beavereve - Tumblr blog

beavereve · 1 month ago

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Official Champion of Gotham Fun Run

Pairing: Dick Grayson x gn!reader

Genres: Domestic fluff

Warnings: Suggestive content, injury

Word Count: 4K

Summary: He did a flip. He landed wrong. Now he’s milking his injury for all it’s worth - blankets, snacks, remote-control foot acrobatics, and a truly unreasonable amount of pouty charm. Good thing you’re in love with him.

Part two of my Unfit for Duty series. Find Roy's fic here!

The sun is still high in the sky when you arrive, the soft glow of late morning soaking through the trees as you jog the final stretch of the park's winding path. Gotham, of all places, has gifted a golden day - the kind that feels like it slipped out of someone else’s city entirely. There’s colour everywhere: balloons bobbing in the breeze, kids shrieking as they barrel through foam tunnels, and every direction you turn smells like kettle corn or funnel cake or the chemical-sweet tang of those cheap freeze pops melting into little hands.

You’re painted. Completely. Your shirt's a lost cause and there’s streaks of neon blue and hot pink smudged down your arms, your legs, even your cheek - collateral damage from a very enthusiastic six-year-old with a bucket and zero sense of restraint.

But you're grinning. It's hard not to. It’s all been ridiculous and wholesome and a little too sticky, and somehow that’s exactly what you needed.

Dick's been a feature at the charity fun run since early this morning. You saw him when you first arrived, chatting with volunteers while coordinating where the obstacle course should go, the bounce houses and inflatable slides all aligned just right to make sure there's enough room for the kids to run wild.

You know he has to be tired - he always is, even when he doesn't show it - but that doesn't seem to slow him down. If anything, it fuels him.

He'd signed up for everything - managing the check-in stations, guiding families through the run, helping set up the vendor booths, and, of course, being the official "entertainer" for the kids. It's not unusual. You've seen it before. The way he throws himself into every task, every responsibility, like if he just keeps moving - just keeps helping - he won't have to face the inevitable pile of things left undone.

The need to fix it all.

It's part of who he is. You love that about him, in a way. You love that he cares enough to pour so much of himself into things that, to others, might seem insignificant. But there are times - too many times, honestly - that you just want him to let someone else take a bit of the weight.

You're crossing the grass toward the food tents, two hot dogs in hand - one an actual meal, the other a red-slicked abomination you’re 90% sure violates FDA standards - when you spot him.

Dick's standing on a tightrope.

Of course he is.

The makeshift rig has been strung up low between two inflatable pylons, clearly meant for children. But he’s balancing in the middle of it like a tightrope walker in Cirque du Soleil, arms loose at his sides, knees slightly bent, grinning like he’s just remembered he can fly.

There’s a group of kids around him, small bodies bouncing like popcorn, eyes huge. And Dick is eating it up - that impossible grin lighting up his face as he talks, gestures, swings from one foot to the other. He’s in full showman mode, all animated charm and practised grace, a natural-born ringmaster with a heart full of glitter and chaos.

“And remember,” he tells them, crouching just slightly, “the secret to a perfect jump is timing - and trusting your audience to count you down. Ready? One … two …”

You slow your steps. Watch.

“Three!”

He flips.

It’s clean. Effortless. Silky smooth like breath drawn in reverse, and he lands with dancer’s precision, arms thrown wide like he’s just stuck the landing at the Olympics. The kids go feral, and Dick gives them a stage bow, like he didn’t just casually defy gravity.

You can’t help it - you laugh. Shaking your head, you bite into your hot dog and watch him with an ache of affection curling up beneath your ribs.

His face is a war zone of paint. Swirls of orange and blue streak across his cheekbones, someone’s stubby-handed attempt at a lightning bolt is smeared across his forehead, and there’s a tiny green star just off the tip of his nose. His hair’s a mess, cheeks flushed pink from exertion, shirt clinging to his back in places you’re not going to think about right now, and you swear - he’s still the best thing you’ve ever seen.

He turns - mid-laugh, mid-sentence, something in his body already aware you’re near before he even spots you. And when he does?

That smile changes.

Gets softer. Lopsided. Private.

He sees you like you’re the only real thing in the whole damn carnival.

“Alright, alright!” he calls to the kids, clapping his hands, that performance edge slipping back into his voice. “You’ve been an amazing crowd - but now, for the grand finale. If I stick this landing, I’m the official Champion of the Gotham Fun Run. Tell your parents. Write your congressman.”

The kids cheer, totally on board with the legislative campaign.

You roll your eyes. “Show-off,” you mutter, more fond than annoyed.

He steps back. Bounces once on the balls of his feet. Then takes off running. The children gasp in delight, their cheers filling the air, and you watch him soar, effortlessly reaching for the sky-

You know the exact moment it goes wrong.

The moment is almost slow-motion, the perfect form of the backflip twisting just a fraction before he touches down. It’s barely anything - just a little twist at the top of his arc, a misalignment mid-flip - but it’s enough. He hits the ground with too much weight on one ankle, and the sound he makes is not theatrical.

It’s real.

There’s a thud. A wobble. He catches himself on an inflatable cone and mutters, “Ow,” through gritted teeth, voice an octave lower than usual.

The kids go dead quiet. Then one giggles.

Then they all burst into laughter.

And Dick - ever the professional - offers a pained bow.

You jog the last few feet, abandoning your heroic hot dogs on a nearby bench, hands already half-reaching.

“Seriously?” you call out, voice laced with amusement and the barest thread of concern. “You couldn’t just … not flip for once?”

He squints up at you, clearly trying to decide if he’s more wounded or embarrassed. “For the children,” he says hoarsely, then winces as he shifts his weight. “I did it … for the children.”

“Oh my god.” You can’t help but laugh, even though there’s a thread of concern pulling at you. You reach his side quickly, slipping your hand beneath his arm and gently looping it around your shoulder. "You're such an attention queen."

He leans into you further, a soft, grateful sigh escaping his lips as his head tilts just a little, like he’s sinking into the moment. “You love that about me,” he murmurs, and there’s no trace of that showman bravado anymore.

You roll your eyes, but there’s affection in the gesture, something tender that catches in your throat. “I love most things about you. Your hubris? Not so much.”

He gasps, scandalised. “You wound me.”

“Not as much as that flip, apparently.”

He groans, hobbling alongside you with a wince as you help him move away from the field. The soft buzz of the fun run continues behind you, but it feels like a distant hum now, the crowd’s energy fading into the background as you focus on him. His heavy breathing, the slight tinge of sweat still clinging to his skin, the smell of grass and heat all wrapped up in the lingering freshness of the paint covering him.

“I think I might need to be carried,” he says, still grinning through the pain.

You snort. “Not a chance. You’re sweaty and covered in paint.”

He gives you a look - all pleading eyes and mischievous smirk. “But I’m cute.”

“That’s debatable.”

“Rude.”

You grin, letting him lean more heavily against you. “You’re lucky I like you.”

He hums, nuzzling closer, like he knows exactly what he’s doing - like he’s found the one person who will always be there, no matter how much of a disaster he is. “You more than like me,” he says, his voice low, warm. It’s playful, but there's an undeniable truth in it that you can’t shake.

“I tolerate you aggressively," you retort, but it’s a lie - one that you both know too well.

“You kissed me under fireworks last month.”

“You cried during Paddington 2.”

He puffs out his chest, clearly proud. “I’m emotionally in touch."

You shake your head, trying not to laugh, as the two of you shuffle toward a quieter patch of grass, away from the boisterous families, the sticky-sweet sound of kids and cotton candy vendors fading behind you. Dick’s still grinning, a little sheepish now, a little sore, but it’s the kind of smile that makes everything else feel unimportant. It’s the kind of smile that makes you swoon, even when he’s being a complete idiot.

You help him sit down on a bench, but before you can pull away, he leans his head closer to yours, his voice soft, like he’s only half-joking. “You know, if I’d stuck the landing, I was going to dedicate it to you.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart does a gentle, traitorous little flip.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, gaze warm and playful, fingers brushing yours. “But this way’s better. Now you have to take care of me.”

You snort. “Manipulative bastard.”

“Only for you, babe.”

And the worst part is - it’s working. Because when he looks at you like that, like you're the only person in a world full of light and colour and chaos, it’s impossible not to fall a little harder.

Even if he did sprain his ankle trying to impress a bunch of six-year-olds.

You sigh, the soft ache of love settling in your chest as you reach for his face. You cup it gently, letting your paint-smeared hands frame his features. His skin is warm under your touch, soft and real, and you lean down, pressing a kiss to his lips. It’s soft, just a quick press, like the world outside has paused and left only the two of you here in this moment.

“Official Champion of Gotham Fun Run,” you murmur against his lips, “and world’s biggest idiot.”

He grins, eyes bright.

“But still cute.”

“Yeah,” you admit, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, and then kiss him again.

“Still cute.”

You don’t even get the door fully closed before you hear the television blaring some mid-2000s rom-com and the unmistakable sound of a remote thunking softly to the floor.

“Babe?” Dick’s voice floats down the hall, high-pitched and tragically put-upon. “I think I’m dying.”

You sigh. Loudly. Dramatically. But your feet are already steering you toward the bedroom.

The sight that greets you is … well. Something.

Dick is half-upright in bed, completely cocooned in three different blankets - one of which you’re pretty sure belongs to the dog. The dog in question is sprawled across the foot of the bed like a gloriously indifferent queen, clearly unbothered by the chaos around her. One of her floppy ears flicks as she acknowledges your presence, but otherwise she remains settled, chin resting on a pillow she’s definitely claimed as her own.

There’s an untouched bowl of popcorn resting on Dick’s chest like an offering to the gods, an open packet of sour candy cradled beside him, tissues sticking out from between the pillows like sad little flags of surrender. The television is blaring from across the room. And he’s clicking the remote with his foot.

“I see you’ve taken this injury very seriously,” you deadpan, shrugging out of your coat. “Tragic. Brave. Bedridden.”

“It’s worse than you think,” he groans, flopping back dramatically and narrowly avoiding launching popcorn into the air. Haley grunts and lifts her head with a glare, clearly displeased by the movement.

“My ankle is definitely broken. Possibly my spirit, too.”

You raise a brow, setting down your bag and stepping closer to the bed. “Did the spirit part happen before or after the sour straws?”

“After,” he says gravely. “They betrayed me. Too sour.”

“You poor thing.” You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead - still slightly warm, but no longer the furnace he was last night. “Have you eaten real food today?”

He looks away, guilty. Even Haley shifts to glance at him like Really? Again?

“Dick.”

“I had popcorn!” he protests. “And, uh … animal crackers. I also drank water. With electrolytes!”

You give him a flat look. “You mean Gatorade.”

“Hydration is hydration,” he says solemnly.

You roll your eyes and gently start unwrapping him from the excess blanket layers like a very large, very needy burrito. Haley watches this process with lazy interest, tail thumping once when Dick tries to tug one of her blankets back.

“I brought soup. You don’t deserve it, but I brought it.”

“You’re an angel. A saint. A vision of mercy,” he says, grabbing your wrist dramatically as you try to move away. “But there’s one more thing I require.”

You blink at him, unimpressed. “More snacks?”

“No.” He pouts. “Cuddles. Immediate. Stat.”

You laugh, unable to help it. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m injured,” he counters. “Bedridden. Abandoned by the world. But not, hopefully, by my stunningly hot partner who promised to love me in sickness and in health.”

“We’re not married.”

“A technicality,” he says airily, pulling back the covers with a hopeful smile. “Come on. I’m warm. And I smell like vanilla body lotion.”

“You do not.”

“I could.”

And you should say no. You should insist he eat first, or shower, or at least clear the popcorn off the bed. But he’s looking at you like you hung the moon, ankle elevated on two pillows, eyes soft and open in a way they rarely get when the weight of the world is on his shoulders.

The world is always heavy for Dick. But not today. Not like this.

You sigh, take off your shoes and crawl into bed beside him. Haley shifts to make room, letting out a put-upon sigh of her own as she nestles back against your leg like she’s allowing this intrusion.

Dick immediately wraps an arm around you and tucks his face into your neck like you’re a particularly cuddly pillow.

“Better?” you ask, settling in.

He makes a noise of contentment that vibrates right against your collarbone. “So much better.”

And even though he’s a complete baby when he’s sick - or injured, or slightly inconvenienced - you let him be. Because he never lets himself have days like this. Never stops moving long enough to be cared for.

So yeah. You’ll bring the soup. You’ll kiss the bruises. You’ll let him steal your warmth and hog the pillows and pout until you give in.

Because he needs it. And you love him.

Even if he does click the remote with his foot. And steal Haley’s blanket.

By day four of Dick’s medically mandated bedrest, it’s clear he’s descending into madness.

Not dramatic madness. Not even vigilante madness. No - this is something worse.

This is bored, restless, coddled, can’t-sit-still-for-more-than-two-minutes madness.

You can hear it before you open the door: the low thump of music that doesn't match the usual 'sick and sulking' playlist.

When you push through the bedroom door, Dick is lying diagonally across the bed, one leg still propped on pillows like an injured prince, sunglasses on despite the cloudy afternoon outside, and the NutriBullet spinning something suspiciously green beside him on the nightstand.

“Oh, look who’s back,” he says with a theatrical sigh, lifting the sunglasses halfway to glance at you. “Was it nice? Your journey to the other realm? Did you find joy and freedom out there in the wild world of … gainful employment?”

“I went to work,” you say, balancing your keys on the bowl beside the door. “Like people do.”

“Must be nice.” He sinks lower into the blankets, eyes hidden once more. “Must be liberating to have full use of both ankles.”

“You are literally lounging in pyjama pants with Haley spooning your good leg. I don’t think you’re suffering.”

Haley, for her part, gives one slow tail wag, clearly choosing to stay loyal to the most immobile warm human in the room.

“I am suffering,” Dick insists, flinging off the sunglasses just in time for them to ricochet off the floor. “I had to take the elevator down to get mail. Do you know what that does to a man’s soul?”

You blink. “You had me bring you grapes, smoothies, and two different brands of electrolyte water in the last twenty-four hours.”

“And yet-” he lifts his chin, regal and martyred “-you refused the foot rub I asked for this morning.”

“You’d just used your foot to turn off the TV.”

“It was dexterous.”

You level a look at him. “It was gross.”

He flashes a grin. “You weren’t saying that when I used those same feet to-”

“Finish that sentence and I’m feeding you nothing but off-brand ramen until your ankle heals.”

Dick gasps. “-sweep you around the dance floor! Obviously."

There’s a moment of silence. Then, slowly, like a particularly charming hydra, he rises from the pillows - messy hair, stubbled jaw, shirt riding up on one side - and squints at you with a smile far too wolfish for a man surrounded by heating pads and dog hair.

“You know,” he drawls, “I’m starting to think physical activity might actually help the healing process.”

You fold your arms. “Oh?”

“Mmm.” His voice lowers. “Y’know. Like a little exercise. Cardiovascular … exertion. Partner-assisted, preferably.”

You try not to laugh. He notices.

“I’m serious,” he says, tilting his head in mock seduction, one hand flopping across his abs like he’s waiting for a romance cover shoot. “I’ve been cooped up all week. I have … energy. Needs.”

“You have half a sprained ankle and worse self-control than Haley,” you reply, biting back your smile.

“Which means I need a responsible adult to help me manage both.” He gives you that look. The one that’s gotten him out of a hundred lectures and into plenty of trouble. “Come on, baby. For medicinal reasons.”

You let the silence stretch.

Then: “Huh. That’s interesting.”

“What is?” he asks, all false innocence.

“Well, just yesterday, you had me bring you a very specific mango smoothie, then told me I was abandoning you when I dared to answer emails.”

“That was different. I was lonely.”

“And the day before that, you made me pause my own movie to fluff your pillows and Google your symptoms, which were, and I quote, ‘wounded dignity’ and ‘cabin fever.’”

“In my defense,” he says, sheepish now, “that second one was real.”

“And today,” you continue, advancing slowly, “you duct-taped the elevator because walking ten steps made your ankle feel ‘emotionally unsupported.’ But nowyou want to perform bedroom acrobatics?”

He hesitates. “... Only the easy ones?”

You burst out laughing, and he immediately tries to pull you closer by the waistband. “I’m being punished for my past sins, aren’t I?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, crawling onto the bed, careful to avoid the injured ankle. “But I’m a merciful god. So maybe - maybe - if you behave …”

“Yes?” His eyes brighten, hopeful.

“You get cuddles and soup.”

He groans dramatically and drags you into his chest like he’s never known happiness until this very moment. “You’re perfect. You’re flawless. You’re - ow, ow, Haley, not the foot-”

Haley, unbothered, has shifted to reassert her rightful place between you both. There’s a brief wrestle, some shuffling, and then Dick’s face ends up squished against your collarbone again, sighing like he’s just survived a war.

“So no sex, huh?”

“Not until your ankle can handle stairs.”

You’re already half-asleep when you feel him shift, again, for the third time in two minutes.

“Dickie,” you murmur, your voice a sleepy sigh, “you’re worse than the dog.”

“I am not,” he whispers back indignantly, though he doesn’t pull away from where he’s curled into your side like a very large, very clingy heat-seeking device. His leg is slung heavy over yours. His arm is tucked across your middle. His hair is warm and ticklish where it brushes your chin.

“You are,” you mumble, fingers carding slowly through his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp. “You’ve been squirming around for hours.”

“I’m injured,” he breathes dramatically, pressing his face further into your neck. “I can’t get comfortable.”

“You can’t get comfortable,” you echo dryly, “but you also won’t take more ibuprofen, you won’t elevate your foot properly, and you won’t stop demanding smoothies at ten o’clock at night.”

A muffled sound, halfway between a whine and a laugh, escapes him. “I’m just saying,” he says into your collarbone, “that if I’m going to be a man of leisure, I should at least be treated like a Roman emperor.”

“Only if you promise not to get stabbed in the back,” you murmur, smiling sleepily. “Or do any more backflips for children.”

“That was one time.”

“One time too many,” you murmur, stroking your fingers down the back of his head. “Have you learnt your lesson yet?"

He huffs, then goes quiet. Still tucked close, still soft and warm and obnoxiously affectionate, but … quieter now. A beat passes. Another.

“I don’t think I know how to rest,” he says suddenly, voice hushed and threadbare in the dark. “Not really.”

You blink, heart stuttering slightly beneath his cheek.

“I try,” he goes on, a little looser now, like the words are tumbling out unguarded. “I’ll tell myself I’ve earned it - like, okay, I did the mission, I helped the kid, I made the world a fraction less terrible, I should be able to rest now. But then I sit still for too long and everything creeps in. Guilt. Pressure. That voice in my head that says someone else needs help, and I’m wasting time. And I just-” He exhales, curling a little tighter into your side. “I get itchy. I get stupid.”

You don’t say anything. Just keep stroking his hair gently, steadily, as he continues. He’s told you bits of this before - always indirectly, always wrapped in humour. But hearing it like this, voice low and limbs tangled in yours, feels like being handed something sacred.

“This week’s been hard,” he admits. “Harder than it should be. And I know I’ve been kind of a brat.”

“You have,” you agree softly, nudging his knee with yours.

“But I think …” He hesitates, then presses a barely-there kiss to your collarbone. “I think I needed this more than I realised. Not just the forced bedrest, but the … you part. Being allowed to be annoying and needy and ridiculous, and not having to be Nightwing or a big brother or a leader or anything except yours.”

Something hot flickers behind your eyes, but you blink it away.

“You’re always allowed to be mine,” you whisper, brushing your lips against his hair.

He hums, a soft, reverent sound that melts something inside you. “I know. I just forget sometimes. Or don’t let myself believe it.”

You tighten your arm around him just a little. “Well. You’re here now. Wrapped around me like a koala. Which means you’re trapped. No escaping the affection.”

He chuckles, the sound sleep-heavy and sweet. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You press your cheek against his temple. “Good. ‘Cause I love you, brat and all.”

Another beat of silence, thick and full and warm.

“I love you too,” he says, so quietly it’s nearly lost in the dark. “Even if you didn’t feed me grapes.”

“You’re never letting that go.”

“I’m at peace with it,” he murmurs, already drifting, the words slow and fading. “As long as you keep playing with my hair.”

You do.

And sometime not long after, you both fall asleep - twined up, close and content, the world outside quiet for once. And for tonight, at least, Dick lets himself rest.

#so cutie #dick grayson #dick grayson fluff #dc

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beavereve · 2 months ago

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There’s A String Tied to My Lower Left Rib, Third From The Bottom

dick grayson x afab!reader

aka the professional boyfriend

warnings: she/her pronouns used, reader wears dresses, sexual content at the end (18+)

Dick Grayson is a vigilante. He’s a master martial artist and gymnast. He’s something of a playboy and a heavy flirt. But the claim he really takes pride in is that he’s basically a professional boyfriend. That he’s your professional boyfriend.

And pride really is the right word. He’s so proud that he gets to have this pretty girl on his arm and buy her pretty things even when you insist you have enough. He loves getting to help you take your makeup off when you’re too tired and make you laugh like it’s his job. He’s absolutely gratified that he gets to be your prodigal, sweet boyfriend that, despite your protests, insisted on carrying all five of your shopping bags for you.

You step over an uneven stretch in the sidewalk and lean slightly against Dick’s shoulder. “I’m worried the navy one is too…much.” You say, thinking back to how the blue cocktail dress fit on you, how it stopped barely below your ass.

He furrows his eyebrows with a pout, “Too much?”

You look over at him, matching his expression. “It’s really short. I mean it’s cute and I like it, but…I don’t know, this is kind of a fancy event isn’t it?”

He puckers his lips, shaking his head. “Short’s good. I like short.” Yeah, you’d noticed with the way his eyes had been glued to the hem of your dress, willing it to slip up just a little more.

You laugh, “And I’m sure you and all the old businessmen will appreciate it greatly.”

His face drops at that, not thrilled at the prospect of those, usually very sleazy, old men getting to see so much of you. “The black one’s good too.”

You peer over into one of the bags, “Or there’s the red one with the—”

Dick shakes his head quickly, “Not red.”

You snicker at that, knowing full well what his problem is with it. “Then why did I get it?”

“Just for me.” He pauses, “Or for something my brother won’t be at.” He mumbles, scanning both sides of the street. He shuffles the bags in his right hand onto his forearm so he can take your hand in his as you step into the road. “No, the black one looked great on you. And we won’t have to go searching for a matching tie.”

Once you reach the other side he lets go of your hand and he circles behind you, nudging you over to the inside of the sidewalk.

You glance down at the row of bags littering his arms and the red indents beginning to mark his skin. “Will you please let me hold some?” You frown.

“Will you please hold my hand?” He echoes, matching your serious tone with faux urgency of his own. You deadpan him but take his hand anyway. You don’t notice it, but he’s got a dedicated gaze focused on your fingers intertwined in his.

You continue on down the street, hand in hand, the warm sun shining on your necks. You pick up the pace a bit as you approach your apartment building, aiming to get the door for your boyfriend. You reach for the handle only for Dick to call out, “Don’t touch that!” followed by him clamoring like you’re about to touch a hot coal, rushing over to beat you to the punch.

“Oh my god..” you mumble to yourself, biting back a smile. The bags haphazardly fall further down his arms, no doubt uncomfortably as he pulls the door open for you, pretending to be far more eloquent than he actually was. He gestures you in and smiles sweetly at you when you give him a flat look.

“What is wrong with you?” You ask, glancing over your shoulder at him with amusement glittering across your face as you dig for your keys.

“Not a thing.” He grins, watching with adoration as you open the apartment door. Frankly, you’re surprised he didn’t attempt to juggle the bags and unlock the door himself.

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.

🩵 reblogging = supporting; likes don’t do the job

#so I actually don’t know anything about dc #but I stumbled upon this and it made me smile so #fav

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beavereve · 3 months ago

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domesticity with colt is him filling a jar with pink skittles that he had to meticulously pick out because he knows that those are your favorite (and that you like them for the aesthetic). it’s him having an album of pictures he’s taken of you when you’re not ready (washing the dishes or hyperfixated on the tv) and you think you look goofy in all of them but he swears (and believes) that you look absolutely beautiful. it’s you always being a passenger princess but still always wanting to place your order at the drive thru speaker (even though he knows all your complicated orders by heart). it’s him ignoring the way you dig your palms into his thigh trying to keep yourself upright, and he knows the employee must think you two are obnoxious, but all colt can do is stare at you with heart eyes. it’s the way in every photo taken of you two together, he’s never looking at the camera; he’s looking at you. it’s him sprinting, nearly slipping on the ice on the pavement and breaking his ankle, because you beat him to the car but he still wanted to open the door for you. it’s spending a sunday afternoon together, grocery shopping in target, and he’s pushing the cart (because you know you’ve got a boy down bad if he’s doing this). it’s you accidentally getting little egg shells in the scrambled eggs you make him, and he’s telling you (with a smile) “that’s ok, babe, i like the extra crunch”. its asking him insane hypotheticals to gauge his loyalty, and he passes with flying colors every time. it’s your “what if the hot bartender offers you free drinks because she thinks you’re cute and wants you to herself”, and it’s his “im telling her i made a vow of sobriety and i’m never drinking again”. it’s love that’s so simple and pure and all yours.

#colt grice #colt fluff #aot

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beavereve · 3 months ago

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double take

genre . fluff

pairings . mark x gn!reader

2:34 pm ─ ੈ♡˳

outside the mall, you stood waiting for your ride. and walking out of the mall, a boy was passing by. he caught your attention, so you stared. you didn’t do it very discretely, because he noticed, gave you a friendly smile, and continued walking.

you watched him walk off, but you looked away when you noticed him turning his head back to make a double take at you.

he quickly turned his head away once he noticed yours was turning back to look at him. It went on like this for a moment.

it excited you. were you his type? or did you have something on your face?

now he was turning around, making his way over to where you were standing.

he looked confident while approaching you, but he was a mess as soon as he opened his mouth. “uhh hi can i get your number? if you don't want to that's totally fine- i just-"

you smiled and held your hand out, as if saying ‘yes, give me your phone, i'll put it in.’

but he didn't really get it. he almost had it, but not quite. instead, he responded to your gesture with a high five. “so is that a yes?” it was like his smile stretched from one ear to the other.

you just went along with it. you didn’t have the heart to say otherwise.

“um. yes.”

“oh cool.” he nodded. “here, you can type it in.” he handed you his phone, but you couldn’t help but laugh. he was cute. awkward, but cute.

thx for reading 🌱 reqs always open

#mark #mark fluff #nct

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beavereve · 3 months ago

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.𖥔 ݁ ˖ HOME COOKED MEAL — nanami kento

you bring itadori home for dinner & he gets to see a different side to kento

contents. aka you dig up some teenage photos of nanami, fem!reader, husband nanami, fluff, yuuji being your adopted son, i haven't watched the new ep (& i won't) but there is enough nanami angst so i am here to fix that — 1.7k

when you got ready to leave the school, your jacket on and bag tugged over your shoulder, you passed yuuji itadori in the halls, his expression suspiciously similar to a kicked puppy.

yuuji perked up a bit as you walked by, offering you a small smile and a wave. and though you considered heading on home for the night, eager to see your husband, you slowed, hesitant to leave the poor kid all alone.

“everything okay, yuuji?” you asked, frowning as he rested his elbows on his knees, studying a stain on the floor of the school.

“hm?” the teenager glanced up, eyes bright and wide. his sweet smile was back on his face, so innocent and kind. for someone who had been through so much already, he was more caring than many people that you’d met in your life. “oh, everything’s fine. everyone’s just out on missions, so i feel a little…” he pulled up one shoulder in a shrug. “useless.”

you knew it must have been hard for him, being a student that wasn’t quite like the others, having to train a little differently, adapt differently. but yuuji took it in stride, and he handled it better than any normal person would.

with a nod, you secured your bag around your other shoulder, shifting your feet. “it’s just going to be you here tonight, then?”

he hummed, sticking his hands in his pockets as he leaned back against the wall. “i think so. some of the others might be around, but they’re resting up.”

“oh.” though you were certain yuuji had no qualms about spending an evening on his own, the thought of it made you feel like you were leaving a kitten out in the rain. almost pitiful.

yuuji waved before you could say another word, smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “have a good night! i’ll see you tomorrow.”

the car ride was spent listening to yuuji tell you story after story, the boy opening up to you in a way that he hadn’t quite related to any of the other sorcerers, even gojo.

you smiled to yourself, enjoying his stories as you wondered how to tell kento that you were bringing your student home for dinner.

there was still a bridge to cross between them, and though you knew they both liked the other more than they let on, kento hadn’t quite connected to the boy like he wanted to.

you hoped that by inviting him over, yuuji would see that kento, truly, wasn’t as intense as he let on. he was sweet, caring, and he did have a sense of humor… even if gojo didn’t really believe that.

you led yuuji into the house, and stopped him when you heard the sound of kento in the kitchen. his mission had ended earlier than yours, and he’d offered to cook tonight; there would be more than enough food for the three of you.

“i’ll be right back,” you said, tapping yuuji on the shoulder. “let me go tell kento you’re here.”

you’d considered letting your husband know before you arrived, but you hadn’t wanted him to protest. kento would try to make a fuss of having a guest over, even if it was only yuuji, and he certainly didn’t care about formalities.

your heart skipped when you reached kento, his back turned, finishing up the meal that was steaming on the stove. even just standing in the threshold of the kitchen, you were overwhelmed with all of your love for him.

but it didn’t take much… it never had. you’d always been sickeningly in love with nanami kento.

your footsteps were soft as you snuck up behind him. “kento,” you said, just above a whisper, snaking your arms around his waist. you kissed the muscles between his shoulder blades, listening to the steady thrum of blood pumping through his body.

“hi, sweetheart.” he’d heard you approach, and he turned, eyes softening when he glanced at you over his shoulder. “everything okay at the school?”

you nodded, squeezing him tighter. even though you’d seen him just a few hours prior, it felt like a long time—time apart when you were battling curses always dragged as you worried for each other’s safety. “did your mission go okay?” you asked.

he took your hands from around his waist, bringing them to his lips softly. “everything went fine. dinner’s almost ready so—” then, he noticed your guilty expression, one that you were clearly horrible at hiding. “is something wrong?”

you smiled innocently. “no! i just… brought a guest.”

kento’s eyebrows raised, his smiling falling quickly. “well, you could’ve told me before.” he sighed, shaking his head as he turned around to face you.

“sorry, i thought i’d surprise you.”

kento’s lips drew into a thinner line. “honey, please tell me gojo satoru is not in my house right now. he’s not welcome here anymore, because the last time he almost destroyed our fucki—” kento glanced up, his words falling away as he glanced over your shoulder. “itadori. hello. i didn’t realize you were there.”

you turned, releasing kento as yuuji gawked back at you. he’d caught in such a loving embrace with kento. yuuji’s normally stoic teacher was in the middle of swearing, blonde hair tumbling over his forehead. kento had replaced his suit with casual wear, and his contacts had been taken out. in place of them were wire-rimmed glasses.

“nanamin!” yuuji gasped. “you look so different.”

“yes, well, i apologize for my apperance.” kento sighed, looking at you from the corner of his eye. “i wasn’t aware we were having guests.”

“one guest. its just yuuji,” you said, poking him in the middle of the chest as his professional tone returned, so easily taking over. “i don’t think he cares what you’re wearing.”

“no, i don’t!” yuuji backtracked, eyes wide as he shuffled forward. “no, you look cool, you don’t look so…”

kento raised his eyebrows, amused, even if yuuji couldn’t detect the humor in his expression. “so what?”

the boy’s cheeks turned pink, embarrassed as he rubbed the back of his neck. “um—”

“you don’t look like you’ve got a stick up your ass.” you said, voicing yuuji’s obvious thoughts as you kissed kento on the cheek with a short laugh. of course, it was only to embarrass him further in front of his student.

kento feigned a scowl, but didn’t push you away, his gaze firmly planted on yuuji. “that’s because i try to keep my relationships at work strictly professional.”

“really?” yuuji grinned, stuffing his hands back in his pockets, his posture relaxing as he grew more comfortable in your home. “not very professional to marry someone you work with, is it?”

you laughed loudly, already caring so deeply for the boy that you’d known for such a short period of time.

“that was certainly an accident,” kento muttered, but his fingers lingered on your spine, tracing each of the bones. “i’ll have you know we were not working together when we got together.”

“really?” yuuji’s curiosity spiked. “how long have you been together, then?”

you thought back to when you were teenagers, when kento had a haircut that he had since regretted, and smiled mischievously. reaching into your pocket, you pulled out your phone and scrolled through old photos, back from when you were just kids, the images grainy and of much lower quality than the ones from your recent vacation.

“hey, don’t show him those!” kento protested. he reached for your phone, but you scrambled under his arm, stretching your hand out to give yuuji the device. “itadori, don’t—” kento’s voice held a hint of panic, his cheeks hot with embarrassment as he grabbed you around the waist, trying to stop you from giving yuuji the phone.

but it was already in yuuji’s hands, and you laughed loudly, knowing that while you looked a little more awkward than you did now, your appearance had changed near as drastically as kento’s.

yuuji squinted his eyes at a sixteen year old nanami, blond hair long enough to reach his eyes, dressed in an all black ensemble, an earbud in one ear. kento was hardly smiling, but you beamed next to him in the photo, dressed more childishly than you were now, but just as pretty. the image from when you still fumbled around each other, unsure how to admit that you were both in love.

a roar of laughter left yuuji as kento’s expression fell, and he released you, snapping the phone out of itadori’s palm. “that’s you, nanamin? no way. how did you…” yuuji glanced between you, squinting his eyes. “well, i guess looking at you now it makes sense.”

“i know,” you agreed, covering your smiles with your palms. “we looked a little silly together back then. i saw the potential in him, but satoru certainly loved to make fun of us, didn’t he, ken?”

“i have absolutely no desire to relive those days.”

yuuji laughed. “you were just like fushiguro, i bet!”

“scarily similar,” you agreed, as kento rolled his eyes beside you, putting your phone in his pocket to keep you from scavenging any older photos to share with the kid. “and he still loves to listen to—”

“don’t finish that sentence or i’ll save this dinner all for myself.”

yuuji eyes flew up to his hairline, but you just snorted, knowing that kento’s threats were about as scary as a puppy.

“he’s still sensitive about it,” you whispered to yuuji. “gojo and his friends made fun of him all the time.”

“oh really. just me?” kento retorted under his breath.

“you must have been pretty popular, then!” yuuji grinned. “if you were friends with gojo. he said all the girls in school loved him!”

kento made an irritated sound, stirring the spoon roughly against the pot. “well, satoru is the last person you should listen to. he has an ego bigger than the sun. and my wife is leading you astray. she was not similar to satoru, she was painfully shy, and it took weeks for either of us to talk to each other.” kento took the pan off the stove, peering over his shoulder at you. “and she is very lucky i love her too much to dig up any embarrassing stories of her.”

“well, stories about me aren’t that interesting anyway.” you laughed, pointedly turning your back to kento. “yuuji, the good news is, i’ve got some more photos in kento in the old photo books. let’s go see them!”

#nanami #nanami fluff #jjk #fav

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beavereve · 3 months ago

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not sure if i love ino because he looks like my boyfren or if i love my boyfren because he looks like ino… LOL

BUT IMAGINE- hear me out- imagine nanami basically has a daughter (you can’t tell me that man doesn’t radiate girl-dad) and she’s around ino’s age… and they get along great !! he just didn’t know nanami was her keeper…

so when our sweet bby ino knocks on the door to pick up his hot-date (yes he did tell nanami about the date he has with a cutest chick he’s ever seen), he’s shittin bricks when he sees nanami open the door hehehe

(i feel that my bf lowkey looked like ino too but then he cut his hair and he's got more of a nanami style now.... no complaints :3)

ok but we gotta remember just HOW important nanami is to ino. he respects him SO much that he would only go to him for his Grade One status, no one else was good enough.

and they're fairly close so ino mentions in passing that he's got a date tonight with a girl he's been talking to for a while and reeeeaallyy likes. nanami kinda rolls his eyes a bit at just how much he gushes about this cute and funny and witty girl, but he finds it endearing that the younger sorcerer has someone to be so enamored with.

until that moment comes when he opens the door and there's ino with a bouquet of flowers in his hands and looking like he's going to shit a brick right there on the doorstep.

"(y/n) is y- your-?"

poor guy can't even finish the question, his finger hanging in the air as he points at nanami and in that moment sees the family portrait hanging on a wall in the entryway.

nanami, on the other hand, hasn't said a word. and he thinks maybe he could just stand there and stare ino down until he turns and runs. but ino stays. silent and terrified, but he stays there nonetheless.

"dad, you're gonna freak him out. do you mind?"

you somehow snap ino out of his fearful haze, making him brighten as he hands you the flowers. you gush and smile as you admire them, but it's hard to properly thank him with your father still lingering at the door.

it only takes one sharp look (which ino should have recognized as a nanami signature glare sooner) as you pass the flowers to your father for him to finally take the hint.

"these will need a vase and water, you got it?"

you're not rude with your words, but there is an order laced in with your sweet tone that ino can't help but notice. even more shocking, nanami actually takes the flowers and nods back at you.

it's still a bit of a struggle to leave the house.

"i want you back by ten"

"i'm an adult!"

"fine. eleven then"

ino's lucky nanami likes him. but it is awkward for a while at work. he's definitely more careful with the way he talks about you now that he knows nanami's your dad and could kill him and make it look like an accident with no problem.

#ino #ino fluff #jjk

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beavereve · 3 months ago

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Mark Lee || in which mark does his own take of a trend…

synopsis: in which mark does his own take of a trend that shows how he tried to confess to his crush over various instagram stories

playlist:

Cologne by baebadoobee

Runaway by Kanye West

love. by wave to earth

My Kind of Woman by Marc DeMarco

genre: smau, one shot au, friends to lovers, fluff, non!idol

warnings: fem pronouns, pure fluff sigh

a/n: this is for u babes @zomama 😘

#mark #mark smau

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beavereve · 3 months ago

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GOJO SATORU: ❛❛ I WANNA SHOW YOU OFF ❜❜

.ೃ࿐ streamer!au: some other streamer's been buying you gifts, but satoru knows he can spoil you better.

contents: fem!reader. kinda sorta clingy!gojo. more toji slander hehe. inumaki and megumi gang up on gojo. like always. oh also you guys kiss on camera! tagging @sutorus and @yunymphs ꨄ︎

author's note: ughhh he's such a pretty pathetic loser i wanna shake him silly :(

"oh, satoru, someone sent me another gift!" you say with a smile, beckoning him over to look. satoru hops off his chair and looks over at your computer screen, resting his chin on the top of your head. "look, it's the skin i said i wanted! i wonder who sent it to me, huh..."

satoru shrugs and dips his head to kiss the side of your face. "coulda just asked me for it, y'know," he mutters, eyeing the username that had apparently sent you the gift.

you ignore him and gesture at the time on the top-right corner of your screen. "isn't your stream starting in a couple minutes?" you ask, tilting your head. satoru nods and pulls away, shaking his white hair out of his eyes before walking back over to his monitor. and just a minute or two later, he's live and chatting with his early viewers.

"hey, suguru," he says with a grin, waving at the screen when his close friend joins. "you wanna join my team for today? the match's gonna start in a couple minutes."

suguru-geto: yea sure one sec

satoru spins around in his chair a couple times, and he blows a kiss at you every time his chair faces your direction. and every time, you humor him and catch his kisses. eventually, he stops spinning around in circles and starts actually interacting with his viewers.

inumaki: i hate gojo's streams

inumaki: you just stare at your gf for half of them

inumaki has been kicked from the stream by satoru-gojo.

"anyways. suguru, you ready yet?" satoru says with a grin. suguru replies with a thumbs-down in the chat, and satoru groans impatiently. "what are you even doing that's takin' you so long?"

suguru-geto: taking care of something

"whatever," satoru grumbles, slouching down in his chair and spinning around one more time. "hey, chat, y'wanna know a funny story? i could use your help on it too."

the comments explode with various forms of affirmation, and satoru turns his head and winks at you. "so, lately, some random account's been sending my girlfriend everythin' she could ever want. skins, coins, you name it. what does that mean?"

he ruffles his hair with one hand and drums his fingertips on his desk with the other, surveying the replies from underneath his long, white eyelashes.

sho-ko: some guy wants her sooo bad

yuuji-itadori: maybe the person's just being nice! :)

satoru makes a face at shoko's comments and scowls, sitting up and leaning closer to the screen. "i dunno if the guy who's sending my girlfriend gifts is here right now, but if you are, you better not think that you have a chance with her. 'cause you don't!"

you can't stifle the smile that spreads across your face at satoru's indignant words, and when he turns to you, you just can't help but laugh. he's so sweet, even and especially when he does his best to gatekeep you. but ever since he brought you onto his stream for the first time, you've been an instant fan-favorite, so he can only hide you for so long.

satoru scrunches up his face at you childishly, and you draw a heart in the air right back at him. it makes him smile ruefully, and his eyes light up when you blow a kiss at him. he turns back to his screen determinedly and raises an eyebrow at the latest comment.

sho-ko: do u have the guy's username? cus you can find out who it is that way

"oh, it's... hard to say. rio-zuku?" satoru tries, squinting his eyes. "i don't know, whatever. you guys know him?"

megumi-fushiguro: dyou mean ryosuku? i hate him

yuuji-itadori: oh i don't like him either :( hes mean

satoru scoffs and puts his feet up on his desk, rolling his cerulean eyes. "he can't be more famous than me, so whatever."

megumi-fushiguro: he gets 100k views per stream

"well, he can't be a better gamer than me," satoru replies dismissively, waving his hand.

kugi-saki: didn't he win the val championship last year?

"but i bet i'm hotter!"

toji-fushiguro: you wish

"fuck you, toji," satoru huffs indignantly. "well, how haven't i heard of this guy? if he's so famous and so hot, huh?" ignoring your snickers, satoru switches to another tab and types in the username. but when he clicks on the first link, nothing shows up. it's a blank profile, and satoru's jaw dropped.

"how the fuck am i blocked?!" he whines, flopping his head back on the headrest of his seat and pretending to faint. the chat floods with a thousand expressions of laughter, and you hop off your seat to go sit on the desk of satoru's desk, taking care to stay out of sight of his camera.

satoru opens one eye and squints it at you, lips forming a childish pout. he reaches out and twines his fingers with yours, completely ignoring his exploding comment section. you squeeze his hand gently and reach over his keyboard, hitting a key to mute his microphone.

"i can block him if you want," you offer, wrapping your other hand around satoru's. "and, for what it's worth, i think you're prettier than him."

satoru grins smugly at that, eyes softening more and more the longer they focus on you. "m'kay, thanks... wait, how do you know what he looks like?" he asks suspiciously, narrowing his eyes playfully.

"'cause i looked him up this morning."

your boyfriend sighs dramatically and pretends to faint again. when he reopens his eyes, there's a slightly new look in his eyes as he mumbles, "i wish people would stop hitting on you."

you reach out and touch his chin, forgetting that people on his stream could probably see your hand even if you two were on mute. "oh, i get that a lot," you tease, pinching his cheek affectionately. "but, honestly, you're the only one i wanna be with. even if that other guy buys me everything i could ever want, he's still not you."

satoru kisses the inside of your hand, eyes still fixed on you. "you do know that i'd buy you all of that and more if you asked, right?"

"i know. and i'd love you even if you were as broke as toji."

your side comment makes satoru throw his head back in laughter, and he shakes his head as a wide smile grows across his face. he pushes his chair closer to the desk and tilts his head up, minty taste fresh on his mouth as he smiles against your lips.

a bashful giggle slips past your lips as satoru kisses you again and again. from the corner of your eye, you can see that the two of you are just barely off-camera—in fact, anyone who's watching the stream can tell that the two of you are kissing, but you're still just out of sight.

"d'you want the new battle pass?" satoru mumbles against your lips, caressing the side of your face. you nod and grin, kissing the corner of his mouth.

"only you would talk about a battle pass while you're kissi—" satoru cuts you off with another kiss, stopping you from finishing your sentence.

"uh uh, shut up and let me kiss you. you're the prettiest girl i've ever seen n' i wanna enjoy you," satoru says plainly, gripping your chin in between his thumb and index finger. he tugs your lips on his again, and when he finally pulls away, he turns back to his screen and sticks out his tongue.

satoru unmutes himself and smiles smugly at the camera, face flushed pink from the way you had kissed him back. "well, at least that asshole doesn't have my pretty girlfriend, and he never fuckin' will."

yuuji-itadori: aw you two are so cute :)

megumi-fushiguro: i miss the single gojo

inumaki: im back whatd i miss???

inumaki: oh nvm im leaving again

#gojo #gojo fluff #jjk

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