summary: during an interview promoting his debut album with Epic Records, Michael is asked about his ideal woman.
content: mutual affection, nerdy reader, tooth-rotting fluff, idk this is just so cute, you guys know what interview I'm referencing, right?
Interviews always made Michael a little restless. He'd sit there with his hands folded neatly in his lap. Foot tapping a quiet rhythm only he could hear. His voice so soft-spoken. No matter how many times the director asked him to speak just a little louder, just enough for the overhead microphone to catch every breath. Nonetheless, the lights were warm, the couch felt comfortable, and the questions were always the same.
Well, usually.
The vibe was a bit unfamiliar this time.
Maybe it was because he knew you were somewhere in the building — tucked away in the dim-lit waiting room outside the small studio, flipping through the stack of comics you brought for him.
Maybe it was because he could still faintly hear your voice as you conversed with the workers conducting the interview, your laugh echoing faintly in his head.
Or maybe it was because he'd been thinking about you more than he meant to lately.
Shit, almost every single song on the album was written about you.
The interviewer leaned forward, smiling as if he knew the ladies would love the next question that he was about to ask. That he — a man in his late thirties with a too-neat mustache and a suit that tried way too hard to keep up with the late 70s trends — would finally get that promotion and the raise that he's been 'working so hard for.'
"So, Michael... what's something that you'd look for in a girl? I mean, we know that — as attractive as you are — you got all the ladies fawning over you. I'm sure they'd like to know your ideal woman."
Michael laughed softly, eyes dropping to his hands, then looked up towards the ceiling. He always did that when he was lost in thought, trying to think of the right words to say — while also not saying too much.
"Well," he said, his voice warm, "I like someone who's like me, I guess."
The interviewer blinked.
"Like you how?"
Michael shrugged, a thoughtful, honest shrug.
"Someone who likes fun things. Like, comics, climbing trees, y'know, things like that, but..." he chuckles, "I don't know — I'd still like someone that's, uh, not too high maintenance. Just natural. Very modest and sweet like, y'know?"
He paused, and for a moment, he didn't feel like he was in the studio anymore.
He was in your backyard, watching you climb one of your old oak trees, the California heat causing your blowout to frizz, but that's what is so beautiful about you.
Then he was in your living room, laughing next to you as you both read the latest The Amazing Spider-Man comic book. Not just admiring the artwork before him, but also the way your features lit up as you read the words on the delicate page.
Then he was at the annual carnival — the one he had to sneak out of late-night rehearsal for — his obviously silly disguise now discarded as he sat on the Ferris wheel with you. You two have been there for a couple of hours now, and those hours flew by faster than you anticipated.
You two had just shared your first kiss, your cheeks both warm in bashful shyness as you confessed your love to each other. He held your hand, soft and warm as he traced his thumb over your bare nails.
"I've never met someone like you.
I want to spend forever like this.
Just us."
He blinked, returning to the present.
"Someone real and authentic. The thing I find most attractive in a woman is their heart."
The interviewer nodded, scribbling notes, completely unaware of the shift in Michael's expression — the softness in his eyes, and the way his smile still lingered moments after he answered the question.
Now, even with all that, you would think that the interviewer knew who he was talking about.
There have been countless rumors in the tabloids about your relationship with Michael Jackson, but none were confirmed or denied. They just lingered and would come up in conversation from time to time as you met with other high-status figures like yourself.
Well, at least everyone else in the room knew exactly who he was talking about. The interviewer grew too busy imagining his own name on the byline of a magazine cover.
"Beautiful answer, Michael," he said, still scribbling. "Your fans are gonna eat that up!"
Michael just laughed and nodded politely, but his mind was already drifting again. Not to his fans, not to his upcoming album, not to the interview itself.
But to you.
He wondered if you coincidentally heard any of that from the room next door. How you'd react once the press put two and two together, or the way you'd smile that shy little smile you always tried to hide behind your hands.
"Alright, that's a wrap," the director called out, clapping his hands. Michael blinked, leaning up from the couch and sitting up straighter as the crew began to move around him. The interviewer stood, smoothing out his too-tight suit jacket, muttering a small 'thank you'. Poor guy was already rehearsing the headline in his head.
Michael thanked everyone — soft, sincere, the way he did since he was a small child — but he didn't linger. He stepped out of the studio, out of the lights, into the hallway.
And into the waiting room next door.
You were exactly where he knew you'd be — your legs curled up next to you on the couch, flipping through a Scooby Doo comic you brought for him to read in between breaks. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered slightly, casting a warm glow over your features.
You looked up the moment you sensed him. "Hey," you smiled. God, his heart fluttered in his chest; he couldn't even hide it anymore.
"Hey," he echoed, voice softer than he meant it to be. You closed the comic and let it rest in your lap.
"How'd the interview go?"
He shrugged, flopping down on the couch next to you, close enough to feel your warmth, but not close enough to be obvious.
"Eh, it was fine," he said. "They asked about the album, the tour with my brothers in a couple o' years. And then," He hesitated, eyes drifting to the floor. "They asked about my type — my ideal girl."
You raised an eyebrow, amused.
"Oh? And what'd you say?"
You tilted your head.
"The truth?"
He looked at you then — like, really looked at you — and for a moment, the room felt too small, the couch making the distance too close.
"That she's, um," he trails off, feeling his shyness start to take over. He takes a sharp inhale, averting his gaze. "Someone who doesn't try to be anything she's not — real authentic. Likes the same things I do. Who makes me feel like I can just... be myself."
He continued, voice barely above a whisper.
"Told 'em she's very sweet. Modest, but also really playful. Someone who climbs her favorite oak tree and plays video games and laughs at my stupid jokes." He smiled — still a bit shy, but sure.
"And I told them she has the most beautiful heart I've ever known. My definition of perfection."
Your lips parted, but no words came out. Michael chuckled softly as he watched your reaction, his head shaking in amusement.
"Surely you knew I was talking about you."
You should probably respond now, but you have yet to find the words — any words — to amount to the love you have for him. But no. The room fell silent, but it wasn't awkward or tense. It just felt full of everything he's been holding back, everything you'd been too scared to say since the moment on the Ferris wheel. The growing love and desire that has been accumulating for months.
You exhaled slowly, moving closer to him on the couch as the comic in your lap slipped away.
"Michael..." you whispered.
"You don't have to say anything," he murmured. "I just wanted you to know."
You didn't exactly say anything. But you didn't mean to move either.
It just kinda happened. The way the air got heavy, and his gorgeous eyes looking at you the way they did, then the confession he just made. Your hand lifted before you could second-guess yourself, fingers brushing his cheek in a touch so gentle it made him inhale sharply.
Then you kissed him again. A soft press of your lips to his, and you suddenly felt like this kiss was an enough answer.
Michael froze for half a second before melting into it, his hand coming up to cradle the side of your face like he was afraid you'd disappear if he held you any tighter. When you finally pulled back, his eyes were wide and a little dazed.
"You don't have to wonder about anything, Michael," you whispered. "I feel the same way about you, too. Felt that way for a very long time."
He could help but chuckle, the relief in his expression almost humorously boyish.
"You're the most amazing person I've ever known... You already have me if you want me."
Javadi posting about Jesse and effectively standing up for herself with Robby and then gets defended by McKay and then having flirty energy with the intake woman and then immediately working with Mateo who she couldn’t NOT embarrass herself in front of last season. She’s twenty one soon. She is a girl who is going to be okay.
Jack "Sir, we are gonna get you more pain meds, but you need to shut your fucking mouth." Abbot and Michael "if you fire her, she will sue you and I will testify on her behalf." Robinavitch
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.
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Having a car in Gotham was a blessing—no late-night walks, no muggers, and no leering men catcalling you. It was a wonder how much more bearable the crime-ridden city was when you had a car.
Yet, even from inside your glorious vehicle, disaster still managed to strike you in the form of a man.
Or was it the other way around?
Either way, your hands gripped the steering wheel, sweaty and shaky as you stared up ahead with wide eyes.
All you saw was a blur of red before your foot slammed on the brake a second too late. There was a big thump while the car shuddered with you.
With a muffled, hysterical cry, you wrenched open the door and stumbled out.
“Fucking hell,” you whispered, brows furrowed.
On the road was a groaning man in red. Your heart skipped a beat. At least the guy was still alive. Fear vibrated through you, your mind replaying the moment over and over.
You made your way closer to him, as if he were some rabid animal and not a helpless man you’d hit with your car.
The closer you got, the more you could make out the form of Red Hood.
You cursed and wondered if you should run. What if he tried to kill you for fracturing an important bone or—
Your thoughts were cut off by his strained voice.
“You gonna help or stare at me?”
You steadied yourself and forced your mouth to work.
“I—shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you running. Obviously I didn’t do this on purpose—fuck.” You said it as calmly as possible, which sounded more like you were being held at gunpoint.
He didn’t move a muscle, just stared at you like you were the insane one. His helmet had been removed, his jaw was clenched, and his raven hair was a mess. Oh. He was one of those people who looked hot while frustrated.
You swallowed and crouched down, awkwardly trying to help him up. You weren’t much help with lifting a six-foot-something man.
“I’m so sorry,” you said again while the vigilante leaned on your smaller form.
“It’s fine,” he grunted.
“It’s not. I mean, you could have died.”
He snorted as you helped him onto the sidewalk where he stiffly sat, not showing any signs of major injuries. You could barely read the man, and the mask covering his eyes didn’t help.
“Eh, been there, done that,” he replied, watching you intently like he was enraptured by the person who got him temporarily incapacitated.
You gave him a weird look, your face screwing up. You opened your mouth to ask what that meant but decided against it. Was it rude to ask people about their death? You assumed it was.
“Okay…” You trailed off. He wasn’t saying much and you didn’t know what to do. So, you rummaged through the pocket of your jeans and pulled out a lollipop. You winced—it was all you had.
You held it out to Red Hood with a hopeful look in your eye.
“A peace offering,” you added when he didn’t move, white lenses fixed on your face rather than your offering.
He sighed, a white strand of his hair falling across his forehead, and you wanted to brush it away.
You willed yourself to stay still—you would not embarrass yourself. But the way he was looking at you made you feel like it was too late for that.
“I already said it was okay, sweetheart.” His voice was low and rough.
Your mind decided to focus on the last word, zoning in on the way he said it. You numbly pushed the candy closer to his face.
A reluctant half-smile formed on his face, gloved fingers brushing yours as he took the candy from you, lingering a second too long to chase the warmth.
You cleared your throat.
“Next time, you should look both ways before crossing,” you told him.
His half-smile deepened.
“And deny myself the pleasure of meeting you again?”
You attack Jason with love because you're overwhelmed with how much you adore him.
warnings: pure fluff, Jason gets a little emotional about being loved
an: how I wish I could treat him frfr
Jason knows you're watching him, even if he can't see you out of his peripheral vision.
It's a little unnerving, to know someone is watching you silently without knowing why they're doing it. But alas, he reckons it's okay.
It's you after all, you wouldn't harm him. You're the safest person he's ever been around.
He can pinpoint the exact moment you begin to walk—no, stalk—towards where he's seated on the corner of the couch.
You round the sofa, carefully avoiding the edge of the coffee table and before he can look up from his book to greet you, you're plucking it gently out of his hands and lay it to the side.
The next sequence of events is a blur in his mind, because one moment he's holding a book and next thing he knows? He's holding your waist like a life line while you're straddling his lap, peppering kisses across his entire face and neck.
His chest heaves with the effort it takes to not pass out right there and then, and really, he should get a medal for not collapsing under the strain you're putting on his poor, thundering heart.
Without being able to get a single word in, he's subjected to having you cradle his face and lift it whichever way you please. First you're kissing his forehead, trailing feather light touches across his brow down to the bridge of his nose while muttering to yourself.
"God you're so lovely," smooch.
"And so goddamn kind to a fault," smooch.
"I can't believe you're real," smooch, "so so pretty and sweet," smooch.
It is in that very moment that Jason realises something grave.
You're not giving him a casual dose of affection, oh no. You are drowning him in so much love and appreciation he fears his brain might actually give up trying to process.
It overwhelms him—to absolutely no one's surprise—enough for him to feel his traitorous brain turn off and become one big pile of useless mush.
He knows this feeling very well, it's a fairly regular occurrence with you. Sometimes, you just overwhelm him with comfort, love and safety his brain can't handle it, so it just turns off.
His blinking becomes slower, his breathing heavier and his entire body moves more sluggishly. Instead of words, he can only let out embarrassing whines while he writhes in an attempt to counter the affection overdrive.
You just make it worse by running your hand through his hair and shushing him lovingly. "It's okay my sweet boy, just let me love you, 'kay?"
Does he have a choice? No, not really.
So, Jason Todd—all 6'4 and pure muscle—tries to be very still like an obedient puppy while you shower him in praise.
Your tone is so sugary sweet, he can't really believe you could think someone like him deserving of these honeyed words. And the way you start simplifying your speech because he knows he can't really think? Very offensive to his poor heart, your honour.
You deliver your final hit by guiding his head into the crook of your neck, patting his back while you keep sneaking kisses to the side of his face. "You deserve so many good things, Jay," you sigh dreamily, "and above all, you deserve being loved for who you are, broken shards and scars too."
That is what does it for him—that's what breaks him.
His eyes fill with tears while his hands fist the material of your shirt tighter. He can't put it into words, but somehow he believes you.
In this moment, he fully and wholly believes that he deserves you. And that is a miracle in and out of itself, only possible because you didn't leave when he pushed you away.
He will forever be grateful you saw something worth loving in him, and even more so for teaching him to see it too.
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