After Hours (chapter 2)

after hours (chapter 2)

⯈ previous chapter : chapter one

⯈ pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x female!reader

⯈ summary: the nights in Gotham are always unforgiving, you, you strip for money, to feed your son and to forget some of your troubles. it's easy, it's simple until Vengeance appears in your night.

⯈ rating: mature (for the entire work, there will be smut people), teen for the first chapters.

⯈ tw: stripping, violence, mentions of physical abuse

⯈ word count: 3,7k

⯈ NOTE : the response has been amazing for my first imagine story ever and for the first chapter, thank you guys ❤️ enters Bruce Wayne and a lot of fluff, I really needed it for this week. ❤️ @luvmeijii @blossomedfloweroflove @deadflowerd @measure-in-pain @yuki235171 --- if you want to be tagged in the future let me know.

You do not see the Batman at the club after the incident, as you call it in your head, and frankly. you're glad. Parts of you believe you overreacted and the rest... well you suspected someone who spent his night dressed as a bat and protecting the streets of this fucking city had issues and zero manners, but you didn't do it for the money. Your job is about the money.

Helping him? Helping Vengeance? That had been something else entirely different, and he had ruined it all. Like a jerk.

Like the man that he is.

It might be for the best because for the next few days, you need to focus on things happening in the daylight. Your son's school is putting on a play and that's all he can talk about, you don't understand the plot, it makes zero sense, apparently, it's about the city and all you need to know is that your son apparently got the lead, he's playing Thomas Wayne for pretend. Of course, the Waynes are at the center of the play, after all, your son goes to a school that has the name plastered on the entrance, because the Gotham Prince, Bruce Wayne himself, finally decided to invest some of his money back.

It's a good school, a good, decent public school, which is saying a lot and while you eat your breakfast, you help your son practice his lines, you show him how to tie a tie and it's so simple, you can't help but smile. That's why you do all of this, that's why you put up with the club, that's why you found a way to shine in the night because he is everything you have and being by his side makes everything better.

He is the best thing about you.

Finally, it's time for the play, it's a lovely Saturday afternoon and if your own mother says that she is too tired to accompany you, apparently she has done enough for the day, you ignore her complaints and find your most responsible and school play appropriate dress. It's a long dark blue dress, almost black, not quite, it strapless and follows the curves of your body naturally showing a bit but not too much, you top it off with the shortest pair of heels that you can find -you can't just barge in your stripper heels, that much you know- and you top it off with a light jacket, heading for the school.

You pay the cab fair gladly and your spot a few familiar faces, a few parents, a few mothers are surprised to see you, you're not one to join in the conversation, but today you pretend. Right outside the school, you pretend to care about their mundane life, nodding and waiting for the moment when it will be time for you to go outside and see your son on stage.

"Oh... I didn't think he would show."

"Someone is playing his dad, of course, he is going to show up, it's good PR for him."

"He doesn't care about that."

"How would you know?"

There's a commotion and you follow the noise and the questioning and suddenly, a car way more expensive than the rest of the mom's vans stops in front of the school and you look, like everyone else, as Bruce Wayne himself, all dressed in black step outside the car.

There is a pause, the conversation comes to a halt and you know you should be looking away but even you know this is a rare occurrence. He's been doing more charity work since the flood but still, that's Bruce fucking Wayne, you don't run in the same circles.

Today you do, especially when you lock eyes, it's clear that he is looking at you and for some unknown reason, he nods. As if to say hello and you find yourself nodding back, noticing how tired and pale he actually looks and how he towers over a few people. The moment is over when some school administrators start leading the Wayne inside and you realize that you should probably move.

Everyone wants a seat at the front, so you don't bother arguing and you end up sitting in the back row, not at the center but at the edge, you get rid of your jacket, put down your bag and you start moving your chair, looking for the best view of the stage. You are going to take millions of pictures and yes, you are going to be one of those annoying mothers. You're so focused on your task that you don't notice when someone approaches you, it's only when you hear someone clearing their throat, followed by a "is this seat taken?" that you turn.

Once again, facing Bruce Wayne.

"I... no, go ahead."

You're not waiting for anyone, he can sit wherever he wants, the row is completely empty, and yet he chose the seat right next to yours. He nods politely again and he is still watching you as he sits down, you watch as he takes a deep breath, his entire chest moving up and down, and slowly you turn away from him, going back to find the best angle. You find it a moment later and when you sit down, you cross your legs and you notice that your left foot is close to one of his. You should probably move, you don't, you look to your right and you find Bruce staring again. He opens his mouth once, twice, as if to start a conversation, and finally after a few seconds of what seems to be an internal debate he asks his question: "Boy or girl?"

"Boy. With too much energy if you ask me."

"I believe you... so who is he playing today?"

"Your dad."

That earns you something at least, Bruce's expression seems to soften, there's a half-smile on his face and it disappears as soon as it appears. You want to ask a question in return, you're curious, why is he here? You're sure a man like himself has better things to do with his Saturday afternoon.

"You think someone is going to play...me?" Bruce ponders the next moment.

"Hmm no, I think that's before your time, unfortunately, I'm not gonna lie, I might have helped my son practice his lines, I couldn't tell you a single thing about the plot."

"I guess I just have to see, right?"

"Right."

***

When your son appears on stage, it’s all you can see and it’s all you can focus on. You even manage to forget that you’re sitting next to Bruce Wayne because nothing else matters except your own flesh and blood, on stage, in a black suit that is slightly too big for him. Doing his best not to fumble his lines and act. You never knew you could smile so much in so little time, your cheeks hurt and you feel tears forming in your eyes and yes, it might be a bit cliché, but at least, you’re happy and it’s easy to forget the rest.

And even easier to remember that you’re doing all of this, the shitty day job, putting up with your own mother and her constant criticism, the club, the wandering hands on your body, the miserable tips some nights, the smell of alcohol, and sometimes worse into your clothes and Vengeance himself… all of this for him. For your son.

When the play ends, you are already on your feet and you’re the first one to applaud, probably too loud and if you see a few heads turn in your direction, you ignore them and you clap and soon the rest of the crowd is following you.

Soon, Bruce himself is on his two feet right next to you and he’s clapping too. And the moment your gazes meet, you can swear he is smiling. Once again, it’s brief, it’s gone as soon as it came, like a flash, as soon as you blink and you turn to the stage once more as students and teachers appear and bow. They do deserve the small standing ovation that they are getting and you see your own child with a beaming smile on his face.

You watch as your son scan the crown looking for you, and the mature and responsible thing to do would be to probably wave and that’s it, but not you, you shove two fingers into your mouth and you whistle loudly, a gesture he has seen you do so many times and when he finally spots you, his smile grows bigger. Yours does too and soon enough, the moment ends when the kids have to exit the stage and the parents the auditorium. You can’t wait to give your son the biggest hug he ever got in his entire life, and maybe you will go out to celebrate?

Definitely, you think the next second and you’re about to grab your belongings when you realize that your bag and jacket are already in the Wayne’s hands and he is handing them back to you.

“I suppose you want to go congratulate the artist,” he offers in that neutral tone of his and you nod eagerly, you whisper a thank you, and your bag ends up once more on your right shoulder, where you shove your camera inside and you grab your jacket in the other hand. You nod, he nods back and you walk out of the auditorium, looking for your son. You dare a glance back and yes… Bruce is following your every move.

You don’t know why it doesn’t really matter, you suppose he’s not used to all of this, the normalcy and the banality of having children and you join the row of parents waiting for their kids. You spot your son easily, he’s still wearing his costume, the suit a bit too big and you barely have time to scout down that he is already in your arms.

“Mum! What did you think, I was good, was I?”

“Yes! You were amazing! A true actor, you deserve a nomination from the academy… at the very least.”

“At the very least, right!”

You both giggle and even though he’s still a bit too big for this, you keep him in your arms as you stand up, one arm secured around his waist and your son’s hands around your neck. This is a good day you think, this is what it is all about and the only thing worth your while. If all the days were like this, you wouldn’t need to escape and disappear into the nights.

You wouldn’t need anything else.

“Hey, buddy… It’s not much but… you want to go get some pie?”

“Yes! Some blueberry pie and a hot chocolate and some cookies and…”

“Okay, okay, we’re going!”

You lead the way out of the school, your son in your arms, you don’t even bother saying goodbye to the rest of the parents, you don’t have to pretend with your son around and he knows you’re not the most sociable mother and he even thinks you’re terrible at small talk, his words not yours. So best to avoid that and grab the first cab you can stop and make your way to the café, it’s a bit far from your flat but anytime anything worthwhile happens: a good grade, the end of the school year, you and your son rush to the little coffee shop, small vestige that once upon a time, everything was right in Gotham. It’s not much, but it’s something you can do.

And you listen as he tells you that maybe he’s old enough to try coffee, still smiling and eyeing the street for a cab, clearly unprepared when someone clears their throat right behind you.

“Do you need a ride?”

You turn around, your son still glued to you, you can feel him press one of his cheeks against yours, it’s warm and comforting. He’s not always this clingy, but you don’t always get to see him like this so you suppose it’s normal. What’s unusual is Bruce Wayne, still here, clearly talking to you, once again. Before you can answer and politely decline his offer, because you are absolutely not getting a ride from the prince of Gotham himself, you hear your son gasps.

“Mr. Wayne! You showed up! My teacher said you never showed up!”

You watch as Bruce’s eyes turn to your son, how could you not notice how blue they are, or maybe they’re green, you can’t decide, for now, they might be darker because of all the black he is wearing but they fixate on your son for a moment or two and if he should be offended, he isn’t. He frowns, then smiles slightly and frowns again, as if he is deciding something.

“I guess… I need to make more of an effort… I really liked your performance, by the way, so did your mother.”

“I tried to be good playing… well playing your dad, I’m glad you liked it. I hope it wasn’t too weird for you…”

“Oh no, it wasn’t. But thank you. It was nice to see him depicted that way, I’m sure if he were here he would have loved it too.”

“My dad isn’t around either. But I’ve got mum and grandma, and it’s all good. Do you have a grandma?”

“Well, I have Alfred, does it count?”

During the whole exchange, you remain silent, you don’t know if you should say something, it’s weird, but in a good way. Your son remains polite the entire time and you know that if Bruce minded, he would have walked away. He seems to enjoy the conversation enough, he seems out of practice even, looking at your son as if he was seeing a child for the very first time and considering how to behave around him.

You know that behavior too well, it was you the first few months after giving birth, when you were handed a living and very vulnerable thing, that you had to take care of. It shifted your entire perspective, your entire world even and it suddenly didn’t matter that you were all alone, scared senseless, and with no clue as to what to do. No, he mattered, your son did, the rest kinda faded away.

You refocus on the conversation when the word pies is uttered out loud and you watch as your son invites Bruce Wayne to join you.

“They have the best pies in the entire city, even the world!”

“Baby, I’m sure Mister Wayne has better thing to do…” you try to interject and to be the responsible parent, you certainly don’t expect Bruce to shrug and reply.

“I really don’t, and I can’t say no to the best pie in the world, and please, call me Bruce. Follow me…”

And as if it was a common occurrence, he leads the way to his car, producing keys from deep within his coat and you have no choice but to follow.

***

You remain silent the entire car ride. You simply have nothing to say, everything is moving too fast and yet so slow, and you don’t know whether you should be happy about it or not.

Bruce drives himself around, no chauffeur apparently, he drives a very expensive car that you couldn’t name and he has no problem securing your son on the back seat and putting his seatbelt on. He even asks him if he is comfortable and waits for your son to actually answer before closing the door. He doesn’t let you open your own door no, he does it for you with a polite nod and the same thing happens, he waits for you to secure your seat belt, then his is put in place and after checking that all the doors are closed, he drives.

Your son is the one to give him the address, and Bruce nods, claiming that he knows the place, he didn’t know about the pies, but he knows the place and he drives quickly and efficiently through the cars. More than that, it seems that people are moving out of the way for him. As if they know who’s behind the steering wheel. You can understand how someone could get used to it, and you remain silent while your son asks Bruce who taught him to drive. Alfred apparently, Alfred's family, taught him most things he knows. You decide that Alfred is someone is definitely pays, family sure, but paid family, you don’t know whether to laugh or find that sad. But something, maybe in Bruce’s tone, indicates that it’s not just about the money and that Alfred has been around for a long time, maybe even before his parents died.

Probably.

You don’t like the thought and you’re glad when you finally arrive at your destination, you don’t even wait for Bruce to be the perfect gentleman again, you open your own down, the fresh airbrush your face and you inhale loudly. Next thing you know, you’re grabbing your son’s hand and Bruce is asking for a table for three.

He’s recognized immediately but that doesn’t seem to bother him, at all, he remains polite the entire time he talks to the hostess and offers you another smile as you are being guided to a table and sits in a booth opposite you and your son. You help your son get rid of his suit jacket and fold the sleeves of the white shirt underneath, in the corner of your eyes you see Bruce get rid of his own long coat, he’s wearing a black suit underneath, that your son immediately notice and say that they look exactly the same.

They do in a way, you didn’t realize until now that they are both sporting the same black ensemble and that they both have blue eyes and long dark hair, Bruce’s hair is longer, you suspect he has to push it away from his face from times to times and if you didn’t know better, you could believe he is your son’s long lost dad.

You push that thought away as well, it’s too comforting, it’s too sad and Bruce nods, hiding momentarily behind the menu that you know by heart. You already know what you want, your son does as well and he is the one leading the conversation and the one Bruce consults for suggestions about the menu. When a waiter appears, he also settles on a blueberry pie with hot chocolate, the same as your son and you can’t help but find that cute, you order for yourself with a smile.

The conversation between the two of them does not stop there, no, while you wait, Bruce asks him about the school, his favorite subjects at the moment, and how he got involved in the play. And you didn’t raise someone shy no, your boy answers every single question with a smile on his face, tells Bruce that he wants to be a pilot someday, because he loves the idea of being in the air even if it scares you or his grandma. You don’t want to interrupt the exchange, you watch from the sidelines, watching him, watching Bruce without meaning too. You finally spot the dark circles underneath his eyes and his right index taping on the table and how his own gaze ventures from the rest of the café every so often, as if to make sure everything is okay, that you are safe.

Again, you have this feeling deep within your stomach, you think it’s hunger, especially when your order arrives and it’s time to dive in. Bruce gets his first bite before anyone else, your son waiting for his verdict, the recommendation is excellent, blueberry pie is now his favorite and you are still smiling when it’s time to criticize your own choice. There is nothing wrong with apple pie, it’s a classic for a reason, that’s your stance and your son winces but Bruce is willing to try a slice of yours and you exchange slices naturally and it’s not weird, it’s not awkward and you’re not even upset about sharing a moment with your son.

Soon enough, he has to go to the bathroom, and no he doesn’t need his mother's help, he insists to go without you and you watch him leave the table, trying not to worry.

Eventually, you turn to Bruce.

“Thank you… for indulging him, you didn’t have to do all of this. Any of this…”

“Oh no, thank you for indulging me. This is nice, he’s… he’s amazing.”

“Right? He makes everything worth it.”

“Everything?”

Bruce’s gaze is on you, you realize as you stop playing with the spoon inside your mug as he asks that simple question, more than that, it’s like he sees you. Through the shield and the make-up, the woman who’s insecure in broad daylight, who’s good at pretending she’s normal, and who can only seem to find a purpose at night, between the money and the thugs, right on that pole. Your mouth is dry all of the sudden, it’s stupid that sensation, you nod anyway, Bruce does too and the moment is over when the waiter comes with the check the next second.

“Whenever you’re ready.” You notice how the employee’s gaze lingers on Bruce like he knows he’s about to receive the biggest tip of his entire life. You roll your eyes at that, he could be less obvious and you reach for the check because you can and you will pay even if you did share a pie with Bruce Wayne.

Bruce, however, is after you and the check is already in his hands before you can even blink.

“Before you say anything, we are splitting that,” you announce with a very decisive tone, another smile on your face.

“Oh are we?”

“Yes, your last name doesn’t impress you, Mister Wayne, we are splitting that check.”

He laughs at that, an earnest and short laugh that you’re sure not many people get to hear, it’s refreshing in a way, he looks way less tired and a good few years younger. As you predicted, he pushes his hair to one side of his face afterward, a fond expression on his face.

“How about I pay today and you pay next time.”’

“Oh, so there will be a next time?”

“Hope so.”

And maybe you don’t say it out loud, but you hope so too, Bruce Wayne is way too intriguing for his own benefit.

Salt, Tequila, Lemon - Jason Todd x Reader

Please read this intro, thank you very much :  

So. I posted this yesterday, but after a bug on the Tumblr app on my phone it got deleted. I’m super bummed out because it had over 200 notes and quite a few feedbacks that I never got to read because it was accidentally deleted…If the people that took the time to comment things on the story could take a bit more time to write a little comment again and give me their feedbacks, and also if the people that liked and reblog could do it once more…i’d appreciate the hell out of you <3.  So reposting it (thanks god I always have back ups of all my stories now). Written in twenty minutes during my break at work. Bam. Hope you’ll like it :

Also, since Tumblr’s new guidelines and enforcement of it, I DON’T really appear in searches anymore, so the only way for this story to be seen by others than those who follow me is to reblog it. So if you wanna, you can show your support for my writing by doing just that. Thanks very much. You can find my masterlist here : @ella-ravenwood-archives

_________________________________________________

Ok. So. Grandma’s remedy against heartbreak ? Oh, right. 

Salt. Tequila. Lemon. 

Got it. Licking the back of your hand to make the salt stick to it, you pour yourself a massive shot of “To-Kill-Ya” in your coffee mug, not even caring about the fact that there is still some remnant of your cappuccino from last night in it. 

You focus on the sound the liquid makes as it fills your cup. Makes you think about something else. Good. Yup. This was totally gonna help right now. 

“Cheers”, you exclaim to yourself, your empty apartment echoing your voice. 

Salt. 

Wincing. Stingy. Salt on its own is gross. 

Tequila. 

More wincing. Oh my god, it burns. The coffee that was still at the bottom of the cup is an oddly nice touch. 

Lemon. 

The last of the Wincing. 

You spit the piece of lemon you just bit into in the trash and…miss. The yellow fruit falls with a little flat sound on the floor, and you honestly can’t bother to pick it up. Your apartment is a mess anyway, so you just stare at it angrily and pour yourself another drink. 

Salt. Tequila. Lemon. 

You gulp the last of the citrus and shiver. Miss the trash again. 

Damn. This was good. 

Well, actually, it was disgusting. 

You didn’t like strong alcohol and what the Hell ?! Why did you leave a bit of coffee in your cup ? Now that the aftertaste was kicking in, it was actually really gross. If the tequila itself didn’t make you wanna throw up, the stale coffee taste nearly did. Oh, and the salt and lemon combination was as awful as ever. 

You really didn’t like salt, tequila, or lemon. 

But it was still good. 

Because thanks to all this immediate awfulness, you could slowly feel yourself drift into “haze land”, and forget about your worries. 

Forget that your boyfriend of two years just cheated on you with some random woman you worked with. Woman that, by the way, he met at the Christmas “end of the year” party from you work you invited him to…You gave him free champagne and mise-en-bouche and all your love, and he broke your heart. 

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Ditz

Pairings: Damian Wayne x Reader

 Requested by anon: Hello there! Could you do Damian Wayne x Reader where the reader is super sweet and cute and stuff but she’s also really ditzy so everyone (including the rest of the Batfam) thinks she’s dumb and it’s weird, because Damian hates being around dumb people, but then they find out that she’s actually like a genius and she just comes across as ditzy like that because she just really loves being around people. By the way, I love love LOVE your writing!! Every story of yours I read makes me so happy

Thank you so much, anon! I hope you’re safe and healthy, wherever you are. I’m sorry I’ve been inactive forever, and this fic isn’t my best work, I’ve gotten really rusty- but it was really a pleasure to write this for you, and I’m glad you enjoy my fics!

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Timothée Chalamet as Paul Atreides Dune (2021) dir. Denis Villeneuve

Breathing Room

Damian Wayne

Of course the little dog here is basically my sweet baby girl Rogue with a different name (Baby/Babe because I'm sure all of you at home have dogs you'd like to substitute names for), who sends all her love and puppy kisses to all of you! Ugh this was fun to write. So goddamn fluffy I could call Build-a-Bear a competitor.

Reader is a Titan.

Requested:

Prompt List // Masterlist (in bio)

"If I die, I'm leaving my dog to you."

Damian turns halfway to give you a suspicious glance over his shoulder. Then, he turns back to the fire place, where he's successfully stoking the flames currently living there.

The animal in question is the next victim of his scrutiny, laying perfectly peacefully on the corner of your blanket that's been left unused on the couch next to you. He points, you nod, he rolls his eyes.

"Awe! What? You wouldn't take my poor baby girl in?" You're borderline incredulous. "Did you hear that Baby? He doesn't love you!"

He scoffs, then pushes himself to his feet and joins you on the couch once more. The little dog lifts her head to look at Damian, almost accusingly.

You pet her gently. "Don't mind him, Baby, he's just jealous because I love you more," you soothe, babytalking the eight pound pooch like the spoiled princess she is.

"Firstly, you aren't going to die, it's only a snow storm," he argues, "and secondly, even if something were to happen, of course I'd take in your large rat."

You gasp and lightly slap his chest. "Damian Wayne!" you shrill. He chuckles loudly. "You take that back right now! Apologize!"

He rolls his eyes, knowing that if he doesn't, you'd probably give his spot on the bed to Titus, who's listening to the entire exchange from the giant pillow on the floor. He reaches across you, lays a hand on her little head, and says clearly, "Baby, I am sorry for calling you a rat. You are clearly small not-dog."

You sigh in exasperation and defeat. He laughs, though it's obvious he's trying not to and failing miserably. "What am I going to do with you, you scoundrel?"

His arm lays across your shoulders as you shiver for the second time in the last five minutes. "Well, you can first let me chose what movie we watch since I started the fire for you."

You can't help snuggling closer to him. "Firstly," you mock, "I could have started the fire myself. Secondly, I'll let you pick the movie if you let me pick the genre."

"Deal," he relents.

Two comedies and a horror film later, you hear the front door downstairs unlock, with a roaring chorus of arguing voices behind it.

When Kori and Dick invited you and Damian to a Titans Winter Vacation, you had been a little skeptical. You hadn't been a Titan for very long, and you weren't as familiar as you'd like to be with any of them.

However, you'd known Damian for years, and he insisted it wouldn't be as bad as you thought. He wasn't entirely keen on the idea either, but you'd eventually agreed that it'd be nice.

They'd rented a cabin up in the mountains. It was three stories, with six bedrooms, five bathrooms, two living rooms, a home theater, and a game room. You especially loved the balconies on every level. That provided a truly glorious view of the Smoky Mountains.

Though, when you heard it was six bedrooms, you knew that meant sharing a room. You only really slept alright by yourself or with Damian, so it concerned you that you'd most likely be sharing a bunk bed with Raven, as you and Damian were seventeen. But, because Dick knew you wouldn't be doing anything more than cuddling, he was more than happy to let you and Damian share a queen-size in the loft, directly above Garfield and Jaime's.

To sweeten the deal even further, everyone was in perfect agreement that you should definitely bring your dog. She was very sweet and quiet, and perfectly mannered. You didn't worry about taking her anywhere. It made you feel even better that Damian was taking Titus.

So here you are now, tucked into Damian's side on a plush plaid couch in the loft, Baby curled up next to you and Titus sprawled at your feet, listening to Gar and Raven and Cyborg come shivering in through the front door.

"Holy hell, it's cold as balls!" Gar shouted, kicking off his boots at the door. You were about to call down to ask how town was, but he was already sprinting up the spiral staircase.

Damian sighed, though only loudly enough for you to hear. He thought of the loft in it's entirety as yours, even though the bedroom was an entirely separate room, kept private by a thick door.

Garfield paused by the couch to lean over and pet Babe, which she gladly accepted, before zipping over to the firepalce to warm up.

"How was town?" you ask. Damian grabs the remote and backs out of the movie, which was already rolling credits.

"Eh, it was okay. Grocery store was neat, though. Had a candy section that was lit."

You laugh softly. "Get all the groceries?"

He nods. "Yeah, but their produce section was so confusing."

"Are you sure you aren't just dull?" Damian quips. You roll your eyes and flick his ear as you sit up. "Hey!" he chirps.

"Ha!" Garfield shouts and points boldly, though he looks as though he's about to hurdle the railing behind you. "Damian got in trouble!"

Damian, the tough, mature man he is, flings a pillow toward the green boy with as much force as he can while slouched against the couch back.

"Watch the fire, you dufus," you scold, laughing, as you slide toward the steps with Baby at your heels.

"Ha ha! You got in trouble agaaiinn!" Garfield sings. Then he shrieks, and then there's a green bird diving over the wooden railing and Damian's shouting something that has you scooping up Baby and hustling down the stairs to stay out of his way.

• • •

Your bedroom is dark, and because you both like the curtains pulled away from the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the drop of the mountain your cabin is perched over, it is quite cold.

Too cold for your liking, even pressed against Damian's back and Babe curled into the small of yours.

It's been fifteen minutes of listening to Bob's Burgers play on the television over your shared dresser and the collective body heat still isn't enough. So, in a desperate attempt to chase the chill off, you half unwind your arms from his waist, and slide them under the hem of his tee shirt to press them flat against his side and his back.

While you're sighing in relief, he's jumping and sucking in a breath of absolute shock. He all but gasps, "What are you doing with your ice cold hands up my shirt?"

You almost laugh at the tone of absolute offence he's using. "I'm cold! We can't all keep the same core temperature as the sun, Wayne."

"Well Jesus, you could have at least warned me," he grumbles, rolling in your hold to face you.

You fall asleep pretty quickly now, wrapped up in his arms, legs tangled with yours beneath a heavy quilt.

• • •

You're always the first ones up. Well, not always, but for the past four days that you've been on the trip, you both have. It's usually Damian, and only Damian, but you aren't far behind once your main source of heat leaves you alone in bed with sunlight beaming into the room.

You, Baby, and Titus all follow him down the spiral staircase and through the main common room, dining room, and the intermediate stretch between the two staircases and two bedroom doors.

He turns on the coffee pot for the rest of the team while you start the kettle and set out tea bags and mugs for the two of you. While he's still fiddling with the settlings on the machine, you let the dogs out to the small fenced yard off to the side of the huge cabin.

The machine spurs to life just as you're lifting yourself up onto the countertop of the kitchen island. "Are you gonna make pancakes and eggs?" You keep your voice low, considerate of Raven in the room on the left and Jamie and Garfield in the room on the right, all still sleeping.

"I wasn't planning to," he answers, leaning against the counter by the gas stove, where the steel kettle is still heating up.

"But you promised. . ." You just out your bottom lip and tilt your head just a little, soft eyes oh so slowly grinding away at that steel cover he keeps locked around his heart.

After exactly forty two seconds, he caves in. "Did the Happy Bunch even get the ingredients yesterday?"

Your sweet begging facade switches on a dime, now housing a devious glint in your eyes. "Of course they did, I put it on the list."

He sighs, loudly. He lets the dogs in before he goes around the kitchen, gathering all things necessary for the pancake mix you love so much.

It's twenty minutes later when Kori and Dick are opening the basement door and emerging from the hall downstairs, Kori's hair just as unkept as every morning and Dick's shirt just as wrinkly as the night before.

"Sometimes I think you only love me for my pancakes," Damian chides playfully, having yet to associate the creaking hinges with the basement door.

"I won't deny it," you laugh, grinning down at the bowl you're stirring with more dedication than is probably necessary.

"Damian, I didn't know you cook," Kori states, with enough surprise that you're a little taken aback.

He turns to look at her over his shoulder, still dicing strawberries without looking and making your nerves twitch while he does it. "Only occasionally."

"Hey hey, watch what you're doing, boy," you sound a little too much like someone's grandmother, but you're really a little aghast that he hasn't steeled himself yet.

Damian reserves a certain part of himself around most people. It's a part of him you're allowed to bask in only after years of assurance and affection. You wouldn't be so surprised if it was only shown to Dick, but it was Kori he was speaking to, eyes still a little glittery and smile still lopsided and prominent.

In a moment of adoration and maybe a little pride in him, you hum, "Only for me, of course."

To yours and even Kori's awe, he chuckles. "Only when you force me, you mean."

You recover faster than she does, and cover yourself with a laugh. "I wouldn't call you promising me strawberry-blackberry pancakes forcing you, but if you wanna try and save a little face . . ."

Kori turns to Dick, with a look on her face that is silently asking if he's seen the same thing. His eyes flit between her, you, and his youngest brother, before they settle on you. He seems a little less jarred.

"Gezz, what'd you do, (Y/N)? Drug him in his sleep?"

With Garfield's arrival, Damian's smile fades off and he resumes quickly dicing strawberries on a wooden cutting board.

You mumble into your batter, "I'm starting to wonder."

• • •

At 11:15 in the morning on the sixth day, a war commences.

While you and Damian decide to hide out the still-raging snowstorm in your cozy little loft with your faithful hounds, half the team is out in the snow, hurling handfuls of snow that vaguely resemble spheres at one another from behind artificial snowbanks.

Though eventually, you decide the total war out in the front yard is far more entertaining than anything on his Hulu or Disney+. So, you pop a bowl of popcorn and brew your third batch of tea, and sit backward on the couch to watch out the massive windows that take up most of the front wall of the common room.

Over the porch roof, you can watch all the atrocities of battle play out from the safe warmth of your loft together.

Though, some time around three, Damian reminds you that you have plans to drive into town to explore, and asks if you'd rather stay and finish the battle.

An hour later, you and Damian stand at the front door, dressed to brave the weather, having bid your dogs goodbye as you left them in the warm safety of your bedroom.

Damian's hand is on the doorknob, but he seems hesitant. "Are you ready?"

You flip up your hood and pull your scarf up over your nose. "Yes."

He hauls the door open, and with your hand in his, you quickly cross the porch, jump the steps, and make it halfway around to the driveway, when you hear somebody shout, "Civilians! Open fire on civilians, they're both wicked!"

Damian spins on his heel to threaten the entire group, but you beat him to it when you see Jamie, snowclod wound up, aimed right at you.

Silence falls over the battlefield like the snow still drifting down at an alarming rate.

You point a sharp finger at him. "If you do this, I will never forgive you," you declare lowly. "I swear to every god in existence you'll wake up with your head sewn to the carpet."

He stops. Narrows his eyes. "You're bluffing."

"Am I?"

A moment's debate. You can image the Scarab waving you off with we can take her. But oh, that thing has never seen you with a grudge.

He swivels on his feet and hurls it at Raven, who's been hiding behind the snow that'd been shoveled off the sidewalk that morning.

You take Damian's hand again and make a break for his car.

After the drive to Downtown Gatlinburg and three or four hours spent roaming the streets, you're already talking about living there. In all honesty, he isn't so opposed to the idea of buying a home in the area. You seem so in your element here, and the town and the scenery surrounding you is so breathtaking.

But you know you'd never be able to drag him out of Gotham. Perhaps a vacation home, or maybe retirement.

You decide to stop in to a little cafe in a place called The Village, which is a collection of shops surrounding a lovely courtyard off the main stretch of Downtown.

It's crowed inside, so you decide to stand out by the fountain while you sip your steaming drinks and converse about the little shops you liked best so far. You are particularly fond of a candy shop, and he would very much like to check out a blade shop a block or so down the way.

Your teeth chatter as you talk about wanting a souvenir, something small to keep on a shelf, and finish the rest of your hot chocolate.

"Are you that cold?" his question is simple enough, but his voice is so soft and so drenched in concern it catches you off guard.

You laugh lightly. "I'm okay, just might need another hot chocolate before we set off again," you shrug, jamming your hand into your pocket has he takes the paper cup from you and nods.

"Well, I'm sure that can be arranged." He smiles.

There's something in his eyes, though. It's subtle, in the little wrinkles between his eyebrows, and the redness of his nose and his cheeks. As much as you like the way it looks on his honey crisp complection, it's starting to worry you. Not the blush he gets from the cold's kiss, but the slightly out of character openness he's been exhibiting. You like to think that maybe he's growing out of hiding his louder emotions, for his own sake, but you can't take the risk that it's something else.

He returns to you with an offering of mint hot chocolate. He smiles again when he greets you, and the pair of you set off back toward the sidewalk do a little shopping.

"Hey, Dame?"

"Hm?"

You wind your arm around his elbow with your free hand. "Everything okay with you?"

He turns his full attention on you. "Yes, of course. Why do you ask?"

You take a sip out of your hot chocolate. "I don't know, you've just been acting a little differently the last few days." His eyebrows crease in a worried way, and you get the sense he's disappointed. "In a good way, I mean," you correct yourself quickly, "I just want to be sure it isn't for a bad reason."

He shakes his head and takes a deep breath. You turn out onto the sidewalk, and start making your way farther up the street. "No, there isn't anything wrong," he assures. "I can't exactly explain it, which I'm not entirely okay with, but it's been. . . nice, this trip. The land is beautiful, the air is much cleaner than in Gotham, the people here are nice." He turns to face you again. "And you seem a lot more comfortable with the Titans. I'm glad; I'd feared you wouldn't bond with them at all, truthfully, and they're all far more bearable with you around."

You nod as he speaks, eyes jumping past him to the signs on the building fronts every once in a while. There's something he isn't saying, and you know it.

"And. . ." He sighs. "And you."

You pass him a quizzically quirked brow.

His voice lowers and he lays a hand over yours on his arm. "I love you so much, (Y/N). I can't even find the right words anymore."

Your eyes lock with his and you stop walking. Your lips part because your jaw goes a little slack, and your wide eyes reflect all the neon colors of the signs in the window on your right.

It isn't the first time he says he loves you. And you know it won't be the last, but he hardly ever says it so freely. It always behind closed doors in the softest moments, when you're both vulnerable or so drunk on love for one another neither of you can think straight.

You can't remember the last time he's been so open about in in front of anyone else, and it only ripens your concern.

You pull him closer, eyebrows slanting together. "Damian, I'm serious, are you okay?"

Now he's the one with one eyebrow reaching for answers. "Pardon?"

"I'm sorry," you blurt, "you know I love you from here clear to Alpha Centauri but you're really starting to worry me."

He laughs at that. Then, his eyes are as soft as his smile, and his hands smooth down the sides of your arms before they rest on your forearms. "(Y/N), I promise you there is nothing wrong with me now that hasn't been for the past seven years. Am I not allowed to let once in a little while, and allow myself a little breathing time?"

You hadn't realized you were so tense until you relax under his touch with the assurance. "Of course you are," you reply after a pause. You take one hand off your hot chocolate to rest it on his chest, coincidentally over his heart. "I just worry sometimes. I don't want anything to happen to you, Dame."

"I know," he says. He gingerly takes the paper cup from you and sets it on the bench you hadn't noticed before. He pulls you into his arms, enveloping you in a warmth like sunshine and a scent that's too particular to Damian Wayne to be mistaken. Your arms wind inside his open coat to the hoodie he's wearing underneath.

A long moment passes in relative silence. Your eyes are closed, ears perked to the drifting sounds of uncaring passersby and the rumbling of passing cars.

"I really want to slip my hands under your shirt right now," you mumble into his shoulder. "But if you tell me not to, I won't."

He grunts.

And for a moment, you ponder weather or not that was a denial. You silently make your choice and close your eyes again.

He leaps under your touch. "Damn it, (Y/N)!"

Dance Lessons | Harry James Potter

Pairing: Harry Potter x fem!Gryffindor!Reader

Wordcount: 12200 words (Yes, really. Do you ever just start to write a little oneshot and then it turns out as a fic with over 10000 words?)

Warnings: swearing, mentions of underage drinking, sexual tension but no smut, fluff, slight angst, slow burn i guess

Summary: Harry asks you to teach him how to dance for the upcoming Spring Ball.

a/n: Set in Harry’s sixth year. English is not my native language, so there might be spelling/grammar mistakes. (The beginning is inspired by this oneshot)

Not many could say that they had faced Voldemort more than once and had survived, but Harry Potter was one of the few lucky ones that had gotten away every time. And if that wasn’t enough, Harry had defeated horrifying creatures, had broken into the Ministry and had saved the wizarding world several times – more or less accidentally, but hey. He had dealt with Umbridge and fought Death Eaters.

To the world, he was a hero, he was the Boy Who Lived.

So yes, his record of fighting the evil was quite impressive for a sixteen-year-old. But there was one thing he knew he would never impress anyone with and that were his dance skills.

Because Harry Potter couldn’t dance for shit.

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