[ficday]

I need writers to give jason more “undead” traits like being unnaturally cold and pale or having a near nonexistent heartbeat i think it would be pretty cool

[fluentmoviequoter]

What's in a Name

Pairing: Kyle Rayner x fem!GL!wife!reader

Summary: Having two Green Lanterns from Earth is confusing enough. Having two with the same last name causes more problems.

Warnings/Word Count: Kyle is SO dramatic and a loverboy, fluff! 700+ words, requested

A/N: Kyle might be OOC; I based him on the STAS characterization! I kept this pretty short in case it's terrible. If it's not, I'd definitely be open to writing for him again!🤭

The Green Lantern Corp is built on tradition, willpower, heroism, and bravery. Nearly a year ago, that tradition was broken. In mere moments, the Corp gained two new ring-bearers, chosen by rings long-forgotten. More interesting, the new Green Lanterns resided in the same sector of space. In the same country, state, city, and even residence, in fact. It had never occurred before, so it was written in the history books of Oa, much to the chagrin of some of the Guardians.

Perhaps the most intriguing and confusing byproducts of having two Green Lanterns on the same planet is that they have the same last name. Because the Guardians are keen on tradition and refuse to break their habits of using last names, it has become nearly impossible to summon the intended Green Lantern when called.

Such obstacles seem negligible in the far reach of the Green Lantern mission, but the day-to-day impact remains a problem on and off Oa.

“Rayner!” Kilowog yells.

You stop, turning on the green-lined street. “Me?” you check, looking up at him.

“Sorry, kid,” he answers, shaking his head. “No, Kyle.”

You nod and continue walking. He doesn’t ask where your husband Kyle is, just sets out to find him alone. Despite the months that have passed, no one has seemed to realize that using your first names would be easier. Instead, it’s a daily battle of clarifying which Rayner is being called.

“Rayner!” someone screams.

“I don’t know where Kyle is,” you sigh, turning.

Ganthet shakes his head. “We need you both.”

It takes over twenty-four hours to defeat the intergalactic threat, fighting on the far side of the moon – which, contrary to the opinion of some, is in fact dark. When you finally return to Earth and reach your home, you collapse onto your couch and sigh.

“Maybe I should take my maiden name back,” you muse.

Your husband Kyle freezes, then sputters. He falls back, nearly crushing your legs as he grasps at his chest.

“It hurts!” he exclaims dramatically, pressing against his heart with his hand and reaching for you with the other. “The knife… lodged in my heart…”

“Kyle,” you call, smiling. “Kyle.”

“I can see the light,” he continues, staring past you. “It’s warm, but not as warm as your embrace.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m fading, my love.”

You roll over and wrap your arms around Kyle. He responds immediately, holding you against his chest as he takes a deep breath.

“Tell me about the comic you submitted yesterday?” you ask. “Since our date night was so rudely interrupted by an intergalactic imp?”

“It’s about a basketball team that has to solve a mystery while winning the championship game,” he explains.

“While?” you repeat. “Sounds like a hard multitask.”

“They’re cool.”

“Of course they are. You created them.”

Kyle drags his thumb below your lips, looking at your face like he never wants to see anything else.

“I hid you in the background of the game panels,” he adds. Then, his arm around your waist tightens as he sits up. “Hey, if you decide to take your maiden name again, I’m okay with that.”

You nod, then ask, “Can I see the comic?”

“I really am okay with it,” he repeats. “Because I’ll take it, too.”

You groan, leaning forward to fall against him. Immediately realizing your mistake, you attempt to sit up, but Kyle moves to quickly as he wraps his arms and legs around you, caging you in.

“I love you,” he says against your shoulder.

“I love you, too,” you promise.

“Rayner,” he adds softly.

“Rayner,” Ganthet calls.

“Is it really this hard?” you exclaim, throwing your arms up. “Use our full names if you have to, or a nickname, literally anything!”

“I fear we need both Rayners,” he adds. “Apologies.”

“Oh,” you mumble, dropping your shoulders. “Sorry, Ganthet.”

“Yeah, Ganthet, you could also use the good ol’ Mister and Missus,” Kyle adds, tossing an arm around your shoulders. “Seeing as we’re married.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” Ganthet replies. “Meet the Guardians forthwith.”

“He will not be taking it under advisement,” Kyle whispers.

“I don’t doubt that honey,” you answer as you walk.

“Oh, that’s much better than your maiden name.”

[dhazefawn]

GOT SOMETHIN’ IN MY SYSTEM; jason p. todd.

⋆˙⟡ synopsis: when red hood stumbles into your shitty convenience store at 2 am looking for marlboros, you don’t expect him to come back—but he does, except now he’s jason, your cute regular.

⋆˙⟡ pairing: jason todd‎ ‎ 𝔁‎ ‎ cashier!reader.

⋆˙⟡ cws: gun violence, injury (head wound, concussion), brief non-consensual touching (handsy customer), needles/stitches (implied), mild language, hospitalization, rating—mature.

⋆˙⟡ word count: 7.7k.

⋆˙⟡ author’s notes: i’ve probably said this like fifty times, but i’m restarting my dcu taglist. i’ll make a proper post soon, but if anyone is interested you could leave a comment or send me an ask. even though there is a afab presenting picture in the moodboard, that does not dictate reader’s gender—i have always written gen!reader.

✏ read part two───EXCUSE ME, I’M OUT OF RHYTHM! ౄ

Your clenched hand bangs on the “OPEN” sign for the third time this night. One letter is always burnt out—the “O”, to be specific. As a result, the small convenience store you work for has the word “PEN” basically written on its front door. Let’s say it doesn’t naturally garner any paying customers after normal shopping hours. Well, any normal customers, that is. You’re pretty much desensitised to every stranger who walks through the door.

“Does this make my store look like we sell dirty magazines?” Your manager, an old lady whom you’ve just learned to call ma’am instead of her real name—Marjorie—barks your way before opening the door to finally head home.

How nice that she never stays around for the night shift. Fantastic choice of words to end her stay here for tonight, too.

“More like a stationery shop,” you say, trying to align the sign to the center of the door, “I’m not sure people expect us to be selling anything… mature at a convenience store. You know, with there being aisles full of groceries.”

“I’ll be damned if a stupid sign ruins the reputation of this store, do you hear me? This building has been in my family for generations.” She’s still pointing at you, even though she’s half out of the door. “Take care of the place, don’t forget to clean up.”

“Sure, ma’am.” You try your best to hold back the sarcasm in your voice, but it fails, and you receive a nasty side glare from the woman.

You groan, turning back on your heel to return to the counter. It’s made of old wood-grain, laminated. Already chipping at the edges. It sits catty-corner to the door so you can see both the entrance and the back aisle. Which you have to, since the cameras—inside and out—are definitely fake.

There’s an old-school bell on a spring, attached to the door. It announces every customer, loud and impossible to muffle. Hearing bells at two in the morning isn’t ideal, but the store runs on pure spite, and your rent needs to be paid somehow.

Speaking of the devil, you hear the bell ring.

You straighten your spine, mentally readying yourself for another of Marjorie’s scoldings. You wonder what you forgot to do now, or who will be the recipient of her wrath. Raising your head, you open your mouth to muster some kind of excuse for whatever she’ll throw at you, but you stop dead in your tracks.

The person who walks through the door isn’t the short, hot-tempered old lady you’ve been working with for the past few months.

No.

You first notice the blood. The way it’s still wet, clinging onto the helmet, which is in the same shade. A man whom you have never seen in person stands just a few feet away from you. A hip holster hangs off of him, with something metal shining under the unbearable fluorescent lights. You don’t have to guess. It might be a gun, or he might have a knife stashed in another holster you haven’t spotted yet.

You’ve seen freaks in this shop—the guy who tried to pay with a bag of loose teeth, the woman who screamed at the beer cooler for ten minutes. Some are even sort of endearing when you learn how to handle them.

But you haven’t seen Red fucking Hood. And you sure as hell don’t know how to handle him.

What the actual hell? Marjorie didn’t train you for this. There isn’t a “how to deal with a vigilante showing up” section in any manual.

You freeze on the spot. Your hands grip the cold counter. For a moment, you think of taking the energy drinks from the small cooler and just throwing them at the man so maybe, just maybe, he’ll find the attempt pathetic enough and let you go. You can hear him step closer. You’re sure the metal cans won’t save you now.

You take a single step back. You hit the cigarette wall behind you. Marjorie would kill you if she found the cigarette wall in a mess, but it won’t really matter if the man approaching you gets to you first.

God, he is bigger in person. What the hell does he even eat to look like that?

What are you even thinking right now?

It only takes him a few steps to reach the counter from the entrance. A small trail of dirty footsteps follows him, and you grimace at the drops of blood sticking to his boots. There’s a small… handle sticking out of a holster lower on his leg.

Oh, that’s where the knife is. Lucky you.

You swallow down the breath stuck in your throat as he stands in front of the counter. He looks everywhere but at you, eyeing the energy drinks beside you and the cigarette wall. Instinctively, you raise your hands in front of you, as if to show him you won’t try anything stupid, like throwing energy drinks at him.

You can swear you hear something like an amused scoff coming from underneath his helmet as he looks back at you.

So, he finds this funny, huh.

“I’m not going to bite your head off.” He speaks first, because you sure as hell won’t talk to him first. You doubt Marjorie would scold you for customer service when the customer is Red Hood himself.

“So the knife there is just for show?” The words escape your lips without your permission, and you regret it instantly.

“I do love a good accessory,” he clicks his tongue, as if he’s being hilarious.

He raises a hand, and you watch the way the leather of his gloves flexes. They’re dark in color, tactical, fitted, covering to his wrist. The fabric leaves a piece of his forearm exposed. Your eyes trail over the showing skin. There are a few scars littered on the surface, running down his arm like rivers.

“You can drop your hands,” his voice breaks you out of your thoughts… about his arms?

“So, you aren’t suspicious or anything?” You drop your hands to your sides, “What if I—”

“You don’t scare me, sweetheart. It’s mostly the other way around.” He says the word “sweetheart” a little too easily. It almost sounds like honey rolling of his tongue. If he didn’t have a gun and knife strapped to him, maybe you’d even blush.

You hope you aren’t visibly blushing. The heat in your cheeks is your problem, not his.

“I could call the cops,” you challenge, a newfound confidence seeping into your words.

“And they’d definitely come here. After half an hour, give or take. But I’d already have taken what I came here for.”

Yep, he’s actually going to do something horrible. You thought Red Hood took care of criminals, not some cashier like you, who, yes, might have skimmed some dollars out of the cash register a few times. But that doesn’t warrant a visit from Red Hood himself. Your jaw tightens, while your hands clench. You’re sure your nails are digging crescents into your palm right now.

“And what would that be?”

If you’re going to be beaten up or robbed by Gotham’s most smart-mouthed vigilante, you’re not going down silent. Maybe you should scream. Just to make this harder for him.

He puts his other hand on his hip. For a moment, you think he’s reaching for his holster, but his voice from the helmet reaches you again.

“I want a cigarette.”

What.

“You want a what?”

Red Hood points a finger at the cigarette wall behind you. You follow the gesture to the Marlboros sitting in the middle row, just behind the locked glass screen. The “21+” sign is hanging on the screen with the paint already peeling off its surface.

He wants a fucking cigarette. And he’s saying all of this as if he didn’t just threaten you a moment ago.

“Seriously?”

“I am over twenty-one, if you’re wondering.”

“That’s not,” you groan. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

He shrugs. Throwing that energy drink can might have been an actual good idea.

“I can’t show you my ID, unfortunately,” he gives you a faux sigh through his helmet. Both of his hands are on his hips now, and you somehow calm down seeing that he’s not reaching for a weapon. “Secret identity and all. You understand, no?”

“You just had to mess with me, huh?”

“Couldn’t help myself.”

You turn your back slowly, still trying to keep an eye on him, all while letting out an annoyed huff. He mimics the sound of your sneer right back at you. You snap your head back at him. He, on the other hand, looks at one of the shelves, as if he didn’t do anything at all. You can feel something akin to a laugh building up in your body because he looks ridiculous, if you ignore the blood. His hands are on his hips, showing you he’s not going for his weapons. He’s looking away like a child caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

You open the cigarette wall with a turn of your keys. The glass screen moves, and you grab a single pack of Marlboros. You scan the pack in silence. It’s not like the heavy and tense silence from before, when he first walked through the door, bloody and intimidating. Now it feels like he’s actually a customer. A weird one, but it’s Gotham. You’re not surprised.

“Smoking is bad for you, y’know,” you say quietly, almost mumbling. Though he hears you anyway.

“You worried, sweetheart?”

“Oh, of course,” you answered with a raised brow, hoping the sarcasm was obvious in your voice. “Who else would walk in bloody in the shop just to buy cigarettes?”

He reaches for his pocket. Your eyes trail to his forearms again. You hadn’t noticed before, but the veins on his arms are barely visible. Though you can see the way they are indented in his skin, between the scars. He lays a few crumpled dollar bills on the counter. To his credit, the money at least isn’t bloodied.

“Next time at…” he looks at the clock on the wall behind you, the cracked glass shows that it’s eight pm now. “How does five sound?”

“If you don’t come with your accessories and blood, maybe. Just maybe.”

You hand over the cigarette pack to him. Your fingers brush his, and for a split second, his fingers freeze. It’s like he’s surprised and flustered by the contact.

“A deal breaker, then?” He lets out a cough before grabbing the Marlboros and taking a step back from the counter.

You tilt your head, trying to figure out in your mind what he looks like right now behind that helmet. His voice sounds hoarse. All because you touched him. Though he hasn’t expressed any discomfort yet.

“No,” you answer. “Not exactly…”

God, why is your stupid heart talking instead of your brain?

He perks up. You can see it in how his shoulders pick up. His grip on the cigarette pack changes; he’s now twirling it between his fingers.

Yep, you’re never leaving your apartment ever again.

He does have big hands, though.

“Five o’clock, then,” he says, like it’s already decided. Like you already said yes.

“I didn’t agree to anything.”

“You didn’t say no either, sweetheart.”

There it is again. That word. Dripping off his tongue like he’s known you for years. Like he has any right to call you that when you can’t even see his face.

He tucks the Marlboros into his jacket pocket. Takes a step back. Then another.

You should feel relieved. You are relieved. Probably.

“Same time tomorrow,” he says from the door. The bell hasn’t rung yet. He’s waiting. For what, you don’t know.

“Same blood?” you ask, because your mouth has officially divorced your brain.

He tilts his helmet. That same amused energy from before.

“Maybe less. If you’re lucky.”

The bell rings. He’s gone.

You stare at the door for a full ten seconds. Then, at the crumpled bills on the counter. Then at the trail of dirty footprints leading to the entrance.

Then back at the door.

What the hell just happened?

You grab the nearest energy drink can—not to throw, just to hold. The metal is cold against your palm. Your heart is still racing. Your cheeks are still warm.

And you hate yourself a little for already knowing you’ll be here at five o’clock tomorrow.

+++

“Wait, say that again,” Marjorie points at your face, as if you’re in the wrong. “A vigilante walked through my doors and threatened my employee?”

“He didn’t really threaten me,” you point out, but the exasperated look on the woman’s face makes you backtrack. “I mean, he looked scary. He didn’t lay a hand on me, though.”

Unfortunately.

You should have stayed home.

“You said he had a gun!”

“And a knife.”

“Oh, my god. And he smokes, too. Children these days.”

“I don’t think his smoking is the main issue here,” you move past the counter to the aisles.

You didn’t call Marjorie about what happened last night as soon as he had left. In her book, if something isn’t bleeding or broken, calling isn’t necessary. You cleaned the drop of blood from the counter and closed up last night. The streets felt just a tad brighter under the streetlights, knowing a certain vigilante might be looking out for you. Who knows, maybe he’ll appreciate the fact that you sold him the cigarettes without calling the cops on him.

Now you’re here, the next day. You’ve been buzzing around the shop all day. The sticky floors, even though you cleaned them yesterday, are still holding onto the grime. The fluorescent light bulb above the counter needed a few hits before it stopped flickering. You’ve been listening to the rattle of the beer cooler since you clocked in.

Marjorie’s incessant badgering about Red Hood unfortunately did reach your ears over the cooler’s rattle.

“Did he hurt you?” She asks again, and you, surprisingly, find the concern a bit endearing.

“Aw,” you coo, “you do care about me, Marj.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, idiot,” she scowls. “Who else would work for me if you died, or worse, quit?”

“No. He didn’t hurt me,” you deadpan. “He didn’t take anything. He paid for a Marlboro and took off.”

You haven’t mentioned the fact that he might visit again. You’re not planning on Marjorie finding out. She’ll leave in a few hours, and you will hang onto that stupid and foolish hope that a man whose face you’ve never seen will come to see you. You spent a few more minutes today in front of the mirror, too.

God, what are you doing?

“Marlboro?” Marjorie raises a brow. “He doesn’t even have taste. He should have gotten one of those… what are they called?”

“Yellow Spirits?”

“Yes, those.”

“You’re only saying that because they cost more.”

“If he’s bothering my employees, the least he can do is pay me.”

You bend down to the box near your feet. It’s full of some brand of cereal you can’t remember the name of. Something generic for an even more generic convenience store.

Marjorie approaches you near the aisle. Her brows are furrowed, and her wrinkles are even more pronounced today. The corners of her mouth are pulled into a thin line. As if she’s actually worried.

She starts digging into her pocket. You turn your head, curious about what she’s doing. She pulls out something that looks like a… taser?

“Marjorie, what is that?”

“Kid, we both know I don’t have the means to get you a gun,” she clicks her tongue, gesturing the taser your way, “but this should do the trick. It ain’t one of those harmless ones either. It packs a big punch.”

You grab the taser from her hand. It feels heavy in your grip. You imagine using it against anyone, though you don’t think you’ll be pointing it towards Red Hood anytime soon. First, stupidly enough, you hope he won’t give you a reason to use it. Secondly, you’re sure it won’t work against a man shaped like a mountain.

“Thanks, Marj,” you pocket the taser in your apron, the one Marjorie forces you to wear all your shift.

“It’s Marjorie,” she scoffs. “Now, I’ll get going. My heart cannot take another one of your ridiculous night stories. My poor knees need a break.”

As if she’s the one restocking.

She’s already half out of the door before you can even say goodbye. Not that she’d say it back. So much for her poor knees.

You turn back to the aisle. There are still a few more boxes unopened. The shop is relatively small one, so you’re not too worried about the amount of work waiting for you.

You look at the cracked clock near the register. There are a few minutes left before it strikes five. You bite your lip. There’s a strange feeling of impatience and exhilaration mixing in your stomach, all like a bad concoction.

This is how crazy people die in those superhero movies, all because they think that they’ve got a connection with a murder. You are very much that type of crazy person. It’s almost like Gotham has entirely changed you, making your eyes locked onto the door, awaiting a certain someone.

To your utter surprise, the bell rings. You feel your knees getting weak. You step away from the aisle that was blocking your way to the front door, half expecting Red Hood to show up and actually rob you or something; you’re not sure what people like him get up to.

Your heart is beating against your chest. There’s something deeply wrong with you. You consider running out the back door, but you’re already in the line of sight of the entrance.

He already saw you.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, sweetheart.”

The “he” turned out to be not a bloodied costume-wearing vigilante, but your loyalest regular—Jason Todd. You still don’t understand why he keeps visiting. A small part of your heart hopes it’s because he finds the cashier, you, cute.

He’s wearing a black T-shirt. It’s cut off around the forearms. You see familiar faint scars. You’ve never asked Jason about them. He did notice you staring once, and he explained that he had had a few accidents with his motorcycle. Your heart pangs uncomfortably at the reminder of him being in pain. The shirt clings to his chest in a way that will not leave your mind this entire week. It rides up slightly around his waist, exposing just a small part of his skin. You can see the tattoos peeking out from underneath the fabric, just above the leather belt around his hips.

This is too much. Way too much for a full day shift.

Wow. Both him and Red Hood. That’s low. Even for you.

You feel a sense of disappointment, as if you were played by Red Hood. But it’s not like he owed you anything.

Jason tilts his head. A few of the white strands of his hair fall down on his forehead. They frame his face in an effortlessly handsome way, so much so that you want to punch the subtle grin off his face. You’re sure Marjorie would fire you for that, considering Jason is probably the only customer of this shop she actually likes.

“Jason,” you finally get the words past your lips, “it’s just you.”

“Just me?” he places a hand on his chest in faux hurt.

He steps into the shop. His gate is steady. In a way that is the opposite of yours. You’re sure you’re shaking like a leaf right now, gripping the bag of cereal even harder. You scold yourself mentally for freezing up like this.

You can see the way Jason’s face shifts. Maybe he noticed how off you are today. He’s always so perceptive, a trait you haven’t yet decided is stupidly attractive or attractively dooming for you. It reminds you of that one time you tried hiding a burn you had gotten in the shop from him, but he still noticed. He walked to the pharmacy across the street just to buy a weird cream you had never heard of, but you appreciated the gesture either way.

No one had really done that for you before. Not without expecting something in return.

He reaches you in just a few steps. You wonder how he moves so quickly. In a way that doesn’t tick you off either. He raises his hands, almost to show he’s trying to calm you down.

“You okay?” He asks, voice laced with concern. His tone is softer, too. Like cigarettes wrapped in velvet fabric.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I feel like a million bucks.”

Who even says that?

You cough, trying to clear your throat. With a tilt of your head, you gesture to the register. Jason follows your gaze. He lets out a small sigh and follows you to the counter.

“So,” you try to force your voice to sound chirpy. It seems wrong. “What can I get you?”

By the look on Jason’s concerned face, you’re sure he noticed the strain in your voice, too. The soft glint in your eyes makes your heart tighten. You can’t take your anger out on him. It’s unfair.

“Is there anything I can do?” Jason offers, and the guilt in his voice makes you want to crawl under the counter.

For a moment, you wonder why he’s so hell-bent on comforting you. Especially when he has nothing to do with your stupid infatuation with a vigilante. Well, you have a small crush on Jason, too, but the future you will be the one who unpacks that.

“It’s nothing,” you lie, already reaching for the yellow Spirits behind the glass. Your fingers fumble with the keys. “Rough night. You know how it is.”

“I don’t,” he says, leaning against the counter. His forearm brushes against the chipped wood. You watch the muscles shift under his skin. “But I’ve got time if you wanna talk about it.”

“You’re buying cigarettes, not listening to me talk all day. This isn’t therapy.”

“Same thing, sweetheart.”

There it is. Sweetheart. The same word Red Hood used. Your brain short-circuits for half a second before you remember—Jason has been calling you that for months. Way before last night.

It doesn’t mean anything, you tell yourself. It’s just a word.

“You’re staring,” Jason says, amused.

“I’m obviously glaring,” you correct, shoving the yellow pack across the counter. “There’s a big difference.”

He doesn’t reach for the cigarettes. Instead, he tilts his head—and there. That’s the same tilt. The same one Red Hood used when he found you funny. Your stomach flips.

“You glare at all your customers like that, or just me?”

Two can play that game.

“Just the ones who show up at five o’clock looking like that.”

“Like what?”

You gesture vaguely at all of him. The arms. The chest. The stupid white streak in his hair.

“Like you just walked off a movie set.”

Jason’s grin spreads slowly. You feel heat pool up in your stomach. Suddenly, it feels like you’re back to last night. As if he is again, right in front of you, and you’re not sure how to handle this. How to handle Jason and Red Hood.

God, you’re going to hell. If there’s even one.

“So you have noticed.”

‘I notice when my regulars change their look,” you say, deflecting. “New shirt?”

“This old thing?” He plucks at the fabric, tugging on it a bit too harshly. You wonder if he’s nervous. “You like it?”

Jason—to your surprise and amusement—sounds actually nervous. The idea that you can fluster him lights your skin on fire.

“I liked the leather jacket better.”

“Noted.”

He’s still not taking the cigarettes. He’s just looking at you. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. The same way Red Hood looked at you—like you were interesting. Like you weren’t just another cashier.

“You’re doing it again,” you say.

“Doing what?”

"Looking at me like I’m hiding something. Which I am definitely not."

Jason laughs. It’s low, warm, and it does something stupid to your chest.

“Maybe you are hiding something,” he says. “You’re harder to figure out than most.”

“That’s the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever received.”

“It’s not backhanded,” he says, and you can get drunk on the flustered tone of his voice. “I’m just bad at words.”

“You’re a regular. You come here three times a week. I’ve learned that you’re not bad at anything.”

His eyebrows go up. “Anything?”

Shit.

“I meant—talking. I meant talking.”

“Sure you did.”

He finally takes the cigarettes. His fingers brush yours—deliberate this time. You’re sure of it. His hand lingers for half a second, in a way that’s longer than necessary.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks.

“You’re already here today.”

“And?”

You stare at him. He stares back. The fluorescent light buzzes. The beer cooler rattles. Somewhere outside, a car alarm starts wailing.

“You’re completely ridiculous, you know that?” you say.

“And you’re avoiding the question.”

“Fine. Same time tomorrow.”

“Good.”

He tucks the yellow pack into his back pocket. No jacket today means you can see the outline of his wallet, the curve of his—

Stop it.

But he’s totally doing this on purpose.

Jason steps closer to the counter. You can see the faint freckles dotted across his pale skin. There’s a light scar running down his cheek. You wonder how a motorcycle accident could do all of this. You know he’s hiding something from you. For a second, you wonder what it would feel like to count his freckles and trace the scar.

You can see the muscles in Jason’s shoulders flex as he leans over the counter. His hand reaches for his other pocket. He takes out a lighter you haven’t seen before. A raised cross spreads across its surface, darkened in the grooves.

He places it on the counter between you, sliding it toward you.

You pick it up. It’s heavier than you expected. Warm from being in his pocket. Your thumb traces the engraving. Along the edge of the metal, barely noticeable unless you know to look, a Latin phrase is etched in fine, precise lettering—worn just enough to suggest it is carried often, turned over in someone’s hands.

“What’s this say?”

“Something stupid that I got when I was nineteen.” He doesn’t elaborate. “Light it up for me?”

You look up. “What?”

“The cigarette.” He pulls the yellow pack from his back pocket—when did he grab that?—and taps one out. Holds it between his fingers. Doesn’t move to light it himself, just looks at you. “You’ve got the lighter.”

“You have hands.”

“And you’re holding it.”

The fluorescent light makes his eyes look greener than usual. Or maybe that’s just the angle. Or maybe you’re hallucinating because of what is happening right now.

“You want me to light your cigarette,” you say slowly, “over the counter. In the middle of my shift.”

“I want a lot of things,” he says. “Right now I’m just asking for a light.”

Your heart is doing something stupid. Your hands are definitely not shaking as you flick the lighter. Once. Twice. On the third try, a flame catches.

Jason leans in, closer than he needs to. His fingers brush yours as he brings the cigarette to the flame. His eyes don’t leave yours. You can’t take your gaze off the sea-green color of his eyes.

The cigarette catches. He takes a slow drag. Exhales away from your face—polite, even now—and the smoke curls up toward the flickering lights.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

He picks the lighter off the counter. His fingers linger over yours again.

“Same time tomorrow? Actually, I might be a little late.”

“You’re already here today.”

“And?”

You can’t think of a single clever thing to say. Your brain is full of smoke and green eyes and the weight of a silver lighter that’s no longer in your hand.

“Fine,” you manage. “Same time tomorrow.”

“Good.”

He tucks the lighter back into his pocket. The cigarette hangs from his lips. He’s halfway to the door when you call out.

“You forgot your cigarettes.”

He glances at the yellow pack still sitting on the counter. Then back at you through the smoke.

“No, I didn’t.”

The bell rings.

He’s gone.

+++

The next night is different. The fluorescent lights are too rough on your eyes. The counter is too cold. The rattling of the beer cooler is too loud. Marjorie didn’t drop by today either. You find yourself missing her incessant badgering, even if it does get a bit too much sometimes.

You feel lonely.

Ridiculous.

Maybe it’s because Jason didn’t show up today, and you’ve been staring at the front door like a kicked puppy. You’ve been lied to by him and Red Hood two times already. Or maybe, you’re just a fool to think that either of them would actually show up for you.

You sigh, leaning your elbow over the counter. The cold surface bites at your skin, but you don’t really care. Your thoughts are buzzing in your head nonstop. It’s all like an ambience you want to shut out.

The bell rings.

Your head snaps up, eyes trailing to the door.

A man walks in. Average height. Average build. Grey hoodie. Jeans that don’t quite fit right. His hands are shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold—or against something else. You can’t tell. His face is the kind you’d forget five seconds after looking away.

Nobody, you think. Just another nobody.

You straighten up anyway, because Marjorie might not be here, but her voice lives in your head rent-free. “Don’t slouch,” she’d say. “Makes you look like you don’t care. Customers can smell apathy.”

“Evening,” you call out, forcing something pleasant into your voice.

He grunts. Doesn’t look at you. Wanders the aisles like he’s searching for something. You watch him pick up a bag of chips. Put it back. A candy bar. Put it back. A Gatorade—blue, the electrolyte one—he holds onto that one.

His hands are shaking.

Late at night, you tell yourself. Long shift. You shake too, sometimes, when you’re running on three hours of sleep and bad coffee. Don’t judge him too quickly. Just mind your own business.

He walks to the counter. Sets the Gatorade down. The bottle thuds against the laminate—harder than it needs to.

“That everything?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at the bottle.

“Sir?”

He looks up.

And there it is. That thing in his eyes that makes your stomach drop. He’s not looking at you like a customer—he’s looking at you like you’re not even there.

“Two eighty-nine,” you say, voice smaller than you want it to be.

He reaches for his pocket. Pulls out a crumpled five. Smooths it on the counter. Once. Twice. Three times. His fingers are pale and knuckles white.

You make a change and slide it across. He doesn’t take it.

“Sir? Your change.”

He blinks and pockets the money without counting. “Thanks.”

Then he walks to the door.

Good, you think. He’s leaving. You were wrong. He’s just some guy.

He stops at the door and doesn’t turn around. He keeps just standing there. His one hand is on the frame. The bell is hanging inches from his head.

A cold feeling, like a wretched thing crawls up your spine. Lock the register, you think. Your keys are in your pocket. Lock it. Call—

He turns around.

The Gatorade is still on the counter, just as he left it.

He walks back, and not slow this time—fast. His footsteps don’t echo—they thud. Every step is a warning call.

“I changed my mind,” he says.

“About the Gatorade?”

“About all of it.”

His hand goes to his waistband.

You know before you see it. Before he pulls it out. You know.

The gun is small and black. It’s the kind that fits in a waistband without printing. God, how did you not see it before? He holds it at his side, not pointing it at you yet—but the threat is there.

“Open the register,” he says. His voice isn’t flat anymore; it’s shaking.

A scared man with a gun is worse than an angry one.

Your hands go up automatically. “Okay,” you say. “All right. I’m opening it.”

Your fingers find the keys in your apron. You don’t look away from him. Never look away from the gun.

The register drawer slides open with that familiar ka-ching that’s never sounded so loud before. Now it rings out loudly in your ears over the deathly silence.

“Take it,” you say. “It’s all there. I’m not going to stop you.”

He steps closer, and the gun comes up. It’s pointed at your chest now.

“The safe,” he says. “Open the safe.”

“I don’t have the code. The manager—she doesn’t give it to the night shift. I swear.”

His jaw tightens. His finger moves to the trigger.

This is how I die, you think. In a convenience store that says “PEN” on the door, and just for a register with maybe two hundred dollars in it.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not. I’m not. Please—”

He reaches across the counter. Grabs your arm, and he grabbed it hard. His fingers dig into your skin hard enough to bruise.

“Then you’re gonna call her. Right now. And you’re gonna get the code.”

“She won’t—she’s asleep, she’s old, she won’t—”

He yanks and pulls you halfway across the counter. Your hip slams into the edge. Pain shoots up your side.

“I said call her.”

Your head hits something on the way down. The corner of the register, or the counter edge. You’re not sure. All you know is white-hot pain and then warm wetness dripping into your hair.

The bell rings.

You barely hear it over the ringing in your ears.

But he does.

The robber turns. Just for a second. Just long enough to see who walked in.

And then he’s not holding you anymore. Because someone else is holding him.

Red Hood moves like water, like something that was never human to begin with. Your eyes can’t even catch up with his movements.

One second, he’s at the door. Next, his hand is wrapped around the robber’s wrist, twisting until you hear something crack. The gun clatters to the floor. The robber screams—a high, wet sound that barely registers in your foggy brain.

You’re on the ground. When did you fall? The linoleum is cold against your cheek. Sticky, too. There’s blood in your eyes. Your blood. From your head.

Oh, you think. That’s not good.

Red Hood doesn’t say a word—he just moves. A punch to the gut. An elbow to the back. The robber crumples like paper, gasping for air he can’t catch. Hood pins him to the ground with a knee to the spine.

You try to push yourself up. Your arms won’t cooperate. They’re shaking. Everything is shaking.

“Stay down,” Hood says. His voice is modulated. But there’s something underneath it. “Don’t move your head.”

You blink. The world swims. The fluorescent lights blur into halos. You can see his boots—heavy, and splattered with something dark—stepping over the robber’s body, coming towards you.

“Hey,” he says. “Hey. Look at me.”

You try. Your eyes find the helmet. The white lenses. The shine of blood—not his, not his—on his chest plate.

“There you go,” he says. His voice is softer now. The modulator can’t hide that. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

“You came back,” you slur. Your tongue feels too big for your mouth.

“Of course I came back.” He crouches down. His gloved hands hover over you, like he wants to touch but doesn’t know where it’s safe. “I said five o’clock, didn’t I?”

“You’re late. So fucking late.”

A sound from under the helmet—a laugh, a broken one. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m late. I’m sorry.”

Something falls from his jacket. A glint of silver. It skids across the floor and stops near your outstretched hand.

The lighter.

The silver one. The engraved one. Jason’s.

Your brain snags on it like a needle on a record. That’s—that’s his. That’s the one he put in your hand. The one you flicked. The one that was warm from his pocket.

“That’s,” you start, but the words won’t come. Your vision is going dark at the edges. “That’s Jason’s.”

Hood goes very still.

“Jason,” you repeat, because it’s the only word that matters. “You’re—you’re him. You’re—… oh my god.”

“Don’t,” he says. His real voice. The modulator must have cut out. Or maybe your ears are just giving up. “Don’t talk. Just stay awake. Please.”

You try. You really do. But the dark is pulling at you, soft and heavy, and the last thing you see is the lighter—silver and warm and his—sitting on the dirty floor between you.

The last thing you hear is his panicked voice.

“Stay with me. Don’t—shit. Stay awake. Please.”

Then nothing.

+++

The beeping is the first thing you hear.

You can barely find the strength to open your eyes. Your eyelids feel too heavy. There’s a sterile smell around whatever room you are currently in.

The walls are stark white. They stretch unbroken except for the occasional monitor, its screen blinking in steady, indifferent rhythms. A faint antiseptic smell lingers in the air, sharp and clean, threaded with something metallic beneath it. The bed sits at the center, too narrow, sheets pulled tight.

And, you’re in it.

You look to the side of the bed. There’s a small table near you. On top of it, there is a small card. You try to raise your hand, and it’s a miracle you manage to. You grab the card and open it. Your eye recognizes Marjorie’s handwriting.

Get well soon, kid. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, not much an old lady like me can do. You take all the time you need while you’re at the hospital. The GCPD will investigate this even if I have to break down their door. Call me when you’re ready to talk.

— Marj.

You knew she cared about you. Too bad you had to survive a robbery to get proof of that.

Fuck.

You got robbed. Almost shot at. Just for a few hundred dollar bills and a safe you don’t even know the code to.

You thought you were going to die.

Until he showed up.

You push yourself off the bed. The room spins. Your head throbs. You press a hand to your forehead and feel the bandage there, rough against your fingertips. Stitches. Great.

You look around. You’re in a private room. How the hell did you get a private room? Marjorie can barely afford to keep the store’s lights on. Maybe the hospital made a mistake. Maybe you’re in the wrong bed. Maybe—

The window.

There’s something at the window.

A shape, dark against the night sky. You’re on the third floor—you remember that much from the ambulance ride, the stretcher, the paramedic with kind eyes telling you to stay awake, honey, stay with me—

The shape moves.

A tap, glass against knuckle.

You squint. Your vision is still blurry, but you’d know that silhouette anywhere—the shoulders and the faint movement of dark curls.

Jason is standing on the fire escape.

He doesn’t come in. Just stands there and watches you.

You should be scared. You were scared the first time. But now? Now all you feel is something warm and stupid blooming in your chest.

You reach over and fumble with the window latch. Your fingers are clumsy—the head injury, probably—but you get it open. Cold air rushes in. Gotham smells like rain and exhaust and something that might be smoke in the distance.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says. You can hear the exhaustion underneath.

“You’re not supposed to be on a fire escape,” you shoot back. Your voice comes out hoarse. “Looks like both of us are starting this conversation in horrible ways. But I could scream, and they’d drag you out of here.”

“You wouldn’t,” he tilts his head, like he’s daring you to try.

He could probably cover the distance between you in a second. He’d have his hand over your mouth before you could even let out a squeak.

Why are you imagining his hand on your mouth right now?

“Are you gonna come in?” you ask, trying to get your mind out of the gutter. “Or are you gonna stand out there all night like a creep?”

His hair is a mess—curls sticking up everywhere, the white streak catching the dim light from the monitors. There’s a cut on his cheekbone, fresh. Dark circles under his eyes so deep they look like bruises. He’s wearing the same black shirt from before, the one cut off around the forearms, and you can see the scars now with new eyes. You’re sure the scars are not from a motorcycle.

“You look like shit,” you say.

He laughs. “You’re one to talk.”

“Fair.”

He climbs through the window, but doesn’t sit on the bed—stands near it, like he’s not sure he’s allowed. His hands are shoved in his jacket pockets. The jacket is different tonight. You wonder if he’s wearing anything like armor underneath it. Or maybe, tonight, he’s just your Jason, not Red Hood. Or maybe both. They have always been the same. You were just too blind to see it.

“The lighter,” you say.

He goes still.

“It fell out of your pocket. During the fight. I saw it.”

Jason stares at you. Something passes over his face—fear, maybe, or relief. You still haven’t quite figured that one out, yet.

“I know,” he says.

“Is that how you wanted me to find out? Or did you just get sloppy?”

He flinches. “I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking. You were bleeding. You passed out. I—” He stops. His jaw tightens, as if he’s chewing on words he can’t bring himself to say.

“You what?”

“I panicked.” The words come out rough. Broken. “I don’t panic. I don’t. But you were on the ground, and there was blood in your hair, and I thought—I thought you were—” He can’t finish the sentence.

You reach out. Your hand finds his. His fingers are cold—from the fire escape, from the night, from whatever he was doing before he got here. You hold on anyway.

“I’m not dead,” you say.

“I can see that. And you’re not good at bedside manners.”

“So stop looking at me like I’m gonna disappear. Plus, I’m the one in the hospital bed. If anyone has to work on their bedside manners, it’s you.” You jab a finger in his chest. The skin behind the fabric of the jacket feels like a wall.

Definitely not the time to be thinking about his chest.

He looks down at your hands. Then back at your face. Something shifts in his expression. The tension cracks.

He doesn’t talk right away. Instead, he pulls his hand around you—gently, like he’s afraid of hurting you, and reaches into his jacket pocket. When his hand comes back out, he’s holding the lighter.

The silver-engraved one. He turns it over in his fingers.

“I came back for it. After the ambulance took you. It was still on the floor.”

“So you didn’t come to see me?”

He gives you a look. That look, the one that says you know exactly why I’m here.

“I came to see you,” he says. “I’ve been out there for three hours.”

“Three hours?”

“You were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you.”

You stare at him. This man. This impossible man. Buys cigarettes from you three times a week. Calls you sweetheart like it’s your actual name. Climbed through your hospital window at—what, two in the morning?—just to make sure you were okay.

“You’re an idiot,” you say.

“I’ve been told.”

“A stupid idiot.”

“Also been told. Also, stupid and idiot are synonyms.”

You grab his wrist. Pull him toward the bed. He stumbles—actually stumbles, like you’ve caught him off guard—and ends up sitting on the edge of the mattress, close enough that you can smell the smoke on his jacket and the gunpowder. It’s intoxicating. It reminds you of the time his nose was almost brushing yours as you lit his cigarette.

“You’re staying,” you say.

“I can’t—”

“You can. The nurses don’t come in until six. That’s—” you glance at the clock on the wall, the one with the cracked glass that reminds you of the store, “—four hours. You’re staying for four hours.”

“Four hours,” he repeats.

“And then you’re gonna come back tomorrow. And the day after that. And you’re gonna keep coming back until I’m out of here. And then you’re gonna come to the store. And you’re gonna buy your stupid yellow cigarettes or the Marlboro ones, I don’t care. And you’re gonna let me light them for you. With your lighter. And you will ask me out on a date. Preferably not one that starts in a convenience store.”

His mouth twitches. “That’s a lot of demands for someone who just woke up from a concussion.”

“I’m very good at multitasking.”

He laughs again, and it’s louder this time.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

“Okay. Four hours. And I will take you out on that date.”

He doesn’t leave after four hours. Instead, he stays until the sun comes up.

The nurses find him there in the morning— asleep in the visitor’s chair, his hand wrapped around yours, the silver lighter sitting on the bedside table.

They don’t ask questions. Thank god.

This is Gotham, after all.

⋆˙⟡ taglist: @coffeelovingreader @cherryseascns @yuunarii-arii @simpingmyassoff (if anyone wants to be added or removed please let me know).

© 𝐃𝐇𝐀𝐙𝐄𝐅𝐀𝐖𝐍───all rights reserved; even when credited, these works are not allowed to be reposted, translated, or modified.

[vikerrina]

stress never bodes well in the heart 

cw. light angst with a happy ending, relates to the Las Vegas in incident in the comics, reader is a bit of crybaby (mark grayson x fem!reader)

The lounge is quiet.

Not silent—there’s the low hum of the fridge nearby, the muted sound of rain against the windows—but quiet enough that every little sniffle from you sounds louder than it should.

Mark stands near the couch, jaw tight, sleeves rolled up, still carrying that sharpness he’d had all evening.

You pushed him—not maliciously.

Just… stubborn.

Skipping meals again. Brushing him off. Smiling that thin little smile and insisting you were fine when you were very obviously unraveling.

And then you snapped at him.

Tiny thing. Barely even attitude.

But with the way he’d already been wound tight worrying about you while off planet already? Coming back to the shit-show that was Las Vegas?

It escalated fast

Now your eyes are glossy, cheeks damp, oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder as you stand a few feet away from him looking painfully small.

And guilty.

Always guilty.

“I said I’m sorry…”

Your voice wobbles halfway through it.

Mark exhales slowly through his nose.

Still irritated and affected, but the second your lip trembles again, something in his expression shifts.

Because there you are.

His girl.

Looking at him like she thinks affection can disappear if she missteps badly enough by the heap of bullshit that he’s already been through.

It does something ugly to his chest.

“Come here,” he says quietly.

You move almost immediately—of course you do.

Soft little thing crossing the room with watery eyes, almost tripping over herself in her hurry to get close again.

The moment you reach him; Mark’s hands are on you.

One firm hand settling at your waist, the other sliding up the back of your neck to ground you.

His irritation doesn’t disappear, but it melts into something heavier and more complicated.

You cling instantly, fingers curling into the front of his shirt as you press yourself against him with a tiny, shaky exhale.

“I didn’t mean to make you upset…”

The way you say it...

Small and earnest like it genuinely hurts to think he’s angry at you.

Mark’s eyes close briefly.

Then he tilts your face up toward him.

Your lashes are wet with your cheeks flushed.

Pretty in that devastating way you've always is when you're emotional.

And he hates how much he likes it.

“Look at you,” he murmurs.

Not mocking.

Almost… wrecked by it.

Your brows pull together slightly.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper again.

Mark shakes his head once then leans down—and kisses the tears from beneath your eyes.

Slowly and carefully, lips brushing warm against damp skin.

A tiny sound catching in your throat as his thumb strokes along your jaw.

Another kiss.

This time at the corner of your mouth.

Then your cheek.

Like he’s soothing something frightened.

“Enough apologizing,” he says softly.

But there’s command beneath it.

Always.

You nod immediately anyway, eyes still glossy as you lean further into him.

Needy now.

Clingy in the aftermath.

Your arms sliding around his middle while pressing your face against his chest.

Mark’s hand moves up into your hair automatically.

Slow strokes.

Possessive and gentle all at once.

“You scared me,” he admits quietly.

That makes you still, because Mark rarely admits things plainly these days.

So your head tilts up slightly hearing him.

“…I did?”

His face softens.

“You stop eating. Stop sleeping. Walk around like you’re disappearing in front of me and expect me not to react?”

Your eyes soften immediately.

Oh... so it wasn't anger, just worry.

That almost makes you cry again.

“I’m trying,” Another whisper.

And there it is.

The exhaustion underneath all of it.

The grief.

The emptiness you've been dragging around since he was gone.

Mark sees it instantly.

His expression changes again, softening at the edges in that rare way only you get to witness.

He pulls you even closer until you’re nearly in his lap against the couch, his hand cradling the back of your head.

“I know,” he murmurs against your forehead.

Then another kiss and this one lingering.

“I know, baby.”

Your fingers tightened in his shirt as a tiny broken sound leaves your throat.

Mark’s chest aches.

Because no matter how much he tries to control himself around you to not break apart—moments like this make it impossible not to feel consumed by you.

He brushes his thumb beneath your eye again, catching fresh tears before they can fall.

“I’m always going to be here...” he murmurs softly. “I promised you.”

And you—still emotional, still aching, still fragile from grief watching him on that TV screen and from everything tangled between you two—just bury yourself against his chest again.

[ficday]

i think about buzz cut dilf mark almost every day man

[jupisloveletterz]

.✦ ݁˖ SECRET ADMIRER

offical pt.2 of this blurb

pairing: Mark Grayson x hero!reader

summary : you get to know Mark more after you both pair up for a project

tags : fem reader, cat noir and ladybug type pinning, a bit ooc? mark being a dork, reader and mark both being a mess.

notes: 2.k words..I'm ngl I lowk didn't proofread the whole thing bc I waa too excited to get this out so apologies in advance if anything LMFAO

Your body was still sore from last week, your back still aching after getting thrown into a building wasn’t exactly ideal especially when your professor reminds you that you have a project coming up that would determine your whole grade for the semester. Your eyes were heavy and as much as you were trying to pay attention, everything was blurring together. 

“Alright, since I felt like being nice… it’ll be group project. It’ll be groups of three but since we have an uneven number there will be one group of two.” The professor announced to everyone while he was cleaning up his desk. “Get to introducing yourselves and all that jazz,” he mumbled as  he focused on putting his stuff away.

Your head shot up and quickly scanned the room, everyone in their own cliques as they’ve spent way more time than you getting to know everyone around here. A few seats across from you, you catch your raven haired dream boy also looking around lost. His brown eyes met yours and you swear your heart skipped a beat when he did. His face lit up as he gave you that dreamy smile you dream about as he raises his hand to get your attention. 

Once the interaction registers in your brain, you quickly shoot him a smile as you wave, doing your best to not show that you are absolutely freaking out right now. Mark comes up beside you, and your trying your absolute best to not pay attention to the way his face is perfectly sculpted or the way he’s practically towering over you right now-

“Wow you look…” his eyes examine your face with a concerned look as his brows slightly furrow. 

You snap out of your daydream embarrassed and fix your dorky smile. “Like shit?” you sigh tilting your head up at him. 

He smirks while looking away, rubbing his neck like he’s trying to figure out the right words to say. “I was gonna say rough, but I guess we can say that too,” he chuckles as he looks back at you. You immediately wish you were granted with the power of time so you could go back in time to make yourself look nicer before walking into class. 

You run your hands over your face as you let out a tired groan trying your best to wake up. 

Mark sits down next to you placing down his stuff as he sits back in his chair. “Long night?” He asks. 

You snicker at the question as you throw your head back. “More like a long week,” you mumble before looking over at him. 

He laughs as he slumps forward to rest his head in his hand. “Yeah…you can say that again,” he says raising his brows in agreement and a soft smile. 

You both sit in silence for a bit, both of you trying to figure out what to say next before he clears his throat and sits up straight. “So I was thinking that maybe we could work together— since y’know seems like we’re the only ones left.”

Working with Mark? Spending time with Mark and possibly being able to exchange numbers so you guys can talk and hang out?

You sit in your chair nicely as you move loose hair from your face. “Oh uh— yeah of course! I’m so down,” you say with a little too much excitement that you’re praying he doesn’t notice. 

He smiles before taking out his phone to open his contacts. “Here, give me yours and I’ll give you mine so I can text you later,” he says, handing over his phone. 

You stumble to open your phone before handing it over to him. You both type in your numbers before switching back phones as class ends. He looks at the contact before getting up from his seat. “Thanks! I’ll see you later y/n!” He smiles as he walks off, the sound of a few small charms following him that you can’t seem to make out.

 With all the bullshit you’ve dealt with the past few weeks, the bruises, the bloody noses and the aching back, you left class feeling a few found relief. Everything seemed more colorful and you swear the birds were singing your favorite song, but you just can’t believe you were able to snag Marks number and have him say your name so sweetly.

Great things happen after all. 

That week you got to know Mark a lot better. You had gone from never speaking, to sitting next to one another and talking about little things like what song your listening to, making references to see if the other one catches it, to even working in the library and chatting with his best friend William and his boyfriend. It was nice to really get to know his character, taking in the small details of who he was. Now what you thought was just normal infatuation to get yourself through the day is now a full blown crush.

Today you decided to do some work for your other classes in a little cafe. You have headphones in listening to your music as you peacefully enjoy your drink before you see a man sprinting down the block with a silver suitcase. You stand up as you watch to see what direction he’s going in as cars of police chase him down. You groan as you close your laptop and put your drink down, sucking your teeth because this means you’ll probably have to procrastinate those assignments later.

Before you begin to run out the cafe to get into your suit , you get a notification on your phone and it’s a text from Mark.

Mark :) : Heyy y/n, wanna come over to work on our project?

Your heart pounds as you view the text. You look down the block to see the police still after the man and then back down at your phone. It’s just one guy…plus the police handle petty little crimes like that anyways so it’s not thatttt big of a deal…

Yeah that’s cool! When do you want me over?

Mark :) : Mmm in like an hour?

You like the message as you quickly collect your belongings to rush back home to get yourself ready.

You made it to the address and your heart is thumping so loud you’re genuinely afraid he might hear it. You played with your hoodie anxiously as you physically tried to prepare yourself to knock on his door. It’s not like you haven’t hung out with Mark, you’ve been hanging out all week just not with only him…and at his house…in his room.

You take a deep breath as you bring your hand up to knock before you hear the door open. Mark suddenly appears before you making you jump at the appearance. “You scared the shit out of me,” you gasped before slowly relaxing your shoulders.

He laughs as he leans against the doorway. “I saw you just standing outside for like 5 minutes, it was kinda freaking me out I thought there was something wrong,” he says teasingly as he raises his brow.

Your heart drops to your stomach and you frantically search for an excuse to come up with to not look like a total creep. “I was scared I got the wrong house or something…didn’t want to knock and some random freaks out on me,” you huff feeling embarrassed.

He was wearing a deliciously snug white T along with some grey sweats. It was taking everything in you to not notice the way his shirt hugged his biceps or the way the waistband of his sweats were low enough to catch the waistband of his boxers.

“I guess you’re lucky this time then,” he says with a smirk before letting you inside.

As you took off your shoes you couldn’t help but take in the interior of his house. “Your place is gorgeous oh my god..” you say as you place your shoes by the door.

“Well my mom does real estate so I guess you could say she has an eye for interior design also,” he shrugs as he leads you upstairs to his room.

With each step you feel like you could throw up and explode. Just being in the same room alone makes it hard for you to function but to actaully be in the same room alone is a whole other battle you're going to have to face. He leads you in his room and the whole place smells like him. Small hints of his cologne and fresh laundry scent linger in the air, making you dizzy. He has a few posters on his walls showcasing his interests and figurines up on a shelf.

He makes his way to the edge of his bed where all of his work is laid out along with his computer. "Make yourself comfortable, you can sit here if you want or anywhere you feel comfortable with," he smiles as he sits on the edge of his bed, opening up his laptop. You make your way to sit in the chair near his desk and take out your belongings. You roll around his room in his chair while you both work, talking about dumb things as you try to settle your nerves.

"Y/n do you have those notes? I don't think I got them and I'm really not trying to read through these encyclopedias right now," he asks as he watches you look around his room.

You kick yourself as you make your way back towards his desk, "I should, I think I left them over here..." you respond as you tap your nails on your keyboard. As you go to search, you look at the various posters and pictures near his desk before your eyes focus on one that looked too familiar.

“Is that…do you have a poster of h/n?” You say widening your eyes as you stare at the poster of you near his desk. On his desk you realize he has what look like small photocards of you hitting different poses. It was from some comic-con event you forgot they hosted. You tense at the realization before looking back over at him.

He quickly looks at the poster completely forgetting it was there before looking back at you, slightly embarrassed at you recognizing it. “Uhh…I can explain?” He says bashfully.

You lift your hands as you chuckle at the way he looks like he’s preparing to be humiliated. “Hey this is a safe place, it’s just I knew you were a comic nerd, but I didn’t know you would be into actual superheroes like h/n,” you said, smirking as you crossed your arms.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He pouts as he puts his hands back to lean back on his bed.

“Well it’s not like she’s apart of any major league or anything…I would assume you’d have like maybe an Invincible one or Atom Eve.” You say, shrugging as you spin in his chair.

He snickers at your response as he opens his mouth like he’s about to speak before quickly closing it, like he’s choosing what to say. “I mean sure I guess they’re cool—especially Invincible, but I don’t know… I just really admire what she does and I think her powers are pretty cool too,” he says with a smirk as he looks off to the side.

Being at your crushes house is one thing, but also finding out that your crush admires you and also have merch? You can’t help but try to hide your hard smile.

You look back at your laptop to try and gain your composure. “I mean I get it, I used to secretly fan over some heroes too,” you say nonchalantly as you begin to type something down.

He looks back at you before also looking back down at his laptop. “Like who? Immoral?” He asks while biting back a laugh.

You gag as you lift your head back to look at him. “That dudes literally been alive since like the prehistoric era. I mean, heroes like Omniman or something.”

He freezes and his eyes go wide as he slowly glances up. “…why??” he asks in disbelief as he looks at you like you just gave him the worst take.

“Well like before he was evil and everything, I mean did you see the muscles on that man? Especially his ass in all of those news photos—“

“Stop talking; your privileges just got taken away .” He groans in disgust before he gets to typing away.

“Oh c’mon… I thought this was a safe place? Plus it’s not like your hero of choice is all that either,” you say, rolling your eyes as you roll your chair closer to him.

He looks up at you crazy before taking a deep breath and closing his eyes to regain his composure. “First of all, not that safe,” he says, pushing his hand out in your direction as the other puts his laptop to the side to grab his phone. “Second of all, you genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says as he pulls up a fan edit and holds it up to your face proudly.

You stare at the edit, looking at slowed down clips of yourself from press interviews and fight clips that honestly surprises you by how good for body looks in these different angles. You feel your face heating up as you look back at him to see him watching the video also with a smirk of “I know right?” before you squint back at the screen.

“Do you have that video saved?”

He pulls back his phone as he purses his lips. “Don’t worry about that,” he says flatly as he puts it away.

You take this as an opportunity to tease him and to maybe boost your own ego at the same time. You laugh as you lean back in your chair. “Oh so you’re one of those. Didn’t know you had a thing for mysterious faceless women who give other people a hard time,” you tease, tilting your head to the side.

His ears turn pink and he lets out a huff as he slouches over because suddenly the assignment is much more interesting now than it was before.

You giggle as you sway side to side, enjoying the reactions you’re able to pull from him just talking about yourself. “It’s just wouldn’t you want to get to know her first, before putting her on your walls—“

“God you seriously have no idea.” He whines as he lets himself fall back on his bed. He brings his hands up to his face, slowly dragging them down before letting them fall to his sides. “I swear I make myself look like an idiot trying to get her attention, you don’t know how bad I try when-“ he quickly stops himself before he ends up saying too much. He just lets out a long sigh as he stares up at the ceiling, his dark brows furrowed and his face a pretty shade of pink.

You get a familiar sensation in your stomach as you stare at his face. He looks so good like this, sounding desperate for someone he doesn’t even know is you. It’s taking everything in you to not strip off your clothes to reveal your suit and jump on top of him, but you knew better than to make reckless decisions like that.

He moves his head towards you as a small sheepish smile appears on his face. “I sound like a total loser huh?” he huffs with embarrassment as he looks at you with his pretty brown eyes.

You softly smile as you tilt your head. “I think she’d like a loser like you,” you admitted softly, both of you laughing afterwards.

You look down at your screen to see a news notification pop up saying that a man stole parts to make a biotic weapon that he’s using to terrorize civilians. You click on it to see the face of that man you saw earlier at the cafe, the man you didn’t stop.

“Shit.” Both you and mark say under your breath as his phone begins to ring which he quickly picks up.

You also close your laptop trying to figure out a good excuse as to why you need to go, one that sounds good enough that you won't have to explain too much later.

Before you can open your mouth, Mark is standing around his room putting his phone down with a nervous smile. “I just got a call from my mom…she said she needs me to go help her out with a few really important things right now..”

Before he can explain more, you also shoot up from your chair as you begin to put your things away. “Oh that’s fine because I actually forgot I have somewhere really important I need to be at soon and I can’t be late,” you say quickly as you both stare at one another blankly.

Seems like perfect timing somehow, both of you don’t think about it too much as you’re both trying to get somewhere quick. “I’ll text you later?” He asks as he walks you to the door.

“Yeah! I’ll see you later,” you give him a quick smile before walking out the door, walking down the sidewalk before disappearing behind a bush and taking off .

As you’re in the air you mutter obscenities to yourself because you ruined a good afternoon that you could’ve spent with Mark all because you wanted to spend one with Mark.

Once you arrive, you see a few of the GDA's beloved hero’s, including Invincible.

Just your luck.

[shinimontazhka]

Happy birthday to me gang 💪💪

I haven't forgotten about Invincible

[lovee-potions]

TAKEOUT?

PARING(S) — mark grayson x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS — if he’s not cheating on you… what is he hiding?

CONTENT — hurt/comfort | established relationship, reader being stubborn & kissing

WC — 6.5k

NOTE — i’ve only just started watching invincible and it’s safe to say i’m obsessed so… enjoy this and i apologise if he’s mischaracterised :)

MASTERLIST

You and Mark were supposed to be studying. That had been the plan for the last forty minutes, anyway. Your notebook was open, your textbook was spread across your desk, and a half-finished problem sat in the margin while you tried to focus on the page. 

Behind you, Mark had been making a spectacular effort to be absolutely no help at all. He was stretched out on your bed like he lived there, one arm behind his head, the other lazily tapping against his knee as he watched you work.

Every few minutes he would try to distract you, making some dramatic comment about how unfair homework was, how cruel teachers were, and how there were clearly better ways to spend an evening.

Like watching a movie. Like eating snacks. Like doing literally anything else—or each other.

“You’re not convincing me,” you said without looking up, writing another line of answers.

Mark sighed like you had personally wounded him. “I’m not trying to convince you. I’m trying to save you.”

You fought the smile threatening to show, shaking your head. “From algebra?” 

“From suffering,” he countered, shrugging. 

You shot him a look, and he grinned that easy, maddening grin that always made it hard to stay irritated for very long. You tried to go back to your notes, but Mark was clearly enjoying himself now, watching you pretend not to notice him while he made it impossible to concentrate. Every time you got through a line, he found another way to pull your attention away.

There was a moment of quiet before Mark stood, the faint creak of the floorboards giving him away just before his hands settled gently on your shoulders. You froze for half a second before relaxing under his touch. His thumbs pressed gently into the knots there, slow and careful at first, then with just enough pressure to make you exhale and sink back into the chair.

“You are evil,” you muttered.

“Maybe,” he said, voice low and amused near your ear. “But I’m useful.”

His hands moved in a steady rhythm, warm through the fabric of your shirt, easing the tension you had not realised you were holding. You tried to keep reading, but then he bent slightly and pressed a light, teasing kiss along your jaw.

“Mark,” you warned, but it came out weaker than you meant it to.

“Hm?” he shot back immediately. 

He did it again, just once, softer this time, and you turned your head just enough to catch the smug look on his face.

“You are absolutely doing this on purpose,” you whispered, fighting to keep your eyes from closing.

“Maybe I just want you to take a break,” he replied lightly.

“You want me to give up,” you grumbled.

“I prefer the phrase ‘spend quality time with your boyfriend.’” he corrected, amusement threading through his voice.

That finally broke your resistance. You let out a long breath, closed your textbook with a thud, and leaned back against him.

“Fine,” you said. “We can watch a movie.”

Mark looked far too pleased with himself. “Knew you’d come around.”

“Don’t act like you won,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes teasingly.

“I did win,” he hummed, shrugging.

“You cheated,” you shook your head, turning around and gently shoving his shoulder.

“Romantic persuasion is not cheating,” he grinned boyishly,

You laughed despite yourself, and he kissed the top of your head like he’d been waiting for that exact sound.

A few minutes later, the two of you were on your bed, the homework forgotten in a messy pile. Mark had pulled the covers up, one arm slung loosely around you while the movie menu glowed softly on the screen. The room was quiet except for the low hum of the TV and the faint noise outside your window.

The opening credits of the movie had just begun to play when his phone buzzed. Mark checked it, and something in his expression changed so fast you almost missed it. The teasing softness vanished, replaced by a tense, unreadable look that flickered across his face and disappeared just as quickly.

“What is it?” you asked, trying to see what was on his phone.

He locked the screen too quickly. “Nothing.”

You frowned at him. “That didn't sound like nothing.”

He gave you a smile, but it did not quite reach his eyes. “It’s probably just something I need to handle.”

“Handle?” you repeated, confusion written on your face.

“Yeah. Just—something came up,” he avoided your eyes, running a hand through his hair.

You watched him carefully, searching his face for the usual joke, the usual easy explanation, but it did not come.

He stood up, already halfway to the door. “I’m sorry.”

“Mark?” you said, sitting up.

He hesitated, like he wanted to say more. For one second, it looked like he might. Then the phone buzzed again, and whatever he had been about to tell you shut down completely.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said quickly.

“That is not an explanation,” you mumbled, crossing your arms.

“I know,” he whispered, looking genuinely torn for a moment, and that made it worse. 

Whatever was pulling him away, it was important enough to make him leave in a hurry, but not important enough for him to tell you what it was. Before you could ask again, he leaned down and kissed your forehead, quick and careful, like he was trying to leave something soft behind in place of the unanswered questions.

“Don’t finish the movie without me,” he added, giving you a small, apologetic smile.

Then he was gone. You were left sitting on your bed with the movie menu still open, the room suddenly too quiet, and his side of the blanket already going cold.

A while passed before you heard anything. At first, you tried to keep the movie on. You really did. It was something light, something easy, but you barely registered the opening scene. Your attention kept drifting back to the door, to your phone, to the silence he’d left behind.

Eventually, you gave up. The TV was still playing softly in the background, but you’d curled up on your bed, wrapped tightly in Mark’s hoodie—the one he’d left behind without thinking. It still smelled like him, faintly warm and familiar, which only made the knot in your chest worse.

The movie had long since blurred into meaningless noise, the soft glow of the screen casting flickering light across your room. You told yourself you weren’t waiting but you absolutely were. So when you finally heard the window shift open, the sound was sharp enough to make you sit up immediately. 

Mark climbed in like it was the most normal thing in the world, landing lightly on his feet. He was holding a couple of takeout bags, and—of course—he had that same stupid, boyish smile on his face, like nothing had happened.

“Hey,” he said easily, glancing up at you like this was just another normal night. “You’re still awake.”

You stared at him for a second, completely unimpressed. “Brilliant observation.”

His smile faltered just slightly, but he recovered fast, lifting the bags a little like they explained everything. “I brought peace offerings.”

You stared at him. “That is not the point, Mark.”

He winced, setting the food down carefully on your desk like he was approaching a wild animal. “Okay. Fair.”

You didn’t move from where you were, still wrapped up in his hoodie. “You left me sitting here with no explanation,” you said, each word sharper than the last. “You just walked out. No explanation. No message. Nothing.”

“I said I’d make it up to you,” he tried, though there wasn’t much confidence behind it now.

“That’s not making it up to me,” you shot back immediately. “That’s avoiding the problem.”

Mark dragged a hand through his hair, the easy confidence from earlier slipping through his fingers. “I know, I just—”

You stood up then, the movement quick and deliberate, arms crossing tightly over your chest. “You what?”

“I had to go,” he said, softer now. “It wasn’t something I could ignore.”

Your jaw tightened. “And you couldn’t tell me that before you left?”

“I didn’t have time,” he protested weakly.

You let out a short, incredulous breath. “You had time to grab takeout.”

“That was after,” he mumbled.

“That’s not helping your case,” you said, briefly clenching your jaw. 

“No, I—yeah, I know,” he muttered, glancing away for a second.

He let out a small breath, clearly trying to figure out how to fix this without actually explaining anything. It would’ve almost been impressive if it wasn’t so frustrating.

“You’re mad,” he said, like he was testing the obvious.

“Oh, really?” you said sarcastically.

“I deserve that,” he nodded slowly. 

“Yes,” you said flatly. “You do.”

He opened his mouth, probably to make some half-hearted excuse, but you had already noticed the detail that ruined any chance he had of talking his way out of it. 

Just above the collar of his shirt, barely hidden beneath the fabric, was a dark mark on the side of his neck. Faintly purple, edged in red, like it had only just started to bloom. Small enough that he might’ve thought you wouldn’t notice—but obvious enough that once you did, it was impossible to look away from.

Your stomach dropped so fast it almost made you feel sick. “What is that?”

Mark blinked, caught off guard. “What is what?”

Your eyes didn’t leave his neck. You were already moving before he could react, closing the distance between you in two quick steps. Your hand came up without thinking, fingers brushing lightly against his skin as you tilted his chin to the side. Your fingers hovered just beneath his jaw, eyes locked on the mark.

“That,” you said, and even you could hear the strain in your voice now. “On your neck.”

The instant he saw the change in your face, Mark lifted a hand to cover it, a little too quickly to be casual. His fingers pressed over the spot like he could make it disappear by sheer force of will.

“It’s not what you think,” he said, words rushing out now. “It’s nothing.”

You stared at him, disbelief crashing through you so fast it almost made you laugh. “That is not nothing.”

“It’s just—uh—” he stalled, eyes flicking away for a second like he was searching for something—anything—that would sound believable.

“A what, Mark?” you pressed, your voice sharper now. “Because it looks a lot like a hickey.”

His expression changed immediately. “It’s not a hickey.”

“It really looks like one,” you said bluntly.

“It’s not,” he insisted.

You let out a short, humorless laugh, stepping back just enough to look at him properly. “You disappeared for over an hour, came back with food, and have a suspicious mark on your neck.”

“It is not suspicious,” Mark said dumbly.

“It is extremely suspicious,” you quipped. 

Mark exhaled through his nose, the kind of breath that meant he was trying very hard not to react the wrong way. “I know how this looks—”

“Do you?” you cut in, your voice rising now, frustration slipping through. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks pretty bad.”

He looked genuinely thrown now, as if he had expected anything except this. His hands lifted slightly, then hovered uselessly at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. “It’s not what you think.”

“Then explain it,” you huffed. 

“I can’t,” Mark said weakly.

You laughed again, but this time it broke a little. “Of course you can’t.”

“It’s not—” he stopped himself, jaw tightening, then tried again, softer. “It’s really not what you think, I swear.”

You shrugged, losing all patience, “Then what is it?”

“I just—” He shook his head, frustrated, like the words were there but he physically couldn’t say them. “I can’t explain it right now.”

“Right now?” you repeated, incredulous. “When exactly were you planning on explaining it, Mark? Because right now would be great.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Nothing. And that silence was worse than anything he could have said. You stepped back again, putting space between you, arms folding tighter around yourself as the sleeves of his hoodie slipped over your hands again. 

“You know what?” you said, your tone suddenly very still. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he asked quietly.

“Don’t lie to me.” Your voice wasn’t as steady now, no matter how hard you tried. “If you don’t want to tell me, fine. But don’t stand there and act like I’m stupid.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” he shook his head, frowning.

“Then stop treating me like I am,” you said exasperatedly. 

“I’m not—” he tried to protest.

“You disappeared,” you said, your voice shaking now. “You came back with takeout like that fixes everything, and now you won’t even tell me the truth.”

“I am telling you the truth,” Mark tried, his voice quietening, “just not all of it.”

“That’s the problem, Mark,” you sighed.

Silence fell between you again, heavier this time. The food sat untouched on the desk. The movie still played in the background, completely forgotten. Mark looked at you like he wanted to fix it, like he just didn’t know how without breaking something bigger.

“I didn’t do anything like that,” he said quietly. “I promise.”

Your eyes stung, and the frustration in your chest finally spilled over.

“Fuck, Mark,” you snapped, the frustration finally spilling over. “Just admit it! You’re cheating on me.”

“Woah—” Mark said immediately, stepping forward, hands raised like he could stop the words from landing. His eyes went wide, panic flashing across his face. “No—no, I’m not—I promise, I’m not—”

“Then what am I supposed to think?” you shot back, your voice breaking despite yourself. “Because you won’t tell me anything!”

“I know,” he said, desperate now, running a hand through his hair again. “I know how it looks, I just—I can’t explain it, okay? Not like this.”

“That’s not fair,” you whispered painfully.

“I’m trying!” he snapped, then immediately softened, regret flashing across his face. “I’m trying, I just—”

You shook your head, swallowing hard, blinking away the sting in your eyes as you looked away from him. “You need to leave.” 

Mark didn’t move. For a second, it was like he hadn’t processed it—like if he just stood still long enough, the moment might rewind, undo itself, give him another chance to fix it properly.

“You don’t mean that,” he said quietly.

You did. But you couldn’t say it again—not without your voice breaking completely—so instead, you turned away from him.

“Can we just—talk about this?” he tried, softer now. “Please?”

The hurt in his voice almost made you falter, but you swallowed it down and shook your head, already moving back toward your bed. “We are talking about it, Mark. You’re just not saying anything.”

He took a step closer. “Just—give me a minute, okay? I can explain, I just—”

“Not right now,” you cut in, climbing into bed and pulling the blanket up around you like a shield. “That’s what you said.”

He flinched slightly at his own words thrown back at him. “That’s not what I meant—”

“Then what did you mean?” you snapped, turning your back to him before he could answer. You curled in on yourself, facing the wall, the fabric of his hoodie bunching under your chin as you pulled it tighter around you. “Because I’m donetrying to guess.”

Mark stayed where he was for a moment, like he was trying to decide whether to push again or give you the space you were clearly asking for. You could practically feel him there, just behind you—hesitating. Your shoulders stayed rigid, your hands gripping the blanket as if it were the only thing holding you together.

For a while, he didn’t move at all. The silence stretched long enough that you almost thought he might ignore you, might stay anyway, might try one last time to break through the distance you’d put between you.

Instead, you heard a quiet exhale. Then the soft sound of his footsteps crossing the room. They stopped right beside the bed and you felt the mattress dip slightly as he leaned closer, hesitating again—like even now, he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

Then, gently—carefully—his hand brushed back just enough of your hair to expose your forehead. The kiss he pressed there was light, tentative. Lingering for just a second longer than it needed to, like he didn’t quite want to pull away.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. 

Then the window slid open again, and a moment later, he was gone.

The next few days at school felt strangely louder than usual. Not because anything had changed in the halls—the same lockers slammed, the same voices echoed off the tiled floors, the same teachers called for everyone to hurry along before the bell—but because now every place Mark appeared felt impossible to ignore.

He tried, at first, to act like nothing was wrong. You saw him in the hallway on Monday morning, just outside your second-period class. He was standing near the lockers with his backpack slung over one shoulder, talking to some classmates, but the second his eyes found you, the conversation around him seemed to fade from his attention completely. His expression shifted in that tiny, instinctive way it always did when he saw you—softening at the edges, like you were still the first person he wanted to look at no matter what was going on.

You kept walking, eyes forward, gripping your books a little tighter against your chest as you passed him. You could feel his stare following you anyway, warm and hesitant and full of something you refused to let yourself think about.

“Hey,” he said quietly as you went by but you didn't answer.

There was the smallest pause, like he might reach out, like he might say your name again, but he didn’t. By the time you glanced over your shoulder, he had already gone still, looking after you with an expression that made your stomach twist unpleasantly.

He looked like he wanted to follow but you turned away before he could. It did not get easier after that. In class, he kept trying to sit near you. If there was an empty seat beside you, he would drift toward it like he had every intention of pretending the two of you were normal. If you moved your things to claim space before he could, he would hesitate for a second, looking almost sheepish, then settle somewhere else with a look on his face that suggested he was trying very hard not to make it obvious how much that bothered him.

The second day, he did manage to sit beside you in history. You noticed his hesitation before he even sat down. He slid into the chair next to yours carefully, keeping a little too much distance between your elbows, his notebook placed neatly on the desk as if he were trying to prove he could be respectful and normal.

For a few minutes, he did not speak. He just sat there, one knee bouncing under the desk, glancing at you every so often like he was waiting for some sign that this might be the moment you finally looked at him.

You stared at the board, copied down notes, and pretended very hard that the sudden awareness of his presence did not make it difficult to breathe. Then, very quietly, so quietly you almost missed it, he nudged a folded slip of paper toward your notebook.

You ignored it, continuing to write until the bell rang. When you finally gathered your things and stood to leave, he straightened too quickly beside you, like he was hoping to catch you before you disappeared into the crowd.

“Can we talk?” he asked.

“No,” you mumbled, walking away.

It came out sharper than you meant, but not sharp enough to stop him from looking stricken. You heard him say your name, but you were already out the door. By lunch on Wednesday, he had run out of ways to pretend he was not trying. You found him before he found you, which made the whole thing worse in a way you had not expected.

You were walking past one of the side tables near the cafeteria when you spotted him across the room. He was half turned in your direction, tray in hand, the second his eyes landing on you making his shoulders go subtly tense. 

He looked like he had been in the middle of a joke a second earlier, but whatever expression had been there vanished the moment he saw you. He said something to the people beside him—probably an excuse, probably nothing important—and then he started toward you.

“Wait,” he said under his breath, falling into step beside you.

“I’m busy,” you shook your head, keeping your gaze away from his.

He let out a small, humorless breath. “You’re walking to lunch.”

“Yes,” you shrugged. “Busy.”

That should have made him stop. It should have made him back off. Instead, he fell silent for a beat, then said, “I’ve been trying to talk to you.”

You stopped so suddenly he nearly took another step before catching himself. The hallway around you kept moving, students threading past with bags bumping against their sides, but you and Mark stood in the middle of it all like a pair of magnets that had finally hit the wrong side of each other.

“I noticed,” you said, voice low and tight.

He looked like he had been punched and refused to show it. “Then why won’t you listen?”

You laughed once, but there was no humour in it. “You really want to ask me that?”

For a second, he looked exactly like he had that night in your room—stuck between saying too much and saying nothing at all. That same frustrating, helpless look. The one that made you want to yell and also made you want to believe him anyway.

He dragged a hand through his hair. “I know I messed up.”

You stared at him, then went around him without answering. His shoulders sagged slightly as you passed, and you hated that you noticed.

After that, he kept trying in smaller ways. He held doors open when you were close enough to ignore him. He slowed down in the hall just enough to make sure you would not have to squeeze past him, but not enough that it looked intentional. 

Once, in the middle of chemistry, he quietly slid your dropped pencil back onto your desk without saying a word, his fingers brushing the edge of your notebook for the briefest second before he pulled away.

By Thursday, it had started to feel like a pattern. Mark would appear near your locker and then find an excuse to linger. He would catch your eye in the hallway, start toward you with that careful hopeful look on his face, and then stop when you turned away first.

It should have made you feel powerful. Mostly it just made everything ache. Because even when you were angry, he still looked at you like he cared. Even when you refused to speak to him, he still found ways to stay close without pushing too hard. And that made it impossible to forget how much you wanted him to simply say the right thing.

At the end of the day on Friday, you were at your locker when you heard his voice behind you.

“Hey,” you heard his voice.

You did not turn around at first. Your fingers stayed on the lock, though you had already opened it three times without taking anything out.

“Please,” he said, quieter now.

You shut the locker door slowly and finally turned. He was standing a few feet away, looking tired in a way that school had nothing to do with. His hair was a little messy, his backpack only half zipped, and there was something cautious in his expression that made him look younger than usual. More vulnerable. 

“I just want to talk,” he said. “Please… I’ll explain everything.”

“Not right now, Mark,” you sigh, averting your gaze to the floor. “Eve wants to—

“Please,” he begged, reaching for your hand. “Please.”

Something in the way he said it—the way his voice dipped, the way he looked at you like this was his last shot—finally cracked through the wall you’d been holding up all week.

You exhaled sharply through your nose. “Fine. One minute.”

Relief flickered across his face so fast it almost hurt to see. “Okay. Okay—yeah, okay.”

You narrowed your eyes. “But if you waste my time—”

“I won’t,” he said immediately.

He led you out of the building, past the usual after-school crowd, past the buses and the noise and the lingering groups of students. The farther you went, the quieter it got, until the sounds of school faded. Eventually, he stopped near the edge of the grounds, behind a cluster of overgrown bushes and a half-forgotten fence line that no one really paid attention to.

You folded your arms, glancing around. “Wow. Romantic. Really setting the mood here.”

Mark huffed a quiet laugh under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well… it’s private.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “If you brought me out here to confess something weird, I’m going to need you to be a lot more specific.”

He looked at you then and for a second, the nerves were obvious. “I just need you to trust me for like… five minutes.”

“That depends heavily on what happens in those five minutes,” you said dryly.

Then, without much warning, Mark shrugged his backpack off his shoulder and dropped it to the ground.

You blinked. “Okay…?”

He crouched down, unzipping it quickly, like he’d already made up his mind and didn’t want to give himself time to hesitate again.

“Mark,” you said slowly, suspicion creeping in, “what are you doing?”

“Just—hang on.” He pulled something out.

You pointed at the bundle in his hands. “That. Is that your explanation?”

His face did something strange then—half confusion, half realisation. “Oh.”

You crossed your arms. “Oh?”

Mark glanced up at you, just for a second, then back down as he stood. “I think you’re misunderstanding.”

“Am I?” you asked flatly. “Because right now it looks like you dragged me behind the school so you could show me a superhero Halloween costume.”

That got a tiny smile out of him again, despite everything. He huffed a quiet laugh through his nose and shook his head. “It’s not a costume.”

Your eyes flicked down as he started pulling his hoodie off, and you immediately looked away, exasperated. “Oh my god, are you serious right now?”

“I need you to see this,” he said, a little more urgently now. “Just—give me a second.”

You crossed your arms tighter, leaning back slightly as you watched him, completely unimpressed. “You know, most people go with flowers. Maybe a heartfelt speech. Not… stripping behind a bush.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, “I figured you’d say something like that.”

You gestured vaguely at him. “Because this is insane.”

He didn’t argue with that. Instead, he pulled off his shirt, and for a second, your brain couldn't quite process what you were seeing. Bruises, faint in some places, darker in others, scattered across his chest and along his ribs. 

Some were small, barely noticeable unless you were looking for them. Others weren’t. Your gaze dropped, tracking the line of them across his stomach, the uneven pattern of healing marks that didn’t make sense. 

You couldn’t look away. Because there was one mark that stood out more than the rest. It cut up from his chest—long, thin, and darker than the others. Not round like a bruise from impact. Not scattered like the rest.

A sharp, whip-like streak that trailed upward toward his collarbone, Toward his neck. Toward the exact place where—

“…that’s…” you started, but the words didn’t come out right.

Your eyes flicked from his chest to his neck, then back again, the realiSation settling in piece by piece, replacing anger with something far more uncertain.

“That’s what I saw,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper now. “The other night… That wasn’t—” you swallowed, your throat suddenly tight. “It wasn’t a hickey.”

“No.” He shook his head once as he finished pulling the suit on. He bent down and picked up his backpack, glancing at you with an intensity that made your stomach twist. “Do you trust me?”

“Are you seriously asking me that?” you huffed, crossing your arms.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice softer now, almost fragile. He held out his hand, and the small tremor in his fingers betrayed how serious he was. “Do you… trust me?”

For a second, you wanted to say no. You wanted to stay angry, wanted to keep your heart guarded and your face set in a glare that would make him finally explain himself properly.

But the truth was already pressing against everything else. So after a beat, you exhaled slowly, sliding your hand into his and, without fully trusting your own judgment, said, “Yes.”

He stepped closer at once, reaching for you carefully as if he was worried you might change your mind. One arm slipped around your back, the other under your legs, and before you could fully process what he was doing, he lifted you into his arms with a steadiness that made your breath catch.

“Hold on,” he murmured, adjusting his grip under your thighs. “Just hold on tight.”

“Wait, why—?” you started, but your words dissolved into a sharp yelp as the ground dropped away. “What the fuck, Mark? You can fly?!”

“Yes,” he said, his voice carrying the thrill of movement, the wind whipping your hair into your face. “I can fly.”

Your legs instinctively squeezed around his waist as he surged higher, the trees and the school shrinking beneath you. The sky stretched wide, the air cool and rushing, and your heart felt like it had dropped to your stomach and then tried to leap back up again.

“Mark—Mark, this is not funny!” you half-shouted, half-laughed in disbelief, your face pressing instinctively into his shoulder as you held on tighter. “You’re insane—this is insane—”

“I’ve got you,” he said quickly, his voice steadier than yours, grounding despite everything. “Hey—hey, look at me. You’re safe with me.”

You shook your head instinctively. “No, I am not looking down, I am absolutely not looking—”

“Not down,” he said, softer now. “At me.”

Slowly—hesitantly—you lifted your head, and looked at him. The wind still rushed around you, the sky stretching endlessly behind him, but for a moment it all blurred into nothing. It was just Mark—hovering there like this was the most natural thing in the world, his hands steady on you.

You searched his face, trying to reconcile this impossible, unbelievable thing, with the boy you’d been arguing with just minutes ago.

“You can fly,” you said again, quieter this time, like saying it softer might make it make more sense.

A small, almost sheepish smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah.”

You stared at him, shaking your head slightly as you tried to process everything. “You’re… this… what?”

“I’m…” he started, then stopped, exhaling softly. His eyes flicked over your face, like he was trying to read every reaction before it even happened. “I’m Invincible.”

You searched his face again, harder this time, looking for the hint of a grin, the spark of teasing, anything that would tell you this was another one of his ridiculous jokes.

You stared at him in complete disbelief. “That is the dumbest superhero name I’ve ever heard.”

Despite himself, something almost like a laugh slipped out of him. He shrugged weakly, nodding. “Yeah.”

“You’re actually a superhero,” you whispered. “And you just—never thought to mention that?”

Mark let out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh but heavier. “It’s not exactly something I can just bring up over homework.”

Your gaze dropped for a second, then came back up to his. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it’s dangerous,” he said quietly. “Not just for me.”

You frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means… the people I deal with—the things I deal with—they don’t just go after me.” His voice lowered, more serious than you’d ever heard it. “They go after people I care about. “And you…” he hesitated, eyes flicking away for a split second before coming back to you. “You’re not just someone I care about. I didn’t want you getting hurt because of me. I thought if I kept it separate—if I didn’t drag you into it—you’d be safer.”

“You thought lying to me was safer?” you asked, but there wasn’t as much bite in it now

“I thought keeping you out of it was,” he admitted.

“You should’ve told me,” you said finally, your voice quieter now.

“I know,” he said softly, nodding slowly.

You furrowed your brows, angry at yourself. “I thought you were cheating on me.”

His eyes widened slightly. “I know—and I hated that. I just didn’t know how to fix it without… this.”

For a long second, neither of you said anything. The wind rushed past, loud and steady, tugging at your clothes and hair while the world stretched out impossibly far below. Mark was still watching you like he was bracing himself—for anger, for disbelief, for you to pull away from him even now.

Instead, you blinked once. Then again. And then, completely out of nowhere, a short, breathless laugh slipped out of you.

Mark froze. “What?”

You shook your head slightly, still staring at him like you were trying to rearrange everything you thought you knew. “I’m sorry, I’m just—”

Another small laugh escaped you, and you dragged one hand up to your face for a second, pressing your fingers against your forehead like that might help.

“I am literally online all the time,” you said, looking back at him. “Like, chronically online.”

Mark’s expression shifted, confusion cutting through the tension. “Okay…?”

“And you’re telling me,” you continued, incredulous now, “that my boyfriend is Invincible, and I just… missed it?”

He blinked at you.

You stared right back at him. “There are videos. There are photos. There are, like, entire forums dedicated to you.”

“I—well—yeah, probably,” he admitted awkwardly.

“And somehow,” you went on, lowering your hand and staring at him in pure disbelief, “my own boyfriend being a superhero completely escaped me.”

When you put it like that, it sounded even more ridiculous.

Mark huffed out a small, nervous laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “In my defence, I was trying very hard to not be obvious.”

“You broke my door once,” you said flatly.

He looked almost apologetic, but there was a tiny spark of amusement in his eyes now too. “That was one time.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You told me it ‘just fell off its hinges.’” 

That earned a small, helpless laugh from him. “It kind of did—”

“Mark," you huffed, sending him a look.

“Okay, yeah, that one’s on me," he winced.

Despite everything—the anger, the confusion, the lingering hurt—your lips twitched. Just slightly. Then your expression softened again, your gaze dropping briefly to his chest, to the fading bruises, to the mark that had started all of this.

“I should’ve noticed,” you said more quietly this time, looking back up at him. “I feel stupid.”

Mark’s expression changed instantly at that, the humour fading into something softer and more careful. “Hey. No, don’t.”

You huffed, looking away for a second before meeting his eyes again. “You are only getting away with this because we are floating and also because I am currently too shocked to fully yell at you.”

His smile widened a fraction. “Good to know.”

You glared at him, but the glare did not have much force behind it now. Not when you were still clinging to him in midair, not when the world had just tilted itself upside down and somehow he was still looking at you like you mattered more than the secret he’d kept.

“Mark,” you said quietly after a beat, the disbelief still sitting all over your face, “you really are ridiculous.”

“I know,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your eyes flicked down to his mouth, then back up again before you could stop yourself. His grip on you shifted just slightly, careful and steady, like he was giving you the chance to pull away if you wanted to. 

You didn’t pull away, if anything, your grip on him tightened just a little. Your nose brushed against his, causing his breath to hitch slightly at the sudden closeness. Mark’s eyes fluttered shut as your lips met, a sigh escaping him as he kissed you back.

His tongue traced the outline of your bottom lip, seeking entry as he pressed himself closer to you—as close as possible, just short of actually being skin to skin. He was determined to make this moment last, savouring every second of the closeness between you. 

When you finally pulled back, it wasn’t by much. Your foreheads almost brushed, your breath still mingling between you. Mark looked at you like he had just been given something he wasn’t entirely sure he deserved.

“Are we okay?” he asked quietly.

“We’re… getting there,” you said.

Relief softened his expression immediately, something lighter breaking through the tension he’d been holding onto all week.

“Okay,” he breathed.

There was another small pause. Then, very gently, he shifted his hold on you, glancing down toward the ground below before looking back at you again, something a little more familiar—something a little more Mark—creeping back into his expression.

“…So,” he started, just slightly hesitant, “this might not be the best follow-up to a life-changing revelation, but—”

You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Mark.”

He smiled, just a little. “Do you fancy takeout?”

“Fine,” you muttered. “But you’re paying.”

[veryoccasionalwriting]

more Tessa content please! i love her sm my daughter ❤️❤️

Ask and ye' shall receive!!

A little short story for you with Rex and Tessa!

Tessa sat happily on the bathroom counter, kicking her tiny legs against the cabinet doors.

“Da-da-da-da-da!“

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you.“ Rex frowned at his phone, one of his hands gently hovering nearby so that Tessa's giant head didn't knock her off the counter top. “...Okay, what the hell is the difference between a French braid and a fishtail braid?“

Tessa answered by smacking both hands against the counter and giggling.

“That is not helpful.“

She giggled harder.

The problem was simple.

His daughter had entirely too much hair.

A year old. A singular year old and somehow she already had a ridiculous amount of curly hair that reached nearly to her shoulders.

Where did it come from? Certainly not him.

Rex grabbed one of the curls and stretched it.

It immediately sprang back into place.

“What woman did I sleep with that had hair like this?“ He muttered back to himself. 

Tessa grabbed the curl back and frowned. “Mine.“

“Sorry sorry, I know it’s your hair.“ He apologized then sighed dramatically. “I just want answers.“

Tessa offered none. Instead, she leaned forward and attempted to grab his phone.

“HEY.“ He pulled it away and shook his head. “Absolutely not.“

Tessa laughed hysterically at herself and Rex was becoming increasingly convinced that she found his suffering entertaining.

He opened another tutorial.

The woman in the video somehow transformed a child's hair into a flawless masterpiece in less than three minutes.

Rex watched it twice, then a third time, then he finally paused the video and frowned. “...What do you mean 'simply section the hair'?“

The tutorial made it sound like the easiest thing in the world.

Tessa's hair seemed to have different opinions.

Still, he was determined.

He carefully gathered a section.

Tessa sat surprisingly still.

Another section then another.

“Okay. Okay. We're doing it.“

The moment he tried to braid it, everything fell apart.

Literally.

Hair escaped in every direction. The section disappeared. The braid unraveled.

Rex stared. “Okay so maybe braiding curly hair doesn’t work?“

She clapped enthusiastically like she knew what he was talking about.

“You are part of the problem.“

More clapping, more giggling.

Rex couldn't help smiling.

“Traitor.“

After twenty more minutes, several failed tutorials, and one brief moment where he considered simply shaving Tessa’s head and calling it a day, he finally abandoned the braid idea entirely.

“Nope.“ He tossed the phone aside, then cringed when he heard it hit the wall. “We're pivoting.“

Tessa blinked.

“We're going with buns.“

Rex knew how to do buns. He put his hair up in buns sometimes.. Sure he never did it with hair like Tessa’s, but he’d be damned if he didn’t try!

So, Rex went to work with extra care.

Five minutes later, Rex carefully secured the second bun.

Then he stepped back. Rex's eyes widened. “...Holy crap.“

The buns were admittedly a little uneven.

One sat slightly higher than the other. Several curls had escaped. But they looked adorable, and totally matched the toddler vibe.

Rex immediately grinned. “LOOK AT YOU.“

Tessa squealed in delight

“Dude.“ He said dramatically as he rushed over to grab his phone. “You have little buns.“

Rex felt absurdly proud. Like he'd just won an Olympic medal. “Okay.“ He hummed as he snapped a photo.

He then set his phone down, and he grabbed a small container from beside the sink. “What if… What if we add little bows?“

Tessa's entire face lit up. “YAY!“

“I know!“

He selected two tiny pink bows.

Carefully attached the first one which was a success. He then attached the second one, which also latched on successfully. 

Rex leaned back to admire his work. “Oh, we're cooking now.“

Tessa bounced excitedly. “Dada!“

“You look fantastic.“

Tessa bounced harder, squealing excitedly and clapping her hands.

Then there was a loud SNAP.

Rex froze.

One of the elastic bands exploded.Half of Tessa's hair sprang free like a released slinky.

Rex stared. Tessa blinked. The remaining bun drooped sadly to one side.

Rex groaned. “Oh, COME ON.“

Tessa laughed hysterically towards him.

Rex dropped his head into his hands. “I had it.“ He frowned. “It was perfect.“ He whined. “It lasted like six seconds.“

Tessa reached over and patted his cheek to try and support him.

Rex looked up.

The toddler was grinning at him with one bow dangling from a half-destroyed hairstyle. And somehow she still looked adorable.

Rex sighed dramatically, then smiled softly and scooped her into his arms. “You know what?“

Tessa immediately wrapped her tiny arms around his neck.

“I think we're calling that a success.“

Tessa rested her head against his shoulder.

“Dada.“

“Yeah?“

“Pretty.“

Rex laughed. “Yes, you’re beautiful! The prettiest girl in the entire universe actually.“

He kissed the top of her curly head. Tomorrow he was learning what the hell a fishtail braid was and he would figure out how to do his daughter’s hair if it was the last thing he did.

[goblin-jr]

Welcome to the Pod (Class 4B)

Jason Todd x Teacher! Reader

masterlist • prologue

🐠 🌊 🦈 💌 🐚 🪸

summary: Jason Todd agrees to talk to the demon brat's teacher when she sends home a letter saying she's concerned about him. Now he is becoming a better brother and also totally not flirting with the classroom teacher

wc: 3.5k

---

You press your thumbs into the paper cup, the cardboard going soft under your fingers, lukewarm coffee sloshing against the lid. The staff room smells like burnt espresso and dry-erase markers. Somewhere, a printer is jamming in rhythmic, hopeless clunks.

You sit on the edge of the vinyl couch, clutching a paper cup of coffee that went cold fifteen minutes ago, and try not to look as out of place as you feel. Six weeks ago, you were still in teachers’ college. Six weeks ago, you thought you’d be teaching science units and reading comprehension to twenty-four kids who went home and talked about baseball or TikTok or who they sat next to at lunch.

Six weeks ago, you didn’t think you’d end up here.

Gotham Prep wasn’t the plan. It was the only place hiring, the only one that offered a full-time position with benefits. You didn’t want private school. You didn’t want to stand in classrooms with glossy floors and kids in starched uniforms who talk about Hamptons houses and casually say “our driver” like it’s nothing. But here you are.

And you’re… trying. You’re trying so hard.

Which is why Damian Wayne has been on your mind since September.

Nine years old. Fourth grade. Perfect posture, perfect handwriting, perfect work and…. absolutely no connection to anyone. He sits alone, eats alone, spends recess standing at the edge of the field with his arms crossed, watching like he’s waiting for a battle to start. Brilliant, curious, but untouchable.

You’ve tried everything. Group activities, partner projects, lunch buddies. He doesn’t push back, he just… folds out of reach.

And today, during reading time, you’d caught him pressing his pencil into the desk so hard it snapped clean in half. His jaw clenched, chest rising and falling too fast, like he was holding the entire weight of Gotham in his tiny ribs.

So now you’re here, curled over lukewarm coffee, explaining this to the handful of veteran teachers around you.

“I just think he’s having a hard time,” you say finally, softer than you mean to. “He’s so bright, but he doesn’t talk to anyone. He doesn’t want to.”

A middle-aged math teacher looks up from her crossword and laughs, not unkindly, but weary. “Sweetheart, this is Gotham Prep. Half of these kids’ parents have three vacation homes and haven’t hugged them since birth. If you burn out worrying about every lonely genius in this place, you’re not gonna make it to Christmas.”

You blink, caught off guard, but before you can answer, another teacher chimes in, sipping from a chipped travel mug. “You said Wayne, right? That explains it. Every Wayne kid who’s come through here’s been the same. Independent, detached, never any parents at conferences. If a butler shows up, consider it a win.”

You freeze. “…A butler?”

“Alfred,” she says casually, like that explains everything. “Lovely old guy. Shows up for everything. Father figure, chauffeur, medic, I think he runs the company too, honestly. Point is, if you haven’t heard from anyone about Damian, don’t take it personally.”

You nod, forcing a small smile. You murmur something polite, something like, thanks, that makes sense, and sip your cold coffee like you’re letting it go.

You’re not letting it go.

By the end of lunch, you have a letter prepared.

—

Damian sits in the backseat like a man (a nine-year old) awaiting trial.

The Wayne car hums softly through afternoon traffic, but inside, it feels suffocating. His blazer is buttoned, his tie perfect, his shoes polished to a mirror shine. None of it matters. His entire life is over.

The letter is heavy in his hands, edges crumpled where his fingers have been digging in. He hasn’t let go since Miss Y/N gave it to him, leaning down to his desk at the end of the day, voice soft and sweet as spun sugar:

"Make sure you give this to your dad, okay, sweetheart?"

Sweetheart.

She called him sweetheart.

That was before he read between the lines. Before he realized what this letter truly was: a declaration of his failure.

He is an Al Ghul. A Wayne. He has trained with assassins since he could walk. He speaks six languages, can scale a wall in under eight seconds, and once killed a man with a pencil in Prague. And yet. And yet.

She thinks he’s weak. He knows it.

He should’ve known something was wrong when she smiled at him this morning with that small, infuriatingly warm smile she gives to everyone, not just him. He thought she was naive, too soft for Gotham, but he didn’t think she would… betray him like this.

None of the other students got letters. Not one.

Which means this is about him.

Which means he has failed.

Which means Father will find out that his own bloodline, the heir to both Wayne Industries and the League of Assassins, the rightful protector of Gotham, cannot perform adequate group work in a fourth-grade classroom.

Damian can already see it: Bruce standing in the Batcave, gauntlet braced on the console, sighing in disappointment. Alfred, shaking his head silently. Drake, smirking behind his hand. Todd, laughing so hard he chokes.

He imagines himself packing his katana into a duffel bag, banished to some Himalayan monastery to “reflect on his failures.”

A low, quiet groan escapes his throat.

From the front seat, Alfred glances into the rearview mirror. “Master Damian, you are holding that envelope,” he observes, voice perfectly calm, “as though it contains confirmation of your death sentence.”

Damian doesn’t look up. “…It might.”

Alfred hums, unbothered. “I see. And have we prepared last rites, or shall I arrange a priest on retainer?”

The silence stretches, heavy and deliberate, and he can practically feel Alfred’s pointed glance in the rearview mirror. But he refuses to speak, refuses to give the butler even the smallest opening.

Because he has already made his decision.

This letter will not reach Father.

Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

He’ll destroy it if he has to. Burn it, shred it, feed it to Titus and let the hound digest the evidence. Better to die honorably than live with the humiliation of Bruce Wayne reading whatever fresh indignity Miss Y/N has scribbled onto school stationery.

Alfred clears his throat, a soft ahem that carries the full weight of an English battlefield. “Very well. Your silence, Master Damian, has been noted and catalogued for future reference.”

Damian crosses his arms, tucks the letter under his elbow like it’s state secrets. He’ll hide it until midnight, slip down to the Batcave, and dispose of it in the incinerator with the precision of a trained assassin. No one will know.

The car glides into the Wayne Manor driveway, smooth and unhurried. Damian is already mapping his route from garage to corridor to safety, every footstep calculated. He is three seconds from executing a flawless escape when Alfred, with the unfortunate efficiency of decades of service, rounds the hood and opens Damian’s door.

And that’s when it happens.

The letter slips.

It slides from under Damian’s arm, dips into open air, and lands neatly at Alfred’s polished shoes.

They both freeze.

For one brief, terrible second, Damian entertains the fantasy that Alfred won’t pick it up. That the butler, bastion of restraint and decorum, will respect his autonomy and allow him this shred of dignity.

Alfred bends, retrieves the letter, and dusts it off with the casual elegance of a man wiping fingerprints off a murder weapon. He studies the front, expression unreadable.

Damian’s heart rate spikes.

“You will, of course, be delivering this to Master Bruce,” Alfred says mildly, handing the envelope back.

Damian accepts it with the blank stare of a boy planning six separate contingencies to fake his own death before dinner.

He says nothing.

But in his mind, the vow is sworn: This letter will never reach Bruce Wayne.

…And that’s the exact moment the sound of boots hitting gravel echoes off the driveway.

Jason Todd, resident chaos incarnate, rounds the corner. Fresh leather jacket, cocky grin, energy radiating the way it always does when he smells potential trouble.

“What’s that, Demon Brat?” Jason drawls, nodding at the envelope clutched in Damian’s iron grip. “Ooooh, secret admirer? Tell me it’s a crush.”

Damian glares, sharp as a blade. “Leave me alone, Todd.”

Jason grins wider. “So it is a crush.”

He snatches the letter before Damian can react.

Damian lunges.

Jason dodges, backing up with both hands in the air, the letter held high like a prize. He is laughing so hard he’s wheezing, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

“Oh my god,” Jason gasps, cracking up again. “She called you very bright but a bit anti-social.”

“It is slander,” Damian hisses, full offense-mode activated. “She has no right. You have no right. Return the letter immediately before I dislocate your jaw.”

Jason snorts. “You’re nine. You can’t even reach my jaw.”

“I trained in the mountains of Tibet.”

“And I died. We all have our burdens.” Jason flips the letter around, reading aloud in a terrible attempt at a high-pitched voice. “Damian is a curious and intelligent student—”

“I will tear out your spine—”

“—though he sometimes struggles with social interaction and collaborative tasks—”

“You’ll be struggling with living soon, Todd.”

Jason is cackling now. He stumbles up the porch stairs, kicking the door open, still holding the letter like it’s comedy gold. “Bro. She’s not even mad! She’s worried about you! This is, like, the nicest concern-mail I’ve ever read.”

“She called me sweetheart,” Damian spits, venom in every syllable. “Then sent home a letter. She lured me into a false sense of security and then attacked.”

Damian’s eyes narrow to slits. “You are not telling Father. Or Grayson. Or anyone.”

Jason wipes his eyes, sobering slightly. “I mean. I could just hand this over. But…” He smirks, tapping the envelope against his palm. “I’ve got a better idea.”

Damian stills. Suspicion blooms like a stormcloud. “What do you want?”

Jason leans back, hands behind his head, pure smug menace. “I go to the school tomorrow. Talk to your terrifyingly adorable teacher. Smooth things over. You don’t have to explain anything to B.”

A pause.

“…In exchange?”

“In exchange,” Jason says sweetly, “you owe me one favour. Future. Undisclosed. You agree, and the letter stays between us.”

Damian narrows his eyes further. “Define ‘favour.’”

“Nothing permanent.”

“That is not reassuring.”

Jason shrugs. “I’m your best shot. Otherwise, this letter ends up on Bruce’s pillow with a sticky note that says talk to your son before he starts a supervillain arc.”

Silence.

Then, stiffly, like chewing glass: “…Fine.”

Jason grins like the devil himself. “Pleasure doing business, little brother.”

–

Jason parks the quietest bike he owns. Which is still a bike. A powerful, purring beast that he coasts into the staff parking lot like a reformed delinquent.

He pulls off his helmet, fixes his hair in the reflection of his rearview mirror, and adjusts his leather jacket (the good one, without visible stab holes.)

He is calm. Collected. Playing the long con.

He knows Gotham Prep. Hell, he went here before the whole dying thing. It’s a tight ship. A conservative ship. Every teacher either hates children or hates him specifically. This will not be hard.

“Talk to the old lady, reassure her the Wayne kid isn’t a sociopath, fake some guardian paperwork if needed, and dip before lunch is over” he mutters, walking in. “Easy.”

He walks through the front doors like he owns the place. The admin secretary glances up. Jason gives her his best tired-parent smile. She waves him toward Room 104.

He’s halfway down the hall when he smells it.

Citrus.

Not old cleaning lemon. Not overzealous janitor lemon. No. This is intentional citrus. Diffuser-level citrus. Pinterest citrus.

Jason blinks. Pauses outside Room 104. Peers in.

The room is… insane.

There’s a reading nook with beanbags. A corner labeled “mindful minutes” with fidget toys in a basket. Art projects hanging from clothespins. The lights are soft. There’s a mug that says “TEACHERS PLANT SEEDS OF THE FUTURE” next to a succulent in a cat planter.

Then he sees you.

Standing by the whiteboard, sundress swaying slightly, cardigan sleeves pushed to your elbows. You’re balancing on a step stool, pinning up vocabulary cards. Your hair is pulled back with a scrunchie. Your earrings are tiny silver pencils.

You turn just as he knocks.

Bright smile. Warm eyes. Voice like sunshine. “Hi! You must be Damian’s guardian! I’m Miss Y/N.”

Jason forgets how to speak.

You don’t seem to notice. You gesture for him to come in with a little wave, then hop off the stool and land with a soft thud. You smooth your dress, grab a folder from your desk, and head toward the horseshoe table tucked near the reading nook.

“Come sit,” you say brightly. “Lunch break ends in twenty, but I really appreciate you swinging by. Most of the time I get voicemail. Or silence. Or an assistant who tells me to submit a formal calendar request.”

Jason follows you on autopilot. The chairs are too small. He folds into one like an origami disaster.

You flip open a folder, click your pen, then pause. “Sorry, name? Just so I can match it to my records.”

“Jason,” he says. “Todd.”

You scribble something down, nod to yourself. “Damian’s brother”. Jason’s even more shocked you know that.

“I want to start by saying he’s... really something special. He’s so bright. Incredibly articulate. Analytical. The kind of kid who notices everything.” You smile a little. “Last week, he corrected me on the etymology of the word gladiator. He was right.”

Jason huffs out a small laugh. “Yeah. That sounds like him.”

“But,” you say gently, and his stomach drops.

You flip the folder toward him. A worksheet in Damian’s precise, tiny print. There’s a drawing of a falcon in the corner, mid-hunt. The answers are perfect. The edges are frayed, torn, then carefully taped back together.

“He’s very hard on himself,” you continue. “I’ve seen him rip up an entire page because he made one mistake. I try to encourage a growth mindset, but… I don’t think it’s getting through.”

Jason swallows.

“He’s also alone. During group time, partner work, and free play he doesn’t try. He won’t even look at the other kids. I’ve tried seating changes, shared interests, but nothing sticks. And I get the feeling he’s used to being alone. Like it’s a choice, not a phase.”

You glance up quickly, like you’re checking if you’ve gone too far.

Jason forces a neutral nod. He’s used to damage reports. But this one’s different. This one feels like it comes from a place of—what, concern? Care? Actual emotional investment?

“He’s a complicated kid,” Jason says, carefully. “Always has been.”

“I’ve noticed,” you say gently. “And I get it. I know transitions can be hard. But it’s not just that. Sometimes he looks so tired. Like bone-deep tired, you know?” You give a little laugh, but there’s an edge of worry behind it. “He fell asleep sitting up during a spelling test last week. I thought it was a fluke. But it’s happened twice.”

Jason is spiraling internally. Because wow. You care. A lot. You’re not just checking boxes or calling out grades. You’re showing him drawings and asking about his sleep cycle and actually worried about whether this kid has friends.

And he cannot tell you the truth. That Damian sleeps four hours a night because he’s training with ancient swords or running rooftops with his dad. That he doesn’t make friends because he used to consider socialization a weakness. That this is progress from when he first got here. He scrambles for something plausible. “Uh. You know how it is. New city. New school. Family stuff.”

You nod empathetically. “Of course. Change is hard.”

Jason exhales. Crisis: delayed. Somehow.

You pause for a second, like you’re deciding something. Then you offer a soft, tentative smile.

“I hope this isn’t overstepping, but… is Damian’s mother in the picture?”

Jason’s brain goes completely silent.

Then:

International assassin.

Tried to brainwash him into becoming a child warlord.

Has attempted to kill Bruce on multiple occasions.

Resurrected me from the dead using a Lazarus Pit and a bucket of moral compromise.

Once made Damian fight a genetically enhanced clone of himself on his birthday.

Possibly owns a volcano lair.

Definitely owns a tiger.

“…She’s,” he says slowly, “around. Sometimes. Travels around.. for .. work.”

You nod like that’s a totally normal answer. “I just wasn’t sure. I haven’t heard from anyone except you. And he doesn’t really talk about home.”

Jason opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks about saying something helpful. Lands on: “Yeah. It’s… complicated.”

“I figured,” you say gently. “He’s guarded. But sweet. In his own way. The other day, he offered to sharpen all the pencils for me before math. Said my current ‘supply chain’ was inefficient.”

Jason nearly chokes.

You smile to yourself and reach for your laptop. “Anyway, I just want to make sure I’m supporting him the right way. Kids his age need a lot of encouragement at home. Routines. Structure. Praise. Someone to ask about his day.”

Jason doesn't answer.

Because he’s suddenly thinking about the manor. The rotating cast of trauma survivors. The dinners eaten in silence. The doors always shut.

You notice his silence and wince. “Sorry. I might be overstepping.”

“No,” he says. “You’re not. It’s just…” You’re saying things no one’s ever said about him. Or to him. Or to Damian.

“…Complicated.”

You nod, gentle. “Most things are.”

Then your whole face lights up. “Oh! Before you go, you need to download the Classroom Update app!”

Jason blinks. “The what now.”

You’re already typing something on your screen. “It’s adorable. Totally free. You’ll get photos, homework reminders, behavior notes, all of that.” You tilt the screen toward him. “It’s called GuppyBoard! Each class is a pod of fish!”

Jason squints. Sure enough, a cartoon pufferfish with a graduation cap bobs on the loading page. 

“Oh my god,” he mutters.

You grin. “Here. I’ll wait while you download it. Nobody from Damian’s household signed up, and honestly? It kind of broke my heart.”

Jason exhales. Opens the App Store. Taps “Get.”

The app opens with sparkles and a steel-drum jingle. A banner floats across the screen: “Welcome to the pod, grown-up guppy!”

Jason makes a face.

You laugh. “Now pick your avatar!”

He scrolls past smiling jellyfish, business casual sea turtles, and a dolphin in a hoodie. Eventually settles on a grim looking shark with a bowtie.

“That one,” he says.

You beam. “Great choice. Mr. Shark means business.”

“Damn right he does.”

You hand him a sticky note with the class code written in bubble letters. “Welcome to Fourth Grade,” you say. “We’re lucky to have you.”

Jason joins the class. The app plays a trumpet fanfare. His shark does a little spin.

You grin like the sun. “There we go! I’m really glad you joined.”

Jason looks up. You’re still smiling at him. Not politely, but genuinely. That bright, proud kind of smile like he just accomplished something important. Like signing up for a classroom app actually meant something to someone.

“You’d be surprised how many don’t,” you add, softer now. “It’s been hard, getting parents to engage. Private school comes with a lot of… busyness.” You wince a little, like you’re trying to be diplomatic. “A lot of nannies and driver pickups. It’s rare I get to talk to anyone face-to-face.”

Jason frowns. “That sucks.”

You huff a laugh. “It’s just Gotham Prep. I knew what I was signing up for.” Then, glancing toward the door: “But Damian’s really special. I’m glad someone came in for him.”

Jason blinks. You’ve already turned back to your laptop, typing in the new name on the roster: Jason T. (Shark, Damian)

His ears feel warm.

Before he can say anything else, the bell rings.

You startle slightly, then leap to your feet like you’ve done this a thousand times. “Okay! That’s our warning. Twenty-three tiny hurricanes inbound.”

Jason backs toward the door, hands up in mock surrender. “I’m going.”

He steps into the hallway just as the first wave of kids turns the corner with shiny shoes and messy backpacks and way too much volume for 12:40 p.m.

Jason keeps walking.

What the hell did I just sign up for.

A classroom app. Behavior updates. A fish-themed newsletter. Probably getting mauled by Damian.

But then he remembers the way your face lit up when he picked the shark. How proud you were of Damian’s falcon drawing. How serious you looked when you said he needed someone to ask about his day.

Jason sighs. He’s never seen his little gremlin brother the way you described him. Not really.

Fine. Whatever. Mr. Shark’s in.

[krowkakker]

“今天有点可爱 嘛?” he says lowly, subtly smirking.

you look up at Lin Lie, sat across from you, hanging out after class.

“What?” Your brows raised, looking up to him from your phone.

“Oh, nothing.” He replies as he grin.

“Okay..” you squint your eyes in suspicion but shrug it off a second after.

Jīntiān yǒudiǎn kě'ài ma?

Looking cute today, aren’t ya?

[dissolved-g1rl]

⋆˚｡⋆ ౨ৎ mark’s annoying ౨ৎ⋆˚｡⋆

“mhm” You murmur sleepily, you feel Marks mouth slot against yours, a perfect fit really. The feeling of soft kisses against your skin is what lulls you out of your siesta. “Mark, cut it out.” You grumble, palms splaying out against his toned chest lightly pushing. “One more.” he says softly, pressing a lingering kiss against your cheek. Hes been off planet for a while, what can he say? He missed you, more than he thought he would.

You turn on your side, hoping that maybe you can drift off to sleep again, the “welcome home” had been particularly tiring. He drags you closer by your waist, pressing his chest against your back, gently brushing your hair out of the way so he can kiss your neck. Lightly scraping his teeth against your skin till you get chills and eventually grumble again. He pulls his your shirt to the side to rub the skin of your shoulder. He just wants to touch you, kiss you, smell you, love you.

“You smell like me.” He grumbles, wrapping his arms around your middle, sliding his hands under your shirt to run his fingers over the waistband of your panties. “You’re an idiot.” You murmur back, sighing softly. Of course you smell like him, wearing his clothes, and sleeping in his bed. “Don’t be mean.” He says and you can feel him smiling against your neck, his hands snake up to your boobs, giving them a squeeze. “Mark!” You groan again, and he just giggles.

credit to @adornedwithlight for banners

[ghostapop]

i feel like a lot of fandoms pride themselves on being gayer than the source material but have they considered being less racist and less misogynistic than the source material as well . could be revolutionary

[milesick]

easy lovers. . .

pairing: dick grayson x fem!reader

summary: falling in love with each other was easy—a little too easy. after a series of dates and getting to know the other better, it was only a matter of time, right? no longer able to hold it in, dick finds himself desperate and decides that tonight will not end until he gets to walk home with a kiss, from you.

notes: 4.1k words…. fluff!! with a side of nasty kissing, dick is absolutely fed up and DESPERATE, reader has never had a boyfriend before so dick is the very first guy you’ve ever been with. so many feelings and love and yearning you guys are so obsessed with each other its genuinely DISGUSTING. but dick is like way worse because at least half of this is him yearning for you,,,, also a lot of making out...dick literally eats ur face. all the dialogue is later in gomenasorry. written with black reader in mind >0<

Dick Grayson was on a mission. Tonight’s date, he decided, was going to be extra special than usual. Why, you ask? Because tonight, he was going to secure his kiss from you—poor, unsuspecting, you.

Tonight marked the 8th date you guys have gone on ever since your first meeting at a late-night convenience store around the corner of his apartment, where the once peaceful environment was interrupted by a measly burglar waving his gun around with arrogance and the demand of money.

It was the one night when Dick wasn’t in costume and was nursing a severely bruised body from a villain he had encountered two days earlier. The situation irritated him even more than he already was—Bruce was still chewing his ass out over a case that he was working on; he still needed to go to work with his bruised body because he can’t exactly let them know what violent activities he’s up to at night and his injuries—now this.

So it’s an understatement when saying the burglar was dealt with easily and quickly, as Dick was able to disarm him before the man could even take another step towards another innocent customer—someone Dick learned later was you.

The anticlimactic moment ended with the man scrambling out of the store with much less confidence than before, the store clerk shakily thanking Dick with the promise of free items of his choice tonight and the next time he comes in. Accepting the gratitude, Dick was ready to go home with the multitude of free items in his grocery bag--until he spotted you.

Standing near the entrance, dressed in sweatpants about twice your actual size with a hoodie you were equally drowned in, Dick found you absolutely radiant. He wasn’t someone who believed in love at first sight beforehand, but now? Certainly, this is what it means.

It took him a few seconds of silence and staring at you with an open mouth, like a goldfish for him to realize that you were speaking to him, and just like the store clerk. you were thanking him profusely for saving you from the gun that was previously pointed to you. Dick can't remember what happened after that. But he does remember walking out of the store a happy man, your phone number having found its way into his phone.

Back in the present, Dick knew that maybe 8 dates was a little too much to come to this decision; after all, for him it was only on date number 2 that he knew he wanted you, badly. But he knew he had to be patient, especially after you revealed that you’ve never been in a relationship—or on a date at all. It was for this reason that he decided to take things slow and wait for a sign that you wanted him too.

By now, he’s reached his limit.

Every other date you’ve had prior to this had been more casual: going out for coffee, the arcade, movie nights at his place (more often yours because he absolutely adores your cat, mocha), grocery shopping together, and going for a stroll in Melville Park to walk Haley, his adorable pitbull you fell in love with.

Tonight, Dick took you to a nice restaurant with tables reserved on its rooftop. He knew you weren’t someone who frequented fancy restaurants too often, so he found a solid one just in between fancy and casual.

Dinner was going well, and you were absolutely perfect. He’d told you beforehand to come wearing a blue outfit, and the dress you wore had surpassed his expectations so much that he considered dropping down on one knee right then and there before ever asking you to be his girlfriend, if it wasnt apparent just how much it affected him seeing that colour on you with his lovesick gaze the entire night.

The dress you’re wearing is dark blue silk, the kind of colour that shifts like midnight water under the lighting of the restaurant's stringed lights. It drapes across your frame in a way that seems deliberate, highlighting your curves, and Dick feels his mouth dry at how it complements your brown skin—like the colour was meant to be worn by you, and you alone.

The glow of your upper body lets him know of the shea butter you’d rubbed on yourself, your legs that slip through the slit sharing the same glow.

The matching gold jewelry you wear and the updo you’ve done with your curls make him fight demons he never even knew he had, wanting to jump over the table to show you how much he loves you.

It truly doesn’t help how much he’s reminded of his Nightwing costume every time he looks at you.

He finds himself murmuring more compliments than usual because he can’t contain how much it moves him. The blue that once belonged only to his suit now belongs to you too, and he adores it—adores you—in a way he can’t keep from showing.

Dick finds himself craving dessert earlier than usual.

But he knows he has to act accordingly; he can’t afford to scare you away. So he does what he’s best at and eyes you with a disgustingly lovesick, yearning look as if he’s some schoolboy with his very first crush for the entire night as you guys chat over dinner.

He pays even closer attention to you than ever (if that’s even possible), maintaining intense eye contact with every word delivered in the air, squeezing your manicured hand (that has the nails he paid for) while you excitedly share the plot of the most recent book you read last weekend, and feeding you some of the food he’s ordered (you protested against stealing his food, but he insisted, claiming, “It’s my duty to feed you.” how do you even respond to that?).

Overall, dinner was perfect. He thinks this is the best date you guys have been on so far, as after dinner he surprises you with tickets to the movie he remembers you wanted to see when it came out.

What a coincidence that today happens to be its release date, and the happy squeal it pulled from you once he revealed the surprise made the rest of his year, he thinks. It’s something he could listen to on repeat for hours and never get sick of.

As the night got darker and you got tired, Dick knew it was time to take you home. As much as he’d love for this night to continue, he doesn’t want to keep you up later than you’re used to.

It brings you both to his car, pulling up into the neighbourhood of your apartment complex, the car filled with a comfortable silence as you gaze out to the passing buildings. His jacket covers your previously bare shoulders during the car ride after he’d noticed the goosebumps rising on your skin (he wouldn’t quit sulking at the fact that you didn’t tell him anything about you being cold and forced you inside his jacket desite your protests).

Parked in front of your building, you unbuckled your seatbelt and grabbed your purse, ready to thank him for tonight once again and wish him a goodnight—before you were surprised with him unbuckling himself and turning off the engine. He paused his actions when he spotted your questioning stare.

“What? You thought I was gonna let you walk up there alone? Absolutely not,” Dick huffed, quickly circling around the car to open your door and making space for you as you stepped out. “What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t walk you to your door? I need to make sure you make it inside safely, you know.”

Normally you would’ve been your own ride home (he’s never liked it but agreed if it made you happy), but Dick insisted that he’s the one who drives you home this time.

Dick walks you into your building, already knowing his way around from past visits, and unlocks the lobby’s door with his own copy of your keys, then leads you further into the elevators with a hand on your back that’s still covered by his jacket.

It’s almost pathetic how during the entire elevator ride, the two of you are stealing glances at each other—oblivious of the other person’s nervous shifting. Dick knows that it’s tonight that he gets that kiss from you.

At last, when having reached your door, it’s as though the once simmering tension has announced its presence, and settles in the air between the two of you. As you turn to face him with your back to your door, he gives you a soft smile that lets butterflies rise in your stomach, the warm orange lighting that complements his tanned skin doing nothing to help.

If anything, it makes whatever you’re feeling worse, and you don’t know if you can keep acting oblivious to your true feelings.

“I had a really great time,” his voice snaps you out of your thoughts, your full attention back on him, “And I really loved our conversations tonight. I'd love to do something like this again, with you.” His tone at the end has a hopeful implication. He hopes he doesn’t come off as too desperate, but part of him can’t get himself to care.

He thinks now would be the perfect time for that kiss, but he doesn’t want to pressure you. Dick knows it would kill him to ruin what you guys have, and this might be the most nervous he’s ever been in his entire life.

“Yeah?” You ask with a hint of shyness, holding your hands behind your back. “Thank you, Dick. I had a really great time with you tonight, too. The movie made me really happy and...I’m glad you remembered that small detail.”

Dick feels his heart practically melting at the sound of your voice. Your obvious nervousness only boosts his confidence in what he plans on doing, and he can’t get over how much he loves your voice. You’re so adorable. He thinks to himself.

His next smile is a lot more dorky, cheeks warm with his dimples coming out to reveal themselves. It’s your favourite feature on him, right after his blue, blue eyes, you think. You both feel like high schoolers again with a pathetic crush. “Nothing you tell me is ever small.”

He’s taken aback by how fond he let that come out of his mouth, but he decides it’s worth it when your eyes avert down to your feet—flustered. It’s his favourite look on you.

But he knows just like this isn’t enough. This thought leads him to slowly reach for your arms behind your back, gently uncrossing them while his hands trail down to hold your own. He searches your eyes for any discomfort before intertwining them, when having found none, his calloused palms swallow your smaller, softer ones. The contrast does nothing but make his heart beat faster.

It’s when you look up at him with wide, glimmering dark eyes filled with hope and a drop of insecurity that it clicks—you are the woman he wishes to share his life with.

You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t have a crush on him. It was impossible not to, with his easygoing grin that you’ve observed goes toe to toe with the sun itself. With each action done with careful consideration of you, with each compliment given, with each laugh he’s pulled out of you, with each dinner cooked together, with each night spent on his fire escape with shoulders touching– each day learning about what makes you, you.

It was too easy falling in love with Dick Grayson.

And that scared you.

Similarly to Dick, it was around the third date that you knew you wanted something blooming between you.

Love. What a strange concept for a girl who’s never fallen in love.

You find that the only reason why you hadn’t initiated anything further with him is because you’re unsure if this is how the process goes. Along with the slight insecurity of slipping up if you did, with Dick having more experience than you did. Soon those worries disappeared, because Dick had done nothing but soothe them.

Every moment where you felt as though you needed to initiate anything physical beyond what you were used to, he noticed, and every anxious thought was blown away with a simple reassuring smile.

He never said more than a quiet, “It’s okay,” because to him it was always about your comfort before anything.

He’s never made you feel forced to do anything, content to lead you through each encounter until you found the moment you were ready.

You realize as soon as he holds your hands in his—he’s the one for you.

Dick chuckles softly at the look in your eye and squeezes your hands gently. His blue eyes, nearly swallowed up by his dilated pupils, are fixed on yours, studying your reaction with an intensity that makes you want to squirm. He can feel how warm your skin is and his heart feels like it could pop out of his chest.

With a deep breath, Dick takes another step closer, now only inches apart. He lifts a hand to lift your chin ever-so-slightly, making you tilt your head up to meet his gaze. Dark eyes meet blue.

You swallow thickly as your eyes remain locked on each other, feeling his other hand move down to your waist. His expression is so vulnerable and raw as he looks down at you, and you think you might throw up from nerves alone. Your eyes water as these thoughts circle through your mind.

It doesn’t take detective skills to read you like a book. He can tell what you’re thinking. He knows the reason you’re unsure as you begin shaking in his arms. His thumb traces slow circles against your jaw, coaxing you to relax. He hopes you can’t hear how fast his heart is beating, how he’s memorizing the sound of your soft breaths.

The two of you are the only ones in the hallway at the risk of being seen by neighbours, but neither of you can find it in you to care.

"You okay?" He murmurs softly, searching your face with those impossibly blue eyes. There's no teasing now–just genuine care and something achingly tender beneath it all. "I can... we can stop if—"

(But the way he lingers shows he really doesn’t want to stop.)

"No!" you interject louder than intended to, freezing when you realized ust how loud that came out. A surprised laugh bubbles out of him at your sudden outburst, the sound warm and so fond. That adorable reaction just makes him squeeze you a tiny bit closer.

"N—no, I... this is okay. I'm okay." You finish softly, heart aching for more. You’re incredibly greedy when it comes to his touch, and you don’t feel a drop of shame for it.

"Good," he murmurs, leaning in until his forehead brushes yours—so close you can feel his breath against your lips. His free hand lifts to cradle your cheek now, thumb sweeping beneath your eye to catch that traitorous wetness before it falls.

"Because I really wanna kiss you right now," he admits in a whisper, grinning that stupid lopsided grin that makes your stomach flip. "But only if you really want me to."

Your heart almost stutters to a stop, and your gaze is consumed by nothing but want. Your pupils were almost as blown as his, and the way the wind blows, tussling at his wavy hair, drives you crazy. You melt against him as your foreheads touch, letting out a shaky breath.

It’s as you lose yourself in the pool of his impossibly blue eyes that you realize death doesn't scare you if it's by drowning in his eyes.

You lean into his warm palm, memorizing the sweet scent of his cologne. You give your answer in a hushed tone, as though sharing a secret that's to remain between the two of you alone. "I really wanna kiss you, too."

It sends a shiver down his spine. Holy smokes, he thinks to himself. You look like a dream.

The world seems to melt away as he gazes down at you with an intensity that is both gentle and smoldering. Dick can feel your breath on his lips, and it drives him insane.

"Damn," he mutters roughly, his voice suddenly raw with emotion, "you're going to be the death of me."

It's the only time he'll use the Lord's name in vain.

Just like that, he can't hold back any longer. The dam breaks, and he closes the last meager distance between the two of you, capturing your mouth in a deep, starved kiss.

A cut off gasp is swallowed by his lips, your eyes tightly shutting closed as your lips lock with his— and you feel alive. This is your very first kiss, and it's one you will never forget.

Dick’s arms circle your waist completely, pulling you flush against his body as his one hand slides up your spine until his fingers thread into your hair, tilting your head back as he kisses you with everything he has.

If it weren't for his arms holding you up, your knees would have buckled. He can feel how your body shakes with nerves and anticipation against his lips, and he can’t resist brushing his tongue over your bottom lip, groaning at the rewarding whimper he gets.

The smack of your lips is nasty; after each smack comes the sound of a deep groan which then triggers a breathy whine. Your blood is rushing to your head, and you think you might die. You’re suddenly immensely grateful for living on a nearly empty floor.

DIck groans low in his throat when he feels your grip tighten on his dress shirt, like you’re terrified he might pull away. As if he would ever want to. His tongue teases along your bottom lip again—asking without words.

His other hand drops from your chin to squeeze your hip possessively, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp against his mouth.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs between feverish kisses, voice wrecked already, "c'mon, open up for me."

That tone—half praise and half demand—sends a bolt of heat straight through you. Holy shit. You’re embarrassed at the mewl that escapes you at the pet name. Please call me that again, please, please—

It's almost instantaneous that you open your mouth, giving his tongue access. The pleased chuckle that escapes him makes your entire body flare up in warmth. It felt good, getting his approval.

Dick takes full advantage of your obedience, the kiss turning downright filthy as he explores your mouth, his tongue coaxing against yours in the most distracting way. He groans again, a hungry, guttural sound that reverberates through his chest. He has to have more of you.

"Dick—" you whine against his lips as the smacking of lips circles around the small, dark quiet hallway. You find out just how easy it is to forget your surroundings when Dick Grayson is all-consuming in your mind, and on your lips.

The sound of his name on your lips grows his greed, wanting to own every gasp and whine and whimper you make. When your tongue brushes against his, something ignites in him, some feral, possessive feeling that makes his skin burn. You're so cute; he feels like a starved animal.

He pulls away with a wet sound, breathing heavily against your lips and resting his forehead against yours. He can feel your heart racing. He presses one last desperate peck to your lips.

"God," he mumbles raggedly, "you're doing things to me, sweetheart."

"I d-didn't do anything," you pant quietly, catching your breath as a string of drool remains between the two of you—your eyes half-lidded.

Dick stares at your face, taking in your flushed cheeks, the way you pant, and that adorable little strand of drool—God, he is so obsessed with you it isn't even funny.

His hands roam your body, one still gripping your hip and the other sliding up to cup your cheek, his calloused thumb tracing your kiss-swollen bottom lip, wiping away the wetness. You resist the urge to take his thumb in your mouth where it sits against your lip.

"Baby, look at you," he murmurs, gaze darkening as he looks down at you. "I could eat you alive right now." His comment makes you squawk. "Please don't," you sigh weakly, a protesting frown on your lips.

"I won't," he murmurs between nips and pecks along your jaw, "not unless you ask very nicely." He punctuates it with a slow drag of his teeth against your pulse point before pulling away just enough to see the reaction on your face.

His fingers tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear as his expression softens into something warmer—something more like home. "But I should probably get going before I actually do something reckless."

Oh. Yeah.

"You should..." You realize sadly that as much as you wanted to stay out longer with him, you couldn't risk getting in trouble with your roommate. "I wish you didn't have to," you murmur sadly, looking down at your heels.

His face falls for a second, reading the disappointment in your tone instantly. Dick pulls you back into a tight hug, pressing his lips to the top of your head before sighing dramatically.

"Ugh, don't look at me like that," he whines, squeezing you lightly as he rests his chin on your head. "You're gonna make me stay. And then I'll have to explain to your roommate why I'm camped out on your doorstep like some lovesick stray."

You couldn’t resist the giggle at his comment, equally wrapping your arms around him. You’re overwhelmed and also not whelmed (heh, yj ref) enough by his scent. “I would've let you stay the night like usual, but she just came back from vacation. Sorry, Dick.”

He only sulks above you, letting out one last dramatic sigh. He’s as dramatic as ever. “It’d be easier if I could just bring you back to mine,” Dick huffs enviously. “If only life were so easy.”

“You talk like I won’t just see you soon, silly. I promised Haley treats.”

“So you only like me for my dog?”

“Crap, you caught me...” you grin, unbothered

He lets out an undignified squawk, your laughther following up with the dramatics.

“To be fair, she’s super adorable. I can’t resist her eyes; she’s just a baby!”

“I’ll have you know, I was the one who trained her. Her cuteness is a direct reflection of me.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Fine, fine. Maybe I like you a little too.

Dick beams instantly, smug as ever. “I knew it.”

He pulls back just enough to cup your face again—and this time, there's no joking in those stupidly blue eyes. Just something painfully sincere.

"But I’ll see you soon? Like… really soon?" His thumb traces the apple of your cheek hopefully.

You nod eagerly, returning his hopeful smile with a tender one of your own. “Yeah...I’d like that.” You confess quietly, holding his hand against your cheek.

His smile brightens immediately, boyish and so unfairly charming. You hate him. "Good," he murmurs, pressing one last lingering kiss to your forehead before finally—reluctantly—stepping back.

Dick walks backwards to the elevator like an idiot, unable to tear his eyes away from you. "And hey," he adds with a grin that promises trouble, fingers tapping against his chest where his heart is still racing. "You did this to me."

You can’t resist a laugh at his antics, pulling out your keys from your purse as he gets closer to the elevator. You grin like a lovesick teenager—you both do. “I sure did, Golden Boy. Call me when you get home?”

“Always,” he promises, taking a moment to admire your glowing figure under the warm lighting. He stuffs his hands in his pockets to keep himself from walking back over and hauling you into his arms again.

It’s when you unlock your door and give him one last smile that he dramatically blows you a kiss, his heart warming even further when you playfully catch it.

Dick’s grin softens one last time, pausing as the elevator doors open. “Goodnight, baby.” He tells you. You parrot after him. “Goodnight, Dickie.” Only you know how much that nickname makes his heart flutter.

And then—just like that—you disappear into your apartment.

(you only realize minutes later thanks to your roommate that you completely forgot to hand back his jacket. when mentioning this to dick he only laughs and tells you to keep it as a souvenir.)

dont forgot to like & reblog! thank you for reading. <3

@chifuyukisser @sweets3rial @belongstomel

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someone PLEASE inform tumblr users that “poc” doesn’t automatically mean “black”

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how fast i click off those girldad headcanons when they start having freudian undertones

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i miss lin lie 💔💔💔