Stephanie brown x queer!f!reader
I wrote this when I was half asleep and after going over this I’m now exactly sure if it’s completely in character but it’s what your getting so deal with it. Also you have a pre determined music taste.
Movie night with Steph, your favourite. It was a monthly thing on your favourite day of the week, Saturday, with your favourite person, Stephanie Brown, your best friend. You hadn’t known each other for long in the grand scheme of things, but my gods, she was your favourite. Her funny jokes, her kindness, her bravery, and her beautiful mess of a personality, it all matched her golden blonde hair perfectly, beautiful and messy. And her eyes you looked at them whenever you could, which basically meant whenever she wasn’t paying attention. In fact, you spent most of movie night watching her instead of the movie, because you didn’t want to look like a creep. She probably wouldn’t appreciate knowing her openly bisexual friend was ogling her, even if you told yourself it was just “objective appreciation.” At least, that’s what you tried to believe.
You knew Steph was bisexual, you were actually the first person she ever told. Which meant you’d definitely know if she had feelings for you. And honestly, you knew you had it bad for her. You just shoved it down. She was your best friend, and you weren’t about to ruin that over stupid “more than friends” feelings. No way. She was too important.
So when you arrived at the manor and she was wearing your old top, -the one you “accidentally” left there the last time you stayed the night- you buried the fluttery feeling in your chest and shoved it down. Not too far, though, fluttery feelings in other places would not help the situation. You had left that top on purpose, knowing she’d wear it, and you couldn’t help wondering why you do this to yourself.
Every queer person talks about the pain of loving someone straight, but no one ever mentions how hard it is loving someone who is queer and still doesn’t feel the same. It’s like dangling a carrot in front of a pig, always just out of reach. It’s not fair. We already have a much smaller dating pool.
Next thing you know, you’re on her couch “watching” some movie she picked. You always let her choose, she gets so excited about it, and she doesn’t have much downtime. So no matter how boring the movie seems or how nonsensical the plot is, you don’t complain. You enjoy listening to her make jokes and ramble. She often asks if there’s anything you want to watch, and sometimes you suggest something she’s been wanting to see or something you know she’ll love, but most of the time it’s her choice. You wouldn’t have it any other way. After all, most of the time you’re watching her anyway, the way her face lights up, how intrigued she gets by the plot, the look she makes when she’s trying to solve the mystery before the movie reveals the answer. She’s breathtaking, and you can’t help feeling lucky to witness it.
You don’t ogle her the whole time, of course. That would be creepy. Sometimes you bake together beforehand, blasting music and dancing around like idiots. She picks the movie, but you pick most of the songs, Nickelback, Nirvana, D12, 50 Cent. Alfred has given more than a few disappointed glances at your provocative playlist. Sometimes you play games and stay the night, those nights are the best. Sometimes you even let her win just to see her happy. It’s your favourite sight.
Maybe it’s more than a crush now, but it doesn’t matter. You’ll never tell her. She doesn’t feel the same, anyway.
You don’t know whether it was a particularly tiring month or an extremely boring movie, possibly both, but now you can’t seem to keep your eyes open. Every so often you drift off and jerk back awake, or try to force your eyes open even though they’re rolling back in your skull like you downed a bottle of Valium. And then you realise your head is on her shoulder and even more shockingly, her arm is around you.
Naturally you decide to keep as still as possible and drift in and out of consciousness. Stephanie, meanwhile, thinks you’re out cold.
“Oh God, you’re so pretty…” she mutters under her breath, looking at you and tenderly stroking your hair. Well shit- you’re awake now.
“You think I’m pretty?” you respond, smirking slightly. You can’t help it, she just called you pretty, for Christ’s sake.
She almost jumps, and you definitely notice the pink rising in her cheeks. It makes her eyes stand out, it almost leaves you breathless. She has no right looking that good flustered.
“Oh- uh, I didn’t mean to wake you,” she says as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous habit you’ve noticed she has.
“You didn’t. I wasn’t fully sleeping.” She didn’t deny thinking you were pretty, though. That’s a win. You shouldn’t push your luck, but you most certainly will.
“That wasn’t a no, though.” You say it almost although your teasing but to you it’s more of a concealed question. She shifts uncomfortably on the couch, avoiding direct eye contact, fidgeting with the hem of her top, her face turning a deeper shade of red. You know it doesn’t mean she likes you but getting a compliment off your crush is nothing to complain about and it’s certainly not an opportunity to miss.
“I- I guess it wasn’t.” Your heart is beating so fast you think it might explode. Her flustered expression has rendered you completely unable to think, so you keep going.
“So you do think I’m pretty,” you say, the only semi baked thought in your head. She bites her lower lip, another nervous habit, clearly flustered by the direct confrontation. It’s adorable.
“Well… yes. I mean- objectively speaking.”Her voice gets quieter with each word, more unsure, unusual for her. Despite the obvious tension, it’s only now you consider that your feelings might not be as one-sided as you originally thought. But you push the thought down quickly. So what if she thinks I’m pretty, that doesn’t mean she has feelings.
“You’re pretty too,” you say, much more confidently than she did, which is a first. You’ve always admired her confidence, seeing her so flustered is completely unexpected, but definitely not unwelcome.
Stephanie’s breath catches. Her eyes widen at your unexpected compliment. It’s subtle, but you notice you always do with her, every little detail.
“You really think so?” Did she not? Does she not own a mirror?
“Duh. I mean, look at you, you’re stunning.” She glances down at herself, then back at you with a mix of disbelief and something unreadable. Her disbelief confuses you.
“Stop teasing me,” she says softly, though a small smile tugs at her lips. You can’t tell if she actually thinks you’re teasing her or if she just struggles to take a compliment. Honestly, neither seems likely. She’s too noticeably perfect not to believe you, and too confident to struggle with compliments, in your mind, anyway.
“I’m not teasing. You’re stunning,” you repeat, more assertively this time, like it’s an indisputable fact and in your mind it is. Stephanie’s smile grows wider despite her attempts to hide it.
“You’re just saying that,” she mumbles, but there’s a hint of pleasure in her voice. Maybe she’s fishing for compliments unlikely, but more plausible than Aphrodite reincarnated over there genuinely having trouble accepting one. Even if she is fishing, you’re more than happy to oblige.
You lean forward, making eye contact, unable to wipe the smirk from your lips still there from earlier, but no longer something you try to hide, it may be coming off as more flirtatious than you intent but you can’t bring yourself to stop.
“Now why would I do that?” You question, this is definitely coming off as more flirtatious than intended but right now you can’t bring yourself to care. She shrugs.
“Because we’re friends? And friends give each other compliments.” She looks away again, fighting a blush. You wish she wouldn’t look away. You want to see it, the blush that makes those beautiful eyes you love so much stand out, and the way she nibbles her bottom lip when she’s flustered. It has you completely captivated.
“Well, I’m not just saying that. You’re gorgeous.” You have to fight the urge to reach out, cup her cheek, to drag your thumb along her soft skin, to guide her face back toward your own. God, you wish you could.
Something in her cracks at your words. Her face goes completely red as she buries it in her hands.
“Stop it, you’re making me feel things,” she practically whines, clearly flustered by your unusual Steph-drunk persistence. What did she mean by “feel things”? Good things? You can’t tell. You pray to whatever’s out there that you haven’t made her uncomfortable, the last thing you want. Was that too flirtatious? What if she realizes you like her? What if that ruins everything?
“What things?” you ask, trying, and failing miserably to hide the shift in your tone, the nerves in your voice. She peeks through her fingers at you. Your breath hitches. When she speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper.
“Things I shouldn’t feel. Not for my straight best friend.”
Hold up did she say straight.
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