ɴɪɢʜᴛᴡɪɴɢ ᴛʏᴘᴇ ꜱʜɪᴛ

𝕧𝕒𝕝 ~ 20 ~ she/her 𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤 𝔻ℂ/ℕ𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕨𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕞𝕒𝕚𝕟 𝕓𝕝𝕠𝕘: 𝕝𝕝𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕝𝕒𝕧𝕚𝕕𝕒𝕝𝕠𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕖𝕢𝕦𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕤: 𝕠𝕡𝕖𝕟

[bluebirdofbludhaven]

𝕧𝕒𝕝'𝕤 𝕞𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥

𝕣𝕖𝕢𝕦𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕤: 𝕠𝕡𝕖𝕟

𝕒𝕓𝕠𝕦𝕥 𝕞𝕖 ~ 𝕡𝕝𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕖 𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕕 𝕓𝕖𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕣𝕖𝕢𝕦𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 <𝟛

𝕕𝕚𝕔𝕜 𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕪𝕤𝕠𝕟/𝕟𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕨𝕚𝕟𝕘:

my favorite barista

𝕛𝕒𝕤𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕠𝕕𝕕/𝕣𝕖𝕕 𝕙𝕠𝕠𝕕:

𝕓𝕣𝕦𝕔𝕖 𝕨𝕒𝕪𝕟𝕖/𝕓𝕒𝕥𝕞𝕒𝕟:

𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕣𝕜 𝕜𝕖𝕟𝕥/𝕤𝕦𝕡𝕖𝕣𝕞𝕒𝕟:

𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕟𝕠𝕣 𝕜𝕖𝕟𝕥/𝕤𝕦𝕡𝕖𝕣𝕓𝕠𝕪:

𝕜𝕒𝕝𝕕𝕦𝕣'𝕒𝕙𝕞/𝕒𝕢𝕦𝕒𝕝𝕒𝕕:

𝕨𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕪 𝕨𝕖𝕤𝕥/𝕜𝕚𝕕 𝕗𝕝𝕒𝕤𝕙:

[patientofarkhamasylum]

a job well done husband!dick grayson x reader

summary: dick fixes things around the house and pretends he isn't waiting for you to notice. you always do. tags: domestic fluff, love languages (acts of service, words of affirmation), praise, pet names, emotional intimacy, dick needs reassurance wc: 1.1k

There’s a certain way Dick acts when he’s done something for you and is waiting for you to notice. He likes to think he plays it cool, but subtlety has never been his strong suit, least of all with you.

One afternoon, you walk into the kitchen and find the cabinet door that has been hanging crooked for the past month sitting perfectly flush on its hinges. You open it, close it, then open it again. It no longer scrapes against the cabinet beside it or makes the low, miserable groan you had started to accept as part of your daily life. It swings the way it’s supposed to and clicks shut with a clean, satisfying sound.

Dick's standing at the counter eating an apple, doing his best impression of casual. When you glance at him, he takes a very deliberate bite and looks out the window.

“Did you fix this?” you ask.

“Hm?” He turns as though he had forgotten you were there. “Oh. The cabinet? Maybe.”

You open and close it once more. “It works really well now.”

His eyes flick toward you before returning quickly to the window. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

Dick lowers the apple slightly, and you bite back a smile as you cross the kitchen and stop in front of him. His eyes are doing that thing they do when he wants your praise but refuses to ask for it, bright and watchful and a little too fixed on your face.

“You did a good job, baby.”

Dick grins. He sets the apple down and places his hands loosely at your hips, his thumbs brushing over your shirt. “It was bothering you.”

“I know.”

“So obviously I had to fix it.”

You run your fingers through his hair, pushing a few strands away from his forehead. They fall right back, so you smooth them away again. “You take such good care of me.”

Dick doesn’t answer. His smile stays, but it changes, growing softer and less certain. His gaze drops to where his hands rest against your hips. You’ve seen this before. Tell him he’s handsome and he laughs. Tell him he’s clever, capable, impressive, and he soaks it up without shame. But tell him he’s good to you, and suddenly he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

You slide your hand from his hair to his cheek. “Look at me.”

He does.

“I mean it,” you say softly. “You’re always looking out for me.”

Dick leans into your palm. “I try.”

You rise onto your toes and kiss his forehead, then one cheek, then the other. Dick closes his eyes for each one, leaning into every kiss as his arms settle more securely around your waist. When you scratch lightly at the nape of his neck, he lowers his head until his forehead rests against your shoulder. You fold your arms around him and hold him there.

Everywhere else, Dick is so capable, so sure of himself. He throws himself from rooftops without hesitation, walks into danger smiling, and makes impossible things look effortless. Then he comes home to you and folds himself into your arms, still carrying the cruel lie he learned far too young: that being loved meant being useful, and that he was only enough when he had something to give.

You comb your fingers gently through his hair. "You’re such a good husband," you murmur.

For a moment, Dick doesn’t move. Then his arms tighten around your waist, and he presses his face more firmly into your shoulder, as though he can hide what the words have done to him. But you feel the unsteady breath he lets out against your neck. You feel his fingers curl into the back of your shirt.

You kiss his temple. “You are.”

Dick stays there for a few more seconds before finally lifting his head. His expression is painfully open, all his practiced confidence stripped away.

“You’re really happy with me?” he asks.

The question breaks your heart a little because he asks it so quietly, as though the answer could be anything but yes.

You cradle his face in both hands. “So happy.”

“Even when I’m annoying?”

“You’re always annoying.”

His mouth falls open. “Wow.”

You kiss the tip of his nose. “And I still adore you.”

The mock offense fades from his face, which you keep between your hands. “You make this place feel like home,” you tell him. “You make every bad day easier. You know when I need to laugh and when I just need you to sit with me. You listen to me. You’re patient with me. You notice things I don’t even know how to ask for.”

“Baby.”

“You love every part of me, even the parts I’m still learning how to love myself.”

“Always.” The word leaves him so quickly, with such certainty, that your throat tightens. Dick may wonder whether he is enough for you, but never whether he loves you.

He lifts you onto the edge of the counter and settles between your knees. You go willingly, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as he buries his face against you again. He draws you close until there’s no space left between you, and you rub slow circles between his shoulder blades.

You stay that way until his breathing evens out and the last of the tension leaves his shoulders.

After a while, his voice comes muffled against you. “I fixed the bathroom door too.”

You smile into his hair. “Did you?”

“The lock works now.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“And the towel rack was loose, so I tightened that.”

You lean back to look at him. “Are you fishing for more compliments?”

“No.” He looks almost offended by the accusation, which would be more convincing if he weren’t fighting a smile.

You kiss him, slow and sweet, one hand holding his cheek while the other stays curled in his hair. When you pull away, Dick follows your mouth for another kiss. You give him that one too, then another when he chases you again.

“Very impressive, handsome,” you murmur against his lips.

His grin returns in full, and he looks more like himself again.

You shake your head. “You are shameless.”

“I also re-caulked the tub.”

You laugh and bury your face against his neck. Dick holds you closer, pressing a kiss into your hair. “I love you,” he murmurs.

You turn your face just enough to kiss the corner of his mouth. “I love you too.”

Dick’s gaze slowly drifts toward the hallway. “So, about that tub.” He looks back at you. “Want me to run you a bath?”

You stare at him. Of course. Dick can’t go five minutes without finding some new way to take care of you.

“Only if you get in with me,” you say, and you barely finish the sentence before Dick is pulling you off the counter.

navi | m.list | © 2026 patientofarkhamasylum. all rights reserved.

a/n: not entirely sure how i feel about this one ngl, but the idea was too cute not to share. also! i’m thinking of finally starting a taglist 😋 if you’re interested in being added, pls comment here and lmk whether you wanna be tagged for all characters or only specific ones! i currently write for bruce, jason, dick, tim, and clark. i’ll make a dedicated taglist post soon, but i figured i’d start here <3

[gloomycatz]

can’t stop thinking about bf!tim who’s been working out more and you can’t help but notice.

one night is all you wanted. one night he takes off patrolling to spend some time together, and it was going great at first! until tim was hunched over his laptop again.

you’d been watching him for twenty minutes now and couldn’t help but notice just how much more he’d been filling out his shirt.

just a plain black t-shirt, an old one he’s had for years, and it hugs his biceps a little tighter.

your eyes trail upward, sliding over the way his shoulders are starting to fill out more, the lean muscle shifting every time he reaches for his coffee or types away faster. the way his forearms have more definition.

in the most plain explanatory way: it gets you wet instantly.

the type of wet where you have to slip off to your shared room, lights off, only a fraction of moonlight filling the room, as you crawl onto the bed.

no time to get undressed, you lie on your stomach and reach a hand into your panties, already soaked, and sink a finger between your folds, moaning immediately upon contact. you rub your clit in tight circles, back arching, ass up to the ceiling as you rock against your hand just at the thought of him holding you down with his newfound strength and making you scream.

you get so lost in your self pleasure, teeth sinking into your pillow, needy whimpers muffled by the fabric, that you don’t even hear tim come in initially.

“oh—“ you hear him say from behind you.

with a speed that could rival the flash, you sit back on your haunches, pulling your hand out of your panties, your clit twitching hard and hole clenching down around nothing at the absence of your own fingers. “i’m sorry—“

“fuck,” his cock twitches hard in his sweats, and he strides to the bed, kneeling on the mattress behind you.

you’re pinned back down, toned arms caging you in.

“were you thinking about me?” he mumbles against your ear, long fingers snaking down to sink between your wet folds.

you both moan as he grinds against your ass, letting you feel how hard he is already.

“you’re in here fucking yourself stupid, hm?” he rubs a few circles over your sensitive clit before sinking two fingers inside with no warning, filling your clenching hole. “gonna make you cum on my fingers first and then i’ll fuck you properly.”

a/n ; reblog or comment so tim can finally sleep <3

[cherryysunshine]

The Fine Print

Pairing: Tim Drake/F!Reader

Word Count: 12k

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: PA reader, workplace romance, boss/employee relationship, power imbalance, canon-typical violence, blood/injury, she falls first but he falls harder, secret identity, idiots in love, mutual pining, oral sex, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, unprotected sex

Summary:

Fresh out of college and desperate for a life that belongs only to you, you move from Boston to Gotham and somehow become Timothy Drake-Wayne’s personal assistant. 

The job comes with a terrifyingly high salary, a boss who forgets to sleep, and a city with rules you have to learn before Gotham teaches them the hard way.

Author’s Note: as evidenced by this fic and my Dick fic, i love writing both characters as professional yearners lmao

The first thing you learned about Gotham was that nobody reacted to sirens.

In Boston, sirens still changed the shape of a street. People looked over their shoulders, irritated, curious, or concerned, and cars performed the usual awkward choreography of trying to get out of the way. Gotham did not bother. Gotham heard sirens the way other cities heard rain. It registered them, adjusted for them, and kept moving.

You stood on the sidewalk outside your new apartment building with one suitcase by your knee, a duffel cutting into your shoulder, and your phone clutched in one hand while three police cars screamed past the intersection without slowing.

Nobody around you looked up.

The broker had called the neighborhood “up-and-coming.” Your mother had called it “a cry for help.” Your aunt had sent you four articles about Gotham crime statistics and then followed up with a voice memo that began, “I know you think we’re overreacting, but—”

You had deleted the voice memo at South Station.

That was not fair, maybe. Your family loved you. They loved you so much it had become advice, warnings, opinions, emergency plans, blind dates, shared locations, and a constant chorus of questions about whether you had really thought this through. By the end of college, home had become less a place than a committee meeting about your future.

Gotham had been a decision made from exhaustion, stubbornness, and the frightening clarity of being twenty-two years old with a degree, a checking account that made you anxious, and no desire to move back into your childhood bedroom.

The Wayne Enterprises listing had appeared between two administrative assistant jobs and a communications coordinator position at a nonprofit that required 3 years of experience for entry-level pay. You had laughed when you opened it.

Personal Assistant to the Chief Executive Officer.

Wayne Enterprises.

Competitive salary.

Discretion required.

Ability to manage complex scheduling needs, executive communications, high-pressure situations, confidential materials, and rapidly shifting priorities.

You had assumed the listing was either fake or meant for someone whose résumé included phrases like “family office” and “international liaison.” Still, you had applied because it was one in the morning and your standards had been damaged by panic. You had written a cover letter that was honest enough to embarrass you in daylight, attached your résumé, and hit submit before you could talk yourself out of it.

Two weeks later, you were in Gotham.

Three interviews after that, you were standing in the lobby of Wayne Tower in your best blazer, trying not to look as if the polished black floors and vaulted ceiling had personally insulted your tax bracket.

The receptionist smiled at you with the serene calm of someone who had seen billionaires bleed on marble and still knew where the spare visitor badges were kept. “You can go up now. Mr. Drake-Wayne is expecting you.”

Your stomach performed an athletic maneuver.

“Great,” you said, in the tone of someone for whom nothing had ever been great.

A woman in a cream blouse met you near the elevators. “You must be here for the PA interview.”

“Yes,” you said. “That’s me.”

“I’m Tam Fox.” She shook your hand firmly. “I work in executive operations. Tim is running two minutes late, which is actually early for him.”

You smiled because she smiled, and because “Tim” seemed too casual for the name Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, who had spent the last week existing in your mind as a LinkedIn profile with cheekbones, a terrifying job title, and a net worth you tried very hard not to think about.

“Fair warning,” Tam said as you approached a corner office. “He reads fast, talks faster when he’s tired, and forgets that most people cannot follow three conversations at once.”

“That’s weirdly comforting.”

“That was the goal.”

Inside, Timothy Drake-Wayne stood behind his desk with one hand braced on a stack of folders and the other wrapped around a coffee cup. He was younger than he looked in official photographs, or maybe he looked exactly twenty-three, and the rest of the world had decided CEOs were not supposed to. His tie was slightly loose, his sleeves were rolled to his forearms, and he looked tired enough that the alertness in his eyes felt almost unfair.

“Hi,” he said, setting the coffee down as if remembering he needed a free hand. “Sorry. That was a terrible start. Tim Drake-Wayne.”

You shook his hand. “I know.”

His mouth twitched. “That would be the building with my family’s name on it.”

“One of your names,” you said before you could stop yourself.

For half a second, you were certain you had ruined your life.

Then he laughed.

After that, the interview became less terrifying and more impossible to read. Tim asked about scheduling, confidentiality, difficult personalities, crisis logistics, and the conference you had once helped salvage after it lost its venue forty-eight hours before opening. When he asked who had handled the vendors, transportation, catering, and revised schedule, you admitted, “Mostly me.”

Tim leaned back in his chair. “Why wasn’t your supervisor doing any of this?”

Because she had cried in the bathroom and told you she trusted you, which was the sort of thing people said when they wanted you to accept responsibility without being given authority.

You chose the diplomatic version. “She delegated.”

Tim looked at you for a moment. Then he wrote something in the margin of your résumé.

Three hours later, Tam called to offer you the position.

The salary was high enough that you asked her to repeat it, then accepted before anyone at Wayne Enterprises could realize they had made a clerical error. By the next week, you were officially Tim Drake-Wayne’s personal assistant, and your new life in Gotham had become less theoretical and much more terrifying.

You had no idea that, ever since your interview, Tim Drake-Wayne had not quite managed to stop thinking about you.

The first two weeks were a trial by calendar.

“You have a nine with Lucius Fox, a nine-thirty with legal, a ten with Applied Sciences, a ten-fifteen with the mayor’s office, and a ten-thirty with the children’s hospital board,” you said on your fourth day, standing in his office with a tablet in one hand and a file tucked under your arm.

Tim looked up from his laptop. “That can’t be right.”

“It is.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

He rubbed both hands over his face. “The ten-fifteen was supposed to be next week.”

“The mayor’s office says you confirmed yesterday.”

“I was, for all practical purposes, concussed yesterday.”

You stared at him.

Tim went still.

The office went quiet around the sentence.

Then he said, very carefully, “That was a figure of speech.”

You lowered the tablet. “Do you often confirm meetings while metaphorically concussed?”

“Only when I’m operating on two hours of sleep and a questionable amount of caffeine.”

“That is not better.”

His mouth twitched. “Can you move the mayor’s office?”

“I already did.”

“You did?”

“They’re now Friday at two. Legal is sending someone to sit in on Applied Sciences, and the hospital board is getting a written statement from you by end of day. You still need to call Lucius, because apparently he can tell when you’re avoiding him.”

“Everyone can tell when I’m avoiding Lucius.”

“Then maybe stop making it obvious.”

Tim looked at you for a long moment, and you wondered if you had gone too far.

Finally, he said, “You’re very good at this.”

Your heart did something stupid.

That was when you should have known you were in trouble.

Your feelings for Tim did not appear suddenly or dramatically. They accumulated.

It was in the way Tim listened to you even when his mind had clearly moved three steps ahead. It was in the way he never made you feel stupid for asking questions, only concerned when you did not ask them soon enough.

After that, wanting him became harder to pretend away. You told yourself it was normal to admire someone you worked closely with. Tim was brilliant, and brilliance was attractive when it came with kindness instead of cruelty. He was also your boss, which made the whole thing inconvenient, inappropriate, and something you intended to manage quietly until it died of starvation.

It did not die.

It adapted.

Learning Gotham itself became another part of your job. What you did not learn, at least not quickly enough for Tim’s blood pressure, was how to live in Gotham like someone who understood that survival was not supposed to be optional.

It came to his attention on a Tuesday evening in your third week, when you left Wayne Tower late and decided to walk home in the rain. 

You made it four blocks before your phone rang.

Tim’s name appeared on the screen.

You frowned, shifted your tote higher on your shoulder, and answered. “Is something wrong?”

“Where are you?”

“Walking home.”

There was a beat of silence. “You’re what?”

“Walking home.”

“From the office?”

“Yes.”

“In the rain?”

“It’s water, Tim.”

“What route are you taking?”

You glanced at the street signs. “I don’t know, the normal one?”

“The normal one,” he repeated.

“The one my phone suggested.”

Another silence. This one was worse.

“Are you wearing headphones?”

You touched one earbud. “Only one.”

“Take it out.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re walking home alone after dark in Gotham and outsourcing situational awareness to Google Maps.”

You stopped under the awning of a closed tailor shop. Rain dripped from the edge in a steady line. “That feels a little dramatic.”

“Tell me what street you’re on.”

You did, and Tim made a sound that could only be described as a restrained scream.

“Okay,” he said, in the tone of someone trying very hard not to scare a civilian. “Turn around.”

“What?”

“Turn around, walk back to the intersection, and go into the diner on the corner. It should still be open.”

“Tim, I’m six blocks from my apartment.”

“You are two blocks from a corridor that empties after six-thirty because the streetlights have been out for a month and GCPD response time there is abysmal.”

You looked toward the next block. It was quieter than you had realized. Not empty, but thin in a way that made the street’s damp shine suddenly look less cinematic and more like a warning.

A car rolled slowly past. You watched it until it turned the corner.

“I’m going to the diner,” you said.

“Good. Stay on the phone.”

“You’re being a little intense.”

“I’m aware.”

“And bossy.”

“I’m also aware of that.”

The diner was exactly where he said it would be. You sat in a booth near the window, ordered fries because you felt bad taking up space, and tried not to feel like a child who had been caught doing something reckless.

“Are you at the diner?” Tim asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m sending a car.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“Tim.”

“You can be angry at me from the car.”

“I’m not angry.”

“You sound angry.”

“I’m embarrassed.”

His voice softened. “That wasn’t what I wanted.”

You watched rain bead on the window and realized how much you had not noticed before.

“I didn’t know,” you said.

“I know.”

“I’m not helpless.”

“I know that too.”

The simple certainty of it made your throat tighten, which was deeply inconvenient because you were in a diner with fries on the way and your boss in your ear.

Tim exhaled over the line. “Gotham has rules. They’re not fair, and they don’t always make sense until something happens. People who grew up here learn them early. You didn’t, so I’m going to have to teach you.”

“You personally?”

“I’m very qualified.”

“You’re the CEO of a Fortune whatever company.”

“Which means I’ve survived a lot of board meetings in Gotham.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“No,” he agreed. “The board meetings are worse.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

When he spoke again, his voice had shifted, quieter around the edges. “The car’s two minutes out. The driver’s name is Marcus. He’ll have your name.”

“Okay.”

“And tomorrow we’re talking about your commute.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It is.”

The car arrived exactly when he said it would.

When you reached your building, Tim said, “Text me when you’re inside your apartment.”

“You’re still being bossy.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll text you,” you said.

“Thank you.”

Upstairs, after locking both locks, you texted him.

Inside.

His response came almost immediately. Good. Sleep well. And don’t use the alley door. Ever.

You looked toward the kitchen window, which faced the narrow black cut between buildings.

How did you know about the alley entrance?

Tim answered, It’s Gotham.

That was not an answer.

It was, however, the first time you wondered whether there was more to Tim Drake-Wayne than bad sleep habits and executive stress.

After that, Gotham lessons became part of your routine. Tim taught you not to stand too close to the curb, not to trust empty streets, not to ignore changes in sound, and not to ask questions if a shopkeeper started lowering the gate in the middle of business hours.

“I’ll make you a list,” Tim said.

He did.

It was three pages long, with the heading Basic Urban Safety Considerations. 

You wrote under the heading: Gotham for People From Cities That Have Normal Problems.

Tim laughed so hard he had to set his coffee down before he spilled it across three quarterly reports.

You liked his laugh. That became a problem. Then you liked making him laugh, which became a much worse problem.

The phone appeared on a Thursday.

Your own phone was perfectly fine. It was a previous-generation smartphone you had bought refurbished during senior year, with a battery that had developed opinions of its own.

Tim noticed it, because of course he did.

When it buzzed against his desk one morning and immediately dimmed, Tim looked at it.

“What?” you asked.

“Your phone battery is at twelve percent.”

“It has character.”

“It’s eleven in the morning.”

“I charged it last night.”

“That’s worse.”

“It works.”

“It works badly.”

“It works economically.”

“It dies before lunch, and you live in Gotham.”

That was unfair because it was reasonable.

“It’s fine,” you said.

He smiled, but it faded faster than usual. “I’m serious.”

“I know you are.” You softened because he did look serious, and because his concern had a way of getting under your defenses before you could lock them properly. “But I can’t just buy a new phone because my boss has Gotham anxiety.”

“I’m not asking you to buy one.”

“Tim.”

He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a matte black box with no branding.

“What is that?”

“A phone.”

“I gathered.”

“WayneTech prototype. Technically.” His expression was careful in a way that made you immediately suspicious. “Better battery life, satellite fallback, emergency routing, panic button. Three presses sends your location and live audio to a secure response line.”

“What secure response line?”

“A private one.”

“Private like Wayne Enterprises security?”

“Private like people who can get to you faster than standard emergency services in certain parts of Gotham.”

You stared at him.

Tim’s face did something very small and very guilty.

“Timoth Drake-Wayne, I know that you did not just offer me a phone with secret features that connects to a private line used by, what, Bruce Wayne? Robin? Red Robin? Batman? Some terrifying combination of all of the above?”

“It can also call standard emergency services,” he said quickly.

“Tim.”

“And you can disable anything you don’t want. Location only sends if you trigger the alert. Same with live audio. I’m not trying to track you.”

“You understand why this is weird.”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m just hoping it’s redundant and you never have to use it.”

“You’re my boss.”

“Yes.”

“You can’t give me secret billionaire technology because my battery sucks.”

“I can if it’s issued as an employee safety device.”

“Is it?”

“It can be.”

You stared at him.

He winced. “It isn’t yet.”

“I’m not saying no forever,” you said. “I’m saying do it properly.”

Tim took the box, his fingers brushing the edge where yours had been a moment before. “Okay.”

The box went back into his drawer, but the weight of it stayed between you.

The employee device policy appeared three business days later.

It was, annoyingly, excellent. Wayne Enterprises issued upgraded phones to several employee groups, with privacy protections, emergency-only location sharing, access logs, and an option to decline without penalty.

Tam stopped by your desk and set a matte-black box down. “Before you ask, yes, I made Legal explain the access logs twice.”

Tam studied you for a moment. Then she tapped the box with one finger. “Set it up before you leave tonight.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You set it up at your desk after most of the floor had emptied. The process walked you through privacy terms, emergency contacts, medical information, and the secure response option.

There was a field labeled Preferred Wayne Security Contact.

Below it, already listed, was Timothy Drake-Wayne.

You stared at the screen.

Then you deleted his name and selected the general Wayne Security line instead.

Five seconds later, your desk phone rang.

You looked toward Tim’s office. His door was open. He was standing behind his desk, phone to his ear, looking through the glass wall at you with the blank expression of someone who had been personally wounded.

You answered. “Yes?”

“You removed me.”

“I selected the appropriate professional contact.”

“I am an appropriate professional contact.”

“You are the CEO.”

“I’m also the person most likely to answer when you need help.”

“That is not as comforting as you think it is.”

“It should be.”

“You are the least available person I’ve ever met.”

“I would answer for you.”

The words arrived quietly.

Your hand tightened around the phone.

He looked as if he regretted saying it aloud, or as if he had not meant to say it with that much truth in it. Through the glass, across the dim office floor, he seemed younger and more tired than the city believed him to be. He also seemed impossibly far away.

“That’s the problem,” you said.

Tim was silent.

“I need this job,” you continued, keeping your voice even because the alternative was worse. “I like this job. I like working for you. I also need you to know where the lines are.”

His face changed. Not dramatically. Tim was too controlled for that. But something in him went still and careful, as if he had finally heard the thing underneath everything you had not been saying.

“You’re right,” he said.

You let out a breath.

“I’m sorry,” he added.

“You don’t have to be sorry for caring.”

“I do if I make it complicated for you.”

You looked at him through the glass and said, “Thank you.”

He nodded once.

The call ended.

You kept Wayne Security as your preferred contact.

Tim did not bring it up again.

That was the first time you thought he might feel something too.

After that, Tim became almost painfully careful. He still looked after you, but through policy, security protocols, and practical adjustments that applied to more people than you. He stopped calling after hours unless it was work-related.

You hated how much you missed it.

Then came the gala.

The Wayne Foundation’s annual winter benefit took over a museum three weeks later, turning it into a glittering maze of flowers, security checkpoints, and donors whose clothing probably cost more than your first car. 

You were working, which made it easier: tablet in hand, earpiece in place, comfortable shoes hidden under a formal black dress.

Tim, unfortunately, looked like a problem.

He wore a black tuxedo with the resigned elegance of someone who had been put in formalwear since childhood and had never forgiven anyone for it. His hair was neater than usual, his smile was more practiced, and every time he slipped into charming-rich-boy mode, you felt a private grief for all the tired, sharp, funny parts of him the room did not get to see.

He looked composed. He also looked exhausted.

At nine-thirty, you intercepted him near the staff corridor with a glass of water and two minutes of unscheduled silence.

“Drink,” you said.

His eyes flicked down to the glass. “Is that an order?”

“A professional recommendation.”

“Those are scarier.”

He took the glass and drank half of it. The polished mask slipped a little as soon as he was out of the donors’ sight.

You smiled, and his gaze caught on it in a way that made the noise of the gala seem to recede.

“You look nice,” he said.

Your brain emptied itself like a drawer dumped onto the floor.

Tim seemed to realize the same thing one second too late.

“I mean,” he said, “you look very—” He stopped, as if every available adjective had become a legal hazard. “Appropriate for the event.”

“Appropriate for the event,” you repeated.

He closed his eyes briefly. “That was worse.”

“It was.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“You can tell an employee she looks nice at a formal event without HR rappelling through the ceiling.”

His eyes opened. “HR doesn’t rappel.”

“This is Gotham. Don’t be too surprised.”

That got him. His laugh was quiet, but it loosened something in his shoulders.

Then he looked at you again, and the humor softened into something that was harder to pretend away.

“You do,” he said. “Look nice.”

Your pulse moved to your throat.

“Thank you,” you said, because that was safe, and because you wanted too many unsafe things.

A crash sounded from the main hall.

You and Tim both turned at once.

It was not a small crash. It stopped music, conversation, and every heartbeat in the room.

Tim’s expression changed so fast it frightened you.

The exhausted CEO vanished. Something colder and sharper took his place.

“Stay here,” he said.

“Tim—”

“Staff corridor. Door locks from the inside. Stay away from the main hall.”

He was already moving.

You grabbed his sleeve before you could think better of it. “Where are you going?”

His gaze dropped to your hand, then lifted to your face.

For one impossible second, he looked torn.

Then the lights went out.

Emergency lighting washed the corridor red. The museum alarm began to shriek. Tim caught your wrist, not hard, but with immediate certainty, and pulled you through the staff door as people began running in the main hall.

“Move,” he said.

You moved.

The staff corridor was narrow, red-lit, and loud with the muffled chaos of the main hall. Tim guided you into a service alcove near the freight elevator, already typing one-handed on the black phone you had only seen once.

Then laughter crackled over the museum’s PA system.

Not the Joker. You knew that much, and it was horrifying that you knew enough about Gotham to be relieved by the wrong kind of laughter.

“Wonderful,” Tim muttered. “Pantomime.”

“Who?”

“Low-tier thief with high-tier commitment to theme.”

“Should I be comforted?”

“No.”

He pulled something from inside his jacket and pressed it into your hand.

A phone.

Not the one Tam had given you earlier. That one was in your pocket.

This one was matte black, unbranded, and horribly familiar.

“Tim,” you said slowly.

“I designed it for you.”

The words landed too carefully to be casual.

You looked down at the smooth black screen, then back up at him. “This is the one you offered me the first time.” 

His hand stayed near yours for half a second before he drew it back. “Yes.” 

“Tam already gave me one.” 

“I know. This one is different.”

“Different how?”

“Extra emergency routing. Nothing invasive,” he said quickly. “Your privacy terms are built in.”

“You designed a custom phone for me and just carry it around in your jacket?”

His expression barely changed, which meant he was probably embarrassed. “I was waiting for a reasonable time.”

“And this is the reasonable time?”

“No,” he said. “But it is the available one.”

“Tim—”

“Listen to me.” His voice was low and urgent, and every word landed with terrifying precision. “Stay here. Keep low. This hallway leads to the east loading dock if you need to run. Wayne security will eventually come to this corridor. If anyone comes through that door who is not security or me, you go straight down the hall to the last door on the left. Do not wait. Do not let anyone redirect you.”

“And you?”

“You don’t need to worry about me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No,” Tim said. “It’s an instruction.”

Your fingers closed around his phone. “You’re scaring me.”

His expression flickered.

“I know,” he said, and the apology inside it hurt worse than the fear.

Another sound came from the hall. Metal striking marble. Someone sobbed. Security shouted. The PA system squealed with feedback.

Tim touched your shoulder, brief and steady. “I need you safe.”

Then he was gone.

You crouched in the red-lit service alcove with the phone in your hand and the horrible certainty that Tim had just run toward a crime scene with the focus of someone who knew exactly what to do.

Minutes changed shape during a crisis.

You learned that quickly.

You stayed where he had put you for what felt like an hour but was probably less than five minutes. Voices moved through the corridor twice. Once, two catering staff hurried past, whispering frantically. Once, a security guard ran by with his radio pressed to his mouth. You tried to follow the instructions in your head. Stay down. Watch the door. East loading dock if you need to run.

Then someone slammed into the staff door at the end of the corridor.

You flinched so hard your shoulder hit the wall.

The door rattled. A voice cursed on the other side. Another voice said something you could not make out. The lock held.

The phone Tim had pressed into your hand buzzed.

You looked down.

A notification had appeared on the previously black screen.

EMERGENCY MODE ACTIVE.SAFE ROUTE: EAST LOADING DOCK.

A simple map blinked to life, leading you toward the east loading dock.

In the corner was the name of the active safety profile.

DRAKE PROTOCOL.

You stared at it for half a second too long.

Your thumb hovered over the words longer than it should have.

The door rattled again. This time, the lock cracked.

You did not think. You moved.

Tim had told you to go to the east loading dock, so you went east. You kept low, one hand against the wall, Tam’s phone heavy in your pocket and Tim’s clutched so tightly in your other hand that your fingers hurt. Behind you, the door gave way. People entered the corridor laughing and arguing about whether the “rich idiots” had gone through there. You slipped through the next door before they saw you and found yourself in a storage room full of folded tables and museum display equipment.

There was another door on the far side. You crossed to it, eased it open, and nearly collided with Red Robin.

You stopped so abruptly that your shoulder clipped the frame. 

You knew him from news footage, blurry photos, and distant rooftop sightings. Gotham’s vigilantes occupied a strange space in public consciousness, half emergency service and half urban myth. You knew Batman, obviously. Everyone knew Batman. You knew Nightwing because the internet had feelings about Nightwing. You knew Red Robin as the one with the staff, the cape, and the reputation for being frighteningly smart.

He stood in the doorway in red and black armor, domino mask cutting sharp lines across his face, cape settling around him like a shadow. He was taller up close than he looked in news footage, all dark armor and sharp angles in the dim service hallway.

For half a second, you were relieved.

Then he said your name.

Not “ma’am.” Not “miss.” Your name.

Your grip tightened around the phone.

Red Robin went still.

The silence was tiny. Maybe less than a second. Maybe nothing to anyone else.

To you, it was everything.

“Oh,” you said.

Red Robin’s mouth pressed into a line.

You knew that mouth.

You knew that stillness.

You knew the way his shoulders carried responsibility like it had been fitted there by hand.

The storage room door behind you opened.

Red Robin moved before you had time to turn. His staff snapped out with a metallic hiss, striking the first intruder in the chest and sending him backward into the second. He caught your arm, pulled you behind him, and the fight became motion. Efficient, brutal, almost silent compared to the chaos outside. Two men went down before either could shout. A third reached for something at his belt, and Red Robin’s cape cut across your view as he disarmed him with a precision that made your stomach drop.

It was over in seconds.

Red Robin stood over three unconscious men and did not look at you.

You stared at him.

The museum alarm kept screaming.

Finally, he said, “Are you hurt?”

Tim’s voice, altered slightly by the mask or the suit or his own effort, but not enough.

You swallowed. “Are you kidding me?”

He turned then. Even with the mask, you saw the wince.

“Now is not the best time.”

“You’re Red Robin.”

“Now is really not the best time.”

“You’re Red Robin.”

“I heard you.”

“You gave me a panic-button phone.”

His mouth tightened. “Yes.”

“That goes to you.”

“Yes.”

“Not Wayne Security. Not some private corporate response line. You.”

A fractional pause.

“As Red Robin,” you said.

His silence was answer enough.

“And if you don’t answer?”

“It routes to me first,” he said. “If I don’t respond, it escalates.”

“To who?”

Another pause. His mouth tightened.

You stared at him. “Oh my god.”

The comm at his ear crackled. He tilted his head slightly. “I have her. East storage, three down. Moving to loading dock.”

A pause.

“Yes, I know.”

Another pause.

His jaw tightened. “Nightwing can stop laughing anytime.”

You made a sound that was not quite hysteria but had ambitions.

Red Robin held out a gloved hand. “We need to move.”

You looked at his hand, then at the unconscious men, then at the door behind him.

There would be time later. There had to be, because if you let yourself process this now—really process it—you were going to stop moving, and Tim had been very clear that stopping was not an option.

You took his hand.

He led you out.

At the loading dock, Red Robin guided you straight into Tam’s waiting arms.

Tam hugged you once, hard. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” you said honestly.

Red Robin said, “Stay with her.”

Tam nodded once. “Go.”

He looked at you one more time, then vanished into the rain.

You stood there with the phone in your hand and your entire understanding of your employment contract rearranging itself into something insane.

By midnight, the official story was that Tim Drake-Wayne had been evacuated with several major donors and spent the rest of the incident coordinating with security from a safe location.

You heard it while sitting in a Wayne Tower conference room, wrapped in a shock blanket you did not remember accepting.

Tim appeared forty minutes after Red Robin disappeared.

He came in through the main conference room doors wearing his tuxedo again, tie missing, hair damp, a shallow cut at his jaw, and the expression of someone who knew he was walking into consequences.

You looked at him.

He looked at you.

Tam and Bruce left with suspiciously convenient excuses.

Tim stayed near the door.

You sat at the conference table with the shock blanket around your shoulders and the phone on the polished wood in front of you.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then you said, “You’re Red Robin.”

Tim closed his eyes.

“Yes.”

There it was.

No denial. No corporate language. No careful sidestep into things you were not cleared to know. Just yes.

Your eyes stung suddenly, which made you angry because fear had passed, danger had passed, and apparently now your body had decided to be dramatic in a conference room.

“You said my name,” you said.

“I know.”

“You could have pretended.”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Tim’s face softened with something that looked painfully like regret. “Because you were scared, and I needed you to listen.”

That was the worst answer because it was good.

You looked down at the phone. “How many people know?”

“Family. A few allies. Lucius. Alfred.”

“Of course the butler knows.”

Tim winced. “Technically.”

You pressed a hand over your eyes. “I’m angry.”

“I know.”

“I’m also relieved you’re alive.”

His expression shifted.

“And confused. But mostly angry.”

Tim came closer slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal or a bomb. Maybe both. He stopped on the other side of the conference table, leaving distance between you that you hated and appreciated in equal measure.

“You can resign,” he said. “With full severance, references, whatever you need. If you want another job somewhere else, I’ll help arrange it without interfering. If you want to stay at Wayne Enterprises but not work for me, that can happen. You don’t have to decide tonight.”

Something twisted in your chest.

“You already thought through my exit options.”

“Yes.”

“Because you’re prepared.”

“Because I care what happens to you.”

The room went very quiet.

Tim looked down, jaw tight. “That was inappropriate.”

“Was it untrue?”

“No.”

“I don’t want to resign,” you said after a long pause.

Tim looked up.

“I don’t know what I want long-term,” you continued. “But I don’t want to leave because something complicated happened.”

“Complicated,” he repeated.

“You’re Red Robin, my boss, and possibly the most sleep-deprived man in America. That’s complicated.”

“Fair.”

“I do think I shouldn’t be your PA forever.”

Pain flickered across his face before he controlled it.

You hated that too.

“I don’t mean because of tonight,” you said. “I mean because I’m good at this, and I don’t want to become someone whose whole career is being useful to one man, even if that man is—”

You stopped.

Tim’s attention sharpened.

“Even if that man is what?” he asked softly.

Dangerous ground. Worse than alleys, scaffolding, and laundromats that were not laundromats. This was the kind of danger you had walked toward willingly for weeks.

You chose honesty, because apparently near-death experiences made you stupid.

“You.”

Tim went still.

The conference room felt too bright, too corporate, too full of glass walls and secrets.

Finally, he said, “I can talk to Tam about a promotion track. Executive operations, maybe special projects. You’d report to her, not me. It would be real, not a favor.”

“You don’t have to solve it tonight.”

“I know.”

“You’re doing it anyway.”

“I’m trying not to do anything else.”

The words landed between you with devastating precision.

Oh.

You stared at him, and Tim held your gaze like he had already decided to accept whatever damage the truth caused.

“You feel it too,” you said.

His breath changed. Barely, but you heard it.

“Yes,” he said.

The answer was quiet. It still wrecked you.

You pulled the shock blanket tighter around yourself because otherwise you might reach for him, and that seemed like a bad idea while you were still shaking and he was still bleeding from his jaw.

“We can’t do anything about that right now,” you said.

“I know.”

“And you need stitches.”

“I don’t.”

“You absolutely do.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“You are still lying about injuries to the person who knows your calendar, your caffeine intake, and your fake workout blocks.”

His mouth twitched.

You picked up the phone from the table.

“I’ll keep this,” you said.

Tim’s gaze flicked to the phone, then back to your face. “Okay.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m done being angry.”

“I know.”

“Or confused.”

“I know that too.”

You slipped the phone carefully into your bag, as if the wrong movement might shatter something already fragile and cracked.

“Medical first,” you said.

“Okay.”

“Then we discuss my job.”

“Okay.”

“And then, eventually, when there is no active crime scene, no head wound, and no direct-reporting relationship, we can discuss the other thing.”

Tim’s eyes lifted to yours.

There was something in them now that you had never seen so openly in his office. Want, yes, but also restraint. Hope under discipline. A man with too many masks allowing one of them to slip because you had asked him for honesty and he had given it.

“The other thing,” he said.

“Don’t make me say it in a conference room.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“You absolutely would.”

His smile came back, small and real.

Your heart, traitorous and exhausted, leaned toward it.

Two weeks later, you were promoted.

It was not because you knew Tim’s secret. You made absolutely sure of that.

Tam brought you into her office with an offer letter, a revised title, and a salary increase that made you stare at the page for a full ten seconds without breathing.

Executive Operations Coordinator, Special Projects.

You would report to Tam, not Tim. It was a real job with real responsibilities, and Tam made sure you understood that before you could ask.

“You earned it,” she said. “And before you start thinking Tim pushed this through because he is emotionally compromised, he recommended you for advancement two weeks before the gala.”

She turned a printed memo toward you. You caught only a few phrases before looking away.

Exceptional crisis judgment.

Operational instincts exceed current role.

Should be placed where she can build institutional authority.

You looked away before your face could do something embarrassing.

“Tim has many flaws,” Tam said. “Undervaluing competence is not usually one of them.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes if you want the job.”

You looked at the offer again. You thought of Boston, your packed boxes, your family’s concern pressing against every decision you made until Gotham had seemed less like a city than an escape hatch. You thought of your first day in Wayne Tower, your panic in the elevator, Tim laughing when you said one of his names was on the building.

Then you thought of the storage room, Red Robin saying your name, and Tim across a conference table telling you he cared about what happened to you.

You signed the offer.

You found Tim on the roof of Wayne Tower at sunset, which was not where CEOs were supposed to be but was exactly where vigilantes apparently spent their emotional processing time. He was in shirtsleeves, jacket abandoned on the low wall beside him, tie loose, wind tugging at his hair. The grotesques along the roofline loomed dark against the bruised evening sky.

“Do all Waynes brood on rooftops,” you asked, “or is this a you thing?”

Tim turned. His expression changed when he saw the envelope in your hand.

“You signed.”

“I did.”

The tension in his shoulders eased so visibly that it hurt your chest.

“Congratulations,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“You earned it.”

“That seems to be the company line.”

“It’s the truth.”

You walked to the wall beside him, leaving enough space between you for sense and not enough for comfort.

You looked at him. “I think I’m staying.”

Tim’s gaze held yours. “In Gotham?”

“At Wayne Enterprises. In Gotham. In the life I apparently live now, where my former boss is Red Robin and my new phone has emergency settings designed by a vigilante with a corporate email address.”

He huffed a laugh. “Former boss.”

“That’s the part you heard?”

“It’s an important part.”

“It is.”

The wind moved between you, cold enough that you folded your arms.

Tim noticed. Of course he noticed. “Do you want my jacket?”

“No.”

“You’re cold.”

“I am establishing independence.”

“You can be independent and warm.”

“That sounds fake.”

“It’s not.”

He held out the jacket.

You stared at it, then at him.

“Tim.”

“It’s a jacket, not a marriage proposal.”

You laughed despite yourself and took it. It was warm from his body and too expensive to just drop on the roof, and putting it on felt like accepting something you had been refusing in pieces for weeks.

Tim watched you, careful and quiet.

“I report to Tam now, but you’re still the CEO.”

“Yes.”

“And Red Robin.”

“Also yes.”

“So this is still complicated.”

“I know.”

His patience should have made this easier. It did not. It made you want to step closer.

So you did.

Tim’s attention dropped briefly to the movement, then returned to your face.

“I don’t remember what it’s like to not love you,” you said.

He went completely still.

You could not believe you had said it. Once the words were out, though, you refused to take them back. You had spent too long managing feelings privately, folding them into professional smiles and calendar updates, pretending every kindness did not land somewhere tender.

“I tried not to,” you continued. “You were my boss. You’re rich in a way that makes me want to audit reality. You have a family name that opens doors by existing. And I’m…not. I’m new to Gotham, new to this job, and trying very hard not to confuse the first person who made me feel steady with someone I was allowed to want.”

Tim’s voice was low. “Did you?”

“No.”

His expression softened.

“That was the problem,” you said. “I knew exactly what it was.”

For a moment, the city seemed to fall away beneath the sound of the wind.

Then Tim said, “I don’t know when it became love. I only know that it did.”

Your breath caught.

He looked almost embarrassed by the confession, which made it worse and better and impossible.

“I didn’t understand what was happening at first,” he said. “I thought I was relieved to have someone competent. Then I thought I was worried because you were new to Gotham. Then I thought about you walking home in the rain so much that Nightwing threatened to block my number after I texted him at three in the morning for the third night in a row.”

A laugh slipped out of you, unsteady.

Tim stepped closer. “I tried to keep it professional.”

“You did.”

“Not because I didn’t want you.”

The words hit with enough force to make you forget the cold.

He seemed to hear it after he said it. His mouth parted slightly like he might apologize, but you shook your head.

“Don’t you dare take it back.”

“I won’t.”

The space between you had become very small.

Your hand moved first. Not far. Just enough to touch the front of his shirt, your fingers resting over the place where his tie had been loosened. Tim looked down at your hand as if it were more dangerous than anything he faced in a mask.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

You had imagined Tim asking like that. Careful, direct, almost formal with the effort of giving you a choice.

You had not imagined how much it would undo you.

“Yes,” you said.

He kissed you as if caution were the last thing standing between him and disaster.

For one breath, it was almost unbearably gentle. His mouth touched yours, then paused there, asking without words. The city moved around you in sirens and wind and distant traffic, but Tim stayed still, giving you room to choose.

So you chose.

You rose onto your toes and kissed him back.

Something in him changed then—not snapped, not broke, but gave way. His hand found the lapel of the jacket he had put around your shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric as if it were the only safe place to hold on. You felt his breath catch before he kissed you again, deeper this time, less like a question and more like an answer he had been trying not to write down for months.

By the time you pulled apart, his forehead was almost touching yours, and neither of you seemed willing to be the first to remember the rest of the world.

His gaze dropped to the jacket around your shoulders, then back to your face.

“I should not be thinking about how good that looks on you right now,” he said.

Your breath caught.

“That’s your takeaway?”

“I’m trying to be normal.”

“You are failing.”

“I know.”

You smiled, and he kissed you again just because he could, because some impossible permission had been granted and neither of you knew how to be sensible with it yet.

Eventually, you made it back inside. Sensibility returned somewhere between the rooftop door and the executive elevator, mostly because the building had cameras and you both remembered at the same time.

Tim walked you to your office because it was late, because he was still Tim, and because you let him. The new space was smaller than his but bigger than your old desk, with a door, a window, and your name already printed on a temporary placard.

He stopped outside.

You stood in the doorway, still wearing his jacket.

“This is where I say goodnight,” he said.

“Is it?”

“It should be.”

You looked at him for a long moment. The professional part of you admired the restraint. The rest of you resented it.

“What do you want?” you asked.

Tim’s eyes darkened.

The hallway was empty. The office floor beyond it was dim, most of the staff gone for the night. Somewhere far away, the cleaning crew moved down another corridor.

“That’s a dangerous question,” he said.

“I know.”

“I want to kiss you again.”

“That seems manageable.”

“I want to do more than kiss you.”

Your pulse jumped.

Tim did not move closer. That was the thing about him. Desire was there, clear and intense, but so was the discipline. He would stand in a hallway and let honesty burn through him before he would use it to corner you.

You loved that.

The realization arrived without ceremony and with terrible timing.

You did not say it. Not yet. There were some truths too large for office hallways.

Instead, you stepped into your office, turned on the light, and looked back at him.

“Come in, then.”

Tim’s composure cracked.

Only slightly. Only enough.

He entered and closed the door behind him.

For a few seconds, neither of you moved.

Tim’s gaze stayed on you.

“You’re very careful,” you said.

“With you? Yes.”

Heat curled low in your stomach.

You crossed the office and stopped in front of him. “You can touch me.”

Tim’s hand came to your waist first, over your dress, warm and steady. Then the other settled at your back. He drew you in slowly, and when you lifted your face, he kissed you with all the care he had promised and all the hunger he had not.

The office disappeared by degrees.

There was his mouth, his hands, the press of your back against the door when he guided you into position with a soft sound and swallowed your gasp. There was the slide of your fingers into his hair, the way he shuddered and made a noise deep in his throat when you tugged, the sudden knowledge that Timothy Drake-Wayne, brilliant and controlled and impossible, could come undone if you touched him just right.

He kissed along your jaw, then stopped.

“Still okay?”

“Yes,” you said, breathless. “Tim, please.”

His eyes closed for a second, as if the word did something to him. Then his mouth found your throat, careful at first, then less so when your hand tightened on his shoulder.

Your hands found the buttons of his shirt. He went still beneath your fingers.

“Is this okay?” you asked.

A laugh broke out of him, low and strained. “Yes.”

“You’re allowed to answer faster.”

“I’m trying not to embarrass myself.”

“That might be my favorite thing you’ve ever said.”

He kissed you again, and the buttons became less cooperative under pressure. When his shirt opened beneath your hands, you found warm skin, hard muscle, and the faint raised evidence of a life you were only beginning to understand. You touched one scar lightly before you could stop yourself.

Tim’s breath caught.

You looked up. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

There was a story under your fingertips. Many stories, probably. Too many for one night. You kissed the place instead, gentle enough that his hand flexed against the door beside your head.

He said your name like a warning.

You smiled against his skin. “What?”

“If you do that again, my plan to be responsible is going to suffer.”

“Your plan sounds boring.”

“My plan is respectful.”

“I respect it.”

“You are actively undermining it.”

“Yes.”

Tim looked down at you, and the heat in his face made your knees feel unreliable.

Then he picked you up and turned, placing you onto the edge of your desk.

The movement startled a laugh out of you, but it dissolved when he stepped between your knees. His hands slid along your thighs, still over fabric, still giving you time. You pulled him closer by his open shirt and kissed him until the careful rhythm broke into something messier.

His phone buzzed.

Both of you froze.

Tim dropped his forehead to your shoulder. “I’m going to kill him.”

You were breathing hard. “Who?”

“Statistically, Dick.”

The phone buzzed again.

You started laughing and could not stop.

Tim groaned, but there was laughter in it too, helpless and frustrated and young in a way you rarely got to see. He pulled back enough to check the screen, then made a face.

“Emergency?” you asked.

“No. He sent a bat emoji.”

You laughed harder.

Tim typed something one-handed.

“What did you say?”

“That I’m resigning from the family.”

“He’ll believe that?”

“No.”

The interruption should have killed the moment. It did not. It softened it, turned the sharp edge of want into something warmer, more sustainable, less likely to burn through every careful choice you had made.

Tim put the phone facedown on your desk and looked at you. “Can I take you to dinner?”

“Now?”

“Not now. Now I should walk you home and behave like someone who remembers that tonight was a lot for you.”

Your expression softened despite yourself. “Do you always have to be reasonable?”

“No,” he said. “I’m making a deliberate effort.”

You touched his open collar. “Dinner sounds good.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I have plans tomorrow.”

His eyebrows rose. “Do you?”

“I do have a life outside this building.”

“I know. I’m proud and devastated.”

“Saturday.”

“Saturday,” he agreed.

You slid off the desk, and he steadied you with both hands. For a second, you stayed close, neither of you willing to end the contact completely.

You buttoned his shirt because someone had to, and because the intimacy of doing it made him quiet in a way kissing had not. When you reached the last button, his hand covered yours.

“I’m glad you came here,” he said.

You had no clever response, so you kissed him once more, soft and lingering, then stepped back before one of you forgot where you were.

Tim walked you home.

At your building, the flickering light above the door had been fixed. The bulb burned steady and warm over the entrance, catching on the old brick and the damp railing.

You stopped on the first step and looked up at it.

“Tim.”

“Yes?”

“Did you fix my building light?”

“I did not personally.”

You turned to look at him. “That is not a denial.”

“No,” he admitted.

“You know, most people flirt with flowers.”

“I can do flowers.”

“You fixed exterior lighting.”

“You said the hallway was dark.”

“I said that once.”

“I listen.”

That one got under your skin.

For a moment, you only looked at him. He stood one step below you, which made you almost level. His tie was loose, his hair still slightly mussed from your hands, and his jacket was back on by then, though he had only put it on after making sure you were not cold on the walk over. He looked nothing like the polished CEO from the gala two weeks ago. He looked tired, careful, and very real.

You reached for the door.

Tim did not move to follow.

Of course he didn’t.

He stood on the sidewalk with his hands still at his sides, waiting. The restraint should have annoyed you by now. Instead, it made the desire sharper, because every step closer to him had to be yours if you wanted it to be. He would not take a single inch you did not hand him.

“Tim.”

His eyes lifted to yours.

“Come upstairs.”

The words landed quietly between you, but they felt heavier than anything you had said in your office. There was no company logo behind you now. No executive floor. No desk with your new title waiting outside the door. Just your building, your key, your choice.

Tim’s gaze searched your face. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“You can change your mind at any point.”

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.” You opened the door and held it. “Come upstairs.”

This time, he did.

The stairwell smelled faintly of old paint, rain-damp coats, and someone’s dinner from two floors down. It was not glamorous. The third-floor landing had a cracked tile near the railing. The radiator pipes clanked behind the walls. Your neighbor’s dog barked once as you passed, then apparently decided you were not worth the effort.

The key shook once in your hand before you got it into the lock. You hoped he did not notice. He almost definitely noticed. He was kind enough not to say anything.

Inside, your apartment was warm in the uneven way old buildings were warm. Tim entered behind you, closed and locked the door, then looked around with the same attentive curiosity he brought to everything.

“It feels like you,” he said.

Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “Messy?”

His laugh was quiet and warm.

“Alive.”

You reached up and loosened his tie the rest of the way.

“I’m still sure,” you said.

The last of his restraint shifted.

He stepped closer, slowly enough that you could have moved away, and lifted one hand to your face. His thumb brushed your cheek, light and reverent. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

“I want you to.”

He kissed you.

The first touch of his mouth was soft, almost controlled, but the gentleness did not last. You knew now what it felt like when Tim gave himself permission. You felt it in the way his hand slid to the back of your neck, in the way he drew you closer, in the quiet sound he made when you opened for him.

You gripped the front of his shirt and pulled him closer until there was no polite distance left between you, only the warmth coming from his body.

His free hand found your waist, firm enough to make your breath hitch when he drew you in. Tim caught the sound against your mouth and went still for half a second, as if he had to survive it.

Then he did it again.

Your head tipped back, his hand warm at the nape of your neck. “Tim.”

“I know,” he said, though his voice had gone rough.

“You don’t, actually.”

His mouth moved to your jaw. “Then tell me.”

You threaded your fingers into his hair, and his breath caught. “Touch me.”

His hand slid down your side, over the curve of your waist, then lower to your hip. He paused there, fingers flexing once through the fabric of your skirt.

You kissed him again because you wanted to, because you could, because this was your apartment and your choice and you were tired of wanting carefully.

Tim’s hand slipped beneath the hem of your skirt.

The first touch of his fingers against your bare thigh made your whole body respond. He felt it. You knew he did because his mouth faltered against yours, and for one breath, all the careful intelligence in him seemed to short out.

“You’re very distracting,” he murmured.

“You’re one to talk.”

His smile brushed your cheek, then disappeared against your throat. He kissed his way down slowly, learning your responses with every press of his mouth. When his teeth grazed the sensitive place beneath your ear, you gasped and tugged at his hair hard enough to make him groan.

The sound undid the thing that told you to be careful.

You pushed his jacket off his shoulders. It hit the floor somewhere near your shoes. His shirt followed badly, buttons undone between kisses, your hands impatient and his no better. When you finally got the fabric open, you slid your palms over his chest and felt the hard shiver that moved through him.

He was beautiful like this. Warm, scarred, and breathing unevenly under your hands.

Your fingers found one of the pale marks near his ribs. You touched it softly, and Tim’s hand closed around your wrist.

For one second, you thought you had hurt him.

Then he brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your palm.

The tenderness of it almost ruined you.

“Bedroom?” he asked.

Your pulse jumped.

You nodded.

You grabbed his hand, and this time, when you got to your bedroom, you were the one who walked him backward until the backs of his knees hit the edge of your bed. He sat, looking up at you with his shirt open, hair mussed, mouth flushed from kissing, and you had the sudden, dizzying realization that Timothy Drake-Wayne was in your room because you had invited him there.

Desire moved through you with startling clarity.

You reached for the buttons of your blouse.

Tim’s gaze dropped to your hands, then lifted back to your face immediately, as if he were trying very hard to be respectful and suffering for it.

“You can look,” you said.

His laugh came out strained. “Thank you.”

You undid the buttons slowly, then let the blouse slip from your shoulders. Tim stopped breathing for a second.

Tim stopped breathing for a second.

That was worth everything.

You stood in front of him in your bra and skirt and watched the last of his practiced composure fall away.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

You touched his hair. “You’re overdressed.”

That got you a smile, quick and devastating.

“Fix it, then.”

So you did.

You pushed his shirt down his arms, and he let it fall somewhere beside the bed. His undershirt followed. You took your time because you wanted to, because he was letting you look, because every scar and line of muscle told a story you would not ask for tonight but wanted to learn someday. When your hands reached his belt, he caught your fingers gently.

“Still sure?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Because we can slow down.”

“I don’t want to slow down.”

His eyes darkened.

“I want you,” you said.

That did it.

Tim pulled you into his lap.

You gasped, arms going around his shoulders as his mouth found yours again. Sitting perched on his thighs made everything feel closer, hotter, harder to control. His hands moved over your back, then down to your hips, guiding you against him until the hard line of him pressed between your legs through too many layers of fabric. The friction was blunt and maddening, enough to make your hips move again before you could think better of it.

The pressure made you moan into his mouth.

He broke away with a sharp breath. “I need you to keep making that sound.”

You smiled, breathless. “Bossy.”

“Former boss.”

“Still bossy.”

He kissed you again, and his hand slid between your bodies.

When his fingers touched you through your underwear, your hips jerked. Tim watched your face as he did it again, slower, firmer, learning you with that devastating focus you had seen in boardrooms and crisis calls and rooftop confessions. Your head fell forward against his shoulder.

“That’s it,” he said softly.

The praise made your body tighten.

His fingers moved with patient precision, stroking you through the thin fabric until you were clinging to him, breath coming unevenly against his neck. It would have been embarrassing how quickly he figured you out if he hadn’t looked so undone by it, too.

“You’re so responsive,” he murmured. “God, you’re—”

He stopped himself.

You lifted your head enough to look at him. “So what?”

His fingers pressed more firmly, and the question dissolved into a gasp.

“So much better than anything I let myself think about,” he said.

You kissed him because if he kept talking, you were going to come before he had even taken your underwear off.

Tim seemed to like that. His free hand slid up your back, unclasping your bra with a competence that would have annoyed you if you had not been so distracted by his mouth. He drew the straps down your arms, slow enough to make your skin prickle, and when he looked at you, the hunger in his face was edged with something almost tender.

“Can I?” he asked, his hand hovering.

You nodded.

“Say it.”

Your breath caught. “Yes.”

His mouth closed over your breast, and the first wet heat of it made you arch against him. Tim’s hand tightened on your hip, holding you steady as his tongue moved over your nipple, then his teeth grazed carefully enough to make you gasp without hurting. You could feel him smile against your skin before he did it again.

“You’re smug,” you said, though it came out weaker than you intended.

He lifted his head. “I’m observant.”

“You are very pleased with yourself.”

“I’m pleased with you.”

That was unfair enough that you kissed him to shut him up.

The next few minutes became a blur of hands and heat, his mouth moving over every place he could reach while your underwear stayed frustratingly in the way. Tim laid you back carefully, as if your bed were something sacred and not a mattress you had ordered online with free shipping. He kissed down your body with devastating patience, over your throat, between your breasts, along your stomach, until your fingers twisted in the sheets and your breath turned uneven.

When he hooked his fingers into your skirt and underwear, he looked up at you.

You nodded before he could ask.

He still asked. “Can I take these off?”

“Yes.”

He drew them down your legs slowly, kissing your thigh once as he did. By the time he settled between your knees, his eyes had darkened, and you were trembling with anticipation and the unbearable tenderness of being desired by someone who kept asking because your answer mattered.

Tim kissed the inside of your thigh.

Then higher.

The first touch of his mouth against your clit made your whole body jolt.

He paused immediately, one hand spreading over your hip. “Okay?”

“Yes,” you said, almost laughing because your nerves had nowhere else to go. “Very okay.”

His smile turned wicked for one brief, breathtaking second. “Good.”

Then he stopped being careful in all the ways that mattered least.

He lowered his mouth again. Pleasure built slowly at first, then faster as he found the rhythm that made your thighs tense around his shoulders. One of his hands slid up to lace with yours against the sheets. His other arm hooked across your hips, firm enough to hold you in place when you started to move against his mouth. You said his name once, then again, and the second time, he groaned like hearing it hurt him.

That was what pushed you over.

You came with your fingers locked around his, your free hand buried in his hair, your body tightening as he worked you through it with slow, careful strokes of his tongue. When it was too much, you tugged weakly at his hair, and he lifted his head at once, kissing your inner thigh with a gentleness that made the aftershocks worse.

For a while, you only breathed.

“You are dangerously good at that,” you said eventually.

His laugh was low and a little wrecked. “I’m taking that as positive feedback.”

He climbed back up your body, kissing you on the way, and when his mouth met yours again, you could taste yourself on him. The intimacy of it made you shiver. Tim felt it and kissed you deeper, his body settling over yours with careful weight.

You reached for his belt.

This time, he let you.

His breathing changed as you opened it, then his briefs, your fingers brushing over his cock through the fabric. He was hard enough that the first touch made his hips shift despite the control he was clearly trying to maintain.

His mouth found your neck as you pushed his slacks and briefs down far enough to wrap your hand around him. He groaned into your skin, low and rough, and the sound made heat gather in your core again even though you were still sensitive from his mouth.

You stroked him slowly, learning the weight and heat of him, the way his breath caught when your thumb passed over the head, the way his hand fisted in the sheet beside your shoulder. Tim was beautiful like this too, undone in pieces, control unraveling under your touch.

“If you keep doing that,” he said, voice rough, “this is going to end very quickly.”

You smiled. “Is that a threat?”

“It is a warning.”

“Very civic-minded of you.”

His laugh broke into a groan when your hand moved again.

Then he kissed you, and the humor burned away.

“Condom?” he asked against your mouth.

“In the nightstand,” you said, then hesitated.

Tim went still immediately. “What?”

You looked up at him, suddenly aware of how close he was, how warm, how careful. “I’m on birth control. I was tested after my last relationship. There hasn’t been anyone since.”

His breath changed, but he did not move. “I’m clean too.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” he repeated, voice rougher.

You touched his cheek. “I don’t want anything between us.”

For one second, the restraint on his face looked almost painful.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He kissed you then, deep and unsteady, and when he settled between your thighs again, your legs opened for him almost instinctively.

Then he guided himself to you. The first press of him made you both go still.

You had expected him to be careful. He was. But careful did not mean unaffected. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath shaking as he eased inside you, slow enough to make you feel every inch. Your hands gripped his shoulders, your body stretching around him, pleasure and pressure tangling until your eyes closed.

“Okay?” he asked, voice strained.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Just give me a second.”

He did. Of course he did. He held still with impossible control, kissing your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. It was almost worse than movement, the tenderness of it, the way he seemed determined to make room for every part of you. Desire. Nerves. Trust. The frightening softness underneath it all.

When you shifted your hips experimentally, Tim groaned.

“You can move,” you whispered.

His eyes opened, and the look on his face stole the rest of your teasing.

He moved.

Slowly at first, giving you time to adjust, each thrust deep and careful enough to make your breath catch. Your fingers slid into his hair. His mouth found yours, and the kiss turned messy as the rhythm built between you. 

You hooked one leg higher around his hip, and the angle changed.

Pleasure struck with such sharp intensity that you gasped.

Tim froze for half a breath. “There?”

“Again.”

He obeyed, and your back arched off the bed.

The careful rhythm fractured after that. His control held, but barely, worn thin by the way you clung to him and the sounds you could no longer fully hide. One of his hands slid beneath your thigh, holding you open for him, and his mouth dropped to your shoulder as he thrust deeper.

“You feel so good,” he said, his voice rough enough to scrape. “I thought about this too much. About you too much.”

Your nails dug into his back. “Tim.”

“I know.” His mouth brushed your jaw. “I know, sweetheart.”

The endearment should not have hit as hard as it did. It did anyway. You clenched around him, and Tim’s rhythm faltered for the first time, a harsh breath breaking from him as he fought not to lose himself too soon.

“Say that again,” you whispered.

His eyes found yours. “Sweetheart?”

You nodded, breathless.

Something in his face went devastatingly soft.

He kissed you, then slid a hand between your bodies, fingers finding the place his mouth had left sensitive and aching. “Come for me again, sweetheart.”

You did not stand a chance.

The pleasure built faster this time, driven by his fingers, his voice, the deep, steady movement of him inside you. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, then clawed at his back, then the sheets as the tension wound tighter and tighter. Tim watched you as long as he could, his own composure breaking apart with every sound you made.

When you came, your orgasm hit you hard.

Your body tightened around him, your cry muffled against his shoulder as pleasure rolled through you. Tim groaned, losing rhythm for one breath, then another, his hips stuttering as he followed you over. He buried his face against your neck, one hand braced beside your head, the other holding you close as he came with a broken sound that made your chest ache.

Afterward, the room went quiet except for your breathing and the clank of the radiator.

Tim stayed over you for a moment, careful not to crush you, his face tucked against your throat. You could feel his heartbeat where his chest pressed to yours, too fast and very human.

Eventually, he lifted his head.

His hair was a disaster. His mouth was swollen. His expression was so open that you wanted to look away and could not.

“Okay?” he asked softly.

You laughed, exhausted and warm. “You can’t ask me that like you didn’t just rearrange my insides.”

A smile broke across his face, tired and real and a little dazed. “Positive feedback?”

“Glowing review.”

He kissed you once, smiling against your mouth, then carefully withdrew. You missed him immediately, which was embarrassing, but Tim did not go far.

He came back with a warm washcloth and cleaned you up with the same quiet focus he brought to everything else, gentle enough that your throat tightened. Then he disappeared once more, returned with a glass of water, and waited until you had drunk half of it before he seemed satisfied.

Only then did he look toward the window. A sliver of Gotham showed through the gap in the curtains, dark and wet and flickering with distant light.

“I should probably go,” he said, sounding like he hated every word.

You looked up at him. “Do you want to?”

“No.”

“Then don’t.”

His hand stilled where it rested on the edge of the mattress.

“My heating is terrible,” you said. “And my bed is small. But you can stay if you want.”

Tim looked back at you with that same carefulness, though it was softer now. “Are you sure?”

You touched his cheek. “Yes.”

He turned his face and kissed your palm. “Then I want to stay.”

“Good.”

He climbed back into bed, drew the blanket over both of you, and tucked you carefully against him like he had every right to be there and still could not quite believe he was allowed.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

Outside, Gotham kept moving. Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance, low and familiar now, threading through the night with the hum of traffic and the occasional groan of old pipes. You had once thought the sound meant you had made a mistake. That you had come too far, too fast, chasing independence into a city that did not know how to be gentle with anyone.

Now Tim’s arm was around you, your door was locked, the phone he had given you was charging on the nightstand, and the city beyond your window felt dangerous and strange and yours.

For the first time since moving to Gotham, the sirens outside did not make you wonder whether you should have gone home.

They sounded like the city continuing around you.

They sounded, strangely, like home.

credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider and @toxisyddy for the Robin divider ❤️💛

[starr-jazz]

BLOOD BANK🩸 ── aka ゛masterlist ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ ao3

𝟎.𝟎 click on 'BLOOD TYPE' to be directed to that character's masterlist

𝟏.𝐀. BLOOD TYPE ── JASON TODD☆⋆ .ᐟ

𝟏.𝐁. BLOOD TYPE ── DAMIAN WAYNE⏾⋆.˚ .ᐟ

𝟏.𝐂. BLOOD TYPE ── BRUCE WAYNE⋆⋆⋆ .ᐟ

𝟏.𝐃. BLOOD TYPE ── CLARK KENT★ ˎˊ˗ .ᐟ

𝟏.𝐄. BLOOD TYPE ── DICK GRAYSON ✰ .ᐟ

𝟐.𝐀. BLOOD TYPE ── BUCKY BARNES✮ .ᐟ

𝟑.𝐀. BLOOD TYPE ── DEAN WINCHESTER ᯓ✮ .ᐟ

𝟒.𝐀. BLOOD TYPE ── MISC CHARACTERS⋆˚｡⋆ .ᐟ

𝟓.𝐀. 𝟐𝐊 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓 ─── 𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐑𝐒𝐕𝐏𝐒 .ᐟ

𝟎.𝟎 last restocked on...29/04/26

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[froggibus]

— Emergency Contact

Includes: Dick Grayson, Wally West, Jason Todd & Roy Harper

Summary: when your current boyfriend abandons you with nothing but your phone, he's the first person you call

Content/CW -> gn! reader, abandonment, hurt/comfort, dehydration,

— requested by anon

froggi yaps -> i bombed my interview so badly today i really needed this comfort ;-; i feel like these kinda suck but this piece was kicking my butt so badly i just needed to get it out :p enjoy

Dick Grayson:

Dick’s sleeping when you text him, the incessant buzzing on his nightstand cutting into the sleep he desperately needs. It had been a long night last night and he didn’t make it home until seven in the morning, going to bed even later than that.

Still, he forces his eyes open and rolls over, grabbing the phone in his hand. He blinks away sleep when he sees the messages are from you, one after the other, each increasingly more panicked. 

He’s on his feet in minutes when he reads them, tugging on the nearest clothes he can find and collecting his keys off his nightstand. Opening his phone to track your location, Dick’s on the road in minutes.

You’re sitting under a tree when he finds you, alone and overheating in the middle of a desolate trail just outside of Bludhaven. He calls your name before he approaches, shuffling carefully towards so as not to scare you.

“Dick?” You blink, exhausted from the heat.

He crouches at your side, pressing a hand to your forehead like you’re sick. He sighs, shaking his head and fighting the urge to hunt down your shitty boyfriend and give him a piece of his mind.

“Fuck, he just left you here like this? Do you even have water?”

You shake your head. “He had the backpack,” you explain. “Said I was too slow…”

Fuck, what an asshole. He never deserved you.

Dick helps you to your feet, keeping an arm around your waist to support you. Your steps are shaky, your breathing uneven—clear signs of dehydration. 

It’s a long trip back to the car, ending with Dick carrying you on his back. You’re relieved when he finally sets you in the passenger seat, cranking the air conditioning for you. 

He passes you a water bottle from his cupholder. “Here, have this.”

You drink half of it in one go, the water helping the dryness that has your throat swelling.

“How are you feeling?” He asks.

“Tired, sad.” You frown, “I feel dizzy.”

Dick puts the car in drive, peeling away from the parking lot and driving back to the city. “You probably will for a while, with how long you were in the heat.” 

It’s silent for a while, the exhaustion setting into your bones and a new sort of tiredness weighing over you. You rest your head against the door of the car, letting your eyes flutter closed.

“Come hang out with me, yeah?” Dick finally breaks the silence. “Need to make sure you’re okay.”

You catch the undertone of it, the part that says: physically and emotionally.

You hum in agreement, letting yourself fall back asleep on the door of his car. Dick waits until he’s sure you’re out cold before leaning over and rubbing a thumb across your cheek.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he mumbles more to himself than anything, “I’ll take good care of you.”

Jason Todd:

Jason’s busy when you call, knee deep in a group of goons in the way of your boss. Still, it’s you calling him, and he doesn’t dare leave you waiting.

“Hello?”

You sniffle into the phone, the distant sounds of gunfire making you raise a brow. “Jay?”

He frowns, fighting his way through the men while talking to you like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “Are you crying?”

It’s a jumble of words that comes next, each one bleeding into the next and filled with sniffles. Jason strains to hear you through the comms piece in his helmet, the gunfire and sounds of violence almost enough to drown you out. Still, he gets the gist of it. Fuck, he’s going to lose the target. But he can’t just leave you there.

He sighs, “I’ll be there in five.”

You’re pacing when Jason pulls up, soaking wet with the cold rain hiding the hot tears on your cheeks. If only the rain could hide the redness in your eyes and the way your lips have pulled into a pout.

It’s more than a twenty minute drive from where Jason was to the shitty, dingy bar your boyfriend abandoned you at. Jason made the drive in five, in the rain, on his motorcycle.

“T-thanks for coming,” you sniffle out.

Jason looks around, forcing himself to take deep breaths despite the anger surging in his chest. “You sure that ass—he’s not coming back?”

You shake your head. “He said we’re done.”

Jason shakes his head, showing off the fresh red mark under his chin. You frown, reaching up to run your thumb across the bruised skin beneath his stubble. He’s ditched his Red Hood getup, dressed only in his usual cargo pants and a t-shirt. Raindrops slick over his exposed biceps.

“Let me take you home, alright?”

You nod and then he’s ushering you towards his bike, thrusting his spare helmet into your arms. You buckle it over your head, Jason turning around and tugging the strap to make sure it’s tight.

You look at him through the open visor, blinking away the raindrops that cling to your skin. “Jay?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think you could…stay with me for a bit?”

And he knows he shouldn’t, that he has other things to do tonight, an obligation to himself and this city. “Yeah,” he says, “I can stay a while.”

It’s hours later that you’re asleep on Jason’s lap, head resting on the meat of his thighs. He should’ve left a while ago and yet, he can’t bring himself to go. 

Still, watching you lay like this in his arms, warm and dry from the rain your boyfriend left you in, anger still swirls in his stomach. How dare he leave you like that? You could've gotten mugged or hurt or worse, and the very thought has Jason clenching his jaw.

Yeah, he’ll have to pay him a visit later.

Wally West:

Wally’s smile dies the minute he picks up the phone and hears you sniffling on the other end of the line. “Hey, what’s going on?”

It’s an unintelligible mess of words that follows, filled with choked sobs and occasional moments of silence. Somehow through it all, Wally manages to get the gist of it: you and your shitty boyfriend got into a fight on the way home, and he abandoned you at some gas station.

Alone. In the middle of the night. With nothing but your phone.

Hot rage sweeps through Wally and before he knows it, he’s running.

One minute, you’re staring at the screen of your phone, sobbing hysterically. The next, Wally West is at your side, looking just as outraged as he is concerned. 

“He did what?”

Seeing your teary eyes and the pouty look on your face only makes him angrier. He clenches and unclenches his hands, forcing himself to breathe. 

The anger melts away when you wrap your arms around him and bury your face in his chest, sobbing harder. “I don’t—I don’t know what I did wrong.”

Wally is careful to wrap his arms around you, pulling you flush with his body and kissing the top of your head. It’s been so long since he’s gotten to hold you like this, since he’s gotten to care for you, he selfishly drinks it in.

“Let’s get you home, hm?”

You sniffle, peeling your face back just enough to look at him. “I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“My place, then,” he flashes his best reassuring smile, “don’t worry, doll, I’ll take care of you.”

-

Two hours later and you’re settled on the couch at Wally’s, dressed in his sweatpants and one of his t-shirts. After an hour, he’d finally gotten you to stop crying and instead cuddle up with him on the couch.

Your boyfriend is yet to say anything, to even check in and make sure you didn’t get murdered. It leaves a bitter taste in Wally’s mouth but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a little hopeful, too.

It’s when you fall asleep that Wally snaps a picture of the two of you, your head nuzzled into the crook of his arm. He grins as he types, trying his best not to laugh while he drafts the message to your boyfriend. He reads it over once before hitting send, nodding in satisfaction.

Don’t worry, I’ll clean up your mess.

Roy Harper:

It’s late and Roy wishes he was asleep, and instead, he’s driving an hour away to some random highway where your boyfriend—hopefully soon to be ex—abandoned you on the side of the road.

His hands are clenched tight on the wheel, thoughts racing a mile a minute. His foot is pressed harshly into the gas, each minute that passes only increases his anxiety. He’d asked you to stay on the phone with him but that was before your phone died and your location stopped updating.

He can only hope you listened to him and stayed put, and that no one else comes across you before he does.

Luck is on his side when he spots you pacing back and forth on the side of the road. His foot is on the brake immediately, slowing the car down to a stop just a few meters ahead of you.

You make a break for the car, settling into his passenger seat like it’s somewhere you belong. And to Roy, it is. 

He frowns when he sees the tears in your eyes and the way you’re shaking from the cold night. “You alright?”

You sniffle, “barely. I’m freezing my ass off.”

He nods, flicking on your heated seat. He moreso meant the whole being abandoned in the middle of the night thing, but given your closed off demeanour, decides not to push it.

“I don’t understand what I did wrong,” you say quietly.

Roy drops a hand from the wheel, gently squeezing your knee. “You did nothing wrong, that asshole just never deserved you.” Not like I do.

You blink. Maybe he has a point.

And now that he’s started, Roy’s not sure he can stop. “What kind of man just abandons you, alone, in the middle of the night? Don’t you think you deserve more than that?”

“Roy…”

“Seriously, babe,” the pet name slips out so easily that neither of you notice it, “don’t you want to be with someone who loves you properly?”

“Roy,” you say again, more warning than anything.

“God, I take much better care of you than he ever has.”

“Roy!”

He breathes heavily, the gravity of what he just said sinking in. The silence in the car is hot and tense, broken only by the crackling of the heat coming through his vents. Roy slows the car, pulling over to the side of the road.

For a moment, you’re worried he might leave you, too. But then he’s grabbing your chin and forcing you to look at him, touch equally scorching as it is delicate. He’s not even sure what he’s doing until he’s leaning in and brushing his lips over yours, the taste of your chapstick like an old friend.

“All I’m saying,” he says quietly, “is that you deserve someone who takes care of you. Okay?”

“O-okay.”

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thanks for reading & have a wonderful week /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡

[starr-jazz]

🍷 I wanna ruin our friendship!  ✰ robin!dick grayson x reader drabble

make out session ->

ah yes the teenage boy-bsf with benefits(just makeouts kisses, cleanse thy minds) that i never experienced. sighh save me dan mora robin dick grayson. goggled it and he’s 18 in world’s finest my luv

“Yo!” You hear your name being called across the classroom, looking up from your conversation with your best friend, Dick Grayson, you see a large group of kids sitting around, the one in the middle writing something down on a piece of paper.

“What?” You yell back, even Dick turns to see what’s going on. It was free time between classes, loads of noise not only in the class but from the hallway outside.

“Smash or pass. Robin.” Someone else yell back, couple of kids around bickering amongst themselves.“What’s the tally?” You yell back as a smirk makes its way to your face, both you and Dick glancing at each other at the same time.

“Thirteen—No, Fourteen yes' and three no’s.” The person the middle relays, the one with the paper. Dick, with an amused expression, looks back at you as you make a show of contemplating for a moment, hand on your chin like a thoughtful philosopher.

“Smash.” You look Dick in the eye. “Definitely smash.”

“So.” Dick starts.

Prison School let out about two hours ago, you and your best friend ended up in his bedroom in Wayne Manor as you do on most days before he’s whisked away by his adoptive father for Robin training, his night-life something you’ve known about almost since the start.

“So?” You ask, the back of your pen hitting your notebook repeatedly as you rephrase the answer in your head. Dick’s bed would rival one in a palace, probably enough for four people, just the two of you sitting opposite but close on it for now.

“Smash or pass.” He reminds you, earlier from class, nodding slowly, almost like he was moving his head to unheard music. You glance up at him from your homework through your eyelashes. “Hm? Wanted me to pass you over?”

“I’d be wounded.” Dick replies dramatically, his hand landing on his chest and his face bearing an almost comical expression.

“Exactly.” You sing-song before you start writing rigorously. Dick stares at you, his own homework abandoned as he studies your features instead. You’ve always been beautiful, even through puberty or the awkward phase with braces. He’s always thought so.

You’d complimented him loads before, when he got ready for galas, when he’d just finished playing sports and he was drenched in sweat but you called him alluring. He’s seen you stare whenever his shirt had ride up unintentionally, he’d seen you admire him too. So. why hasn’t anything happened yet?

Dick sighs before he reaches forward and pluck the pen from your fingers despite your protests, carefully piling all the books and putting them all away before scooting much closer to you. “Dude!” You exclaim, throwing your hands up in confusion.

“Still…You said smash.” Dick’s lips bare a small, pleased smile. His hand reaches for yours, lacing your fingers together like you do when your hand feels cold, his thumb drawing circles on the back.

“…And?” You whisper, registering his proximity. You subconsciously lean towards him too, close enough to feel his breath ghosting on your cheeks. His blue eyes bare into yours, somehow, the blue grows a tab bit darker.

Then they skip down to your lips.

A sharp inhale when you notice the movement, what he was silently asking you. You open your mouth to say something, but at loss for words as warms floods your cheeks and your eyes betray you by glancing down at his lips too. Dick moves another inch closer, till your noses bumped each others before whispering—

“A few kisses never ruined a friendship…”

ᯓ★'s P.S. idkidk about the endinggggg when am i everrrr sureeee about the ennnnnddddiiinnnngggssss

don't forget to comment and reblog if you enjoyed!

← ゛masterlist ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

taglist꩜ .ᐟ ALL WORKS @hepprine, @apollos-notes, @cenna-luna ALL DC WORKS @indigoscribe, @t1mbits, @coastalcowgirlie, @uxavity, @jaydennicole, @shadowviolets, @athenxt, @soggywhore, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @rayaofstarlight, @madi-iii

[starr-jazz]

🍷 make-out sessions  ✰ robin!dick grayson x reader drabble

<- i wanna ruin our friendship!

hmm thinking more thoughts about bsf w benefits (sfw benefits cleanse thy minds again) world’s finest robin dick grayson. soo let’s make out in the janitors closet!! he was 18 canonically in this comic btw.

“Dick.” You hiss lowly, “We’re going to get caught.” You whisper.

“That’s the fun, hm?” He whispers back as he closes the door of the janitor’s closet behind him and turning to crowd you into the wall. His hands lands on waist, lips on yours immediately, smiling into the kiss.

All your protests melt away will the moulding of your lips into his, grabbing his Gotham High tie to tug him closer. His hands slip onto your hips, chest pressing against yours as he slips his tongue into your mouth.

You’d been doing this for a few weeks now, it started with ‘a few kisses never ruined a friendship’ to ‘practice sessions’—an excuse you made to justify it to yourself. Dick pulled you into a kiss at every given opportunity, he had a specific smirk you’d memorised, one his lips pulled into just before eating your face off.

Dick draws circles with his thumb over your now-crumpled skirt. You gasp his name as he moves you pepper kisses across your cheek then down the column of your throat with more rigour and enthusiasm.

“You’ll leave marks!” You hiss again, wacking his shoulder as he sucks on the point where your neck meets your shoulder. You sigh as he continues his ministrations. Your amazing best friend, stealing your breath in a janitor’s closet. Sounds like a scene from a cheap coming of age film.

“And?” Dick whispers against your skin, his nose brushing up against your skin as he pulls back just a moment, just to look at you and smirks, something you wanted to kiss off immediately.

“We’re never beating the dating allegations.” You roll your eyes before his lips are back on yours and his hands slips down to the back of your thigh to lift you to warp your legs around his mid-section. In the distance, you can hear the school bell ring.

ᯓ★'s P.S. been thinking about this trope since i read a dean win. fic a long time ago. take this as compensation while i finish all series’s i’ve promised.

don't forget to comment to reblog if you enjoyed!

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taglist꩜ .ᐟ ALL WORKS @hepprine, @apollos-notes, @cenna-luna, @makreadsalot, @solasyra, @vanillakirstein, @arabellas-barbarella-swimsuit12, @lovehadlovelost, @buckybarnesismyhusband, @kekeanna266 ALL DC WORKS @indigoscribe, @t1mbits, @coastalcowgirlie, @uxavity, @jaydennicole, @shadowviolets, @athenxt, @soggywhore, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @rayaofstarlight, @madi-iii DICK GRAYSON WORKS @heartfully10

[sacredsorceress]

DICK GRAYSON ˖ ࣪⊹ recommended reading

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ fic recs for our beloved nightwing

𖥻 ONESHOTS

practiced words ⋮ @neeeed-y

╰›"i'm not in love," were the words both of you whisper to yourselves at night, pushing down the deep, deep feelings because you're afraid of the things that might happen if it actually came true.

sunset anew ⋮ @sanguineterrain

╰› You're a little nervous to become the Mrs. Grayson. Luckily, your husband-to-be knows just what to say to soothe your worries.

do you get deja vu? ⋮ @softhandz

╰› you knew that moving on from a breakup would hurt, you just didn't expect your ex, dick grayson, to move on so soon and publicly to boot. little did you know that someone was watching out for you and is willing to do anything to make you smile.

𖥻 DRABBLES/HCs

dick grayson is not letting you help ⋮ @blushstories

take him back- please! ⋮ @kitkatscabinet

dick grayson who… ⋮ @daysiesz

if only he knew ⋮ @arfemiz

dick grayson loves missionary ⋮ @deersink

boyfriend headcanons ⋮ @batshadows

childhood bff!dick grayson ⋮ @moviecritc

get out wally! ⋮ @quackywrites

dick just rescued you from the joker ⋮ @blushstories

morning finds him first ⋮ @jasontoddkissr

this entire masterlist ⋮ @athenalvss

clumsy!yapper!reader ⋮ @sanguineterrain

in your loving arms ⋮ @/kitkatscabinet

ex!dick ⋮ @trflgar

pining bff!dick ⋮ @fauxrill

[jellyfishsthings]

The Vigilante Next Door

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Summary: Reader is Dick's new neighbor who keeps accidentally almost discovering he's Nightwing. He's climbing in through windows, she brings over cookies at the worst times, she hears weird noises, at night while she hacks away (FBI or Interpol). Dick is losing his mind trying to keep his secret while also being very attracted to her. BUT what he doesn't know is that both of them are vigilantes, and she falls in love with Nightwing while patrolling, and he is falling in love with the real her.

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

Dick Grayson was having a very bad night.

The drug bust had gone sideways, he'd taken a knife to the ribs (shallow, but painful), and now he was bleeding on his fire escape at 3 AM, trying to remember if he'd locked his window or if he'd have to break into his own apartment.

That's when he heard it.

Humming.

Someone was humming on the fire escape next door, the apartment that had been empty for months but apparently now had a tenant.

Dick froze, pressing himself against the wall, trying to become one with the shadows. Through the window of the neighboring apartment, he could see her.

You were sitting at a desk, multiple monitors glowing, typing away with the kind of focused intensity he recognized. Your hair was pulled back, you were wearing an oversized hoodie and glasses, and you were... beautiful. Distractingly beautiful.

Also, those looked like law enforcement databases on your screens.

Before Dick could process this information, you stood up, stretched, and walked directly toward your window.

Dick did the only thing he could think of: he dropped off the fire escape entirely, catching himself on the level below and swinging into his own window with perhaps less grace than usual due to the whole "bleeding from the ribs" situation.

He landed in a heap on his living room floor.

"Smooth, Grayson," he muttered to himself. "Very smooth."

The next morning, Dick ran into you in the hallway.

Literally ran into you. You were carrying a box of what smelled like fresh cookies, he was running late for work, and the collision resulted in cookies everywhere.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" You immediately crouched down to help pick up the scattered cookies.

"No, no, that was totally my fault. I wasn't watching where I was going." Dick knelt down too, and that's when he got a good look at you.

It was definitely the girl from last night. Same face, same hair, but without the glasses and somehow even prettier in natural light.

"I'm your new neighbor," you said with a warm smile, extending your hand. "Apartment 4B. I was actually bringing these over to introduce myself. Guess that plan is literally crumbling."

Dick laughed and shook your hand. "Dick Grayson, 4A. And these cookies look salvageable. Five-second rule?"

"I like your optimism." You grinned. "What do you do, Dick Grayson from 4A?"

"I'm a cop. Blüdhaven PD." The cover story rolled easily off his tongue. "You?"

"Data analyst for a consulting firm. Lots of late nights staring at computer screens. Very boring."

Dick thought about the law enforcement databases he'd seen. "I'm sure it's more interesting than you're making it sound."

Something flickered in your eyes, amusement? Recognition? "Maybe. What about you? Do you like being a cop?"

"It has its moments. Lots of night shifts, though. If you ever hear weird noises coming from my apartment at odd hours, I'm probably just getting home from work."

"Good to know. Same here, I keep weird hours. We'll be the problem neighbors who make noise at 3 AM."

"As long as we're only bothering each other, I think we'll be fine."

You smiled, and Dick felt something warm in his chest that had nothing to do with his still-healing stab wound.

"Well, Dick Grayson, since the cookies are ruined, can I buy you coffee sometime? As an apology for the collision I'm definitely going to claim was your fault?"

"I'd like that," Dick said, probably smiling too much. "How about tomorrow morning?"

"It's a date. Well, not a date-date. A neighbor-coffee-thing."

"A neighbor-coffee-thing. Got it."

You headed back to your apartment, and Dick watched you go, wondering why his new neighbor had law enforcement databases on her screens at 3 AM and why the universe had decided to give him a crush on someone who lived directly next to his secret identity.

This was going to be complicated.

Nightwing was tracking a human trafficking ring when he literally crashed into her.

Well, she crashed into him, technically. He was about to drop down on the warehouse when a figure in purple and black swung past him, planted both boots in his chest, and sent him sprawling across the rooftop.

"What the—" He rolled to his feet, escrima sticks already in hand.

Huntress stood across from him, crossbow trained on his chest. "Nightwing. Didn't expect to see you here."

"Clearly, since you just kicked me in the chest." Dick took in her appearance... the costume, the weapon, the confident stance. Huntress. He'd heard of her, but they'd never worked together. "I'm guessing we're after the same shipment?"

"If by shipment you mean the fifteen girls being held in that warehouse, then yes." She lowered her crossbow slightly. "I've been tracking this ring for three weeks. This is the hub."

"I know. I've been tracking them for two months." Dick moved to stand beside her, looking down at the warehouse. "Want to work together? Or are you going to kick me again?"

He could hear the smile in her voice. "Depends. Can you keep up?"

"I think I can manage."

Working with Huntress was... intense.

She was skilled, efficient, and absolutely ruthless with the traffickers in a way that made Dick a little nervous. Not killing them, but definitely not holding back either.

"You're pretty good," Dick said as they zip-tied the last trafficker for the police.

"Pretty good?" Huntress turned to him, and even through the mask he could tell she was raising an eyebrow. "I just took down six guys while you were handling four."

"I was being gentle with them."

"Gentle. Right." She holstered her crossbow. "You're not bad yourself, Nightwing. For someone who plays by the rules."

"I don't always play by the rules."

"Could've fooled me." She moved closer, and Dick was suddenly very aware of how tall she was, how her costume fit, how her voice had a teasing quality that made his pulse quicken. "Maybe I'll have to teach you how to loosen up sometime."

"I can be loose. I'm very loose."

"That sounded better in your head, didn't it?"

"So much better."

Huntress laughed, a real laugh, warm and genuine, and Dick felt that same flutter he'd felt with his neighbor. Which was ridiculous. They were completely different people in completely different contexts.

"Same time next week?" Huntress asked. "I've got intel on a weapons shipment."

"It's a date," Dick said, then quickly added, "A vigilante team-up date. Not a date-date."

"Smooth, Nightwing. Very smooth." But she was smiling as she grappled away into the night.

Dick watched her go and wondered why he was suddenly attracted to two women who were both completely unavailable for entirely different reasons.

Dick was beginning to think the universe hated him.

In the past week alone:

Incident 1: You'd knocked on his door at 2 AM because you'd heard "concerning noises" (him limping home from patrol with bruised ribs). He'd answered shirtless, still sweaty, and had to convince you he'd just been doing a really intense home workout. "At 2 AM?" you'd asked skeptically. "I keep weird hours. Cop schedule, remember?" You'd looked at him, really looked at him, your eyes tracking over his chest and the bruises he couldn't hide, and something had shifted in your expression. "Right. Of course. Just... try to keep it down? I'm working on a big case."

Incident 2: He'd been climbing back into his window after patrol, and you'd been on your fire escape with a cup of tea, laptop open, working on something that looked suspiciously like surveillance footage. You'd looked up just as he was halfway through his window. "Late night at work?" you'd called over. Dick had frozen, halfway through the window in his Nightwing suit, and thank god it was dark and you couldn't see details. "Yeah! Just getting home. You?" "Can't sleep. Thought I'd get some work done." You'd squinted at him through the darkness. "Are you okay? You're moving kind of stiff." "Just sore from the gym!" "You go to the gym a lot." "I'm very dedicated to fitness!" "Clearly!"

Incident 3: You'd brought over cookies again (you were always bringing over cookies, and Dick was starting to associate the smell of chocolate chip with minor panic attacks about his secret identity). He'd answered the door with a black eye he'd forgotten to cover up. "Dick! What happened to your face?" "Uh... walked into a door?" "A door." "A very aggressive door. In a doorway. That I didn't see." You'd reached up and gently touched his cheek, and Dick had nearly forgotten his own name. "You should be more careful. For a cop, you're surprisingly accident-prone." "I'm working on it."

Now, Dick was trying to get into his apartment quietly at 4 AM when he heard your door open.

You stepped out in pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt, garbage bag in hand, and stopped when you saw him.

"Oh! Dick. Hi. Late shift?"

Dick looked down at himself, civilian clothes, thank god, but definitely disheveled and possibly bleeding through his jacket from the cut on his arm. "Yeah. Really late shift. Lots of paperwork."

"Paperwork that fights back?" You nodded at his jacket where blood was definitely starting to show.

"I... cut myself on a filing cabinet?"

"A filing cabinet."

"They're very dangerous. OSHA nightmare, really."

You set down your garbage bag and walked over to him, all pretense of buying his story gone. "Dick. I'm not an idiot."

His heart stopped. "I don't—"

"You're either the clumsiest cop in Blüdhaven, or you're into some kind of underground fight club, or..." You paused, studying him. "Or you're going to keep lying to me, and we're going to keep doing this awkward dance where we both pretend I believe you."

Dick didn't know what to say. You were looking at him with those sharp, intelligent eyes, and he realized you'd probably never believed his excuses. Not even once.

"I can't tell you," he said finally, honestly. "I want to. But I can't."

You nodded slowly. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay. Everyone has secrets, Dick. I'm not going to push." You picked up your garbage bag again. "But maybe let me at least look at that arm? I've got a pretty well-stocked first aid kit. Data analysis can be surprisingly hazardous."

It was a terrible idea. He should say no. Should keep the distance between Dick Grayson and his nighttime activities.

"I'd like that," he heard himself say instead.

Your apartment was exactly what he'd expected: organized chaos, multiple monitors on a custom desk setup, books everywhere, and yes, a suspiciously well-stocked first aid kit that looked more suited to field trauma than paper cuts.

"Sit," you ordered, pointing at your couch.

Dick sat.

You cleaned and bandaged his arm with the efficiency of someone who'd done this before. Many times before.

"You're good at this," Dick observed.

"I told you. Data analysis is dangerous work." You met his eyes, and there was something there, a shared understanding, maybe. A mutual recognition of secrets kept. "There. Try not to fight any more filing cabinets."

"I'll do my best."

You walked him to your door, and Dick paused in the doorway. "Thank you. For not... asking questions."

"Thank you for not asking why a data analyst has medical supplies and works at weird hours staring at what definitely looks like surveillance footage."

Dick's eyes widened slightly. So you knew he'd noticed. Of course you had.

"We're both terrible liars," he said.

"The worst," you agreed. "Coffee tomorrow? Our actual neighbor-coffee-thing that we keep rescheduling?"

"I'd really like that."

"Good. It's a date. Not a date-date—"

"A neighbor-coffee-thing. I remember." Dick smiled. "See you tomorrow."

As he walked back to his apartment, Dick realized he was in so much trouble. Because he was falling for his neighbor who was clearly hiding something, while also developing feelings for his vigilante partner who he only knew through masks and banter.

The universe definitely hated him.

"You're distracted," Huntress observed as they staked out a drug shipment from a rooftop.

"I'm not distracted."

"You've been staring at that same window for five minutes. The bad guys are in the other building."

Dick snapped his attention back to the correct warehouse. "Sorry. Just thinking."

"About?"

"Complicated stuff."

Huntress laughed. "Let me guess. Girl trouble?"

"How did you—"

"You have that look. Kind of mopey. It's cute." She nudged him with her shoulder. "Want to talk about it?"

This was surreal. Getting relationship advice from Huntress while on a stakeout.

"There's this woman," Dick started. "She's smart, funny, beautiful. We have coffee sometimes. She lives next door to me."

"Sounds perfect. What's the problem?"

"I can't tell her about... this." He gestured at his costume. "And I don't know if I can have a relationship built on lies."

Huntress was quiet for a moment. "You know, I have the same problem."

"Yeah?"

"There's this guy. He's... he makes me laugh. Makes me feel normal, like I'm not just the vigilante, you know? Like I could actually have a life outside of all this." She sighed. "But he doesn't know the real me. And I don't know how to tell him without ruining everything."

"Maybe he'd understand."

"Maybe. Or maybe he'd run screaming." She turned to look at him. "What about your neighbor? You think she'd accept the vigilante thing?"

Dick thought about your well-stocked first aid kit, your late nights, your databases, the way you'd never once actually believed his excuses.

"I think she might have secrets of her own," he said slowly.

"Then maybe you both need to take a leap of faith."

Before Dick could respond, the warehouse doors opened, and the shipment arrived. They sprang into action, moving in synchronized harmony that came from weeks of working together.

Huntress was incredible in action, graceful, lethal, and efficient. And the way she moved, the way she fought, there was something familiar about it that Dick couldn't quite place.

After they'd wrapped up the bust and were sitting on the rooftop again, Huntress pulled off her glove and held out her hand.

"Friends?" she asked. "Real friends, not just work partners?"

Dick took her hand, and even through his glove he could feel...

Wait.

There was a small scar on her thumb. A distinctive scar in the shape of a crescent moon.

Dick's brain stuttered to a halt because he'd seen that scar before. This morning. When you'd handed him his coffee and he'd noticed the unusual mark and you'd told him you'd cut yourself on a broken mug in college.

Huntress had the same scar.

Huntress, who talked about having a normal life with a guy who didn't know about her vigilante activities.

Huntress, who lived in Blüdhaven and worked weird hours.

Huntress, whose voice, now that he was paying attention, sounded remarkably similar to...

"Oh my god," Dick said.

Huntress, you tilted your head. "What?"

Dick started laughing. He couldn't help it. The universe wasn't cruel. The universe was hilarious.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Everything. I just..." He pulled off his own mask and watched your eyes go wide. "Hi, neighbor."

Your jaw dropped. "Dick?"

"Surprise?"

"You're Nightwing. You're... all those injuries, the weird hours, the 'filing cabinets'..." You smacked his arm. "You let me feel bad about not believing your excuses!"

"You're Huntress! You've been kicking my ass in the field and bringing me cookies in real life!"

"I have not been kicking your ass—"

"You literally kicked me in the chest the first time we met!"

"That was tactical!"

You were both laughing now, the absurdity of it all hitting you simultaneously.

"So," Dick said, catching his breath. "When you said you had a guy you couldn't tell about the vigilante thing..."

"I was talking about you, you idiot."

"And when I said I had a neighbor I was falling for..."

"Also me." You shook your head. "We're both terrible at this."

"The worst." Dick reached out and took your hand, the one with the scar that had given you away. "But I think we can figure it out now. No more secrets?"

"No more secrets," you agreed. "Although I have to say, this explains so much. I thought I was going crazy with the noises from your apartment."

"I thought you were going to figure me out when I came home bleeding that one time."

"Dick, I figured you out the second week. You're not as sneaky as you think."

"What! When did you—"

"You left your escrima stick on the fire escape. I saw it when I was having tea."

Dick groaned. "And you didn't say anything?"

"I have secrets too! Speaking of which..." You pulled out your phone and showed him your screen; it was full of files on the trafficking ring you'd both been investigating. "I'm not actually a data analyst."

"Shocking revelation."

"I work for Interpol. Undercover. I've been tracking these rings internationally."

"That's actually really impressive."

"I know." You smiled at him. "So. Now that we both know everything... want to get coffee tomorrow? As a real date this time?"

"Not a neighbor-coffee-thing?"

"Definitely a date-date."

Dick pulled you closer, and kissed you right there on the rooftop overlooking Blüdhaven, and it was perfect. No masks, no lies, just him and you and the truth finally out in the open.

"I've wanted to do that for weeks," he admitted when you broke apart.

"Which version of me? The neighbor or the vigilante?"

"Both. All of you. Every version." He kissed you again. "Though I have to say, the cookies really sealed the deal."

You laughed against his lips. "Good to know the way to Nightwing's heart is through baked goods."

"Among other things."

Six Months Later

Dick woke up to the smell of coffee and the sound of you talking to someone in the living room.

"—so then he tried to tell me he got the black eye from walking into a door," you were saying, clearly on the phone. "A door! And I'm supposed to just accept that?"

Dick smiled and got out of bed, padding into the living room where you were sitting on the couch, his couch, in his apartment that you'd basically moved into three months ago.

"Who are you talking to?" he asked, dropping a kiss on your head.

"Oracle. We're comparing notes on how oblivious our respective Batboys are."

"I resent that. I figured you out eventually."

"You figured me out because of a scar, not through actual detective work."

"Detective work is noticing details. The scar was a detail!"

You pulled him down for a proper kiss. "Good morning to you too."

"Morning." He grabbed his coffee cup. "What's on the agenda today?"

"Well, I have a meeting with Interpol at ten, we have that team-up with Batman and Oracle tonight to take down that arms dealer, and I promised I'd bring cookies to the Titans tomorrow for their meeting."

"You're going to spoil them."

"They love my cookies. Especially Gar."

"Everyone loves your cookies." Dick settled onto the couch next to you. "I still can't believe we're actually doing this. Living together, working together, fighting crime together."

"Having a completely normal, healthy relationship?"

"I was going to say 'tempting fate' but your version is better."

You laughed and curled into his side. "You know what the best part is?"

"What?"

"No more sneaking around. No more lies. No more pretending the weird noises at 3 AM are from a filing cabinet."

"I maintain that filing cabinets can be very dangerous."

"Dick."

"Fine. Yes. This is much better." He kissed the top of your head. "I love you. Both versions of you. The Interpol agent and the vigilante and the neighbor who brings me cookies."

"I love you too. The cop and the vigilante and the guy who is genuinely terrible at lying about his injuries."

"I'm working on it."

"Please don't. It's endearing."

Dick's phone buzzed with a message from the Titans group chat. Gar was asking if you were really bringing cookies tomorrow, and could you make the chocolate chip ones again?

"See?" Dick showed you the message. "Spoiled."

"They're heroes. They deserve cookies." You grabbed his phone and typed back a response. "Besides, someone has to balance out all your protein shakes and kale smoothies."

"Those are healthy!"

"Those are crimes against taste buds."

"You're terrible."

"You love me."

"I really do," Dick agreed, pulling you closer. "Even if you did kick me in the chest the first time we met."

"That was tactical!"

"Sure it was, neighbor."

You kissed him to shut him up, and Dick decided that having a vigilante girlfriend who lived next door and brought him cookies was actually the perfect ending to the weird, complicated, wonderful story of how you'd found each other.

No more secrets. No more close calls.

Just the two of you, fighting crime and falling in love, exactly as it should be.

Bonus Scene - The Group Chat:

Nightwing: So funny story about my new neighbor Oracle: This is going to be good Red Hood: Is this the one you wouldn't shut up about? Red Robin: The one who brings cookies? Robin: I fail to see what is amusing about baked goods Nightwing: She's Huntress Oracle: WHAT Red Hood: YOU'RE KIDDING Red Robin: That's actually hilarious Robin: I do not understand the humor Nightwing: I've been patrolling with her for weeks, and she's ALSO the neighbor I've been falling for Oracle: Dick. Only you. Red Hood: Did you literally fall for the same person twice? Nightwing: ...yes Red Robin: That's the most Dick Grayson thing I've ever heard Nightwing: I hate all of you Oracle: No, you don't Nightwing: No, I don't Red Hood: So did you tell her? Nightwing: I figured it out from a scar on her hand Oracle: A SCAR Red Robin: Not even through detective work Nightwing: DETECTIVE WORK IS NOTICING DETAILS Robin: This is pathetic Nightwing: You know what? I'm leaving this chat Oracle: No, you're not Nightwing: No, I'm not Red Hood: Bring her to the next family dinner. I want to meet the woman who kicked you in the chest Nightwing: How do you know about that??? Red Hood: She told me. We're friends now. Nightwing: WHEN DID YOU TALK TO HER Red Hood: She has a sense of humor unlike SOME people Nightwing: I'm blocking all of you Oracle: You've said that before Nightwing: THIS TIME I MEAN IT Nightwing has left the chat Oracle has added Nightwing to the chat Oracle: Nice try Huntress has been added to the chat Huntress: Hi, everyone! Dick's told me so much about you! Red Hood: OH THIS IS GONNA BE GOOD Oracle: Welcome to the family! Huntress: Thanks! I brought cookies Robin: ...acceptable Red Hood: I like her already

[perleaore]

ᡣ𐭩 the batboys in bed: an armchair psych analysis (18+) ⸝⸝ .ᐟ

𝓘rene’s notes . . . this is very much for fun I am not a professional I’m just a student who also works in the field part time and I wanted to apply my studies here<3 if anyone wants my sources/more explanations lmk!

Bruce Wayne “Quietly rigid, devastatingly responsive”:

Bruce’s relationship to intimacy is built on two core things that formed him at the same time: the murder of his parents, and a brain that processes the world differently from most people’s.

His (implied) autism means he experiences reality through heightened sensory awareness and delayed emotional labeling. He feels first, understands later. His body reacts long before his mind catches up. So attraction doesn’t arrive as a thought. It arrives as physiological disturbance. Changes in breathing. Muscle tension. Fixation on small sensory details like the warmth of your skin or the sound of your voice.

Then trauma steps in.

His parents died because they were close. Because they were relaxed. Because they let the world touch them. So Bruce’s nervous system learned that intimacy precedes annihilation. That safety is temporary. That attachment is a liability.

Clinically, he lives in chronic hyperarousal. His baseline state is control. Monitoring. Containment. His moral code is part of this too. Not just ethically, but in a structure way too. A way to impose order on a world that once collapsed without warning.

So when he desires someone, it feels wrong in a very literal, bodily way. His system interprets it as risk.

He notices himself becoming distracted by you. His attention pulled off task. His body reacting when you are near. He does not think I want you. He thinks my focus is compromised.

When you touch him, even gently, it overloads him. His body wants it. His mind stalls. He goes very still, eyes dark, breath shallow.

“Slow,” he murmurs, voice low and tight.

You answer softly, “Okay, I’ve got you.”

That’s what breaks him open.

Because Bruce is aroused by co-regulation. By someone else holding the emotional container. By being guided through sensation instead of managing it himself. By permission.

He needs explicit reassurance, not because he lacks desire, but because his brain cannot distinguish pleasure from danger without verbal grounding.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel,” he admits, barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to know.”

And something in him finally gives. Because control is how he survived his parents’ deaths. Control is how he prevented himself from falling apart. So letting go, even slightly, feels intimately dangerous. Like allowing himself to exist in a body instead of a system.

Dick Grayson “Attachment-seeking exhibitionist”:

Dick’s erotic psychology is shaped by being raised in performance.

His parents died in front of an audience, mid-performance, in the same space where love, joy, and attention had always existed. His earliest experiences of love were public, theatrical, something to be watched and consumed. And then that love was stolen in a way the world could see. His grief was spectacle.

That reality didn’t just teach him that grief and love can coexist, it imprinted on him the idea that he himself, too, could be something consumable, that his body, his charm, even his emotions could be for someone else’s gaze or satisfaction.

Clinically, he fits anxious attachment almost perfectly. He regulates through connection. He feels safest when emotional states are mirrored and validated. He needs feedback to know where he stands.

That is why his desire is so interactive.

He wants your reactions. Your voice. Your breath. Your responses to him. He’s aroused by evidence that what he is doing is landing.

He talks during sex. A lot. Checks in. Adjusts himself to your energy. Not really out of insecurity, relational feedback is just how his nervous system stabilizes.

“This okay?” He asks softly.

You answer, “Fuck, yes. Keep going.”

He exhales. “Okay. Yeah. I can do that.”

What disarms him the most is when you stop reacting and start holding.

When you’r steady instead of responsive. When you touch him without needing him to entertain you.

Because Dick’s deepest fear isn’t abandonment. It is being loved only for what he provides. Being charming, being bright, being the emotional center of the room.

So when he is wanted without performing, something in him goes quiet.

He stays closer. His voice drops. His touch becomes slower, more sincere.

With Dick, intimacy feels like being chosen for who he is when he is not trying to be anything.

Jason Todd “Trauma-wrapped touch-starved body”:

Jason’s relationship to sex is the most tangled, the most bodily, and the most haunted.

He grew up in neglect. Chronic instability. Emotional abandonment. A childhood where affection was inconsistent and safety wasn’t guaranteed. His attachment system formed around scarcity. Love was something you had to chase, steal, or survive.

Then he finds his mother again.

And she betrays him.

And he dies.

And comes back.

Psychologically, Jason’s body becomes a trauma object. Like a lot of victims of trauma, it holds memory. Pain, violence, suffocation, resurrection. His physical self is inseparable from death. He experiences his body as something that has failed to stay dead.

There’s a core belief living in him that shapes all intimacy: No one is supposed to want a body that’s been a corpse.

He’s hyper-aware of scars, stiffness, the sense that his body is wrong. Altered. He often feels like his body is borrowed, or counterfeit, or something that doesn’t really belong in the category of living people. It’s like he’s occupying something that should not exist.

So he leads with roughness. Sexual confidence, reckless flirting, touching first, making everything loud and fast enough that no one can look too closely.

But when you touch him gently, something breaks through.

Not rushed. Not joking. Just slow, deliberate contact. Like you’re not afraid of what you will find.

“Don’t rush me,” he mutters, voice low and strained. “Please.”

You answer, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

And that’s when he unravels.

Jason uses sex as a way to access parts of himself that never got to grow up properly. The boy who wanted to be held. The boy who wanted someone to stay. The boy who wanted to be loved without having to fight for it.

In intimacy, he softens in a way that feels almost regressive. His voice drops. His movements slow. He becomes sweeter, quieter, more emotionally exposed than he ever allows himself to be.

Because that boy is still there. He just never had a safe place to exist.

His mommy issues aren’t about attraction to older women (though I dont think he’d rule out someone older). They’re more about wanting unconditional bodily acceptance. Someone nurturing, emotionally steady, who can desire him and care for him at the same time.

Because that tells his nervous system something radical.

That his body’s something that can be wanted instead of just being a corpse or a weapon.

And when the moment feels real, when he knows you’re not leaving, something slips out of him without permission.

“I love you,” he says quietly, like he’s surprised he is still capable of it.

After, he clings in small ways. Arm around you. Forehead pressed to yours. Staying physically close like if he holds on long enough, his body might finally believe it belongs in the world of the living.

Tim Drake “Overthinking sweetheart who just wants permission to exist”:

Tim’s desire is built around usefulness.

He grew up emotionally neglected in a quieter way. Parents who were there physically but distant, distracted, unavailable. He learned early that being competent is how you stay connected. That being needed is how you justify your presence.

Clinically, Tim is hyperfunctional. High cognitive control. Emotional restraint. Identity built around productivity and problem-solving.

So intimacy is the only space where his nervous system wants to stop being useful.

He starts careful. Attentive. Trying to read you, trying to do everything right. Checking in constantly.

“Just… tell me what you want,” he says softly.

You smile. “You. Right now. That’s enough.”

That’s what disarms him.

Because Tim’s aroused by being wanted without being evaluated. By being touched without being useful. By being desired without having to provide something in return.

When you take the lead calmly, confidently, without force, his body visibly relaxes. His shoulders drop. His breathing slows. His mind finally stops running scenarios.

He gets quiet, a little flushed, completely focused on you instead of his own thoughts. He melts into closeness. Becomes softer, more present.

After, he’s affectionate in that gentle, slightly clingy kinda way. Stays close. Talks more than usual. Lets himself linger in the space where he doesn’t have to be a tool.

© 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐍𝐌𝐔𝐍 ﹒ est 2026

[bluebirdofbludhaven]

i love them all <3 (amazing writing btw i was hooked!!)

[vianawaits]

Whatever you say Teach

Summary: Damien gets in a fight at school, and his favorite teacher has to set up a meeting with a parent or guardian. Bruce Wayne is away on a mission and Alfred isn’t picking up the phone, so Damien’s eldest brother has to attend a parent teacher conference. Only to find out that he has history with his little brother’s English Lit teacher.

Pairing: Dick Grayson/Teacher Fem!Reader & (PLATONIC) Damien Wayne/Fem!Reader

Content Warning: No use of Y/N, Second Person, cursing, second chance romance, yearner dick, angst, fluff, mentions of bullying and boys saying inappropriate things, Dick’s day job is being a P.E. teacher (I don’t believe in cop!dick propaganda, no matter how fine he looked)

Word Count: 11k

A/N: DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME!!! Please never get back with an ex, I have been there, done that, and got the t-shirt. Let me tell you it was NOT worth it. This is only acceptable because it is Dick Grayson. I usually hate second-chance romance, but it came to me while I was writing this and felt like it fit. Anyway, enjoy my lovelies <3

“Can anyone tell me the significance of the crew changing how they refer to Charlotte from her name to Ms. Doy-”

Some chalk had dusted over your hand where you had been writing the question on the board when you hear someone landing a punch behind you. Whipping your head around you see quite the scene laid out in your classroom.

Damien Wayne is standing over Jordan Hawthorne.

The classroom had gone silent collectively holding their breath at the sight. Jordan Hawthorne was, from your understanding, the grade bully. You had called home weekly, practically being on a first name basis with his mother. The school never did anything about him, frustrating you to your wits end. His parents were huge donors for the school, essentially allowing him to do whatever he pleased. He was bigger than most of his classmates along with an insufferably large attitude, and Damien was… small. He was probably the smallest boy in your class and Jordan loved that. He had a knack of picking on the kids who wouldn’t stand up for themselves, the quiet ones. You watched him like a hawk in your classroom when you noticed how he chose his prey. You didn’t want anyone to feel uncomfortable in your classroom, this was school not a war zone. No one should feel unsafe here.

While Damien didn’t get along with most of the kids in his grade he had never outright acted on that dislike. He would sit quietly in his chair, raising his hand when he knew the answer or had a question. On all of his assignments there were impressive sketches of different animals in the margins, you would always write an “amazing” or “beautiful” next to the drawings while grading. Despite his eloquent perspective of life, he was still a little boy who wanted some praise for his skill. It was your job as his teacher to harbor and stimulate creativity. A quick glance at him after handing back assignments confirmed your suspicion, there was a rare genuine smile at the fact that someone had noticed him. While being relatively quiet and unassuming, everything he said and did was done with purpose. Which meant something had happened here. Damien never acted without a cause.

You still had the chalk in hand when you recovered from the shock, and Jordan Hawthorne was glaring at Damien from where he had landed on the floor.

“You’re dead meat kid.” He growled and Damien only put his fists up.

When he props himself up with his hand, you finally snap back into reality and rush to where they are in the center of the classroom. The class has circled around them, and some pulled out their phones to record as though this is primetime TV.  

You push past the congregation of children and unfortunately, neither of the boys saw you coming. They were in their own little world of battle and just as you stepped in between them, Jordan had swung as hard as he could. Punching you right in the stomach.

You were not getting paid enough for this.

It hurt more than you let on. All the wind had been knocked out of you, but you were able to disguise the impact from pain to exasperation. You took a deep breath and see the wide eyes of all your students and order the boys,

“Hallway, both of you. Now.” You lift your gaze around the classroom at the stunned expressions of your remaining students, “The rest of you, sit down and start on the homework.”

And for the first time in your three years of teaching, there was no pushback. No complaints or groaning from students. There was just the quick shuffle of footsteps and chairs squeaking from being dragged across the floor then, silence. Peace and Quiet.

The boys follow out of the classroom, flanking you from each side. You walk to the social studies classroom across the hallway, where there’s a teacher’s aid. She’s an undergrad student trying to get some teaching hours with Mr. Horn, but she helps out around the school too. You open the door and pop your head in with a cautious smile.

Mr. Horn wasn’t particularly kind when his lessons were interrupted. He was super old and believed you should only speak when spoken to, so you wait until he finishes his question to the class and turns to look at you. He has an eyebrow raised prompting you to talk.

“Hi, sorry to interrupt.” The apology was useless, but he still appreciates the sentiment. “Could I borrow Sophie for a moment? I have to walk two students down to the office and need someone to watch my class while I step away.”

“Ah yes, of course.” He doesn’t seem too upset about the interruption, realizing that it was something that couldn’t wait. He looks at Sophie from her spot at the back of the classroom and cocks his head in your direction. She nods with a gentle smile on her face and makes her way out the door.

A bashful smile is on your face while thanking her for the help. She laughs it off with an “Of course!” then walks into your classroom. Sighing you look back at the perpetrators of your quickly bruising stomach.

“Come on you two.” Is all you offer them before you turn around and start the trek to the front office. There’s an echo of two sets of steps following your path and you finally drop the mask. Noticing that there are no eyes that can see your face, it contorts in pain. And as tempted as you are, you don’t bring your hand to your stomach, not wanting to give away how much it actually hurt. The bruise is already forming under the white button down you wore today. You just continue taking deep breaths until you make it to the office.

It takes about five minutes to make it all the way across the Academy. Within the first couple of days here, you learned that it’s not difficult to get lost here. It’s all the same gothic architecture that they refuse to put signs on. The only exceptions to that were the classroom numbers on the doors, which makes it too easy to miss the office in your opinion. It took you about three weeks of working here to finally learn your way around.

You pull open the door of the office, and the boys walk in single file. The secretary greets you with a smile, about to ask why you’re in the office and then sees the boys in front of you. Jordan was a regular here, so she picked up on the unsaid by his presence alone.

“Dawn’s not in a meeting right now so you can walk ‘em right in.” She informs you.

“Thank you, Nancy.” You say with a smile.

On your first day, Horn told you to make sure to get on Nancy’s good side. She knew everything about everyone at this school. Having her on your good side meant protection from the Dean, Dawn. Since everyone knew that Nancy knows everything, Dawn would trust her on her opinions on faculty. Which meant you always smiled a little wider and sometimes would get an extra pastry from your favorite cafe, when you knew you would run into Nancy that day.

You walk to the end of the skinny hallway to where the door to Dawn’s office is cracked open. You stand at the entrance and knock on the wooden door frame, and she looks up from her desktop with a calculated smile. She had long red hair and was in her mid-40s. She always wore pantsuits, she had the same one in four different colors and would rotate them. You avoided interacting with her as much as possible because she had a weird vibe to her, she always looks at you like you were a puzzle she hadn’t figured out yet.

“Good morning, Miss,” She addresses you. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this lovely visit!”

“Good morning, to you too! Unfortunately, I don’t come bearing the best news.” You tell her with an embarrassed half-smile. “I have a Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. Wayne out here with me, they um… got in a fight in my classroom.”

She closes her eyes and throws her head back in the same breath. This was the worst part of the job, and you don’t envy her for having to sit through it. “Yes, of course, send Mr. Hawthorne in first. Just make sure to pick up the witness report from Nancy on the way back.”

You nod and step out of the office. Hearing what the Dean said, Jordan walks into the classroom with a smug look on his face. The face of a kid who knows mommy and daddy will get him out of trouble. The door shuts behind him, and you look down at an anxious Damien Wayne sitting in the hallway. His feet don’t quite reach the floor from the chair, and his legs are swinging back and forth, betraying his carefully neutral exterior. You stand next to him in silence just looking at him while he has a staring contest with the patterned office carpet.

“It was unnecessary for you to take the punch for me. I could handle the brunt of it.” He says without looking at you.

“I know,” You try to think of how to word this to him, not wanting to damage the fragile ego he claims is indestructible. “But I don’t like fighting in my classroom.” You place a hand on his shoulder, and he finally tears his eyes from the floor and looks up at you.

“What happened?” You ask him with a gentleness you usually reserved for the children at the orphanage you volunteered at on Sundays.

“Hawthorne said some inappropriate words to Sarah, and you know how she is.” He gestures with his hands, motioning that her personality should be obvious. “She lacks the ability to stand up for herself. What he said was vile and she was uncomfortable. She asked him to stop and he continued. He kept taunting her and she looked on the verge of tears. So, I…”

“Hit him.” You finish the story for him.

“Yes.” He confirms unapologetically.

You exhale while processing the story. You’re trying to figure out your next words to him. In all honesty, you are secretly proud of him. You hated when boys get nasty in your class. It happened more often than you’d like and you tried your best to catch it and put a stop to it, but you couldn’t catch them every single time.

However, you can’t tell your student that you’re proud of him for laying out another one of your students without risking a write-up from your supervisor, despite how much he deserved it. Your only concern now was that you would have to drag poor Sarah into this. She was very shy and would rather swallow a knife than open up. You would have to approach her carefully.

“I’m not sorry.” He cuts into your thought process.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be.” You hold his gaze. He doesn’t look apologetic at the fact that he hit the Hawthorne boy, but there’s a glimpse of worry lingering in his eyes. You’re not entirely sure where it’s from and you don’t get the chance to find out when Dawn opens the door and motions for Damien to join them inside.

“Go on.” You tell him lifting your hand from his shoulder. He nods and gets up, walking around you to go inside. He sits down and right before Dawn closes the door, he looks at you once more with that same flicker of anxiety and then the door closes.

Walking back to Nancy’s desk to pick up the report and regret not calling out sick this morning. This was only the beginning to a very long day. 

° ❀ ⋆ .  ೃ࿔ * : ･ ° ❀ ⋆ . ೃ࿔ * : ･

Sighing to yourself during your free period you start to fill out the witness report. You’ll have to submit it to the headmaster and call a parent or guardian to set up some form of a parent-teacher conference. Along with your stomach, your head’s been aching all day. For some odd reason, the divorced couple that lived next to you seemed to think that a Sunday night was the perfect time to have reconciliation sex. Safe to say that the headboard slamming into your shared wall at three in the morning was not the alarm you were expecting to wake up to.

Your eyes keep coming in and out of focus and you decide after filling out the date and time of the report, to place the pen back in the cup at the top of your desk. There was no point in filling out the form if you could barely concentrate. Elbows propped on the desk you drop your head in your hands and feel your fingers drag along your face. Peeking through your hand to check the time on the desktop, you bite back a groan seeing that it’s not even noon. It’s been the longest day of the year so far and it’s only 11:52.

You move to pull open the bottom filling cabinet. You might as well try to get in contact with the parents to set up the conference. Looking through the letter dividers, you find Damien’s first and flip it open. You read through some pages before finding the contacts. Scanning through them you notice there’s a father, a legal guardian, some brothers, but no mother. Damien had told you some stories of his mom, and you assumed she was still present in his life, but that didn’t seem to be the case anymore. You had never read through the school ordered file before, you usually never did. There was more to a student than what Gotham Academy records had to say, but this did help piece a fraction of the Damien Wayne puzzle together. You start going down the line of contacts for Damien, to make the first call.

You pull the office phone that lies on your desk closer to you and dial nine to get an outside line. The first number you dial is the phone number that belongs to his father, Bruce Wayne. You’re hunched over your desk on the phone praying he doesn’t pick up. You’ve had the luxury of speaking to him once before when Damien won an award for his essay on animal rights and it was nothing short of awkward. Whether they realize it or not, Bruce and Damien are very similar. The press liked to paint Bruce Wayne as a reckless, playboy, billionaire, and maybe it was because you are his son’s teacher, but he was nothing like that.

Speaking to him felt like pulling teeth, it was so uncomfortable. He stood tall and remained quiet the whole night. Barely saying more than three-word sentences. You’re sure that once you can have a good conversation with him that he’s good company, but this wasn’t going to be the type of conversation you were hoping for.

By some miracle, it seems that someone was listening to your prayers today and Mr. Wayne did not pick up the phone, you let out a breath of relief when the voicemail recording begun playing in your ear. So, you moved to the next contact, Alfred Pennyworth.

He was one of Damien’s other legal guardians, but you’d never met him or heard of him. And apparently, the universe wanted to keep it that way because Mr. Pennyworth doesn’t pick up his phone either.

Does anyone in this family answer the phone?

You try to call the third contact listed on Damien’s information sheet and freeze, staring at the name of his eldest brother. 

There’s no way.

It couldn’t be.

Richard’s a pretty common name, right? And so is Grayson.

Because there’s no fucking way that your Richard Grayson is Damien’s older brother.

He can’t be.

You immediately regret cashing in your prayer for the day, you would have a million conversations with Bruce Wayne if it meant you didn’t have to make this phone call. You weren’t sure how many Richard Graysons there were in the tristate area, but you knew one, and with your luck he would be the one on the other end of the line. You avoided thinking about the way your brain was engraving the phone number to memory; while your fingers cautiously pressed the numbers that created a portal into the years of your life you tried to scrub away in the shower.

Please Don’t Pick up. Please Don’t Pick up. Please Don’t Pick-

“Hey, this is Dick”

Fuck.

Of course, he had to be the person in the family to pick up the phone. Tears well up in your eyes instantly recognizing his voice. How could you not? You used to drift off into sleep while it whispered sweet nothings in your ear every night.

“Hello, this is Richard Grayson correct?” You slap your forehead, fuming that fate has decided to drag this man back into your life after it cost you everything to remove him.

“Yes,” He confirms and you fight every urge in your body to hang up on him. “And who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?”

“Hi, I’m Damien’s English Literature teacher at Gotham Academy.” You do everything to avoid saying your name. “I am trying to contact one of his guardians and neither of the others listed have answered. Do you have a moment?”

He pauses for a brief moment, and you wish the ground would swallow you whole at your desk. Holding the office phone against your ear, you drop your forehead to the cold surface of the worn desk and close your eyes. During the short silence you begin to contemplate what you’re doing with your life.

“Yeah, I do, just give me a second.” There’s muffled speaking while he excuses himself from a conversation. “Um- out of curiosity.” The color drains from your face at those words, begging to any god or star in the sky listening that he doesn’t recognize you. “Who are the other contacts listed?”

“Oh yes-” You sit up catching your breath, this was a question you would answer gladly. Looking back at the paper to list off, “I have a Bruce Wayne and an Alfred Pennyworth as his father and legal guardian.”

“Ahhh, yeah. That checks out. They’re… away at the moment. I’ve been taking care of the rascal by myself.” He sighs in a way that indicates taking care of Damien Wayne was a full-time job. “Anyway, what did the little monster do now?” He sounds so casual almost as if he’s kicked back on a desk chair pushed back to the point it’s about to tip over.

You squeeze your eyes shut as tight as they physically can, grateful no one else is in the room. This conversation, his voice, him- it’s bringing too many memories back. Flashbacks of a life you tried to forget. Flashbacks of a life you buried when you left Blüdhaven.

“Damien got into a physical altercation with another student today in my class” there’s a slight pause in between each word while you choose your words carefully, since it technically wasn’t a fight. “It’s Academy policy that I have to meet with the student responsible for beginning the physical altercation’s guardian to discuss his behavior. Since Mr. Wayne and Mr. Pennyworth were not available at the moment, I would have to set up a time to meet with you.” The speech comes out robotic, making this call more than enough times in your career here to last you a lifetime. “Unless you can get in touch with Mr. Wayne or Mr. Pennyworth, we can set up a time with them instead?”

You bite your fist struggling to not sound too hopeful with your pathetic attempt of finding an out. This would be a really big fat “fuck you” from the universe, having to hold this meeting with him. You could have been struck with any other typical Gotham luck: you could’ve gotten robbed, kidnapped by Poison Ivy, held at gun point, but no. You had to have a conversation with the man you moved cities to get away from.

“No, I can come to the meeting!” He sounds way too enthusiastic about this, especially considering you just told him that his little brother decked someone. “I can be there around three-thirty today if that works? That’s when school usually gets out right?”

“Yup!” You sounded too perky for your liking. “That works for me, I’ll jot it down in my calendar.”

“Perfect see you then!”

“See you then Mr. Grayson.”

You hang up the phone rougher than the headmaster would probably like, but screw that. It’s his policy that’s making you meet with the man who taught you that heartbreak could make you physically ill.

You spend the rest of your free period dreading this meeting that you forget to fill out the witness report and talk to Sarah. You usually left Jordan’s parents to the Dean or Headmaster because they were such important donors. It was also his fifth strike in the month which meant they would have to deal with it anyway. You end up handling everything during your lunch, one of the firsts you’ve spent alone. The boys were both in lunch detention which meant the little Wayne would not be joining you today.

Damien usually spent his lunches with you because he didn’t like any of the kids in his classes. He was reserved, never spoke much with anyone. Over the course of the year, he slowly started speaking to you more, opening up. You let him tell you what he was comfortable sharing, making sure to not pry with him. On days he didn’t feel like speaking during lunch, you would pull the screen down and put on a nature documentary that you knew he would enjoy. It was a little thing you would do to let him relax, and he’d never tell you how that made your classroom feel more like home than the manor did some days.

After deciding you would talk to Sarah tomorrow to ask her about what happened, and walking to the office to submit the witness report to Nancy, you make it back to the quiet corner of school where your classroom lies. When the door shuts behind you, you slide down to the cold floor and stare at the tile lined ceiling.

You’re sure that somewhere the hands of fate are laughing at you, puppeteering this cruel plot. That just when you had barred Richard Grayson from your mind, he had to make an infamous comeback.

The bell rings which brings the lunch period to a close, along with your pity party. You stand and brush off your clothes with a deep breath and plaster the wide teacher smile you mastered in all those volunteer hours during undergrad.

When the students start filing into your classroom, you throw yourself into your lesson about the girl who left everyone she loved and knew behind to start the life she wanted for herself. Your students would never know that you chose this book every year because you saw more of yourself in her than you cared to admit.

° ❀ ⋆ .  ೃ࿔ * : ･ ° ❀ ⋆ . ೃ࿔ * : ･

03:27 p.m.

This is the only time it would’ve been convenient for you to have a villain roaming around destroying Gotham, and of course it doesn’t happen. The Joker must have some sick sense of humor, because not even the devil could construct this type of Hell you found yourself in.

Damien is sitting at desk in front of you, in the scary statue-like way he does when you know he’s had a bad day. You keep bouncing your foot and your heels are clinking on the floor while staring out the window.

Why did it have to be Dick?

“I’m sorry that you had to stay after hours for me.” Damien whispers into the void of the classroom.

“What?” You turn to look at the boy genuinely confused. He’s looking at the desk purposefully avoiding your gaze.

“I told you earlier that I wasn’t sorry for hitting Jordan and I’m not. But you are tapping your leg impatiently on the floor, indicating that you want this to be over, and that is my fault. It is my fault that you are here this late.” He pauses and looks up to meet your eyes, and you see a slight crease in between his brows, and it hits you.

He thinks you’re upset with him.

“For that, I am sorry.” He confirms.

“Oh Damien,” You stand from your desk and make your way to crouch in front of his. “I’m not upset with you.”

“You’re not?” He looks cautious, as if he’s being lured into a trap. The doubtful look on his face pulls at your heartstrings.

“No, what Jordan said and did was wrong and while I can’t condone physical violence as your teacher,” you pause with a wicked glint in your eye. “I can tell you that he had it coming.”

When he internalizes your words and the hidden message in it, he smirks. This poor boy had spent all day thinking you were upset with him, that’s why he looked nervous in the office. Behind that mature attitude he had, he was still just a ten-year-old boy at the end of the day. So, when he smirks at you, you made sure to smile back. You smile back letting him know your room would always be open for lunch.

You stand back up letting the unsaid hang in the air and turn to walk back to your desk and before you can sit down, the door to your classroom swings wide open and there he is.

Your ex-boyfriend.

With a bouquet of flowers in hand.

The same bouquet he bought you the first time he took you to dinner.

The breath traveling out of your nose gets caught in your nostrils when your eyes land on him. He’s as devastatingly handsome as the day you left him. You tried to tell yourself his beauty would fade with time, the way every guy does when you break up with them. But no, like some cruel twist of luck, he was beautiful. The unkept raven black hair with the lightening blue eyes you spent hours staring into, took you right back to all the nights you tried to forget from college.

“Why did you bring flowers Grayson?” The catalyst for this meeting asks disgusted from his spot at the desk.

“I always bring flowers on a first date!” He responds with the boyish charm that made you fall in love with him at nineteen.

“This isn’t our first date.” You look at him through the narrow slits of your eyes.

You were going to have to start giving yourself more credit. On the inside you were nothing but an anxious bundle of nerves, but you were doing pretty good at not revealing it. You had his attitude to thank for that. Being annoyed at Dick was easy, almost as easy as loving him.

“Well, I know that sweetheart,” You flinch at the old pet name. “But it’s our first date in a while.”

“Dick, this isn’t a date.” You snap at him.

He doesn’t get to do that. Not now. Not after everything.

“Whatever you say Teach.” He gives you a playful look that almost undoes you on the spot. Trying to keep your cool, you glance down at the shell-shocked little boy that followed both of you with the same intensity that some would watch a Wimbledon match. Hie eyebrows looked just about ready to fly off his face while his left nostril was scrunched up, connecting the dots that there may be some history here.

“Damien sweetie,” you try to regain control of the situation. “Can you wait outside while I talk to your brother for moment? I’ll call you back inside in a couple minutes.”

“Only a couple?” He asks with only one eyebrow raised now.

“Yes, only a couple.” You confirm.

“Okay.” He nods and walks slowly, still glancing suspiciously between you and Dick while stepping out.

When the door shuts behind him you let out a breath and shift your eyes to Dick. Looking at him was almost the same as looking at the sun, it was a sweet temptation that once satisfied, burned within seconds. You move your gaze to the flowers shifting your position to lean against your desk. It felt safer than looking right at him.

“When did you realize it was me?” You ask him, addressing the elephant in the room. The faster you got this over with, the faster you could continue with the conference and go home.

“Come on,” He scoffs, “You can’t really think I didn’t recognize your voice from the second you said my name.”

You meet his eyes abashed, ignoring the thunderous ache in your chest that his striking blue irises brought upon you. “Dick that was like the first thing I said!”

“Yeah, I know.” He shrugs his shoulders in a way that expresses it should’ve been obvious he knew it was you. That it would be crazy if he didn’t recognize you from a phone call where you didn’t even say your name.

You pinch the bridge of your nose trying to ground yourself with the quick burst of pain, coming to the conclusion that Dick Grayson was going to haunt you for the rest of your life.

“So, when did you get this gig?” He looks around waving the flowers. “I thought you were still in Blüdhaven-”

“No.” You cut him off so simply that he stops dead in his tracks. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to ask me about my life. You don’t get to know anything anymore. Not after everything.”

He looks taken aback and a sprinkle of defensiveness pools in his posture when he straightens, “Do I need to remind you that you were the one that ended it?”

You square your shoulders pushing off the desk and narrow your eyes again, “Do I need to remind you why?”

He sighs your name in a broken plea. And just like that, you’re taken back to the run-down college apartment all those years ago where your heart shattered into a million pieces.

° ❀ ⋆ .  ೃ࿔ * : ･ ° ❀ ⋆ . ೃ࿔ * : ･

It was your two-year anniversary with Dick. Money was a little tight, so you agreed to have a small dinner at his place. You usually hung out at your apartment and preferred to cook there, but he had just fostered Haley. He hadn’t spent a night away from her yet and was nervous about leaving her alone for too long.

The little diva was making figure eights between your legs while you cooked dinner and prepped the key lime pie you were going to make for desert. She had almost tripped you three times already, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to scold her when she looked at you. She had mastered those puppy eyes that turned you into mush. She looked so happy when you shifted your attention to her, that you forgot to reprimand her and tossed some food into her mouth instead.

Turning back to the electric stove you turn the knob of the back left burner to high. There’s a rustling of keys and a smile creeps on your face that he’s finally home. Haley stops pacing in between your legs and dashes toward the door clawing at his door frame. Since moving in, Haley seemed to be on a personal mission in securing that your boyfriend does not get his security deposit back. You’d warned him about getting a dog in the apartment, but he brushed it off.

Dick finally manages to open the front door and Haley leaps at him, knocking the breath out of his lungs. He squats down to her level while she barks and licks his face. In the breaks of his laugh, he manages to get out an “I missed you too” and “easy girl” in an attempt to calm down the energetic puppy. After a minute of him petting her fur, she seems to be more relaxed while rolling over on the floor and he finally shifts his gaze to look up at you. He swears he fell in love all over again.

Your hair was pulled back into a bun that was falling apart around the hair tie, there were patches of flour on your cheek and forehead, you had an apron that he bought you for Christmas last year that had stains everywhere, and he doesn’t think he had ever seen a more gorgeous sight. There was something so magical in the domesticity of coming home to you and Haley. It was a type of love he never thought he’d get to experience again after his parents passed. A type of love he’d never had living with Bruce and Alfred.

He never considered himself a selfish person, until he met you. You were his full moon on a dark night. The elixir that brought him back to life every night when he lost his will on the streets. The princess he thought only existed in fairytales. He never wanted to share with anyone.

He had a habit of staring at you drinking in all your beauty at once, like it would be the last time he’d be lucky enough to lay his eyes on you. He soaked up everything you said, everything you did, every part of you, and he stored it deep in his heart. He worshipped you like you were the only god that mattered in this universe.

Dick truly believed the warmth in your eyes could melt all of the snow January brought to Blüdhaven. Stood in his kitchen with your arms crossed leaning against the counter, you had a smile he was convinced could bring world peace. He was a goner before you’d even said hi.

If you weren’t in college and he wasn’t lying to you about being a vigilante, he would’ve gotten down on one knee that night. He would’ve asked you to marry him. He would’ve made a fool of himself by writing you a sonnet declaring his love. He’d tell you how you restored his faith in the world, how you gave him something to fight for in the nights he put his life on the line, how you gave him something worth living for. He was so drunk in love he’d considered yelling how much he loved you form every rooftop in Blüdhaven.

He hadn’t told you about the double life he hid in the shadows. It ate at him every time you looked at him with narrowed eyes, knowing he was leaving something out of the stories he’d rehearsed. He never wanted to bring you into it. If you found out about him, you would never be safe again. He couldn’t do that to someone he loved, not after Jason. He prayed that you would give him more time, so he could figure out how to explain it all to you without outing Bruce. When you asked about the bruises and cuts, he’d brush it off and say he was clumsy or he pushed himself to hard at the gym. You weren’t convinced but you let it go, and he’d thank the stars for giving him an ounce of mercy.  

“Hello, my love” his eyes were sparkling. “Dinner smells amazing.” He stood to his full length and walked over to you, while Haley was jumping and clawing at his jeans.

“Only the best for you.” It came out more sultry than you planned, but Dick seemed into it. He crossed the short space from the door to the kitchen and made his way toward you. He trapped you against the counter with his arms encaging you. Haley was still barking at both of your legs, but you tuned her out getting lost in each other’s presence. Dick always looked at you like it was the first time he had seen you. There was so much adoration in his eyes that you weren’t convinced you deserved.

A flush creeps onto your cheeks when he leans into you and stops a hair from your lips. You feel his breath on your face, and you can smell the cinnamon gum he had definitely been chewing on the drive over. The spark in the air is electric as the favorite part of your day approached. It was the same routine every night Dick came home, you had gotten used to it, but he had an addicting air to him you could never quit. There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes, and you know it’s because he’s testing you. To see if you’ll break first and lean in, you always do.

After counting to fifteen you scoff and push off the counter into him. When your lips meet, you get your first breath of fresh air all day. Blüdhaven’s pollution evaporated when you shared a breath with Dick Grayson. The world melted away and you would die happy if the world came crashing down then. You’d never been kissed the way he had. He was soft and gentle, but desperate. He kissed you in a way that made you feel loved not lusted after. The spark lit on fire every time he touched you, the world had drenched you in gasoline and Dick was the match.

He pulls away too soon for your liking and his breath comes out heavy. He’s giving you that Dick Grayson grin that lights up the sky, and you notice his pupils are blown.

“I missed you today.” He tells you in a low voice that sends a shiver up your spine.

“I missed you too, Grayson.” His arms wrap around you and every threat the world had was nonexistent in his arms. He made you feel safe, at home, at peace with life. Nothing would hurt you in his arms.

He opens his mouth to say something, but you hear the water bubbling from the pot on the stove. You turn your head to see the water boiling and wordlessly break free from your favorite place on Earth. You grab the pasta you’d made from scratch on the counter and slowly drop it into the pot. You’re about halfway done with placing the pasta in the pot when you feel strong arms around your waist.

Apparently, Dick wasn’t satisfied with the kiss and was greedy for more. He hummed quietly in your ear when you told him you’d made crab ravioli for your anniversary. He littered kisses on your neck and shoulders. He held his lips against your skin for a second too long while taking you in. Your favorite place in the world was in his arms, and his was in the crook of your neck. His chin fits perfectly on your shoulder almost as if it was made for him. You felt the smile on your neck when you realized he finally felt like he belonged somewhere.

There had to be a god somewhere that knew the world was going to rip the carpet from your feet and gifted you this last bit of peace. When you finish with the pasta you wipe your hands on your apron and lean against him, your head falling on his chest. He flinches when your head falls back and lets go of you, sucking in a painful breath through his teeth.

Whipping your head around your eyes swim in worry. “What happened? Are you okay? Did I do something?”

He starts shaking his head trying to mask the pain with a smile while dropping his hand that clenched his shirt. “No, no, I’m fine. Sorry” He extended his arms out to you so he could hold you again.

You swat them away and your fingers hover over the wrinkles on his shirt where his hand previously was. “Take it off.”

“Jeez, take me to dinner first.” He tries to lighten the mood with a joke.

Your eyes were as hard as a diamond, and your jaw clenched. “Dick, I’m not playing. Take off the shirt.”

His hands hesitate at the hem of it. A flicker of anxiety he tries to hide behind another smile, but you know him too well for that to work.

“Darling, really. I’m oka-”

“Do I have to take it off for you?” He hears the seriousness when you cut him off and freezes. “Dick, you have all of three seconds to take the damn shirt off.”

Your eyes meet his and it couldn’t be more obvious how much he really doesn’t want to do this, but you’re tired. He comes back multiple times a week with bruises that are black and blue. He’s so sore that he can barely move. You tried asking questions, but he would always brush it off and say he got hurt at practice. He was a P.E. teacher at the high school nearby and the gymnastics coach. You knew there was more to the story, but you let it go, trusting that he’d tell you someday. But you couldn’t wait anymore, if he wasn’t ready after two years he’d never be. Your patience was stretched thin and your worry clouded your judgement.

He sees the relentlessness in your body language and sighs in defeat. His arms cross at the bottom of his shirt and pulls it off in one fluid motion. You could tell by the slight crease in his eyebrows; it was harder for him than he let off.

Your hand flies to your mouth in horror at the sight in front of you. There was a huge gash lining his chest from his left shoulder to the bottom of his right ribcage. He’s already gotten it checked out because it’s been cleaned out and there’s butterfly stitches all around it. You knew this was recent because he didn’t have this last night in bed and the bruises were still pink, not having enough time to fade to the inevitable purple.

“Dick…”

“It looks worse than it is, baby. I promise.”

“Worse than it is?!” He winces at the sudden raise of your voice. “Richard Grayson, you look like someone tried slicing you in half.”

His mouth is opening to make some pathetic excuse when you beat him to it.

“When- How did this happen?”

Behind his eyes you can see he’s fighting a battle with himself, debating what he should tell you. You stare at him, eyes wide waiting for an explanation on why he has gash the size of your arm across his chest.

“Sweetheart I-” he cuts himself short, just looking at you, helpless.

“Dick, tell me the truth.” Your voice is deadly. “All of it: the scars, the bruises, the pain, this- Where do they come from?”

He swallows a lump in his throat and looks around the empty apartment in hopes of a ghost coming to save him. The defeated expression you know too well from your previous fights is etched on his face when he meets your eyes.

“I- I can’t”

“What do you mean you can’t?” Your response is instant.

“I can’t tell you where I got them.”

“Why?” Betrayal flashes across your features and your shoulder square, defensive. “I’m your girlfriend, I’m not going to judge you. I’m here for you. I’ve always been. But I can’t be here for you if you don’t let me.”

He looks so distraught and for the first time in your life, you see tears lining Dick Grayson’s eyelids in frustration. Frustration you don’t know the source of. His mouth parts and shuts multiple times in the same minute, not being able to find an explanation that is both believable and will keep you safe.

“Dick, I need the truth.” There’s a finality in your voice that you hope doesn’t have to come into fruition. “You have to be honest with me, or-” you take a deep breath steadying yourself for what you hope is an empty threat. “Or I leave.”

“No- Please no. Don’t do this.” He crosses over to you in one step and grabs your biceps looking at you with nothing but pain reeking off his figure.

“Then don’t make me make that choice. I don’t want to, but I will.” You’re both crying now, a river of tears pooling at the floor beneath you that you would rather drown in than leave. You couldn’t imagine living a life without Dick Grayson, but you wouldn’t settle for less than the truth. You wouldn’t stay with half of a man.

“I can’t tell you.” It comes out in a whisper. He rests his forehead against yours, as if it’ll transfer the information he can’t spill from his lips. His eyes are shut, not being able to meet the inevitably of yours.

“Then, I can’t stay.” You close your eyes for one last moment against his forehead. Absorbing every last piece of the man you thought you’d marry.

It took everything in you to break free from him. You didn’t look at him when you turned back to the stove and turned it off. You didn’t turn to him when you took your apron off and hung it over the barstool under the counter. You didn’t turn to him when you grabbed your purse from the coffee table.

You pet Haley one last time with tears flowing freely form your eyes and kissed between her eyes. She licked your chin, happy that you had turned back to her, not knowing you weren’t coming back.

You stand back up and look at him one last time. Your heart crumbles when you meet his eyes and he makes one last pathetic attempt with an “I love you” from across the room.

“I love you too,” it comes out more pained than endearing. “But I love me more.”

And you opened the door to a life you’d never wanted to believe could exist. A life without Dick Grayson. You sobbed the whole way home, hating yourself for your standards.

° ❀ ⋆ .  ೃ࿔ * : ･ ° ❀ ⋆ . ೃ࿔ * : ･

You shake your head at the memory and look back at him with eyes blazing. “No Dick. You lied to me. You lied to me for years.” The sentence comes out heavy, all those years of weekly therapy went to shit the moment he walked into this classroom, and you hate him for it. You hate that he still has this level of control over you. “I didn’t even know you had a brother, or that you were related to Bruce Wayne of all people?!” You throw your hands up in the air laughing to yourself. “You told me you were an orphan.”

“Well, if we are getting into the nitty gritty, I am technically still an orphan. I was never adopted. I’m still just Bruce’s ward.”

It takes all the self-restraint you have to not rip those flowers out of his hand and beat him over the head with them. You just stare at him, no words, no expression, just an empty stare. For the years you spent together it was one of the few things you’d learn that would unsettle him. Dick Grayson could not sit in silence.

Leaning into it, you begin to drown in each other’s existence. Everything you never said, everything he kept from you. Coming to the surface about to break free when he sighs and looks beyond you at your desk. He sees the book that you’re reading with the class and there’s a cautious smile on his face.

“The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle? Again?”

“Yeah, it’s a good book for the kids. I read it with all my classes.” There’s a twinge of insecurity in your tone. You sometimes forgot that he also kept those memories from your relationship, that you weren’t the only one burdened with reminders.

When you and Dick dated you read this book at least twice a year. It was your favorite book when you were younger. Your mom used to read a chapter every night before tucking you into bed. He had read it with you a couple of times when he realized how important this book was to you. And deep in your closet buried with your skeletons, there’s a shoe box full of memories that kept the annotated copy he wrote for you. It was the best present you had ever gotten and when you started throwing everything out, you couldn’t bring yourself to toss it.

“I guess some things never change.” He looks at you with the smile still painted on his face and no judgement in his tone.

He was dressed completely normal, but there were still remnants of your relationship in his clothing. He was wearing relaxed fit jeans which he only started buying when you two were dating because you told him you liked how they fit his ass. He wore a grey T-shirt that clung to his biceps a little tighter than you knew he considered comfortable because you told him once as a joke, you liked having his arm on display. And lastly, there was a silver chain that hung from his neck. He had both gold and silver, and preferred gold, but you told him one day that you thought the silver brought out the blue in his eyes and he never went back.

There was a lump in your throat you couldn’t swallow no matter how hard you tried. He looks frozen in a time where you truly believed that Dick Grayson would have done anything for you. Anything but tell you the truth.

I guess he was right, some things never change.

“Mhm.” Was the only sound you could manage when you look back at him.

“Listen, about everything that happe-” His eyes soften.

“Dick not right now. We’re at a parent-teacher conference and if I keep your brother outside any longer, he’s going to break down my door.” You see Damien’s eyes peeking through the skinny window of your classroom door and attempt to get this conversation back on track.

“Then when?” His eyes have a deep desire in them that roots you to the stone floor. You didn’t realize it but over the course of the conversation he had gotten closer to you, his fingers had made their way to your wrist. He wasn’t holding on tight, but you found yourself incapable of breaking free from his grasp. Your skin was ablaze at the light touch near your hand and you leaned into it, into him.  

“I’m busy tonight but-” You faltered. You were not busy tonight. You had no plans, but this was too much for you today. This was as much of Richard Grayson you were willing to put yourself through at the moment.

“Tomorrow then?” He was on the verge of begging, you’re sure if you told him to get on his knees and ask, he would. “We can meet at the park. Around five?”

“Dick,” you sigh, “I’m not sure abo-”

“I’ll tell you everything- I’ll bring Haley.” He stumbles on his words that you almost didn’t understand him. It took you a second to remember that Haley is his pitbull and not some random girl he brought up for no reason.

Unfortunately, just like you knew everything that would undo Dick Grayson, he knew everything that undid you.

“Okay,” You resign “five it is.” You lie to yourself by claiming the only reason you agreed to this was for Haley, you missed going on walks with her and playing with her.

And Dick, for the first time in a couple of minutes let himself breathe. He was breathing as if his head had broken the surface after jumping face first into the deep end. His hand falls away to his side, hope radiating off his body.

Glancing back at the door you see a tuft of black hair that’s beginning to get restless. You move past your ex-boyfriend toward the door without another word of your plans, ignoring the way your wrist goes cold at the absence of his fingers. Your hand hesitates over the doorknob before letting Damien back inside.

What the hell did you just agree to?

° ❀ ⋆ .  ೃ࿔ * : ･ ° ❀ ⋆ . ೃ࿔ * : ･

You glance down at your wrist while sitting on the bench.

04:58 p.m.

You got to the park ten minutes ago after sitting restlessly on your couch for an hour. You’d been anxious the whole day while at school and in your apartment. You couldn’t think of anything else. You couldn’t even get through the lesson today and just gave the kids a free day to work on anything they’d like. Your best friend had called you yesterday after work for a “catch up” call and you conveniently left out that you were meeting up with your ex-boyfriend.

After the breakup, his name was forbidden to speak around your friends and family. They hated him. Your mom flew up from where she retired in Florida to Blüdhaven the first weekend after the breakup, since you hadn’t left your bed in three days. Your best friend did the road trip from where she went to university in Central City the weekend after that.

If they found out that you had agreed to meet with the man who destroyed your whole outlook on life, they’d slap you into another dimension.

You stand up moving your purse to your shoulder getting ready to leave after concluding that this is an awful idea and you shouldn’t have agreed to this, when a familiar grey pitbull jumps at your hip with more force than you anticipated. She knocks you onto the dirt path of the park. You land in a side plank on your left forearm, so you can avoid hitting your head.

“Haley No-” The familiar voice comes a little too late.

You sit on the floor while she laps at your face and barks so loud you think you’re going to suffer from temporary hearing loss. She’s running circles around you and jumping over you in such a happy way that the innocence of the scene brings a smile to your face. She’d doubled in size since you last saw her as a baby. Your heart strings are being plucked like a guitar while she catches her breath, looking at you with those big blue eyes you’d missed.

You finally pull your eyes away from her and see… Nightwing?

You shake your head and stand up so fast you get a head rush. You stumble while balancing yourself, and the vigilante reaches out to help you stabilize.

“Hi, um, I’m sorry- I’m waiting for someone.” You rush out. You don’t know what you’re apologizing for, but you want him gone. If he was near, trouble was bound to find his way to him. You were already going to have to deal with Dick, you didn’t want to handle this too.

After living in Blüdhaven, you had become quite familiar with the vigilante. He had saved you a couple times on your late night walks back from the library. You’d almost gotten mugged like seven times in the years you lived there and he had shown up every time. He never stayed long but made sure you were safe before sending you on your way. You weren’t sure what he was doing in Gotham, but you didn’t really care.

“Darling,” he says quietly and your body freezes in recognition. “it’s me.”

Your jaw drops to hell.

You were going to kill him.

Dick Grayson was Nightwing.

You’re not sure how long you were standing there just staring at him when he laughs nervously.

“Please say something, I’m starting to freak out.” He scratches the back of neck, a nervous tick he hadn’t managed to outgrow, even after all the years you were separated.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. In through your nose and out through your mouth, just like your mom taught you. Then you did the only thing that made sense to you.

You back handed him as hard as you could.

“Okay” he groans rubbing his cheek. “I deserved that.”

“Oh, you most certainly did Richard. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Um-” Through the domino mask you can see his eyebrows rising to his hairline. His hand still cradling his cheek from the slight sting.

“What was so difficult of telling me about this all those years ago? Hm?” You feel the rage about bubbling over the cauldron you’d been stirring all day. You had tried to keep your emotions in check, taking deep breaths when they anxiety threatened to take over.

This being his big secret pissed you all the way off.

He slowly reaches for your arms after they started flailing while yelling at him. He holds them so gently, it doesn’t seem to fit the crime fighting persona in front of you. He looks scared that you’re going to strike him again, and you want to, but don’t. He guides you to the bench you were just on and takes a seat next to you. Haley jumps on your lap and you take the distraction for your hands, petting her back.

“Let me explain.” He says softly.

“Oh, I will, don’t worry. And this better be all off it, Grayson. The whole truth.”

He seems to find your exasperation at him funny, and he lets out a laugh. For a second, you think he’s genuinely laughing at this, at the pain that fucking suit caused you for years and then you see it in the way he cracks his knuckles.

He’s nervous. A nervous Dick was not a common sight, and you take another deep breath trying to calm down. Not only for your sake, but for his.

You look around and see that the park is deserted, and you realize you should probably stop referring to him by his full name. You had just revealed his secret identity multiple times in the past minute. Thankfully for both of you, you were positive the trees and flowers would keep his secret if you asked nicely.

You take yet another deep breath while it was his turn to look around at the park making sure no one else was listening in. And against your better judgement, you grab his hand. He stops looking around and turns to you. You keep your gaze on Haley petting her softly.

It was a small attempt at grounding him, a small comfort you would allow yourself. From the corner of your eye, you see him sit up little straighter, bracing himself. Then he starts talking.

Once he had started, he couldn’t stop. It all came pouring out. Some of it you knew, The circus, his family, the Flying Graysons. Then he got into how Bruce Wayne took him under his wing, literally, when his parents were killed. How he grew up as Robin, how Bruce was Batman. Spending his whole life hiding his secret identity. When he finally broke free from Bruce’s shadow, wanting to make a name for himself with the Titans and then in Blüdhaven. How he fought with Bruce over the years and was replaced as Robin by his adoptive brother, Jason Todd. How Jason died and why they never forgave themselves. How it scared him from ever potentially putting someone in that kind of danger.

“When you and I were together, I wasn’t talking to Bruce.” The earnest look in his eyes is almost too heavy for you to hold. “I didn’t know how to tell you without throwing him under the bus too. I couldn’t do that to him, no matter how upset I was with him. I also didn’t want to do that to you.”

He pauses and takes a couple of breaths. You hadn’t said anything to him while he laid himself bare for you. Just nodding and the occasional squeeze of his hand.

“I didn’t want to put you in a position of constant danger. You would be leveraged against me if any of my or Bruce’s enemies found out about you. I wanted to keep you a secret, to keep you safe. I know that’s not my choice to make for you, but I was scared, scared you’d get hurt, scared you’d leave me once you found out and-”

“Dick honey. You’re rambling.” You cut him off.

He sighs and drops his head to your shoulder. The smell of his shampoo almost suffocates you and your eyes well up. You had been biting back tears through the whole tragedy of his childhood, but the shampoo you used to wash your hair with on nights you ran out of yours is what pushed you to tears.

He feels the shake of your shoulder from crying and lifts his head and wipes the tears instantly. Haley had long fallen asleep on your lap, so you two hadn’t been interrupted by her barking for attention.

“Don’t cry, please. I promise I’m okay.” He tells you while his gloved fingers swipe tears from your cheeks.

You give him an incredulous look, “Dick you are many things, but okay is not one of them.”

He laughs, actually laughs. “I know, but I just don’t know what else to say.”

“You could apologize?” You suggest with a slight humor and slight truth in your tone.

He sighs and drops to the floor in front of you. He props himself up in between your legs, on his knees. The sun has long been set, and you’re thankful for it. If someone walked by and saw Nightwing kneeling in front of you at a park, you weren’t sure you could explain it. He takes both of your hands in his and holds them against his chest.

“I am sorry for lying to you. I am sorry for not telling you sooner. I am sorry for causing you all this heart ache. I don’t want you to think that my suffering takes away from yours. I have spent every moment in the wake of this relationship mourning you. I will always love you and that will never change. I thought about you every day and every night. If you’d give me the chance to prove myself, I’d like to try again.”

Your brain shuts down. You try to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. Dick doesn’t let you get a word in regardless of what you wanted to say.

“I’ll be honest, I’ll go to therapy, I’ll introduce you to my family, I’ll take you on first dates. We can take it slow, start over, do it from scratch. I’ll do it all again, better this time. I’d do it all in every lifetime if it meant I got to spend this one with you.”

You’re still speechless but you try to focus on his words, repeating them felt easier than making up your own sentence.

“We can take it slow? Start over?” You ask hesitantly.

“Yes, whatever you want, however you want.” He nods his head, confirming he’d do anything for you.

You sit on the bench and contemplate what this will do. What it would mean to get tangled up with Richard Grayson again. Your therapist would kill you for one, but it might be worth it. A part of you hated how weak you were against him, how he could turn up and you’d give everything up for him. Even when he broke your heart, he still managed to be the reason it was still beating. After years being tortured with the ghost of him, this was a very bad idea. But sometimes, all a girl needed was a really bad idea.

 “Okay.” You exhale. “We can try again,” His eyes widen under the mask. “But you get one chance. That’s it. If you screw this one up, there’s not another one.”

Dick starts crying and drops his head onto Haley’s back in relief. He couldn’t believe his efforts weren’t in vain. That you would be willing to try again with him. He knew you weren’t lying, that this was his last chance to get it right. He wouldn’t mess it up this time, he wouldn’t let himself even entertain the idea of fucking up. He knew life with you and without you and he would do everything in his power not to relive those pain ridden years again.

So, when he looks up at you, he sees the girl he fell in love with all those years ago for the first time. Her guard was still up, and her eyes weren’t trusting yet, but it was something along the lines of it. Hope that they could eventually make it work. Hope that their paths crossed for the final time and they’d walk the rest of this life together.  

You brought your forehead against his and his hands found their place in your hair. He steals the breath straight from your lungs and you wouldn’t admit it, but you’d suffocate on the spot if it meant your dying moments were with Dick. You sit in that position leaning against him for a couple minutes with tears flowing, repeating sweet nothings to each other.

And when he kisses you in that devastating way that only Dick Grayson does, you can finally breathe again.

[wichu127]

mwehehehehe

[bluebirdofbludhaven]

just shut up and read this right tf now

[bluebirdofbludhaven]

my favorite barista- dick grayson x reader

dick grayson x f!reader

word count: 3.2K

warnings: a stabbing and a very touchy bad guy

summary: you're dick's favorite barista, he saves you, but when you get hurt he steps up to help you

this is my first fic on this blog, as well as my first fic without the use of y/n. tell me if you like!!!

“i have a medium iced almond milk latte ready!” you yell out into the bustling lobby. it was a monday morning in january. the air was chilled and the new year had just begun, and in came the crowd for some caffeine. you were officially named manager at the local coffee shop called talkin lattes. one that you have worked for since turning 16, and needing some extra income. 

“large americano with a splash of cream. have a great day!” the smile painted on your face trying to earn those extra tips. you were running back and forth from the espresso bar and the drink pick up bar. “good morning guys!” you called to the group of detectives that come through the door. they were regulars, as the cafe was right across the street from the prescient.  

“good morning! happy new year!” the brunette with blue eyes, named dick, waved at you from the cash register with a red headed woman you’ve come to know as barbara besides him. following behind were two other detectives, but you didn’t know their names. you continued working on the drinks at hand and wishing people a good day. 

“i’ve got your coffees barb!” you hollered out to her. the rush finally seeming to die down. “how was your new year’s eve?” you asked the two as they walked up to collect the drinks. 

“super chill over at my place. just had some wine and celebrated with some of our friends.” barbara had answered for the two of them. “what about you?” 

“pretty much the same. some wine and my cat. what more does a girl need?” you giggled out making the drink right in front of you. 

“i hear you.” barbara agreed. “so, i know you’ve met dick, but these are our other colleagues, dan and rebecca. we’re all just meeting up for some monday morning caffeine. “

“good morning guys! i hope you enjoy your drinks!” you waved to them smiling, making long eye contact with dick. “here’s two hot lattes. i believe you have some drip coffee coming up.” 

“thank you darling.” dick winked at you while grabbing his latte. “i love it when you make mine.”

“ooh stop it dick. i have a highly capable staff and you know that.” 

“i do, but you just make it extra good.” he said with a cheesy smile on his face. 

“dick come on. we’ve got crime to fight.” barbara interrupted coming back from the sugar bar with the added colleagues. 

“yup. go fight your crime, dick. i’ll see you around.” you jokes at him continuing to work on the coffees now depending your attention. 

“you sure will.” with one final wink dick walked out of the store, and you were left smiling like idiot despite the busy day. 

~ 

“why won’t this stupid thing lock.” you grumbled under your breath. the fogged it created in the cold air covering the lock you were messing with. “why does this shit always happen to me?” 

“well little lady, it’s about to get much much worse.” a deep voice said behind you. as you turned you found a man that seemed quite familiar with the weight machines at the gym in front of you; a knife pointing just at stomach level. 

“much worse indeed.” you spit out at him.

“you’re funny i’ll give you that, but give me the code to the safe and everything in your pockets and you might just be ok.” as he said this he moved closer to you, pushing the knife into your coat so hard you felt it rip. the cold tip burning your warm stomach. “you’re quite pretty too. maybe i want more than your wallet. i’ve seen you working here, smiling at all the men. where is your cop friends when you need them, am i right?” his breath smelt disgusting as it pushed against your face.

“you can have whatever you want. please don’t hurt me.” you quietly pled, tears starting to form in your eyes. the cold just freezing them in place. 

“ahhh, whatever i want you say.” his smile turned into a smirk as he felt up the side of your body. you had never been more thankful for a thick puffer coat than this moment. 

“you want money? they got a ton of it in there. i just finished counting it myself. almost $400 in cash sales alone today. you can have it all.” you rambled out the wit gone from your body, as the feeling of the knife point was still on your stomach and his hand on your body over your coat. 

“that’s a lot of cash for a little coffee shop.” he seemed skeptical.

“its new years day, people want to treat themselves before work. i don’t know i just make the drinks.” you grumbled as you stared down at your feet. 

“no complaints here, little lady. lets go inside and get warm.” he gave you a good push back towards the coffee shop. in your fright you slipped on some ice, letting out a scream as you fell down head hitting the ground. “get up you stupid girl, and be quiet or i’m cutting that throat of yours.” he reached down grabbing what he could of your coat, as you scrambled for footing on the patch of ice. 

“whats going on here.” a man asked from the shadows. 

“none of your fucking business.” called back you attacker.

“oh, but i think it is.” the new second man on the scene wasn’t just any man, it was nightwing. the protector of blüdhaven. 

“nightwing.” you gasped out, as the man made a move to put that knife to your throat.

“not another step closer or she dies.” your attack hisses, pushing the blade harder, to show his seriousness. all of this causing a small yelp from you. 

“i think you need to let the girl go, actually, but the villains never seem to ask for my opinion.” his smirk on full display. 

“like you said, i didn’t ask you, now did i?” the breath close to your ear coming onto your face was awfully pungent, you couldn’t help but grimace. when you did you felt  nightwing’s eyes on you, but of course you couldn’t see them because of the domino mask. 

“i guess not, but you kinda asked for this though.” nightwing threw a smoke bomb into the air, and you took that as your cue to stomp on your attackers foot. he let out a yelp, hunching a little as you threw yourself to the ground and out of his grasp. in the smoke you saw nightwing push you to safety using the patch of ice to slide you out of the scene that was just about to unfold. there was some grunts and lots of sounds of punches or kicks landing. when the smoke finally cleared there was your attacker all tied up with his own zip ties, back against the talkin lattes walls, passed out. “are you ok?” you don’t know if you really hit your head that hard or if nightwing just said your name at the end of that question. you just blinked up at him. 

“i actually don’t know. do my pupils look the same size?” you asked widdening your eyes comically at him. “i just hit my head i should be fine. oh fuck. i still need to lock that stupid door.” as you got up the ice that seems to have it out for you, made you slip again. this time you had someone to catch you. a very muscular someone. 

“careful. careful.” 

“thank you, nightwing. you seem to be saving me a lot tonight.” you mumbled looking down to your feet in embarrassment. 

“hey, no biggie” his hand found your chin pushing it up so you were looking at each other, “that’s what i’m here for. go lock that door so i can get you home.” 

“you’re going to take me home…?” you asked curious.

“well of course. can’t have you getting mugged again on the way.” you huffed out a laugh nodding your head in agreement. this time when you got to the door, something seemed to answer those prayers, because the door locked on the first try. 

“lets go.” you said pointing in the direction. “wait, what about him?” you pointed at your attacker. 

“i’ll call the police later. he deserves a little time to cool down.” you again huffed out a laugh. the walk back to your small apartment was nice. there was little talking, because you didn’t know what was right for you to say to such a person. when you reach the building, you turned around.

“this is me. thank you for all your help.” you said, reaching up to pat his arm. you just liked touching him if you were being honest. 

“the pleasure was all mine.” the smirk was plastered on his face. you turned and walked into the house, your cat meowing at your feet, but when you turned to shut the door he was gone. and for the second time that day you were left smiling like an idiot. 

~

“nightwing saved you.” gasped out your friend/coworker millie, causing everyone in line to look over at the two of you.

“yes, now sush, you’re disrupting the customers.” you looked at your feet, smiling. 

“who saved you?” asked a man from over your coffee bar. it was dick grayson. 

“nightwing.” you answered kind of in shock. 

“when?” 

“last night. why are you interrogating me?” you joked getting some of your footing back. 

“just trying to keep my favorite barista safe. who would make my qmazing drink every morning if you weren’t here?” he asked with a wink. 

“millie would, and you wouldn’t complain.” you pointed out looking him in his eyes. 

“I would but only a little. what did he want?”

“the safe’s code and some money. we need to get that sticky lock fixed so i don’t have to struggle with it.” you complained. “but management tells me its not the biggest priority right now or that it’s the weather making it act up.”

“very frustrating.” dick empathizes with you. 

“very,” you agree handing him his latte on the counter. “have a good day dick.”

“you too,” his voice was soft and gruff as he said your name. it sounded familiar but you’ve heard him say your name numerous times, so you didn’t think too hard about it. 

~

that night has you were closing up, you looked around to make sure you were safe before turning around to lock the door. something stopped you though. up on the roof of the coffee shop sat a man in a black spandex suit. 

“good evening, nightwing.” you hollered up, giving him a slight wave. 

“evening” your name rolling off his tongue so naturally. the door locked on the third try tonight and you were left with the mysterious man in front of you.

“how do you know my name?” you asked as you started your walk back home.

“your name tag, duh.”

“i’m not wearing my name tag right now, duh.” you said stoping to face him. 

“i’m patron of the amazing talkin lattes. i’ve see your name tag before.” there was a beat of silence, “duh” he finished. you were now giggling, but continued your walk home. as you approached you pat his arm, and smiled at him. 

“goodnight nightwing.” 

“night, darling.” the pet name filling your thoughts for the night and even a couple days after. nightwing was there almost every night, and if he wasn’t he had a story for you the next night. you were both able to make good friends and quite quickly at that. you felt safe in his presence, and weirdly not just because of his vigilante tendencies. everything about him felt familiar and safe.

~

“this godforsaken lock.” you yelled — actually yelled — at the thing. 

“missed me, little lady.” came a gruff voice that you could practically smell. fear made you tense, yet you tried to remain as calm as possible. 

“what would you do if i said, no?” you asked. 

“wouldn’t care. i’ve missed you though. no calling your friend this time. you’re all mine.” the knife made quick work into your stomach. the warmth of your blood pooling to the one spot. you let out a scream, that he skillfully muffled with his other hand. “now now now, i said no calling your friend. give me the code to the safe or i’ll twist it.”

“1584!” you huffed, unable to catch your own breath. 

“thank you, little lady. why don’t i move us inside.” your attacker laughed. 

“you’re not moving her anywhere ,anytime soon.” nightwing’s voice called out, and that was the last thing you heard before passing out due to the pain. 

~

when you woke up, you were in a brightly lit sterile-smelling room; the hospital. you were dressed in an uncomfortable gown the air prickling your skin. “you’re awake!” 

“nightwing? why are you still here?” you asked squinting your eyes against the lights. “someone will see you.” you huffed out still trying to see who was in your room. 

“it’s dick. dick grayson.” the way he said your name and his voice were all too familiar. “you got stabbed. i’m on your case.” 

“oh, dick! has anyone ever told you, you sound like that vigilante, nightwing?” you shifted in the bed causing a considerable amount of pain to shut up your body, a scream coming out. “oh god. i never want to be stabbed again.” 

“understandable. let me go get a nurse” you heard the curtain open and shut, a woman’s voice, then back to blackness. 

~

“nightwing! help!”  you yelled coming to again in the same hospital room. 

“relax, i’ve got you.” it was his voice that surrounds you. next is the heat from his hands on your arms, then the familiar pine and musk smell, nightwing was in this room. you were safe. he was here with you, touching you. 

“nightwing. i needed you.” when you finally gained focus with your eyes it wasn’t the domino mask that meet you, it was dick’s blue eyes. “dick?”

“its me,” the silence was heavy. 

“why do you sound like him?” you asked confused. he probably thought you were dense at his point, but you’re head was fuzzy. 

“because its me. it was always me.” dick confesses looking down at your lap. 

“you saved me?”

“of course”

“you walked me home every night?” 

“it was my pleasure, darling.” you gasped. “i’m sorry for not being there last night. i was caught up with a lead on a big case i’m working on.”

“no, no, please don’t apologize. it’s truly ok. you could’ve never guessed that would happen.” you smiled up at him moving one arm from his light hold and rubbing his upper arm, like you always did with nightwing. “that how you knew my name…”

“yep. also why i had to keep watch over you. couldn’t have my favorite barista not there to greet me every morning. i had to keep you safe and i… and i….” he trials away.

“no, nightwin- dick, you can’t think like that. you kept me safe multiple times. i’ll always be there to greet you.” you smiled, with some act of courage from god knows where, you slightly curled upwards and kissed his cheek. “thank you for all that you do.”

“again, its my pleasure, darling, but you need to lay down. no moving that stomach.” he gets you back to your position before. “do you have someone who you need to call or that can help with your recovery?” 

“i don’t have anyone.” you confessed in a small voice. “its just been my cat and i, since i moved from gotham.” 

“please stay with me, cat too, of course.” 

“dick that’s too much…”

“please i insist. its the least i could do now.” 

“fine but only for a little bit.” you agreed. you both knew you would stay as long as he never told you to leave, and he never would. 

“good. you have to spend one more night here. the asshole got you good unfortunately, but i’ll go set up my place for you and your cat.” 

“please don’t leave yet.” you asked him. 

“i’m right here.” he said holding your hand resting on the bed and moving the chair closer. 

~

recovery was a bitch. that much was true, but it was better with dick. he was an absolute angel the whole time, even trying to give up his own bed for you to sleep in. leading to the argument currently being had. “i’m not going to kick you out of your own bed, dick. that’s too much.” you huffed. 

“you are not sleeping on the couch. the bathroom is much closer in here. you wouldn’t have to move as much.” he tried to reason.

“where will you sleep?” you asked.

“on the floor… on the couch… i won’t, theres many options here. i don’t need my bed.” he emphasized with counting on his fingers. 

“this is ridiculous, the bed is a king size, and we are both reasonable adults. we can share it?” the ending came out like a question. 

“will you have room around me?” he asked, but he clearly liked the idea. 

“of course. it’s your bed anyway.” you reasoned. 

“so be it. we’ll share.” he agreed nodding his head. the first night was great. both of you falling asleep with some netflix show on. the first morning however, you woke up with your head on his chest. the nights and morning afterwards were the exact same. 

~

“do you think it’s weird i’m still here?” you asked, technically you were healed. the scary was ugly, but the pain was all but gone. 

“not at all. actually i think it would feel weird without you here.” he said nonchalantly, while fixing up his coffee in the kitchen. 

“so you do know how to make coffee.” you joked.

“well of course, but yours is better.” he tells you. 

“let me try.” you make grabby hands at his mug. he gives it away with no extra thought. you asked and he gave. you took a sip and grimaced immediately. “this is disgusting no wonder you are always at the coffee shop.”

“hey now, it’s not that bad.” he tried to reason.

“no dick, it really is.” you started laughing. “you really do need me.” you didn’t even think of what you were saying. you just started to look around his kitchen and starting to make some coffee that was actually edible. what stoped you was dick saying your name. 

“i really do need you.” the intensity in his eyes was robust. “i love walking up with you sleeping on me. i love watching you help me cook at night, and playing with your cat. i’m so happy when you’re around.” 

“i’m so happy when you’re around too, dick. i’ve never felt safer than when i’m with you.” you don’t remember who moved first, but your lips were on each others. your hands were on his neck, while his were on your hips, massaging you into him. you felt all of him, pressing into him like you too could ever get closer than this moment. “i love you, dick.”

“i love you,” the gruff of your name on his mouth and the feeling feeling of his skin and muscles against you. his favorite barista. you could definitely get used to this. 

[honeyroots]

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ ⌇JASON TODD

warnings 𖨂 NSFW 18+, MDNI. fem!reader, dirty talk, jason calls you ‘kid,’ finger sucking, doggy style.

“If you wanted me to fuck you, you could have just asked,” Jason drawls, lining up the tip of his cock with your slit before pushing his length inside of your tight, warm walls. The sound of his cock filling your cunt is wet, the reverberation of skin on skin contact filling the air, mixed in with Jason’s grunts and your high pitched mewls. Jason’s index finger outlines your lips, pushing the digit into your mouth with a gentle force. Your tongue swirls around his finger, sucking softly to quiet the ego-boosting moans sounding from you as Jason pushes in and out. “As much as I want to see your pretty little face, this nightgown you’re wearing is making me want to fuck you from behind.”

“Uh— mmph! Uh huh!” You nod your head, trying to formulate an eager ‘yes’ to the suggestion, but the words are buried beneath your moans and gasps. Before you can finish nodding your head, Jason whips you around with barely any effort. With your cheek pressed onto the pillow and your back in a perfect arch, Jason presses his sticky hand— courtesy of your saliva— onto your back and continues to press his cock into your cunt in a measured pattern.

“Tell me how it feels, kid,” Jason grunts with each thrust, the tip of his shaft prodding at your cervix. He plays with the hem of your nightgown, watching the lace detail fall over your ass. Marveling at the way your cunt sucks him up, almost as if your sex swallowing him whole was your full time job, Jason lets out a breathy groan. Drool seeps out of your mouth, soaking into the satin pillowcase while you try to find the words to express the feeling of Jason hitting it from behind. It’s one of your favorite positions because of the way you can feel every inch of him, every vein, every throb of his dick… “Come on, princess, words.”

“Feels good,” you manage to find the words as your wet walls tighten around Jason’s length. A stream of arousal spurts out, drenching his shaft and leaving a ring of your climax embedded in his pubes. Jason lets out a sardonic chuckle as your orgasm sprays against him, your core fluttering around him signaling you have a few more climaxes left in you, “That’s right, this pussy was made just for me.”

[pinksrry]

𓂃₊ ⊹WHEN DID YOU GET HOT

dick grayson x fem!reader | ≈1.4k words ────────────────────────

જ⁀➴ You suddenly become aware of your best friend’s attractiveness. ━━ Content warnings: fluff, childhood best friends to…. something else ig (eventually) ━━ A/N: This is VERY loosely inspired by that sabrina carpenter song. When i started writing it I had a completely different idea but it got out of hand somewhere along the way. So there’s that instead. It’s kind of me appreciating Dick’s beauty.

────────────────────────

You’ve known Dick Grayson since you were a seven-year-old disaster with braces.

That being said, he saw you through all your very embarrassing phases that should be forever buried underground and forgotten. He was present during your bottoms with weird prints era as well as the fake glasses that did not fit your face shape and many many other ones.

And, most importantly, he had to pretend you didn’t look absolutely ridiculous and just accept your every new change.

Then again, considering his questionable choices of clothing and hairstyles through the years, maybe he was not pretending at all. Maybe you were both just losers with no taste whatsoever.

The point is, you’ve never paid much attention to his looks; he was just Dick. Your best friend with a weird sense of humor and cool tricks he knew from the circus. The boy who would play with you every day, teaching you how to climb a tree or how to safely hang upside down from it, the one who would play spies with you, sneaking around his house during important galas Bruce held, and humor your every whim. He was the one to show you how to slide down the banisters so you wouldn’t waste time going down step after step and the one to make sure Alfred always made your favorite sweets when you were coming around.

Dick who would invite you anytime he could to the big, lonely mansion he lived in, so you would spread the warmth you emanated, all around it, and chase away the dark shadows looming over every corner with your laughter.

He was the boy who brought you handmade valentines cards through the years when no one else would, and insisted on baking you a cake every birthday (thank heavens for Alfred, because there isn’t a single baking bone in that fire-hazard boy). The same one who later would look nasty at anyone who dared to look at you the wrong way. And also the one to hold you tight after your first heartbreak and watch rom-coms until your eyes burned from the glow of TV and not crying.

Your whole childhood and teenage years consisted of endless imagination, Alfred’s pastries, and Dick Grayson in the best ways possible.

So it doesn’t make any sense why you’re suddenly becoming aware of his attractiveness. It hits you out of nowhere; one minute you’re laying on the comfortable couch in his apartment, laughing at his ridiculous attempt at the moonwalk, and the next you notice the way his grey t-shirt clings to his shoulders and arms, exposing his toned body.

Logistically, you know he’s fit; he could lift you with one hand without breaking a sweat (which he does quite often just to annoy you). It’s not a surprise by any means; he’s the goddamn Nightwing, of course he’s in shape. But for some reason it clicks for you just now, and you actually see the way he has grown into his body.

You remember him as a teen — tall and lanky, all awkward around the edges, not quite sure how to hold himself. His squeaky voice and the untamed mess on his head that never looked good.

It’s all gone, or well, it evolved into something more, better. Now he carries himself with confidence and an easy, sexy smile that makes everyone and their grandma fall in love with him. The dimples, once called cute by elderly women, now add to his boyish charm, and one flash of them guarantees a number from every pretty girl.

You watch them appear now, as he’s playing the dancing game on his console and tries to mimic the choreography from the tv. For someone usually so graceful, and for a guy who literally runs and jumps buildings, which requires a lot of body control, he’s surprisingly awful at that. Which, of course, you point out to him.

“You suck at that, Richard.” Your voice is full of mirth and your delight only grows when he levels you with his gaze. “C’mon, I know you can do better than that, do you need some motivation? I can go grab some money to throw at you.”

You high-five yourself mentally for sounding normal, no hitch in your breath, no stutter nor any weird tone creeping into your voice after the revelation you just had.

“How about I throw you out of my place instead?” Despite his words, there’s a smile curling on his lips and you see his eyes crinkle.

When he turns back to the tv, you let your eyes wander for the first time. His dark hair is disheveled, but not in that awkward, messy way, more like he’s a model with hair styled specifically for that occasion, it’s parted in the middle and falls on his forehead. From where you’re sitting, you can see the side of his face and-

You would’ve remembered if he had that face, right?

His jaw is sharp and defined, and you find yourself itching to brush it with your finger. The yellow light of a vintage desk lamp, you got him while thrifting, hits his high cheekbones just right and makes his tanned skin look golden and glowy under it.

Which, honestly, is a wonder on its own, because how the hell does he do that? As far as you’re concerned, he uses some face cleanser and a random moisturizer he stole from your place months ago, after a giant pimple appeared in the middle of his forehead the day of his big date. Since then his skin is perfect — no breakouts, no red spots, just effortlessly flawless.

“What are you plotting? You’re suspiciously quiet.” He turns in your direction, brow raised, looking a bit like he’s already regretting asking that question.

You bite your lip slightly as your eyes skim over his shoulders again and stop at his muscular biceps. Damn. A nice pillow for your head.

No.

You grimace at yourself and blink quickly as if to make those thoughts fly far away. Why can’t you stop noticing all that. What is happening. Gross.

You look at Dick’s face and freeze — there’s a bewildered expression on it and in his blue eyes there’s a glimmer of amusement, like he can’t decide what he’s feeling. He noticed too much.

Abort, abort.

“I was just thinking about your strip name, you know, since you’ve started moving those hips I had that thought…” You ramble to make him focus on something different than your weird behavior. “…that maybe you should change profession. I was thinking “Nighttease,” but I guess that might make it a bit too obvious so maybe-“

“Ooo-kay that’s enough of you.” He grabs a candy from the small wooden table and throws it at you, aiming at your forehead and obviously hitting the target.

Normally, you wouldn’t find it that sexy, alas.

“Rude, Richard, rude. After all those years of friendship you go and attack me for simply looking out for you. It’s a great path, will get you a lot of money.”

You’re doing great. You just need to avoid looking at him until your brain decides to work correctly again. No biggie. Maybe finding the album with old pictures of you two will help with that problem. You need to see him as your best friend Dick again, not a man whose body you’d like to trace with your fingers.

“Stop calling me that, weirdo. I’m not forty.” He snorts and rolls his eyes.

It’s a habit he picked up from you during his teenage years, which resulted in Bruce liking you slightly less. Well, at least you assumed he liked you at all before, but it’s hard to tell with a man who has a perfect poker face. By the time Dick (and later also his siblings) started to mimic your expression, you found yourself leveled with Bruce’s eyes more often.

That’s until you began to bully him with your baking. But that’s a story for another time.

“Yeah, because “Dick” is so much better.” You mutter amused and grab the candy he threw at you. Huh, he picked your favorite one. You eye it and for about a second, you consider paying him back with an attack of your own, but the chocolate treat is calling your name, so instead you drop it to your mouth.

He snickers clearly noticing that whole thing and realizing your rejected idea. His lips start to open, shape around some word but the game makes a sound, because he’s been standing in one place far too long bantering with you, and his focus shifts along with his body towards the tv.

And against your better judgment, you continue closely examining his body until it lands on his ass covered by grey sweatpants.

Shit, when did he get hot?

[gumdrops-stuff]

[bluebirdofbludhaven]

about me

hello! i'm val!

i'm a 19 yr old female college student who just got into the dc universe. i have recently felt a calling to start writing again, and who better to start with that the love of my life: nightwing.

pls note that all lowercase is intended in my writing, and like mentioned before i just got into this fandom. i have never picked a comic up in my life (but i have binge watched young justice instead of studying for finals this year) so i will very likely get the lore wrong. please be patient with me and just pretend its cannon.

ground rules <3

i do not stand for any kind of racism, sexism, transphobia, or overall hate speech.

i do write content that is intended for 18 plus readers, please read at your own risk. smut/nsfw will be marked, but if you feel that some warnings were missed please message me!

lastly, for smut content i do only write for a cis gender female reader. as that is my own identification, i feel like i won't be able to accurately depict other type of readers accurately.

thank you so much for reading!