Dick Grayson had seen a lot in his time — bloodied masks, rooftop brawls, and more weird cults than he cared to count. But nothing threw him for a loop quite like them.
The new vigilante in Blüdhaven didn’t show up quietly. No, they made an entrance — crashing through a second-story window and sending a gang of arms dealers scattering like roaches. He’d been on the roof, preparing to do the same, but stopped mid-leap when he saw them tear through the room like a storm in combat boots.
No quippy lines. No hesitation. Just precision strikes and the kind of verbal takedowns that made even him wince.
One thug tried pulling a knife, yelling something about “not being afraid of a girl.”
They broke his arm and told him his fragile masculinity was showing.
And Dick, crouched in the shadows, whispered under his breath, “Damn. That was cold… and kind of hot?”
He tried to shake it off. He liked the sweet ones. The ones who made breakfast and smiled with their eyes. Not... this.
But then they turned, smoothed their gloves, and said, “You gonna help, or just stare?”
And it was over. The hell was wrong with him?
Weeks passed. Missions got messier. They didn’t flinch once. And every time they swept in with that brutal, surgical efficiency, Dick found himself watching a little too long. They were chaos wrapped in mystery, and he should have been alarmed.
Instead, he kept thinking, That was rough… and I like it.
He didn’t really know how it happened — maybe it was his “lovely and charming personality,” as he liked to claim — but somehow, he got them to agree to dinner. Then another. Then there was that night they kissed on a fire escape after beating down a couple of smugglers.
Three months later, they were dating. Somehow.
And the weirdest part?
They are... nice. Not fake-nice. Not pretending-to-be-nice. Just... genuinely thoughtful, in a quietly intense sort of way. They didn’t talk much, but they always listened. They remembered every small thing he said — his favorite coffee, the name of his childhood dog, the exact way he liked his ribs wrapped after a hard fight.
Still ruthless on the streets. Still made grown men cry with a glance.
But when the both of them were alone, they looked at him like he hung the stars.
They are also — and he was just now catching on to this — the possessive type.
It started subtle. A hand on his lower back in public. Standing just a little too close when other people got friendly. A look — sharp and unreadable — when someone touched his arm too long.
But tonight? Tonight they had her hand on his thigh under the table, brushing their thumb over his knee like they owned him.
Touchin' me in public like they wants the world to see, he thought, vaguely panicked and deeply into it. Jesus.
He caught them looking at him across the restaurant — not just looking, but claiming. There was heat in their gaze. And something softer underneath. Something that made his heart lurch.
And hell, if he didn’t like the way they had him in her grip.
He swallowed, leaned a little closer, and whispered, “You’re staring.”
They didn’t miss a beat. “You’re mine.”
Ugh.
Makes me want to kiss them.