• your weird heteroerotic friendship with dick grayson.
❤︎──── ❛❛you'd known dick since you two were just preteens and by the time you were twenty-something, the two of you had become inseparable in so many ways that made people around you very, very uncomfortable. your room was his room. your closet had his shirts and boxers. his dresser had your sleep shorts and panties. you'd see him naked constantly. scars and all. you'd stepped into his bathroom once while he was shaving, towel slung low on his hips. his abs were still slick from the hot shower. on the bathroom shelf, you noticed your sanitary pads, some of your favorite painkillers, and even products from the skincare routine you both shared.
you made a noise of disapproval and reached over to fix the way he was holding the razor.
"you're gonna nick yourself, pretty boy."
"then fix it, dove."
so you did. you reached up, cupped his jaw, and carefully guided the blade against his skin, the intimacy of it heavy in the steam-clouded mirror. he kept his eyes on you the entire time, those soft, pretty blues watching you with quiet trust.
"thanks. you always take care of me."
"of course i do," you whispered, brushing your thumb along his cheek. "you're fucking useless without me."
you said it with a teasing smile, like he hadn't been leading teams and saving lives since he was thirteen. he smiled anyway. but your closeness didn't stop at helping him shave. you'd eaten from the same fork, shared water bottles, gum, deodorant—even a toothbrush. you literally farted on him once when he tickled you too hard during a sparring session. you'd seen him throw up more times than you cared to.
and it gets weirder.
one time, during a particularly rough mission, you lost all your clothes. literally everything, including your underwear. so you borrowed his. every last piece. shirt, pants, even his boxers. you walked around the block wearing fabric that had been in direct contact with his dick and sweaty balls, and you didn't even blink. yikes, girl.
and when people asked what you were to each other, you'd both laugh. loud. like the question was fucking ridiculous. you were best friends. duh. but then he'd hand-feed you fries across the table while hanging out with your mutual friends. you'd adjust his waistband before going out and he wouldn't even flinch when your fingers brushed too low. he'd adjust the strap of your bra in public, and people would act like it was some kind of spectacle. for some reason.
one time, after a shower in the batcave locker room, you walked out drying your hair. dick was there too, getting dressed after some random training session. and he looked. really looked. right at your uncovered boobs. then, completely unfazed, he just went back to putting on his pants and belt.
"you know your left titty is bigger than the other, right?"
"it's not like your balls are very symmetrical either."
in which jason is left with nothing but a box filled with all the things you returned to him ! fluff, angst and comfort
word count ⭒ dunno, guys, short and sad comeback bc i feel sad and lowkey think this sucks but i really wanna write again ):
tw ⭒ none, just don't hate me bc i really don't know where did this came out from (i know but shhh)
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𔓕 ۪ ۫ ୭
it's weird how this box feels so heavy but it's nothing compared to the big things jason always lifts when working out, maybe he's too tired from the multiple nights of patrolling until the sunrise, from the constant beatings and wounds he got at the end of his shift and the non-stop work he did at daylight when he had to investigate or do his reports from last night. yeah, it must be that and not the fact that he carries every little gift he's gotten you in three years of a nice relationship on a box.
books, sweaters, plushies, little jewerly boxes and even the stupid green lantern pajamas pants you loved, suddenly his hate towards green rises on him again and reminds him of the pit and of hell, he hates it but not because it's a bad color but instead because it was your favourite and every damn thing on that box was green.
he remembers it clearly, the day he met you back on a small and old book shop. he was reaching for a pretty big edition of "the perfume” as he had read it was a good book and he wanted a small change from the feelings his re-reads of a few jane austen books had left on him. his hand runs gently over the spine of a line of books until he's able to read the tittle he was looking for and just as he gripped his fingers on the book he heard a soft pant “please, tell me that’s not the only one.”
turning around, he’s met by a pair of pretty, wide and disappointed eyes, long eyelashes hidden behind golden framed glasses and it feels like the air is being kicked out of his lungs because is it really like those cliché tropes of books and novels? but fuck it if he isn’t a sucker for that idea. it’s not like he hadn’t liked someone before but jason had never been one to believe love at first sight was a thing.
“i’m sorry, i actually think it’s the only one…” he muses and seeing the sadness in your face makes his mind scream, damn he really wanted to read that book, “but… you can have it, it’s not the last copy of the book, isn’t it?” now he tries to break the ice, offering you a small smile as he picks the book, handing it to you.
it’s worth it, even if he has to walk to another book shop to see if there was another edition, that glint of your eyes melted his heart and his defenses like he was a little boy once again.
“have you read it before?” you ask and as soon as jason shakes his head you’re fumbling with your bag, hands roaming around until you grasp a worn out copy, soft back with yellowed-pages, clutching it to your chest before handing it to him, “this was my first copy, i’ve read it a million times but i think that’s obvious…” now you’re looking a little too self-aware of how worn out your book is and yeah, it makes jason melt further inside.
“i think it’s clear you’ve read it a lot…” he says with a soft chuckle but it lacks any malice, if anything, the tall and intimidating guy in front of you looks like he’s seeing a cute puppy in front of him “but that means it’s worth reading it, isn’t it?”
now you’re the one wondering if the strangers to lovers trope is real. a man who reads, as stunning as the one standing right in front of you and that seems to be just as excited as you about a damn book. “you can have mine, it’s a fair exchange…” you hear your voice and it’s a bit of a surprise because you would never gift a book you so adore to a stranger but he doesn’t feel like a random stranger all of the sudden, “i’ve made notes on it, pasted a ton of post-its, maybe it’s too worn out-”
“i think there would never be a better option to read it for the first time.” when he cuts you off you’re not even mad, jason looks at the book you hold so dearly into your arms, like it was your most special belonging.
he tilts his head ever so slightly when instead of offering him the book, you’re once again fumbling with your bag and he’s about to ask you what’s going on before you produce a pen, wide smile on your lips and turn to use one of the shelves as a support.
“what’s your name?” you ask, excited while flipping the book open, eyes fixed on his while he’s still holding the hard cover edition.
“jason,” he barely mumbles, taken aback when you start writing something down.
as soon as you’re done you finally hand him the book, closed. he has no idea what you’ve written down and his curiosity is getting the best of him “don’t read it yet, i’ll die of embarrassment if you did… just, wait until you’re home, please.” and the faint flush of your cheeks is so adorable jason accepts.
“fine, i’ll read it at home but, you gotta let me pay for this because it wouldn’t be fair if i got your book as a gift and you had to pay for the one i almost snatched from you,” he offers and he does notices the effort you make to say no and decline his offering but it’s late.
long and decided strides have jason in front of the cashier before you can tell him not to worry, he pays and moves a bit further in the counter, asking the guy behind it for a pen and turning then to look at you “can i know your name?”
and as soon as you speak he repeats it in his mind at least ten times as he writes down a note too, not wanting to forget your name or your face because it had to be destiny that brought you both together over a book about a murderer.
“there, all yours to read as well at home,” he points out, a small and gentle smile on his face as he hands you the bag with your now new book.
he remembers it so well, how you’d written on that first page “this is for the sweet guy at the bookshop, i hope i made your first read as special as mine was. i hope i get to see you again soon, jason.” and how roy had to deal with his teenage-crush-like moment because only he knows how annoying he was as soon as he found out you had also written your number at the very last page of the story.
back at his safe house, he leaves the box on the coffee table. open and still full. he sits on the living room in complete silence, his gaze lost in the book shelf where he proudly displayed the first book you gave him. the same you had used to call him “the sweet guy” and he doesn’t find his will to throw it away or at least hide it.
it’s almost automatical when he reaches for the box, fingers grasping your copy and he opens it, tears prickling at his eyes as he reads his own handwriting “people who gift books are somehow special, but i’ve never met someone quite as yourself. i’m wishing this book brings us to meet again once i’ve finished it, andrea.”
it’s hard to think because after the pit jason thought there was no way on god’s earth he would ever be looked at with anything other than fear or regret but that day you looked at him with those pretty eyes of yours and it was like he was finally living again, something different from the pain and grief his days were since he came back. he found some hope, peace and a home, because you were home for him.
the one person he needed to live, the one person that he could rely on when he was fine and when he was about to break down. he clutched that book to his chest as if that could bring you back, the quiet sobbing had his shoulders shaking because how was he supposed to go on without the only thing that brought a little light to his existence?
꩜ You never meant to call him—you had stood your ground to him. Shown him that you meant the distance you had forced upon the two of you. You couldn’t keep crawling back to him, opening your door to see him half dead night after night.
It wasn’t him making the call tonight.
The only sound he could hear from the your side of the line was quiet muffled sobs and the name of some bar uptown. Before he knew it, he was about to start speeding on the highway just to make sure you were okay. That even though you insisted you didn’t need him—that you didn’t need his help he could still be there when you wanted him there.
In a drunken haze, the only smart thought you had pop into your brain was to call him. ‘Call Jason.’ was the one thought that wasn’t run into the Gotham streets under the night sky alone at twelve o clock in the morning. You couldn’t explain it to him—that brewing bad feeling from the men your friends were all over at the bar. The drinking and the private rooms in the back. Everything felt like you needed help—his help. As if the air in the room found its grip around your neck and you desperately needed someone to help you fight your way out of it.
—————
Your body slumped in his arms as he carried you bridal style into the darkness of your apartment. Curtains still wide open from when you left, dishes in the counter and shoes sprawled out in front of your welcome doormat inside. His hand held your head on his neck after he slid the key back into his pocket—your grumbles stifled against the collar of his jacket. He finally let you down, lightly laying your head against one of your couch’s throw pillows.
“Are you going to tell me what happened tonight?” He sat down on the free edge of your couch—the cushions dipping under his weight. Fingers slipped onto your ankle, undoing the straps of your heels and placing them down on the hardwood flooring. The heels that you always complained about, black leather ones with a high heel that you had pranced around the living room with. Jason always ended up carrying them in his hand by the time the two of you got home, watching you skip freely in your apartment hallway without them.
His shoes were next, you always hated him dragging his boots onto your flooring when he lived here. You missed the sound of his feet walking through your doorway.
You missed him getting home.
“Just asshole men,“ Your head turned into the pillow, head spinning away from him so you wouldn’t have to face him—face the fact that he was back where he was a year ago. “You know how it goes.” You words slurred slightly at the end of each sentence, a smile rising on your face as your legs sprawled out next to him. Too much was going through your head to not enjoy the feeling of him being back again.
Being back home.
Your eyes began to shut, lashes slowly brushing against each other as indistinct words falling out of Jason’s mouth hummed in the background. You felt his arm raise your head up—your whole body cradled into his once again. “mmm..” your lashed batted up at him, a quiet plea for him to let you sleep. “You always told me that you break out if you fall asleep with makeup on” He ended up placing you on the bathroom counter, bare thighs atop of the freezing marble countertop. “I don’t want to give you something else to not forgive me for.”
Usually, you could never sleep with him around. Well he could never sleep so you didn’t either. Nights of endless movies that he had never seen as a child led to clammy bodies atop one another, legs intertwined as he felt your chest rise and fall on top of him. You were in his arms, alive. You were safe right there with him. He had felt you all around his body—your nails lightly running over his scars, through his hair, and tracing the small freckles that were speckled all over his body.
Tonight, you were his again.
Safe in his arms once again. You never understood why he was so insistent on helping—even if you didn’t need it. Why did he feel as if he needed to be there at every waking moment, watching over you? His hands wiped over your face with a cotton round, your body swaying side to side before he held your head in place.
“I feel so stupid, Jay” His hand moved to grab a wet face towel, lightly rubbing it against your eyes as your mascara smudged. “You’re not supposed to be here. I don’t want you to think i’m weak-“
“I never thought you were weak,” the towel dropped into the sink, his hand finally releasing its grip from your face. “You could do anything yourself, I just wanted to be here to help..” his voice trailed off for a moment, he didn’t know how to make it sound better. To justify why he needed to be there—to be there in moments like these. He knew his set of… skills was a lot.
“I’m sorry.”
Jason was drowning in an emotion you couldn’t pin in your brain’s daze. His jaw seemed to lock as he stared down into the flooring tile—his eyes were softer than before, like the small moments of him taking off your heels again or feeling the warmth of your cheeks for as long as he could.
—————
Jason pulled up the comforter of your bed, resting it over your arms as he patted it down. He moved your hair out of your eyes for when you woke up—neck craning down to peck a small kiss on your forehead. He never knew when the last time he was going to kiss you would be. To show you that he loved you—that he could still be there when you needed him. His socks slid over your flooring, the lighting waning away as he began to shut the door.
Your voice traveled through the darkness, every muscle in his body freezing in place.
“Jay?” He heard the rustling of your blankets, the tossing and turning as you glanced for him around the room. Your eyes finally caught him at your doorway–the light framing him perfectly, shining around him as if he had an unearthly glow. Like the ghost of the man who was once walking into your bedroom from a mission, missing dinner but always coming in on a white horse and magically making up for every missed moment. Every missed birthday, anniversary, and family dinner.
You would rather him be late than never there—never there to insist on helping or open the door for you. He was home again, and you couldn’t let him go.
“Stay, please.”
—————
taglist: ( i finally did it !!! lmk if you wanna be added ♡ ) @amiratheangel
author's note: i was going to write "Please, stay." for the last line but it sounded too much like that one Benson Boone song and i wont do that to yall. if you read this far, i hope you liked it !! thanks for reading xoxo
DUDE IT’S YOU 😧😧😧😧😧 HI HELLO HEY???? i still have him in mind, oh my beloved mentor johnny i miss him dearly, maybe i’ll lay down later and write something bc i miss it here so feel free to request, i need to let a lot of shit out.