with others, or Tim who thought two steps ahead for every interaction, or Jason who bulldozed through without a care in the world. He doesn’t want to risk losing you over his own incompetence. “No, I feel like I’ve started it all wrong.”
“It’s five in the morning, even Damian Wayne is human enough to mess up his words at this hour.” You tease. His shoulders sag in relief at the sound of your comforting voice, which he suspects is the purpose of your teasing. To calm him, tell him it’s okay.
“Right.” He mutters. “May I start over?”
“I’m all ears.” You grin.
He cracks a soft smile in return. It is difficult for him to be human, to feel his faults bubble to the surface, but in front of you, he is willing to try. “I am unfathomably, undoubtably.. and completely in love with you. Romantic feelings don’t even come close to describing the knowing in my heart that it has chosen you from the very moment you entered my life.”
“When I am around you, it’s as if the world disappears, and all I envision is you.” He admits. “From the moment you approached me with your maddening smile and charming wit, I don’t believe I could have ever fought against it, against you.”
“Your laughter brings joy to me, your sadness distracts me of all my senses, and your very existence is a gift in my life that I cherish deeply and.. I’m terrified at the idea of losing that, losing you.”
“Love..” He hesitates. “..is a difficult concept for me to understand, because it has never been shown to me outright. So when I felt this desire—this constant want to be in your presence, I sought for understanding.”
“I see now—that love can’t be explained in just mere words. It is the shared moments between us that I replay in my mind, the small details I find myself noticing of you and cherishing deeply, and the fear of losing that privilege of knowing you. I realised.. that I can’t fathom continuing my life without you in it.”
“I don’t know if I deserve to be by your side, but I would like to try.” His gaze finds yours, and he hopes. So desperately, he hopes. “Would you have me, even if I am a fool who doesn’t know the right things to say?” His plea is quiet against the silent rustle of the trees, the dark twilight sky that watches over them.
Your eyes soften, filled with warmth and that same, brimming happiness he has memorised from the time spent on the ice. “You’re only an idiot if you think you didn’t say all the right things, Damian.”
His chest, tight till the point of rupturing, feels like it’s finally able to breathe.
Leaning in slowly, right across the barrier of the doorstep that separates you from him, you gift him with a soft kiss pressed against his lips and his entire world falls apart, not that it ever truly existed before you.
He takes you into his arms, lifting your feet off the doorstep as his boots crunch against the melted snow when he kisses you back. He has never kissed anyone before, but the feeling of wanting you so close to his soul only feels natural when you’re here in his arms.
It’s sweet, clumsy—and out of all the moments he’s spent with you, he truly wished he could replay this over and over.
When you break the kiss, he has to remind himself to not follow after you when you whisper softly against his lips. “You never finished. What did you want to do if I reciprocated?”
Visions, blurred and incoherent, flash through his mind but it’s nothing compared to the real thing right in front of him. “Everything. As long as you’re mine, the possibilities are endless.”
“Of course I’m yours, Damian.” Your eyes crinkle into that puddle of warmth that melts through all his defences. “No one has ever come to my doorstep, at five in a winter morning, professing their love before.”
His brows furrow, lips nearing to a pout. “Has anyone ever tried professing their love in other ways?”
You laugh, and he can get used to that. Making you smile and laugh as if it’s his one purpose on this planet. “No—I think my heart was too busy being taken by the person in front of me, who just conveyed what love is so perfectly that I can never think of anyone else.”
He relaxes at that, feeling his own smile deepen at the relief of finally having you in his arms, and in the comfort of the warmth shared under the dim streetlights, he thinks he’ll have to temporarily bump Jason to the number one spot in his long line of siblings.
Not that he’d ever tell him that—but he supposes if a limited edition of Jane Austen's collection ends up at Jason's doorstep tomorrow, it would have simply been the universe's divine gift.
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
summary: damian wayne is at a total loss in the matters of love and winning over your heart, so much so that he dreadfully ends up on each brother’s doorstep seeking love advice.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader (featuring dick, tim & jason)
content: flufff, absolute chaos and only one bat brother comes out on top in teaching damian the ways of yearning, not that he needed help for that in the first place.
“You—” Dick’s grin is barely repressed, chest puffed in pride of being the first confidant Damian thought of. “—seek dating advice?”
Damian makes a non-committal shrug. “I admit that I may harbour feelings towards her that differ from my usual disdain to the average person.”
Dick’s laugh escapes his lips, but quickly conceals itself into an overly serious nod when Damian’s glare pierces through him.
“And you… travelled all the way to Blüdhaven to ask me for help?”
Damian would much rather be stabbed with a jagged-edged blade than admit that. There was always a price to pay for relying on others, especially when it came to his tooth-grinning brothers.
“Would you like to tell her.. about these feelings?” Dick tries again, settling for a more emphatic approach.
Damian winces, averting his gaze—trying to displace the sudden lodge in his throat. “I assumed there were more steps that entail to a courtship. You’re clearly well-versed in them.”
Dick clears his throat. “It isn’t like a routined dance, Damian.” At Damian’s furrowed brow, he continues. “Falling in love—dating, it comes naturally between two people. It’s the million little moments, built upon each other that no practiced motion can recreate. It happens regardless of choices, and that’s the beauty of it.”
“Naturally.” Damian tests the word on his tongue, but like he suspected, it ran off with a bitter taste. While he has been deemed a prodigy, a perfect weapon—being a normal human was not something trained into his veins, but rather suppressed.
“Maybe it is for you, Grayson—but where I was raised, details of courtship and emotional connection with another person were never discussed. My body is not programmed to have these natural decisions come forth to my mind, and I-”
It feels like swallowing glass when he mutters. “I require your assistance to explain it to me.”
Dick’s gaze softens in pity, which weighs heavier, worse than his laughter earlier. “Hey, we actually started off on the same boat. If anything, at least you didn’t have to experience Bruce’s attempt at explaining it. He’s more an expert than any of us when it comes to emotional suppression.”
“Love..” Dick ponders. “It hits you when you least expect it, but spending time together does test if the feeling is reciprocated.”
“I suppose there are some steps that you could follow.” Dick murmurs, thumb trailing his chin in thought. “Alright, here’s the plan.”
Damian may not be well-versed in the matters of courtship. However, standing stiffly in competition with the street lamp beside him, his nose buried into his green scarf more so to hide his shame rather than from the winter cold, his regret grows tenfold with every passing minute for even agreeing to this.
You're bound to arrive at any moment, and he'd rather suffer in his regrets than leave you stranded on a date his brother suggested. Not that he used that term, he could barely handle deeming it a hang out.
In his earpiece, Dick’s voice echoes with irritating amusement.
“Damian, you need to relax. You look like an assassin waiting for your target to appear.”
“Train to be one from the moment you were born with a family legacy on your shoulders and see how that affects your posture.” Damian grumbles.
“It’s okay if you’re nervous. I’ll guide you if you freeze, remember?”
“I’m not nervous—”
His peripheral vision recognises your silhouette before he can even finish his retort. All sound seems to fade past the stuttering in his chest, including his brother’s teasing, and maybe time slows too—he wouldn’t put you below that possibility. You’re busy with your scarf that’s loosened enough to reveal your lips, and you don’t even notice that you’re speed-walking right towards him.
It’s instinctive, not at all pleasing when his hands reach out just in time to grab onto your shoulders before you slam face-first into his coat.
Your eyes widen comically, but it doesn’t appease the thundering of his pulse, not especially when you smile at him like that, bashful and sweet. “Damian! Fancy bumping into you here." You tease.
“Perfect meet-cute.” Dick whispers to himself. “Tell her it’s fine—that you actually think it’s cute.”
“What?” He snaps, feeling ashamed at the mere suggestion.
You blink twice at his sudden reaction. He needs to recover quickly, say something.
“Watch where you’re going.” He slips out.
He can hear the sound of Dick slapping his own forehead, echoing in his eardrums.
Thankfully, you don’t seem deterred by his slow-witted response, grin still in-tact. “Apologies for almost ruining your luxurious scarf. Though I’ll must say, green looks really good on you.”
He tenses. This is the moment, he must say something right this time.
“Brings out the colour of my eyes.” Dick offers through a sigh.
Perfect. Something witty, and completely appropriate for the situation.
“Brings out the colour of my eyes.” Damian’s delivery is completely robotic, unlike the one he heard in his ears, carrying none of the light-hearted tone that made it sound right.
Miraculously, it only cracks a laugh out of you.
“She’s an angel.” Dick groans, almost pitifully.
He winces, letting you go before offering his hand. “The snow’s slippery.” His excuse is well-rehearsed, recovering back into the steps Dick gave him.
Your expression brightens, taking ahold of his hand. It’s a perfect fit, your glove in his and a warm glow is forming behind his ribs—an unsteady, pleasant feeling, almost enough to forget the mistake he made.
“Smooth recovery.” Dick comments in approval. “Bring her to the next location.”
If Damian could, he’d mute Dick's channel immediately if he was going to be reminding him every second. It was distracting and nerve wracking to be multi-tasking two tasks at once, especially when you easily compelled him to lose all train of thought.
The skating rink is crowded, more than he’d like, but he wasn’t up for improvisation after his earlier attempt. It’ll have to do, and he’s sure his withering glare can clear enough space for the two of you.
“I’ve always wanted to try ice skating.” You’re brimming with glee with your gaze glued to the ice, and his eyes trail over your excitement with a tender patience. He’d like to sketch it out when he was back home, but even the thought of ending this moment was incomprehensible, so he settles on bending down to tie your skating shoes.
”Just to warn you—” Your joyful glimmer falters into a rare bundle of nerves. “I’ve never skated—like ever. You’ll need to teach me the ropes.”
His lips quirk the slightest lift. “You have the best teacher in all of Gotham.”
“Really?” You tease, leaning down slightly that he feels the warmth of your breath over his nose, sending goosebumps down his arms. “That’s a bold claim.”
“I was raised on snow mountains since I was an infant. A skating rink in Gotham is a small feat for me, and it shall be for you.”
“Less bragging, more swooning.” Dick’s voice echoes in his eardrums.
Damian’s expression clamps shut as he leads you towards the ice. He takes the first step and balances himself perfectly on the naturally formed ice. You enter immediately on the wrong angle, and slip. He doesn’t think, his free hand wrapping around your waist before you fall.
He freezes, and you do too. Caught at the entrance of the rink in the corner where no one is watching, you’re wrapped so closely in his embrace—his body instinctively shielding and protecting you. He feels his entire face burning up from the lack of distance.
“Maybe ice and me are less compatible than you think.” You whisper, as if the ice would crack and swallow you whole if it heard you.
It’s enough to kick him back into his senses, and he quickly lifts you back up to your feet. Gently letting go of your waist, he ignores the jittering in his fingers by taking hold of your hands instead.
“Hasn’t been proven yet.” He answers, looking down at your feet. “Mirror my stance.”
Your own gaze shifts down, and you adjust the blades of your shoes into the same V position. You’re shuffling less, which is already a sign of improvement.
“Alright, now one step forward, and the other leg lifts like a kick.” Damian instructs.
You try, but your feet wobble at your first kick, making you fall into his arms again. Not that he minds.
“You’re lifting too early.” He notes. “You’ll have to glide with your other foot first.”
Your brows furrow together, an adorable concentration creased in the centre as you try again. You manage it the second time, and he finds it despite himself, vulnerable to smiling when you let out a huff of joyous laughter as you glide with him, his hands still holding onto you.
“I guess you proved yourself right.” Your focus is still on your feet, but when you lift your gaze, you’re leaning close to him just like before when he had caught you—with such pure, content bliss that the word ‘beautiful’ fails to describe your features. “You are a good teacher.”
Dick’s muttering something in his ear, but the erratic signals shooting through his brain fries all comprehension of what he’s supposed to do next other than stare at you speechless like a bumbling fool.
He messes up his next step, and before he knows it, he’s tumbling down to the ice, and you fall down with him through your connected limbs. His body shields you from the freezing ice, but nothing protects him from the shame that drowns his entire conscience—of falling onto the ice which he has never done in his lifetime, and dragging you down with him.
He hears Dick clearly now, laughing so hard that it stings his eardrums from the high frequency.
“Damian!” You call out, and your gaze is half worry, half shock. “Are you okay?”
His ears flush with blood at your question, most likely reddened as if there wasn’t enough to mope about.
“I would very much like for the ice to swallow me whole.” He mutters dryly. “Other than that, I am uninjured.”
“I so have that captured.” Dick howls through the earpiece. “I’m calling it, this is going to be the topic of discussion for our next family dinner.”
Damian discreetly rips his ear-piece out and shoves it into his coat’s pocket when your gaze averts to an elderly couple stopping by the two of you like his fall is some tourist attraction, asking if he needed any help to get back to the entrance.
He is never asking Grayson for help ever again.
The Bat-Cave, Wayne Manor
(Drake’s Secondary Home)
“You sure you have the right person?” Tim guffaws, his expression a mixture of horror and fascination. “Haven’t you tried—”
“Grayson, yes. He has failed.” His scowl has dug deeper if possible, the faint memory of Dick’s laughter still penetrates his eardrums when he isn’t preoccupied with his responsibilities.
Pointing an intrusive finger to his new prey, he speaks. “You are to prove yourself more worthy than he is, as the next best in line for successful courtships.”
Tim raises a brow. “Didn’t know you kept track.”
Damian scowls. “Your methods are unconventional, but there are no other better alternatives.” Imposing and distracting with his crossed arms, casting a shadow over the littered papers, his presence eventually forces Tim to detach from the case he was working on.
“Alright, what’s her name?” Tim sighs, his fingers switching to a new tab where the identity search bar flickers.
Damian stiffens, defensive. “Why would you require her name?”
“To search for her, genius.” Tim comments as if it’s obvious that an illegal identity search is the best course of action. “I can have her interests, dislikes, and her entire profile mapped out in less than five minutes.”
“That’s dishonourable.”
“It’s efficient.” Tim fires back. “Or else we’ll be here all day. Why waste time on the uncertainties when you can already mould everything to go perfectly?”
“My respect for you shrinks by the second, Drake.”
Tim snorts. “As if you had any in the first place. Don’t act like you haven’t done your own illegal searches. Suddenly, it’s your crush and I’m not allowed to look into it?”
The back of Damian’s neck grows hot at the mere use of the word ‘crush’, dumbing his feelings down to something so.. pathetic. “Fine, I’ll do it myself. You’re not allowed to so much as glance at her.”
Tim’s hands raise in mock surrender. “I would never.”
As Damian settles into the seat, given the privacy as Tim launches himself into the spare chair, spinning it backward with his back facing the Bat-computer, he can feel the latter brewing with something to say.
“Spit it out.” Damian huffs.
“I just—” Tim starts. “Never thought I’d live to see the day of you softening up for someone. I mean—it’s even made you come all the way for my assistance.”
“I did not come for assistance.”
“Advice is practically the same thing.” Tim remarks. “You may have called it dishonourable, but can you truly claim you love a person if you don’t know them fully? I think falling in love means having a curiosity so strong for someone that you would like to know them as deeply as they know themselves. Isn’t that what it means to love?”
Damian’s gaze flickers to Tim who yawns widely, tucking his head into his elbows over a long drought from sleep after staying up for two days straight. It… resonated with him, his never-ending greed to learn the intricacies of your emotions and actions, to know the depths behind each story you held in your mind.
He’s spent long, treacherous months avoiding even the mention of your name anywhere outside the confinements of his mind, aside from the occasional scribble and tear of his paper, and his hunger has become an obstacle that even he can’t tackle any longer. With a mental push, the mere action of typing your name numbs his fingers from the anticipation.
Your social media accounts pop up—one is public with your name listed, and another is a photography account. There’s not many photos, but there’s enough that it feels like he’s peeking into something intimate, a catalogue of your life that has his heart quickening.
He remembers vividly of you asking to exchange social media accounts when you had first met, before he quickly shut it down, commenting that he refused to have such useless applications.
Yet, here he was—frozen, mesmerised at the sight of your smile captured on your digital camera, unable to scroll further past your most recent post. It didn’t capture the true essence of your joy like he remembered so clearly from that failed date, but it still struck him all the same.
Even his denial falls silent when he’s looking at you, because he’d be a fool to pretend away the quick pattering of his heart, or the small smile etched into his lips caused by you. His mind has formed a despicable habit—a quiet, dreadful longing whenever he envisions even a frame of you in his mind.
He has fallen for you quietly—strongly, and even as he scrolls further, to the latest bookstores you’ve frequented, or your blurred snapshots of sunsets along the Gotham horizon, he’s not satisfied. What is the use of seeing these images if he wasn’t there to witness it or hear from you in person?
He wants to be in your life, not just a mere bystander, but he doesn’t know how to say it.
“You’ve been deathly silent for ten minutes.” Tim comments. “It’s kind of making me curious—”
“I will gouge out your eyes myself, Drake.”
There’s only one person he has left to ask, and as he pierces a coffin-burying glare into Tim’s prying gaze, he wasn’t sure if he’d get the answer he needed.
89, Skirley Apartments, Park Row (Crime Alley)
(Todd’s Rebellious Man-Cave)
Jason whistles, leaning against the door to his mess of an apartment. “You must be desperate if you’ve come to see me.”
The disgruntlement in Damian’s expression comes mostly from embarrassment and partly from the state of disarray he finds from one single swipe past the gap of Jason’s shoulder and the door frame. Motorcycle gear is splayed out over the scratched floorboards, signaling another random side project.
Barely lived in, and somehow a complete mess that would have Alfred over in a snap with his emergency cleaning set.
“Grayson’s overly optimistic and Drake’s downright creepy.” Damian huffs.
“And that leaves me..?” Jason’s brow raises, a taunting smirk on his lips.
“As the last option.” Damian grits.
Jason steps back, his back pushing against the wood to allow Damian into his less-than-adequate living quarters.
“Well, sorry to break it to you, kid—” Jason plops down onto the couch, and the pillow-seat sinks under his weight. “But my understanding of love is barely any better than yours.”
“You’re still the second oldest.” Call it desperation, Damian isn’t sure if he’s above that anymore after the failure of his two other brothers. “You must’ve had some experience.”
“Now, age matters?” Jason mocks. “Well—if you want my two cents, I suppose I can give it.”
“There’s no point beating around the bush.” Jason states. “If you really like her, you just have to say it. Even if it hurts, especially if you’re scared it’ll hurt. That means there’s something worth to lose, and to never ask, it’s always gonna hurt worse than knowing.”
“That’s the whole point of love. It takes being brave, and realising the possibility of something real right in front of you—and fighting for it. You only have so few chances in the world to experience it, and you’re going to waste something like that over fear of what—rejection?”
“Have a heart-to-heart. That’ll always mean more than some hidden message, hoping she’ll notice and give in first.” Leaning back, Jason eyes Damian with a rare look he doesn’t recognise, because there is no possibility in the world that wisdom could exist in that big-head of his. “If she doesn’t return how you feel, that sucks. You’ll live barely, then it’ll heal and you move on. If you never answer the question? It’s gonna haunt you for life. The one that got away.”
The thought of losing you to cowardice, of being a permanent outsider to your life, nearly ruins him. Damian can’t afford that, not when there’s never been a person he desired for more than you. This week has made sure of that.
Even more of a horrifying realisation is that of all people, Jason Todd was the one that got through to him. His trained eyes scan the perimeter for any signs of a secret partner, a reason for this sudden shift in his usual, thick-headed sibling. “Where did you obtain such knowledge?”
Jason’s lips quirk up. “Jane Austen, you should try her sometime.”
135, Kane Street, Otisburg
(Damian's Last Resort)
Damian has only felt the urge to puke on two occasions this past year. Firstly, when he discovered old photos of Dick’s first Nightwing costume in an old album, and had to wash his hands twice with anti-bacterial soap. Secondly, when a rare poison seeped into his bloodstream that he had not already trained to be immune to.
Never had the nauseating feeling of nerves scale till the point of trembling fingers and stiff legs. He just needed to tell the truth, so why did the matter seem so petrifying?
He’s been standing outside your door, letting the winter frost bite at his exposed skin—like a pathetic loser for the past fifteen minutes and if he stood there any longer, he might as well brand himself as one. His hand comes up to knock in three measured beats, and he waits with the patience of Dick’s pit-bull for a belly rub.
The door unlocks, and your tousled hair greets him first. His heart tugs at the sight of you in your home attire, with your loosened shirt and pajama pants dragging against the floor. You’re utterly beautiful, even as you’re slapping your cheeks lightly to coerce yourself awake. It takes a few seconds for the realisation to hit your half-asleep features before your eyes nearly pop out.
“Damian? It’s five in the morning! What are you doing here?”
“I have romantic feelings for you.” He blurts with the subtlety of a ramming gun.
“If you reciprocate, I would like to..” He pauses, his thoughts competing with the rapid pace of his heartbeat. “Wait, I didn’t think this through.”
You blink slowly, shock blasted over your face, before a soft, warm smile creeps over your lips. “No-no, go on.”
He wants it to be perfect, but his words were too direct, too harsh. He wasn’t like Dick, who was naturally charismatic with others, or Tim who thought two steps ahead for every interaction, or Jason who bulldozed through without a care in the world. He doesn’t want to risk losing you over his own incompetence. “No, I feel like I’ve started it all wrong.”
“It’s five in the morning, even Damian Wayne is human enough to mess up his words at this hour.” You tease. His shoulders sag in relief at the sound of your comforting voice, which he suspects is the purpose of your teasing. To calm him, tell him it’s okay.
“Right.” He mutters. “May I start over?”
“I’m all ears.” You grin.
He cracks a soft smile in return. It is difficult for him to be human, to feel his faults bubble to the surface, but in front of you, he is willing to try. “I am unfathomably, undoubtably.. and completely in love with you. Romantic feelings don’t even come close to describing the knowing in my heart that it has chosen you from the very moment you entered my life.”
“When I am around you, it’s as if the world disappears, and all I envision is you.” He admits. “From the moment you approached me with your maddening smile and charming wit, I don’t believe I could have ever fought against it, against you.”
“Your laughter brings joy to me, your sadness distracts me of all my senses, and your very existence is a gift in my life that I cherish deeply and.. I’m terrified at the idea of losing that, losing you.”
“Love..” He hesitates. “..is a difficult concept for me to understand, because it has never been shown to me outright. So when I felt this desire—this constant want to be in your presence, I sought for understanding.”
“I see now—that love can’t be explained in just mere words. It is the shared moments between us that I replay in my mind, the small details I find myself noticing of you and cherishing deeply, and the fear of losing that privilege of knowing you. I realised.. that I can’t fathom continuing my life without you in it.”
“I don’t know if I deserve to be by your side, but I would like to try.” His gaze finds yours, and he hopes. So desperately, he hopes. “Would you have me, even if I am a fool who doesn’t know the right things to say?” His plea is quiet against the silent rustle of the trees, the dark twilight sky that watches over them.
Your eyes soften, filled with warmth and that same, brimming happiness he has memorised from the time spent on the ice. “You’re only an idiot if you think you didn’t say all the right things, Damian.”
His chest, tight till the point of rupturing, feels like it’s finally able to breathe.
Leaning in slowly, right across the barrier of the doorstep that separates you from him, you gift him with a soft kiss pressed against his lips and his entire world falls apart, not that it ever truly existed before you.
He takes you into his arms, lifting your feet off the doorstep as his boots crunch against the melted snow when he kisses you back. He has never kissed anyone before, but the feeling of wanting you so close to his soul only feels natural when you’re here in his arms.
It’s sweet, clumsy—and out of all the moments he’s spent with you, he truly wished he could replay this over and over.
When you break the kiss, he has to remind himself to not follow after you when you whisper softly against his lips. “You never finished. What did you want to do if I reciprocated?”
Visions, blurred and incoherent, flash through his mind but it’s nothing compared to the real thing right in front of him. “Everything. As long as you’re mine, the possibilities are endless.”
“Of course I’m yours, Damian.” Your eyes crinkle into that puddle of warmth that melts through all his defences. “No one has ever come to my doorstep, at five in a winter morning, professing their love before.”
His brows furrow, lips nearing to a pout. “Has anyone ever tried professing their love in other ways?”
You laugh, and he can get used to that. Making you smile and laugh as if it’s his one purpose on this planet. “No—I think my heart was too busy being taken by the person in front of me, who just conveyed what love is so perfectly that I can never think of anyone else.”
He relaxes at that, feeling his own smile deepen at the relief of finally having you in his arms, and in the comfort of the warmth shared under the dim streetlights, he thinks he’ll have to temporarily bump Jason to the number one spot in his long line of siblings.
Not that he’d ever tell him that—but he supposes if a limited edition of Jane Austen's collection ends up at Jason's doorstep tomorrow, it would have simply been the universe's divine gift.
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ you own the diner that gives cheap food for kids. If you need to throw out a thug, he made sure you knew who to call. If he needed somewhere to get actual food and a safe place to rest that asked no questions, he knew where to go.
word cnt. 3.3k
includes ›››› banter, fluff, sexual tension I think, teasing, somthin small to get me back into writing
“…Well?” Your grin tilts into something knowingly sweet, all coy challenge and quiet hope. You watch the way his eyes betray him—how they brighten despite himself, how his fingers pause mid-air against the wrapper like they’ve been caught in the act. It’s a small thing, that hesitation, but you see it. You always do.
Red Hood exhales through his nose, a rough little huff meant to pass for indifference. His helmet is half on, and he and you both know you won't tilt your head down to look at the face below it.
It wasn't ever anything you needed to do.
Your smile only widens, cheeks aching with the effort of holding it back. “Admit it,” you sing softly, sing-song enough to be annoying, gentle enough to be affectionate.
He chews in stubborn silence, jaw working like he’s negotiating terms with his pride. Then, finally—reluctantly—he swallows.
“…It’s,” he starts, pauses, scowls at the burger like it’s betrayed him. “Better than the Bat Burger,” he mutters, the words dragged out like a confession extracted under duress.
Before you can react, he takes another bite, quick and deliberate, eyes suddenly very focused on anything but you. It’s meant to hide the smile threatening at the corner of his mouth.
It doesn’t work.
You light up anyway—bright and unguarded and devastatingly pleased—and Red Hood, for all his practiced resistance, eats faster just to avoid looking at you like that.
“I told you,” you say, already moving, fingers curling around his glass to top it off beneath the soft hiss of the soda machine. Ice clinks gently as the cola rises. “That place is all grease.”
“Hey—well,” Red Hood counters around a mouthful, words muffled but indignant, “your burger doesn’t come with a mini Nightwing figure, does it?”
You snort, setting the glass down beside his plate with a soft thud. “Yeah, and our Coca-Cola doesn’t come with diabetes.”
He shoots you a look over the rim of the glass, something halfway between offense and amusement, before taking another long sip.
It’s late—late enough that the street outside has gone quiet, Gotham settling into that uneasy hush it only ever pretends is sleep. And somehow, impossibly, your diner is still open. The neon sign hums softly in the window, tired but persistent, like it knows better than to give up just because the hour suggests it should.
You only bought the place a few months ago. The few old staff stayed. The old regulars too. You never touched the menu names—just the recipes themselves, quietly fixing what had always been almost good. Making it better. Making it worth something. Worth staying open for.
Three months was all it took to sand down the sharp edges of the place. The tacky ’80s diner aesthetic softened into something warmer, more classic—vinyl booths polished instead of cracked, chrome wiped clean, lights dimmed just enough to feel intentional. People noticed. Families started coming.
Kids, especially. Which was notable, considering this stretch of Gotham used to belong to grouchy old men who treated your parking lot like their personal smoking lounge.
You’d heard the whispers, eventually. The way kids talked about the place. Cheap food. Good food. Safe food. And if kids were plotting something on this side of Gotham—really plotting—Red Hood would’ve heard about it long before you did.
You still remember the night you met him.
The crash of shouting. The sound of something metal hitting pavement. You’d stormed out back gripping a frying pan like a weapon, heart in your throat, only to find Red Hood in the middle of it—hauling three wheezing old men toward your trash cans with the casual efficiency of someone cleaning up a mess he didn’t make.
He’d looked at you then, startled, a little wild, like he hadn’t expected backup.
That had been the beginning.
Not quite a partnership.
Definitely not trouble.
Something messier. Something quieter. Something that looked a lot like friendship, even if neither of you ever said that outloud.
If you need to throw out a thug, he made sure you knew who to call.
If he needed somewhere to get actual food and a safe place to rest that asked no questions, he knew where to go.
“Do you think it needs anything?” you ask, already drifting toward the small, dog-eared journal tucked beneath the counter. You flip it open on instinct, pen poised, brows knitting as you scan notes written in different inks, different moods. “Maybe the meat needs more spice,” you murmur. “Or the bread—maybe more salt?”
Red Hood hums thoughtfully, dragging his thumb across his mouth to wipe away a smear of sauce before he answers. “I think it’s perfect,” he says simply. Then, after a beat, softer but no less certain, “Really.”
You still. Just for a moment. Pen hovering mid-air. Considering. Then you sigh—long and put-upon—and Jason has to clamp down hard on the laugh that nearly bursts out of him when you speak again.
“You’d eat slop if I served it to you,” you say flatly. “I don’t even know why I ask.”
He grins, unrepentant. “You’d make good slop.”
You huff, shaking your head as you reach down to adjust your apron, the fabric worn thin and soft with age. It’s part of the uniform—old, faded, clearly meant for someone else entirely. You’ve always assumed the woman it was bought for is long gone now, her shifts and habits stitched into the seams like a quiet ghost.
Still, it fits you well enough.
And Jason watches you tug it straight with an expression that suggests he means every word he said.
“Those guys still bothering you?” he asks after a moment, gaze flicking past you to the clock mounted high on the far wall. Midnight clicks into place with a dull, final little sound. You should be home by now. Instead, you’re here—hovering, unsettled in a way that doesn’t quite match your usual calm.
Your hair has come loose in places, soft strands escaping whatever effort you made to tame it earlier. Your makeup is still neat, but your hands give you away—picking at your nails, worrying at the edges of yourself. Every so often, your eyes dart toward the door like you half-expect the worst of Gotham to stroll in wearing a grin.
His voice pulls you back.
You huff softly, reaching for the rag and giving the counter a swipe that doesn’t really need it. Then another. Anything to keep your hands busy. “Am I not allowed to ask for company?” you say, tone light, almost teasing—carefully casual in the way people are when they’re hoping not to be questioned further.
Jason watches the motion of your hands, the repetitive back-and-forth, before answering. “Didn’t think I’d be the one you’d call for that,” he says. There’s a beat, and then he adds it—quieter, rough around the edges, like he’s bracing for rejection. “Not… that I’m complaining.”
“Better not be.” You chuckle softly.
Red Hood takes another bite of his food, waiting for you to get the courage to answer.
“…Do you think you could walk me home?” you ask after a moment, the words coming a little softer than you mean them to. “Some—some thug came into the parking lot and started cursing and stuff. He was drunk, but, uh—”
“Yeah. I got you.” Red Hood cuts in easily, like the answer was never in doubt. He reaches for the little sauce container, adds more with reckless confidence, and takes another bite. “Is that why you’re bribing me with food?”
You smile, tilting your head as a loose strand of hair slips free and brushes your cheek. “Yeah. Fattening you up so if we get chased, I can run away faster.”
Red Hood snorts around a mouthful. “I could be four hundred pounds and still run faster than you.”
“Well, if I die, you’d probably lose a hundred,” you shoot back, faux-serious. “Who else would let you eat for free?”
Alfred, Jason thinks automatically—but he keeps that to himself. Instead, he swallows, takes a long sip of soda, and says, “Well, we won’t have to worry about that. As long as I’m here, you don’t need to worry about Gotham.” He pauses, glancing down at the burger with sudden scrutiny. “Just worry about the fact that this bread’s a little salty.”
You freeze.
Then you slam your fist into your open palm, eyes lighting up like you’ve struck gold. “I knew it, you liar!”
Red Hood laughs, full and unguarded, and for a moment the night outside the diner feels a little less dangerous.
It’s a few moments later when you hum thoughtfully, gathering his empty plate and glass before he can protest. “Would you like dessert?”
Red Hood huffs, leaning back in the booth. “You really are trying to fatten me up.”
You lift a brow over your shoulder as you push through the door to the back, flicking on the lights and setting the dishes into the sink. Water runs, warm and familiar. “Is that a no?”
“No—ah—” Red Hood pauses, glancing at the clock on the wall. Twenty past one. Too late by any reasonable standard. He raises his voice so it carries. “We should probably get going, no? It’s Saturday tomorrow, and you open early, right?”
“Red,” you call back easily, “do you want vanilla ice cream or chocolate?”
There it is. Complete disregard. Utter dismissal.
It does something to him he doesn't want to admit.
“Cookies and cream,” he answers anyway, resigned, a little breathless. “I know you have some.”
“For me,” you say as you step back out front, drying your hands on your apron.
“For two?” he asks hopefully, batting his lashes with exaggerated flair under the helmet even if you can't see it, clearly joking—until he isn’t. He stops halfway through the bit, like he’s caught himself lowering his guard into a joke without meaning to.
You don’t comment. Even though your stomach flips. Even though you notice. Instead, you keep your tone soft and familiar. “Always,” you murmur. “Even though your portion alone should be for three.”
He laughs, relieved, grateful. Still a bit stiff from the newness of it.
You shake your head fondly, the soft scrape of the scoop against the frozen ice cream loud in the quiet diner, the chill spilling out like a ghost of winter into the dim, yellow glow of the overhead lights. The smell of sugar and cocoa drifts up, a small warmth against the damp bite of Gotham outside.
A bowl of ice cream is made for the both of you, simple, but enough. You hesitate, fingers hovering over the spoons, a hint of nervousness creeping into your chest—would he scoff if you shared one bowl? The thought of having to wash an extra dish wins out, and you set the spoons on either side of one bowl.
Red Hood watches, silent and still, his presence folding the rest of the diner away. All that exists is him, leaning just enough over the counter, eyes catching the lamplight in a way that makes every detail sharper: the worn edges of his gloves, the oil smudges on his jacket, the way his jaw tenses like it’s holding back half the city’s weight.
He waits, quiet, letting you take your seat first. Then he finally reaches for a spoon, the motion deliberate, slow, a ritual that keeps the moment suspended.
You take a small bite, letting the cold sweet coat your tongue before speaking. “I gotta ask…how do you get around? That motorcycle…really yours?”
Jason pauses mid-chew, eyes narrowing like he’s calculating how much to reveal. “Yeah…? What? You don’t like my girl?”
“Nah,” you answer lightly, letting the corners of your lips lift in a small smile, “just thought you were a broke ass like me. God, she doesn’t deserve to be ridden in Gotham.”
He smirks, leaning closer just enough for the overhead light to catch the sharp line of his cheekbone. “Hey. I’m a very high-class man,” he says, letting the words hang, watching the way your gaze runs over the dirt and oil-streaked leather, the fraying edges of his gloves, the faint scar on the sliver of skin that is his wrist. Mhm. Very high class. “And she loves it over here.”
You sigh, another bite of ice cream melting slowly in your mouth. The fluorescent lights flicker slightly overhead, casting long shadows across the linoleum floor and bouncing off the chrome edges of the counter. “She’d be the first. You should get locks. Some kid might try to snatch off the tires.”
Jason’s hand freezes mid-spoon, eyes flicking to yours. For a second, disbelief and something sharper—shock, maybe, or a hint of incredulity—crosses his form, quickly masked by that careful, practiced smirk. “…They still do that here?”
“Mhm…” You lift your spoon, letting a bit of cookie crumble fall into the bowl with a soft plop. “…Caught a kid last week trying to get the wheels off my car.” Your voice softens, fondness creeping into it without meaning to.
Jason is quiet for a beat, and you can almost feel the weight of the pause in the space between you. “…What…what did you do?”
You look up at him, eyes a little surprised, but then soften into a small smile, warm and patient. “Come on, Red. It’s me,” you murmur, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “I gave him ice cream and some money from the tip jar. Told him if he started taking out the trash for me every day, I’d give him five bucks each time.”
A low noise escapes Jason, something between disbelief and amusement, and you can’t tell if it’s admiration or something else. “I think…you’re overpaying him. The trash can is like twenty feet away from the back of the building.”
“He bought a new jacket last week,” you say, soft, savoring the memory like a small victory. “A new jacket and a set of pencils for school. He did his homework in the employees’ changing room. I think I’m paying him just fine.”
Jason leans back slightly, chair legs scraping faintly against the diner’s linoleum floor, his spoon hovering mid-air. “If I ever caught a kid flicking my tires, I’d just teach them how to do it faster and give him a lollipop if they finished in under two minutes. If your not quick enough the bats come bite your toes you know? Tell the bedtime store to every little thief I find."
You groan, rolling your eyes so hard you almost see the reflection in the laminated counter, before scooping another bite of ice cream. “This is why you’re single.”
Red Hood freezes, the spoon halfway to his mouth, his posture stiffening like he’s just been called out in front of the entire city. “What does that—where did that—how did you get to that conclusion?”
It’s times like these you remember just how much he’s able to calm you down, how he’s able to soak the tiredness of the day off your skin like a sponge.
How much you crave him for it.
You stare at him blankly, deliberately slow, watching the fluorescent light catch the edges of the helmet and throw shadows over his sharp angles. “Did you hear anything you just said?”
He exhales, a small puff of frustration escaping, voice low and clipped. “Whatever…I’m married to work. People there think my stories are funny.”
“Oh?” You tilt your head, the soft diner light reflecting in your eyes, batting your lashes in that way you know makes him shift uncomfortably, “And pray tell, Red…what work do you exactly do?”
Jason hesitates, hand still frozen over the ice cream spoon. “…Gotham Child Services?”
You nod solemnly, taking the last bite, the cool sweetness lingering on your tongue. “That explains the guns.”
Red Hood sighs, the sound muffled and rough through the helmet as he tucks it back down over his chin. “Never win with you, do I? Fine. Drug lord. Nice one though. I got lollipops.”
You hum, the quiet warmth of the diner lights catching your hair as you coo, “Hmm…let’s see how much you tip me for my service and I’ll think about letting your ego win the ride home.” You rise, swiftly walking to the kitchen to let the bowl soak in the sink.
“Ride home? Thought we were walking,” Jason chuckles, the sound low, careful, as he watches you move back toward him. He stays still, gloved hands resting on his knees, tracking the sway of your hips, the way your fingers brush the countertop.
He’s quiet as you slip past him to grab your coat from the wall, the soft rustle of fabric punctuating the silence between you. The faint click of the buttons makes his chest tighten, and he doesn’t even try to hide the way his helmet tilts just slightly, betraying how intently he’s watching.
You tug your coat over your shoulders, the fur brushing your neck and falling across your arms.
You walk back to him, never leaving him for too long.
When your hands press to each pocket of his jacket, your fingers pressing into the leather over his chest. He lets out a small, embarrassed noise, more instinct than intention. Red Hood freezes for just a moment, the weight of your touch lingering longer than it should. “What pocket has the lollipops?” you hum softly, watching his helmet tilt with the subtlest of hesitations. You can’t see his eyes, but you feel them on you anyway, the tension pulling tight across the space between you.
“…Took five from home and gave five out. You’re a few hours late…” Red Hood mumbles, voice raspy as always, but now just slightly warmer, more human under the helmet.
“…So you have more at home?” You tilt your head, letting a strand of hair fall over your shoulder as your fingers press lightly into the leather of his chest again.
“Uh…” His gloved hand moves, brushing yours for just a moment, the frayed edge of leather tickling your wrist. The contact is electric, and he doesn’t pull away, just holds it, letting the tension thrum in the small space between you.
“Red.” You mumble, voice soft, low, something more intimate than teasing.
“Yeah?” He rasps back, shifting slightly as if the small movement might let him breathe without panic.
“You suck at flirting.”
“…Cute girl wants a lollipop from me.” His voice cracks slightly, awkward under the helmet, and the way he says it makes the space feel smaller, warmer, more charged.
You chuckle softly, the sound small but deliberate, filling the quiet air around you. “Red. I don’t want a lollipop.”
“Nah?” He mumbles gently, and you catch the faint tilt of his head, the shift of weight in his shoulders. “But they are the expensive kind Ma’am, I didn’t cheap out.”
“Oh?” You hum, letting your gaze soften, your fingers brushing just over the patch of exposed neck under his helmet. “So you do like sweets.”
Jason grins, faint and almost imperceptible, hoping you can sense it even under the mask. “Hey, you are what you eat.”
Your hand slides down from his chest to that sliver of exposed skin on his neck, the warmth so close you can feel it through the thin fabric. Your fingers trace carefully, teasingly, across the soft curve there.
He shifts slightly, leaning toward your touch even as his mind protests.
“Bet you’d taste sweet, then.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” He whispers back, voice low, soft, close enough that you can feel it in your chest. Your fingers linger, tracing the subtle ridge of his jaw, the curve of his neck, leaving warmth in their wake.
His hand twitches, almost involuntarily, brushing against your wrist.
jason peter todd tag-list (check pinned post for info on how to be added .ᐟ ) : @justamarsbar, @peridotnature854, @nayy-a, @that-willowtree, @kekeanna266, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @theonlysakura, @givemefinganame, @theonlyshowgirl, @melllzz, @strawbrysapphic, @nightlights-and-twiklingstars, @tasia13, @foivetimesacharm, @noble-17, @celestialend,@superuddertrash-blog, @revesephemeres, @redhooduwu, @themessedupsonata
it's the limitless! I remember in the hidden inventory arc he started rambling about vectors and so on when explaining his infinity and I just knooowwww that means he's a huge physics nerd hehe
In which: You are a church pianist for the Welton church whose gentle melodies caught the attention of Steven Meeks.
A/N: Ok before we start I wanted to say a demon possessed me and I wrote this all in a span of like...a hour. There will be more to this I promise you, it'll probably be like a slow burn due to us not being able to see Meeks often. I tried to make this like as ambiguous as possible but this is my first real fic and everything. Also sorry if it's bad I typed this in my phones notes app😭😭 THERE IS NO SMUT IN THIS AND THERE WILL BE NO SMUT
Chapter 1:
As the snow gently fell on the campus of Welton, there was loud chattering throughout the air. Boys young and old piled into the chapel for Sunday worship crowding the pews as they squeezed in tight beside each other. Their flushed faces all looked the same from the distance as freezing white clouds of air came out of their mouths while talking. Steven Meeks was there alongside his friends smiling and laughing with them while waiting for service to start. The chapel was as cold as the outside if not worse, its rickety pews creaking under them. It was then that a silence fell amongst the boys as they stared at the headmaster walking down the aisle with you beside him.
Steven felt his friend Charlie nudge him while raising his eyebrows. He looked at his friend in confusion until he saw who Charlie was gesturing to. You sat at the old piano in the corner, stretching your wrists while you looked at the headmaster expectantly. He stood behind the wooden podium and cleared his throat, "Gentlemen," he begun his voice hoarse and rough with age, "I want you to pick up your books and turn to song 881, 'How Great Thou Art," He nodded his head at you and that was your cue to start playing. Your fingers danced along the keys while the headmaster began to sing, startling Steven as he quickly turned the pages of the song book.
His eyes met your back multiple times as he sang awkwardly, he wished he'd gotten a better look at you. The service went just like that, Mr.Nolan said a few words. You played the piano which was ,to Steven, the most graceful thing he ever saw. He couldn't tear his eyes off of you almost as if he looked away you would be gone forever. Charlie met his gaze and smirked before leaning forward and whispering some obscene things in his ear. Steven looked at him incredulous, "You don't even know them, you can't say things like that," he hissed, a blush on his face from embarrassment. Charlie put a hand over his mouth and snickered, they were lucky Mr.Nolan didn't call them out.
As the service finally ended and boys piled out Meeks was the only one who stayed along with Charlie and Pitts. They studied you as you picked up your songbook and walked down the steps, flashing them an awkward smile before you made your way down the aisles. "W-wait!" you heard a voice call out and you turned toward it, a confused look on your face. Out of the three boys it was the shorter ginger one with glasses who called to you, you looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "Yes?," you replied hesitantly. Charlie nudged Steven again, a smirk on his face. Steven swatted his hand away and pushed up his glasses, "Uh I-," he started and cleared his throat, "I'm Steven Meeks,"
You nodded your head, "Nice to meet you Steven Meeks," He awkwardly chuckled as he racked his brain trying to come up with anything, "You're really pretty...," he put his foot in his mouth, "Good! At piano," You smiled at him, he was pretty cute. "Thank you," you replied and tightened your grip on your songbook, feeling nervous the more you stared at him. Charlie noticed Steven's new found mutism and decided to step in, "What's your name?" he asked and gave you his best charming smile. You gave it to him and asked him for his. "I'm uh Charlie, Charlie Dalton," you gave him the same response as Pitts introduced himself as well. Steven's face was beet red as he looked you and tried to stutter out something else, "Are you- um...gonna be playing for Welton often...?" He looked at you hope in his eyes.
You nodded confirming his hopes, "Yes actually," you begun, "I'll be here for Sunday morning and Wednesday night," He mentally pumped his fist in the air. Charlie swooped in however, "So I guess we'll be seeing more of you huh?" he gazed up and down at you taking in your relatively modest clothing. You nodded and gave him an uncomfortable smile, "Um yeah...that's right," Charlie smiled at that. He shrugged, "Well I know some of us are very pleased to hear," he side glanced at Meeks who was red as ever as he stared at you with his mouth open. You followed Charlie's gaze and looked at him for a second studying his features. You smiled at him, "I'm looking forward to it, I'll see you guys later this week," You turned on your heel and walked out of the chapel leaving Steven to turn into a babbling mess from how embarrassed he was.
hi!! can u write a fic with poly maurauders x shy reader where she looses like her comfort stuffed animal and freaks out? thanks!
Thanks for requesting @whotfisgiana <3
poly!marauders x shy!reader ♡ 1.4k words
You don’t think your bedroom has ever been so messy. Pillows on the floor, sheets and comforter all askew, most everything you own moved this way or that so you could see around or behind or underneath it. You’re halfway to a panic when a knock sounds on your door.
You ignore it. It’s likely a postman leaving a package or someone who will leave a flyer taped to the door, and you have more pressing concerns to deal with. But the knock comes again, louder this time.
You push out a sigh as you stand from where you’d been peering under your bed, trying to shake some of your unease out of your fingertips as you go to answer it. On the other side you find your roguishly handsome boyfriend, looking expectant.
“Hey, beautiful,” says Sirius, grinning as he leans in. He takes your waist in hand, and you kiss him back somewhat slowly, caught offguard by his easy affection at the best of times but even more so when you weren’t anticipating it.
“Hey,” you echo as he pulls back.
“You look surprised to see me,” he observes. “Did you not remember our date?”
You blink. Oh. Oh. God, you’re the worst. You’re supposed to be going to see a film with your boyfriends at noon—but in your frenzy, you’d completely forgotten. Is it really that late already?
“It’s alright.” Sirius seems to sense your nerves, giving you a kind squeeze. “We’ve got time, lovely, James is picking up Remus from across town and I told them we’d take the bus, is that alright? Do you need to do anything before we go?”
Your first thought is that you can’t go—but that’s not very fair, is it? You had plans, you can’t just abandon your boyfriends because something else has come up. Something completely non-urgent, too. It will still be just as lost whether you’re at the cinema or not. You can keep looking when you get home.
“Yeah,” you say, stepping back from the door. Sirius comes in, and you shut it behind him. “Sorry, I’m still in my pajamas. I can change fast.”
“Don’t hurry,” he says easily. “You know how James drives. We’ll beat them there no matter what.”
“Thanks.” You hurry into your room, Sirius trailing casually behind. “Sorry, just a second.”
He tsks, teasing. “Stop that.”
“Sorry,” you say instinctively, then feel your face heat when he shoots you a mock stern look. You grab some clothes and go into your bathroom, shutting the door to change.
“Whoa,” says Sirius as he enters your room. “What happened in here?”
You forcibly stifle another apology, laughing at yourself. “I know, it’s so bad.”
“Are you redecorating or something?”
“No, just looking for something.”
You step out of the bathroom in jeans and a jumper, and Sirius grins at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. You’re ready for him this time. When he steps forward, you let him put his hands on your face and kiss him back sweetly.
“What’s the matter?” he asks.
“Hm?”
“You seem upset. What is it?”
“I’m not upset.” You want for it to be true. You wish this wasn’t something that rattled you so badly.
“Liar.” Sirius says it in the same way he calls James pest, with a fond bent to his voice. He puts a couple of inches between you, keeping your face in his hands as he traps you beneath his stare. “What is it?”
Your shoulders climb up towards your ears. “I’m okay,” you say meekly. Sirius only looks at you, as if to say go on. “I just can’t find my rabbit.”
His brow furrows. “Your rabbit.”
“My stuffed rabbit,” you clarify.
“Oh.” Sirius glances to your bed, the covers half torn off from where you’ve disheveled them in your search and now trailing onto the floor. He lets his grip slip down your arms. “How did I not know about this? Seems rather important to you.”
“I don’t need to sleep with him every night or anything,” you say, embarrassed. “I’ve just always had him, so he’s sort of…sentimental. Anyway, it’s fine. I’ll find it later.”
“I’m not going to drag you to the cinema when you’re upset about your rabbit,” Sirius says, like the mere idea is offensive.
“You’re not dragging me,” you argue feebly, “and I’m not upset.”
“I’m not escorting you while you’re worried, then.” He rolls his eyes, taking out his phone.
“Sirius,” you plead, but he only shushes you.
“Hi,” he says a moment later. “Hey, has James gotten to you yet?”
Remus’ voice, too quiet to make out, crackles through the line.
Sirius hums. “Well, I’m impressed by him. Actually, though, we may have a change of plans.”
You cover your face with your hands, mortified. Sirius puts an arm around you, rubbing your shoulder like there, there.
“It seems our girl has misplaced her stuffed rabbit.”
You’re close enough now to hear James say, genuine alarm in his tone, “Moo Moo?”
There’s a pause, and you peek through your fingers to find Sirius looking at you. You nod in confirmation.
“It’s called Moo Moo?” he asks.
You hum quietly.
“Why would you name your rabbit after a sound a cow makes?”
“I don’t know,” you say sheepishly. “I was a baby.”
Sirius rolls his eyes, kissing you on your head. “You’re fucking precious, do you know that?”
It’s decided quickly after that. James and Remus change course, heading for your apartment while you and Sirius recommence the search. None of them will hear your protests, least of all Sirius, who threatens to decommission you from the rescue party if you continue to spend your energy arguing rather than looking.
With two of you, you clear the bedroom quickly, moving into the formerly unconsidered parts of your home. Sirius asks you questions like a police interrogator: Where did you last see him? How big is he? How many nights has it been since you’re sure you slept with him? Did he go on holiday with you last weekend?
Your laundry bin is upturned, couch cushions removed, mementos you’ve not seen for years discovered and then quickly lost again in the rubble.
When your boyfriends arrive, Remus takes one look at you and shepherds you away while James joins the search. He makes you tea and gives you enough of his soft, compassionate looks to melt you down to the bone.
“I didn’t mean to make us all miss the film,” you tell him, steam warming your chin as you sit on the kitchen counter. “I was going to go, but Sirius…”
You realize you sound like you’re tattling and stop. Remus only smiles at you indulgently, his brown eyes flickering with humor.
“We didn’t think it was you who made that call,” he says. “But, sweetheart, no one is upset that we’re here. We wouldn’t want you to have to sit through a film while you’re upset.”
“I’m not upset.” Your voice has the quiet weariness of a broken record.
Remus studies you. You sip your tea to avoid it, trying not to squirm under his gaze. “You seem like you might be upset,” he says, an almost missable hint of teasing in his tone.
“It’s stupid,” you admit. “I know he has to be here somewhere, there’s no point in worrying.”
“I’m sure he is.” Remus rubs your leg, soothing. “You’re right, lovely, he’s probably just somewhere we haven’t—”
“Found him!” James cries.
You gasp, and Remus grins at your reaction.
“Where?” Sirius bounds in from the sitting room.
James comes from the opposite direction, holding your rabbit above his head like a trophy. He passes it to you with a flourish as you hop down from the counter. “Angel, your Moo Moo.”
“So this is Moo Moo,” Sirius says, grinning.
You feel suddenly defensive, bringing the grayed, ratty plushie close to your chest. “Yes.”
“I love him.”
“I think he’s handsome,” says Remus, also looking at him interestedly.
“Caused a lot of trouble today, though,” Sirius tuts, “hasn’t he?”
“Where’d you find him?” you ask James, eager to be out of the spotlight.
“He was wedged between your mattress and the wall.” Your boyfriend pouts. “Poor thing.”
You frown. “I looked there.”
“He was sort of in the corner.” James shrugs. “Rather easy to miss, I’m sure Sirius checked there too.”
“Well, thank you,” you say shyly. Still holding the toy to your chest. “I might not have looked there again on my own.”
“Seems a good thing we came over, hm?” Remus asks complacently.
Your face heats. “Yeah.”
“One more time, sweetness?” Sirius cocks his ear. “Not sure I heard you there.”
“Yes,” you say again, fighting a smile. “Thank you for coming.”
He grins at you, wrestling you into his side. “I don’t ever want to hear you arguing one of my ideas again.”
“That seems a bit premature—” James starts to say.
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