dick grayson my beloved

call me echo! | somehow a professional nightwing fan | she/her

[dickdevotionals]

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recent works: - when i get you alone (it's so simple) (Tim Drake x Reader) - you eclipsed me completely (Dick Grayson x Reader) - you know I had a long night (Dick Grayson x Reader)

currently working on:

[batsandbirdsandothers]

[messenger-of-babel]

To Change

Summary: If it takes changing himself to give you the world, Jason would. (Jason Todd x reader)

Word Count: 2.3K

Notes: Hi lovelies~! Just wanted to apologise it is so late, but I am super struggling with exhaustion and fatigue at the moment. I really don't want to have to take a break during Angstober when we are so close, but I might have to soon. I will see! I'll do my very best to keep pumping fics out for you all. I have taken the liberty of changing today's fic again from one that I had origianlly planned. I'm super sorry again for doing this, but when I am so worn down it's easier to write for characters I know and guarantee a higher chance of a fic than to do a character I'm getting used to and flopping the concept. I want to do them when I have the actual time to invest properly!

Other than that, love you all and hope you enjoy.

Happy crying!

RiRi <3 💋

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“I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

Were the nine little words that stopped his heart one evening, as you both laid in bed together. He looked down at you with a mixture of surprise and cold-blooded shock, lips pulling into a frown. You still had your head resting on his arm like a pillow, a hand still holding the sheet up over both of you, but your eyes wouldn’t meet his. Turning on his side, he propped himself up, shaking his hair loose as he tried to comprehend what you were saying.

“What do you mean?” he asks, the quiver not setting into his voice even though it wants to. You just shrug, as if what he was asking you was what you wanted for dinner, and not a full-blown potential break up.

“I just…I’m really tired, Jay.” You said softly, tracing his chest through the sheet. Usually the action was soothing, feeling your fingers splay against his skin like that. Now it felt like a hot brand scaring down his middle, tracing lines of cruel fire. “I’m really tired of pretending like we’re normal, you know?”

For the first time that night you look up at him, eyes misty. He softens the hard line of his jaw, reigns back the accusation burning in his eyes and sighs softly. “We can be normal.” He whispers, pressing his lips to the top of your head so you can’t see the fear in his eyes. “I promise you. I can make this normal for us.”

“Let’s give it a month and see how we go.” you hum softly, burying into his arm again silently. He held you for the rest of the night, staring up at the ceiling, unsure if that meant you were going to stay. The morning had been tense for you both, but you had still kissed him soft on the lips before you left for work, had whispered for him to have a good night when he went on patrol later that evening, and he nodded and smiled like his entire world hadn’t almost been ripped apart hours earlier.

If he had to tell a therapist, he would tell them that the incident that night was probably where the obsession with the idea of ‘fixing’ everything began. Ever since that night he had been determined to become the man you needed, no, the man you deserved. He had treated it like some kind of wakeup call, the cold water splashed in his face to show him where he was failing as a boyfriend.

So, he had dyed his hair. In the bathroom with cheap rubber gloves, painting the white streak in his hair black and staining his hairline. It had been odd, washing it out and looking at himself in the mirror, still expecting to see the streak front and center in his reflection. Yet as he turned his head, running his hand through the patch before roughing it with the towel, he could get used to it. Hopefully the garish reminder that he had come back from the dead would be erased from your memory as easily as he had erased it from his body.

Yet when you had only hummed in acknowledgement that night coming home from work, his hesitant and wobbly smile vanished. When you ruffled his hair he felt a twinge in his heart, but the usual affection you did it with was gone. So logically, he assumed he needed to do more.

This next thing he did to be more normal for you, was hide his scars. Hours had been poured into online shopping for makeup, the bathroom bin filling with tubes of concealer as he tried to find one the right shade, pairing it with whatever powder he could find that didn’t make it glaring obvious he was hiding it. Shirt off in the mirror, his eyes were laser focused in as he painted over every white line. Powder coated his skin in soft layers, until even the jagged ‘J’ on his cheek had smoothed out.

He had looked at himself in the mirror and wondered If this is what he would have looked like if he had never been hurt by the Joker. If he had never been brought back to life like some ghoulish monster, would he look like this by your side? Hair dark and streak free, skin smooth.

There would be no calluses on his hands, rough and worn from fighting criminals. There would be no blisters on his heels or under his chin where his helmet rubbed, places he imagines you would leave bites instead. His suits wouldn’t have to hide bruises and yellow marks from repeated beatings, and you wouldn’t be up in the late hours of the night patching him up.

However, when you came home, your fingers brushing against his cheek and feeling the soft powder under your fingertips, you only smiled a little.

“It looks nice.” You smile, eyes soft. “Do you like it?”

He tries to keep the smile up; tries to stop the harsh way he has to swallow. “Y-yeah,” he stammers out as you brush past him, dropping your bag on the counter as you head to the bedroom. He stands there, feeling like an imposter in his new reflection as he watches you go. Tears burn in the back of his eyes but he presses his fingers to his eyes tightly and shakes the tears away.

If this wasn’t enough to stop the timer on the relationship ending, it just meant he had to try harder. Sitting at the kitchen counter he put his head in his hands, finally letting the fat tears fall into the skin of his palms. His shoulders shook, fear rising up in him like a snake.

What was he going to do?

So, he did everything that he could.

He left the Outlaws, to the shock horror and confused “HUH?” of Roy following him out of the home base, ignoring Artemis as she called out after the roar of his bike. He pulled out of the patrol shifts with Batman, opting to only patrol in your area in Upper Gotham. It was met with the surprised eyebrow raise of Bruce and the concerned teasing of Dick, while Damian only gave him a suspicious shrug. The real shocked expressions came when he picked up a daytime job as a deliveryman for the Wayne Couriers.

He wasn’t made for the salaryman’s life, he knew that much. Knew he wouldn’t look good in a suit every day pushing pencils and entering data onto spreadsheets. So, he took the next best thing that didn’t make him feel like fully imploding inside.

He liked being out in the streets still, vigilance never waning even when he drove the truck down the streets. He kept his eyes out every back alley and dark corner that he passed, fingers clenched tight on the steering wheel and wishing he had his bike back. He got to use his body still, getting to feel things with his hands as he loaded and unloaded his deliveries each day.

The sharp corners of the cardboard dug into his fingers, but he told himself it was better than the barrel of a gun. For you. The lighter days stung his eyes and his body ached more in the mornings getting dressed in his uniform than it had ever been recovering from a thrashing, but he told himself it would all be worth it. That this new life he built for you, he was building for you, would make everything all better. You wanted normalcy? He would bring it to you on a silver platter.

So, when it came to the last day on the clock he drove home with his heart in his throat, sweat beading on his hairline. He gripped the wheel and took a deep breath, hoping that you would see just how much he loved you, just how much he could change into a better man, a man that deserved you.

Meanwhile, you were sobbing into your sleeve as you packed your bags.

You were in your shared apartment, counting out your things to make sure you hadn’t left a trace of yourself behind. A photo of you and Jason sat on top of your last duffle, tears covering the glass and distorting the image of the two of you smiling in Gotham Park. The ring he had made for you was looped around your neck, beaten silver rubbed worn from anxious fiddling.

You had cried softly on your side the first time he came to you with his hair dyed, anxious smile full of that boyish innocence you loved, as he asked you how it looked. You had to bite back your smile and temper your words, heart clenching as he removed that piece of himself for you. You bit your tongue to stop yourself from telling him he didn’t need to dye it, that you loved playing with those soft strands when he had fallen asleep, but you didn’t.

When he came to meet you at the door, skin airbrushed smoothly and the ‘J’ hidden on his cheek, you had gasped softly to himself. You saw the way his eyes shined, the way he lit up searching for your approval, and the way that he deflated when you touched his cheek almost clinically, like you were inspecting his work. You had felt a shot through the heart having a shower that night, seeing the bin full of concealer tubes and makeup wipes.

But you didn’t say anything.

Jason packed away every little thing that had made him Jason, put his bike in storage, got a regular day job like any other civilian, and like that the man you loved was fading. You saw the toll that it took on him to repress that part of his life, for him to parade and pretend to be normal, full of fake smiles and eager kisses.

And it killed you.

Because it was those very things about him that made you fall in love with him in the first place. You loved pushing the white strands out of his face when he slept, finally getting to see him relaxed for once. You loved tracing his scars and the lines of his skin, the way he shuddered under your touch. It was a sign of how strong he had been, how hard he had fought to survive.

You loved that he was out there at night protecting people, loved the way that even under his tough exterior he cared more than anyone else on those rooftops, keeping an eye out for people who had started out in the Gotham slums just like him.

Keeping an eye out for people like you.

Agents of the shadows, the League of Shadows to be exact. Your mission had been simple, get in and out of Gotham, stay for a year and leave with what you had gathered. You had deliberately run into Red Hood, hoping to play the distressed civilian part and get close with the family to get information from Bruce about the underworking’s of Gotham, keeping tabs on the vigilantes that worked the streets of the city.

You meant to get close, yes, but not in bed with one. Yet you couldn’t help it, your heart had just pulled you to him and in moments you were wrapped up in his sheets and his arms, and for a moment you forgot what you were. You forgot about your mission and the reason you even came to this city, about the organization that bore you, trained you and clothed you. The organization that now put your loyalty to the test and called you back.

When you had whispered and wished for some normalcy, you had never imagined in a million years that he would take it onto himself. Not for a second did he stop to think that maybe you were the problem. You had tried to do anything the entire month to stall your return to the league. You were too scared to ask for Jason’s help. What would he say when he found out that your relationship had been a lie? That originally you only got with him in order to keep tabs on the goings of Gotham? How would he react to you revealing that you were well and truly in love with him, and that it wasn’t a lie?

You shook those thoughts out of your head, hands fumbling to pack yourself up and to disappear into the night like you were planning. Your mind kept flashing back to the note you had received a week prior, after you had hit all dead ends on ways for you to stay in Gotham.

There will be agents on the outskirts to assist in your removal. Do not be late. - T

You knew that there was a twist in those words, a dagger hidden underneath them. You either left with the League tonight, or you were removed in the less pleasant manner. Tears streaking down your face, you pull his pillow to you one last time, letting the fat tears drip into the fabric. You inhaled the scent of him, the last reminder you could take without the League getting suspicious.

Then you were gone.

There was no one to greet him when he came home that evening, hanging his keys on the hook by the door. His fingers ached and his throat swallowed harshly, calling out. “Honey? I’m home.”

Except there was no answer back, no trace of you left in the apartment.

Times up, and he never had a choice.

ANGSTOBER 2025 TAGLIST @simp-hub @fondavr @preeyas-world @cheymidnights @uselessnewt @yyiikes @tigerf-cker @calicocat-ina-tuxedo

[izbnart]

Batman animation yayy 🙌👍

[possumtion]

Lil bobbin’ robins

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Close ups:

[batsandbirdbrains]

Dick Grayson but nothing bad happens to him and he's happy and smiling

Yes I love it excellent

Bruce is a doting father who loves him dearly. Spoils him rotten. Alfred is an indulgent grandfather who sneaks Dick cookies before dinner.

His siblings are all nice to him and no one ever argues about anything serious.

He’s happy and everything is perfect<3

[tubeon-deactivated20260110]

Jason is not Robin (and never will be) au

[dickdevotionals]

Opening up requests because I have the writing itch but no ideas. Feel free to send asks for Dick or Tim my way!

[dickdevotionals]

when i get you alone (it's so simple)

summary: Tim Drake is pretending to be the poster boy of composure. You'd very much like to make him lose said composure.

tags: tim drake x reader, fem!reader, no use of y/n, nsfw

link to ao3: here

You arrived before him.

Not by much, but enough that you are half a glass of champagne in when he enters. You are standing by the musicians, your trail of your gown artfully pooled behind you, scanning the crowd almost restlessly when you catch Tim's eye.

He sees you, you know he sees you—there's a fraction of a pause in his step that you wouldn't notice if you hadn't spent so much time getting to know every inch of him.

He smiles tersely, gives you a once-over, and moves on.

No second take, no smirk, no move towards you, nothing.

The audacity.

You’d picked this dress for him. Chosen the colour he once muttered made him lose track of what he was saying. Picked the fabric with a slit high enough to make the fitting assistant raise her eyebrows. You’d even pinned your hair the way he liked—off your neck, darling—which wasn't an easy feat, by the way.

And now he's talking to some rich shareholder effortlessly, like he couldn't have cared less if you'd worn a plastic bag to this gala.

You take another sip of champagne, let it fizz against your tongue while you stare daggers into the back of his immaculately tailored head. The nerve. The unmitigated gall.

It's not that you want the world to know. When Tim had suggested keeping your budding relationship under wraps, you'd agreed quickly—not eager to get ripped apart by Gotham's journalists while you both were still finding your feet. You don't want a grand gesture. You don't want Tim to throw himself at your feet in front of the Gotham elite (though you do amuse yourself by imagining that for a few moments). You just want a look, a proper, real look. A flicker of heat in his eyes, a shift in his posture, something that tells you that he wants you, wants to touch you, wants to show everyone of the rich assholes here that you're his.

But no. Tim Drake, poster boy of composure, is being cool and collected and utterly boring about the whole thing.

Fine.

Fine.

If he's so insistent on being composed, then you'll just have to see how long it takes for that composure to break.

You set your empty glass down and step into the crowd.

No plan, not really. Just the itch under your skin that demands satisfaction. You won’t be overt—you’re not reckless, not stupid. But you don’t need to be obvious to get under Tim’s skin. You just need to be you.

The crowd is thick with Gotham’s glittering elite—shimmering gowns, tailored tuxedos, far too much cologne. You know how to move in this world. You’ve done it before. Charity reps are meant to be gracious, approachable, a little naive but very charming. Which is convenient, because right now? You’re feeling particularly charming.

You spot your first opportunity quickly—an older woman with a crisp blonde bob and too much jewellery, mid-conversation with someone who looks even younger than you. She's standing right behind Tim, close enough that he'll hear you, far enough for plausible deniability.

You sweep in with an apologetic smile and a hand on her arm. "Oh! I'm so sorry to interrupt, I just wanted to say how much I adored your panel last spring. That bit about micro-grants for community gardens? Absolutely wonderful."

The kid she was talking to thanks you quietly as he leaves, even as the lady herself beams at you. "Oh, how lovely—what a memory you’ve got!"

"Oh, it stuck with me," you say warmly, like you aren’t hyper-aware of the man standing with his back to you not five steps away. "I’ve quoted you at least three times since. Once to our board, and once to a very snooty hedge fund manager. That one was especially satisfying."

The woman laughs, delighted. Tim hasn’t moved. Hasn’t turned. But you can tell—you can tell—that his head has tilted just slightly. Listening.

It's a start.

You keep your conversation with the lady brief, and as you make your excuses, she tells you to contact her office as soon as you can, she can tell you're a 'bright young lady'. Happy tidings all around.

You drift off with a smile and a quiet thank you, already scanning for your next move.

This time, you don’t approach. You pass by—elegantly, slowly, just enough to make it seem like coincidence. Tim is still standing in profile, speaking with a man you think once tried to buy the building your charity operates out of. You don’t acknowledge him. You walk behind him, close enough that your shoulder brushes the back of his jacket sleeve.

You don’t look back, but you feel the shift in the air like static. A hiccup in his posture. A half-second stall in the perfectly pleasant conversation he’s having about renewable infrastructure tax incentives. You try not to feel too smug about it.

Good.

You keep moving.

Another circuit of the room—charming, sociable, engaging. You catch him glancing your way when you compliment an older man’s cuff links. His eyes flick over briefly from across the room, then return to his conversation. But his hand flexes at his side.

You bite back a smirk.

Now that you’ve got his attention—really got it—you set the final stage.

You’ve primed him like a match: a little heat, a little friction, and just waiting for the spark.

The spark being, of course, the smug guy holding court in the corner who hasn't been able to keep his eyes off you for longer than a minute since he saw you. You catch his pointedly, before heading to the drinks table, already knowing he'll find you there in a couple seconds at best. You try to remember his name—Mark, you think, or maybe Matt?

He’s already approaching, drink in hand, eyes locked on you like a dog on a steak. And you’re happy to be the steak. Just for a little while.

"Didn’t expect to see someone under forty here tonight," Mitch says, offering you a drink. "Much less someone who looks like you."

You tilt your head and smile, accept the drink without sipping. "That’s funny," you say lightly, "I was just thinking the same about you."

Max laughs. It's a bit too loud, but you don't mind. He’s leaning in already, standing just a bit too close, projecting confidence like a cologne that doesn’t quite cover the notes of entitlement underneath. And sure, maybe under normal circumstances, you’d have peeled away by now—offered a polite smile, found a convenient board member to corner—but you’re not here for Mason.

You're here for Tim. And even without looking at him, you can feel his gaze at you, hair raising on the back of your neck.

Holding back that smirk is getting harder and harder.

You let the conversation stretch—nothing too interesting, just enough to give the illusion of engagement. Martin is talking about his father's company now, and your smile is all teeth and patience. You’re angled just enough to give Tim the perfect view—of your profile, the way your hand drapes casually against the table, the way that Marcus is standing a little too close to be polite.

Mike is halfway through describing his mansion when you feel a familiar presence at your elbow, butting in rather rudely.

Tim, posture stiff and far too close to you, says, "Excuse me."

His voice is pleasant. Polite. Murderously neutral.

It shouldn’t be hot.

It is.

You turn with an arched brow, eyes wide with mock-innocence. "Do you need me for something, Drake?"

Tim turns to look at you, effortlessly cutting poor Micah out of the conversation. His jaw tightens ever so slightly, but there’s something else there—a flicker of heat beneath the practised calm. Like a dam about to break. His eyes rake over you—slow, deliberate, a touch possessive—and then flick briefly toward Maxwell, who is still hovering awkwardly with his drink like he hasn’t yet realised he’s already lost.

Tim doesn't even do him the courtesy of a proper excuse, just puts a hand on your elbow and politely but firmly drags you off.

You let him.

Of course you let him.

You go without protest, casting poor Morgan one last apologetic smile over your shoulder—though it’s a little hard to sell, what with the way your eyes are practically glittering. You don’t even try to suppress your grin once Tim’s hand curls more securely around your arm, guiding you through the crowd like a man walking a tightrope: very carefully, very precisely, and one sharp gust away from disaster.

He drags you out of the ball room and into a dark closet you're not sure guests are allowed in. You can barely get a witty comment out before his lips are on yours, harsh and unforgiving, and he's pressing you into the wall.

His hands are on your waist—no, your hips—no, everywhere, all at once. Hot and firm and just shy of bruising. Like he’s catching up for every minute he spent pretending you weren’t the only thing in the room worth looking at.

"You did that on purpose," he mutters against your mouth, low and hoarse and wrecked already. His teeth catch on your lower lip, and you gasp, which only makes him smile—sharp and hungry. "You think I don't know that?"

"I would never—" You break off when he bites his way down your throat, and have to figure out how words work for a moment. "—insult your detective prowess that way."

His laugh is soft and breathless against your skin. "You’re a menace."

"I’m a delight," you correct, eyes fluttering shut as his hands skim your thighs, pushing your dress higher—greedier now, less composed, more his. "I just didn't want you pretending you were unaffected."

"You think I was unaffected?" he huffs, incredulous, like the very idea offends him. His mouth grazes your jaw. "You think I didn’t see that dress and forget my own name for a full five seconds?"

You smile, slow and wicked. "You didn’t act like it."

"I couldn’t." His breath stutters against your collarbone, the words torn from him like a confession. "You walk in looking like that and expect me to what? Abandon a conversation with the guy holding a third of the Foundation’s portfolio?"

"That would've been flattering, sure."

He huffs a laugh, but it’s not amusement—it’s disbelief. Like he can’t fathom you don’t already know exactly what you do to him.

"Flattering?" he repeats, voice low and strained. "It would've started a scandal."

"Mhm," you hum, letting your head tip back against the wall. "Would’ve been a hell of a statement though."

His hands dig into your thighs as he lifts you up with infuriating ease, like he's finally decided composure is for boardrooms and not closets with you in them. Your breath catches as your back hits the wall again, harder this time. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and you can feel the exact moment he stops pretending he's not shaking with restraint.

"You’re not getting out of this without consequences," he murmurs, one hand sliding up the inside of your thigh, fingers teasing at the edge of your underwear like a threat. "You probably traumatized poor Marvin for life."

"Is that what his name was?"

Tim groans—an honest-to-god groan, torn from somewhere deep in his chest like it pains him to find you this funny right now. His forehead drops to your shoulder, laughter muffled in the curve of your neck, breath warm and unsteady against your skin.

"You are infuriating," he says, but it’s hoarse and fond and dangerously close to a moan as his fingers rub your slit over the fabric, still driving you half-mad without even properly touching you.

"That’s rich," you whisper, breath hitching as you try to rock into his fingers and he tightens his hand on your hip in a warning. Someone's feeling controlling tonight, you think but do not say, because frankly, it probably won't improve your position here. Instead, you say, "I’m infuriating? You stonewalled me in front of two hundred people after I spent forty minutes figuring out which shade of lipstick would make you lose your mind—"

"You picked the right one," he cuts in, sounding more strangled than smug. "Congratulations."

You don’t get the satisfaction of gloating, because that’s the moment he yanks your underwear to the side and slides two fingers in deep—no warning, no build-up, just a filthy, perfect pressure that knocks all the air out of your lungs. You let out a sound that might be a curse or a prayer; whatever it is, it makes Tim smirk.

"Well, I hope I've proven—" he whispers, mouth grazing your ear. "—just how affected I was. I’ve been gritting my teeth since I saw you."

You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders, legs tightening around his waist as your head falls back. "Fuck, Tim—"

"Keep your voice down," he says, a smug whisper against your collarbone, even as he curls his fingers inside you just the way you like, the way he knows makes your legs boneless. You shudder against him, grip tightening like your body's trying to anchor itself to reality. His fingers work you open in slow, precise motions—infuriatingly in control, even now, even here—but you can feel the tension coiled in his arms. Barely leashed.

"You know," he says, out-of-breath as if he's the one being undone by masterful fingers, "I have half a mind to leave you like this. See how you like having to control yourself in public."

You bite your lip hard enough to hurt, dragging your teeth across it until you can taste the sharp copper tang of restraint. Control. You could match him, if you wanted to. You’ve done it before—kept your legs closed and your smile tight and your voice steady while he whispered absolute filth in your ear at a fundraiser luncheon.

But right now?

Right now you want to win.

Your laugh is breathless and wrecked, more air than sound. "You wouldn’t."

"I absolutely would." But his voice is shaky now, words strained by proximity and the damp heat of you clenching around his fingers. "You think I don’t know how this game works? You start it, you deal with the fallout."

"Tim," you gasp, hips bucking against his hand, "I swear to God—"

"Careful." His lips brush your cheek, soft contrast to the hand gripping your leg tight enough to bruise, and the fingers deftly getting you closer to the edge. "You’ve already been blasphemous once tonight."

You want to fire back something clever, something wicked and smug—but his thumb presses against your clit and all you can manage is a bitten-off whimper that leaves your lips slack and your pride in shambles.

Tim groans at the sound, chest against yours, no distance left. "You’re gonna be the death of me."

"You’re the one—" you gasp, "—manhandling me into a broom closet, Drake."

"Yeah, well," he mutters, voice rough against your throat as he fucks his fingers into you, precise and punishing, "you asked for it."

You try making some witty remark but your breath keeps catching on gasps instead of words. Every muscle in your thighs is trembling, nails digging into whatever part of Tim's body you can hold on to. You’re right on the edge now—hips rolling into his hand, head thrown back, mouth parted as you try to hold yourself together through sheer force of will. You feel like you're burning alive.

And right when you think he’s going to push you over—when your toes curl and your thighs twitch and you gasp his name like a half-moan, half-warning—

He pulls his fingers out.

The whine that escapes you as your body chases the touch would have been humiliating if you were capable of feeling anything but arousal.

He grins against your neck, the smug little bastard. "You look so pretty like this, all flushed and righteous."

"Don't you dare—" you breathe, voice hoarse and legs trembling, barely standing straight as Tim pulls away.

He doesn’t go far.

You barely have time to glare—barely have time to remember what glaring even is—before he sinks to his knees in one smooth motion.

You make a sound, a half-startled, half-wrecked inhale that punches out of your chest before you can swallow it down, and his hands are already back on you, firm and unapologetic, spreading your thighs apart like a man who’s already made up his mind.

"Tim," you manage, unsteady. Not a protest. Just his name, again.

He glances up, mouth hovering just shy of where you want him, blue eyes dark and fevered. "Yes?"

The word’s a mockery. Polite, like he’s about to offer you another canapé instead of—

Then he leans in, and your knees buckle.

You don’t fall—his hands are locked tight on your thighs, anchoring you to the wall like you’re something sacred. But the jolt that rolls through you is visceral, molten, and immediate. His tongue is hot, sure, greedy. He doesn’t tease now. Doesn’t ease in slow. No soft kisses, no idle licks.

He’s intent. Devout.

Your head tips back against the wall with a thud as you bite down on the back of your hand, desperate to keep the sound in. It’s obscene, the way he moves—like this is some long-overdue penance for the hours of polite detachment, for every second he pretended your dress wasn’t the most dangerous thing in the room. The composure from earlier is gone, abandoned somewhere with his suit jacket. You'll have to remember to feel arrogant about how little effort it took to have this—Tim Drake, on his knees in a supply closet with your dress hiked up to your hips, eating you out like he needs it to survive—later.

Your hand is still in your mouth, teeth sunk into the soft flesh of your knuckle, but it’s not enough. Not nearly. The noise building in your chest wants out, and Tim isn’t helping—he’s groaning against you now, deep and low, fully enjoying this, the way you shake for him.

You try to hold back the sounds—really, you do—but your body has never cared much for decorum when he’s between your legs. You hear a breathy, half-broken whimper echo off the closet walls and it takes you a second to realise it’s yours.

Tim hums against you, wickedly pleased.

The vibration punches through your hips like a live wire. Your hand slides off your mouth as you brace yourself against the wall, grip trembling.

You barely gasp out, "Tim—" when your orgasm hits like a goddamn freight train—blinding, full-body, ripping through you so fast and sharp that your head knocks back against the wall again and the sound you make is entirely out of your control.

Tim doesn't stop until you're trembling, twitching, practically sinking down the wall—and only then does he pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and breathing like he just ran a marathon.

You’re still panting, legs jelly, trying and failing to catch your breath. Tim smooths down your dress as he stand back up, and you hope it's not too obvious that you've just been ravished in a supply closet. You still do, unfortunately, have to put in an hour of face-time at least.

Tim doesn't exactly look better—his hair is a mess, and his pants and shirt are crinkled beyond measure. You press a closed-mouth kiss to his lips, and say, "I'd offer to reciprocate, but frankly, I don't think I'd be getting back up if I went on my knees right now."

Tim exhales a soft laugh, and you feel it against your lips—warm, dizzy, pleased. "Gotta save some things for home."

He presses one last kiss to your cheek, then glances toward the door, jaw clenched like he’s trying to rebuild all that composure you spent the last half hour tearing apart. Oh, you're never letting him live this down. All that composure, and all it takes to undo it is one conversation with some trust fund guy named Marty.

"Give me a two-minute head start," he murmurs, brushing your hair gently back into place like the act of tenderness will make up for the fact that your knees are still shaking. "Then come out like nothing happened. Smile. Mingle."

"Oh, you'll have more than two minutes," you say. "I need to hide the evidence of you turning into a vampire on my neck, once I can remember how my legs work."

Tim glances down at your neck, then smirks. "Didn’t hear you complain."

"Big talk for someone who’s still catching his breath," you murmur. "Where's your jacket, Mr. Drake?"

He huffs a soft laugh and kisses you one more time. "You started it," he mutters, backing toward the door, before pausing. "Where is my jacket?"

taglist: open!

[dickdevotionals]

when i get you alone (it's so simple)

summary: Tim Drake is pretending to be the poster boy of composure. You'd very much like to make him lose said composure.

tags: tim drake x reader, fem!reader, no use of y/n, nsfw

link to ao3: here

You arrived before him.

Not by much, but enough that you are half a glass of champagne in when he enters. You are standing by the musicians, your trail of your gown artfully pooled behind you, scanning the crowd almost restlessly when you catch Tim's eye.

He sees you, you know he sees you—there's a fraction of a pause in his step that you wouldn't notice if you hadn't spent so much time getting to know every inch of him.

He smiles tersely, gives you a once-over, and moves on.

No second take, no smirk, no move towards you, nothing.

The audacity.

You’d picked this dress for him. Chosen the colour he once muttered made him lose track of what he was saying. Picked the fabric with a slit high enough to make the fitting assistant raise her eyebrows. You’d even pinned your hair the way he liked—off your neck, darling—which wasn't an easy feat, by the way.

And now he's talking to some rich shareholder effortlessly, like he couldn't have cared less if you'd worn a plastic bag to this gala.

You take another sip of champagne, let it fizz against your tongue while you stare daggers into the back of his immaculately tailored head. The nerve. The unmitigated gall.

It's not that you want the world to know. When Tim had suggested keeping your budding relationship under wraps, you'd agreed quickly—not eager to get ripped apart by Gotham's journalists while you both were still finding your feet. You don't want a grand gesture. You don't want Tim to throw himself at your feet in front of the Gotham elite (though you do amuse yourself by imagining that for a few moments). You just want a look, a proper, real look. A flicker of heat in his eyes, a shift in his posture, something that tells you that he wants you, wants to touch you, wants to show everyone of the rich assholes here that you're his.

But no. Tim Drake, poster boy of composure, is being cool and collected and utterly boring about the whole thing.

Fine.

Fine.

If he's so insistent on being composed, then you'll just have to see how long it takes for that composure to break.

You set your empty glass down and step into the crowd.

No plan, not really. Just the itch under your skin that demands satisfaction. You won’t be overt—you’re not reckless, not stupid. But you don’t need to be obvious to get under Tim’s skin. You just need to be you.

The crowd is thick with Gotham’s glittering elite—shimmering gowns, tailored tuxedos, far too much cologne. You know how to move in this world. You’ve done it before. Charity reps are meant to be gracious, approachable, a little naive but very charming. Which is convenient, because right now? You’re feeling particularly charming.

You spot your first opportunity quickly—an older woman with a crisp blonde bob and too much jewellery, mid-conversation with someone who looks even younger than you. She's standing right behind Tim, close enough that he'll hear you, far enough for plausible deniability.

You sweep in with an apologetic smile and a hand on her arm. "Oh! I'm so sorry to interrupt, I just wanted to say how much I adored your panel last spring. That bit about micro-grants for community gardens? Absolutely wonderful."

The kid she was talking to thanks you quietly as he leaves, even as the lady herself beams at you. "Oh, how lovely—what a memory you’ve got!"

"Oh, it stuck with me," you say warmly, like you aren’t hyper-aware of the man standing with his back to you not five steps away. "I’ve quoted you at least three times since. Once to our board, and once to a very snooty hedge fund manager. That one was especially satisfying."

The woman laughs, delighted. Tim hasn’t moved. Hasn’t turned. But you can tell—you can tell—that his head has tilted just slightly. Listening.

It's a start.

You keep your conversation with the lady brief, and as you make your excuses, she tells you to contact her office as soon as you can, she can tell you're a 'bright young lady'. Happy tidings all around.

You drift off with a smile and a quiet thank you, already scanning for your next move.

This time, you don’t approach. You pass by—elegantly, slowly, just enough to make it seem like coincidence. Tim is still standing in profile, speaking with a man you think once tried to buy the building your charity operates out of. You don’t acknowledge him. You walk behind him, close enough that your shoulder brushes the back of his jacket sleeve.

You don’t look back, but you feel the shift in the air like static. A hiccup in his posture. A half-second stall in the perfectly pleasant conversation he’s having about renewable infrastructure tax incentives. You try not to feel too smug about it.

Good.

You keep moving.

Another circuit of the room—charming, sociable, engaging. You catch him glancing your way when you compliment an older man’s cuff links. His eyes flick over briefly from across the room, then return to his conversation. But his hand flexes at his side.

You bite back a smirk.

Now that you’ve got his attention—really got it—you set the final stage.

You’ve primed him like a match: a little heat, a little friction, and just waiting for the spark.

The spark being, of course, the smug guy holding court in the corner who hasn't been able to keep his eyes off you for longer than a minute since he saw you. You catch his pointedly, before heading to the drinks table, already knowing he'll find you there in a couple seconds at best. You try to remember his name—Mark, you think, or maybe Matt?

He’s already approaching, drink in hand, eyes locked on you like a dog on a steak. And you’re happy to be the steak. Just for a little while.

"Didn’t expect to see someone under forty here tonight," Mitch says, offering you a drink. "Much less someone who looks like you."

You tilt your head and smile, accept the drink without sipping. "That’s funny," you say lightly, "I was just thinking the same about you."

Max laughs. It's a bit too loud, but you don't mind. He’s leaning in already, standing just a bit too close, projecting confidence like a cologne that doesn’t quite cover the notes of entitlement underneath. And sure, maybe under normal circumstances, you’d have peeled away by now—offered a polite smile, found a convenient board member to corner—but you’re not here for Mason.

You're here for Tim. And even without looking at him, you can feel his gaze at you, hair raising on the back of your neck.

Holding back that smirk is getting harder and harder.

You let the conversation stretch—nothing too interesting, just enough to give the illusion of engagement. Martin is talking about his father's company now, and your smile is all teeth and patience. You’re angled just enough to give Tim the perfect view—of your profile, the way your hand drapes casually against the table, the way that Marcus is standing a little too close to be polite.

Mike is halfway through describing his mansion when you feel a familiar presence at your elbow, butting in rather rudely.

Tim, posture stiff and far too close to you, says, "Excuse me."

His voice is pleasant. Polite. Murderously neutral.

It shouldn’t be hot.

It is.

You turn with an arched brow, eyes wide with mock-innocence. "Do you need me for something, Drake?"

Tim turns to look at you, effortlessly cutting poor Micah out of the conversation. His jaw tightens ever so slightly, but there’s something else there—a flicker of heat beneath the practised calm. Like a dam about to break. His eyes rake over you—slow, deliberate, a touch possessive—and then flick briefly toward Maxwell, who is still hovering awkwardly with his drink like he hasn’t yet realised he’s already lost.

Tim doesn't even do him the courtesy of a proper excuse, just puts a hand on your elbow and politely but firmly drags you off.

You let him.

Of course you let him.

You go without protest, casting poor Morgan one last apologetic smile over your shoulder—though it’s a little hard to sell, what with the way your eyes are practically glittering. You don’t even try to suppress your grin once Tim’s hand curls more securely around your arm, guiding you through the crowd like a man walking a tightrope: very carefully, very precisely, and one sharp gust away from disaster.

He drags you out of the ball room and into a dark closet you're not sure guests are allowed in. You can barely get a witty comment out before his lips are on yours, harsh and unforgiving, and he's pressing you into the wall.

His hands are on your waist—no, your hips—no, everywhere, all at once. Hot and firm and just shy of bruising. Like he’s catching up for every minute he spent pretending you weren’t the only thing in the room worth looking at.

"You did that on purpose," he mutters against your mouth, low and hoarse and wrecked already. His teeth catch on your lower lip, and you gasp, which only makes him smile—sharp and hungry. "You think I don't know that?"

"I would never—" You break off when he bites his way down your throat, and have to figure out how words work for a moment. "—insult your detective prowess that way."

His laugh is soft and breathless against your skin. "You’re a menace."

"I’m a delight," you correct, eyes fluttering shut as his hands skim your thighs, pushing your dress higher—greedier now, less composed, more his. "I just didn't want you pretending you were unaffected."

"You think I was unaffected?" he huffs, incredulous, like the very idea offends him. His mouth grazes your jaw. "You think I didn’t see that dress and forget my own name for a full five seconds?"

You smile, slow and wicked. "You didn’t act like it."

"I couldn’t." His breath stutters against your collarbone, the words torn from him like a confession. "You walk in looking like that and expect me to what? Abandon a conversation with the guy holding a third of the Foundation’s portfolio?"

"That would've been flattering, sure."

He huffs a laugh, but it’s not amusement—it’s disbelief. Like he can’t fathom you don’t already know exactly what you do to him.

"Flattering?" he repeats, voice low and strained. "It would've started a scandal."

"Mhm," you hum, letting your head tip back against the wall. "Would’ve been a hell of a statement though."

His hands dig into your thighs as he lifts you up with infuriating ease, like he's finally decided composure is for boardrooms and not closets with you in them. Your breath catches as your back hits the wall again, harder this time. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and you can feel the exact moment he stops pretending he's not shaking with restraint.

"You’re not getting out of this without consequences," he murmurs, one hand sliding up the inside of your thigh, fingers teasing at the edge of your underwear like a threat. "You probably traumatized poor Marvin for life."

"Is that what his name was?"

Tim groans—an honest-to-god groan, torn from somewhere deep in his chest like it pains him to find you this funny right now. His forehead drops to your shoulder, laughter muffled in the curve of your neck, breath warm and unsteady against your skin.

"You are infuriating," he says, but it’s hoarse and fond and dangerously close to a moan as his fingers rub your slit over the fabric, still driving you half-mad without even properly touching you.

"That’s rich," you whisper, breath hitching as you try to rock into his fingers and he tightens his hand on your hip in a warning. Someone's feeling controlling tonight, you think but do not say, because frankly, it probably won't improve your position here. Instead, you say, "I’m infuriating? You stonewalled me in front of two hundred people after I spent forty minutes figuring out which shade of lipstick would make you lose your mind—"

"You picked the right one," he cuts in, sounding more strangled than smug. "Congratulations."

You don’t get the satisfaction of gloating, because that’s the moment he yanks your underwear to the side and slides two fingers in deep—no warning, no build-up, just a filthy, perfect pressure that knocks all the air out of your lungs. You let out a sound that might be a curse or a prayer; whatever it is, it makes Tim smirk.

"Well, I hope I've proven—" he whispers, mouth grazing your ear. "—just how affected I was. I’ve been gritting my teeth since I saw you."

You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders, legs tightening around his waist as your head falls back. "Fuck, Tim—"

"Keep your voice down," he says, a smug whisper against your collarbone, even as he curls his fingers inside you just the way you like, the way he knows makes your legs boneless. You shudder against him, grip tightening like your body's trying to anchor itself to reality. His fingers work you open in slow, precise motions—infuriatingly in control, even now, even here—but you can feel the tension coiled in his arms. Barely leashed.

"You know," he says, out-of-breath as if he's the one being undone by masterful fingers, "I have half a mind to leave you like this. See how you like having to control yourself in public."

You bite your lip hard enough to hurt, dragging your teeth across it until you can taste the sharp copper tang of restraint. Control. You could match him, if you wanted to. You’ve done it before—kept your legs closed and your smile tight and your voice steady while he whispered absolute filth in your ear at a fundraiser luncheon.

But right now?

Right now you want to win.

Your laugh is breathless and wrecked, more air than sound. "You wouldn’t."

"I absolutely would." But his voice is shaky now, words strained by proximity and the damp heat of you clenching around his fingers. "You think I don’t know how this game works? You start it, you deal with the fallout."

"Tim," you gasp, hips bucking against his hand, "I swear to God—"

"Careful." His lips brush your cheek, soft contrast to the hand gripping your leg tight enough to bruise, and the fingers deftly getting you closer to the edge. "You’ve already been blasphemous once tonight."

You want to fire back something clever, something wicked and smug—but his thumb presses against your clit and all you can manage is a bitten-off whimper that leaves your lips slack and your pride in shambles.

Tim groans at the sound, chest against yours, no distance left. "You’re gonna be the death of me."

"You’re the one—" you gasp, "—manhandling me into a broom closet, Drake."

"Yeah, well," he mutters, voice rough against your throat as he fucks his fingers into you, precise and punishing, "you asked for it."

You try making some witty remark but your breath keeps catching on gasps instead of words. Every muscle in your thighs is trembling, nails digging into whatever part of Tim's body you can hold on to. You’re right on the edge now—hips rolling into his hand, head thrown back, mouth parted as you try to hold yourself together through sheer force of will. You feel like you're burning alive.

And right when you think he’s going to push you over—when your toes curl and your thighs twitch and you gasp his name like a half-moan, half-warning—

He pulls his fingers out.

The whine that escapes you as your body chases the touch would have been humiliating if you were capable of feeling anything but arousal.

He grins against your neck, the smug little bastard. "You look so pretty like this, all flushed and righteous."

"Don't you dare—" you breathe, voice hoarse and legs trembling, barely standing straight as Tim pulls away.

He doesn’t go far.

You barely have time to glare—barely have time to remember what glaring even is—before he sinks to his knees in one smooth motion.

You make a sound, a half-startled, half-wrecked inhale that punches out of your chest before you can swallow it down, and his hands are already back on you, firm and unapologetic, spreading your thighs apart like a man who’s already made up his mind.

"Tim," you manage, unsteady. Not a protest. Just his name, again.

He glances up, mouth hovering just shy of where you want him, blue eyes dark and fevered. "Yes?"

The word’s a mockery. Polite, like he’s about to offer you another canapé instead of—

Then he leans in, and your knees buckle.

You don’t fall—his hands are locked tight on your thighs, anchoring you to the wall like you’re something sacred. But the jolt that rolls through you is visceral, molten, and immediate. His tongue is hot, sure, greedy. He doesn’t tease now. Doesn’t ease in slow. No soft kisses, no idle licks.

He’s intent. Devout.

Your head tips back against the wall with a thud as you bite down on the back of your hand, desperate to keep the sound in. It’s obscene, the way he moves—like this is some long-overdue penance for the hours of polite detachment, for every second he pretended your dress wasn’t the most dangerous thing in the room. The composure from earlier is gone, abandoned somewhere with his suit jacket. You'll have to remember to feel arrogant about how little effort it took to have this—Tim Drake, on his knees in a supply closet with your dress hiked up to your hips, eating you out like he needs it to survive—later.

Your hand is still in your mouth, teeth sunk into the soft flesh of your knuckle, but it’s not enough. Not nearly. The noise building in your chest wants out, and Tim isn’t helping—he’s groaning against you now, deep and low, fully enjoying this, the way you shake for him.

You try to hold back the sounds—really, you do—but your body has never cared much for decorum when he’s between your legs. You hear a breathy, half-broken whimper echo off the closet walls and it takes you a second to realise it’s yours.

Tim hums against you, wickedly pleased.

The vibration punches through your hips like a live wire. Your hand slides off your mouth as you brace yourself against the wall, grip trembling.

You barely gasp out, "Tim—" when your orgasm hits like a goddamn freight train—blinding, full-body, ripping through you so fast and sharp that your head knocks back against the wall again and the sound you make is entirely out of your control.

Tim doesn't stop until you're trembling, twitching, practically sinking down the wall—and only then does he pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and breathing like he just ran a marathon.

You’re still panting, legs jelly, trying and failing to catch your breath. Tim smooths down your dress as he stand back up, and you hope it's not too obvious that you've just been ravished in a supply closet. You still do, unfortunately, have to put in an hour of face-time at least.

Tim doesn't exactly look better—his hair is a mess, and his pants and shirt are crinkled beyond measure. You press a closed-mouth kiss to his lips, and say, "I'd offer to reciprocate, but frankly, I don't think I'd be getting back up if I went on my knees right now."

Tim exhales a soft laugh, and you feel it against your lips—warm, dizzy, pleased. "Gotta save some things for home."

He presses one last kiss to your cheek, then glances toward the door, jaw clenched like he’s trying to rebuild all that composure you spent the last half hour tearing apart. Oh, you're never letting him live this down. All that composure, and all it takes to undo it is one conversation with some trust fund guy named Marty.

"Give me a two-minute head start," he murmurs, brushing your hair gently back into place like the act of tenderness will make up for the fact that your knees are still shaking. "Then come out like nothing happened. Smile. Mingle."

"Oh, you'll have more than two minutes," you say. "I need to hide the evidence of you turning into a vampire on my neck, once I can remember how my legs work."

Tim glances down at your neck, then smirks. "Didn’t hear you complain."

"Big talk for someone who’s still catching his breath," you murmur. "Where's your jacket, Mr. Drake?"

He huffs a soft laugh and kisses you one more time. "You started it," he mutters, backing toward the door, before pausing. "Where is my jacket?"

taglist: open!

[dickdevotionals]

when i get you alone (it's so simple)

summary: Tim Drake is pretending to be the poster boy of composure. You'd very much like to make him lose said composure.

tags: tim drake x reader, fem!reader, no use of y/n, nsfw

link to ao3: here

masterlist

You arrived before him.

Not by much, but enough that you are half a glass of champagne in when he enters. You are standing by the musicians, your trail of your gown artfully pooled behind you, scanning the crowd almost restlessly when you catch Tim's eye.

He sees you, you know he sees you—there's a fraction of a pause in his step that you wouldn't notice if you hadn't spent so much time getting to know every inch of him.

He smiles tersely, gives you a once-over, and moves on.

No second take, no smirk, no move towards you, nothing.

The audacity.

You’d picked this dress for him. Chosen the colour he once muttered made him lose track of what he was saying. Picked the fabric with a slit high enough to make the fitting assistant raise her eyebrows. You’d even pinned your hair the way he liked—off your neck, darling—which wasn't an easy feat, by the way.

And now he's talking to some rich shareholder effortlessly, like he couldn't have cared less if you'd worn a plastic bag to this gala.

You take another sip of champagne, let it fizz against your tongue while you stare daggers into the back of his immaculately tailored head. The nerve. The unmitigated gall.

It's not that you want the world to know. When Tim had suggested keeping your budding relationship under wraps, you'd agreed quickly—not eager to get ripped apart by Gotham's journalists while you both were still finding your feet. You don't want a grand gesture. You don't want Tim to throw himself at your feet in front of the Gotham elite (though you do amuse yourself by imagining that for a few moments). You just want a look, a proper, real look. A flicker of heat in his eyes, a shift in his posture, something that tells you that he wants you, wants to touch you, wants to show everyone of the rich assholes here that you're his.

But no. Tim Drake, poster boy of composure, is being cool and collected and utterly boring about the whole thing.

Fine.

Fine.

If he's so insistent on being composed, then you'll just have to see how long it takes for that composure to break.

You set your empty glass down and step into the crowd.

No plan, not really. Just the itch under your skin that demands satisfaction. You won’t be overt—you’re not reckless, not stupid. But you don’t need to be obvious to get under Tim’s skin. You just need to be you.

The crowd is thick with Gotham’s glittering elite—shimmering gowns, tailored tuxedos, far too much cologne. You know how to move in this world. You’ve done it before. Charity reps are meant to be gracious, approachable, a little naive but very charming. Which is convenient, because right now? You’re feeling particularly charming.

You spot your first opportunity quickly—an older woman with a crisp blonde bob and too much jewellery, mid-conversation with someone who looks even younger than you. She's standing right behind Tim, close enough that he'll hear you, far enough for plausible deniability.

You sweep in with an apologetic smile and a hand on her arm. "Oh! I'm so sorry to interrupt, I just wanted to say how much I adored your panel last spring. That bit about micro-grants for community gardens? Absolutely wonderful."

The kid she was talking to thanks you quietly as he leaves, even as the lady herself beams at you. "Oh, how lovely—what a memory you’ve got!"

"Oh, it stuck with me," you say warmly, like you aren’t hyper-aware of the man standing with his back to you not five steps away. "I’ve quoted you at least three times since. Once to our board, and once to a very snooty hedge fund manager. That one was especially satisfying."

The woman laughs, delighted. Tim hasn’t moved. Hasn’t turned. But you can tell—you can tell—that his head has tilted just slightly. Listening.

It's a start.

You keep your conversation with the lady brief, and as you make your excuses, she tells you to contact her office as soon as you can, she can tell you're a 'bright young lady'. Happy tidings all around.

You drift off with a smile and a quiet thank you, already scanning for your next move.

This time, you don’t approach. You pass by—elegantly, slowly, just enough to make it seem like coincidence. Tim is still standing in profile, speaking with a man you think once tried to buy the building your charity operates out of. You don’t acknowledge him. You walk behind him, close enough that your shoulder brushes the back of his jacket sleeve.

You don’t look back, but you feel the shift in the air like static. A hiccup in his posture. A half-second stall in the perfectly pleasant conversation he’s having about renewable infrastructure tax incentives. You try not to feel too smug about it.

Good.

You keep moving.

Another circuit of the room—charming, sociable, engaging. You catch him glancing your way when you compliment an older man’s cuff links. His eyes flick over briefly from across the room, then return to his conversation. But his hand flexes at his side.

You bite back a smirk.

Now that you’ve got his attention—really got it—you set the final stage.

You’ve primed him like a match: a little heat, a little friction, and just waiting for the spark.

The spark being, of course, the smug guy holding court in the corner who hasn't been able to keep his eyes off you for longer than a minute since he saw you. You catch his pointedly, before heading to the drinks table, already knowing he'll find you there in a couple seconds at best. You try to remember his name—Mark, you think, or maybe Matt?

He’s already approaching, drink in hand, eyes locked on you like a dog on a steak. And you’re happy to be the steak. Just for a little while.

"Didn’t expect to see someone under forty here tonight," Mitch says, offering you a drink. "Much less someone who looks like you."

You tilt your head and smile, accept the drink without sipping. "That’s funny," you say lightly, "I was just thinking the same about you."

Max laughs. It's a bit too loud, but you don't mind. He’s leaning in already, standing just a bit too close, projecting confidence like a cologne that doesn’t quite cover the notes of entitlement underneath. And sure, maybe under normal circumstances, you’d have peeled away by now—offered a polite smile, found a convenient board member to corner—but you’re not here for Mason.

You're here for Tim. And even without looking at him, you can feel his gaze at you, hair raising on the back of your neck.

Holding back that smirk is getting harder and harder.

You let the conversation stretch—nothing too interesting, just enough to give the illusion of engagement. Martin is talking about his father's company now, and your smile is all teeth and patience. You’re angled just enough to give Tim the perfect view—of your profile, the way your hand drapes casually against the table, the way that Marcus is standing a little too close to be polite.

Mike is halfway through describing his mansion when you feel a familiar presence at your elbow, butting in rather rudely.

Tim, posture stiff and far too close to you, says, "Excuse me."

His voice is pleasant. Polite. Murderously neutral.

It shouldn’t be hot.

It is.

You turn with an arched brow, eyes wide with mock-innocence. "Do you need me for something, Drake?"

Tim turns to look at you, effortlessly cutting poor Micah out of the conversation. His jaw tightens ever so slightly, but there’s something else there—a flicker of heat beneath the practised calm. Like a dam about to break. His eyes rake over you—slow, deliberate, a touch possessive—and then flick briefly toward Maxwell, who is still hovering awkwardly with his drink like he hasn’t yet realised he’s already lost.

Tim doesn't even do him the courtesy of a proper excuse, just puts a hand on your elbow and politely but firmly drags you off.

You let him.

Of course you let him.

You go without protest, casting poor Morgan one last apologetic smile over your shoulder—though it’s a little hard to sell, what with the way your eyes are practically glittering. You don’t even try to suppress your grin once Tim’s hand curls more securely around your arm, guiding you through the crowd like a man walking a tightrope: very carefully, very precisely, and one sharp gust away from disaster.

He drags you out of the ball room and into a dark closet you're not sure guests are allowed in. You can barely get a witty comment out before his lips are on yours, harsh and unforgiving, and he's pressing you into the wall.

His hands are on your waist—no, your hips—no, everywhere, all at once. Hot and firm and just shy of bruising. Like he’s catching up for every minute he spent pretending you weren’t the only thing in the room worth looking at.

"You did that on purpose," he mutters against your mouth, low and hoarse and wrecked already. His teeth catch on your lower lip, and you gasp, which only makes him smile—sharp and hungry. "You think I don't know that?"

"I would never—" You break off when he bites his way down your throat, and have to figure out how words work for a moment. "—insult your detective prowess that way."

His laugh is soft and breathless against your skin. "You’re a menace."

"I’m a delight," you correct, eyes fluttering shut as his hands skim your thighs, pushing your dress higher—greedier now, less composed, more his. "I just didn't want you pretending you were unaffected."

"You think I was unaffected?" he huffs, incredulous, like the very idea offends him. His mouth grazes your jaw. "You think I didn’t see that dress and forget my own name for a full five seconds?"

You smile, slow and wicked. "You didn’t act like it."

"I couldn’t." His breath stutters against your collarbone, the words torn from him like a confession. "You walk in looking like that and expect me to what? Abandon a conversation with the guy holding a third of the Foundation’s portfolio?"

"That would've been flattering, sure."

He huffs a laugh, but it’s not amusement—it’s disbelief. Like he can’t fathom you don’t already know exactly what you do to him.

"Flattering?" he repeats, voice low and strained. "It would've started a scandal."

"Mhm," you hum, letting your head tip back against the wall. "Would’ve been a hell of a statement though."

His hands dig into your thighs as he lifts you up with infuriating ease, like he's finally decided composure is for boardrooms and not closets with you in them. Your breath catches as your back hits the wall again, harder this time. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and you can feel the exact moment he stops pretending he's not shaking with restraint.

"You’re not getting out of this without consequences," he murmurs, one hand sliding up the inside of your thigh, fingers teasing at the edge of your underwear like a threat. "You probably traumatized poor Marvin for life."

"Is that what his name was?"

Tim groans—an honest-to-god groan, torn from somewhere deep in his chest like it pains him to find you this funny right now. His forehead drops to your shoulder, laughter muffled in the curve of your neck, breath warm and unsteady against your skin.

"You are infuriating," he says, but it’s hoarse and fond and dangerously close to a moan as his fingers rub your slit over the fabric, still driving you half-mad without even properly touching you.

"That’s rich," you whisper, breath hitching as you try to rock into his fingers and he tightens his hand on your hip in a warning. Someone's feeling controlling tonight, you think but do not say, because frankly, it probably won't improve your position here. Instead, you say, "I’m infuriating? You stonewalled me in front of two hundred people after I spent forty minutes figuring out which shade of lipstick would make you lose your mind—"

"You picked the right one," he cuts in, sounding more strangled than smug. "Congratulations."

You don’t get the satisfaction of gloating, because that’s the moment he yanks your underwear to the side and slides two fingers in deep—no warning, no build-up, just a filthy, perfect pressure that knocks all the air out of your lungs. You let out a sound that might be a curse or a prayer; whatever it is, it makes Tim smirk.

"Well, I hope I've proven—" he whispers, mouth grazing your ear. "—just how affected I was. I’ve been gritting my teeth since I saw you."

You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders, legs tightening around his waist as your head falls back. "Fuck, Tim—"

"Keep your voice down," he says, a smug whisper against your collarbone, even as he curls his fingers inside you just the way you like, the way he knows makes your legs boneless. You shudder against him, grip tightening like your body's trying to anchor itself to reality. His fingers work you open in slow, precise motions—infuriatingly in control, even now, even here—but you can feel the tension coiled in his arms. Barely leashed.

"You know," he says, out-of-breath as if he's the one being undone by masterful fingers, "I have half a mind to leave you like this. See how you like having to control yourself in public."

You bite your lip hard enough to hurt, dragging your teeth across it until you can taste the sharp copper tang of restraint. Control. You could match him, if you wanted to. You’ve done it before—kept your legs closed and your smile tight and your voice steady while he whispered absolute filth in your ear at a fundraiser luncheon.

But right now?

Right now you want to win.

Your laugh is breathless and wrecked, more air than sound. "You wouldn’t."

"I absolutely would." But his voice is shaky now, words strained by proximity and the damp heat of you clenching around his fingers. "You think I don’t know how this game works? You start it, you deal with the fallout."

"Tim," you gasp, hips bucking against his hand, "I swear to God—"

"Careful." His lips brush your cheek, soft contrast to the hand gripping your leg tight enough to bruise, and the fingers deftly getting you closer to the edge. "You’ve already been blasphemous once tonight."

You want to fire back something clever, something wicked and smug—but his thumb presses against your clit and all you can manage is a bitten-off whimper that leaves your lips slack and your pride in shambles.

Tim groans at the sound, chest against yours, no distance left. "You’re gonna be the death of me."

"You’re the one—" you gasp, "—manhandling me into a broom closet, Drake."

"Yeah, well," he mutters, voice rough against your throat as he fucks his fingers into you, precise and punishing, "you asked for it."

You try making some witty remark but your breath keeps catching on gasps instead of words. Every muscle in your thighs is trembling, nails digging into whatever part of Tim's body you can hold on to. You’re right on the edge now—hips rolling into his hand, head thrown back, mouth parted as you try to hold yourself together through sheer force of will. You feel like you're burning alive.

And right when you think he’s going to push you over—when your toes curl and your thighs twitch and you gasp his name like a half-moan, half-warning—

He pulls his fingers out.

The whine that escapes you as your body chases the touch would have been humiliating if you were capable of feeling anything but arousal.

He grins against your neck, the smug little bastard. "You look so pretty like this, all flushed and righteous."

"Don't you dare—" you breathe, voice hoarse and legs trembling, barely standing straight as Tim pulls away.

He doesn’t go far.

You barely have time to glare—barely have time to remember what glaring even is—before he sinks to his knees in one smooth motion.

You make a sound, a half-startled, half-wrecked inhale that punches out of your chest before you can swallow it down, and his hands are already back on you, firm and unapologetic, spreading your thighs apart like a man who’s already made up his mind.

"Tim," you manage, unsteady. Not a protest. Just his name, again.

He glances up, mouth hovering just shy of where you want him, blue eyes dark and fevered. "Yes?"

The word’s a mockery. Polite, like he’s about to offer you another canapé instead of—

Then he leans in, and your knees buckle.

You don’t fall—his hands are locked tight on your thighs, anchoring you to the wall like you’re something sacred. But the jolt that rolls through you is visceral, molten, and immediate. His tongue is hot, sure, greedy. He doesn’t tease now. Doesn’t ease in slow. No soft kisses, no idle licks.

He’s intent. Devout.

Your head tips back against the wall with a thud as you bite down on the back of your hand, desperate to keep the sound in. It’s obscene, the way he moves—like this is some long-overdue penance for the hours of polite detachment, for every second he pretended your dress wasn’t the most dangerous thing in the room. The composure from earlier is gone, abandoned somewhere with his suit jacket. You'll have to remember to feel arrogant about how little effort it took to have this—Tim Drake, on his knees in a supply closet with your dress hiked up to your hips, eating you out like he needs it to survive—later.

Your hand is still in your mouth, teeth sunk into the soft flesh of your knuckle, but it’s not enough. Not nearly. The noise building in your chest wants out, and Tim isn’t helping—he’s groaning against you now, deep and low, fully enjoying this, the way you shake for him.

You try to hold back the sounds—really, you do—but your body has never cared much for decorum when he’s between your legs. You hear a breathy, half-broken whimper echo off the closet walls and it takes you a second to realise it’s yours.

Tim hums against you, wickedly pleased.

The vibration punches through your hips like a live wire. Your hand slides off your mouth as you brace yourself against the wall, grip trembling.

You barely gasp out, "Tim—" when your orgasm hits like a goddamn freight train—blinding, full-body, ripping through you so fast and sharp that your head knocks back against the wall again and the sound you make is entirely out of your control.

Tim doesn't stop until you're trembling, twitching, practically sinking down the wall—and only then does he pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and breathing like he just ran a marathon.

You’re still panting, legs jelly, trying and failing to catch your breath. Tim smooths down your dress as he stand back up, and you hope it's not too obvious that you've just been ravished in a supply closet. You still do, unfortunately, have to put in an hour of face-time at least.

Tim doesn't exactly look better—his hair is a mess, and his pants and shirt are crinkled beyond measure. You press a closed-mouth kiss to his lips, and say, "I'd offer to reciprocate, but frankly, I don't think I'd be getting back up if I went on my knees right now."

Tim exhales a soft laugh, and you feel it against your lips—warm, dizzy, pleased. "Gotta save some things for home."

He presses one last kiss to your cheek, then glances toward the door, jaw clenched like he’s trying to rebuild all that composure you spent the last half hour tearing apart. Oh, you're never letting him live this down. All that composure, and all it takes to undo it is one conversation with some trust fund guy named Marty.

"Give me a two-minute head start," he murmurs, brushing your hair gently back into place like the act of tenderness will make up for the fact that your knees are still shaking. "Then come out like nothing happened. Smile. Mingle."

"Oh, you'll have more than two minutes," you say. "I need to hide the evidence of you turning into a vampire on my neck, once I can remember how my legs work."

Tim glances down at your neck, then smirks. "Didn’t hear you complain."

"Big talk for someone who’s still catching his breath," you murmur. "Where's your jacket, Mr. Drake?"

He huffs a soft laugh and kisses you one more time. "You started it," he mutters, backing toward the door, before pausing. "Where is my jacket?"

taglist: open!

[traf-graf]

3am dinner

[speedpaint]

[reebmiester]

And when I break it's in a million pieces this song fits dick grayson so well its not even funny

[gaintsnowflake]

❆ HOME

PAIRING : dick grayson x fem!reader

ONESHOT : you and dick are best friends, just with a shared home and no boundaries, and everyone thinks your dating... its perfectly normal

masterlist

     The sound of the door creaking open at exactly six p.m. wasn’t surprising. What was surprising, maybe, was how you never invited your best friend over for dinner, and yet— somehow— he still showed up like clockwork. Like some kind of well-dressed stray who knew there’d always be food and zero resistance.

     You didn’t even bother looking up as you heard the familiar thump of shoes being kicked off, followed by the exaggerated groan of someone throwing themselves dramatically onto your couch like it personally betrayed them.

     “Hey,” he called, already making himself too comfortable. “Feels good to be home.”

      Home. Right.

      You peaked out to him, noting how he already scrolls on his phone in front of him. Paying no mind to the smell of food leaking from the pan sizzling on the stove. “Call this home one more time and I might just start asking for rent.”

      He dropped his phone like you’d insulted his honor. Both hands went up in surrender, a smirk blooming so big it reached his eyes. The smug little thing.

      “You wouldn’t,” he said, already up and strolling into the kitchen like he owned a timeshare in your apartment. To be fair, he kind of did.

      “I absolutely would,” you replied, even though you both knew you wouldn’t.

      “You like having me here too much.” And just like that, your mouth betrayed you, twitching upward in a smile you didn’t authorize.

      “Don’t flatter yourself,” you muttered, because pretending to be annoyed was easier than admitting he was right.

      He leaned beside you, shoulder brushing yours like he was trying to remind you he still knew how to be charming in close quarters. That same cologne he always wore— warm, woodsy, and annoyingly comforting— wrapped around you like a second hoodie.

      “You made stir fry,” he observed, clearly pretending this wasn’t the third Tuesday in a row he’d crashed your dinner plans.

      “I did.”

      “With mushrooms?”

      Your eyebrow twitched. “You don’t like mushrooms?”

      He sighed like you'd personally betrayed him. “I tolerate mushrooms. For you.”

      “Oh, the humanity. What a sacrifice.”

      “You’re worth the suffering.”

      The words landed with more weight than either of you intended, hanging in the air like an emotional pause neither of you felt brave enough to break. So, naturally, you stirred the pan like it was a distraction instead of a lifeline.

      “You staying after patrol tonight?” you asked, like your heart wasn’t tap dancing somewhere behind your ribs.

      He shrugged, already pulling two bowls from your cabinet like the well-trained intruder he was. “Unless you’re kicking me out.”

      “You say that like you don’t still have socks in my drawer.”

      You found him exactly where you left him: halfway upside down on your couch, head hanging off the cushion like gravity was a personal challenge, one sock missing, popcorn bowl resting dangerously on his stomach.

      “I think I can see the ceiling’s soul,” he announced.

      “That’s probably mold,” you replied, stepping over his legs like he was a poorly placed rug.

      “I’ve stared into the abyss,” he said solemnly, shifting so his face could peek at you from beneath the coffee table. “And the abyss definitely needs better lighting.”

      You dropped a blanket on his face. He just squirmed, peaking his eyes out once again.

      “Stop existential-crisis-ing on my furniture,” you said, heading into the kitchen. “You’ve been upside down so long your brain’s gonna leak out your ears.”

      “Bold of you to assume I have any left.” He sat up with the grace of a soggy noodle and promptly spilled half the popcorn.

      “You’re a menace.”

      “I’m your menace.”

      “Unfortunately”.

      You returned with two mugs of cocoa, because of course he’d emotionally blackmailed you into making it, and handed him one without ceremony. He took it like you were offering him treasure, cradling it with both hands and sighing like a grandma in a cardigan commercial.

      “Thanks,” he said, blowing on the steam. “I mean it. You're, like, the coziest person I know. You’re like if a weighted blanket became sentient and made sarcastic comments.”

      You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. My heart. So touched.”

      “Don’t get so emotional on me,” his cocky smirk annoyed you, just like the pang it caused in your heart.

      You threw a mini marshmallow at him. He caught it in his mouth like a trained dolphin, which was both deeply annoying and a little impressive.

      And then time passed. Not much, just enough for the cocoa to cool and the night to feel quieter than it had before. Outside, it had started raining, a lazy, drizzle-type rain that didn’t seem like it planned on stopping. It tapped against the windows like an old friend, and neither of you moved to break the quiet.

      Finally, as you both stared at the movie you’d barely been watching, you said it.

      “You could just stay.”

      It wasn’t a dramatic moment. Just... there. Casual. Like offering a second slice of pizza or calling dibs on the good blanket.

      He only blinked, looking over at you.

      “Like— stay the night? Or stay forever and inherit your apartment when you mysteriously disappear under suspicious circumstances?”

      “You sleep here so often, I’m pretty sure the building owners thinks we’re co-tenants.”

      “They’re not wrong.”

      “Exactly. Just crash here. It’s gross out. And your socks are probably wet. And you used my good blanket, so you kind of owe me.”

      He made a long, thoughtful humming sound. “Well, I am a very considerate guest. Wouldn’t want to bring wet socks into my own apartment.”

      You didn’t even flinch. “I will launch you out the window.”

      He held up his hands. “Okay, okay! Staying. I’m staying. Consider me officially horizontal and not moving.”

      “Good.”

      “Also, I call the couch.”

      You stared at him. “You are on the couch.”

      “I called it. There’s a system.”

      You rolled your eyes and got up to grab another blanket— mostly for yourself, but also because you knew he’d steal it in the night if you didn’t establish dominance now.

      As you tossed it over your shoulders and sank into the armchair, he settled deeper into the cushions like a content cat, cocoa mug balanced on his chest.

      And just before you hit play on the movie again, he murmured, eyes half-closed, “You’re the best, you know.”

      You didn’t answer right away. Just smirked and threw another marshmallow at his forehead.

      “Yeah, yeah. Go to sleep before I change my mind.”

     Jason arched an eyebrow as he dug into the container of noodles with the grace of a raccoon raiding a trash can. “So,” he started, mouth half-full, “how’s your girlfriend?”

      Dick didn’t look up from where he was flicking a stray grain of rice off his lap. “Which one?”

      Jason gave him a flat look. “Don’t be cute. You know who.”

      “She’s not my girlfriend.”

      “Oh, right. My bad. Your roommate with benefits minus the benefits but with shared custody of a couch and emotional codependency.”

      Dick sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Why does everyone assume we’re dating?”

      Jason snorted. “Because you live at her place and keep her coffee stocked?”

      “I do not live at her place.”

      Jason counted off on his fingers. “Your toothbrush is in her bathroom, your shoes are by her door, you’ve been wearing that hoodie for three days and I’m ninety percent sure it’s hers, and when I called your phone last night, she answered.”

      “I was in the shower,” Dick argued weakly.

      Jason pointed his chopsticks at him like a sword of truth. “And she said— and I quote— ‘Nightwing’s busy using all my hot water, try again in ten.’”

      Dick muttered something under his breath and reached for the takeout box Jason had clearly claimed but was too tired to defend. “It’s not like that.”

      Jason raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Then what is it like?”

      Dick opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “We’re just close.”

      “You sleep on her couch.”

      “It’s a nice couch.”

      “You replaced her shower head.”

      “It had terrible water pressure.”

      “You refill her snacks before she even notices they’re gone.”

      “I eat most of them,” Dick said, like that helped.

      Jason laughed, low and smug. “You are so far in denial, man, you’re practically leasing property in Egypt.”

      Dick didn’t respond right away. Just chewed slowly and stared at the skyline like it owed him answers.

      “She doesn’t look at me like that,” he mumbled eventually.

      Jason gave him a long, unreadable look. “And you’ve never looked at her like that?”

      Dick’s silence said enough.

      A gust of wind rattled the fire escape beside them. Somewhere below, a car alarm wailed into the night and got ignored like all good Gotham car alarms.

      After a moment, Jason leaned back, arms stretched behind his head. “You know, I’m not saying you have to date her.”

      “Thanks.”

      “I’m just saying,” Jason continued, ignoring him, “you already do everything but date her. Might as well make it official and start paying joint taxes.”

      “Shut up,” Dick muttered, chucking a balled napkin at his head.

      Jason caught it one-handed and grinned. “Just saying. You’re one good ‘accidental forehead kiss’ away from a rom-com ending.”

      Dick blinked. “That’s not a real thing.”

      Cause if it was a real thing, he would have already tried it.

[dickdevotionals]

you eclipsed me completely

summary: You finally meet Nightwing. He's more annoying (and less scary) than you thought he would be.

tags: dick grayson x vigilante!reader, gender-neutral, no use of y/n, secret identity shenanigans, sprinkle of angst

link to ao3: here

sequel to the ghost of you in my palms

masterlist

Nightwing drops in when the fight's already halfway done. Typical.

You don't pay him any attention, because there's three guys on you and one of them has a gun he's very eager to use. You duck under the barrel as it swings wide, hook your arm under his, and wrench it up until you hear something pop. He screams. The gun clatters to the concrete, and you kick it under a dumpster just in time for one of the others to land a punch against your ribs. It’s a solid hit—he’s wearing brass knuckles, what a dick—but you’ve taken worse.

You pivot, sweep his legs out from under him, and slam your elbow into his throat before he can rise. He gasps, then chokes. You don’t wait to see if he’s down for good. The third guy bolts.

Nightwing has the guy on the floor before you've made half a step in his direction. You're reluctantly impressed.

"You are one hard person to catch," he says, not even winded.

"That's by design," you say, kneeling down next to one of the guys you just took down and checking his pockets. You aren't sure whether you're hoping to find something or hoping not to.

"What are you looking for?" Nightwing asks, kneeling right next to you now, and the only reason you don't screech like a startled child is through years of practice of not feeling your emotions in the suit. How did he get so close without making a sound?

"Nothing," you reply, promptly standing up and moving three steps away. Your heart is damn near jumping out of your chest; Nightwing's notice is exactly what you've been hoping to avoid for however long you're staying here. You still have to check the other two dealers and the van before the cops get here, but you can't exactly progress as normal with Nightwing staring at you with those creepy whited-out domino eyes.

"You’re jumpy," Nightwing says, like he’s not the one who just stealth-ninja’d up behind you with zero warning.

"I’m thorough," you reply, deciding fuck it and kneeling next to the second guy and ruffling through his pockets rather aggressively.

He hums, like he's filing that away for later. "You’re also avoiding me."

"I'm not avoiding you," you lie. "I barely even know who you are."

"And that's the issue, no?" He asks, finally standing up. "Two months you've been patrolling my city, and yet you somehow turn into smoke before I can talk to you. If not for some very gossipy teenagers, I wouldn't even know you exist."

"Your city?" you ask, and immediately bite your tongue. Snarking at him isn't going to make this conversation end any quicker. The third guy, thankfully, decided not to wear a jacket or anything with pockets, saving you a lot of trouble. Thanks, third guy.

You straighten, dust your gloves off, and turn back toward the van. You can feel Nightwing watching you, probably cataloguing your height and gait and bone structure to run through his Bat-database later. You adjust your posture just enough to throw him off. Slightly more slouch. You’re not above theatrics, especially when they are so very necessary.

The van is locked, which you expected. You fish a set of tools from your belt, crouch, and get to work on the back doors. It’s almost meditative, this part—click, twist, listen, breathe. Except Nightwing doesn’t leave.

He lingers just behind your left shoulder, arms crossed, breathing evenly like he’s trying to be patient, which somehow makes it worse.

"Don’t suppose you’re going to tell me your name?" he says finally.

You consider not telling him, but it's not as if your identity in the suit is a secret—basically everyone who's being helped by a vigilante wants to know their name. The old lady whose groceries you carried four blocks knows it. No harm in offering a little to Nightwing to get him to back off. "Eclipse."

He hums, repeats the name out loud as if testing it. "Not a very hero name, is it?"

"I don't recall asking," you say, almost subconsciously, rifling through a file stuffed under the driver's seat.

He snorts, unabashed. "Touché."

There's absolutely nothing in the file that would connect this to—to your dear old mentor. You should feel relieved, but you only feel weirdly sick.

"You okay?" Nightwing asks, tone casual, but there's a thread of real concern under it. You're surprised you can recognise it, when you haven't talked to each other before tonight. It is very possible that you're hearing concern where there isn't any.

"Peachy," you mutter, tucking the file back exactly where you found it for the cops and slamming the door shut. You turn, intending to leave—van’s clean, job’s done, Nightwing thoroughly annoyed—and find him still right there, damn near shoulder to shoulder. You take a sharp step back, reflex more than choice, and Nightwing, to his credit, actually raises his hands slightly, like he’s the one startled.

"Easy," he says. "Not trying to get in your way."

"Then stop standing in it," you reply, stifling the urge to rub your ribs. The bruises are blooming in earnest now, and you really don't need him noticing.

He gives you a look you can't quite decipher through the domino mask. "You sure you’re alright?"

"Are we doing this again?"

He doesn’t rise to the bait this time. Instead, he tilts his head, considering you like you're a particularly twitchy puzzle box.

"Something happen last night?" he asks.

You freeze.

You absolutely, categorically, do not freeze often. The instinct was trained out of you so long ago that it's unfamiliar now. It takes you a second to unfreeze, to inject casualness in your posture, but you highly doubt the hesitation went unnoticed. "What are you talking about?"

"You've been patrolling every night the past month," Nightwing says, sounding rather confused. "You didn't come out last night. I assumed you'd gotten injured or something, but you seem fine now."

You shrug, noncommittal. "Took a night off. That’s allowed, right?"

Nightwing squints at you. Not suspicious, exactly—just sharp. Like he’s fitting puzzle pieces together, and you really, really don’t want him to finish the picture. Logically, you know it's impossible for Nightwing to figure out you weren't patrolling last night because you were at home, feeling stupidly upset about a date that you never should've said yes to, but there's an irrational fear that settles in your bones regardless.

"That right?" he says. "Weird timing, is all. Lot of movement in the docks. Thought you’d be the first on it."

"I thought I'd let you have it. I have a life outside this, you know," you say, straightening, clicking the last latch on your belt back into place. "Shockingly."

"Didn’t peg you for the clubbing type."

"I’m not. Maybe I stayed home and made soup."

Nightwing smiles, quick and crooked, the kind that could almost be charming if you weren’t still vaguely contemplating shoving him into the now-unlocked van and slamming the doors. "You don’t strike me as the soup-making type either."

"And I suppose you would know," you drawl, "from all the many times we've talked to each other."

Nightwing just grins again, like you're funny, which is annoying because you are, obviously, but not for him. Not for caped Boy Wonders who drop into your business halfway through and act like you're the one intruding. You're funny for charming detectives who are more persistent than they seem and also will probably never talk to you again after you turned them down last night.

You step past him before you can fall into that particular line of thought. "If you’re done profiling my soup habits, I’ve got somewhere to be."

"Yeah? Got a hot date or something?"

It’s said too lightly. Offhand. Like a joke tossed into the wind.

You shouldn’t flinch.

You do.

Nightwing notices. His eyebrows inch up, subtle but there. "No way."

"Shut up," you say, no, warn, because you're this close to grappling away, manners and not making enemies be damned.

"You have a date tonight?" Nightwing asks, and small mercies that he's got the timeline wrong.

"I'm leaving," you say, far too loud for a quiet night but Nightwing doesn't seem to care.

"Okay, okay," Nightwing says, putting his hands up again like he’s talking to a skittish alley cat instead of a trained vigilante who definitely knows seventeen ways to drop him where he stands. "Didn’t mean to poke."

You don’t answer him. You just shoot a grappling line and vanish over the nearest rooftop.

The wind's sharp up here. Cleaner. You hit the ledge on a roll, shake out your shoulders, and start heading for your usual exit route—half out of habit, half to work the fury from your blood. You shouldn’t have flinched. Shouldn’t have let him see anything at all. You’re usually better than this.

You make it three rooftops before the soft sound of boot soles hits the gravel behind you.

Goddamn it.

"You got a reason for following me?" you ask without turning.

"I thought we were talking."

"We weren’t," you say, stopping just short of the next ledge. You turn enough to catch him in your periphery, backlit by a rooftop antenna and Blüdhaven’s bruised skyline. "You were asking annoying questions. I was being polite."

"I don’t think that’s what that was."

You sigh and swing around to face him properly, arms crossing tight over your chest. "Okay, fine. You want a conversation? Here’s one. I’m not trying to take over your turf, I’m not trying to make your job harder, and I’m not going to be here forever. I’ve got my own problems. I clean up what I can, I get out of your way, and that should be enough."

"That's less of a conversation and more of a monologue, if I'm honest," he says, after a brief pause.

"You say you aren’t staying," Nightwing adds, softer now. "But two months is a long pit stop."

You roll your jaw, weighing the urge to just disappear again. But you’re tired of disappearing. Tonight is already fucked sideways, and something about the way he says it—like he’s not judging, just asking—keeps your feet glued to the rooftop.

"I’ve got a situation," you say finally. "Can’t leave. Not yet."

"Is it a bad situation?" he asks, arms still crossed, but less defensive now. "Because if you’re in trouble—"

"I’m not." You catch the flicker of his expression and add, with more force than needed: "And even if I was, I wouldn’t go to a Bat for help."

That gets a reaction, finally, but not the one you expect. Not surprise that you know of his connection to Batman, but rather a stiffening of his spine, like he's… offended. "Lucky for you that I'm not a Bat, then," he says.

"Sure, well, if you're done interrogating me, I have bruises I need to bandage and…" you sigh, then decide misdirection can't hurt, "a very hot date to get to."

Nightwing seems surprised you'd bring that up of your own volition after grappling away when he mentioned it, but he doesn't grin teasingly this time.

"Not that it’s my business," he says, shifting his weight, "but dating’s a bad idea in our line of work."

The words are simple. Not cruel. Not even condescending. Just quiet. Matter-of-fact.

"I know," you tell him. "Trust me, I know."

Monday morning comes far too soon.

Your side is still sore from the stupid brass knuckles last night, and you got far too little sleep. Still, your ambiguous job at the precinct waits for no one. So you keep a hot water bottle pressed to your side throughout your morning routine and call it good enough.

You bring in your own coffee, because, well. It's not like there's anyone else trying to woo you by guessing your coffee order. You get to your desk. Boot up your computer. Open your inbox. All very normal. All very not-thinking-about-Dick-Grayson, thank you.

You feel him before you see him, instincts somehow tuned to recognise his presence in two weeks. Don’t look up, you tell yourself. If you don’t look up, maybe he’ll go away. Maybe he’s here for someone else.

"Hey."

Fuck.

You look. Idiot. You always look. And there he is. Dick Grayson, leaning against the edge of your desk, that usual grin plastered on his face like nothing had happened, like Saturday evening was just a lovely shared hallucination. Two coffee cups in his hands, one held out to you like it's an offer he expects you to accept.

He looks entirely too casual about this. About you. About everything.

"Morning," he says, his voice warm but not quite casual enough to hide the thing underneath. The awkwardness that you know is there, even if he’s trying to pretend it isn’t.

You stare at the offered coffee like it might bite you.

"Morning," you say eventually, because the only thing worse than pretending everything’s fine is acknowledging it’s not. You take the cup. It’s the right order. Of course it is.

Dick doesn’t sit. He just hovers there, half-perched on the corner of your desk like he belongs there, like this is perfectly fine.

You busy yourself with your keyboard. Nothing you’re doing requires immediate attention, but you make a show of typing anyway. The coffee cup is warm in your hand. His fingers were just there.

"You seem tired," you venture, finally, unsure of where exactly you both stand with each other.

"Didn't get enough sleep last night," Dick says.

"Clubbing on a Sunday night?" you ask, lilting your voice just so to sound teasing. If he wants to pretend you're both coworkers again, that's fine by you.

"Working on a Sunday night," he corrects. "Do you know how many cases I have open right now?"

Yes, you do. Zero. He had two open last week, and closed them both before Friday. He has yet to be assigned a new case.

Still, you go along with the attempt at a conversation. "Oh, I don't know, fifty?"

"Give or take a few," Dick says, grinning, and for a moment this is last week again, and you haven't ruined a perfectly fine friendship because you wanted to pretend you could have a normal life.

You try to smile. It lands a little crooked, a little late.

He watches you for a second too long. Not in that overtly flirtatious way he sometimes gets when he’s teasing, but in the quiet, assessing way that makes your skin crawl—not because it’s threatening, but because it isn’t. Because it’s gentle. And worse, familiar.

"Well," you say, gesturing vaguely at your screen, "some of us are trying to clear the paperwork backlog, so."

"Mmh." He doesn't move. Just sips his own coffee and nods, like he agrees, and then stays right there.

You look at each other for a moment in silence. Even before Saturday, Dick didn't stick around this long at your desk. He does have an actual job to do, and by the way the others are looking at him, you're certain he'll be hearing about 'flirting with the temp' in his performance review. You should probably send him away.

But apparently your emotions now control your brain instead of the other way round because instead of telling him to leave and let you work, your eyes fall to the coffee cup in his hand, follow that cup to his mouth and then linger on his lips for a moment before you snap out of it and turn to your monitor. You can see him smile self-satisfied, as if he'd proven a point, in your periphery.

"So," he says, "Saturday was fun."

You hadn't expected him to bring it up. You'd thought you were both pretending Saturday didn't happen. You look at him from the corner of your eye and ask, "Was it?"

Dick shrugs, the motion deliberately casual, but you’re watching too closely not to notice the way his fingers tighten just slightly around the coffee cup. "As far as completely platonic dinners go, yeah, I thought it was."

He doesn’t meet your eye when he says it, which is somehow worse. It makes the air between you heavy, uncertain, as if it might break if either of you pushes too hard in any direction.

So you say, "What, do you have a lot of experience with those?" and Dick smiles tightly at you and you both go on pretending nothing at all happened.

taglist: @adorabluesposts @makimakimi

thank you to everyone who read the first part of this, the support and love has been absolutely mind-blowing!

[dickdevotionals]

hey i don’t know if you’re open to requests so if you’re not just ignore this! your “ghost of you in my palms” fic was SO GOOD and i was wondering if you’re open to doing a part 2? ik some writers don’t like extending fics and writing part 2s so if that’s the case then again, ignore this! but either way i just wanted to let you know i loved the fic and the way you write is so good!

Hi!! Thank you, first of all, for being so nice! I'm glad you liked it!

I am open to requests, yes, and the second part to 'the ghost of you' is already in the works! It was always intended to be a work in a series, so there will be more parts in the future!

(There's already a title for the work in my 'currently working on' list! I got distracted writing a nsfw drabble for Tim but rest assured, I will be back on Grayson duty once I finish that!)

[jasontoddsguns]

AU where jason Todd actually has pit madness, but it’s because his shitty crime alley apartment is directly above one of the natural pits. it’s in his tap water.

[jasontoddsguns]

Dick: thanks for letting me crash here.

Jason: just don’t break anything, dumbass.

Dick: (sips water)… have I ever told you what a little bitch you are