dick grayson x gn reader
(ft. bruce wayne)
fluff
contains: mentions of reader's parents having marital problems
wc: ~2k
⟣ desc: a friendship formed between you and robin thanks to batman's candy pouch. ⟢
"uh...batman?"
"what, robin?"
dick grayson points to a few buildings over.
"why is there a kid on that roof?"
indeed, you're sitting on the edge of the apartment rooftop, legs stuck out between the railing and dangling over the side. your sweater doesn't do much against the cold, the night air nips at your cheeks until they sting.
as much as you'd rather be curled up in bed beneath your blankets, drifting off to sleep, the rooftop is quieter. gotham looks different from up here. the people on the sidewalks look like tiny ants and the bright yellow taxis resemble the ones lined on the toy stores shelves. in the distance, the neon glow of the wayne enterprises sign cuts through the darkness like a beacon.
"what are you doing here?"
the deep voice nearly makes you jump out of your skin. you spin around to heavy boots, a black cape, and a flash of green, red, and yellow.
"batman...!" you gasp.
"and robin," dick murmurs, though his voice is swept up by the wind.
batman folds his arms across his chest.
"it's late."
"i know..."
"you should be in bed."
"i know..."
"where it's safe."
behind him, robin rolls his eyes under his domino mask. he's had this exact conversation with bruce more times than he can count. admittedly, it's nice not being lectured for once.
"but..." you pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. "my parents are still fighting."
batman freezes and robin nervously glances at him. beneath the cowl, he can almost hear bruce thinking. dick looks back at you, your eyes have already drifted toward gotham's skyline again, another gust of wind prickles at your skin and flutters his cape. bruce paused patrol expecting to spend no more than a minute convincing this stubborn kid to head back inside. instead, he found a child in search of peace and quiet on the rooftop. his gaze flickers to your legs dangling precariously over the edge. that, however, is still a problem. wordlessly, batman reaches for one of the pouches on his utility belt. dick's eyes light up—that's the candy pouch.
"can i sit here?"
before you can answer, robin plops down beside you with the confidence of someone who clearly wasn't waiting for permission.
"you're already sitting," you deadpan.
"and you're too close to the edge," robin replies matter-of-factly. "dangerous."
"you backflip off buildings every night!"
"that's different!"
"you're, like, the same age as me!"
"do you want candy or not?"
two orange candies swirled with white rest in the palm of his hand. you stare at the candy, then back at him, then at the candy again. robin does little to fight the coy smile on his face. he knows the offer is tempting—bribing with candy almost always works, but some light pressure pushes it to foolproof.
"going once...!"
his smile grows wider. he can practically feel your resolve crumbling.
"going twice...!"
with a tiny huff, you scoot closer to him. robin beams like he's just closed the biggest sale of his life. out of the corner of his eye, he catches batman's almost imperceptible nod.
"i'm robin."
you carefully take the candy from his hand, fingers brushing against the fabric of his gloves.
"...i know."
~
soon, candy breaks on the rooftop become routine. when the arguments and accusations seep through the thin walls, you quietly slip out the door and take the stairs to the rooftop. not long after, robin appears with a grin and two pieces of candy, batman standing stoically in the shadows a few feet away. you're not sure if friend is the right word, but regardless, you've formed some sort of bond with robin. although you wonder who he is under the domino mask—and why he feels the need to dive off buildings—on the rooftop, he's not robin. he's just another kid who shares his candy with you.
~
"why is it always orange creamsicle?" you groan.
robin shrugs, already unwrapping his piece.
"dunno, it's what batman carries."
"why not strawberry or something?"
"oh, so you don't want candy anymore?"
"i never said that!"
~
"guess who i met yesterday!"
"wh—"
"superman!"
"you didn't even let me guess!"
~
"doesn't it look pretty from up here?"
you tilt your head.
"what does?"
robin gestures toward the skyline.
"gotham."
a small smile tugs at your lips.
"yeah, it kinda does."
~
one particular night, however, robin senses something is off. the moment he lands on the rooftop and bounds up to you with his usual offering, he knows. you take a second too long to accept the candy, you refuse to meet his eyes, and you're not smiling. by the time he settles beside you, his heart is thrumming in his chest.
"i have to tell you something."
he turns toward you.
"my parents are getting divorced," you confess. "my mom and i are moving next week."
"that's okay!" robin blurts. "we can always meet on a different rooftop."
"no, i mean...we're moving far away from gotham."
"oh."
suddenly, the taste of orange creamsicle on his tongue changes—it's different tonight, it's too sweet.
~
you pry your eyes away from the gotham skyline at the sound of grappling hooks and fluttering capes. robin bounds up to you, flashing a toothy grin. he's extra chatty today, long rambles filling the silence for both of you as you pop the candy into your mouth.
"are you all packed?"
"almost."
"do they have rooftops there?"
"probably."
"cool! that means you can still have candy up there!"
you don't answer right away. robin scratches the back of his neck.
"actually," he winces, "nevermind, that's kinda dangerous."
the conversation fizzles out, leaving only the distant hum of traffic below. gotham stretches endlessly before you, just as it always has. somehow, it already feels farther away.
"robin."
on the edge of the building, batman shifts his weight from one foot to the other, waiting for him to follow. time's up. your throat suddenly feels too tight. you blink a little harder than usual, the city lights blurring. robin stands, takes a few steps backwards, but he stops.
"...wait."
you watch him curiously while he awkwardly fishes around under his cape. he procures a small plastic bag filled to the brim with the familiar orange creamsicle candies tied neatly with a red bow.
"that's a lot of candy," you note.
but you're not looking at the bag. you're looking at robin.
"yeah, well...batman bought too much."
"thanks, batman!" you call to the shadows, gently taking the bag and clutching it close to your chest.
bruce furrows his brows. that's a lie—dick dragged him to the candy store to buy it with his own allowance.
"...what about you?" you ask.
"what do you mean?"
"who's going to eat candy with you on the rooftop now?"
dick opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. he didn’t consider that part, never let himself think that far. his face falters for a second.
"i'll figure something out."
he’s smiling, again, and you can do nothing except offer a weak one back.
~
aimlessly wandering the gotham streets under grey skies, a colorful storefront catches dick grayson's eye. without much thought, he ducks inside the candy shop. his eyes skim the fudge in the display case, the workers in striped aprons making new batches, and the small children tugging on their parents' sleeves. he walks past all of them, softly whistling to himself as he searches for the familiar orange candies. he circles the shop a few times before finding them tucked away in the corner.
"an old gotham classic," the man at the register declares when dick places two bags of it on the counter.
"yeah, loved these as a kid."
"they've been around for a while," the man continues, manually typing the price into the old machine. "we're switchin' em out for a different orange-flavored hard candy."
dick pauses. he hesitates to hand his card.
"like, discontinuing them?"
"yeah, this is our last batch. good thing you got some 'fore they're gone."
the plastic bag swings gently at his side as he waits for the crosswalk. a lot of things have changed—a cape no longer brushes at the back of his legs, alfred doesn't wait with cocoa after patrol anymore, and bruce... dick shoves the thought aside before the light changes. a few drops of rain land on his forehead. he pulls his hood up. he didn't account for the weather today.
hours later, nightwing makes his usual rounds. it's still drizzling and the autumn air seeps through the elastic of his suit, biting at his skin. he peers down into the dark alleys, inside dilapidated warehouses, the usual places he'd expect to find trouble. tonight, there's nothing. gotham seems quiet.
like clockwork, he finds himself perched on a rooftop three buildings over from a certain apartment building. he knows that little kid he used to share his candy with is grown up, probably halfway across the country, maybe farther. still, he finds himself here every night. he lands on the concrete and sits down by the railing, the same place he'd sit all those years ago. for a few minutes, dick takes in the tall buildings, the empty sidewalks below, the trees swaying in the wind. he glances at the singular piece of candy in his hand. it's strange...it feels too light. he lets it melt on his tongue, face scrunching at the taste. was it always this sweet? he wonders if strawberry would be any better. he stands, the taste of citrus and cream lingering as he swings to the next building.
~
the rooftop looks the same, but it feels different as you cross to the ledge. you're not small enough to stick your legs through the railing and dangle them over the edge. so instead, you stay standing, gripping the metal bars as you look out at the city you once called home. the few pedestrians on the street don't look like ants anymore, and the yellow taxis driving by are just cars to you. you remember the world seemed so much bigger up here, but presently, it's all still gotham.
"mind if i join you?"
you nearly give yourself whiplash from how fast you turn around. before you can reply, nightwing steps up beside you anyway, resting his forearms against the railing.
"you know," you comment, "most people wait for an answer."
"i've been told," he grins.
in the light, you can make out the electric blue symbol emblazoned on his chest that travels across his shoulders, down his arms and to his hands. a domino mask conceals the upper half of his face.
"first time back?"
"is it that obvious?"
"you keep lookin' around like you forgot where everything went," he chuckles.
"well," you point to a building off in the distance, "that wasn't there before." you point to the one next to it. "and that used to be an office building, not an apartment complex."
nightwing shrugs.
"gotham's been through a lot."
the conversation feels surprisingly natural even though you just met.
"college, huh? what're you studying?"
you tell him.
"sounds hard."
"it is," you sigh.
"you'll figure it out."
eventually, a comfortable silence settles between you. nightwing absentmindedly reaches for something—two orange candies swirled with white. he unwraps one. then, almost without thinking, he holds the other one out to you.
"i haven't had these in years!" you exclaim.
nightwing hums as you accept it, fingers brushing against the fabric of his suit.
"hope you don't mind it's not strawberry."
"orange creamsicle is fine, i used to have these all the time with..."
the words die on your tongue. it's all too familiar—orange creamsicle, rooftops, a boy in green, red, and yellow who always shared his candy with you.
you stare at the candy, then back at him, then at the candy again. he's already smiling.
"outgrew the cape?" you tease.
"it was getting in the way."
a/n: hope you enjoyed :) will be continuing the diner series soon, i was just sitting on this idea way longer lol
why is it always the 'woman's' job to minimize themselves when a man has big emotions. What if i WANTED to be disgusted. What if I feel violated. What if im offended.
But its always "think of his situation" "he just needs some sleep" "give it time"
summary: my personal miscellaneous hc's for the bat boys and their physical attributes (listed in height order) <3
note: possible cw's for body dysmorphia in jason's btw. A/N at the end <3
jason:
the tallest and bulkiest of the bunch. I see him as just a bit taller than 6'4, but not quite 6'5. he's probably 6'5 when he's wearing his big patrol boots though.
his height and muscle mass are all results of the lazarus pit. if he hadn't died and been thrown into the pit, he likely wouldn't have gotten any taller than 5'9. childhood malnutrition will do that to you.
he was ridiculously shredded when he first came out of the pit and was training with the league, mostly because he didn't have the diet or nutrition to keep up with his new mass. he looked shrink wrapped. his abs were always incredibly defined because of dehydration. once he starts taking better care of himself and starts actually eating enough calories to keep up with his size, he gets a nice layer of healthy fat over his torso. someone play big boy by SZA.
it took him a long time to learn how to feel comfortable in his new body after the pit, and but the body dysmorphia still creeps in every now and then. there are times when he still feels like a gangly, awkward 15 year old boy living in a grown bodybuilder's body. he ends up standing with a slouch most of the time until he gets more comfortable with his new stature. I will say that the first time jason realized he could look bruce directly in the eye without craning his neck like he needed to when he was younger, it gave him a panic attack so badly he wanted crawl out of his skin. he had a similar reaction when he realized how small his old robin suit used to be.
his hair was much curlier as a kid, but now as an adult it's more wavy. however, his hair does get significantly curlier when it's wet/humid/sweaty/etc. every time he takes his helmet off after patrol he needs to shake his hair out like a wet dog or else the helmet hair is out of control.
biceps and thighs the size of tree trunks. even if a shirt fits his torso with room to spare, the sleeves will still be tight around his biceps. for that reason, most of his workout shirts are either muscle tanks or just old shirts that he cut the sleeves off of.
his hands get very sweaty and clammy when he's nervous. he hates it because he thinks of it as one of his most obvious tells.
very prominent arm and hand veins. I don't see him as the type to wear a lot of jewelry, but he would look incredible with a few chunky signet rings.
I can see him with a maybe a couple cartilage piercings in his ears that he either did himself, lindsay lohan parent trap style, or he got them done in some sketchy 24 hour gotham piercing and tattoo shop.
speaking of tattoos, I don't think he'd realistically have any because any visible tattoos would make him too identifiable, but the idea of a tatted jason makes me bark like a rabid dog. jason with sleeves and hand tattoos... jason with back tattoos... jason with neck tattoos. I gotta stop myself here before I start foaming at the mouth.
bruce:
the second tallest and second bulkiest. just a hair shorter than jason at 6'3, but appears closer to 6'5 in the suit because of the reinforcements in the cowl and in his boots.
he has incredible posture. alfred wouldn't accept anything less from his young charge, but it was really cemented into him by the Tibetan monks. his posture makes him seem even taller than he actually is.
I imagine the wayne men as all being tall, but bruce had sporadic growth spurts between the ages of 14-19. by the time he started training with the league, he'd stopped growing in height, but continued to gain significant muscle mass throughout his training.
bruce's muscle is more dense and compact, where jason's is more visibly bulky. bruce has the kind of muscle that can be easily hidden if he's wearing a heavy coat or a suit jacket, but as soon as he sheds the extra layers of clothing, you can tell he's jacked.
Shoulders For Days. shoulders and broad chests are the defining feature of the wayne men. all of his suit jackets and coats have to be custom tailored to fit his shoulders without ripping through the seams. his traps and deltoids are crazy. a pull-up bar hates to see bruce wayne coming.
his hair doesn't have much wave to it, but a few loose strands will always fall forward into his face no matter how much gel or pomade he puts in it.
his knuckles are almost always bruised or cracked. when paparazzi catch photos of it, bruce tells them that he's picked up boxing as a hobby. in reality he's just out punching goons straight into the ICU every night. alfred has to nag him about putting some fancy hand cream on every night to keep his knuckles from splitting.
his hair started going grey at the temples in his late twenties. dick and jason used to make fun of him for it, so every 6 weeks or so he would dye it to match the rest of his hair. he gave up on that once he got into his mid thirties, though. then the public happily embraced bruce wayne's new silver fox status.
there are a lot of gossip articles or those “plastic surgeon reacts” type of videos discussing whether or not he’s had plastic surgery done. botox, fillers, face lifts, rhinoplasty, etc. photos comparing and analyzing his face from when he was 20 to his face at 40. what the public is sure was at least a $50,000 nose job and face lift is actually just several broken noses, a few skin grafts, and various dental procedures that have occurred during his time as the bat. the cowl has continued to be more and more reinforced over the years, but it doesn’t protect him from everything.
dick:
right in the middle in terms of height and muscle. he's 6'1 and change, but probably says he's 6'2 on his driver's license.
he's definitely leaner than bruce and jason, but his entire body is equally muscular (whereas I imagine bruce and jason having the most of their muscle around their torso/arms). his calves are just as impressive as his biceps. the control he has over his entire body is olympic gymnast-level. (look up pictures of male olympic gymnasts if you want dick grayson body references).
dick has the quintessential Pretty Boy Hair. his hair isn't nearly as curly as jason's is, but it has the perfect amount of wave and length to frame his face perfectly. he's constantly running his fingers through it to push his hair out of his face, but it always falls right back.
dick has the kind of facial features that make everyone jealous. the most beautiful lashes you've ever seen, brilliant gigawatt smile, perfectly placed dimples, naturally full lips, jawline carved from marble. his eyebrows are somehow always perfectly shaped and groomed, despite the fact that he does nothing to them.
his hands are surprisingly calloused and roughed up for a boy as pretty as he is. people shake his hand at a gala and expect to feel a hand that has never worked a day in its life, but they're met with the callouses of a blue collar worker. he had callouses on his hands at age 8 that adult men in their 40s didn't even have.
he was a very small child, but then he had a ridiculous growth spurt in his teens. he basically went from 5'7 to 5'11 in the span of a few months when he was 15. alfred was having to tailor all of his clothes every few weeks.
he tans very, very easily, but he rarely ever burns. when he was a kid he would spend hours and hours in the wayne manor pool during the summer and never once got a sunburn. trying to put sunscreen on a young dick grayson was like trying to bathe a feral cat. on the rare chance that he does burn, it always turns into the most natural flush across his nose and cheeks.
dick gives the best hugs in the world. a very enthusiastic hugger. he's always unnaturally warm (there's a reason bruce would never get dick to add pants to the robin uniform) and he always smells good. i imagine his signature cologne is some mix of citrus, woods, and sea salt that shouldn't really make sense together, but fits him so well.
he's the type of person that needs to physically exercise nerves or jitters out of his body. jumping up and down, shaking out his wrists/hands, rolling his shoulders, lunges, cracking his neck, etc. jumps and leaps and flips that he could do with his eyes closed, sometimes he still needs to hype himself up before his feet leave the ground.
damian:
damian doesn't ever end up as tall as bruce (something he is secretly very upset about), but he does end up at 6'0 on the dot.
he had sporadic growth spurts between the ages of 13-16, just like bruce did, but he was still only about 5'8 by the time he was entering his senior year of high school. it got to the point that his brothers joked that he'd probably stopped growing and was destined to forever be the littlest brother. much to their intense chagrin, damian grew nearly 4 inches between 12th grade and when he started his med school undergrad.
damian has the trademark pending Wayne Men Shoulders. I'm team "damian is practically the spitting image of talia," but you get one look at damian's shoulders and know he is a wayne. I see him developing more more of a swimmer's build once he gets older; broad shoulders, muscular back, but with a narrower waist and leaner muscles.
the craziest bedhead you've ever seen in your life. his hair has very little wave to it, but it is crazy dense and crazy thick (you will never see him with a receeding hairline). that's part of the reason he's gotta keep his hair upright and spiky with gel; otherwise he looks like he just stuck his finger in an electrical socket.
he gets freckles across his nose and cheekbones that only come out when he's been in the sun for a while, something he gets from talia. they will almost completely disappear from his face during the gotham winter, but one weekend spent on the kent farm with jon during the summer and damian comes back to the manor with a full face of freckles.
I can see damian having very expressive features when he's not trying to mask them. he has a really deep furrow in between his brows (something I imagine bruce having as well) that comes out when he's focusing really intently, or when he's brooding. speaking of brooding, damian has a very distinct pouty/grumpy face that he insists he does not have. the batbrows come out in full force, along with the eyebrow furrow, and his lips form a little pouty frown. it's amplified 10x when stands with his arms crossed. it's an expression that is somehow a mix of "grumpy little kid who was told they can't have ice cream for breakfast" and "crotchety old man sitting in a park waiting to feed birds."
with the exception of bruce's fancy watches, damian is the only one of the boys that I can actually see wearing jewelry on a regular basis. I imagine that a lot of the jewelry he wears are pieces that were once talia's, some of the few things of sentimental value he was allowed to have in the league. things like simple chain necklaces or beaded bracelets that he can hide with a long sleeve or a higher collar. maybe a few jeweled or signet rings. maybe he gets his earlobes or his helix pierced when he's older. the only piece of jewelry he has from bruce is one of thomas' old watches that bruce gives damian when he gets accepted into medical school.
very, very nice hands. the kind of hands that practically scream "i use a $100 hand cream and take care of my cuticles." talia was very strict with teaching him good grooming habits, and it definitely paid off. you'll never see damian with hang nails or chewed fingernails. once he gets into his med school residency program and is washing/sanitizing his hands 100 times a day, he experiences his first bout of chapped hands. he calls talia for advice and sure enough, a package appears at his doorstep within 24 hours with 6 different hand creams (shea butter, goats milk, glycerin, jojoba oil, etc) and multiple vials of homemade cuticle oil, along with a pair of cotton gloves to wear at night.
tim:
last, but certainly not least, tim is the smallest of all of the batboys. at 5'10, he's not short by any means, but he's the only one out of his brothers to not break 6'0.
I am sick and tired of the twinkified!tim agenda. tim was always going to be more lanky and thinner than the other bats, just genetically speaking, but he's doing the same training regimen and fighting the same goons the rest of the bats are fighting. by no means is he unfit or not muscular. in my head, tim's got the sleeper build locked down. if he's wearing baggy clothes or long sleeves, you'd think he's just a pretty typical skinny white dude, but the second he wears shorter sleeves or the bottom of his shirt rides up when he pulls a sweatshirt off, people around him are doing double takes.
tim is a really, really terrible knuckle cracker. and yes I am projecting this from myself. it's one of his little "brain break habits" that he does when he's pouring over a case and needs to reset his brain. and it doesn't just stop at his knuckles. he'll crack his spine, his neck, his elbows, his wrists. basically any joint that he's capable of cracking? sounds like a glow stick. he has been yelled at multiple times during stakeouts because they can hear him cracking his fingers over the coms.
I can see him having very, very faint freckles across his nose. they were probably more prominent when he was little, but have now faded to the point where you can really only see them if you're up close and personal. if he actually pulled himself away from a computer screen and spent more time outside in the sun, they might darken a bit.
tim very rarely smiles with his teeth. he used to when he was a kid, but then he got braces, and jack and janet didn't like the way family photos looked with timmy's mouthful of metal. even after he got his braces off, he still doesn't smile with his teeth. instead, he has two different closed mouth smiles. there's the "fancy gala press photo" smile that doesn't really reach his eyes, but was perfected by his parents before he reached double digits. then there's his actual smile, the one that his friends and family catch in candid pictures, where the force of his grin makes his eyes scrunch together and his long-hidden dimples emerge from hiding. look at this picture if u want to see what i'm talking about.
some of the worst posture you've ever witnessed in your life. no amount of ergonomic desk chairs or posture correcting braces can fix it. it's also his casual resting position. if he's sitting in a chair or on the couch, he's curled his legs up in front of him. if he's actually fallen asleep in his bed and not hunched over his desk, he's tucked himself into a ball, roly poly style. someone unshrimp him please, i'm begging you.
you may think olivia rodrigo wrote the line "i think that you're killer, with your floppy hair" about louis partridge. you'd be wrong. she actually wrote it about timothy jackson drake. my source? shhhh dude just trust me. bruce and alfred are always nagging him to get a haircut, because surely his hair is getting into his eyes? what they don't know is that his floppy hair is responsible for 70% of his rizz. (except for that fuckass bowl cut. baby timmy was in the trenches with that one).
his lips are always busted and cracked. it's partially because he chews on his lips when he's really focused or when he's stressed, and partially because of just plain ol' dehydration. it's gotten so bad that sometimes he doesn't even register how cracked and bloody his lips are until he drinks or eats something acidic or salty, and then he's Very Aware of it. get this man a glass of water and a burts bees please and thank you.
his hands and feet are Always cold. tim drake, anemia king. fuzzy socks are always a much appreciated gift for him, even if he usually ends up losing one and wearing them mismatched. if he's feeling particularly annoying he'll walk up behind his friends or his siblings and stick his freezing cold iceberg hands down the back collar of their shirt. this habit has gotten him dangerously close to impalement multiple times.
featuring: wally west, tim drake, dick grayson, jason todd
content: smau, established relationship, fem!reader, talks of pregnancy (non-serious), potentially sexual themes ??? this is just crack don't mind me
— wally west
— tim drake
— dick grayson
— jason todd
a/n: baby's first SMAU! this is a prompt that has floated around in my brain for a while and i'm honestly kind of shocked that i've never seen it done before (let me know if u have). all the pictures are from pinterest btw. let me know what u think!
likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated <3
Summary : You tell Dex he needs to earn the right to kiss you. His efforts are… interesting.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Vigilante! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Romcom/dark comedy, Dex and reader being equally insane, canon-typical violence, stolen clothing, suggestive (sex implied), obsessive behaviour, you have a roommate called Mia. (let me know if I missed anything!) Set in DDBA S2!
Word Count : 5.6k
Requested by : Ko-fi request <3
Notes : This is so insane! A ko-fi request for a sequel that was originally a ko-fi request. Enjoy!
This could be read as a one shot, but was intended to be direct sequel to Little Monster
The second you told Dex he would have to earn the right to kiss you, his attention tunnel visioned onto the task.
You said it on your first date, if you counted sharing one terrible beer, killing Task Force agents together, and being walked home across rooftops as a first date.
Dex definitely did.
He walked you back to your fire escape afterwards, his shirt still hanging off your body beneath your jacket. You still had blood beneath your nails, and he still had your silver paint smudged beneath one eye.
At your window, he stopped.
Dex looked at your mouth, and for one brief second, he thought maybe this was it. Maybe walking you home like a gentleman would have been enough to earn you. Maybe you were finally going to lose that cruel smile and give him the only thing he had been thinking about since you kissed him through his own mask.
Instead, after handing the mask back, you placed one hand against his chest and kissed his cheek. “Goodnight, Dex.”
Then you climbed through your window and shut it behind you.
Dex stayed on the roof of your building for almost five full minutes, staring at nothing.
What was enough, then?
When he got home, he didn’t sleep.
Dex sat at his kitchen table until five in the morning with a notebook open in front of him, trying to work out how to earn you like it was a mission and a mathematical problem all at once.
He had never had this before, at least not romantically or properly.
He had wanted people before, sure. He had fixated and watched and needed. But he had never met someone he wanted to impress. This was different because it was you.
So Dex pulled up a notebook and started to brainstorm.
At the top of the page, in painfully neat handwriting, he wrote:
What can I do to earn it?
He stared at the sentence for a long time.
Then, because he had no idea what normal people did, he wrote the first thing that came to mind.
Jewellery?
He paused, but it seemed right. Women liked jewellery. He had seen his colleagues back at the FBI buy silver and gold for anniversaries, engagements, and apologies. He had seen men do it in restaurants, in movies, and in department-store advertisements with stupidly saccharine music every February.
Still, Dex knew you wouldn’t want something bought. That felt too ordinary, too impersonal. Anyone with money could buy a necklace, anyone could stand at a glass counter and let a bored sales assistant choose whatever they thought looked pretty.
That was not earning. To Dex, that was outsourcing.
Dex tapped the pen against the paper, before modifying it.
Stolen jewellery?
Better.
He underlined it once.
You liked flair, and a heist had flair. A heist required planning, timing, and risk assessment. It had alarms to silence, guards to drop, and glass to break.
Then he wrote:Necklace with red stones.
He paused, then kept brainstorming.
Clean first. Get a box.
He underlined clean first twice.
You would probably appreciate that he had been forced to kill his way through a collection of financiers, traffickers, and Task Force donors to get it. But you would appreciate the necklace even more if he cleaned every trace of their blood from it before he gave it to you.
See? He was learning.
—
A week later, you woke up to the report of a jewellery heist.
The story was already playing on the television in the kitchen by the time you wandered in, rubbing sleep from your eyes while the kettle hissed behind you. Blue police lights flashed across the screen, staining the marble frontage of some private gallery in a gray-ish intermittent colour. The windows had been shattered inward, glass glittered across the pavement like ice, and several black body bags were being wheeled past a row of reporters pressing microphones toward anyone wearing a badge.
Mia sat at the table with a bowl of cereal and the front page spread open beside her. She had placed an unloaded handgun across the article to keep it flat, which felt disrespectful to both journalism and breakfast but was hardly the strangest thing she had ever done in your kitchen.
You poured hot water over your coffee and leaned against the counter, only half listening as the reporter explained that the gallery had been used as a private showroom for a collection owned by three wealthy financiers. Between them, they had laundered money for traffickers, moved illegal weapons through shell companies, and funnelled anonymous donations into several Task Force operations.
Now they were dead.
The security team was dead too, although the report was careful to describe them as “private contractors,” which sounded much better than armed men paid to protect criminals and their stolen wealth.
Apparently, only one item had been taken.
The reporter’s image changed to an old catalogue photograph of a necklace laid against black silk. It was beautifully dramatic, set in dark metal with deep red stones that looked almost black before the studio light flashed.
You paused with the mug halfway to your mouth. “Huh.”
Mia glanced up from her cereal, spoon hovering near her lips. “What?”
“It’s pretty.” You looked at the necklace again.”
And that was the full extent of your interest.
That morning, it didn’t occur to you that Dex had done it.
Dex was many things, but he was not a thief. He took weapons when he needed them, and sometimes files, keys, evidence, ammunition. Those were practical things with a means to an end. You couldn’t imagine him breaking into private galleries for jewels. He had never shown any interest in luxury, money, or expensive objects for their own sake.
You finished your coffee, watched another body bag disappear into an ambulance, and thought no more about it.
—
Dex tapped on your apartment window shortly after midnight.
The sound was small enough that Mia didn’t hear it from her bedroom, but it pulled you out of the book balanced across your knees. You stayed still for a moment, listening.
Your hand went instinctively toward the knife tucked between the sofa cushions as you walked across the apartment. There was no shadow from the other side of the curtain, but when you saw Dex through the gap between the blinds you sighed.
Of course.
Dex stood on the other side, jacket zipped, his hair pushed back, and there was no visible blood on him anywhere. He held a small black velvet box between both hands with such care that, for a second, you wondered whether it might contain an explosive.
“Shhh,” you pulled a finger to your lips, and Dex only tilted his head.
You pulled back the window, his eyes found your face immediately, then flicked down toward your mouth before returning upward.
“What are you doing here?” You tried not to smile as you stepped into the fire escape and pulled the window back down behind you before Mia could wake up and discover Bullseye standing outside with what looked alarmingly like a romantic gift.
The metal steps were cold beneath your bare feet, and the night air smelled of rain, rust, and old brick. Traffic moved several storeys below, tyres whispering across wet roads while the glow from nearby windows softened the edges of Dex’s face.
For all you knew about him, he looked almost nervous.
The box remained cupped in his palms. When he finally offered it to you, his fingers lingered against the velvet for half a second before releasing it.
You looked at him, then down at the box, Dex watching your face like he was waiting for a verdict.
You opened it.
For several seconds, you didn’t understand what you were looking at. The stones were darker in person, a deep garnet red that seemed to hold light inside them. The metal had been polished until every curve gleamed. It was old, heavy, and far too beautiful to have belonged to any of the men who had kept it locked inside that gallery.
Then the television footage came back to you.
You lifted your eyes slowly.Dex didn’t look away.
“You did the heist,” you whispered, eyes wide now.
It was not really a question, but he nodded anyway, enough so that the cold air touched the back of your teeth while your thoughts rearranged themselves around the fact that Benjamin Poindexter had robbed a jewellery vault.
He had never been a thief before. Apparently, you had turned him into one.
The realisation hit you, so unexpectedly absurd that a tiny bit of laughter escaped before you could stop it. You lowered your head, one hand tightening around the box as the sound spilled into the alley below.
Dex’s face changed immediately. His shoulders drew in slightly, and for one second, he looked as if he thought you were laughing at him rather than the situation he had created. He had killed his way through a private gallery, stolen one necklace from an entire collection, cleaned it until it reflected fucking lasers, found a box, and knocked politely on your window.
All because you had told him to earn a kiss.
You pressed your lips together, trying to stop giggling long enough to speak.
“Dex,” you whispered, grabbing his arm, “I genuinely didn’t know this was you.”
His brow furrowed. “You didn’t?”
“You don’t steal jewellery.”
“I do now.”
That nearly started you laughing again.
You looked back down at the necklace instead. Up close, you could see the tiny details in the metalwork, dark vines curling around the stones like thorns. There was not a smear, fingerprint, or trace of blood anywhere on it. Dex must have cleaned it meticulously, working over every setting until nothing remained of the people who had guarded it.
You lifted the necklace carefully from the box. The chain slid over your fingers with a cool, satisfying weight. “It’s beautiful."
He was relieved all at once, you could tell when his jaw loosened and his shoulders dropped.
You turned the necklace over in your hands.
Of course he chose this one out of everything in the gallery.
His gaze drifted toward your throat, lingering there just long enough to answer the question you hadn’t asked: he had chosen it because he had imagined it on you in more ways than one, you were willing to bet.
You gathered your hair away from your neck and fastened the clasp yourself. The stones settled against your skin with a cold shock before gradually warming to your body. They rested directly over your collarbone, against your throat.
Dex’s eyes followed the necklace downward, tracing the chain and the red stones before returning to your face. His hands stayed still at his sides, but there was tension in every finger, as though not touching you required the same concentration as hitting an impossible target.
You had thought the gift was simply a gift, but then you saw the way he kept looking at your mouth.
Oh.
Oh.
How sweet.
You bit your lip. “This… was about the kiss.”
Dex’s face went still, and you could almost see him deciding whether denying it would help. He didn't bother.
“Did I earn it?”
There was something so painfully sincere in the question that your chest tightened. Dex hadn’t treated your teasing like flirtation. He had treated it like a task, or a standard he could meet.
You stepped closer.
The fire escape shifted faintly beneath your weight, metal creaking as you tried your hardest to still not make noise. You simply couldn’t bear to hear Mia fucking talk your ear off about manners anymore.
You touched the front of his jacket. His body went rigid beneath your palm.
For a second, you let him believe it.
You tilted your face toward his, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. His eyes dropped to your mouth, his lips parted slightly, and every single part of his consciousness seemed to narrow onto the tiny distance remaining between you.
Then you turned your head and kissed his cheek.
Again.
This time, you let it linger as your mouth rested against the scar on his cheekbone while the red stones he had stolen for you pressed coldly against your throat. Dex closed his eyes, his breath leaving him in a wounded exhale.
When you drew back, he looked dazed.
You smiled and touched the necklace lightly. “It’s incredibly sweet.”
His gaze moved from the stones to your mouth. “But?”
“But not quite.”
The disappointment flashed across his face before he could hide it. It lasted only a second, and he quickly replaced it with a familiar, frightening focus. Then, very quietly, he said, “I’ll do better next time.”
You probably should have been worried. Instead, you smiled.
“I can’t wait.”
—
The second attempt involved your cutting off your ex-boyfriend’s pinky finger.
Dex hadn't gone looking for him. At least, that was what he told himself. He had simply seen the man leaving a bar one evening while he was on his way back home. Unfortunately for your ex, he'd made the mistake of bragging about his ex being a dangerous and wanted vigilante, loudly enough for Dex to hear.
"I used to have her wrapped around my little finger,” He laughed loudly, as if that would impress the girl he was currently talking to.
Ugh.
The package appeared on your fire escape the following morning, wrapped in brown paper and tied neatly with butcher’s string, with anote that said : Though he shouldn’t have this anymore.
It was small enough to fit in your palm, though the dark stain beginning to spread through one corner gave away that it was definitely not jewellery this time.
You found Dex that evening on the opposite rooftop, watching your apartment with anticipation, waiting to hear whether a gift had been received. You should have been horrified. Instead, you kept thinking about the specificity of it. He had not killed the man, because apparently Dex had decided death would be too impersonal. He had taken the exact part of him that he had mentioned and removed it with surgical attention, leaving your ex alive to understand why.
When you met him on the roof, Dex straightened. Hope appeared on his face almost immediately, fragile beneath all that lethal stillness. You stepped into his space, rested your hand against his chest, and kissed his cheek in the same place as before.
Dex watched you leave with his fingers pressed against the place you had kissed, already reconsidering the scale of the gesture.
The third attempt happened during one of your outings together.
Calling it an outing was generous. You had spent most of the evening following a Task Force accountant through Hell’s Kitchen while Dex moved along the rooftops above you, appearing occasionally in dark windows and reflective surfaces like an omen. The job ended early, leaving the two of you walking without urgency through streets still wet from rain. You stopped for food from a cart, shared greasy hotdogs beneath the awning of a closed shop, and let yourself pretend for several minutes that this was what normal situationships did.
The man who ruined it came out of a bar angry. His shoulder struck yours hard enough to spill the drink in your hand, and instead of apologising, he grabbed your wrist when you turned toward him. His fingers tightened. He called you a bitch.
Dex knew you could more than take care of yourself, but instead of letting you deal with it, his head thought ding, ding, ding! This is your chance to earn it!
Without waiting to see what you would do, Dex killed him with his hands because the offence had been physical, and a primitive part of him apparently believed the answer should be too. By the time you reacted to them, the man’s face had already gone slack beneath the dirty wash of the streetlights. Dex remained crouched over him, breathing evenly, blood along his knuckles and the cuff of his sleeve.
He looked up at you without remorse, as if the man’s hand created a simple problem and Dex had solved it in the most direct way available.
You… looked disappointed, almost sad that you weren’t given the choice to end him yourself.
You should have scolded him. Instead, you crouched and wiped a thin streak of blood from beneath his eye.
His eyes dropped to your mouth before you had even begun leaning closer, and for a brief second, the hope on his face made you consider giving him what he wanted.
You kissed his cheek again.
This time, your mouth landed nearer the corner of his lips, close enough that Dex inhaled and turned his face by instinct, chasing an act you had already withdrawn. You smiled, tracing your thumb once over his bloodied cheekbone before leaving him kneeling beside the body with his restraint hanging by a thread.
His fourth attempt was less impulsive and considerably more elaborate.
Someone had begun watching your building. You noticed the same dark sedan twice in one week, though it always disappeared before you could approach it. Mia found a listening device beneath the kitchen windowsill, hidden so badly it was frankly insulting. T
Three nights later, an entire surveillance crew disappeared.
Their operation had been housed in a rented office two streets from your apartment. Dex dismantled it room by room. The people inside had worked for a private intelligence firm funded by Task Force donors, and Dex killed the ones who had apparently fucking photographed your bedroom, even if he had done the same himself. He left the technician who had installed the device alive with both hands broken and every hard drive stacked beside him.
Then Dex brought you the files.
He arranged them across your kitchen table while you slept, pages separated into neat categories: From the names of the donors, their addresses, their routines, and the amounts they had paid to look into your life.
You found him later that night when you stepped onto the fire escape, crouched between his knees, and held his face in both hands. This time, your kiss landed at the edge of his cheek, close enough to his mouth that the corner of your lips brushed his for less than a second.
He went rigid.
The contact on his lips had been so slight it might have been accidental, but both of you knew it wasn't. Dex followed when you pulled away, stopping himself only after his mouth had moved an inch toward yours. His eyes had gone unfocused, his breathing suddenly uneven as he stared at the tiny distance you had created.
You thanked him for the files, and told him not quite.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
—-
Dex ran out of ideas three days later.
The almost-kiss had destroyed what remained of his ability to think rationally. He could still feel the exact place you had pressed your lips to his skin, which he thought about often enough to become embarrassing.
You had been so close. Closer than ever before.
That would have meant he was improving, right?
Instead, he sat at his kitchen table until nearly dawn, staring at the same notebook he had used after your first date.
The original page looked almost childish now. Jewellery? was written in black ink, followed by notes about red stones, boxes, and cleaning off the blood. That had seemed like such a strong idea at the time. He had been proud of it. He had planned the heist meticulously, selected the necklace from an entire private collection, and polished every link of the chain himself.
You had loved it.
Still. It was not enough.
Everything he had tried afterwards filled the next several pages. Names, addresses, little reminders of things that bothered you and people who no longer had the opportunity to do so. Some of the ideas had been crossed out because they were too excessive, although Dex’s definition of excessive remained alarmingly generous. Others had been completed and marked with neat dates in the margin.
Beside each attempt, he had recorded the result.
Cheek.
Cheek again. Slightly longer.
Corner of mouth. Almost.
Pathetic. It really was fucking pathetic.
Dex stared at that final entry until the words began to blur.
He could do more, obviously. There were always more people to kill, more enemies to drag to your feet like a sad cat.
But Dex had begun to suspect that scale was not the problem.
He picked up his pen and wrote: bigger jewellery heist?
Then he crossed it out.
He wrote: kill Task Force Leader?
That one remained on the page for several minutes before he reluctantly crossed it out too. Powell definitely deserved it, but you had never mentioned him specifically. Killing someone you hadn’t complained about felt like guessing, and Dex was starting to understand that guessing wrong could push him farther away instead of bringing him closer.
He considered returning your ex’s other pinky finger.
No, he thought, too repetitive.
He considered finding every man who had ever frightened you and arranging them alphabetically in a warehouse.
Impractical, he thought. That idea had flair, but he could not work out what you would do with one.
By six in the morning, the notebook contained several increasingly desperate fragments and one entire page where Dex had written WHAT DOES SHE WANT? hard enough to leave the words embossed through the paper beneath it.
The answer didn’t appear.
For the first time since you had told him to earn the kiss, Benjamin Poindexter had no plan.
—
Mia discovered him outside your kitchen window at two in the morning.
She had come in for water wearing an oversized pyjama set, her hair twisted into a loose knot that had mostly collapsed. The apartment was dark except for the light above the stove, and she nearly walked past him before she noticed the shape crouched on the fire escape.
Dex tapped once against the glass.
Mia flinched hard enough to spill water over her hand. “What the…”
Within seconds, she had a pistol aimed directly between his eyes.
Dex had expected that.
Mia stared at him through the window, exhausted because she had repeatedly asked you to stop contributing to her life becoming stranger and had been consistently ignored. Her eyes moved from his face to his empty hands, checking for blood, weapons, packages, or severed pieces of anyone she recognised.
There was nothing, and that seemed to concern her more.
She unlocked the window but only raised it several inches, leaving enough space to talk without giving him room to climb through.
“She’s asleep,” Mia said quietly.
“I know.”
Her eyes narrowed. Of course he did.
Dex looked past her toward your bedroom door on the side, which was closed. He could picture you behind it, curled beneath the blankets, breathing into your pillow. He forced his attention back to Mia before the thought became distracting. “I need help.”
Mia’s grip shifted on the pistol.
For several seconds, she seemed unsure whether she had heard him correctly. Dex understood that he didn’t ask people for help. Help created debt and uncertainty, and it was usually more efficient to solve the problem himself.
Unfortunately, he had tried that.
Mia raised the window another few inches, though the gun remained.
Dex took the notebook from inside his jacket and passed it through the gap.
Mia didn;t lower the pistol as she took it. She placed the notebook on the counter, flipped it open with one hand, and began reading. Her expression changed as she moved through the pages: Confusion, followed by disbelief, then amusement.
Dex watched her read the record of his attempts, and when Mia reached the page headed POSSIBLE NEXT ATTEMPTS, she stopped.
The list beneath it included stealing a deed to a building, acquiring a tiger, and locating the person responsible for cancelling the brand of hot chocolate you liked three years ago.
Mia looked up. “A tiger?”
“She likes cats,” Dex shrugged.
Mia sighed. “That doesn't mean she wants a tiger.”
“I crossed it out.”
She looked at the notes again. “It says here you researched three private zoos.”
“I needed to know whether it was feasible.”
Mia shut the notebook and pressed her fingertips against her forehead. The gun was still in her other hand, but it had lowered toward the floor, apparently because exasperation had temporarily overtaken self-preservation.
Dex waited for her to provide an answer.
Instead, she looked at him through the narrow opening and began to laugh, and it was not the same laughter you gave him. Yours eventually made his chest warm. Mia’s laughter made him feel as though he had failed the test at every hurdle.
He thought about hurting Mia for making him feel humiliated, but then decided against it because you’d probably hate him for it.
“I’m serious.”
“That’s the problem,” Mia managed, keeping her voice down so she wouldn’t wake you. “You are thinking about this like you’re trying to overthrow a government.”
Dex didn’t see how that was relevant. Overthrowing a government required less guesswork.
Mia opened the notebook again and flicked through the pages, staring at each carefully planned act of violence. The laughter eventually faded, leaving behind a reluctant sympathy that Dex disliked even more.
“You’re thinking too much,” she told him.
The statement felt insulting. Thinking was how he avoided mistakes. “She told me to earn it.”
“I know. She told me everything.”
Dex’s attention sharpened. “Everything?”
Mia ignored the question. “You keep acting like there’s a secret combination of murder and theft that unlocks her mouth.”
He reached under the window for the notebook, but Mia pulled it back before he could take it. “She’s just a girl, Dex.”
He stared at her, because she wasn’t making sense.
You were not just anything. How fucking dare she insinuate that?
Mia seemed to read the objection on his face.
“I know she’s a fucking lunatic,” she continued. “I live with her. I’ve helped her sink bodies. Just… stop trying to earn the kiss by making her owe you.”
Eventually, she released the notebook back to his custody.
That had never been his intention. He didn’t want you indebted to him. He wanted you to be impressed, delighted. But perhaps those things were not as different as he had believed.
Perhaps the gesture had the undertone of the same question:
Was that enough? Do I get it now?
Mia had seen it. You probably had too.
Dex looked down at the notebook in his hands and the pages felt heavier than before.
Mia started lowering the window, apparently done with his bullshit for the night. She paused with only a narrow gap remaining. “Again,” She started, “She’s just a girl. Don’t overthink it.”
Easier said than done.
—
For once, Dex listened.
The next time he came to see you, nobody had died.
There was no breaking-news report waiting for you that morning, no stolen artefact displayed across the front page, no mysteriously vanished Task Force officials, and no parcel on the fire escape leaking through its paper wrapping. The day passed so uneventfully that by evening, you had started to suspect Dex was planning something truly catastrophic.
You checked the news twice. Nothing.
You glanced toward the window whenever a shadow shifted outside, but the fire escape remained empty. It was nearly eight when someone knocked on the apartment door.
You looked up from the sofa.
Mia looked up from the weapon catalogue spread across her lap. She was in her bedroom with the door ajar. “You expecting someone?”
“No.”
Mia turned another page. “Weird.”
There was no urgency in the knock, no coded pattern, and no scraping sound suggesting someone was trying to slide a body across the hallway carpet.
When you opened the door, Dex was standing beneath the weak yellow light with a bunch of flowers in his hands.
For a moment, you only stared.
They were not arranged professionally. The paper around them had been folded precisely in some places and crushed in others, as though Dex had spent far too long trying to hold them without damaging anything. There were no red stones, no bloodstains, and no expensive velvet box. Just a slightly unruly collection of pale flowers and greenery, fresh enough that tiny droplets of water still clung to the petals.
Dex looked almost painfully uncertain.
He had faced rooms full of armed men with less visible tension. His shoulders were held too squarely, his fingers carefully positioned around the stems, and his eyes kept moving between your face and the flowers as though he expected one of them to tell him what to do next.
Oh. this was new.
“You… brought me flowers.”
“I uh…” Dex nodded, “yeah.”
Your eyes narrowed with suspicion as you accepted them. The paper rustled beneath your fingers, damp where the stems had been wrapped. “Did you steal them?”
“No.”
“Threaten the florist?”
He had another pause, just long enough to become concerning. “No.”
“Dex.”
“I paid.”
You looked up properly at that.
His eyes looked… defensive, as if buying flowers had required more courage than stealing a priceless necklace from a fortified vault. Maybe it had. Violence gave him a shield to hide behind. This was only Dex standing outside your door with a simple gift and no proof of obsession beyond the fact that he had remembered you might like flowers in your favourite colours.
You looked down at the flowers again.
They smelled green somehow, faintly sweet but not overwhelming. A little piece of leaf had caught against the paper near your thumb. One stem was slightly bent, probably from Dex gripping the bouquet too tightly on the journey over and then attempting to straighten it before knocking.
The imperfection made it strangely charming.
There was no note demanding that you understand what he had done for you, though you had at least expected it. There was no list of names or severed pieces of someone who had wronged you. He hadn’t even brought them as evidence that he could protect you, avenge you, or remove inconvenience from your life.
He had brought you flowers because Mia had told him you were just a girl.
And sometimes girls liked flowers their will-they-won’t-they situationship brought for them.
Finally, after all his increasingly elaborate attempts, he had tried doing something… simple.
“They’re beautiful,” you smiled,watching relief pass over his face so openly you nearly melted.
Dex’s eyes flickered toward your mouth out of habit, but he stopped himself almost immediately. He didn’t ask whether he had earned it, he didn’t even step closer or look expectant. He only stood there in the hallway, hands empty now, waiting to see whether you wanted to invite him inside.
Oh, Dex.
You stepped into the hallway and placed the flowers carefully on the console table beside the door. Dex watched you do it, cautiously hopeful, but he still didn’t move.
Without any warning, you grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him down, pressing your lips to his.
His mouth was warm beneath yours, parted slightly with surprise, and for one suspended moment he did absolutely nothing.
Apparently, he had failed to consider that flowers might work.
Eventually, though, he kissed you back carefully at first, as if the kiss might disappear if he wanted it too much. His hand lifted toward your waist but stopped just short of touching, every part of him still suspended between hope and disbelief.
You pulled away.
Dex followed without meaning to, his mouth chasing yours by an inch before he caught himself. His eyes opened completely dazed, and the devastation on his face made your stomach twist.
At that moment, he seemed to think that was all he was getting.
Then you smiled, tightened your fist in his jacket, and pulled him back.
The second kiss was deeper, and Dex made a soft, wrecked sound against your mouth as his hands finally settled around your waist. The restraint he had been pushed down for weeks cracked beneath your fingers. He kissed you like he had memorised every near miss: every cheek, every corner, every cruel fraction of an inch you had left between you.
Behind you, Mia peeked out her bedroom door.
Mia took one look at Dex leaning down on you in the doorway, your hands gripping his jacket and the flowers abandoned beside the door, then silently reached around the frame and pulled the door shut again.
You laughed into the kiss, breathless against his mouth.
Dex felt it in his bones, not quite believing the fact that you were finally kissing him back without a tally to settle or another task waiting. When you eventually pulled back, he followed helplessly until his forehead rested against yours. His breathing had gone uneven, and his eyes kept dropping to your lips as if he still expected you to change your mind and put unbearable distance between you again.
“D’you wanna come in?” you asked.
Dex nodded far too quickly. “Mhm.”
It came out so pathetic and eager that you smiled, caught his hand, and pulled him through the doorway. The flowers stayed forgotten on the little table while you dragged him toward your bedroom, kissing him again before you had even made it down the hall.
Mia’s door was still shut, and Dex briefly considered knocking to offer her headphones.
Then your hands found his belt loops in his waist, your mouth moving hungrily against his, and he decided she could survive one noisy night after advising him on how to win your physical affection.
After all, she had been right.
You were just a girl, and all Dex had ever needed to do was bring you flowers.
—end.
NOTE : I genuinely love seeing all your requests in my asks, but I do get a lot and I physically can’t write every single one. I usually write the ones that catch my eye, and it’s probably every 1 in 5.
That’s why I have Ko-fi! If you request there, it’s pretty much guaranteed I’ll write it within a month of responding as a token of appreciation (keep this post in mind for July and August 2026). If I’m uncomfortable with the request or don’t think I can do it justice, I’ll let you know and we can brainstorm something else.
Please remember I run this blog for free, so any support means a lot, only if you’re able to give it! Love y’all and thank you for reading!!! <3
𑣲⋆summary — when you ask Dick to pass you your purse, he expects it to be full of daily items, not an entire weaponry! And what’s even more shocking is how casual you are about carrying a literal brick in your shoulder bag!
𑣲⋆a/n — yes, this is based off of that one family reunion scene
Dick Grayson prided himself on being prepared for anything.
He had trained under Batman. He had led the Titans. He had dodged sniper fire, outmaneuvered ancient secret societies, and routinely jumped off skyscrapers with nothing but a couple of grapple lines and blind faith.
He was not, however, prepared for your purse.
It was a Saturday afternoon in Gotham, and the sun was setting in that hazy, orange-grey way that usually signaled rain or a low-level villain breakout. You were standing in front of the full-length mirror near the apartment entryway, humming a song under your breath while tweaking the collar of your jacket.
"Hey babe?" you called out, not looking away from the glass. "Could you grab my purse off the kitchen island?"
"On it," Dick called back, stepping out of the kitchen with a half-eaten apple in one hand.
He glanced at the counter. Resting beside a bowl of fruit was a medium-sized, cream-colored shoulder bag. It was aggressively cute. Attached to the strap was a plush Sanrio keychain, a resin cat charm that caught the light, and a tiny brass bell that gave off a soft, cheerful jingle whenever the bag moved. Very harmless. Very sweet. Very you.
Dick reached out with his free hand, casually hooking two fingers under the strap to hoist it over.
His arm didn't move.
Dick paused. He flexed his wrist, adjusted his grip, and pulled again with the force an average guy would use to lift a bag of groceries. The strap tautened, but the bag stayed firmly planted on the granite like it had been glued down.
What the hell?
Catching himself before his superhero instincts kicked in, Dick swallowed his apple, stepped closer, and wrapped his whole hand around the leather strap. He engaged his core, discreetly suppressed the muscle memory that usually let him bench-press a motorcycle, and lifted.
The bag came off the counter, but the sheer, dense weight of it brought his shoulder down an inch. It was easily thirty pounds. Thirty. Why the hell was his girlfriend carrying a thirty pound shoulder bag everywhere?
He tossed it slightly in his hand to test the momentum, completely baffled. He smoothly carried it into the hallway, forcing a light, easy smile onto his face so he didn't look like a guy who had just struggled with a fashion accessory.
"Here you go, baby," Dick chuckled, holding it out to you. "Jesus, what do you have in here? A brick?"
"Yes, a brick," you replied absently, "It’s Gotham, Dick. It’s a jungle out there."
And dick watched, in utter shock, as you reached for the purse, and held it in the air like it was nothing. So all the times you “needed” him to help you with heavy groceries was just a ploy to make him feel important? He almost cried right then and there. He was also very proud and impressed.
Dick paused, waiting for the punchline. He let out a little puff of air, waiting for you to look up and laugh.
You didn't. Instead, your hand plunged into the bag past a dior eye shadow palette, and with a soft grunt, you hoisted out a literal, solid red clay brick neatly wrapped in heavy-duty duct tape.
Thud.
Dick stared at the brick. Then he stared at you. Then back at the brick.
"Wait," Dick said, his voice dropping an octave as his brain scrambled to catch up. "You... you weren't joking."
“Why would I joke about that?" you murmured, frowning into the abyss of your bag. "Now where did I put my lip gloss... I know it's under here somewhere..."
What followed was a rhythmic, systematic unloading of your purse that shattered Dick Grayson’s entire worldview in under thirty seconds.
Thud-clack.
Out came a high-voltage, heavy-duty stun gun. It was wrapped in bright, pastel-pink grip tape.
Slink
A heavy, collapsible steel baton slid onto the console table.
Clack.
a set of solid brass knuckles
Click-thud.
A canister of police-grade, bear-strength pepper spray. Attached to the nozzle was a tiny, sparkling rhinestone sticker of a smiley face.
Clack.
A tactical folding knife with a iridescent chameleon blade.
"Aha! Found it!" you hummed triumphantly, reaching past the empty space where the brick had been to pull out a sleek, tiny tube of shade Chanel pink lip gloss.
Dick just stood there, completely frozen.
"Babe..." Dick started slowly, pointing a trembling finger at the mini armory sitting right next to your apartment keys. "Are you... planning to single-handedly overthrow a small syndicate on your way to meet your friends?"
You popped open the lip gloss, slicking it onto your lips in the mirror before carefully packing every single weapon—and the literal brick—back into the bag. The tiny bell on the strap chimed merrily with every deadly addition.
"Don't be dramatic," you said, zipping the bag shut with a crisp snap. "It's called basic street safety, Grayson. If a guy tries to snatch my purse, the weight alone will break his wrist. If he persists, he gets the taser. It's about layers."
You turned around, popping the lip gloss back into your coat pocket. You stood on your tiptoes, pressed a sweet, glossy kiss to his cheek, and beamed up at him.
"I'll be back by nine! Don't forget to order the pizza!"
"I... yeah. Pizza. Right," Dick managed to choke out.
"Love you!"
"Love you too," Dick whispered to the empty doorway as it clicked shut behind you.
5 minutes passed and Dick just stood there staring at the closed door, in shock, more in love with you than he’d ever been.
i think this is my fav fic yet!
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“So that’s it?” The question cut through the air—sharp and bitter in its delivery, yet still edged with a kind of hurt that only a woman scorned could muster up. The tremor in your hands was blatant. White-hot fury illuminated your eyes in a way your lover hadn’t witnessed before.
Never had you directed your anger toward Bruce, at least not like this.
You were the fun girlfriend who brought joy into his demanding life. You were the supportive girlfriend who didn’t ask too many questions. You were the understanding girlfriend who gave forgiveness freely.
You weren’t meant to lash out, weren’t used to letting those pesky doubts pave the way for actual conflict. You didn’t want to do this.
But with every passing month spent by Bruce’s side—knowing what everyone said about him—spite had been festering within you. Almost like a parasite, it’d taken a hold of you before you could even realize it.
You saw the tabloids daily. You knew what the public perception of your relationship looked like. In fact, you were painfully aware of how certain the majority of people were in their assumption that Bruce Wayne would surely return to his playboy roots sooner or later.
Proving them right was a bitter pill to swallow.
Stupid; that’s how you felt after not having predicted this outcome. With all the warnings you’d been ignoring, you almost blamed yourself.
The silence stretched on, and your heart broke a little more at his lack of a response. You used to love how calm and collected Bruce was—thought it balanced out the temper you could barely control at times. Now you found yourself hating how unreadable his face was.
Frustration turned into rage, as you pushed against his chest and shouted, “Speak up already! You owe me that much, don’t you?!”
A disbelieving scoff left your parted lips. “Or is that also too much to expect after the two years you have spent making a fool of me in the public eye?” Your voice held steady, but your eyes betrayed you.
Beneath the surface, Bruce could recognize the hurt pooling in them.
But he couldn’t tell you the truth. Not involving you in his life of fighting crime had been a conscious decision. Keeping you in the dark was for the best, even if holding on to this secret would break your trust in him.
Bruce would rather have you hate him than have you be in danger as a result of his selfishness. He couldn’t be selfish; not with you. His love for you had stopped him from that before even his morality ever could.
He wasn’t deserving of good things. They never lasted. He knew that now. Hurting you had never been his intention, though. Fuck, he hadn’t even intended for you to get as close to him as you did. You were a civilian—someone who only knew him as Bruce, and not as the Bat.
You had no idea of what being with him truly meant. So he had tried to keep his distance, to stop whatever was happening between you two before it could ever truly ignite. But it was pointless. Your persistence, your affection, your warmth; they’d cracked his resolve quicker than he could have prevented it. You made it impossible for love not to bloom.
The seeds of trust you’d planted in the beginnings of your relationship blossomed in spite of the light Bruce lacked to nurture them at times.
Your love had felt like a magnolia in May. Seeing you like this made Bruce wonder if his neglect had truly caused its petals to wither away.
Bruce wanted to pull you closer. Instinct called for him to reach out to you, to reassure you, to tell you that none of these claims held any real substance to them. It seemed impossible to convince you, though, that the damning pictures paparazzi had leaked of him leaving a notorious strip club downtown meant nothing. He couldn’t tell you the actual reason why he was there—not without exposing his vigilante lifestyle.
He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it once more. Still, no words.
You felt a familiar burning sensation in your nostrils—a warning for the tears that were already beginning to sting at the corners of your eyes.
Schooling your expression, you took a step back from Bruce, as though being near him filled you with disgust. “Fuck you,” you spat out, but your voice lacked its previous passion. Then, you turned around and left. With you, you took any hope he had held onto for a brighter future.
A flower simply couldn’t persevere in the face of darkness, and if Bruce was honest with himself, he knew that the darkness had become a part of him a long time ago. He’d settle for admiring his magnolia from afar.
And he did. Letting you go had wrecked him, yet seeing you shine once more brought him back to life. Months passed, then a year, and still, Bruce found himself wishing he could have been the right man for you. If only he could’ve been the gentle-faced blonde man on whose arm you hung these days. The one that had no secrets to keep from you.
The one who Bruce heard had proposed to you recently. The one you had said yes to. In another world, would you have said yes to him too?
In a world where Bruce had been the one to ask you to be his wife instead of breaking your heart? A simpler world, one that allowed for him not to be the twisted man he was doomed to be in this one.
Marriage had been a thought for him at the time. More and more often had he looked at his late mother’s wedding ring and thought of what a future would look like with you by his side forever as Mrs. Wayne.
Bruce wondered if you would think of him when you walked down the aisle toward another man, stepping into a life that should have been his. A rotten part of him hoped you would. The astute part knew it.
em’s masterlist | bruce wayne masterlist wc: 1.0k request: no
˙⋆✮ a/n: feel like i started strong but got rly lazy at some point 💀 tbh i’m a bit cringed out by my metaphors in this but i cba to change ts 😬
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"Again?" he laughs, that bright, easy laugh that made you fall for him in the first place.
Oh god oh fuck you're horny again.
Don't get him wrong, he's not complaining. He's never complaining. He loves you. He worship you. He gets off on making you cum.
But his dick is literally chafed and he's running on two hours of sleep and a protein bar he ate between round three and round four and—
You're already tugging at his belt.
His belt. Which he just buckled. Thirty seconds ago.
He's hard again.
How?
How is he hard again?
He's not twenty anymore, he's pushing thirty, his knees click when he does certain positions, he pulled a hamstring last week doing that thing you like where he folds you like a pretzel—okay, he has been slacking lately BUT it's your fault because you don't even let him leave the house—
"No, no, baby, I'm— I'm not complaining," he says, already breathless, already getting to his knees because you've got that look, with glassy eyes, and pouty lips, "I just— hah— give me five minutes? Ten? I need to rehydrate, I need to—"
"You don't want me?"
What?
The words hit him like a bullet to his chest.
No. No no no no. Don't ever say that. Don't ever think that. He wants you. He wants you so much it's ruining him. He wants you when he's asleep, wants you when he's awake, wants you when he's bleeding out on a rooftop wondering if he'll make it home in time to taste you before patrol—
He's already got his mouth on you. Already. Didn't even make a conscious decision. His body just moved because his body wants you and your pleasure, your smile, the little gasp you make when he gets it just right—
"I want you," he mumbles into your thigh, "I want you, I want you, I want you, don't ever say I don't, I'll— I'll prove it, I'll stay down here all night, I don't need sleep, sleep is for people who aren't dating a goddess, I'll just—"
You pull him up by his hair. He whimpers. He whimpers like a puppy because his girlfriend touched his scalp.
God, he's pathetic.
He loves it.
He loves you.
"You were saying something about rehydrating?" you ask, and your voice is teasing but your hand is wrapped around him and his vision goes sparkly at the edges.
"Who cares—ah fuck," he hears himself say, "I-I don't...ugh... Give a f-fuck."
And later, when he's lying on top of you, every muscle screaming, a single tear is rolling down his cheek, because fuck he's overstimulated, He press his lips to your sweaty forehead.
"You're gonna break me someday, you know that?"
You smile.
"That's the plan,"
His dick twitch again, and he'll laugh hysterically into your hair because he's the luckiest man walking in the entire goddamn world.
JASON TODD
He doesn't get it.
He doesn't fucking get it.
You— you— want him? All the time? Every second of every day? You, with your soft hands and your pretty smile and your laugh that sounds like something he doesn't deserve to hear— you want Jason Todd, the dead Robin, the black sheep, the one with blood under his fingernails and a body count longer than his book collection?
"Again, sweetheart?" he rasps, and his voice cracks, actually cracks, because his throat is raw from moaning your name, and his thighs are shaking, and there's a bruise forming on his hip from where you grabbed him too hard and he didn't even notice because he was too busy moaning like a whore.
You nod. Just nod. Like it's nothing. Like you're asking him to pass the salt.
His heart lurches.
He's scared. Not of you— never of you— but of the moment you realize you can do better. The moment you wake up and think why am I wasting my time with this broken, angry, fucked up excuse for a man when I could have someone better?
So he fucks you like his life is depended on it.
Every time. Every single time.
"Alright," he says, rolling on top of you even though his arms are jelly, even though he came so hard ten minutes ago he nearly blacked out, even though he's so tired he gonna pass out at any moment— "Alright, c'mere, I got you, I got—"
"Jay." You catch his face in your hands. "You're crying."
What? No he's not. He's not— shit.
He scrubs at his eyes, pissed, embarrassed, and you're looking at him with that soft, worried expression and he can't handle it, he can't handle this.
"I'm fine," he lies, "I'm fine, I just— I got something in my eye, it's fine, do you wanna do it from behind this time or—"
"Why are you crying, baby?"
Baby.
The word break something in his chest. Something that was already cracked. Something that's been held together with spite and rage and the desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, he's allowed to have nice things.
"I-I don't know," he chokes out, and now he's really crying, ugly sobs tearing out of his throat, "I'm just s-so overwhelmed and I-I *sob* I don't d-deserve you *sob* you should be with someone who isn't a—a—a—"
You kiss him.
You kiss him through the tears and the snot and the self loathing, and you don't pull away, and you don't look disgusted, and your hands are so gentle on his scarred skin, and he just— he just breaks down.
But it's just because he's overwhelmed by sex, okay?
He buries his face in your neck and sobs and you hold him, you hold him like he's something precious, something worth keeping, and his stupid dick is still half hard against your thigh because he doesn't know what else to do.
"I want you," you whisper into his hair, "just you, Jay. Always."
"...Promise?"
"Promise."
He pulls back, eyes red, face blotchy, looking like a mess.
And then he laughs— his cracked, broken laugh.
"Okay," he says, "okay. But if you're gonna kill me with sex, at least let me grab some water first. And maybe a snack. I'm not dying of dehydration before I make you come again."
You grin.
Yeah his girl's so pretty.
"Alright."
He's still crying a little. He's still hard. He's still certain he doesn't deserve this.
But you're here.
And you want him.
So he'll keep going until his heart gives out, because dying in your arms sounds like the best way to go.
TIM DRAKE
He has a spreadsheet.
No, wait, hear him out— it's not weird, okay? It's organized. It's practical. It's what any rational person would do when confronted with a girlfriend who wants to have sex literally all the time and he needs to make sure he's— that he's—
Meeting expectations.
Performing adequately.
Being a good boyfriend.
Column A: date. Column B: time of day. Column C: position. Column D: duration. Column E: number of times you said his name (sub-column for "just Tim" vs. "oh god Tim" vs. the rare, precious "Timmy" that makes his whole body shudder). Column F: notes. (You like it when he flick his tongue. You didn't like when he tried to flip you over and almost dropped you. He needs to work on his upper body strength. He'll add more pull ups to his training regimen. Done. Noted.)
He's on his third coffee and it's 3 AM and you're asleep next to him— finally, finally asleep, worn out after four rounds and a fifth that he had to tap out of because his vision started doing that staticky thing—
And he's updating the spreadsheet.
Because he loves you. And love means making sure you're comfortable. Love means making you happy. Love means making sure he's the best possible version of himself for you, that he's anticipating your needs, that he always make you cum, that he never, ever falls short—
"What's that?"
Oh fuck him.
You're awake. You're squinting at his laptop screen. He slams it shut, but it's too late, you already saw the color coded tabs, the pie chart (yes, there's a pie chart, he was curious about the distribution of positions, sue him).
"Tim." Your voice is still sleepy and it does things to him, weird things, his body is already responding and he just finished updating a row that said he couldn't go again, scientifically, medically, his body has limits—
"It's nothing."
"Timothy Jackson Drake."
Full name. He's in trouble. He's so in trouble. His stomach flips and his dick twitches and god, why does you being like this make him harder—
"It's— a spreadsheet."
"Of our sex life."
"...Yes."
...
Why aren't you saying anything?
You're in shock aren't you? You're in so much shock you can't even talk.
Of course. You just saw your supposed normal boyfriend as the obsessive freak that he is.
"I'm sorry," he blurts, "I know it's weird, I just— I wanted to make sure I was doing a good job, that I wasn't missing anything, that you were— satisfied— because you want it so often and I thought maybe I wasn't enough and I had to do something—"
"Tim."
"—and I know it's creepy, I'm creepy, I'm a creepy insecure little bitch who can't just enjoy things—"
"Tim."
He shuts up.
You're smiling. A soft, fond, adoring smile.
"You want to know if you're doing a good job?"
He nods, throat too tight to speak.
"Come here."
He crawls into your arms and you pull him against your chest and he can hear your heartbeat and it's the most beautiful sound in the world.
"You're doing amazing," you murmur, stroking his hair, "you're perfect. You're so good to me, Tim. The best."
Best.
The words hit his bloodstream like a drug. He makes a sound— a high, needy, embarrassing sound— and presses his face into your collarbone, his whole body trembling.
"I love you," he whispers, "I love you so much, I'm sorry about the spreadsheet, I'll delete it—"
"Don't you dare. It's hot."
"...What?"
"Knowing you put that much thought into making me cum is honestly..." Your hand slides lower, and he sucks in a breath. "The sexiest thing anyone's ever done for me."
What the fuck?
"You— really?"
"Mmhmm. Now... you said that you couldn't go again, but maybe we should test that hypothesis?"
He's already kissing you before you finish the sentence.
He's going to need a new row. And a new coffee. And possibly a medical professional.
Worth it.
DAMIAN WAYNE
This is absurd.
You are absurd. Your libido is absurd. The fact that he— Damian al Ghul Wayne, heir to the League of Assassins, Robin, the son of the Batman— is currently hiding in the bathroom like a coward because his Beloved crooked her finger at him for the seventh time today is—
"Damian~"
Tt.
He clenches his jaw. His body betrays him instantly, heat pooling low in his stomach, his cock stirring traitorously against the zipper of his tailored slacks.
He is not a beast. He is not ruled by base urges. He was trained from birth to master his desires, to transcend the weakness of the flesh—
"Habibti, please, if you need release I will happily provide it, I am more than capable, but we have already—" his voice drops to a whisper, "—six times today, and I have a Wayne Enterprises board meeting in an hour—"
"And?"
And. You says and like it's nothing. Like his legacy, his reputation, his carefully constructed facade of cold professionalism isn't crumbling around him because of a woman who looks at him like he's a three course meal she hasn't finished.
He emerges from the bathroom.
Big mistake.
You're on the bed. His bed. Dressed in nothing but his shirt— the one with his family crest embroidered on the pocket, the one he wore the first time you fuck him— and you're looking at him with those lustful eyes—
"I missed you."
"You saw me twenty minutes ago."
"Too long."
He's already walking toward you.
Why is he walking toward you?
He should be walking away. He should be asserting dominance. He is a master of seventeen forms of martial arts and he cannot, for the life of him, make his feet move in the opposite direction of you.
"I have a meeting," he says, but his voice is pitiful, needy, and he hates how much he wants you, hates how you've turned him into this— this creature who craves your touch more than anything—
"Cancel it."
"I cannot cancel a board meeting, Beloved, there are protocols—"
"Tell them your girlfriend needed you."
"They will not accept that as a valid excuse—"
"Then make them."
Make them.
The sheer, casual authority in your voice sends a shiver down his spine.
You speak like you own him. Like he should do as you say. Like he should obey every order, as if—
He has his phone out before he can stop himself.
"Pennyworth. I will be... indisposed this afternoon. Inform the board the meeting is postponed."
"Very good, Master Damian. Shall I prepare a nutrient rich smoothie? You've been quite occupied lately."
He can hear the smirk in Alfred's voice.
Very amusing Pennyworth. Very amusing indeed.
He wants to die. He wants to crawl into a hole and never emerge. But then you're crooking your finger again and all thoughts of dignity evaporate like morning mist.
"I canceled the meeting," he says, approaching the bed, trying to maintain some shred of dignity, "I hope you are satisfied—"
You grab him by the tie and pull him onto the bed.
He yelps. He yelps. Like a startled cat. Like Titus when the vacuum cleaner turns on. And then you're straddling him, pinning him down with your body, which shouldn't be possible given his training but his muscles have apparently decided that being pinned by you is exactly what they want—
"I am never satisfied," you murmur against his lips, "not when it comes to you. You know that, right?"
His heart— his cold, closed off, carefully guarded heart— warm up a little.
"Beloved..."
"You're mine, Damian. Every inch of you. Every minute of your day. And I'm going to enjoy what's mine. Understood?"
He swallows hard.
"...Understood."
"Good boy."
His face flushes a deep, humiliating red, and his whole body trembles with the desperate need to hear those words from your lips, to know that he has pleased you, that he is worthy—
One day, he'll tell you. One day, he'll confess how much he needs your approval, your praise, your love. One day, he'll stop pretending he's above these feelings.
But not today.
Today, he'll just lie back and let his Beloved have her way with him for the seventh time, and he'll bite his lip until it bleeds to keep from begging, and when it's over he'll hold you like you're the most precious thing in the universe—
