I write for obey me (all chars except new), and all mystic messenger characters beside vanderwood! And all twisted wonderland characters except nrc students! (I write for staff too)
I write hcs and oneshots! Be specific which you want please
For one shots I only take 1 character unless it's a polygamous relationship
- Angst (with happy or sad ending)
- Fluff
- comfort
- No smut but I'm ok with suggestive things!
You can request up to how many characters you want for hcs, but it will take longer
I don't write for the new obey me characters or nrc students!
There are just random unexplainable things they do to you
For example, when LUCIFER is walking past you in a narrow way, like in the kitchen, he would always bump his hips on to you to make you stumble a little bit and walk away like he did nothing.
Whenever MAMMON uses his deluxe 666 car and spotted you in the streets, best belive he's gonna press his foot on the gas and make that annoying "Vroom vroom~" sound at you, pull down and wink at you like a street pervert.
On the other hand, LEVIATHAN will always make you download every single app that makes it seem like you're a couple. Those widgets that has you taking care of the same pet and he would constantly remind you throughout the day to "Feed our children."
While SATAN is the one that would unconsciously hold doors open for you, would unconsciously hold the corners of tables when you bend down to pick something up.
ASMODEUS is cheeky, whenever he would see you, and I mean, anywhere. He would sneak up behind you and give your ass that hellishly painful pinch and run away laughing.
And BEELZEBUB is the type to massage you randomly. Like when he saw you sitting down, he would randomly place his hands on your shoulders then he would unconsciously start massaging you.
BELPHEGOR is still a menace and he knows when to strike. Whenever you're busy holding too many things, he would sneak behind you and press or kick you behind the knees to make them fold.
Hello, there. I was scrolling through Tumblr when I found some fics of yours, where you wrote a request about some Obey Me character's opinions on if suicide is a sin or not. Now, I know that those fics are old, and that the requesters might not seet this, but I was wondering if you could share this thing I learned about *why* suicide is a sin.
You see, suicide is considered a sin of wrath. And to commit a sin of wrath, you must commit acts of hatred or anger on someone undeserving/innocent. This includes harming yourself. So by committing suicide, you are not committing a crime against/on God, but committing a crime against/on Yourself.
Sadly, this meaning got lost and confused through time, but that's why I'm saying this. This is important knowledge that everyone should know, and I hope that this helps someone. May you have something good happen to you within the next day/night :)
Can we get headcanon or a fic for male reader in a love triangle between Cass and Stephanie with reader being part of the "support staff" for the batfamily. Which do you think Reader should go with?
steph x cass x male reader love triangle! headcanons
you were a new hire as an assistant of batman
cass was the first of the batkids you happened to run into, she didn't speak, but she eyed you intently, as if searching for any signs of suspicion.
"uhhhh do you need something ?"
she merely just...ran off.
"rich kids are strange-"
after meeting the other batkids, you happen to meet steph
she's surprisingly very sweet and funny, she makes you laugh
cass watching from afar like 👁️👁️
anyways-
over time, you get closer to steph. you dont get very close to cass but she does observe ?? and she picks up on little things about you, like your habits and mannerisms
it doesnt take long for steph and cass to fall head over heels for you
cass doesnt realize that she's in love with you at first
however, steph is quick to realize her feelings
eventually steph asks you out, and eagerly, you agree to going out with her
but then cass finds out about this and she's devastated, though she would never say it out loud, much less express it
would you believe me if I said I'm in love?
baby, I want you to want me...
He could be vulnerable for you.
He could say 'fuck it' and lay his soul bare.
He could be everything for you and more; he could be the man you can depend on, the man who'll spoil you rotten, wipe away your tears, and love on you so damn much it's absolutely suffocating.
He could be that man, everything for you and more, but... he's afraid.
Afraid of it all—he's such a coward. Afraid of how deep his love for you goes. Afraid of rejection. Afraid of heartbreak. Afraid of laying his soul bare and you see all the cracks in his broken heart that's been haphazardly pieced together and... FUCK!—
But most importantly, he's afraid of hurting you. Afraid. So damn afraid.
God, he's such a fucking coward.
He could be vulnerable for you.
He could say 'fuck it' and lay his soul bare.
He could be everything for you and more and—
Fuck that.
He wants to be everything for you, everything and more, but...
→ ⋆୨୧ ; bruce wayne , the playboy multimillionaire , was still smitten over you
→ 🩰 ; ex-boyfriend!bruce , bruce masturbates while watching the reader get naked , stalker!bruce , i don’t know what this is , reader’s skin tone . hair type/color . or looks are not described
“master bruce! you’ve been replaying the same clip the whole day, just go see her already.” alfred scolds bruce. he was right. and it’s been happening longer than a day. maybe even longer than a week. he still missed you.
“you know she doesn’t want to see me anymore, alfred.” he replays the video again.
it was a clip of you and bruce dancing together at a met gala. you had given him your biggest and prettiest smile ever. he had his special contacts in at the time, recording every single second.
if only he could relive that moment. just one more time. “the more you watch it, the worse your obsession will get.” alfred turns off the screen. “go see her.”
bruce watched you from a roof of a building across from yours, watching your every move. he felt a tent in his pants grew higher as he watched you drop your robe from your body.
“fuck.”
you poured the lotion on your hand and rubbing them together, massaging your breasts. bruce’s hand flies to his crotch, palming himself.
your hands glide down your body, stopping at your inner thighs. he unbuttoned his pants, pulling them and his boxers down to his ankles.
he could see the headlines already.
‘ bruce wayne relieving himself while stalking a woman. ’
‘ is bruce wayne a creep? ’
he really didn’t care who saw him right now.
he needed to relieve some tension.
he wrapped his hand around his shaft, slowly stroking himself. he wanted to tease himself. wanted to see how long he could last while watching you.
at one point, he almost finished. you had bent over to apply the lotion on your legs, your cunt saying hello to him. you knew what you were doing, he thought. he grunts as his hand moved faster.
if only his hand was yours.
“fuck.” white strings spew from his pink sensitive tip, covering his hand. his eye rolled back as he finally gave into his release. he “cleaned” himself off, quickly pulling his pants up in embarrassment.
A/N: I read Tonari no Seki no Hen na Senpai and I was like, damn, modern office AU with Idia sounds dope 🔥
F!Reader; Idia Shroud
•〔 ！ 〕 NSFW(ish) content; no sex buuut mostly description sooo; Grammatical errors; Not proofread
He was in big trouble.
How couldn't he, when he was already as hard as stone, his very hard-on strained against the fabric of his trousers at the closeness of the woman above him.
From where he was laying down, he had a clear view of her cleavage despite her breasts being confined by layers of clothes that were supposed to make them look more… presentable for an office worker. Not only that, but the heat down there, where her hips were pressed against his, was the main reason for his current predicament.
And breaking eye contact with her daunting chest for a second, he immediately threw his head back, smacking it on the floor in a loud thud that resonated in the stuffy closet. He, Idia Shroud, had seen that he wasn't supposed to. Because her skirt had ridden up, the fabric bunching around her waist, he saw the intricate, and most probably expensive, lacework decorating her underwear like a fine piece of artwork, the clothing slightly damp. And, as if they were coming as a pair, her stockings stopped right under her ass, letting him notice the garter belt attached to them.
He came back to himself seconds later, when he felt her soft hands brushing against his face. He could see her lips moving —and wow, he was not one to observe such things, yet her lipstick paired well with the blush coloring her face— but no words reached his pink ears, pink with embarrassment, as he was too focused on her chest that was now barely touching his. He could only guess that she was asking about his well-being from the expression she wore, so he merely nodded, but Oh Great Seven, has he ever seen such a sight before? The first few buttons of her top had already been popped open long before their incident, surely from the Heaton the summer that had just started, and seeing sweat dripping along her cleavage was clearly not the type of things he hoped to see for this Thursday evening. That's why Thursdays were the worst.
"E- Excuse me Idia…" He was brought back from his staring session, suddenly hyper aware of the way she was looking to the side with a shy look as she tried to put herself up together. He didn't even questioned how she knew his name, instead he sputtered a few incoherent words, trying to apologize but miserably failing to do so, before crawling away from her, his back quickly coming to a stop against a nearby wall.
He watched, his breath harsh and following an uncontrolled rhythm, as she pulled her skirt down and flatten its fabric properly before switching to her hair that she tried to place back correctly. But he was still hard. The heat from her damp womanhood the reminder of what he had stumbled upon when he first entered the closet. If Cater hadn't begged, and slightly threatened also, for him to pick the documents he was to hand over to Riddle, none of this would have happened. Why had he even listened to him? HE was the boss here, not this Diamond playboy who was too busy flirting with the female co-worker of the Heartslabyul firm to do his own damn job alone.
If he hadn't entered the small closet with the "secret" printer —it was in a remote place and he mostly did his breaks in this place since no-one ever came there— then he wouldn't have seen her pleasuring herself on the desk, her skirt slightly pulled up as she pressed herself harder against the wooden corner. He wouldn't have been caught by surprise, leading him to let out a small squeaky noise that both made them panicking and eventually made her stumble on her own feet and onto him, tackling him on the floor with both of her legs parted on each sides of his hips.
She got up, dusting herself once again, before uttering a small apology. She took the papers that had long been printed and were patiently waiting to be picked, then rushed out of the closet-like room, leaving him alone and still confused about the entire ordeal. Shit, he cursed under his breath as he took a look at the still strained fabric of his pants. He shakily got up, walking to the door where his hand was resting on the handle as he thought about what he was about to do. He had been proven wrong, that this room was indeed NOT as remote as he had thought it was, and if he wanted to follow with the idea that had suddenly surfaced in his mind, even if his zero risk comfort place was not one anymore.
But two minutes. It shouldn't take more than two minutes. It won't take more than two minutes, he quietly whispered to himself over and over as he finally moved to the lock under the handle and turned it to the right, the soft 'click' finally taking him out of his haze. With how hard he was, he knew that it wouldn't take long. And resolved, but still scared out of his mind that someone could come at any moment and asked why the door was locked, although it added to the tension and fueled the kinky thoughts in his mind, he started to unbuckled his belt. He couldn't go back, everyone would see how sexually frustrated he was, and the memory of her body drenched in sweat was still fresh in his mind.
Just let him relieve himself, then he'll be back to the gloomy Idia Shroud constantly found wandering around the vending machines.
this is basically a part 2 of his kinks & hcs post but i am very much a whore for this man so i NEED. TO. WRITE SOME SHIT.
warnings: smut/nsfw, malleus being a loser virgin, it gets very smutty at the nsfw part so, oral (receiving + giving), unprotected sex, two dicks, implied corruption/humiliation kink, mentions of pregnancy/breeding, choking/biting, mal being lowkey sadistic, sleepy sex, holy shit there are alot of warnings i am sorry, reader is afab but no gender or pronouns are explicitly specified
words: 2.5k
~
sfw
this is some serious sappy shit but i can’t help it 😭😭 i am literally so in love with this man damn
~ right off the bat, malleus would definitely be the best boyfriend ever and no one can convince me otherwise (or at least one of the best out of the twst cast cuz there’s some uh questionable characters in that list *idia and leona i am directly looking at you*)
~ the way your relationship builds up with malleus is agonisingly slow. he’s very cautious about who he gets close to and is definitely not one to make any bold moves—especially if he doesn’t feel like you’re reciprocating the same feelings—but oh boy. once you do, that’s when he gets a bit more excited.
i'll be the dangerous ledge (you be the parachute)
━ chapter two: out of my depth at this altitude | read chapter one | read chapter three
━ pairing: tim drake x f!reader
━ word count: 4.4k
━ warnings: none
━ masterlist
━ a/n: this fic is supposed to be updated once a week on fridays but the reception has been so nice, i couldn't help myself from posting a bonus chapter before then. as a treat. also... would anyone be interested in a tag list for this fic? let me know, and enjoy!
You joked about it but, really, Tim Drake is a quick study. Not that doing your laundry is that hard to begin with — well, if you have no idea where to start, it is, but once you know the basics, it’s all fairly self-explanatory. You get to ask about the fabric softener when you two go back to put your clothes in the dryer and he mutters something about them feeling weird afterward, which you valiantly try not to laugh at. By the way, he sighs at you, you are not successful.
But after that? Well… that’s kind of it and you step off the elevator at one in the morning with a basket full of warm and freshly-folded clothes, feeling a tad disappointed that it’s all over with.
But then Tim says, “See you next weekend,” and the feeling disappears quickly.
Fate, you quickly learn, also seems to be looking out for you.
The next day at noon, you’re waiting to head downstairs, eyes narrowed on your compact mirror as you roll on a darkly tinted lip balm. The elevator doors open, but you’re distracted with the lip balm, so you don’t notice who else is in there. Not until Tim calls your name, surprising you so much your hand jerks and a light smear of the tinted lip balm shines on your cheek.
He sputters a laugh. “Sorry!”
“This is payback for all my jokes, then, is it,” you say, stepping in and, seeing the button for the ground floor pushed, start digging through your tote bag for the small pack of makeup wipes you usually carry with you.
“It’s not,” Tim says, smiling. “The jokes were a fair tradeoff for you teaching me the ways of laundry.”
You nod sagely. “Indeed.”
He chuckles. “Where are you off to?”
“Grocery shopping,” you say, cleaning off the streak on your cheek, then making sure you didn’t smudge anything else around your lips. “You?”
“Same, actually. Well, just for the detergent. Speaking of, you know, I realized sometime last night I never got the brand from you. They turned out pretty good.”
“Like your butler did it?”
“I never should’ve told you that.”
You laugh, putting away your makeup wipes, the mirror, and the tube of lip balm.
You realize, then, that Tim is dressed in something other than sweats and a t-shirt — which is an excellent look, definitely, but he’s in his outside clothes, in jeans and a thick jacket much like you are to fight off the early February cold.
He looks like a model, to be honest. You spy the brand of his jacket. Patagonia. A Patagonia model, then. Jeez. Patagonia’s expensive. But to him, it’s probably nothing. You managed to thrift yourself a slightly worn Columbia parka which has served you well against several years of bitter Gotham winters.
He tucks his hands in his pockets, cornflower blue eyes trained on the red numbers that tick by for each floor you pass. His side-profile is disturbingly perfect. So not fair.
“Where do you do your shopping, then, if you don’t mind me asking?” he asks, glancing at you and making you look away.
“Stalking me?”
“That’s why I said if you don’t mind me asking. So, we didn’t have to do that.”
You laugh. “Nah, don’t worry about it. I figure a… mostly high-profile figure like yourself can’t be in the business of being creepy. Reputation and all that. Though I suppose you could pay people off. Or call a hit on them.”
But while the other notable rich families of the city have all kinds of skeletons in the closet, the Wayne’s don’t. Mostly. No whispered rumors of them paying off sexual harassment rumors or other morally reprehensible shit.
“Oh, please. And what’s this about mostly high-profile figure?” He almost looks offended but you spy a playfulness to him, so it’s more of a mock offense than anything. Like he doesn’t actually care. He probably doesn’t.
But still, you go along, smiling apologetically as you shrug.
“Weeell… it’s not like I recognized your face.”
“Some do.”
“But I did recognize your name. So. Mostly high-profile. See, if you were, say, Lex Luthor —” he wrinkles his nose in deep disgust and you choke out a laugh “— then yeah, I’d recognize you immediately.”
“Fair enough. And also, please don’t ever compare me to him again.”
“What, you don’t like him?”
“Do you?”
“Fair point, fair point. Anyway,” you chuckle, “I’m going to ShopRite.”
“The one off Schnapp Ave?”
“That’s the one.”
“Oh. Me, too. Are you in the parking garage?”
You snort. “No. I bike. Not great for bulk shopping but what can you do?”
He pauses, seeming to think hard. You raise an eyebrow as the doors open and the two of you step out, heading for the lobby.
“I could — I mean, since we’re going to the same place…” he gestures a little awkwardly; it’s not the request itself that trips him up, you think, it’s something else — probably not trying to come off creepy. “I could give you a ride?”
“A ride, huh?”
Tim spreads his palms. “I’m not trying to kidnap you or something, I swear.”
“But a would-be kidnapper would say that, would he not?”
“I don’t know,” he says, awkwardness easing out for vague amusement. “I think a would-be kidnapper would be, well, better at this whole thing. Like not taking you out from the main entrance.”
“Think about that a lot, do you?”
“Text a friend where you’re going,” he says, smiling. “And let me give you a ride so you can bulk up on your groceries without worrying about getting it back here.”
“You drive a hard bargain.”
But of course you’re going to say yes. You consider yourself a fairly good judge of character.
There is much to be said about Tim Drake.
As mentioned before, the adopted son of billionaire Bruce Wayne; his parents — you shamelessly looked it up last night — used to own Drake Industries, a company that specialized in medical equipment and supplies before it eventually closed down. Both of them passed away, his mother first when he was younger, then his father later; Bruce Wayne adopted him in his teens.
He had a brief stint as figurehead CEO of Wayne Enterprises when he was seventeen, was also apparently engaged to Tamara Fox, the daughter of the current WE CEO, Lucius Fox, and also had an assassination attempt on him. This is followed up with being, like, regularly held hostage for ransom.
A lot of drama, basically, but not much about him himself.
You expected — and you’ll admit this — a much haughtier persona than the one you are currently encountering. After all, he could have taken offense at your teasing about the laundry and refused your help. But he let it happen — not hesitating to add his own jokes at his expense, too.
And here he is now, offering you a free ride and free use of his car’s trunk for your grocery shopping pleasure.
Maybe you are about to be kidnapped.
But at least it was in the name of bulk shopping.
He scratches his head. “I also have a Costco membership if that sways you?”
You’re practically in love.
“You know the way to a woman’s heart,” you sigh dramatically.
“Free trunk space and Costco?”
“Free trunk space and Costco.”
You text your brother for good measure, though.
It’s not serious. Mostly, it’s you having your fun.
i’m going grocery shopping with tim drake. if i don’t text you back by five, call the cops
WHAT
WHAT???
WHAT!!!!!!!!!!
You just smile and put your phone away.
You have nothing to worry about.
Well, you knew that but over the course of the day, as you first hit Costco and buy toilet paper, paper towels, detergent, and other groceries in bulk, then you go to ShopRite to get the rest of the stuff, you realize Tim is actually… a lot of fun.
He has this snark to him that comes out in the most unexpected moments and you would be lying through your teeth if you said you didn’t like how it keeps you on your toes.
Plus… it’s fun to grocery shop with someone else. Maybe that sounds weird but… you don’t know. You like the companionship.
(And that, of course, could be the gnarled loneliness inside of you finally being soothed away in the company of a person who doesn’t have to be here with you, yet is.)
The sun is setting when you two get back to the apartments. The parking garage is adjacent to the building and they have little carts people can use to take up their groceries more quickly.
“I mean,” Tim starts, easily lifting the case of water bottles from the trunk and dropping it into the cart. “At the risk of sounding creepy again, I don’t mind helping you take this stuff up.”
“In that case, I owe you.”
“Nah, don’t worry about it.”
“Aw, come on. You let me monopolize your trunk, your Costco membership, and your time.”
“Believe me, I didn’t have anything planned for today. This is a much better use of my time.”
You don’t know how to handle that. Which is why you insist.
“You know the Indian place on Cameron? On me.”
“They do have good biryani,” he muses. “Alright. Why not.”
You manage to haul everything into two carts. He only got the detergent, which he says he’ll just take upstairs with him after.
You dig out your keys on the elevator ride up, the two of you deciding on what to order.
“Just leave the carts near the door,” you say when you get to your apartment. “And take off your shoes, too, please.”
“Sure.”
You unlock the door, belatedly realizing you did not prepare your place for guests but you are assuaged by the reminder that you’d cleaned last night like you always do, so, there’s that.
Your apartment is an open floor plan, with the kitchen immediately to your left and then the living room to the right. Your bedroom and bathroom are off to the side of that.
You scan everything quickly as you kick off your shoes. Your coffee table is the only thing not quite suited for visitors, with your laptop and graded papers scattered over it. Right, that reminds you, you need to finish those for this week and get the grades inputted…
“Nice socks.”
“Huh?” You blink, turning and spying an amused look on Tim’s face. Your eyes flicker to your socked feet in the next second, barely remembering you had put on a pair of black socks with a pattern of the Flash’s symbol on them.
You grin proudly, looking back at him. “Thank you. I think he’s pretty cool. Well, I think most of them are cool…”
“League supporters are hard to come by these days.”
You roll your eyes. “I know. But I don’t care for the government’s posturing about what they should and shouldn’t do. They’ve saved the world, like, a bunch of times. They should be grateful.”
“Hard to accept they need the help.”
“Yeah, then they go pouring my tax dollars into the military when it can go literally anywhere else. Jerks.”
Tim takes off his shoes and sets them aside while you shut the door behind you. He stands up, taking in your apartment with clear curiosity.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” you say, gesturing to it. By now, more than six months after moving in, you’ve made it your home. Picture frames on the walls, a few choice paintings, some old drawings from when you worked at Gotham Elementary right after graduating. Decorating the TV stand and various surfaces are little figurines and pieces of pottery you’ve made. You do pottery classes twice a month at the rec center in Chinatown. You’ve been doing it since you graduated three years ago.
His eyes spy your twenty-gallon tank against the wall, behind the couch and beside the bookshelves.
“Reptiles?” he guesses, squinting to get a better look.
You smile, stepping forward and beckoning him with you.
“No, they’re hermit crabs. I needed some pets like me.”
He snorts, then bends forward to peer inside. A thick layer of substrate covers the bottom. You have two ponds of freshwater and saltwater on opposite sides of the tank, a handful of sanitized shells scattered about, moss pits, a little holder suctioned to the glass with a fish net attached to it so the crabs can climb into it, and then various fake plants and pieces of driftwood and hollowed logs.
“This is their crabitat,” you inform him. You point to a crab with a pink shell mottled with brown, currently climbing the fishnet. “That’s Sid.” Then to another crab with a tan shell speckled with red moving into a hollow log. “That’s Diego.” And finally, a crab with a darker shell, with black spots chilling by a plant. “And that’s Manny.”
You both are bent forward, peering into the crabitat. Tim scrunches up his face and looks at you. “Did you… name them after the characters from Ice Age?”
You grin widely at him. “Yes.”
He laughs. He laughs for a while, actually, enough so that you start to feel a tad embarrassed.
“Hey!”
“No, no, no, I’m not making fun of you,” he quickly says, a little breathless, cornflower blue eyes bright with mirth. “I just… Talk about a blast to the past. I think the last time I saw those movies I was a kid.”
“Well, see how it makes an impact? You remembered their names.”
“True,” he says, chuckling. “Haven’t they come out with a bunch of movies since?”
“Mm, yeah, and they’re okay, except for the most recent one. That one is just a total mess because a handful of the actors didn’t come back for it. And also they tried some new animation and it looks so bad.”
“Kids probably don’t notice that,” he points out teasingly.
“Well, they should pay their respects to the original movies! All my childhood media was enjoyable for me and sometimes for my parents, too, because they always had adult jokes in it. Like in Spongebob. Or the earlier seasons, anyway.”
“I was never allowed to watch that,” he admits.
“Ugh, you aren’t the first person to tell me that. Some of my old college friends said their parents didn’t let them watch it because it would ‘kill their brain cells.’ You know what’s not just killing brain cells but indoctrinating them, too, these days? Paw Patrol.”
Tim lets out another loud laugh.
“I don’t watch it, either, okay! I just watch Spongebob sometimes and I guess it thinks I’m a child so it plays, you know, commercials geared towards kids and god, the amount of Paw Patrol commercials I get is so annoying.”
“I’m surprised you lean toward it,” he says, the two of you going over to the carts. “Since you’re a teacher’s aide.”
“Well, that’s the good thing about middle schoolers. They’re out there watching TV and movies that they probably shouldn’t be watching, so that’s not what I’m hearing about.”
“I’m not sure I’ve heard the words ‘good’ and ‘middle schoolers’ in a sentence before.”
You snort, then feel bad immediately. Your kids are good. Annoying sometimes, sure, but they’re kids. Everyone is annoying every now and then. Plus…
“I wasn’t too keen about being saddled with the six graders, either,” you admit. “But I’ll tell you what Ms. C — the teacher I help — told me. Maybe the reason middle schoolers are so… not fun to be around is because they can tell their teachers and practically every other adult in their life doesn’t want to be around them, either.”
He tilts his head. “Fair point. But also — puberty.”
“There is also the puberty,” you agree.
Tim chuckles and the two of you get to unpacking the groceries. You tell him he doesn’t have to — seriously — but he simply says he might as well help out. Of course, the process is made doubly longer by the fact that he has no idea where anything goes and you have to point him in the right direction but just like earlier, you don’t mind.
After, he pulls on his shoes, grabs the container of detergent he bought, and tells you he’ll take the carts back downstairs and put his stuff away, then come back.
You let him go and call in the order to the restaurant, then feed your crabs and collapse onto your couch. Your weekends are usually for resting your abused feet, since during the week, you are moving and standing constantly, but you don’t mind today’s aches, knowing it was accompanied with… one of the best days you’ve ever had in a long while.
With that, you decide to let your brother know there is no need to call the cops.
hi i made it unscathed
haha just kidding today was so fun
i went to costco!!! my tp is stocked for Days
Hello????
hello
Don’t do that. What on earth are you doing hanging out with Tim freakin Drake?
I don’t think that’s his middle name. Isn’t it jackson?
You can faintly recall that from when you unashamedly googled him last night.
A knock on your door. You heave yourself from the couch and open it. Tim steps inside.
“Hey, what’s your middle name?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Jackson. Do you want to know my mom’s maiden name, too? Maybe the street I was born on?”
You grin, going to sit back down. “I don’t know. I mean, if you’re offering.”
He shakes his head at you, then hesitates. You gesture to the couch. “Make yourself at home, seriously. After today, we’re practically BFFs.”
“Should I be worried about you?”
You wave a hand. “That’s just the crippling loneliness, don’t worry about it.”
“You’re…” He shakes his head again and sits down. You have the TV on, one of the various streaming services you shamelessly leech off your brother for pulled up. The page for Ice Age is there, too, waiting for you to hit play.
“You said you didn’t have anything else to do and I took that to heart.”
“I can see that,” Tim says dryly, but the quirk of his lips belies the tone.
You glance back at your phone where your previous text is. You snort.
“Your middle name really is Jackson?”
“Yes…” he says warily. “Why?”
“You have three first names.”
He lets out a choked laugh. “You’re the worst.”
You giggle and pick up the remote, pressing play. “Sorry!”
“Whatever. I do all this…”
“Hey!”
He grins and glances at the kitchen. “You mind if I grab a green tea?”
“Only if you grab one for me, too.”
He stands. “I guess. Even though you’re bullying me.”
“I’m sorry, you just make it so easy.”
Tim rolls his eyes good-naturedly at you and crosses to your kitchen, opening the fridge.
“There’s ice in the freezer since they’re not cold yet. And the cups are in the cabinet to the left.”
“Got it, thanks.”
You take a second to watch him shut the fridge, then step to the side to open the cabinet, pulling out two glasses. You’re crazy for thinking it, you know, but you don’t… terribly mind the sight of Tim in your kitchen. You really don’t.
It’s a good thing you two are friends, then.
Wait.
You are friends, right?
“Hey, Tim?”
“Yeah?”
“Are we friends now?”
Maybe it’s elementary to ask but… communication is important and all that. You would hate to think of you two as friends only to later realize he thinks you two are just… you don’t know, acquaintances?
He turns, smiling faintly. “And here I thought my offer to let you use my trunk and Costco membership said that clearly.”
“I didn’t want to assume!”
“I don’t just let anyone do those things, you know. Not strangers. Only for friends and strange girls who judge me for not knowing how to do my laundry and make fun of my name.”
“I am buying you dinner.”
“Do you buy dinner for strange guys who don’t know how to do their laundry?”
“No,” you admit. It really does say it, the fact that you even let him inside your place. Let him commandeer your kitchen for green tea, too.
Your face warms and you look away. “Alright! I’m just making sure, okay…”
“Yes,” he says, and when you glance at him, he’s smiling at you. “We’re friends.”
The butterflies in your belly go a little crazy at that. You have to look away again.
“Cool,” you mutter.
He chuckles and turns back to pour out the drinks.
You split your attention between him and your phone. He doesn’t stand in front of the counter but allows the glasses with the ice to be in plain view. For your sake, you’re sure.
we’re friends. just discussed it. i made a friend!!!
…….. He’s TIM DRAKE
so?
Jesus christ
Tim returns with a now-cold glass of green tea, ice clattering around inside, and you hit play on the movie. Your dinner arrives shortly after. You were right, of course, in that the very first Ice Age movie is more than a little amusing even for adults. Especially for adults.
“What other movies do you like, then?” he asks.
“Hmm. I’m partial to Mamma Mia. I like ABBA. And Meryl Streep and Amanda Seyfried. You know, I almost named the boys, um, Sam, Harry, and Bill.”
He blinks at you.
“You know, the — the guys! The baby daddies!”
A slow shake of the head.
“You’ve never seen Mamma Mia?”
“I’ve seen… The Devil Wears Prada?”
You pause, raising an eyebrow. 2000s dramas don’t seem to fit him but honestly you’ve never actually seen the movie, so maybe it’s different from what you think.
“I’ve never seen that one.”
He gives you a look, saying See? You, too.
“Alright,” you say, grinning. “You have to see Mamma Mia and I have to see The Devil Wears Prada.”
“We could just do it now,” he says, glancing at the TV, where the credits for Ice Age are rolling. The second movie, Ice Age: The Meltdown, is being advertised as the next movie you should watch.
“Which one? I think we should watch Mamma Mia.”
“Well, I think —” he stops as something vibrates. You think it’s your phone initially but then he slips his out of his pocket. It’s already nine. He grimaces. “I think we’ll have to make that decision another time.”
“Hey, no worries. I’ve taken up enough of your time. I should probably be getting ready for bed, too.”
Though, the good thing about Gotham Pointe being a newly-opened and very funded charter school is that, in a move to distinguish itself from the other charter schools in the city, school starts at nine instead of seven-thirty. It was a point that they wanted to move the starting time later, in an effort to heed the countless research that kids were better off starting their school days later rather than earlier. It still ends at four like the other ones, too.
But you have to be there at eight. Which is still a better alternative than anything else, of course.
He types something into his phone, lips pursed, then stands, collecting the trash from dinner and putting it back into the bag.
“You don’t have to —”
“Least I can do,” he says, tying off the bag, your coffee table now clear of trash. Your laptop and stack of… shit, not graded papers sits in the corner. You still have to do that. Damn. Oh, well. This was too much fun.
“So,” he starts, lips pursed, thinking quickly as he runs a hand through his hair. “I’ll take a raincheck. I’m thinking you can host for Mamma Mia and it’s only fair if I host for The Devil Wears Prada?”
“Oh, you mean —?”
“If you’re comfortable with it,” he quickly says. “If not, we can do it here. I just, I don’t know. Want it to be fair so I’m not always hogging your space.”
I don’t mind, you want to say.
You don’t.
Instead, you smile and shrug. “You haven’t kidnapped or killed me yet, so, sure, I’d like that.”
“Well, you see, I need to build trust first.”
“Ohhh, of course, of course. Makes sense.”
He grins at you and picks up the bag. “I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah. Have a goodnight.”
You sit up to pull your laptop and the papers to you, picking up your blue glitter pen. The kids tease you about it but you think they secretly like it.
“Oh, wait,” he says, straightening after pulling on his shoes.
“What?”
“Your number,” he says, shaking his head. “I was about to leave when I realized I don’t have your number and you don’t have mine.”
You stand, picking up your phone. “I completely forgot, too. Here.”
You pass off your phone and squash down any hesitancy in him handling it, with the yellowed clear case and a couple cracks in your screen protector. Then you gingerly accept his, sleek and new, the display bright and flowing smoothly as you type in your phone number.
“Please don’t leak my number to the press,” is what he says when he passes his phone back to you.
You laugh. “I promise on my Justice League sock collection.”
“Now, that’s serious.”
You back away, giving him a two-fingered salute like you did last night. “I’d never betray them.”
He smiles, bids you one last goodnight, then steps out. You lock the door behind him.
Then you step away, staring at it for a moment, a silly grin full of giddiness growing on your lips.
You look back at your phone, then burst out laughing when you see how he did his contact.
First Name: Timothy Jackson
Last Name: Drake
A poke at you for that comment about his name, you’re certain.
Not like it matters, anyway.
You are far too pleased to have his name in your phone.
Not because he is Timothy Jackson Drake, twenty-three-years-old and one of Gotham’s most eligible bachelors, but because he is Tim, your friend who can’t handle spicy foods but eats it, anyway, who likes The Devil Wears Prada, and who has so much more about him that you cannot wait to find out.
i'll be the dangerous ledge (you be the parachute)
summary: in which you manage to have a meet-cute in your apartment building's laundry room with tim drake.
━ chapter one: short of breath | read chapter two
━ pairing: tim drake x f!reader
━ word count: 4.3k
━ warnings: none
━ masterlist
Rose Oaks’ laundry room is dead at eleven-thirty in the evening.
You retract the thought as soon as it forms.
No, no, not dead. Silent. Calm. Yes, that’s better.
In Gotham City, it’s best not to associate things or people with the word dead. Lest you, you know, tempt fate.
While it is true that Rose Oaks, your fifteen-story apartment building situated between Chinatown and the Upper West Side, is safer than the previous complex you lived in in Burnley — it has a doorman and everything, how fancy is that — you tend to err on the side of caution.
Of course, you’re also contradicting yourself since you’re coming down to do your laundry at eleven at night and if your parents knew, they would be very disapproving.
But no one is perfect.
And anyway, you’re halfway done. You’re moving your clothes and towels from the washing machine to the dryers, pouch of quarters rattling around in the pocket of your hoodie as you go.
Kneeling in front of the open dryer, you tense when you hear the door open. You peek around the dryer door, watching a guy your age — early twenties — walk inside with a laundry basket propped on his hip.
Your eyes quickly catalog lean muscles, dark hair, and pale skin before you force yourself to turn around and finish tossing in the wet clothes bundled in your arms, detangling some of them as you go.
When you stand, turning back to the wall of washers, you glimpse his back, shoulders stretching out a white t-shirt.
You go back to the washers you were using, a couple feet away from him. He is dumping his clothes inside. All of them. You get it. You were raised to separate your darks and whites and bright colors but when you have to pay to do laundry, you cut corners when necessary.
You only separated your stuff for a few months before you got tired of paying the extra dollar and fifty to run another load.
You bend forward to pull out another armful of clothes, careful not to let the whole world see the few pairs of underwear there, then turn and go back over to the dryer to throw them in.
When you step back to the washers, you glimpse the guy intently studying the back of the bottle of laundry detergent. Like it’s got the secrets to the universe and not just the instructions on how to use it. Another bottle sits on the edge. Wait a second…
You pull out another armful, cross the room to deposit it into the dryer, then on your walk back, you squint to get a good look.
Oh, yup. Fabric softener. Yikes. You don’t even think that can be used with these washers? The cheap ones that last, like, two decades and don’t exactly rotate like a regular front-facing washer does but rather very aggressively spins.
Like the cherry on top, he seems to be using the measurements on the cup, the ones that the instructions tell you to use but you shouldn’t because you don’t actually need that much detergent, the companies are just trying to get you to use more and thus buy more.
Oh, you can’t look anymore. It’s just too much.
You grab your final armful of clothes, toss them in the dryer along with a dryer sheet and close the door. You just need your towels now.
The guy is doing the fabric softener now. You look away, opening the lid on the other washer.
Inside the circular washer, your towels are plastered to the sides. You reach down to unstick them. See, this is what you mean. It’s just cheap. For such a nice building, they should have better washers and dryers. Or better yet — apartments with an in-unit set. But this one was in your pay range and only half a mile from the school, which did sway you.
No matter. At least the laundry room is in the same building. Your old apartment complex had a separate building for it and you hated making that walk.
You throw in your towels and a dryer sheet, then shut the door.
Behind you, you hear a similar sound.
You stick your hand into the pocket of your hoodie, where your baggie of quarters is. Opening it, you mentally count out twelve quarters. A dollar and fifty for each load and you have two. You also hate that. Having to pay. You’re already paying for rent and utilities, you have to pay this, too? All landlords suck but Gotham ones, you’re convinced, are even suckier.
You slot in the quarters until it beeps at you. You press start, then do the same for the other one.
You turn and catch the guy scratching his head, glancing between his phone and the frayed poster on the wall that advertises the app you can download and use to pay for the washers and dryers.
The thing is, the app stopped working, like, two weeks ago. Previous encounters with others in the laundry room assure you that everyone else is experiencing it. So, you have to do it the old-fashioned way and pay with the dusty seldom-used coin slots.
You almost prefer it. With the app, you had a minimum limit of ten dollars when reloading money and oftentimes you aren’t doing more than two loads. You hated seeing the money leave your account.
More head-scratching. You take pity on him.
“It’s not working.”
His head snaps to you. It is with something of a sucker punch that you realize he is cute. Gorgeous, really. Black hair falling over his forehead into blue eyes that blink at you.
Your heart does a weird wiggly thing at his attractiveness. You’re no good with pretty people. No good at all.
Ignoring the sudden bout of nerves, you gesture to the poster. “The app isn’t working, right? It hasn’t for two weeks now. Dunno when they’re gonna fix it. You have to use the coin slot.”
“Great,” he sighs, his voice a mellifluous tenor.
He puts his phone away, then reaches into the pocket of his sweats, pulling out a wallet.
“Who carries coins these days, anyway?” he mutters, making your lips twitch; the quarters do not magically appear by the way he closes his wallet, puts it away, then looks at the coin slot, deliberating.
You don’t think anyone has ever stolen another person’s clothes. At least it hasn’t happened to you but you can’t speak for the other tenants in this building. Still, you wouldn’t run upstairs and just leave your clothes in there. Even for a few minutes.
But it doesn’t really matter, anyway, in the end. You already know what you’re going to do.
“Here,” you say, pulling out the baggie of quarters and opening it again, venturing closer to him.
“You don’t have to —”
“Don’t worry about it,” you say, shooting him a small smile. “I wouldn’t want to leave my clothes here if it’s not on, either. Just one, right?”
He seems to accept his fate, nodding.
You pull out twelve quarters like last time.
“For the washer and the dryer,” you say when he opens his mouth to presumably protest. “Just in case.”
“I’ll pay you back.”
You laugh. “In quarters, too?”
Amusement shines in his eyes. His lips quirk. “If you’d like.”
“No repayment necessary,” you tell him. “Really.”
Collected quarters in hand, you extend your hand and he opens his beneath yours. Your hands brush as you pass them to him carefully, making sure they don’t fall to the ground. That would be embarrassing.
“Thanks,” he says, sending you a grateful look.
You nod and put your baggie of coins back in your pocket. “No problem.”
You turn away, making for the door, pleased to have helped.
You see him again the following weekend. Same time. Eleven PM on Saturday night. Your laundry slash cleaning days. You like to wait until much later in the evenings; the laundry room can get busier earlier in the day, especially the afternoon. There is never a short supply of washers to use but the dryers can be a scarce commodity if it’s busy. You’d hate to have a basket full of wet clothes and no dryer to put them in.
At this time, only a couple washers run and a few dryers hum.
When you slip inside to move your clothes from the washer to the dryer like last time, Detergent Boy is already there.
Except not with a bottle of fabric softener or a bottle of liquid laundry detergent but… laundry detergent in powder form?
What is he doing, conducting some kind of experiment?
You also wonder about the lack of fabric softener. Did that not go well? You thought it might not. Too bad.
You wonder in general, about him. He seems rather… confused about everything regarding, hm, laundry.
He looks over his shoulder at your entrance, lips ticking up when he sees you. That does funny things to your heart.
“Hey,” he says. “Is the app working?”
“Is the — oh. No. Still doing it the old-fashioned way.”
You are briefly confused at the question, considering he was inside before you, though he hadn’t yet started the machine. Then you realize you are stepping in empty-handed and he must’ve concluded by that that you had already thrown your clothes into the washer and you are now moving them to dry.
Huh. He is… observant. Or maybe it’s normal and you’re just too used to dealing with the short attention spans of your kids at school. It’s probably that.
You are a teacher’s aide at the freshly-opened Gotham Pointe Academy, a charter school for 6-12, funded heavily by Wayne Enterprises, located in the Upper West Side. You assist the kind but scatterbrained teacher, Ms. C, in sixth grade social studies.
The pay is good, which is due to the aforementioned funding by Wayne Enterprises. WE seems to be on a public education kick recently, pouring money into not just Gotham Pointe but the existing underfunded schools in the city.
You won’t complain. The state of many in-city schools is not great. Things are better in the ones in the suburbs, you’ve heard. And of course, private schools like Gotham Academy have no issues at all. At least when it comes to funding, anyway.
“I figured it wouldn’t be working yet,” he says as you go over to the washers, lifting the lid. His is a few over from yours.
“Yeah, I have no idea when they’re going to fix it. The office says we need to talk to the app’s support but I feel like that’s a cop-out.”
“Oh, for sure,” he says, making you grin. “So, can I pay you back?”
“You really don’t have to,” you chuckle, lifting the wet clothes from the washer and turning to cross over to the dryers.
“It’s only fair,” he insists, eyes following you, making you a little more proactive in making sure he doesn’t get an eyeful of your bras and underwear in your laundry. His eyes are on your face but still. “How about I pay for your load? I know you already paid for the wash but I can do the dryer.”
No skin off your back. Why not?
“Alright,” you say. “Thanks. Appreciate it.”
You pause in your transport as he lifts a baggie of quarters out of the pocket of his sweatpants and quickly counts out twelve.
“It’s —”
“I know,” he says. “But that’s how much you gave me last time, so. Use it next week.”
You can tell he isn’t doing it to make sure he doesn’t owe you, but rather he really is trying to pay back the kindness you’d afforded him. It’s a warming gesture. Here in Gotham City, the citizens are wary at best and downright nasty at worst. You understand why. They are bombarded with attacks from literal clowns and other terrifying figures who do the things they do just for the fun of it. Then you have the gangs, preying eagerly on the desperate souls of this city, and with a corrupt government that gives little to no shit about its people, there is no shortage of desperation. It’s their fault first and foremost, you think. A government has to take care of its people; they work for them, not the other way around. And the police are equally as useless.
But not all hope is lost.
No, you think, accepting the quarters from him with a grateful smile. Not all.
You get back to moving your clothes. He gets back to studying the instructions for the powdered detergent. Really, you think. What’s up with that? It’s not a money thing, you think, since living here is a tad more expensive than other parts of the city and anyway, you saw his phone last week — it’s the newly-released WayneTech phone that came out, like, a week ago. It’s on the market for upward of a grand, which is a crazy amount of money to pay for a phone. Your phone — WayneTech, because yes, they do have good tech and you like the interface, you’ll admit that — is several years old. In fact, a present from your parents when you moved here at eighteen to attend Gotham University.
You yourself are a strong proponent of the detergent pods. Don’t need to measure out your own detergent each time you do a wash. Just toss that bad boy in there and boom. That’s it. You have vague memories of your mom using liquid detergent before switching over to the pods, which you still use, naturally. If it ain’t broke and all that.
It’s both a little difficult to withhold your questions about his changing detergent use, as well as squash down any impulses to inform him about detergent pods’ existence.
But you manage to hold your tongue. If not because he helped to pay your dryer load and next week’s washer load, then because you don’t want to push his limits. Kind as he may be, kind as you want to believe him to be, he is still a strange guy that you do not know. A strange guy who lives somewhere here in this building, too.
No matter how much his behavior concerning detergent — laundry — mystifies you.
But of course, that only continues to get worse.
The next week, he is using… detergent tablets?
You didn’t even know detergent existed in that form.
This time, you cannot help but stare.
You coincidentally managed to align your times properly, so you have your basket of dirty clothes to be washed and he does, too.
“What’s with the continued experimentation of laundry detergent?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
He looks at you, blinking, before you remember yourself and shake your head. “Sorry, you don’t —”
“No,” he says, a tad sheepish now. “No, it’s fine. I’m, uh…” he trails off, cornflower blue eyes flickering to his basket of clothes, then the tablets in a shifty manner.
Oh, wait…
“You… don’t know how to do laundry?”
“I know how to do laundry,” he says quickly, defensively, then grimaces. “I’m just figuring out the… schematics.”
Something about that, about the determined intensity on his face as he looks at the washer, makes you laugh. Really hard.
“Hey,” he protests.
“I’m sorry,” you giggle. “I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you, I swear. I just —” it’s cute. In a weird way. In a way that shouldn’t be cute because come on, what guy your age doesn’t know how to do his own laundry? You are suspecting some wealth to his background, in that case. What with the expensive phone he had. Or just a guy who never did his own laundry and had his parents do it.
But no. Despite that, it — he is cute, looking at you with a sulky expression.
You grin at him. “Genuinely, I’m asking genuinely, but what’s stumping you?”
He eyes you. There’s that familiar Gothamite suspicion.
“Come on,” you say, unable to kick the grin off your face. “I wanna help. As someone who’s been doing her laundry the same way for the last decade, I can help.”
He sighs, crossing his arms. “I’m just figuring out the detergent, that’s all. I… didn’t use to do my own laundry and now that I’m on my own I’m trying to get it to how Al — the last person who did it did it. Haven’t been able to pin it down.”
“So, that’s why you’ve been experimenting.”
Pink settles high on his cheeks and he gives you a slightly petulant look. It’s ridiculously endearing. God, he’s cute. It’s not fair.
You rub a hand over your smiling mouth. “Look, my advice? Just use these.”
You reach into your basket to grab the baggie of pods.
“Hm.” He turns a critical eye over them. You bite your lip to fight off a bigger grin.
“Don’t have to measure anything,” you say, barely managing to keep the laughter out of your voice. “Just toss one — or two, depending on the load — in and you’re gold.”
“Interesting.”
You can’t help the giggle that slips out but he doesn’t seem so sulky about it now, his lips twitching too as he shakes his head at you.
“I’ve seen it at the store, you know,” he says, watching you set it aside and start throwing your clothes inside the washer. “I would’ve gotten there eventually.”
You have to laugh at that.
“Well,” you say, laughter still in your voice as you set your basket aside and pick up the baggie. “You can try it out now, if you’d like. I thought I’d need to split my clothes into two loads but it fits.”
You glance at the washer, your thick coat taking up a lot of space.
“Mostly, anyway. So.” You jiggle the bag with the two pods at him. “And I swear they’re straight from the container.”
He snorts. “I wasn’t even thinking you sabotaged them but now I am. Good job.”
“Hey, I have nothing against you! What reason could I have to mess with your clothes?”
“It’s Gotham. No one needs much of a reason to do anything.”
“Okay, Mr. Cynic.”
He chuckles and turns to dump his clothes into the washer, too. You pull out one of the pods and drop it in, then lean forward to change a couple settings for the wash, switching the water from cold to hot. A necessity, these days. God knows the kinds of germs the kids pass onto you. You started working with them last year in September and immediately got your ass kicked by a nasty head cold. You think your ears were clogged for a good three months after that.
With it now being the start of February, your immune system is, like, juiced up. You’re fairly certain you are resistant to most, if not all, diseases. The CDC wishes it was you.
You pass off the baggie to him and he pulls out the last pod. You nod approvingly and take out your other baggie from the pocket of your hoodie, counting out the quarters and slotting them in until the machine beeps at you. You press start and it whirs on.
Next to you, Detergent Boy does the same.
Hm. You should get his name.
Just so you don’t have to call him that in your head. Yep. Not at all because you would very much like the name of a cute guy… And certainly not because you’re starting to think you do need to make a friend other than Ms. C and your coworkers… Your brother says it doesn’t count if it’s a person from work. And the kids don’t, either. Whatever. Spoilsport.
You had friends in college but most of them left the city. High-tailed it for Metropolis or some other city that didn’t continue to break records when it came to crime and corruption. Which is fine. You get it. Sort of.
“So, since you’ve apparently been checking out my detergent use —”
“Nooo, it sounds weird when you say it like that. I just noticed while we were talking, okay. Not to mention you kept staring at the instructions like they were the Rosetta Stone or something.”
He flushes and seems to decide to drop that topic so that he doesn’t have to respond or acknowledge those words. You grin.
“Anyway,” he presses, rolling his eyes at the look on your face. “I think we should probably introduce ourselves.”
“We should, should we?”
A voice in your head that sounds like your brother mutters, As if you aren’t dying to know his name.
You promptly tell it to shut up.
“Just so I know who to blame if my clothes get messed up. Or if the washer explodes.”
You burst out laughing. “You’re funny!”
He grins at you. It’s a nice look on his stupidly pretty face. “I’m Tim. Tim Drake.”
Oh.
A lot of things make sense, suddenly.
But you shove that realization aside in favor of telling him your name. “Nice to officially meet you, Tim Drake.”
He echoes your greeting with your full name and you have to ignore the way the butterflies in your belly go a little crazy at hearing the syllables of your name on his tongue.
Tim picks up his empty basket and so do you, the two of you wordlessly making for the exit.
“So, can I ask if you just moved here?”
He holds the door open for you. You nod in thanks and step out.
He shakes his head in response to your previous question. “I’ve been here a while. Just haven’t, ah, been doing my laundry here.”
“You mean someone else was doing your laundry,” you say, unable to stop yourself from poking fun at him. A side effect of spending forty plus hours with preteens every week, you’re sure.
He groans as you two come up to the elevator; he presses the button to go up. The laundry room is on the ground floor, towards the back of the building. Not in the basement or something, thankfully. That would just be the cherry on top of all of this.
“Hey, I’m not judging,” you say, shooting him a small grin.
“Really? ‘Cause it kind of feels like you are.”
Ding. The doors open. You two step inside. On the panel on his side, he presses the button for the fifteenth floor. On your side, you press the button for the fourteenth.
The doors close.
“I’m not, I swear. I guess if I had some kind of maid —”
“Butler.”
You cannot withhold your snort. He rolls his eyes.
“Right, right… if I had a butler or something, I wouldn’t do my own laundry, either. Although, it is kind of a hazard, so I’m not sure — oh, I don’t mean like that, shut up,” you say, flushing at the raised eyebrow he gives you. “My clothes are no dirtier than anyone else’s. They’ve just… got a lot of germs.”
It’s Tim’s turn to be cheeky.
“Riiiight. I bet they do.”
“I work with kids, alright,” you whine. “They’re germ monsters, man. It’s not as bad as kindergarteners or something, definitely not, but six graders still aren’t the epitome of health and cleanliness.”
He laughs at your tone. “So, you’re a teacher?”
“Teacher’s aide,” you correct. “Don’t have enough experience for that yet, no matter what PS 125 was trying to tell me when they offered me a job.”
He grimaces. “Their retention rate gets worse every year. I don’t blame them.”
“Well, I blame the city. Stupid government. Where the hell are my taxes going? Not to anything worthwhile, that’s for sure.” You shake your head. “Anyway. What about you?”
Even if he is Tim Drake, adopted son of billionaire Bruce Wayne who owns the burgeoning Wayne Enterprises, a company that rakes in billions but at the very least turns over a decent chunk of it to the city. Even with that, Bruce Wayne has a fortune and you’re certain that extends to his son — his children. Especially since you can vaguely recall some incident where Tim was, like, CEO? Briefly. Very briefly. When you were in your teens, actually. He was, too, so your mom smartly said he was more than likely just a figurehead. No seventeen-year-old should run a company. Not even seventeen-year-old super-rich and equally-as-educated Tim Drake, you think.
But your attempt at equality goes a little wayside as he coughs, uncomfortable.
“I, uh, am not working right now. Not full-time, anyway. I do some work for WE. IT and R&D.”
You laugh softly at his attempt at overcompensation. “Dude, relax. I’m not judging you. Well. I’m not judging a lot.”
“Thanks,” he says dryly.
You grin. “I just mean it’s nice that you get a choice. It should be like that for all of us.”
“Universal income?”
You point at him. “Tell your dad about it.”
Tim tilts his head thoughtfully. “It was brought up, actually, a couple years ago. The city refused. Said it would make people ‘lazy.’”
“Those bastards.”
He laughs and you decide you very much like making him laugh.
The doors slide open to your floor.
“See you later, Tim,” you say, giving him a two-fingered salute.
His eyes crinkle. “Later as in when our cycles are done and we have to put them in the dryer?”
“Of course! Oh, wait, I have a question, just to, heh, cover our bases regarding your lack of laundry knowledge —”
“Oh, come on.”
You grin, pausing by the doors, keeping a hand pressed to them so they don’t close on you. “You are using dryer sheets, right?”
“Of course I am.”
A pause.
“Every time you put your clothes in the dryer, right?”
He starts jamming the close doors button, averting his eyes. “I’ll, uh, see you later.”
You step out, grinning. “We’ll make a laundry master out of you yet, Tim Drake.”
The last thing you see before the doors close is him smiling.
"the glow of a pc in a dark room. the stars outside at night. the chill in a bedroom as evening creeps in."
It’s dark. Idia knows he should be asleep by now, but instead he continues to stare at his computer monitor and fidget with a lock of his flaming blue hair. He hears your soft snoring as you sleep but elects to ignore it, knowing how dangerous it would be to acknowledge how this makes him feel. He isn’t allowed to have nice things like this, but you keep giving them to him and he doesn’t know how to cope.
A bright GAME OVER pops up on the screen when he finally turns his attention back to the screen, but he’s not even mad. The game pitters off into silence as the loading symbol appears at the bottom of the screen, and his headphones do nothing to block out your soft murmur of his name.
Idia partially throws the headphones off his head, whipping around in his chair to stare wide eyed at you. You’re still fast asleep, arms tossed out on the bed and head flopped against his pillow. His heart squeezes in his chest, and he wonders how you ever managed to get so close to him. Ortho always said it was a good thing, but really. How good was having someone over?
Idia doesn’t understand why you haven’t called him weird and creepy yet. He knows he is.
“But I like your hair, Idia. It’s so radiant and soothing. It’s a very pretty shade of blue and it’s so warm.” you murmured, gently scratching at his scalp as he curled into you, “And I like your smile, too. Your teeth are really cute, I’m glad you don’t hide them from me.”
Great Seven, you spoke about him like he was a treasure. It doesn’t make any sense. He doesn’t know if it ever will, because he knows you’re not leaving and you’ll forever be this weird.
“Idia.” you breathe, and he squeaks at how you say his name.
Climbing into bed with you is so appealing that he thinks he might just do something as stupid as that. Fuck, that is total normie behavior. He’s way out of his depth here. This is like fighting a final boss at level one. He isn’t ready. He isn’t ready.
“Idia.”
He isn’t ready.
Idia turns back to his PC and puts his headphones back on. He clicks the retry option on the screen, and as the loading screen pops up again he sneaks a peek at you.
If you ever want to sleep over again, maybe he’ll have the courage to retry this level too.
"wanting to be special to you. wanting to be the only one you touch. wanting you."
You were Malleus’s first true friend.
He treasures you in every form, in every mood you come to him in. There’s a glow about you when you’re happy, a cloud around you when you’re upset, and a flame around you when you’re angry. There’s a myriad of other emotions he sees in you, disgust and love and amusement and awe and calmness and anxiety, and each one is more fascinating than the last.
He wants to draw every single one out of you and see how you deal with them. He wants to pick you apart and know every single thing about you because it seems wrong not to know.
But others know.
Others know you just as well, if not better than he does, and it irritates him.
There’s a small, immature part of him that feels the urge to summon lightning and strike down his competition because that’s what they are, right?
He believes humans call his emotion jealousy. He wasn’t aware he could feel something this gut-wrenching, but he supposes you’re such a curious little thing that you’d spawn feelings like this within him without even knowing.
That’s true, you don’t know what you do to him, do you?
Naivety doesn’t suit you.
He wants to be your first friend. He wants to be as special to you as you were to him. He doesn’t want to lose you. No one has ever touched his heart the way you can, and Malleus knows nobody else will ever get as deep into his soul as you did.
You dug your way through the towering stone walls with your own two hands, and the second you broke through, the whole wall he'd built over centuries and centuries crumbled completely. He wishes you weren’t so kind. He wishes your presence wasn’t so comforting and he wishes there was a feasible reason to hate you because he can’t stand being this dependent on you.
You would tell him that you’re not the only kind person in the world.
As Malleus sees you talking and laughing with friends that are him, he hopes you’d be wrong.
He doesn’t want to feel this jealous feeling ever again.
~ reader is implied to be under 6 feet but appearance and gender are otherwise not mentioned
~ mature content lightly alluded to for Bruce and Jason's parts but nothing explicit
~ Including: Bruce, Dick, Cass, Jason, Steph and Tim (in order)
♡ Bruce ♡
To be kissed ~ The neck
He loves to be kissed on his neck, just beneath his ear. To him it just feels so intimate, the fact that he has to trust you enough to let you get close enough, to be comfortable enough to let his guard down and let you love him, just makes his heart ache in the most bittersweet way. It makes him feel safe, but he can't help but be reminded that those quiet moments are only temporary. :(
To kiss ~ The shoulders/lower back
Bruce love those quiet moments where maybe he can get a shower with you at night, or he can spend a bit of extra time with you before he has to leave for work in the morning or do some investigating. He likes to wrap his arms around you just press his lips to your skin, especially if you lean into his touch. He likes to hold you will his lips pressed against you, so that they're just barely there.
~
♡ Dick ♡
To be kissed ~ The chest
Dick likes to lay down on his back with you draped over his chest. You can both be doing different things, maybe he's on his phone and you're watching tv, doesn't matter. He melts when he can feel you press a kiss into his chest, right over his heart. It draws his attention right away.
To kiss ~ The top of your head/face
After you kiss his chest and go back to whatever you were doing, he just stares at you amused for a second. He'll laugh and press a light kiss to the top of your head.
If you go meet him at the door when he gets back from work he'll grab your face and press kisses all over it. He'll squish your cheeks before letting you flicking on the tv and plopping down on the couch and letting you lay on his chest, repeating the cycle.
~
♡Cass ♡
To be kissed ~ The face
Cass likes to be kissed anywhere on her face, but if she had to pick a favorite it would probably be a three way tie between the tip of her nose, her eyelids, and her forehead. It makes her feel like every part of her is really loved and adored. She's a big fan of affection but is unused to it, having only started to receive it recently.
To kiss ~ The face
The same way she likes to feel like every tiny part of her is loved, she wants you to feel the same. I imagine different parts of the face mean different things between the two of you. A kiss to the forehead is a bit somber, maybe after a particularly rough night of crime fighting, the tip of the nose is a bit playful, when the two of you go out on a date or, the eyelids if one of you is taking a nap or if you're resting your head in her lap.
~
♡ Jason ♡
To be kissed ~ The cheek
Jason likes to receive a kiss on the cheek as you're on your way out. The domesticity of such a small action makes his heart melt. It may not seem like a lot, but the fact that you remember to do it makes him feel so important. It's more than something you check off on a list every morning, it's an integral part of both of your routines. Missing it can result in both of you having shitty days.
To kiss ~ The wrist/ankle
He likes to grab your wrist and gently pull it to his mouth. Could be for anything, at any time, at any place. In the morning, in the evening, at home, at the grocery store. Anything, anywhere, anytime. It's his way of showing that you're his.
The ankle, on the other hand, is reserved exclusively for the more. . . exciting parts of your day. He'll have your ankles perched to his shoulders and press a sweet kiss to them while maintaining eye contact with you.
~
♡ Steph ♡
To be kissed ~ The head
She loves it when yall are cuddling and you just press your lips to her hairline. If you give her a kiss on her forehead before heading out she will actually melt. She, just like Jason, LOVES those small moments of domesticity that make everything feel normal.
To kiss ~ The palm
To Steph, there is no truer show of commitment than a kiss to the palm. To her it means you hold her heart in your hand, that she's willing to give you her everything. It's secretly her being the most open she'll ever be willing to be with people. To let her guard down and show that she trusts you.
~
♡ Tim ♡
To kiss ~ The Cheek
Maybe not his favorite, but definitely the most common place for him to kiss you. Like Bruce, he doesn't always have a lot of free time, despite trying his hardest, so he usually just kisses you wherever is most convenient. That usually happens to be your cheek, which, to be fair, he's not upset about. He loves your cheeks, he loves how soft they are, how nice the feel in his hands when he holds your face, etc.
To be kissed ~ The Neck
The boy's busy, most of his time he's hunched over in a gaming chair, deeply involved in a case he has yet to solve. If you just come up behind him, wrap your arms around his shoulders, and press a kiss to the nape of his neck, he will actually love you forever. He knows he should try to give you more time, but the fact that you're so understanding makes his heart melt.
How about dating headcanons with Barbara Gordon, Stephanie Brown, and Cassandra Cain? If that’s alright, I’d love to see your take on our bat-ladies 😍
I love them so much, not as much as Zatanna, but I stan my queens. Especially Stephanie.
Barbara Gordon:
She is quite the romantic but also enjoys teasing you in a loving way and adores having inside jokes with you.
If anyone is giving you a hard time, her quick wit and sharp tongue will intervene because she will not stand for anyone disrespecting you.
PDA isn’t something she minds too much. She’ll hold hands with you, have an arm around your shoulder, and kiss you on your cheek or forehead. Nothing more and nothing less.
Her dad likes you a lot and gives it a thumbs up.
God, help any villain who kidnaps you because they somehow know that you’re with Babs, because she is going to stop at nothing to get you back.
“Was that batarang to the guy’s leg really necessary?” You asked her as she held you bridal style and started carrying you out of the warehouse.
“Maybe.” She winked at you, making you roll your eyes.
Very flirty with you, as well, and would totally be the type to take you to a coffee shop for a date.
Favorite memory: the two of you cuddled up on the couch with each other in comfortable silence as you two read your books, it was so blissful to her.
Cassandra Cain:
Considering her people-skills aren’t the best, the relationship can be awkward but that’s what makes it so special to you both.
Both of you like to pig-out to be honest, so don’t worry if you think you eat to much, because Cass basically shovels food in her mouth.
Honestly, movies night are you two all cuddled up together as you guys both stuff your faces with snacks and sometimes chinese food.
She’ll pick up a few mannerisms from you like the way you talk or such, small things like that, but you find it to be really cute!
Absolutely has no shame about walking around the house fully nude around you, is either confused when you get flustered or just teases you about it.
When cuddling her, she’d like it if you traced any exposed scars of hers or, better yet, trailing kisses on them.
Her scars aren’t something she’s insecure about but she becomes a lot more proud of them if you do those things.
Honestly, I can see her not caring if her family likes you or not, yes she’d like it if they approved of you, but if not then that’s their problem.
Cassandra is 100% about her feelings for you and won’t let anyone tell her whether you’re good for her or not because that is up for her to decide.
Stephanie Brown:
Would honest-to-god be such a big flirt with you and just loves seeing you all flustered and stuttery.
Fuck PDA for all she cares, she’ll make-out with you whenever she pleases, and if you consent to that too of course.
Is going to throw hands with anyone who disrespects you whether that be verbally or physically, often resulting in her getting scolded by Batman but she has no regrets.
You two are just the cutest and silliest couple ever since you both like to joke around and goof off.
Makes it very clear whenever she is jealous because she ups the amount of affection she gives you. From an arm around your waist, to hugging you from behind, and (once more) making out with you.
She hasn’t had much positive influences in her life but if you are there to support her and love her in everything she does, then she’s living the dream.
Would literally go psycho if a villain ever kidnapped you, like when they face off in the warehouse, Batman and Tim both have to hold her back since her plan would be to rush in, kickass, and save you.
Villain should feel lucky that they got a broken arm because if Tim and Bruce weren’t there to stop Steph, every bone in their body would’ve been broken.
She’s so relieved when she gets you back and is going to smother you in affection when you two get home.
Clark Kent comforting and taking in neglected! Villain's daughter?
Pairing: (Platonic) Superman aka Clark Kent x 12-year-old girl
Rating || Genres || Warnings: T. Family. Hurt/Comfort. A little dark at times because of mention of child abuse, but nothing too detailed I hope.
A/N: I think I broke my heart writing this.........
He had seen a dark figure steal it's way through the shadows.
"Did you see that?" He said, straining his eyes towards the shadow where the figure had disappeared. The rest of his Team, who had been trying to figure out how to get through the impenetrable force field that had them trapped, turned their attention to him.
Before any of them could reply the figure stepped out of the shadows, surprising all of them with it's presence.
"Its..........a child." Wonder Woman stated in a surprised tone as all of them gathered nearest to the force field wall where she stood on the opposite side.
She was dressed in a ripped shirt, hair and face smeared with what looked like dirt. Her feet were bare and her face was gaunt. Her eyes were wide and held that innocence that only a child possessed, yet those eyes seemed almost haunted. As if she had seen things no child her age should see.
Considering her father was a villain hell-bent on taking down the Justice League and take over the world, it was no surprise.
"What is she doing here?" Flash wandered out loud. Her eyes shifted from one grown-up to the other, as if assessing the adults behind the force field.
"If she's her father's daughter, she won't be letting use leave." Batman stated, turning his attention to trying to plan an escape. "Although, given her condition, we can perhaps hope otherwise."
Superman slowly crouched down so he could be at eye-level with the girl. She gazed back at him with wide green eyes. She seemed rather small, obviously a result of undernourishment, yet there was a certain air about her that prompted Superman to lean forward. He knew she could hear him through the force field.
"Hello, I'm Superman." He said as a way of greeting, trying to win her over if he could. "Via." She stared back at him for a good few moments longer before slowly bringing her arms forward to reveal one of the most tattered and pathetic looking stuffed toy he had ever seen. Obviously it was well-loved by her, and was the only possession she had.
Superman smiled softly. "Thats a nice toy, whats his name?" He asked, hoping to speak with her further and maybe try to find out who you were.
Via only stared back at him, though the smile the tall man gave her did ease her nerves and she gave a small smile in return. Her head tilted in curiosity for a few brief seconds as to why the nice man with the red cape was being held behind the scary force field. Via's gaze shifted to where Batman was trying to decrypt the force field.
Maybe she should help them?
If she did, maybe the nice man would play with her!
The absolutely innocent reason was what prompted Via to bound towards the control panel and with no hesitation, press a button. She had to stand on her tip toes to reach it, but in the end she smiled when the force field receded from around the nice man and his friends.
Instantly she was at his side, grasping his large hands between her own much smaller ones and tugging at it. "Play?" Via spoke in a small voice as she gazed up hopefully at him.
Clark looked down at her in surprise, at the trustful look in her eyes as she urged him to play with her.
He crouched down next to her once more while the rest of his Team began to search any information on the foe that had trapped them.
Via raised her toy once more. "Play?" She asked again to which he gave a small nod. "I promise to play with you later. But right now we need to get out of here." He wasn't about to leave her here. Via gave a nod, a smile on her lips as he scooped you up. Clark could lift any weight without feeling any of it, yet it pinched his heart that when he held the little girl, he barely felt anything.
He could've been holding air if she hadn't wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders.
————————–
It turned out to be a good thing, when Clark took Via with him when he did. She knew the very thing that could be used to defeat her father and once the man was taken care of and the Justice League was working on helping with any casualties, Clark turned his attention back to her.
Via had been passed around amongst the Justice League, with one member taking care of her at a time. Once her father had realized where she was, he had begun to hunt her. She had trembled so much in his arms, that Clark almost felt like he would loose his grip on her.
Currently she were asleep on the floor of the Watch Tower. Curled up she appeared even smaller, prompting Clark to remove the cape from around his shoulders and set it atop her, to keep her from getting cold.
"What're we gonna do with her?" Flash asked, obviously concerned about the girl. Her father was in a high security prison and should be turned over to the state so they would take care of her.
Yet the decision didn't sit right with any of them.
"Maybe one of us should take her?" Cyborg suggested, looking around at the rest of the Team. Wonder Woman pursed her lips, frowning slightly before speaking. "A sound decision, but I believe that it should be Superman who takes her in."
The Kryptonian stared at the Amazonian dumb-founded. "Me?!" He exclaimed, loud enough to make the little girl stir and clutch her toy tighter. Feeling a twinge of guilt Clark made sure to speak in a lower tone.
"Why me? Batman is always taking in orphaned children, shouldn't it be him?" No one made a move to comment on that, not even Batman who was going over every past discretion Via's father had committed in the past.
"I took your name because I believe young Via has bonded with you Superman. To send her with an unknown person or any one of us would be like a break of trust." She glanced at the girl. "And think of this as a temporary situation. Once we are able to locate a better home for Via, we will move her there."
Well when Wonder Woman said it like that, he wasn't about to go against her. A brief glance in Via's direction had whatever reservations that were left in his heart fade away. Pulling out his phone from a hidden compartment in his belt, he sighed.
"Guess I had better make arrangements."
————————–
When Via learned she would be staying with the nice man, Clark, she reminded herself, she'd been ecstatic. She liked him. And though everyone else in the colorful clothes had been nice to her as well, she liked him better.
Currently she was being carried by Clark, as the both of them descended near a field. He set her down gently, watching as her eyes widened at the sight of everything around her.
The trees, the dirt, the sky, the birds, everything was new to her.
Clark learned that her father hadn't exactly been the educating type. And had seen fit to simply have her locked away from the rest of the world. This was her first time being out.
"What is that?" She asked, pointing at the house that stood old yet proud a few paces from where they had landed. Clark gave a small smile at her curious nature. "Its a house and that is where you will be living." No sooner had he said the words when the door opened and a figure walked out.
"Clark!" Martha Kent called in greeting as she held her arms out for her son. Clark easily scooped her up in an embrace, earning a laugh from Martha at her son's enthusiasm. "Glad to see you safe and sound my boy." She said, giving his cheek a motherly kiss before raising an eyebrow at him.
"Have you been eating well dear? You look peaky." Clark rolled his eyes at his mother's doting. "You can save your fuss for our guest Ma." He moved out of the way to reveal Via, who stood hidden from view behind his cape.
Martha took in the sight of the unkempt girl. She was slight, wearing a dirty shabby cloth. Her hair was in tangles and looked like it had never seen a good wash. With wide brown eyes and a thin face, Martha's kind heart broke.
The little thing looked so alone.
"Ma, I want you to meet my friend Via." He walked to stand beside the girl. "Via, this is my mother, Martha." His mother gave a gentle smile, as she crouched in front of the girl to meet her gaze at her level.
"Its very nice to meet you Via. Would you like to come inside? I did a little shopping and I found a pretty dress you can wear?" Via blinked.
"Whats a dress?"
The two adults were a little taken aback by her sudden question, but neither of them made a comment about it.
Instead Martha held out a hand. "Why don't you come with me and I'll show you?"
————————–
It only took a few days for Via to start feeling comfortable around Martha. The woman bathed the girl, washed her hair and dressed her up before feeding her with her own hands. Via didn't know how to even feed herself properly, and it boiled Clark's blood to know that her father had neglected her to such as extent.
But that was in the past now. It was over.
That man would never neglect Via again, and he would certainly never lay eyes on her either. Not if Clark had anything to say about it.
With each passing day, Via grew stronger, healthier and more open as well as curious about the world around her. The Kent Farm provided many distractions, so it was a good thing Clark had Krypto come along and act as a guide dog to the little girl.
Via had shown no hesitation when approaching Krpyto, telling Clark how her father had kept multiple dogs and she had befriended all of them. Krypto seemed to take his job of guarding Via very seriously. He was be near her every single moment of the day. They both even slept in the same bed. Martha had been slightly against that last part, but she had given in when she realized just hos safe Krypto made Via feel.
Martha had fallen in love with Via, and Via adored Martha. She had even taken to calling her Ma like Clark did. It had melted Martha's heart and had her shedding a couple tears. She had taken it on herself to teach Via everything she could, from taking care of herself, to learning how to read and write. The two of the would spend every second Via was inside the house together.
And as for Clark?
He had to admit he was warming up to Via more and more. Of course, he still had to go to work or go on missions and it all kept him pretty busy.
Whenever he returned to the Kent Residence, Via would come racing out of the house and jump into his arms, and Clark would return her enthusiastic embrace. It was ridiculous that something as simple as a hug from a little girl he hadn't even thought existed until some time ago, would wash away his worries and troubles. Via had a sweet and kind nature, something that surprised Clark given the environment she had grown up in.
She was tell him about everything she had learned, and Clark would listen patiently. And if he helped out on the farm, Via would be right by his side learning from him.
Her presence became such a fixture in his life, that he forgot all about this being temporary.
So when Bruce called him with the news that there was a family willing to take Via, he froze. His blue gaze wandered over to where Via and Krypto were playing, with his mother nearby, setting up a picnic.
"Clark?" Bruce spoke through the phone, prompting the man to return his attention to his friend.
"Yes, still here." There was a pause.
"Do you need some time to think it over?"
Clark floundered, his mind unable to form words as he tried to come up with a response.
Just then Via let out a shriek of laughter when Krypto pummeled her with slobbery kisses. Ma Kent called to both of them to behave and not act in such a roguish manner. Her words fell on deaf ears.
"No." Clark stated firmly, a smile on his lips as he did. "I don't think I do."
He could practically hear that smug smile on Bruce's lips as he replied. "I'll set working on the papers for you to legally adopt her then." Clark gave a small huff of laughter.
"You do that."
"Via Kent?"
As if she heard her name, Via's head popped up from where she now laid on the grassy ground with Krypto at her side and gave him an enthusiastic wave, smiling from ear to ear.
"Via Martha Kent."
With that he disconnected the call and joined his little family.
aka my fav dc boys, their first dance songs at y’all’s wedding, and a lil blurb.
DICK GRAYSON has cried three separate times today, this dance officially making it four. Dean Martin’s “Everybody Loves Somebody” crackles through the speakers, causing your husband to smile again, before tearful kissing your forehead. The two of you sway in silence, letting the music speak for you. “I love you,” Dick breathes, “I love you infinitely.”
JASON TODD has been narrowly avoiding a literal breakdown all night, but this, he decides, is the icing on the cake. As “At Last,” by Etta James begins, Jason tries his damndest to maintain his veneer of suave confidence, finally cracking when you place a kiss to his hand. As a few tears leave his eyes, he kisses you. He tastes of icing, love, and salt. His siblings and father are more of a mess than he is, as they’ve been sobbing and snotting all through the ceremony and reception.
BRUCE WAYNE, as stoic as he is, can’t help but let a few tears escape his eyes as the two of you spin and sway to Nancy Wilson’s “Tonight May Have to Last Me All my Life”. He opens his mouth to speak, but a choked sound leaves his throat as he rubs your wedding ring. His mother’s ring. Years later, he says the day of your union was absolutely perfect, but you know a part of him wishes Thomas and Martha were there to see it.
HAL JORDAN hums as he stares into your eyes, unblinking. “Can’t believe I’m your husband,” he sighs, tracing your jawline. “Can’t believe I’m you’re wife,” you say. Unforgettable, by Nat King Cole rings through the speakers as Hal groans, “And I was doing so well,” he smiles, tears sparkling in his eyes. “‘S alright, love,” you choke, tears welling up in your eyes as well. “Me too.”
BARRY ALLEN had been smiling all night long, but he can’t help the way his smile becomes watery when he hears the honeyed notes of Ella Fitzgerald’s “I’ve Got a Crush on You”. The two of you mouth the lyrics as Barry hums, thinking of the countless nights the two of you spent together, dancing in the moon-bathed kitchen you share. He kisses you, smiling from ear to ear.
CLARK KENT blinks, almost incredulous at the beauty before him. “Kal,” you hum, “you’re staring.” He nods, speechless, not even noticing the tears that begin to leak from his eyes as “Again,” by Doris Day plays. Though there are eyes all over the both of you, you can’t help but feel as if you’re in your own little world. As the song comes to an end, he squeezes your hand, saying all he wishes to say at the moment.
