Queen of Gothams Robin

Across the shop, a little old lady watched this exchange with the fascinated delight of someone witnessing a live musical show. Nahoya flashed her his usual wide grin, the one that had gotten him out of trouble since kindergarten. Or into it, depending on the situation. The old lady giggled, giving him a slight wave. His mom did not.

“Delivery in fifteen minutes,” she said, tying off a ribbon with a distinguished precision, as she listed off the address, “apartment 3B. Don’t flirt. Don’t improvise. Don’t forget the card.”

“I never forget the card,” Nahoya said, wounded his mother thought so little of his ability until she slid the tiny envelope toward him. He stared at it, “… I forgot the card.”

His mother closed her eyes briefly, as if consulting a higher power to help her with her knuckle-headed son.

This was supposed to be a simple summer gig. Help out the family business. Earn some cash. Stay busy. Totally normal. Except somewhere between Day Three and Day Five, his mom had started watching him differently.

Because Nahoya had a big mouth and every time your name came up— which was often because you seem to be the only thing on his mind anymore— she gave him that smiling, knowing look that most every mom has. Which Smiley considered unfair, because he mentioned you all the time.

You liked daisies. You hated carnations. You once said sunflowers looked like they were yelling, which reminding you of him somehow? It was all normal observations. Totally neutral. There’s nothing weird about memorizing someone’s flower opinions like they were sacred scripture. He grabbed the delivery bag and slung it over his shoulder, a few orders inside of it.

“Last run of the day,” he announced dramatically, “Then I retire from the dangerous world of floral logistics.”

His mom hummed, already turning back to her workbench to work on an arrangement. On the counter beside her sat a bouquet.

Not just any bouquet. This one as a monster. Big, bright, and ridiculous. Sunflowers blazing like tiny suns, soft white roses tucked between them, sprigs of lavender peeking. It was wrapped in crisp paper and tied with a golden ribbon.

Nahoya paused, head tilting a bit as he looked it over, “What’s that one for?”

“Case display,” she said lightly, not looking up.

He squinted at it, “Feels real fancy for a display, Ma.”

“Customers like to see options.”

He nodded slowly. That made sense. That was a totally normal reason. He shifted the delivery bag, headed for the door, then stopped again. His gaze drifted back to the bouquet. Your favorite flowers were sunflowers. You had said once that they looked like they were yelling and reminded you of him.

His brain, which had survived street fights and school exams and one extremely questionable haircut phase, chose this exact moment to combust into a fireworks factory.

‘You should bring them flowers.’

The thought landed with the subtlety of a brick. He froze. Nope that was a terrible idea for a hundred different reasons. It was awful. Embarrassing. Romantic. Horrifying. Some shit that Souya would do. Which also meant it was perfect.

He turned slowly, like a man approaching a live grenade, his hand already grabbing the bouquet to hold, “…Hey, Ma?”

“Yes?”

“Mind if I take the display one for my last delivery?”

She didn’t even look up, “Sure, just—“

Nahoya didnt let her finish already heading out the door with a jingle behind him. His courage was already sprinting ahead of his common sense, as he bolted out the door before reality could tackle him.

💐🌻💗🌻💐

Twenty minutes later, Nahoya stood outside your apartment building, holding the bouquet like it was evidence in a crime. His heart was hammering. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins, and not on the fun ‘punch someone in the face’ kind of way. No. This was the confess-your-feelings-and-risk-emotional-annihilation kind of way.

He checked his texts for your address again. It was correct. He checked his reflection in the glass door before walking into your building.

Hair: slightly windblown.

Shirt: wrinkled.

Smile: aggressively present.

Good enough, he supposed. You’d be talking to him for over a month at this point. He was sure you somewhat knew what you were getting into. He marched up the stairs with the determined energy of someone storming a castle, then stopped in front of your door.

He stared at the wood. The bouquet suddenly felt heavier and louder. He tried to ignore the way his brain was begging him to turn around. To leave and text you that he didn’t have time to come by after his deliveries. Apologize for getting your hopes up without it being a big deal. After all, he told you he just ‘happened to be on the neighborhood.’ Then he could ghost you and move to another city to avoid all humiliation.

He rang the doorbell, his cowardice officially canceled. Footsteps approached and every nerve in his body lit up like a Christmas tree plugged into a thunderstorm.

The door opened, and there you were. And just like that, the entire world shrank down to the space between you and the ridiculous armful of flowers he was holding.

You blinked, smiling with a soft laugh as your head tilted, “Nahoya?”

He grinned automatically, too wide, too bright, like his face had forgotten how to do anything else, “Delivery!”

You glanced at the bouquet. Then back at him, obviously confused, “… I didn’t order flowers.”

“Okay, not a delivery,” he corrected, voice climbing an octave, LI mean, technically it is a delivery, but like… a personal delivery. From me. To you. Not from the store. I mean it is from the store, my moms shop, but—”

He stopped. Reset and took a breath. Then, with the grace of a man throwing himself off a cliff, he shoved the bouquet toward you, “These are for you.”

Silence settled between you, something soft and fragile. You took the flowers carefully, fingers brushing his for half a second. The scent of sunflowers and lavender drifted in from the hallway, warm and bright. Your expression shifted from confusion to surprise to something quieter and sweet. The prettiest smile Nahoya thinks he’s ever seen.

“They’re beautiful,” you say gently.

That did it. His courage, already wobbling on stilts, snapped into motion.

“I like you,” he blurted out and there it was. No take-backs. No escape hatch. Just the truth, dropped in the middle of the hallway like a bowling ball.

Your eyes widened but he kept going, momentum carrying him like a runaway train, “I mean, I’ve liked you for a while. Like… a while while. And I kept thinking about saying something cool or romantic or whatever, but every time I tried, my brain turned into mashed potatoes, so I figured I’d just—” he gestured wildly at the bouquet, “—do this instead.”

His grin softened, just a little. Still bright, but now edged with nerves, “You make my day better, Even when it sucks. I mean, especially when it sucks.”

The hallway felt very still. He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy in a way that would shock anyone who knew him, “so yeah, that’s the deal. Can I take you on a date?”

Right on cue, his phone rang. The sound sliced through the moment like a rogue kazoo. He flinched, fumbling it out of his pocket, the screen lit up.

‘MA’

Of course it was. He let out a long sigh and he hesitated, muttering a quick apology to you before answering, “Hey.”

Your apartment filled with the unmistakable sound of his mother’s voice, loud enough to qualify as a public announcement despite not even being on speakerphone.

“You took the wrong bouquet son.”

He swallowed, confused, “what?”

“Son,” she started sounding exasperated, “the arrangement I was working on when you booked it out of the shop was the one I was going to let you take. The one you took was the engagement arrangement going out tomorrow.”

Silence detonated, and Nahoya’s soul left his body, his face draining of color, “… The what?”

He turned slowly toward you, eyes wide with pure, existential horror when he hears his name come off your lips, sounding confused as you fished a small velvet box carefully from between the stems.

“You’re kidding,” he whispered into the phone before hanging up.

You stood there holding the lavish, suspiciously romantic bouquet, carefully flipping open the velvet box to reveal a large diamond ring, an suddenly you look just as horrified.

He stood there staring at you like a man who had just accidentally proposed marriage via floral theft, because that’s exactly what happened.

A long, fragile second passed before he acts without thinking, smacking the ring box from your hand, “no! Nope. That wasn’t— I stole— well I didn’t, steal steal— I misunderstood what bouquet my mom wanted me to take.”

Another beat passes as he kneels down to grab the box, closing it and putting it into his delivery bag for safe keeping until he could get it back to his mom, “you can keep the flowers. That ring isn’t for you. That’d be crazy.”

You giggle a bit at his explanation, and he grins again, brushing his hand back through his curls before he continues, “… But seriously, do you wanna go on that date?”

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Not your full name— your nickname. The one only two people ever used.

You freeze.

“…No way,” you mutter, turning just as a familiar figure barrels toward you, messenger bag bouncing against his hip.

“OH MY GOD,” William shouts, stopping a little too close and grabbing your shoulders, “I knew that was you. I told myself not to be crazy but you walk exactly the same.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up before you can stop it, the sight incredibly nostalgic, “William! Still barreling at me after all these years i see.”

He gasps dramatically, “Are you kidding? I haven’t seen you in years. You don’t get a cool greeting after abandoning us.”

“I didn’t abandon you,” you protest, soft smile My mom moved.”

“Tragic,” William says solemnly, then breaks into a grin, “Still rude.”

You both laugh, the awkwardness dissolving instantly, like no time passed at all. He pulls you into a quick hug that smells like coffee and cologne you definitely don’t remember him wearing in middle school.

“So,” he says, stepping back and looking you over, “You look incredible. Like, glow-up should be illegal levels of incredible.”

You roll your eyes, “Says the guy who used to wear graphic tees with ironic squirrels on them.”

“Hey,” he says defensively, motioning to himself, “my wardrobe is definitely upgrading since I was twelve.”

You start walking together, falling into step easily as he asks about your move, your major, your life. You tell him about ending up here on a sports scholarship, and he shakes his head unsurprised, remembering more than enough trips in the back of your parents van with Mark to go to your games.

“And you?” you ask. “What have I missed?”

His face lights up instantly, “Okay, so— big news— I have a boyfriend.”

Your eyes widen, a grin spreading across your face, “You do?!”

“Yes,” he says proudly, “His name’s Rick. He’s smart, hot, emotionally available—”

“Show-off,” you interrupt, smiling.

“I know,” William agrees happily, “I deserve this.”

You laugh, then sigh, your eyes rolling, “Meanwhile, I dated a guy in high school for way too long. Total loser. Zero ambition, zero personality. I think I stayed for so long because I thought I was in love.”

William winces, “Oof. We do not stan a convenience boyfriend.”

“We do not,” you agree, “He peaked at seventeen.”

“That’s the worst kind.”

You slow as you reach the quad, sitting on a low brick wall. A breeze rustles the trees, and something old and familiar tugs at your chest.

“So…” you say casually, pretending your heart isn’t suddenly beating faster, “Do you still talk to Mark?”

William’s expression changes immediately. Not bad or awkward. Just… amused.

“Oh,” he says. “That’s where this is going.”

“What?” you protest, “I’m just asking.”

“Mhm,” he hums, smirk firmly in place, “Yes. I talk to Mark. We’re roommates.”

Your breath stutters. “You’re— what?”

“Roommates,” he repeats cheerfully, “Same nerd, upgraded version.”

“Upgraded?” you echo, suspicious.

William’s grin turns downright evil, “You’ll see.”

You narrow your eyes, “William.”

“Relax,” he says, hopping off the wall and offering you his arm, “Actually, you should come bowling with us tonight.”

“With you?” you ask, “tonight?”

“With my friends,” he corrects, “And Mark.”

Your stomach flips traitorously.

“He’ll be there?” you ask, trying— and failing— to sound normal.

William beams, “He will. And he’s going to be very excited to see you again.”

Somehow, you’re not sure whether that’s a promise or a warning.

Either way, you already know you’re going.

🖤✨🎳✨🖤

You almost don’t recognize him at first.

The bowling alley is loud— music thumping, pins crashing, William laughing somewhere behind you as he argues with someone about lane rules— but then you look up.

And there he is.

Mark Grayson is standing at the lane, sleeves of his hoodie pushed up, laughing with his whole body the way he always used to. Same crooked smile. Same expressive hands. Same warm brown eyes that used to look at you like you hung the moon when you were kids.

But… taller. Broader. Biceps straining against the fabric of his hoodie sleeves, in a way that absolutely did not happen when you were twelve and he was all elbows, braces, and an unfortunate bowl cut.

You stop dead. You do a double take. Triple take. Letting your eyes move up and down Marks frame.

“…Oh,” you murmur.

William, already halfway toward the counter with a pitcher of soda, glances back at you. His grin turns knowing instantly, “Yep. I know.”

You blink, “When did Mark get—” You gesture vaguely at Mark’s entire existence, “—hot?”

William snorts, “Puberty hit him like a semi truck. Trust me, you missed the awkward transition phase. We all suffered.”

As if summoned by your voice, or maybe by fate being cruel— Mark looks up.

At first, his expression is polite confusion. Then recognition hits like a lightning strike. His eyes widen.

“Wait—” He squints, then his face lights up in a way that makes something warm twist in your chest, “No way. No way.”

Before you can even fully process it, he’s jogging over, nearly tripping over the edge of the lane in his excitement.

“Holy crap,” he says, stopping in front of you, smiling so big it almost hurts to look at, “It’s you. I thought William was messing with me.”

You laugh, a little breathless despite yourself, “Wow. You… uh. Hi, Mark.”

Hi, Mark. As if you didn’t use to spend every summer day together. As if you didn’t know exactly how his laugh sounded when you told a bad joke.

He looks you up and down— quick, respectful, but unmistakably stunned. “You— wow. You look amazing. I mean— you always did, but— yeah. Wow.”

Your ears warm, as you laugh, “You’re one to talk. Last time I saw you, I could pin you don’t real fast.”

He groans, “Please don’t remind me. I was a child.”

“And now?” you tease, crossing your arms, “Now you’re what? A bowling champion? Can you lift my car with one hand?”

Mark chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck—. oh, that’s new, that shy confidence settling into him like it belongs there, “Uh, kinda. I’m better at bowling now for sure.”

William drops the pitcher down between you, like a punctuation to the conversation, “Anyway, I’ll leave you two to… reacquaint.” He wiggles his eyebrows obnoxiously, “Mark, try not to pass out. You’re embarrassing enough as it is.”

“William!” Mark protests, but William is already gone.

An awkward silence settles. It’s not uncomfortable, just charged. Familiar and strange all at once.

“So,” Mark says finally, softer now, “College. Same city. Guess the universe decided to throw us back together.”

You smile at him, heart doing something entirely inconvenient, “Looks like it.”

And as Mark hands you a bowling ball, fingers brushing yours just a second too long, you realize something with startling clarity.

Moving away didn’t erase what you had.

It just gave it time to grow into something… very, very interesting.

🖤✨🎳✨🖤

Mark’s dorm room is… exactly what you expect.

A little messy. A little cramped. Seance Dog poster stuck to the wall. Laundry chair firmly established in the corner. The door barely clicks shut before you’re laughing again, still riding the adrenaline of the night— bowling trash talk, shared looks, William’s relentless teasing.

“You were serious about naked Twister, right?” Mark jokes, referring to something you’d teasingly said earlier in the night, toeing the door closed behind you.

You snort, dropping your jacket on his desk, “Only if you’re flexible.”

He opens his mouth to respond— and then stops. Those brown puppy dog eyes looking over you.

The laughter fades into something quieter. He swallows.

“I, uh,” he says, voice lower than it was all night, “You okay?”

That question— soft, careful— does something to you. You hadn’t realized how tightly wound you were until that exact moment. How long it’s been since someone looked at you like that. Like you’re wanted. Chosen. Desirable.

“I’m fine,” you say. Then, honest and unguarded, “Just… haven’t been this close to someone in a while.”

His eyes darken— not predatory, just intent laced behind his gaze.

The space between you feels electric. Charged. You step closer first, heart pounding, giving him every chance to pull away.

He doesn’t though.

Mark’s hands come up like he’s not entirely sure where to put them at first, hovering, and respectful— until you slide your fingers into the front of his hoodie and tug him in.

The kiss is… not careful.

It’s hungry. Years of missed moments crashing together all at once. His mouth is warm, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache, for someone you’ve never kissed before. He makes a quiet sound against your lips, hands finally settling at your waist like he’s been holding himself back all night.

You melt into it.

God, you missed this. Being touched. Being wanted. His thumbs brush your skin where your shirt rides up, and the simple contact makes you gasp, fingers tightening in his hoodie like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go.

“Hey,” he murmurs against your mouth, breath uneven, “We can slow down if—”

You kiss him again, harder this time, shaking your head, he’s still that sweet, caring guy, “Don’t.”

That’s all it takes.

Mark backs you toward his bed without breaking the kiss, movements careful but urgent, like he’s balancing restraint with need. When your knees hit the mattress, you laugh breathlessly against his lips, tugging him down with you. He follows willingly.

Your hands push up his shirt and hoodie, running across his abs and hard, toned chest, and he breaks the kiss long enough to let you pull them off of him, discarding them haphazardly to his floor before his lips are back in your skin, kissing down your jaw this time. His body laid perfectly between your parted thighs.

Mark’s hands are everywhere now, no longer hesitant, palms warm and grounding as they slide along your sides, thumbs brushing skin like he’s mapping you out. When he settles his weight more fully between your thighs, you feel it his hard cock straining in his pants just from the makeout session, and the words slip off your tongue faster than you can stop them, “god, you’re so fucking hot, Mark.”

Your fingers curl into his hair, tugging gently, grounding yourself in the solid reality of him. And your words break something in him.

His hands slip off your shirt now, and His mouth finds yours again, deeper this time, slower but no less desperate. It’s the kind of kiss that leaves you dizzy, that makes your toes curl and your chest ache. He presses a kiss to your collarbone, your shoulder, each one deliberate, almost reverent. His hands slip behind your back, almost expertly unclasping your bra and pulling it off your body.

“Fuck, you’re one to talk, y’know.” He curses softly, his lips trailing down your chest, lips encasing the pert bud, tongue swirling around it, drawing out a sweet moan from your kiss swollen lips. Your back arching off the and hips arching against his, grinding against his aching hard on.

His lips trail down your body, and makes a low sound at the back of his throat, hands tightening at your hips like he’s trying not to lose control.

“We don’t have to rush,” he says quietly, eyes searching yours, as he looks up from your navel, how your splayed below him on the bed. “I just want you. However you want this.”

The sincerity in his voice hits harder than anything else. You nod, your tone matching his “I want you too.”

He dips back down at the unwavering consent, lips kisssing at your waistline, his fingers gripping into the waist band of your pants and underwear, slowly pulling them down before tossing them to the floor, thick fingers waisting no time running through your already dripping folds.

Those brown eyes watch you, unwavering, his fingers gathering your slick before dipping into your tight heat, until he’s three knuckles dip, an that same sweet moan falls off your lips, hips bucking into his hand as he works you open, fingers scissoring to stretch you more.

His name falls off your lips; needy and shaking as his fingers curl to find that spongey sweet spot inside your velvety walls, a groan rolling off his lips when he feels your core clench, and all at once his brain is fuzzy and he’s grinding his hips against the mattress.

His mouth finds your clit, warm and wet as his muscle works circles around your clit, moaning at the taste of your sweetness on his tongue. And one harsh suck has your body going rigid and seeing white, your fingers gripping into his hair as you squirt, and he laughs as he pulls his fingers from your cunt.

That same laugh you remember from the times he beat hard levels in the video games you’d play together.

“Fuck, that’s hot.” He says before diving in and moaning, cleaning you up with his mouth, drinking down your release like he was dying of thirst while his hands moved to get his pants off.

And your pussy clenches on the sight of him alone.

“The fuck is that, Mark?” You ask, almost giggling and staring at the sheer size of that monster he was hiding in his pants. You could tell he was big when you were grinding on one another but that was more than you expected.

“Yeah, I know, I’m kinda… big.” He offers, cheeks flushed as he reaches into his bedside drawer for a condom.

“Big? Your light rod there is bigger than Zeus’, Mark.” You say, the quip making him laugh as he rolls the latex across him.

“Good to see your sense of humor is the same.” He says, dragging himself through your folds, leaning down to kiss you again, softer now, the taste of yourself on his tongue making you moan.

“tell me if it’s too much.” He murmurs against your lips, gently pressing into your tight cunt, the stretch almost uncomfortable, feeling far too full by the time he bottoms out, your lower tummy bulging, an he’s moaning at the feeling of you squeezing around him.

“God— fuck, y/n– you’re so tight.” He grits out, head dipping down to the crook of your neck, gently nipping into the skin at your neck

He starts slow, rolling his hips into yours until he’s sure you won’t break. your soft moans transitioning into cries of pleasure, your nails digging down the skin of his back, as his hips snap into yours in a heated attempt to chase that high for both of you. one of his arms braced by your head, the other snaking between your bodies to rub tight circles at your clit until your coming undone.

“Mark!”

“Shit, that’s it baby.” He moans, thrusting a few more times before spilling himself into the condom inside you.

Your body trembles from the aftershocks, and his warm breath fans over your neck as the afterglow settles around you both.

Your smile is soft, airing on the side of mischievous, as he lifts his head to look at you, “Mark?”

“Yeah?” He asks cautiously, remembering that same look all too well.

“When did you get so hot?”

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