[moonsgemini]

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rafe cameron & steve harrington <3

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[moonsgemini]

it’s cool if you don’t - rafe cameron

summary: confessing your feelings to your best friend is hard.

warning: she/her, fem!reader, cursing

an: I wrote this in 2023 & finally finished & polished it a bit. It’s was inspired by it’s still cool if you don’t by briston maroney. It’s short & sweet! Hope you enjoy <3

This was stupid.

It definitely wasn’t the right time to drop a bomb like this.

All these thoughts rattled her brain like a pin ball machine. But it felt like if she didn’t do it now or soon she could miss out.

“But it’s cool if you don’t,” she shrugged trying to act nonchalant. Like she didn’t feel like her life was just flipped upside down. Wishing she could shove her words back into her mouth and sew it shut.

His lips turned up into a playful smirk. He looked like a puppy when he tilted his head slightly. Blue eyes examining her nervous demeanor. He knew her too well and he had been waiting for so long.

“Really? It’s cool if I don’t?” His tone didn’t come off harsh or mean. It was almost playful, a glint of something she couldn’t quite place in his eye.

She huffed a laugh, “Yeah I mean I don’t want to like ruin anything. So like yeah it’s cool. We can just ya know,” You shrugged clearing your throat. Everything around you was suddenly much more interesting to look at because his eyes were becoming too much. Especially since she was pretty sure she was about to get rejected. Then he did the worst possible thing he could do.

Rafe laughed.

Like whole heartedly laughed.

Now she wasn’t nervous or feeling self pity. She was mad. Very mad. He could have rejected her politely but he had the audacity to laugh. She was going to kill him.

She smacked his arm yelling at him, “What’s wrong with you!”

“Hey!” He laughed as she hit him again and tried shoving him towards the ocean a few times. But obviously he didn’t budge. He loved when she got mad because she looked adorable.

“You don’t fucking laugh at a girl when she confesses her feelings asshole!” She continued to yell.

Rafe scoffed, “Excuse me, you made me think you were like,” He moved his hands around like he was trying to find the right word, “friend dumping me. I thought I was being friend dumped.”

She looked at him with a scowl, “What the fuck Cameron.”

“You literally dragged me out to the ocean in the middle of a party going on about how you have something serious to tell me and then you start off apologizing for ruining the friendship,” He crosses his arms over his chest trying not to laugh as the adorable scowl on her face that just deepened with every word he spoke. He wanted to reach out and pinch her cheeks but he knew that would make her even more mad.

She stuck her finger pointedly at him, “This is not the ocean,” She pointed at the waves crashing a yard away from them, “That’s the ocean. We are on the sand.”

He shook his head as his grin widened, “Always with the technicalities huh?”

“Well yeah! Rafe I wasn’t going to friend dump you idiot,” She scoffed.

He held his hands up with a cocky smirk, “Excuse me for not being able to read your mind.”

“You know forget it if you’re just gonna joke about this then whatever forget it,” She began to stomp away to look for a quiet place to cry.

He reached out and grabbed her wrist before she could get too far, “Hey, it’s not a joke to me.”

Her furrowed brows softened as a small frown formed on her lips getting herself ready for the rejection. His hand on her wrist was starting to feel like it was burning her skin. She didn’t want him touching her if he’s just going to say he wants to stay friends. The comfort of his touch was just a painful reminder of what will never be more.

“I don’t think it’d be cool if I lied and said I’m not completely enamored with you,” Rafe’s thumb rubbed small circles on the inside of her wrist.

Her eyes softened and did that doe eyed thing that gets Rafe to do anything she wants, “Really?” It was pathetic how fast he could win her over again.

He nodded a sincere smile appearing, “Why do you think I’ve been flirting with you for the last five years.”

She rolled her eyes, “Rafe you’ve literally been with other girls.”

“Okay that was only during my low moments when I thought there was no chance of us,” He defended.

“Why did you never say anything?”

“The same reason it probably took you this long to tell me. I was scared of losing you completely.”

She sighed, “Cameron you’re the flirtiest person in the world how was I supposed to know that it was more than just your personality.”

He scoffed playfully, “Sweetheart I do not flirt with everyone. Have I ever called another person sweetheart and helped them move out of their dorm on the other side of the country?”

She groaned, “No but-“

He interrupted, “Or driven in the middle of a hurricane to pick them up so they’re not stuck alone all night. Or know their order from every restaurant in town. Or-“

“Okay! I get it!” She exclaimed not wanting to keep hearing about how oblivious she’d been the last few years. But there was a part of her that still didn’t believe him.

She sighed, “I just didn’t think you’d feel that way about me because well,” she motioned to herself, “I’m just me.”

He pulled her in closer with the hold he still had on her wrist, “Yeah exactly. You’re you.”

She stared up at him with a deadpanned look, “Rafe you haven’t made the situation better. That is exactly what I just said.”

He reached up and held her jaw as he chuckled. His thumb softly rubbing her cheek adoringly, “You’re you. The prettiest, funniest, smartest, kindest, most understanding person I’ve ever known. I like you for you. Because you’re you. No one compares to you. I want to start and end my days with you. Watching you be with anyone but me has been the greatest heartache. I never thought I’d be good enough for you but I really really want to try to be.”

Her eyes widened with that look again, “Oh.”

He brushed her hair behind her ear, “So will you go on a date with me? It’s cool if you don’t.” He really loved teasing her.

Her cheeks burned as she rolled her eyes lovingly, “Well of course I will. Especially after all that.”

Rafe moved his hands down to the small of her back pushing her even closer to him, “Yeah you like when I remind you how perfect you are?”

Now this was a Rafe she hadn’t seen. The one she had been dreaming of late at night. Especially after that moving day. His arms looked so big as he lifted boxes and installed curtain rods. She imagined being in those arms just like she is now. She also imagined being caged between them as her legs rested on his shoulders as he relentlessly pou-

“You there?” He asked with a smirk. If his mind went to the same place as hers he didn’t show it.

“Mhmm,” She nodded swallowing thickly.

He sighed sounding disappointed, “I’d kiss you right now but I kinda want to wait for that date. Make it romantic and shit.”

She snorted, “and shit.”

“Mhmm don’t worry I’ll make it worth your time,”He smirked and wrapped his arm around her shoulder beginning to lead her back to the house where the music was playing loudly. Splashes from the pool could be heard and the murmur of young adults talking and laughing.

She poked his side teasingly, “I didn’t know you had such a way with words. Your greatest heartache. Enamored. Who are you Rafe Cameron?”

He kissed the top of her head, “You bring out the poet in me I guess.”

“You’re so corny,” She laughed.

“I’ll be corny all day every day if it means I get to hear you laugh.”

That pit of anxiety no longer in her stomach. That lingering what if voice in Rafe’s head quiet for once.

[kooksandpearls]

Drew Starkey for Lucky press via CBR Presents on YouTube

[rafesbabygirlx]

The love of my life actually

[swan07]

mom i want this one

[fawnindawn]

ON THE SAME PAGE

summary: jason has no weaknesses. especially not that one bookstore keeper he visits every week. he merely needs new book recommendations, and you're the only person he's willing to trust. about the books, obviously. or jason todd falls miserably, pathetically in love with a bookstore keeper who insults him on first recommendation.

pairing: jason todd x fem! reader

You don't expect any customers tonight, not when Friday's are usually associated with activities more enthralling than a shabby bookstore that smells faintly of over-stewed tea. Your fingers itch to flip the signboard around to 'Closed', but they squeeze habitually around your mug instead. A brown rim has formed around the interior from the untouched tea left hours ago when sunlight still graced the shelves near the window seat.

Three minutes to closing, you decide to give the store the respectful grace of being a decent employee and waiting for the clock to strike eleven. At least, that's the excuse you give yourself. Your fingers tap lightly against the solid wood of the make-shift counter, a haphazardly placed desk shoved between shelves and boxes that are to be sent to the recycling center tomorrow. Your life is almost perfectly mundane.

The bell rings.

Almost, except for one sole factor. Your gaze shifts, your neck craning towards the door. Here, you thought your last visitor would finally break the pattern. It's certainly not Margery, a lady who thinks herself the most important customer to this small establishment, always inventing new cons in a skewed attempt to bargain for more free books as gifts for her many nieces and nephews.

This visitor carries a scent of smoke, broad shoulders stretching out a worn, leather jacket. Even from your skewed view, half his back turned towards you, he's gorgeous as he always is. Almost out of place, body stiff as his gaze glances past the stained glass stickers pasted onto the windows, shading the jagged line over his cheek in reds and blues. A familiar, brute tension stuffed into his posture, shadows striking his skin. Smaller, faint scars litter his jawline, and one prominent jagged line is carved into his cheek.

Your secret visitor, who brings in the scent of iron, faint bruises across his cheek on some nights, that goes by the name, Jason.

"Here I was thinking your terrorising finally came to an end." Your voice echoes, a teasing tilt laced in its croak from hours of going unused. "It's nearly closing hour, Jay."

Despite the limp that accompanies his gait, clearly wounded somewhere beneath his large frame and thick layers of clothing, his own smirk greets your gleam of teeth. "Couldn't end a shit week without a recommendation."

Your heart skips, like the quick traitor it is. You feign a casual expression, as if you didn't have his next read hidden under your stack of orders you've yet to shelf.

"Bringing in blood to the floorboards again?" You raise a brow, gaze flickering to where his boots left imprints on the scratched-up wood.

"Nah." His smirk widens, stopping before you. "Wouldn't want you making use of free labour again to mop the dust off this place."

"Wouldn't be too difficult if we didn't have to use bleach, genius."

He shrugs, looking down at you with a pleased expression. "Useful skills I teach you, all without a price, sweetheart." His voice rolls over you like thunder, a low gravel for that mocking nickname he picked out for you like you're the only person he's ever given it to.

Your neck cranes to meet his gaze. "Right, next time I need help cleaning blood trails, I'll call my favourite potential vigilante."

"Oh, so I'm a favourite now?" His brow raises.

"You're so full of yourself." Your bite holds no mark, softening in its edge when your fingers trace over his next recommendation stuffed between the stack of new donations. Dragging it out, you hold it out with held breath.

It never gets easier, the silent exchange. The anticipation, the brief few seconds of waiting as his gaze assesses your pick. It had started out exactly like this, and like some idiotic, preening teenager—you had hoped with every right choice you made, it might heighten the chances of him coming back.

This isn't a library, an establishment where he had to return to at some point. No, he could very likely purchase your selection today, decide it was absolute shit, and never return. Yet, he always came back, and you began to lean on the crutch of a belief that he would continue to.

"Call it a profitable relationship." You joke, even as your heartbeat faintly thuds in the pads of your fingertips, digging into the spine of the copy you reserved for him.

He takes it, fingers brushing over yours. That lingering second of contact feels intentional, but the ghost of his touch disappears before you even have the chance to register its searing warmth.

His smirk dials down into something softer, more genuine. This is the part you love most, and secretly dread that you might not receive. That rare spark in his gaze, to receive something so personal based on the assumption of what he might like. All narrowed down from a history of ten minute exchanges every week in the dead of night, shared between an academic victim who likes spending too much of her time waiting for a suspicious individual to sneak into a local bookstore, and said suspicious individual.

"It's a local author." It spills out of you before you can stop it. "I know you've read most of the classics, but you haven't really delved into ones that relate more to home."

His lip curls, a hum stuck in the back of his throat, and you recognise its one of approval. It shouldn't affect you as much as it did.

"Literature that dives into the horrors of Gotham, should I expect an existential crisis tonight?"

"I'll leave the surprise to do its job.” Leaning in over the counter, your gaze drops to his cargo pants. “Any reason for the limp?"

“Jumped down from the fourth floor.” He shrugs. “Wasn’t sure you’d wait up on me.”

You stare at him wide-eyed, waiting for him to call upon a joke—and he merely returns your stare, amused.

“Jason, you’re joking.”

“I never joke about closing hours.” He shrugs.

You're ready to start, because his frequent disregard for closing hours is a whole other thing—but his gaze shifts instinctively to the clock hanging lop-sided by the ladder, before landing on you again. The crinkles of his gaze deepens, softening the shadows. "You better catch the train. Do me a favour and remember to lock your windows when you get back?”

"Yeah, so long as you come in uninjured next time."

"Worried about me? As long as you keep yours, I’ll keep mine." The point in his grin sharpens, fingers giving a lazy wave as his shoulder digs into the door. The bell rings once more, as if to signify the gravity of his departure. "More illegal activities to run. See you next week, sweetheart.”

His shadow disappears past the flickering street lamp outside the store, as if he never existed. Your heart does that little, traitorous sigh—and that’s all the physical evidence you have past the lump in your throat that the exchange even happened at all.

Your first encounter with Jason was less familiarity-conduced endorphins and more of customer service's worst nightmare.

"Sir, I'm afraid we're closed."

You don't know why you bothered with the 'we', when you're clearly the only staff here. Or why you bothered speaking at all. This man who's barged in through the door, despite the 'Closed' sign, is obviously on edge and possibly on the run? Gotham's unspoken law is to never stick your nose into other people's business, especially if the stranger radiates danger right down to his bruised knuckles. All you should be concerned about is the ten minute walk you have to embark on and how all trains in this district stops at thirty minutes past eleven.

His gaze shifts at the sound of your voice, distracted and hyper-focused all at once. You're struck by the illuminating green that disperses into pale blue, when he finally notices that he isn't alone. Intense, and otherworldly—a gorgeous lunatic who looks like he materialised out of the shadows, stepping into the night and ending up on the wrong side of Gotham.

His gaze doesn't linger for long before it maneuvers around, scoping his environment as his lips press together, some sealed sigh laced within the charged tension between you two. Eventually, a low rasp leaves his lips. "I'll buy somethin'."

Your brows furrow. "Excuse me?"

His hand shifts, waving you off impatiently. "Hand me a book, or two—whatever. I need more time."

The crease between your brows deepen, that soft irritation earlier rising again. Not only has he come in during closing hours, which is the worst of all experiences in customer service, but he had the audacity to be rude and dismissive about it.

"Sir, I'm afraid you'll have to come back another time—"

"Lady." He cuts you off, gaze shifting back towards the streets before looking back to you in warning. "It's not a request. You can charge me however much you want, but I can't leave this store till the coast is clear... and neither can you."

Great, now he's holding you hostage too.

"Are you being chased?" You question impulsively. You have a bugging suspicion that he's prone to lying to you anyways, but his cutting tone makes you unfamiliarly bold. "You're a criminal?"

He snorts, finding something amusing. "In Gotham, some would say it's an honourable profession. There's worse bad guys out there, sweetheart. You're lucky it was me that came in here."

"I wouldn't call it luck." You frown. He doesn't bother with a response, clearly tuning you out, and your growing dislike finds something new to feast on. If you're going to waste a Friday night with some asshole, you may as well squeeze some money out of his pockets. Your gaze flickers over him, scrutinising.

"What are you looking at?" He murmurs, sensing your gaze even when his own is trained on the window, hand tucked under his jacket on what you hope isn't a weapon.

"Just wondering what kind of reader you are."

That finally gets his attention. He looks back at you, surprise evident in his gaze. Without that permanent furrow between his brows, he looks almost younger, erased temporarily of the self-righteousness buried in his bones and the weight of something deadly clutched in his hands.

A moment passes, his tight expression slowly unwinding into genuine amusement. "That's kind of you but you don't have to dial up your customer service. I'm not the kind of guy who leaves reviews."

Your brow twitches, frustration slipping past the cracks of your demeanour. "It's principle. I don't recommend books half-heartedly."

His smirk twitches higher, but you make the wiser choice of storming off, deeper into the shelves before he deigns you with another unfavourable response. Your mind is already slipping into its unfolding map of genres, of the books that encompass your pathway with what you think suits a jerk like him.

"Jackass." You mutter to yourself, opting between a self-help book or a literature pick for the jerk who acts so highly of himself. You decide on the latter, doubting the hunk would even understand the reference.

"Dorian Gray?"

"Yeah, heard of it?" You respond, unamused as you glare down at him.

He's made himself real comfortable, large thighs swallowing up your seat, swirling around on the creaky wheels as he eyes the store with that same assessing look he did when he first entered, as if he was used to mapping out any place he stepped into.

“Experience is merely the name men gave to their mistakes.” He mutters lowly, blue eyes landing back on you.

You blink once, then twice, wondering if you'd misheard him. "You're a reader?"

"Enough to know what you're suggesting, sweetheart." He mocks. "I know a thing or two about mistakes of men, so if you want to cause some real harm, you'll have to hit harder."

"I wasn't—" You falter, because that was exactly what you were intending on. "Fine. You forcefully extended a long, underpaid night shift, and I indirectly called you a jackass. Let's call it even."

His lip twitches involuntarily, not expecting your honesty. "Y'know being direct is what gets you places in Gotham."

"Yeah, gets you running into bookstores and terrorising their staff, you mean?"

"Well, I haven't been insulted through a book before." He shrugs half-heartedly. "I suppose you experience something new everyday."

"Anyone ever told you that you're infuriating?"

"Pretty too." He grins then, something striking and downright filthy. His hand taps on a copy of 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'. "That's what you seem to be suggesting, since you're clearly intent on being honest through your recommendations."

Your scoff escapes you, less annoyed than it should be. "I think my recommendation fits you just fine if that's the only thing you're willing to take from it."

"Oh, I'm more than willing." His grin sharpens. "That's sweet of you, but I'm afraid it's a little compromising, hitting on a customer this soon? You do this with all late night visitors?"

You're tempted to drop one of your heaviest dictionaries right on his skull to sort out the serious issues going on in that head of his. "Customer?" You raise a brow mockingly. "All I see is a stranger wasting my time after closing hours, raising this month's electricity bills, refusing to pay a single cent for his book, and getting out of here as promised."

"We still have—" His gaze glimpses to the clock. "—five minutes if you want to play it safe. You're doing a horrendous job at customer service by the way. Calling me a jackass, trying to kick me out. No wonder this place is—"

Your jaw drops. "You are not insulting the very place you're hiding in like a coward right now."

He raises both hands in surrender. "So charming. Was just going to mention how charming this place is."

Your lips quiver into an almost smile and you shut it down immediately, along with the quick decision that he is dangerous. Disarming with the quickness of his tongue, and unnerving in how he handles conversation like a chess board.

"This entire situation needs more tea." You grumble to yourself, turning your back on him.

There's nothing worth stealing on that counter of yours, unless he's crude enough to steal second-hand books worth cents if he even attempted to resell them in a city like Gotham. At most, he'd take the chipped mug rimmed with your tea. Oh, stupid you forgot your mug.

Your steps retract, a groan caught in the between your lips as you turn around with the anticipation to be hit with his mocking—only to find an empty seat in your view. Your head whips around past the shelves, but there was no sight of a worn leather jacket. Of course, he didn't even bother to announce his departure.

Coming back to the counter, you check for any missing items only to spot a bookmark poking out of one of your books, left in an ajar placement on the counter. On top of it, sat a pile of cash that was worth more than any copy in this entire store.

“Hey—”

He was already gone, you forget. You flip open the book, only to find there’s handwriting on your bookmark. Scratched in impulsively, like a lingering thought he had to put down.

“Jackass left you a tip for the trouble—and the rec. - Jason.”

His condescending tone somehow translates into pen on paper. It should irritate you. Yet, when your fingers lift to trace over the drying ink, you find yourself smiling involuntarily again. Jason. What kind of a man was he? It's a useless question, as you doubt you'll ever see him again.

A likely criminal, a guaranteed jerk—and probably the most exciting visitor of your entire summer.

Jason comes back not a week after. Covered in blood, which after your initial fright, is believed to belong mostly to the other guy. That particular fact he thought to include does little to soothe your nerves.

“You should’ve seen him.” He rambles, in what you could only hope wasn't his disgruntled attempt at impressing you, whilst laying flat on the desk. “Makes mine look like child's play."

The first-aid kit, hidden somewhere in the store cabinet, is squeezed haphazardly onto your office chair. There’s nothing more nerve-wracking than your first attempt at stitching a cut, not anything close to your caliber. If his arms weren't wrecked, you suspect he wouldn't have come all the way to you, an actual stranger. His voice distracts you, and you miss your aim.

Jason hisses, half-shirtless with his black tee tucked between his canines. "No, I said you have to turn it as soon as the point disappears."

Your hand is splayed over his stomach, fingers shaking slightly as you try to focus. "Stop shifting, and just keep quiet for a second. I can't focus with you nagging me."

"Forgive me for being concerned about my wound—"

Your hand comes up to shove the t-shirt further into his mouth, muffling his words. He raises a brow, almost amused, and a trickle of sweat brushes past.

"I'm trying my best to help, when this is clearly something hospitals exist for." You huff, focusing back on the stitch. "Give me some grace, and shut up."

His muscles flex and contract, but eventually, he listens. Your work becomes easier after that, despite it being the worst position you've ever been put in, neck cramping to avoid blocking your only source of light, the flickering lamp above the surface he's laid on, his blood dripping onto the wood.

"You owe me at least five purchases to make up for the blood stains." You grumble. "That requires you to stay alive."

He grunts through the fabric, and you take it as agreement.

“Why’re you back here anyway?” You question, trying to distract yourself. “Of all the places you could’ve gone, you thought that a bookstore keeper would have medical expertise?”

“Not medical expertise.” He mutters, voice too raw to not be honest. “I wanted..”

Your hand places a cloth over his wound, soaking the fabric red. “Wanted what?”

His gaze lingers over you, somehow more haunting with how the blue shade's grown darker, pupils expanded. He winces when you accidentally put too much pressure on the stitch, but that doesn't seem to be all to his sudden stillness. “A recommendation.” He answers eventually.

You stare at him, tempted to laugh. “You came all this way bleeding out, barging in through the door, past closing hours again—for a recommendation?”

He stares at you, and your laugh slips through when you realise that he’s at least half-serious. “I knew you'd be infuriating, but I didn't expect insanity.”

He ends up buying eight later just to prove his point and to make up for the blood stains, only after you promised that they'd all be your recommendations.

The hour's long past operating train schedules, and with the quiet acknowledgement of traumatising your uneventful Friday night, the second time he's reinvented what a normal shift should have been—he offers to walk you back once warmth seeps back into his skin.

Somewhere between sitting cramped behind the shelves as you pick out his recommendations and his tracking gaze over your frame as you rant on about how he desperately needed a self-help book or two, the unspoken tension gradually fades. Eventually, your frustrations die down too—and you realise his company, minus the blood and sharpness of tongue, wasn't the worst thing in the world.

You come to expect Jason’s presence, late in the night although he does begin to respect the concept of a ‘closing hour’. He's usually your last visitor regardless—leaving the two of you alone to... continue on your charade of recommendations. Even when he begins to linger longer than any customer should, offering to walk you back, or make you tea when you're too busy shelfing to bother with a new mug to replace your over-steeped one from the afternoon. Except for today, because Margery, your least favourite customer in the whole of Gotham, decides to pick the one night Jason's visiting to start her practiced act.

Clearly intending on slithering her way into getting something for free, Margery drones on about how important her niece's education is to her, and how anything contributing to children's education should be free of charge. All over a book set costing a measly seven bucks, but you suppose to dear Margery, supporting small businesses in Gotham isn't in her check-list.

“I’m sorry, Margery.” Your voice remains perfectly levelled. “I can't hand the set to you for free, because it's against our policy."

“Can’t you understand my situation?” She huffs, annoyance flared in the fine lines of her cheeks. “No one's even interested in that set, I've surveyed it for days.”

“Which by all existing policies, still requires a purchase, ma’am.”

She scoffs, nails drumming impatiently against the counter. “I want to speak to your manager.”

Your lips quirk up. “Jason.”

Jason shifts then, his gaze lifting from the book in his hand, one which he hasn’t turned the page since he conveniently perched himself right next to your counter ten minutes ago. He places the book down gently onto the wood, bookmark slipping into place, though the slight sneer of his lips conveys none of that delicate care as he slumps against the counter, shoulder brushing against yours.

“There a problem?”

Margery blinks, affronted by his attitude. Or his sheer size towering over her. "You're the manager?"

“Policy’s law.” Jason shrugs. “If you’d like to take this further, to save yourself—“ His gaze flickers to the book set, and his smirk quirks up higher—the perfect composition of a jerk. “Seven bucks, we'll be more than happy to call the authorities.”

“I have never experienced such horrible service!” Her cheeks grow warm, sloshed with embarrassment. “Acting as if I'm in the wrong—you’ll be receiving the worst review!”

"All’s fair in Gotham, ma’am.” He calls out with a grin as he watches her turquoise skirt catch onto the end of the door hinge, releasing another shriek from her lips.

The door slams shut, bell ringing dramatically with the impact, and Jason turns back to you, smile slipping into something familiar and reserved for you. “The review will be wiped the moment she hits post.”

You snort, leaning back against the shelves. “Should I be concerned about your illegal activities invading its way into my work?”

“Nah.” He shrugs. “Last place the GCPD will look into is some shabby bookstore.”

“Shabby.” You feign offense. "Our most repeating customer doesn't even hold a shred of respect for this place."

“Oh-no, I’m beginning to like the sound of being manager of this fine establishment.” He humours, glancing around as if he hasn't already memorised the interior.

You frown, suspicious of his change in tune. “Why, cause you’ll be the boss of me?”

His smirk deepens. “One of its many perks, I imagine.”

“Oh, get over yourself, Todd.” You glance back towards the door, still unable to rid yourself of the satisfaction of watching that entire fiasco go down. "Though I suppose a thank you is in order."

"Couldn't get her out of her fast enough." He shrugs. "She was taking up our time."

"Our?" You raise a brow, almost teasing as you look back at him. "Didn't realise this was our thing now."

His gaze lingers on you, as if he knew his response would be the deciding factor of acknowledging the thinly veiled string that's begun to loop itself around the both of you. Something about your dark circles, the oil on your nose bridge, or the mess of your knotted hair—whatever he saw in you, seals his decision.

"Yeah." His voice rasps, the most unguarded you've ever heard him. "It is."

It's an instantaneous kick, one that nearly leaves you breathless as you try to regain your composure. He could’ve said nothing. He could have thrown this to the side and said that his weekly visits for recommendations during your shifts, no matter if he was bleeding or bruised at the knuckles coming from a life clearly separate from yours—meant nothing.

Yet, it does mean something. Not just to you, but to him as well.

"Oh." You mutter, because you can't think of anything appropriate to say to that.

"Oh." He echoes, a genuine smile lingering at the edge of his lips. "Haven't received my recommendation of the day, sweetheart."

You blink, feeling strangely light, as if your body has regained all the energy zapped out from long hours of rearranging shelves and stacking boxes. It doesn't help that he's looking at you like that, soft and disarmed in a way you've begun to realise he's let himself be, only around you.

You should've trusted your gut that he was dangerous, but never in the way you expected. Your heart skips traitorously, the little thing already knowing something that you refuse to admit aloud. So, you do what you always do and dig out your recommendation, waiting for that spark to light in his gaze and pretend there's nothing more to why you love it so much.

Weeks turn into months, and Jason becomes your one constant even as your shifts lessen in hours to accommodate your academics. If anything, there's something comforting now about leather jackets, the faint scent of pain ointment, the certain knowledge that Jason is most probably a vigilante, after you noticed his constant vigilance over the district you work in has significantly lessened crime rates.

His shelf at home has built its steady collection, every book representing a particular week, an ever-increasing memoir of the thing shared between the two of you, from the first time he stumbled into the store. You don't know what to call it, only that you wish for it to never stop.

He knows the store like the back of his palm, including the exact hour in which you would get up for a tea refill, or when you need a steady hand on the ladder to reach the highest shelves. It's strangely intimate, the way he slots himself into the quiet mundane of your shifts, but he never complains of boredom or having something better to do with his time. If anything, the slower the day, the more he seems to uncurl like a satisfied feline—accompanying you by your side when there's nothing more to do, catching up on his reads while you have a read of your own.

"I have a recommendation for you." Jason mutters offhandedly, legs resting on the desk, as much as home as you are now, seemingly unbothered that he's randomly switched up the unspoken rules of the thing that's shared between the two of you.

You raise a brow, gaze peering over your current read. "You—Mr. I Can't Read Without Your Recommendations, has one for me?"

He shrugs, taking something out from the inner pocket of his jacket. You never understand just how much he's able—and willing to fit inside the leather confinements, and you swear half of it belongs to his side of the world you're privy to only in the latest of nights, when his hand is gripping yours knuckle-white, and he lets you stay by his side before muttering his review for his latest read.

In his hand, is a book, one in which you recognise immediately.

"Dorian Gray." You muse. "Is it your turn to call me self-conceited?"

His lip twitches into a half-smirk, but it buries itself under what you only recognise now to be nerves.

"Jason?" You murmur, slightly startled as you place down your book.

His own hand, scarred over the knuckles and engulfing the book, places its weight gently in your hands, as if offering something sacred.

"I wrote something inside." He mutters, voice softened.

Your brows furrow, but you oblige—flipping open the very first copy you've ever recommended to him, and find a handwritten note on the first page. It's unmistakably his, and there's a few scratched out lines that you can't make out, clearly something he pondered over for a while.

"I think you've probably figured it out by now, that I am not good with my words, no matter how many books I've read with greater speeches or declarations. Still, you deserve to hear something honest, and I've always conveyed myself better through my actions than I do with my mouth.

When I first entered this store, I never expected to run into you. Fate or whatever people call it, has never been considerate of my path, or who I encounter along it. Yet, you stood right there, clearly out of place with the world I know, and I don't think I'll ever truly comprehend how our paths aligned. I told myself to forget you, but you had given me a piece of you in the book you placed in my hands, and I couldn't stop thinking of that, of you. I tried convincing myself, after considering it for seven days, that seeking you out would make the curiousity dissipate, and not because I wanted to hear your voice again.

Bleeding out over your counter, I knew that I was done for when I realised I was willing to buy the entire store if it meant getting to spend a few more minutes by your side. Every book I carried home, was me getting to keep pieces of evidence, of this thing we share that feels like it's completely ours. Proof that a person who thought about what kind of reader I'd be despite every reason not to care—actually existed.

I'll probably regret this, I do have a talent of screwing up with people, but keeping silent has never been my forte, and I would regret not telling you what I've known since the first, which is that there hasn't been a single book where a line has crossed my mind without thinking of you. That there hasn't been a day, where I don't hold myself back from wanting to see you again. I'm offering you my honesty because I do believe that's the only decency available in Gotham, and I'd like to offer you at least that."

Speechless was an understatement for the shaking in your fingers, the weight of the page in your hand when you finally look up and meet his gaze.

He's nervous, pupils dilated—body locked with tension. He's just poured his heart out to you through the page of the very first book you've given him, and he's staring at you like you’ve changed the entire trajectory of his life, and not the other way around.

“Jason.”

“I’ve never done anything like this.” It spills out of him, as if he can’t contain himself. “Our thing, falling for someone. So, before you say anything—I just want to state that I'm not expecting anything. That's the one of the hardest lessons I ever had to learn a long time ago, so don't feel you have to say something you don't mean. I just can't go on pretending that meeting you didn't change something in me—that it hasn't rewired what genuine happiness feels like. I began to read again, after all these years, because books which I once found comfort in now reminds me of you. That in every line I read, I searched for something to bring back to you."

"It scared me." He admits, and even the act seems to cost him. "To care that much. To have this lack of control over how I operate, how I should feel. You disarmed me in a way no one else ever had, and I didn't think I even had that in me anymore. To feel this terrified and to still want someone this much."

His hand lowers to the note-filled page, the book still gripped between your hands and his expression steadies. "I considered it countless times. To stop this, before I start something I'll never be able to take back. Then I looked at you, and I realised I can never go back to my life 'before' you. That I was already in this, and I'd be willing to do anything if you are too."

"Jason." You call out, and he stops with a trained halt, as if he expected the worst. That was your last straw.

"I didn't even need the note." You burst. "If you had simply told me you wanted me, I would've already said yes. Our thing, I've always wanted to be a part of it."

Before, he was tense—but now, your words seemed to have hit him like a truck. You continue, not wanting him to doubt something you realised should've been obvious from the moment you kept that very first note he left you in your wallet.

"I want to be in this with you, Jason." You confess. "You're the one person I wanted to see every night. I don't know how to say this without sounding like a mess but—every book in this store, I constantly look for something that screams you and I wait in the hopes that you'll like it, and that was the most scariest, intimate thing I've ever done for someone. So—you're an idiot if you think I don't want this as much as you do."

"...You mean I didn't have to feel physically ill to write that note out, and you would've said yes?" He mutters after a moment, a low huff of amusement leaving his lips.

“I thought you said being direct is what gets you places in Gotham.” You quote.

His smile gradually reappears. “Yeah, I suppose it got me places. Running into a shabby bookstore, getting hit on the first night.”

You raise a brow. “You and I remember that encounter very differently."

"Yeah?" He murmurs. "That'll be a problem if we aren't on the same page. Just to give it a test, what if I said I wanted to kiss you right now?"

Shock registers faintly to you, even if that thought's been circling your mind for months. A little smile pulls at your mouth. "Yeah, I think we might be on the same page there."

When he leans in, you smell faintly of gunpowder, something warm and smoky—so distinctly Jason. You don't think you'll ever tire of it, and you love it more when his fingers tangled itself into your hair, brushing against the nape of your neck. When he finally kisses you, a low rumble in the back of his throat in content, you find he was half-right that night you both met. Maybe there was luck involved after all.

"I am keeping that note." You murmur after he pulls away to press something softer against your temple.

His lips curl into a smile, and you feel it against your skin. "'Course you are."

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

dc masterlist -> jason + other dc works

jason taglist: @bloomfaery @koibleufish @enmzgn @jxybirdiv @vanillakirstein @mrrayjay @arabellas-barbarella-swimsuit12 @amandjslpz @mossmydarling @batslilwhore @dclover567 @gojoswaterbottle @strawberryfire17 @treebranch23 @vampiranne @tofudubicho @roszszs @revesephemeres @caterppillar @living-that-chronic-life @nxx-jordiepord @elysian-groves @pearly-pebble @ninareads25 @grace-loves-to-read @jarofstarsxx @favorite-fan-fics @radheadphones @freakkay09 @fea-tastic @starr-jazz @bearhug120 @devilslittlehelper @izumi0708 @prettysweet02 @spideyskywalker @outpostsworld @leovaldez0924 @jaydennicole @iloveyou3000morgan @fireriyu

[moonlightspencie]

clark smelling his coworker’s arousal with his super sense of smell OMGG YOU AND ANON ARE GENIUSES I’d love to see a part two (only if you are interested in continuing this idea) where clark asks her out or something. maybe he keeps smelling her throughout the whole date and it’s making him go crazy 😵‍💫

okay yessssss. switching perspective tho cause writing in second person is so much easier when im trying to avoid y/n 😛

warnings: suggestive content! 18+ only pls

read part 1 here!

send requests here! | drabble masterlist here!

——————————

Clark was distraught.

It had been days since he decided to ask you out properly, but he couldn’t quite work up the nerve. Stopping a building from collapsing? Piece of cake. Asking out a pretty girl who liked him? Terrifying.

Well, he at least thought she liked him. She certainly thought he was attractive, as he’d found out in that file room. That could at least be enough to get his foot in the door for a date. Right?

You walked up to the coffee pot, mug in hand. It had been a long day, and it wasn’t even noon yet. An article deadline was creeping up on you, and there were still edits to be made on a few others. You went to grab the pot when Jimmy suddenly appeared, taking it first.

“So… He talk to you yet?” Jimmy asked with a smile, pouring his mug full. He noticed your frown, chuckling once before he filled yours as well.

“Thanks. Who?” You asked, taking a sip.

Jimmy raised a brow. “Uh…”

“James.”

“Don’t full name me.”

“Don’t hide things.”

He sighed, regretting for a moment that he’d ever befriended you. “Clark.”

You snorted a laugh. “Talk to me about what? He can barely look at me without shuffling away.”

“Well, he just—”

The man himself appeared, staring at Jimmy with a tensed jaw. Clark had heard your conversation from across the room, though he couldn’t exactly let it slip that he had superhearing. He had to play it cool. As cool as was feasible for him, at least.

“What are you up to?” Clark asked, grabbing himself a disposable cup to fill. He didn’t often drink coffee this late in the workday.

“Jimmy says you’re supposed to talk to me,” you state, looking up at him and his gorgeous jawline. You let your eyes linger as he glared at Jimmy. “Won’t tell me what about, though.”

“Oh. Uh… well, I…”

“I’m gonna…” Jimmy trailed off, throwing a thumb over his shoulder before he quickly retreated. He didn’t want to be there if a train wreck occurred.

“You…?” You prompted, looking up at him.

“I was just, uh, wondering. If you’d, you know, maybe want to go out some time? Like let me take you out? On… on a date.”

“Oh?”

He blinked at you, cheeks a little pink. You just smiled. May as well cut the poor guy a break.

“Yeah. Sure, I’d love to.”

He let out a breath, his own smile coming out. “Oh. Gosh. Thank goodness. Uh, well, how about tonight? Are you busy?”

“No, I’m free,” you responded, biting back a wider smile. He was adorable. “Where do you want to take me?”

He swallowed. That was a complex question, considering he’d like to take you anywhere. Against a wall, in his bed, kitchen, living room, file room, your car. None of those would be appropriate answers, though, he thought.

“How about Italian food?”

“Love it.”

“Okay! Great,” he replied with a cheesy grin. “Great. I know an amazing place a few blocks down from here, actually, that I’d love to take you to. Uh… d-does seven work for you? Enough time to head home and stuff first?”

“Sounds perfect.”

Clark was floating on air the rest of the day. He had enough time to do a few rounds as Superman after work before he had to actually freshen up and get ready for the date. He’d picked you up at your place, which really means that he flew over and then took you on a walk to the restaurant. It wasn’t far, and it gave him more time to get to talk to you.

The date went phenomenally, and you were equally as charmed as he was. He was sweet at work, but in this context? He was incredible. Chivalrous, shockingly flirty, and you could swear his eyes were literally twinkling. By the time dessert came you were three glasses of wine deep and feeling a little… warm.

“I’m glad we did this,” you say softly, reaching forward to brush his knuckles with your fingers.

He glanced down, heart fluttering as he watched you touch his hand.

“Y-yeah. I am too. I’ve… honestly, I’ve had a crush on you for a while. I’m really happy you said yes.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

You smiled, chewing your lip. He turned his hand over, taking yours. He let his thumb brush over the back of your hand. You sighed dreamily. God, he was big. And gorgeous. Your thighs pressed together under the table, trying to suppress that tingling feeling you always got when he got close. Though, this time it was cranked up to ten.

He tried asking you a question about your family, though he could hardly pay any attention to the answer as a familiar smell hit his nose. He took in a breath, glancing down at your hand again, his jaw ticking once. He tried to ignore it, he really did. But knowing with certainty that you were here, holding his hand, and getting wet just talking to him? It was driving him insane.

“You okay?” You asked softly.

“Hm?”

“You look a little spacey.”

“Oh.” He gulped, looking at you again. “Yeah. Yes, I’m okay. Sorry, just… a little distracted, I guess.”

You tilted your head in question. “Distracted? By what?”

“You,” he admitted quietly with a soft smile. “You’re just… very distracting.”

You grinned, chin resting in your palm. “Oh yeah? How so?”

He sighed once. “Well… y-you’re pretty. Beautiful. Sweet. Funny. Just really… really great. Distracting, like I said.”

Distracting indeed. You could hardly focus on anything but him. But maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

“We should do this again sometime,” you comment quietly as he walked you to your front door.

He nodded. “Yes. Yeah, I would really love that.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

He just smiled at you for a moment. You looked back up at him, squeezing his hand once again, trying to commit the feeling of his skin to memory. Maybe if you did it well enough, you could pretend it was his hand between your legs later that night. You figured he wasn’t the kiss-on-a-first-date kind of guy.

You figured wrong.

Clark plucked up all the courage he could, willing himself not to get hard as he leaned in. A tall order, considering he was halfway there from your scent alone. Having super-senses was certainly helpful when it came to gauging your interest.

You looked up with wide eyes, closing them only when his lips were finally against yours. His lips were soft but firm, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to yours, his hand bracing against your cheek.

This was a feeling you were sure to log in your mind for later.

He knew he’d be thinking of it for the next week every time he had an ounce of alone time.

He pulled away after a moment, sighing softly against your lips.

“This was nice.”

“The kiss or the date?”

He smiled. “Both.”

——————————

do i make them fuck in a third part, yes or no?

[moonlightspencie]

Clark thinking his coworker doesn’t like him until he comes up behind her to help her grab something and he gets hit with the smell of straight up arousal and he’s like “Ohhhh” 😏

i love when he uses his senses for evil, even if it’s accidental <3

warnings: very suggestive considering the prompt so 18+ only pls

part 2 here!

send me requests here!

——————————

Clark had convinced himself: he was utterly hopeless. He’d harbored what he considered to be an embarrassing crush on her for quite some time. An unrequited crush. No matter what Jimmy said.

“Dude, just ask her out. Seriously, she looks like she’s about to start drooling every time you’re within five feet of her,” Jimmy said with a chuckle, spinning around in his chair.

Clark rolled his eyes as he walked past him to get to his desk, dropping down with a huff.

“I think I’d have noticed something like that, Jimmy.”

“You don’t notice anything,” Jimmy muttered softly.

“Hey!”

“Except when you somehow hear literally everything. God, how do you do it?”

Clark just shook his head. “You’re not as quiet as you think you are.”

“And you’re oblivious.” Jimmy glanced up as Cat came by, making a beeline for the coffee pot. “Hey, Cat. You’ve got a knack for gossip and office romance. Back me up, here.”

“About what?” She raised a brow, suddenly interested.

“Clark and his little admirer,” Jimmy stated, wiggling his brows as he nodded to the girl currently talking with Perry across the room. “She totally has a crush on him.”

Cat smiled deviously. “Crush is putting it in very tame terms. Clark, given the chance, she’d be crawling all over you.”

Clark stammered, cheeks going pink as he dismissed the idea. There was no way. She was pretty and put together and… there was no way.

He got through the day with his thoughts swirling. They grew even more insistent every time she talked to him or looked at him or was in his general vicinity. Her perfume lingered in his nose, drawing him in like a siren song. He was pathetic and he knew it.

To make matters worse, she’d called him over for help in a cramped file room.

“Sorry, I tried myself but it’s way too high up,” she said softly, looking at him. She was trying to grab an old file from an article about an ice cream shop that had been around for ages, and was now on the brink of closing. “I really need it for my piece. I’m hoping if we draw some attention, they’ll get the sales boost they need to stay afloat. Unfortunately, I am not a 6’5 giant like you.”

“6’4, actually,” he murmured quietly. “It’s nice though. That you want to help them. You’re always so kind.”

“Gee, way to butter a girl up,” she replied with a chuckle. His cheeks flushed again. She pointed up at a box on the top shelf, reaching up on her tiptoes. “This one right here.”

“Got it.” He nodded diligently.

He reached up, expecting her to move out of the way, but she just stood there. Squished between his body and the shelf. He mumbled out an apology as he grabbed the box, pulling it off the shelf. He tried like hell not to let her notice how flustered he was at the contact, her back against his chest. It felt perfect. Too perfect. He ignored the way his cock jumped to life, trying to will it to go back down before it created an embarrassing bulge in the front of his slacks.

“Here it is. W-want it on your desk?”

“Huh?” Her eyes went wide. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she looked a little flustered. “Oh. Oh, the box. Yeah, yes. On my desk is fine. Thank you, Clark.”

He just smiled a little, taking in a deep breath. Gosh, she smelled good. He breathed in again as she moved to get around him, but this time he caught a whiff of something else under her perfume. Like her skin, but more… more. Something that guaranteed he’d have to be taking a trip to the restroom very soon if he didn’t want to make a fool of himself. Thank goodness for the box he could hold in front of his hips.

Was she… aroused?

He let his eyes scan over her, taking it all in as he walked with her to his desk. Her heart beat a little faster, she definitely looked a little bit nervous, her eyes went a little darker, and that smell… Oh boy.

Clark set the box down at her desk, promptly excusing himself from the situation and her pretty eyes looking up at him.

It was a good ten minutes later before he was sinking into his chair again, staring at his computer.

“Long bathroom break, Clark,” Jimmy commented with a short laugh.

Clark nodded curtly. “Yeah. Yeah… I, uh… I’m gonna ask her out.”

Jimmy just stared, taken aback by the sudden change in his tune.

“Any reason why you changed your mind so fast?”

“Just… sensed a change.”

——————————

drabble masterlist right here

[anxietyismyspideysense]

Fourteen Words

Jason Todd x Reader | Soulmate AU

The tattoo on your arm read:

"You gonna move or are you just gonna stand there looking pretty?"

Fourteen words.

You'd had them your whole life — neat dark letters wrapping the inside of your forearm, permanent and unhelpful, offering absolutely zero identifying information about the person who would one day say them to you. No name. No context. Just fourteen words that managed to be simultaneously a little rude and a little flirtatious and completely unreadable as to whether the person saying them would mean it as one or the other or somehow both.

Your mother had called it characterful.

Your best friend had called it concerning.

You'd made your peace with it. Whoever they were, they were apparently someone who said exactly what they thought, moved fast, and had a specific kind of humor that operated in the space between blunt and charming. You'd built a rough sketch of a person from fourteen words over twenty-something years and tried not to get too attached to the sketch.

You were a little attached to the sketch.

Gotham was not a city you'd chosen so much as landed in — job opportunity, affordable rent by the standards of someone who'd never been to Gotham and didn't yet understand what affordable rent in Gotham meant about a neighborhood — and you'd been here long enough now to have developed the particular Gotham-specific survival skill of simply continuing to walk when things happened around you.

Things happened a lot in Gotham.

Tonight's thing was a fight in the alley beside your building, which you heard before you saw — the specific sounds of impact, something hitting brick, a grunt — and you made the Gotham calculus instantly: not a mugging, wrong sounds for that, too much back-and-forth, and there were two distinct voices which meant—

You turned the corner anyway because you were, as your best friend had noted on multiple occasions, genuinely terrible at self-preservation.

The alley was a disaster. Three men were down in various configurations of unconscious, and a fourth was currently being held against the wall by a figure in a red helmet and a leather jacket, which — Red Hood, you'd seen enough Gotham news to recognize Red Hood — who was saying something in a low voice that had the quality of a thing you didn't want to hear the specifics of.

The fourth man made a decision. Bad one.

He had something in his hand — small, dark — and you did not think, you just reacted, the way you did when something bad was about to happen and your body moved before your brain caught up.

"Hey!" Loud, sharp, aimed at the man with the weapon.

It worked, which was a miracle. He startled. The Red Hood moved — fast, faster than anyone had a right to move — and the thing was handled in about two seconds, the man joining his colleagues on the alley floor.

Silence.

You became aware that you were standing at the entrance to an alley in Gotham at eleven at night having just yelled at a man with a gun. Your brain, now catching up, had several notes about this.

The Red Hood turned around.

The helmet was expressionless by design, which made it somehow more unnerving — no face to read, just the red visor, the broad shoulders, the leather jacket, the general impression of someone who was very large and very capable and currently looking directly at you.

"You gonna move," he asked sarcastically, and his voice was low and a little rough and had an edge of incredulous to it, "or are you just gonna stand there looking pretty?"

The alley went very quiet.

Your arm was burning.

Not painfully — not quite. More like warmth, sudden and specific, the feeling people described and that you'd read about and filed under things that won't happen to me because you were practical about these things, you'd gotten practical, and yet here it was, the warmth spreading up your forearm exactly where fourteen words had lived your whole life.

You looked down.

The letters were glowing. Faintly, gold-warm, the way they did when — when—

You looked up.

The helmet looked back at you.

"What," he said. Flat. But something had changed in his voice, the edge of incredulous gone, replaced by something more careful.

"Your — say that again." Your voice came out strange. "What you just said."

A long pause.

"Which part." Not quite a question.

"All of it."

He was very still. The kind of still that felt like a held breath, like something balanced on a very narrow edge. He looked at your arm — at the glow of it, faint and warm in the dim alley light — and then back at your face, and you couldn't see his expression, you couldn't see anything behind the helmet, but the stillness of him was communicating something anyway.

"Huh," he said finally. Very quiet. Almost to himself.

"Yeah."

Another pause. Longer.

"You just yelled at a guy with a gun," he stated with a breathy laugh.

"I noticed that, yes."

"In a Gotham alley. At eleven at night."

"Also yes."

"That's—" He stopped. You got the impression he was doing something with his face behind the helmet that he was grateful you couldn't see. "That's insane. That's genuinely insane."

"I have been told," you said, "that I'm bad at self-preservation."

"Clearly." But the rough edge of his voice had shifted into something that wasn't quite dry and wasn't quite warm and was somehow both. "You live around here?"

"That building." You pointed. "Third floor."

He looked at the building. Then back at you. "Of course you do," he said, mostly to himself.

"What does that mean?"

"It means I've been running this block for eight months and my soulmate lives on the third floor and apparently nearly got shot tonight because she—" He stopped. Seemed to realize how much he was saying. "Nothing. Forget it."

Your heart was doing something unreasonable.

"You've been running this block for eight months," you said carefully.

"I patrol. It's a thing I do. It's not—" He made a gesture. "It's work."

"And you never—"

"I never stopped anyone on the street and asked them to look at my arm, no." Flat. "I'm not — I don't do that. I didn't think—" Another stop. The careful stillness again. "I have fourteen words on my arm that are very loud and extremely unhelpful and I wasn't exactly optimistic about the context they implied."

Fourteen words.

You looked at him. At the helmet, the jacket, the alley around you with its unconscious occupants, the Gotham night in all its grim and complicated glory.

"Can I see?" you asked.

A long moment.

He pushed the jacket sleeve up slowly, the leather sliding back to reveal the inside of a forearm — and the tattoo there, dark letters, words you knew because you'd said them, or would say them, or had just said them approximately forty seconds ago in a Gotham alley at eleven at night.

Your words. On his arm. His whole life.

The matching warmth was there too, faint gold, the same glow as yours.

You pulled your own sleeve up without being asked.

He looked at your arm for a long time.

"You gonna move or are you just gonna stand there looking pretty," he read aloud. Quiet. Like he was checking the weight of each word. "That's what I said."

"That's what you said."

"I almost said something else." He sounded slightly stunned. "I almost said — something about moving, but different, and I changed it last second."

"What would have happened if you hadn't?"

"I don't know." He looked up from your arm to your face. "I don't want to know."

You thought about eight months. Him running your block for eight months, and you in your third floor apartment, and the specific arithmetic of almost — how close and how long and how many times you might have walked past each other in the ordinary way of a city that never made anything easy.

"I'm—" You started. "My name is—"

"I know," he interrupted, Then, registering your expression: "I told you. I run this block. I know the neighborhood. I don't — it's not weird, it's just—"

"It's a little weird."

"It's a little weird," he admitted shyly.

A pause. Below you one of the unconscious men made a noise and did not wake up.

"You could tell me yours," you asked, "Since we're doing this."

The stillness again. Long enough that you t1hought he might not — that this was the wall, the place where it stopped, where the helmet stayed on and the name stayed private and you went upstairs to your third floor apartment with a glowing arm and a story you wouldn't know how to tell.

"Jason," he offered slowly.

Just that. Careful and quiet, like something he didn't take out often.

"Jason," you echoed back. Checking the weight of it. It was a good weight.

He was looking at your face again with that quality of attention that felt like inventory, like accounting. Like someone who'd stopped letting himself expect something finding it anyway and not quite knowing what to do with his hands about it.

"You should go inside," he stated seriously, "It's late and this block is — just go inside."

"Are you going to keep running the block?"

"That's generally how it works, yeah."

"Okay." You pulled your sleeve back down. The warmth was fading to something quieter, settled, permanent in a new way. "I make coffee in the morning. Third floor, the window with the bad curtains. If you're ever — if you wanted to—"

"Bad curtains."

"Genuinely terrible. I've been meaning to replace them."

"I'll find it," Jason assured you with a laugh. And the rough voice had gone fully warm now, all the edge of it soft, the way something sounds when a person has given up managing it. "Go to sleep."

You went inside.

You stood in your kitchen for a while, jacket still on, looking at your forearm where fourteen words had lived your whole life and were now quiet, settled, finally exactly what they'd always been waiting to be.

In the morning you made coffee and opened the window with the bad curtains.

He found it.

[anxietyismyspideysense]

Lost in the Pages: Mini Series

Part Two

Apartment Neighbor! Jason Todd x Reader

The pipe burst on a Monday, which felt like something the Monday from hell would do.

You discovered it at 7 a.m. from the sound of water that was definitively coming from somewhere that it was not supposed to be coming from.

Then again from the sight of the bathroom ceiling doing something along the lines of drooping that bathroom ceilings should not do.

Then again, finally, from the super who confirmed in a weary tone of a man who had been fielding Fairweather Arms crises for eleven years.

He informed you that it was the unit above you, that the damage was significant, that they'd need to assess, that it would probably be — he paused, in the specific way that people paused before saying a number they knew you weren't going to like — a few days.

 "How many days is a few?"

"Four to six," he said, "Maybe seven. The drywall's going to need to dry before we can—"

"Thank you," you stopped him, "I understand."

You stood in your bathroom doorway for a moment.

Then you called your sister, who lived in New Jersey. Then your friend Camille, who had a one-bedroom in the East Village. Then the hotel three blocks over, which had a promotional rate of two hundred and forty dollars a night, and you had a feeling in your chest that was specifically the feeling of a person doing math they did not like.

You were sitting on your couch staring at the wall when someone knocked on your door.

You opened it to find Jason Todd, in a gray t-shirt, holding two cups of coffee. He looked at your face. Then he looked past you at the general atmosphere of situation.

"Super called the floor," he said. "Wanted to give everyone a heads up in case of runoff." He held out one of the cups. "How bad?"

"Four to six days."

He absorbed this. "Hotel?"

"Two-forty a night."

A pause.

"Camille?"

"She has her boyfriend staying for the week."

"Ah." He looked at you. You could see him thinking — the particular quality of stillness that meant his brain was doing something — and then he said, with the careful, even tone of a man choosing his words with intent: "I have a couch."

You looked at him.

"It's a good couch," he added. "I've slept on it. It's not a consolation couch, it's an actual couch."

"Jason—"

"It's been three months," he stated. "We've had four dinners."

"Five."

"Five dinners. You've met Roy. I've met Camille. I know you take your coffee with oat milk and one sugar and you know I take mine black and you've borrowed my copy of The Secret History and haven't given it back yet."

"I was going to give it back—"

"I know," he said. "I'm just saying." He met your eyes steadily. "It's a good couch and it's not two-forty a night."

You stood in the doorway for a moment.

"Okay," you said. "Yeah. Thank you."

The corner of his mouth moved. "Pack for a week. Don't underpack, it's not worth it."

The couch was, as advertised, a genuinely good couch. You could tell because it was the kind of couch that a person who lived alone had clearly thought about — not a couch acquired by default, not a couch inherited, but a couch chosen, deep-seated and substantial, the kind that held you rather than just accommodating you.

You were not the one sleeping on it.

This became clear on the first night at approximately ten p.m., when Jason emerged from the bedroom with a pillow and a blanket with the expression of someone who had made a decision and considered it final.

"What are you doing," you said.

"Going to sleep."

"On the couch."

"You're the guest."

"It's your apartment."

"That's why I'm being a good host."

You looked at him. He looked back, patient, the pillow under his arm, and you thought about the next five nights and about the math of this, and said:

"Jason. I am not displacing you from your own bed for a week because a pipe burst."

"You're not displacing—"

"Your back will be ruined."

"My back is fine."

"Your back is not fine, you carry yourself like someone who's been compensating for a left shoulder since forever and you sleep in weird positions on that couch because I've seen you, at book club, in the armchair—"

He stared at you.

"We're adults," you said. "It's a bed. I assume it is of reasonable size."

"...It's a queen."

"A queen is very reasonable. We can share a queen like adults." You held his gaze. "Unless you have some kind of objection."

A long moment.

"No objection," he carefully said, in the tone of a man who had several objections that he was choosing not to voice.

"Then stop being a martyr and go back to bed."

Something in his face shifted. He turned around without further argument and went back down the hall. You followed.

The bedroom was — you took in, briefly, without making it a thing — deeply his. Books everywhere, two shelves' worth and then stacks on the nightstand and the dresser. A window that caught the city light. Everything neat in the specific way that suggested someone who could tolerate chaos in some directions but had made choices about their own space.

You took the left side. He took the right.

"Goodnight," you said.

"Goodnight," he said, with the particular tone of a man who was going to lie very still and be very mature about this.

You closed your eyes.

You woke up at 7:23 a.m. to pale November light and the awareness of two things simultaneously.

First: you were warm. Comprehensively warm, in the manner of someone who had slept genuinely well in a bed that was good and a room that was the right temperature.

Second: Jason Todd, who had gone to sleep on his respective side of a queen-sized bed and had presumably intended to stay there, was the little spoon.

You stared at the ceiling.

He was asleep. His breathing was slow and even.

He had, at some point in the night, migrated with complete unconscious commitment and was now tucked against you in a way that suggested he had located warmth and decided it was his. Your arm was around him. His hand was loosely over yours. His face, which in waking hours carried the particular controlled quality of someone who had decided long ago not to let everything show, was entirely slack.

He looked soft and unworried when he slept. 

You stared at the ceiling for a long moment.

Then, because you were a reasonable adult and because you were not going to make this into something he'd have to navigate on insufficient sleep, you stayed exactly where you were and closed your eyes and went back to sleep.

He woke up first. You knew because you felt him go still — the specific stillness of someone arriving at consciousness and immediately performing an audit of their situation.

A pause.

A longer pause.

"...Hm," he said, very quietly, to no one.

You kept your eyes closed. Decided, as a gift to both of you, to be deeply asleep.

He was still for a moment longer. Then, with tremendous care, he extracted himself, clearly trying not to wake you, and you listened to him pad down the hall toward the kitchen, and then to the sound of the coffee maker beginning, and then to a prolonged silence that you suspected was Jason Todd alone in his kitchen working through some thoughts.

When you emerged, he had made coffee. He handed you a cup — oat milk, one sugar — with perfect normalcy and said, "Did you sleep okay?"

"Really well, actually," you said.

He nodded, and looked at his own coffee.

"Me too," he stated, in a tone that was very carefully just that.

The tips of his ears were slightly red.

You looked out the window at the Gotham morning and drank your coffee and decided that some things could be allowed to settle at their own pace.

The book club met on Tuesday.

You had known, going in, that Estelle had an information network that operated on principles you had never fully mapped. What you had not fully accounted for was the speed.

Estelle opened the door and looked at your face. 

"So."

"Estelle."

"I heard about the pipe." She stepped aside to let you in. Gerald assessed you from his radiator. "I also heard—" she paused, in the way she paused when she was choosing timing with intention — "that you've been staying in 7C."

"The hotel was—"

"Two-forty a night, yes, Frank the super mentioned it to Helen in 6A who mentioned it to Dot." Estelle smiled with enormous serenity.

"Sit anywhere you like."

Dot and Miriam were already there. They looked at you with the expression of women who had information and were exercising considerable restraint in not deploying it immediately.

"Hi," you said.

"Hi," said Dot.

"How have you been," said Miriam, in a tone that meant something completely different.

"Fine," you stated, sitting down.

"Good," said Miriam.

Phyllis arrived two minutes later, took in the room, and said "Has she said anything yet?" to Estelle before she had fully removed her coat.

"Phyllis," you said.

"I'm just asking—"

"I'm right here."

"I know," said Phyllis, sitting down with the energy of someone settling in for something. "That's why I'm asking."

Jason arrived at 6:02, which was when you all heard the knock, and Estelle let him in, and he walked into the living room and found five women looking at him with varying expressions of avid attention, and he stopped.

He looked at you.

You looked at him, with the expression of I have no control over any of this.

He looked back at the room.

"Okay," he said, with resignation.

"So," said Dot. "You've been cohabitating."

"A pipe burst—"

"How domestic," said Miriam.

"It's been four days—"

"Five," you said, without thinking.

Everyone turned to look at you.

"...Not that I've been counting," you added.

"You've been counting," said Phyllis, with delight.

"The couch," said Estelle, who had poured herself a generous glass of wine and was already clearly enjoying this more than anything that had happened in months. "I said to myself — Estelle, he has a good couch. Very sensible of him to let her have it."

There was a pause.

"I offered her the couch," Jason said, slowly, with the specific energy of someone choosing a word very carefully.

Another pause.

"And?" said Dot.

"And nothing," he said.

"But," said Miriam.

"There's no but—"

"Jason," said Estelle, gently, in the way that Estelle sometimes deployed gentle like a surgical instrument, "you're doing the thing where your ears get red."

The room looked at his ears.

His ears were, objectively, red.

"They're not—"

"Very red," confirmed Dot.

"Extremely," said Miriam.

"I'm not—"

"We shared the bed," you said, because you could see him working himself into a full defensive posture and because the look on his face had shifted into something that was not quite comfortable and you had decided, three seconds ago, that this was more important than the conversation being uncomplicated. "Like adults. It was fine. Everything was fine."

You met his eyes.

Something in his face settled.

"Fine," Estelle repeated, in a tone of pure, delighted disbelief.

"Fine," said Dot.

"The two of you," said Miriam, with a fondness that was somehow more embarrassing than the rest of it, "are going to kill me."

"Let's talk about the book," said Jason.

"We haven't poured your wine yet," said Phyllis.

"I don't need wine."

"You need wine," said Estelle, and got up to get it, and the room rearranged itself around the familiar shape of a Tuesday, book club, 4B — except that when she came back and handed Jason his glass, she patted his cheek with the specific affection of someone who had decided he was hers to look after, and he let her, which told you more than most things had.

The book was Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson, and the discussion that followed was good — genuinely good, the kind that went in directions you hadn't expected — and at some point in the second hour you and Jason ended up disagreeing about Ruth's relationship with impermanence in the way that you sometimes disagreed, which meant that neither of you was wrong but you were coming at it from different angles, and the room let you go at it for a while with the comfortable attention of people watching something they'd seen developing for months.

You were mid-point when Miriam refilled your wine without being asked, and you caught Estelle's eye across the room, and she gave you the smallest nod, the kind that meant she was keeping track of something.

After, in the hall — walking down, because the elevator was being the elevator —

"They're not going to let the bed thing go," you observed.

"They're not," he agreed, with the equanimity of someone who had made his peace.

"For the record," you said, on the third-floor landing, "I wasn't uncomfortable. If that's—" A pause. "I just wanted to say that."

He looked at you. The stairwell was doing its usual thing: bad light, old building, city underneath.

"Yeah," he said. "Me neither."

"Okay."

"Okay."

You looked at each other for a moment.

"Two more nights," you said.

"Two more nights," he confirmed.

You both stood there.

"I'll leave the coffee maker on a timer," he offered. "You're up before me."

"You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to."

You looked at him: the soft look on his face, the white streak, the particular quality of the way he said things when he meant them without inflection.

"Thank you," you said. "For all of it."

"Anytime," he said.

And the thing was — you thought, walking into your temporary quiet of 3F — the thing was that he said it like he meant that too.

Two weeks later, Estelle mentioned to Miriam that Jason had started coming down to the third floor on Tuesday mornings.

"Just to walk up together," she clarified, to no one who needed clarification.

Miriam opened a very good bottle of wine.

Gerald remained indifferent.

Tag List

@sluttybiscuitbabes

[anxietyismyspideysense]

Lost in the Pages: Mini Series

Apartment Neighbor!Jason Todd x Reader

The flyer was taped to the mailbox with approximately four pieces of scotch tape per corner — aggressive adhesion, clearly the work of someone who had lost flyers before and was not going to lose this one.

FAIRWEATHER ARMS BOOK CLUB Every other Tuesday, 6pm, Apartment 4B Wine provided. Opinions required. Baked goods encouraged but not mandatory. New members WELCOME — ask for Estelle

You'd moved into the Fairweather Arms on a Thursday with three boxes, one suitcase, and the particular low-grade optimism of someone who had decided that this neighborhood, this time, was going to be fine. It was Gotham, which meant fine was a relative term, but the rent was survivable, the locks were new, and the woman in 4B had brought you a plate of lemon bars within forty minutes of your arrival and told you her name was Estelle and that you had good energy.

You had kept the flyer.

Apartment 4B was small in the way that Gotham apartments were small — aggressively, cheerfully small, decorated within an inch of its life with bookshelves and afghans and approximately forty framed photographs and a large orange cat named Gerald who assessed you from the arm of the sofa and found you acceptable.

Estelle herself was seventy-three, had an iron-gray braid down her back, wore reading glasses on a beaded chain, and had the eyes of someone who had seen everything twice and found most of it amusing.

"New girl!" she announced when you knocked. "Everyone, the new girl is here. I told you she'd come."

Everyone turned out to be:

Phyllis, sixty-eight, retired schoolteacher, cardigan, reading the back cover of the month's selection even though she'd clearly already read it.

Dot, seventy-one, former nurse, very short, extremely sharp, the kind of woman who asked questions that sounded like pleasantries and weren't.

Miriam, seventy-five, had brought a bundt cake and a bottle of red wine that cost more than your weekly grocery budget and seemed completely unbothered by this.

And one person who was not an old lady.

He was sitting in the armchair in the corner — the good armchair, which suggested either that he'd arrived first or that the armchair had been designated for him by some social contract you weren't yet party to — with a paperback held in large hands and the particular stillness of someone who had learned how to occupy space without advertising it.

He looked up when you came in.

Late twenties.

White streak through dark hair.

The kind of face that looked like it had opinions.

He was wearing a gray henley with the sleeves pushed up and an expression that was carefully, professionally neutral…. which somehow made it more noticeable than any expression would have.

"That's Jason," Estelle said, in the breezy tone of someone providing a simple fact. "He's in 7C. He's been with us four months. Jason, this is—" she looked at you expectantly.

You gave your name.

"7C," Jason said. A nod. Careful, assessing, not unfriendly. "Third floor?"

"Yeah."

"Elevator sticks on the way up. Hit the button twice."

"...Thank you."

Estelle beamed. She had the expression of someone watching the opening scene of something they'd already decided they enjoyed.

You took the seat on the sofa next to Phyllis.

The book was Giovanni's Room by James Baldwin, which you had loved in college and come back to twice since. This turned out to be relevant, because the book club had opinions.

Dot had many opinions, delivered in the rapid-fire manner of someone who had spent forty years as a charge nurse and was constitutionally unintimidated.

Miriam disagreed with approximately half of them and was delighted by this.

Phyllis had annotated her copy in three colors of pen and referred to the annotations frequently.

Estelle moderated with the ease of someone who had been running this particular conversation for years and found it nourishing.

And Jason Todd, in the corner armchair, had apparently read the book so carefully that when he spoke — which wasn't often, but when he did — everyone in the room turned to listen.

You'd noticed his copy in the first five minutes. It was visibly broken-in. Margin notes in small handwriting. A few pages dog-eared at the corners in a way that suggested specific passages rather than just stopping points.

He caught you looking at it at some point in the second hour and raised an eyebrow.

"Margin notes are the only honest way to read," you pointed out, keeping your voice low because Dot was mid-argument.

He considered this. "Agreed." He tilted the book slightly toward you — not offering it, just acknowledging the observation. "You?"

"I use sticky tabs. Less commitment."

Something in the corner of his mouth moved. "Coward."

"Flexible," you retorted.

He looked back at his book. But the corner of his mouth was still doing the thing.

Afterward, when the wine was mostly gone and the bundt cake was significantly reduced, there was the natural drift toward the kitchen, toward coats, toward the gradual end of an evening.

You ended up at the bookshelf while people gathered themselves, running your finger along the spines — Estelle's collection was dense and pleasingly unorganized, literary fiction shelved next to cooking memoirs next to vintage sci-fi with the cheerful indifference of someone who organized by feeling rather than category.

"She's got two copies of Middlemarch," Jason said, from beside you, and you managed not to startle because you had heard him approach, which was notable because he was quiet in a way that seemed deliberate.

"Which edition?"

He found them, checked and relayed it to you.

"She lent me one last month," you said. "Third shelf in 7C?"

He looked at you. "I've read it."

"What did you think?"

The question was genuine, not conversational, and something in him seemed to recognize that. He leaned against the bookshelf and thought about it actually thought, which was not what people did at 8:30 p.m. at the tail end of a book club when they could easily say good, really good, loved it and be done.

"Casaubon," he said finally.

"What about him?"

"Everyone reads him as the villain. He's not. He's just someone who loved something so much he built a cage around it." A pause. "Didn't know that was what he was doing until it was done."

You looked at him.

"That's—" you started.

"Next month is Beloved," Estelle announced from across the room, and the moment broke cleanly, and Jason straightened, and you both turned back toward the room.

But you thought about it on the walk up the stairs.

The elevator was broken two weeks later — actually broken, not just sticky — and you were on your third trip down with boxes from a furniture delivery when you rounded the stairwell landing and nearly walked into Jason Todd, who was coming up with a bag of groceries and the particular look of someone who had also had a day.

"Sorry," you both said.

Then looked at each other.

"Elevator?" he asked.

"Yep."

"Third trip?"

"Fourth, actually."

He looked at the flat-pack box under your arm. "Bookshelf?"

"Desk."

He held out a hand for the box.

"I've got it," you said.

"I know you've got it," he replied patiently. "I'm offering."

There was something in the way he said it — no performance of helpfulness, no fuss — that made arguing feel more awkward than accepting. You handed over the box.

He took it and the groceries and headed up the stairs without making it a thing.

"3F," you said.

"I know," he replied gently.

You followed him up.

He didn't come in. Jason set the box outside your door, picked up his groceries, and was three steps back toward 7C before you found the words for what you'd been thinking since the bookshelf.

"The Casaubon thing," you started.

He stopped.

"I thought about it. You're right about the cage. But I think—" You leaned against the door frame. "I think Eliot lets him off easier than she should, because the cage is still a cage even if he didn't mean it. The intent doesn't change what Dorothea lost."

He turned around.

The look on his face was strange… not bad, just strange, like you'd said something that landed somewhere unexpected.

"No," he stated slowly. "It doesn't."

"But I think that's why it's sad instead of just bad," you reasoned. "Both things being true at the same time."

He was quiet for a moment. "Yeah," he agreed. "Yeah, that's—" A pause. "That's better than what I said."

"It's a continuation of what you said."

"Still."

You smiled at him. He looked at the smile with an expression you couldn't fully read from a hallway distance and didn't examine too closely, because that way lay complications you hadn't budgeted for in a new apartment building.

"Thanks for the box," you added.

"Anytime," he called over his shoulder, already moving away.

He went up the stairs.

You stood in the hallway for a moment longer than necessary.

The thing about the old ladies was that they were not subtle. You would come to understand this gradually, and then all at once.

It started small.

Estelle mentioned, at the next book club meeting, that Jason had grown up in Gotham — did you know that? Very interesting, a real Gotham native, so rare, you must have so much to talk about, you both had that sharpness that Gotham put in people, she'd noticed.

Dot asked, entirely out of nowhere, whether you had tried the new coffee place on Meridian and then mentioned — smoothly, without breaking conversational stride — that Jason had mentioned it, actually, and wasn't that something.

Miriam cornered you in the kitchen during the Beloved meeting and asked, with the direct energy of a woman who had outlived most of her patience for indirection, whether you'd noticed that Jason laughed more in the last month.

"I haven't really—"

"You have," Miriam stated firmly. "And so has he."

"Miriam—"

"I'm seventy-five," Miriam replied calmly. "I don't have time for this to take longer than it needs to." She refilled your wine. "He brought a bundt cake last week."

"...Okay?"

"In twenty-three meetings, that boy has brought exactly nothing. He sits in the chair and he reads and occasionally he says something that makes everyone put their wine down." She looked at you over her glasses. "He brought a bundt cake. It was good, which is more alarming than if it had been bad, because it means he practiced."

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

"I'm not saying anything," Miriam stated serenely. "I'm just providing information." She took her wine with a wink and walked back into the living room.

You didn't mean to look at the bundt cake tin when you got back to the living room.

You looked at the bundt cake tin.

Jason was across the room talking to Phyllis about something. She was showing him an annotation, he was reading it with that actual-attention expression — and you looked at the bundt cake tin, and you thought about a man who had read Middlemarch closely enough to have an opinion about Casaubon and had apparently spent some portion of his week practicing baked goods, and you thought:

Oh no.

Oh no lasted approximately three more weeks, during which the following things happened:

He held the elevator door on a Wednesday morning when you were running late with wet hair and the expression of someone having a bad start, and didn't say anything about the wet hair or the chaos, just held the door and pressed the floor one button and handed you his coffee when you patted your tote bag’s cup holder and found you'd left yours inside.

"I'll get it back to you—"

"Don't worry about it."

The coffee was black, no sugar, which was not how you took it, and was somehow the best thing you had ever tasted in your entire life.

You found a copy of A Visit From the Goon Squad outside your door with a sticky note that said estelle said you hadn't read this — she's right, you should. No name. You recognized the handwriting from the margins of Giovanni's Room.

He stopped in the hall one night when you were sitting outside your door with your back against the wall and a book in your lap because your electricity had blown a fuse and you were waiting for the super to call back, and he looked at you on the floor and then went back to his apartment and came back with a lamp, an extension cord, and approximately thirty seconds of silent problem-solving that resulted in you having light without having to move.

"You didn't have to—"

"You were reading outside in a hallway," he stated flatly. "In Gotham."

"The building is secure—"

"You were reading outside in a hallway," he said again, patiently, and plugged in the lamp. "Call me when the super calls you back and I'll help you find the fuse box."

He went back inside.

You stared at the lamp.

Oh no, you thought again.

The scheme reached its operational peak on the first Tuesday of November.

You arrived at 4B to find that Estelle had rearranged the seating — the sofa had been pushed, the armchair relocated, and the new configuration featured exactly one loveseat and very few other options.

You looked at the loveseat.

You looked at Estelle.

Estelle looked at Gerald the cat.

"Gerald, I told you not to move the chairs," she chastised him gently.

Gerald did not respond.

"Estelle," you stated firmly.

"Sit anywhere you like," she said warmly, and handed you a glass of wine.

Jason arrived four minutes later, surveyed the room in the quick way he had, registered the seating situation, and looked at Estelle with an expression that was flat and patient and said I know exactly what you're doing with considerable clarity.

"Gerald moved the furniture," Estelle offered unhelpfully.

"Gerald," Jason stated, "is a cat."

"He's very active."

"He's asleep on the radiator."

"He was very active earlier."

You were biting the inside of your cheek so hard it hurt. Jason looked at you — found you already looking at him — and the expression on his face shifted through several things before settling into something that was almost defeated.

He sat down on the loveseat.

There was, genuinely, limited other seating.

You sat down next to him.

He smelled like coffee and something else, clean and faint, and he was warm in the way that people who ran warm were, which you had not needed to know and now knew, and the book club began around you with the cheerful momentum of four women who were pretending nothing was happening (while absolutely orchestrating something).

The book was Normal People.

Halfway through the discussion, Dot said, with the serene bluntness of a woman who had made a decision: "I think the problem is they're both too afraid to just say the thing."

"Communication is a skill," Phyllis agreed. "Like any skill, you get worse at it if you don't practice."

"Young people," Miriam stated, in a tone of fond exasperation, "wait for the perfect moment. There is no perfect moment. There is just the moment you're in."

You were very aware of Jason, beside you, being very still.

"Sometimes," Estelle said thoughtfully, looking at neither of you and therefore obviously talking to both of you, "the feeling has been there for a while. You both know it's there. You're both just waiting for someone to be brave first."

A pause.

Phyllis nodded. "It's about the book," she told Gerald, who was now on the coffee table, with the energy of someone who was not convincing anyone.

"It's absolutely about the book," Dot agreed.

"Deeply," added Miriam.

Jason made a sound that was very quiet and might have been a laugh that he had forcibly prevented from existing.

You looked down at your copy of Normal People and thought about four women who had decided, collectively, that this was a project worth undertaking, and thought about coffee in a hallway and a lamp on an extension cord and margin notes in small handwriting, and thought about Middlemarch and cages that people built and didn't mean to and choices that people made or didn't.

After, in the hallway, walking down to the third floor because the elevator was being the elevator.

"Estelle moved the furniture," you noted.

"Estelle definitely moved the furniture," he agreed.

"Gerald doesn't have thumbs."

"Gerald definitely doesn't have thumbs."

You reached the third floor landing. This was where you turned off and he kept going. This was how it had gone every other Tuesday for two months.

You stopped.

He stopped.

"The thing," you said.

He looked at you.

"Estelle said someone has to be brave first," you took a shaky breath. "I don't know if I'm brave so much as I've had three glasses of wine and I've been thinking about a comment you made about Casaubon since the first week of September." You looked at him steadily. "So."

The stairwell was the same as it always was… bad overhead light, the distant sound of the city, the smell of old building.

Jason Todd looked down at you in the bad overhead light with the expression that you had catalogued over two months of Tuesday evenings and elevator rides and hallway lamps, and said:

"You want to get dinner."

It wasn't a question.

"I want to get dinner," you confirmed.

"Not book club dinner. Dinner dinner."

"That is what I mean by dinner, yes."

He was quiet for one moment — the kind of moment that felt like something settling into place rather than something uncertain.

"Friday," he offered with a sure look.

"Friday."

"Not the Meridian place, Dot's going to ask us about it."

"Absolutely not the Meridian place."

"I know somewhere," he offered. "Good food. Quiet enough to talk."

"I'd like that."

He nodded. Looked at you for a moment with an expression that was open in a way his face didn't usually do in public, where public apparently included book clubs full of scheming old ladies.

"Goodnight," he said.

"Goodnight," you echoed.

He went up the stairs.

You stood on the landing for a second. Then you went into your apartment and sat on your couch and thought about Friday, and tried very hard not to smile like an idiot, and mostly failed.

[puckingcuckbunny]

🜼 — 𝟎𝟐 . 𝐌𝐄𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐂 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒

thank you @tommykinard for the gif <3 and this post by @psycherachnid for the divider <3

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : 𝐣𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦! 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 𝟏𝟏,𝟔 𝐤 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬

𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 : 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐯𝐲 — 𝐩𝐭. 𝟐

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 : 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞. 𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧-𝐬𝐨𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐜 𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐋𝐨𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐩 𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧, 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐌𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐜 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐬. 𝐇𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞, 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲, 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐬. 𝐒𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐩 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐀𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐩. 𝐋𝐨𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧. 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 : 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠-𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝, 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐣𝐢 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧'𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 ! 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞. 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 🜼

By the time you got home, the rain had softened. It reduced to a whisper against the pavement outside your building, turning the streetlights into blurry gold circles, and followed you all the way upstairs in the damp hem of your cardigan and the wet ends of your hair.

You had survived, Cherry had survived, and nobody had made you feel silly for crying slightly in the back of the cab when the garage disappeared behind you.

In your defence, Cherry had looked very small in the garage bay when you left her there. Small and wet and red beneath all those harsh shop lights, like a sad little show pony at the vet. You knew she was a car. You did. Your mother had raised you with enough practical sense to understand the distinction between machinery and living creatures, even if she had also raised you around enough animals, antiques, cars, houses, and deeply sentimental family objects to know that sometimes the things you loved became people-adjacent anyway.

Cherry was people-adjacent and definitely emotionally significant enough that leaving her overnight with strangers had felt like signing over custody.

Except they had not really felt like strangers by the end.

The older man had been kind, in that quiet, slightly amused way fathers sometimes were when they had decided you were harmlessly dramatic rather than genuinely difficult. He had called the cab himself, told the driver to wait while you gathered your purse, and insisted you take the shop umbrella even though you promised you were perfectly capable of walking six feet through rain without dissolving.

And the younger one-

The mechanic.

You stopped in the middle of your room with one shoe half-off.

The younger one had been nice.

That was all.

Nice.

A perfectly normal adjective.

A very respectable adjective.

He had been nice because he had held the umbrella more over you than himself. He had been nice because he had not laughed in a mean way when you explained that Cherry was sensitive. He had been nice because he listened to the Strawberry story like it was information he actually needed in order to assess the car, even though you were fairly certain the emotional history of your previous Beetle had no mechanical relevance.

He had been nice because he had told you Cherry would stay inside overnight.

And he had looked you in the eye when he said nobody would be mean to her.

Which was ridiculous.

No one was mean to cars. Cars did not have feelings.

But he had said it like he understood that you had feelings about the car, and for some reason that felt worse than if he had just played along with the joke.

You kicked your other shoe off and watched it land beside the first one with a wet little slap against the floor.

Your ballet flats were ruined.

You padded toward the bathroom, leaving damp footprints behind you, and caught sight of yourself in the mirror.

Oh.

You looked insane. You looked like a girl who had been caught in a rainstorm and then forced to have an unexpectedly emotional interaction with a handsome mechanic while wearing waterproof mascara that was apparently only decorative in its waterproofness. Your hair had dried into uneven waves around your face, soft in some places, frizzy in others, and your cardigan clung awkwardly to one shoulder. Your lipstick, through some combination of divine mercy and expensive formulation, had survived almost perfectly.

You leaned closer to the mirror, inspecting it.

“At least one of us has dignity,” you murmured.

Your reflection did not answer.

You turned on the shower, peeled yourself out of your wet clothes, and let the bathroom steam up around you until the mirror disappeared behind fog. The hot water felt incredible. It washed the rain from your skin, untangled the cold from your shoulders, and made you feel slightly less like a tragic Victorian woman abandoned in a storm with only a cab receipt and a traumatised Chevy to her name.

For ten whole minutes, you thought about nothing.

Then, while rinsing the conditioner from your hair, you thought about his hands.

Not on purpose, your mother raised you better than to be a hand-imagining pervert.

You were conditioning.

The thought simply arrived. His hands under Cherry’s hood. His fingers steady around the flashlight. The slight roughness in his knuckles when he took the keys from you to move the car inside. The way he had wiped rain from his forehead with the back of his wrist because his hands were busy, leaving his hair messier than it already had been.

You froze beneath the shower spray.

“Oh no,” you whispered.

The water kept running. Your conditioner continued sliding down your back.

You stared at the tiled wall in front of you with the grave awareness of a woman who had just had an inappropriate thought about a stranger doing his job.

You had been in a vulnerable state. Cherry had been coughing, the rain had been violent, and the lighting in the garage had been objectively dramatic. Anyone would have noticed his hands. Or his arms. Or the way he had smiled, just slightly, when you told him the lamb story. Anyone.

Probably.

You finished rinsing your hair with unnecessary focus, wrapped yourself in your fluffiest towel, and decided you would not be thinking about the mechanic again.

A sensible decision.

You thought about him again while brushing your teeth.

Specifically, you thought about how he had said, “Cherry the cherry-red Chevy,” like he was amused but not cruel. Like he found you strange in a way he did not mind.

You paused with your toothbrush still in your mouth.

If he had been mean, or dismissive, or one of those men who treated women like they had personally invented car trouble to inconvenience him, then you could have stored him away under unpleasant experiences and moved on with your evening. But he had not been any of those things. He had been patient. Quietly funny. Competent. 

You resumed brushing your teeth with slightly more aggression.

Competent men were dangerous.

Your mother said that often. Usually after your father fixed something small around one of the farmhouses and she looked at him like she had just remembered why she married him, which you always pretended not to notice because you deserved peace.

You spat, rinsed, wiped your mouth, and stared at yourself again.

“Mechanic boy,” you said, testing the name.

You frowned.

Actually, what was his name?

It had been something.

The older man had said it when he asked him to grab the umbrella.

Landon?

No.

Liam?

No.

Something with an L.

You leaned against the sink, thinking hard.

The harder you tried to remember, the more all you could picture was rainwater on his sleeve and the little crooked smile he had tried not to give you when you called Cherry overwhelmed.

Your phone rang from your bedroom before you could continue the investigation.

Mama.

You hurried back into the room, still wrapped in your towel, damp hair dripping down your shoulders, and grabbed the phone from your bed.

“Hi, Mama.”

“You’re home?”

The relief in her voice was immediate, even though she tried to hide it beneath calm. Your chest softened and you glanced at the clock, 11:45pm. Mama and daddy would be curled up in the living room, probably taking care of some random cousin of yours while their parents were out of state on one of the farms. Mama would be nursing a chamomile tea, saying that she “needed it after a long day chasing little babies around her house” all whilst watching videos of said children padding about the top floor, nappy-clad after a bath that she insisted on giving herself. Meanwhile, daddy would be sitting on the opposite end of the sofa, holding mama’s feet, responding at the appropriate bits, humming sympathetically when necessary. 

“Yes.”

“Safe?”

“Yes.”

“Warm?”

“Getting there.”

“Fed?”

“Mama.”

“That is not an answer.”

“I had a granola bar.”

“That is also not an answer.”

You smiled, sitting cross-legged on the bed, towel tucked tight around you. “I’ll make something.”

“You always say that when you intend to eat cereal.”

“Cereal is food.”

“Cereal is an insult to dinner, but a compliment to breakfast baby.”

You laughed, curling one damp strand of hair around your finger. The room had started to feel cosy now, the rain outside turning softer still, your bedside lamp throwing warm light across the red top hanging from the back of your chair and the little ceramic dish on your dresser where you kept rings, spare lip balms, and Cherry’s extra key.

Not that you had Cherry.

Cherry was at the mechanic.

Your chest pinched.

“Mama,” you said, and your voice went a little smaller before you could stop it. “Cherry’s staying overnight.”

“I know, baby. You texted.”

“I did?”

“You sent, and I quote, ‘Cherry is admitted overnight. Please respect our privacy at this time.’”

You closed your eyes.

Right.

That sounded like you.

“I was upset.”

“I gathered.”

“She made a horrible noise.”

“Cars do that.”

“Not Cherry.”

“Especially Cherry, from what I remember.”

You gasped. “Mama.”

“What? She is a lovely car, but she is dramatic.”

“She gets that from Nana.”

“She gets that from you.”

“I am not mechanically dramatic.”

“No, darling. Just emotionally.”

You flopped backward onto the bed with a groan, staring up at the ceiling. “This is a hostile environment.”

Your mother laughed softly, and the sound made you miss her more suddenly than expected. In that quiet, familiar way that arrived sometimes after stressful days, when you wanted your mother to be close enough to tuck wet hair behind your ear and tell you things were manageable.

“Did they seem competent?”

“Yes.”

“The garage?”

“Yes.”

“The mechanic?”

You paused.

Only for a second.

Unfortunately, your mother  had a supernatural hearing for pauses.

“The mechanic was nice,” you said carefully.

“Oh?”

“No.”

“I did not say anything.”

“You said ‘oh’.”

“I am allowed to say oh.”

“Not in that voice.”

“What voice?”

“The mother voice.”

“All my voices are mother voices. I am your mother.”

You smiled despite yourself, pressing one hand over your eyes. “He was just nice.”

“Mhm.”

“He helped Cherry.”

“Very kind.”

“And he held the umbrella mostly over me.”

“Gentlemanly.”

“And he said nobody would be mean to her.”

There was a tiny silence.

Then your mother’s voice softened.

“Well. That is rather sweet.”

You smiled before you could stop it.

“I know.”

Another pause.

“Was he handsome?”

You sat up immediately.

“Mama.”

“That is not an answer.”

“He was fixing my car.”

“That is also not an answer.”

“I was under emotional distress.”

“You can be distressed and observant. Women have done it for centuries.”

You stared at your phone.

“Mama.”

“What?”

“You’re meant to be comforting me.”

“I am. I am asking whether the man who rescued your beloved car in the rain was handsome.”

“He didn’t rescue her. He stabilised her.”

“How romantic.”

“It was strictly professional.”

“Was he handsome?”

You fell back against the pillows again, defeated.

“He had kind eyes,” you said finally.

Your mother made a pleased sound.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

“No.”

“That is absolutely an answer.”

“It isn’t.”

“It is.”

“It is a neutral observation.”

“It is the least neutral observation a girl can make.”

You covered your face with your free hand.

“He was nice,” you repeated weakly.

“And handsome.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You said kind eyes. That’s worse.”

“How is that worse?”

“Because handsome can be meaningless. Kind eyes are trouble.”

You hated how true that was beginning to sound. 

“He had a name,” you said, attempting to redirect the conversation and immediately making it worse.

Your mother brightened,  “Did he?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I forgot it.”

Your mother paused just long enough for her to suck in a breath and laugh.

“Mama.”

“You forgot the name of the man fixing your car?”

“I was in a crisis.”

“You remembered that he had kind eyes.”

“That is visual. Names are auditory.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.”

“And it was raining.”

“Naturally.”

“And Cherry was coughing.”

“Poor Cherry.”

“Exactly.”

“What are we calling him then?”

You stared at the ceiling for a moment.

Then, softly, “Mechanic works.”

Your mother was quiet for half a second.

Then, with entirely too much amusement, “Mechanic.”

“Yes.”

“Like a title.”

“It’s practical.”

“It is not practical. It is adorable.”

“It is not adorable.”

“It is a little adorable.”

You groaned again, though this time you were smiling.

“Please stop psychoanalysing me.”

“I am not psychoanalysing. I am mothering.”

“Feels similar.”

“It often is.”

You talked for a while after that, the conversation drifting the way calls with your mother always did. She asked about classes, about whether you had eaten properly this week, about whether Winston had recovered from his latest preschool ban. You told her yes, mostly, which was not entirely honest but close enough. She mentioned that she and your father might be near the Boston property next month. You told her Nana owed you jam. She told you Nana owed everyone jam and refused to acknowledge it.

The mechanic came up twice more and both times you pretended not to notice. 

By the time you hung up, your room had gone quiet around you. The rain had slowed to almost nothing. Your hair was still damp, your towel had been replaced by soft pajamas, and your face was clean except for the lip balm you had applied without thinking.

You plugged your phone in, turned off the bedside lamp, and crawled under the covers.

For a few minutes, you lay there staring into the dark.

Thinking about Cherry in the garage.

Thinking about whether she was cold.

Then reminding yourself she was a car.

Then thinking about the mechanic boy in the rain.

His hands.

His smile.

The way he had listened.

The umbrella tilted more over you than him.

You turned onto your side and pulled the blanket up to your chin.

“He was nice,” you whispered to the room, like saying it aloud might make it less important.

You closed your eyes.

And, because the universe had a sense of humour, the last thing you thought before falling asleep was not Cherry.

It was mechanic boy.

Logan thought about you during the morning skate.

Which was inconvenient for several reasons. 

The first reason was that morning skate was not designed for thinking about girls. Morning skate was designed for drills, sweat, sharp turns, stick work, Coach’s voice carrying across the rink like divine punishment, and Garrett Graham somehow managing to look both exhausted and annoyingly competent before most people had finished their first coffee. Logan had done morning skates hungover, half-asleep, irritated, freezing, sore, and once with a bruised rib he had absolutely lied about because missing practice had felt worse than breathing.

He could handle morning skates like they were muscle memory. Usually.

The second reason was that he did not actually know you. 

He knew you drove a cherry-red Chevy named Cherry. He knew your old car had been a Beetle named Strawberry. He knew your nana had picked Cherry out, your parents had paid for her, and your mother had apparently once made you transport a lamb in the deceased Strawberry, which felt like the kind of detail a person should not learn within the first forty-five minutes of meeting someone and yet somehow had.

He knew you talked too much when you were worried.

He knew you did not like people saying unkind things in front of your car.

He knew you had red lipstick that survived rain with more discipline than half the guys on the team.

He knew you smelled like cherries and vanilla and rain.

That was the third reason.

The worst reason.

Because apparently the human brain was a pathetic organ and Logan’s had decided to spend half of practice replaying a smell. It couldn’t possibly choose something more tangible, a moment- one where you looked perfectly ethereal stood in front of his family’s small garage, all smiles and exaggerated reactions or a conversation, god knows he couldn’t forget about the way words would curl between your lips and leave your mouth with a gentle lilt, like a Disney princess. He never even watched those movies. But no, those would be too easy to torture him with. His brain had picked a smell. 

Rain hitting hot pavement outside the garage. Oil in the air. Damp wool. Your perfume shifting under the storm, sweet and warm and soft enough that he had noticed it even while checking the alternator of a car you spoke to like it might need emotional support.

Pathetic.

Absolutely pathetic.

“Logan.”

He blinked.

The puck had slid past him.

Which was unfortunate, because Garrett Graham had the leadership instincts of a war general and the emotional subtlety of someone who had been dating Hannah Wells long enough to develop pattern recognition against his will.

“You good?”

Logan nodded immediately.

“Yeah.”

Garrett stared.

Long enough to be annoying.

Then passed another puck toward him.

Logan caught it this time, moved through the drill, shot cleanly, and tried very hard not to think about the way you had said “mechanically, emotionally, spiritually” while dripping on the office floor of his father’s garage. He failed.

Because the problem with you was that you were not the kind of girl his brain knew how to file away.

Pretty was easy.

Pretty girls existed everywhere.

On campus. At parties. In bars. In the crowd after games, smiling like they wanted something from him or thought they knew something about him. Logan liked pretty girls. Of course he did. He was not blind, or dead, or spiritually committed to suffering.

But pretty girls usually stayed pretty girls.

They did not become rain-soaked mysteries with family-adjacent cars and lamb transportation stories and the kind of earnest concern that made him say, out loud, that nobody would be mean to a Chevy.

He had said it. He had actually said it.

Nobody will be mean to Cherry.

And you looked relieved.

“Logan.”

This time it was Coach. Logan straightened immediately, stick in hand, body snapping back into the present with the deeply unpleasant sensation of a man being caught mentally wandering somewhere he had no business being.

Coach looked at him from the boards.

Garrett looked at him too.

So did Dean, because Dean had the instincts of a gossip magazine and could smell weakness through protective gear.

“Focus,” Coach barked.

“Yeah,” Logan called back. “I’m good.”

He was not good.

Dean skated past him a second later, slow enough to be irritating and wearing the expression of someone about to say something Logan did not want to hear.

“You look weird.”

Logan did not look at him.

“You always look weird.”

“No, I look fantastic. You look weird.”

“Go away.”

“See, that was defensive.”

“Dean.”

“Suspicious.”

“Dean.”

“Is this about a girl?”

Logan’s stick tightened in his hand. Just barely, it could have easily passed for a flex of his fingers against the wood. 

Dean’s eyes lit up.

Like a dog seeing a squirrel.

“Oh my God.”

“It’s not about a girl.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You said girl.”

“And you reacted.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did with your stick.”

“My stick didn’t react.”

“It absolutely did.”

Logan skated away.

This did not help.

Dean followed, obviously, because Dean had never once seen a boundary and thought, yes, that looks like something I should respect.

“What’s her name?”

“There is no girl.”

“So there is a girl.”

“That is literally the opposite of what I said.”

“Does she go here?”

“No.”

Dean gasped. Logan realised his mistake immediately.

“Ah.”

“No.”

“So she exists.”

“Everyone exists.”

“Not everyone makes you forget how to receive a pass.”

Logan stopped so suddenly Dean nearly ran into him.

“I did not forget how to receive a pass.”

“You watched it slide by you like it was carrying bad news.”

Logan stared at him.

Dean looked delighted.

Across the ice, Garrett called, “Both of you. Drill.”

“Coming, Captain,” Dean sang, then leaned closer to Logan as if delivering classified information. “This isn’t over.”

“It is.”

“It has barely begun.”

Logan shoved him lightly with one shoulder and got back into position, jaw tight, eyes on the puck, trying to be normal. He could be normal. He had been normal for years. Entire decades, practically. There was no reason one rain-soaked girl with a dramatic car and expensive lipstick should have any impact on his ability to run a drill.

None.

The whistle blew. The puck moved. Logan moved with it. For a few clean minutes, he did not think of you at all. Then someone near the boards shouted something about a cherry picker, completely unrelated to cars, perfume, or red lipstick, and Logan’s brain betrayed him so violently he nearly missed the next turn.

By the time practice ended, Logan wanted to drown himself in the Zamboni runoff.

The locker room was worse.

The locker room was always worse because hockey players, as a group, possessed the emotional range of middle-schoolers when presented with the possibility of romance. The second Coach left and the door swung shut behind him, Dean’s attention locked onto Logan with terrifying precision.

“So.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I was going to ask about your morning.”

“You were not.”

“I’m a caring friend.”

“You’re an invasive friend.”

“Same thing.”

Garrett sat down on the bench across from them, untying his skates with the resigned calm of a man who knew he was about to witness stupidity and had decided not to waste energy resisting it.

Dean leaned back against his stall, grin sharp. “He met a girl.”

Tucker looked up immediately.

Logan closed his eyes.

Great.

Perfect.

Now Tucker knew.

Tucker, who would not tease as loudly as Dean, but would absolutely absorb the information with quiet interest and then say one sentence three days later when Logan least expected it.

“I didn’t meet a girl.”

“You admitted she exists.”

“I admitted people exist.”

“You said she doesn’t go here.”

“Because you asked if she goes here.”

Dean pointed like a prosecutor. “Exactly.”

Garrett looked at Logan.

That was the issue with Garrett. Dean was chaos, all noise and guesses and delighted accusations. Garrett was worse because Garrett listened. Garrett waited. Garrett let people talk themselves into corners and then looked at them like they had arrived exactly where he expected.

Logan hated that.

“What happened?” Garrett asked.

“Nothing happened.”

Dean scoffed. Tucker blinked. Garrett kept looking.

Logan exhaled through his nose, because apparently silence was not going to save him.

“She came into the shop last night.”

Dean sat up straighter.

“The shop?”

“My dad’s garage.”

“A mechanic meet-cute,” Dean breathed.

“It was not a meet-cute.”

“It was raining, wasn’t it?”

Logan said nothing.

“It was raining.”

“It was a car problem.”

“A rainy mechanic meet-cute.”

“She needed help with her car.”

“And you helped her?”

“That is generally what happens at garages.”

“What was she like?”

Logan reached for his towel.

“Wet.”

Dean stared. Garrett rubbed a hand over his face.

Tucker, snorted and looked up from where he was removing his protective gear, “From the rain?”

Dean pointed at him. “Thank you, Tuck. Important clarification.”

Logan threw the towel at Dean’s head.

Dean caught it badly. The sweat soaked thing flopped between his fingers and smacked him against his forehead, which was satisfying.

“She named her car Cherry,” Logan said, mostly to get them to shut up and immediately regretted it.

The room went silent.

Dean slowly said the name, his eyes widening in delight, “Cherry.”

“No.”

“Her car is named Cherry.”

“No.”

“You cannot just say her car is named Cherry and expect me to be normal.”

“I expected too much from you. That’s on me.”

Garrett’s mouth twitched. Even Tucker looked amused now.

“She was worried about the car,” Logan added, “She had to leave it overnight.”

“What kind of car?” Garrett asked.

“A Chevy.”

Dean froze. Logan immediately knew his mistake.

“No.”

Dean whispered, reverent, “Cherry the Chevy.”

“Don’t.”

“Cherry the cherry Chevy.”

“Stop.”

“This is the best day of my life.”

“You need higher standards.”

Dean ignored him completely. “Was she hot?”

Logan did not answer fast enough.

“Oh, she was hot.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You did with your pause.”

“My pause didn’t say anything.”

“Your pause said so much that I need a notebook to write it all down.”

Garrett finally laughed. Logan glared at him.

He lifted both hands. “Sorry.”

Logan knew he wasn’t sorry, nobody around him was sorry for this public undressing ritual. This was what Logan got for having friends.

“She was just…” Logan stopped. There was no good way to finish.

Nice? Too small.

Pretty? Too obvious.

Weird? True, but not in the way Dean would interpret.

Funny? Yes, but not deliberately enough for that to cover it.

Sweet? He would rather throw himself into the boards at full speed than say that in front of Dean.

Dean leaned forward, hands braced on his hips against the waistband of his underwear, delighted by the struggle. “She was just what?”

Logan shoved his gear into his bag with unnecessary force.

“She was worried about her car.”

“That is not a personality.”

“It kind of was.”

That made Garrett look up again. Logan pretended not to notice.

How was he supposed to explain it? That you had stood in the rain asking him whether the car would be warm enough inside. That you had patted the hood before leaving. That you had forgotten his name, probably, because you had looked at him like you wanted to say something before getting in the cab and then settled on thank you, Logan with a softness that had stayed somewhere beneath his ribs all night.

He could not explain that. He didn’t want to explain that- he wanted to be greedy and hoard your enviable optimism; not share it with anyone else. Not to Dean. Not to anyone.

So he zipped his bag and stood, “I have class.”

Dean glanced at the clock. “In forty minutes.”

“I like being early.”

“You hate being early.”

“I like leaving this conversation.”

Dean laughed as Logan headed for the door.

“Tell Cherry I said hi.”

Logan slowly turned, his expression mildly murderous.

Dean smiled and waved his fingers in a dainty goodbye. 

Garrett looked away, hiding his own grin.

Tucker suddenly became fascinated by his socks.

Logan pointed at Dean,“You are never meeting her.”

Dean gasped.

“So there is her.”

Logan left the locker room to the sound of Dean’s victory shout echoing behind him.

By the time he reached the hallway, the grin had already started pulling at his mouth.

He scolded himself but didn’t try to hide it, there was no reason to smile.

There was no reason to feel warm just because some girl had named her car Cherry and left the smell of rain and perfume in his father’s garage. No reason to hope she came by to pick the car up herself instead of sending a parent or a friend or some guy with a key. No reason to wonder whether she would remember his name the next time.

No reason at all.

Logan shifted his bag higher on his shoulder and walked toward the exit.

Outside, the morning was cold and clear, the storm washed out of the sky like it had never happened. Still, as he stepped into the air, he caught the faintest trace of something sweet from a girl passing by in the hallway.

The scent was distinctly not cherries, the sound following was not of your ballet flats against the pavement. But it was close enough that for one stupid second, his head turned. The girl was already gone, disappearing around the corner leaving Logan to stand in his own desperation. 

He swore under his breath.

Yeah.

He had a problem.

By Tuesday afternoon, Logan had decided the universe was doing it on purpose.

At first, he had been reasonable about it.

Sunday night was whatever.

Rain. Garage. Strange girl. Stranger car.

Fine.

Monday morning skate was unfortunate, sure, but everyone had bad practices occasionally. Everyone got distracted. Everyone missed a pass now and then, especially when Dean existed in the same general area and therefore lowered the cognitive function of the entire rink by at least thirty percent.

Monday afternoon had been the perfume thing, which he had also tried to be normal about.

He had been walking back from class with Tucker and Garrett, half-listening to Tucker talk about an assignment and half-wondering whether his father had called the number on the calling card yet, when they passed some girl outside the student centre wearing something sweet and cherry-heavy enough that Logan’s head turned before he could stop it.

Not you.

Different hair. Different height. Different everything.

But for one deeply stupid second, his entire body had reacted like it could recognise you by scent alone, which was the kind of behaviour he would have mocked Dean for until the end of time if their positions had been reversed.

Garrett had noticed. Of course Garrett had noticed.

Garrett Graham noticed everything when he wanted to, which was one of his most annoying captain qualities, right below acting responsible and somehow making it look natural.

“You good?” Garrett had asked.

“Yeah.”

Tucker had glanced between them. “Did you forget something?”

“No.”

Logan had kept walking.

That should have been the end of it.

It was not.

Because apparently, by Tuesday afternoon, the universe had escalated from perfume-based psychological warfare to vehicular harassment.

It happened on the way to the hockey house.

Logan was driving with Dean in the passenger seat and Tucker in the back, because Garrett had gone ahead to the house before them, setting up for Hannah and Allie- this usually involved throwing away the hardened socks on the staircase and running the washing machine until it was on the brink of death. One time the thing had fizzled out during the flash-wash speed run, and Logan had spent the entire night poking at the thing, because the guys thought any machine was car equivalent. The weather had cleared entirely by then, the rain from Sunday washed clean out of the streets, leaving behind that sharp, bright autumn light that made every car window flash and every tree look too golden to be real.

Logan was not thinking about you.

He was thinking about traffic, and practice, and whether Dean was going to spend an absurd amount of time with sentient thoughts that evening to explain his class readings on current tort law. Normal things. Healthy things. Things that did not involve red lipstick, rain, and a girl asking whether anyone would be mean to her Chevy overnight.

Then, at the light near the edge of campus, a cherry-red car turned onto the road ahead of them.

Logan’s hands tightened on the wheel, and he wanted to subsequently bash his head against the horn. Dean was in the passenger seat and that man could notice the sun shifting behind a cloud if he thought it might lead to gossip.

“Oh,” Dean said.

Logan stared straight ahead.

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You said oh.”

“I am allowed to experience vowels.”

“You’re not.”

Dean leaned forward, squinting through the windshield. “Is that-”

“No.”

“You didn’t even look.”

“I’m driving.”

“You absolutely looked.”

“At the road.”

“At the cherry-red Chevy.”

Logan’s jaw tightened.

From behind, Tucker shifted slightly, interested now in the way he got when drama happened in front of him and he chose not to participate but absolutely planned to remember every word.

Dean pointed. “Follow it.”

“No.”

“Logan.”

“We are not following a random car.”

“It might be Cherry.”

“It’s not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know.”

“How?”

Because I know the shape of her car after seeing it under garage lights for half a night and then again the next morning when my dad made me check the wiring before class, was not something Logan could say without handing Dean a weapon he would use until death. So he said nothing.

“You know her car.”

“I fixed her car.”

“You know her car.”

“I fix a lot of cars.”

“You don’t recognise them in traffic.”

Logan slowed as the light changed, still behind the red Chevy.

The car ahead moved smoothly, sunlight catching the paint. It had a dent near the rear bumper. Yours didn’t. The sticker in the back window was wrong. The plates were wrong. It was not your car.

Dean watched his face with growing delight.

“Oh, this is bad.”

“It’s not bad.”

“It is so bad.”

“Nothing happened.”

“You’ve been haunted by a girl with a car for two days.”

“I have not.”

“You looked at that Chevy like it owed you closure.”

Tucker made a sound in the back seat. Suspiciously like a laugh.

Logan glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

Tucker immediately looked out the window.

Coward.

Dean, unfortunately, was not a coward. Dean was many things, several of them illegal in spirit, but coward had never been one of them.

“What if she’s in the car?”

“She’s not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I literally just said-”

“Pull up beside it.”

“No.”

“Just look.”

“No.”

“Logan.”

“I am not pulling up beside a random person’s car because you think it might be a girl I met once.”

Dean sat back, grinning like the argument itself had confirmed something. “A girl you met once.”

Logan exhaled through his nose. He hated everyone in this car. Truly. Deeply.

From the backseat, Tucker finally spoke, “What if it is her?”

Logan looked at him again with betrayal painted over his face.

Tucker lifted both hands. “Just saying.”

Dean pointed triumphantly toward the back. “See? Tucker understands romance.”

“No, Tucker is just as nosy as you are, he just talks about it at home.”

“Same thing.”

“It is not the same thing.”

The Chevy ahead of them turned right at the next junction.

Dean slapped the dashboard. “Go right.”

Logan went straight.

Dean’s scream was immediate and deeply satisfying.

“NO.”

“We are going to the house.”

“You chose hockey over love.”

“I chose not being insane.”

“That’s what cowards call it.”

Logan turned the radio up.

Dean turned it down.

Logan turned it back up.

Dean turned it back down.

Tucker, apparently deciding self-preservation mattered, leaned forward and said, “It had a bumper dent.”

Logan froze. Fucking tucker. Dean slowly turned toward him.

“What?”

Tucker shrugged. “The Chevy. It had a dent. Cherry didn’t, right?”

Logan said nothing, if this southern man could’ve shot him and left him for dead in the middle of the ice rink for coach to find, he would’ve taken that over the situation Tucker had put him in now. Logan vowed never to talk to him about anything, in private, ever again. 

Dean’s grin returned, slow and terrible.

“Oh my God.”

Logan stared ahead at the road.

Dean pointed at him, delighted beyond reason. “You knew that.”

“I noticed it because I fixed the car.”

“You noticed her car didn’t have a dent.”

“That is a mechanic thing to notice.”

“Was the lipstick a mechanic thing to notice too?”

Logan nearly missed the turn.

Dean howled.

Tucker actually laughed this time.

And Logan, who had once thought of himself as a reasonably controlled person, briefly considered driving directly into a hedge.

Across campus, in an entirely different cherry-red car, you were having your own crisis.

“Hannah,” you said carefully, both hands on the wheel. “Would you describe that as a stop sign or more of a strong suggestion?”

Hannah Wells sat in the passenger seat with one hand braced against the door and the expression of a woman mentally drafting her own will.

“That was a stop sign.”

“You’re sure?”

“It said stop.”

“Yes, but tone matters.”

Allie, from the backseat, laughed so hard she nearly dropped her iced coffee.

You glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Do not encourage her.”

“I’m not. I’m fearing for my life.”

“That is also not helpful.”

“You asked for feedback.”

“I asked for emotional support.”

“You asked whether a stop sign was legally binding.”

You sniffed, offended but not enough to stop smiling. “Cherry and I are used to each other. This car is unfamiliar.”

“It’s a campus rental,” Hannah said.

“She feels hostile.”

“She feels like a normal car.”

“Exactly.”

The rental was, technically, red.

A bright, rental-agency red that lacked depth, history, and emotional resonance. But it was red enough that Allie had squealed when you picked it up from the campus service lot that morning, and Hannah had immediately said, “Oh, God, not another one,” which felt unfair because you were not responsible for the colour options available to temporary vehicles.

Cherry was still at the garage. Recovering.

You had called that morning from the official shop number, spoken to the older man - Mr. Logan’s father? No. Wait. Was Logan his first name or surname? You still weren’t sure, which was becoming increasingly embarrassing - and been told she needed another day. Maybe two. Nothing catastrophic, he had promised, just wiring being dramatic and a part needing ordering.

You had thanked him very calmly.

Then hung up and immediately stared at the wall for a full minute. You had so much to do this morning, read-up on veterinary anatomy & physiology from the notes you made last term, go to the gym, visit Winston at the farm and then choose an outfit for this hangout that Allie and Hannah invited you into. 

The first time you were going to meet their boyfriends in person. Sure you’d chirped friendly hello’s and how are you to them through face time, mostly when you were doing some face-mask with the girls and for some reason beyond your comprehension, it constituted a quick face time to show the boys’ the funny animal designs that adorned their faces. But you’d never met Garrett or Dean in person, and from the things you have heard about them, you weren’t sure if you wanted to. 

The most you’d learnt about Dean was through blurry photos from 3am parties with Allie or shirt-less selfies he sent her, which you looked away immediately from. You had no interest in looking at the shiny, sweaty male form of a man you had not yet been formally introduced to.

But there was redeemable moments from this man, moments like Allie squealing on the phone when she found out he was top in his class for their recent test, a fact you were sure your neighbours appreciated hearing at 10:00pm at night and photos that didn’t immediately make you blush in embarrassment and look away, like where he was sat lazily in what looked to be a changing room, half geared-up with over-the-top protective appliances strapped to his body, he was grinning at the camera and had pinched between his fingers a white jersey that read, “Briar Hawks”.

He seemed…perfect for her. 

Garrett was slightly more manageable, Hannah had shown you pictures from the college website where he was mid-play, eyes locked into whatever was behind the camera through the metal webbing of his helmet. 

There were of course other photos, ones with Hannah where he had his arms looped around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder while they both smiled towards you- those ones made you smile and giggle with her, he looked gentlemanly, proper in a way that you knew was just right for your best friend. Though, you glanced away when the photos turned more suggestive, a hand tightened on her front, mouth pressed into her neck- a delicate flush creeping up to her cheeks. At least he wasn’t a full gentleman. 

On top of that, your mother had texted you this morning, not that you hated to receive her messages- but she was unhelpful in killing the slight disappointment you felt when Mechanic senior had picked up the phone, and not your mechanic. Not- yours specifically. God, your brain had a way of coming up with the weirdest things. 

Mama 🌽❤️

Has Mechanic called with an update?

You

not Mechanic specifically. Elder Mechanic.

Mama 🌽❤️

Ah. So there are generations.

Mama 🌽❤️

How romantic.

You had thrown your phone onto your bed and refused to answer for fourteen minutes.

Now, you were borrowing a campus rental to drive Hannah and Allie to pick up drinks before heading to the hockey house, because Garrett had invited Hannah and Hannah had invited Allie and Allie had invited you, and the entire plan had somehow turned into you being the person with temporary transportation despite everyone involved having seen you nearly argue with a stop sign.

“Okay,” you said, slowing at a light with more concentration than the task probably required. “So Garrett is captain.”

“Yes,” Hannah said.

“And very responsible.”

“Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“He lives with Dean.”

“Right. That must affect a person.”

Allie snorted from the backseat. “It does.”

“And Dean is…” You paused, searching for a kind word. “Energetic.”

“That’s generous,” Hannah said.

“I’m being supportive.”

“He is energetic,” Allie said, though she was smiling down at her phone like Dean had probably just texted something that supported the point. “He’s also annoying, loud, rich, dramatic, and unfortunately very funny when he wants to be.”

“That’s very romantic.”

“It’s a curse.”

“You chose him.”

“I know. Horrifying.”

Allie leaned forward between the seats. “Oh my God, is that Garrett?”

Hannah straightened immediately. “Where?”

You glanced toward the sidewalk as you slowed near the junction.

Two boys were walking near the curb. One tall, dark-haired, laughing at something. The other blond and absurdly pretty in a way that made you immediately assume he was trouble.

Allie gasped. “Dean.”

Hannah’s face lit up in the soft, private way it did around Garrett, which made you smile despite the fact you were actively operating a hostile rental vehicle.

“Oh,” you said brightly. “Do you want me to turn around?”

Hannah’s head snapped toward you.

“No.”

Allie grabbed the back of your seat. “Absolutely not.”

“I can.”

“No,” they said together.

You blinked.

“I’m a good driver.”

Hannah patted your shoulder.

“Sunshine, we are so glad we are still alive.”

Allie nodded solemnly. “We are choosing gratitude.”

“That is so rude.”

“You asked if a stop sign had a tone.”

“It did have a tone.”

“You’re proving my point.”

You glanced back toward where the boys had been, but they were already too far behind- turning into the small convenience store, and the light had changed, and someone behind you honked with the aggression of a person who did not respect narrative timing.

You jumped and switched gears hurriedly, “Okay! Sorry!”

Hannah grabbed the dashboard. Allie screamed.

The rental lurched forward.

“There,” you said brightly, as if nothing had happened. “Completely fine.”

You smiled, taking the turn Hannah indicated, though you did ask whether she was sure twice because the road looked narrow and the rental had a personality you did not trust. “I’m excited to meet them.”

“You’ve technically seen Garrett,” Hannah said.

“That doesn’t count.”

“And Dean?”

“Allie has shown me pictures.”

Allie leaned forward immediately. “Good pictures.”

“You showed me one where he was holding a champagne bottle and wearing sunglasses indoors.”

“That was a good picture.”

“It was very informative.”

Hannah laughed, and the sound settled the nerves in your stomach a little. Not that you were nervous exactly. You liked people. You liked parties, and dinners, and family gatherings full of cousins and noise, and the strange little social rituals of entering a room and figuring out where you fit inside it. But this was different because these were your friends’ people, and meeting your friends’ people mattered.

Also, Cherry was still at the mechanic. Which meant you were operating at an emotional disadvantage.

Allie leaned forward again, smiling. “Did Mechanic call?”

Hannah looked back to Allie and then to you, “Mechanic?” she asked.

Allie grinned.

“Oh, you haven’t heard about Mechanic?”

You groaned. “No.”

Hannah turned fully in the passenger seat, facing you. 

“What mechanic?”

“The mechanic who rescued Cherry in the rain.”

“He did not rescue her.”

“Stabilised her,” Allie corrected solemnly.

“Thank you.”

Hannah stared at you.

You stared at the road.

“Hm,” Hannah said.

You did not like the hm. The hm had teeth.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s never nothing with you.”

“I just think it’s interesting.”

“What is interesting?”

“That you called him Mechanic.”

“That is his profession.”

“You don’t call your dentist Dentist.”

“I don’t like my dentist.”

“What’s his name?”

You focused very hard on the road.

“So the thing is.”

“Oh my God.”

“I forgot.”

“You forgot his name?”

“I was under emotional distress.”

Allie was laughing again, Hannah looked delighted.

“Was he cute?”

You nearly missed the turn.

Hannah made a noise of alarm.

Allie clutched her drink.

“I’m driving,” you said, too quickly.

“That is not an answer.”

“It is a safety concern.”

“It is absolutely not an answer.”

“I hate both of you.”

“You don’t.”

The hockey house appeared at the end of the street looking exactly as you had imagined and somehow worse. Lights on in half the windows, two cars in the driveway, someone’s hoodie visible through the front window as if it had been abandoned mid-crisis. You parked the rental with great care because Hannah was already emotionally fragile from your earlier stop-sign question and you did not want to push her into prayer.

Allie climbed out of the back, carrying the drinks with both hands. You followed, smoothing down your skirt and locking the rental with a click that felt far less satisfying than Cherry’s old, dramatic beep. 

“There they are.”

You looked up.

Garrett opened the door first.

He was tall, smiling already at Hannah in a way that made your heart do a tiny, delighted squeeze. There was something very lovely about seeing your friend become someone’s favourite person in real time, especially when she tried to pretend she was normal about it and failed so badly her whole face softened before she even reached the porch.

Dean appeared behind him, leaning around the doorframe with a grin that looked expensive and dangerous.

You recognised him immediately.

“Okay,” you whispered to Allie, “I understand the sunglasses picture now.”

Allie laughed, pleased. “Right?”

You were smiling when your eyes moved past Dean.

Then you stopped. Because behind Dean, standing in the hallway with one hand braced against the doorframe and a hockey sweatshirt pushed up at the sleeves, was the mechanic boy.

Not Mechanic. Logan.

The name came back all at once, bright and obvious and embarrassing in its delay.

He looked different outside the garage.

No rain. No oil-stained work shirt. No harsh shop lights catching the angles of his face while he leaned over Cherry’s engine. His hair was dry now, a little messy in the way boys’ hair became when they touched it too often and pretended they hadn’t. The sweatshirt made him look softer somehow, more college boy than midnight mechanic, but the hands were the same. The forearms were the same. The faintly amused, quietly attentive expression was the same when his eyes landed on you and recognition flickered across his face.

Your whole body lit up before you could stop it.

“Oh my God,” you said, delighted. “Mechanic!”

Logan’s mouth curved, just slightly,“Cherry.”

Hannah turned to you so slowly it felt theatrical.

Allie’s eyes widened.

Dean looked between you and Logan with the expression of a man being handed a gift-wrapped scandal.

Garrett closed his eyes for half a second like he had already accepted that the evening was about to become exhausting.

You blinked.

Then laughed, because what else were you supposed to do?

“I did remember your name eventually,” you said, very sincerely,“Just not when my mother asked.”

Logan’s eyebrows lifted.

“Your mother asked about me?”

“Oh.” You paused. “Well. Not you specifically. She asked about the mechanic.”

Dean made a noise.

Allie slapped his arm without looking at him.

“And you didn’t remember my name,” Logan looked like he was trying not to smile too much.

“I was under emotional distress.”

“Because of Cherry.”

“Exactly.”

His mouth  softened at that, and for one second it felt like the two of you were back beneath the shop umbrella, rain hammering overhead, your hand pressed to Cherry’s door while he promised nobody would be mean to her overnight.

Then Dean stepped forward.

“Hi,” he said, holding out a hand. “I’m Dean. I already love whatever this is.”

Logan said, “There is no this.”

At the same time you said, “Hi, Dean, I’ve heard so much about you.” and took his hand, jumping when he waved your intertwined fingers up and down, above your height and below your knees.

Dean’s grin widened and pulled back. You held your assault arm and pressed a hand to your head- dizzy on your feet from the whiplash. Somehow, your smile back was soft and gentle, like you had encountered an over energetic toddler. 

“Good things?”

You glanced at Allie.

Allie’s face said absolutely not.

You looked back at Dean and smiled brightly. “Informative things.”

Garrett laughed under his breath.

Dean placed a hand over his heart. “I accept.”

The house swallowed you quickly after that.

Not literally, though it had the energy of a building that might try. It was warm inside, louder than outside, cluttered in a way that immediately told you women did not have enough authority over the communal spaces. There were sneakers near the stairs, a hoodie over the banister, a bowl of keys on the entry table, and a living room that looked like several people had tried to clean it in five-minute bursts and given up at different stages of grief.

You loved it.

Hannah was pulled toward Garrett almost immediately, his hand settling at the small of her back as he took the drinks from her. Allie was swept into some argument with Dean about whether he had “misrepresented” something he had texted her earlier, which seemed less like a fight and more like their natural mating ritual. Tucker appeared from somewhere with a polite hello and the calm aura of someone who had survived years of Dean by becoming spiritually waterproof.

You wanted to talk to Logan. You told yourself it was because he was there, and you were there, and there was something very strange and sweet about seeing him again by accident after spending two days insisting to yourself that you probably never would.

But every time it almost happened, something interrupted.

First, Garrett asked you about classes because he was polite , and you explained veterinary sciences while Dean immediately asked whether that meant you could diagnose him, to which Allie said, “We already know what’s wrong with you.”

Then Hannah asked if you wanted a drink, and while you were deciding between water and whatever suspicious red thing was in the pitcher, you saw Logan glance over from the other side of the kitchen. His eyes caught yours for half a second.

You smiled.

He smiled back.

Then Dean physically stepped between you both to reach for chips.

The entire afternoon slipped past like that. His eyes would find yours for a second, maybe two, and then one of you would look away because someone else started talking or because the room moved or because Hannah asked if you wanted another drink. It felt like trying to catch sunlight in your hands. Every time you thought you had a moment, it slinked somewhere else.

You did eventually get one proper conversation with him.

It happened beside the kitchen counter, after Dean had dragged Garrett into a debate about whether cereal counted as soup and Allie had threatened to break up with him on behalf of language itself. Hannah had wandered into the living room with Tucker to look for something, and for the first time since you had stepped into the house, Logan was close enough to speak to without anyone immediately interrupting.

You smiled at him. Because you were happy to see him.

It felt very simple when you thought of it that way.

“Hi, Logan.”

Something in his face changed when you said his name properly,“You remembered.”

“I did,” you said proudly. “It came back to me all at once on the porch. Very cinematic.”

“Cinematic?”

“Yes. Like when someone remembers a password under pressure.”

His mouth twitched. “That’s the comparison?”

“It was emotionally similar.”

He laughed under his breath, and the sound made you smile wider because you liked it when he laughed. You had liked it in the garage too, though that had felt less safe to acknowledge because Cherry had been poorly and you had been wet and he had been a stranger with kind eyes. 

Here, in the bright, messy kitchen, with your friends nearby and music playing faintly from the living room, liking his laugh felt much more acceptable.

Friend-shaped.

“Cherry’s doing okay?” you asked, because that was the sensible question. The practical one. The one you had been trying not to ask every eight minutes since walking into the house.

Logan nodded. “She’s good. Dad said that a part came in late, but she should be ready tomorrow. I checked before you guys came over.”

Your whole body softened with relief. And you didn’t focus on the fact that your knees became weak at the thought of him calling his dad for you. Because it probably was for Cherry. Mostly. 

“Oh, that’s wonderful. I miss her so much. The rental car is fine, obviously, and I’m grateful she exists, but she has no personality. She feels like she would report me to a manager.”

Logan stared at you. Then laughed again, a little more helpless this time.

“She’d report you?”

“She has that energy.”

“She’s a car.”

“So is Cherry, and Cherry would never.”

“No?”

“Never. Cherry would help me hide evidence.”

Logan’s smile lingered, and for a second you forgot what you were supposed to say next because he looked very different from how he had in the garage. For the first time that day, you got to shamelessly sweep your gaze over him. One of his hands was shoved into his pocket, the other held a cup of what seemed to be coke, which sloshed gently as he tilted nervously forward on the tips of his socked feet. The shirt he was wearing was modest, a cotton grey henley that stretched nicely over his shoulders and was rolled up over his forearms, and you were choosing not to have a thought about it because this was a friendly conversation and you had values.

 You assumed he pulled off his sweatshirt sometime during the hangout and it had joined the mysterious pile of laundry in the laundry room. His gaze trained on you whilst he periodically bit at his lip then released it, like he was reminding himself of the nervous tic.

 “My mum likes the sound of you,” you said, because your mouth had never believed in giving you time to approve sentences before releasing them into the world.

Logan’s eyebrows lifted. You realised, one second too late, how that sounded.

“Oh! Not like that. Not weird. Just because she called to check if I got home safe, and then she asked about Cherry, and then she asked if the mechanic was competent, and then I said yes, and then she asked if you were handsome, which was very inappropriate of her, so I said you had kind eyes.”

Silence. Immediate,  awful silence. 

You blinked.

Logan looked at you, then slowly, slowly, his mouth parted in a delighted grin. 

“You said I had kind eyes?”

You looked down at your cup.

The cup suddenly became fascinating.

It was plastic. Blue. A little scratched near the rim.

“Yes.”

“That was your answer?”

“It was a neutral answer.”

“It was?”

“Yes.”

“You think my eyes are neutral?”

You looked back up, a little wounded by the accusation. “I think your eyes are kind.”

His expression shifted. Something warmer slipped underneath it, something that made the kitchen feel smaller for half a second.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

You nodded, suddenly shy in a way that felt unfamiliar because you were not usually shy about compliments. Compliments were lovely. Pretty things deserved to be acknowledged. 

Your grandmother complimented horses, cakes, outfits, table settings, and occasionally clouds if they were arranged nicely. Your mother had once told a farmer his hands were “honest-looking” and then married him seven years later, which your father still claimed was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to him.

So saying Logan had kind eyes should not have felt like anything dangerous. Then Dean shouted from the living room, “CEREAL IS WET FOOD, NOT SOUP,” and the moment shattered so abruptly that you jumped.

Logan closed his eyes. You laughed.

“Does that happen a lot?”

“Dean?”

“Yes.”

“Unfortunately.”

“He’s very lively.”

“That’s one word.”

“I like him.”

“You’ve known him for twenty minutes.”

“He has strong beliefs.”

“He has loud beliefs.”

“That too.”

Logan looked at you like he wanted to say something else. You wanted him to. You wanted to ask about the garage, about his father, about whether he always fixed cars or if he only happened to be there that night. You wanted to tell him your mother had asked twice more about “the mechanic boy” and you had pretended not to hear her. You wanted to ask whether he had always been good with his hands and then immediately not ask that because that was not a friend-shaped question.

But before either of you could find the next words, Hannah appeared in the kitchen doorway with your purse in one hand and mild panic on her face.

“The rental.”

Your eyes widened.

“Oh no.”

Allie, behind her, was already gathering her jacket. “We have twelve minutes.”

“Twelve?” you repeated, immediately distressed. “I thought we had fourteen.”

“We used two discussing Dean’s soup theory.”

“That feels unfair.”

“The rental company doesn’t care about soup.”

You turned back to Logan quickly, suddenly aware that you were leaving again. Again. Before the conversation had become anything solid. Before you had figured out why it felt so strangely nice to stand near him.

“I have to go return the keys.”

“Yeah,” Logan said, though he sounded like he did not particularly like that.

“It was really nice seeing you. Accidentally. Not that seeing you intentionally would be bad. I mean, obviously, because we’re all friends now.” You smiled, brightening as the thought occurred to you properly. “Oh! Wait. We are, aren’t we? Friends. Or friend-group-adjacent. I should have your number.”

Logan’s mouth popped open as he tried to keep up, nodding silently, as if you hadn’t just shot him straight in the heart with cupid’s arrow. The room seemed to quiet in a way it absolutely did not need to.

Dean, from the living room, whispered, “Oh my God.”

Allie hissed, “Shut up.”

You looked between them, confused, then back at Logan. “Is that okay? Just because if Hannah brings me over again, or if there’s a group thing, or if Cherry has an emergency and your dad calls but you’re there, or if I need to ask whether Dean is allowed near my car-”

“He’s not,” Logan said immediately.

You smiled. “Exactly. Important information.”

Logan was still looking at you like you had offered him something much more complicated than a practical friendship-based phone number exchange. For a second, you wondered if you had made it strange. Then he held out his hand.

“Yeah,” he said, pulling his phone out of his back pocket to open up a new contact, “Here.”

You took it from him happily, typing in your number and saving your contact name as, “cherry 🍒” because you loved a theme. You didn’t overthink the interaction, because this was normal.

Friends had numbers. Friend groups had numbers. Hannah had Garrett’s, Allie had Dean’s, Garrett had everyone’s because he was captain and therefore responsible by law, and Tucker seemed like the sort of person people trusted with emergency contact information. Everyone was connected somehow. So now you would have Logan’s, because Logan was part of the group, and because he was Cherry’s mechanic, and because he had very kind eyes, and none of those facts needed to be emotionally examined in the doorway of the hockey house while the rental car company threatened financial damage.

He took the phone from you and stared at the name you had saved yourself under. Logan looked up briefly from under his eyelashes and quickly typed you a message. Your phone buzzed.

[ UNKNOWN ]

You can save me as Logan. Mechanic works too, if you forget.

You looked up at him immediately, your face crinkling with genuine embarrassment.

“I did not forget,” you insisted, leaning forward to catch his wrist like the clarification was urgent. “Mama put me on the spot, and then I got confused about whether Logan was you or your dad.”

The warmth of your hand disappeared as quickly as it had burned him.

You were already looking back down at your phone, thumbs moving quickly over the screen, your nails clinking daintily against the glass. Logan stayed where he was, a careful, respectable distance between you, because apparently that was something he had to think about now. Distance. Space. The fact that you touched people when you meant things was dangerous for him. You weren’t even aware of what you did to people - the way you enchanted them with your expressive eyes, the way you hypnotised them with the delicate movements of your cherry-red mouth, the way every outfit you wore somehow looked innocent enough to make him feel guilty and pretty enough to make his skin heat.

He could still feel your fingers around his wrist.

You saved the contact without hesitation.

Mechanic 🔧

Logan stared at the screen.

Then at you.

“You saved me as Mechanic.”

You smiled, bright and entirely too pleased with yourself. “You said it worked.”

“I also said Logan.”

“Yes, but Mechanic feels more specific.”

“More specific than my name?”

“In context, yes.”

His mouth twitched.

Dean made a strangled noise from somewhere behind him, you peeked beyond Logan, concerned, “Do you need water?”

Garrett started laughing.

Dean stared at you for a second, then looked at Logan like he was witnessing something holy.

“I love her.”

Logan pointed at him. “Don’t.”

Hannah appeared beside you and gently took your wrist. “We have to go before the rental company charges you and you start apologising to the car.”

“I would not apologise to that.”

“You already called her misunderstood.”

“She is.”

Allie was already halfway out the door. “Move, sunshine.”

Hannah tugged again.

You stumbled backward onto the porch with a laugh, waving to everyone at once because your aunt said that leaving a room is more important than entering it. “Bye! It was so lovely meeting everyone. Garrett, Hannah talks about you so much and now I understand why. Dean, please don’t let cereal upset you too much. Tucker, thank you for the drink. Logan, please tell Cherry I miss her.”

Dean made an inhuman sound.

Garrett looked delighted despite himself.

Tucker smiled into his cup.

Logan’s expression softened in a way that made the whole bright, noisy house feel suddenly very still.

“I will,” he said.

You beamed, then pranced  down the steps, your heels thumping softly against the wood, somehow you ran in a way that didn’t make them creak under your weight. Something slipped from your purse and hit the floor with a tiny, delicate clink- but you didn’t hear it over the laughter erupting from Hannah and Allie as you started pouting at the rental, displeased with its general aura. 

Logan bent as you handed your purse to Allie, picking up the little glass perfume tester from beside the bannister. For a second, he held it carefully between his fingers. He recognised the first part of the name, “Guerlain” but the rest was in French, and while he liked to think he was smart- he couldn’t put himself through the torture of trying to understand, “ L'Art & La Matière Cherry Oud Eau de Parfum”

His thumb brushed the label once. The liquid inside was a dusty pink, swaying gently with the movement of his hand, and for one stupid second he itched to press down on the sprayer just to see if it really was the same scent that had been haunting him since the garage. Instead he slipped it into his back pocket for safe keeping. 

At the rental car, you turned back once, purely because you wanted to wave again. Logan had returned to the doorway with the rest of the guys, leaning on the outside of the frame, watching with that almost-smile.

You lifted your hand.

Then, because you were happy, because you were leaving and he was still standing there, because the whole evening had been strange and funny and sweet and you had his number now for completely normal friend-group reasons, you blew him a little kiss.

Quick. Bright. Careless.

The thing you’d done since you were a little girl who watched too many old movies. The thing you did to your grandparents, your siblings, your parents, your baby cousins who giggled whenever there was a faint stain of lipstick left on your palm.

The thing you didn’t think twice about when you did it to Hannah or Allie or a horse peering over a stall door. 

Then you ducked into the rental car before you could see what it did to him.

Logan remained in the doorway long after Hannah pulled away from the curb.

Behind him, Dean whispered in his ear, “She blew you a kiss.”

Logan did not answer.

Mostly because he was still looking down the street where the rental had disappeared.

Mostly because his phone was still warm in his hand from your grasp. 

Mostly because the entryway smelled faintly like your perfume, and for once, he knew exactly where the smell had come from.

On the entry table, beside a half-empty cup with a soft red lipstick print on the rim, your laugh seemed to linger in the room a few seconds longer than it should have.

Dean leaned closer, his chin resting on Logan's shoulder like a war widow. He sighed dreamily into his teammate’s neck, fanning himself dramatically, “Oh what a delightful girl.” 

The other two boys weren’t hiding it well either. Tucker was shaking his head, enamoured with the way you praised the kitchen organisation, and went on to a whole new rant about your aunt in Massachusetts who treated her kitchen’s well being like a war general- promising to ask her to send a roll of drawer liner that apparently wouldn’t let cutlery move even if an earthquake hit. 

Garrett found you sweet like a sister he never had, the way he was genuinely interested in hearing you talk about your seminars, how your teachers were so impressed with your knowledge about livestock handling before they found out you had been raised around more farm animals than most of the veterinary department had seen in textbooks. You spoke about calves, foals, lambs, and one particularly vengeful alpaca with the same warmth some girls reserved for childhood pets, hands moving excitedly as you explained the difference between knowing an animal academically and knowing one because you had once sat in a barn at three in the morning with your cheek pressed to your mama’s shoulder, waiting for a difficult birth to stop being difficult.

Garrett liked that about you. The sincerity. The way you made every room feel a little less sharp just by entering it. The way you asked him about hockey like you genuinely wanted to understand the thing Hannah cared about, not because you were trying to impress anyone, but because loving your friends meant learning the shape of the things they loved. 

Tucker liked you too, in that quiet, observant way of his, smiling into his cup whenever you thanked him too seriously for small things. 

Dean, obviously, had decided you were the most entertaining person to ever walk into the house and kept looking at Logan like the universe had personally handed him a loaded weapon.

And because none of them were blind - which would have made hockey significantly more complicated - they noticed Logan. They noticed how he could lean against the counter with his arms folded and try to act like he was above it all, but the second you started talking, his eyes found you. When you laughed, his mouth twitched before he could stop it. 

When you moved through the kitchen, he shifted out of your way before you even reached him, like his body had already started making space for yours without waiting for permission from his brain. And when you turned to him, bright-eyed and mid-story, asking, “Right, Mechanic?” like he had been part of the conversation the whole time, Logan looked at you with the sort of soft, helpless attention that made Dean press both hands over his mouth in theatrical restraint.

Dean muttered under his breath, “So.”

Logan’s head snapped toward him, “Don’t.”

Garrett coughed into his fist. Tucker looked down at planks of wood that made up the porch, shoulders shaking once.

Logan’s jaw tightened. “We’re friends.”

Dean stared at him. Garrett stared at him. Tucker, who usually had the decency to stay out of things, lifted his eyebrows, staring at him.

“Friends,” Dean repeated, slowly, like he was tasting the lie for quality. “Right.”

“Shut up.”

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 : 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝

[sakunai]

dick grayson is not going to have sex with you tonight, sorta. dick grayson x fem!reader crack + smut. cw : dry humping, handjob, clitplay, titplay, no piv. he’s big, it’s mentioned. maybe cumplay? slight ric grayson warning yikes 🗒️ welcome to the writer’s barely concealed fetish (dry humping) lmao + forgive me pls now playing : undercover lover – smooth 🎧

1013 Parkthorne Avenue was a little world that belonged to Nightwing alone.

It wasn’t home, not exactly, and wouldn’t be for long if he finished his mission quick enough, but it was a place he could crash, a place to survey Blüdhaven’s streets, a place to patch himself up and beyond his better judgment he found himself turning it into an actual home — potted plants on the windowsill, a couple records on the shelves, hanging polaroids on the wall next to his bed.

A little bracelet you gave him still sitting on the nightstand. A neighborly gesture, you said.

Was she giving me bedroom eyes? Am I seeing things? He had whispered to himself that day as you walked away, the words catching the little wire clipped under his collar.

Oh my God, he’s got the hots for his neighbour.

“I don’t know if you remember, but just in case you forgot, Mr. Love Doctor—” The modulated voice from none other than Jason, Red Hood himself, echoed into Dick’s earpiece.

Dick huffed, the fist he had clenched around a rather generous little bouquet of flowers he got at that new place that opened downtown loosened slightly. A neighborly gesture, he told himself.

“But breaking your cover is against code.”

“What code?”

“The code I made up to stop you from blowing your cover over a crush—”

“It’s not a crush!” He argued back, and just then you’d opened the door. His heart lurched in his chest and he practically shoved the flowers towards you, your eyes widening in complete amusement.

“Is somebody dying?” You chuckled. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Ric?”

Ric. He’d forgotten that’s what he told you his name was. Suddenly he wants to die.

Dick shrugged, barely managing to muster that charming smile he was known for — his credentials being that he won ‘Most Charming Smile’ two years in a row at Gotham Prep, by the way — “I… uh, I was home and I figured you might be home… so…”

“So, you, guy-who-is-never-home, came all the way up here just to give me these?” You teased, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m flattered. What’s the occasion?”

He felt like he could swallow a rib with how nervous he was.

“I mean, what’s a few flowers between friends?”

“Right…” you pursed your lips in disbelief and he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “You know, if you actually asked me out, I’d say yes.”

“Please!” His eyes nearly bulged out of his head. “I mean, yes— please, I would love to. I would love to ask you out, is what I’m saying—” the words tumbled out and you erupted into a fit of giggles, reaching up to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Come back here at seven, pretty boy.”

While he got ready for the unauthorized date, there was Jason in his ear again like the Devil from The Bible.

“Sooo, does she know Ric has like a dozen wires taped to his chest or are you gonna wait til you get naked to explain?”

Dick rolled his eyes, buttoning his shirt up. “It’s a first date, nobody is getting naked.” He eyed himself in the mirror, raking a few fingers through his hair. “And for your information I won’t be wearing a wire.”

A loud howl of laughter crackled into his ear. “Ten bucks she walks him like a dog.” It was Roy.

“Fifteen,” came the crackle of another comm. “You’re underestimating how easy he really is.”

“Babs?” Dick’s eyes widened.

“Sorry, loverboy,” she replied in his ear. “Money talks.”

He slumped at the edge of his mattress, fiddling with his shoes and grumbling under his breath. “Would it kill you people to give me some privacy?” Admittedly, the prospect of something more happening hadn’t crossed his mind until now.

Now he was really nervous. “It’s not happening,” Dick murmured, more to himself than his inquisitive audience. “I’m on a mission. I have great self control. I’m practically a veteran in the field. I can handle this.”

Jason whistled low, then singsonged into his ear. “You willing to put some money on that?”

Dick Grayson is not going to have sex with you tonight.

He’s Nightwing. This is a stealth operation, a covert campaign of intelligence gathering. He’s strong willed, he is determined. The wires are gone, so is his earpiece and he is a man on another kind of mission. He will not falter.

You’re looking up at him with those bedroom eyes again.

The conversation after dinner that had something to do with how he keeps his house plants alive had died the moment you said to him, “Hey, do you wanna see my plants?”

Now it’s just heavy breathing, bodies too close and tension so thick you can taste it because he was stupid enough to get walked like a dog to your bedroom.

Dick’s hand is under your top, cupping one of your soft tits in a large palm. His thumb gently circles your soft nipple, feeling it stiffen instantly. You have one potted plant by your balcony door. It looks like it died a week ago.

This is a honeytrap.

“…We shouldn’t,” he whispers, voice already wrecked and slightly hoarse from arousal, but he doesn’t pull his hand away.

Yet, you whimper softly and arch into his touch, pushing your breast harder into his hand.

He has two hundred dollars on this. Two hundred dollars, his dignity and the sorrow of letting Jason and Roy of all people borrow his car.

But he kisses you.

It starts tender — a little bit guilty, but desperate. Within seconds it turns filthy with your tongues sliding into each other’s mouths, lips barely catching on teeth and stifled moans trapped in hollowed cheeks.

Dick groans into your mouth as he squeezes your tit harder, kneading the soft, pillowy flesh. His mouth moves to your jaw, the length of your neck, the back of your ear. He’s kissing every bit of skin he can find.

His other hand grabs ahold of your hip, sliding you further down the sheets and flush against him. You can feel his cock, hard and leaking pre as it throbs against your thigh through his pants.

“Ric…” you moan. Right, that… that’s a problem.

Dick’s brows go tight and he lifts his mouth from your collarbone, panting as he rests his forehead against yours.

“You can call me Richard,” he breathes. “Okay?” You nod and he wastes no time to latch onto your lips again, his hips rocking forward against your thigh. “You’re so beautiful…”

You reach down and undo the button of his pants, the sound of the zipper almost echoing in the dark room. Your hand slides quickly into the fabric, under the cotton of his boxers to find him twitching at attention.

He hisses sharply. “Wait— fuck—”

“Oh my God,” you whisper, as your fingers wrap around his thick cock. You get them all the way around his girth on the second try and squeeze slightly. “You’re… wow, you’re big.”

Dick looks down at you with a shit eating grin and you roll your eyes. His mouth latches onto your breast and you arch up against him with a cry.

You start stroking him slowly, your hand pumping his cock while he kneads both your tits, squeezing and playing with them like they belong to him — or like he hasn’t seen a pair in centuries. “Fuck— that feels so good…” he moans against your neck, thrusting up into your fist. “You’re so good…”

He snakes a hand down and dips two fingers into your panties, marvelling at the wetness he finds.

He rubs over your needy folds then parts them, stroking up and down and circling over your throbbing clit as the front of your underwear turns dark from slick. “So fucking wet… did you get like this for me? Is this what you wanted?”

You whimper against him, your other hand reaching up to tug at his hair. “I want you,” you whisper, mouth meeting his again in a sloppy kiss.

Dick adjusts himself between your legs, the weight of him practically pinning you under him. You release his cock to push his pants down, your fingers slick with his pre.

“Come here,” he seizes your wrist and brings your digits into his mouth, the heat of his tongue licking your fingers clean and tasting himself on your skin while he rubs your clit, grinding the heel of his palm down with dizzying force.

“Richard— fuck— too fast—!”

“I know, just ride through it, baby,” he coos at you, kissing your hairline. His body folds over you as his hips come down, grinding his underwear clad cock right against your pussy.

He thrusts his hips back and forth, his hot, heavy cock humping you, as the thick ridge of his shaft rubs perfectly over your folds through your soaked panties.

“Shit, you’re leaking all over me…” he groans against your lips. “Prettiest pussy creaming just from this… I barely touched you…” He feels lightheaded from need.

“I’m gonna cum,” you cry, your hand finding his length again, pumping him in short tight strokes while he fucks you through your clothes and torments your pussy with his fingers. “But it feels so good. Don’t stop— ah, Richard, please.”

Suddenly, Dick thinks he’s so easy. He can’t even find shame.

You shudder hard and your back bows, a silent scream ripping from you as your orgasm crashes down, thighs shaking around his hips and tears leaking from the corner of your eyes.

He kisses you while you come down — deep, passionate and hungry like he’s in love with you, as he grinds against your sopping cunt. Your panties are so soaked they’re sticking to your skin and the tip of his clothed cock as the obscene wet sound of fabric rubbing against your creamy folds fills the dark room.

Dick’s hand slides down and he yanks your panties to the side, exposing your puffy little pussy as you jerk his cock faster. You watch him as he looks between you two, your chest heaving, and the gears turn in his head.

So much for the code.

Now he’s got his underwear pushed down and his swollen cock directly against your bare, dripping cunt, sliding up and down, coating the length of him in your frothy cream, fucking up against your palm as you press down flat on his shaft, pushing his cock flush against you.

“Fuck, honey… I can feel how hot you are,” he pants. “If I put it in right now, I’m gonna cum.” Your legs wrap tight around his waist, each bump of his tip against your bare, sensitive clit has you trembling in his arms.

“Richard—”

“I know,” his breath comes harsh, strained. Your hips are moving on their own, bucking up to meet his every hump and the sticky sounds are borderline pornographic. “I know you want me to… Tell me you want it, baby.”

“Fuck me,” you whine, your mouth reaching his neck, the harsh bob of his adam’s apple, the underside of his jaw. “Fuck me, please. Feels so good…”

“Oh fuck, fuuuck, baby— I know, I know,” but he keeps grinding harder, faster, his pelvis nearly slamming against yours. You can feel and hear the plap! plap! plap! of his heavy balls pressing against you with every roll of his hips. “I’m so close…”

You’re both breathing like your lungs are turning blue.

You stroke his cock faster, hand flying up and down his thick shaft while he humps against your bare pussy. Every thrust has him sliding through your swollen folds, leaking all over you.

“I’m gonna cum—” Dick chokes out suddenly, eyes squeezed shut. “Oh fuck, it’s right there— I’m gonna cum—!”

You wrap a fist around him and aim it right at your pussy, pumping furiously and he lets out an open mouthed cry, so beautiful and almost girlish. His eyes roll back into his skull as he jerks forward, cumming hard.

Thick, heavy ropes of hot cum shoot across your pussy, dripping down your clit, painting your folds and soaking your hole.

You’re both panting, staring down between your bodies and Dick’s eyebrows pinch from the exertion, his arms wrapping around you.

He doesn’t think about the fact he’s now got two hundred dollars less to his name. Or the fact he quite literally gave you part of his government name.

“Hey,” he whispers into your neck once you’ve both stopped gasping for breath.

You hum in response.

“Can I take you out to dinner?” Dick asks, a hand stroking up and down your side.

“Sure, I really do need those gardening tips.” You nod against his skin and he smiles wide, absolutely giddy.

Well, who said he couldn’t possibly turn 1013 Parkthorne Avenue into a real home?

🗒️ this was funnier in my head im sorry 😭

[dqrkhold]

Whew he look good

[moonsgemini]

wait just discovered my drafts….stay tuned

[cameronsdior]

Rafe in Morocco