eska

He contorts to hold the receiver between his ear and shoulder, ignoring the looks his coworkers send him. He supposes that he must be a sight to see, tipped back in his chair, case documents teetering on the knife’s edge of spilling out of a manila folder in one hand, the other twirling the cord of the landline around his finger. 

“The worst,” you agree with another sigh. It must be the fifth time you’ve done that in the past minute, and if Dick closes his eyes tight enough, he can imagine you in front of him, dragging your hand down your face. “They want my column in print tomorrow—not Monday—and this fuck-ass editor is crossing out everything in my doc.” 

You mutter something about what fucking loaded language and it’s a goddamn opinion piece while Dick shoves his case folder into the depths of some dark cabinet and starts clearing the mess of reports on his desk until he unearths the collection of takeout menus pinned under the keyboard of his computer. 

If you can’t make it to dinner, Dick could just take dinner to you. 

He weighs his options; you’re probably not in the mood for pizza or burgers, and Chinese gets crossed off because you don’t work well on an oily stomach. Vietnamese is out of question too, you had that last week; this leaves Mediterranean and Italian, both of which are too far a drive for him to even bother. The food would get cold before he’d manage to make it up to your apartment. 

(His coworkers think it’s strange that he has dinner dates with his best friend every week. Just friends, they laugh, you’ll be saying that even after you’re married. Dick doesn’t think anything about it— you’ve never thought anything of the teasing, so he won’t either.) 

“When’s the last time you got up and took a walk?” he questions, grabbing a pen and scribbling a quick grocery list onto the palm of his hand. The ink runs out midway through a ‘t’ with a pop, leaving a big blot on his skin. The pen soars into the trash without a single beat passing and Dick keeps scribbling on with another in a different color. “Let the blood go back to your brain. Take a long, hot shower or something.” 

“No time for that,” you say, but he knows that you know he’s right—it’s in the nth sigh you let out, crackling electric over the phone. 

“C’mon.” 

“Fine, five more minutes.” 

Dick smiles—wide, lady-killer, a thousand watts of brilliance—and shuffles all his loose-leaf papers into a stack bearing some semblance to neatness, pulling his jacket off the back of his chair. “It’s getting late, gotta go.” 

“Sorry about dinner. Next week?” 

“Sure.” 

He presses the receiver down with ink still drying on his palm. Even when his superior clears his throat and reminds him that his investigative report is due tomorrow— yes, tomorrow, you would’ve remembered if you weren’t giggling to your girlfriend like an idiot— the giddy feeling knitting its way up his throat doesn’t go away. 

An hour later, Dick steps up to the ratty doormat before the door of your apartment, manila folder tucked under his arm, groceries in hand, keys in the other. He doesn’t take long to find the key to your apartment—he knows the shape of it better than his own. 

He’s barely relocked the door and out of his shoes before he’s setting the case folder right next to the reporter’s notebook and laptop on your coffee table, the plastic bag of groceries on the nearby counter. In the corner beside the ratty couch you bought off an online catalog, Dick thumbs through your collection of records (most of them his), picking out a slow jazz album from a long defunct band. 

The vinyl is set on the mount of your record player (another thing of his, again, from when you finally escaped the bullpen) and he lays his jacket across the arm of your couch just as the trumpet and saxophone begin a gentle, crooning dance. You stumble out of the bathroom with your skin still dewy when the butter Dick is pushing around the pan begins to sputter. 

He watches you settle down on the carpet with your back to the couch, level to the coffee table. 

“Thought we postponed dinner,” you groan, popping your neck. Dick can see the red lining your sclera, highlighted starkly with the blue light from your laptop. The lines of your article fly past your glassy irises. “What’s on the menu, Chef Grayson?” 

“Linguine.” He folds his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, and he swears that your eyes are following his fingers as he twists the cuffs over themselves. But that can’t be true, because people don’t watch their best friend with great interest as they roll their sleeves. “Capers or cilantro? Or both?” 

“You know me,” you say, dragging his manila folder towards you. “Proof yours if you proof mine.” 

Dick laughs, tapping the butter off his spatula and turning down the heat. The blue flames simmer as another song begins with a swaying piano solo. “Well, mine’s classified.” 

“Don’t see a big red stamp anywhere.” 

“I’m kidding, those copies are redacted.” 

You grab your laptop and climb up onto the couch, dragging his jacket over yourself as you sink into the cushions, “Yay.” 

The linguine flops into the colander, steam rising in a veil that is pierced when the streetlight beside your window flickers on, bathing your apartment in an orange, yolky hue, the kind that comes from those eggs you love buying from the Japanese mart two blocks down. 

Somewhere in the near distance, a train rattles along its track and sends tremors up the foundation of the building. 

A particularly loud grumble from your stomach punctuates the hiss of the gas turning off. Dick strides over with two shallow bowls, two forks, two mugs. 

Dinner is quiet, quaint affair, interrupted only by the scrape of your fork and the clink of your mug as you set it down. 

“This would be good with wine,” you say, stretching your legs along the length of the couch. Dick looks up from his spot on the carpet, slowly as to not further the ache building in his curled neck. 

You’re painted in the dim, clementine halo that’s streaming in from outside and he swears that the shadows are sublimating right off you. 

He has to fish around in the dark for his words, string them along in a fishing-line sentence, “Uh…next time. I’ll bring over something from the store.” 

“Maybe you should make dinner more,” you suggest, setting down your bowl with nothing more than a soft clink against the coffee table. “Prices are going up, y’know.” 

It’s not like expense is a problem; you know that Dick has quite the sum of money, and you’ve met Bruce before. Still, that doesn’t deter you from fighting for the bill. 

Dick agrees with a smile, and you reach over the table with your computer dangling out of your hand by the corner of the base panel. He swaps it out wordlessly for his case report, swiping back and forth on the mousepad to awaken the screen. 

VIGILANTES: UNINTENTIONALLY HARMFUL 

You start talking about an upcoming journalist’s banquet that your company is hosting at a theatre in Gotham—yea, you say, Gotham, as if isn’t better than Blüdhaven. 

Dick is only half listening, scrolling slowly down your article. 

Growing up in Gotham, encountering vigilantes was anything but rare. I was thirteen when I first caught sight of Batman’s sidekick, Robin. The boy wonder swung right over me with a hand clutching the vine of his grappling wire and five minutes later, authorities issued an evacuation order for that block— 

Scroll. 

—that day, Robin did save me. If I hadn’t seen his shadow fall over the ground, I wouldn’t be here today. For that, I am grateful, but seeing the aftermath I so narrowly escaped from changed me. Do the lives lost really outweigh our growing dependence on vigilantes? 

Scroll. Vaguely, he registers that you’re scribbling notes in the margins of the copy of his report. 

—while it is impossible to dismiss the corruption within legal law enforcement, the question is still raised of whether illegal enforcers truly benefit the wider public or only culminate in bigger threats from worse people like the Joker— 

Scroll. You yawn and draw the jacket that’s been laying over your chest up to your face, pressing your nose into the worn leather. 

—doing what they believe is good at the risk of causing more harm. Even with the presence of vigilantes guarding our streets, it still is not truthful to say that we are entirely safe. 

“I think,” Dick says, and you draw your face out of where you’d buried it in his jacket, “that your editor is one crazy son of a bitch.” 

You smile, soft and smudgy in the clementine light that evaporates all the shadows around you. He almost forgets about all the secrets he’s harboring in the cabinetry of his anatomy. 

(Scars on the back, memory lapses from one too many concussions, a deep-seated ache in his knee that never really goes away.) 

“Told you so,” you sing, pen dancing around your fingers. “Yours is fine, just read my notes.” 

He barely catches the folder when you toss it back— luckily, anything that’s loose-leaf doesn’t slip out. “Careful, I don’t wanna reorganize my report.” 

“Paperclips are in my room,” you punctuate this with a tilt of your head towards the hallway. “Go take a shower too.” 

Dick raises an arm and feigns a couple of confused sniffles. “Do I stink that much?” 

“Yea, you smell like the shitty drip coffee at the office.” 

“You act like we can afford the nice espresso you guys get.” 

You scoff, sliding off the couch to grab your laptop and lead him to your room. The floorboards give with a small creak under his weight; you let the device fall onto the bed and rummage around your drawers for the clothes he always leaves here and the towel you’ve set aside for days like this one. 

“Hurry up,” you say once you shove a bundle of pajamas into his hands. You put your palms on his sternum—he wonders if you can feel the fight his heart is putting up—and push him towards the bathroom. “I’m making you watch a movie with me for the entertainment page.” 

His smile is barebones, a gentle twist of his mouth. It’s the kind that feels like a secret between the two of you. “You’re not usually this excited for an assignment. Is the entertainment editor cute or something?” 

“Shut up,” you blurt, pushing harder with a spark of panic in your eyes, and Dick catches himself stumbling backwards into the counter. 

“Oh, you have a crush, you like him!” The words feel uglier than they should be, rearing a twist of hurt-envy-why around each vertebra in his spine. 

“Talk to me when you aren’t stinky!” You slam the door close, but not before Dick can see the embarrassed look flickering over your face. 

The water starts running cold as he watches the shampoo gather in sudsy clouds around the drain—he’s quick to go through the rest of his routine and slide back into your room with a hand still toweling his hair dry. 

You’ve calmed down since, checking your inbox mindlessly. Now that he thinks about it, Dick can’t remember a time you’ve been without that computer. You look up, and though the light in here isn’t clementine and only comes from the singularity point of your screen, he can still feel his breath tighten. 

“So,” Dick starts. When he climbs into your bed, he finds that you’ve already made room for him. “Tell me all about this lucky guy.” 

You roll your eyes, leaning against his shoulder almost as if on instinct. You’re warm against his cold skin. The tide behind his ribs swells until he’s about to burst. 

“He’s cute, I guess. Funny, smart, dark hair” —then you’re reaching up to card your fingers through his hair, and selfishly, he thinks that no matter how hot this editor guy is, he’ll never get what Dick has with you— “kinda like yours, almost the same cut, but his eyes are green.” 

He hums, taking the laptop from you and navigating to the movie. You continue to play with the hair at his nape absently, sending frisson down his spine. 

“Not gonna say anything else?” you ask, and Dick just puts his arm around your shoulders despite the ache it agitates in his side. 

(He should’ve iced that bruise.) 

He cranes until his lips are half a breadth from the shell of your ear, whispers into the conch of it: no talking in the theatre. 

Y’know, apparently this is his favorite new movie right now— 

Shhhh. 

The plot is so convoluted that Dick starts wandering, and it seems like you are too. Wandering in dreamland, that is, slumping until your breaths puff into the hollow of his clavicle. 

The silence of the aftermath—when the credits run through and he’s not entirely sure whether he should wake you up to brush your teeth (no, it’s almost two in the morning now and you’re too comfortable)—is broken only by the faint wail of a siren. 

It fades as quickly as it had come. 

But Dick can’t get it out of his head. He’s drawn to the fight like a moth to the flame. 

You’ll get up around nine, he thinks, because tomorrow is the weekend and your article is already being printed. 

VIGILANTES: UNINTENTIONALLY HARMFUL 

The words flash through his head, louder and brighter than sirens. 

He knows he’ll hurt you if he gets up right now, leaves a pillow in the hollow of your arms and dons the suit hidden under the false bottom in his car’s trunk. You’re right, everything you wrote is so fucking correct that it makes something in his chest— 

Dick slides—gingerly, with care, because that’s how he’s always treated you and that’s how he always will treat you—out from under the covers. He can be back before nine, with breakfast from that bakery you like and a newspaper tucked under his arm. 

(Your newspaper, your article, your words.) 

“Dickie,” you stir, fingers catching on the hem of his old sleepshirt. 

“Relax, I just gotta pee.” 

He’ll give you one truth for now, even if it stains his mouth sour, like the stale aftertaste of the bad coffee at work. 

Dick—no, Nightwing tries not to dwell on it too much. He has people to protect. 

Your eyes flicker across his face, trying to will yourself to hold your gaze.

“He fucks me…”

He smiles hearing you murmur the words, “Does he fuck you good?”

You’re not nearly subtle enough, the way your gaze instantly averts and your face gets hot. To make matters worse, he seems to be able to read you like a goddamn book. 

He smiles wider, tilting his head at you. “No? What, not attentive? Bad at head?”

He follows you with a smile as you tilt your head down, trying to avoid eye contact. He lowers his voice, “Not big enough?”

He grants you enough mercy to not have to actually verbalize it, but you get the feeling he knows the answer anyways. All of the above.

He just hums, soaking in your expression. “Was it your idea? To go out and find another guy to bring home?”

You look down at the floor, tongue between your teeth.

“Yeah…You need to get fucked good, don’t you?”

You do. But he has no business being able to tell that about you barely five minutes into this conversation. You take a deep breath, practically steeling yourself for the torture of hearing such blatant, unabashed words.

“You know, I have had threesomes before, and they’re fun but…” He looks at the floor with a soft smile, shaking his head. “Full disclosure, I’m only doing this so I can sleep with you.”

You feel blood rush to your cheeks that makes you automatically look down.

He chases after your gaze, “But you want to know something? I don’t think you want to have a threesome. I think you just need one person to show you a good time.” 

You understand the implication of his words. He’s right, but your morality holds you back from saying so. 

“He’s my boyfriend..”

He nods understandingly, “If you want to do it, I will. But I think I could make you feel even better on my own.”

You look up at him, eyeing his sincerity and measuring the weight of his promise.

“Come on,” he urges gently.

He leans in slightly, causing you to follow suit until you’re nose and nose with each other. Your eyes are practically closed and your inhibition is nearly gone. 

His lips ghost over yours. 

“Break up with him,” he says. “Break up with him so I can take you home.”

”Not exactly an even trade,” you say quietly. 

He tilts his head.

“I’m losing a boyfriend.”

Barely.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promises.

And that’s more than enough to convince the already convinced.

You pull back from him with a sigh and sit up straight. You plop down from your place on the edge of the barstool, glancing over your shoulder as you turn away. 

“I’ll be right back,” you tell him.

As you approach your boyfriend, the girl he’s with sees you before he does, readjusting her position to let you into the conversation. He, upon seeing you, does no such thing.

Instead, he double takes like he’d forgotten you were even in the bar.

He splutters before introducing you. “...This is my girlfriend…”

This tidbit of information he’d forgotten to mention before you’d come over. You’d guess as much when the girl rolls her eyes and walks away. In return, he looks irked by your intrusion and therefore loss of a goal that he never had any chance of scoring.

You don’t give him the time to ask you what the fuck your problem is before giving him a dry smile. “I think we should break up.”

His face drops suddenly, before altering into something much more akin to anger. 

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Yeah.”

He scowls. “This was your fucking idea. Don’t tell me you’re going and getting all jealous now.”

You nod blankly, not interested in prolonging this. “Okay. Have a good night.”

The last thing you see before turning away is the dumbfounded look on his face. And now that you know you have something better waiting for you, it stings just that much nicer. 

Dick grins at you as you reapproach, clearly having watched that whole thing go down. He follows close with a hand on your backside as a means to help guide you out the door.

He leads you to his car, opening the passenger side door for you—something your ex-boyfriend never bothered doing—and helping you in.

When he’s sitting in the driver’s seat he takes your jaw and pulls you into a kiss. It’s sweet and gentle, but the intensity still has you pulling back and trying to catch your breath.

You catch his endeared smile, before he starts up the car and begins to back out of the parking lot.

You try to calm your body down as you ask, “Are we going to a hotel?”

He shakes his head, “Nah, I live close by.”

He turns to look at you, “Is that alright?”

You don’t need to weigh this out in your head to know the answer. After ten minutes you already trust Dick more than you trusted your ex after six weeks.

“Yeah.”

As promised, the drive back to his apartment doesn’t take long, it only ends up being a couple of blocks away. His right hand stays glued to your thigh throughout the entire drive, squeezing it once before he turns into the parking garage.

Once you’re parked, Dick unbuckles his seatbelt before looking over at you, who hasn’t moved a muscle yet.

He laughs as he takes in your unconfident posture, “Oh baby. It’s alright. Don’t need to be so nervous.”

He pulls you in for one more kiss before getting out of the car. He quickly opens your door for you and helps you out. He holds your hand all the way up to his apartment, stopping every once in a while to kiss you. You can tell he’s being more gentle with you than he maybe usually would, but you’re grateful for it.

As you round the final set of stairs, he nudges you in front of him. “Come ‘ere. It’s just up here.”

He unlocks the door and leads you into a lofty apartment, well-decorated and furnished. Significantly nicer than the studio with a mattress on the floor that your ex called home. You’re not given much time to look around before he’s got you pushed back and pressed against the now closed door.

He takes your face in both hands as he kisses you, getting completely in your space in the most welcome way possible. He leans down over you, pushing you further against the door. The kiss deepens and he slots his thigh in between your legs. He lets you grind a little against him, encouraging you via nips against your lips. But ultimately, he seems to decide that this isn’t enough.

He picks you up by your thighs, never breaking the kiss, and begins walking you towards his bedroom.

He sets you down in the middle of the room, kneeling down as he pulls your panties down. His lips ghost over your thighs in their wake, slipping them down and onto the floor.

You can feel the blood rush to your cheeks as he takes in the sight of your pussy.

“Oh, pretty baby,” he murmurs.

He backs you up to the bed, pulling your dress down as he goes. By the time you get to the bed, you’re completely bare and he’s sitting you on his still-clothed lap.

He spreads your legs over his and gently brushes his fingers across your clit with a feather-light touch.

“Dick,” you whine, not even sure what your goal is. You don’t know if you have it in you to ask him directly for what you want.

“What? You want me to rub your clit for you? Want me to make you come?”

You mewl, ”Please—”

“‘Please’?” He coos. “Of course, pretty girl.”

He reaches down and rubs languid circles against your clit, his touch so light and feathery that it does nothing but leave you wanting more in a way you’re wholly unfamiliar with. 

“You don’t need to beg me,” he continues. “Not tonight anyway.”

He kisses you again with more and more passion as he works your body like he owns it. The way he lets you grind up against his hand and moan into his mouth only encourages you more.

He doesn’t need to keep this up for very long before he has you coming under him, sooner and harder than you ever have before.

And it must show on your face because he tuts as he brushes your hair away from your eyes.

“Aw, honey. Nobody’s been touching you right, have they?”

Your eyes are borderline watering as you shake your head, No.

He lifts you up, off his lap, and sets you back down against the pillows. He pulls his shirt off before tugging his pants down, and repositions himself back over you. He moves down to start kissing at your chest, paying each side some much needed attention before continuing down lower.

He trails his kisses down your stomach and against your inner thighs, just high enough to make you feel a burst of heat every time.

He looks up at you, “Such a pretty girl. Pretty girls should be taken care of.”

Somehow you only just realize where this is going, and you can’t fend off the look of anxiety that flashes across your face.

He clocks your hesitation immediately. 

He frowns, “What’s wrong, beautiful?”

“I—I’ve never had…” you trail off but he understands the sentiment just the same. 

He just tilts his head.

“Really? That’s a shame. We’ll have to fix that, won’t we?”

His sentiment surprises you, but to be completely fair: everything about him has surprised you. This has been a complete 180 from what you’ve been used to, even beyond your most recent ex-boyfriend. You honestly didn’t even know guys like this existed outside of the movies.

Dick kisses your thigh again before looking back up at you, eyes asking for permission.

Not a single thought runs through your head as you nod, only filled with anticipation and lust.

He places a gentle kiss on your clit, before following up with an experimental lick on the same spot. He looks up at you, checking in, and when he’s seemingly satisfied, he goes all in.

He makes out with your pussy like he’s been doing it for years, like he knows your body better than you do. It’s almost embarrassing how fast you fall apart like this, or at least it would be, if you had any energy to spend on thinking. No, right now, all you’re doing is feeling. For once in your life, somebody has been able to do the impossible and get you out of your head.

Your hand instinctually goes to grab at his hair and he fucking moans into your pussy. The surprise of it has you gasping this shocked choke that nearly makes you sit straight up.

You curse, forcing yourself to relax completely against the mattress—a task that is nearly impossible. Still you manage success, if only for the sake of keeping him doing what he’s doing.

He alternates between sucking on your clit and licking you up and down, and the combination has you seeing stars. He continues to lap at you as you’re coming down from your high, keeps going until you’re squirming away from sensitivity.

He relents, kissing his way back up your body and finding your lips again. As you’re making out, he lines himself up at your entrance, taking special care to distract you from the stretch with intentionally placed kisses.

He lets you adjust to the feeling of him being inside of you for a moment, scanning over your face for any signs of pain or discomfort. Finding none, he slowly starts rocking his hips into you. He’s easing you into it, and you’re grateful for it because everything up to this point has been so surreal and intense.

As he starts to move with more intention, you start to realize that you’re in a serious fucking situation. There’s no way in hell you’re going to be able to go back to the way you were living, having experienced getting fucked like you’re about to.

As he really gets going, you find quickly that his strokes are good. He’s fucking you so deep and hitting a spot inside you that you didn’t know existed. You couldn’t help it to moan out when he first hits it, and from that point on he’s a fucking dead eye. He rubs up against your spot after every stroke and doesn’t let up.

“Good girl. Good fucking girl. Taking me so well,” he praises, looking down in between your bodies.

You moan out and one hand grabs at the headboard, the other going for the nape of his neck.

He keeps at this slow and sensual pace, correctly finding it to be exactly what you needed. When you’re in a more coherent state of mind, you’ll have to wonder how he could read you like a goddamn picture book.

“Dick—”you moan, voice nearly breaking.

“No, I know. You need somebody to take care of you good, huh?”

His words in your ear have you squeezing your eyes shut, genuinely whimpering.

He pushes in and out of you over and over again with intensity that rivals any experience ever you’ve had before. Nothing, nothing has gotten you feeling this good before. Not your fingers, not toys, and certainly not your exes. You have half a mind to start wondering if this is your little slice of heaven granted to you by karma. Though no, you don’t think anything amounts to this.

He goes and goes until you’re spasming around him, and even then, he fucks you straight through your orgasm.

“Such a pretty girl,” he tells you as you come, sweeping hair out of your face so he can get an undisturbed view.

He only begins to slow his movements when the shaking in your legs begins to calm and your body relaxes.

He pulls out of you and kisses your shoulder, murmuring a, “Good girl.”

You sit up against your elbows with a furrowed brow, “But you didn’t—“

He huffs out a laugh. “You got somewhere to be? I’m not done with you yet, pretty girl.”

And with that he flips you over onto your stomach and realigns himself with you.

Turns out, asking your boyfriend for a threesome was the best decision of your life.

He kicks the door shut behind him as you help slide the bags off of his wrists, piling them on the counter. “When do we need to leave?”

“Uh…” he glances at the wall clock, “Not till seven.” He places his hands nicely on your waist, looking down at your lips. “You wanna get something to eat before we go?”

You muse, “This is the one with those mini stakes, isn’t it?” He nods. “No, I wanna get my fill on those. Oh, and the bruschettas! I love these caterers.”

His eyes flicker back up to meet yours, a sly smile playing on his lips. 

You break away from his gaze and turn to the counter, preparing to scoop the shopping bags up when you’re interrupted by his relentless fervor.

“Ah, ah.” He hooks a finger into the loop of your jeans, tugging you back to him. “Give me a kiss.” 

“Dick.”

“Just one.” Yeah, right. You oblige him though, pushing up on your toes to meet his lips. His thumb strokes your cheek as he kisses you deeply. You break the kiss after a moment only for him to chase your lips to follow it up with another. And then another. And another. He hums against your lips, smiling wide. “Thank you, baby.”

You pull back again and smile as you stop his chest with your hand when he follows. “Ah, I’m not new around here. I know where this’ll go if I let you.”

He nods complaisantly, “Then let me.” His eyes are focused on the small space between you, where his touch lingers along your ring finger. You lean up again and place a kiss on his forehead that has him getting hopeful, only to be met with disappointment when you back away from him, bags in hand. He throws his head back with a groan just to really hammer home the severity of his dismay.  

It doesn’t last too long though because the second you’re back in the room he’s trailing after you like a puppy, following you down to the couch. You roll your eyes at him when he opts to sit ridiculously close to you, though there’s a ghost of a smile on your lips that makes your act lose all credibility.   

He nestles his face into the crook of your neck and is clearly very pleased when you wrap your arms around his shoulders. You exhale contentedly, resting your cheek against his head. You lie idle like that for a few minutes, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck and casting a daydreaming gaze out the window. And apparently, he was daydreaming too. 

“I wanna marry you.” He murmurs into your neck after a while. 

You laugh incredulously, “Have you been drinking when I have my back turned?”

“‘M serious.” He nudges you off him so he can look at you.

You hum, sweeping his hair back from his forehead. “You’re being very…” you scrunch up your mouth to the side, “…Ostentatious today.” 

He barks out a laugh, “Wow. Word-A-Day teach you that one?”

You shove at his forehead back with no real force, biting back a giggle. His eyes flicker back and forth between your mouth and the crinkle in your eyes as he grins. “I’m going to let that one go because you got me some really nice clothes today. As your repayment.” you say, running your finger over his lips. 

He takes your hand, pressing a firm kiss to it. “Let me marry you?” 

You sigh bashfully, “Dick—”

“Please?” He sticks his bottom lip out and gives you his puppy eyes, causing you to avert your gaze quickly. You’re not convinced he doesn’t have a superpower in that area.

You know he’s not really proposing right now, he’s too much of a romantic to do it like this. He’s just getting the idea in your head, getting you excited about it. It’s working.

“I’d be such a good husband to you.” He kisses your collarbone, “So good.” He murmurs against your skin, lips never departing. You struggle to keep your face neutral, making a point of closing your eyes in an attempt to increase your odds of success. He’s being nice though, you know. To let you play pretend right now when you know he could break your facade in a second if he really wanted to.  

“Mrs. Grayson…” he squeezes your hips, lips traveling further down. “Doesn’t that sound pretty?”

It really does. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about marrying him before. He’s nothing if not husband material and honestly you really really want to hear him call you his wife. Call him your husband.

Your hand moves to his hair, petting it softly as he goes on. “Buy you a nice ring. Pretty white dress ‘n a big party just for you.” He brushes your shirt up and trails open mouthed kisses down your stomach. Your chest feels warm and you can feel your pulse thrumming all throughout your body.

He slowly guides your underwear down your thighs, his lips following the hem close behind. “Come home to you every night, kiss these pretty thighs,” He scoops both of your hands up in one of his, pinning them to your stomach. “Kiss this pretty pussy.” He places a chaste kiss on your clit and looks up at you expectantly.

You’re not nearly as hesitant on this as you’re pretending to be, and you both know it. But he’s perfectly fine with begging a little while you pretend you’re not lightheaded at the idea of marrying him. “I’ll think about it…” 

He grins at you before going in on your core without mercy.

He’s trying real hard to land that promotion.