₊˚✧ mari ₊˚✧

My thoughts are too good to keep to myself, so here we are. nineteen – !

[sweetlyrocks]

nineteen. she / her. trinkets. lace. olivia rodrigo. halestorm. supernatural. dc comics. stranger things. mystery. horror. agggtm. bookworm. rain&snow. coffee lover. spanish. journalism. architecture. yapper. writer. oil paint. artist.

꣑ৎ‎ dividers © sugarish

「 my art 」 「 writing account 」 「 blog guidelines 」

[sweetlyrocks]

officially twenty years old #scared

[kosmogrl]

it’s june I desperately need to stop wasting time

[kosmogrl]

we’re basically halfway through the year this is getting SERIOUS

[bajablastlover2]

[xeniaisunderpressure]

Ravi Singh where are youuu????

[sweetlyrocks]

I need reading recs ASAP bc I need a break from my current book read and I’m waiting on all the fics I follow to update 💔

[jaeyss]

icarus to the sun // r. grayson

index

iii. sure, i have time. i always have time for you. sure, whatever you need, whatever you need

summary: it was supposed to be a meet cute. it was supposed to be easy. it was supposed to be Kori. it was supposed to, supposedtosupposedtosupposedto- you're beautiful. everyone always tells Dick not to stare directly at the sun. it's too bad he can't stop himself.

[inspired by One Tree Hill]

Your fingers feel clumsy and slow as you fumble with the bow on your tie-front top, the floor tilting under your feet. 

Where was Kori?

You turn your head from side to side, faces blurring into one underneath the flickering lights of the frat basement. You swear she was just here. You remember her touch on your elbow before she left to get you water and–

Wait. You tilt your head to the side, trying to remember. Has she not come back yet?

You tug at the string again, accidentally loosening the knot. The top threatens to slip, and your lips form a soft, frustrated pout. The fabric is too slippery, the knot swimming in and out of focus. Everything spins around you, and you tilt your head. When were there two bows on your shirt? 

You sigh.

Definitely too drunk to fix this on your own – and judging by the way the other girls were spinning and stumbling around you, they were just as useless. You glance at a greasy, hungry-looking boy eyeing you and roll your eyes, turning away

Seriously, where was Kori?

You stumble out of the basement in a blind haze, tripping over the stairs. Your hands miss the railing, over and over, foot slipping on each wet step. You gasp when the world begins to tilt, tilt, tilt–

and slam head-first into someone’s back. 

“Ow,” you whimper, rubbing your forehead. “That hurts.”

“Oh hey–careful,” someone’s steadying you by your arms, their hands warm and firm, gently pulling you to the side as more people begin to file out the stairs, “You okay?” 

You whine, too preoccupied with the magnified pain and throbbing headache to answer the stranger. Your eyes flutter open when careful fingertips gently brush away hair from your face, electric blue eyes staring into yours–well, your forehead. 

His touch is warm, soft, careful, like he’s handling something precious. Your heart leaps into your throat, skin tingling with every touch he gives you. 

“I think you’re just going to have a bruise,” he murmurs, peering closely at the skin. “Nothing too crazy though.” 

His words go in one ear and out the other, a small smile playing on your face. “You’re really cute.” You hiccup, the warm thrum of alcohol singing in your veins. “Like, suuuper cute.”

He laughs a little, straightening. The tips of his ears turn a pretty pink. “Thank you. You’re clearly super drunk.” 

You shake your head, soft fingers sliding down his forearm. The touch makes him stiffen, your fingers dragging feather-light across his skin. “I know a cute boy when I see one.”

Then your eyes widen, “Oh, hey! Can you help me with something?” You pull on his wrist before he can protest, dragging him further down the hallway, the strings of your top loosening with every step. You nearly trip on your own feet again, your heels suddenly too unsteady and he steadies you with a firm grip on your elbow, pulling you back into him. 

“Careful.” He murmurs, low and deep, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. You shiver, giggling over nothing as you lean into him for balance. The hallway stretches, long and never ending as he keeps a careful hand on your shoulder while you both continue down the walkway.

The sounds of the party fade into the background when you finally bring him to a stop, gesturing to your defeated bow, just barely hanging on.

“It’s falling apart.” you hold up the two strands, “Can you fix it, please?”

He coughs, cheeks red. “Shouldn’t you ask someone else to help you? A girl probably?”

“I can’t find my friend,” you pout, shaking the pieces of the cloth you’re holding, “And honestly, you’re the cutest guy at this party so can you please help?” 

When he hesitates for a beat longer, you sigh, your hand reaching out to pull his hand towards you. He’s warm to the touch.

And just like that, he does as you ask, cheeks red. 

You hold up the pieces of your top half-heartedly as he fumbles with the cloth, pointedly ignoring the lacy red bra you’re wearing underneath—though the sheer fabric makes it impossible. 

You shiver when his fingers skim past your ribs, giggling quietly to yourself at the sensation. Dick doesn’t comment on it, but the sound of your laughter makes his heart beat faster against his ribs.

His fingers brush past your waist again, soft and gentle. He pauses—like the contact startles him before continuing what he was doing. You sway on your feet to the faint sound of the bass coming from the other rooms, leaning into him and he inhales sharply, the noise unheard over all the distant music. 

“There.” He whispers after a moment, low and soft, “All done.” 

You smile, holding out your purse wordlessly. He blinks, once then twice, before hesitantly taking it from you, the black leather strap digging into his fingers.

“Thank you!” You pull out a tube of shimmery lip gloss from the depths of your purse, gesturing for him to take out his phone. He stares at you hesitantly, his long fingers holding up his black smartphone before you pluck it out of his hand and open the camera app. 

“Hold this.” 

You push the phone back into his hands, the camera now facing you as you carefully reapply your gloss, frowning at the little imperfections of your makeup after dancing the night away. 

You lean close to your reflection, squinting as you brush stroke after stroke carefully. You wobble, instinctively grabbing towards him, and he lets you, his free hand reaching out to lace your fingers with his. 

He watches your every movement, too entranced to snap out of it. His eyes follow the curve of your lips, the small pucker and pout you give your reflection. 

Cute.

“Perfect.” You beam proudly at your reflection when you’re satisfied, pressing your frosted, glittery lip gloss into his hand while taking your purse back. “Thank you.”

You pause after a moment, eyebrows furrowing. “Hey, what’s your name again?”

“Dick — well, Richard, but everyone calls me Dick.”

You laugh like it’s the funniest thing in the world, taking a tiny step forward. Your fingers trail along his chest, stopping just at his pants waistline and hooking a single finger into one of his belt loops, a coy smile on your lips. Your finger curls around the loop, tugging him closer until both of your hips touch, snug against each other. You don’t even notice what you’ve done. 

“Dick?” Your eyes flit downwards before they pull back up.

He nods, cheeks red. His skin burns with every touch you give him, his fingers unconsciously squeezing the tube of Dior lip gloss you shoved in his hand. 

Your smile is really pretty—but he pushes that thought out of his head as quickly as possible.

You let out another giggle, stepping back. “Thanks for all the help, Dick.” You press a kiss to your fingers, tapping his cheek. 

It smells like vanilla. 

Dick nods, mouth dry as you saunter out the room, little black purse swinging side to side before the rush of the party takes over and you disappear from sight. 

He doesn’t move for a moment—can’t. He can’t stop thinking about the touch of your hand on his cheek, your small fingers laced with his like they were meant to be there. 

The hallway noise rushes in slowly, like someone unmuting the world. His pulse still raises, his cheeks still red. 

He looks down at his hand, the touch of your skin still tingling, the smell of your perfume – white peach and orange blossom – lingering after you.

You forgot your lip gloss. 

x.

“There you are!” 

You stumble backwards when a pair of hands gently wrap around the crook of your elbow, turning you to face them. Kori’s breathless, her hand holding on to a plastic red cup. “I was looking for you everywhere! Where did you go?”

“I was looking for you,” you pout, the throbbing in your head getting worse with every minute, “Can we leave now? I’m tired and my feet hurt.” 

She hands you the red cup, tilting the water towards your mouth. “Now?” She hesitates for a fraction of a second, green eyes glancing around the dimly lit room. You raise an eyebrow, eyes watching from over the rim of the cup but say nothing. 

“Are you sure?” She refuses to meet your gaze, “You’ve never gone home this early before.” Kori points at the clock on her phone. “It’s not even 2am yet!”

You set the cup down on a random table, nodding your head towards the frat brother who discards it for you. “Do you not want to leave?” You take a step closer, head cocked. 

“Are you… looking for someone?” Your face splits into a grin, “Oh my gosh! You are, aren’t you?”

“What?” Kori pushes your head down, “No! I’m just making sure you’re having enough fun!” 

“No, you definitely are- hey! Let go of my head!” You flail uselessly, “My hair!”

Kori finally lets go and you do an indignant little shake of your head, pink manicured nails desperately trying to comb out the tangles. 

“We’re going home.” She says firmly, pretending like there isn’t a blush on her cheeks, “I just wanted to make sure you were having a good enough time.”

You roll your eyes but don’t protest, choosing to enlist the help of a passing frat brother to untangle the knots in your hair. 

Neither of you notice Dick walking past, your lip gloss tucked safely away in his pants pocket.

x.

The quiet of your apartment is a blessing after hours of being in the bass-boosted, sweat slicked basement. 

You stumble in, heels strewn in a corner of the hallway and flop down on the floor of your bedroom. “The floor is soooo comfy,” you sigh dreamily to yourself, “Gonna sleep here tonight.” 

Kori trails in behind you, collecting the fallen rollers you had ripped out of your hair earlier that night, placing them neatly onto the vanity. “You sure?” She pats your mattress. “Your bed is much more comfortable.”

You shake your head, hair fanning out behind you and wiggle into the sleeping bag that was unfurled by the base of your bed. “No, no. I sleep here. I’m dirty! Can’t get in bed in dirty clothes.”

“See Kori, I’m so smart.” You pat the water bottle and trash can beside you. “Sober me taking care of drunk me.” 

Kori laughs, settling beside you as you roll around inside your nylon cocoon. 

For a moment, nobody speaks. The silence falls between you both, quiet and cozy punctuated only by the sound of fabric as you shift around. 

“I did meet a cute boy tonight,” Kori finally admits, her voice quiet and hesitant like it was shameful to admit. “He’s really cute.”

“Yeah?” Even through your exhaustion, your voice lifts with genuine joy. “That’s good. I’m really happy for you. Did you get his number?”

She shakes her head and you sigh, sleep tugging at you. “Well that’s okay. I’m sure you’ll see him again soon.”

Kori nods, hope blooming under her ribs.

“I met a cute boy tonight too.” You say after a moment, eyes fluttering shut. “Super cute. Pretty eyes.”

“That’s nice. I’m sure you’re much cuter.”

“I better be.” You yawn, rolling over. Tell me more tomorrow, okay?”

“Tomorrow,” she promises, amused. “When you can keep your eyes open for more than two seconds.”

You try to wave her off but your hand just flops uselessly onto your pillow. “Rude…” you mumble.

Kori laughs and gathers her things. “Goodnight, silly girl.”

The door shuts behind her. You burrow deeper into your sleeping bag, proud of your “smart” decisions, and let the room spin you gently down into dreams made up of pretty blue eyes and someone smiling at you through the crowd.

[sweetlyrocks]

this is like my new obsession, I need more I’m in love

[balo-badartist]

I really loved season 4! My fav part was Thragg ngl, I want to wife him up. I just wish our boy Mark could catch a break

[dhazefawn]

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

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

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

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

⋆˙⟡ word count: 7.7k.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Speaking of the devil, you hear the bell ring.

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

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

No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What are you even thinking right now?

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

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

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

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

So, he finds this funny, huh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what would that be?”

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

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

“I want a cigarette.”

What.

“You want a what?”

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

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

“Seriously?”

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

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

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

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

“You just had to mess with me, huh?”

“Couldn’t help myself.”

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

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

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

“You worried, sweetheart?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” you answer. “Not exactly…”

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

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

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

He does have big hands, though.

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

“I didn’t agree to anything.”

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

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

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

You should feel relieved. You are relieved. Probably.

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

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

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

“Maybe less. If you’re lucky.”

The bell rings. He’s gone.

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

Then back at the door.

What the hell just happened?

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

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

+++

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

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

Unfortunately.

You should have stayed home.

“You said he had a gun!”

“And a knife.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, what are you doing?

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

“Yellow Spirits?”

“Yes, those.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Marjorie, what is that?”

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

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

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

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

As if she’s the one restocking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He already saw you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who even says that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Same thing, sweetheart.”

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

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

“You’re staring,” Jason says, amused.

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

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

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

Two can play that game.

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

“Like what?”

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

“Like you just walked off a movie set.”

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

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

“So you have noticed.”

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

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

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

“I liked the leather jacket better.”

“Noted.”

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

“You’re doing it again,” you say.

“Doing what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyebrows go up. “Anything?”

Shit.

“I meant—talking. I meant talking.”

“Sure you did.”

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

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks.

“You’re already here today.”

“And?”

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

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

“And you’re avoiding the question.”

“Fine. Same time tomorrow.”

“Good.”

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

Stop it.

But he’s totally doing this on purpose.

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

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

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

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

“What’s this say?”

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

You look up. “What?”

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

“You have hands.”

“And you’re holding it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

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

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

“You’re already here today.”

“And?”

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

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

“Good.”

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

“You forgot your cigarettes.”

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

“No, I didn’t.”

The bell rings.

He’s gone.

+++

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

You feel lonely.

Ridiculous.

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

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

The bell rings.

Your head snaps up, eyes trailing to the door.

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

Nobody, you think. Just another nobody.

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

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

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

His hands are shaking.

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

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

“That everything?” you ask.

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

“Sir?”

He looks up.

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

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

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

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

“Sir? Your change.”

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

Then he walks to the door.

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

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

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

He turns around.

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

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

“I changed my mind,” he says.

“About the Gatorade?”

“About all of it.”

His hand goes to his waistband.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The safe,” he says. “Open the safe.”

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

His jaw tightens. His finger moves to the trigger.

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

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not. I’m not. Please—”

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

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

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

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

“I said call her.”

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

The bell rings.

You barely hear it over the ringing in your ears.

But he does.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, you think. That’s not good.

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” he says. “Hey. Look at me.”

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

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

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

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

“You’re late. So fucking late.”

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

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

The lighter.

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

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

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

Hood goes very still.

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

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

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

The last thing you hear is his panicked voice.

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

Then nothing.

+++

The beeping is the first thing you hear.

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

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

And, you’re in it.

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

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

— Marj.

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

Fuck.

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

You thought you were going to die.

Until he showed up.

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

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

The window.

There’s something at the window.

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

The shape moves.

A tap, glass against knuckle.

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

Jason is standing on the fire escape.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You look like shit,” you say.

He laughs. “You’re one to talk.”

“Fair.”

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

“The lighter,” you say.

He goes still.

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

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

“I know,” he says.

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

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

“You what?”

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

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

“I’m not dead,” you say.

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

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

Definitely not the time to be thinking about his chest.

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

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

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

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

“So you didn’t come to see me?”

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

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

“Three hours?”

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

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

“You’re an idiot,” you say.

“I’ve been told.”

“A stupid idiot.”

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

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

“You’re staying,” you say.

“I can’t—”

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

“Four hours,” he repeats.

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

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

“I’m very good at multitasking.”

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

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

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

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

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

They don’t ask questions. Thank god.

This is Gotham, after all.

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

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

[mystiquevoid]

Take Me For A Ride, Baby

pairing: biker!jason todd x reader

synopsis: you were curious about bikers before, but you are pretty sure they just became your weak spot after meeting this handsome, green-eyed stranger at the gas station

content: fluff, meet-cute, tough exterior n soft interior jason, reader thinking of riding him for a sec, but c’mon, who wouldn’t in this context

“Hi, um, sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if I could…” Jason watched you—the cute girl who had approached him at the gas station—do a revving motion with your hand. Didn’t even say it out loud; just moved your fist and looked at him with those big eyes.

Through the dark visor of his helmet, you couldn’t see the way Jason was squinting down at you. And still, you felt like you were being scrutinized. Now, you regretted not getting ready properly. I mean, you had just wanted to go get some gas. You would’ve put more thought into your choice of clothing if you had known that you’d end up seeing a biker there; one with broad shoulders that filled out his leather jacket impressively. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case, though, as you’d randomly thrown something together this morning.

Taking in your adorably curious face, Jason found himself wondering what a sweet girl like you was doing walking up to a guy like him. He was well aware of what kind of first impression most people got of him. After all, he was a big guy with an even bigger motorcycle.

But you didn’t look intimidated by his stature at all. If anything, you just seemed a bit shy asking him for permission to lay hands on his bike. So with a nod, he gave you the okay. In real time, he saw the sheepish expression on your face melt away and in its stead witnessed a spark of excitement light up in your eyes.

He watched you attentively as you took a few steps closer to his bike, and reached over to the handle. You were about to twist it expectantly, when Jason stopped you with a chuckle. Eyes lifting to look at the attractive stranger, you were worried that you had done something wrong already without noticing it.

“Not like that. You need to twist it towards you, all right?” Your cheeks warmed up in embarrassment, but his gloved hand simply came to rest over yours.

When he guided it in the right direction now, the bike’s engine roared to life loudly. The vibrations of the motor sent your heart tumbling into a frantic rush. To say you were impressed would have been nothing less than a blatant understatement. Jason could practically see stars form in your eyes. “You’re a fan of bikes, huh?” He huffed in amusement. His gaze drifted over your side profile as you nodded. You were pretty. Really pretty.

“Y’want to go for a ride?” The question left his mouth before his brain could catch up with what he was suggesting. It was unlike Jason to make an offer like this to someone he didn’t even know. He did it anyway, so that had to mean something, surely. Lifting his visor, he peered straight into your soul now—no kind of glass acting as a form of separation between you two.

You turned your head to look at him, and for a moment, you were just staring at him—soft lips parted. Clearly, you were as taken aback by his offer as he was. And also by those uniquely vibrant green eyes, but hopefully that wasn’t something the dark-haired biker would know.

Stranger danger should have stopped you from agreeing to something so reckless, especially in a crazy place like Gotham City, but much like Jason, you weren’t acting like yourself at the moment. “I… I mean, if you have the time.” Luckily for you, he had an extra helmet with him.

After Jason explained the basics of what you needed to know, you found yourself on the back of his bike. When he sensed that you hesitated to hold onto him, unsure of where to put your hands without crossing some sort of line, one of Jason’s hands reached backwards to grab yours and place it around his midriff.

“Hold on tight, sweetheart,” he ordered, but his voice was terribly kind. Then he snapped his visor back down, and you were off onto the road.

It was exhilarating; hearing the raucous vrooming sound of the engine, feeling the wind whip past your bodies.

You felt more alive than you ever had before. A thrilled little laugh came from you as you allowed yourself to enjoy the ride. Only now did you realize that you didn’t even know this stranger’s name yet. You had been too caught up in your inner monologue panicking over how bad of an idea this probably was.

When Jason sped up to overtake a car, you closed your eyes momentarily and rested your head against his back. Oh my god, this was as terrifying as it was fun.

The longer you two drove, the more your nerves began to ease into pure, unfiltered joy. You were growing more comfortable by the minute—your hands traveling along his abdomen and holding onto him tighter. At one point, your hand was pressed against his pectoral, and if you hadn’t been so swept up in the moment, you would’ve been able to feel the rapid, thumping beat of his heart.

Once you two stopped at a red light, the man you’d been clinging onto turned his head so that you could hear him better. “You good?” You might not know much about this stranger, but one thing you knew for sure: he was painfully considerate.

Jason started out driving not too fast, paid attention to your body language the whole ride through, and only began speeding up upon noticing that you had relaxed a bit. In other words, he made sure you felt comfortable the whole time, and now he was also checking in on you verbally. You were surprised by how well this was going considering how unsure you’d been about this choice.

“Yeah, I’m fine!” you spoke loudly in the hope of your voice carrying over the cacophony of traffic noise around you. With a growing grin, you added, “More than fine, actually. This is crazy!” Jason was thinking of a reply when the stoplight turned green, effectively interrupting your conversation.

Butterflies swarmed your stomach as you leaned into him, arms wrapped around him securely. Hands holding onto his front, you took notice of the warmth that seeped through the material of his black compression shirt. You couldn’t help but wonder how many days a week this man must have gone to work out to be this fucking ripped. Even from afar, it had been impossible to miss his size, but actually feeling the hard planes of muscle hidden beneath his clothes gave you a different kind of impression on just how built this man was.

Time flew by quickly. When Jason eventually dropped you off at the same gas station that he met you—he felt like it would be creepy to ask you where you lived, and your car was parked there anyway—the adrenaline was still pumping through your veins like a river of ecstasy.

Your breath was erratic as you warned him that you would get off the back of his bike now, just as he had told you to. Communication was key between the driver and backpacker. You wouldn’t want him to lose balance and let the bike fall to the ground. He likely wouldn’t have made a fuss about it, even if you did, though.

Standing on your own two feet after the addictive feeling of speeding through the streets with him felt weird. Your shaky fingers began fumbling with your helmet, and mere seconds later, Jason stood right in front of you. Noticing your struggle, he silently helped you. Your blown eyes were locked on him the entire time as he slipped it off your head. With him this close, you could smell the dizzying scent of his cologne: leather, musk, and something irresistibly warm that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. It smelled almost like gunpowder, but you doubted that with how sweet this man had been to you. Either way, he smelled absolutely to die for.

You ran your fingers through your hair to fix it, and Jason watched you closely. The corners of his mouth tugged up into an amused smirk. Fuck, you were too cute.

“Thank you. That was the most fun I’ve had in a while.” You sounded so gentle, so sincere in your gratitude. It wasn’t even a big deal, really, nothing that demanded much effort on his part. Still, it clearly made you happy, and he found himself feeling unreasonably accomplished by that, which was stupid, because he didn’t know you.

Jason should have reminded himself of that. He didn’t.

After he took off his own helmet, you could finally take a good look at the entirety of his face, and it was actually embarrassing how affected you were by it. The gorgeous green eyes you had seen before, but his dark, perfectly disheveled hair alongside the faint, jagged scar on his face piqued your interest in the man.

He was gorgeous, undeniably so.

You wanted to find out more about Jason, wanted to see if he had other scars or birthmarks hidden beneath the fabric of his protective gear, wanted to ride with him again. Of course, the more debauched side of your brain couldn’t help but think of wanting to ride him too, but that unfitting thought was quickly banished into the back of your traitorous mind. Even briefly imagining that with him right in front of you, fuck, that was a horrible idea, worse than climbing onto a stranger’s motorcycle.

“Any time…” Jason trailed off, a subtle inquiry of your name. Snapping out of your thoughts, you giggled at his smoothness. The man, who had died and come back to life, swore he felt something that he’d never felt before. An odd sensation of warmth spread through his chest. Illogical. Entirely unfounded. What was up with him?

You told him your name softly, and Jason repeated it back to you like he was testing the way it sounded rolling off his tongue. “Jason.” The curt response would have seemed aloof, if it weren’t for the evident interest shining in those emerald depths of his. “Well, thank you then, Jason,” you said with a sweet smile. Your heart was pounding wildly against your ribcage, and you knew that that wasn’t just the aftershocks of residual adrenaline.

Internally, you wondered if you should ask him for his number. Then you cringed at how awkward it would be if he told you no, if he said that he had a girlfriend and this was just him trying to be nice earlier. “Okay, I should—” You didn’t even finish your sentence, because he spoke up at the same time as you did, “Could I—” The air between you seemed static as you nodded at Jason to say what he wanted to first. “Could I get your number?” All right, girlfriend theory debunked then, you guessed.

He cleared his throat, trying to tamp down the tension he had created with the intense, deep timbre of his voice. Jason licked his lips before adding, “So we could… do this again, you know. If you’d like.” Wait, was he shy?

Jason didn’t want to come on too strong or make you feel like this was him expecting your number in return for his favor. It wasn’t like you owed him anything! He wasn’t an asshole like that. But you didn’t think that anyway.

The smile on your face broadened into an even more radiant one, and Jason had an inkling that he would grow to love this grin of yours. “Sure, I would love that. Maybe we could go to the library next time.” You inclined your head downward and chuckled bashfully, realizing how unspectacular of a place that sounded like. Leave it to you to suggest to the hot biker you met to go to the freaking library of all places. “I mean, if you don’t find that too boring. My aunt runs a library. I help out every once in a while, so I like the quiet there.”

Jason might have just found the woman of his dreams.

“No, no, I don’t find that boring at all,” he said, and when you lifted your head, you could tell by the look on his face alone that he meant what he said. Your eyes darted across his pretty face, teeth tugging at your bottom lip like that could contain your giddiness.

Jason might have been the man of your dreams too.

He gave you his phone, and you couldn’t believe that this was actually happening to you, as you typed your number into the phone of the handsome biker you met only today. The owner of the prettiest green eyes and the most attractive voice you ever had the pleasure of beholding. And he liked to read, apparently. It was like this man had stumbled right out of a romance novel.

Handing his phone back to him, you looked up at Jason through your eyelashes. “Call me.” Such bold words, yet coming out of the mouth of a sweet thing like you, they didn’t sound half as provocative as they should have.

Oh, Jason was definitely going to call you.

em’s masterlist | jason todd masterlist wc: 2.2k request: no

˙⋆✮ a/n: this was inspired by sth that happened to me this week lol. lowk don’t like ts, but i’ll post it anyway, bc i don’t want to scrap the fic. and also again, this is a drabble that turned into a one-shot. like, ugh, guys, i cannot write short stuff for the life of me 😭😭 this isn’t even acc long to me, but it’s definitely also not drabble-kinda short ykwim

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jason todd works: nobody here yet…

[babybyers08132]

Finn Wolfhard new album

Finn Wolfhard new album

Finn Wolfhard new album

Finn Wolfhard new album

Finn Wolfhard new album

Finn Wolfhard new album

[sweetlyrocks]

one time tumblr had the april fool’s boop badges, but I was in exams seasons and I didn’t open tumblr taht day. come back to have the biggest fomo ever bc I ALSO WANTED A BOOP BADGE. so ever since then, I have opened the app every April’s 1st and this butt app has not done anything again since.

I will never let go of this beef @tumblr

[darkandstormyart]

just another monday

[sweetlyrocks]

i wish my building's maintance responded to crisis as quick as tumblr admins do

[eviesjournal]

𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐧’ 𝐮𝐩- 𝐦𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐫

‘oh i feel the rush !!!’- mike wheeler in this, i guess.?? loser mike x popular!reader, teasing in the name of science, feelings explode, attempted embarrassmen, very high tension ???. masterlist. word count= 3.5k. i love troye sivan 👏 dedicated to @lydiiunicorn 🫶

you don’t like being called the ‘golden child’ of hawkins high. it sounds like a premonition to be the kid who peaks in school, and you have ambitions a little grander than that. still, in function, that description is about right.

you lead the cheer team, and you’re on track to challenging dustin henderson to be valedictorian (although, him and his stupid friends are adamant that you’re not even close. which is lie. your grade average is only 0.3% lower than his).

there’s something comforting about school not being a place you dread. you can see that’s not the same for everyone, from their glares in the hallway.

funnily enough, though, dustin’s aforementioned losers seem surprisingly jolly. their hollers and laughs are as loud as your groups in the lunch hall, and they throw back any shouts with twice the twice, and twice the confidence.

you try not to antagonise them- frankly, they’re not worth the brain power. and you’ve managed to avoid them all pretty well (aside from lucas- but everyone likes lucas). you only see dustin at the club they pretend aren’t for the future ivy-league students, and max is practically a ghost in your history class.

the emo one, mick (you think), is the one you hear the most complaints about. a ‘pompous prick’ was the most recent one. but you’d never reacted with him, until-

‘sorry, i’m late. this is physics, right? they’ve moved my class.’

you blink, staring at him. mick (?) waits for a reply, slinging his bag onto the table and sitting down.

‘uh, yeah. this is physics. but this seat-‘

marcus, who actually sits there, walks in. when he sees his chair is taken, his jaw slackens. you shoot him apologetic smile, with an ‘i’ll explain later’ expression, but he just shakes his head and saunters further into the class.

‘great. this schools admin fuckin’ sucks. i’m mike, by the way. obviously, i know who you are.’

you give him a slightly cold stare, but nod. he waits for a reply, but he never gets one.

‘right. okay. sorry, am i okay to sit here? or is talking to someone like me not allowed.’

you roll your eyes at him. ‘what are you talking about, mick?’

‘mike.’ he corrects, and you groan.

‘sorry. i’m trying to-like- listen? this is my worst class.’

his eyes widen a little in surprise. ‘huh, really. i didn’t realise you were bad at anything.’

you shrug. ‘i’m not. my grade average is 91%’

he gives you a sympathetic look. ‘well, mine is 93%. let me know if you need any help.’

mike relaxes a little, stretching. his leg bumps yours under the desk, and you scowl, but don’t give him any more of a reaction.

that is until you hear a ‘-and partners for this assignment are based on the seating chart.’

‘shit.’ you complain, dropping your head into your hands.

‘excuse me? i’m right here, you know.’

you glare at him. ‘yeah, i fucking know. thats the issue.’

he narrows his eyes. ‘right. sorry you can’t be with your head-empty pretty boyfriend and you’re stuck with me instead.’

‘you think he’s pretty, mike? i’ll let him know.’

you wait for him to redden, to straighten, but his expression barely changes.

you’re almost impressed.

‘my house, after school. then we can get it over with.’

‘sure, but my house instead.’ he replies.

you shrug. ‘whatever. now, don’t talk to me for the rest of the lesson, ‘kay?’

‘yes ma’am.’

‘so, if the force is applied here instead, that should solve it.’

mike narrows his eyes.

‘i think you might be right, actually. but this- it feels too easy.’

you shrug. ‘maybe it’s meant to be. considering we actually know what we’re doing.’

he hums.

you’re stretched out on your stomach across the rug, pen between your teeth. he’s sitting on his couch, watching you.

without warning, you feel a hand on the side of your leg.

‘mike-‘ you hiss. he chuckles.

‘bend your leg up slowly. i want to try something.’

you’re not sure why you oblige so readily, but you move. the press of his fingers becomes firmer, the close to 90 degrees you get.

as your leg reaches fully bent, he pushes a little too hard, and you wince.

‘what was that for?’ you ask, twisting your neck to look at him. he hums.

‘i just- i wondered if pressure could make a difference. if maybe you wouldn’t make it all the way.’

his fingers are still resting lazily on your bare leg, and you shift, sitting up.

‘okay. my turn, then. come down here.’

a flicker of confusion passes over his face, but he slinks off the couch anyway, resting against it as he crosses his legs.

you take a curl of his hair between your fingers, twisting it absentmindedly. he inhales.

‘i want you to keep your head straight here. if it moves, you lose.’

‘what- what are you investigating?’

‘tension.’ you reply quickly, biting back a smile.

then you pull. a light tug. his head shifts instinctively.

‘right. idea is you’re applying an opposing force, yeah?’

he swallows. ‘alright. just- be gentle.’

you chuckle. ‘i’m not going to hurt you, idiot. if you’re a wimp, i can just push my hand against your face.’

he purses his lips. ‘i’ll be fine. go, c’mon.’

you shake your head. ‘no, actually, you’re right. if it’s painful, we won’t get the most effective results.’

you bring your palm to the side of his face, and you push.

you can feel him resisting the motion, pressing back against you. so you push harder.

he turns a little pink at the effort, but you don’t let off.

‘okay, imagine you’re the object. how does it change, when i move my hand?’

your hand shifts upwards, so it’s on the very edge of his head, your fingers folding over to the top.

you can feel him relax a little.

‘okay, yeah. that’s easier.’

you nod, snaking your hand further down, resting near his chin.

‘and here?’

‘easier too.’

you grin. ‘so, my theory is correct.’

his eyes, previously locked forward, at some crack in the wall, shift to you.

you drop your hand to your sides instinctively, digging your palm into the rough fabric below, as if to scrape the heat of his face away.

‘well.’ he exhales, scrunching his face up a little.

‘well?’ you murmur, noticing how his ears have gone a little pink.

‘i guess, i mean, if we’re done- you can go home. or like, we could get a pizza, or something. if you have nothing better to do, which i bet you do, cause, y’know, you’re you. and hanging out with me is probably a nightmare, so. you can wake up now.’

from your one class today, you’ve learnt one thing. mike is a rambler. but not an absent one- every monologue, every extra sentence- they’re all intentional. a string of calculated words.

this, though? this isn’t like the muffled murmurs from class, when he was clearly trying to agitate you with running commentary. this is entirely different.

‘mike, do i make you nervous?’

you’re not entirely sure why you’ve just asked that. maybe it’s because he’s looking at you a little like you’re a whole different species, and you’re looking at him like he’s something to figure out.

‘what?’

‘me. you look nervous. why is that?’

‘i’m not. i don’t really get nervous, actually. one of my few rewardable talents.’

you narrow your eyes. ‘right. sure.’ ‘is that another theory we need to test out?’

this is funny, you decide. that’s the justification you’re going with.

‘oh.oh. thats not very scientific.’ he replies.

‘you’re going red.’

‘m’not.’

‘y’are.’

it’s slightly tentative, how you drag your palm back to the side of his face, letting is brush closer to his cheek than his ear.

‘i’m not going to push this time.’ you chuckle, watching as he tenses.

‘this isn’t very scientific.’ he repeats, a little shakily.

‘admit you’re nervous.’

you’ve also figured mike might be quite stubborn. you’ve always been good at reading people.

‘no. cause i’m not.’

you lean forward a little now. ‘have you ever kissed anyone before, mike?’

maybe he should be offended you’re asking. but his hair is messy, and he knows he doesn’t wash his hellfire shirt enough, and sure, maybe the only girl anyone ever sees him with is max. and it’s not like they’re all that affectionate.

‘yeah. yeah, i have.’

he groans. ‘don’t look at me like that. i’m telling the truth, i swear.’

you laugh, and he can feel your breath on his face. he nearly shudders.

‘i know, im teasing you. lacey did tell me.’

his eyes widen a little. ‘you- you talked about me?’

‘about the loser she kissed when she was drunk a few weeks ago? yeah, you came up. why do you think she pulls her hood up when jason yells over at your table?’

his eyes flick down to your thumb, which is tracing a gentle circle around the edge of his mouth.

‘i don’t get why you’re so obsessed with us. it’s funny- you can’t handle that we don’t give a shit about you-‘ he begins, hoping his words are hitting you, somewhere. they don’t, and he falls silent when he feels the gentle press of your lips to where your finger had just been.

not quite a kiss. oddly, it feels more intimate. more calculated.

oh, he blinks. you’re mean. this is mean.

‘admit it.’ you repeat, quietly. ‘i want your theory to be wrong.’

he wonders how he should play this. he opts to tell the truth.

‘yeah. okay, fine. i’m nervous.’

you raise a satisfied eyebrow. ‘okay. how nervous?’

he looks at you in disbelief, at the grin dancing around your face.

‘c’mon, michael. this is for science.’

he sighs. ‘pretty nervous. okay?’

you can’t help but giggle.

‘okay. so, let’s test this out. tell me if you’re more or less nervous, alright?’

his eyes widen again, almost in fear. and then it dissipates, when your lips are ghosting near his forehead.

‘more or less?’ you mumble, brushing against his skin. he shivers, but it’s more bearable, because you’re harder to look at.

‘less.’

you nod, pressing your fingers to the side of his jaw, and titling his head. now, your breath hits the side of his neck. he inhales.

‘more.’

he doesn’t need to look down to imagine the smirk spreading over your face.

‘yeah?’

‘yeah.’

you laugh, shifting away from him.

‘great. got a conclusion, then. i’ll see you in class. bye, mike.’

he gives you a bewildered look. ‘are you- what? you’re-‘

‘leaving. yep. i’ve got pizza at home, and like you said- my worst nightmare, and all that.’

you’re already halfway up the stairs before he’s even begun to digest what just happened, and why the warmth of your almost-lips is spreading across his entire body.

the next week, mike starts scheming. you were right-he is stubborn. but he’s also competitive. and he was right too-he usually doesn’t get nervous. he’s sure, when you’re not alone in his basement, you’ll be just as easy to rile up.

he arrives at class early that morning. just early enough to grab the seat next to you before you can save it for that marcus kid.

when you see him already there, he watches as you audibly sigh.

‘hello, mike. you can move now.’

he shrugs. ‘can. don’t want to.’

‘why not? aren’t you friends with that boy in the corner?’

mike doesn’t bother turning. he just smiles up at you, and it’s so warm, you’re not entirely sure what to do with yourself.

‘stop- don’t look at me like that.’

‘like what?’

you just roll your eyes. ‘if this is about the other night, i’m sorry. i don’t know why i did that. i thought it was funny. which, it wasn’t. i didn’t mean to-‘

he tuts, looking at the chalkboard now. ‘except, well, you did. didn’t you?’

‘no, seriously. it was-‘ you begin, but you fall silent, feeling his leg press into yours. it’s too certain to be anything but intentional, but gentle enough that it could be an accident. so you just clear your throat, and jot down the date.

he shifts his foot, so it’s resting over yours, your limbs near glued together now.

definitely intentional.

‘mike.’ you mutter, the sound only audible to him.

‘what?’

‘stop it.’

he stretches, leaning back a little. enough that it’s still casual, but it means his mouth is a lot closer to your ear.

‘am i making you nervous?’

you turn, with a little outrageous glare.

‘oh, don’t be a little bitch.’

he shrugs. ‘ignore me. if you can.’

‘i can.’ you grumble.

it seems you're stubborn too.

about twenty minutes later, you’ve almost forgotten it. you’ve got used to the weight of his leg agaisnt yours, and you’re genuinely enjoying these calculations.

then, you feel him shift in his seat beside you, pushing his chair back.

he bends forward, tying his lace. you look back up at the board, unbothered.

that is, until you feel his hand brush over your jeans, resting lazily on your inner thigh. you wait for him to move it. it seems he’s not going to.

‘mike.’ you repeat, a little more bitter this time.

‘yeah?’

‘what are you doing?’

he shrugs. ‘n’thing. well, question four, if we want to be accurate. i got -87N, did you? they ought to add some weight.’

with that, he adds some force his hand. it’s not resting anymore, it’s half gripping. you inhale, and hope your cheeks don’t betray you, by flushing a dangerous red.

it seems they do, from his quiet chuckle.

‘you really should admit it, now.’

‘fine. only cause it’ll make you stop.’

he raises an eyebrow impatiently.

‘mike, you’re making me nervous.’

the way you say his name, a little mangled, a little desperate, makes his own breath hitch.

you grab his palm, knocking it back away and shifting your chairs further apart. he realises he’s not the only intentional one- that tone, that broken whisper of his name- you’d won. and he hadnt even realised you were still playing.

that afternoon, he’s late to hellfire. he hates being late to hellfire, because everyone shares stupid things from their day. he knows he should love the game part of it, but that bit, the bit that makes them feel like family, is extra special.

his face falls when he walks into the room.

‘mike, we have a temporary guest. she said you guys are friends, so, you need to show her the ropes.’

you beam at him, giving him an enthusiastic wave.

‘hii, mike. i figured doing something out of my comfort zone would be good, and thought of you.’

someone beside you nearly chokes, and eddie laughs, loud and unbothered.

‘since when is this happening? good on you, mike. i know you’ve had a thing for her for a while.’ the guy sat nearest to eddie adds, and mike groans, sitting beside you with as much grace as he can muster.

‘we sit together in physics, s’all.’ he explains, and you nod.

‘yeah, and it’s not my choice. he’s a pain in the ass.’

‘we can agree on that.’ dustin jokes, and you give him a sympathetic smile

when he inhales, slumping in his seat, you pounce. ‘thing for me? for a while? oh, mike. why didn’t you tell me?’ you whisper, grinning up at him.

he decides the only way he’s surviving this is if he ignores you completely.

that actually works, for the most part. you get surprisingly into the game, yelling alongside the rest of them.

still, what stings worse, is you both forget. forget that this is some stupid, grand tease. that the way you’re leaning into him, hair tickling his neck, isn’t meant to happen. not if you didn’t want it to.

but you didn’t plan that, it happened.

or when you’d bent under the desk, trying to pick up some discarded dice, and he’d covered the edge of the table with his palm like it was second nature.

when he’d reached over you to pass something to dustin, using your shoulder to steady himself, and you hadn’t complained.

he doesn’t sit with you next class. he settles in the corner.

you don’t look disappointed to see him there, and that sucks. but after half the kids at hellfire had taken the piss, made a relentless stream of jokes, he’d decided he wanted this over. you’d finished the project in record time, you’d won everything else, and somehow infiltrated hellfire and left it better than it had been before. he doesn’t understand how you do it.

‘mike wheeler, can you stay back? and you.’ your teacher calls, as you’re packing up. you turn around, giving mike a curious look, and he just shrugs.

‘so, this is good work. i mean, it’s right. but i realised, its too easy for you. consider this one extra credit.’

‘i don’t need extra credit.’ you mutter, reading over the sheet of paper you’ve been given.

‘neither do i.’ mike adds, and your teacher sighs.

‘okay, well. i’m offering it to dustin and his partner too, so-‘

‘we’ll get it done this weekend.’ you snap, and mike just sighs quietly beside you.

on saturday, you’re back in his basement.

‘why didn’t you sit with me?’ you ask absent mindedly, scribbling down numbers. he pauses.

‘why do you care?’

‘jesus, just asking. did i go too far, coming to hellfire? i can’t tell with you.’

‘no, no. well, kinda. but it was fun, so it’s okay. i’ll show up to your cheer practice next week.’ he jokes, but it sounds a little flat.

you turn, sitting up and dragging your knees to your chest, looking at him.

‘was that guy- was he being serious? about you- you being into me?’

mike huffs awkwardly.

‘i wouldn’t go that far. it just- well, everyone loves you, don’t they? it’s just like that. it’s your, your effect. whatever. it’s stupid. and trust me, now i know you, it’s warn off.’

you chuckle. ‘sure, mike. is that another theory for me to test, or?’

‘i’d rather you didn’t.’

his tone is so firm, you nearly startle.

‘excuse me?’

‘it’s just- you kind of- ugh. this is so embarrassing. i get this kind of rush, when you seem into me. that’s normal, isn’t it? anyway, i figured it’s not- cause it’s just a game, so it doesn’t count. but i thought its kinda weird, for the both of us. and i just, it was so, ugh. you being right there, but not really, becasue its not real. it’s like being close to having something you didn’t realise you even could have. but in the end, you can’t.’

you take it in, slowly.

you blink.

‘how do you know you can’t have me?’

‘what?’

‘you didn’t ask. you didn’t- i mean, you could’ve just kissed me last time we were here, but you didn’t. you watched me go bright red in class when you- and you ignored it. i’m just saying- it’s not like you tried very hard.’

he guffaws. ‘oh, come on. you’re you. you can’t expect me-‘

‘mike. you keep saying that. yeah, i’m me, whatever the fuck that means. but i’m here, aren’t i?’

he pauses, as you stand.

‘this is stupid. let’s work on this after school, okay? i’m going home.’

you begin to shuffle away, but he grabs your arm.

‘wait. don’t- don’t leave.’

you hesitate, and that’s enough for him. he stands, bringing his other hand to the back of your head, tugging him towards you.

you let out a mangled sigh, and the sound rushes to his stomach.

he considers making some snarky comment, but the risk is far too high, especially when you’re looking at him like you want this, want him.

‘do you- can i-?’

you bring a hand near his chin, making him look up and away from you, and you bring your lips near his neck again.

‘yeah, yeah. please.’

he grins instinctively, pulling your hand away and pressing your mouths together.

you hiss into him, hands tangling in the hair that’s curling by his neck. he stumbles, the back of his legs hitting the couch, and you both fall back. he catches you as best he can, without letting you pull your mouth away. you shift your leg over his, trying to get more comfortable.

you push your foreheads together, catching your breath.

‘how long is a while?’

‘are you seriously asking that right now?’ he groans.’ and you nod, raising an eyebrow.

‘sure, when else?’

‘it was a while. and for the record, i knew it was physics. and i made marcus late.’

‘mike!’ you gasp, but he focuses more on the steady pink spreading over your face than the way you’ve said his name.

[ciricearts]

whatever dude

[finnvanilla]

michael wheeler (5x06)

[eviesjournal]

𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐰𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐭- 𝐦𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐫

‘when i’m bored, i am yours.’ || masterlist. modern day au, streamer/yt au, smau. yes i just read the sharknilla au and wanted to make a smau… ive missed making these soooo bad lmao. face claim- madeline argy (cause i love her….) texts are a little blurry im sorry!!! hope u can still read them.

michaelwheelie

michaelwheelie little mike knew what was up!!!! streaming tonight, who’s joining ? 🙋‍♂️ also, got a close friend coming on- cya later thehairharrington

❤️ liked by artistbyers, hoppingjane, madmax, outofrange and others.

view more comments:

thehairharrington 👊 100k viewers and we give mike a mullet ON LIVE

michaelwheelie guys i didn’t agree to this

madmax anything is better than the orange mohawk

michaelwheelie MAX GET OUTTA HERE LMFAO

artistbyers i got you that mariokart

michaelwheelie well remembered, will 😊😊

artistbyers god i regret commenting now

user21 yourusername this is who we were talking about!!!

yourusername ??? who

michaelwheelie ??? who are you

yourusername ??? bro

user21 she said she was gonna start doing some gaming .. and we were saying she should collab with you!! but she didn’t know who you were LOL

michaelwheelie ouch . tho tbf idk who she is either

yourusername oohkay

michaelwheelie has started following you! follow back

yourusername

yourusername showed up to serve face, left, and vlogged about it. nice ❤️ anyway new video out tonight

❤️ liked by nancie, robinbuckley, thehairharrington and others

view more comments:

user80 how am i meant to choose between a new vlog or mikes stream.. someone help

yourusername me swan he frog ?

michaelwheelie why am i catching strays when i don’t even know who you ARE

nancie i’m embarrassed to call you my brother

michaelwheelie ??? nancy????

robinbuckley pleeeeease come on my show again

yourusername YES ??? YES!!!! please i miss you soooo bad

thehairharrington serving face indeed

yourusername thank you steven !!!

user29 the peoples princess

user56 no fr, i love her sooo bad

user37 gaming stream whennnnnnnnnnnnn

yourusername sooooooon when kickinupdust replies !!

michaelwheelie you know dustin?

yourusername baby that’s my brotherrr

michaelwheelie what ???????

yourusername 🫩

──────────────────────

the week after…

wheelieupdates

wheelieupdates mike says goodbye to chat after yn suddenly entered the stream, apparently having to ‘check his emails.’ this is after the pair recently followed eachother.

❤️liked by mikemegafan, user267, creamcheesebagel and others.

view more comments:

pinkielvr him cheesing at being bossed around… freak

viridescent1 he folded SO fast it was almost embarrassing

user23 can we talk about how yn often says she doesn’t have a twitch account.. did she make one just to get in the chat?

therealyn LOL i wasn’t about to dm him on insta 😭😭 and i wanna start streaming soo..

user23 HOLY SHIT HELLO !!!!!!

therealyn hiiii !!!! 🫶

──────────────────────

to: [email protected] [email protected]

from: [email protected]

subject: podcast !

hullo, and good evening.

michael, i have yet to have you on my podcast. yn, i want to have you back on. would you be willing to come on together next week?

it was great fun with dustin and lucas, and jane and max. figured maybe you two would be good aswell? if that’s an issue, that’s fine.

thank you (for your consideration),

robinnnnnnnnnnn

──────────────────────

to: [email protected] [email protected]

from: [email protected]

subject: podcast ! <2>

thanks for the invite, robin. i’d love to come back on.

i think i can cope with mister mikey over here. could he say the same about me? im unsure. i understand why nance had never introduced me to him before this.

thanks, yn

p.s michael your email is stupid. please tell me this isn’t your professional one.

p.p.s dustin still hasn’t replied. think he’s doing one of those screen detoxes that last for three days before he goes insane. would you be willing to play with me instead? maybe minecraft? i wanna build a pink cottage

──────────────────────

to: [email protected] [email protected]

from: [email protected]

subject: podcast ! <3>

greetings and salutations, from michael wheeler.

robin, i would be charmed to be on the podcast. please allow me to see the questions beforehand, so i can be more prepared than my counterpart. also, i would like it to be known that i am simply so famous that nancy did not introduce us for fear you would try and use me, i am sure.

you’re welcome,

mike

p.s yes this is both my professional and personal email. if you can’t love me at mistermikey, you cannot have me at michaelwheelie.

p.p.s i would be willing to play. you may build a pink cottage but we are going to be trying to beat the game cause i’m a true gamer so

──────────────────────

the next day…

wheelieupdates

wheelieupdates surprise stream from last night- mike was playing with yn for the first time, and they played minecraft. mike essentially soloed the game, while yn built a house. when asked if they’d stream again, yn said ‘no’ and left as soon as her house was done.

❤️liked by therealyn, sneakymikey, user24 and others

view more comments:

user35 PLS SHES SO FUNNY I ACTUALLY LOVE UER

user88 ‘no’ like she wasn’t giggling the whole time..

user49 be fr that man was begging her for help and she did nothing. she don’t gaf fr

user01 are we just ignore the fact they’re obviously in love or

therealyn WHAT could you possibly be talking about rn ?????? hello ????

sneakymikey no exactly.. that guy is way too good for her anyway

therealyn ok mister mikey.

sneakymikey bruh how’d you know it was me

therealyn you reek

──────────────────────

a few weeks later …

wheelieupdates

wheelieupdates mike has been spotted with robinbuckley and yourusername this weekend! this appears to be the first time he’s met the latter, and might be his first appearance on the formers podcast!

❤️liked by yourusername, madmax, nancie and others

view more comments:

yourusername omg ai is so scary… i’d never be caught dead with michaelwheelie

michaelwheelie love you too ❤️

user3566 OMG ITS HAPPEKIGN ITS JAPPENING

user899694 ynwheelie is sooooo real

madmax michaelwheelie she’s bad as hell how have u done this

yourusername he’s done nothing he has not bagged me

michaelwheelie (yet)

theothercocteautwin guys i met them, and they’re soooooo in love im telling u. they were so cute!

yourusername WHAT ARE U TALKING ABOUT GENUINELY

michaelwheelie the fans know all

robinbuckley why do they not care about me in this situation

yourusername lesbian shade #getwoke

──────────────────────

──────────────────────

squawkingabout

squawkingabout today, robinbuckley had friends michaelwheelie and yourusername on, to discuss life on social media, professionalism and journalism, amongst other pop-culture topics. we discovered they both like chappell roan (who doesn’t?) but we got this gem too. who feels like spring to you? let us know 🫶

❤️liked by robinbuckley, yourusername, michaelwheelie and others.

view more comments:

user47 i’m going to be sick

user5555 ‘that feeling when spring comes’ ou that man is YEARNINF jesus

user3399 why is no one talking about her GIGGLIJG omg i love them actually

ynwheeliefan lives were changed (mine)

chappellroan me mentioned

yourusername holy shit i love you

michaelwheelie so do i

yourusername i got here first

user379 ‘i like you too’ whay id ijusr killed musekf?

user38 his SMILE axtuallt don’t play

derekthed1 wow i love this guy!

printemps18 is it just me or does he look insanely fine in that video

user57 who’s the guy that paints him all the time i want a painting of this

hoppingjane artistbyers you’ve been clipped

──────────────────────

──────────────────────

yourusername

yourusername thank you robinbuckley 🫶💐🎙️ nice to meet ya too michaelwheelie. until next time!

❤️liked by nancie, artistbyers, madmax and others

view more comments:

michaelwheelie likely place for me to be

yourusername 👍

michaelwheelie i’m in love with you

yourusername 👍

michaelwheelie i’m pregnant with our child

yourusername 👍

user58 he tries so hard to flirt with her and she has None of it 😭 i love her

user684939 the concept of him taking that middle photo.. the way she’s smiling.. coach take me out

user3990 are they actually together ?

michaelwheelie yes

yourusername no

──────────────────────

michaelwheelie

michaelwheelie oh you’ve caught me at a very mogging mewing time of my life. yes iwas clip farming during the podcast. after being sappy to yourusername miss you already ❤️ thank you robinbuckley for the most fun weekend

❤️liked by therealyn, robinbuckley, hoppingjane and others.

view more comments:

user4809 omf this means they went on a date.. right ??? RIGHT???(

ynwheelie ‘miss u already’ with a ‘❤️’ OU KT LORDDDDD

user459 anyone else feel really bad for him? it’s obviously not reciprocated

michaelwheelie no need to feel bad i’m right where i want to be

yourusername someone needs to take away your internet access i’m so sick of you

yourusername i’m gonna miss you too actually

michaelwheelie ❤️?

yourusername ❤️.

──────────────────────

a few weeks later…

──────────────────────

[dreamyysouls]

he’s such a nerd (affectionate). what a loser (term of endearment).

pls tell me you guys get it