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dick grayson / nightwing
â canis canem edit: 1 || 2 || 3 || 4 || 5 || 6 || 7
jason todd / red hood
â stranger than fiction (one-shot)

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almost home

Love Begins
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đâ§đ˘Ö´ŕť masterlist đ â ŰŞ
DC
dick grayson / nightwing
â canis canem edit: 1 || 2 || 3 || 4 || 5 || 6 || 7
jason todd / red hood
â stranger than fiction (one-shot)
Shy!Jason Todd Headcanons đ
shy!jason whoâs looks can be deceiving. he usually looks somewhat scary, like a clichĂŠ from some dark romance book, leather jacket, his hairy messy, scars across his face and peeking out beneath his sleeves, when hiding underneath is a shy, empathetic and sensitive soul.
shy!jason who noticed you at your place of work, a small bookshop near his apartment, months before ever talking to you. the first time the two of you talked, you came up to him as you saw him behind a shelf, softly tapping his shoulder and watching him turn around, eyes wide and startled as the blood rushed to his cheeks at your presence.
shy!jason who was actually hiding behind the shelf before you came up to him, after seeing you smiling at a customer, leaving him short of breath and his brain scrambled.
shy!jason who comes back at least once a week after you introduced yourself and recommended him some books you thought heâd like. what you didnât know is that heâd already read most of them and just bought them a second time because he couldnât tell you no.
shy!jason who walks out disappointed in himself every time after talking to you without asking for your number. heâs been so close to just saying the words a thousand times but he just canât bring himself to say them out loud when heâs face to face with you.
shy!jason who starts staying until you close the shop on your shift and offers to walk you home one night. this becomes a habit. sometimes heâs there during the last hour until closing, sometimes heâs held up with red hood stuff (which you donât know about), so he comes just as youâre locking the door behind you.
shy!jason whoâs face flushes so bad when you compliment him. it could be something as simple as praising his taste in books or telling him the color of his shirt is nice.
shy!jason who is walking you home one night when youâre cornered by some low-life thugs demanding your personal belongings and holding you at knife point. and suddenly he isnât so shy anymore. he pulls you behind him, buffing his chest as he barks at the thugs to get lost. you donât see everything, your view blocked by his broad shoulders, but from one second to the next theyâre running for their life.
shy!jason who turns back to a blushing mess when you thank him for defending you. he just nods, avoiding your gaze shamefully as he continues to walk you home. he was scared you would see him in a different light after showing off his rough side. in reality, youâre thinking that the cute, shy guy who always visit your shop just stood up for you, making him even hotter.
shy!jason whoâs eyes widen when you ask him on a date that night, finally giving him your number. he can feel his neck heat up as you take his phone and type in your number, your hand brushing his calloused one as you hand it back to him.
shy!jason who goes home that night absolutely delighted, finally getting your number. he canât believe you just asked him on a date. lying in his bed, he debates wether to text you immediately or if itâs too soon. what would he even say? he didnât want to come off as needy or too eager, but he also doesnât want to seem like an asshole. in the end, he decided on a simple goodnight and see you tomorrow.
Canis Canem Edit
Dick Grayson x Reader || Ch. 7
frat boy! dick grayson x studious! reader
Dick Grayson finds himself falling in love with the one girl on campus who canât stand himâ his project partner.
TW: mentions of vomiting from previous chapter A/N: wanted to get this out earlier this week but i adopted a kitten and she's taken over my life lol
The next morning begins with you sprawled out on your floor, laying next to your trash can with a half-empty bottle of water and some chips.Â
Your eyes open with great resistance. Thereâs a loud buzzing sound erupting from your phone, somewhere behind the trash can, and your arms flail trying to grab it.Â
Merely sitting up makes your entire body ache in protest. You squeeze your eyes shut, rubbing at your throbbing temples before reaching for your phone.
A spam call.Â
Thatâs what forced you to drag yourself from a mediocre, yet deep floor slumber.Â
You deny it instantly. Youâre left with a home screen so busy and bright that it makes you squint.
The first thing you see is the time: 11:53.Â
Youâd slept through class.
As to be expected.
Still, it sends another wave of pain through your skull. It feels like thereâs cement where your brain should be.Â
The second thing that catches your eye are the hoards of text messages cluttering your screen.Â
Your stomach sinks when you see the most recent.Â
Dick :) (11:03): Hey, how are you feeling?
Dick :) (11:03): Iâm skipping class :( feel like shit from last nightÂ
Everything from last night comes flooding back to you. As much of it as you can remember, anyway.
Too much alcohol. Dick leading you to the bathroom. Then vomiting. A lot of vomiting. He came to check on you at one pointâ you were sure of it.Â
And then you blinked and were back home.Â
And now, on your floor, you hold your breath as your fingers scramble to come up with anything to say.Â
You (11:55 AM): I skipped too. I doubt heâll cover anything important, half the class wonât be there
You (11:55 AM): Hopefully youâre feeling better than me.Â
Hesitantly, but with too much exhaustion to really care, you send a photo of yourselfâ caked in yesterdayâs makeup, dried mascara under your eyes, smudged black liner, and hair a messâ giving a thumbs up.Â
You (11:56 AM): [photo]
You (11:56 AM): Iâm genuinely so sorry for yakking in your toilet btwÂ
Charm wasnât your strongest trait. Four texts and a photo was anything short of desperate, even if it wasnât for romantic attention.Â
He doesnât respond. He either hates you or went back to sleep.
You hope itâs the latter, because the rest of your roommates seem to follow suit.Â
Creeping down the steps to grab a fresh bottle of water, you notice the house is dead silent. In fact, so is the whole street, void of the usual chatter of students walking to class or music playing from their porches.Â
For that brief moment, itâs just you in the kitchen: lightheaded, thirsty, feeling like you got hit by a bus. But thereâs sun shining through the windowpane and a peaceful stillness accompanied only by the occasional chirping of mourning doves.
A rare quiet. The calm after a storm you canât fully recall.Â
Youâd face the humiliation of whatever happened last night when the rest of the world awoke.Â
Right now, you had to take care of the buzzball-sized hole in your stomach. You open a delivery app, ordering the greasiest, cheesiest egg sandwich you can find along with a large iced coffee from a nearby diner.
âÂ
âI did what?âÂ
The girls snicker hearing the tremor in your voice.Â
âYeah. You were clinging to him, girl,â Chloe attests, taking a sip from her mug. âLike a koala bear.â
You think your heart canât drop any further, but it seems to completely sink to the bottom of a very dark, deep ocean of humiliation.Â
You were expecting drunk antics. You werenât expecting to hear that you spent half the night crying into the arms of Gotham Uâs biggest playboy: the very one your roommates thought you couldnât stand.Â
What had you told him? What did he think of you? A total freakâ surely.Â
Then, a worse thought quickly pops into your head.
Had you tried to make a move on him?
That thought had never crossed your mind beforeâ but thatâs when you were sober. Not drunk out of your mind and bold enough to curl into his arms.
He was undeniably attractive. The image of him at the party, body damp from sweat and shirt barely holding together, had engrained itself in your brain. What if youâd commented on it? Or worse, done something about it?
A new wave of shame overcomes you.Â
You werenât supposed to be thinking about him like that. You didnât think of him that way. He wasnât⌠he was never in the conversation, even if he was admittedly easy on the eyes.Â
And kind. And funny. And not entirely an idiot.Â
And itâd make the semester ten times more awkward if he ever found out.Â
Your throat burned from something that wasnât from the hangover.
Lena rubs your shoulder as your head falls into your lap.Â
âHe really didnât seem that fazed,â she chuckles. âHe was more concerned than weirded out. I⌠donât think he was weirded out at all, actually.âÂ
The girls hum in agreement. Youâre not entirely convinced that theyâre not just being nice to save you the humiliation.Â
As if reading your mind, Lena pulls out her phone. Your head darts up.Â
On her screen is a brief text conversation between her and Dick.Â
Lena (3:14 AM): Sheâs home safe :)Â
(3:17 AM) Dick liked âSheâs home safe :)âÂ
Dick (3:17 AM): Thank you for letting me know!Â
You squint. You look up at Lena. Then back at the phone. Then Lena.Â
She beats you to speaking before you can fully open your mouth.Â
âHe only gave me his number to make sure you were okay,â she says. âHe was worried. Like, genuinely worried.â
The look on your face is somewhere between bewilderment and relief.Â
âAnd he didnât try to touch you or anything,â Hafsa adds. âSeriously, we wouldâve kicked his ass.âÂ
âI know that,â you grumble, shaking your head. But you felt only the smallest bit of relief. Why would he have even bothered?
What would his potentially-imaginary-other-school-situationship think of it?
You rub at your temples as the ache grows. Â
The conversation eventually splinters as the girls get ready to go about their day. Itâs nearly 2 PM by this point and you still hadnât received a text back from Dick. Maybe you never would.Â
Eventually, you trudge back up to your small haven in the attic, deciding to try and knock out the classwork you missed to get your mind off of things.Â
And it works!
For a while.Â
Itâs 4:34 PM when a buzz from your phone pulls you from your trance. You reach for it embarrassingly quickly.Â
Dick :) (4:34 PM): God Iâm sorry I just woke back upÂ
Dick :) (4:34 PM): [image]Â
He sends a photo of him lying in bed: hair disheveled, half-lidded eyes, flashing the same awkward thumbs up youâd given him earlier.
You swallow, staring at the photo far longer than you had to while the rest of the messages came through.Â
His sheets were navy blueâ bad sign. Fuckboy classic.Â
But when your jawline was still that sharp and your hair still looked effortlessly tousled violently hungover, youâd probably be a little cocky too.Â
Dick :) (4:36 PM): Iâll look at class stuff this weekend, unfortunately Iâm going out again tn đ°đ°
Dick :) (4:37 PM): Hopefully my toilet wonât be filled with as much Y/N pukeÂ
A blush of equal parts embarrassment and amusement creeps up your face. The girls would have a field day if they saw you like this.Â
Dick :) (4:37 PM): I really do hope you feel better though please take it easy tn :(
You turn off your phone and instantly stand up. After a few minutes of pacing around your room like a tense, wild animal, you pick it back up with a deep breath, trying to think of a response.Â
This was more intense than any exam would ever be.Â
You (4:43 PM): That toiletâs gonna be filled with ur puke not mineÂ
You stare down at the message after you send it. Youâre about to write something equally as witty to follow, but hesitate.
Slowly, but surely, you type something longer.Â
You (4:45 PM): My roommates told me about what happened last night btw. Iâm so sorry for acting the way I did. I really donât drink much and I overdid it đ
You (4:46 PM): Thank you so much for taking care of me. You didnât have to. I owe you one
Before you can fully regret breaking the playful banter, his typing bubble appears immediately.Â
Dick :) (4:46 PM): God no youâre totally fine
Dick :) (4:46 PM): Iâm just glad youâre feeling betterÂ
Dick :) (4:46 PM): You owe me nothingÂ
The sincerity shone through even over text. It was the same warmth you heard when he brought you coffee and asked about your mornings, and you felt a flutter of relief in your chest. Â
Whatever you said or did in that small, dingy bathroom wasnât enough to scare him off completely.Â
Which you shouldâve figured from his morning check-in, but you were never one for having high hopes.
You message him back.Â
You (4:48 PM): Ok. But I really do mean it.Â
Assuming the conversation was over, and feeling strangely content with it, youâre about to turn your phone off when his typing bubble appears again.Â
Dick :) (4:49 PM): I know you do
Dick :) (4:50 PM): I doubt Iâll see you out again tn so Iâll get twice as drunk in ur honor đŤĄ
A bemused huff escapes you.Â
He wasnât wrong; you had no intention of waking up feeling like dead weight once more. But the thought of him going out againâ maybe to talk to girls, maybe just to get wastedâ left a sour taste in your mouth.Â
It was his choice, you told yourself as you snapped a picture of your intense study setup: highlighted notebooks, a PDF of a case study loaded onto your iPad, an assignment document on your laptop.Â
You (4:53 PM): [image]
You (4:54 PM): I have plans
A crazy night youâd have.Â
Too crazy for him, apparently, because he doesnât respond. You figure heâs already back at his frat house, starting the night early by taking swigs of the communal whiskey bottle.Â
You bury yourself in homework for the rest of the afternoon. Itâs nearly two hours later when a buzz from your phone pulls your attention away from an absolutely riveting academic journal on research methodology.Â
The first message is an image.
Dick is standing in front of his bathroom mirror, shooting a thumbs up with aviators and a fake mustache on his face. Heâs wearing a purple, flowery button-up top, exposing half of his toned upper body like he had last night, and a pair of bell bottom jeans: some sort of 70âs hippie getup. What gets you is the stupidly cheeky grin on his face. You canât see his eyes through the sunglasses, but you know thereâs that same self-satisfied glint in them.Â
He knew he looked good and he knew you thought so, too.Â
God, what had you said to him last night?
Before you can pull yourself away from staring at his abs for the next hour, two more texts roll in.Â
Dick :) (6:24 PM): Wowwww crazy đ¤
Dick :) (6:24 PM): Just donât puke all over ur setupÂ
You roll your eyes. You place a dislike reaction on the last message.Â
You (6:26 PM): Fuck offÂ
He hearts the message.Â
You donât hear from Dick the rest of the night, assuming heâs long gone in somebodyâs backyard before it even hits 10 oâclock.Â
The rest of your roommates say goodbye as they leave to go out for the second night. You have the house to yourself, the only accompaniment the creaking of your shitty old walls and trap music bleeding in from down the street.Â
You look at the picture Dick sent you more times than you can count. You feel like a Victorian man seeing a womanâs ankle, but you canât help it. That picture was meant to make you feel this way.Â
Another thought pops into your head just as quickly, making you shiver: how many other girls had he sent it to?
You could admire Dick from afar, but getting close to him was a bad decision. It was the trap every girl fell for. No, you knew better than to think there was something here.
Still, you canât help yourself from snooping on his Instagram.
That girl. Barbara. She was the only girl to appear on his profile, and the thought that you might know her still gnawed at you.
But she graduated. And she hadnât gone to Tam Uâ so this wasnât the girl Reese had mentioned at work.Â
You click on her profile again. Itâs still private, but from what you can see, itâs not the kind of girl youâd expect to end up on his page.Â
Her profile picture shows her smiling softly, a pair of thin-rimmed glasses on her face. She only has around 300 followers, a few of which were mutuals, and her bio simply reads: âGotham U 2024.âÂ
You zoom in on her profile picture, trying to make out the background. Itâs a blurred mix of deep browns and something with the color structure of a rainbow.Â
And then it clicks.
A bookcase.Â
And you know where youâve seen this girl.Â
Last year, when you were knee-deep in LSAT studying, you spent almost every day at the university library.
It was one of the only places you really felt comfortable on campus, and sometimes youâd be there so long that a worker would have to come kick you out when they closed.Â
Barbara was one of them.
She worked at the front desk, nose usually buried in a book or eyes glued to her laptop, and always offered you a warm smile when you walked in.
The two of you never spoke past formalities, but it was clear she recognized you.Â
You swipe back to the photo of them together.Â
His arm was draped around her waist, the two of them standing by the railing of a rooftop bar. Theyâre smiling, both holding drinks, but the moment doesnât feel particularly romantic.Â
Even in group photos, other couples are hugging, holding hands, even pressing quick pecks to one anotherâs lips. In comparison, they just looked like friends.
And maybe they were.
Even still, how was this the kind of girl Dick Grayson brought to a fraternity formal?Â
Someone who looked like theyâd rather spend the weekend catching up on their latest read, not downing drafts at a bar in Canada.Â
Something wasnât adding up.Â
You felt shallow, even superficial for thinking it. But with the kind of reputation Grayson had, youâd expect him to have supermodels around his shoulders, not girls with private accounts and modest followings.Â
Dick didnât talk much about his personal life, but he wouldâve brought up a girlfriend by now if he had one. And with what Reese mentioned at work about that girl from Tam UâŚ
You go back to his following list.Â
He still only followed around 320 people.Â
It couldnât be that hard to find a girl with âTamâ in their bio, right? If it was even included at allâ hadnât Reese mentioned that she mightâve transferred?
You slam your laptop shut, hunching over your desk and beginning to scroll.
You spend an embarrassing amount of time analyzing the accounts of every girl he follows with the intensity of a P.I.Â
They each either had âGothamâ and some year in their bio, another school name, or nothing at all. The search felt futile. There werenât that many to go through, and it still felt like trudging through a desert without an oasis in sight.Â
Youâre about to give up hope when you come across a profile that immediately catches you off guard.
@k.ori.andr
âTamaran â26 đ§Ąâ
Glowing tan skin, long, fiery red hair, glowing green eyes and a tall, athletic build. Her profile picture showed her posing in some sort of tropical setting, leaving little to the imagination.
She was jaw-droppingly gorgeous.Â
It was no wonder Dick was one of her 1,980 followers. All of her photos looked like they were taken professionallyâ or maybe she was just that photogenic.Â
This seemed more like the girl heâd lose sleep over. The girl every guyâs eyes would be glued to. One look at her most recent post of her at the beach made you feel like you shouldnât even be on the same planet as her.Â
If Reese was right and this was his situationship⌠yeah, he wasnât even sparing you a thought.Â
Would he see her tonight? Was she in town for Gothamâs âwildâ Halloween party scene?
The thought makes your jaw clench.Â
You turn the phone off, throwing it onto your bed.Â
There were more pressing matters than who your class project partner was or wasnât dating.Â
With a heavy sigh, you open your laptop again, throwing yourself into readings and assignments like you always did when things got too personal.Â
Exactly one month, fifteen days, and 17 hours from now, youâd be done with Gotham University.Â
You could ignore it until then.Â
âÂ
Halloweekend goes just as quickly as it arrives.Â
By Tuesday morning, youâre back in your seat in Jamesonâs class, pre-lecture chatter from classmates now about going home for Thanksgiving break instead of costumes and party plans.Â
Thereâs a quiet ache in your stomachâ not the one of dread that you first had when Dick was assigned to be your partner. This one was less familiar, more lingering.Â
Something that wouldnât go away even when he stepped through the door.
âMorninâ,â he greets you with a cup of coffee. âKyleâs has their holiday flavors out now. That oneâs peppermint mocha. Guy at the counter said it was good.âÂ
You take the familiar green cup.Â
âThanks,â you say with a soft smile as you take a sip.Â
He sits down next to you, slinging his backpack onto the floor and leaning down to unzip it and grab his laptop like always.
His head almost brushes against your leg. It feels unintentionally intimate. You donât like it.
You clear your throat.
âYou feeling okay?âÂ
The tone in your voice is sincere, but a little hesitant. There wasnât any tension between you and Dick from the weekend, but a small part of you still felt embarrassed by the state he saw you in.
He looks up at you and chuckles.Â
âYeah, mâalright,â he grins as he puts his laptop on the desk. âDonât worry. Iâll be locked in for our Arkham visit Friday.âÂ
Friday.Â
Shit. This Friday.Â
How had it crept up on you so fast?
You had all of your materials prepared, but the thought of being alone with Dick outside of school again, still running with all the feelings you were trying to avoidâŚÂ
You swallow your words and nod.Â
âYou okay?â He asks quietly. He looks you up and down. âYouâre a little quiet today,â he chuckles awkwardly. âStill donât feel great from Halloween?âÂ
Quickly, you shake your head.
âNo, Iâm fine,â you insist. Your hands shake a bit as they hold the cup up to your lips for another drink.
He notices. A sharp breath catches in his chest.Â
âAlright,â he relents. âBut, if somethingâs bothering you⌠you can tell me. If you want.âÂ
He shrugs.
You force a polite smile.
âIâm fine.âÂ
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A/N: sorry i do realize some of this chapter was lowkey a recap but it is important since reader doesn't remember much of the night, especially not the good parts lol. hope you enjoyed anyways! :)
me with you guys (yes you) simping over hot men
new chapter will be out next week!đ
NEW CHAP UP TOMORROW NIGHT WOOOO
new chapter will be out next week!đ
Canis Canem Edit
Dick Grayson x Reader || Ch. 6
frat boy! dick grayson x studious! reader
Dick Grayson finds himself falling in love with the one girl on campus who canât stand himâ his project partner.
TW: for those w/ emetophobia, there is some vomiting in this chapter! A/N: living vicariously through this fic and pretending it's fall rn
VI.
âRemember: next week weâll be meeting in Elliot Hall 240 for a law school application workshop with a few representatives from Career Services.âÂ
You pick up a piece of candy from the table and hold it up awkwardly.Â
âAnd, um⌠happy Halloween!âÂ
What few attendees there were shuffle out of the classroom immediately. The candy falls from your hands.Â
âGuess we shouldâve expected that,â mumbles Lena. âBeing Halloween and all.âÂ
âYeah, but itâs only six,â you remind her. âPeople donât usually start going out until, what, ten?â
She shrugs. âItâs still Halloween. And a Thursday.â
Thereâs a glint in her eyes and you can already tell itâs not going to be good.Â
âWhich means,â she continues in a sing-song voice, âa four-day Halloweekend.âÂ
You roll your eyes, stuffing your laptop and papers into your bag.Â
âYouâre not seriously going out tonight.âÂ
âOh, yes I am,â she retorts, almost instantly. âAnd so are you.âÂ
You slowly turn your head to look at her, halfway through zipping your bag. You grimace.Â
âWhat?âÂ
âÂ
âPut the fucking cat ears on. We leave in an hour.âÂ
Lena flings a dark headband at you and scampers out of the room. Thereâs loud music blasting from the kitchen downstairs, the rest of your housemates already pre-gaming.Â
You donât know how you agreed to this.Â
Staring down at the flimsy pair of ears, you sigh and toss them to the side of your desk, pulling out your makeup mirror and eyeshadow palette.Â
Lena said you needed to âde-stressâ and âenjoy your last chance at a college Halloweenâ-- and while she wasnât your mother, you had to admit she had a point.Â
Again.Â
Stupid Lena and her stupid good points.
While you never had much down-time in college, the month of October had been an extraordinary hellish one.Â
All-nighters spent commanding group projects, hours buried in Supreme Court cases and philosophy texts, meticulously planned club meetings only for nobody to show up, on top of the ever-impending reality that soon, youâd have to make time outside of class and buckle down on conducting real, physical, unpaid research at the Arkham Institute.
With Dick Grayson.Â
Dick Graysonâ who, to his credit, had not been as much of an obstacle as you thought.
He was competent. Did his share of the work, even if it wasnât great. Followed up with leads and secured times with focus groups and staff members. No more awkward texts, only the occasional FaceTime call to touch base.Â
Heâd even bring you coffee each class, and every time you offered to pay him back, heâd wave it off.
âMy dad is literally a billionaire,â heâd say with a surprising lack of arrogance.
Even still, there was a bristled awkwardness between the two of you. He was charming, social: tried to make small talk, make jokes. You werenât. You were there to pass with the best possible gradeâ maybe even a letter of recommendation from Jameson.
Something Dick didnât have to think twice about earning.Â
Fuck it. If you were going to go through all of this in the homestretch of the semester, the least you could do was blow off the steam like a normal college student.Â
Your hands shake as you carefully trace the tube of black ink into a sharp wing along your eyelids. Then the tip of your nose, and three thin lines on each of your cheeks.Â
The concealer was enough to cover the bulk of your dark circles, and with a little blush and eyeshadow, you looked⌠nice.
Good, even.
A stark contrast to the usual exhaustion you wore day-to-day.Â
You werenât expecting to dress up this year, so the costume was nothing revolutionary: a black tank top you found in your closet, a short black skirt you borrowed from Lena, and the pair of black Doc Martens you wore when it rained. You threw on some jewelry that hadnât been worn since a banquet you attended last spring. It honored some of the top students in your major, recognized personally by the professors that nominated them.
The plaque stares back at you as you secure the gold hoop into your ear. Thereâs a strange feeling in your gut. Not quite guilt, but not indifference either.Â
One night wouldnât ruin you.Â
Everyone else did it. Theyâd stumble into class hungover and still walk out with Aâs on their midterms.Â
Thatâs what you tell yourself when you walk downstairs and start downing a can of Truly.
âPeople enjoy this?â You nearly gag at the taste of the processed, almost metallic lime flavoring.Â
âI didnât think you were coming out, so we didnât get you any Angry Orchard,â Chloe frowns. âSorry.âÂ
You didnât drink often, but you enjoyed a hard cider every now and then.Â
âDidnât think I was, either,â you mumble, forcing down another sip.
Lena stumbles in from the kitchen with another seltzer and gasps when she sees you.
âLook at you, hottie!â She squeals. âI knew you had it in you!âÂ
You groan.
Sheâs dressed in a far more revealing bunny costume, with a tiny white dress, lace stockings, and big fluffy ears.Â
âIâm glad youâre coming with us tonight,â she says, suddenly sincere. âYou know Iâm not huge on it either, but itâs our last Halloween here.â
You smile wearily and nod.
âYeah. Itâs one night,â you shrug.
âFor you.â
You snicker and roll your eyes.Â
âYou look great,â you add, and you meant it. Lena had this unspoken confidence about her that, despite being as big of a homebody as you, could switch into confident party girl on a dime.Â
âAh, well, had to go the good olâ slutty animal route for my first night,â she chuckles, grabbing your arm leading you to the rest of the group.
âCâmon, guys! Letâs get going!â
â Â
âWhatâs the plan, anyways?âÂ
The four of youâ Lena, Chloe, your other roommate Hafsa, and yourselfâ clutch your arms for warmth as you trudge down the rocky back alleys of your neighborhood, slowly reaching the off-campus area.Â
âFigured weâd hit the frats to pregame, then head out to some bars,â Chloe says.Â
âFrats?â You grumble. âArenât we a little old for that?â
âWell, yeah, but they have free shit,â Hafsa chimes in, turning to you. âI refuse to pay for drinks. Not in this economy.âÂ
You sigh, not wanting to argue further. You were already regretting the night before it even started.
âWeâll only go to, like, two,â Lena assures you. âThen weâll head to the bars downtown. The good ones.â
She gives you a smile of encouragement. Youâre about to respond when Chloe points at a large, white building with neon lights emanating from the windows.Â
âThereâs Delt.â Â
âÂ
You didnât go to two.
Instead, by 1 AM, you were dancing on top of an elevated surface at the fourth dirty fraternity lawn of the night, vodka seltzer in each hand.Â
Sweaty bodies filled the crowd beneath you. The DJ a few feet from youâ some stringy boy no older than 19â blasts a remix of a song that sounds vaguely familiar. In the near distance, you can see a definitely underage girl doing a keg stand.Â
And caught in the commotion of it all stands Dick Grayson, his eyes locked on you.Â
The way you dance horribly off-beat to the music, but look like youâre having the time of your life anyways. The way your eyes crinkle when you laugh. The way your tight tank top and paper-thin skirt hug at your curves.Â
The way you were acting nothing like you did in class.Â
He doesnât pay attention to the two girls dressed as firefighters heâd been talking with seconds ago. One taps his shoulder. The other scoffs at him and grabs her friendâs arms, leading her away.
He doesnât move, doesnât even turn his head to say goodbye. Instead, he takes another sip of his beer, staring up at you with a reverence he knows better than to show.Â
For a split second, he thinks you look back at him too. But instead of believing it, he does what he always does and flashes a smile at the next girl he sees.Â
âÂ
Itâs almost an hour later that the novel, juvenile nature of the night is starting to wear off, when you realize you have to pee.
Really, really have to pee.Â
Youâre standing near the keg under the tent sipping on your umpteenth cup of shitty, cheap beer when you tap Lena on the shoulder.
âIâm actually half Greek,â you hear her shout over the music to the guy standing beside her. The one next to him has his eyes on you, but you donât even spare him a glance.Â
The guy talking to her points to you, and she reaches for your arm, eyes wide.
âYeah?â She slurs.
âBathroom?â You ask, twice as drunk.
She nods.
âI donât have to go, but Iâll come with.â
She offers a quick wave back to the guys before beginning the trek to the stairs of the porch with you. You both try your hardest not to stumble through the uneven, muddy lawn.Â
When you finally sift through enough sticky bodies to reach the back of the house, two boys block the stairs, standing firm.Â
Or at least try toâ all 5 '6 of them and their cheap⌠prisoner? costumes.
âBathroomâs closed off,â the pale one in an orange jumpsuit says. His voice hasnât even dropped yet. âSorry, ladies.âÂ
Lena scoffs. âAre you joking?â
âNo, maâam,â the slightly taller one chimes in. âLine got too long and people were loitering in the houseââ
âLoitering?â You spit. âThatâs a big word coming from a pledge.âÂ
Lenaâs eyes widen before she turns to you and barks out a laugh.
âIâm⌠Iâm not a fuckinâ pledge!â he scoffs, taking a step towards you.
âIâm a sophomore.â
âSophomore, senior, president, I donât give a shit,â you practically yell, your words slurring together, âI need to use your fucking bathroom, so open the goddamn door right now or Iâm going toââÂ
âWhatâs going on?âÂ
The sound of quick footsteps accompanies a familiar voice. You turn to see Dick Grayson beside you, his face contorted into a scowl.Â
Fuck. If only you could read Greek lettering, you wouldâve known this was his frat.Â
His hair is damp and messy from the heat of the party, his beige shirt unbuttoned to his mid- abdomen. Thereâs a bead of sweat rolling down the tan, smooth skin of his chest, and you have to fight the urge to do something stupid about it in your drunken haze.
âThis bitch wonât quit bothering us about the bathroom,â says the pale one, pointing to you.Â
âBitch?â You snap. âIâm not the scrawny little eighteen year old pledge on some fucking ego tripââÂ
Dick reaches his arm out to your shoulder, cutting you off.Â
âDonât,â he practically snarls at the boys in front of him. Then, he motions for them to move out of the way.Â
And like magic, with reluctant sighs, they do just that.Â
âLike Moses and the red fuckinâ sea,â Lena laughs under her breath. The tall one shoots her a glare.
Dick leads the two of you up the stairs and holds the door open. Heâs guiding you both down the long corridors of the spacious, ornate house when Lena suddenly stops in the living room.
A cheeky look creeps across her face.
âIâll wait out here,â she says, finding her way to the couch. She plops down and kicks her feet up onto the arm, whipping out her phone.
âCould use a break.âÂ
Any other time, you wouldâve killed her for purposefully leaving you alone with Grayson. She got off on pretending the two of you were star-crossed lovers, and here she was, leaning into it fully.Â
Right now, though, you were too buzzed to care. You really had to pee.
Dick swallows, shooting her a nod. His brows furrow a little.Â
âFuckinâ pledges,â he mumbles, leading you to the bathroom down the hall. His eyes dart to you right besides him, your gaze somewhere else entirely.Â
Quickly, he notices how shaky your footing is after you almost crash into the wall.
âWoah, woah, hey,â he murmurs, reaching out to ground you. His hands hesitantly settle at your waist as he slowly guides your movements.Â
ââMâfine,â you slur, but make no attempt to push him off. He can smell the booze on your breath.Â
âDidnât take you for the going-out type,â he chuckles awkwardly. âYou okay? How much did you have to drink?âÂ
You blow a raspberry, eyes still distant like youâre deep in thought.Â
âI dunno⌠just a few.âÂ
âA few?â Â
You swallow. The floor your eyes are stuck staring at becomes dizzier and dizzier.
âYeah. Jâs a few,â you drawl. He arrives at the door and opens it for you.
âGentleman,â you gasp jokingly.
His eyes widen.Â
âYou can come in, yâknow,âÂ
His eyes go even wider and your head is spinning too much to realize the tips of his ears were turning red.Â
âAhâ no,â he quickly blurts. âNo, thatâs not a good idea. Iâll just⌠Iâll be right outside.â
You groan, rolling your eyes.
âI was kiddiiiiinnnnggg!âÂ
He lets out a shaky exhale and runs a hand through his hair.Â
âYeah. Okay. UmââÂ
His brows knit together in a tight line before he takes a sharp breath and quickly shuts the door.
âIâll be out here if you need anything.â
You stumble your way to the toilet and shimmy down your skirt. The tiles on the bathroom look like theyâre rippling, waves caught in the choppy ocean current.
You hadnât realized how badly your head was pounding until now.Â
You reach for the toilet paper, grabbing a mangled fistful before managing to stand up and kick the lever with your boot.Â
Very poorly.Â
You nearly fall backwards, gripping onto the towel rack for stability. Gently, you stumble to the sink that feels like it's miles away, one footstep at a time.Â
Your gaze is locked onto a pair of sunglasses somebody left on the counter. Your mind swims with imagination as to what costume they couldâve come fromâ Tom Cruise in Risky Business, Men in Black, pilot, rockstar, Breakfast at Tiffanyâsâ
And then your stomach lurches.
You quickly reach for the faucet before rushing back to the toilet.
You kneel down immediately and grab onto the cold edges of the toilet seat, knuckles whitening as you begin to retch.Â
Dick hears you immediately. He knocks gently.Â
âYou okay?â
You try to open your mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a shaky breath, closer to a pant at this point. You gag again.
Dick knocks even louder.
âY/N? YouââÂ
A stream of bile rips from your throat into the toilet. You donât even hear the door unlock or the footsteps before Dick is suddenly kneeling right beside you.Â
You wipe your mouth with your hand, drawing in a sharp breath.
Embarrassment flickers across your face when you turn to look at him, but instead of judgement, thereâs only concern.Â
âHey,â he says softly, his hand moving to rest on your back. âItâs alright. You just had too much to drink. Let it out.âÂ
âIââ
You try to croak out any words, but your throat is tight, your stomach feeling like itâs in two. Slowly, you turn back to the toilet seat, squeezing your eyes shut.Â
You attempt to steady your breathing when you feel Dick gently gather your hair back.Â
Your breath catches.Â
Before you can think, you lurch again. Hot tears prickle in your eyesâ from pain? Shame? Both?Â
âMâsorry,â you choke. âIâm embarrassed.âÂ
âNo, no,â he mutters. A small, weary smile tugs at his face. âIt happens to the best of us. I puked on the side of a house once.âÂ
A chuckle manages to escape the dry-heaving. He lightly rubs your back, and something that wasnât from the alcohol in your throat tickles.Â
âThis house?âÂ
He shakes his head.Â
âNah. Friendâs house,â he laughs under his breath. âHappened back in high school.âÂ
Even with your eyes closed, you can feel the warmth in his gaze as he looks down at you.Â
Thereâs no judgment in his tone, no tension in the way he sits beside you, your legs brushing against one anotherâs.Â
âIââÂ
You try to speak again but are interrupted by another retch. And another, then another, until your stomach empties again.Â
âIâm sorry,â you rasp, sitting up just enough to look at him. You donât even realize tears are streaming down your face until you feel one hit your lip. Â
His face etches into even more worry. âNo, donât apologize, pleaseââ
âNo,â you cut him off, sniffling. âIâm sorry. A-About everything.âÂ
Dickâs concerned brows twist into something that looks more like confusion.
âHuh?â
You swallow. Even though your focus is dizzy, you try to focus on his stark blue eyesâ and despite the state youâre in, you can tell heâs being earnest.Â
âI-Iâve been so mean to you,â you admit. âIâm blunt and Iâm cold and Iâ I shut you down every time you try to make a joke or bring me coffee or just⌠talk to me.âÂ
You let out a bemused huff.Â
âI yelled at you the first time I met you. And you were still nice to me.âÂ
Heâs speechless. His eyes are so steady, so full of warmth and understanding, and you want so desperately for it to be fake.Â
Want him to just be putting on the âgolden boyâ act so you can prove to yourself youâve always been right about him.Â
But he doesnât. Instead, he leans in just a bit closer, his voice dangerously low.Â
âY/N,â he begins. âYou have nothing to apologize for. I know I can be an ass sometimes,â he chuckles. âHell, Iâd hate me too."
You let out a half-scoff, half-sob.
âSee!â You whine. âYouâre so⌠nice!âÂ
He has to fight the urge to roll his head back and laugh. Instead, he just chuckles, shaking his head.Â
âI know how I come off,â he says, thumb brushing under your eye gently. âRich, arrogant kid in a frat who probably⌠gets around.âÂ
You manage a quiet laugh through your tears.Â
âAnd I know I donât always take things seriously,â he admits, even quieter. âYou had every right to bitch me out that day. I needed to hear it.âÂ
You stare up at him with wide, glossy eyes, still expecting some kind of rug pull.
But all youâre met with is a warm gaze and a gentle hand wiping your tears.Â
And it finally hits you that this is who Dick Grayson really is.Â
Before you can stop them, sobs wreck your entire body. Your arms reach out to wrap around his chest as you pull him into a tight embrace.Â
He stiffens, caught off guard.
âMâsorry,â you mutter again. âMâsorry, Dick. Iâm so sorry. I was wrong.â
It wasnât just the sudden guilt that hit you: the room seemed like it was shrinking, your stomach felt like it was made of marbles, and you were sure your head was about to burst.Â
Dickâs heartbeat thumps erratically. But slowly and surely, his body eases, and he comes to wrap his arms around your small, shivering form.
His chin rests on your head. One hand softly threads through your hair, the other resting on the small of your back.Â
Before he can get a word in, you pull back just enough to look up.Â
âCan we be friends?â
He stares at you for a moment, blank-eyed. Then, he lets out a small huff of a laugh through his nose and pulls you back against him.
âWe are friends,â he says. âWas just waiting for you to realize it.âÂ
You smile, scoffing under your breath. Your head is tucked neatly against his half-buttoned shirt, and you fit so perfectly that you never want to move.Â
âI mean it,â he murmurs. âI know you didnât actually hate me that much.âÂ
He makes you chuckle again, even as more tears reluctantly roll down your cheeks.
His hands gently remove the cat headband before continuing to stroke the rest of your hair.Â
âPlease, donât cry,â he whispers, almost imploring. âItâs okay. Youâre okay.âÂ
You nod, trying to swallow down the rest of your tears. The room is still spinning, the tiles a choppy sea beneath you. But Dickâs presence feels like an anchor, tying you to the shore.Â
You drank too much and you feel like shit. But youâre safe.Â
Minutes pass in an unbothered quiet. The blaring sound of the music outside is muffled by the soft thump of Dickâs heartbeat. You only break it when you lift up your head to grab a piece of toilet paper to dab under your eyes.
âWhat are you even supposed to be?â You ask, your voice raspy.
He grins. âIndy.â
âIndiana Jones?âÂ
âYes, maâam.âÂ
You take one good look at him. Heâs got the beige shirt, the khaki pants, and the boots, butâŚÂ
âWhereâs your hat?âÂ
His smile grows even wider and that stupid dimple flashes.
âTook it off,â he admits. âGot too hot.âÂ
You hum, throwing away the toilet paper and inching back near him. He opens his arms again, and with a surprising lack of awkwardness, you lean back against him.
âYou feel any better?â
âA little,â you huff. âAdvil would help.âÂ
Dick sucks in a breath through his teeth. âAh, noâ it wouldnât, actually,â he begins gently. âItâll irritate your stomach more, mixing alcohol and painkillers.âÂ
You look up at him, slightly impressed.Â
âYou really donât drink much, huh?â He smiles.Â
You donât respond.Â
âGood,â his finger finds a small piece of your hair and starts twisting it. âItâs bad for you.âÂ
A few seconds of silence go by and you feel his body stiffen a little.
âI should get you water,â he mutters. âStay here, okay? Iâll be right baââÂ
Just as he tries to stand, you pull him back down and shake your head. No doubt you were dehydrated, but you couldnât stand the thought of Dick leaving the nest youâd settled into. His hold on you was more sobering than any other remedy.Â
Reluctantly, Dick sighs and sits back down.Â
âOkay,â he whispers, chin resting on top of your head again. âOkay.âÂ
The two of you stay like that, safe in your own little corner of the world, until the music eventually fades completely.Â
Your eyes are closed, halfway to drifting off completely when the silence is broken by the door slamming open.Â
âY/N? Oh, shitââÂ
Chloeâs eyes go wide as she sees the sight in front of her. She darts her gaze to Dick, who looks like a kid that was caught stealing candy.
âWhat⌠the fuck?â
Heâs about to explain himself when you turn around.Â
âIâm fine,â you croak. âI got sick and he helped me.âÂ
Your voice is stern and as loud as it can be. The rest of the group appears behind Chloe, including the two boys from earlier.Â
âIs that Dick Grayson?â You hear Hafsa whisper.
You tighten your grasp around him and bury your head back into his chest.
Lena, stumbling behind the rest of the group, comes to take a peek at the scene inside. She laughs to herself, giddy, like sheâd pulled off a grand scheme.Â
The two guys look at her like sheâs smoked crack.
With a tired sigh, Chloe steps closer.Â
âWeâre going home, Y/N. Itâs almost 3.â
You whine.Â
Dick leans his head down, his voice barely above a whisper.Â
âHey, looks like everyoneâs heading out,â he begins. âLet me help you up, okay?âÂ
You groan, but he gently lifts you up. Your arms and legs latch onto his body like a koala bear.Â
Eventually, he helps you stand on your own, having to nearly claw you off of him. You clutch onto Lenaâs arm for stability, your eyes downcast.Â
Instead of turning to look at you, his eyes are on Lena, with a hint of something serious in them. âLena, was it?âÂ
She nods.Â
He pulls out his phone, opening the messages app and handing it to her.
Lenaâs heart stops for a second. Sheâs about to shut down the interaction immediately when he speaks again, his voice quiet.Â
âSheâs going to be too drunk to text me,â he eyes you. âCan you please let me know she got home safe?âÂ
It takes her a second, but her eyes light up almost immediately when she realizes what heâs doing.Â
Lena nods quickly. She was going to tease you to hell and back for this later, but right now, all that mattered was getting you back in one piece.
Her fingers tap at the screen quickly before handing it back to Dick.Â
âI can order an Uber for you guys,â he says.Â
Lena shakes her head. âWe already got one.â She shoots him a knowing smile. âBut⌠thank you.âÂ
Her head turns to look at you, tugging your arm a little closer.
âFor taking care of her.â Â
Your eyes are still locked on the spinning hardwood floor, trying to blink away the effects of the nightâs shitty seltzers. Eventually, you see pairs of shoes head towards the door, and Lena helps you follow behind.Â
Before youâre about to leave, Dick gives your shoulder a light squeeze. Your head whips up to look at him.Â
âGet home safe,â he says with a faint, tired smile.Â
He mouths something to Lena that you canât quite make out, and before you know it, youâre out the door.Â
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A/N: fuck guys im so sorry for the wait on this but i hope this was worth it. this is the scenario that inspired this entire fic and was def my favorite to write. can't really promise consistent updates bc of life stuff but i'm really really going to try to update at LEAST once a month! you can hold me to it and threaten me with a grenade or smth idk but i promise i love this fic so dearly and she is always on the brain even if i do like, one sentence a night. lol. thanks so much for reading <3
HI GANG iâm back to writing canis canem edit (i swear)
iâve lowkenuinely been working almost 50 hour weeks so i really do apologize for the inconsistent updates 𼲠iâm truly just incredibly busy and was in a bit of a rut for a while
hoping to get it out sometime next week!
chap 6 will be out thursday
GOT SOMETHINâ IN MY SYSTEM; jason p. todd.
âË⥠synopsis: when red hood stumbles into your shitty convenience store at 2 am looking for marlboros, you donât expect him to come backâbut he does, except now heâs jason, your cute regular.
âË⥠pairing: jason toddâ â đâ â cashier!reader.
âË⥠cws: gun violence, injury (head wound, concussion), brief non-consensual touching (handsy customer), needles/stitches (implied), mild language, hospitalization, ratingâmature.
âË⥠word count: 7.7k.
âË⥠authorâs notes: iâve probably said this like fifty times, but iâm restarting my dcu taglist. iâll make a proper post soon, but if anyone is interested you could leave a comment or send me an ask. even though there is a afab presenting picture in the moodboard, that does not dictate readerâs genderâi have always written gen!reader.
Your clenched hand bangs on the âOPENâ sign for the third time this night. One letter is always burnt outâthe âOâ, to be specific. As a result, the small convenience store you work for has the word âPENâ basically written on its front door. Letâs say it doesnât naturally garner any paying customers after normal shopping hours. Well, any normal customers, that is. Youâre pretty much desensitised to every stranger who walks through the door.
âDoes this make my store look like we sell dirty magazines?â Your manager, an old lady whom youâve just learned to call maâam instead of her real nameâMarjorieâbarks your way before opening the door to finally head home.
How nice that she never stays around for the night shift. Fantastic choice of words to end her stay here for tonight, too.
âMore like a stationery shop,â you say, trying to align the sign to the center of the door, âIâm not sure people expect us to be selling anything⌠mature at a convenience store. You know, with there being aisles full of groceries.â
âIâll be damned if a stupid sign ruins the reputation of this store, do you hear me? This building has been in my family for generations.â Sheâs still pointing at you, even though sheâs half out of the door. âTake care of the place, donât forget to clean up.â
âSure, maâam.â You try your best to hold back the sarcasm in your voice, but it fails, and you receive a nasty side glare from the woman.
You groan, turning back on your heel to return to the counter. Itâs made of old wood-grain, laminated. Already chipping at the edges. It sits catty-corner to the door so you can see both the entrance and the back aisle. Which you have to, since the camerasâinside and outâare definitely fake.
Thereâs an old-school bell on a spring, attached to the door. It announces every customer, loud and impossible to muffle. Hearing bells at two in the morning isnât ideal, but the store runs on pure spite, and your rent needs to be paid somehow.
Speaking of the devil, you hear the bell ring.
You straighten your spine, mentally readying yourself for another of Marjorieâs scoldings. You wonder what you forgot to do now, or who will be the recipient of her wrath. Raising your head, you open your mouth to muster some kind of excuse for whatever sheâll throw at you, but you stop dead in your tracks.
The person who walks through the door isnât the short, hot-tempered old lady youâve been working with for the past few months.
No.
You first notice the blood. The way itâs still wet, clinging onto the helmet, which is in the same shade. A man whom you have never seen in person stands just a few feet away from you. A hip holster hangs off of him, with something metal shining under the unbearable fluorescent lights. You donât have to guess. It might be a gun, or he might have a knife stashed in another holster you havenât spotted yet.
Youâve seen freaks in this shopâthe guy who tried to pay with a bag of loose teeth, the woman who screamed at the beer cooler for ten minutes. Some are even sort of endearing when you learn how to handle them.
But you havenât seen Red fucking Hood. And you sure as hell donât know how to handle him.
What the actual hell? Marjorie didnât train you for this. There isnât a âhow to deal with a vigilante showing upâ section in any manual.
You freeze on the spot. Your hands grip the cold counter. For a moment, you think of taking the energy drinks from the small cooler and just throwing them at the man so maybe, just maybe, heâll find the attempt pathetic enough and let you go. You can hear him step closer. Youâre sure the metal cans wonât save you now.
You take a single step back. You hit the cigarette wall behind you. Marjorie would kill you if she found the cigarette wall in a mess, but it wonât really matter if the man approaching you gets to you first.
God, he is bigger in person. What the hell does he even eat to look like that?
What are you even thinking right now?
It only takes him a few steps to reach the counter from the entrance. A small trail of dirty footsteps follows him, and you grimace at the drops of blood sticking to his boots. Thereâs a small⌠handle sticking out of a holster lower on his leg.
Oh, thatâs where the knife is. Lucky you.
You swallow down the breath stuck in your throat as he stands in front of the counter. He looks everywhere but at you, eyeing the energy drinks beside you and the cigarette wall. Instinctively, you raise your hands in front of you, as if to show him you wonât try anything stupid, like throwing energy drinks at him.
You can swear you hear something like an amused scoff coming from underneath his helmet as he looks back at you.
So, he finds this funny, huh.
âIâm not going to bite your head off.â He speaks first, because you sure as hell wonât talk to him first. You doubt Marjorie would scold you for customer service when the customer is Red Hood himself.
âSo the knife there is just for show?â The words escape your lips without your permission, and you regret it instantly.
âI do love a good accessory,â he clicks his tongue, as if heâs being hilarious.
He raises a hand, and you watch the way the leather of his gloves flexes. Theyâre dark in color, tactical, fitted, covering to his wrist. The fabric leaves a piece of his forearm exposed. Your eyes trail over the showing skin. There are a few scars littered on the surface, running down his arm like rivers.
âYou can drop your hands,â his voice breaks you out of your thoughts⌠about his arms?
âSo, you arenât suspicious or anything?â You drop your hands to your sides, âWhat if Iââ
âYou donât scare me, sweetheart. Itâs mostly the other way around.â He says the word âsweetheartâ a little too easily. It almost sounds like honey rolling of his tongue. If he didnât have a gun and knife strapped to him, maybe youâd even blush.
You hope you arenât visibly blushing. The heat in your cheeks is your problem, not his.
âI could call the cops,â you challenge, a newfound confidence seeping into your words.
âAnd theyâd definitely come here. After half an hour, give or take. But Iâd already have taken what I came here for.â
Yep, heâs actually going to do something horrible. You thought Red Hood took care of criminals, not some cashier like you, who, yes, might have skimmed some dollars out of the cash register a few times. But that doesnât warrant a visit from Red Hood himself. Your jaw tightens, while your hands clench. Youâre sure your nails are digging crescents into your palm right now.
âAnd what would that be?â
If youâre going to be beaten up or robbed by Gothamâs most smart-mouthed vigilante, youâre not going down silent. Maybe you should scream. Just to make this harder for him.
He puts his other hand on his hip. For a moment, you think heâs reaching for his holster, but his voice from the helmet reaches you again.
âI want a cigarette.â
What.
âYou want a what?â
Red Hood points a finger at the cigarette wall behind you. You follow the gesture to the Marlboros sitting in the middle row, just behind the locked glass screen. The â21+â sign is hanging on the screen with the paint already peeling off its surface.
He wants a fucking cigarette. And heâs saying all of this as if he didnât just threaten you a moment ago.
âSeriously?â
âI am over twenty-one, if youâre wondering.â
âThatâs not,â you groan. âThatâs not what I meant, and you know it.â
He shrugs. Throwing that energy drink can might have been an actual good idea.
âI canât show you my ID, unfortunately,â he gives you a faux sigh through his helmet. Both of his hands are on his hips now, and you somehow calm down seeing that heâs not reaching for a weapon. âSecret identity and all. You understand, no?â
âYou just had to mess with me, huh?â
âCouldnât help myself.â
You turn your back slowly, still trying to keep an eye on him, all while letting out an annoyed huff. He mimics the sound of your sneer right back at you. You snap your head back at him. He, on the other hand, looks at one of the shelves, as if he didnât do anything at all. You can feel something akin to a laugh building up in your body because he looks ridiculous, if you ignore the blood. His hands are on his hips, showing you heâs not going for his weapons. Heâs looking away like a child caught doing something he wasnât supposed to.
You open the cigarette wall with a turn of your keys. The glass screen moves, and you grab a single pack of Marlboros. You scan the pack in silence. Itâs not like the heavy and tense silence from before, when he first walked through the door, bloody and intimidating. Now it feels like heâs actually a customer. A weird one, but itâs Gotham. Youâre not surprised.
âSmoking is bad for you, yâknow,â you say quietly, almost mumbling. Though he hears you anyway.
âYou worried, sweetheart?â
âOh, of course,â you answered with a raised brow, hoping the sarcasm was obvious in your voice. âWho else would walk in bloody in the shop just to buy cigarettes?â
He reaches for his pocket. Your eyes trail to his forearms again. You hadnât noticed before, but the veins on his arms are barely visible. Though you can see the way they are indented in his skin, between the scars. He lays a few crumpled dollar bills on the counter. To his credit, the money at least isnât bloodied.
âNext time atâŚâ he looks at the clock on the wall behind you, the cracked glass shows that itâs eight pm now. âHow does five sound?â
âIf you donât come with your accessories and blood, maybe. Just maybe.â
You hand over the cigarette pack to him. Your fingers brush his, and for a split second, his fingers freeze. Itâs like heâs surprised and flustered by the contact.
âA deal breaker, then?â He lets out a cough before grabbing the Marlboros and taking a step back from the counter.
You tilt your head, trying to figure out in your mind what he looks like right now behind that helmet. His voice sounds hoarse. All because you touched him. Though he hasnât expressed any discomfort yet.
âNo,â you answer. âNot exactlyâŚâ
God, why is your stupid heart talking instead of your brain?
He perks up. You can see it in how his shoulders pick up. His grip on the cigarette pack changes; heâs now twirling it between his fingers.
Yep, youâre never leaving your apartment ever again.
He does have big hands, though.
âFive oâclock, then,â he says, like itâs already decided. Like you already said yes.
âI didnât agree to anything.â
âYou didnât say no either, sweetheart.â
There it is again. That word. Dripping off his tongue like heâs known you for years. Like he has any right to call you that when you canât even see his face.
He tucks the Marlboros into his jacket pocket. Takes a step back. Then another.
You should feel relieved. You are relieved. Probably.
âSame time tomorrow,â he says from the door. The bell hasnât rung yet. Heâs waiting. For what, you donât know.
âSame blood?â you ask, because your mouth has officially divorced your brain.
He tilts his helmet. That same amused energy from before.
âMaybe less. If youâre lucky.â
The bell rings. Heâs gone.
You stare at the door for a full ten seconds. Then, at the crumpled bills on the counter. Then at the trail of dirty footprints leading to the entrance.
Then back at the door.
What the hell just happened?
You grab the nearest energy drink canânot to throw, just to hold. The metal is cold against your palm. Your heart is still racing. Your cheeks are still warm.
And you hate yourself a little for already knowing youâll be here at five oâclock tomorrow.
+++
âWait, say that again,â Marjorie points at your face, as if youâre in the wrong. âA vigilante walked through my doors and threatened my employee?â
âHe didnât really threaten me,â you point out, but the exasperated look on the womanâs face makes you backtrack. âI mean, he looked scary. He didnât lay a hand on me, though.â
Unfortunately.
You should have stayed home.
âYou said he had a gun!â
âAnd a knife.â
âOh, my god. And he smokes, too. Children these days.â
âI donât think his smoking is the main issue here,â you move past the counter to the aisles.
You didnât call Marjorie about what happened last night as soon as he had left. In her book, if something isnât bleeding or broken, calling isnât necessary. You cleaned the drop of blood from the counter and closed up last night. The streets felt just a tad brighter under the streetlights, knowing a certain vigilante might be looking out for you. Who knows, maybe heâll appreciate the fact that you sold him the cigarettes without calling the cops on him.
Now youâre here, the next day. Youâve been buzzing around the shop all day. The sticky floors, even though you cleaned them yesterday, are still holding onto the grime. The fluorescent light bulb above the counter needed a few hits before it stopped flickering. Youâve been listening to the rattle of the beer cooler since you clocked in.
Marjorieâs incessant badgering about Red Hood unfortunately did reach your ears over the coolerâs rattle.
âDid he hurt you?â She asks again, and you, surprisingly, find the concern a bit endearing.
âAw,â you coo, âyou do care about me, Marj.â
âDonât get ahead of yourself, idiot,â she scowls. âWho else would work for me if you died, or worse, quit?â
âNo. He didnât hurt me,â you deadpan. âHe didnât take anything. He paid for a Marlboro and took off.â
You havenât mentioned the fact that he might visit again. Youâre not planning on Marjorie finding out. Sheâll leave in a few hours, and you will hang onto that stupid and foolish hope that a man whose face youâve never seen will come to see you. You spent a few more minutes today in front of the mirror, too.
God, what are you doing?
âMarlboro?â Marjorie raises a brow. âHe doesnât even have taste. He should have gotten one of those⌠what are they called?â
âYellow Spirits?â
âYes, those.â
âYouâre only saying that because they cost more.â
âIf heâs bothering my employees, the least he can do is pay me.â
You bend down to the box near your feet. Itâs full of some brand of cereal you canât remember the name of. Something generic for an even more generic convenience store.
Marjorie approaches you near the aisle. Her brows are furrowed, and her wrinkles are even more pronounced today. The corners of her mouth are pulled into a thin line. As if sheâs actually worried.
She starts digging into her pocket. You turn your head, curious about what sheâs doing. She pulls out something that looks like a⌠taser?
âMarjorie, what is that?â
âKid, we both know I donât have the means to get you a gun,â she clicks her tongue, gesturing the taser your way, âbut this should do the trick. It ainât one of those harmless ones either. It packs a big punch.â
You grab the taser from her hand. It feels heavy in your grip. You imagine using it against anyone, though you donât think youâll be pointing it towards Red Hood anytime soon. First, stupidly enough, you hope he wonât give you a reason to use it. Secondly, youâre sure it wonât work against a man shaped like a mountain.
âThanks, Marj,â you pocket the taser in your apron, the one Marjorie forces you to wear all your shift.
âItâs Marjorie,â she scoffs. âNow, Iâll get going. My heart cannot take another one of your ridiculous night stories. My poor knees need a break.â
As if sheâs the one restocking.
Sheâs already half out of the door before you can even say goodbye. Not that sheâd say it back. So much for her poor knees.
You turn back to the aisle. There are still a few more boxes unopened. The shop is relatively small one, so youâre not too worried about the amount of work waiting for you.
You look at the cracked clock near the register. There are a few minutes left before it strikes five. You bite your lip. Thereâs a strange feeling of impatience and exhilaration mixing in your stomach, all like a bad concoction.
This is how crazy people die in those superhero movies, all because they think that theyâve got a connection with a murder. You are very much that type of crazy person. Itâs almost like Gotham has entirely changed you, making your eyes locked onto the door, awaiting a certain someone.
To your utter surprise, the bell rings. You feel your knees getting weak. You step away from the aisle that was blocking your way to the front door, half expecting Red Hood to show up and actually rob you or something; youâre not sure what people like him get up to.
Your heart is beating against your chest. Thereâs something deeply wrong with you. You consider running out the back door, but youâre already in the line of sight of the entrance.
He already saw you.
âYou look like youâve seen a ghost, sweetheart.â
The âheâ turned out to be not a bloodied costume-wearing vigilante, but your loyalest regularâJason Todd. You still donât understand why he keeps visiting. A small part of your heart hopes itâs because he finds the cashier, you, cute.
Heâs wearing a black T-shirt. Itâs cut off around the forearms. You see familiar faint scars. Youâve never asked Jason about them. He did notice you staring once, and he explained that he had had a few accidents with his motorcycle. Your heart pangs uncomfortably at the reminder of him being in pain. The shirt clings to his chest in a way that will not leave your mind this entire week. It rides up slightly around his waist, exposing just a small part of his skin. You can see the tattoos peeking out from underneath the fabric, just above the leather belt around his hips.
This is too much. Way too much for a full day shift.
Wow. Both him and Red Hood. Thatâs low. Even for you.
You feel a sense of disappointment, as if you were played by Red Hood. But itâs not like he owed you anything.
Jason tilts his head. A few of the white strands of his hair fall down on his forehead. They frame his face in an effortlessly handsome way, so much so that you want to punch the subtle grin off his face. Youâre sure Marjorie would fire you for that, considering Jason is probably the only customer of this shop she actually likes.
âJason,â you finally get the words past your lips, âitâs just you.â
âJust me?â he places a hand on his chest in faux hurt.
He steps into the shop. His gate is steady. In a way that is the opposite of yours. Youâre sure youâre shaking like a leaf right now, gripping the bag of cereal even harder. You scold yourself mentally for freezing up like this.
You can see the way Jasonâs face shifts. Maybe he noticed how off you are today. Heâs always so perceptive, a trait you havenât yet decided is stupidly attractive or attractively dooming for you. It reminds you of that one time you tried hiding a burn you had gotten in the shop from him, but he still noticed. He walked to the pharmacy across the street just to buy a weird cream you had never heard of, but you appreciated the gesture either way.
No one had really done that for you before. Not without expecting something in return.
He reaches you in just a few steps. You wonder how he moves so quickly. In a way that doesnât tick you off either. He raises his hands, almost to show heâs trying to calm you down.
âYou okay?â He asks, voice laced with concern. His tone is softer, too. Like cigarettes wrapped in velvet fabric.
âYes. Yes, Iâm fine. I feel like a million bucks.â
Who even says that?
You cough, trying to clear your throat. With a tilt of your head, you gesture to the register. Jason follows your gaze. He lets out a small sigh and follows you to the counter.
âSo,â you try to force your voice to sound chirpy. It seems wrong. âWhat can I get you?â
By the look on Jasonâs concerned face, youâre sure he noticed the strain in your voice, too. The soft glint in your eyes makes your heart tighten. You canât take your anger out on him. Itâs unfair.
âIs there anything I can do?â Jason offers, and the guilt in his voice makes you want to crawl under the counter.
For a moment, you wonder why heâs so hell-bent on comforting you. Especially when he has nothing to do with your stupid infatuation with a vigilante. Well, you have a small crush on Jason, too, but the future you will be the one who unpacks that.
âItâs nothing,â you lie, already reaching for the yellow Spirits behind the glass. Your fingers fumble with the keys. âRough night. You know how it is.â
âI donât,â he says, leaning against the counter. His forearm brushes against the chipped wood. You watch the muscles shift under his skin. âBut Iâve got time if you wanna talk about it.â
âYouâre buying cigarettes, not listening to me talk all day. This isnât therapy.â
âSame thing, sweetheart.â
There it is. Sweetheart. The same word Red Hood used. Your brain short-circuits for half a second before you rememberâJason has been calling you that for months. Way before last night.
It doesnât mean anything, you tell yourself. Itâs just a word.
âYouâre staring,â Jason says, amused.
âIâm obviously glaring,â you correct, shoving the yellow pack across the counter. âThereâs a big difference.â
He doesnât reach for the cigarettes. Instead, he tilts his headâand there. Thatâs the same tilt. The same one Red Hood used when he found you funny. Your stomach flips.
âYou glare at all your customers like that, or just me?â
Two can play that game.
âJust the ones who show up at five oâclock looking like that.â
âLike what?â
You gesture vaguely at all of him. The arms. The chest. The stupid white streak in his hair.
âLike you just walked off a movie set.â
Jasonâs grin spreads slowly. You feel heat pool up in your stomach. Suddenly, it feels like youâre back to last night. As if he is again, right in front of you, and youâre not sure how to handle this. How to handle Jason and Red Hood.
God, youâre going to hell. If thereâs even one.
âSo you have noticed.â
âI notice when my regulars change their look,â you say, deflecting. âNew shirt?â
âThis old thing?â He plucks at the fabric, tugging on it a bit too harshly. You wonder if heâs nervous. âYou like it?â
Jasonâto your surprise and amusementâsounds actually nervous. The idea that you can fluster him lights your skin on fire.
âI liked the leather jacket better.â
âNoted.â
Heâs still not taking the cigarettes. Heâs just looking at you. Like heâs trying to solve a puzzle. The same way Red Hood looked at youâlike you were interesting. Like you werenât just another cashier.
âYouâre doing it again,â you say.
âDoing what?â
"Looking at me like Iâm hiding something. Which I am definitely not."
Jason laughs. Itâs low, warm, and it does something stupid to your chest.
âMaybe you are hiding something,â he says. âYouâre harder to figure out than most.â
âThatâs the most backhanded compliment Iâve ever received.â
âItâs not backhanded,â he says, and you can get drunk on the flustered tone of his voice. âIâm just bad at words.â
âYouâre a regular. You come here three times a week. Iâve learned that youâre not bad at anything.â
His eyebrows go up. âAnything?â
Shit.
âI meantâtalking. I meant talking.â
âSure you did.â
He finally takes the cigarettes. His fingers brush yoursâdeliberate this time. Youâre sure of it. His hand lingers for half a second, in a way thatâs longer than necessary.
âSame time tomorrow?â he asks.
âYouâre already here today.â
âAnd?â
You stare at him. He stares back. The fluorescent light buzzes. The beer cooler rattles. Somewhere outside, a car alarm starts wailing.
âYouâre completely ridiculous, you know that?â you say.
âAnd youâre avoiding the question.â
âFine. Same time tomorrow.â
âGood.â
He tucks the yellow pack into his back pocket. No jacket today means you can see the outline of his wallet, the curve of hisâ
Stop it.
But heâs totally doing this on purpose.
Jason steps closer to the counter. You can see the faint freckles dotted across his pale skin. Thereâs a light scar running down his cheek. You wonder how a motorcycle accident could do all of this. You know heâs hiding something from you. For a second, you wonder what it would feel like to count his freckles and trace the scar.
You can see the muscles in Jasonâs shoulders flex as he leans over the counter. His hand reaches for his other pocket. He takes out a lighter you havenât seen before. A raised cross spreads across its surface, darkened in the grooves.
He places it on the counter between you, sliding it toward you.
You pick it up. Itâs heavier than you expected. Warm from being in his pocket. Your thumb traces the engraving. Along the edge of the metal, barely noticeable unless you know to look, a Latin phrase is etched in fine, precise letteringâworn just enough to suggest it is carried often, turned over in someoneâs hands.
âWhatâs this say?â
âSomething stupid that I got when I was nineteen.â He doesnât elaborate. âLight it up for me?â
You look up. âWhat?â
âThe cigarette.â He pulls the yellow pack from his back pocketâwhen did he grab that?âand taps one out. Holds it between his fingers. Doesnât move to light it himself, just looks at you. âYouâve got the lighter.â
âYou have hands.â
âAnd youâre holding it.â
The fluorescent light makes his eyes look greener than usual. Or maybe thatâs just the angle. Or maybe youâre hallucinating because of what is happening right now.
âYou want me to light your cigarette,â you say slowly, âover the counter. In the middle of my shift.â
âI want a lot of things,â he says. âRight now Iâm just asking for a light.â
Your heart is doing something stupid. Your hands are definitely not shaking as you flick the lighter. Once. Twice. On the third try, a flame catches.
Jason leans in, closer than he needs to. His fingers brush yours as he brings the cigarette to the flame. His eyes donât leave yours. You canât take your gaze off the sea-green color of his eyes.
The cigarette catches. He takes a slow drag. Exhales away from your faceâpolite, even nowâand the smoke curls up toward the flickering lights.
âThanks, sweetheart.â
He picks the lighter off the counter. His fingers linger over yours again.
âSame time tomorrow? Actually, I might be a little late.â
âYouâre already here today.â
âAnd?â
You canât think of a single clever thing to say. Your brain is full of smoke and green eyes and the weight of a silver lighter thatâs no longer in your hand.
âFine,â you manage. âSame time tomorrow.â
âGood.â
He tucks the lighter back into his pocket. The cigarette hangs from his lips. Heâs halfway to the door when you call out.
âYou forgot your cigarettes.â
He glances at the yellow pack still sitting on the counter. Then back at you through the smoke.
âNo, I didnât.â
The bell rings.
Heâs gone.
+++
The next night is different. The fluorescent lights are too rough on your eyes. The counter is too cold. The rattling of the beer cooler is too loud. Marjorie didnât drop by today either. You find yourself missing her incessant badgering, even if it does get a bit too much sometimes.
You feel lonely.
Ridiculous.
Maybe itâs because Jason didnât show up today, and youâve been staring at the front door like a kicked puppy. Youâve been lied to by him and Red Hood two times already. Or maybe, youâre just a fool to think that either of them would actually show up for you.
You sigh, leaning your elbow over the counter. The cold surface bites at your skin, but you donât really care. Your thoughts are buzzing in your head nonstop. Itâs all like an ambience you want to shut out.
The bell rings.
Your head snaps up, eyes trailing to the door.
A man walks in. Average height. Average build. Grey hoodie. Jeans that donât quite fit right. His hands are shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the coldâor against something else. You canât tell. His face is the kind youâd forget five seconds after looking away.
Nobody, you think. Just another nobody.
You straighten up anyway, because Marjorie might not be here, but her voice lives in your head rent-free. âDonât slouch,â sheâd say. âMakes you look like you donât care. Customers can smell apathy.â
âEvening,â you call out, forcing something pleasant into your voice.
He grunts. Doesnât look at you. Wanders the aisles like heâs searching for something. You watch him pick up a bag of chips. Put it back. A candy bar. Put it back. A Gatoradeâblue, the electrolyte oneâhe holds onto that one.
His hands are shaking.
Late at night, you tell yourself. Long shift. You shake too, sometimes, when youâre running on three hours of sleep and bad coffee. Donât judge him too quickly. Just mind your own business.
He walks to the counter. Sets the Gatorade down. The bottle thuds against the laminateâharder than it needs to.
âThat everything?â you ask.
He doesnât answer, just keeps staring at the bottle.
âSir?â
He looks up.
And there it is. That thing in his eyes that makes your stomach drop. Heâs not looking at you like a customerâheâs looking at you like youâre not even there.
âTwo eighty-nine,â you say, voice smaller than you want it to be.
He reaches for his pocket. Pulls out a crumpled five. Smooths it on the counter. Once. Twice. Three times. His fingers are pale and knuckles white.
You make a change and slide it across. He doesnât take it.
âSir? Your change.â
He blinks and pockets the money without counting. âThanks.â
Then he walks to the door.
Good, you think. Heâs leaving. You were wrong. Heâs just some guy.
He stops at the door and doesnât turn around. He keeps just standing there. His one hand is on the frame. The bell is hanging inches from his head.
A cold feeling, like a wretched thing crawls up your spine. Lock the register, you think. Your keys are in your pocket. Lock it. Callâ
He turns around.
The Gatorade is still on the counter, just as he left it.
He walks back, and not slow this timeâfast. His footsteps donât echoâthey thud. Every step is a warning call.
âI changed my mind,â he says.
âAbout the Gatorade?â
âAbout all of it.â
His hand goes to his waistband.
You know before you see it. Before he pulls it out. You know.
The gun is small and black. Itâs the kind that fits in a waistband without printing. God, how did you not see it before? He holds it at his side, not pointing it at you yetâbut the threat is there.
âOpen the register,â he says. His voice isnât flat anymore; itâs shaking.
A scared man with a gun is worse than an angry one.
Your hands go up automatically. âOkay,â you say. âAll right. Iâm opening it.â
Your fingers find the keys in your apron. You donât look away from him. Never look away from the gun.
The register drawer slides open with that familiar ka-ching thatâs never sounded so loud before. Now it rings out loudly in your ears over the deathly silence.
âTake it,â you say. âItâs all there. Iâm not going to stop you.â
He steps closer, and the gun comes up. Itâs pointed at your chest now.
âThe safe,â he says. âOpen the safe.â
âI donât have the code. The managerâshe doesnât give it to the night shift. I swear.â
His jaw tightens. His finger moves to the trigger.
This is how I die, you think. In a convenience store that says âPENâ on the door, and just for a register with maybe two hundred dollars in it.
âYouâre lying.â
âIâm not. Iâm not. Pleaseââ
He reaches across the counter. Grabs your arm, and he grabbed it hard. His fingers dig into your skin hard enough to bruise.
âThen youâre gonna call her. Right now. And youâre gonna get the code.â
âShe wonâtâsheâs asleep, sheâs old, she wonâtââ
He yanks and pulls you halfway across the counter. Your hip slams into the edge. Pain shoots up your side.
âI said call her.â
Your head hits something on the way down. The corner of the register, or the counter edge. Youâre not sure. All you know is white-hot pain and then warm wetness dripping into your hair.
The bell rings.
You barely hear it over the ringing in your ears.
But he does.
The robber turns. Just for a second. Just long enough to see who walked in.
And then heâs not holding you anymore. Because someone else is holding him.
Red Hood moves like water, like something that was never human to begin with. Your eyes canât even catch up with his movements.
One second, heâs at the door. Next, his hand is wrapped around the robberâs wrist, twisting until you hear something crack. The gun clatters to the floor. The robber screamsâa high, wet sound that barely registers in your foggy brain.
Youâre on the ground. When did you fall? The linoleum is cold against your cheek. Sticky, too. Thereâs blood in your eyes. Your blood. From your head.
Oh, you think. Thatâs not good.
Red Hood doesnât say a wordâhe just moves. A punch to the gut. An elbow to the back. The robber crumples like paper, gasping for air he canât catch. Hood pins him to the ground with a knee to the spine.
You try to push yourself up. Your arms wonât cooperate. Theyâre shaking. Everything is shaking.
âStay down,â Hood says. His voice is modulated. But thereâs something underneath it. âDonât move your head.â
You blink. The world swims. The fluorescent lights blur into halos. You can see his bootsâheavy, and splattered with something darkâstepping over the robberâs body, coming towards you.
âHey,â he says. âHey. Look at me.â
You try. Your eyes find the helmet. The white lenses. The shine of bloodânot his, not hisâon his chest plate.
âThere you go,â he says. His voice is softer now. The modulator canât hide that. âYouâre okay. Youâre gonna be okay.â
âYou came back,â you slur. Your tongue feels too big for your mouth.
âOf course I came back.â He crouches down. His gloved hands hover over you, like he wants to touch but doesnât know where itâs safe. âI said five oâclock, didnât I?â
âYouâre late. So fucking late.â
A sound from under the helmetâa laugh, a broken one. âYeah,â he says. âIâm late. Iâm sorry.â
Something falls from his jacket. A glint of silver. It skids across the floor and stops near your outstretched hand.
The lighter.
The silver one. The engraved one. Jasonâs.
Your brain snags on it like a needle on a record. Thatâsâthatâs his. Thatâs the one he put in your hand. The one you flicked. The one that was warm from his pocket.
âThatâs,â you start, but the words wonât come. Your vision is going dark at the edges. âThatâs Jasonâs.â
Hood goes very still.
âJason,â you repeat, because itâs the only word that matters. âYouâreâyouâre him. Youâreâ⌠oh my god.â
âDonât,â he says. His real voice. The modulator must have cut out. Or maybe your ears are just giving up. âDonât talk. Just stay awake. Please.â
You try. You really do. But the dark is pulling at you, soft and heavy, and the last thing you see is the lighterâsilver and warm and hisâsitting on the dirty floor between you.
The last thing you hear is his panicked voice.
âStay with me. Donâtâshit. Stay awake. Please.â
Then nothing.
+++
The beeping is the first thing you hear.
You can barely find the strength to open your eyes. Your eyelids feel too heavy. Thereâs a sterile smell around whatever room you are currently in.
The walls are stark white. They stretch unbroken except for the occasional monitor, its screen blinking in steady, indifferent rhythms. A faint antiseptic smell lingers in the air, sharp and clean, threaded with something metallic beneath it. The bed sits at the center, too narrow, sheets pulled tight.
And, youâre in it.
You look to the side of the bed. Thereâs a small table near you. On top of it, there is a small card. You try to raise your hand, and itâs a miracle you manage to. You grab the card and open it. Your eye recognizes Marjorieâs handwriting.
Get well soon, kid. Iâm sorry I wasnât there for you, not much an old lady like me can do. You take all the time you need while youâre at the hospital. The GCPD will investigate this even if I have to break down their door. Call me when youâre ready to talk.
â Marj.
You knew she cared about you. Too bad you had to survive a robbery to get proof of that.
Fuck.
You got robbed. Almost shot at. Just for a few hundred dollar bills and a safe you donât even know the code to.
You thought you were going to die.
Until he showed up.
You push yourself off the bed. The room spins. Your head throbs. You press a hand to your forehead and feel the bandage there, rough against your fingertips. Stitches. Great.
You look around. Youâre in a private room. How the hell did you get a private room? Marjorie can barely afford to keep the storeâs lights on. Maybe the hospital made a mistake. Maybe youâre in the wrong bed. Maybeâ
The window.
Thereâs something at the window.
A shape, dark against the night sky. Youâre on the third floorâyou remember that much from the ambulance ride, the stretcher, the paramedic with kind eyes telling you to stay awake, honey, stay with meâ
The shape moves.
A tap, glass against knuckle.
You squint. Your vision is still blurry, but youâd know that silhouette anywhereâthe shoulders and the faint movement of dark curls.
Jason is standing on the fire escape.
He doesnât come in. Just stands there and watches you.
You should be scared. You were scared the first time. But now? Now all you feel is something warm and stupid blooming in your chest.
You reach over and fumble with the window latch. Your fingers are clumsyâthe head injury, probablyâbut you get it open. Cold air rushes in. Gotham smells like rain and exhaust and something that might be smoke in the distance.
âYouâre supposed to be resting,â he says. You can hear the exhaustion underneath.
âYouâre not supposed to be on a fire escape,â you shoot back. Your voice comes out hoarse. âLooks like both of us are starting this conversation in horrible ways. But I could scream, and theyâd drag you out of here.â
âYou wouldnât,â he tilts his head, like heâs daring you to try.
He could probably cover the distance between you in a second. Heâd have his hand over your mouth before you could even let out a squeak.
Why are you imagining his hand on your mouth right now?
âAre you gonna come in?â you ask, trying to get your mind out of the gutter. âOr are you gonna stand out there all night like a creep?â
His hair is a messâcurls sticking up everywhere, the white streak catching the dim light from the monitors. Thereâs a cut on his cheekbone, fresh. Dark circles under his eyes so deep they look like bruises. Heâs wearing the same black shirt from before, the one cut off around the forearms, and you can see the scars now with new eyes. Youâre sure the scars are not from a motorcycle.
âYou look like shit,â you say.
He laughs. âYouâre one to talk.â
âFair.â
He climbs through the window, but doesnât sit on the bedâstands near it, like heâs not sure heâs allowed. His hands are shoved in his jacket pockets. The jacket is different tonight. You wonder if heâs wearing anything like armor underneath it. Or maybe, tonight, heâs just your Jason, not Red Hood. Or maybe both. They have always been the same. You were just too blind to see it.
âThe lighter,â you say.
He goes still.
âIt fell out of your pocket. During the fight. I saw it.â
Jason stares at you. Something passes over his faceâfear, maybe, or relief. You still havenât quite figured that one out, yet.
âI know,â he says.
âIs that how you wanted me to find out? Or did you just get sloppy?â
He flinches. âI didnâtâI wasnât thinking. You were bleeding. You passed out. Iââ He stops. His jaw tightens, as if heâs chewing on words he canât bring himself to say.
âYou what?â
âI panicked.â The words come out rough. Broken. âI donât panic. I donât. But you were on the ground, and there was blood in your hair, and I thoughtâI thought you wereââ He canât finish the sentence.
You reach out. Your hand finds his. His fingers are coldâfrom the fire escape, from the night, from whatever he was doing before he got here. You hold on anyway.
âIâm not dead,â you say.
âI can see that. And youâre not good at bedside manners.â
âSo stop looking at me like Iâm gonna disappear. Plus, Iâm the one in the hospital bed. If anyone has to work on their bedside manners, itâs you.â You jab a finger in his chest. The skin behind the fabric of the jacket feels like a wall.
Definitely not the time to be thinking about his chest.
He looks down at your hands. Then back at your face. Something shifts in his expression. The tension cracks.
He doesnât talk right away. Instead, he pulls his hand around youâgently, like heâs afraid of hurting you, and reaches into his jacket pocket. When his hand comes back out, heâs holding the lighter.
The silver-engraved one. He turns it over in his fingers.
âI came back for it. After the ambulance took you. It was still on the floor.â
âSo you didnât come to see me?â
He gives you a look. That look, the one that says you know exactly why Iâm here.
âI came to see you,â he says. âIâve been out there for three hours.â
âThree hours?â
âYou were sleeping. I didnât want to wake you.â
You stare at him. This man. This impossible man. Buys cigarettes from you three times a week. Calls you sweetheart like itâs your actual name. Climbed through your hospital window atâwhat, two in the morning?âjust to make sure you were okay.
âYouâre an idiot,â you say.
âIâve been told.â
âA stupid idiot.â
âAlso been told. Also, stupid and idiot are synonyms.â
You grab his wrist. Pull him toward the bed. He stumblesâactually stumbles, like youâve caught him off guardâand ends up sitting on the edge of the mattress, close enough that you can smell the smoke on his jacket and the gunpowder. Itâs intoxicating. It reminds you of the time his nose was almost brushing yours as you lit his cigarette.
âYouâre staying,â you say.
âI canâtââ
âYou can. The nurses donât come in until six. Thatâsââ you glance at the clock on the wall, the one with the cracked glass that reminds you of the store, ââfour hours. Youâre staying for four hours.â
âFour hours,â he repeats.
âAnd then youâre gonna come back tomorrow. And the day after that. And youâre gonna keep coming back until Iâm out of here. And then youâre gonna come to the store. And youâre gonna buy your stupid yellow cigarettes or the Marlboro ones, I donât care. And youâre gonna let me light them for you. With your lighter. And you will ask me out on a date. Preferably not one that starts in a convenience store.â
His mouth twitches. âThatâs a lot of demands for someone who just woke up from a concussion.â
âIâm very good at multitasking.â
He laughs again, and itâs louder this time.
âOkay,â he says.
âOkay?â
âOkay. Four hours. And I will take you out on that date.â
He doesnât leave after four hours. Instead, he stays until the sun comes up.
The nurses find him there in the morningâ asleep in the visitorâs chair, his hand wrapped around yours, the silver lighter sitting on the bedside table.
They donât ask questions. Thank god.
This is Gotham, after all.
âË⥠taglist: @coffeelovingreader @cherryseascns @yuunarii-arii @simpingmyassoff (if anyone wants to be added or removed please let me know).
Š đđđđđđ đđđâââall rights reserved; even when credited, these works are not allowed to be reposted, translated, or modified.
HI GANG iâm back to writing canis canem edit (i swear)
iâve lowkenuinely been working almost 50 hour weeks so i really do apologize for the inconsistent updates 𼲠iâm truly just incredibly busy and was in a bit of a rut for a while
hoping to get it out sometime next week!
are yall ready for sub jason todd smut? *smirks and tugs hair behind ear*
might drop out of uni to focus on my dc boys x reader tumblr blog
Need Grayson and the reader together asap (or a surprise kiss! something!)
just u wait pookie đ¤ got something cooking for the next chapter (or two. not sure yet but it will be worth it trust) đŤś
"jason's username on ao3, istagram, tumblr and all the other platforms is jay.austen!" I say as i burn at the stake.
Everyone boos.
Then a voice from behind the crowd yells "how the fuck do you know?!"
It's jason todd himself.
who do you love? â j. todd
dcu masterlist | main masterlist
fem!reader x jason todd
summary: you're hopelessly in love with your classmate, jason todd. and you just so happen to be quite good friends with red hood. drunk one night, you admit you have feelings for jason to your vigilante friend, not knowing the man behind the mask is the man you're in love with.
warnings: swearing, suggestive
a/n: highkey shat this one out. forgive me if it's ass yall. okayyy goodnight love uuu
UNEDITED!!!!
he met you during a lecture. unmasked. aloof. but he liked you a little more than he wanted to admit. he just wasn't sure where you stood.
so jasonâin the most polite wayâkindly wanted to make sure you started getting home safe. gotham is such an unreliable city, who knows what could go wrong?
he always kept respectful boundaries. just watched you wander home in the biting winter. sometimes he'd walk you home as jason. sometimes he'd follow you home as red hood.
either way, he just wanted to make sure you were safe.
until one night, all his over-protectiveness made sense.
you'd been walking home in the brutal home, snow worming into your shoes and soaking through your socks. and suddenly, someone ran past you and snatched your bag.
you'd tried to chase after him, but foolishly slipped on the ice. jason's instincts kicked in before he could think. soon, there he was, sprinting after your bag and returning it to you in the blink of an eye, the criminal knocked out with his face in the snow.
"thank you," you'd said. "tuition's expensive as it is. i can't imagine having to buy a whole new laptop."
jason didn't know what to say. you didn't know him like this. he stumbled over his words. his thumbs twiddled like he'd never spoken to you before.
"really," you repeated. "is there any way i can thank you? i know it's not much, but could i make you some tea? it's freezing out here. not many vigilante's willing to camp out in the cold. i was lucky you were around."
and so he came home with you for tea. but he never took a sip. he kept his mask on as you yapped and yapped. you're like this with everyone. so easy to talk to. so easy to be entertained by your stories.
and so began jason's double life within a double life. already, he had to balance vigilantism and a normal life. now it felt like he was hiding twice the secrets from you.
he'd go to school, see you on campus. you'd wave him down and the two of you would eat lunch. then he'd walk you home (sometimes). and then you'd sneak off to hang out with him (again).
he'd stop by your balcony. sleep tugged at his eyes, but he'd never been happier.
and tonight would've been like every other night, except your birthday was two days away. he was still struggling what to get youâas jason and red hood. because what if you preferred one other version of him more?
"yeah," you went on. "i'm having a birthday party here soon."
"ah," he says. "so i can't come over?"
"nope," you say, popping the 'p.' "no balcony visits for you that night, sir."
"wow." he stretches back, groaning sarcastically. "so you just hate me, don't you?"
"uh-huh. that's why i'm sharing drinks with you and my windowsill." you peer down four stories. "are you sure drinking is the best decision for you right now?"
"i've fallen down from worse."
"well, don't hold me liable for your shitty decisions." you give him a cheeky grin. the same one he's memorized over and over again.
jason will admit to himself: he's a little tipsy, and he thinks he's beginning to fall in love with you.
you make every day so entertaining. so happy. he's exicted to wake up just to see you. to text you. he can't bring himself to do anything but think of you.
he just can't bear to think of ruining the friendship. on both sides.
but right now, you look so beautiful. the moonlight is just bright enough, washing your face in white light. each feature is brightened. so beautiful and so much like you. every pore, scar, blemish.
and poor tipsy jason feels himself leaning inâmask and allâfor a kiss.
and beautiful tipsy you? you're almost leaning in. almost pressing your smiling lips to the smooth metal of his helmet.
but the moment shatters as he feels your hand against his chest, gently pushing him away.
"is...something wrong?" he asks.
"i...i just..." you sigh. "i'm sorry. i do like you, but if i'm being honest, there's someone else i'm...interested in." your eyes flit up to meet his splintering gaze. "i don't want to hurt your feelings. i'm sorry. you're a great friend. i just..."
oh.
so you like someone else.
jason grips the edge fo the windowsill, biting his lip. "i see. can i...can i ask who?" as if he was supposed to know.
he wonders who it is. images of faces flash in his mind. people you've spoken to, people you've hung out with. disappointment eats at him slowly.
"he's one of my classmates. we've been friends for a while." a thoughtful smile crosses your face.
jason simply listens. he's impossibly jealous, but knows that you deserve all the happiness in the world. he wonders if confessing to you earlier would've changed your mind. would've made you like him for a change.
"have you told me about him before?" jason hates guessing games. but you're worth the trouble.
"no. not really. i haven't really told anyone."
"you can tell me," he offers. "it's not like i'm gonna run and tell your friends." he fidgets with his gloves, suddenly feeling suffocated.
"his name is..." you smile. "his name is jason."
he freezes.
quite literally so frozen the wind nearly toppled him back into your bedroom.
"we've been hanging out since the beginning of last semester. gosh, he's just the sweetest." a dreamy, glazed look warms your eyes. "he's so considerate. a little shy."
"is...is he now?"
"mhm." you can't help but look like a giddy child. "he doesn't talk about himself much. but he always listens to me. in a way...you kind of remind me of him." your hands shoot out suddenly. "don't take that the wrong way, though."
"not...taken the wrong way at all..."
"i just...i don't know. i'd ask him out but i feel like he doesn't like me. or that i'm not his type, y'know? i feel like i'm too chatty. he's just so reserved. don't get me wrong, there's nothing bad about that. it makes our friendship feel special somehow. like he only likes talking to me. i know that sounds really bad and all."
but it was true. jason really only liked talking to you.
like a child, his feet began to swing on your windowsill.
"i don't know. he's coming over to my birthday party. i was thinking of asking him out but...eh. wouldn't wanna ruin the mood or anything."
"yeah. don't ask him out. wait for him to do it."
because jason knew exactly what to do for your birthday.
Canis Canem Edit
Dick Grayson x Reader || Ch. 5
frat boy! dick grayson x studious! reader
Dick Grayson finds himself falling in love with the one girl on campus who canât stand himâ his project partner.
A/N: y'all are in for a doozy with this one lol
V.
âYou did what?â
The ends of Lenaâs lips curl upwards.Â
âIt was an accident!â You stress, as loudly as you can without waking the rest of your roommates at eight in the morning on a Saturday.Â
Lenaâs smirk was now a full blown grin as she began to chuckle. She slapped a hand over her mouth, trying to mask her amusement and failing terribly.Â
âStop laughing! Itâs not funny!â
âItâs kind of funny.âÂ
You scoff and glare at her through narrow eyes, but eventually bite.Â
âOkay⌠itâll be funny in a week,â you mumble, crossing your arms as you continue to pace around the kitchen. âSeriously, Lena, what do I do?âÂ
She lets out a deep sigh and tries to regain her composure. You slide your phone in front of her like itâll somehow help.Â
âI mean, he probably hasnât seen it yet,â she shrugs. âBut, if he asks, you can tell him he popped up on the âsuggested for youâ list thing and you accidentally clicked it. Itâs not that unbelievable.â
You bite your lip, noticing the hesitancy in her toneâ like she doesn't want to give you too much hope.Â
Suddenly, an idea crosses you.Â
âWhat if I just deleted my account?âÂ
Lena nearly spits out her coffee. You lunge for your phone, grabbing it before she can stop you.Â
âY/N, you are not deleting your entire Instagram account because you accidentally requested to follow somebody at 2 AM,â she scoffs. âThatâs insane.â Â
But before you know it, your hands, trembling, are scrolling to the settings tab, trying to find the button of destruction.
âI donât use this stupid app, anywaysâ at least not for anything productive.â You try to sound nonchalant, like itâs not completely ridiculous.
âBesides, I only have, like⌠two posts. And I really need to focus on law school applicationsâ God, where do they hide this thing?-- so, honestly, maybe this is a good thing.âÂ
Lena stares at you like youâve gone mad as you ramble incoherently to yourself.Â
âI mean, Iâve applied early to all of my top schools, but I keepâ ah, there it is!âÂ
You scroll down far enough to find the deactivation button. Instagram bombards you with multiple pop-ups warning that this is permanent, that for the next 29 days the account is only archived and not fully deleted, so that youâre able to log back in and re-enable it, yada yadaâ
And thatâs when your phone buzzes. This time, itâs not from Instagram.
Itâs from Dick.Â
Attached is a screenshot of your follow request followed by a snarky line of text:Â
Dick :) (8:31 AM): [image]
Dick :) (8:31 AM): Stalker muchÂ
You nearly drop your phone again.Â
âWhat?â Lenaâs eyes shoot wide with concern. When she makes her way over to you and peeks over your shoulder to get a look, her jaw drops open. She slaps a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound she makes.
âOh fuck,â she whispers, biting back a chuckle. You turn to her with trembling fingers and a newly-formed knot in your throat.Â
âWhat do I do?âÂ
Her hand drops from her mouth, eyes glued to the screen in front of her.Â
âYouâre fucked.âÂ
âÂ
Your shift is a mess.Â
Saturdays at work were usually peaceful. Sure, it was annoying having to come in on early mornings on what should be your day off, but you rarely worked longer than 2 PM.Â
The crowd was nothing more than a quiet lull, only turning into a frantic, caffeine-induced haze during finals season.Â
For whatever reason, today decided to be that exception.Â
A missing coworker, a swarm of engineering students working on projects, your own anxious self on high-alert, on top of no manager on duty and a new traineeâ whoâd been broken up with last night.Â
âI just donât get it!â Your new coworkerâ Reese, according to her nametagâ whined as she attempted to work the espresso machine. âWeâre together for three years and then, what, one night Thad decides to text me that itâs all over!?âÂ
You sigh, raising your eyebrows as you help her brew a shot.Â
âTheyâre the worst.âÂ
You wish you had something better to say. You were never good at this kind of thing, although usually youâd pounce at any opportunity to make fun of a mediocre man, especially when he made a girl cry.Â
But between the neverending line, the horrible Light Pop Hits station drumming in your ears, and the burden of responsibilities falling onto your shoulders, you had no time to indulge.Â
Luckily, Reese was a fast learner, even in her sullen state. She clearly had experience working with coffee, and had probably mentioned something about it in between the teary rants about her ex and questions about different types of cold foam.Â
It all blurred together as white noise. Your hands cramp from how quickly theyâre working and your skin is burnt from splashes of hot coffee more times than you can count.Â
It's not until an hour and a half later that you even have time to breathe.
Just as the rush ends at around 11 AM, your other coworker finally walks through the door, clearly hungover.Â
You scold her briefly and tell her youâre going to report her to the manager. She narrows her eyes, cursing under her breath as you make a b-line to the stock room for a break.
âHeard that.âÂ
Inside, you grab your bag from the cubby and plop down onto a box. You pull out your phone to text your manager, but youâre too tired to even do that. Instead, you lay your head in your lap and close your eyes.Â
Suddenly, you hear a trail of sniffles. Then, a presence beside you.Â
âIâm usually not this much of a mess,â Reese croaks, tears threatening to spill over. âThis is really embarrassing, huh?âÂ
You let out a breathy laugh through your nose and turn to face her.Â
âNot at all.âÂ
You force a weary smile.Â
A few moments of peaceful silence fill the room, the only sounds being Reeseâs muffled sniffles.Â
âYou wanna hear something embarrassing?â
Her eyes dart to you and she all but beams, clearly grateful youâre even making an effort.Â
âTry accidentally following your project partnerâs Instagram at 2 A.M,â you chuckle.Â
âNo!âÂ
âAnd he texts you about it the next morning.â
She stares at you, mouth agape and eyes wide in disbelief. But beneath their glossy, puffy exterior, thereâs a light that returns to them.Â
She tries to hide her amusement, but laughter spills out of her instantly. You donât even care that itâs at your expense, and hell, you start laughing too.Â
Even if you didnât have the right words to make somebody feel better, you could sure make yourself look worse.Â
âStill havenât responded,â you add, pulling out your phone to show her. She squints her eyes, analyzing the screenshot before a look of recognition flashes over her. Â
âWait. I know him.âÂ
You cock an eyebrow. âYeah?âÂ
âYeah,â she sniffles. âHeâs in Sig Chi. He was the vice-president for a while, I think. Iâm not sure if he still is.â
âGot any dirt?âÂ
She props her chin on her hand, humming as she tries to remember.Â
âNot really,â she admits. âI didnât talk to him much. Thad didnât know him well, either.â
For some reason, that disappoints you. You told yourself that you could care less about what Grayson got up to in his free time, yet a smaller part of you still itched for answers, his vastly different life piquing your curiosity.Â
You raise an eyebrow. âIs it true he does mountains of coke?âÂ
Reese scoffs, rolling her eyes. âThey all do. Theyâre rich trust-fund kids on their way to work at their dadâs company, what else do they have to do?â
The two of you chuckle, struck by how some people seemed to coast through life. You pictured Dick walking into class, late from snorting a line, and you canât help but laugh even harder.Â
It was an odd feeling knowing there was a whole different world on the same campus you spent long hours tucked away in the library at.Â
Suddenly, her eyes soften, and she speaks a bit quieter.
âHonestly, though? I never heard many bad things about him.â She shrugs. âThe worst is that heâs on and off with some girl from Tam U. I heard sheâs a model. I think she even transferred for him, but I donât even know if theyâre actually together.âÂ
Tam U. That was far away. Like⌠states over far away.Â
âSome people really want that Wayne family fortune,â you quip, but thereâs something pinching in your chest when you say it. Tight and sharp. Like you regretted even asking.Â
You snap out of whatever quiet youâd sunken into when Reese points to your phone.Â
âWhatâre you gonna say?âÂ
She chuckles, and for the first time in the whole shift, there isnât a quiver in her voice.
You shrug.Â
Before you waste time thinking of something wittier or analyze the chill that suddenly overtook you, you type out the question thatâs been on your mind since your phone buzzed early that morning. You show it to Reese for approval, and with the nod of her head, you click send.Â
You (11:05 AM): Why were you up at 8 AM on a Saturday?Â
Reese thanks you for making her feel better, and the two of you ease out of your makeshift seats. You throw your bag back into your cubby and soldier on back for the final three hours of your shift.Â
You make sure to flip off your hungover coworker when sheâs not looking.Â
âÂ
Two oâclock hits sooner than you realize.Â
The morning rush was the last of it; hardly any more customers came in for the rest of the day.Â
You were so lost in conversation with Reese, learning all about her horrible boyfriendâ who, apart from being a member of Dickâs frat, also played club lacrosse, was on academic probation last semester, and had forgotten her birthday two years in a row.Â
A real stand-up guy, you thought. How could she even spend three years with a loser like that?Â
Lena always said they had to be under some kind of spell, and you were starting to agree with her.Â
Youâve never been more grateful to be single.Â
Before you bid your coworkers goodbye, you give Reese a light squeeze on the shoulder and re-assure her that things will soon be better. Itâs cliche, and you know it doesnât help, but itâs the most you can offer.Â
The walk home carries a peacefulness found only in the crisp chill of an autumn afternoon. It was early October, now, and it was beginning to feel like it.Â
You donât bother to check your phone.Â
Fall typically signaled an abundance of assignments, midterms, and projects being hurled at you at maximum speed. There wasnât time to indulge yourself in pumpkin spice season or cozy girlsâ days spent apple picking: the most seasonal you felt was when you lit the same Cinnamon Spiced Vanilla candle youâd had since high school.Â
But for just ten minutes, you try to let yourself bask in the rare moment of peace that the fall should bring you.Â
Key word: try.Â
You keep replaying the moment Reese told you that Dick maybe, potentially had some sort of on-off situationship with a girl. A girl who allegedly transferred from states away for him.
It was ridiculousâ how could that be true? What kind of girl would switch schools for a frat guy that was clearly using her?Â
And he was using her, you were certain.Â
You didnât know Dick well, but you knew the type of man he was. Youâd figured him out quickly. There was no way that an attention-seeking man-child like that could hold any emotional depth for somebody beyond the physical.Â
No, a guy like that wasnât worth that kind of devotion. Sheâd find out the hard way.
But why did it bother you so badly, even when it had nothing to do with you?Â
He was your project partner, for Christâs sake. You werenât even friends.Â
Your chest felt tighter with every step, cheeks tinglingâ though not from the cold.Â
Your head is elsewhere when you walk in and Chloe asks you how your shift was.
âFine,â is all you respond with a forced smile and a blank stare.Â
You hurry up to your room, curiosity gnawing at your skin and lighting your fingertips on fire with nerves as you check to see if your text got a response.Â
The first has you rolling your eyes.
Dick :) (11:23 AM): GymÂ
The second makes your stomach sink into the floor, slow and heavy, like a sack of wet laundry.Â
Dick :) (11:23 AM): Why did you follow me at 2 AM?Â
You knew it was coming, but it didnât feel any better to confront.Â
Your hands shook as your fingers awkwardly found the keys.Â
You (2:16 PM): Was an accident, sorry. You came up in my recommended, I didnât mean to hit follow.Â
It was the truth. Knowing him, he wouldnât believe you, instead thinking his charm had finally worked, like one of those spells Lena always talked about. Or, maybe it was just one too many of his arrogant, dimpled smiles.Â
Dick doesnât respond to you for the rest of the day.Â
Any thoughts about him eventually drift away as you get lost in your coursework, finishing up assignments and studying for exams weeks in advance.Â
When thatâs done, you ruminate over Reddit posts about decision dates for law schools youâve applied to, marking them on your calendar like itâll help your chances.
Itâs not until youâre scrolling through Instagram later that night when he barges his way back into your mind.Â
Youâre watching some brain-rotting reel that would eventually cause irreparable damage to your psyche when a ânew followerâ notification pops up on your screen.Â
Curiosity gets the better of you. You click the icon and it takes you back to your dashboard, two new lines of text appearing.Â
@dickgrays.on accepted your follow request.Â
@dickgrays.on started following you. Â
You blink a few times.Â
âThat motherfucker,â you grumble.Â
Compared to his swath of nearly 15,000 followers, Dick Grayson only followed 314 peopleâ now 315.Â
What had bestowed you the honor of being lucky number 315? You chuckle to yourself, wondering how quickly itâll take for him to unfollow you after seeing your boring page.Â
You didnât know what kind of weird thought processes he operated on, but at least now you had access to his account.Â
Meaning: you could stalk him without Lenaâs relentless teasing.Â
He only has three posts, fitting for a frat boy trying to play pretentious and esoteric.Â
The first is with him and his friends at a beach, presumably during spring break. A few slides of him and his friends playing volleyball, pictures of elaborate food dishes and drinks, and finallyâÂ
Your breath catches.Â
The last slide is a candid of him walking on the beach at night, taking a swig from a bottle of Titoâs, biceps bulging. His tan skin is exposed from the open Hawaiian shirt heâs wearing, revealing the sculpted lines of his chest and abdomen. His blue eyes practically glint from the cameraâs flash, and he looksâŚÂ
You have to swallow back the lump rising in your throat.Â
He wasnât⌠ugly. You could at least admit that. Arrogant, obnoxious, childish, and out of touch? Sure.
But who wouldnât be if they looked like that?Â
You scroll through the rest of his remaining photos: a set of pictures from his fraternityâs formal in Canada and pictures from a recent trip to Spain. None honored you with the sight of his impossibly sun-kissed skin, and you couldnât help but feel a little disappointedâ even if admitting it to yourself felt gross.Â
You do a double take when you see his date from formal: a girl with long, wavy ginger hair and deep green eyes.
@babs.gordon.Â
She looked incredibly familiar. Clicking on her profile, you notice she graduated from Gotham U last year from the class number in her bio. Her account is private, which does nothing to help your latest deep dive.Â
You lay there, mind spinning as you conjure past memories of old classes or clubs in which you mightâve crossed paths, until sleep finally steals you away.  Â
âÂ
The weekend came and went, and soon you found yourself sitting back in Jamesonâs classroom on a foggy Tuesday morning.Â
Your fingers drum nervously against your laptop as you wait for Dick to walk in and remark about your little slip-up.Â
The awkward dread coils in your stomach. When you hear footsteps approaching, you turn, opening your mouth before you can even think.Â
âI didnât mean toââ
You stop when you see him holding a cup of coffee in each hand, one extended toward you. He tilts his head slightly. His gaze is calm, disarming.Â
Your eyes narrow in confusion as you stare at the cup in front of your face.Â
âFor you,â he says, voice steady. âTake it.âÂ
You blink a few times. Youâre completely caught off guard, not sure if heâs playing into some bit you werenât privy to.Â
âWhat?âÂ
Now heâs blinking, shaking his head.Â
âItâs⌠coffee. I thought you could use it,â he shrugs. âYou always come in looking so tired, and you said you worked long shifts sometimes, so I⌠I thought it might help?âÂ
He places the cup in your hand as he takes his seat.Â
âMaybe make you want to bite my head off less?â he jokes awkwardly.Â
You stare at the dark green cup, dumbfounded. The warmth feels nice against your cold palms, and its smell is enticing.
âThank⌠you,â you mutter hesitantly. Your eyes, still latent with confusion, flicker back and forth between him and the cup as you take a sip.Â
Itâs surprisingly good. Sweet, but not cloying. You can taste traces of hazelnut and cinnamon.Â
âWhat is this?âÂ
âOh, itâs, uh, a shaken espresso with pecan and brown sugar, I think?â He runs a hand through his hair. âItâs got some fancy name I canât remember. Itâs from Kyleâsâ not Cobblepot Cup. I know you said you hated that place.âÂ
He chuckles. Then, his eyes flicker to you nervously as his voice softens.
âSorry if you donât like it.â
You shake your head immediately.Â
âNo, no, itâs really good, actually,â you say, taking another sip. Warmth travels down your throat and spreads through your body, burning away any of the awkward tension youâd been braced for.
âI, ah, work at Cobblepot Cop, actually,â you admit. âItâs shit.â
Dick lets out a breath of a laugh and takes another sip from his cup.Â
âYeah, well, thatâs why Kyleâs is down the street.âÂ
After a few beats of a comfortable quiet, the only sounds coming from nearly-late students still flooding through the doors, you clear your throat.
âUm, Dick, thank you,â you begin. âYou didnât have to do this. Seriously. I can pay you backââÂ
He holds a hand up, stopping you from finishing. His gaze is soft and thereâs a small trace of a smile on his face: not a self-assured grin, but a sincere appreciation.
âDonât,â is all he says.Â
You nod, still a bit taken aback. How was this the same guy you were calling a pompous, womanizing douchebag over the weekend?Â
Maybe that part was still true, but at least as a classmate⌠he could be worse.Â
You donât know why he intrigued you so much. You couldnât pretend to act annoyed by his mere existence anymore, even if he got under your skin. For whatever reason, you wanted to know all about him, like a peculiar antique from an oddities shop.Â
Swallowing, you speak again.Â
âAnd Iâm sorry, um, for the other night. On Instagram.âÂ
Youâre clearly embarrassed, your voice small and sheepish. You had to bring it up at some point, even if he tried to pretend to ignore the massive elephant in the room.Â
To your surprise, Dick tilts his head. His eyes narrow, not as if to scold you, but to examine you like a puzzle he couldnât figure out. Â
âWhyâre you sorry?âÂ
He soundsâ and looksâ genuinely confused.Â
âFor.. trying to follow you so late? It was an accidentâ I donât know, you called me a stalker, so I thoughtââÂ
Dick cuts you off with a sharp breath thatâs almost a laugh.Â
âI wasnât serious,â he admits. âI believe you. That shit happens all the time.âÂ
You take a deep breath, now studying him.
He just stares at you, the hint of a smirk on his lips, like he canât believe heâs even having this conversation.Â
âYeah. Okay,â is all you can muster. You take another sip from your coffee, trying to wash away the now awkward silence.Â
He chuckles.Â
âYour page is pretty boring, though,â he adds. âYou should post more.â
You raise an eyebrow.Â
âYeah? Like what?âÂ
He draws in a tight breath, stretching his arms above his head. It takes everything in you not to draw your eyes to the sliver of tan skin that flashes where his hoodie lifts. Â
âI donât know. Maybe the $7 cup of coffee I got you.â
You scoff, rolling your eyes.Â
âFuck off.âÂ
He lets out a breathy laugh through his nose. He opens his mouth to say something when Jameson cuts him off, ready to begin class.Â
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A/N: alr so if this reads a little disjointed, that's kinda the point lol reader is incredibly confused on how to feel ab dick (and doesn't realize she has a cr*sh yet) so yeah just wanted to make sure its coming across as a weird flow of consciousness rather than inconsistent writing lol. thanks for reading guys!!
hi a nice update for u all, chapter 5 of cce should be out by wednesday đ¤


