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aidansloth · 20 hours ago

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𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐕𝐈𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐍 ˚. ᵎᵎ your first time with THE BATBOYS .ᐟ 𓂃 ꒰ headcanons ꒱

contains ﾉ dirty talk · cunnilingus · fingering · loss of virginity · protected & unprotected sex MDNI 18+ pairings ﾉ bruce wayne��jason todd・dick grayson・ tim drake・aged up! damian wayne x fem!reader

note ꒱ english is not my first language, ignore the mistakes lol… but i put my whole p*ssy into this. enjoy xo

‣ bruce wayne

his tie hangs limp behind his shoulder, shirt open halfway down his chest, sleeves cuffed at the forearms. the fabric clings, translucent with sweat as bruce wayne kneels between your thighs. you lie bare on the pillows; nipples raised from the chill and nerves, unsure where to look. he hasn’t touched you yet, and you’re already undone.

a few seconds of rustling leather and metal—his armani belt clicks undone. his cock presses against the inside of his boxers, engorged and leaking at the tip. when his gaze roves over you, it flickers to the microexpressions you haven’t yet mastered to conceal. his hand settles between your thighs, sliding one outward.

“keep them open,” bruce commands softly, palm gliding down your ribs, across your abdomen, until it rests above your mound. “tell me if you want me to stop.” a somewhat performative question under this timing—his cockhead is already nudging between your folds.

the first stretch sharpens beyond expectation: dense pressure blooming into fire along your nerves. you clutch his arms, biting your lower lip. he stills, allowing you a few seconds to adjust before moving forward another inch. your cunt throbs around the intrusion, wet but still tight, not used to being filled this way. his breathing is deep and measured, as if he’s trying to stay in control.

“breathe,” bruce murmurs, thumb catching your lip and gently forcing your teeth to release it. distracted, you comply. with one measured push, he sinks fully inside. your walls clench, barely accommodating. muscular forearms cage your head. stillness holds between you.

then he begins to move.

deep, gliding thrusts, pelvis rocking against yours, muffled slaps marking the rhythm. behind closed lids, white sparks bloom like fireworks. his hand slips beneath your thigh, hooks it high over his hip. a hard thrust knocks an unbidden moan from your lips, and bruce dips his head down, lips grazing against your temple before kissing your collarbone, a juxtaposition to the relentless pace of his hips.

“mhm, good girl. you’re doing so well.”

the praise makes you clench again. he groans, the sound deep and strangled, and fucks you in earnest, on a quest to his own release. a powerful tremor ripples through you, fingers clawing at his shirt as your senses narrow to the slick friction and his heavy breathing above. stomach clenching, walls squeezing around him, you fall apart with a sharp cry, wholly and completely undone. a few more thrusts, and bruce follows you to climax, burying himself deep to the hilt. his weight sinks into the mattress gradually—though his arms remain firm so not as to crush you. the room stills. he stays inside you, until your muscles stop trembling. you can feel the flutter of his heart beating against your chest.

‣ jason todd

you’re on your back, legs parted awkwardly, body still twitching spasmodically from the delicious, thick stretch of his fingers. sweat pools in the hollow of your clavicle. your skin’s tacky. overstimulated. jason todd kneels between your thighs, one palm splayed flat on your abdomen.

his mouth glistens, wet from you. so are his fingers.

“you good?” his breath is still ragged from the way he had you mere minutes ago—tongue buried deep, your legs hooked over his broad shoulders, the sound of your moans echoing off the walls.

you nod. or at least, you think you do. because right now, your eyes keep flicking to his cock—thick and girthy, flushed a ruddy pink at the tip, kissing his sculpted abdomen. intimidating doesn’t begin to cover it. you try not to stare. fail spectacularly. jason catches your gaze and dips his face down, level to yours.

“we stop whenever,” he presses a tender kiss on the corner of your mouth. “just say the word.”

you glance down again—at the size of him, the stretch you haven’t felt yet—and it dawns on you that you have no fucking idea how that’s going to fit. but you want to find out.

your fingers curl tight around his wrist.

“i want to, jay.”

he leans forward, and you feel the blunt head of him presses between your folds. you inhale sharply. he pushes, slowly, and the burn is immediate. the first inch makes your whole body jolt, there’s simply too much of him—your body stretches around his girth with painful resistance—it’s too much.

he’s barely inside.

“you gotta relax, baby. it’s okay.”

you nod, forcing your muscles to loosen. your body fights it anyway, not ready for how much of him there is. jason draws out a fraction, then eases in again, incremental. the ache sharpens. your voice cracks when you say,

“too much?”

“mghm—no. k-keep going.”

“brave girl,”

smirking, jason kisses your cheek, then fucks in the rest of the way. the glorious stretch has your vision going white at the edges. he’s everywhere. you can feel every ridge and vein, splitting you in half. his palm slides under your thigh, lifts it higher for leverage. he stays still for a beat, forehead pressed to your collarbone, breathing heavy. your whole body pulses around him.

“i’ll go slow,” he promises. and he does. he slips in deeper, excruciatingly slow. sweat’s already beading at his temple. every time he pushes in, you feel yourself open wider, body forced to accommodate. you bite into his shoulder to stifle the noise that tears out of you when he finally bottoms out. he stays like this for a few seconds, relishing in your warmth, and you swear you can feel the tip of him in your stomach (albeit the logical part of you know that’s impossible.)

“you okay?”

you nod again. he grits his teeth and rears back his hips, then sinks forward again—testing how much you can take. the second thrust feels worse but simultaneously better. your cunt swallows him like it’s been waiting for him. the stretch is total, merciless, but it’s starting to slide easier now. you let him guide your legs higher. let him press his forehead to your collarbone and fuck into you with slow, controlled force.

one hand moves between your legs and rubs your clit in tight, repetitive circles. you whimper, hips starting to jerk up to meet his.

“there she is,” jason breathes. “attagirl.”

you come hard—walls pulsing around him, toes curling, fingers scrabbling at his back. a string of curses fall past his lips, and he’s pulling out. wrapping his fist around the base before spilling hot ropes of come across your stomach. his cock twitches in residual spams as he trembles through it. a few seconds pass. then his forehead drops to yours, and you feel his smile against your cheek.

‣ dick grayson

“we can stop, you know,” he murmurs, thumbs brushing the edges of your jaw. “i still want you. that doesn’t change anything.”

your lips part, but no words come. it is a big deal. not because the “you’re-probably-about-to-lose-your-virginity” part—but because it’s with him. dick. his hair is rumpled from your hands, the rosy flush dusting across his cheekbones still fresh. he’s looking at you without the faintest trace of disappointment. he’s looking at you like he’d wait forever. you know he would.

he cradles your chin in his hand and kisses you—languid, almost chastely. fingers drift down to your throat, brushing along the curve beneath your breasts. your skin sparks under his touch, every nerve recalling how his mouth had latched around your nipple, how that tongue had worked you into a trembling mess mere minutes earlier.

“tell me what you want,” he mumbles, voice thick against your lips.

“i… i want you inside,” you say, breathless.

“then we’ll go slow,” he promises, nudging your nose with his. “you’ll tell me what feels good. and we’ll stop the second you say so. okay?”

you nod. his hand hooks beneath your the crook of your knee, lifting you effortlessly, positioning you astride him. your bare chest against the warm press of his, your slick core on the firm muscle of his thigh. emboldened, you rock against him, and he sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“fuck,” he whispers. “you sure?”

“m’ sure.”

in one smooth motion, he rolls you beneath him, setting you gently against the mattress. his body settles between your thighs, cock flushed and heavy against your skin. he braces one forearm beside your head, presses a kiss to your temple. his hair’s mussed from your fingers, a flush running high on his cheekbones.

he looks so unfairly pretty. you think, as he grabs the base of his cock and rubs it through your slick folds. then he lines himself up and pushes in, inch by excruciating inch. slow enough to feel every maddening stretch of him. the blunt pressure stings—dense, burning in the most exquisite way. you tense beneath him, nails digging pink crescents into his biceps.

“you’re doing so good, but remember to breathe for me, baby,” he coos. “almost there.”

your eyes flutter. the burn intensifies. oh god he’s not even all the way in.

“mghmm.” your nails sink into his biceps. he grunts, forehead tipping against your shoulder.

“fuck—sorry. too much?”

“no. keep going.”

he hums in response, then starts peppering kisses to your collarbone, then underside of your throat. the stretch still burns, but he makes it pale in comparison to pleasure. he rocks into you again, testing. the wet, squelching sounds between your bodies grow increasingly lewd as your walls slowly adjust, contracting around him. you let out a breathy moan. he pauses—one hand cradling your jaw, the other bracing beside your head.

“is this okay?”

“yes—god, yes.”

he nods back, pressing a kiss to your breast before reaching down. his agile fingers find your clit and begin to circle. slow, patient, maddening. the dull ache sharpens into pleasure.

“that’s it,” his voice comes out muffled, sending vibrations through you. “you’re taking me so well.” lips close around your nipple, sucking hard.

you’re so, so close. he knows it too.

“dick—”

“i know. i’ve got you.”

your climax comes in an earth-shattering rush: coiling and snapping in your gut. you arch under him with a cry, muscles spasming around him. he groans into your shoulder, thrusts turning increasingly sloppy.

he doesn’t last much longer.

his entire body seizes—cock twitching deep inside you as he spills, breath held in a shudder. he presses his forehead to yours. both of you are sticky with sweat, chests heaving.

“still okay?” his hand strokes the side of your cheek as he stares at you in starry-eyed adoration.

“yeah,” you whisper. “more than.”

he grins, looking pleased with himself.

‣ tim drake

you lie beneath him, bare but tucked under the edge of the duvet, your legs spread and under the cotton. tim is still half-dressed—shirt rucked up his ribs, boxers pushed low, the weight of his cock resting hot against your hip. he hovers above you, arms braced on either side of your head, the crease between his brows betraying focus. not nerves. calibration.

you’d asked him to fuck you. he’d paused, repeated the question, asked if you were sure—then kissed you until your lips ached and your body melted, his fingers moving with unnerving precision between your legs. he’d made you come once already, two fingers sunken knuckles deep, thumb circling your clit in calculated spirals until your thighs shook and your spine arched from the mattress. he worked your body as if he’s read the manual, and has annotated it.

tim drake is always five layers ahead of you.

he studies your face now, your breathing patterns, the residual tremble in your thighs. “do you want me to go slow,” he asks, quietly, “or do you want me to distract you?”

your brows pull together. “what’s the difference?”

“think about the first one as pain management,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth twitching, “the other’s about cognitive misdirection.”

heat floods your cheeks. you chew the inside of your cheek thoughtfully.

“distract me.”

he nods and retrieves the condom from the drawer without looking. tears it open. rolls it on carefully. then he moves closer, knees nudging yours wider. you feel him line up, the blunt heat of his cockhead parting your folds.

“deep breath,” he says. “it’s going to sting a bit.”

you inhale. on the exhale, he starts to push in.

the stretch is immediate. your body clenches down, instinctive resistance. pain flares—burning pressure around the unfamiliar girth. you dig your heels into the mattress, fingers tightening in the bedsheets.

“fuck,” tim hisses through clenched teeth. “you’re—you’re tight.” his hands slide to your hips, thumbs pressing gently into the crease between pelvis and thigh. he doesn’t push any further.

“doing okay?” he asks, the edge of strain buried beneath concern. you nod, barely. he bends forward, presses his mouth to your temple, then kisses your throat. one hand curves under your knee, lifting your leg higher to angle you better.

“let me take care of the rest,” he says. and he sinks the rest of the way in with a deep exhale, jaw rigid as he bottoms out. his hips still flush against yours, the length of him buried to the hilt. your cunt clenches involuntarily, adjusting around the dense, aching fullness.

he doesn’t move.

“do you want me to start?”

you nod, feverish with anticipation. he leans forward, presses a kiss to your cheekbone, and begins to thrust. the rhythm is measured at first—calculated, even. he’s a analysing your reactions: cataloging how your thighs tighten when he presses deeper, the minute twitches of your mouth when he hits a sensitive spot. finding out the most efficient way to keep your discomfort at a minimum and pleasure at maximum. he adjusts the angle of your hips by half an inch and earns a startled moan in response.

his focus never breaks.

hands cradle your waist, steadying you as he moves—slow, relentless strokes that grind against your cervix with enough force to border on unbearable. the heat in your gut coils tighter. your fingers curl into his biceps, leaving half-moon indents into the skin. he hums, low in his throat, more of an pleasure than a sound of pain.

“you’re taking me so well,” tim murmurs, voice hoarse now. you don’t mean to come then—it ambushes you, heat snapping low in your belly, muscles clenching down in helpless spasms. the cry that tears out of you is sharp, guttural.

his thrusts stutter. he curses under his breath, grips your hip tighter, drives in with less gentleness and more purpose, chasing his own. when he comes, it’s with a soft groan into your throat, his cock pulsing deep inside you, body trembling with restraint even as he spills into the condom. he stays like that—doesn’t collapse, doesn’t roll off immediately. he steadies his breath, forehead pressed to yours.

‣ damian al ghul (aged up)

he undresses without spectacle.

there’s a certain… economy to his movements; efficiency without theatrics. the shirt goes first, unfastened at the cuffs, the collar peeled from his shoulders in a fluid shrug. he folds it in thirds, sets it at the foot of the bed. the belt follows, unthreaded without haste, coiled neatly atop the pressed cotton. his trousers for last.

you stare openly. his body is as disciplined as his manner—lean muscle honed into functional definition. deep, abdominal lines stark beneath skin, a hard taper from chest to the sharp vee of his hip line. a sparse trail of dark hair vanishes into the waistband of his boxers.

“stop gawking,” he says without inflection.

caught, your eyes flick away as heat crawls up your cheeks. but then you glimpse the outline straining against his briefs—thick, unmistakable. he’s not as detached as he pretends.

when he finally climbs onto the bed, he does so with the quiet grace and deliberation akin to a jaguar. knees parting yours. gaze flicking downward. anatomic appraisal.

your legs fall open without instruction. his hand slide between them, deft and unerring. the pads of his fingers part you, learn the shape of your cunt with an eerie composure. already you’re wet. embarrassingly so.

he makes no comment.

his middle finger glides inside, sinking to the knuckle. a second joins, curls. your breath catches, and only then does he glance up—green eyes sharp, studying every reaction.

“this will hurt,” he says eventually. a plain truth, spoken without cruelty. his thumb circles your clit once, then stills. “only the first time,” he adds. “after that, you’ll crave it.”

your eyebrow arches. “confident.”

“i don’t speak in hypotheticals.” he withdraws his fingers, leaving you clenching around nothing. after a pause, a quieter note:

“tell me now if you don’t want this.”

“i do.”

and that’s the truth.

he strips off his briefs with one hand. his cock springs free, flushed and heavy, arcing toward his navel. it’s too much and somehow exactly what you wanted. he strokes himself—a couple of quick pumps to adjust. then he’s lining up. the blunt head drags slick between your folds, painting you with precome. the contact makes you gasp. he watches your face carefully.

“you’ll tell me if it’s too much,”

and then he pushes in.

one smooth, sustained thrust.

your cunt stretches tight around him, the intrusion sudden—a burning sensation flaring up your spine. it feels impossible, every inch of him prying you open. patiently, damian waits for you to adjust before pushing in deeper. the new angle makes your vision white at the edges.

“breathe,” he says, thumb stroking the hollow of your throat.

“you’re fine. you can take it.” his own breath is steady, controlled through his nose. he doesn’t move yet—waits. watches. only when your eyes flutter open again does he rear back his hips.

the first thrust draws a gasp from your chest. each thrust is slow but invasive, his pelvis slapping yours with muffled force. your hands scramble over his back, nails dragging down the lean line of his spine. he groans into the crook of your shoulder, surprised by it—one arm braced beside your head, the other sliding under your thigh to hold you in place.

“damian—think m’ clo—”

you break off with a moan, pitch slurring upward. you’re already so close to the precipice, pressure building rapidly from the friction and fullness.

“i know, albi.”

he breathes, the nickname raw on his tongue. his hand slips between your bodies, long fingers finding your clit without fail. circles twice, then presses down. you come hard, breath catching sharp in your throat as your cunt tightens around him. he groans low in response, hips stuttering once against the clamp of your body. your hands lock around his shoulders, gasping into his mouth as pleasure finally overtakes you, blinding and hot.

in arabic, “albi” (قلبي) translates to “my heart.”

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aidansloth · 21 hours ago

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────★𝑺𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝑻𝐀𝐋𝐊 & 𝑺𝐈𝐍 ˙💐 ̟ !!

୭˚. ᵎᵎ summary… BatBoys with talkative!yapper!reader

୭˚. ᵎᵎ contains… Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne x gn!reader (but described as female in the nsfw section.)

୭˚. ᵎᵎ warnings… contains nsfw (18+) content after the warning divider. — mentions of sex, overstimulation, female-receiving!oral, foreplay mentions, dirty talk, missionary, cowgirl, rough sex, slight choking (it’s Jason, duh), praise, bro idek anymore, semi!public sex mention, fingering mention, teasing, etc. wow

• Dick adores it. Dick is naturally social and emotionally in tune, so your chatter is like background music to him — warm, colorful, comforting. He genuinely listens, even if he doesn’t understand 100% of what you’re saying (especially when you go on niche rants).

• You’ll be venting about the emotional downfall of a TV character while he’s brushing his teeth, and he’ll just nod with foam in his mouth, giving you heart eyes in the mirror like, I love this little disaster so much.

• Big on physical affection while you talk: back hugs while you ramble, kisses to your forehead mid-monologue, tracing patterns on your thigh while you’re going on about your dream wedding color scheme (even though he knows you’ll change it by next week).

• Will 100% instigate more talking with:

➜ “What happened next?”

➜ “Wait, I need all the details again but with gossip voice this time.”

➜ “Hold up — I want the tea but tell it from the drama queen perspective.”

• When you say something wild mid-ramble, like “I could totally fake my death if I had a fog machine and three raccoons,” he pauses and goes, “I believe in you.”

• Sends you voice memos back just so you have something to respond to, even if it’s just him going, “Hi, I’m walking and I saw a pigeon do a backflip and thought of you.”

• Loves how expressive you are. “God, you’re like a comic book panel. I always know what page I’m on with you.”

⸻

• Jason pretends to be annoyed. He is not.

• He sits there looking pissy while you talk for fifteen minutes straight about a dream you had where he was a barista with goat legs, but secretly he’s cataloging every second of it like a favorite podcast.

• Falls asleep to the sound of your voice on the couch — not because you’re boring, but because it soothes him. The safe, repetitive rhythm of you filling space makes his shoulders loosen for the first time all day.

• Will interrupt your long rants with a:

➜ “Babe. Breathe.”

➜ “ You’ve changed topics four times. Go back to the American Dad cult thing.”

• He’s a sucker for when your words start spiraling into chaotic territory. You’ll be like, “And then I thought, what if I just legally changed my name to Knife?” and he’ll be like, “Oh my god. I’d marry Knife.”

• Deep down? It makes him feel wanted. You want to tell him everything. Even the nonsense. Even the little things no one else would care about. That trust means more to him than he’ll admit.

• When you go quiet for more than ten minutes, he immediately side-eyes you like, Who hurt you. Why are you plotting. Are you possessed.

• Sometimes he’ll just look at you mid-rant, blinking slow, and mutter, “You’re exhausting. I’m obsessed with you.”

⸻

• You would think Tim would be overwhelmed by a chatterbox… and you’d be right. At first.

• The first few dates, he’s overstimulated and blinking like a buffering screen while you bounce from topic to topic like a pinball machine. But he gets addicted fast.

• He starts structuring his schedule around “Y/N talk time” because it’s the only thing that can get him to log off his 40-hour research spirals.

• “I’ve been inside my own head too long,” he’ll mumble, rubbing his eyes, “Can you talk about anything? Literally anything. Just… fill the air, please.”

• Loves when you info-dump to him. You have ADHD-coded tangents about mythology, glitter, or reality TV? He’s in. Ask him questions, even mid-rant. Tell him about what evil thing Kim did in ‘Keeping Up With The Kardashians,’ It wakes him up.

• Will slowly become more talkative around you, like you infected him. He starts matching your energy. You’ll be like “—and then I started wondering if pigeons are just spy drones—” and he’ll go, “Actually, during the Cold War they did—”

• Late night calls are filled with you talking and him muttering, “Mmhm,” “Yeah,” and soft chuckles. You think he’s half-asleep. He remembers everything you said the next day.

• Once, during a long ramble, you worriedly stopped and asked, “Wait, do I talk too much?”

Tim looked up with soft, tired eyes and said, “I love that you never make the silence awkward.”

⸻

• Oh, this is Damian’s villain origin story. Or so he says…

• “You are like a crow trapped in an echo chamber,” he’ll scowl, arms crossed. “Why do you have so many thoughts. Why must you share all of them.”

• But he listens. Every time. Even when he’s glaring at you.

• His version of affection is sarcastic commentary during your rants:

➜ “ That is the dumbest theory I’ve ever heard.”

➜ “ Please, tell me more about this dream where you adopted a blood-thirsty dragon and became mayor.”

➜ “ Are you done yet, or do you plan to set a world record for uninterrupted verbal nonsense?”

• He secretly loves that you never stop. Because he never has to wonder what you’re thinking. No games. No manipulations. Just pure, unfiltered you.

• When he’s hurt or upset, your talking is the only thing that gets through to him. You don’t even realize it. You’re pacing and yelling about socks going missing in the dryer and he’s sitting there, silently pulling your hand into his lap.

• You’ll ask, “Do I annoy you?” and he’ll go:

➜ “ You enrage me. You bewilder me. You exhaust me.”

➜ Then under his breath: “I am madly in love with you.”

• He remembers every word you say. You’ll make some dumb offhand comment about how you want a custom dagger with your name on it, and six weeks later there’s a velvet box on your pillow.

• And God help anyone who tries to tell you to shut up in public. Damian will ruin them.

(because of course I have to include smut.)

• At first? Dick thinks it’s adorable. You’re talkative during sex like you are with everything else — giggling, gasping, teasing him mid-thrust with things like, “You’re so good at this—wait, have you always been this good or is this just for me?”

• It feeds him. He lives for it. Loves hearing your voice breathy, moaning, overstimulated — and even better when you start talking too much and get flustered mid-sentence.

• He gets handsy and worships you when you’re being noisy. Your voice is his favorite sound. Especially when you’re whimpering and trying to finish your sentences while he’s buried between your thighs.

• “C’mon, baby, don’t stop talking now,” he’ll murmur with his tongue teasing your clit. “You were giving me such a good speech about how much you like my cock—what happened?”

• When you ramble during foreplay, he’ll slowly slide his hand down your stomach like, “You gonna keep talking through this too?”

• Loves slow sex with eye contact while you’re blabbering sweetly and moaning through everything. His favorite thing is when you lose track of what you’re saying mid-orgasm. He’ll chuckle and kiss your neck, whispering, “Thought so, baby.”

• Bonus: If you ever get bratty while talking, expect to be pinned and told, “Put your mouth to better use.”

⸻

• Jason’s obsessed with the way your mouth runs. Teasing, sultry, shameless — especially when you’re being a little too smug in bed.

• You’ll be making jokes, breathless and giggly, riding him and saying things like, “Sooo, how does it feel being Gotham’s most fuckable vigilante?”

• Jason just growls. He grabs your hips tighter and thrusts harder until you’re choking on your own smugness.

• Has a hand on your throat when you talk too much during sex. Not to shut you up — to feel every little sound you make.

• “Keep talking, baby,” he snarls in your ear. “Let’s see how long you can run your mouth when you’re shaking on my cock.”

• If you’re especially flirty and playful, he does not hold back — bends you over whatever surface is closest and pulls orgasm after orgasm out of you until your voice goes hoarse.

• Kink for overstimulating you until you’re whimpering, half-talking nonsense, and he’ll say things like:

➜ “You still got words, pretty girl?”

➜ “Where’s all that mouth now?”

➜ “Thought you had something smart to say while I was tongue-deep in your pussy.”

• But if you’re soft and sweet and praising him through the whole thing? He melts. Growls “fuck, you’re gonna kill me” into your shoulder and loses himself in you.

⸻

• Tim’s kink? Being talked through sex like it’s a shared secret. You describe everything you’re feeling — and he lives for it.

• You’ll be breathlessly saying things like:

➜ “It’s so deep, Tim, I can feel you right there—”

➜ “God, you’re stretching me so perfectly—did you plan this? You did, didn’t you?”

➜ “You love how wet I get when you talk nerdy to me, admit it.”

• He gets red in the face, totally overwhelmed but so turned on. Half the time he’s like, “You’re doing this on purpose—”

• You talk him through his own dominance: “Harder, Tim. Faster. You know how I like it, don’t pretend you don’t.”

• His voice gets all low and breathy once he breaks — “You really don’t stop, do you?” — and suddenly he’s flipping you over and pinning your wrists.

• Loves semi-public sex with whispered commentary. Your breathy, daring little comments like, “You’re so hard right now. Bet if I touched you, you’d lose it in thirty seconds.”

• Will absolutely finger you just to shut you up — but he wants you to talk. To beg. To describe what he’s doing to you like it’s a thesis.

• Bonus: Tim gets dangerously turned on when you moan his name in between teasing rambles. “Tim, fuck—okay okay wait wait—this is so good—wait—!”

⸻

• At first? Damian acts like your constant chatter is insufferable. He groans when you talk in bed—“Must you narrate everything?”

• But you see it. The way his pupils dilate when you do.

• You’ll be moaning his name and saying wild, reckless things like, “You’re so fucking deep, Dami—God—I think you rearranged my liver—” and he’ll cover your mouth with his hand and hiss, “You are utterly insufferable.”

• But his hips don’t stop moving. Not even a little.

• Loves to tame you. The more you talk, the more he takes control — bending you, flipping you, pushing you into the mattress until the only sound you’re making is his name.

• “Let’s see you speak in complete sentences now,” he growls, and you’re suddenly choking on a moan as he ruins you with slow, deliberate thrusts.

• But when you praise him? Call him your good boy, the perfect man, best you’ve ever had? Damian gets possessive and animalistic. Growling. Biting. Holding you in place like you’re his.

• Secretly records your voice when you’re in bed. Not to be creepy — he just loves hearing you whimper and gasp and beg.

• “You talk so much,” he mutters after you come for the third time, breathless. “But you say the sweetest things when I fuck you properly.”

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aidansloth · 22 hours ago

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super fan | jason todd

Summary: Three months into your relationship, your boyfriend Jason Todd finds your Red Hood poster. You're mortified. But Jason? Well, you've got his face in your room and your lips on his... truth be told, Jason maybe likes it a little too much that you're a super fan of his.

Pairing: Jason Todd x fem!reader

Word count: 5.4k

Warnings/tags: bf!jason, you find jason and RH hot and that crosses some wires. jason takes advantage of your crush (in a hot way), competency kink, cocky jason, identity porn, minor violence, motorcycles, reader has a crush on RH but doesn't know jason is RH so it's a little complicated but NO cheating!! implied sexual content but NO explicit smut.

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Tonight, you're staying at Jason's place. You've only been dating three months, but it's going well enough that you're comfortable enough to stay over. Jason has hinted more than once that you can leave clothes at his place, but you insist on keeping all of your stuff at your apartment, just in case things go south. What's that rule? Six months and you’ll know whether he’s the one? Three months to go, then.

Call you crazy, but you think you might already know. Jason is fantastic and you’re sure you’re in love with him. Not that you're going to tell him that any time soon. But you know enough not to put all of your stock into a three-month relationship. Who knows what secrets Jason Todd might be hiding.

"How come you never invite me to your place?" Jason asks as he pulls up in front of your building. He'd offered to drive you both to his apartment on his motorcycle, and it's officially weird if you refuse him. He might think you're hiding something. And you are. Something mortifying.

"Because you're gonna try to install your special security measures," you say as he locks his bike.

Jason thinks about it, then nods. "Yeah, that's probably true. No, but it's your place. I wouldn't do anything you wouldn't know about."

"I know," you say, going inside and holding the door for him. "But my apartment is smaller than yours.”

"That doesn't matter to me, baby."

When did he get it into his head that he needs to be in your apartment? You go up the stairs with Jason behind you, thinking about how you can excuse not inviting him inside. Except, it’s suspicious if you make him wait outside. Even for Jason, who's about as cagey as they come. He seems to trust you fine, but you have no idea what freak raised him because he's eternally wary of people and unfamiliar places. He also insists on sitting close to the door when you go out to eat. But even he's invited you to his place. Many times now. Maybe you can extend the same favor.

"Fine. You get a quick tour," you say against your better judgment as you get to your door, unlocking it.

"I'm honored, truly." Jason follows you inside. He clicks his tongue, pointing to the lock. "No deadbolt?"

"Jason..."

"I mean, what a beautiful lock on your door," he says sweetly, kissing your cheek. "Y'know what would make it even more beautiful?"

"You being less paranoid?"

"Seventy percent of Gotham break-ins are in residences that have only one lock. Sixty-five percent of them are on—"

You turn around and put your arms around Jason. He automatically puts his arms around your waist and stops talking. His beauty still stuns you: his aquiline nose, his freckles, those bright teal eyes. You get shy at times, flustered and delighted at the fact that this hunk of a man likes you so much.

"I'm extremely attracted to you, despite your raccoon demeanor," you say.

"You'd be the first," Jason says, gaze terribly fond. "I'll shut up now 'bout the statistics."

"No, statistics are hot. Just not when they're about home invasions."

"Point taken. How 'bout stats on Gotham's exports?"

You throw your head back, gasping. "Oh! You fiend. No more, please. I may just ravish you here on the floor!"

Jason bends you back a little, his hand fitting in the center of your back to ease you over. He doesn't do that very often, use his strength and wield you the way he wants, but when he does, you lose your breath. Your pulse quickens as Jason nuzzles your neck.

"This okay?" he asks. You hum an airy yes.

"'M in no rush," he says in your ear. "We can linger. Haven't finished your tour. 'S your room next?"

You straighten so fast, you nearly knock Jason in the teeth. It's only because of his quick reflexes that you don't.

"You can't see my room," you rush out, looking at him with wide eyes.

Jason squints, hands dropping to your sides. "What? Why?"

"Um... because... because my room is a mess."

"So? I don't care. My room looks like a solitary confinement cell."

You raise an eyebrow. Jason clears his throat.

"Well, I mean, it used to. It's better now that I have plants and shit."

"Lack of decor is nowhere near as embarrassing as my room, Jason. Mine is beyond messy. It's filled with half-eaten pizza crusts. And rats. And... slime?"

"Slime, huh? Well, good thing I wore my Doc Martens. I can withstand a little slime."

You sag. "You don't believe me."

Jason smiles and kisses your forehead. "Not particularly, baby. What's the issue, huh? You hiding nudie mags or something?"

You roll your eyes. "Who calls it that, Jay? You sound like Tony Soprano. Just say porn."

"Gracefully choosing to ignore that comment. Look, if y'do have porn, it's nothing to be ashamed of. You should feel safe to express and explore your sexuality however you—"

"Oh my God, it's not porn." You cover your face. "Jesus. It's—okay, just come in. If you're gonna break up with me over this, we might as well face it now."

"I'm not gonna break up with you," he says as you take his hand and lead him to your bedroom. "Nothing you show me could—"

You swing open the door Jason trails off as he follows you in, his eyes landing on your 4x6 poster of the Red Hood that's smack middle in the room, taped over your bed.

And then, obviously, one can't miss the Red Hood towel on your computer chair, or the Red Hood mug. And the limited edition Red Hood Bat Burger bobblehead, which was quickly discontinued after some public backlash.

"Wow," Jason says.

You groan and bury your face in your hands. "It's fine. I know it's weird. Just go."

You don’t know how it happened, this accumulation of Red Hood merch. It's not like people aren’t fans of heroes. Plenty of local heroes are revered across the world. You have an online friend from Brazil who has literally all of the Superman collectibles. But Superman is reasonable. Batman is reasonable. Nightwing is common and basically a Gotham staple—you've seen women in Nightwing bikinis.

But Red Hood fans are far and few. Plenty of people think he's a criminal and a borderline villain. Some people, working-class people mostly, adore him. You've heard plenty of wonderful things he's done to turn neighborhoods around, keep people safe, fight The Man. Hell, last week there was a video of him carrying an old woman to the hospital after she fell in the road.

Plus, you get the feeling he's really handsome under that helmet. You're sure he's physically overwhelming, at the very least. You've seen clips of him fighting. Oh boy, can he hold his own.

But if you told the average person on the street that your favorite hero is Red Hood, they'd definitely give you a side eye. You brace yourself for one now.

"Huh," Jason says. "Didn't think you'd be a fan of his. Not really a hero, is he?"

You huff, squaring your shoulders. "He's helped a lot of people. No one actually cares about protecting us except for vigilantes. Red Hood protects innocents. If that takes a little bit of a heavier hand, so be it."

Jason raises his eyebrows. "Didn't know you played fast with morality like that, honey."

"You don't agree?" If this is where your relationship ends, you'd rather it happen sooner than later. "He's implemented a lot of fundamental structures that even Batman hasn't. He's more big-picture than the Bats. So, whatever, okay? If you think I'm nutty for liking Red Hood, then just go now."

You cross your arms and turn away from Jason. It's quiet for a long moment. You're sure it's done; you've just ruined the first relationship you really wanted to make work. But you've been on dates and let it slip that you admire Hood, and plenty of men let you know what an idiot you are to do so. You thought Jason would understand. Maybe not.

But then you feel arms around your stomach. Jason kisses your cheek.

"C'mon," he says chidingly, voice low and sweet in your ear. "Y'think it's that easy to scare me off? We live in Gotham, sweetheart. The only way I'd be worried is if you had someone's head sitting in your fridge. And even then, I'd hear ya out on whose head it is."

You lean into Jason's solid warmth, rubbing your cheek against his scruff like a cat. "I'd have my reasons if I did that."

"Mm, I know it."

You slip out of his grip enough to turn around. Jason's got a coy, little grin on, and you can't figure out why. But you suppose that's better than him leaving because of your local celebrity crush.

"You're really not annoyed?" you ask. "Because if you are, we should hash it out now."

"No, baby, 'm not annoyed." Jason glances at the Red Hood bobblehead. His grin widens, tongue resting between his teeth as he looks at you. You feel hunted, but the glint in Jason’s eye quickly disappears. "I think he does what needs to be done."

"Yeah?"

"Sure. Just surprised, is all. He doesn't seem like your type."

You blink, heart beating faster. "My type? Well, I-I just think he contributes a lot to the city. It's not... I appreciate what he does for Gotham."

"Wait." He tilts his head like he's genuinely trying to figure something out. "D'you have a crush on Hood or something?"

You blink, flustered at how quickly Jason picked up on that. How does he do that? "I don't—I mean, I admire him—he's—but I don't even know what he looks like, so—"

Jason's eyes light up, and you know you've made a mistake, just not the one you thought you would. He cups the back of your neck, which always makes you hot and squirmy.

"Oh, you do like him like that. Huh. Didn't know the helmet did it for you. Very interesting news, sweetheart. He doesn't scare ya?"

"No," you say, the word coming out weak. Wires are being crossed in your head between the image of the Red Hood and your boyfriend crowding you in your room and pressing his lips to your neck.

"That's very good to hear," Jason says, and you give in, tugging him over to your bed. He laughs. "Why didn't you want me to know?"

"It's embarrassing," you whine. "The poster was from a friend."

You let Jason climb atop you, permeating your senses with his bulk and his citrusy scent. He carefully keeps his weight off of you, but you wish he'd hold you down. This is exactly why you didn't want to bring Jason over; you don't need your old fantasies of Red Hood getting mixed up with your boyfriend.

"I don't think it's embarrassing," he says, gently taking your leg and crooking it over his hip. "You picturing him right now?"

"Jason!" You thwack his shoulder. You feel it more than he does, probably. He cackles.

"Teasin'," he says, soothing you with a kiss. "But I can get a helmet if you want me to."

You kick him off the bed. "No more tours for you!"

Work runs late a week later, so you're still out by the time eight o'clock rolls around. It's summer time, so it's not the worst thing ever, but you know what Jason would say. Your last message is still unread because Jason works most nights. You’ve chosen not to worry him by telling him you're also working tonight, instead texting him funny Gotham memes.

"Evening."

…Maybe you should've let him know.

You flinch, the voice startling you hard. Red Hood is leaning against the fence surrounding the park you pass by on your way to the bus stop. His arms are crossed, and his biceps bulge underneath his tight black t-shirt. You can't tell from here, but you're sure he must tower over you.

"Oh." Briefly, you wonder if you summoned him somehow after revealing your room to Jason last week. You've lived in Gotham your whole life and you've never run into Hood. The only vigilante you've met is Red Robin, and he's not a talker.

"Hi," you say, a little nervous, a little starstruck.

"Hi," Hood says, letting his arms drop. His posture is easy, but you know better. You know he's here for a reason. "Working tonight?"

You nod. "I just finished. I'm just going to the bus now."

"Pretty late for the bus."

"It's June."

"It's Gotham."

You open your mouth, then close it. Then you open it again. "Um... it's okay. I've done it plenty of times before."

"Plenty of times? Without letting anyone know?"

You wince. "Well, not plenty—"

"Nobody to pick you up?"

You shrug. "No."

"No? Think hard." There's the tiniest edge to his tone.

"I mean, my boyfriend could, hypothetically, but he works nights, so—"

"And you think his job is more important than making sure you're safe? It'd devastate him if something happened to you."

You blink. "I don't—I guess I didn't think of it that way."

Hood shakes his head. Then he pushes himself off of the fence and approaches you. Immediately, your heart rate increases. To be this close to the Red Hood, to have him worry about little old you, scold you for not calling Jason, it's causing a confusing mix of emotions to swirl inside you.

You've thought about how you'd act if you met Red Hood. Maybe ask for an autograph if the opportunity arises. You can't fathom asking him for anything now. He's intimidating. Maybe you are a little afraid, but it's intertwined with other feelings.

Hood pauses. "Everything okay?" he asks carefully. "Your heart rate spiked."

"Oh," you say breathlessly. "Yes, I'm okay."

You can't see his face but you feel like he doesn't believe you. "Sure?"

You wonder if he can see all of your vitals. Can he see how warm you feel? "Yes, I'm sure. It's just... I'm sort of a fan of you. So it's... it's an experience."

Hood laughs. "Fan? Don't think I have any fans."

You shake your head. "That's not true. I know a few people who like you."

He hums and approaches you slowly. You let him until he's close enough for you to take in his physicality completely. He's a couple inches taller than Jason. Not that it matters. Just an observation.

"'M flattered," he says softly. "But if you're jus' sayin' that 'cause you're a little scared, please don't."

"No, I'm not scared. I trust you, Red Hood."

He folds his arms, stretching his neck to his right shoulder. You catch a sliver of tanned, scarred skin. "So soon?"

"Uh-huh."

"Kinda crazy of ya."

You shrug. "Maybe."

"Hmm. We goin' home?"

"You want to take me home?" you ask, eyes wide.

"Not-not like that. I mean, I can't let ya go home alone."

"No, I know, I just... I didn't think Red Hood made home visits."

"Sometimes." He makes an aborted gesture to touch your cheek with his finger and you swallow hard. Your ears are very hot. You might choke on your spit.

"I didn't know Red Hood would care that much if I went home."

"'Course I do," he says softly. "Your safety is my priority."

"My-?"

"Civilians, I mean," Hood says quickly. "'S why I'm out here patrolling."

"But surely there's people who need you more than me. I'm just some nobody going home from work, I—"

"You're not a nobody. Don't say that," Hood says with so much force, it renders you silent. "Got it?"

You nod. "Okay. Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry 'bout. C'mon, I'll take you home, okay?"

You really don't want to bother Jason at this hour. Besides, as far as vigilante escorts go, Hood really isn't the worst choice. Another person might be afraid. A sane person would refuse.

"Yes, I'm okay with that," you say, smiling. "Thank you."

"Sure. My bike is parked down the block."

He walks a little behind you, close enough for you to turn and talk to him, but angled so that nothing can sneak up on you. It's the way Jason walks with you sometimes. You wonder if it's a Gotham thing.

Hood's bike is a cherry red. He lets you type in your address into his GPS. Then he gives you a helmet.

"Safety first," he says. It's the same helmet that Jason wears for his motorcycle. For a second, you swear you can smell his aftershave. Orange blossoms.

Hood gestures for you to get on. He holds the bike steady and it seems like he's going to hold your back to help you onto the bike. But he doesn't touch you, not like Jason does.

"Ever been on a bike before?" he asks when you're on.

"My boyfriend's."

He hums, throwing a leg over and straddling the bike. You blink at the sudden wall of bulk in front of you. "He treat you right, that boyfriend?"

You nod. "He's amazing. I love him."

Hood is silent for a moment, then he clears his throat. "Good. Lady like you deserves to be treated like a princess."

You laugh. "You barely know me. I'm no princess."

"I got a good sense about people. Hold onto me."

You wrap your arms around his waist. He tuts at you.

"Gotta hold me tighter than that. Don't want you flying off. You know better."

You tighten your hold, flustered and speechless. Hood pats your hand.

"There we go. Good listener," he says. "Everything okay back there? You're quiet."

For a second, it sounds like he's teasing you, and your stomach jumps like when Jason teases you. But the Red Hood isn't playful like that, right?

"I'm okay," you say.

"Nervous?"

You shake your head. "No."

"No? Glad you've got so much faith in me."

"I do."

Hood turns on his bike, revving the engine. You squeeze him tighter as he flicks the kickstand up with his foot, pushing off and balancing. He does so effortlessly. Wow.

Hood gets you home quickly. He follows all the traffic laws and doesn't speed. He drives efficiently, like Jason, but he takes it slow on the leans... like Jason. Maybe he can feel how you get nervous on motorcycles.

"This is it?" he asks, slowing down next to your building.

"Yes. Thank you." You wait as Hood stops and gets off first, then helps you off. You take his gloved hand, and he helps you off like it's nothing, bearing most of your weight.

"No more secretly working nights," he tells you. "I'll know."

You don't question it. "Okay. I won't."

"Good. Have a good night."

He starts to mount his bike. You step off the curb, in front of him. Hood stops.

"What's up?" he asks, nodding at you. He addresses you so casually... so familiar.

"Um, I was... do you mind if I ask for your autograph?"

Hood looks at you for a long moment. You lose your nerve and turn around.

"Never mind! Sorry. Good night."

"Hang on."

You turn around. Hood beckons you over with two fingers. You go, eyes widening as he takes off his gloves. He gives them to you. You catch a glimpse of more scars and maybe a silver ring. Jason sometimes wears a silver chain around his neck. It dangles over you when he’s—

"Oh no! Oh my God, you don't have to—"

"Got a bunch." It sounds like he's smiling. "Always nice to meet a fan. Any trouble with that boyfriend, let me know."

You're not sure if you respond, you're so dazed. Hood pulls away from the curb like a bat out of hell, waving at you as he goes.

You're already in bed by the time Jason comes home from work. He comes home earlier than usual, and you're still awake when he crawls into your bed next to you. You've taken down the Red Hood poster, too embarrassed from last week. Jason insists he's going to get you an even bigger poster. You beg him not to.

"How'd you know I was at my place?" you ask, yawning.

"My apartment alarm didn't report anybody entering."

"Still think it's weird that you track who enters your apartment," you say.

"Safety first. You usually don't go to your place unless you're coming home from work. You wouldn't happen to have worked a shift tonight without telling me, would you?"

"Okay, yes, but please don't be mad. I didn't take the bus." You pause before finishing. "Red Hood actually gave me a ride home tonight."

You reach sleepily for Jason's arm. He tucks himself into place behind you, wrapping an arm and a leg around you. He smells like your shampoo.

"Yeah, don't think we aren't done with the conversation about you taking the bus home at night, by the way. Red Hood, huh? Should I be doubly worried then?"

You roll your eyes. "Not on my part. But I was definitely getting a vibe."

"A vibe? Red Hood's got the hots for my girl?"

Jason slips a hand under your shirt to rest on your stomach. He always runs a little cool and it feels good on warm nights like tonight. He doesn't mean anything by it, but desire creeps onto you, slow and thick. You think of the gloves in your dresser.

"It kinda felt like that," you say, a little embarrassed to even admit it. "He, uh, gave me his gloves."

"His gloves?" Jason sounds sleepy. "That's basically a proposal."

"Two centuries ago, maybe. Please don't be jealous. Nothing happened, Jay."

You'd never cheat on Jason, obviously, but you've had a crush on the Red Hood since he came to Gotham. Riding on his motorcycle tonight was exhilarating, to say the least. Still, you don't want this to be a thing. Another guy would probably get upset.

But Jason's tone doesn't change. He's still sleepy and peaceful. "'M not. Might have to kick his ass, though."

You laugh at the thought. Jason kneads the soft fat of your stomach. "Something funny?" he asks. "Y'think I can't take him?"

"I know you could," you say, and you mean it, even though you're not sure how well your boyfriend can dodge bullets. "But, I mean, you're too nice for him, Jay. Hood fights dirty when he needs to. You fight fair."

"Wow. So you don't think I could beat Red Hood in a fight. Way to bruise a man's ego, baby." Jason buries his face in the back of your neck in retaliation. You squeal at the tickles.

"I didn't say that!" you say, giggling. "It's a compliment. You're too nice to scrap with him. Ah! Jason, mercy, mercy!"

"So you're saying he's mean?" Jason asks, showing mercy and easing off. He returns to just holding you, leg over yours.

"Not... not to civilians. Not to me. He's just a little rough overall, I think. But he seemed nice."

"Oh my God, you loved it," Jason says, no longer sounding so sleepy. "You loved being on his bike. You loved him being a little rough. This was a dream come true."

"No! No, Jason, it wasn't like that."

"You got the hots for Hood," he sing-songs. "Hood hots, Hood hots!"

"I don't, I don't," you say, shoving your face into your pillow. "Stop. You know you're the only one for me."

Jason hums, pushing himself up so he's on top of you without putting his weight on you. He pets your hip. "Yeah, baby, I know. Don't worry. Not mad. I think it's cute. You got a little flustered around him. No biggie. I trust ya."

You sigh, turning your face to the side. "He was professional."

Jason snorts. "Yeah, he better have been. Pretty lady like you holding onto him."

"I'm sure he helps way prettier ladies in a night," you mumble.

Jason easily rolls you over, so you're facing each other. He tucks you into his chest, an arm and a leg returning to their places around you.

"I seriously doubt it," he says. You can feel his voice vibrate through his chest. "Everyone knows you're the prettiest princess in Gotham, baby."

You hesitate, thinking about Hood. "Princess?"

"Yeah. That okay?"

"Oh. Yeah, that's fine."

Jason makes a noise like he knows something you don't.

Every so often, you really hate living in Gotham. It's usually around a time like this: Scarecrow has broken out of Arkham, and he's causing serious damage. Everyone has been warned to stay inside, and the sky is hazy with fear gas.

You're mostly worried about Jason. He went out a few hours ago and he hasn't texted you since. You asked where he was and called him a dozen times but he didn't respond. You're freaking out.

You're about to go out and look for him, Scarecrow be damned, when suddenly Red Hood is on the balcony of your boyfriend's apartment. How did he avoid tripping the alarm? You go to open the window but he opens it himself.

Shit. Is Hood breaking into Jason's apartment? Who the hell do you call in this situation?

"Hey," he says, voice tight. "Get your bag. We gotta go. Scarecrow and Ivy teamed up and it's bad."

"What? Okay. Oh my God." You jump into action, running into Jason's room to get your stuff. You come back, about to climb out the window, but you stop. He waves you over urgently. You shake your head and take a step back.

"No, I can't go without Jason," you say. "He was supposed to be back by now. What if he's gassed? He hasn't called me."

Hood fidgets, his whole body restless. He looks around, then looks back at you. "I'm sure he's fine. You can call him again when you're—"

"No," you say, staring those glowing white eyes down. "I don't care what authority you might hold, Hood. I'm not leaving Jason. He might come back here and he'll worry if I'm not here. I was going to go look for him."

"Don't do that," he says firmly. "Jesus." He looks at you, rolls his shoulders, then sighs. He shakes his head and grabs his helmet.

"Fuck," he says. "Fuck, I didn't wanna do it this way. Shit. Okay."

The latches of his helmet click. And suddenly you have your boyfriend in front of you, dressed like the Red Hood. He drops his helmet on the floor.

Your mouth falls open. "Wh—Jason? What? Are you–you were him the whole time? Are you fucking ser—"

"I know, I'm sorry." He takes your hands. "I'm sorry, honey. I wasn't gonna tell you this way but you're so stubborn, worrying about me and shit. I promise you can yell at me as much as you want after. You can throw stuff, hit me, break up with me, anything you want, just—"

You squeeze his hands. Jason stops his senseless ramble.

"I would never do any of those things," you say. "You don't know me at all if you think I would, Jay. I'm just, y'know, caught off-guard. Apparently, I've had a crush on my boyfriend since he before he became my boyfriend."

He cracks a smile. You roll your eyes.

"And you've been a smug asshole about it this whole time!"

"Kinda," he admits, looking away, and you see how pleased he's been about the whole thing. "I'll make it up to ya."

"Yeah, you better. Where are we going?"

Jason's shoulders slump with relief. You see it in his eyes too.

"You'll go with me?"

"Always," you say.

He takes his helmet, shifting from your boyfriend back to Red Hood. Wow. "Okay. Down the fire escape. We're taking my bike."

Jason puts his helmet back on. You follow him down the fire escape and to where his—Hood's—bike is parked.

"Your bike, huh?" you ask.

"My other bike."

"Uh-huh."

Hood gives you a rebreather and you take off, headed toward the Diamond District. He goes down a ramp and through some pretty fancy gates. Where...?

Concrete walls slide open and Jason pulls into what looks like a lair. Holy shit. He helps you off and you take off your helmet, staring up at a cave ceiling that seems to go on forever.

"Hood," someone growls, startling your gaze back down. Batman is glaring at you. "Why is there a civilian here?"

Jason takes off his helmet. "Yeah, so, this is my girlfriend. She's staying here, and if you try to kick her out, I'm gonna blow up the Batmobile. Cool? Cool."

"Since when do you have a girlf—" begins Red Robin.

"No questions," Jason snaps. "Not one word. Be nice to her or I'll kill you all."

You gasp. Jason turns to you, pulling you closer.

"No, sorry, I wouldn't do that. No deaths. They would recover from my maiming," he says to you, petting your shoulder.

"Not better," you hiss.

He shrugs, smiling. "'M a man of habit. Gonna try to change me now?" He kisses your cheek and you melt like you always do under his affection. Jason leans in and whispers the last part: "You could. I'd let ya."

"Wow," says Spoiler. Is the entire Gotham vigilante taskforce here? "So it's true what they say about married life."

"We aren't married," you say, confused. Jason grunts in annoyance, cradling the small of your back.

"With how he's acting? You might as well be," she says.

"This is so awesome," Nightwing says, full of glee. "Oh, you'll never hear the end of this, Jason."

"Listen, Dickbag—"

"Focus," Batman says. "She can't be here. Take her upstairs and come right back."

Jason rolls his eyes. "Sure, fine. C'mon, baby."

Robin is glaring at you, which kind of makes you want to throw up. But then Black Bat and Spoiler wave at you, and that makes you feel better. You wave back.

"Batman's really mad," you say as Jason leads you upstairs.

"Yeah, that's his default setting. He's been mad for about twenty-five years. He'll get over it. You're gonna meet Alfred next. He's the best."

"Alfred?"

You get to the top of the stairs and step into what looks like a mansion. Wait a minute. You've seen this mansion before. In a magazine...

"Is this Wayne Manor? What the hell, Jason? Am I meeting the Queen of Denmark next?"

"Again, not how I wanted you to find out," he says.

"I'm–I'm not dressed to be in Wayne Manor!"

"Bruce dresses up as a bat every night. Rest assured that you are the most normal person in this house, and none of those freaks downstairs can ever take that away from you."

You frown. "Still..."

"Don't y'trust me?" Jason asks, tapping under your chin. He towers over you, and now you notice that his Red Hood boots are taller than his normal ones. Clever.

"Yeah, I trust you, but—" You stop as Jason herds you against the wall, helmet dangling from his hand. He looks very official with his guns and armored clothing. His black cargo pants are pulled taut around his thighs, outlining how thick they are. It's just now occurring to you how deadly competent your boyfriend is, now that you've learned that the Red Hood was never that far away. Maybe you should be scared but, well, the wires were crossed a while ago.

"I didn't even suspect anything," you say, blinking at him. "You had me completely."

Jason shrugs, eyes half-lidded. You're not mad. He knows it. "Made sure you wouldn't find out. Wanted to find the right time, see how you felt about Hood. And then imagine my surprise when I learn that you've got his face on your wall, and his gloves in your dresser."

"You liked it," you say, lifting your chin, challenging.

Jason leans in, cupping the back of your neck, lips going to your ear. He wedges a knee between yours. "How could I not? You're so pretty, so nice t'me. Y'like me that much? Want me even like that? Tellin' Hood you love me, God—"

Something beeps, loud and shrill, and you jump. Jason just sighs exasperatedly, pulling out his phone and denying the alert.

"You have to go," you say, suddenly guilty you've kept Jason for so long.

"I—" Jason grimaces. "Yeah. I'll be back. We're not done."

You bite the inside of your lip. "I hope not."

Jason kisses you, hot and hard, and then he seems to steel himself, shifting into whatever Gotham needs him to be. He puts his helmet on and brushes your cheek, then disappears down the stairs to the Cave. You lean against the wall, catching your breath.

Maybe you'll put your poster back up.

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aidansloth · 1 day ago

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When I’m reading a good fanfiction, but then they call reader Sweet girl, innocent girl, baby girl

YOU ARE NOT MY DAD

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aidansloth · 1 day ago

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Out of Step, In Sync

Pairing: Eddie Munson X F!Reader

Summary: After a disappointing prom night, you stumble into an unexpected conversation behind the gym with Eddie Munson—Hawkins’ favorite scapegoat and misunderstood metalhead. What starts as a casual talk over a shared escape turns into something else unexpected.

Tags: Fluff, pure fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, honestly yall will need a dentist, SFW, mutual pining, developing relationship, Eddie Munson is a sweetheart, prom, dancing, 80s sci-fi references, no upside-down. No descriptions of reader. No mentions of Y/N

A/N: Yeah, you know me, I love a good 'ol fluff, I needed to feel something. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 8.4k

masterlist

You didn’t even bother glancing back.

The bass from the gym echoed down the corridor, muffled and distant, like a heartbeat you weren’t part of. Glitter clung to your dress and your shoes pinched with every step, but you didn’t care. The heels were coming off soon anyway. The air back here was cooler, quieter, less drenched in Aqua Net and teenage desperation. You welcomed it like an old friend.

You weren’t angry. Not even a little heartbroken. Just… done. Your so-called prom date was slow dancing with some girl from his chem class—too close, too familiar—but honestly? It was a relief. The two of you had nothing in common, and you’d spent most of the evening counting down the songs until you could leave without it being “a thing.”

Now, finally, you were alone.

You pushed the heavy double doors open and stepped out into the cool night. The gym’s back lot was empty, save for a few leftover streamers fluttering from a fence post. You sighed, breathing in the crisp air. Somewhere in the distance, a cicada buzzed lazily.

Then you caught it—the scent of smoke.

Cigarette smoke.

You turned your head and there he was, half-shadowed by the building’s edge, denim jacket draped over a worn prom tee, black slacks like he hadn’t tried at all—and still somehow made it work. Eddie Munson, leaning against the brick wall like the whole world bored him to tears.

He raised an eyebrow when he noticed you, but didn’t say anything at first. Just took another drag and watched you with a crooked smile.

“Well, well,” he said finally, voice low and amused. “Didn’t peg you for a backdoor escape artist.”

You crossed your arms, smirking. “Didn’t peg you for someone who’d show up at prom.”

He shrugged. “Had to see it to believe it. The glitter. The heartbreak. The emotional meltdowns. It’s like a zoo in there.”

You laughed, the first real one of the night. It caught you off guard.

He flicked ash off the end of his cigarette and nodded toward the gym. “So. Who do I have to thank for you gracing the back alley with your presence?”

You tilted your head. “My date’s dancing with someone else.”

Eddie winced dramatically. “Oof. Harsh.”

“Nah,” you said, leaning against the wall beside him. “We had the chemistry of a wet sponge. I’m just glad he realized it before I had to fake a bathroom emergency.”

He chuckled, and it sounded honest. Warm.

“Well,” he said, holding the cigarette out like an offering, “welcome to the land of misfit prom-goers.”

You eyed the cigarette, then shook your head. “I’ll pass. But thanks, ambassador of the misfits.”

Eddie grinned, sliding it back between his lips. “Suit yourself.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. If anything, it felt kind of… easy. The thump of music behind you became background noise, like it belonged to another world. You looked out across the empty lot, then back at him.

“So what about you?” you asked. “Didn’t have a date either?”

Eddie snorted. “Please. Can you imagine me at a formal dinner with someone’s mom taking pictures? Nah. I’m just here for the chaos. Thought I’d maybe sneak in, spike the punch, throw a few firecrackers—y’know, the classics—but someone already beat me to it. So now I’m stuck lurking like a gremlin in the shadows.”

You laughed again, easier this time. “Well, you wear the gremlin look well.”

He placed a hand on his chest. “High praise.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Just quiet. Peaceful. Like the noise of the gym didn’t even exist out here.

You twirled the cigarette in your fingers. “I used to think you were all noise, y’know,” you said without really thinking. “Like, loud music and heavy boots and wild hair.”

“I mean, I am all of those things,” he said, raising a brow.

“Sure,” you said. “But I don’t know… I think there’s more to it.”

He looked at you for a second, like he was trying to read your mind. Then he smiled. “Alright. Your turn. Tell me something about you that’d surprise me.”

You thought about it. Then, what the hell.

“I like science fiction. Books. Comics, too.”

Eddie blinked. “What?”

You shrugged, suddenly a little self-conscious. “Yeah. I mean… it’s not something I talk about. People think it’s weird.”

“Okay, hold on.” He straightened up, suddenly animated. “What kind of sci-fi? Like, classic stuff or weird future dystopia stuff?”

“Both,” you said, grinning despite yourself. “Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov. And there’s this one graphic novel series I’ve been obsessed with—The Long Tomorrow. You probably haven’t heard of it.”

Eddie’s mouth fell open. “Are you kidding me? Moebius is a god. That gritty noir-future vibe? That’s, like, the blueprint for half my D&D campaigns.”

Your jaw dropped. “Wait, you like Moebius?”

“Like him? I worship him. I have The Airtight Garage under my mattress so my uncle doesn’t ‘accidentally’ throw it out during one of his cleaning sprees.”

You couldn’t stop smiling now. “That’s ridiculous.”

He pointed at you with his cigarette. “You’re ridiculous. All this time I thought you were just another prom queen in disguise and now you’re telling me you’re secretly a sci-fi nerd?”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not a prom queen.”

“No,” he said, grinning. “You’re way cooler.”

The compliment caught you off guard. There was no smirk behind it, no teasing edge—just honesty. His eyes lingered on yours, and for the first time all night, you felt seen. Not dressed up, not performing, just you.

“Guess we both had the wrong idea,” you said quietly.

He nodded. “Guess so.”

And just like that, the space between you didn’t feel so distant anymore.

You both stood there for a while, trading stories—about favorite books, childhood cartoons, and how utterly overrated prom was. You were surprised how much you had in common. Maybe not in how you moved through the world, but in the way you looked at it. Like both of you were on the outside looking in, only now you had company.

Through the slightly cracked door, a new song filtered out. Faint but unmistakable.

“I wanna know what love is…”

You glanced back toward the gym. The colored lights flickered just beyond the windows, a blur of red and blue. The music carried more clearly now, bleeding into the cool night air like some kind of cosmic joke.

Eddie took another drag, then stubbed out the cigarette under his boot. “You should go back in,” he said after a moment, flicking ash from his fingertips. “It’s prom. Go dance with someone. Someone who doesn’t hang out behind dumpsters and make fun of the decorations.”

You tilted your head at him. “You mean someone boring?”

He gave a breathy laugh. “Someone who won’t get you judged by, like, the entire social hierarchy of Hawkins High.”

You shrugged. “I already got ditched by my date. What’s the worst they can do? Gasp?”

Eddie smiled, but his eyes drifted back toward the glowing gym windows. “Still… I’m not exactly prom royalty.”

“Well, neither am I,” you said. “So maybe that’s the point.”

He didn’t answer. Just rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking unsure of himself for the first time that night.

You tilted your head again, studying him. “You know,” you said slowly, “you could go dance too.”

Eddie barked a short laugh. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He held up his hands, surrender-style. “I can’t dance. I mean it. Like, at all. I’ve got rhythm when I’m playing guitar, but put me on a dance floor and I look like I’m dodging bees.”

You stared at him for a moment. Then something wild and impulsive bubbled up inside you.

You stepped forward, just close enough to be a little dangerous.

“Okay,” you said, lifting an eyebrow. “So don’t go on the dance floor.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Stay right here. Dance with me.”

Eddie straightened slightly, like he wasn’t sure he heard you right. “Are you… serious?”

You nodded, smiling now. “I’ll guide you. You don’t have to know how. Just follow me.”

He hesitated. And for a second, you thought he’d say no. But then, slowly, like he was afraid the moment might break if he moved too fast, he took your hand.

His fingers were warm. Calloused. A little shaky.

You placed his other hand at your waist, your free hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

The music swelled behind you, soft and sweet and full of yearning.

“…and I want you to show me…”

You started to sway, just a little. Nothing fancy. Just moving to the rhythm, simple and easy.

“Okay,” you said, voice low. “Just match me. That’s it.”

Eddie watched your feet like they held all the answers in the universe, but he followed. Awkwardly at first. Then with a little more confidence. Then a little more.

He looked up at you, a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re really doing this.”

“So are you.”

And under the stars, with music bleeding out from a world that didn’t quite fit either of you, Eddie Munson danced.

With you.

You didn’t let go.

And for the life of him, Eddie couldn’t understand why.

Your dress swaying slightly in the night breeze, and you were holding his hand. Guiding him like this was just some normal thing people did — like you weren’t the kind of girl who was supposed to laugh behind your locker with friends in matching dresses. Like you weren’t way too pretty, too bright, too out-of-his-league to be caught slow dancing with the town freak behind a gym full of people who’d never get it.

But there you were. Smiling at him like he wasn’t a joke. Like he wasn’t just a rumor in black denim.

And all Eddie could do was follow your lead.

You moved gently, no pressure. Just a simple sway. His hand was on your waist, and he could feel your heartbeat through the fabric, could feel the way your fingers gripped his just enough to ground him. Like you knew he was seconds away from spinning off the planet.

How was this real?

For once, Eddie Munson wasn’t putting on a show or throwing up middle fingers at the world. He wasn’t posturing or mocking or performing.

He was just here.

Dancing with you under the stars, to a song he didn’t even like, and somehow? It felt like the most honest thing he’d ever done.

The ride home was quiet, but not the awkward kind. The good kind. The kind that settled between the two of you like a blanket, warm and easy.

Eddie’s van rumbled softly down the back roads, headlights cutting through the dark. Your heels were in your lap, your feet bare and curled up on the seat, glitter still dusting your legs. The leftover makeup smudged slightly beneath your eyes, but you didn’t care. Neither did he.

He kept glancing at you when he thought you weren’t looking. You noticed, but you didn’t say anything.

The radio played something soft—some late-night ballad that felt a little too on the nose—but neither of you reached out to change the station. It kind of fit.

When he finally pulled up in front of your house, the engine idled low, casting the porch in pale yellow light. You didn’t move at first. Neither did he.

You turned to him, your voice softer than it had been all night. “Thanks for the ride.”

He looked at you, really looked at you, and gave a small, genuine nod. “Yeah. Of course.”

You opened the door, about to step out, then hesitated.

“And… thanks for earlier,” you added, eyes meeting his. “I actually had fun tonight.”

His brows lifted, surprised. “Yeah?”

You smiled. “Yeah. Like… more than I’ve had in a while.”

Eddie’s fingers drummed once on the steering wheel. “That’s kinda sad,” he teased. “But I’ll take it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile didn’t fade.

He watched you for a second longer, eyes darker in the dim light. “You’re not what I expected,” he said, quietly.

You tilted your head. “Good unexpected?”

He shrugged, but there was something softer in the way he looked at you now. “Yeah. Definitely.”

You nodded slowly, then stepped down from the van. The door thunked shut behind you, but you lingered at the curb, turning back one last time.

“See you Monday?”

He grinned. “I’ll be the one getting detention.”

You laughed, backing toward your porch.

And he stayed there, parked under the streetlight, watching you go—wondering what the hell just happened, and why he kind of, maybe, really wanted it to happen again.

Monday’s cafeteria buzzed with leftover prom talk—who wore what, who threw up in the parking lot, and who was already regretting their choice of date. You sat with your usual group, a tray of barely-touched food in front of you, picking at a soggy fry as your friends swapped stories.

“I swear, if I hear more stories of Lisa and Charlie slow dancing, I’ll puke,” one of them groaned.

“I heard Jeff cried during I Wanna Know What Love Is,” another snorted.

You chuckled under your breath, but you were only half-listening. Your thoughts were still stuck somewhere in the quiet part of Friday night—lit by stars, wrapped in soft music and Eddie Munson’s uncertain hands.

“Okay,” said Courtney, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin, “tell us. What happened with you? You disappeared after ten.”

Your stomach did a small flip. “I, uh… went outside for some air.”

“That long?” someone chimed in. “Didn’t your date ditch you?”

You shrugged. “Yeah. But it was mutual, kinda. No chemistry.”

Courtney raised an eyebrow. “So what, you just wandered off?”

You hesitated, then decided to own it.

“I ran into Eddie Munson. We talked for a while.”

The table quieted. You didn’t miss the way someone blinked. Or the small, uncomfortable scoff.

“Wait—Eddie Munson?” said one of the girls, drawing out his name like it tasted wrong. “As in… Hellfire Club, Eddie?”

You looked up, steady. “Yeah.”

“Oh my god,” another said under her breath. “Isn’t he like… failing half his classes?”

“I heard he might repeat senior year again,” someone else added. “That’s like—what, his third time?”

You set down your fry and leaned back a little. “So what?”

That shut them up for a beat.

You looked around the table. “He was nice. We talked. We danced. It was actually… fun.”

Courtney blinked at you, like she couldn’t quite process it. “You danced with Eddie Munson?”

You smiled. “Yeah. He’s different than people think.”

They exchanged a few glances, probably trying to figure out if you were serious, but you didn’t give them room to argue. You just went back to your tray, casual but firm.

You didn’t owe them anything else.

And when they finally moved on to a different story, you let your mind drift again—back to Eddie’s hands, awkward and warm in yours, and the way he’d smiled like no one had ever looked at him the way you had.

The final bell rang and the halls of Hawkins High exploded with noise—slamming lockers, shouted goodbyes, the usual stampede toward the exit. You were pulling out your books, ready to head home, when a familiar mop of messy curls came into view.

Eddie.

He almost walked past, arms full of binders and that damn lunchbox of his, but then he spotted you. His grin bloomed instantly.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite prom partner,” he said, walking backward in front of you with dramatic flair.

You snorted. “I’m your only prom partner.”

“Details,” he waved off, turning to walk beside you. “Still the best.”

You shook your head, trying not to smile too wide, but it was hard. He kept cracking jokes—half of them dumb, some surprisingly clever, all of them weirdly charming. By the time you reached the front doors, you were laughing hard enough to forget about the weight of your backpack or the way people stared.

Outside, the sun was still high, casting golden light over the parking lot. You lingered near the bike racks, and Eddie rocked back on his heels, suddenly looking like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how.

He scratched the back of his neck. “So, uh…”

You raised an eyebrow.

“You doing anything right now?”

You blinked. “Not really. Why?”

His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “Wanna get milkshakes or something?”

You tilted your head, amused. “Are you asking me out?”

“What? No!” he said quickly, eyes wide. “I mean—not that you’re not—ugh.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “Not like a date date, just, y’know. A post-school, ice-cream-adjacent hangout. Very casual. Extremely non-threatening.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “You’re doing a terrible job of making it sound casual.”

He groaned. “God, I know.”

You paused for a second. Then smiled.

“Yeah. Let’s get milkshakes.”

Eddie blinked. “Wait—really?”

“Really,” you said, starting to walk again, this time toward his van. You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Do I get to pick the music in your van?”

He placed a hand over his heart, mock wounded. “Absolutely not. But you can control the windows.”

Lunchtime in the cafeteria. Same old gray plastic trays, same mystery meat, same half-hearted arguments about campaign rules. Eddie was halfway through explaining, for the third time, why rolling a nat 1 on perception doesn’t mean you automatically get eaten by a mimic, when something—or rather, someone—stepped into his line of vision.

You.

He blinked up at you, startled. You were holding something. A piece of paper, no—thicker than that. Watercolor paper.

You thrust it out toward him before he could even say hi.

“I, um… I made this.”

Eddie looked down.

It was a watercolor painting. Bold, messy brush strokes in warm and murky tones. And there, standing like some strange cosmic king, was Major Grubert from The Airtight Garage. Rendered with this dreamy, layered energy—loose and vivid, with little gold details that shimmered when they caught the light.

“You painted this?” he asked, dumbfounded.

You nodded quickly, already looking like you regretted everything. “I don’t know. It’s dumb. I just— You said you liked the comic, and I was painting for art club, and I thought maybe you’d—”

He stared at you.

You stared at the floor.

“Anyway,” you rushed, already backing up. “You don’t have to keep it or anything. I just—yeah, okay, bye.”

And then you turned on your heel and disappeared between the tables, like a mirage, gone as fast as you came.

For a second, Eddie didn’t move. His tray sat forgotten, and the painting was still in his hands.

“What the hell was that?” said Gareth.

Jeff leaned over, squinting. “Is that… art?”

“Holy crap,” said one of the freshmen, eyes wide. “Did she just give you that? Like, a gift?”

“I think she did,” Eddie murmured.

He was still staring at it. Still stunned.

Because it wasn’t just the painting—though that alone was cool as hell—it was the fact that you made it for him. That you remembered that offhand comment about The Airtight Garage from days ago. That you painted this weird little sci-fi character, and thought of him while doing it.

It was… a lot.

Eddie cleared his throat, trying to shake the dazed look off his face. “Shut up,” he mumbled, carefully sliding the painting into his binder like it was made of glass. “None of you get it. It’s called being interesting, you cretins.”

They didn’t stop staring.

Gareth leaned over the table. “Dude. Seriously. What was that?”

Doug raised an eyebrow. “Did you hex her or something?”

“Shut up,” Eddie muttered, still guarding the painting like it was top-secret government property. He shoved it deeper into his binder, then clapped it shut with a loud snap.

“You’ve been weird all week,” Jeff pointed out.

“Yeah, man,” Gareth said, gesturing wildly. “You’ve been, like… smiley. It’s freaky.”

Eddie sighed like a man defeated, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Fine,” he mumbled, keeping his voice low. “If I tell you, will you shut up and let me eat my damn lunch?”

They all nodded in rapid, eager unison.

Eddie leaned forward slightly. “We danced at prom.”

The table went silent.

“What?” Gareth blinked. “Who did?”

“Me and her,” Eddie said, voice a little more defensive now. “It just kind of… happened. She came outside. We talked. She offered. I didn’t step on her feet. Miracle of the decade.”

“She asked you to dance?” Jeff repeated, stunned.

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Yes, Jeff. It’s not that hard to believe.”

“It’s just—she’s, like… art club. Social. Normal,” said Doug.

“And I’m a freak,” Eddie finished, not angrily—just matter-of-fact. “Yeah, yeah. I know. That’s the whole thing, right?”

They all exchanged awkward glances.

Eddie softened a little. “We’ve just been talking since then. That’s all. She’s cool. Funny. Into sci-fi stuff. And apparently, she paints really badass cosmic generals in her spare time.”

The group went quiet again, but this time with a slightly different energy.

Jeff nodded slowly. “Huh.”

“Damn,” Gareth muttered. “Did not see that coming.”

Eddie shrugged, leaning back in his seat and finally stabbing at his lunch. “Neither did I.”

But under the table, his fingers tapped quietly on his knee—restless in that weird, hopeful way.

Because yeah… he didn’t see it coming.

Your room looked like a clothing explosion.

Jeans on the bed. A skirt on the floor. Three different tops draped over your chair. You stared into the mirror, adjusting the neckline of your favorite shirt for what had to be the fourth time, then gave up and let out a groan.

It wasn’t a date.

Not officially.

But still.

Eddie had asked you yesterday—Eddie Munson, king of chains, dice, and anti-establishment rants—if you wanted to go to the new Starcourt Mall. He’d said it kind of awkwardly, like the words felt weird in his mouth. Then he’d doubled down with, “I mean, I hate malls, they’re corporate brain rot, but if you’re there too, I guess I won’t spontaneously combust.”

Which, translated from Eddie-speak, meant: I want to spend time with you, and I’m doing something completely out of character because it might make you smile.

So yeah. Maybe it was a date.

You adjusted your hair again, spritzed the tiniest bit of perfume, and gave yourself one last once-over. Just polished enough to show you cared—but not so much it looked like you were trying. Hopefully.

A soft knock on your door pulled you back to Earth.

Your mom peeked in, eyes twinkling.

“Sweetie?”

“Yeah?”

She pushed the door open with a hand on her hip and an expression halfway between curiosity and polite judgment. “There’s a young man waiting downstairs for you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “He’s early?”

She shrugged. “Five minutes. Maybe he was excited.”

You tried to hide your smile as you turned back to the mirror, smoothing down the hem of your nicest top. Not fancy fancy — just enough to look like you put in effort. It wasn’t every day Eddie Munson asked someone to hang out somewhere as un-Eddie as the Starcourt Mall.

You were flattered. And a little impressed. He was trying.

Your mom lingered by the doorway, arms crossed loosely now.

“You didn’t tell me you were seeing someone.”

You paused, lip gloss wand hovering in the air. “I’m not. We’re just… hanging out.”

She arched a brow. “Uh-huh.”

You rolled your eyes, but smiled. “I mean it.”

“Well,” she said, pushing off the doorframe. “He’s… not what I expected.”

You turned slowly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Leather jacket. Messy hair. Rings on every finger. He’s got a… rough-around-the-edges thing.” She shrugged. “I didn’t peg him as your type.”

You hesitated. “Is that a problem?”

She raised her hands. “Not for me. Just... interesting choice.”

Then, softening, she added, “But he stood up when I walked in. Called me ma’am. And he didn’t look at the family photos weird, so… he’s alright in my book.”

You blinked. “Wow. High praise.”

“I’m just saying,” she smiled. “You could’ve warned me you brought home a James Dean type.”

You rolled your eyes again, but this time you were grinning. “He’s not like that.”

“If you say so.”

With that, she turned to leave, calling over her shoulder, “Don’t leave him waiting too long—he keeps checking his watch.”

Your heart fluttered.

You gave yourself one last look in the mirror—quick swipe of gloss, tuck of hair behind your ear—and grabbed your bag.

You didn’t expect Eddie Munson to know his way around a shopping mall.

And to be fair… he didn’t.

From the moment you stepped into Starcourt’s fluorescent glow, he looked like a vampire in daylight—eyes squinting, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, muttering about “late-stage capitalism” like the air itself offended him.

“This place smells like fabric softener and broken dreams,” he declared as you passed an Orange Julius stand.

You grinned. “You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute, or I’d have already burst into flames.”

But despite all his grumbling, he stuck close. Arm brushing yours. Slowing down when you lingered in shop windows. Letting you tug him toward places you knew he’d secretly like—like the comic shop tucked near the food court, where he perked up at the sight of a rare Swamp Thing issue and ended up ranting, passionately, about horror art for ten straight minutes.

After that, it all got easier.

He let you drag him through a novelty store, where he made you try on glittery heart-shaped sunglasses and nearly bought a lava lamp “just because.” At Sam Goody, you flipped through cassette tapes while he made dramatic gagging noises at pop albums and then—when he thought you weren’t looking—quietly bought a Bowie tape because you mentioned liking one song.

Somewhere between Cinnabon and Spencer’s, your arms brushed again.

And this time, he didn’t move away.

Instead, he offered his elbow in that silly, exaggerated way, like some knight escorting royalty through battle. You rolled your eyes but linked arms anyway.

You didn’t unlink for a while.

When you passed the photobooth, it was your idea.

“C’mon,” you said, already tugging at his sleeve. “We have to. It’s practically a law.”

“I hate pictures,” he protested.

“Too bad.”

He grumbled, but followed.

The booth curtain smelled like static and old gum, and the light inside was way too bright. But Eddie slid in beside you anyway, pressing his knee against yours in the cramped space.

The timer beeped.

First photo, a blur of you both, too late to pose.

Second photo, you were smiling, he was sticking his tongue out.

Third, he turned his head and said something just as the flash went off, so his mouth was frozen mid-word and you were laughing.

Fourth, he looked at you. Really looked. And you looked back, cheeks warm. And for that one second, neither of you made a face.

That last one made your stomach flutter.

The strip slid out a few seconds later, still warm from the machine. You both leaned over it, smiling like idiots.

“I’m keeping this one,” you said, pointing to the last shot.

“No way. That’s the best one.” He mock-whined. “It’s mine now.”

“Split it,” you said, already reaching for it. “Even trade.”

So you carefully tore it down the middle, each of you keeping two little squares. You tucked yours into your wallet. He stuffed his into the pocket of his jacket like it was something worth keeping safe.

After that, you shared a cherry slushie and browsed the record store. You ended up on one of the benches near the fountain, your shoulders bumping gently as you sat.

Eddie kicked at the tile with the toe of his boot. “Okay, confession,” he said, not looking at you. “This was kinda fun.”

You smiled. “Even though it’s a capitalist wasteland?”

He grinned. “Especially because of that. I got to rant and be dramatic and walk around with a pretty girl on my arm. All the core Eddie Munson needs.”

You laughed and leaned your head against his shoulder.

And you didn’t say it out loud, but in your pocket, the photo strip pressed between your wallet like proof:

Something was happening between you.

And it felt really, really good.

The smell of acrylic paint alingered in the air, windows cracked just enough to let in the late afternoon breeze. You sat cross-legged on a stool, paintbrush in hand, blotting a soft gradient of pink across the corner of your sketchbook while your friends chatted around you.

“So then Brad says he didn’t cheat, he just ‘accidentally’ kissed her,” Courtney said, rolling her eyes as she rinsed a brush in a cloudy jar of water. “Like that’s a thing.”

“Classic,” Angela muttered. “Men are such a disease.”

You hummed in vague agreement, still focused on blending your colors. It wasn’t until Courtney nudged your foot under the table that you looked up.

“Okay, but you had that smug little look on your face when you walked in,” she said. “So. Tells us. What did you do this weekend?”

You paused.

Then smiled. Just a little. “I went to the mall.”

“Ugh, I live there,” Angela said. “With who?”

“…Eddie.”

Courtney blinked. “Eddie Munson?”

Angela dropped her pencil. “Seriously?”

You shifted in your seat, brushing a spot of paint from your thumb. “Yeah.”

They exchanged a glance, the kind that was just a little too loaded. “Are you—like—serious with him?” Courtney asked, a bit cautiously.

You looked down at your sketchbook.

The memory hit you fast and warm—Eddie, leaning back on a food court bench, drumming his fingers against his knee and grinning every time your hand brushed his. The way his face softened when he looked at you, like he couldn’t believe you were real. The photobooth picture in your wallet, folded so carefully it was starting to wear at the edges.

You swallowed, eyes flicking back up.

“I don’t know yet,” you said honestly. “But… maybe.”

Courtney raised a brow. “I mean, he’s kind of—”

“Different,” Angela finished for her. “Like, not who we thought you’d be into.”

You let out a breath, not defensive—just tired of that tone.

“He’s actually really sweet,” you said. “He listens when I talk. He cares about stuff. He remembered I liked a random song and went back for the tape the next day. He’s not what you think he is.”

The girls went quiet for a second.

Then Courtney shrugged. “Okay. I mean, if you like him.”

“I do,” you said quietly, adding a final brushstroke to your page. “More than I thought I would.”

Angela cracked a smile. “Well… if he breaks your heart, we’re egging his van.”

You laughed. “Deal.”

The library was louder than usual—not in noise, but in energy. Stress hung thick in the air, like a storm cloud hovering over every student hunched at their tables. Pages flipped, pencils scratched, the occasional frustrated sigh echoed off the stone walls. It was exam season.

Eddie Munson was in hell.

His science textbook lay open in front of him, untouched for the last ten minutes. His notebook was empty, save for a rough sketch of a dragon flipping off a periodic table. He tapped his pencil against his lip, eyes unfocused, legs jittering under the table.

This wasn’t his place. He hated the cold lighting, the itchy silence, the way it all felt like it was judging him for every gap in his knowledge.

And then you walked in.

Like sunlight in a storm.

You made your way across the room, dodging backpacks and tangled limbs, carrying your bag against your hip and a calm expression that made it look like you weren’t drowning in deadlines and formulas. You spotted him, gave a little wave, and sat down across from him.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath all day. “Hey.”

You glanced at the disaster zone of his table—crumpled notes, half-drawn doodles, an empty soda cup with a chewed straw—and smiled.

“Rough day?”

Eddie dragged a hand through his hair. “I’m about five minutes away from faking my own death and starting a new life as a gas station poet in Ohio.”

You laughed, but it softened quickly as you reached into your bag and pulled something out: a clean, colorful folder. It had your name written neatly on the corner, and sticky notes poking from the sides like a rainbow spine.

You slid it across the table toward him. “These are my notes. For science. And history. And… okay, maybe I got carried away.”

He blinked. “You—”

“They’re color-coded. Definitions are in blue. Equations are pink. Anything our teachers stressed in class is highlighted. I even made flashcards, they’re in the back pocket.”

Eddie just stared at it.

Not because he didn’t want it. But because something about it felt… personal. Intimate.

No one had ever done something like this for him before.

You fiddled with the edge of your sleeve. “I don’t know, maybe it’s dumb. But they helped me. I figured maybe they’d help you too.”

He reached out slowly, fingers brushing the cover. Then, reverently, he opened it.

It was like walking into your mind. Your handwriting curled neatly over page after page. You’d drawn little diagrams. Circled key dates. There was even a little cartoon mitochondrion wearing sunglasses on one page.

He swallowed.

“This is…” he said quietly, still flipping pages. “This is incredible.”

You shrugged, trying not to blush. “Just thought you could use a little help.”

Eddie didn’t respond right away. He just sat there, running his thumb along the edge of one of the pages like it might disappear if he let go.

Then he looked up at you. Not with the usual teasing smile or lazy smirk.

He looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

“I swear to god,” he said, voice low and serious, “if you keep being this perfect, I’m gonna have to make you mine.”

Your heart stuttered.

You blinked, stunned—but not in a bad way. Just… surprised by the weight of those words, how much they didn’t sound like a joke.

You recovered with a half-smile. “You should probably focus on passing chemistry first.”

“Baby, I’m failing chemistry because you walk into the room and all the atoms in my brain rearrange.”

You laughed, covering your face for a second. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It’s emotional science,” he insisted. “Way more complicated.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth wouldn’t leave your cheeks.

He closed it gently, like he was sealing up treasure.

“Thank you,” he said, and he meant it.

“Of course,” you replied, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve been helping me too. Just in a different way.”

Eddie tilted his head. “Oh yeah? How?”

You looked at him, and this time, didn’t hesitate. “You make me feel like I don’t have to hide the weird parts of myself.”

Eddie’s eyes softened.

“I’d riot if you did.”

You were digging through your locker for your pencil pouch when you heard it—footsteps, pounding fast down the hallway, like someone was being chased. You didn’t even look up until a voice you knew all too well shouted your name like it was a fire alarm.

“Hey!”

You turned just in time to see Eddie Munson nearly skid on the polished floor as he sprinted toward you, hair wild, jacket flapping behind him like a cape.

He nearly collided with the locker beside yours, bracing himself with one hand, breath coming in quick bursts.

“Eddie—what—?”

“I passed,” he said, eyes bright and disbelieving. “I passed.”

It took you a second to register what he meant. “Wait—like... everything?”

He nodded, grinning so hard his face looked like it might split open. “Everything. Math, English, science—Mrs. Miller gave me a D-minus, but that’s still a D! That’s still passing!”

You dropped your books onto the floor without even caring.

“Eddie, that’s amazing!”

And before you knew what you were doing, you threw your arms around him.

He laughed into your shoulder, wrapping his arms around your waist and lifting you clean off the floor for a second, spinning once with the wildness of it all.

“I had to tell you first,” he said, voice muffled in your hair. “I ran here.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face. His cheeks were flushed, lips parted, eyes shining with something that looked way more intense than just pride.

He looked at you like you were the sun after months of rain.

“Seriously, I never would’ve made it without you,” he said. “Those notes? Those flash cards? The dumb acronyms you made up so I could remember physics formulas—”

“They weren’t dumb,” you said, laughing.

“They were adorable,” he corrected, like it was obvious. “And apparently effective.”

His hands were still on your waist. Yours were curled into his jacket without you noticing. Your faces were close—closer than usual. And you saw it flicker across his face—something unspoken, something about to break through.

And then it did.

He kissed you.

No hesitation, no stammering this time. Just a sharp inhale, and then his lips were on yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn’t polished or practiced—it was a kiss powered by sheer joy, by the rush of success and the comfort of you, by everything he’d been holding back. His hands slid from your waist up to your jaw, cradling your face like he couldn’t believe this was real.

And the thing was—you didn’t stop him.

You didn’t pull away.

You kissed him back, arms looping around his shoulders, grounding him, steadying him in the middle of this ridiculous, beautiful rush.

When he finally pulled away, your faces still close, you could feel his breath fanning your lips, still uneven.

You stared at him, slightly dazed, your pulse thundering in your ears.

“…You didn’t plan that, did you?” you asked, voice half-breathless, half-amused.

Eddie gave the softest little laugh, head leaning against yours for a second as he caught his breath.

“Not even a little,” he said. “I think I blacked out after I said ‘I passed.’”

You shook your head, cheeks burning in the best way.

He grinned, wild and flushed and completely Eddie. “You’re gonna be so sick of me.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

And you didn’t even have to think about it.

Because if this—this chaotic, sweet, completely unfiltered boy—was the reward at the end of every academic achievement?

You’d tutor him forever.

“Eddie’s here,” your mom called from the hallway, her voice light and knowing.

You looked up from the mirror, heart skipping just a little.

Your dad’s voice followed a beat later from the living room. “Tell him to keep it under 60 this time.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately as you grabbed your bag. “He only sped once, and that was because we were late for grad practice.”

“He was going eighty,” your dad replied.

“It was downhill,” you said, already headed for the door.

You passed your mom in the hall, and she gave you a soft smile. “He brought flowers. Again.”

You couldn’t help the way your smile grew.

When you stepped outside, the warm air wrapped around you like a blanket. The sun was still high, the cicadas buzzing lazily in the trees, and there he was—leaning against his van like he belonged there, a bouquet of mismatched wildflowers in one hand, the other shoved into the pocket of his worn jeans.

He looked up the second he heard the screen door creak.

And you swear, even now, after everything, he still looked at you like it was the first time.

“There she is,” he said, grinning wide.

You walked up to him, arms crossing just to keep yourself from doing something embarrassing, like swooning. “What’s the occasion?”

Eddie held out the flowers. “Just celebrating the fact that I somehow tricked the universe into giving me a girlfriend this amazing.”

You rolled your eyes, taking them anyway. “You’re ridiculous.”

He leaned closer, voice low and smug. “And yet… here you are.”

You bumped his shoulder with yours, but your smile gave you away.

He opened the passenger door for you with an exaggerated bow. “M’lady.”

“Such a gentleman,” you muttered, climbing in.

As he circled the van to the driver’s side, your dad stepped out onto the porch with a glass of coffee and a suspicious glare.

Eddie gave a little wave and a crooked smile. “Sir. Swear I’ll have her back by ten. Eleven max. No stunt driving this time.”

Your dad just raised an eyebrow.

Eddie slid into the driver’s seat, shutting the door and pulling on his seatbelt. “He loves me.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” you said as he started the engine.

“So,” he said, flicking the stereo on low, “this theater just started showing Back to the Future. Two days early, somehow. I figured a little time travel with you sounded better than melting in my room watching The Evil Dead for the twelfth time.”

You laughed and gave him a look. “You just want to see the DeLorean.”

“…Okay, also that.”

He reached over and laced your fingers with his, resting your joined hands on the bench seat between you.

The van rumbled down the sunlit road, windows cracked open, the summer air carrying in the scent of grass and gasoline. Your hair danced in the breeze. Eddie hummed along to whatever cassette was playing—a little out of tune, but you didn’t mind.

Not when his thumb kept tracing slow circles over the back of your hand.

Not when the entire summer felt like it was unfolding in front of you like something sacred.

And as he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, grinning like you were the best part of the world—

You thought maybe you were right where you were supposed to be.

The mall was alive with its usual symphony—chatter, synth-pop from overhead speakers, the distant ding of arcade machines, and the occasional whir of the fountain in the food court. You and Eddie split off the moment you stepped into the theater’s cool, air-conditioned lobby.

“I’m getting the tickets,” he said, already headed toward the box office.

“And I’m getting snacks,” you said before he could argue, already turning for the concession stand. “Don’t fight me on this, Munson.”

He shot you a mock glare over his shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable.”

When you met back up, he handed you a single stub—he’d already torn them and given the other to the usher. You handed him a large bucket of popcorn and a cherry Icee with two straws.

Eddie blinked. “You got two straws in my Coke?”

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s our Coke now.”

His heart may have done a ridiculous little flip at that, but he just grinned and led the way inside.

The theater was dark and cool, the trailers already rolling as you found seats near the middle—close enough to feel immersed but far enough that you weren’t cranking your neck. Eddie set the popcorn between you, but you curled into his side instead, slipping your hand into the crook of his arm and resting your head gently on his shoulder.

He stilled for half a second, surprised by the contact—he never quite got used to the way you just… leaned into him like that. Like it was easy. Like it was safe.

“You comfortable?” he whispered, glancing down.

You nodded without looking up, your voice soft. “Perfect.”

When the movie began, the glow of the screen lit your faces in blues and oranges and whites. You quietly giggled at the opening scene, nudging Eddie every time something ridiculous happened—he whispered a sarcastic comment back each time, just enough to make you cover your mouth to stifle laughter.

At one point, he reached into the popcorn bucket and accidentally brushed your hand. You didn’t move away. Neither did he.

When Marty McFly first hit 1955, you leaned closer, eyes wide with wonder. Eddie didn’t say anything—just smiled a little to himself, letting you rest there, your head warm on his shoulder, your heartbeat syncing quietly with the slow, steady thrum of his.

And in the dark, surrounded by strangers and movie magic, Eddie Munson let himself imagine—just for a moment—what it might be like to have this forever.

The van rolled to a quiet stop in front of your house, headlights casting soft beams across the porch. The movie was long over and the cassette in the stereo had looped twice already.

Neither of you moved.

You glanced at Eddie with a small smile, fingers nervously picking at the edge of your sleeve. “Thanks for tonight. I had fun.”

He turned toward you, his hand resting on the steering wheel. “Yeah? Me too. That was…” He looked at you like he was still a little surprised this was real. “That was a good night.”

You both laughed at how underwhelming that sounded.

“I mean—great night,” he amended, mock-dramatic. “One for the ages.”

You shook your head, biting your lip to hide your smile. “Come on, rockstar. Walk me to the door?”

Eddie hopped out first and came around the van, opening your door like he always did—even when you rolled your eyes at him for it. The night air was warm but quieter now, the street still and bathed in porchlight glow. You walked side by side up the driveway, close enough that your arms brushed.

At the bottom step, you turned to face him.

Eddie scratched the back of his neck, shifting on his feet like he wanted to say something more but couldn’t find the words. “I, uh… hope this wasn’t too boring. You know the mall and a movie isn’t exactly my usual scene.”

You shook your head. “I loved it. And… I like seeing different sides of you.”

That got a smile out of him. A real one. Small, warm, a little shy.

You stood there for another beat, the silence stretching out but never uncomfortable. Just full—like both of you were hoping time would slow down.

“Well…” you started, tilting your head toward the door.

“Yeah,” he said. “Guess this is—”

You kissed him.

Soft and certain. You leaned in first, lips brushing his with the kind of ease that only came with practice and care. He melted into it instantly, one hand slipping to your waist, the other steadying him against the railing like the whole world had narrowed down to just this.

When you finally pulled away, your noses were still almost touching.

“Goodnight, Eddie,” you whispered.

He blinked, dazed. “Goodnight.”

You stepped inside with a smile still tugging at your lips, and the second you closed the door behind you—

“That was quite the kiss.”

You jumped. Your mom was standing in the kitchen, sipping tea with your dad, both of them clearly having witnessed the entire thing from the window.

“Did he trip over the step again?” your dad asked casually. “He always does that when he’s nervous.”

You groaned. “You two seriously have nothing better to do?”

Your mom just smirked, eyes twinkling. “We like seeing you happy.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning, but you couldn’t stop the grin from breaking through.

Because yeah… you were happy.

Dating Eddie Munson is nothing like you expected—and everything you didn’t know you needed.

It’s loud music in his van, the kind that rattles the floorboards and makes you laugh when he drums on the steering wheel like the world’s watching. It’s his leather jacket slung over your shoulders when the air turns cold, his rings cool against your skin when he reaches for your hand. It’s messy hair, wild ideas, and the way he always walks on the outside of the sidewalk, like it means something.

It’s learning to love the chaos, and realizing that under all that noise and bravado, Eddie’s just… gentle. Thoughtful. Unbelievably loyal.

Dating Eddie is getting a cassette made just for you—your name scribbled on the label, each song chosen because it reminds him of you. It’s him sitting beside you while you paint, trying not to move too much even though he’s definitely itching to fidget. It’s him reading the comics you lend him, even the weird ones, just so he can talk to you about them later.

It’s milkshakes and movie nights and the kind of laughter that makes your chest hurt. It’s long drives with no destination, arms dangling out the window, his voice carrying through the breeze as he sings along—terribly—to some over-the-top power ballad.

It feels like a plot twist Eddie Munson never saw coming.

He thought he knew how his story would go—misunderstood metalhead, high school dropout, maybe famous one day if he got lucky. But then you happened. And now every chapter feels rewritten.

It’s surreal, honestly.

You—who used to feel so out of reach—actually laugh at his stupid impressions and roll your eyes in that way that kills him, but never walk away. You sit next to him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You hold his hand like you mean it. That alone blows his mind.

It’s the way you look at him like he's not some town freak. Like he’s not a rumor or a punchline or a lost cause.

Like he’s enough.

He'll go to every goddamn mall just to see you smile under neon lights, taking photos in a booth he secretly keeps in his wallet, and pretending not to blush when your head rests on his shoulder during a movie.

Dating you, to Eddie, feels like finding out the world isn’t as cruel as he thought it was.

It’s not always easy. He still worries he’s not good enough for you, that you’ll wake up one day and see what everyone else says they see. But you never flinch. You just keep showing up. Keep choosing him.

And he’d burn down the whole world just to deserve you a little more.

Yeah. Dating you?

It’s the best damn thing that’s ever happened to him.

#YOU ATE #this is phenomenal #:))

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aidansloth · 2 days ago