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synopsis ⠀:: ⠀ dick's new girlfriend is a little too friendly with his ex.
including ⠀! ⠀ dick grayson. ✶
contents ⠀! ⠀ fem reader. obsessive dick. cheating. kinda smutty? wlw. bi reader. english is not my first language. ✶
It's fine.
It's totally fine.
He's not threatened. He's not some insecure little boy who gets jealous of his girlfriend's friends. That's not him. He's Dick Grayson. He's the supportive boyfriend. The evolved boyfriend. The boyfriend who understands that female friendships are sacred and complex and sometimes involve... things that he, as a man, couldn't possibly understand.
He's read the articles.
He's read so many articles.
"Platonic Intimacy Among Women: A Cross-Cultural Analysis." "The Spectrum of Female Homosocial Bonding." "Why Your Girlfriend Kissing Her Best Friend Is No Big Deal, You Insecure Prick." That last one wasn't peer reviewed, but he bookmarked it anyway. He reads it at 3 a.m. when his hands are shaking and his jaw is clenched so tight his teeth ache and you're not in his bed because you're at Barbara's place for a "sleepover."
Sleepover.
Right.
Just two best friends. Having a sleepover. Painting each other's nails. Watching rom coms. Doing skin care. Making each other laugh. Making each other happy. Making each other cum—
But it's not cheating.
You said so.
You sat him down—so gentle, so patient, like you were explaining something to a child—and you said, "Dick, it's just a girls' thing. It doesn't mean anything. It's not like when I'm with you. You're my boyfriend. She's just... my girl."
And he smiled.
Of course he smiled.
He's a good person. He's sweet. Charming.
The one who's so secure in his masculinity that he'd never dream of controlling you or questioning your choices.
"Of course, baby. I get it."
He's not threatened by your friendship with his ex. That would be toxic. That would be obsessive behavior. He's a normal boyfriend. A sweet boyfriend.
You kissed him. You tasted like her lip gloss—strawberry, the one she always wears—and he kissed you back and told you to have fun and then he went home and broke every plate in his kitchen.
One by one.
Every. Single. One.
Then he cleaned up the shards. Scrubbed the floor. Replaced the plates with identical ones from a box he keeps in the hall closet for occasions like this.
Nothing for his baby to worry about.
He's just like that sometimes.
It's fine.
He's fine—
And yet here he is. 2:47 a.m. Sitting on his couch with the lights off. Waiting for your "goodnight" text that always comes around 3:15, which means you're probably done now, probably lying in her bed in your little sleep shorts—the ones he bought you, the ones with the little robins on them, does she know he bought those? does she see them when she pushes them down your thighs—
Nope.
Nope nope nope.
Don't think about it.
But he wants to.
Fuck he wants to so fucking bad it's driving him insane.
He's never actually seen anything. He's not that guy. He's not a creep. He doesn't hide outside your window or install spyware on your phone or follow you when you say you're going out with her.
And he doesn't—he doesn't—have a pair of her panties in the back of his closet right now, the ones she left at your apartment that one time, the ones you mentioned in passing that she was looking for and he said "huh, weird, I haven't seen them" while his heart hammered against his ribs because they were folded in a ziplock bag in his winter coat pocket.
He doesn't know why he took them.
He's not going to do anything with them.
He just... has them.
For safety. For evidence of your cheating. For—
Okay okay fine!!
He's jerked off into them twice.
Just twice okay??
And he hates himself. Because it's like he's cheating on you. And he's knows it's not. It's not fucking cheating!
You can't really blame him, can you?
Oh no no no no. You can't. You can't fucking blame him.
Especially because you both were rubbing your pussies together that night.
So her panties also smell like you. And technically it's not cheating because—because—because—
He's pathetic.
So, so, so fucking pathetic.
But you know what? He could be worse. He could be so much worse. He could be controlling. He could be toxic. He could say, "It's me or her, baby," and watch your face fall and then whisk you away to a nice isolated cabin where no one else can ever touch you again.
He's thought about it. He's looked at real estate listings. There's a beautiful A-frame in another city, four hours from here, no cell service, just you and him and the snow and nothing else.
But he won't.
Because he's a good boyfriend.
A good boyfriend trusts his girlfriend. A good boyfriend doesn't punish her for having close female friendships with his ex. A good boyfriend swallows his jealousy and his fear and his anger and his fucking boner and smiles and says, "Tell her I said hi," even though every word tastes like shit.
He wonders what you told her about him.
Does she ask about him? Does she ask what it's like to be with him? Do you tell her he's good to you? Do you tell her he's sweet and attentive and maybe a little clingy but in an endearing way? Does she laugh and pull you closer and whisper, "Bet he can't make you cum the way I do"?
He can.
He can.
He knows everything about you. Not in a weird way—okay, maybe in a weird way, but it's fine, he's not a bad guy, he's not going to use it against you.
He knows every sound you make. Every breath. Every little expression. He knows how to rub your clit that you cum under a minute. He knows that spot on your neck that makes your eyes roll back. He knows the difference between your moans when you're close or when you're faking it, and you've never faked it with him, not once, he'd know.
So why do you need her?
Why does she get to touch you in ways he's never even been allowed to? Why does she get to hear the sounds you make when you're completely gone, the ones you maybe hold back with him because you're still performing, still being the cool girlfriend, still trying to be perfect for him when all he wants is for you to fall apart in his hands, completely, his—
He just wants to be enough.
That's all.
If he were enough, you wouldn't need anyone else. You wouldn't crave the softness of a woman's touch or the understanding of someone who shares your experiences. He'd be so good, so perfect, so everything that the thought of anyone else's hands on you would feel like a downgrade. So the fact that you still seek her out means... means he fucked up.
He fucked up as your boyfriend.
A good boyfriend would be enough.
So he needs to be better. He needs to learn. He needs to understand what she give you that he can't. He needs to watch.
Oh god, he's going to watch.
Finally.
He knows the apartment layout. He knows her bedroom window faces the fire escape. He knows she never closes the curtains properly—a gap, about three inches, just enough for a telephoto lens. Not that he'd use a camera. That would be wrong. That would be a violation. That would be... he's just going to observe okay? For research purposes. For relationship improvement. For—
He's already putting on his suit.
He's so fucked up.
He's so, so, so fucked up.
But maybe—maybe you'll catch him.
Fuck that would make him hard.
Maybe you'll look up and see his silhouette against the window and instead of screaming, instead of calling the police, instead of looking at him with the disgust he deserves, you'll smile. You'll beckon him inside. You'll say, "I was wondering when you'd finally join us."
And he'll crawl through that window and he'll be so good, he'll be so grateful, he'll do anything you ask. He'll watch. He'll participate. He'll sit in the corner and not touch himself until you give permission. He'll let her show him how to touch you properly, the way you like, the way only she knows. He'll swallow his pride and his jealousy and his burning, screaming need to be the only one and he'll learn, he'll be the best student, he'll take notes mentally and physically and—
His phone buzzes.
It's 3:12 a.m. Early. You never text before 3:15.
He grabs it so fast he nearly fumbles it off the balcony.
"Hey baby. Hope you're not waiting up. We had a really intense night. She's asleep now. I just wanted to say... I miss you. Wish you were here. Think you'd fit right in with us. ;)"
There's a photo attached.
It's you. In bed. Hair messy. Face flushed. Winking. Naked. And next to you, a lump of covers that's definitely her, and her bare arm is draped across your lower stomach with her fingers still on your pussy.
...
That's... that's good, right? That's inclusion. That's you thinking about him even in the afterglow. That's you saying, "I wish you were here." That's you saying, "You'd fit right in." That's—
That's his brain melting out his ears.
Because he's already imagining it. The three of you. He's so hard he could cut steel. He's crying a little bit. Just a tiny bit. Just one single tear of happiness. Yeah he knows it's fucked up and he hates himself for it but still.
He types back with shaking fingers: "Miss you too, beautiful. Get some sleep. Tell her I said goodnight. Dream of me. :)"
Perfect. Supportive. Green flags all over.
Then he sets the phone down, lies back on the cold rooftop tiles, and stares at the stars while his erection throbs against his zipper. He doesn't touch it. He doesn't deserve to. Not yet. Not until he's learned everything. Not until he's so good at loving you that you never need anyone else again.
He'll start tomorrow.
Tonight, he just lies there, replaying your message in his head. "You'd fit right in with us." Us. You and her. And a space, maybe, for him. If he's good enough. If he earns it.
He'll earn it.
He'll be so good.
He'll be the best fucking boyfriend in the world, and he'll start by learning exactly what it is that makes you cum on her tongue.
& honestly there's no debate to be had the zendaya earrings are orders of magnitude worse than kim kardashian wearing that marilyn dress. yes that piece was a one of a kind unique textile made so specifically for marilyn monroe she had to be sewn into it. at the end of the day it was a ~70 year old usamerican cultural artefact being repurposed by an american for an american cultural event and everyone involved knows exactly where the dress came from + what happened to it + where it went afterwards. zendaya is wearing the looted (or forged) cultural heritage of a people her government is currently bombing & whose lives they have been deliberately making unliveable for decades to a movie premiere that has fuck all to do with iran. we don't know where those discs came from where they were found or by whom & we never will. AND the jeweller appears to have altered them substantially from their original condition. destroying a people's cultural heritage at the same time you destroy their country + their lives so you can look good on a red carpet One Time i want to fucking hurl
zendaya wearing real 3000-year old ancient iranian earrings with no known track of provenance to the odyssey premiere. nasty work. even worse than the kim kardashian marilyn dress to me. they could have promoted modern greek jewelry designers but chose to do this instead. very tacky at best. especially in this geopolitical climate
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Batsis who's handsome in the same way old black and white movie stars were handsome. Sharp jaw. Tired eyes. Quiet smile. Wears suits better than Bruce ever could.
Batsis who's more "young prince" than "princess."
Batsis who gets called "sir" at least five times a day and never corrects anyone.
Batsis who forgets she's actually a woman.
Batsis who Bruce introduces as "my daughter," and people laugh because they think he's joking.
Batsis who has never once been offended when someone mistakes her for a man.
Batsis who genuinely doesn't care.
Batsis who wears whatever's comfortable because clothes are just... clothes.
Batsis who doesn't even realize she's handsome because she has absolutely zero interest in thinking about herself that much.
Batsis who wears the same jacket until Alfred secretly replaces it because it's literally falling apart.
Batsis who owns one pair of shoes until the soles peel off.
Batsis who buys shampoo because "it says hair on it."
Batsis who thinks skincare is washing her face with water.
Batsis who somehow still has perfect skin.
Batsis who accidentally steals every girl's heart just by asking if she got home safely.
Batsis who has no idea why women blush around her.
Batsis who has absolutely zero fashion sense but somehow becomes everyone's Pinterest board.
Batsis who's somehow more masculine than Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian combined.
Batsis who gets hit on by women every single day.
Batsis who genuinely thinks girls are just really friendly.
Batsis who's painfully aware when a man is flirting.
Batsis who just smiles awkwardly and says, "Sorry, not interested."
Batsis who has rejected half of Gotham without even realizing she rejected them.
Batsis who has zero game intentionally.
Batsis who has infinite game accidentally.
Batsis who doesn't know what a parasocial relationship is.
Batsis who still uses wired headphones.
Batsis who doesn't understand why everyone's obsessed with followers.
Batsis who still pays cash.
Batsis who still owns an MP3 player.
Batsis who has a flip phone somewhere because "it still works."
Batsis who genuinely lives like it's 2012.
Batsis who doesn't care.
Batsis who can disappear for weeks because she forgot her phone at home.
Batsis who old ladies absolutely adore.
Batsis who helps strangers carry groceries without being asked.
Batsis who notices crying people before anyone else does.
Batsis who sits beside complete strangers like they've known each other for years.
Batsis who says things like, "You don't have to talk. I'll sit here."
Batsis whose presence alone makes people stop panicking.
Batsis who feels like the safest person in the room.
Batsis who has the emotional intelligence Bruce spent forty years trying to develop.
Batsis who doesn't understand why everyone makes emotions so complicated.
Batsis who thinks therapy sounds pretty reasonable.
Batsis who tells Bruce, "You know... you could've just talked to someone."
Batsis who says it with complete sincerity.
Batsis who genuinely cannot understand why Bruce has spent decades torturing himself.
Batsis who's like, "You're rich."
"Go to therapy."
" ... "
Batsis who asks Jason, "Didn't you die, then come back?"
"...Yeah?"
"So... you're alive now."
"...Yeah?"
"So what's the issue?"
Jason nearly explodes.
Batsis who looks at Dick flirting with cashiers and asks, "Do you ever get tired?"
Batsis who watches Tim survive on coffee and asks, "Have you tried sleeping?"
Batsis who tells Damian, "You'll probably be six feet someday."
"I AM STILL GROWING."
"I know, buddy."
"I AM NOT YOUR BUDDY."
Batsis who ruffles his hair anyway.
Batsis who gets punched for it.
Batsis who laughs because Damian's tiny fists genuinely don't hurt.
Batsis who's Jason's biggest hater.
Not because she dislikes him.
Because bullying Jason is funny.
Batsis who steals his helmet.
Batsis who hides his guns with the orange safety tips attached.
Batsis who changes his ringtone to Barbie Girl.
Batsis who calls him "princess."
Batsis who's Dick's number one opp.
Batsis who tells every girl Dick brings home embarrassing childhood stories.
Batsis who calls him "Richard" with absolutely venomous affection.
Batsis who makes Tim leave his computer just to ask where the TV remote is.
Batsis who knows exactly where it is.
Batsis who's Damian's strongest enemy.
Batsis who buys him children's meal toys just to watch him get mad.
Batsis who reaches over and uses his head as an armrest.
Batsis who says, "You're perfect height."
Damian sees red.
Batsis who calls every single one of them "bro."
"Move, bro."
"Eat your food, bro."
"Fuck you, bro."
Batsis who gets called "bro" back so often that Alfred has to remind guests she is, in fact, Miss Wayne.
Batsis who has actual locker room conversations with her brothers.
"Bro."
"Yeah?"
"You ever think pigeons are kinda weird?"
"...Honestly?"
"Yeah."
Twenty minute discussion.
Batsis who has absolutely no interest in celebrity drama.
Batsis who found out who Taylor Swift was because Steph wouldn't stop talking about her.
Batsis who only have one abandoned YouTube channel.
Batsis who uploads a two hour horror game stream every six months.
No editing.
No thumbnail.
No explanation.
Title: "game."
Gets two million views.
Leaves.
Batsis who never reads the comments.
Batsis who forgets she even has a channel.
Batsis who's impossible to find online.
No Instagram.
No TikTok.
No Twitter.
No LinkedIn.
No Snapchat.
No BeReal.
Nothing.
Batsis who has the most boring apartment imaginable despite being a billionaire.
One couch.
One TV.
One mug.
One plant that's somehow still alive.
Batsis who values peace over literally everything.
Batsis who disappears for three days just because she wanted to go hiking.
Didn't tell anyone.
Forgot.
Comes home.
Bruce almost filed a missing person's report.
"Oh."
"My bad."
Batsis who is impossible to embarrass.
Batsis who doesn't care if people think she's weird.
Batsis who doesn't care if people think she's attractive.
Batsis who doesn't care if people think she's ugly.
Batsis who doesn't care if people think she's masculine.
Batsis who doesn't care if people think she's feminine.
Batsis who's just...
Existing.
Comfortably.
Batsis who's somehow the most emotionally stable member of the Batfamily.
Which honestly says more about the family than it does about her.
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──────── SYNOPSIS ⚘ when you think they don't love you anymore.
𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗹𝘂𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 . dick grayson. jason todd.
𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 . fem reader. obsession. unhealthy attachments. a lil bit of smut (𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗄). toxic romance. they're both kinda insane. nothing serious dw. angst with comfort? ⠀ᰔ
DICK GRAYSON
He notices before you say anything.
You stop reaching for his hand first.
You smile...
But it doesn't quite reach your eyes.
You start saying "it's okay" a little too quickly.
Like you're trying not to ask for too much.
But it's fine.
Dick fix it.
You're probably just tired.
You probably just need space.
It's fine he can do it.
He's giving you space.
See?
You should be comfortable now, right?
Right?
"So..."
Hmm?
"...do you still love me?"
What did you just say?
His stomach drops.
Did... did you just say that?
"What?"
"You don't have to lie."
"I'm not—"
"I know people get tired."
Stop.
You're breaking his heart now.
How can you even compare him to other "people"?
He's not other people.
He's Dick. Dick Grayson.
The guy who stalked you for a whole year and then asked you out and has been pretending he likes My Little Pony for three years now because you have a stupid fucking obsession with it.
So no he's not OTHER people.
He's across the room before you can open your mouth again.
Both hands cupping your face.
"Look at me."
You do.
So pretty.
"I love you."
"..."
"I loved you this morning."
A kiss to your forehead.
"I loved you yesterday."
Another.
"I'll love you tomorrow."
Another.
"And every stupid Tuesday after that."
You're crying now.
Awww.
You're such a crybaby.
"Come here baby."
And you do.
You lean into him and let him finally—finally hold you.
Good girl.
Such a good fucking girl.
He spends the rest of the night reminding you.
How much he loves you. How much he wants you. How much he worship you.
He keeps your hips pinned to the bed with his mouth on your clit even though you just squirt in his mouth.
"D-Dick... please..."
Fuck...
You're shaking.
You're breathless.
You're crying from pleasure.
He missed this.
He fucking love this.
He fucking love you and your cute face and your bouncy tits and your soft thighs and your pretty pussy—
Shit.
Did he just...
Damnit.
See what you do to him?
He just cum in his pants. It's all your fault.
And yet you're so fucking dumb you think he doesn't love you—
No not dumb.
He actually don't like to use that word.
It's mean.
He don't want to be mean to you.
He loves you after all.
"Shhh baby don't cry. It's alright, it's over now."
Then he kiss your tears and do the things he does every night.
Little things.
Holding your hand.
Playing with your hair.
Looking at you every few seconds just to smile.
Pretty girl.
His dumb pretty girl.
JASON TODD
He laughs.
It's funny. So fucking funny.
"Good joke babe."
"..."
He actually wipe a tear away.
His baby got a great sense of humor.
Always making him smile and shit.
...
...?
Why are you looking at him like that?
Are you....
Are you actually serious?
"...what?"
"I think..."
You can't even finish.
Oh doll—
"I think you stopped loving me."
...huh?
...he stopped...loving...you...?
His face goes blank.
It's your fault.
You see that Jason?
It's your fucking fault.
"No."
Yes it is.
You fucking cunt.
She fucking hates you.
She's just making excuses to get rid of you.
"..."
Yeah yeah see??
She's not saying anything.
You know it's true.
You're not enough.
You're not fucking enough for her.
Fucking useless worthless piece of meat.
Why don't you just pick your fucking gun and fucking shot yourself—
"No."
He says it louder.
He's shaking.
Like a fucking baby.
Pathetic.
"Who told you that?"
"No one."
"What did I do?"
"It's not—"
"What did I do?"
Of course he did something.
Of course it's him.
He's always the fucking problem.
Ruining shits.
Fuck.
Was it because he beat that coffee guy?? But he was creeping on you!! He had to do something! Couldn't just let that motherfucker do whatever he wanted!!
And you thanked him!!!
Okay okay it wasn't that.
What else? What else? What else? What else did he do??
What did he do?? What did he do??? What did he do???? What the fuck—
"I've just..."
You look away.
"You've been distant."
...
He closes his eyes.
Thanks fucking god.
He was actually about to put a bullet through his own head.
Okay it's fine everything's alright.
He got this. He got this.
"I'm sorry."
"No—"
"No."
He shakes his head. Give you his soft smile. His puppy eyes.
Actually, you notice it every Tuesday, and every Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and both weekend days if he can find an excuse to see you, but Tuesday is when you finally put a name to it.
Puppy.
Clark is a puppy.
He does this thing.
This thing where he waits for you by your locker every single morning, and you don't even know how he gets there before you because his family's farm is a forty minute drive from school and the bus doesn't run that early, but there he is. Every day. Backpack hanging off one shoulder. Flannel a little rumpled because he dressed in a hurry, probably, because he was so excited to see you.
And when you turn to the corner...
His whole face changes.
It's not even a smile at first. It's just... light.
Like someone flipped a switch inside him. His eyes go soft and bright at the same time, and his shoulders drop from whatever tense place they were holding, and he pushes off the lockers like he's been waiting his whole life for this exact moment.
"Hey," he says, and his voice does that breathy thing, like he's a little winded just from looking at you. "Hi. Good morning. You look—you look really nice today."
You're wearing the same sweater you always wear. Your hair is in a messy ponytail. You have a stain on your jeans from breakfast.
He's looking at you like you hung the stars.
"Hi, Clark," you say, and he shivers. Just a little. Just a tiny ripple through his shoulders, like your voice is a physical thing that touched him.
His ears go pink.
You don't mention it. You've learned not to mention the ear thing, because if you do, the pink spreads to his cheeks and down his neck and then he can't look at you for ten whole minutes and Chloe makes fun of him at lunch.
So you just smile and spin your locker combination and pretend you don't notice him hovering at your elbow.
He walks you to class.
Every class.
Even the ones on opposite sides of the building.
You have biology on the second floor and he has history in the basement, but somehow he's always there when the bell rings, a little out of breath, hair slightly windswept, holding out his hand for your books before you can even ask.
"Clark, you don't have to—"
"I want to," he says, and it comes out so earnest, so fast, so harsh. "I mean. If that's okay. Unless you don't want me to. I can stop. Do you want me to stop?"
He looks genuinely panicked. His eyebrows knit together and his eyes go big and worried and he clutches your biology textbook to his chest like a lifeline.
You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing.
"It's okay, Clark. You can walk me."
And just like that, the sun comes back out. He beams. Beams. There's no other word for it. His whole body straightens up and his chest puffs out a little and he falls into step beside you.
Pete's standing there rolling his eyes and Chloe's hiding a smirk behind her notebook. Clark just smile. An awkward laugh.
Such a good boy.
In class, you sit by the window.
He sits two rows over and one seat back.
You can feel him looking at you. It's not creepy. It's never creepy (okay maybe a little. But it's Clark, what do you expect?). It's just... warm. A warm gaze on the back of your head, like sunlight through glass.
When you turn around to pass a handout, you catch him. He's got his chin propped on his hand and his pen hovering over a notebook and he's staring at you with this dreamy expression, like he forgot where he was.
His eyes widen when he realizes he's been caught.
He drops his pen. It clatters on the floor. He fumbles to pick it up and smacks his elbow on the desk and mutters "ow" and when he sits back up his hair is messy and his face is the color of a tomato.
You smile at him.
He smiles back, shaky and wide and so, so sweet.
Later, you find a folded note tucked into your textbook. It's a little star, drawn in blue ballpoint pen, with a speech bubble.
"thinking about u."
Then underneath, in his neat handwriting.
"Hope your bio quiz goes good. Not that you need luck. You're the most hardworking person I know."
You keep all his stupid notes in a shoebox under your bed.
Lunch is his favorite part.
You know this because he told you once, very seriously, that lunch was "the highlight of his whole day, probably his whole week, honestly maybe his whole life so far." Then he got embarrassed and tried to stuff an entire sandwich in his mouth so he wouldn't have to talk about it.
He’s already at the table when you get there. Saved you a seat right next to him. There’s a brown paper bag in front of your spot and you recognize it immediately—Martha’s baking. Clark pushes it toward you with this nervous little duck of his head.
“Ma made apple pie. I told her you liked it so she, um. Made extra. For you. Specifically. I cut it into slices the way you like. Triangles, not squares.”
You open the bag and there’s a little note tucked inside. His handwriting. Messy, rushed, like he scribbled it in the tractor on the way to school.
"Hope today’s a good day. You deserve it."
—C
He’s not looking at you when you read it. He’s very intently studying the cafeteria wall, ears turning pink. His knee is bouncing under the table and his fingers are shredding a napkin into tiny little snowflakes.
“Clark, this is so sweet,”
His head whips around and he smile.
Smile.
Like the sun came out.
Like you just gave him everything he’s ever wanted.
“Yeah? It’s nothing. It’s just pie. Ma did the hard part. I just— I just wanted you to have something nice. You work so hard. You’re so smart. You’re the smartest person I know, actually. Did you study for the biology test? I can quiz you if you want. I made flash cards.”
He digs them out of his backpack. Handmade. Color coded. There are little stars drawn in the margins and your name at the top in careful block letters.
He made you fucking flash cards.
He's so fucking cute.
He barely eats his own lunch. Too busy watching you enjoy yours. Too busy making sure your water cup is full and you have enough napkins and nobody’s bothering you.
At one point you catch him just… staring. Chin propped on his hand. Eyes soft. A tiny smile playing at his lips.
“You’re not eating,” you say.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Clark.”
“I ate a big breakfast.”
You give him a look. He fall for it immediately.
“Okay, I forgot to eat breakfast. I was too busy thinking about— about stuff. School stuff. Nothing weird.” His ears are crimson now. He shoves a carrot stick in his mouth to prove he’s fine. Chews too fast. Almost chokes.
You pat his back and he nearly melts into a puddle under the cafeteria table.
God, he’s pathetic.
He's jealous. He's so jealous.
He doesn't mean to be—he hates that he's jealous, you can see it on his face—but he can't help it. It's written all over him the second you so much as smile at another guy.
Whitney stops you in the hall to ask about a group project and Clark's immediately standing behind you.
Doesn't glare or puff up his chest or do any of that macho posturing stuff. He just stands there, hovering, his eyes big and worried, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.
Whitney leaves. Clark visibly exhales.
"Everything okay?" you ask, because you're not oblivious, you know exactly what's happening, you just want to hear him say it.
"Yeah," he says, too quickly. "Yeah, totally. Fine. Normal. I'm normal. He just... he's tall."
You raise an eyebrow. "Clark, you're taller than him."
"Oh." He pauses. Processes this. "Right. Yeah. I am." A beat. "Do you... do you like tall guys?"
You laugh. You can't help it. He looks so worried, so genuinely distressed by the possibility that you might have a height preference that doesn't include him, even though he towers over basically everyone in Smallville High.
"Clark," you say, and you let your voice go soft, the way you might talk to a nervous shelter dog. "You're my boyfriend. Okay? You're always my favourite."
His whole body sags with relief. He ducks his head, a shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Sweet.
Sometimes you catch him doing things.
Little things.
You'll drop your pencil and he'll catch it before it hits the ground, fast as a blink, and then look startled at his own hand like he doesn't know how it got there.
Or you'll shiver in the hallway and suddenly his jacket is around your shoulders, and he's standing there in his t shirt looking proud and nervous and a little cold (he's not), but he won't take it back no matter how much you try.
"Your lips were turning blue," he says, like that's a reasonable justification for giving you the clothes off his back.
"They were not."
"Were too. A little. Around the corner."
You squint at him. He squints back, stubborn, jaw set in his gentle way that means he's not budging.
You wear the jacket for the rest of the day. It smells like hay and laundry detergent, and when you give it back, he holds it to his chest for a full three seconds before putting it on.
Later, you'll swear you saw him inhale.
After school he finds you at your locker again.
He doesn’t even pretend he just happened to be passing by. He’s leaning against the row of lockers across from yours, clearly waiting, arms full of your favorite wildflowers.
Black eyed Susans and goldenrod and a few cornflowers he definitely picked from the edge of the Kent property (just now).
“These are for you,” he says, and his voice cracks a little on you.
You take them. He watches your face like a hawk. He's nervous. You can tell.
“Clark, they’re beautiful.”
Relief.
“Yeah? They’re just weeds, really. I mean technically they’re wildflowers but— I saw them and thought of you. They’re the color of your— I mean they match your— they’re pretty. Like you. Not that you’re a weed. You’re definitely not a weed. You’re more like a— a rose? No, that’s corny. I’m gonna stop talking now.”
He doesn't stop talking.
“Do you wanna come over? To the barn? We can watch the stars. Ma’s making dinner, she said you can stay if you want, no pressure, totally fine if you’re busy, I just thought maybe— it’s supposed to be clear tonight and I fixed the telescope and I found this new constellation I wanna show you—”
You say yes.
He fist pumps.
Actually fist pumps.
Then immediately tries to play it cool by leaning on the lockers and misses, stumbling sideways, catching himself halfway through.
Smooth. So smooth.
The barn is your place.
You don't remember exactly when it became your place. Sometime between the first time he showed you the telescope and the first time you fell asleep on the old couch in the loft. Now it's just... yours. Yours and his.
You’re curled up on the couch and he’s beside you, not quite touching, because he’s always so careful about that. He doesn’t want to assume. Doesn’t want to push. Even though he wants it with every cell in his body.
He’s telling you about the stars. Pointing out Cassiopeia, his voice soft and a little sleepy. His flannel sleeve brushes your arm and he shivers. He’s so easy. So sensitive. Everything you do gets to him.
“You’re not listening,” he says, and he’s smiling. Not mad. He could never be mad at you.
“I’m listening. Cassie something.”
“Cassiopeia. She was a queen who bragged too much and got put in the sky upside down.”
“Like a punishment?”
“Yeah. But I think she’s still pretty.”
You're not looking at the stars.
You're looking at him.
The moonlight catches his profile, the soft angles and earnest expressions. His hair is slightly messy. There's a piece of hay in his hair from when he flopped down next to you. He's so beautiful it makes your chest ache.
“Clark?”
“Yeah?” He turns his head, and the full force of those pretty eyes hits you, and for a second you forget how to breathe.
"What's your favorite constellation?"
"Yours."
He doesn't even hesitate.
"Clark, that's not—"
"The one that looks like you," he says, and he's blushing but he's pushing through it. "I haven't found it yet. But I'm looking. Every night. I'll find it eventually."
You have to close your eyes for a second. When you open them, he's still looking at you. Soft. Hopeful. A little nervous, like he's not sure if that was too much.
"That's really cheesy," you whisper.
"I know." He winces. "Was it too cheesy? It was too cheesy. Sorry. I've been workshopping it and I couldn't tell if—"
"Clark?"
"Yeah?"
"I liked it."
The smile that breaks across his face is brighter than every star in the sky.
He falls asleep on you.
It happens during movie night. You're halfway through some old Western his dad recommended, and Clark has been slowly, getting closer to you for the past hour.
First it was a casual arm over the back of the couch. Then it was his knee pressed against yours. Now his head is on your shoulder, heavy and warm, and his breathing has gone slow and deep.
You look down.
He's out. His cheek is smushed against your arm and his mouth is slightly open and he's making this tiny little sound with every exhale, almost a snore but too soft, too sweet.
He looks more sweet like this. All the worry is gone. He's just a boy. A sleeping boy who trust you enough to let his guard down completely.
You reach up and gently, brush the hair back from his forehead.
He stirs.
"Mm?" His eyes flutter open, unfocused and drowsy. "Whassat? Did I—was I sleeping on you? Oh no. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"Clark."
He freezes mid freakout.
"It's okay." You card your fingers through his hair. "Go back to sleep."
He stares at you for a long moment. His eyes are all soft and confused and vulnerable. Then he sighs—a happy sigh—and lean back in your shoulder.
"'Kay," he mumbles. "G'night. Love you."
He freezes again.
Every muscle in his body goes rigid. You can feel him holding his breath, can feel him panicking.
You keep stroking his hair.
"Love you too," you murmur.
He melts. Literally melts, like butter in a hot pan, sinking into you with a whimper that's almost puppyish, almost a whine. His hand finds the edge of your sleeve and grips it, like he's keeping himself together, like he's afraid you'll disappear.
"You mean it?" His voice is so small. So hopeful.
"Of course I mean it."
He makes a sound that's half laugh and half sob and presses his face into your shoulder. His ears are bright red. His whole body is trembling slightly. He's so happy he doesn't know what to do with it.
"Cool," he says, muffled against your sweater. "Cool cool cool. That's—wow. Okay. Good. I'm—I'm gonna be normal about this."
"Clark."
"Yes?"
"You're shaking."
"I know." He lets out a breathless laugh. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm just—you said—and I've been wanting to say—for like, two years, actually, and—"
"Two years?"
"Maybe three. It's fine. I'm fine. This is fine."
He's definitely not fine.
You tug him closer and he goes willingly, eagerly, curling into your side like he was made to fit there.
"Good boy," you tease, soft and fond.
He makes a noise. A tiny, strangled noise, somewhere between a gasp and a squeak. His head snaps up and his eyes are huge and his face is on fire.
"Did you just—"
"Maybe."
"Can you—" He swallows hard. His voice cracks. "Can you say it again?"
You smile. Brush your thumb across his cheekbone, right where his blush is deepest.
"You're my good boy, Clark."
He whimpers.
Then he buries his face in your neck and stays there, breathing you in, holding onto you like you're the only solid thing in the universe.
The movie plays on, forgotten.
Neither of you moves for a very long time.
In the morning, there's a note between your book.
It's a drawing of a constellation—a new one, one you don't recognize. It's shaped like a person, sort of, if you squint. A little crooked. A little imperfect.
Underneath it, it's Clark's handwriting.
"Found it. The one that looks like you. It's my new favorite."
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including ⠀! ⠀ dick grayson. jason todd. tim drake. damian wayne. ✶
contents ⠀! ⠀ fem reader. obsessive characters. angst. english is not my first language. ✶
DICK GRAYSON
He's smiling when you start talking.
It's alright.
Dick is alright.
By the time you finish, the smile is gone.
You don't shout.
"I don't love you anymore, Dick."
His breathing catches.
"I don't even like being around you."
Why?
Why?
Why?
"..."
"I hate you."
Stop.
Please stop.
The silence is unbearable.
You're joking, right?
Haha, funny.
You're joking, baby. Right? Say sike. Say anything but that word again. He'll tickle it out of you if he has to, pin you to the couch and kiss that lie right off your lying, perfect, hateful mouth—
"...No."
It's barely a whisper.
He feels like he's drowning.
"No, you don't."
Deny it.
Deny it.
Deny—
"I do."
"You don't."
His voice starts shaking.
"You can't. You... you know me."
"I know you."
Good. You know him. You know every good thing he's ever done, every time he held you after a nightmare, every breakfast he burned because he was too busy looking at you, every time he—
"And that's exactly why I hate you."
You look him straight in the eye.
It's like something inside him caves in. His ribcage. His spine. His stupid, hopeful, pathetic heart that still thought he could charm his way out of this.
He can't breathe. His head is spinning. The room tilts.
Get it together, Dick. She's still here. She's still in the room. As long as she's still in the room, there's a chance. There's always a chance. You just have to say the right thing. You just have to do the right thing. You just have to—
He sits down because his legs suddenly don't work.
He doesn't cry immediately.
He just... stops.
There must be a way.
"...Tell me what to fix."
Fix it.
He can fix it!
He's Dick Grayson.
Of course he can fix it.
He'll carve off every part of him you don't like and hand you the bloody pieces in a box with a bow if that's what you want.
You don't answer.
"I'll fix everything."
His voice is too high. Too eager. Like a dog who just heard the leash rattle.
"I don't want you to."
His eyes become glassy.
DON'T CRY. DON'T CRY. DON'T CRY.
"...Then tell me how to become someone you don't hate."
He can be anyone. He can peel himself out of his own skin and wear whoever you want. Just don’t leave himself alone in it.
Just tell him what you want.
Please?
JASON TODD
He laughs.
"Hate me?"
He shakes his head, slow, like you just told him the sky is green. Like you're cute. Like you're his silly little thing who sometimes says words she doesn't mean.
There's no way his doll hates him.
No fucking way.
"Nah."
"I'm serious."
"You don't hate me."
"I do."
"You don't."
His voice becomes rougher with every word.
Of course you don't hate him.
You're just confused.
It must be your friends.
Especially the one with pink hair.
He should have killed them when he had the chance. Would’ve been cleaner. You would’ve cried on his shoulder and he would’ve licked the tears off your chin and told you you’re safe now, you’re always safe with him—
"I know you, babydoll—"
"I'm not your fucking babydoll."
You fold your arms.
"And I hate you."
Fuck.
He really wants to rip his hair out when you talk back to him like that.
Or your clothes.
One or the other.
Jason's jaw locks so hard it hurts.
Should he break your legs?
He looks away.
No.
You will hate him.
Looks back.
"You mean that."
"...Yes."
For several seconds he says nothing.
Just keep your cool. It's fine. It's no big deal.
Jason expected it anyway. Of course you hate him.
Who can even love a corpse with a rotten heart? Who can love something that crawled out of its own grave? He stinks of dirt. He always has. He's been dead for years and he just keeps forgetting to lie down.
Then he nods once.
"...Okay."
His voice is frighteningly calm.
He's handling it so fucking well.
Look at him. Emotionally mature. Not breaking anything. Not screaming. Not crying. Not begging on his knees like some pathetic dog even though his legs are seconds away from buckling.
"I can't make you love me."
Another pause.
"But I also..."
His hands clench.
"...can't stop loving you."
It's almost pathetic.
Almost.
"You can hate me for the rest of your life."
His eyes never leave yours.
"I'm still going to keep the door locked."
TIM DRAKE
He doesn't say anything.
Not immediately.
You're lying.
Tim knows you're lying because it's not your first time.
You always lie when you're trying to get his attention.
He would’ve found you. Obviously. But the fact that you stayed—that means something. That means you still want him. That means you still love him, want him to love you, to—
"And you stayed..."
"I hoped you'd change."
"And?"
"You didn't."
Yeah.
He never changes.
He knows.
He’s got spreadsheets of his own failures, timestamps of every time you flinched away from his touch.
But he tried. He tried so fucking hard.
Tim nods slowly.
Like he's writing down a fact.
"...I understand."
No, he doesn't.
He doesn't fucking understand. At all.
You know he doesn't.
You know him better than anyone.
"I made you miserable."
"Yes."
"...I'm sorry."
His voice cracks on the last word.
It's the first genuine apology you've ever heard from him.
Then he quietly asks—
"If I leave..."
He swallows.
"...would that make you happier?"
You don't answer.
That hurts more than anything else could.
DAMIAN WAYNE
He becomes perfectly still.
Almost regal.
Like every emotion has been locked behind iron walls.
"I hate you."
He looks directly at you.
Very brave.
Very brave indeed.
"I see."
"You don't."
You're acting foolish.
Just like a child.
And he's too tired to deal with a child.
"I do."
"No."
You shake your head.
"You think this is another argument."
Of course.
You always want to argue with him.
It's something normal in your relationship.
He's used to it.
He remembers every fight, every reconciliation, every time you touched his face after and he pretended he didn’t shiver.
"It is not."
"I genuinely hate you."
A long silence follows.
Finally—
"...Why?"
You tell him.
Everything.
Every reason.
Every moment that pushed you further away.
He listens without interrupting.
Because that's the last thing he can do to keep his dignity.
When you finish...
He closes his eyes.
Only for a second.
Control yourself, Damian. You are not a child. Be mature. Be respectful. Be normal.
Just. Be. Normal.
When he opens them again, they're strangely empty.
"...Very well."
He turns to leave.
Stops at the doorway.
Without looking back, he says quietly—
"There's a ring in the closet. Under your red dress."
Another pause.
"It's worth enough for a year."
His voice becomes almost inaudible.
"Take care of yourself when I'm not here."
He walks away before you can see the tears gathering in his eyes.
From down the hall, the sound of something shattering against a wall.
Then silence.
Then a single, inhuman scream, muffled by a closed fist.
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