The air was hot and muggy, sweat clung to you like a second skin,
You felt like you were on the verge of suffocating.
Something was wrong with the air conditioning on the Astral Express. Welt had explained it, but your heat muddled mind couldn’t even bear to think. All you knew was that it was at fault for the heat wave the express was suffering from.
March, at first, had done all she could to help cool everyone off. However, it came at her own expense and she was currently knocked out in her room from over exerting herself. The twins, Stelle and Caelus, were both twisted limbs inside of the kitchen fridge in a desperate attempt to fight the warmth. Poor Sunday in all his layers was practically a puddle in the lounge, where he retreated to try and get some drinks. Himeko and Welt were both stuck trying to fix whatever aeons forsaken thing was messing with the AC.
And Dan Heng?
You were going to kill him.
He was sitting next to you on your room floor, your hopeless attempt to cool down through the tile floor, simply reading a book from the archives. A light sheen of sweat covered his face, and he had taken off his outer coat but other than that he seemed unbothered.
You knew it was one of the few pros of his draconic side at work. His cold blooded body thriving in the high temperature of the train, but you couldn’t help but spite him for it.
And he could feel it in the way you were currently glaring at him.
He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t look up from his book. “Is there something I’ve done to warrant your ire?”
“Exist,” you muttered, head tilted back as you practically gasped for air. Your back was practically soaked and that paired with your back leaning against your bed meant for a very uncomfortable time.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about that.”
“I can think of a few solutions,” you scowled, before sliding to the ground with a moan. “It’s so hot,” you whined, face smooshed on the ground.
The sound of Dan Heng’s book closing echoed around the room, and a cool hand gently rubbed your ankle. “I truly am sorry that you’re suffering. Is there anything I can do?”
Your body greedily absorbed the cool sensation coming from your boyfriend. Back and forth his thumb rubbed, and you considered telling him to just stay and keep going when an idea popped into your head. “Take off your shirt,” you blurted, sitting up with speed you didn’t know you were capable of.
Dan Heng blinked once, twice, thrice, before his cheeks erupted in red that you cheekily knew wasn’t from the heat. “What?”
In any other circumstance you would have teased him. Made that beautiful red bloom all over his face, down to his chest, even taken a step further to hear that sweet stutter of his. But now you were anything but patient enough for your own antics.
You reached over and grabbed the edge of his shirt, emphasizing each of your words with a pull. “Take. Off. Your. Shirt.”
“I don’t think now is the time for…” Dan Heng trailed off, looking away to avoid your gaze. You paused your actions, looking at him curiously, before a light bulb pinged in your mind and you let out a wicked grin.
“Dan Heng, you pervert, that is not what I meant in the slightest.”
“Well when you’re telling me to rip my shirt off like that!” He practically yelled, ears inflamed in crimson. “What else was I supposed to think!”
“Fair,” you snickered, before resuming. This time he let you lift his shirt off him without a fight, hair rustled from the action. “Cute.”
You could see his adam’s apple as he swallowed, a droplet of sweat running down his throat. You wanted to admire the sight of his torso for just a minute, but a minute in the heat felt like eternity. So you did what any reasonable partner would do and threw your arms around him, tucking your head into his neck and pressing yourself as close to his body as possible.
You sighed in content as the cool temperature of his body spilled into yours. Slowly but surely you could feel your own body begin to cool down, and you sighed once more.
You could feel his arms wrap around you in return, and you sunk into his body as much as you could. If it were up to you the two of you would become one, but it unfortunately wasn’t, so instead you would just stay here for as long as you could.
Thinking bout how Jason would definitely be the type to distance himself from you because 'it's for your own good'.
He thinks of himself as a jinx. No good can come from being with him, and even if it pained him, he would stay away from you thinking it is him protecting you.
But bring in a Reader who would have none of that shit. No matter how hard he pushed, no matter how much he bit and snarled at you to just stay the hell away, you would have none of it.
And despite his frustration, Jason can't help but feel touched. Everyone in his life had given up on him, including Bruce and his brothers despite them saying otherwise. He knew what people thought of him, knew that everyone saw him as a ticking time bomb, and he's long since accepted it.
But here you were, doing everything you could to stay by his side. To fight for him, despite him begging for you to do otherwise. And eventually, he caves, because who was he to deny you anything???
The team has been trying to help Simon get better at flirting.
It started off with Johnny noticing how Simon’s gaze often lingered on you, the newest truck loader.
Then he blabbered it off to the entire team. So yeah— Simon may have banged his head against the wall in his quarters and slept that night thinking about choking Johnny.
But here he was, after a long day of being convinced to talk to you.
You had just finished unloading the last truck of the day and what better time to talk to you than now?
“You gotta be confident and bold with your words, L.T.” Kyle’s words.
“No, you have t’ be funny. Make ‘em laugh.” Johnny’s words.
“If all things fail, just ask ‘em for coffee.” John’s words.
Simon took in a deep breath and smiled (the best he could. He doesn’t smile often). You didn’t even catch it either; he was wearing his damn balaclava. “You just started working, yeah?” he asks, stuffing his hands into his vest. Confident, check.
You took off your gloves and patted your sweaty forehead with your arm, “mhm! About two-ish months ago,” you tell the older man, giving him a polite smile.
A quiet hum fell from Simon’s lips as he rocks on his heels a bit, “Once saw y’ trippin’ over a box,” Simon says bluntly. Funny, check.
You stared at him, blinking twice and half expecting him to finish his sentence.
He didn’t.
Instead, the two of you had a staring contest while Simon’s face burned behind the balaclava.
“You can trip on me,” Simon suddenly adds. Funny and bold… check?
Your brows knitted a bit, “what…?” you ask with an awkward laugh.
Fuck.
This wasn’t going how he imagined it to go. He imagined him coolly leaning against a wall or something while complimenting you.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Do you have coffee?” Simon changes the topic, his entire face blowing up with steam.
Off to the side, John stared at his teammate with a heavy sigh and rubbed his temple. “Bloody idiot asked for coffee,” he mumbles.
Kyle shrugs a bit, “T’ be fair, you did say to ask for coffee,” he says, defending his lieutenant.
“Implying to ask for a coffee date,” John replies bluntly. “Fuckin’ disaster of a man.”
(4k words) In which Nightwing fails to woo a certain detective...
You hated vigilantes.
Well, maybe not hated, but god did they make your job a lot harder than it needed to be.
The unnecessary damage they caused, the various laws they picked and chose to bend, it all gave you a headache.
You thought you could escape it when you moved away from Star City and its personal Robin Hood. It was certainly a change in pace and environment, the gloomy skies of the city so different from your hometown, but Bludhaven gave you a grim comfort you didn’t know you needed. Plus, the bump in pay with the increase in crime was nice.
Yet, as you stared down at the pile of lackeys before you, you couldn’t help but wish you were anywhere else.
“What? Are we too good for a ‘thank you’ tonight?” Nightwings teasing voice spoke before you, and just the cadence alone was enough to grate your ears.
It was the middle of the night. The air wasn’t cool and breezy like it was in your last city, no, it was damp and muggy. A sheen of sweat had built up on your forehead and you tried desperately to ignore how Nightwing’s eyes followed the drop of sweat running down your neck. Ever the flirt. You were tired, hungry, and running on two cups of cheap coffee. The latest case was a classic, some amateur cartel smuggling stuff they shouldn’t be at the docks of Bludhaven. Easy and simple enough one would think, if it wasn’t for the fact that this has been a lead you’ve been following for months.
The legendary Penguin, yes, The Penguin from Gotham was trying to spread his roots into various surrounding cities. It started off small, but the operation was steadily growing bigger and bigger. Soon, the city may fall into his mangy clutches, and that was something you couldn’t afford nor would allow. Not in your precious city.
Unfortunately for you, Bludhaven’s new resident was making it much more difficult than you would have liked.
“For what? Knocking out my suspects for the next who knows how long,” you scoffed, staring down at the numerous unconscious bodies before you. “I wanted to question them first thing on the scene.”
Nightwing’s smile dropped into an exaggerated wince, and he followed your line of sight. “I mean, I’m sure I can get one of them up and going in no time.” He kneeled down, grabbing the shoulder of the body on top of the pile and aggressively shaking them. “Hey, buddy! Wakey wakey!”
You rolled your eyes with a huff, digging in your long coat for your latest stress reliever. It took a hot second, but eventually your hands snatched up a small, well loved box. You pulled it out, popped it open, and picked out a fresh cigarette. The box returned to your pocket and in exchange you pulled out an old lighter, scuffed and all, but hey it still worked. You put the cigarette in its rightful spot between your lips and cupped a hand around it, impatiently getting to work on firing up the lighter.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” Nightwing piped, tilting his head.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” you muttered, eyebrows scrunching in frustration. No matter how many times you flicked it the lighter just wouldn’t cooperate and your poor thumb was suffering the consequences. “We’re not exactly friends.”
Finally, a small flame flickered out with a hiss and you lit the stick. You nearly moaned at the sensation of hot smoke filling your lungs, and you tilted your head back to blow it all out.
“Ouch,” he drawled, drawing himself up to full height with a small groan.
Adult, male, possibly in his thirties?
Your mind got to work on assessing the man before you, running your eyes up and down his figure. You’ve done it a hundred times before in a desperate attempt to figure out the man before you. Just who exactly was under the mask? The one that haunted you even in your dreams.
Clearly he worked out if the toned muscles straining against his suit said anything. In all areas, you realized. Arms, legs, thighs…
“My eyes are up here sweetheart,” The very man you were ogling said, two fingers pointing at his own. You quickly inhaled and the nicotine went down the wrong pipe, causing you to hysterically cough with red hot cheeks. You desperately attempted to ignore the deep chuckle you heard, and only came back to reality when your cigarette was plucked from in between your fingers. “Enough of that. These things can kill you, you know?”
You scoffed, awkwardly clearing your throat after. “Didn’t know you were as certified in medicine as you are with the law.”
Nightwing laughed once more, opening his mouth to speak when a hand clapped you on the shoulder. You jumped with a swear, swatting your laughing partner in the shoulder. “Jesus, Dave! How many times have I told you to knock that off?”
“Now is that any way to treat your comrade in front of our resident celebrity?” Dave chuckled, brushing his blonde hair back with his other hand and flashing Nightwing a grin.
Dave, your assigned partner, was a lot more fond of the vigilante than you were. You remembered all the headaches you got from just how much the blonde sang the other praises back at the station. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he had a puppy crush on the hero.
Nightwing smiled back, though you noted that it was somewhat strained. The thought caused you to raise an eyebrow. The man in black and blue loved attention from what you could remember, basking in the crowds that surrounded him in the daylight hours. So what made him so shy now? “You flatter me, sir. It’s all simply in a day’s work.”
Dave beamed at the attention. “And we are forever grateful for it. Now, if you don’t mind, me and my partner need to get back to the station.” He threw his arm around you, turning his head to you and ignoring the burning stare at the side of his head. “Clean-up crew just arrived. We just need to head back to the station for a quick statement and then we can handle the rest in the morning.”
“Thank god,” you muttered, and without looking back at Nightwing you turned and walked back to your cruiser with your partner beside you, his arm still wrapped around you.
. . .
Dick couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment he realized he loved you.
Maybe it was when he first started his activities in Bludhaven as Nightwing. The first night he ran into you he could remember the loud sigh of irritation you let out after evaluating him, clearly not a fan like he would have thought. Not to toot his own horn or anything…
It was just nice to not be thrown at for once, his reputation following him from one grim city to the next. He was used to endless praise and claims that he could do no wrong, people frothing at the mouth not just for Nightwing but the esteemed Richard John Grayson, adopted son of the legendary Bruce Wayne.
Or maybe he realized when he first met out outside of his persona. His first day on the police force, fresh out of the academy and in desperate need of his first paycheck for rent (he refused to rely on Bruce’s money once he moved out, no matter how much it pained him to do so…). His supervisor, an older man named Patrick, was giving him a tour of the station.
It wasn’t until he heard yelling from across the room that he first laid eyes on you outside of his alter ego. You were furious, absolutely furious from what he could tell. Your victim? A poor newbie, just like him, sitting down in front of you with her hands folded in her lap and head tilted down in shame.
“-have any idea what could have happened!” He caught, pausing in his stroll and focussing all his attention on you. “What if he didn’t miss? What if our robber wasn’t such a shit shot and the bullet hit you?”
“I-I just,” the woman mumbled, twiddling her thumbs and shying back from you. “I just thought that it would be better if it was me who got hit instead of you!”
If you were furious before, you were absolutely hysterical now. “Listen here! My life is no more important than yours. Got it? What you did wasn’t brave, it was stupid. You have a family to get back home to. People who need you outside of these walls. You can’t be there for them if you’re dead on the street you hear me?”
The woman before you mumbled something, and upon you yelling at her to repeat finally lifted her head up and firmly said, “I understand!”
You nodded, taking a deep breath and stepping back. “Good, good. From here on out I don’t ever want to see you pull some shit like that again, okay? Everyone’s life matters here, I don’t care about you being brave. I care if you get back home.”
Despite being teary eyed, the woman gave you a watery smile as she nodded. It was clear she was touched by how much a superior seemed to care.
Said superior, upon realizing that everyone in the main office was staring, snapped. “Get back to work!”
As if she was talking to him personally Dick snapped up straight, turned his head, and continued following his assigned officer.
“Don’t mind them,” he said, patting Dick on the shoulder with a smile. “They look scary but they really just care too much. You’ll learn the longer you stay here.”
Dick desperately hoped so, his heart racing as he attempted to peek over his shoulder to get just another glance of you. He couldn’t. So, he decided to put his own investigative skills to work.
Detective [First Name] [Last Name], partner of Detective Dave Richards. You’ve been on the force for nearly five years, three in Star City and now two in Bludhaven. You had no partner to go back home to, but you did have a cat. The rest of your family stayed behind in Star City, but you still contacted them frequently.
He wondered if they were proud of you.
A multiple award winning investigator for the good work you did.
An exemplary member of the Bludhaven Police Force…but withdrawn in every social aspect of the work he quickly learned.
You hated speaking to news outlets. You were too blunt and weren’t good at sugar coating the nitty gritty details of public cases. You hated being on camera. Your smile would be just a bit too big and strained to convince anyone that it was natural. You especially hated the parties the station would throw every once in a while to ‘enforce comradery’. He could always find you in the very back corner of the main room, fidgeting with a cup of alcohol he knew you had no desire to drink.
Like now.
The party was in full swing, a celebration for another one of Penguin’s plans to sink his teeth into Bludhaven foiled. It was a group effort on everyone's part, and the chief wanted to emphasize that fact through the gathering.
Dick, personally, didn’t mind these events. Being a Wayne he’s had more than his fair share of galas and charities, this was easy compared to that.
Or, it should have been.
“You’re not subtle my boy,” Patrick muttered to him, and Dick’s gaze snapped from you to the older man with flushed cheeks.
“If you ask me I’m not being obvious enough,” Dick pouted, taking another sip from his cup. While not normally a fan of drinking he relished in the burn down his throat.
“You’re staring them down like a creep,” Patrick pointed out, watching some officers play a miserable game of charades. Half the players were too drunk to comprehend anything and the other half were chatting it up with one another instead of participating. “You need to get some guts and just walk up to em.”
“I have guts,” Dick muttered, redirecting his attention over to you. You were now flipping through your phone, paying the party and its people no mind. Most likely going through various spare care files and the like. You were a workaholic like that, never allowing your mind to fully rest.
Dick could think of a few ways to empty that mind of yours and get you to finally relax…
Patrick scoffed. “Sure, kid, sure.”
“I do! Watch, you’ll see, I’ll charm them right here, right now.”
He tilted his head back, downing the rest of his drink for liquid courage. Slight regret stewed within him when he tried walking afterwards, tilting left then right, but he didn’t care. No, all his attention was zeroed in on you. Beautiful you.
The light of your phone lit up your face in the dark corner, and even from across the room Dick could see how it accentuated your features. Your (e/c) eyes, accessorized by the dark eyebacks underneath. Your chapped lips that you had a habit of picking, but were probably still oh so soft. Physical traits that most would see as a flaw, yet Dick couldn’t help but adore.
He was half way across the room, currently trying to wobble his way around a desk, when he caught sight of his nemesis in the corner of his eye. Heading in the same direction as him.
Dave.
Fucking Dave.
Dick had no qualms against Dave, no in fact he slightly admired the man’s constant positive attitude. He was so vastly different from you in every way, his light never dimming despite the constant emotional hardships that came with the job. It was almost hard to believe that you two made such great partners.
But like the old saying goes, ‘opposites attract’...
Not if Dick had anything to do about it.
It was ridiculous. Utterly pathetic and ridiculous, this one sided beef that he had with a man who was completely oblivious to it. For crying out loud, he was pretty sure Dave didn’t know Dick existed at all!
But all was fair in love and war. And Dick was deeply in love and refused to back down.
So he picked up the pace, swerving past various paper stacked desks and ignoring multiple attempts at others trying to converse with him. He cursed his natural charisma at just how many tried, his popularity within the station showing at the wrong time. Every so often he glanced in Dave’s direction, gauging just how close the man was getting to you, and would speed up his walk in a desperate attempt to get to you first.
The distance between you both was quickly closing, and against his better judgment Dick walked faster. He was nearly jogging at this point, gaining multiple looks for it, but he couldn't care less. All that mattered was getting to you.
He was about to declare victory, only mere steps away from you when tragedy befell him. He should have known that he wasn’t that blessed, not with his history.
Dick tripped on his own foot.
Dick Grayson, an ex-flying Grayson, the renowned and agile hero Nightwing, tripped on his own foot in front of the love of his life.
All he could think on his way down was gods, any out of the dozen he’s faced, please smite me.
An exploding pain in his face was all he could register next, ranging from his forehead down to his nose and then his chin. All in sweltering pain and suffering from some minute form of rugburn.
Yeah, not his finest moment.
“Christ, are you okay?” A sweet voice asked above him, and it took Dick a minute to realize it was your sweet voice that asked him.
Unfortunately for him, all that came out when he tried to respond was a pained moan.
“Wow, you really ate it there huh, dude,” Dave’s irritating voice piped up next, before a set of arms lifted him from under his own.
The world was tilting on its axis and everything was far blurrier than it should be. Everything had a double of itself, and while Dick wouldn’t mind two of you, he knew that was bad. Even worse, there were two of Dave when the man leaned over to get a look at his face and winced. “Damn, that’s sure gonna leave a mark.”
“Way to make him feel better,” you rolled your eyes, finally pocketing your phone and looking up at Dick with sympathy. “Seriously, are you okay? We can check to see if the station nurse is anywhere around here.”
“I got him,” Patrick's voice piped up from behind him, and Dick thanked whatever god was out there that instead of smiting him, they sent a literal angel to help him. The older man’s arms took over for Dave, wrapping around his waist and throwing his arm over his shoulder. “I think it’s about time he went home anyways. He’ll have one hell of a hangover. Detectives.” Patrick gave a nod of farewell and before Dick could embarrass himself any more turned them away and walked them out to the exit.
God, Dick was such an idiot…
. . .
The next time Dick saw you was only a few days later, barely recovering from the scene he made at the party.
He did everything he could to avoid you at the station, and it seemed to work in his favor. You were still assigned on the mass Penguin case, and Dick himself was still limited to city patrol and parking tickets. Suffice to say it created the perfect schedule of avoidance for him.
On the downside, he missed you oh so much. Which is why when on his patrol as Nightwing he quite literally jumped at the chance to see you once more.
It was nearly midnight, funny how that seemed to be his ideal time to talk with you. You were just leaving the police station, shoulders sagged in exhaustion and eyes bleary. All you wanted to do was go home, shower, and snuggle with Lady Puursephone.
A familiar set of feet landing behind you, however, proved that it wouldn’t be that easy.
“Awfully late for you to be going home,” Nightwing spoke, mock sympathy pouring from him.
You rolled your eyes and refused to look back at him, continuing on your way to your apartment. You prayed that he would get the hint and go back to whatever hole he crawled out of, but when did the universe ever do what you want? Instead he jogged up beside you, arms lazily folded behind his head. Thankfully, he decided not to speak any further than that.
Bludhaven, despite its massive rise in crime as of late, was actually quite nice at night. It, like Gotham, was a city that never sleeps, but sometimes you got lucky and managed to walk home with little to no crowds to slow you down. The moon, dim as it was, fought to shine against the pollution clouding the sky and if you squinted really closely, you could just barely make out the stars in the night sky.
The two of you turned a corner, silence still encircling you, when you recognized an itch in your throat. Knowing exactly what you craved you stuck your hands in your pocket, pulling out a small box. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Nightwing scowl.
“Why are you so into smoking now? You never did it before,” he huffed, glaring as you stuck the stick in between your lips and whipped out your lighter.
You shrugged. “Dave lent me one a few weeks ago to help me relax. Guess I just got hooked like everyone else.” Distantly, you could hear him grumble something that sounded awfully like ‘of course it was him’ and you turned to look at him inquisitively. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” he shook his head and kicked a rock in his path. It reminded you of something a child would do. “It just seems like you and him are awfully close.”
“Of course we are. He’s my partner.”
“Yeah, I bet he would like to be more.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you snapped, stopping and turning to look at him. You coughed slightly, still not quite used to all the pungent fumes that came with smoking.
Nightwing continued on a few more steps before he stopped, sighed, and looked at you with crossed arms. “I’m just saying I know guys. They act all friendly and act like they have your best interest at heart, when all they really want is to…you know.”
You glared at him. “No, I don’t. And even if I did it would be very unprofessional of you to suggest.”
“I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
“What, so just because you’re the city’s self-proclaimed savior you have to act like mine too?”
“No! That’s not what I’m saying at all! I just…” He sighed, running his hands down his face but then wincing. “Ouch!”
Alarm bells rang throughout your body, and before you knew it you tossed your cigarette to the ground and rushed over to him. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt? You idiot, why are you talking with me instead of getting treated?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he waved off, backing away from you. But you were persistent, and with every step backwards you took one forward. The two of you continued this dance until Nightwing found himself with his back to a nearby brick wall of a building. It was rough and uncomfortable against his suit, but he couldn’t help but press into it when you stopped right in front of him.
“Show me,” you demanded, and for a second he could feel his legs wobble at the authority in your voice. You were so close he could smell not just tobacco, but your natural underlying scent. He could see every lovely feature you had up close, and for a second his eyes betrayed him and flickered to your lips. When you saw him hesitate you let out a huff, grabbing his wrists and pulling them off his face with little effort. Your eyes narrowed as you scanned his face, noting the scratches and what looked to be friction burns on his face. “What even happened?”
“I, uh…” Nightwing began, looking everywhere but your eyes as red slowly began to creep into his face. He whispered something, and when you dared to move closer he finally blurted, “I tripped!”
You blinked once, twice, thrice. “You what?”
If his face wasn’t red before, it was completely beat now. “I tripped.”
You went quiet for a few moments, staring him down as if you were searching for a lie, and when you found none you finally backed up. “Moron.”
Nightwing balked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” was all you said, before resuming your walk to your apartment.
His jaw dropped, staring at your figure, before running up beside you once more. “Uh, rude! I could have done it saving someone you know! This could be a battle mark!”
“Uh-huh, and is it?”
“Well, no, but that’s not the point!”
At that you let out a small laugh, and he nearly tripped over his own feet (again) at the sound. He stared at you for a few moments, before a victorious grin overtook his face. “You laughed.”
“What,” you questioned, glancing at him with furrowed brows.
“You laughed! Just now. You never laugh!”
“I do, you just never gave me a reason to.”
“Oh, so it's my misery you find joy in.”
“Your words, not mine.”
You bickered back and forth, unaware of the time that passed as you did. You didn’t know it, but your heart felt lighter as you did. Despite the headache he’s given you so many times in the past, Nightwing was genuinely…dare you so fun to be around.
Before you knew it you arrived at the front entrance of your apartment building.
“Well, this is me,” you gestured.
Nightwing nodded. “That it is.”
Neither of you made a move, simply staring at the other. Mapping each other out, as if attempting to ingrain the other in your minds.
Eventually, though, you snapped out of your trance, turning to open the door before a final thought popped into your mind. “Oh, and be careful from now on, Grayson. Wouldn’t want others catching onto you.”
And with that you shut the door in his face, ignoring the wide eye stare burning into your back.
summary: a drunk night out brings the clingiest sides of Jason to life.
cw: sfw, fluff, jason todd x reader, sub!jason, gn!reader, jason is drunk asf and soooo whipped for reader.
a/n: my first req.!! brought to you by this lovely person here.
wc: 817
──── 𑣲𝒿 ────
It was far too late and you were far too exhausted to give enough of a damn to look at the clock. Jason had just shuffled into the room, the buckles on his boots jingling with each heavy step. The wood creaked beneath his feet, unevenly, and his steps dragged, scraping the floor. He sits beside you on the bed, staring at the silhouette beneath the covers, fingers running over the cool fabric that rippled under his touch.
“Jason?” You murmur, eyes struggling to open when there’s no answer other than a lazy groan.
His face is absolutely flushed, an extremely shy demeanour written over his movements. He’s slow, much more methodical than usual when his fingers work the bedsheets off of your figure, pressing his face into the soft of your stomach over the top of your shirt. He nudges his nose into the covered skin, heavy and incoherent mumbles on his lips. You freeze, eyes widening as the scent of alcohol assaults your senses.
Naturally, Jason would go out for drinks with Dick every Friday night as a well-deserved wind-down time for both vigilantes — and you’d forgotten this was one of those nights. Your boyfriend, currently preoccupied with burying his face into your stomach, was shitfaced with booze and what smelled like strawberry syrup.
“Missed you,” he slurs out with that signature Crime Alley accent, albeit barely understandable.
“I missed you too, Jay.” The tone came out sour, tiredness on your tongue dragging far longer than you’d wished. He absolutely melts at the sound of your voice regardless, eyes lighting up at the sight of his partner awake and talking.
── .✦
You’d somehow made it to the kitchen with a man twice your body weight clinging to your back, arms around your waist restricting any proper movement below the torso. “You need to drink water,” you tell, earning a soft puff of air to your neck as Jason hides himself away in the smooth skin.
“Need you.”
“Jason.”
He pulls his head back, giving you those puppy dog eyes he knew would allow him a gateway to avoid a scolding. You point a finger at his face, only to be met with an incessant horde of kisses along the length of your neck, sloppy and incalculable. Lips drawn into a thin line, you hold back a laugh as best as you can, the soft skin of Jason’s lips tickling and nipping at the horribly sensitive area.
One thing leads to another between his insistence, and he spins you around, the curve of your back pressed into the counter. “I missed you so much,” he whispers, those half-lidded eyes clinging onto drunken tears and the absolute of a hangover. His fingers carefully thread through the strands at the back of your neck, bottom lip pushed out to a pout you’d almost think is teasing if he weren’t drunk off his rocker.
Your gaze softens, palms finding their way to his cheeks, thumbs tracing the faded freckles over his skin. The scent of alcohol on Jason’s breath makes you double-take before leaning in, earning one of the most tasteful noises you’d ever heard from your boyfriend — a dragged-out whine that compares to that of a needy Labrador.
“Baby,” he folds onto his knees before you, hugging the backs of your knees and resting his chin at the dip of your stomach, “baby, please.”
It’s a pathetic sight to catch Jason in, one you wish you could photograph and keep in a locket for the rest of your life. A heavy gulp makes its way down your throat — he’s staring up like you’re a lifeline for his stability, droplets lining his eyes.
“Just one kiss.”
Your heart sinks, a warmth forming in the depths of your body at the pleading in his voice. “Jay,” his fingers clutch the skin of your calf, begging in silence to be allowed a singular moment of your affection. You hesitate, but eventually find yourself sitting on the floor before him, pecking Jason’s lips. “You need to drink water, sweetheart.”
He chases after your lips, unprepared to leave your mouth alone when he’d just gotten the smallest of tastes. Your index finger presses against Jason’s jaw, pushing his face away gently as you reach for the fridge from your position on the floor — it takes you much longer to find a water bottle than you’d like to admit. Unscrewing the bottle cap, you press the rim of the bottle to his semi-chapped lips, earning a groan from the man in front of you.
“Let’s get you to bed, silly,” you insist, peppering kisses over the left side of his face. He follows along your command, albeit reluctantly, and steps lazily across the floor, feet unsteady and held up miraculously by you. “You’re so strong,” he praises, smiling lopsidedly to himself.
Thinking about how Sunday would love tucking his head into your neck.
It made him feel safe and secure. Plus, it was a great spot to give small pecks and kisses when he was feeling particularly mischievous. It was his safe place.
However, there was the issue of his wings.
His beautiful wings were just too excitable for your liking. Sunday was a sensitive man, prone to getting overwhelmed by the slightest bit of emotion, including love.
It wasn't his fault! You were just too you! How was Sunday ever supposed to act when you let him so freely near such a vulnerable part of you? How you let him rain love upon you?
His wings would inevitably begin to flutter every. single. time. And every single time the feathers would brush against your neck and make you release a giggle or two. And god was it embarrassing for the Halovian. How could he, the previous head of the Oak family, be unable to control his own wings!
Yet, some selfish part of him relished in your laughter every time he wings began to flutter along your neck, tickling your senses and causing you to throw your head back in joy.
Despite its story and the horrors of the past that accompanied it, he loved it.
For it was you. It was what carried your soul, your being, your very life. He could argue that it wasn’t the brain that made you who you were, but instead your heart.
And oh did you have such a beautiful one.
The way you smiled, the way you laughed, the way you cried, the way you cared and protected others. You even had enough room in it to love a man like him, a man who until you fully believed that he was unworthy of such a thing. Yet, you were able to open his own closed off heart to a realm of adoration and care.
Yes, Zayne loved your heart.
He loved the way it beat under his cheek when he lay on your chest at night. He loved the way it sounded when he listened to it under his stethoscope, the rhythm ingrained in his own mind. He loved the way that, despite the complications it has brought, it still persisted to keep you living and breathing.
Someone has possessed your body, and your soul is nowhere to be found.
Dan Heng swears he'll find you again. No matter what it takes.
dan heng ♡ gn!reader
warnings: pre-established relationship, lore inaccuracies (i pulled this out of my ass), body possession, body swapping, identity vagueness
notes: Dude i love this trope
"Tell me," Dan Heng mutters, his tone low, the tip of his spear pointed towards your throat, jade kissing your skin when you swallow thickly. "Where did [Name] go?"
"What're you talking about?" you reply, hands held up to the sides of your head, a nervous smile encroaching onto your lips. Your back meets the metal of the Parlor Car's walls, your smile parting ever-so slightly to gasp for air, breaths haggard, as Dan Heng presses you further, his expression unfeeling.
"Don't lie to me," he states, the calmness eerie. "You are not [Name]."
"How's that even possible?" you reason, managing to tilt your head slightly, eyes crinkling as your smile widens.
For a moment, Dan Heng's resolve stutters. It's true that your face is the same; from the curl of your lips, to the bridge of your nose, to the scars and moles which line your skin—your well-loved face, those well-loved features.
But it's not. Dan Heng looks at you again and Cloud-Piercer steadies, unwavering, the blunt end pressing fully against the bob of your throat as your mouth hangs slightly agape, eyes craning down as if to gauge just how sharp the weapon really is.
How audacious, is all Dan Heng thinks, brows furrowing. To claim their identity when you cannot even judge the spear which I've told them so much about.
The curl of your lips, though the same in shape, does not resume its natural form when you smile. The crinkle of your eyes, though perfect in imitation, does not contain the natural mirth that enraptures your features.
To think anyone would even dare to mimic a fraction of the sublime—Cloud-Piercer digs closer into your skin, the possessor's eyes widening, lips shrinking to reveal the most fervent of frowns, its shape not suiting your features—how utterly foolish.
"Answer me," Dan Heng states again. "Where did they go?"
"Hah!" you then exclaim, the sound not fitting your voice, its melody infuriating despite its timber belonging to your chords. "You'd have better luck giving up. This body is mine, you mutt!"
Fury, though wildly impulsive, is something that Dan Heng submits to whenever he feels its phantom looming over his shoulder, its mouth widening, capturing him within the hinge of its jaws. Fury allows him to act, without the burden of thoughts, without the second-guessings of whether regret will follow.
Fury is his. There's someone in your body, claiming it as their own, and Dan Heng feels the mouth of fury swallow, he feels the esophagus, he feels the stomach acid as he fizzles in the bile.
He feels the grit of his own teeth as his jaw tightens, his brows furrowing to the point of wrinkling his nose, his figure hunched forward as he presses Cloud-Piercer's blunt end so violently into your throat that you start gasping for air, unable to breathe.
(And, despite it all, he's careful not to draw blood. He's careful to avoid the wounds which haven't healed fully, he's careful to avoid your lower neck, as you've mentioned how sensitive you are there. This is your body. This is, and will always be, your body.)
The doors to the Parlor Car slam open, and Dan Heng feels his figure part from yours, his dominant hand held back by the arms of another, the frantic cacophony of voices as you're subdued by Stelle and Himeko, March watching from afar, Welt behind him.
They say that eyes are the windows to the soul.
Dan Heng looks at you, and he does not recognize the entity which stares back at him. A possessor; a fraud; a thief. Something stole your body—but more than that, because Dan Heng couldn't care less about what sort of appearance you take, where your moles form, where your scars lie.
The crinkle of a joyful eye is unmistakable, the cadence of words are unique to each person, the syntax, the choices, the mannerisms of an identity. Dan Heng knows you to be a creature without regrets, to smile wildly, unabashed, teeth and all. He knows you to tilt your head when you speak, to use crude language that is common, not outdated, lousy terms such as "mutt."
Dan Heng knows you. And even when someone wears your eyes, and even when someone smiles with your lips, and even when someone speaks with your voice, he knows.
Something stole your body.
And where are you?
You're pretty.
Dan Heng has thought that ever since you stepped foot on the Express. He thought that the sofas seemed to reinvent themselves under your gaze, he thought that space must've shrunk away when your eyes sweeped over it, through the window, perceiving each freckled star. It felt as if this universe shifted in accordance to your examination, as if its worth amounted to how much time was spent beheld within the center of your pupils, sublime.
And when you smiled, Dan Heng thought you to be even prettier.
You smiled in such a way that felt as though you lived anew, as though joy alone was enough to rid this guilty world of its sins. Despite being the Express's newest member at the time, you quickly settled in, joining each game night with a striking resolve, creating inside jokes with the Stelle and March, laughing at things that made no sense.
And you were there for Belobog, for the Luofu, for Penacony, for Amphoreus. Throughout it all, you remained as you were: euphoric, unabashed, free. Sublime.
You're pretty.
From behind the makeshift prison which Himeko had crafted from bars made of steel, Dan Heng stares. Your hand tightens around the material, unable to reach fully through the crevice, expression sullied by a violent frown. Bottom lip jutted out, a sound leaves your lips, not too far removed from a growl.
You were pretty.
Dan Heng stares at you, whose countenance is devoid of any bliss, whose laughter remains humorless, whose gaze never once trickles towards the window, to look at the space which you oh-so adored.
But not like this.
"You possessed this body," Welt states. "And where was your original form?"
"As if I need to tell you anything," you spit.
"If you value your life, then I suggest you do," Dan Heng snaps, readying Cloud-Piercer once more. Himeko raises her hand, arm separating his figure from yours, an extra layer added to the prison cell which you wallow in, unmoved.
Then, you laugh.
How disgusting, is all Dan Heng thinks.
This is your body. This is, and will always be, your body.
"How hilarious!" you exclaim, laughing still, the sound disturbing, lacking humor and humanity and anything that serves to anchor you to this world, to liken you to the sublime, to make even space shy away. "To think you're threatening me! If you kill me, where will the original soul land?!"
Dan Heng's eyes grow wide, and he lurches forward, Cloud-Piercer stabbing past a crevice in the prison, slamming through the other side, your figure barely missing the impact.
"The original soul," he seethes, "where is it?"
You laugh again.
When you looked at the universe, it reinvented itself depending on the worth you had assigned it, how long each star existed within your gaze, how wide your smile became after perceiving each constellation, each striking comet.
He remains at the window of the Parlor Car for a long while, hands folded behind his back, eyes tracing over each freckled star, its shape lining the face of space. He wonders which one made you the happiest, which one was so beautiful it could make even the personification of radiance a witness.
When he's not in the Parlor Car, lost in his stupor, he's at the Data Bank, sifting frantically through the archives, desperate to determine what exactly is possessing your body.
Depending on what it is, maybe he can finally satiate the bloodlust which tugs at his hands.
A knock on his door. Dan Heng doesn't look up; he sifts through another array of pages before saying, "Come in."
It's Welt. Upon entering, he closes the door behind him, and Dan Heng tears his gaze from the archives to spare a glance at the man, his expression taking the shape of vague relief.
"Dan Heng," Welt says, hand coming to push his glasses further up his nose. "I believe [Name]'s possessor is a form of miasma which stems from the Luofu. It only makes sense, considering they had gone there the day before their possession began."
"But the only question now is," Welt continues, "what exactly is the type of miasma, and where has [Name]'s soul gone now?"
Dan Heng slams the archives shut, his hand tightening around the edge of the desk, brows furrowed so vehemently.
"Luofu possession either forces the host's soul back within their body, or ousts them into a new, soulless body."
"So, [Name] could still be in there?"
"Unlikely. Usually, if that were the case, the original host could manage to occupy the body at the same time as the possessor. In this case, however, it seems as though as the possessor has full autonomy over [Name]'s body."
This is your body.
This is, and will always be, your body.
"So, they've possessed a soulless body. The dead, then?" Welt remarks, quick as ever.
Dan Heng nods.
"I'm leaving," he states, grabbing his spear, damn near sprinting towards the helm, desperate to return to the source, the ship which he once belonged to, yet now exists merely as a past that serves to push him forward.
The future; it must have you.
Dan Heng likes you.
But maybe like is too light of a word, unable to bear the weight of which only a creature so hopelessly devoted could hold. Dan Heng adores you.
He adores you in such a way that has familiarized him with all of your habits; the tap of your fingers against glass, the way you save your favorite bites for last, the raise of your hand whenever you laugh.
Dan Heng adores you in such a way that renders him unable to part his gaze from your smile in pictures, the way you seem to have a signature pose, the way you are so wholly and completely radiant. It's sublime. You're sublime.
("Want this photo, Dan Heng?" March asked, handing him a polaroid, its frame depicting only one subject. You.
(He grimaced slightly. Was he so obvious?
(Before he could say anything, March waved her hand dismissively, knowing that he'd decline the offer yet want it anyway. "Just have it!" she said, mischievous. "And I better get credits when you get together!")
Dan Heng adores you in such a way that he himself doesn't quite know when or how or why it began, or exists; it just does, and that fact alone is enough.
He boards the Luofu. The moon hangs in the freckled sky, and Dan Heng revisits the sight once more, wondering how it looks through your eyes, wondering if, in this way, your gazes will meet again, lost in space's vast face.
Then, he looks forward.
Dan Heng adores you in such a way that feels as though he knows you better than himself. He knows your favorite foods, your favorite drinks, your favorite spots. He knows you love bustling environments, but also, that you like people watching from comfortable spots, content with the silence, wind kissing your skin.
There's a hill. On top, is a bench, shaded from the moonlight by the leaves of a blossoming tree. In its tender embrace is a figure, slumped, head tilted towards the sky.
Just a silhouette is enough.
Dan Heng races towards the pinnacle, the sublime, the wonder.
"[Name]!" he calls, even before reaching the top, even before his eyes can behold the sight of his beheld, even before your habits find him, your manners familiar. The silhouette is enough. The crane of your gaze towards the sky, the universe shifting in accordance to your perception, its worth assigned based on the mirth that enraptures your features, irrevocable, is enough.
You turn towards him, finger tapping on the wooden plank of the bench, head tilting to the side, mouth hanging slightly agape.
"Dan Heng?" you reply, disbelieving. "Dan Heng, how are you—"
Cloud-Piercer dissipates, his hands free, arms outstretched, engulfing you within its grasp as he feels your figure press against his, your body devoid of any warmth, its previous owner gone. But it doesn't matter to Dan Heng, what form you take, where your moles are, where your scars form. All that matters is this soul is yours. His soul is yours.
He breathes, most desperately, most fervently, most ardently. Dan Heng presses you closer to him, as if afraid you'll leave him, as if your soul could disappear again—but what difference would that make? Dan Heng will find you, new face and all, and he will love you again.
"[Name]," he says again, barely above a whisper. "[Name], I was so worried..."
Your name is proof of identity. And, when his lips cradle the syllables, and when its sweet sound echoes throughout the air, Dan Heng cannot help but say it again. He says your name just to say it, to solidify this identity, to put more of you in the world, to exist, the sublime, the irrevocable, the unabashed!
Briefly, his figure parts from yours, his hands on your shoulders still, gaze tracing over your new, yet well-loved, face. He examines you for any injuries, unable to contain the frantic race of his heart, now reunited with his beloved.
"[Name], someone stole—"
"I know," you reply, smiling still, eyes crinkling, joy finding you despite the circumstance. "I'll get it back, you know. That shit's not free!"
Dan Heng, for the first time since your possession, finds it in himself to spare the most subtle of smiles.
In the end, the solution was much simpler than anticipated.
Upon re-entering the Express, you found yourself in front of, well, yourself. And you stared at the image of your figure confined within a prison cell, the sight sending a shiver down your spine. Is this foreshadowing?
"For miasma cases such as this, it says that just a touch is enough to swap souls, so long as the one with the foreign body desires it. In this case, [Name], it's you," Welt explains, beckoning you towards the cage.
You snort. "Damn."
Despite your possessor's vehement attempt at swatting you away, and curling back into the cage which they had once so desperately tried to escape, you manage to graze your finger against theirs, the world spinning immediately after. Hazy, you feel yourself falling back, and a pair of arms manage to catch you before the pain of the ground hits—but then, you wake up, now behind bars.
The arms, which once served to stop you from falling, now drop your possessor's form to the ground.
And, soon after, a spear pierces the body's chest.
Nobody says anything. Except for you, however, with an uninspiring, "Ooh... That looked like it hurt."
Dan Heng, paying no mind to Cloud-Piercer's spot in the body's newfound cavity, is quick to slam the prison open, his hand outstretched, callused and all, as he helps you up, his expression unreadable save for the slight melt of his irises, the relief which sweeps over his lips.
Click! A camera goes off. You wince at the light, and Dan Heng sighs.
"March," he mutters. The girl in question makes no effort to say anything.
"March," Stelle calls, before throwing up finger guns, "give me that photo!"
"Stelle..." Dan Heng mutters, in a tone quite similar to the one he just used to utter March's name. But then, your laugh resounds throughout the Express, the sound satiating the emptiness which pervaded so thickly in your absence, and Dan Heng can't help but turn towards you, pupils finding their place, beheld reunited with the beholder.
wc: 439, yearning, mutual pining, developing relationship, dums both think it's unrequited, sleepy lovers, tooth-rotting fluff, reader is not the trailblazer, no use of y/n or [name]
crossposted to ao3. masterlist
the path of the trailblaze is not for the faint of heart, nor for the weary—yet here you are.
each warp only led to precarious situations, from second identities hidden within oneself to lord ravagers threatening to push the universe to the finality. akivili knows there are neither limits nor hurdles to making the unknown become knowable, so you repaid THEM by gracing yourself with a long nap.
a soft creek from your door echoed throughout the silent room, yet you did not react. what comes with trailblazing were unforgettable moments, some that affected others way more than you—some like danheng.
the burden of a past life is inconceivable for a nameless like you, someone who has no clue of theirs anyway—but it's still a burden worth sharing, which led to an unspoken tradition between you two.
you could hear him try to lighten his steps, muttering a curse after a step too loud for his taste before stopping by your bedside.
"i know you're awake"
you turned to face him, not even trying to hide your amusement anymore. he looked disheveled, with a few strands sticking out while wearing a star-patterned shirt that you bought him on a whim back in penacony and holding the blanket that messily covered his makeshift bed in the data bank—so unlike his typical persona. not many get to see him so vulnerable like this.
"well, someone kept rejecting having their own room." in spite of your tone, you sleepily patted his reserved spot by your side.
he huffed, making himself at home with his side of the mattress. the bed sunk with the added weight but it only filled your chest with warmth that always came with him.
no matter how many quests that ended up like this, it never failed to make your heart stutter. there was a domestic aspect to it that neither of you were willing to touch on nor break away from.
silence continued to envelope the room, but it only made you even more awake with his presence. you resist the urge to touch shoulders with him.
because no matter how many quests that end up like this, you could not bring yourself to cross that boundary with him. the extra pillow of his that stuck with you after a week of this routine found solace in your room and served as a border between you two.
but in the end, you both would always end up entangled in each others' arms—several pillows tossed aside (with march sneaking in a photo or two). and the rest could only facepalm at both of your coyness in the morning.
˖·˳.༄˚₊ do not feed my writing to ai nor repost it to other platforms without permissions.
I made a post a while ago about how Jayson wouldn't be able to bring himself to revive his lover using the Lazarus Pitt right?
But what about Dick?
The Boy Wonder himself defying the laws of death to bring his love, his light, his other half back to life because he just can't bear to be a second without them. A true lover he was at heart and there was just no reality out there where he could be without his them.
So when the day comes that his lover dies, he won't even allow himself to PROCESS that they're gone, no, he already knows what he wants...no, NEEDS to do.
And Jayson? He recognizes that look in his older brother's eyes. It was the same look that the League had when he was forced back into the land of the living. No care for the repercussions it may bring...just pure selfishness. Because what is love if not that?
Try as he might there's no talking Dick out of it. He's long made up his mind, ignoring Jayson's threats, his insults, his borderline pleas to not do it. That if he truly loved them then Dick wouldn't do it, wouldn't bring them back.
But Dick had always, ALWAYS, been the selfless one. Never once selfish in his life. Was it so wrong for him to want this one thing?
witch hat!hsr au where you constantly reapply that memory wiping spell, over and over on your beloved general, anything to push the mara away, to keep him whole and healthy until your hands shake, more callouses fill your fingers and he has no memory of your labors. And one night he finds out, because of course he does, nothing escapes the Divine Foresight’s gaze, and instead he chooses to wipe yours, to lessen his worries.
The worst part is that it works. He rids you of the memories of you wiping his, and it keeps the mara at bay, and the leaves and shoots are stamped down…. it’s in the “name of the law” he says, ignoring how your hands claw on his armor, begging him to not do this, to let you protect him. Oh foolish witch, he’d rather give himself up for your sake, let him perform one of the spells that border on the near taboo, and let you live in this fantasy he’s made…
(knights of moralis jy who doesn’t know his own lover is getting closer and closer to performing a taboo all for his sake, and in his heart of hearts, when he finds out he can’t bring himself to get mad)
How could a man be blessed with looks, physique, and exquisite hair?
Argenti truly was blessed by the Aeons themselves…
“What seems to be distressing you, my rose?” Argenti chuckled, smiling knowingly in the mirror before him. Behind him you sat comfortably on your bed, strands of his soft hair in your hands. Delicate strands that you couldn’t help but glare at.
“This isn’t fair,” you huffed, playfully pulling at his hair. Not hard enough to hurt but enough for his head to tilt back to you, where he gazed up at you with a loving smile. “I even started using the same hair products as you and my hair still isn’t as soft as yours. I swear you’re holding out on me!”
“I would never, this I swear on Idrila’s name,” Argenti spoke, smile softening as you caressed his forehead. He leaned his head further back into your touch, and for a moment you worried for his neck, but you knew he was exactly where he wanted to be. “Besides, I for one believe your hair to be the epitome of beauty.”
“You’ve said that to a potted plant before,” you pointed out with a raised eyebrow. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or not.”
A small pout graced his features and before he could open his mouth to go on one of his tangents you leaned forward and pecked his lips. Soft, delicate, smooth lips…another thing you were jealous of.
You giggled as his head attempted to follow yours, leaning further into your lap, and gasped slightly at the way he clutched your legs of which he sat in between in warning.
“Please, don’t tease me, my love,” he whispered to you. And who were you to deny him as you leaned down once more.
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