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ME, MY GIRLFRIEND AND MY GIRLFRIEND'S GIRLFRIEND BEST FRIEND
Summary: You and your bestie are a package deal; you thought he knew that by now.
Pairing: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne x fem! reader. Feat. best friend Donna, Kori, Stephanie and Diana.
DICK GRAYSON
It was one of those rare quiet nights. No alarms blaring, no villains plotting, no Bat-signals shining in the sky. Just Dick sprawled across the couch, half-watching a documentary and waiting for you to come back from the kitchen with popcorn.
You returned, phone pressed to your ear, clearly in the middle of a conversation with someone. You handed him the bowl before plodding back into the kitchen to get some drinks.
Dick watched you go with a smile. You were glowing—laughing at whatever was being said on the other end of the line, looking carefree and happy. He couldn’t help but admire you. You were everything good in his life wrapped up in one person. And tonight, he felt especially lucky to have you.
You were FaceTiming someone. Based on the way you were laughing and swapping stories from a wild night out, he assumed it was one of the girls, probably Donna or Kory.
You disappear from his line of sight, and he turns his focus back to the TV. Until you appear behind him, holding out the bottle of soda, and then he hears it.
"I love you!"
He looked up. You were smiling, voice soft and sincere. His heart stopped at the words, nearly bursting in delight. You'd said it, you'd finally said the three words he so longed to hear.
He spins around, popcorn bowl flying as he locks his arms around your waist over the back of the couch and all but vibrates in excitement, shouting, "I love you too babe!"
Only to falter when you wriggle loose, shooting him an incredulous look as you hold your phone up near your mouth.
"Dick, what the hell? I'm on the phone." You scold him.
"Wha? Who are you professing your love to?" He squawks in outrage.
"Um, Donna?" You raise a brow, as if to say, duh.
"Donna?" He reels back with a whine, hand over his heart in offence that's only half fake.
"Oh my God, you're such a baby." You sigh, "Donna, I gotta go." Donna let out an amused laugh before you hung up, throwing your phone on the couch.
"Get up loser." You roll your eyes.
"Why? Just go and be with Donna."
"For the love of fuck." you huffed, "I love you, Dick. But if you're gonna be annoying about it then maybe I will go and —"
Dick suddenly lunges for you once more, burying his face in your stomach and whining like a petulant child. "You love me more than Donna, right?"
"...Sure, baby." You threw up a mental prayer, hoping Donna would forgive you.
JASON TODD
"Babe? You home?"
"On the couch, Jay." You call back, making him falter a little. You always ran to greet him when he got home, no matter what you were doing.
You don't sound injured or distressed, but Jason can't help the anxiety that rises in his chest as he stalks through the apartment. Only to freeze in betrayal at the sight of Starfire sitting on your lap, her arms wrapped around your neck as the two of you giggle together over some inside joke.
"Are you... are you cuddling my girlfriend?" He looked offended, glaring at where Kori was snuggling into your neck.
"Don't get your panties in a bunch Jason." You rolled your eyes, "Besides, you literally made out with Roy the other day?"
"For the mission!" Jason sputtered, cheeks as red as his helmet.
"Whatever you wanna tell yourself hon." You hummed.
Jason dramatically drops his helmet on the table and crosses his arms like a toddler throwing a tantrum. "Great. Just great. What’s next? A wedding invitation?"
Kori shrugs. "You would be welcome to attend."
Jason’s brain momentarily short-circuited before he sputtered. "…That was a joke, Kori."
You snort. "Don’t explode, Jay. We’re best friends. This is just Kori being affectionate. You know how she is."
Jason squinted suspiciously, pointing an accusatory finger. "I don’t sit on Roy’s lap. Not like that."
"Okay," you deadpanned, "but you could, you just don't."
Jason narrowed his eyes, walking slowly toward the couch, still pouting. "I feel like I’ve walked into a really weird romcom. Or a very specific fanfiction."
Kori simply smiled at Jason, not bothering to move. "Do not worry, Jason. You are still her chosen snuggle companion for the nightly hours."
"Damn right I am."
That night, as you lay in bed, Jason's arms wrapped tightly around you, on the verge of falling asleep, he suddenly asked. "You love me more than her, right, babe?"
You blink sleepily. "Hmm? Babe, I live with you."
"That’s not a no."
TIM DRAKE
Tim’s curled up on the couch in full comfort mode: hoodie, blanket, snacks, and a fond little smile on his face as he taps the FaceTime icon next to his girlfriend’s name.
It rings once. Twice. Then the screen opens to reveal not you, his beloved girlfriend, but Stephanie Brown.
In what appears to be a changing room, with a shit eating grin on her face.
"Hey, Loverboy."
Tim chokes on a gummy bear. "Why are you answering?!"
She grins, swinging the camera around to show you, standing in front of a mirror, wearing an absolutely illegal red lace number.
You gasp. "STEPHANIE!"
"You said you wanted his opinion!" She cackles.
"I meant after I bought it! It's supposed to be a surprise!"
Tim sputters, "I can check the fit! That’s literally my job!"
You tried not to laugh. "Babe, please stop behaving like you’re in an interview."
"But, I’m qualified! More than her! That should be me!" He says, indignant.
Steph winks. "Clearly not, if you’re stuck watching from home."
You grin, unable to stop yourself from throwing fuel on the fire. "It’s true. It’s a bestie thing. Steph’s like my other half."
"I thought I was your other half." Tim's eye was twitching.
"You thought wrong!" Steph mocked, wrapping her arms around you and cupping one of your boobs with her free hand as Tim screeched bloody murder over the phone.
"Those are mine! Mine!"
"Not anymore. Bye loser." Steph cackled before abruptly hanging up the phone, promptly declining every one of Tim's spam calls as you watched on with a wince.
"Steph, when I said I wanted to blow his mind, this is not what I meant."
BRUCE WAYNE
Bruce was exhausted, his bruises had bruises and muscles he wasn't previously aware of ached. It had been the 'week from hell', as Dick had moaned, with a large-scale Arkham breakout not even the worst thing that had happened.
His only solace had been knowing you'd be waiting for him in bed that night, soft and warm, your very presence enough to soothe him as you cuddled into his chest.
The batsuit lay scattered across the ground, he'd apologise to Alfred for the mess later, if he remembered, right now all he wanted was to pull you against his bare chest and bury his face in your neck for the foreseeable future.
He'd gotten back far later than expected, and though the bedroom door was open, your back was to him, snuggled under the covers having fallen asleep waiting for him.
Carefully pulling the covers back, he slid in behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist with a contented sigh. Only to freeze at the feel of another body next to you. He's not immediately alarmed, assuming it's just Damian, only to nearly fall out of the bed at the sight of Diana.
"Hmm, Bruce?" You groaned, rolling to face him with a sleepy smile.
"Honey. There's an Amazon in our bed." He sighs.
"We're having a sleepover." You mumble, as if that was enough of an explanation.
"Whyyy?" He whines, too exhausted to be embarrassed about his childish behaviour.
"Cause cuddles."
"I give you cuddles!"
"Not Amazonian cuddles." You mumble under your breath.
"Are you saying she's better than me?" Bruce was outraged.
"It's not a competition." Before Bruce can counter, your door creaks open again, revealing an excited looking Clark dressed in pyjamas.
"No." He growls, making you, Clark and Diana all whine.
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?"
So any americans reading this, please call your reps. You do not need to call for each individual bill, just give them a list of bills you want them to say no to, which should be:
KOSA (Kids Online Safety Act)
IODA (Interstate Obscenity Definition Act)
SCREEN act
Find your members of Congress by typing in your address on Congress.gov.
but have you commented on an existing fic today? have you left guest kudos today on that fic you've already kudos-ed before but can't stop coming back to? have you shared a writer's post today?
have you supported your writers today such that they feel encouraged enough to write the fic you are asking for tomorrow?
Vampire Mac having an ancient vocabulary yet they can also manage devices better then advanced technicians and even hack
-💻
This is what I believe in.
Vampire Mac would have an ancient, like heavily gothic home, with all these dark motifs and stuff. Old paintings of them hanging around, a library full of tombs, books, and things that predate the concept of the United States, and then you get to the corner of the library and-
They're playing the Sims. On desktop. With kitty-cat headphones.
Vampire Mac who has an expansive wardrobe full of clothes that would make anyone with a historical sense of fashion drop to their knees in a Walmart, but-
Is that Shrek? And puss in boots? On a t-shirt?
Vampire Mac is old, but not too old to partake in things they find humorous or just in good fun/nature. Sure they can play into the "Oh I have no idea about the modern era, please and do tell me my adorable mortal companion." Meanwhile if you glance at their desktop you'd find out otherwise.
They'd still be such a nerd too, like imagine you're taking time to learn new things whether for personal pleasure or for academic reason, and Mac comes up behind you, reads your history homework and laughs?
"That's what was recorded for future reference? How humorous, that is not how I remember it."
I also think a fun pastime is Mac telling you random stories about their life. What they were like before becoming a vampire and what the last few centuries have felt like.
Boredom is a price to pay for eternity, but with you here, it feels less taxing.
"I have all knowledge in this universe at my fingertips since creation, yet none of it has ever helped me figure out even one way to dry your tears for you"
Featuring Mac before dateviators, hanging out in they're system as they look at the player breaking down in front of the screen through the computer camera. Who the hell knows what happened now.
(Me: I need a break from drawing Mac💔 also me: *draws Mac five minutes later*)
