You know, I think I've finally found it (I think I've found myself something good)
The Halloween Feast - event masterlist here
pairing: poly marauders x reader (gender neutral, no use of y/n)
length: 1.7k
genre: fluff, comfort
warnings: slytherin reader, some paranoia about losing happiness, the good times are always temporary etc etc, but they're really not, it's very comforting
a/n: I hope we all enjoyed the lil event <33
"We're not having a party next year," Sirius announces as he stomps through the Gryffindor common room, kicking an empty cup out of his way.
"It's cute that you think that," you say as you lean against the back of one of the couches, watching James collect cups and garbage that had been strewn around the room. "How did you three get stuck with clean up, anyway?"
"It's our punishment," James says sullenly. "MacGonagall seems to think it's all our fault that the party got like this."
"Well," you say pointedly as you pick up an empty cup from the couch, tossing it into Remus's waiting hand. "I'm not sure you can blame her for being unbiased and honest for once."
"And what about you?" Sirius demands, his hands on his hips as he effectively abandons his task of cleaning up. "Shouldn't you be down in the snake pit cleaning up after your own big night?"
"What?" you laugh. "Slughorn making his prized best student clean up firewhiskey stains and scrub couches? That's funny, baby, really."
"How unbiased and honest," Remus retorts dryly, but his hand smooths between your shoulder blades when he passes and he shoots you a gentle little smile.
"Yes, I thought so," you say kindly as Sirius huffs.
"What are you doing here, then?" James asks, a teasing little tilt to his voice. "Have you come to brag and lounge about while we work, hm?"
"No," you say pointedly. "I'll help if you want."
"No, it's not your mess to clean up," James drops what he's doing to usher you onto one of the clean couches. "Sit down, lovely."
"You're giving me whiplash here, Jamie," you laugh as you let him coddle you, sitting you down and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
"You didn't really come here just to help us clean the common room, did you?" Sirius asks as he looks at you peculiarly. You shrug a bit, your shoulders coming up to your ears.
"Is that so odd?" you ask.
"No, dove," Remus says kindly. "But it's really not your job. It's our mess to clean up - literally."
"I don't mind," you insist gently, prompting one of Remus's sickeningly fond looks and a kiss pressed to your cheek. "I just came to spend some time with you."
"Didn't get enough of us last night, hm?" Sirius asks coyly, and you roll your eyes fondly despite the heat that you feel rise to your cheeks.
"Shut up," you quip.
"I didn't mean that part of the night," he counters, a wolfish sort of grin spreading across his face. "But I'm glad you enjoyed that, too."
"I'm going to leave if you're not nice to me," you threaten, but it's a weak threat at best - especially when Remus finds himself sitting next to you on the couch. There's very little resistance from you, then, when he tucks you against his side and coaxes you to relax against him, murmuring a please don't go anywhere, my love.
It's quiet like this - just the four of you in the vast, echoing common room, and it's enough of a rarity that you take a bit more notice of it than you usually would as you curl up against Remus's side.
What a difference, you think sort of faintly as whisps of last night's party roll through your memory. How odd it is to be in the silence that it's left behind.
"You're not really thinking of leaving, are you?" James asks in that kicked-puppy way of his as he perches on the arm of the couch next to you, and you startle as it pulls you out of wherever you'd drifted off to.
"Seriously, babe, I was only joking," Sirius adds as he sits down on the coffee table in front of you, his elbows on his knees and a concerned sort of tilt to his mouth. "We love to have you here - always."
"No, I - I know," you hold your hands up in a placating sort of gesture. "I know, it's ok."
"Where'd you go, then, babylove?" James asks, and his voice is so tender that your head swims just a bit.
"Nowhere," you insist. "We're all right here." But maybe, you think as James frowns down at you and anchors a hand on the back of your neck - maybe you're trying to convince yourself more than them.
"I'm not going to leave," you tack on, but you're not sure it really has the effect you're looking for. Sirius leans further in from his spot perched on the coffee table as if he can sniff out whatever has you acting so odd, and it alarms you so quickly that Remus places a firm hand on his knee.
He doesn't say anything, though - none of them do, content to let the silence hang until you can find your own way to them. James fidgets impatiently, his thumb rubbing soothing circles where his hand stays on the back of your neck, and you suspect the action is to level himself out just as much as it's for you.
"I just had too much fun last night, that's all," you say eventually, and it's a weak sort of excuse, a thin wall to build up. "I'm - I don't know. I feel weird, I guess."
"You feeling sick?" Remus murmurs, his voice a sympathetic coo as he sweeps his knuckles over your cheek in a tentative, searching sort of motion.
"Something like that," you agree - because you wouldn't lie, not really, but there's a sort of bubble here that you don't want to burst.
"Mhm," Remus hums in that way he always does when he's caught you. James's thumb stops moving on your neck, and Sirius straightens up where he sits - and you press your lips together as you suddenly do start to feel unwell.
"Well," Remus says kindly - that undercurrent of worry always there. "Why don't you stay here a bit, then, hm? Relax a bit while we finish cleaning up. That way you can… let us know if you need anything."
You've never been so grateful, you think, for a love this gentle - for a door held so wide open. Remus presses a long kiss to your hair as you nod, and it's sturdy and steady in a way that rights the world just a bit more.
"You let us know, yea?" James agrees as his hand moves across your shoulders, holding you against him in a half-hug.
"I will," you agree - because it's so easy to lay everything bare with a love like this.
"You'd better," Sirius insists, but it's a threat that falls flat under his hands, kind and gentle as they smooth over your thighs while he leans forward to kiss you softly. "You've gotta, baby." he breathes against your lips - and although you know he's trying to get you to crack, it very nearly works.
But a well-placed pillow flies over your head into his face and James shouts something about Sirius leaving all the work to him and Remus, and he has no choice but to leave you with one final squeeze of your thighs in his hands.
You let him - because he's just right there, really. Always, you find as you settle into the couch, curling your feet up under you while you watch them clean. There's a stuttering bit of panic that sits in your chest with everything movement that the boys make, cleaning and sorting things until any trace of last night's party has been scrubbed from sight.
It's over, you think sort of flatly, and you wonder if you'll ever get it back. You wonder, as panic climbs up your spine and begins to wrap around you, if you really held onto it well enough - if you did right by your happiness, if you -
"Next year," James announces as he straightens and rolls his shoulders out, broad and straining under his shirt, "we're doing that thing that Marlene did out at the lake party - with the jack-o'-lanterns."
"Yes!" Sirius all but shouts, snapping his fingers as he remembers the pumpkins that their friend had enchanted to whizz around and snap at people. "I can't believe she thought of it before us."
"You ought to practice before next year, then," Remus chimes in. "Otherwise they're liable to bite someone's hand off."
"Would that be so bad?" James grins in that mischievous way that always fizzles through him when there's fun to be had. He looks young, you think - happy and carefree in that way that always looks so comfortable on him.
"Well," Sirius chimes in, a wolfish sort of grin on his face. "Depends on who they bite."
Remus seems to take some kind of problem with that, then, and he and Sirius get into one of their bickering matches - all fake frowns and coy teasing. James drops his part of the cleaning to come back to the couch and squat down next to you.
"How are we doing?" he murmurs as he all but hangs off of you, wrapping his arms around you firmly.
"Are you really going to enchant a bunch of jack-o-lanterns to bite people next year?" you ask him lightly, and he beams at the mirth in your voice.
"Maybe," he hedges. "Why, want to help?"
"Oh, I don't know," you shrug, glancing over the couch to where Sirius has tugged Remus close by the collar of his shirt so that he can kiss him soundly.
James snorts out a laugh at the sight and you look back to him, an entertained sort of giggle leaving you before you can stop it.
What a life, you think, that you've built for yourself. What a love that you've planted in it.
"You don't know?" James prompts, that teasing tilt still heard in his voice.
"Not sure," you shrug. "I have my own party next year to plan."
And this hope that we've built? (brick by brick, it lasts forever)
The Twelve Days of Christmas - event masterlist here
pairing: damian wayne x reader x jon kent (gender neutral, no use of y/n)
length: 1.3k
genre: fluff, comfort
warnings: they're all drinking wine, damian's drunk, and umm finding your life and your people, and the joy of knowing you've built something sturdy and reliable and permanent
a/n: this one's sappy but I hope everyone likes it and agrees with my decorating opinions lmao
"We should've done gold," Damian sighs, forlorn and listing in a way that he never would be if not for the mulled wine in his hand. Jon leans back to eye the Christmas tree from where he's standing next to it, cocking his head to the side as he considers it.
"Ew, no," you insist. "The silver's so much better. The ornaments are just in a weird place - Jon, try moving that one," you gesture with your own wine, and Jon pulls a couple of ornaments off the tree that he thinks you might've been pointing to.
"But red and gold is classic," Damian argues, his form heavy and warm where he slouches against you on the couch. It's odd, you think, to see him like this - drunk and hazy, his cheeks warm against your hand.
But Damian doesn't really drink - ever, too concerned about his health to partake in such a thing. It's a special allowance that he's given the two of you just for the holidays, letting you both pour him, as well as yourselves, endless glasses of hot mulled wine.
"How about this?" Jon suggests, remarkably unaffected by his own drink. Thank god one of you is, you think, as you blink blearily at the dazzling lights of the tree.
"Um," you say slowly. "I don't know. Maybe move… that one back to where it was before and try moving the other one - no, the red one - yea, move it further… up."
Jon sends you a kind, long-suffering sort of look before he begins pulling more ornaments off the tree, deciding for himself how to fix it.
"We're making a mess," Damian murmurs as he watches endless little pine needles get jostled off of the branches, left to spiral down to the floor and carpet it.
"We'll clean it up after," you wave off his concern. "I'll sweep."
"You'd have to be able to stand up for that," he giggles, a delightfully unusual sound that has Jon beaming at the two of you in amusement.
"You do it, then," you retort, knowing that Damian's in even worse shape than you.
"Neither of you are doing it," Jon interjects. "I'll clean up."
"But you've been doing all the work!" you protest, gesturing to the tree and the ornaments that he's balancing carefully in one hand.
"It's not work," Jon says kindly. "It's Christmas."
"Cleaning the floor is work no matter what time of year it is," you counter, and Damian makes an agreeing sort of noise as he leans against your shoulder.
"Well," Jon continues kindly. "If I thought either of you could stand up straight right now, I'd say go for it."
"Whatever," you sniff indignantly - and Damian, you think, knows when he's wrong, beause he just tucks his face further into your shoulder and stays silent.
"Maybe we can do gold next year," you offer thoughtfully as Jon ambles about, sweeping the loose pine needles into a messy sort of pile with his foot.
"Yea?" Damian murmurs, lifting his head from your shoulder to squint at you. Jon huffs out a low laugh, leaning over to smooth some of his ruffled hair down as he passes the couch.
"Sure," you offer easily. "Next year, red and gold."
"What about blue?" Jon asks absently. "You almost wanted to do blue this year."
"Hm," you press your lips together. "Next year, red and gold. The year after that, blue and silver."
"What about silver and gold? Add that to the list," Damian chimes in, settling further back against the couch cushions, his mulled wine carefully pried out of his hand and placed on the coffee table by Jon before it's spilled.
"Isn't silver and gold a bit much?" you retort.
"No," he squints at you. "Blue isn't even a Christmas colour."
"It's a winter colour," you insist. "It just means we can keep our tree up for longer."
"Ok, well - silver and gold are both Christmas colours. Makes it right twice," Damian says firmly. You gawk at him, thumping your own wine down onto the coffee table so that you can shuffle closer to him freely.
"You're drunk," you say kindly. "Out of your mind."
"I don't know," Jon muses from where he's kneeling on the floor with a dustpan, looking on with a face so lovesick, you feel a dizziness that has nothing to do with your drinking. "He might have a point."
"I'm feeling ganged up on," you say pointedly, and the kiss that Damian presses to your forehead is a bit sloppy, misplaced and hot to the touch as he rests a flushed cheek on the top of your head.
"Only because we're right," he says easily, rocking the two of you back and forth a bit, a disjointed rhythm playing only in his head.
"Fine," you sniff indignantly. "Next year, red and gold. Then blue and silver. Then silver and gold."
"Good enough," Damian murmurs, and your eyeroll is fond.
"What about you?" you kick a leg at Jon weakly, and he catches it easily to poke at the bottom of your foot until you shriek and pull it away.
"I don't care," he shrugs, and you open your mouth to retort with something, to tell him that he has to have some kind of opinion here - because it's his house, too. His home, his life.
But he sits down on the floor in front of the two of you, dustpan abandoned somewhere on the floor as loose pine needles stick to his pants, and there's something so shining in his gaze that it has you snapping your mouth shut.
"What's the look for?" Damian says quietly, his voice an uncharacteristically shy little sound in the midst of it all.
"I'm just thinking," Jon responds, and the smile that spreads across his face is so bright that you think, sort of idly, mostly in love, that it puts the lights of the Christmas tree to shame. "Isn't it nice?"
"What, the tree?" you blink.
"No," Jon shakes his head, leaning back on his hands to look at the two of you. "Just - I don't know. That we'll have all this time."
"No one knows what you're talking about," Damian says lazily, and you smile at Jon a bit sheepishly in agreement.
He huffs, rolling his eyes fondly as he looks on.
"I think it's… nice," Jon says slowly - careful and sure in each step. "That we… that we'll spend so many Christmases together that we get to… talk like this, you know?"
You soften at that - warm from the wine and warmed more from Jon's words, from the soft, little smile that he looks up at the two of you with.
"Of course we will," Damian scoffs, but his hand reaches out to try to tug Jon up onto the couch, all the same. "Did you ever think we wouldn't?"
"No," Jon replies honestly as he scrambles up, careful as he shifts the two of you to squish into the middle. "But I don't mind being reminded."
"Well, it's forever," you shrug - and it's simple in it's surety, solid in it's promise. "I always knew that."
"We both did," Damian agrees. "We all do."
"So start thinking about how you want the tree decorated," you add in, brushing some of Jon's hair back with a gentle, tipsy hand. "You're behind in the argument."
"Thats's alright," Jon gives in easily, laughing and beaming in a way that makes your chest nearly hurt. "Looks like I have the rest of forever to catch up, don't I?"
I'd like to hold onto this fright, I think (I'd like you to find me one more time)
The Halloween Feast - event masterlist here
pairing: barty crouch jr x reader x evan rosier / rosekiller x reader (gender neutral, no use of y/n)
length: 1.6k
genre: fluff, comfort
warnings: slytherin reader, mention of bring tipsy/drunk, the people who love you enjoy taking care of you and you don't have to atone for that
a/n: party number twooo I hope y'all like it xoxo
"How long do you really think we can keep this up?" you giggle as you stumble into Barty, tipsy and warm as the grass squishes under your feet.
"You worry too much," is Evan's only reply as he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close to steady you. "We'll be fine."
"We're going to get caught," you insist, but you find it difficult to truly be worried about a thing like that on a night like this. There's a bonfire nearby, warmth rolling off of it in waves as everyone sits around, drinking and laughing and stumbling about. Pandora's been using her wand to cast an eerie light, telling horror stories and tall tales. Someone had asked her a bit ago if they were really true, and she'd insisted that the only thing it takes to make a story true is to say it aloud.
Nearby, the Black Lake laps at the shore gently, the sound of the waves muffled by the barrage of spells that the upper years have cast to try to keep the party hidden.
"We will get caught," Barty agrees, a sharp grin crossing his face. "But not yet."
"So what - we just have a good time until our inevitable doom?" you laugh, and he shrugs.
"Well, what else is there to do in the meantime?" he counters, and you shake your head good-naturedly as you sink down ungracefully to sit cross-legged near the fire.
"I think you had a bit of a head start, didn't you, love?" Evan muses, looking down at you with an amused sort of look as he and Barty sit down on either side of you.
"Aw, what gave me away?" you laugh, and he grins in delight.
"Sitting in wet grass without complaining, for starters," he says sweetly, and Barty barks out a laugh.
"Oh, no," you wave Evan off. "That'll come soon, don't worry."
"Great," he quips, pulling you against him with an arm around your shoulders so that he can drop a kiss to the crown of your head.
"Am I bothersome?" you ask, a joking tilt to a serious question. Evan tightens his hold on you and Barty scoffs, smoothing down your hair as the wind threatens to tangle it.
"Bothersome?" Barty's voice has a disbelieving note to it. "Honestly, love, how could you think a thing like that?"
There's a loving air to your eye roll, a kind note to the way you press your lips together instead of quipping back. It's a nice evening, the bonfire warm and crackling, Evan's arm around you and Barty's side pressed against yours both welcome, loving weights.
It's a nice evening, you think, as Barty presses closer to you - a dog with a bone when it comes to anything that might make you unhappy. It's not the time. It's not the place.
"You're perfect, you know," he insists, and Evan's arm tightens around you in an agreeing sort of way.
"This party's perfect," you counter - a desperate sort of attempt to steer the conversation away from the weight that you'd accidentally tossed over it. It's a stumbling sort of diversion - but they love you earnestly, so it works.
"It is nice," Evan agrees, his hand rubbing up and down your arm as Barty presses his nose against your cheek, warmed from the bonfire. "I think it'll stay like that for a while, no matter what."
That was rather pointed, you think, but he dips down to press a kiss to your cheek after, and you find that you don't mind so much.
"I'd like to make sure of that," you offer in response, and he hums like he's pretending to think about it.
"I don't think that'll take much," he counters eventually, but there's a gentle sort of melody to Evan's voice that makes it difficult to argue.
"It's just that it won't last," you insist anyway. Somewhere nearby, Pandora flashes a beam of greenish light from her wand while she talks, and someone else lets out a shocked sort of shriek. "I want to enjoy what we have for a bit."
"It's just a party," Barty murmurs, his head knocking against your slightly as he presses his cheek against yours so that you can both stare at the bonfire.
"But we'll never get this party back," you respond quietly, and you feel his shrug.
"There'll always be more parties," Barty counters easily. You click your tongue, and he ducks down to press an apologetic sort of kiss to the side of your neck - because he knows that that isn't what you mean.
"I think as long as you have people to sit around a fire and get drunk with, there can always be another party," he adds, and it's a heavy sort of thing to say with a teasing sort of tone to cover it. You find, though, as you look around, as your friends laugh and drink and tell ghost stories, that it didn't really make much of a difference to bring up such a thing. It really didn't ruin anything at all.
"Evan," you sigh, rolling your head back against his shoulder so that he can look down at you.
"Yes, love?" is his kind response, and you widen your eyes, a bambi sort of look that has him narrowing his own.
"My pants are all wet now," you say sadly, and Barty barks out a laugh that has a few heads turning.
"Good to see you're coming back to yourself, baby," he says easily, amusement colouring his voice. You'd respond, really, but Evan's already carefully manhandling you to stand back up so that he can brush bits of grass off your legs.
"You missed a spot," you murmur down to him, and he shoots you a stern look. It's a bit weak, though, you find, as he takes your hands and presses them to his shoulders so that you have something steady to stop your tipsy swaying.
"I'm gonna go look in the lake," you murmur when Evan stands back up, your hands sliding from his shoulders to his chest. Barty grips onto your hips from where he's standing behind you and hooks his chin over your shoulder.
"What for?" he asks coaxingly.
"Because it's pretty this time of year," you supply simply.
"You think everything's pretty this time of year," Barty counters, but he takes your hand into his, still, so that the three of you can slip away from the light of the fire and the noise of the party. He's right, of course - you do think everything's pretty this time of year. The leaves change and the earth quiets and the air starts to taste sweet.
The light of the bonfire just reaches the shore of the lake, and as you stand with your toes just beyond the ripples of water, the light illuminates it in endless, dancing shades of orange and yellow. A couple of rowdy Gryffindors have enchanted some jack-o-lanterns to float around and spook people, and the moving lights flicker around the water to distort it further.
"Don't do that," comes Evan's sigh as you lean forward a bit too much, his arm a firm band around your middle, now.
"Don't what? Fall into the two-foot shallow end?" you quip back, and Barty's laugh makes something warm fizzle in your chest.
"We just got your pants dried off, my love - give us a chance there," he retorts, and there's a loving sort of tilt to it - a warmth to Barty's voice that makes you feel a bit more tipsy than you were a few minutes ago.
It's in an effort to get away from it, then, that you turn your gaze back down and stare into the swirling colours of the lake. Your reflection stares back at you - sort of, distorted and discoloured and wholly unfamiliar. When you look to either side of you, you find that you can spot Evan and Barty's reflections rather easily.
Maybe it's where you're standing. Maybe the light from the fire is catching on your reflection in a way that it isn't touching theirs.
Or maybe, you think, as the laughter and the light around you sort of dies down - maybe there's just a stranger looking back at you.
You'd dwell on that much longer, surely, if Evan didn't start tugging incessantly on your arm - if the noise of the party didn't very abruptly explode into panic.
"Time to go," Barty laughs, and when you look up to see what everyone's running from, you're greeted with several displeased teachers stomping across the grounds towards you.
"Oh, yea," you agree, and that's really all it takes for the three of you to join the scrambling students who scatter in all sorts of directions.
"They've already seen us, you know," you shout over the commotion, the air in your lungs stuttering just a bit as you run. "I don't know what the point of this is."
"You wanted the party to last, didn't you?" Evan laughs as he continues tugging on your arm.
"Well -"
"It's not over until we're caught, babe," Barty chimes in, and it's stupid and reckless and loving enough that you find you don't really mind the burn in your lungs or the cold wind whipping across your face as you run side by side.
You wonder, sort of absently, if the teachers have put the bonfire out yet. You wonder if the lake still lights up the way that it had for you - if your reflection still stares up, whole and known and waiting for you.
My love, you needn't haunt this place (we can find ourselves somewhere new)
The Halloween Feast - event masterlist here
pairing: poly marauders x reader (gender neutral, no use of y/n)
length: 1.6k
genre: fluff, comfort
warnings: slytherin reader, the whole gang's here for this one, let yourself be happy let yourself be loved, that's it folks
a/n: kiss kiss I hope we all like this one <3
"Ok, see, I know it's a party - but there's still only so much you can get away with," you laugh as Sirius keeps a firm grip on your waist, gently trying to wrestle you into his lap.
"We can get away with this, no one's looking," he insists as he tugs you closer.
"Yea, but anyone could be looking," you counter, even as you let him pull you all the way on top of him. It's true that no one's paying that much attention tonight - the great hall around you is buzzing with the annual Halloween feast and all of the festivities that come with it. Professors, on a night like this, turn the other way more often than not, content to let the students have one night of freedom.
Around the two of you, everyone else is too concerned with their own conversations, laughter and chatter bouncing off the high arched ceilings and dripping down. It's true that no one's really paying any attention other than James, who sits across the table and nudges his foot next to yours while Remus lounges next to him and looks on fondly.
"Come on," Sirius cajoles - even though he's already won, even though you always cave so easily for him. "You've been up and down all night - I've barely gotten any time with you."
You do, admittedly, turn a little sheepish at that, and you become a bit more pliant as he situates you in his lap.
"I'm sorry," you say honestly. "I know I've been spending a lot of time at the other tables, but -"
"No, love," Remus laughs fondly. "No one's mad at you for spending time with your friends."
"Of course not," James chimes in, throwing you a wink across the table. "We're just also competing for some of your attention."
"I don't think you should have to compete for it," you insist quickly, but Sirius wraps a firm arm around your waist and tugs you closer.
"He's only joking, sweet thing. No one's feeling jilted," he says softly, and you slouch into him a bit.
"I know," you send James a soft smile. "But I'd like to keep it that way. You're all supposed to be having a good time tonight."
"So are you, dove," Remus says kindly. "And I'm not sure this is the way to do it."
"You can't tell me how to have a good time," you say stubbornly, but Sirius's fingers get mean as they dig into your sides, and you can't help the laugh that leaves you as you squirm out of his lap.
"Well, apparently, you can't tell yourself, either," he chastises as he tucks you against his side, instead. Remus reaches across the table to pour you a drink, and James tucks one of your feet between both of his. "So I think we ought to help you, yea?"
"It's not like that," you dig your heels in, holding your hands up in surrender as Remus nudges your drink towards you. "I just… you know."
It takes a lot, most days, for Sirius's demeanour to crack into something tender. So you wonder, as he softens next to you and smooths a hand over the crown of your head, what the reason is tonight. You wonder, as he presses a kiss to your forehead, if the party has softened him or if you really seem so off kilter right now.
"I want people to have a good time," you insist softly, and the look that Remus sends you is so fond and knowing that you crumble just a bit.
"People are having fun, lovely," James insists. "Everyone looks it."
"People look like they're having fun when they're not actually all the time," you counter, and James smiles at you with a patience that you're not sure you've earned.
"I know," he says kindly. "You especially."
You press your lips together, your gaze flickering over to the Slytherin table where Evan and Barty are roughhousing and jostling each other about, and Dorcas sends you a sharp grin when she catches your eye. Somewhere further down the Gryffindor table, Peter and Marlene are shouting at each other about something that doesn't really matter, little bursts of laughter cutting off the noise every now and then.
Something cold against your hand startles you out of your trance, and you take the drink that Remus has once again shoved towards you slowly.
"Maybe I shouldn't have made so many friends," you say tiredly as you peer into the glass and watch your wavering reflection stare back at you. Sirius barks out a laugh that jostles you and distorts it beyond recognition.
"Yea, babe," he says solemnly. "What a burden to bear."
"Shut up," you laugh. "You know I don't mean it like that."
"How do you mean it?" Remus asks kindly, but the quirk of his lips tells you that he already knows.
"I just think, sometimes…" you start slowly. "That I have too many things and not enough time."
"You do stretch yourself quite thin," James agrees, and you frown - because you didn't really want anyone on your side about this. You didn't really want anyone to acknowledge that it's true.
"I'm just trying to fit it all in," you explain, your eyes trailing after Lily as she giggles her way over to the Hufflepuff table to chat with Mary, the two of them beaming at each other. Just past them, Regulus has sulked away from his house to trail after Pandora to the Ravenclaw table.
"I don't like when people feel forgotten," you murmur, and Sirius's arm around your waist tightens as he catches who your gaze has landed on. "Or unimportant, or… I don't know." You pull your gaze away from Regulus and let it land on Sirius, nudging him gently to distract him, as well.
"I don't want people to think I'm unkind," you continue, and that's enough to have Sirius's attention zeroed in on you once more.
"Sweetheart, no one could think that," James says, the shock colouring his voice loud and apparent.
"Or, I don't know - selfish, or like I'm not paying attention," you continue on, and Sirius peers into your drink thoughtfully. You follow his gaze down in question, but it's only your reflection that stares back at you.
"What are you doing?" you ask.
"Just wondering if maybe we should've snuck in the firewhiskey like we talked about," he explains thoughtfully. "Might help you actually relax and have a good time."
"Oh," you laugh. "That's mean."
"He doesn't mean it," Remus says, shooting Sirius a long-suffering look. The kiss that Sirius presses to your temple is so gentle that you can't really find it in yourself to truly be upset.
"I know," you soften.
"You know what I think," James starts thoughtfully.
"Not usually," Sirius murmurs against your hair.
"I think your friends love you very much," James continues on. "And they know that you're only one person who can only do so much."
"And," Remus chimes in gently. "I think it's probably their job to tell you if they miss you or want to spend time with you - I don't think that needs to all be on you, dove."
"And," Sirius takes over, and Remus nudges his foot against your calf under the table lovingly as you start to press your lips together in that way you always do when you feel like they're ganging up on you. "I think, perhaps from some prior conversations, that your friends also worry that you put a bit too much on your plate sometimes."
"What, you're all talking about me?" you ask, but the accusation in your voice is so obviously fake that Sirius just grins down at you.
"Well," he insists. "You're a lovely topic of conversation. Very loved - incredibly kind."
"You're not subtle," you point out.
"I don't think any of us were trying to be," Remus counters. You click your tongue and drop your gaze back down to your drink - mostly empty at this point. The bottom of the goblet shines through, distorting and blurring your reflection until you can't really see it - and you only recognize it, you think, because you've known it before.
From the Slytherin table, Evan whistles loudly enough that the four of you turn to him. When he beckons you over, though, Sirius's grip on your waist tightens.
"Get your own, Rosier," he shouts across the tables. "And learn to share."
And Evan glares at him, yes - shouts some sort of insult that has a couple of the professors frowning and turning their heads. But the smile he sends you is real - warm and genuine in a way that he doesn't often look. It reminds you, you think sort of softly, of when you'd told him that you and the boys had gotten together - of when he told you how happy he was for you.
By the time you look away from him, your drink has been refilled, and you send James a sweet, private smile as he nudges it towards you again. He's filled it enough that it nearly spills over the sides of the goblet, and as you take it in your hands, you see the glassy surface staring back at you quite clearly now.
"See," Sirius murmurs into your hair as he plants another kiss there. "No harm done."
"He's going to knock James off his broom at the match tomorrow," you counter, a teasing little tilt to your voice. James starts rather loudly professing that he couldn't if he tried, and Remus lets out one of those rare, uninhibited laughs of his.
"Maybe," he agrees. "But I think it's rather worth it, don't you?"
"Yea," you murmur as you sink further into Sirius's side. "I think this is probably worth it."
This is the life I'd hoped for (this is what I've always wanted)
The Twelve Days of Christmas - event masterlist here
pairing: dick grayson x reader (gender neutral, no use of y/n)
length: 1.3k
genre: fluff, comfort
warnings: none :) maybe some loving hallmark movie slander, sorry my film degree shows up in the worst moments
a/n: this is the 100th fic on the blog, everyone say hip hip horray
"Did you see that?" you point accusingly at the TV from where you're lying on the couch, and Dick's laughter makes his chest shake underneath you. "They just got the boom in shot."
"Yea, I saw," he agrees solemnly, one of his hands gently twisting through your hair, pulling out tangles with a delicate focus that you're always just a bit surprised by.
"So I saw it and you saw it, but no one in the editing room saw it?" you retort, and he presses a kiss to the crown of your head.
"Somehow, honey, I think you're actually paying more attention than the people who made this film," he says gently, and you scoff, muttering something about Hallmark movies.
Dick smiles - he can't really help it, on nights like these. You're tangled up on the couch together with so many blankets that he can feel the weight bearing down on him, and the lights of your Christmas tree shimmer in endless white-gold, painting the two of you in a glowing sort of halo.
It's nice, he thinks lazily. Peaceful. It's -
"There was a typo in the credits of the last one we watched," you remind him.
"I know, honey, I remember," he says kindly, and something about the patient, little lull of his voice has you looking at him with a fondness that feels like it could do him in. You click your tongue in annoyance and he leans down again, squishing your cheeks together with one hand while he places a kiss to the tip of your nose.
"This is fun, isn't it?" he coaxes, and you soften just a bit, reaching to pick up a sticky, sweet cookie from the coffee table. The plastic packaging crinkles as you do, and you snap the crushed corner back into place.
"Did you drop these?" you ask mildly as you take two halves of a broken cookie, and Dick makes an indignant, insulted sort of sound.
"You try grappling across the city with a package of cookies!" he insists, and you wrinkle your nose.
"No thanks, baby, I'll leave that to you," you say kindly. "But you could've walked? Like a normal person?"
"I would've been late," he insists, and your eye twitches as you watch a particularly choppy bit of camera work on the TV.
"You wouldn't have been late," you shrug. "We didn't have plans."
"What is this then, hm?" Dick counters, tightening his arms around you so that you're squeezed closer to him, forcing you to drop the offending package of cookies back onto the coffee table.
"We're just sitting here," you remind him. "The movie could've waited."
"The movie, yea," he murmurs as he skims his lips across your cheek. "But not you. I don't like keeping you waiting, baby."
That softens you a bit, of course, and you press your lips together with a dissatisfied sort of sound as you press closer to him.
"Whatever," you murmur, and Dick smiles down at you like it's the best sort of compliment, planting a kiss on the crown of your head. "Did you get weird looks?"
"What, Nightwing picking up Christmas cookies?" he laughs. "Nah. Totally normal."
"Oh, good," you say lazily, your cheek against his shoulder as he pulls the blanket tighter around the two of you. It's difficult, he finds, to really be still - there's a wound-up sort of energy that sits under his skin and makes his fingers twitch.
And it's a lucky escape, then, he thinks, that he gets to have you here like this - that he gets to use his hands for something good. His fingers flit around, adjusting the blanket and smoothing your hair down, and the knowing little smile that you shoot his way has him brushing his knuckles against the softness of your cheek.
"You look like you're having a good time," you say softly, a slow sort of thing in the stickiness of the evening as the lights from the tree blink down onto the two of you.
"I am," he agrees gently, his smile slow as he relaxes further into the couch. "Are you?"
"Of course I am," you respond, and his lips quirk up into a bigger smile.
"Even though you hate the movie?"
"It's a Hallmark movie, you're not supposed to like it."
"Babe," he laughs. "That's not true at all."
"Whatever," you roll your eyes. "I'm having a good time. That dialogue was weird," you point out as an afterthought, your attention divided between the TV and him.
"Only because you're paying so much attention to it," Dick counters, his hand moving to smooth up and down your back.
"You can't pay too much attention to a movie," you argue back. He softens a bit, and you're really not sure he should, but he holds out a cookie as a peace offering, and you take it - just to appease him, you're sure.
"You would be great in a Hallmark movie," he murmurs, and you pause with the cookie half up to your mouth.
"I beg your pardon?" you huff out in a half-laugh, and he swipes some of the red and green frosting from your cookie and licks it off his finger.
"Come on," he coaxes. "Big city, work obsessed -"
"Work obsessed?" you laugh, cutting off his list.
"Lacking holiday spirit," he continues, and you make an indignant sort of sound, shoving your half-eaten cookie towards his mouth.
"And what does that make you?" you laugh as he takes it from you, nipping at your fingers as he eats the cookie. "My charming, small-town boyfriend here to change my ways?"
"I could be," he grins, and you roll your eyes.
"You could not be," you insist, but he just rolls onto his back and readjusts the two of you with gentle hands until you're straddling his lap.
"Why not, baby?" he asks kindly, and you cross your arms.
"I have Christmas spirit. I ate the cookies."
"I know you did, honey," he agrees with a nod, and you press your lips together to fight your smile.
"I'm watching the movie," you add.
"Yes, you are, babe."
"And I like my big city life." That gets another laugh out of him, loud and honest as he tugs you down until you're lying on top of him once more.
"I know you do," he says in amusement as his hands latch onto your hips, his thumbs rubbing soothing little circles into your skin. "Don't worry - I have no plans to whisk us off away from Bludhaven."
"We could go back to Gotham?" you suggest.
"Don't joke," he scoffs, and you smile against his skin as you press a kiss to his cheek.
"Do you want to know a secret, though?" he adds, and you push yourself up enough that you can plant your hands on his chest and look down at him. The Christmas lights pool across his skin and reflect in his eyes, a thousand little stars shimmering back at you as he fixes you with a lovesick gaze.
"What?" you murmur. His smile softens into something gentle, his hands kind as they touch your skin.
"I like this life of ours, too," he says softly, and this time you don't try to stop the smile that spreads across your face.
"Yea?" you ask, your voice dripping sweetness.
"Yea, honey," he says easily. "I'm kind of in love with it."
"That's good," you murmur. "I'm kind of in love with you."
"Kind of?" he huffs. "I should make you watch another Hallmark movie for that."
"We can do that, baby," you give in easily, and when you lean down to kiss him sweetly, his lips taste like Christmas cookies. "We can watch as many as you want."
Because we had no one to teach us (how to hope, how to love)
The Twelve Days of Christmas - event masterlist here
pairing: damian wayne x reader (gender neutral, no use of y/n)
length: 1.3k
genre: fluff, comfort
warnings: uuuuh having the freedom to live your own life and make your own choices, and reminding yourself that there's no right or wrong way to do it, this is maybe for ppl who don't really do anything for christmas yk
a/n: hope everyone enjoys this one xoxo
Nights like these, you think, might just make it all worth it. Your shoulder aches - an old injury jerked back into your consciousness by a rough patrol, throbbing and reminding you of what is and what could've been.
Your fingers still tingle a bit from being out in the cold, the long hours on rooftops and in alleyways freezing you down to your core until your hands throbbed and your tongue felt heavy in your mouth.
But Damian's leg bumps against yours on the couch, and you think that maybe it's alright. The blanket that's been thrown over the two of you is warm and worn, years of love turning it into something known only by the two of you. The old radio in your kitchen plays Christmas music, and it sort of wafts through to your living room in low, mellow tones.
"What are you thinking about, my love?" Damian's voice has you blinking, shaking you out of whatever daze you'd been in.
"Do you think we're doing this right?" you ask plainly, and he cocks his head to the side.
"You know," you gesture around. "This. Christmas, I guess."
"Oh," he says slowly, looking around like he's cataloguing the home that he's built. There's no Christmas tree, no armfuls of decorations strewn around, nothing big or grand or… anything.
But there are little white lights strung up in the windows. The Christmas music from the kitchen statics and crackles and then holds steady. There's a plate on the coffee table, empty other than whatever crumbles are left from the gingerbread cookies that had been there.
"Should we have done it differently?" Damian muses, and you wonder, at his little frown, if you should've even brought it up at all.
"I don't know," you say sheepishly. "Should we have gotten a tree?"
"Or… wrapped gifts?" he adds.
"Or… bought gifts at all," you counter. He pauses, his lips pressed together thoughtfully.
"We should've, shouldn't we," Damian agrees, sheepish in a way that he isn't normally.
"People usually do," you say quietly, something unsure settling in your gut. You wonder, sort of achingly, if you'll ever be able to do this right - or if you'll always be just sort of off balance, sort of wrong, sort of stumbling.
You wonder what a holiday like this is doing, trying to make a home in a thing like you.
"Hey," Damian nudges your leg with his foot under the blanket, ripping you out of whatever spiral you'd begun down.
"Hey," you say softly. "Sorry."
"You're alright," he murmurs, and the knowing little tilt to his voice has you sniffing and turning your head to look out the window instead of at him. You think maybe that, if you don't look at him, he won't be able to pry your chest open and look at your heart anymore.
You're wrong, you know, but you look away, anyhow.
"Are you enjoying yourself tonight?" he asks quietly, and that's all it takes for you to crumble - it's all it takes for you to turn back to him, earnest and loving in a way that you're not sure either of you have earned.
"Of course I am," you murmur. "This is nice, isn't it? Are… are you having a good time?"
"Of course I am," he echoes, and something in you softens even further, melting amidst the cold outside.
"Do you think maybe… that's all we need?" you prompt gently, hesitant and unsteady.
But Damian never lets you struggle for long, and his hand reaches out to rest on your thigh, palm up - an invitation that you take greedily, tangling your fingers with his.
"I think maybe it is," he muses quietly. "I don't know. Who's to say we're doing it wrong just because we're not doing it the way the others are?"
"I don't know," you say quietly. "Sometimes, I… I just feel like it's all wrong. Don't you?"
"I do," he admits gently, smoothing some of the hair out of your face with a gentle hand.
"What do you do to fix that?" you ask, and he smiles at you like he's finally found something holy.
"I come to you," he says immediately, a surety in his voice that rocks you a bit.
"And that… helps?"
"Of course it does, beloved," he insists, tugging the blanket out of the way so that he can gather you into his arms, pulling you gently into his lap and pressing his nose to your cheek. "Of course it does."
"So… you don't think we need a Christmas tree?" you say slowly, and then a short little giggle is heard as he pinches your side gently.
"No, I don't," Damian says easily. "I just think we need… this. Don't you?"
"This is pretty nice," you agree softly, leaning your head onto his shoulder, warm and sturdy underneath you. He tightens his arms around you just a bit, and the little white lights strung up in the windows pinprick his skin with endless little dots of light.
You think, as you tuck yourself closer to him, how right it is for him to be bathed in light.
You think that - just maybe, it's alright for you to catch some of it in your own palms, as well.
"I think people have been telling us how to do things for a long time," Damian says thoughtfully, and you lift your head slightly to look at him.
"Yea?" you prompt gently.
"You know they have," he counters softly.
"Yea, I guess I do."
"So," he continues, slow and thoughtful in an unhurried sort of way. "Maybe now, it's just that… no one's telling us how to do this."
"What if we can't figure it out on our own?" you ask.
"It's a Christmas tree, it can't be that hard."
"You know that's not what I mean," you say, your words jumbled by a surprised sort of laugh. "What if… I don't know. What if that was all we're good for?"
"It wasn't," Damian says, firm and unwavering in a way that he isn't often with you.
"How do you know?" you press anyway, and he cups the back of your head in his hand to pull you forward gently and place a kiss to your forehead.
"Because I've seen you," he murmurs against your skin. "Doing the things that you like and saying the things that you want, and…"
He pulls back, then, just enough to cup your cheeks in his palms.
"I've watched you become yourself, my love," he murmurs sweetly, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles into your skin. "All on your own."
"Oh," you breathe out, because you think that any other words would fall flat in the wake of such a confession. "Well."
"And if you really want some Christmas, we'll go stay with Father for a few days," Damian tacks on. "The tree he got is so big I don't know how they fit it through the front door."
That cracks the weight in the room, just a bit, and you stifle a laugh against Damian's shoulder as you duck forward again.
"Good deal," you murmur against his skin, and his arms find their way around your waist again to squeeze you closer.
"You know what," you continue, and he hums against you. "This is a pretty good Christmas present. Just this, you know."
"Yes," he agrees softly, rocking the two of you side to side gently as the music from the kitchen gives him a slanted sort of tempo to follow. "I think this is the best gift we could've had."
Let me carry the weight of this hope (just when you cannot)
The Twelve Days of Christmas - event masterlist here
pairing: platonic bruce wayne x reader, platonic batfamily x reader (gender neutral, no use of y/n)
length: 1.3k
genre: fluff, hurt/comfort
warnings: feeling out of place with happiness, not feeling like you fit into something good, there's nothing wrong with you there's just something wrong with the way people treated you
a/n: I hope this helps someone <3 merry christmas folks
Excusing yourself from Christmas dinner halfway through the second course, you think, is probably one of the more overtly rude things that you've done in Bruce's house.
But still, you slip away as quietly as you can, wandering down the halls of the Manor until the sounds of the family dim down into a muffled sort of hum. The windows that you face, now, look out onto the sprawling acres of land attached to his home, and you halt just a bit at the sight.
It's snowing, you think dimly as you look out, arms crossed as if you can keep the cold out - as if you can feel it seeping through the panes of glass, as if the grand fireplace inside can't warm you, as if you're out there in the cold, alone still, as if -
"It's pretty, isn't it?" Bruce muses, and you flinch slightly as it splits the silence. You hadn't heard him approaching you - a loss in itself as you consider how out of step you feel right now.
"It is," you respond haltingly - and it's kind of him, you think, not to mention your skittish behaviour - not to point out the way you shrink away.
And truthfully, it really is pretty. Snow floats down in huge, crystaline flurries that look so beautiful you have a hard time remembering they're real, and the wind blows them around into swirling little clusters that sweep past the windows.
"Perfect," you murmur. "It's the perfect Christmas - perfect weather for Christmas, I mean."
"It sort of is," he agrees easily, standing beside you with his hands in his pockets, kindly looking out the window instead of directly at you.
You wonder if he'll break the silence, if he'll mention your disappearing act, if he'll tell you that it's unacceptable to run away like that, if he'll -
"No one would be upset if you wanted to call it a night early," is what he says, instead, and the air leaves your lungs in a deep, drawn-out breath.
"No?"
"No," he insists. "This is supposed to be fun. If you're not having a good time, I don't want you to force yourself."
"Everyone will know why I left," you respond lowly, and he hums in thought.
"They might. But even if they did, they'd understand. You're not the only one who… well. It isn't always easy for any of us," Bruce says finally. You glance at him.
"Even you? It's difficult?" you ask.
"Very often, yes," he says honestly. "But I find that it's less difficult when we're all together."
"That's nice," you murmur, something sickening coiling around your ribs. You wish, a bit desperately, that he would just leave you alone, that you could just slink away and pretend that none of this is happening - this holiday, this family, this -
"It is nice," Bruce agrees. "But it takes time - it took time."
"Are you saying I just need to give it time?" you respond, and there's a bit more bite in your voice than you think he deserves. His hand, though, just finds the top of your head, and he smooths down some of your hair carefully.
"Sweetheart, there's no right or wrong way to do this. If you've had enough tonight, that's really ok. I'll have Alfred bring up a plate to your room, because I really would like you to eat a bit more, but that's all."
And maybe it's the option, you think. Maybe it's the out that you've been given, the opportunity to slip away, that makes it all start to crumble around you.
"I don't really want to spend tonight alone," you admit waveringly. "Not when - not when the rest of you are together."
"Then come back with me," he presses gently. "Even if it's just for a bit."
"I can't."
"You can't?" he asks patiently.
"Well, everyone will know, won't they? That I'm-" Wrong, you think. They'll know that something's wrong with me, that I can't do it, that I can't handle something kind, that -
"Do you know what I think?" Bruce asks gently, and you inhale sharply.
"Mhm?" you hum.
"I think they notice when you're gone - and they miss you. And I think they want you there, and that's all."
"That's all?" you echo.
"Yes," Bruce says simply. "The people who love you aren't holding this over your head, sweetheart. They're not. I'm not."
"Bruce, I -" your voice catches. "I think there's something wrong with me. I think that any chance I had at being good, or normal, or made for this is gone. I think I'm ruined, you know. I was the wrong person growing up in the wrong place, and it's too late for me to fix it now."
He's quiet, then, as he listens to you - and you think that maybe this time you've done it, maybe this time you've snapped and snarled and bitten at the hand that feeds you enough that he'll consider you a lost cause and leave you out in the cold once more.
But Bruce just steps forward, turning so that his back leans against the window and he can look at you directly. He says your name gently, and you look up to him as his back blocks out the cold from outside, barring it from your path.
"Everyone at that table has thought that at some point - about themselves," he says gently. "They've… we've all been wrong. This home is proof of that. Sweetheart, there's nothing in you that was put together wrong. You were just treated wrong."
"What's the difference?" You scuff your heel against the carpet, opting to look down instead of at Bruce. He lets you - kindly, patiently, letting you run away when you need to and holding steady for you when you can't.
"There's a big difference," Bruce says firmly. You don't look up, but his hand comes into your field of view as he holds it out to you, palm up. "Come back with me?"
"I don't know how," you admit, staring at his hand, he holds it steady - patient and unwavering.
"You don't have to," he says gently. "No one will hold it against you if you make a mistake."
Somewhere down the hall, the grand doors of the dining room are swung open, and the noise of dinner comes tumbling out - laughter and shouting mixing together into something that sounds distinctly like joy.
Dick's voice is heard before you see him, your name shouted in question until he finally finds you.
"Will you come back here?" he yells towards you from down the hall. "Jason's declaring himself arm wrestling champion, and I think it'll ruin Christmas if no one can prove him wrong."
You look back at Bruce, his hand still outstretched towards you - and you think, in a softening sort of way, that he'd probably wait there forever for you - for any of you.
"Can you beat Jason at arm wrestling?" you ask him mildly. He fixes you with an offended sort of look.
"Of course I can," he says simply, and you let him, finally, take your hand and start guiding you back towards the rest of the family.
Dick's leaning against the wall, grinning at you in a joyful sort of way, and he claps you on the back as you pass.
"About time," he says. "It's too quiet in there without you, come on."
It's not really quiet in there at all, you think, as you hear the sounds of everyone cheering and shouting.
But then you realize, in a way that warms you and wraps around you, that they'd always be able to pick out your voice - and they'd always notice your absence, no matter the noise.
