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I’m posting this one Jason Todd angst and then BOUNCING from superheroes altogether for a bit cause June-August is my Visual Novels phase and this year…. oughhhhhhh Mac I need you Tim I need you (both from date everything)

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Get to see my computer partner TODAY

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i love that theyre rgb ... makes coloring rlly fun

waiter waiter more glasses mac art please

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i post again in like 3 years and its for the nonbinary computer from date everything.... theres a shortage of mac art so i would like to contribute to the pile

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Most of my drafts are Jason Todd angst and the latter few are Dick Grayson angst. And then I haven’t even gone near Tim since I wrote I’d Want Nothing More (Than You) because that genuinely made me grieve smthng idk I’m going insane.

Anyways, the next fic is probably going to be Jason angst because I thought the most EVIL EVIL DELICIOUSLY SAD ASS PLOT 😛😛😛😛😛 involving childhood romances, growing up and suddenly apart, and orphans, in that order!

Also p.s. I completely didn’t realise that I (a poc) wrote mostly with pocs in mind. And eye colour rlly comes into play in the next fic 😭

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⚹ fem reader - because the person I took inspiration from and dedicate this to is fem ⚹

Tags/Warnings: Friends to lovers // falling in love // corny jokes // laughing yourself into loving // I have never written for Dick Grayson before uh oh! // kissing // on my Dick is a yearner shit // uhhhh like 3 swears Idk // over 2k words! Yay!

Summary: Sometimes, inside jokes stay inside jokes. Sometimes, they’re just jokes. Not with you apparently. Not when it’s you— not when it’s Dick. Or: Dick can’t help himself but fall in love with light and laughter.

Dedicated to my friend, who made this joke and made everyone laugh over and over.

(Author’s note at the bottom!)

Dick thinks you’re so lovely. It’s not an uncommon thought for him to have, especially when you’re with him in some late-closing diner at the edge of Bludhaven; but it’s a poignant one nonetheless. Recurring. Stuck on loop every time you make one of your lameass jokes and corny comments before hiding your face in your hands in embarrassment. Laughing like you still can’t help but find yourself funny in a way that makes it feel like being around you is having a light shone on the dark underbelly of the world. He’d take you with him off-world if only to show the universe what star-cores look like. Not molten magma, not melting iron and heavy gravity; but you.

Giggling, silly you; still giggling, gearing up for your next joke, and he feels it before he sees it. His cheeks hurt from grinning but his heart feels so damn light.

“Could I try my hand at a marshmallow?” You’re pinching at the air above his plate with the world’s dumbest little grin, and he’s in love.

Dick stares at you, no brow raised, just staring, and lets out a huff of breath through his nose that sounds close to a laugh. He gestures to his plate with a lame wave, fist up to his lips to hide his aching grin. “All yours.”

But you’re not done. Your face pinches in stifled laughter when you awkwardly hum and haw, “You have to close your eyes first.”

Dick eases his milkshake to the table, lips pursed in confusion and amusement, but ultimately he closes his eyes, one hand to cover them for emphasis with his elbow propped up on the table. He’s laughing already, and he can hear the shuffle of your clothes and your uneven breaths as you laugh— settle yourself quickly, and laugh again so hard it comes out kettle-like. You’re taking so long though, that he peeks between his fingers, feeling awfully lightheaded and equally silly because you’re making him laugh so hard his chest hurts with it. And he shuts his eyes quickly closed when he sees your hand pinch a marshmallow off his plate. Dick can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of him when he hears you start wheezing again after.

“You done?” He asks, clearing his throat with a faux firmness that makes you giggle through a mouthful of marshmallow. It makes him open his eyes to catch yours as you chew, and your entire face warms from the way you start wheezing, doubling over the table in laughter as you try to blink your eyes open through your own fit.

When you catch your breath, you can barely speak without wheezing the words out.

“Can I—“ a wheeze. It takes you a good second to recover. “Can I try my hand at another marshmallow?”

You’re so so lovely, and so so beautiful, and Dick buries a laugh into his hand, half in disbelief at how stupid this is, and how much he loves it— but it’s not dumb, at all. Not when you’re laughing so hard your face is pinched and you’re pressing your forehead to the table. Not when he’s barely able to help himself as he squeezes himself into the cushion of the booth behind him, quiet laughter shaking him whole.

“This is so stupid,” he manages to choke out, and you look up from where you’re doubled over the table looking seconds away from crying, just to shrivel up like a prune again, wheezing at him like somehow he made the dumb joke.

You steal 3 of his marshmallows, that night. At one point tricking him into turning around (by telling him someone was in the window, of all tricks) and having him come face to face with your marshmallow padded cheeks. He fell in love with you hard, and fell in love with you stupid, with tears prickling his eyes at your dumb jokes and corny tricks and fuck he loves you.

Oh, he loves you.

———

The realization doesn’t change anything. You go about your lives meeting up and splitting apart, and Dick... Dick doesn’t remember when he started falling for you, but it had to be before the whole marshmallow thing that he can’t keep from bringing up now. It’s become something of a staple for him, actually. Stolen right from your dumb roster of inside jokes and absentmindedly applied to every aspect of his life. He’s accidentally said it to the crooks and goons he’s fought in the alleys, like somehow you’ve slipped even into his persona in the mask, haunting Nightwing as much as you haunt Dick Grayson.

Dick doesn’t realize how bad it’s gotten until someone points out that he doesn’t flirt as enthusiastically anymore, even as a joke. Like something in him feels the betrayal of doing so even when he’s not quite yet yours in the way he wants to be.

You’re spitting something in the world’s fakest maritime accent you have when he comes to terms with wanting you, by the way. Stopping to laugh at yourself with full guffaws that have your face scrunched as you belt out laughter like you’re singing. Which— you do end up doing here or there. Just breaking out into one-note songs before you’re back to giggling, and Dick is so in love with you. He feels like a kid with you around, laughing like you’re both always at a sleepover, and his whole heart aches with the want to be yours as you narrowly avoid choking on a spoonful of soft-serve.

He just— he has to interrupt the world’s silliest spiel to ask you. “Can I try my hand at some soft serve?”

Your giggles bubble up first, smile widening enough to show your teeth as you nod your head; giggles bubbling into full blown laughter when his shoulders start shaking too. He nearly drops the spoon trying to get it into his mouth, and you’ve turned your head away to wheeze into your hand, and he feels like he’s soaring.

“Mmm,” he hums, and your face screws into a deeper laugh.

“Why the hell are you just— ‘mm’,” you mimic, but it makes you start laughing so hard you cough on it, your face so warm. The way your eyes crinkle is permanently embedded into his brain, along with the very sound of your laughter. Carried through fist-fights in spandex and missions across the stars, like mental images of sunlight and diner-dinners so late at night it’s early. The kind of things he remembers when he’s at his most low.

Dick waits for your laughter to settle, his own breath stuttering as he swallows down a fit of it. “Can I—“

He doesn’t even manage through the sentence before you’re laughing again, and god does his heart do flips. A quadruple somersault— or no, quintuple. You’d make fun of him for that one, but he really does mean it, cause the extra spin is from the way you give him whiplash from laughing so hard neither of you could breathe.

He asks, “Can I try my hand at some more soft serve?” When really he wants to ask if he could try his hand at kissing you.

None the wiser, you nod— eyes crinkled so deeply you can barely see, and Dick feels like he’s floating when he loves you like an untethered astronaut gazing at the sun.

———

It becomes something that loops in his head, like completing a quote you never knew was only ever half finished. You’re so lovely, could he try his hand at kissing you?

He doesn’t even know how you’d react to that. Doesn’t know if you’d laugh or cringe… or just awkwardly cough at his sincerity, but that last one might just be him catastrophizing. But, he reasons with himself, it shouldn’t be this scary. Shouldn’t make his palms sweaty like he’s about to defuse a series of bombs Riddler’s put annoyingly complex codes on and he’s running out of time.

But you’re lounging there on the couch— in his apartment— with your eyes following the eye candy of the edit on your screen and suddenly it is scary. He’d call them a nameless character, but you’ve mentioned this one once or twice. Or a lot. Point is, you’re watching eye candy, and he wants to be dumb and stupid for once with you and that’s horrifying. Wants to let himself be dumb and stupid and just ask you—

“Can I try my hand at a kiss?”

He snaps his mouth shut and his heart immediately drops. And the way you turn over to him, eyebrow raised and lips pursed tight? Yeah, he’s giving himself amnesia again.

“What—“

“Wait,” Dick interrupts, hearing the laughter bubbling up your throat and his face falls in embarrassment.

“No, I’m—“ you start wheezing, putting your phone down just as he hears the beat drop. The timing’s perfect actually, because he’s pretty sure every beat of his heart right now is a beat drop in the world’s scariest horror-romance flick. If he even gets to the romance part. “I’m not— Sorry this is so mean but that was just so out of the blue.”

Dick’s stammering wordlessly, and for all his easy confidence Dick can’t seem to catch his footing. Caught between admiring the way you laugh, correcting himself, or doubling down; though the last two act as essentially the same thing because he won’t lie his way out of this one now. You’re in no easier a state, caught in a giggle fit as you catch your breath, shuffling closer to where he is on the other end of the couch and having to take pitstops and rest your entire weight on the cushions in deep, laugh-stuttered breaths.

“Dick,” you say weakly, and your laughter immediately picks back up and he wants to cry now. Both because he’s started laughing as hard as you and because he’s so awfully confused by the way you cradle his hands in yours. “Sorry your name is so stupid.”

You’re awful, you’re horrible, and you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life, topping supernovas and hard-won sunrises as you tip your head back to look at him through grin-crinkled eyes. You’re awful.

“It’s my name,” he wheezes, half a confused whine, and you laugh so hard you tip forward into him. Your head pushes against his chest catching at the beat of his heart, and Dick feels laughter bubbling out of him like it was always meant to be there. Like he’s a kid again on the trapeze and you’re catching him. Like no matter what you say next he knows you’ll catch him regardless.

“Get a—“

“I did get a new one, and you and I both hated it,” he cuts you off, and you grin. You grin like you don’t know you’re starlight-made and stardust covered; like you think this doesn’t mean anything to him as you give his hands a squeeze. He’d go by ‘Ric’ again, if it made you happy for the rest of his life. Shave his whole head bald too, just to commit to it.

When you catch your breath, pulling back and leaning your head against the couch and breathing heavily, you finally manage to ask with a rasp to your voice, “Did you— actually mean it?”

Or at least he thinks that’s what you asked. Your words slurred a little together as you failed to stifle your laughter by the last few words and he kind of lost it, but he caught it, he thinks.

“Yeah,” he laughs quietly, so hard he nearly sobs, “I did mean it.”

And god he hopes you never stop laughing at your stupid inside jokes and taunts. Hopes you never stop smiling; hopes your old age comes with crows feet at your eyes and smile lines etched into your face. Hopes he gets to see it and bask in it for as long as he can keep himself light enough to stay alive.

“Can I—“ you start, looking drunk on laughter and exhausted from wheezing, but still lightly smiling, “Can I try my hand at— at that kiss you offered?”

And god he has to laugh first, has to get it all out as you both tip towards each other, forehead on forehead, because he loves you, and he’s so light, and he’s pretty sure he’s about to bust a fucking lung. When he kisses you, through slowing giggles and deep, grounding breaths, he finds his heart soaring and landing all at once. Finds that the sun, for all its warmth, doesn’t burn when you hold it. Finds that you’re lovely, and he wants to know if he can try his hand at being yours forever.

A/N: I hung out with my friends recently, went around for a drive to nowhere, and my friend, Anna, just kept making this same joke over and over again and making us laugh. Like, super hard. It made me think of how someone like her would fall in love with a superhero, any superhero, and Dick was the first one that came to mind.

I don’t pretend to know how to write him, much less how to write him well, but I hope he’s written alright here 😭 I just thought that of all of the batfamily, he and Duke were probably most likely to have that almost-normal romance. I’ve not yet even read much about Duke yet though so I’ll have to see about reading his lore and character analysis before I write for him!

Anyways, this is dedicated to Anna, hope she likes it <3

[ga-lily-o]

Invincible:

Love, Actually

Summary: It’s just another shift at Burger Mart. Bad lighting, long hours, and an embarrassingly cute coworker who lights up your whole world. (Mark Grayson x (gn) Reader)

They Don’t Kiss (but They Really Should)

Summary: You and Eve are friends, first and foremost. However, Eve also wants you more than she has the guts to say. Not that you know… or maybe you do, because none of this is casual. (Eve Wilkins x gn reader)

The Big Reveal

Summary: Mark Grayson is many, many things. A hero, a Viltrumite, his mother’s son, Oliver’s brother, but god does he love being yours. (Mark Grayson x (gn) Reader)

This Time They Do (Kiss, That is)

Summary: In the best worst decision ever, you offer to braid Eve’s hair— not long after you did her makeup, no less. You’re sure you want to die because friends shouldn’t be wanting friends this bad. Doesn’t seem like Eve cares about titles anymore though, with the way she’s staring at you now. (Eve Wilkins x gn reader)

Dc:

I’d Want Nothing More (Than You)

Summary: It’s fun to plan your wedding, even hypothetically, with the right person in your life. And he might not have the time to have that wedding with you right now, but Tim would find it in a heartbeat. Would have, if he’d found you sooner. (Tim Drake x gn reader)

Can I Try My Hand (at Loving You?)

Sometimes, inside jokes stay inside jokes. Sometimes, they’re just jokes. Not with you apparently. Not when it’s you— not when it’s Dick. Or: Dick can’t help himself but fall in love with light and laughter. (Dick Grayson x fem reader)

Other fandoms (No longer actively a part of):

Lies of P

Meet-cute Through a Window (Though it Shouldn’t be Possible)

Gardener/Botanist Reader Headcanons

When the Sun Comes Up

Cooking with a Special Puppet Headcanons

Every Rainfall

Lockwood and co

See my old account @writtenontheport

⋆˙⟡ ✿˖° I reserve the right to refuse any and all requests as well as the right to ask you not to plagiarize my work, thank you!

⋆˙⟡ ✿˖° I do requests when I get to them or when the inspiration strikes! If that’s not until a month or two later, then I apologize, but I’m not going to publish something I didn’t enjoy writing

⋆˙⟡ ✿˖° I am always trying to write as inclusively as I can. Meaning unless I’m writing an oc x character fic, or like… a general characteristic reader fic (for example: long distance! reader, poc! reader, mother/father reader) I’m not going to be writing specific characteristics or any of a reader-insert’s physically defining traits. I do take requests for gn, fem, and male readers though

⋆˙⟡ ✿˖° I write SFW/mildly suggestive/suggestive works. I do not write super dark romance, dead dove, or fully NSFW content. I write angst/fluff to varying levels, so heed the tags please! Grief is still my favourite narrative tool after all hehehe

⋆˙⟡ ✿˖° If you’re not sure if a topic is gonna make me uncomfy— please ask! :> I’d be more than happy to clarify ❤️

⋆˙⟡ ✿˖° I write for the following fandoms and people, currently:

Invincible (Mark Grayson, certain Mark variants, Eve Wilkins)

DC (Tim Drake, Cassandra Cain, Dick Grayson, Barbara Gordon, Kori’andr, Jason Todd, Duke Thomas, Kon-el Kent (maybe even John Constantine, Wally West, Damian Wayne, or Bart Allen if I’m feeling up to it))

I’m considering Arcane as well but whether or not I do is completely up to chance— you can still request! Just… we’ll see if I write it

I also do AUs, because I like putting characters in situations and figuring out how they’d act 😛🥰

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Watched the HTTYD Live Action movie today and younger me falling in love with Hiccup makes sense again 😭 Besides that though, the movie was SO good and the casting was amazing 😭 I ADORED the experience and it was so so fun 😭❤️❤️❤️ It makes me want to write for the older Hiccup now… But I’ll probs write like 1 or 2 fics I still have to wring Tim by the neck (lovingly)

Edit: Just thought of Tim in Berk and a fic from that and FUCK if I didn’t have work today 💔💔💔💔💔 I would write so much if I just had the day off omg 😭

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⚹ gn!reader, but the reader is mentioned walking down the aisle and Tim is mentioned to be the one proposing for personal headcanon reasons ⚹

Tags/Warnings: Soft domesticity // established relationship // mentions of a bomb and violence (but none depicted outright) // Major Character Death! :> // Grief // Loss // Wedding talk // Funeral talk // I’m just silly like dat // intended civillian reader but could be read either way // like… a couple swear words // mentioned injuries // please tell me if I missed a tag // Angst // Fluff until the first cutaway then it’s not fluffy at all

Summary: It’s fun to plan your wedding, even hypothetically, with the right person in your life. And he might not have the time to have that wedding with you right now, but Tim would find it in a heartbeat. Would have, if he’d found you sooner.

(A/N at the bottom!)

It’s hard to tell what Tim thinks of marriage. More than just heading to the courthouse and signing some paperwork— something he’d be more than glad to do, mind you— but planning it. Attending it. Doing all the cheesy, silly things couples do when they have all the time in the world to be in love, because you’re sure Tim doesn’t have that time.

And it’s fine, you’re not complaining. You’d be happy to be his in any capacity as long as it’s the one closest to forever, but a part of you wonders if he’d indulge you if you asked. If he’d play along with all the silly little things you’d want to do for your wedding; listen to the songs you’d want to play for each dance, try all the flavours of cake you’d both like for however many tiers of it you decide on. Deciding the catering, the theme, the centrepieces. All the things a man like Tim would hardly have enough time to do, but you can’t help but ask, sometimes.

Can’t help but wistfully look over at wedding-wear boutiques with dreams clouding your eyes as you window shopped; can’t help but think of just how handsome he is in a suit when he has to be in one and wonder if he’d dress up for it. You’d let him wear a hoodie if he wanted. Laugh about it walking down the aisle as both your parents and Bruce have a conniption over it.

Because you’d marry that man with all the brains in the world and a snarky mouth to boot, even if he didn’t cry as you walked down the aisle. Because he’s here with you, hand ever so gently resting on your side as you huddled together in the kitchen like there was no space to separate; the morning sprinkling in.

You’re laughing when you say his name, little lilts of it that match the way your eyes crinkle in delight, caught in the lowlight of the range hood in all your sleepy glory like you’re meant to be captured in a polaroid and kept in a wallet. His hands itch to whip out his phone just to take a photo of you for that reason, eyes boring into yours when they meet; the warm light washing you in gold. Still too dark out to turn it off, even as the sky gets lighter.

He hums lowly in response. Flat, even. Not for one second betraying the way his heart’s beating hard against his ribs like the drummer at a punk show. Like loving you will break more bones and blood vessels than a roundhouse kick to the chest.

“If… if we got married—“

“When,” Tim corrects, because he can hear the hope in your voice like a light wash of paint, and your smile turns dopey. “When we get married.”

There’s a pause there, not loaded but light, as you try to collect yourself. Try not to combust at the way he’s unapologetically looking at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world, and you lean in to rest your head on his shoulder.

“When we get married,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper, “What would you want in it?”

His answer is easy, quick, like a beat of his heart. “You.”

You playfully press your hand to his other shoulder in the world’s lamest half-shove, and his hand comes up to lace through yours while your heart beats in your throat.

“Try again, cause that’s a given,” you scowl, but it’s undercut by the way your face feels warm and you’re barely able to fight the smile creeping in.

Tim hums for a second, the hand on your side coming up to bracket your upper back, tracing your shoulder blades with a reverent touch. “That one restaurant a couple blocks down from the Clock Tower—“

“The one I like?” You interrupt gently, soft smile turning giddy as he tilts his cheek until it hits your head.

“They do catering for weddings.” Because of course he’d know that. Of course he would. He’s saying it like it simply doesn’t matter, but Tim doesn’t remember things he doesn’t need to. Doesn’t remember what isn’t important, but you are, important. Beyond belief.

“When’d you find that one out?” You pried, because he’d let you, shuffling closer until you can wrap your arms around his waist and he lets you slide against him like a lock clicking into place. His lips slide against your forehead as you tuck your face into his shoulder, his lips dry and sharp with bitten skin.

“A while back,” he says simply, like there was nothing else to knowing about whether your favourite restaurant did catering for weddings or not. Like it was nothing, when it was everything.

“Whipped,” you tease, grinning impossibly wide into his shirt, and a second later you’re squealing as he lightly pinches your side.

———

It’s the memory you cling to as you’re watching death come closer; as the seconds tick down on the timer, your whole body in pain. You think… your wedding would have been good.

You think of Tim in a suit by the archway; of soft lights and intimate crowds and secretive laughter. Of laughing and crying at once because you’re talking to him about stupid things like how you met and what it was like to fall for him, and you’re saying your vows to the camera your tormentor’s set up absentmindedly now. Tim must be watching on the other side, must be agonizing over it like you had been, but as the seconds come down, you can’t help but just feel light.

“Thank you,” you whisper, hoping somewhere that he can hear you, or read your lips, “For loving me.”

———

There’s a ring in a compartment Tim built into the nightstand on his side of the bed. He thinks of that when he’s cradling you— or, really, what’s left of you. There’s wedding vows he’s said to mirrors before he’ll ever get to say them to you; flowers he’ll first see at your funeral before he’d ever get the chance to marry you, surrounded by them.

He thinks your vows will be etched into his brain with the same blood colouring the rubble he’d found you in. With the same image of your tear-stained cheeks covered in soot. With your face still and your heart unbeating.

2 minutes too late to find you, and now he’ll pay for it with the rest of his life.

“Tim,” someone says firmly behind him, their voice finally cutting through the haze of his grief like the dust in the air coming out of focus. He’s still staring down at you, hand under your head where it’s in his lap, hand laced through yours, ignoring the way your broken fingers don’t curl into his hand.

Something in his mind— the alert, always ready part of him that’s kept him alive thus far— wants to scold them for using real names in the mask, but he can barely move his mouth. Barely breathe beyond the clog of emotions pouring into his every breath. Your hair is a mess. You’re hurt. You’re not hurting.

“Tim,” someone says again, closer this time, still firm. It’s the opposite of grounding. It’s grating, it’s painful. Everyone needs to shut the hell up. When he says it out loud it comes in a sharp hiss, like it’s hurting him to even speak. He curls further around you, what remains of you. Lets your blood wash him in the hopes he can keep as much of you as he possibly can. There’s a million and one solutions in his head, because realistically he can bring you back, but all of them leave you fundamentally altered. All of them ruin you.

But he could bring you back, even if he shouldn’t. He could, he knows, if he acted fast enough—

“Tim,” someone says again, and this time he recognizes it as Dick, hovering so close to him he can feel the heat radiate off his brother in the cool air of the night. And Tim remembers why he shouldn’t; won’t. Remembers why he won’t.

So he takes a shaky breath and curls down to press his forehead against yours, unable to help the way he draws you closer, impossibly close. “I ran out of time.”

To save you, to tell you he loved you, to marry you. To watch you walk down the aisle because he’s absolutely not the one picking who’s going to give him away; to laugh with you about it while you plan; to make sure you knew his vows like he’ll know yours. And it’s so fucking unfair, cause he gets your vows, spoken in your dying breath like that was the denouement of your life. Like you’re happy you got it out; you’re happy with him knowing and without knowing in return. It’s unfair that it comforts him, unfair that he’s living long enough for it to comfort him.

“I ran out of time,” he rasps again, disbelieving. Because in every version of this— of grief, of loss— he hoped it was never you. And now all he has is what you left of him.

———

In another world, a kinder one, he asks you to marry him at home on a day you made him book off to do nothing but lounge around with you. You’re both in wrinkled sleepwear and there’s takeout in your laps as you lean your weights against each other.

He’ll ask you to marry him with a movie running in the back because he can’t help but love you so deeply while it’s playing. And you wouldn’t have asked him first because you wanted it to be on his terms, even if you’d thought about it here or there. It’s one of the many things that make it easy to love you.

It’s one of the things he’ll miss when he musters up the courage to come back to… where home was. Where you both used to live, where that damn ring is still in the nightstand, where your indoor shoes still wait by the door and your coats rot in the closet. Everything feels like it’s rotting, actually. Like the light preserving the world has died and there’s nothing but the way the world rots and rots to nothing.

Every picture by the doorway you’d hung up— the candids of your lives. The one that ended with you. They hang like the paintings in the Louvre. Like the echoes of something grand, of someone else’s heart and soul. Like he’s no longer the same person now that you’re gone.

And still his heart beats, ‘I love you’ in every breath, banging against his ribs with them still intact. They should be broken, he thinks distantly, if even just under the weight of this grief, and Tim slumps against the bedroom door, keeping it closed and keeping the illusion that you’re still just behind it. Like for a second he could walk in and ask you to marry him then.

He stays there for a while, compiling every detail you planned with him of what you would call ‘the best wedding ever’. Dreaming wide awake of you, of every moment he’d been robbed of seeing.

“I do,” he says to the open air, like some delusional freak, gripping himself hard enough to bruise as he rasps a breath. And he thinks of you in the kitchen, washed in the golden light of the range hood, captured in the early dregs of the morning. Thinks of what it’s like to be back home to you.

A/N: Writing this fic hurt me actually but in an addicting way. I just! Loveeee explorations of grief, of loss, and Tim is my favourite. I hold him to my chest and I kiss him hard as I punch him! Yippee! On a side note, I wrote this almost frantically because the idea was sticking to my skin like an itch.

Anyways, sorry if Tim is ooc, I let my heart decide how I’m depicting him today. This fic nearly broke my less than 2k words curse

This one is dedicated to my friend Anna, because I sent her the fic and she cried because I didn’t forewarn her that it’s angst sorry ❤️😭

[ga-lily-o]

Sorry kids, mommy can’t write right now, she’s playing the new season of Fortnite 💖

[ga-lily-o]

⚹ Reader is gn ⚹

Tags/Warnings: Pre-relationship // Friends to lovers // They’re both so perceptive and stupid // Make-outs (very small part) // lots of tension // suggestive language // not explicit // mentions of religious imagery (Symbolic; Eve and the apple) but they’re for the plot // like… two (2) swears // uhhhh Idk what else 😭

Summary: In the best worst decision ever, you offer to braid Eve’s hair— not long after you did her makeup, no less. You’re sure you want to die because friends shouldn’t be wanting friends this bad. Doesn’t seem like Eve cares about titles anymore though, with the way she’s staring at you now.

(Author’s note at the bottom)

You’re doing Eve’s hair this time— an excuse, really, to be able to run your fingers over the fine soft silk of it and watch the red shine in the sunlight. In the privacy of her room, surrounded by her, your fingers itch to ghost her collar, your lips are aching to plant themselves on her nape. Instead you’re threading them together with a shaking breath, mumbling under it as you twist her hair into a braid, leaving out two strands to frame her face where she’s staring at you in the mirror like she wants to devour you whole.

And you would let her, god you would let her, but your fingers are shaking in uncertainty and there’s an insecurity shaking your bones and clogging your throat. You’d ask her to love you, if you weren’t scared shitless to, like how you’re scared shitless by the thought of her catching your eyes in the mirror and knowing immediately how down bad you are.

What are you even afraid of? What’s holding you back? Some part of your brain presses itself against your restraint like someone edging you to dive off a cliff. Whispering conspiratorially in your ear: “Don’t hold back.”

But you can’t dive in. You’re holding onto the ledge for dear life, too terrified to step either way, ahead or behind—

“Ow,” Eve says softly, and your breath stutters as your hand loosens around a strand of her hair. “Careful— what are you even doing back there?”

You’re horrified, embarrassed, and utterly exposed. Less like a cornered deer and more like one caught in stoplights. Swallowing, you focus back on her hair, sheepish as you respond.

“Sorry,” you mutter, stumbling over the word before it comes out. “Your hair’s stubborn like you.”

An excuse, like this whole charade, but she looks at you in the mirror through half lidded eyes and you regret glancing up to meet electric greens.

“Right,” she says, like the shadows of her expression aren’t making your breath leave your lungs in a wheeze. “You sure you don’t just suck at this?”

You scoff, half offended, half flustered and breathless with a burning want in your gut. Her hair is so soft in your hands, and you feel something coil in your blood when you have to pull the strands across the skin between your fingers. Like lightning bolts striking copper, like being shocked back to life.

“Maybe you just suck at holding still.”

Eve’s eyes still on you until you look up again, and you’re barely able to fight the way your knees go weak at the way she tilts her head and smirks at you in the glass of it.

“Right,” she says, completely insincere.

———

Eve’s watching you like the audience member at a solo stage performance, and you don’t know if she’s enjoying the way you’re floundering or not. It’s enough to make you worry your bottom lip between your teeth, the skin of it marred by your own habits.

When you look back up to Eve again in the mirror, her eyes are laser focused on your face, and it makes you stutter and clear your throat.

“Your— uh, hair, is done,” you tell her, hands settling slowly onto her shoulders, fingertips burning where your indexes slide onto her collarbones themselves. Something lighting up in your soul, feeling the way the skin there is soft as it looks and even warmer than you’d thought. And her Adam’s apple bobs, and she swallows, hard.

Her hand comes up to settle over yours, your fingers weaving at the knuckles like everything you do represents the distance between you both. Like you’re eternally going to be chasing each other around with a gap between you; a line drawn in the sand neither of you remember making.

But Eve is braver than you, you think, because she pushes her fingers snug into the spaces between yours, and you almost want to feel embarrassed about the way your breath audibly wisps away from you.

Suddenly she’s not just looking at you through the safety of the glass; suddenly she’s toeing the line you’d both drawn in the sand, eyes boring into yours in a way that makes your tongue tie and your heart twist.

Her hand splits from yours just for a second, long enough for you to miss the warmth of it like it’s the only tether to earth you have, but not for too long. Because she’s spinning in her chair to face you, hands meeting yours where they’re hanging stupidly in the air where she left them, and you wish she hadn’t smiled at you like that meant something to her, because you’re already having a hard time breathing.

“You keep biting your lips like that and they’re gonna be rough,” she warns you, but the words pass through that private smile of hers and every breath feels like wildfire in your lungs.

“Why’s it matter?” you ask her, quiet as you purse them, tongue darting out to wet the parts that feel horribly dry. Ignoring the way her eyes follow the peek of it; the way her head tilts and the hair you’d left out the braid curling over her shoulder.

“It’s gonna feel real weird when you’re making out with someone,” she scoffs, like she’s saying it sincerely and sarcastically at once. You want her to eat your lungs for it. “Like rubbing your lips on velcro.”

“And you’d know what that feels like?” You joke back, managing to scrounge together some bite in your bark, even as her grin turns smug and dopey.

“I’d know if you let me kiss you.” She says, the words quiet like the volume itself could deter the way it shattered the air. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish suffocating, your throat dry and blood pounding in your ears. She barrels on, “For practice, too, seeing as you’ve never made out with anyone.”

The way she’s saying it sounds casual, but her hands are shaking as they gently squeeze yours, and somehow it doesn’t sound like she just wants to practice. Somehow, it makes you feel like two cowards toeing the line.

But then her smile softens, voice dropping into the low quiet that it does when she gets you in the late nights, exhausted and intimate like nothing else matters but you two together, “We don’t have to, really, I was just—“

“I want to,” you cut in, blinking like it’s the first time you’ve done it when her eyes widen just a smidge, “Or— yeah, I want…to.”

Then there’s that smile slowly pulling in again, her lips curling into a soft smirk that has your breath shallow and blood running in your ears. “Ok.”

Her hands slide from yours to your hips, fingers trembling as she slides them up to your waist, dipping under the hem of your shirt.

“D’you wanna get on my lap?” She asks gently, looking up at you like she’s stepped onto the stage to worship you. Like you’ve gone from a performance to an idol; like she’d kiss every inch of you if you asked. You’re straddling her lap before you can even begin to realise how much your blood is boiling.

———

There’s something about the way kissing Eve is like dunking your head in water to see how long you can last; with the way you don’t want to pull up, even as your lungs start to burn and your body begs for you to breathe. Her hands splay over your sides, under your shirt, palms warm and flat against your skin and fingers digging into your sides, under your arms. Tongue tasting you like you’re her first communion. Like she’s been starving for all her life. Living up to her namesake, with you being her apple of temptation.

From here, her lipgloss tastes less like dragonfruit and mint and more like heaven born sin. Horrible in the way you can’t help but keep wanting and wanting. Even if it might damn you to death the way you can’t breathe.

But still, you both have to pull away, and it’s a painful thing with the want coiling like a snake in your gut, taut and boiling. She’s looking at you like you damned her; like you saved her from it too, as her hands slide up and down your sides— just once— and make you shiver.

“Yeah,” she hums, like her breath’s not shaking either and her lips aren’t red and ruined; smiling like she’s won, “velcro.”

And you’re drowning in your want, swallowing your spit and tasting her in it as her hand comes up to cup your face. Her thumb runs over your bottom lip, your entire body begging you to ask her to let you drown in her waters until your lungs give out.

But you don’t beg when you open your aching mouth. “Fuck off.”

And she grins at you for it.

A/N: I wrote this immediately after work, like otw home and at home, and then made my banners. Passing out as I write this I’ll publish it when I wake 😭 like the first part, I wrote this with the intent of wlw/nblw but whatever floats your boat sailor

Ok this second part I’m not as sleepy writing it but yeah, this entire like… sequel of sorts was in fact directly inspired by a conversation @sobbingscripter and I had and I was like “Wait… I could write this” after she said something and voila! so this is dedicated to her 🙂‍↕️

Truly, the wonders of getting my shift taken and knowing I have a day off (people will drag me into tasks and hangouts and I will have no time to myself 😞)

[ga-lily-o]

Watched a Flipped clip again and omfg. The part when Bryce falls for her and she’s mad? MY FAVOURITEEEEE PART. He’s so madly in love, she’s so upset at him. He keeps trying to make up for it, he keeps trying.

Where tf is the Bryce to my Julie Baker. Where is he

[ga-lily-o]

⚹ Reader is gn! ⚹

Tags/Warnings: Allusions to sex the night before // Sappy, sappy inner monologue // fluff // mildly suggestive language // short blurb // I cried writing this I want this so bad // I just wanted to write domestic fluff ngl // under 1k words

Summary: Mark Grayson is many, many things. A hero, a Viltrumite, his mother’s son, Oliver’s brother, but god does he love being yours.

(Author’s note at the bottom)

Mark loves you. That’s not the big reveal, but it certainly hits him like a bullet every time he’s reminded of just how deeply he does.

Like a freight train to the lungs every time he catches you, sees you, in a way only he gets to see. With sleep sagging at your shoulders like a weighted blanket over hickey-bitten skin, your legs in the bare air as you nurse a cup of whatever was the first thing you grabbed on the counter. Which happens to be your favourite morning wake up, because Mark always makes it for you when he wakes up first.

And he’s damn thankful for the chance, don’t you get him wrong. Any opportunity to hear you hum in quiet, tired delight; to see the way your eyes droop as you let the smell of it waft under your nose, he’s going to take it. Because loving you in the quiet of everything, is Mark’s favourite kind of morning.

“You jus’ gonna stare, baby?” you ask him, the words a tired drawl as you hold out an arm to let him slip himself closer, your cup (the one he’s got the matching set of) gently clinking when it hits the counter. He slips his arms under yours, feeling his heart swell at the quiet laugh you let out by his ear, and he breathes you in. Like home, and the lingering night before.

He’d stay staring at you forever, if you’d let him. Would die happy curled up against you or simply watching you go about your everyday, no matter how boring or dull. Though it’s hard to say anything gets boring or dull with you around, not with the way you’re always tugging at his heartstrings or making him laugh.

“I’m just admiring my work,” he says, in lieu of voicing his true, sappy thoughts. His head stays tucked into your neck, and he feels and so clearly hears the way you giggle. “I don’t think I left enough of them on you.”

Your palm makes contact with his back, though he’d hardly call it a hit. If anything, he barely feels it at all with the way his skin is quite literally invulnerable to most physical attacks. Still, he winces, just to give you the satisfaction of it and to see the way you raise a brow at him when he pulls back.

“Stop pretending, asshole,” you mumble, but there’s a fondness twisting your words into something affectionate, and here’s another reason why he loves you. Even while making fun of him, you somehow make him feel loved.

“I’m not pretending,” he whines lightly, clicking his tongue with a playful frown. Your drink’s getting cold, but your smile is getting livelier and livelier and Mark loves you like it’s breathing. “It really hurts my heart when you hit me.”

The way you tip your head to the side to laugh makes him grin on instinct, leaning in closer until his nose bumps against the side of yours, and you’re chest to chest with your back to the counter, arms wrapped around his shoulders like his are wrapped around your waist.

“You’re impossible,” you laugh, eyes closed and breath shaking, and he watches you peek your crinkled eyes open with the same focus one might watch a total solar eclipse.

“Mmm, wrong,” he teases, pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth, laughter making its way through to him from you like an infectious giggle fit, “I’m Invincible, actually.”

Because here’s the big reveal: Mark wants to marry you. And when you stop giggling, he kisses you with the full force of it knowing you’d catch him either way.

A/N: I decided to make my own borders this time cause I’m . bugged by the lack of coherency in the visuals of my posts. Anyways, I cried a little while writing this. Something about domestic love and ‘loving in the quiet’ always always gets to me. Because it’s one thing to love someone as they are at their best, it’s another to see them in the morning and find them beautiful for the way they look. All disheveled and what not.

This is also shorter, because I tried to write more of it, but the pacing was just off. It’s more powerful and poignant in my opinion to keep it as this first part alone. If I do continue it, it’d be at a later date, and I wouldn’t want to write the proposal unless I got the inspiration for it, just because it gets hard for me to write scenes like that without accidentally falling into oc or self-insert territory.

Consider this more my new borders debut than me posting a fic 😭

[ga-lily-o]

Posting twice today (maybe) cause I wrote something and didn’t post it (silly! 😋) and I just finished writing and touching up another fic

Sneak peak (2):

Also yes I did make the borders and banner myself and I’m very proud of myself yes 🫶

[ga-lily-o]

I want to write so bad but work genuinely exhausts me 💔💔💔 I might just end up posting something small that I wrote when I had the time then just… call out of work for a day or something and just bedrot I WANNA WRITE SO BAD 💔💔💔 I got so many cute ideas for Eve and Mark … and like a couple drafts 💔💔💔 But also MONEY 💔💔💔💔

[ga-lily-o]

They Don’t Kiss (but They Really Should)

Eve Wilkins x reader

⚹ Reader is written in a soft/feminine light, but is not necessarily gendered ⚹

Tags/warnings: Friends to ??? Idk! // Mildly suggestive language // one (1) whole swear word // lots of tension // lots of physical proximity // Reader character doesn’t do makeup often // wlw coded but could also be nblw

Summary: You and Eve are friends, first and foremost. However, Eve also wants you more than she has the guts to say. Not that you know… or maybe you do, because none of this is casual.

(Author’s note at the bottom)

“My makeup?”

Eve watches you nod, enthusiastic and excited, and she can’t help the fondness twitching her lips into a smile the way you regard her like she was a snapshot of the stars taken by the Hubble telescope. Still, she’s skeptical, enough that it shows. Her brow raised as she regards you in the mirror of her vanity where you’re standing behind her.

“You want to do my makeup?” Eve parrots, emphasizing the first lilt of the question.

“Yes,” is your enthusiastic reply, brushes in hand as you wave it in the mirror, and she can’t help the way it makes her smile widen.

“I don’t even remember the last time I saw you do your own makeup,” she scoffs, but it’s a heatless remark as she spins in her chair to face you, and has to grapple with the immediate cuteness aggression coiling like a viper in her gut. She wants to grab at your wide-eyed face and kiss you silly, just to see that enthusiasm melt, but she has restraint. “Why mine?”

“Because I want to touch your face.” You don’t flinch admitting it, but Eve almost does. She wants to tell you that you could’ve just kissed her instead. Wants to tell you she’d rather your lips on hers than to anguish over the daydream of it while your hands roamed her face. But you’re friends, and you’re… probably just joking, even if she wishes you weren’t.

So when she opens her mouth, it’s not to ask you to kiss her. “Weirdo.”

But still, “Fine.”

———

The brush is just a tad shaky when you ghost it over the apple of her cheeks, patting it like you’re layering gold leaf onto some fancy $80 dessert. You’re all but straddling her lap, knees bracketing either side of her thighs like you’re about to give her a lapdance and she’s genuinely going insane. Her throat feels dry at the way one of your hands is cupping her jaw as you apply a light foundation with the other, and she can feel your breath kissing her skin.

She’d asked you earlier, hesitating, heart beating wildly, if you needed to be so close by, but you merely responded by looking at her through half lidded eyes and asking so sincerely if she wanted you to move away. Of course she just told you that that wasn’t what she was saying at all, and neither of you prodded or elaborated.

“You’re gonna poke my eye out like that,” she mumbles, meaning to hiss but the wanting’s screwing up her throat.

You don’t acknowledge her beyond a grin, thumb brushing just once across her cheekbone, and it’s enough to shut her up quick. Then when you press your teeth lightly into your bottom lip? She wants to pass out. You look so focused, on her, and she has to settle her breath while her nails dig into the vanity desk behind you, her arms either side of your waist.

The brush sweeps back and forth, a light layer of foundation where sleepless nights have stained her under-eyes like a muddy eyeshadow, your thumb smoothing out what the brush can’t. It should be noted, Eve thinks, that the face you make when you pull back to assess the evenness of the application is unfairly gorgeous. When your lips part to speak, she doesn’t know if she wants to launch forward to kiss you or just let you speak to hear your voice.

“Does it feel cakey?” You ask, completely unassuming as one of your hands comes back to settle on her face.

“It feels fine,” she huffs, hoping to whatever’s listening in out there that you can’t feel the way her heartbeat’s running just from the proximity. You nod, pulling back to switch your brushes, or products— she really can’t tell at this point what you’re doing anymore. All she knows is that she wants it to be your lips on hers.

You tell her anyways with a grin, half turned to the mirror still where you’re meeting her eyes in the glass, “I wanna try a trick I learned online on you, is that ok? Just gonna—“

You gesture with your pinky, following along the curve of her under eye, and she feels exposed the way you grin at her in the glass when you realise she’s barely looking where you’re pointing in the first place.

“I’m gonna try a smokey eyeshadow trick,” you tell her, facing her fully, and her throat feels dry.

She licks her lips, catching the way your eyes dip down to follow the gesture, and her voice is quiet when she speaks, “Just don’t make me look ugly.”

Eve would bottle up that smile you give her after, just to replay it back when things get tough. “Couldn’t, even if I tried, Eve.”

And then you’re easing back into it, gently asking her to cooperate— “Close your eyes, here, yes! Thank you,”— or cooing at her when you pull back, and it’s overwhelmingly good the way you feel so close to her.

She barely notices it when her hands find themselves catching at your waist, fingers splaying along the small of your back like she’s anchoring you both, and Eve feels something boil in her blood the way you stop still to look at her. Not with disgust, or discomfort, like she might have feared, but with a stutter to your expression that makes her heart skip; your lips ever so slightly parted in surprise.

“So you don’t fall off,” is her quiet explanation, green eyes peering into yours like it explains the way her breath feels heavy in the space between you two. The barely there, almost extinct, space between you two.

“Right,” you start, like you’re unconvinced the way you purse your lips, “Thank you.”

And you shift on her lap, impossibly closer, and she feels like she’s going to die the way her hands start shaking.

———

There’s been many things that have tried to kill Atom Eve during her time as a hero— or even just as Eve, the civilian, with a troublesome life and a rocky relationship with her parents. But you? In her lap, hands on her face, thumb tracing over her fucking lip like you’re memorising the texture of it with the pad of your finger? This might do her in.

Never mind the way you’re looking at her, eyes half lidded and laser focused on her lips as you apply a lip-stain with your own hands, just because you keep insisting that’s the best way to do it. You want to kill her, she’s sure. You want her dead with want— or maybe, something hopeful and dreadfully vulnerable pipes up in her heart, you want her like she wants you.

Not that she wants to entertain that; to risk having you at all for the chance to have you as she wants you. But god, if you’d let her she’d—

“All done!” you chirp, bringing her out of her reverie as you pull away with that brilliant grin, pride and sincere adoration shining from you like a lamplight to her face; her cheeks warm.

It takes you turning to the mirror for her to remember beyond you and admire your work, first catching that heart-fluttering emotion on your lips like how a petal curls on the flower, before she catches her own reflection.

She sees herself, barely tampered with save for the smokiness wrapping gently around her eyes, highlighting the green of them to make them strike like cut emeralds; a patch of living forest saved in the aftermath of a forest fire, framed by her red hair. And god, when you turn back to her to tuck a loose strand of it behind her ear, eyes crinkled in just a way, she wants to kiss you breathless. Hands gripping softly tighter along your waist and back, curling into the fabric of your top.

“So?” You pry, not seeming to mind at all the way she’s curling around you like a vine.

Eve wets her lips, swallowing thickly. Refusing to break eye contact. “Not bad.”

A/N: I felt like loving women, I was bored, I just had lunch, and I dm’d @sobbingscripter for an idea 😛 She proceeded to say something about doing Eve’s makeup and my brain exploded.

I wrote this first on my notes app (I always start on the notes app) and moved it to docs to edit for grammar and flow, and had it beta read at some point, but I’m ngl I feel like I blacked out writing this. The yearning came over me so hard, I genuinely just couldn’t stop until it was done. Like I was actually shaking by the end while writing this HELLO . 😭

Also: sorry if she’s ooc 😞 I do not have a full grasp of her character yet but trust and believe I will!

[ga-lily-o]

Love, Actually

Mark Grayson x (gn) Reader

Tags/Warnings: coworkers to something more // soft boys in food service// fluff // Reader character has not seen Star Wars // Takes place before Mark gets his powers // Mark calls the reader pretty/gorgeous in his head

Summary: It’s just another shift at Burger Mart. Bad lighting, long hours, and an embarrassingly cute coworker who lights up your whole world.

(Author’s note below)

Working at Burger Mart is the bane of Mark’s existence. Or no, that might be getting bullied in high school, or getting in trouble for breaking something he shouldn’t, not having powers like his dad— regardless, it’s definitely up there. Top 10, or 5, depending on how awful the customers are that day. But you? His favourite, pretty coworker? You’re the reason working here is not higher up on the list most days.

Things could be absolutely hectic and stupidly stressful, but just a glance your way could have his heart lighting up like the lights coming on in the cinema as the credits roll. A shock of something bringing him back down to Earth, just enough to realise he’s been standing there like an idiot with the fries for a minute too long. The managers don’t like it, and that certainly doesn’t bode well for him, but the way it makes you laugh? Worth every verbal warning.

Today isn’t like that yet though, thankfully. Only a few customers in smaller groups walk in as the sun dips into the horizon, the distant humming of machinery and offhanded beeping the backdrop of the scene as you and him wait by the till. Or, well— you man the till, and he’s sweeping around it. Supposedly.

He’s kind of distracted just chatting away with you, watching the way the emotions colour your face, breaking through the exhaustion and Food Service facade like light cracking through the blinds. You’re more gorgeous than he could ever put to words even here under awful lighting in this dingy fast food restaurant. Like a freckle of life in the vast empty ocean of linoleum floors and fluorescent lights.

“Wait,” he says, leaning against the counter with his eyes crinkled into a grin, “You’ve never seen Star Wars?”

“Not the whole of it,” you correct, messing with the till absentmindedly just to have something to do with your hands, “Like— I’ve seen the first one?”

“Of which trilogy?”

You make a face that tells him you absolutely do not know, humming as you narrow your eyes in uncertainty. “The one with Darth Vader…”

He’s grinning at that, unable to help the way a smile splits his cheeks as he asks, teasingly, “The one with Darth Vader?”

His heart actually needs to be studied for the way it skips a beat when you nod, smiling like you’ve got the answer right when even he can’t tell which one you’re talking about. The words are shaded in quiet laughter as he prods, “Are we talking about the prequels or the original trilogy— because he’s in both, just… very different.”

And goodness, the way that same expression finds its way back on you, eyes narrowed and lips pursed in a way he wants to kiss you for, before you’re looking at him through your lashes and he can barely stop the fluttering in his chest.

“The… original,” you start, absently nodding to yourself as you break his gaze, “‘Cause my friend was saying something about showing me the prequels after, but we never got around to even finishing the first three.”

That makes him giddy, because suddenly he’s thinking of being the one to introduce you to the rest of the series, asking you over to hangout maybe— before the front door’s bell rings, and you straighten up at the till. He goes back to sweeping, having to move away, but he’s still thinking about asking you as he shoves the broom between bolted down tables and booth seats. Not knowing you wanted to ask him if he would watch them with you; that you felt giddy in much the same way about him.

—————

Neither of you muster up the courage for the rest of that shift, not with the way the late rush hour comes swiftly like a boxer ready to win— a one-two punch via the bustling crowds coming in through the front and the number of cars going through the drive through. Working there bumps itself up again near top 5, but when he glances over at you… he finds it settling itself easily at top 7 instead.

His hands find purchase along the counter on either side of the till as the last of the customers from the rush file out through the front, and a calm starts to settle in the Burger Mart. Mark sighs, breath coming in from the lowest of his lungs and out, though he really should have breathed in before glancing over your way, because he almost feels winded.

“I’m gonna die if I have to keep doing that,” you groan, hands on the empty part of the counter with your face tilted down, and he can’t help but agree. “Like, actually just crumble into dust like they did in Endgame.”

Mark’s surprise settles in with an easy smile despite the exhaustion in his bones, “You’ve seen Endgame?”

When you finally look back up at him, deadpanned but amused, his heart almost wants to beat itself out of his ribcage with the way you still look so beautiful to him, “Everyone’s seen Endgame, Mark.”

“I mean, I thought everyone’s seen Star Wars but—“

“I’ve seen the first one!” you argue, laughing right after, your expression crumpling into something light and joyful, and his heart hurts with all the fondness it has for you. That he has for you.

Then something shifts, for a second, because Mark thinks again about asking you to watch the rest with him, even though he’s seen those movies to near exhaustion. All just to see the way you light up or crumple or rage at the plotlines, washed in the colour of the screen. A bated breath, eyes averted, before he turns back to you just to find you turning back too, the tension in his shoulders snapping into something nervous that buzzes under his skin.

“I—“

“Do you—“

You both shut up at the same time, like you’re stars in Love, Actually and not just two minimum wage workers exhausted at the till after a rush.

“Sorry you—“

“No, I’m just, you go ahead—“

God he’s so nervous, he’s hearing his blood in his ears as much as he’s feeling it warm his face. It helps that you look nervous too, in much the same way he feels, and hope bubbles up as you open your mouth, close it, and breathe.

“I don’t watch movies well, alone,” you start, nervous and hesitant, but you power through, “So… I was wondering if maybe you’d watch them with me?”

He can’t help the way he freezes for a second, long enough for the hopeful expression on your face to crumple just the slightest bit before he catches himself, the words quick out of his mouth and a little louder than he expected, “I’d— I would absolutely— Yeah, of course.”

Someone, anyone, please shoot him for the way he just stuttered so hard. He actually wants the ground to swallow him up whole, but the way you light up like the first firefly of the night makes the embarrassment burn softer, makes the courage swell in his heart until he’s speaking again.

“I have— I know where we could watch it, like, on the tv I mean, if you don’t mind coming over to mine?”

And god does he want to print the way you grin at him into his mind; sear it into the neurons there like the world’s best tattoo.

“I’d love that,” you whisper, and suddenly working here isn’t all that bad.

A/N: I have not written anything like fully in… give or take a while, so my writing’s a lil rusty and this took more than one draft, but I really had fun writing this one!! I forgot writing could be so fun!!

This might not be accurate to the American Food Service Experience™ But that is because I am Canadian and work in Canadian Food Service 🙂‍↕️ Mark might also be out of character, but that’s because I have not finished the show, or comic 😊

Also, tagging @sobbingscripter!! Thank you for the idea for the fic!! And for the title!! I WOULD have named it Double Whopper with Cheese medium combo otherwise I’m ngl