k ❀

[kennysflowers]

kenny — 21 — she/her 💐

masterlist (under construction!)

don’t be shy… send requests!

[vveloxsbve]

thinking about how clingy wally west is. he couldn't seem to keep his hands off you, even at two in the morning.

"wallyyuhh," you groaned, feigning annoyance. wally ignored you and threw a leg over yours, kicking the blankets away. "wally, it's hot, and you're basically a human furnace!"

once again, the redhead had nothing to say, burying his face further into your hair. you'd caught a glimpse of him earlier; cheeks flushed pink, just like his bare chest and shoulders, constellations of freckles and moles standing out against the dusted rose. you knew he was hot, too, even as he tightened his arms around you. he just couldn't let go of you!

"mmh... i love you, 's all," he mumbles sleepily, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. "don't w'na let y'go."

you sigh. "i love you too, walls."

man, your boyfriend was a handful, but you sure do love him.

@vveloxsbve 2026. please do not steal or copy 🥺

[kennysflowers]

will there be a continuation of "My best friends brother is the one for me" Jason todd fic?

Yes!!!! Currently working on it <333

[kennysflowers]

IF YOU WANT A LOVER — ˚࿔ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ JASON TODD X READER

Warnings: bsf!reader, fem!reader, kissing, a little suggestive (MDNI), cussing, drinking… idk I think that’s it? I’m also not too proud of this one but I tried 😞 also sorry for any typos! Didn’t fully proofread

Divider: @pixopix

For this request!

3.2k words

The night started how any night usually does for you two — sitting around indulging in mindless conversation, ordering takeout, and talks of going out without either of you making a move to get up from your comfortable positions.

“Just a thought,” you say lying backwards on the couch, with your legs posted up on the wall, “Maybe we can actually go out tonight?”

From his position on the floor next to you, Jason says, “Like… actually?”

“Yes, actually.”

You and Jason know each all too well to know that when you say you’re going out, you don’t actually mean that you’re going out. Why leave the house when you can indulge in nonsensical chatter with your best-friend-turned-roommate? Jason doesn’t see the point in this.

You take a deep breath before saying, “It could be fun! We can check out that karaoke bar I told you about.”

“Bold of you to assume that I’m doing karaoke on tonight of all nights.”

“Bold of you to say that before getting a couple drinks in you.” You say, turning to him and raising your eyebrows. He can’t deny that look.

He wishes he could protest, but he settles on a quiet, “Fine.”

The two of you just sit there in silence for a moment, both silently begging for the will to get up. The silence between you is filled with Leonard Cohen’s ‘Suzanne.’ When Jason thinks about it too much, the song almost reminds him of you.

He can’t help but remember the short dissertation you’ve given him about the song over dinner many of nights ago. Of all of his songs, for a matter of fact. There was nothing but a look of love in his eyes as you went on and on and on.

To stop that reoccurring thought, he swiftly gets up with a small grunt. He extends his hand, offering to help you off the couch. You reach out and take his hand, adjusting from your position on the couch until you’re upright and on your feet. You mutter a small, “Thanks.”

Your hand lingers on his for a second too long. A second that if anyone saw, they’d realize what was truly going on between you two. The feelings that neither of you are bold enough to reveal.

You drop his hand and give him a small, flat smile before heading off to your room to get ready for the night. Jason’s eyes follow you as you walk away. He quickly looks down as if he did something wrong.

Moments like this aren’t extremely rare between the two of you. It always starts with a strangely domestic act. And it never fails to end with one of you running off before things can get too real. And best believe that they’re never acknowledged after.

The two of you rush to get ready, in hopes to get there at least an hour or two before the bar closes. You spend as much time as you can picking out your outfit, hoping that it’ll get you at least one free drink.

When you’re finally ready, you step out of your room and see Jason already standing in the common area, looking bored as ever. He’s wearing exactly what he was when you left to get ready.

“Didn’t feel like getting all dolled up tonight?” You joke.

“Ha ha.” He says sarcastically, all while taking in your outfit. You notice his lingering gaze.

“You like it?” You say while doing a little spin before continuing, “Do you think it’s enough to get me a free drink?”

He ignores the first question. “A free drink? All your drinks are free, I pay for them.”

You playfully roll your eyes, knowing he kind of has a point. “You know what I mean.”

“Sure I do. Let’s go.” He says jokingly, before turning to head for the door.

The walk to the bar is anything but silent. You’re trying to decide what songs you should sing at karaoke, all while telling Jason what songs he’s going to sing.

Before you step into the bar, you turn towards Jason and say, “I think we should get fucked up tonight.”

“Why would we do that?”

“Why not?” And with that, you make a pointed turn and walk into the bar. He follows your lead.

The bar is obnoxiously loud. From loud chatter in every corner of the room, to someone very terribly covering, ‘Mr. Brightside.’ Nevertheless, you immediately make your way to the bar. You order two shots each for the both of you, just to start you off, of course.

Once you both down the shots, you make your way to the stage to watch these poor people humiliate themselves. You’ve never been so eager to look a mess.

You turn towards Jason, “Should I go next?” You say with a laugh.

“Oh, definitely.” He says smugly.

“Okay but, I’ll only go if you do.”

“I don’t think I’m drunk enough yet.”

And that’s how the two end up on stage singing a terrible rendition of Whitney Houston’s, ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody.’ Jason couldn’t help but look at you as you were hitting all the wrong notes. So much so, that he wasn’t even embarrassed anymore. He was just there. With you. He’s never felt so alive.

When the songs over, you two head to the bar once again. Jason gets a whiskey neat, and you get some fancy margarita. You two are enjoying your drinks, until you hear an unknown voice come up from behind you.

“Quite a voice you got there.” The voice says. You turn around, and you’re met with an attractive-enough-man. Sure, he’s not what you truly want, but he’ll do just fine. Guess the outfit worked its magic.

He extends his hand, “Trevor.” You meet his hand shake and give him your name. All while turning to Jason and wiggling your eyebrows. This Trevor guy continues, “Can I buy you a drink?”

You give him the fakest, yet sweetest smile you can, “Of course you can, Trevor.”

Jason has never been more miserable than he is in this moment. The only things that can compare is all the other times this has happened. And it almost makes Jason sick every time.

Jason puts his hand on your shoulder, muttering a quick, “I’ll leave you to it,” before walking off.

Trevor takes in the interaction, and then finally asks, “That’s not your boyfriend, right?”

You’re far too used to the question at this point. Every guy asks it eventually. And it almost makes you swoon every time. Like every interaction before, you dramatically say, “No— no! Not at all. He’s my roommate.”

Jason keeps a close eye on this conversation from across the bar. After all, his main focus is keeping you safe. If this was on his terms, that would mean keeping you away from guys like Trevor. Sure, he might not know the guy but he already knows that he doesn’t deserve you. He doesn’t know you. Not like Jason doe—

He quickly downs his drink to subside his thoughts. But something in him just can’t stand another guy making a move on you. That should be him. It was in this moment that Jason realized how tipsy he’s getting. To mend that thought, he goes to the bar and orders yet another shot.

Now in your vicinity again, he feels the need to down it and order another. All while you’re sipping on your second drink bought by Trevor. You look over Trevor’s shoulder and see Jason. He looks… unamused to say the least.

He looks up, as he feels your gaze on him. You shoot him a soft smile and in that moment, it truly lights him up. A sight for sore eyes, some would say. But the moment ends a little too quick for Jason’s liking. It’s not long before you’re back to being immersed in whatever-the-fuck this Trevor dude’s saying.

This goes on for what feels like hours for Jason. In reality, you were talking to him for maybe 15 minutes until Jason decided that he’s the one that should have your attention right now. He tries to brainstorm all the ways in which he can earn your undivided attention.

He can pretend to be your boyfriend? Like all the countless times before when creepy guys try to buy you drinks. Is that what Trevor is? A creepy guy? He looks at you as you playfully smack Trevor’s shoulder. Yeah, probably not.

Maybe he can pretend to fall and get hurt or something. Yeah, he’s not drunk enough for that yet. He looks at the karaoke stage as someone sings a god awful rendition of Carly Rae Jepson’s ‘Call Me Maybe.’ Although the sound is something like nails on a chalk board, it strikes up his best (maybe worst) idea yet. Karaoke. He is drunk enough for this.

As the person on stage hits their last ear-piercing note, Jason makes his way to the stage before anyone can steal his soon to be spotlight. As he steps on stage, he almost can’t stand all the eyes on him. But the one pair of eyes that aren’t on him are the ones that matter most. Yours.

As he tries to choose his song, his mind is at a loss. He drunkenly fumbles through the catalog, but none of these songs are good enough for you. That is, until he sees Leonard Cohen’s, ‘I’m Your Man.’ This should do it.

As you hear that first note, your head whips to the stage, revealing a very, very, drunk Jason on stage. Now completely tapped out of your conversation with Trevor, you mutter a, “No fucking way.”

You make your way closer to the stage. Without Trevor, Jason notices. Jason’s eyes are on you the entire time, as he starts singing the first line.

“If you want a lover, I’ll do anything you ask me to.”

His words are pointed, as he looks into your eyes throughout the entire song. It almost feels… intimate. If you were literally anywhere else, this is one of those moments where you would run away. But you don’t. You can’t. Honestly, you don’t even want to this time.

As the song ends, Jason drunkenly walks off the stage. Now with him standing right in front of you, you give him a genuine laugh and say, “Jason Todd. You are drunk.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted?”

“Indeed, it is. Let’s go.”

His eyes stay on you as you walk away. On the way you constantly look back at him, to make sure he’s okay. The way your hips sway— No. This is exactly why he didn’t want to get drunk tonight. It always ends with him questioning everything he’s ever known. Because of you.

The fresh breeze hits Jason’s face in just the right way as you two walk outside. It almost clears his mind completely. Until he looks at you once again. The sight of you recks his mind completely. If only you knew how he truly felt.

His thoughts are interrupted by you snapping in his face, “Jason! Are you okay?” You say, all while holding out one of your earbuds to him. As he takes it, he says, “Yeah— yeah. Sorry. I think I got too drunk.”

“Obviously. C’mon. Let’s get some food in you.”

The walk to the burger joint is filled with a comfortable silence between you two as you listen to the soft romantic songs playing through your headphones. It’s not long before Leonard Cohen’s, ‘If I Didn’t Have Your Love’ comes on.

As the song plays, Jason just can’t help but drunkenly cling to you. He wraps both of his arms around your shoulders and leans almost all of his weight on you. As you almost tumble, you say, “Geez, what has gotten into you?” with a soft laugh.

“I didn’t like that Trevor guy.”

“I could tell. Honestly, I didn’t either,” you turn to him, now with his face directly in yours, “But I got like, two free drinks. I consider that a win.”

“I bought you more drinks than he did.”

“Didn’t know it was a competition”

“It is.”

You’re almost taken aback by his sudden boldness. But as you approach the burger joint, you jokingly push him off of you, “Okay, Romeo. We’re here.”

You two quickly put in your orders and sit down as you wait for your food. It isn’t long before Jason lets his thoughts consume him once again.

He takes a deep breath before speaking, “Y’know, you look very beautiful tonight. No wonder that Trevor guy was all over you.”

You give him a soft smile as you dip your head, “Thanks. And he wasn’t all over me, by the way.”

“Might as well have been. Guys like that don’t deserve your attention.”

“Then who does?”

“Someone that knows you better. Someone that knows you in and out.”

If you thought too much about it, you would think he’s talking about himself. But your thoughts are interrupted by the employee calling your order number. You quickly scramble to get up.

After grabbing your order, you walk back to the table and extend your hand to Jason. He takes it as he gets up, stumbling a little as he does so.

You two walk hand in hand back to your apartment, with your head resting on his arm. There’s somewhat of an awkward silence now, no longer having music to fill the void. That is, until Jason speaks up.

“I’m glad you’re with me again. I couldn’t stand your attention not being on me.”

“Codependent much?”

“I’m serious.”

“I know. I’m messing with you. That little stunt you pulled definitely got my attention.” You say, referring to his little karaoke moment.

As you guys approach your apartment, you release the lock of your hands, as you dig in your purse in hopes to find your keys. Jason opens the door for you before you can find them.

When you two walk into the shared space, Jason immediately flops down onto the couch. You walk over to him, kneeling down next to him, food in hand.

You drunkenly say, “Jason. Get up.”

“Can’t.” He mumbles with his face pushed into the cushions.

“You need to eat, Jay.”

He can’t argue with you when you call him that. He slowly tosses and turns until he’s upright. You take the burgers out of the bag and hand him his. As he’s eating, he realizes how good of an idea food was. As he’s sobering up a bit, he thinks about all the things he said to you in his drunken haze. He hopes you’ve already forgotten all of it.

Of course, his wishes don’t work out in his favor, as you say, “You feeling better? You were talking a lot of game earlier.”

He puts down his empty burger wrapper and puts his head in his hands. “I was hoping you’d forgotten that.”

“How could I?”

He decides it’s best to just be honest at this point. “I meant what I said, by the way.”

“You’re drunk.”

“So are you.”

You gather up all of your drunken confidence to quietly say, “Were you talking about yourself earlier? When you were talking about what I deserve, I mean.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Stop being so coy, Jason. Say what you mean.”

“Yes. I was. Are you… okay with that?”

“I think I just might be,” you say with a shy smile, “But I also think that we should sleep on it and talk in the morning.”

“You’re not wrong.”

With that, you get up, and head to your room. Not without turning back and giving Jason another smile, though. He stays exactly where he is.

After getting ready for bed, you walk back out to the living room to clean up the remnants of food wrappers. As you walk out, you see Jason fast asleep on the couch. The sight of him so peaceful almost makes your heart melt.

You have a sudden realization that you should stay out here with him in case he gets sick or something. So, you grab a pillow and blanket from your room and settle onto the floor right beside the couch. You fall asleep thinking about the conversation that’s to come in the morning.

Did he really mean all those things he said? Is tomorrow finally going to be the long awaited day that you don’t run away at the sudden intimacies? You’d never tell him, but that night you dreamt the sweetest dream of you and Jason. It’s like your subconscious was telling you that you’re meant to be.

The next day, Jason wakes up only seconds before you do. His headache consumes him as he looks over to his left, seeing you on the floor beside him. His heart flutters at the sight. How sweet can one person possibly be?

As he’s looking at you, you stir awake. The first thing you see is his gaze on you.

You mutter a soft, “Morning.”

“Morning. You feeling okay?”

“Barely.”

“Yeah, same here.” He says as he flops back down onto the couch.

It’s just then that both of you start to think about your actions of last night. It seems as though there’s a silent understanding that neither of you should talk about it.

Jason drowns out his thoughts by slowly getting up and muttering, “I’ll make breakfast. Just get some more rest.”

Of course, you don’t listen, as you immediately get up to follow him to the kitchen. All he does is laugh.

You sit on the counter carefully watching him as he makes breakfast. The way he swiftly maneuvers around the kitchen. How he cooked your eggs for longer since you don’t like them runny. Maybe you don’t want to run away from the intimacy any longer.

“Can we talk about last night?” You mutter out as he’s finishing up the meal.

“Sure. Let’s sit.”

He carries both plates to the table and places them at seats directly next to each other. He then pulls your chair out for you, and then says, “Let’s talk.”

The freshly made breakfast should consider itself long forgotten. You two have more important business to tend to.

But honestly, you don’t have enough words to tell him how you really feel. So, you kiss him. The kiss says everything you’ve been itching to say for years. As you pull away, looking into his eyes, you say, “Too much?”

“Not at all.”

You make the brave decision to go in for seconds. This time, the kiss speeds up. You place your hands on his shoulders, as his hands are on the curve of your waist. He pulls you into his lap. You put your hands on the bottom hem of his shirt, testing the waters.

“Go ahead.” He says, giving you a tap on your waist, as you pull his shirt over his head.

You pull away with a smile, saying, “I think I might love you, Jason Todd.”

“I think I could say the same about you,” he lands a kiss on your lips, “I” another kiss, “Love” and another, “You.”

Yeah, breakfast could definitely consider itself long forgotten.

[cherryvvave]

PARTY GIRL!

🍒 party girl!reader and roy harper relationship headcanons. || fluff, daily life headcanons, may be suggestive, not proofread. || ⋆˚࿔ i love this idea but i hate how poorly i wrote it :(

Roy Harper was an outgoing person, this was something most people knew about him, but he never thought he would eventually date someone who loves partying, drinking and socializing.

You were such a lively person. Roy loved this about you. He never thought of you as loud or clingy.

When some people came at him and complained about you, he became sarcastic and supported your actions.

And that was what you loved about him.

He was sober for months, maybe even years, but still he was the most supportive boyfriend you’ve ever had when it came to your party life.

He loved going out to parties with you. He protected you when you got drunk. Helped you shower, get ready for bed and do whatever you couldn’t at that moment.

That man was such a good man and you loved it about him.

The best thing about him was that he wasn’t insecure. He didn’t say anything about what you wore and that was such a blessing.

And he had the cutest little girl ever!

You and Lian always prepared breakfast while Roy was sleeping, with loud music.

Dating him was so much fun than you could ever think of.

He prepared delicious cocktails just for you. Whenever you wanted to throw a party, he helped you make your playlist. He was the funniest person ever.

And, of course, you adapted to his life, too.

He had a life that consisted of action. Being a father, boyfriend and Arsenal was not easy feat but he managed it well.

You became the trusted adult whenever he had to leave Lian with someone.

You and Lian had so many fun times together. You painted your nails, cooked, baked, threw pajama parties, watched cartoons and Barbie movies.

Even though you and Roy had such different lives, you still made life amazing to live together and that was what Roy adored the most.

BONUS DRABBLE ! (suggestive, reader is drunk)

“Let’s go,” you heard him say, his breath hit your ear as you kept swaying your hips to the music. Roy was behind you, his hands hugged your hips and pressed a little to stop your movements but you didn’t stop. “C’mon, baby.” You shook your head against his words.

“Can we stay more?” You turned to face him in his arms. His palms landed on your ass, slowly crawling up to your back. His touch was so feather soft yet solid there. “Pretty please!” You whined loudly.

He closed his eyes, shaking his head to each side, “Nope.”

“I’ll kiss you and hug you and fuck—“

“No.” He pulled you into himself a little more. You buried your head into his muscular chest as your arms climbed around him and grabbed his back.

“Rooy…” You cried his name out and he did the same with your name, his arms patted your back.

“We should leave. You need to shower, sleep, maybe I’ll give you a massage if you’re a good girl.”

His words were going right into your brain as he kept saying his bait. You rolled your eyes. “Fine,” you said. The loud music was banging in your head and it matched with your heartbeat. “Can you carry me?”

“Sure,” The last thing you saw was his smirk and you heard yourself yelp as he threw you over his shoulder.

“Roy!” You hit his back but he kept walking and ignored you. “I’m gonna throw up, oh my god!”

“You wouldn’t be the first person to do it.” His grasp on your legs got tighter as you kept squirming. “It also would not be the first time you did it.”

After that you stopped moving and decided to enjoy your time there, perched on his strong shoulders.

[wholexw]

Dick grayson x reader

Synopsis: The Bat-family realizes that Dick may have finally found the love of his life, after all this time, after introducing so many girls to his family.

Dick Grayson.

A name that carried weight in Gotham's high society.

Why?

Simple. He was the first son of billionaire philanthropist Bruce Wayne—the adopted child of Gotham's most infamous playboy.

Bruce had never exactly been a family man, and he certainly wasn't known for settling down. At least, that's what the newspapers had been saying since the first time he stepped into the public eye.

Dick remembered watching him arrive at galas with a different woman every time.

At first, it confused him. It wasn't like his parents.

Bruce Wayne didn't have a great love story.

Dick never said anything about it. It wasn't really his business. After all, the closest thing he knew to love was the memory of his parents.

Mary Lloyd and John Grayson.

The way they'd fallen hopelessly in love despite coming from rival circus families within Haly's Circus.

It was a story they loved telling him, and he never got tired of hearing it, no matter how many times they repeated it.

Maybe it was childish curiosity.

Maybe he just wondered if one day he'd feel the same thing they always talked about with such happiness in their eyes.

When Dick turned fifteen, he realized getting a girlfriend wasn't exactly difficult.

Girls gave him Valentine's cards and boxes of chocolate. He accepted them all with the same polite smile.

Then, at sixteen, he met Liu.

The woman who manipulated him.

The woman who used him.

The woman he blamed for his commitment issues.

Because yes, Richard John Grayson was terrified of commitment.

Long-term relationships.

The routines that came with being part of a couple. And because of that, none of his relationships ever lasted.

Barbara. Kory. Beatrice. Emily. Bonnie. Daphne. Elizabeth.

Just a few names from a list his family knew all too well.

Sometimes, a quiet voice would whisper in the back of his mind.

Maybe you're like Bruce.

Maybe some people just aren't meant to be loved. So Dick did the only thing he knew how to do.

He ignored the ache in his chest and kept moving forward. Saying "I love you" had never been difficult for him.

Showing affection wasn't difficult either.

That was just who Dick Grayson was.

What was difficult was waking up next to the same girl more than twice.

The panic.

The suffocating feeling.

The fear. It always came back.

Everyone in the manor knew it.

Until one day, the girls stopped showing up.

"Maybe he just started seeing someone recently," Tim said, trying to be the voice of reason. "Give him time. He'll introduce her eventually."

Two months.

Three.

Four.

Eight.

Eight whole months passed without a single update about Dick's love life.

Naturally, the manor became suspicious.

Had they investigated?

Absolutely.

Bruce had even used the Batcomputer.

"Bruce, are you sure about this?" Tim asked for what felt like the tenth time.

"Of course he's sure. Just hurry up and find something," Jason said, bouncing his leg impatiently. "I know he's hiding something."

"I already told you, I hacked his phone. There's nothing there."

"That's exactly what's suspicious," Stephanie argued. "He hasn't talked to a single woman in months. Maybe his last relationship actually affected him."

Damian rolled his eyes.

"Please. He dated her for two days. He probably doesn't even remember her name."

The room turned toward him.

"How do you know that?"

Damian shrugged. "I asked."

"I think he's fine," Cass murmured.

"Master Bruce," Alfred interrupted as he entered the room. "I believe you should leave Master Dick alone."

"Unless that's exactly what he wants us to do!" Jason exclaimed. "What if it's not Dick? What if it's a shapeshifter pretending to be him?"

"I knew it," Stephanie added, pointing dramatically. "Aliens again!"

"That's ridiculous," Damian interrupted. "If it were an alien, I would've known already."

"Maybe you hacked the wrong phone."

Tim looked offended.

"Then you do it. Besides, it's impossible. Dick uses Wayne Enterprises software. The same security system as the Batcomputer."

Bruce remained silent, considering the situation.

Jason frowned. "He's got a point. Maybe he's using a second phone."

"Wait." Damian pointed at the screen. "What's that purchase?"

Tim squinted. "Custom mugs?"

Jason leaned back in his chair.

"Have you considered the possibility that he's gay?"

Nobody answered.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that," Jason added quickly. "I'm just saying."

"That's not the point," Stephanie said. "The point is he hasn't dated anyone in almost a year."

(...)

"What are you writing?" Damian glanced over Dick's shoulder.

Dick I never stop writing

"A letter."

"A letter for what?"

Damian stretched his neck to get a better look. Was he quitting his job?, Working a case?

Several days had passed since the family's secret investigation, and Dick had acted completely normal.

Dick looked up.

A shy smile appeared on his face.

"A love letter."

Then he pressed a finger to his lips. A silent request to keep it secret.

Damian stared.

The honesty caught him completely off guard.

And, annoyingly, he couldn't get any more information.

A love letter?, To who?, Dick seeing someone? Reconnecting with someone?

Unfortunately, Damian couldn't find out.

Love letters.

Was there anything more romantic than that? As a child, Dick had received countless letters.

Pink paper. Hand-drawn hearts. Lipstick kisses pressed onto the page. By fifteen, he'd stopped reading them.

There were simply too many. Letters from girls he'd met once. Girls he'd never met at all.

At first, though, he'd read every single one. Even when he didn't return their feelings.

He told himself it was out of politeness. Out of curiosity.

Nothing more.

Definitely not because he liked reading the beautiful ways people described love.

Definitely not because some small part of him hoped one of them might truly love him.

Really love him.

Not because of Bruce's money.

Not because he had a perfect smile.

But because they liked Dick.

The boy who still believed he could one day love someone as deeply as his parents had loved each other.

As time passed, he started calling himself stupid for believing that.

"Will you be my boyfriend?"

The blonde girl looked embarrassed.

Dick glanced past her and noticed her friends watching from the corner.

Cheerleaders.

He smiled.

"Sure. Why not?"

And just like that, the cycle began.

Dick laughed softly at the memory.

Who would've thought he'd eventually become just as hopeless as those girls, sitting here writing a love letter?

Damian gave him a strange look.

(...)

Warm sunlight filtered through the manor's windows.

Dick groaned and buried his face deeper into whatever he was cuddling.

"Love, stop..."

A sleepy laugh escaped him.

"That tickles."

He snuggled closer.

"I don't want to get up yet."

"Love..."

The soft kisses suddenly became wet licks.

A strong dog smell hit his nose.

Dick's eyes flew open.

Jason was standing over him with an expression of complete disgust. Beside him, Haley wagged her tail happily.

The silence was painful.

Dick had fallen asleep in the manor's living room.

Haley remained blissfully unaware of the chaos she'd caused by waking up her owner.

Because clearly this wasn't Dick's fault.

Not at all.

Definitely not his desperate need for physical affection.

"I..."

Dick had absolutely no idea how to explain himself.

"Full access to the weapons room and fifty percent of your allowance for the next year."

"Forty."

Jason stared.

"Deal."

Dick immediately raised both hands in surrender.

A small price to pay if Jason agreed to forget this ever happened.

(...)

The sound of keyboard keys filled the study.

Bruce sighed.

Dick sighed back.

Eventually, Dick's hands stopped moving.

"Just say it." Bruce didn't even look up.

Years of experience had taught him to recognize Dick's dramatic sighs.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Dick."

Silence.

"There's something you want to say."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Bruce."

Bruce waited.

Eventually, Dick cracked. "It's just..."

He hesitated.

"Do you ever get that feeling? When everything's going well, but you're still nervous?"

Bruce looked up.

"Nervous?"

"Yeah. Like... anxious. Like something bad is about to happen. Like everything's going to disappear. Or you'll wake up and realize it was all a dream."

"Dick."

Blue eyes focused on him.

"Relax."

The answer came calmly.

"You'll be okay."

And for the first time in a long time, Dick actually believed it.

He felt calm.

A little embarrassed, he looked away.

Then, almost shyly, he admitted:

"She's my girlfriend."

Perhaps the synopsis is wrong, and it wasn't the family but Dick who realized it. Wow medítenlo. As always, thank you technology for existing and translating it.

jun, 26 / 2025

[kennysflowers]

Hey queen, absolutely no pressure here but I was just wondering if you had started to write the jason leonard cohen fic?

Heyy diva, I’ve definitely started it but tbh I’m struggling to write rn 💔💔 my boss has also been giving me the craziest hours the past couple weeks so I’m just like never home 😭 I have a couple days off tho so I’ll try to get it done soon!!!

[gaintsnowflake]

THEIR EYES

PAIRING : tim drake x fem!reader

ONESHOT, REQUEST: through others eyes, people realize how much tim needs you in his life

a/n: can be read as a standalone, also sorry this is so long i got carried away :] part one

     “Alfred made dinner,” Dick said carefully, his voice carrying through the cavernous space of the Batcave as he leaned against the metal railing above the workbench.

     Tim, however, didn’t look up. His staff lay dismantled across the table in precise pieces, scattered like an anatomy lesson of something once whole. Tiny screws and half-finished circuitry glittered under the cold light, and Tim’s hands moved through it all with automatic precision. Tighten, adjust, repeat, as though the motion itself had become the only thing anchoring him to the present.

     “Not hungry.” The answer came too quickly. It was too clean. Too practiced.

     Dick’s eyes narrowed slightly, concern tightening in his chest before he even had time to name it. Tim had been down there for hours, maybe longer, time losing meaning in the artificial glow of monitors and fluorescent strips. He couldn’t even remember the last time his brother had stood up for anything other than necessity, let alone left the chair.

    The Cave made everyone look worse than they felt, but Tim didn’t look like someone merely tired. He looked like someone eroding in place. Shadows clung beneath his eyes like bruises that refused to fade. His shoulders slumped forward, posture folding inward as if even occupying space required effort he no longer wanted to spend. His hair, usually at least somewhat controlled, had given up entirely. It lay flattened on one side, as though he had dragged his hands through it so many times it had forgotten what shape it was supposed to be.

    And yet, despite all the movement of his hands, there was something disturbingly still about him. Like the body was operating on leftover instructions while the person inside had stepped back entirely.

    “You’ve been down here since this morning,” Dick tried again, softer this time, like volume alone might keep Tim from retreating further into himself.

     “I know.” His voice scraped out of him, rough in a way that didn’t belong to exhaustion alone. Not the usual vigilante weariness, not the kind that came from broken ribs or sleepless nights on rooftops. This was something else. Something disused. Like his voice had simply stopped being needed and had started forgetting how to function.

     Dick felt something twist unpleasantly in his stomach. But Before he could push further, the silence of the Cave fractured. A sharp buzz cut through the air. Tim’s phone.

     The reaction was immediate, almost violent in its speed. Tim’s head snapped toward the sound with a jolt that looked like it hurt, like his body had moved faster than whatever was left of his awareness could safely allow. For half a second there was something raw on his face - hope, sudden and unguarded, bright enough to be almost painful in how quickly it appeared.

     Then he was reaching. Too fast, too careless. His hand knocked lightly against scattered parts on the table as he fumbled for the device, nearly sending a component rolling off the edge. Dick watched it all in silence as Tim unlocked the screen. Watched the hope collapse before anything was even said.

     Tim stared at the display longer than necessary anyway, as though if he just looked hard enough it might change into something else. Something better. Something that mattered.

Then, carefully, he set it face-down on the table.

    “Spam email,” he said flatly. And immediately returned to the staff like nothing had happened at all.

      Yett Dick didn’t move. Because that expression, that flicker of expectation, the split-second belief that something had finally broken the silence, had become painfully familiar over the past weeks. Every notification, every vibration, every meaningless interruption of electronic noise… Tim reacted to all of it like it might be you.

      And every single time, it wasn’t.

      “You should sleep,” Dick said instead, trying to shift the weight of the moment, trying to find something, anything, that would stick.

       “I’m fine.” The screwdriver slipped slightly in Tim’s grip. Just a fraction. Just enough.

       His hand shook once before he forced it steady again, knuckles whitening as he tightened the same screw he had already adjusted twice before. On the surface it looked like work. Like focus. Like control. But Dick could see the pattern now. Tim wasn’t repairing anything, he was looping. Repeating. Breaking and reassembling the same section over and over again not because it needed fixing, but because stillness had become unbearable.

      “You know,” Dick started carefully, choosing each word like it might detonate, “there’s a place a few blocks from here. New spot. We could-”

      “No.” Still too fast. Still automatic.

     Tim finally leaned back in his chair, dragging both hands over his face with enough force to leave faint red impressions on his skin. For a moment, the exhaustion that surfaced there was unfiltered, unmasked by anything resembling discipline. It wasn’t just tiredness. It was something heavier, deeper, like fatigue had settled into bone and refused to leave.

       His eyes flicked, almost unconsciously, toward the phone again. And again nothing. Still waiting anyway. That was what hit Dick. Not the silence itself, but the way it had rearranged everything around it. The Cave wasn’t quieter because you were gone. It was quieter because Tim no longer filled the space you used to occupy.

      No muttered commentary under his breath when systems lagged. No distracted half-responses while multitasking five different streams of data. No sharp, irritated sarcasm when someone interrupted him at the wrong moment. Those pieces of him hadn’t vanished on their own, they had gone with you, so naturally that no one realized they were missing until the absence became too large to ignore.

      Tim had always been tired. But this wasn’t just tired. This was hollowing.

     “You could call them,” Dick said before he could stop himself.

     Tim froze, not dramatically, not visibly at first glance, but enough. Enough that even the smallest movement in his hands ceased for a fraction of a second too long. Enough that the air around him seemed to tighten.

     Then he resumed working, whispering a small, harsh, “I’m busy.”

     The excuse was almost laughable in its fragility. Because Tim Drake had solved impossible cases while concussed, stitched together disasters while bleeding, calculated outcomes that left entire teams scrambling to keep up with him. He could absolutely make a phone call. But instead, he reached for a tool he was already holding. And missed it.

      Dick watched him glance toward the silent phone again, watched him pretend he hadn’t, watched him rebuild the same thing for the third time like repetition might eventually become resolution.

      And somewhere between one breath and the next, Dick realized this wasn’t something Tim was going to simply “get over.” Whatever had existed between you and Tim hadn’t just faded, it had taken root. Deep enough that its removal left something exposed underneath, something raw and unprepared for absence.

       And now Gotham’s brightest mind was sitting in the dark, pretending that if he just kept his hands moving long enough, the silence wouldn’t win.

     Crime Alley had always felt different after midnight. Not quieter exactly, Gotham was never quiet, but emptier in the way abandoned churches felt empty. Hollow. Like the city itself had finally run out of excuses to keep pretending it could still be saved. Streetlights buzzed overhead with weak yellow light, illuminating puddles stained with oil and old rainwater while somewhere far off a siren screamed through the night before abruptly cutting itself short. Most people avoided the Alley entirely once the clock pushed past two in the morning. The desperate disappeared into their apartments. The dangerous came out to hunt. And vigilantes with any self-preservation left in them usually found somewhere else to patrol after a bad night. Which was exactly why Jason noticed the moment Tim volunteered to go back.

    It was nearly four by the time they stumbled into the cave, battered and exhausted from what should have been an easy operation at the Iceberg Lounge. Penguin’s men had turned a simple weapons bust into a disaster the second someone panicked and opened fire too early. Everything after that became the usual Gotham catastrophe. Cheap shots in cramped hallways, collapsing scaffolding, blood on concrete floors, bruises blooming beneath armor before the adrenaline could fully wear off. Dick looked one good shove away from falling asleep standing upright. Damian carried the stiff posture of someone actively replaying every tactical mistake in his head so he could stay angry instead of tired. Bruce had disappeared upstairs with Alfred without so much as removing the cowl completely. Normal. Predictable. The kind of exhaustion they all knew how to survive.

     Tim looked worse than all of them combined. Not dramatic worse. That would’ve been easier to deal with. Easier to justify concern over. Instead it was the kind of exhaustion that slipped quietly beneath the skin until suddenly someone looked less like a person and more like something held upright entirely by momentum. There was dried blood darkening the edge of his jaw beneath the domino mask. One side of his suit hung torn badly enough that every movement exposed the ugly purple bruise spreading across his ribs. His gloves were split across the knuckles from punching through someone’s face shield earlier in the night. Yet despite all of it, despite the way his shoulders dragged downward like gravity had doubled for him specifically, Tim still walked straight toward the Batcomputer the second he entered the cave.

      Jason dropped heavily into one of the chairs with a groan, every rib in his body protesting the movement. “I’m officially declaring tonight terrible.”

     Dick snorted tiredly from somewhere near the med table, already peeling off one glove with half-lidded eyes. Damian muttered something in Arabic under his breath that was probably either an insult or a death threat. Nobody bothered responding. The cave settled into familiar post-patrol silence, the hum of computers, the distant dripping of water through ancient stone, the soft metallic clink of discarded gear hitting tables.

    Then the police scanner crackled- “possible robbery in progress. Corner of Finger and Kane. Suspect armed-” Crime Alley.

     Jason barely processed the location before Tim spoke.

     “I’ll go.”

      Every head turned instantly. Tim was already reaching for his helmet again before anyone answered, fingers moving automatically toward the cracked buckle on his gauntlet like his body had made the decision before his brain could catch up.

     “Seriously?” Dick blinked at him slowly. 

     “It’s five minutes away.”

     “It’s also four in the morning,” Jason cut in.

     Tim shrugged one shoulder while adjusting his gear. The motion looked sluggish, wrong somehow, like every inch of movement required conscious effort instead of instinct. 

     “Then the guy probably assumes nobody’ll respond.” His voice sounded terrible. Thin. Raspy. Worn down at the edges from disuse and exhaustion. Like he hadn’t spoken enough lately to remember how.

     Jason frowned before he could stop himself. Because now that he was actually paying attention, really looking at him instead of glancing past him the way everyone accidentally had for weeks now, none of this felt normal anymore. Tim swayed slightly while reaching for his staff. Not enough that anyone else would necessarily notice. Barely noticeable at all. But Jason noticed because Tim Drake never swayed. Tim moved like sharpened instinct wrapped in caffeine and bad coping mechanisms. This looked different, was different..

     “You can barely stand,” Damian said bluntly.

     “I’m fine.”Complete bullshit.

     Jason’s irritation crawled higher beneath his skin the longer he watched him. Not anger at Tim exactly. Anger at the situation. At the way Tim had somehow become a ghost inside his own life over the last few weeks without anyone fully acknowledging it out loud. Because Tim had always been tired. God, all of them were tired. But there used to be something alive underneath it. Something sharp enough to cut through the exhaustion. Sarcasm. Obsession. Energy. Tim used to argue strategy until sunrise just to prove Bruce wrong. Used to make snide comments during patrol when Jason annoyed him. Used to vibrate with restless intelligence even while running on three hours of sleep.

     Now he just looked empty. Not broken. Not falling apart loudly enough for intervention. Just… hollow. And Jason finally noticed where Tim’s attention kept drifting every few seconds. Phone. Computer screen. Phone again. Waiting.

     The realization hit him slowly enough to make it worse. This wasn’t about the robbery. Tim didn’t care about the robbery. Tim just didn’t want Gotham to get quiet. Because quiet meant thinking. And apparently thinking about you was killing him.

     The scanner crackled again somewhere overhead while Tim straightened too quickly at the sound, almost desperate for the distraction. Jason suddenly remembered every night you used to interrupt patrols with a single text. The way Tim would vanish the second his phone lit up. The way he used to come back afterward less tense somehow. Less exhausted. Not fixed, Tim Drake would probably require divine intervention and several years of therapy to qualify as fixed, but human. Warmer around the edges. Alive enough to laugh occasionally.

     Now Jason was watching that disappear in real time.

     “Drake.” Tim looked over immediately.

   “You look like roadkill.”   Jason gestured vaguely toward him. 

     “Thanks.”

     “No, seriously. You got slammed through a wall like an hour ago.”

     “I’ve had worse.”

     Jason scoffed. “That’s not the point.”

      Tim slid the helmet over his head before answering this time, voice muffled beneath the distorted speaker. “Someone still has to go.”

      The cave went silent for half a second. Because that wasn’t really what he meant. Jason heard it anyway. Someone still has to move. Someone still has to stay busy.

     Someone still has to keep their mind occupied long enough not to think about the person who stopped answering their messages.

     Dick heard it too. Jason could tell by the sudden exhaustion on his face shifting into something softer. Something concerned.

     Tim reached for his bike keys.

      Jason sighed heavily before forcing himself upright again, joints protesting immediately. “Sit down.”

     “I said I’ll handle the robbery.” Tim stopped near the exit. “You don’t have to-”

     “Yeah,” Jason interrupted sharply, “I do, because you look two seconds away from passing out into the Batmobile.”

    Tim opened his mouth automatically, probably preparing some irritated argument out of pure instinct. Then he stopped.

     That unsettled Jason more than anything else had all night. No sarcasm. No defensive remark. No annoyed glare. Just exhaustion. Heavy enough to silence him completely.

     Tim stared down at the floor for a long moment before finally pulling the helmet back off slowly. Sweat had flattened his hair awkwardly against his forehead beneath it. Without the mask fully hiding his expression anymore, the exhaustion underneath became impossible to ignore. His eyes looked dull. Not emotionless exactly. Worse. Overused. Like someone who had spent too many nights staring at a phone screen waiting for a notification that never came.

    “Fine,” he muttered quietly.

    Defeated.

    Tim lowered himself into the nearest chair with slow, careful movements, elbows resting against his knees while both hands dragged down over his face. And suddenly, horribly, he looked young. Not Red Robin. Not the detective everyone relied on to keep functioning when Bruce spiraled too far into obsession. Just a twenty-something kid awake at four in the morning trying not to think too hard about someone he missed.

     The cave felt unbearably silent without you in it.

     Damian liked routines. Precision. Predictability. Patterns that repeated so consistently they became instinct rather than thought. The manor itself breathed through routine: Alfred’s footsteps before dawn, the distant hum of the Batcomputer somewhere beneath the house, Bruce vanishing for hours only to reappear exactly when needed, Dick’s laughter carrying through hallways before patrol. And Tim- insufferable, sleep-deprived, irritating Tim Drake- had always understood routine better than anyone. Wake up at impossible hours. Tea brewed first thing in the morning next to an energy drink. Patrol reports. Training. Casework. Annoy everyone in the cave. Repeat. Tim functioned through ritual like a machine held together by caffeine, stubbornness, and pure refusal to collapse. Which was exactly why Damian noticed when the patterns began to decay.

    At first, the changes were small enough to ignore. Missed breakfasts. Unread reports sitting untouched in the Batcomputer for hours before Tim finally answered them. Half-finished cans abandoned throughout the manor like evidence of some unfinished thought. Patrol schedules changed next. Later shifts. Longer routes. Tim returning to the manor after sunrise with bruises buried beneath his eyes and blood dried into the fabric of his gloves. Even his silences had changed. Before, Tim’s quiet had always been sharp, calculating, full of thoughts moving faster than his mouth could keep up with. Now his silence felt empty in a way Damian found himself noticing more than he cared to admit.

    And now this.

     The training room beneath the manor echoed with the violent rhythm of fists striking flesh. Sweat soaked into the mats beneath them, streaked with faint drops of blood that mostly belonged to Tim. Damian ducked beneath a lazy punch before driving his elbow sharply into Tim’s ribs. The hit landed cleanly enough to force air from his lungs, yet Tim barely reacted. That alone felt wrong. Three weeks ago Tim would have complained instantly. Rolled his eyes. Muttered something sarcastic while resetting his footing. Half their spars usually dissolved into arguments disguised as combat. Now there was only silence. Heavy breathing. The dull sound of gloves against skin.

    Tim came forward again. Slow.

     Damian blocked easily before striking him hard across the jaw. Another hit Tim should have avoided. The impact snapped his head sideways, dark hair falling into exhausted eyes. Damian waited for the inevitable glare. The irritated comment. The smug little “cheap shot.” Nothing came. Tim simply reset his stance mechanically and raised his fists again.

    Something unpleasant twisted in Damian’s chest. Because Tim always talked. The cave felt eerily still without it.

    Damian circled him carefully, watching every sluggish movement. Tim looked exhausted in a way that went beyond bruises or sleepless nights. Physically, yes, his movements dragged with fatigue, reactions delayed by fractions of seconds Damian would normally never catch, but mentally too. His focus flickered strangely. Sharp one second, vacant the next. His eyes kept drifting somewhere distant before snapping back to the present too late. Distracted fighters irritated Damian more than careless ones. Tim Drake had once been one of the most attentive people Damian knew. Now he looked like someone barely tethered to the room around him.

    Tim swung again. Too slow.

    Damian swept his legs out from beneath him, watching irritation crawl beneath his own skin when Tim stumbled clumsily instead of recovering cleanly. Another strike to the shoulder. Another missed counter. Every mistake reminded Damian of another fracture in Tim’s routine. Tim arriving late to training yesterday. Tim forgetting a case file in the cave for the first time in years. Tim staring at his phone during briefing while pretending not to. Tim leaving messages unanswered. Tim no longer disappearing midway through patrol because someone had texted him. Because you had texted.

    At first Damian had found your absence relieving. You had been disruptive. Tim softened around you in ways Damian once found nauseating. He left patrol early. Smiled at his phone like an idiot. Became quieter, though not in this terrible way. Softer around the edges. Human in a manner Damian preferred not to examine too closely. Yet now, watching Tim stagger through another failed dodge, Damian realized something he hated entirely.

     That version of Tim had at least looked alive.

    Damian lunged forward again, fist connecting sharply against Tim’s mouth. Blood split across his lip instantly, crimson dripping onto the mat beneath them. Tim hissed through his teeth but kept moving, breathing uneven now. His knuckles had split open nearly twenty minutes ago. His nose had started bleeding shortly after. Still he refused to stop.

    “Again,” Tim muttered.

    Damian frowned. “You failed to dodge.”

    “I know.”

    “Your footing is unstable.”

    “I know.”

    Another punch landed against his ribs hard enough to force him backward. Tim barely defended himself anymore. That was what unsettled Damian most. Losing did not matter. Tim had lost spars before. They all had. But Tim Drake never stopped protecting himself properly. Never stopped adapting. Never let himself become sloppy enough to simply absorb damage without purpose.

    “You are fighting poorly,” Damian snapped.

    Tim wiped blood beneath his nose with the back of his glove. “Then stop holding back.”

    “I am not holding back.”

    That earned a laugh from Tim. A Weak laugh, as if it was barely there. Damian hated the sound immediately.

    Tim’s laughter used to be unbearable. Sharp and smug and loud enough to start arguments from across the cave. This sounded worn down. Exhausted. Like something fraying apart strand by strand.

    Another memory surfaced before Damian could stop it. Three weeks ago, Tim had cut training short the second his phone buzzed. Damian had insulted him relentlessly for abandoning practice midway through sparring. Tim only rolled his eyes while shoving gear hastily into a bag.

    “I have somewhere to be.” He had to go to you. Always you.

     And somehow Damian had preferred that version more than this one standing before him now half-broken and bleeding beneath the cave lights. Because at least then Tim had looked eager to leave. Like the world still held something waiting for him outside patrols and missions and sleepless nights.

     Now he looked like there was nowhere he wanted to be at all.

     Damian struck him across the cheek again. Tim staggered sideways, catching himself too late. For the first time all night, he did not immediately recover. He simply stood there breathing heavily, head lowered while blood dripped steadily from his nose onto the floor beneath him.

      The silence stretched painfully. Then Damian understood. Not fully. Not enough to make sense of the ugly tightening in his chest. But enough.

     “You are waiting for them.”

    Tim froze. The stillness afterward swallowed the entire cave. Slowly, carefully, Tim reached for the phone resting near the edge of the training mat. The screen remained dark. No messages. No missed calls. Nothing. He set it back down with far too much care before finally speaking.

     “Drop it.” It was meant to sound sharp. It didn’t.

     Damian studied him quietly then. The bruises dark beneath sleepless eyes. The split knuckles. The exhaustion woven through every movement. The way he kept throwing himself into pain like maybe it would distract him long enough not to think.

     Pathetic. Human. Damian hated that he understood it.

     “You have become unbearable,” he said finally.

     Tim let out another humorless laugh, quieter this time. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”

     No argument followed. No sarcasm. No defensive remark designed to irritate Damian into a fight. And somehow that unsettled Damian more than anything else had all night. Because Tim Drake always argued. Always. Even exhausted. Even injured. Even furious.

     But standing there now beneath the cave lights, Damian realized something horrifying.

     You had not disrupted Tim’s routines. You had become one of them. And without you, everything else in Tim’s life seemed to be collapsing alongside it.

     Barbara first heard your voice at two thirty-seven in the morning, soft laughter crackling through the cave speakers as she descended the elevator with a tablet tucked beneath her arm. The sound echoed strangely against the metal walls of the Batcave, too warm for a place built from stone and shadows. For one disoriented second she genuinely thought someone else was awake down there, another vigilante lingering after patrol, another exhausted body refusing sleep. Then Tim’s voice drifted through the speakers quietly, rough with fatigue yet softened by something she had not heard from him in weeks.

     “I know, I know. I was late.”

     Barbara slowed immediately.

     The cave sat half-asleep around him, dim overhead lights switched off except for the pale glow surrounding Tim’s workstation. Screens cast blue reflections across the sharp angles of his face while the rest of the cavern disappeared into darkness. He sat hunched in his chair, hood discarded somewhere nearby, exhaustion woven so deeply into his posture that it looked permanent now. His shoulders curved inward like he had spent too many nights trying to make himself smaller beneath the weight pressing against him. The monitor in front of him was dark. No case files. No surveillance footage. No endless spreadsheets tracking Gotham’s newest catastrophe.

     Just an audio file. Your voice spilling through the speakers again, distorted faintly from poor recording quality, yet still warm enough to shift the atmosphere around him.

    “Tim, normal people don’t answer texts three business days later.”

   A pause followed before Tim laughed quietly under his breath. Not current. Not live. Old. Barbara realized it instantly, and something unpleasant twisted sharply in her chest.

     Voice memos. He was listening to old voice memos.

      Tim leaned back slightly in his chair, one hand dragging across his mouth as your laughter filled the silence again. The sound seemed to settle over him carefully, easing the constant tension buried inside his expression for only a moment. Barbara watched his eyes close briefly, watched him breathe a little deeper like hearing your voice allowed his lungs to finally work properly again. It was not happiness exactly. Not relief either. Something softer. More dangerous. Like this was the closest he had come to peace in weeks.

     Then the recording ended. The cave immediately felt colder afterward.

     Tim replayed it.

     Barbara looked away before he could notice her sitting there because suddenly the entire scene felt painfully intimate, like witnessing someone bleed out quietly without realizing another person had entered the room. Guilt settled heavily in her stomach as understanding finally forced itself into place. She had spent weeks pretending this would pass eventually, convincing herself Tim simply needed time, needed distance, needed another case to throw himself into until the ache dulled naturally.

     But Tim was not moving on. He was not even trying to.

    Barbara wheeled forward deliberately this time, making enough noise against the cave floor for him to hear her approach. Tim startled immediately, scrambling to pause the recording so quickly he nearly dropped his phone in the process.

     “Sorry,” he muttered automatically, voice shredded from disuse. Again that rasp. Like he barely spoke anymore unless absolutely necessary.

      Barbara pretended not to notice what he had been listening to. Pretended not to notice the way his hand remained wrapped tightly around the phone afterward, thumb hovering protectively over the screen like someone afraid the memory might disappear if he loosened his grip.

     “Need help with something,” she said instead, lifting the tablet slightly.

     Tim blinked at her for a moment before forcing himself upright. “What is it?”

    “Possible weapons shipments moving through the Tricorner ports. The tracking keeps bouncing.”

     He nodded instantly. Of course he did. Anything to focus on. Anything sharp enough to drown out the thoughts chasing him tonight.

      Barbara watched him roll toward the main computer, exhaustion dripping from every movement. Thin cuts stretched across his knuckles, still healing badly from patrol earlier that week, pale skin split open every time his fingers flexed over the keyboard. Yet despite the exhaustion hollowing out his face, the moment the system loaded something inside him sharpened automatically. His attention narrowed. His posture straightened slightly. Tim Drake still worked with frightening efficiency no matter how badly he was unraveling everywhere else.

     That part of him would probably never break.

      Silence settled between them outside the rapid clacking of keys. Fast. Precise. Mechanical. Barbara pretended to review files on her tablet while watching him carefully instead, studying the quiet deterioration he kept trying so hard to hide from everyone around him.

     His phone rested beside the keyboard. Screen still unlocked. And there you were. A photograph glowed faintly beneath the cave lights, grainy from low brightness yet impossible to ignore. You sat beside Tim somewhere Barbara did not recognize, sunlight pouring across both of you while your head tilted toward him mid-laugh. Your expression looked open and bright enough to soften even the poor quality of the image. Tim was not looking at the camera. Of course he was not. His entire focus rested on you instead, eyes carrying that devastatingly unguarded expression Barbara had never seen directed at anyone else before.

      She had known Tim for years. She knew every version of his face: focused, annoyed, calculating, sarcastic, angry, exhausted. But this one felt entirely different. This one looked vulnerable.

      Like loving you had reached into him and pulled something painfully human out into the open, something he normally kept buried beneath strategy and sarcasm and careful control. Barbara’s throat tightened unexpectedly as she looked away from the picture, only for her gaze to catch on the half-open notebook resting near the edge of the desk.

    At first she assumed patrol notes filled the pages. Then she noticed the crossed-out lines: 

hope youre okay (A thick line carved through it.)

i saw something today that reminded me of you (Crossed out harder.)

i think i messed this up (The words nearly destroyed beneath angry black ink.)

can we talk? (Another line through it.)

      Page after page after page of Drafts. Things he wanted to say to you but never sent.

     Barbara suddenly felt like she had stepped into something far too private because Tim was not dramatic about pain. He never had been. Dick burned loudly. Jason exploded. Bruce buried himself alive in silence until it poisoned everyone around him. But Tim suffered methodically, quietly, organizing his grief into neat little boxes like if he catalogued the damage carefully enough no one would notice it consuming him whole.

     “You haven’t slept again, have you?” Barbara asked softly.

      Tim never looked up from the screen. “Probably.”

     Probably. Not even denial anymore.

     The keyboard continued clacking rapidly beneath his fingers, systems opening and collapsing across the monitors faster than Barbara could fully process. Shipping routes appeared highlighted in red. Fake manifests surfaced within seconds. Three shell companies flagged almost immediately afterward. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Six minutes passed before Tim leaned back slightly in his chair.

     “Done.”

    Barbara stared at the completed work on the monitor before slowly turning toward him instead. At the exhaustion hollowing out his features. At the untouched coffee beside him gone cold hours ago. At the notebook overflowing with words he could not bring himself to send. At the phone screen still glowing softly with your photograph. And suddenly heartbreak pressed painfully against her ribs because Tim did not look like someone avoiding you anymore. He looked like someone terrified. Someone hanging helplessly between missing you too much and fearing what would happen if he reached out only to discover you no longer wanted him there.

     “You can track international weapons shipments in six minutes,” Barbara said quietly. “But you can’t call one person?”

     Silence swallowed the cave immediately afterward, deep and endless beneath the hum of computers surrounding them. Tim stared at the monitor for a long moment without speaking. Barbara watched his expression tighten subtly, watched his fingers curl slightly against the edge of the desk like he needed something physical to ground himself.

      When he finally answered, his voice sounded small. “What if they don’t answer?”

      Barbara’s expression faltered instantly. Because there it was. Not pride, not stubbornness, not avoidance. Just fear. Simple and painfully honest.

      Tim lowered his gaze toward the notebook again before speaking softer this time, barely audible beneath the machinery humming around them.

      “I think that might be worse.”

     Gotham had a way of swallowing people whole. Not all at once. Never dramatically. The city preferred patience. Preferred sinking its teeth into someone slowly until exhaustion became routine and silence became easier than asking for help. Bruce had lived inside that silence for most of his life, had learned to recognize the different ways it manifested in the people he loved long before any of them realized he was watching closely enough to notice.

     Dick became reckless when he was hurting. Brighter smiles, louder laughs, faster movements across rooftops that bordered too closely on self-destruction for Bruce’s comfort. Jason became angry in the way Gotham itself became angry, sharp edged and explosive, fists first and apologies never. Damian became quieter than usual, every emotion locked so tightly behind clenched teeth that the entire manor seemed to tense around him.

     Tim, however, disappeared. Not physically. That would have been easier to confront.

     Tim still arrived for patrol exactly on time. Still solved cases before anyone else had fully pieced together the evidence. Still sat through briefings with that same analytical stare that made people forget he was far too young to carry the responsibilities constantly dropped onto his shoulders. The work itself remained flawless for the most part, every report neatly filed before dawn, every mission completed with near obsessive precision. To anyone standing far enough away, he looked fine.

      But Bruce had never learned how to love his children from a distance. So he noticed the absences anyway.

      The pauses where conversation used to be. The way Tim drifted through the manor like a ghost that remembered how to imitate routine but no longer understood the purpose behind it. The exhaustion hidden beneath coffee cups and computer screens. The subtle delay before responding whenever someone spoke to him, as though his thoughts remained somewhere else entirely and he had to force himself back into the room each time.

      And perhaps worst of all, The cave had become silent again.

      Bruce stood in the entrance late one evening watching the glow of the Batcomputer wash over Tim’s face in pale blue light. The cave itself hummed quietly around him, monitors flickering endlessly against dark stone walls while surveillance footage rolled across multiple screens untouched. Rainwater dripped somewhere deeper within the cavern, the sound echoing through the emptiness between them.

      Tim sat hunched over the main console pretending to work. Pretending being the important part. A case file remained open across three separate monitors, security footage looping repeatedly beside unfinished reports, yet Tim had not typed a single thing in nearly ten minutes. His attention remained elsewhere entirely. Not on the case. Not on the cave. On the phone sitting inches from his hand. Waiting.

       Bruce had noticed that too over the past several weeks. The constant checking. The immediate flashes of hope every single time the screen lit up. The disappointment that followed almost instantly afterward. Tim tried hiding it now, angling the screen away whenever someone entered the room, locking the device too quickly whenever messages appeared.

      He was terrible at hiding heartbreak.

     “You missed dinner.”

     Tim blinked at the sound of Bruce’s voice like he had forgotten other people existed down there with him. His shoulders stiffened briefly before relaxing again, exhaustion settling back into his posture almost immediately.

      “Sorry,” he murmured quietly, voice rough from disuse and too much coffee. “Lost track of time.”

      Another phrase Bruce had begun hearing far too often. Tim losing track of time. Tim forgetting things. Tim, who once scheduled every hour of his life so meticulously that Alfred used to joke he could predict the exact second sunrise would become inconvenient.

     Bruce stepped farther into the cave, boots heavy against the metal flooring as he studied him more carefully beneath the monitor light. The exhaustion had worsened. There was no denying it anymore. Dark circles carved themselves permanently beneath Tim’s eyes now, his frame thinner than before, clothes hanging looser around sharp shoulders from too many sleepless nights spent in front of glowing screens. Even the way he sat had changed somehow. Curled inward. Smaller. 

      But the worst part remained his expression. Not emotionless. Just tired in a way that reached deeper than physical exhaustion. Bruce recognized that look because he had once worn it so long he forgot his own face underneath it.

       Tim’s phone buzzed suddenly against the desk. Immediate reaction. Hope crossed his face before he could stop it. Small. Fragile. Painfully human.

      Bruce watched the exact moment it disappeared again. Tim locked the phone quickly afterward, setting it down harder than intended before dragging a hand across his face. The movement carried frustration beneath it now. Frustration with himself for caring this much. For waiting this much.

     Bruce said nothing because he already understood. The entire family did.

     You had not simply become important to Tim somewhere along the way. You had become stitched into the rhythm of his life so naturally that your absence now echoed through everything else. Every silence in the manor seemed louder because you were no longer filling it. Every patrol lasted longer because Tim no longer rushed through reports to answer your texts afterward. Even his laughter had disappeared quietly enough that Bruce had not realized how accustomed he’d become to hearing it until it stopped altogether.

     Bruce moved closer to the workstation, gaze drifting toward the corner of one monitor. That was when he noticed the photo. Small enough most people would have overlooked it entirely.

You and Tim standing close together somewhere under city lights, your smile bright enough to draw immediate attention despite the dimness of the screen. Yet Tim was not looking at the camera in the picture. His eyes rested entirely on you, expression softer than Bruce could ever remember seeing from him. No walls. No caution. No overthinking hidden behind calculated responses. Just love.

      Simple enough to be terrifying. Something ached unexpectedly in Bruce’s chest at the sight because he could not remember the last time he had seen Tim look at anything with that much openness.

       Tim noticed where his attention had landed and minimized the window immediately. Too late. Bruce had already seen it.

      Silence settled heavily between them afterward, broken only by the distant hum of machinery and rainfall echoing somewhere beyond the cave walls. Tim rubbed tiredly at his eyes before finally speaking again.

      “Was there something you needed?”

      Bruce almost answered automatically. A patrol adjustment. A case update. Something practical. Easier. Instead his gaze lingered on the exhaustion etched into Tim’s face and he heard himself ask quietly,

      “When was the last time you slept?”

      Tim let out a faint breath that might have been amusement once upon a time. “Define slept.” Deflection. Another routine.

      Bruce ignored it.

     “You’ve been making mistakes.”

     That finally got a reaction. Tim stiffened almost instantly in front of the computer, shoulders pulling tight beneath the worn fabric of his suit. “I fixed them.”

     “You shouldn’t be making them in the first place.” 

      The words came out harsher than intended. Bruce regretted them immediately. Because this was not a soldier failing orders. Not Robin standing before Batman awaiting criticism.

     This was his son quietly unraveling in front of him while pretending he was still holding himself together. Tim’s shoulders curled inward slightly at the reprimand, exhaustion suddenly making him look younger than Bruce liked to remember. Too young for this kind of grief. Too young to carry heartbreak like another piece of armor.

      Bruce’s eyes drifted again toward the cold coffee abandoned beside the keyboard. Toward the phone still resting face-up within immediate reach. Waiting. Always waiting.

      And suddenly Bruce understood what the others had been trying to do these past few weeks. Dick constantly inviting Tim out for late-night food runs and patrols that lasted longer than necessary. Jason taking over missions before Tim could volunteer for them himself. Barbara sending him extra tech work just to keep his mind occupied. Even Damian extending training sessions with sharp insults disguised as concern.

      Distractions.

      Every single one of them trying desperately to keep Tim moving long enough not to think about you. But none of it was helping.

      Because every time the manor quieted down, every time patrol ended and the cave emptied and no one remained nearby to occupy his attention, Tim drifted right back to the same place. Back to you.

      Bruce moved beside the desk slowly, leaning one hand against the console as he studied his son more carefully. Tim looked exhausted enough to fall asleep sitting upright. Bruised knuckles rested against the keyboard beside healing cuts scattered across trembling fingers, evidence of patrols growing rougher over recent weeks.

      Yet despite everything, despite how miserable he clearly was, Bruce noticed something else too. Tim still had not called you. Not because he didn’t want to. Because he was afraid.

     Bruce understood that fear more intimately than he cared to admit. The fear of reaching for  something important only to discover it no longer belonged to you. The fear of hearing silence where love used to exist.

      His gaze lowered briefly toward the untouched phone one final time before he made his decision.

      “Go.”

     Tim frowned slightly, clearly pulled from thoughts too far away to process the command immediately. “What?”

      “Go find them.”

     The cave fell completely still. Tim stared at Bruce like he had misheard him entirely.

Bruce rarely involved himself in emotional matters. He had failed too often in that department to pretend otherwise. Practicality had always come easier than comfort. Missions easier than conversations. Still, he continued quietly,

      “You haven’t been here in weeks.”

      Something flickered across Tim’s face then because they both understood Bruce did not mean physically. Tim looked down at his hands for a long moment. At the bruises. The cuts. The exhaustion trembling through his fingers from too many sleepless nights spent trying not to miss someone.

      “I don’t think they want to see me.”

     The admission sounded painfully young coming from him. Not Red Robin. Not the detective. Just Tim.

      Bruce watched grief settle visibly across his son’s face and felt something twist sharply in his chest at the sight. Tim had always been the one who kept moving no matter how badly he was hurt. The one who buried pain beneath productivity until even his family struggled to tell where exhaustion ended and heartbreak began.

      “You won’t know until you try,” Bruce answered softly.

     “What if I already ruined it?” Bruce looked at him carefully then. Really looked.

      At the fear hidden beneath the exhaustion. At the grief Tim kept trying to suffocate beneath case files and patrol routes and endless nights inside the cave. At the way he still checked his phone even now despite expecting disappointment every single time it buzzed.

      And for perhaps the first time in a very long while, Bruce answered honestly instead of strategically.

      “Then fix it.” Tim laughed quietly at that. Not amused. Just tired enough that hope itself sounded painful.

      “I don’t know how.”

      Bruce thought again of the photograph hidden on Tim’s monitor. The way his son looked at you like you were something precious enough to lose. Important enough to break him afterward.

      Then Bruce reached over and closed the untouched case file Tim had been pretending to read for the past hour.

      “Start by leaving the cave.”

     Tim stared at the darkened monitor for a long moment after that. The silence stretched long enough Bruce wondered if he would retreat back into routine again, bury himself beneath another report, another mission, another excuse not to confront the thing hurting him most.

      Instead, slowly, Tim reached for his keys instead of the keyboard. Bruce said nothing as he stood. Did not stop him when he headed toward the exit. Only watched as something shifted within the exhaustion weighing down his posture. Something sharper now. Brighter. Urgency. Hope. Fear. And maybe, finally-

     Enough determination to run back toward the person he should have chosen sooner.

      Tim had faced armed mercenaries with steadier hands than this. Men with rifles trained on his chest, blades flashing beneath alleyway lights, bombs counting down in abandoned warehouses somewhere beneath Gotham’s rotting streets. He had stood bloodied and half-conscious in front of enemies that wanted him dead and still managed to keep his breathing even. Gotham had carved survival instincts into his bones years ago. Fear was supposed to come later for people like him. After the mission. After the adrenaline wore off. After the bruises settled beneath skin already stained purple and yellow from older fights.

     Yet somehow your apartment door reduced him to this.

     The hallway stood silent around him, dim overhead lighting buzzing faintly as rain tapped somewhere against the apartment windows farther down the building. Nothing about this should have felt dangerous. No hidden threat waiting in the shadows. No gunfire. No masks. No blood. Just one door standing between him and the conversation he had spent weeks avoiding.

     And still his body refused to move.

     His hand lifted once toward the wood, fingers twitching like he meant to knock, before falling uselessly back to his side. Again a second later. Worse this time. Hesitation curling ugly in his stomach.

      Coward.

     The thought hit sharper than he expected. Tim swallowed hard, lowering his gaze to the stained carpet beneath his shoes as exhaustion dragged heavily at the back of his skull. He had rehearsed this entire walk over. Every possible version of how this could go. What he would say first. How he would apologize. Which truths he could survive speaking aloud and which ones needed to stay buried somewhere deep inside him where even Bruce couldn’t dig them back out.

      Now his mind sat horrifyingly empty. Because Barbara had been right. What if you didn’t answer?

      The silence of the past few weeks suddenly felt deafening again. Every unanswered text. Every missed call he never finished making. Tim had spent night after night staring at your contact until the screen dimmed in his hands. Some part of him had convinced itself that staying away was safer. Easier. Better for you. Gotham destroyed everything eventually and Tim had never learned how to exist around people without becoming another form of collateral damage.

But another part of him, the weaker, uglier, far more human part, had missed you so badly it physically hurt.

     And somehow that terrified him more than any rooftop fight ever had.

     His phone weighed heavily in his pocket. Silent. Unforgiving. Tim pressed his tongue briefly against the inside of his cheek before finally forcing himself forward. The motion stiff. Mechanical. Like walking into a gunfight he already knew he would lose.

     Three knocks echoed softly through the apartment. Too late to run now.

      Almost immediately he heard movement from inside. Quiet footsteps crossing the floor. The sound alone made something tight pull painfully in his chest. Tim suddenly became hyperaware of himself in the worst possible ways. The bruises still hidden beneath his jacket sleeves. The healing cut near his collarbone stretching uncomfortably every time he breathed. The exhaustion hanging off him so heavily he felt hollowed out by it. He couldn’t remember the last time he had actually slept without waking up reaching for weapons that weren’t there.

     Then the lock clicked. The door opened. And there you were.

     For one terrible second Tim forgot every sentence he had prepared.

     You looked tired too. Comfortable clothes hanging loosely against your frame, hair slightly messy like you had been trying to relax before he ruined your evening by showing up unannounced. Surprise flickered openly across your face the second you recognized him standing there beneath the dim hallway light. Not anger. Not resentment. Just surprise.

Somehow that made this harder.

      Neither of you spoke at first.

      Tim could only stare, caught somewhere between relief and disbelief because you were real and here and looking at him instead of turning him away. Weeks suddenly felt much longer standing in front of you now. Long enough for him to notice every tiny thing he had missed. The familiar softness in your expression. The warmth spilling from your apartment into the cold hallway. The way your eyes searched his face quietly, almost carefully, like you were trying to figure out how much of him Gotham had managed to wear away this time.

      Then you smiled. Small. Gentle. Tired around the edges maybe, but real. And something inside Tim cracked open so suddenly it nearly hurt.

     “Hi,” you said softly. The word wrapped around him warmer than the apartment ever could.

      Tim stared for half a second too long before forcing himself to answer. “Hi.”

     God. His voice sounded wrecked. Rough from disuse and exhaustion and too many nights spent speaking only through comms or not speaking at all. He watched your expression shift almost immediately at the sound of it. Concern slipping quietly into your features. Maybe sadness too.

     You noticed. Of course you noticed. But even then, you still stepped backward first, opening the door wider without hesitation.

     “You should come inside.”

     Relief hit him so fast it nearly made his knees give out beneath him.

     Tim nodded once because trusting himself with more words right now felt impossible. As he stepped past you into the warmth of your apartment, the door clicking softly shut behind him, something devastating settled quietly inside his chest.

      For the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel exhausted anymore.

[kennysflowers]

PLEASE I NEED A MY BEST FRIENDS BROTHER IS THE ONE FOR ME PART 2 PLEASEEEEEEE🙏🙏🙏

ON IT TWIN 🫡🫡🫡

[agatha-grc]

The Worst Matchmaker In Gotham City

Pairing: Jason todd x reader (+ batfamily )

Synopsis: Dick Grayson is convinced Jason Todd deserves to fall in love. Jason Todd is convinced Dick Grayson should mind his own business. Unfortunately for him, the Batfamily seems to have chosen its side. Between clumsy interventions, far too convenient coincidences, and a fate that insists on playing matchmaker, Jason finds himself caught up in a situation he no longer truly controls. The worst part? He probably figured out what was going on long before everyone else. He simply decided to say nothing.

divider from @pixopix

The problem with Jason Todd was that he was fine.

Which, in his case, didn't mean much. But for six months, Jason had stopped disappearing for weeks at a time, had answered three calls out of five, and had even agreed to come to the manor for Thanksgiving without anyone having to threaten him. It was objective, measurable progress.

It was also, in Dick's opinion, deeply concerning.

"He's bored," he said.

Damian looked up from his book. They were sitting on the floor of the second-floor hallway of Wayne Manor, because Dick had decided that was where they were going to have this conversation, apparently.

"He's bored or you're bored ?"

"Him. Look at the signs, Damian. He answers texts too fast, whereas he usually responds after 2 days. He watched eighty-two episodes of a home renovation show in two weeks. He sent me a photo of a SUNSET."

Damian considered this for a second.

"It was a nice photo."

"That's exactly my point."

He stood up, crossed his arms, and Damian recognized in his expression the precise look of someone who had already made a bad decision and was now looking for company to share it with.

"He needs someone," Dick said. "An anchor. Someone outside of all this."

"Outside of all this," Damian repeated flatly.

"Someone normal. Who lives a normal life. Who does their grocery shopping, pays their rent, has plants on their windowsill."

"You're describing an apartment, not a person."

Dick wasn't really listening anymore. Damian closed his book with the quiet resignation of a man who knows his evening has just gotten away from him.

~~~

Three days later, Dick was standing in the fourth-floor hallway of Jason's building for entirely legitimate reasons. He was returning a borrowed book, a book he had bought that very morning for exactly this purpose, but the detail didn't change anything.

The door of the apartment across the hall opened.

The girl who stepped out was carrying two grocery bags that were too heavy for her hands, keys clenched between her teeth, with the focused expression of someone who absolutely refuses to make two trips. She bumped into her doorframe, caught a bag at the last second, blew a strand of hair out of her face, and disappeared toward the elevator without having noticed Dick at all.

Dick didn't move for four seconds.

Then he pulled out his phone and sent a message to the family group chat.

Emergency meeting tonight. Manor. Mandatory.

Tim's reply came first: your definition of emergency?

Then Bruce: .

Then Barbara: Dick no

Then Jason, later: if someone's dead just say so

Dick smiled, pocketed his phone, and slipped the book under Jason's arm when he opened his door.

"Returning this," he said.

Jason looked at the book. Looked at Dick. Looked at the book again, a paperback of a novel he didn't recognize.

"That's not my book."

"That's why I'm returning it. See you tonight."

~~~

There were seven of them around the dining room table, and Dick had prepared a slideshow.

Not a big slideshow. Only five slides. But still.

"I ran into a girl today," he said. "She just moved into Jason's building. Apartment right across from his. She doesn't know anyone in the city yet, she seems nice, and I genuinely think she and Jason-"

"No," said Jason.

"You haven't even heard the rest."

"I've heard enough."

"Jason."

"Dick."

Bruce was staring at the ceiling with the expression of a man who had raised these children of his own free will and was now living with the consequences. Alfred, standing near the door, maintained the professional neutrality of a diplomat in hostile territory.

"All I'm asking," Dick said, "is that we give them a chance to meet. Naturally. Accidentally. Without it being weird."

"Nothing about that sentence is reassuring," said Tim.

"I agree with Drake," said Damian, which made Tim turn to look at him with a mildly panicked expression.

"The plan is simple," Dick continued, having decided to ignore the general atmosphere. "We arrange for situations to come up. Small things. She needs help, Jason's there. Jason needs something, she's there. Neighborly run-ins happen all the time."

"Not that many," said Barbara from her laptop screen, which she had brought and set at the end of the table because she had refused to make the trip but had still wanted to see everyone's faces.

"Slide three," said Dick.

Slide three contained a calendar, color-coded arrows, and the word synergy written in italics.

Silence.

It was Stephanie who spoke first.

"I'm in," she said. "What do we do first?"

Cassandra looked at the slideshow. Looked at Dick, and said:

"That's the stupidest plan I've ever seen."

A pause.

"I'm in too."

~~~

The first incident took place on Tuesday.

Dick's plan was straightforward: Tim would deliver a package to the wrong address, the apartment across from Jason's, meaning hers, which would force a simple, polite hallway interaction and potentially the beginning of a conversation. Tim had agreed reluctantly. Tim had also, that morning, drunk three espressos and decided to optimize the plan.

Which explained why he rang the doorbell carrying a box so large he couldn't see over it, tripped on the threshold when the door opened, and spilled the entire contents, office supplies he had bought at random online to fill the box, across the hallway floor.

There was a stapler. A pencil cup. Approximately two hundred paperclips.

"Oh," said the voice from the other side of the upended box. "Oh, do you want some help?"

"No," Tim said from the floor. "No, I-"

Jason's door opened at the same moment. Jason stepped out in sweatpants and a t-shirt, coffee mug in hand, and took in the scene : Tim on all fours picking up paperclips, and his new neighbor crouched beside him to help.

He took a sip of coffee.

"Need help?" he said.

"No," said Tim.

"Yes," you said, because the box was really very large.

Jason set his mug on the hallway floor, crouched down, and started collecting paperclips. He didn't say a word to Tim for the entire process. Tim had the feeling that was intentional.

"Thank you," you said when the box was full. "I'm your new neighbor across the hall. I moved in last week."

"Jason," said Jason.

He picked up his mug and went back to his door.

"Your brother ?" you asked Tim.

"My… yeah. More or less."

You nodded and disappeared back inside. Tim sent a text to Dick.

Contact made. Context: disaster. Todd was there. He picked up paperclips. That's it.

Dick replied with six fire emojis.

~~~

The second incident took place on Thursday, and it was entirely Stephanie's fault.

Dick's original plan for Thursday was that Stephanie would drop something off at Jason's, run into the neighbor, and strike up a friendly conversation that would organically end with oh you should really meet my brother. Stephanie had listened to this plan carefully, found it boring, and decided to improve it.

The improvement involved getting deliberately stuck in the elevator.

With you inside.

Stephanie's calculation, one that Cassandra had apparently helped develop, was that thirty minutes in a stuck elevator created the kind of forced intimacy that led to confessions, bonds, and eventual mentions of mysterious almost-brothers. It was a calculation that failed to account for the fact that the building's elevators had an alarm button wired directly to a maintenance company, that the maintenance company had a twelve-minute response time, and that twelve minutes in an elevator was too short for intimate revelations but long enough for Stephanie to start running low on air.

"Did you hit the alarm ?" you asked.

"Yes," said Stephanie, who was sweating slightly.

"Are you claustrophobic ?"

"No. Well. Maybe a little."

"Okay. Just breathe. They're usually pretty fast."

You had taken out your phone and were calmly looking something up. Stephanie watched you with an admiration mixed with guilt.

"You're the new neighbor on the fourth floor ?" Stephanie said.

"Yeah."

"Nice building, right ?"

"I mean. A lot of weird stuff has been happening since I moved in."

Stephanie smiled with the innocence of someone who had absolutely nothing to do with the weird stuff in question.

They got out of the elevator eleven minutes later. The maintenance technician looked at them, looked at the elevator, and said he couldn't find anything wrong with it.

"Mystery," said Stephanie.

She sent Dick a text on the subway.

Got acquainted. She's cool. She's also sharper than you think. Warn the others.

Dick replied: in what sense ?

Stephanie replied: in the sense that if we keep this up she's going to figure out something's going on.

~~~

The third incident took place on Saturday, and this time it was Damian who had taken matters into his own hands, which was itself a warning sign no one had anticipated.

Damian had not wanted to participate. Damian had said explicitly, at the manor meeting, that the plan was childish, that Todd was perfectly capable of managing his own romantic life, and that this was all going to end badly. But Damian had also, over the course of the following days, developed a curiosity he refused to name about the neighbor in question, based solely, he told himself, on the fact that he wanted to assess whether she was up to standard.

His plan was simple: he would stop by Jason's under the pretense of borrowing something, leave the door open, and observe.

What he hadn't anticipated was that walking down the hallway he would see you, standing in front of your door, keys in hand, and your cat, a grey cat of concerning size, sitting in the hallway two meters away from you, watching you with total contempt.

"He got out without me noticing," you said, more to yourself than to Damian.

Damian looked at the cat. The cat looked at Damian. There was a silent mutual assessment between them.

"What's his name ?" Damian said.

"Bernard"

Damian crouched down. Held out his hand. Bernard sniffed his fingers, considered, and decided in his favor. He allowed himself to be picked up.

Damian straightened with the cat against his chest, turned to you, and said:

"He lacks discipline."

"Probably."

"Cats without structure develop erratic behaviors."

You looked at him, this boy of about fourteen with a monstrous grey cat in his arms, discussing behavioral structure with the seriousness of a career veterinarian, and said:

"Do you live in the building ?"

"No. My brother does."

"Jason ?"

Damian paused for a quarter of a second. Handed back the cat.

"Possibly," he said.

He knocked on Jason's door, went inside, and sent a message to Dick from the hallway while the door closed behind him.

She has a cat. She's competent in a crisis situation. She asked if I was Todd's brother.

Then, after a second:

She's acceptable.

Dick sent twenty heart emojis. Damian read them and didn't respond.

~~~

Jason, for his part, had developed a fairly clear picture of what was going on.

There had been Tim's package. The elevator incident with Stephanie, which he'd heard about from the building's janitor. Damian's baffling visit, during which he had spent forty minutes staring at Jason's bookshelf without saying anything before leaving. And Dick, who had been calling more often than usual with casual questions that always ended with so how's the building? Nice neighbors?

Jason wasn't an idiot.

What interested him more was why he hadn't said anything.

He had an answer for that too, but it was one he hadn't quite finished putting into words. It looked vaguely like the memory of paperclips on tile, of someone crouching down to pick them up without being asked. Like a voice he'd heard through the wall on Thursday night, singing off-key to something he hadn't recognized. Like the grey cat he'd passed in the hallway once, sitting alone in front of his door as if it were a destination.

Bernard, he'd learned.

He drank his coffee and waited for the next phase of Dick's plan, which was inevitably coming.

~~~

The fourth incident took place on Monday evening and was nobody's fault, which, paradoxically, made it the most effective of the four.

The rain had started around seven. You were coming back from the grocery store, again, two bags, again too heavy, and the elevator was out of service, which this time was a real breakdown and not the work of Stephanie and Cassandra. You climbed four flights. Set the bags down in front of your door. Reached for your keys in your coat, in your bag, in your pockets.

You looked for your keys for five minutes.

You didn't have your keys.

You sat down on your grocery bags in the fourth-floor hallway and looked up at the ceiling with the specific calm of someone who has had a long day and no longer has the energy to be upset about anything.

Jason's door opened.

He looked at you. Looked at the bags. Looked at the complete absence of keys in your hand.

"I probably left them at the grocery store," you said. "Or on the subway. Both are equally possible."

Jason leaned against his doorframe.

"The super can let you in."

"He left at six. I checked."

"The locksmith down the street closes at eight."

"It's eight twenty-two."

Jason looked for a moment at the empty hallway, at the rain audible through the landing windows, at the two grocery bags that clearly contained perishables.

"Come in," he said. "While you call the store."

You looked at him.

"Are you sure ?"

"No," Jason said. "But your yogurt's not going to keep indefinitely in the hallway."

You picked up the bags. Went inside. Set the groceries on the counter while he handed you his phone, the supermarket was in his contacts, for reasons he didn't explain. You called. They had found your keys. You could come pick them up tomorrow morning.

You handed back the phone, deflated. Looked around the apartment : books everywhere, the lamp a little too bright, the window open despite the rain because Jason hadn't thought to close it.

"I'll call my landlord," you said. "She has a spare."

"Does she answer at night ?"

A pause.

"Probably not."

Jason went and closed the window. Came back. Crossed his arms.

"Couch is free," he said. "If she doesn't pick up."

It wasn't a romantic offer. It was said in the same tone he would have used to announce that the weather was going to change, or that the coffee was ready. You heard it exactly that way.

"Okay," you said. "Thank you."

"Have you eaten ?"

"No."

"Me neither."

He opened the fridge, pulled out things at random, and started cooking without ceremony while you settled at the counter with your phone. You didn't talk much. You didn't need to. The rain kept going against the windows, and the kitchen smelled like garlic and thyme, and Bernard, who had managed to escape again, was scratching at the front door from the hallway with the persistence of a creature who knows exactly what it wants.

Jason went to let him in.

The cat entered, inspected the territory, and jumped onto the couch as if it had all been arranged in advance.

~~~

At eleven forty, Dick received a text from Jason.

Canceled movie night. she's still here. landlord not picking up. key situation.

Dick read the message twice. Set down his phone. Crossed his arms. Looked at the ceiling with the expression of a man who had just realized the universe had done more in one evening than he had managed in two weeks.

Damian, sitting across from him, turned a page of his book without looking up.

"We had nothing to do with this," he said.

"No," said Dick.

"It happened on its own."

"Yeah."

"Perhaps some things don't need to be orchestrated," said Damian.

Dick smiled.

"Maybe."

He turned off the lamp, picked up his phone, and went to bed leaving the group chat quiet for the first time in two weeks.

In the apartment on the fourth floor, the rain had settled. Bernard was asleep in a ball on Jason's couch. You had called your landlord, left a message, and fallen asleep in the armchair with a blanket Jason had set there without comment. Jason was reading in the next room, and every now and then he heard your breathing deepen, and he kept still so as not to make any noise.

It wasn't much.

But it was a start.

Taglist: @starrydustedwinter

Thanks for reading my fic. I think I might write about another fandom in addition to this one, but I don't know which one yet. If you have any suggestions, feel free to write them in the comments or send them to me privately.

[hauntedhouseofhorrors]

comic relief ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ jason todd

word count: 749

warnings: reader meanly jokes around with jason's feelings, i think that's it!

check out my other work here! | join my taglist here!

when he walks into your shared apartment, you don't greet him like you usually do.

weird.

but jason doesn't think too much into it. not until he circles the corner to see your bottom lip tugged between your teeth, biting back the most wicked grin known to man. a soft giggle bubbles from your chest and his brows furrow.

his gear softly thuds on the ground before he traipses over to you.

"well, hello to you, too, sweetheart."

"oh," you gasp, straightening up.

you'd been so immersed, curled comfortably into the corner of the couch. you hadn't even heard the door opening.

"hi, baby," your features soften as you stretch, standing to throw your arms around his neck.

a warm kiss is pressed to his cheek, his nose, and finally his lips. he hums, getting a whiff of the cookies you'd just popped into the oven.

"whatcha been up to?" you watch as his eyes trail over to the couch, eyeing the floppy comic that was abandoned in your spot.

"just reading something," you bite back another smile. "oh, and i wanted to make some cookies for dessert."

he ignores your second comment. his arms fall around your waist, tightening almost possessively.

"reading what?"

"a comic."

his eyes narrow. "a comic? you read comics?"

"why's that so hard to believe?" your head tilts, trying to understand his expression.

"just never pegged you as the type," he shrugs.

a few quiet seconds pass. you're still just standing in each other's arms, but you feel him itching to ask more. he breaks the silence with a deep breath, dragging you to the couch.

"so, what's this comic about?" he flips through the pages haphazardly, not without folding the corner of the page you'd left off on before doing so.

you give him the rundown, explaining the 2012 edition of the winter soldier.

he reads quietly to himself, flipping back to the cover page. "mar-vel?"

"no, marvel. like marble with a 'v' instead," you giggle, kicking your feet up and into his lap.

he rolls his eyes, disregarding your correction.

"okay, and what about these dumb superheroes? what's so entertaining about this winter soldier guy?" he says it like it personally offends him.

"his name's bucky, and he's got this tragic complex that just sweeps you off your feet." you dramatically press a hand over your heart. "oh, and not to mention, he's incredibly hot."

jason stills at that, his eyes slowly trailing over to your face.

"what?"

"look at him, babe!" you point to the page he's about to rip out. "you can't tell me that he isn't one good-looking man."

you're pushing his buttons far beyond you ever have, and you're honestly terrified to see how it'll play out. he's still quiet and he's giving you this look that challenges you to push it even further. your skin crawls, yet you don't cave.

just then, the oven dings. you swing your legs off his lap, quietly chuckling to yourself. his eyes are practically burning holes into your backside.

you can faintly hear him murmuring to himself from the sofa.

"dumb superpowers."

"i don't need a stupid metal arm or superpowers to save the damn city."

"if he's so hot, then go be with him."

and your heart aches, instantly regretting your ploy to upset him. you stroll back over with a plate of warm cookies in hand, plopping into his lap instead.

"i'm sorry, baby," you pout, squishing his cheeks. "i just wanted to see how you'd react."

"oh, shut up," he groans, head falling onto the back of the sofa. "you know you actually think he's hot."

you shrug, eyeing him playfully.

"maybe," you grin. "but not any hotter than my strong man right here."

he still won't give in, folding his arms behind his head. just then, you grab a cookie holding it up to his lips.

"you can't win me over with cookies," he scoffs.

"they're snickerdoodles with extra cinnamon sugar, just how you like it." you quirk an eyebrow.

he contemplates, watching you accept defeat.

"fine, suit yourself," you huff.

as you go to take a bite, his hand is on your wrist, pulling it back to his mouth. he takes a generous bite, staring blankly at you. he doesn't let go of your wrist. the feeling of your pulse spiking beneath his fingertips is enough for his own amusement.

"mm," he shakes his head. "they're alright. but i dunno, maybe bucky'll like them better."

"jason!"

a/n: i haven't seen anything like this, but please do let me know if anyone's written something similar! i thought of this on a whim last night or so and i absolutely had to write it. my bucky barnes phase from when i was like 13-14 ft. my jason todd phase at 19???? hello???? 🥹

[froggibus]

— A Matter of Convenience

Pairing: Tim Drake x gn! reader

Summary: when your new friend at university discovers how close you live to campus, he spends a lot of nights crashing at your place

Word Count: 2.5k

Content/CW -> university! au, Tim is your bestie, you enjoy pumpkin spice lattes (it's a sacrifice for the fall vibes ok?), minor injury + mentions of blood

— requested by anon <3

froggi yaps -> everyone thank mr froggibus for bullying me into getting this done cause otherwise this fic was nawt going to see the light of day ;-; its been foreverrr since i wrote for tim so hopefully this is still acceptable <3 enjoy!

Tim Drake is in your apartment. The Tim Drake. Wayne Enterprises, billionaire, prodigal son of Bruce Wayne Tim Drake is sitting on your couch, drinking your soda, playing Mario on your Nintendo.

How on Earth did you get here?

The sight of the raven haired boy was enough for you to make a double take when you’d entered your elective class this morning. You recognized him from glimpses of news clippings you caught here and there, full coloured spreads you’d see on social media posts coming to mind.

Sure enough, it was him, sitting alone in the middle of the classroom, a barrier of empty seats on either side of him like a quarantine. You’d frowned when you’d seen that, and despite the nerves chewing away at your stomach lining, forced your feet to move until you were right next to him.

“Is this seat taken?”

His head had perked up, calloused fingers plucking out his earbuds. “What’s that?’

“Oh,” you say, your confidence wavering, “is this seat taken?”

And he'd smiled, something dazzling and performative you’re sure he’s done for hundreds of photographers. You fell for it anyway, and when he patted the seat for you to sit down, you took the bait.

You made small talk after that, talking about your respective majors, your class schedules, your living situations. Tim told you about his dilemma: four 8am classes, and a house on the opposite side of town, and you’d cringed.

The class itself was slow, the professor's words dragging on until your eyelids drooped and you weren’t sure you could take anymore. That is, until Tim Drake tilted his laptop at you, Fireboy and Watergirl paused on his screen.

“Psst, wanna play?”

You looked around, checking for any eyes on you before nodding. As slyly as he can, he pushes his laptop towards you slightly until your hand can comfortably reach the arrow keys. He shuffles closer to you, his own hand hovering over the WASD keys.

The two of you fly through the levels, the drone of your lecture fading into the background until suddenly the people around you are packing up their things. You rub at your eyes, aching from staring at his screen for so long, only to realize how close you’d gotten to Tim over the course of the game.

You move away as casually as you can, packing up your stuff. “Um, do you have any more classes today?”

“Yeah,” he yawns, stretching his arms above his head. “Two more, but not until later in the day. Why?”

“Would you wanna come over for lunch? I live super close.”

To your shock and delight, the man had agreed, slinging his bag over his shoulder and following you to your place.Now, staring at him on your couch, a can of diet soda in his hands, the whole situation feels surreal.

“Y’know, I should’ve gotten a place like this.”

You blink, snapping back to reality. “Yeah?’

“Yeah, would’ve made the 8am blocks easier. Basically just roll out of bed and walk on over.”

You nod in agreement, settling in on the couch next to him and picking up the remote you’d discarded on your bathroom break. “Well, you can always crash here if you have a late night.”

“Sorry if that sounds too forward,” you add, shaking your head. “I just…the company is nice, y'know? And I swear I’m not trying to like, kill you for your inheritance or anything.”

Who the fuck says that? For a minute, you find yourself wishing you were anywhere but here, where the stupidity of your joke hangs in the air like deadweight.

Tim laughs. Not some rehearsed chuckle, not nervous laughter, but a real laugh. He grins, bright and brilliant and beautiful, “well, that’s comforting.”

“Sorry, god. I don’t know why I’m being so awkward.”

“Hey, I like awkward.”

You swallow, taking a sip of your soda to hide the heat rushing to your face.

It’s a week of hanging out with Tim before he stays the night for the first time. 

You’re just getting out of the shower when he shows up with a Bat Burger bag in one hand and his overnight bag in the other. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

You smile, ushering him in. “Is studying going that badly?”

He groans, “you have no idea.”

The two of you settle into your kitchen, munching on the food he brought and talking about the big exam Tim is cramming for. It’s almost strange to you how quickly you warmed up to him, how easily conversation comes around Tim. 

“I’ve never been one of those people who studies.”

It’s a half-truth, really. Tim hasn’t ever really studied for tests or things, relying on his memory and common sense usually. But he’s studied plenty of other things, spent nights pouring over maps and papers and other important mission whatnots.

“Must be nice.”

“I’m serious, usually I just…remember things. But,” he runs his long fingers through his hair, “I haven’t really been paying attention in my classes.”

You gasp, feigning hurt. “More Fireboy and Watergirl? Are you cheating on me?” 

Tim’s quick to shake his head, loose strands falling in his face. “No, no never. You’re actually—” His cheeks flush, face reddening, “you’re like one of the only people in my classes who actually talks to me.”

You feel it then, the kind of loneliness that comes from being Tim Drake. To have all this money and power and influence and still end up entirely alone at the end of the day. Your heart aches.

“Well,” you say quietly, “I guess that means I just have to teach you to study then, too.”

You wake up to find Tim in your kitchen, a pastry bag and a cup of coffee from the cafe down the street on the counter. He grins sleepily when he sees you, the golden sunrays streaming through your window reflecting off his skin.

“G’morning,” he yawns, sipping his own coffee. “Brought you coffee and some breakfast.”

You nod, reaching for the coffee and reciting the label to yourself out loud. Your face scrunches, brows knitting together as you realize he’s gotten your coffee order perfect.

“How did you know?”

“Know what?”

You point to the coffee cup and his mouth forms an ‘o’ shape, that familiar sharpness coming back to his eyes. 

“I uh, did some digging.”

You raise an eyebrow, taking a sip from your coffee as you wait for an explanation.

He smiles sheepishly. “I saw what kind of milk you drink in the fridge yesterday, and I noticed in our lecture this week that you usually drink blond espresso. Flavouring I kinda guessed? But since it’s fall, I figured pumpkin spice was a safe choice.”

You take another big sip, humming in ecstasy. “Y’know, it’s kind of scary when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make…really accurate guesses on things. Makes me feel like you’re a cop, or something.’

“Like 21 Jump Street?”

“Exactly like 21 Jump Street.”

He laughs. “I don’t think GCPD has that in their budget.”

You peel open the pastry bag, wiggling your fingers as you decide what you’re gonna eat. “No, they probably don’t.”

Sleepovers with Tim are a common occurrence after that, more of your nights being spent with him than without. Not that you mind—your nights are comfier with him around, and your mornings seem brighter.

You also don’t mind the company, especially when he insists on walking you to class every morning and carrying your bags for you. 

“It’s the least I can do,” he always shrugs, refusing to let you carry anything. “You’ve been a real life saver.”

People in your lectures whisper about the two of you, nudge each other when you walk by on campus. You’re aware of the rumours that have spread, that people think you and Tim are together. You brush them off, he’s just a friend.

You asked him about it one day, if he knew about the rumours and if they bothered him. The man had just shrugged his shoulders, let them talk all they want.

It’s not just the coffee and the late nights and slow mornings, though. It’s the groceries Tim has delivered to your apartment every week, the little treats he buys you whenever he comes over, the way he looks at you changing one day at a time.

You’re not sure when it happened, or how, but something in your dynamic with Tim Drake has changed.

Tim doesn’t show up for your sleepover tonight. No text, no call, nothing but a distinct absence of Tim Drake on your couch.

You try not to be hurt by it. Some alone time is good for you, and he probably just got busy. It’s nothing personal. At least, that’s what you try to convince yourself.

It doesn’t work.

You do your best to keep yourself busy and not think about his absence. You cook dinner, throw yourself into your schoolwork, watch your favorite show, and still, the night drags on, each moment bleeding into the next. 

You wake up to loud knocking at the door. Blinking, you rub the sleep from your eyes and sit up on the couch. You must’ve fallen asleep watching your show, the ‘Are you still watching?’ screen staring back at you.

There’s another knock, a little more urgent this time, and you rise to your feet, rushing to the door. Tim Drake greets you with a half-smile, looking pale and clammy.

You frown, ready to ream him out for standing you up when you notice the blood soaking through the ribs of his t-shirt. “Tim? Are you okay?”

“Just—” He cuts himself off with a cough, loud and wet and clearly painful from the way he’s wincing. “Just peachy.”

Your face twists into a frown as you usher him inside, “what the hell happened to you?”

He coughs again, stumbling over his own feet as you close and lock the door behind him. He pitches forwards, trajectory set to the ground, before you hook an arm under his shoulders and catch his weight against your body. It’s awkward, sending you stumbling slightly before you catch your own balance.

The two of you fall into an awkward, half-stumble half-walk to your bathroom, and though it’s not that far from the door, your legs burn from carrying Tim. 

“Seriously, Tim, what happened?”

He frowns, the guilt setting in. Maybe he shouldn’t have come. 

He’d had Robin things to do tonight, he didn’t mean to stand you up. But one thing led to another and suddenly it was late and he was hurt and yet all he cared about was you. Seeing you, being with you, grovelling for accidentally standing you up.

He sighs, “I lost a fight.”

A half-truth, but technically not a lie. He did lose a fight—granted, it was barely a loss—and as soon as Steph showed up for backup, he’d gotten right back up on his feet and kicked that goon’s ass right back.

You settle Tim down on your toilet seat, rummaging underneath your counter for any first aid supplies. Normally, you’d have nothing but some polysporin, painkillers and a couple bandaids on hand, but Tim had teased you just last week about not having a first aid kit to the point you went out and bought one.

You pull out the kit, ravaging it for bandages, alcohol pads and other random effects you’re not even sure you need. 

Tim grits his teeth, tugging his blood soaked t-shirt over his head. “You’re gonna—damn, you’re gonna have to clean it with water first.”

You nod, already wetting a cloth with warm water in order to distract yourself from the shirtless man in front of you. The cut isn’t too bad—shallow, superficial, going across the length of his ribs.

You brace a hand on his shoulder, his skin cold to the touch, and slowly dab away at the blood with your other hand.

Tim talks you through it the whole time, giving you expert instructions on how to care for and bandage his wound. Caring for him comes naturally, like you’ve done it your whole life. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say this must be a pretty common occurrence for the two of you.

You’re discarding the bandage wrappers in the trash can under your sink when Tim goes to tug on his old t-shirt. “Wait.”

He cocks his head to the side.

“I have one of yours here from last week, just—” Your voice is a little shaky, a little breathier than usual. Tim clocks it immediately. “Let me run and grab it.”

He nods, and you’re grateful to get away for a minute. Being that close to Tim, to a very shirtless, shockingly muscular Tim, was killing you. You rummage through your drawers until you find the baggy t-shirt, hidden amongst your own things, before running back to the bathroom.

You toss him the shirt, turning away slightly while he tugs it over his head. “You know,” you swallow, “it was kind of freaky seeing you all injured and bloody tonight.”

“Yeah?” He rises to his feet with a groan, gently stretching his arms above his head, “you were worried about me?”

You roll your eyes. “Maybe a little.”

It’s not as fun teasing you when you’re being so tender with him, Tim realizes. His cheeks flush slightly, a hand reaching for one of yours. You blink, looking at him through your lashes as he strokes the back of your hand with his thumb.

“I’m sorry it freaked you out.” He takes a step closer to you, other hand reaching for your hip, “and I’m sorry I missed out on tonight and–and didn’t say anything.”

You frown. You’d forgotten about that part, and under his burning gaze and the strength of his hands, it’s nearly impossible to stay mad at him.

“Is it still okay if I crash here?”

You nod, flustered and not entirely trusting your words right now.

He breathes your name and it’s only now you realize how close he’s gotten to you. You swallow, too nervous to meet his gaze, instead focusing on the feel of his hand on yours, his other hand on your hip, his chest so close you can sense the heat coming off of him.

He drops your hand, trailing his own to cup your chin and force you to look up at him. It’s then that his head dips down, that his lips brush over yours, the taste of his chapstick and something that tastes eerily similar to metal flooding your mouth.

His hand digs into your hip, pulling you tighter to him. “You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do this,” he mumbles against your mouth.

You smile, fighting the emotion coursing through your body. “Me too,” you say, half-breathed and half-laughed.

“Do you think—” He cuts himself off with a laugh of his own, feeling silly for how incredibly flustered he feels, “do you think I could sleep in your bed tonight?” “I think I’d like that a lot.”

dc masterlist | navigation

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

[fancy-possum]

𝐒𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞 || 𝐓𝐢𝐦 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

4th fic of my 1k event :) || masterlist || based on this

You were terrible at keeping secrets from Tim Drake.

Not because you were bad at lying — you were actually quite good at it — but because Tim was Tim. A detective. A genius. A human lie detector with a brain that never slept and a habit of noticing everything.

Still, you tried.

The surprise birthday party had been in the works for weeks. Tim’s birthday was always a quiet affair — he hated big celebrations, said they felt performative — but this year you wanted to do something special. Something that said “I see you. I love you. Even when you forget to eat because you’re chasing a lead at 4am.”

You’d recruited Dick, Steph, and Cass for help. Dick was in charge of the cake (a massive chocolate one with tiny bat symbols in the frosting). Steph handled decorations. Cass was on music. You handled the guest list (small, just the family and a few close friends) and the venue (the manor’s rarely-used ballroom, which Alfred had already started polishing).

The hardest part was hiding it from Tim.

You used three different Amazon accounts to order decorations. You whispered planning calls with Dick in the bathroom with the shower running. You told Tim you were “taking a ceramics class” on Tuesdays when you were actually meeting with the caterer.

He still figured it out.

You didn’t know how, but you knew the exact moment he did. It was three days before the party. You’d come home from “ceramics” with paint on your hands (actually from helping Steph make a banner) and found Tim in the kitchen, making tea like nothing was wrong. But his eyes had that sharp, knowing glint.

He didn’t say anything.

He just smiled, kissed your forehead, and asked how class went.

You almost cracked then.

But you held it together.

The night of the party, you were a nervous wreck.

You’d told Tim you were taking him out for a “low-key dinner” — just the two of you. He’d agreed easily, too easily, and now he was sitting in the passenger seat of your car, looking unfairly handsome in a simple black button-down, watching you with that soft, amused expression he got when he knew something you didn’t.

“You’re acting weird,” he said as you pulled up to the manor.

“Am not,” you replied, voice a little too high. “It’s your birthday. I’m allowed to be excited.”

He hummed, unconvinced, but let you lead him inside.

The lights were off when you opened the door.

Then — on cue — they flipped on.

“SURPRISE!”

The room erupted. Balloons, streamers, a massive “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TIM!” banner that Steph had clearly spent hours on. The whole family was there — Bruce trying (and failing) to look relaxed, Dick grinning like an idiot, Damian pretending he wasn’t happy to be included, Alfred with a perfectly iced cake.

Tim froze for half a second.

Then he broke into the biggest, brightest smile you’d ever seen on him.

“No way,” he said, voice cracking with genuine surprise. “You guys… you did all this?”

He turned to you, eyes wide and soft. “You planned this?”

You nodded, suddenly shy. “Happy birthday, Tim.”

He pulled you into a tight hug, face buried in your hair. “I love you,” he whispered, so quietly only you could hear. “So much.”

The party was perfect.

Dick told embarrassing stories from when they were kids. Steph forced everyone into a terrible karaoke battle. Damian pretended to hate the cake but ate three slices. Bruce gave a short, awkward but sincere toast about how proud he was of the man Tim had become.

Tim stayed close to you the whole night, hand on your lower back, stealing kisses when no one was looking. He looked happier than you’d seen him in months — relaxed, loved, surrounded by people who chose him.

When the last guest left and the manor was quiet again, Tim pulled you into the library, the one room that always felt like his. He closed the door, then turned and kissed you — slow, deep, full of gratitude.

When he pulled back, forehead against yours, he smiled.

“I knew,” he admitted softly.

You blinked. “What?”

“About the party. I knew for weeks.” He laughed at your stunned expression. “You used three different Amazon accounts. You whispered on the phone with Dick in the shower — which, by the way, doesn’t actually block sound as well as you think. And you kept saying you were ‘taking ceramics’ but came home with glitter on your hands. I’m a detective, baby. I notice things.”

You groaned, burying your face in his chest. “I tried so hard.”

“You did,” he said, kissing the top of your head. “And it was perfect. The best birthday I’ve ever had. Because you did it for me. Because you see me. Because you love me enough to try to surprise the guy who notices everything.”

He tilted your chin up, eyes warm and full of love. “Thank you. For the party. For putting up with me. For being the best thing in my life.”

You kissed him again, soft and sweet. “Happy birthday, Tim. I love you.”

“I love you more,” he whispered.

The library was quiet except for the crackle of the fireplace and the steady beat of his heart under your ear. Tim held you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

And in that moment, he was right.

a/n : gulp

[kennysflowers]

Hi lovely 🥹🥹 i know I JUST did an ask but I though of something I just HAD to share. Hear me out, you've been best friends with jason for years (im talking maybe even crime alley) and you stuck by him the entire time. (Maybe they're even roomates now)

OBVIOUSLY they both have feeling for each pther but are too scared to aay anything.. we all knoe jason todd is a huge litterature fan so, in my head, it only makes sense that he'd like Leonard Cohen. I'm thinking, reader really likes Leonard like the music AND writing but she thinks jason likes just the writing.

One day, they go to a bar together and both get shitfaced. Reader gets hit on by some guys which pisses off jason. He drinks a little more up and suddenly, reader snaps out of a converstation and jason is about to do karakoke. The song is "I'm your name -Leonard Cohen (didn't see that coming did you..)

The entire time, for the entire song, jason keeps his eyes on reader. At the end, she decided he's too drunk (and she's sober enough) so she decides he's had enough and they're going home.

They decide to share earbuds on their walk and it's readers playlist. A bunch pf songs (some can be romantic a little or like suggestive) until another leonard cohen song plays. When that happens, jason starts getting super clingy, complimenting reader and basically starts confessing. Almost begging for their attention, they get home, sober up but jason is still as clingy. Obviously, reader caves in. I'll let you choose if you'd rather do smut of fluff for the rest..

Thank you for coming to my ted talk, IM SO SORRY I SEND YOU THE BIGGEST ASKS EVER 💔💔

OOOO I love this idea!!!! I’ll start writing it soon!!! TY FOR THE IDEA!!!! 🫶🫶🫡

[kennysflowers]

MY EYES ON YOUR EYES — ˚࿔ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ WALLY WEST X BATSIS

Warning: kissing, cussing, Ramona Flowers inspired reader, reader has colored hair, sex mention, some parts are directly from Scott pilgrim… I think that’s it. Also didn’t fully proofread this one #sorry

For this request. Hope I did your amazing idea justice!! <33

Divider: @saradika-graphics

3.9k words

The first thing Wally West noticed about you was your smile. Your charming, undeniable, smile. How could he possibly miss it?

The second thing he noticed was your beautiful, vibrant hair. He was so zoned in on your smile that he didn’t even notice it at first. How could he possibly miss that? It was this bright pink color at the time. He could only think about how well that color encapsulates you.

And the third thing he noticed is how you seemingly wanted nothing to do with him. You easily passed him off as one of your brother’s annoying friends. Saying the occasional, very quiet and mysterious “Hi,” when you felt the need to. In those moments, he would be so stunned by you to even respond.

But he’s determined to do one thing: Win you over. It can’t be that hard, right? He knows how charming he can be. How convincing he can be. It’s worked on everyone thus far! Why not add you to that list?

And that first day he saw you was the start of his minor obsession with you. He just could never seem to get you out of his head. He started lingering around the manor more, in hopes that you’ll make your very occasional appearance. But you hardly ever do.

Dick tells him it’s because you’re just always cooped up in your room, nothing personal. He claims that you’re like that even when his friends aren’t around (you’re not). Sometimes him and Dick will walk past your room. Sometimes that’s enough for Wally.

There’s been times where they’ve walked past your room and heard you playing your electric guitar. Multifaceted, I see, was all that Wally could think. He yearned to know more.

The next time he saw you was in the manor’s kitchen. You walked in with all your glory and his eyes just couldn’t seem to lay off of you. Attentive as he is, he first noticed your seemingly freshly dyed hair. It was a different color now. A vibrant orange. Almost like his.

The next thing he noticed was your sweet, sweet distinct smell that lingered as you walked by him. What is that? It’s almost… fruity? The question lingered in his head for the rest of the day.

“You changed your hair.” Wally says with a pointed finger. “Yup.” You say with an extra little pop at the end. You couldn’t seem more unimpressed by his antics. “It’s kinda like mine!” He says, now pointing at his own hair.

You just stare at him for a moment, completely unamused, “Sure.” Was all that you said, before grabbing your snack and beelining out of the kitchen. Dick playfully slapped Wally’s shoulder, “Don’t worry dude, she’s just like that.”

Now, Wally’s the one that looks unamused, “Right.” The funny thing is, in his head, he really did think that would win you over. Maybe he’s not the brightest? But surely, he didn’t think it would be that hard. What could he possibly be doing wrong?

He saw you next at your father’s annual bidding gala, after endlessly begging Dick to be his plus one, of course. Dick didn’t really understand why he wanted to go so bad. Dick claimed that he could be getting in the way of a ‘truly magical date’ with an actual plus one. But after endlessly amounts of begging on Wally’s end, Dick finally caved.

When Wally saw you, you were wearing the most gorgeous gown he’d ever seen. Granted, he doesn’t go to these things often, so he hasn’t seen many gowns in his lifetime. But the point still stands! And he noticed one more thing, for sure: You don’t have a date.

Wally hadn’t even realized that he was absentmindedly trying to get you alone all night. Like when you would occasionally go to the open bar all by yourself, and he would begin to walk your way. That is until some random guy swooped in to talk to you. Who even is this guy?

Or when he noticed your conversations ending as you walk away from them. Until, of course, you inevitably joined yet another conversation that he conveniently had no part in. Fate really isn’t on his side tonight, is it? What’s a guy gotta do to get you alone around here?

With his eyes still on you, he noticed you sneaking away to the balcony. The otherwise empty balcony, that is. Now’s his chance. He swiftly maneuvers out of his current conversation with Dick, quietly and quickly claiming that he, “Needs some fresh air.”

He makes his way out to the balcony, seeing you standing with your arms resting on the concrete railing. As he cautiously approaches you, he says, “What are you doing out here all by yourself?”

You look at him, simply responded with, “Air.”

“Mind if I join you?” He asks

“Depends.” You say, looking slightly agitated. The two of you fall into an unsettling silence for a minute. Wally decides that this is the perfect moment to pick your brain.

“Y’know… I’m probably not as annoying as you think I am.” He says, testing the waters. You just scoff.

Looking him directly in his eyes, you say, “Sure, Wally. I think you’re probably just as annoying as all of my brother’s friends.” You look back off into the distance.

“Okay, maybe. But can I at least try to prove you wrong?”

“And how exactly do you plan to do that?”

Wally didn’t really think too far into this. He’s honestly not too sure. “I— I uh—“ he stumbles through the lack of ideas in his head, trying to find the right answer.

Interrupting his stutters, you say, “Great idea. Bye.” You walk back into the crowded room, leaving him stranded all by himself outside. Wally’s completely star struck by this minuscule interaction. Sure, it could’ve gone better, but he actually got you to talk.

He thought about you for the rest of the night, and several days to come. That night was the start of his mission. He’s determined to win you over. He just can’t seem to get you out of his head. So, he does the one thing he absolutely shouldn’t do: Reach out.

Since he doesn’t have your number, he results to an old fashioned method: A love letter. Okay, maybe not a love letter, but a letter, for sure. I mean, what else is he to do?

Right now, you’re sitting at your dining room table drinking tea. And that’s when the first letter arrived. Jason strolls into the kitchen, envelope in hand, “Yo, you got something in the mail.”

You silently and suspiciously look at him, and then hold your hand out. Handing you the letter, you mutter a quick, “Thank you.” You inspect the letter closely. It’s from someone named… William Wagner. The fuck? Is this like, fan mail or something? How would they even know your address?

You decide to run up to your room, some privacy might be nice incase you freak out or something. You carefully open the envelope. Once you open it, you see a single piece of folded up line paper. As you unfold it, you see your name at the very top of the page. The letter reads:

Nope. Not William! This is Wally. Hope you didn’t think some creep was sending you mail. I used a fake name in case your family is accustomed to reading your mail. God, I really hope they aren’t. If they got this far, I’m probably dead by now. But in the chance that you’re reading this, I’ll get straight to the point. I know you’re not one for useless words.

I want to show you that I am in fact, not annoying. I think you’re cool. I like your style. I like how you constantly dye your hair, it’s pretty sick. And I especially like the fruity smell it leaves when it’s fresh. If you’re up to it, I think we should hang out! But whatever you do, don’t tell your brothers about this. Please. Meet me at the Jitters Coffee on 5th at 2pm next Friday if you want. If not, don’t even worry about it! Disregard this completely.

Yours truly,

Wally West

You slowly fold the letter back up. What the fuck? He can’t be serious. You can’t help but let out a small laugh. This guy has some serious nerve. And that fake name? Could he be any more obvious? What an idiot.

You don’t respond to said letter. And the thought of even showing up the the cafe completely leaves your mind after that day. That would be ridiculous, right?

Exactly 6 days pass since you got the letter from Wally. It’s now ‘Next Friday.’

You’re sitting around in your room, trying to figure out just what to do. You’ve never been so bored. You’ve tried aimlessly playing your guitar, getting all dressed up for no reason, and now you’ve resorted to just pacing around your room.

As you’re pacing, you pass your dresser, seeing Wally’s letter once again. You honestly don’t know why you haven’t thrown it out yet.

You open it once again, carefully reading over the words. ‘Meet me at the Jitters Coffee on 5th at 2pm next Friday if you want’ You read the words over and over. You look at your clock, 1:27. I mean, going would kill some time. Do you really have anything better to do?

Would it be so ridiculous to show up? I mean, you don’t really have anything else to do. Maybe you can just show up to fuck with him a little bit. At this point, you almost just want to prove to yourself that he’s just as annoying as you think he is. After briefly taking a minute to make your decision, you impulsively decide to go, purely to mess with him.

Since you’re already dressed and ready to go, you grab your belongings and slip out of the house without anyone noticing. The drive there is filled with regret, having actually chosen to show up. You can hardly believe yourself right now.

Once you’re there, you step out of your car, walking up to the entrance. You look at your phone, 2:05. No way this asshole is late to the plans he made. Now, you really can’t believe your own actions. You’re out there waiting for almost five more minutes, until you finally see him walking up.

As he approaches you, he sees that your hair’s now this bright blue color. He almost looks shocked that you’re here, “You actually showed up?” All you do is scoff, “You’re late. You’re the fastest man alive, and you’re late.”

“I didn’t— I didn’t think you’d actually show up.” You just stare at him, “So you showed up late in the off chance that I did?”

“No! No. Not at all. I’m sorry.” His apology sounds sincere enough for your liking. “Let’s go inside.” You say, turning to walk in, not even waiting for a response.

Once you two are inside, you stand in line, awaiting your turn. You two just silently stand there. Wally takes the occasional glance at you. You’d be a fool not to notice. He’s really not very subtle, is he?

Once you two order, he pays for your drink. Hm. Well, that’s worth noting. You two take a seat. You decide to break the silence, “So is your plan to show me you’re not annoying just not talking at all?”

“If that’s what it takes, sure.” You roll your eyes, “Well, that’s not going to work, is it?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

“Yes.”

He just laughs at this. Part of him can’t believe you’re sitting right in front of him. Part of him thinks he earned it. He’s never been so damn nervous. “Are you nervous?”

Okay, now you’re just messing with him. He twiddles with his thumbs, “A little bit.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know— you’re just… intimidating, I guess? Y’know, because you’re cool and all that?”

“Well, are you trying to impress me or not?”

“You’re not impressed?” He says jokingly.

“Not yet.”

He ponders for a moment. He takes a long look at you, then your hair, “Y’know, your hair?”

“I know of it.”

“It’s all blue…” he looks at it once again completely mesmerized, “Looks cool.”

You take a moment to brush your hair down with your hands, suddenly nervous that you have eyes on you. Why is he making you nervous? “Nice one. Thanks.”

He sends you a playful wink, “Anytime.”

An unsettling silence falls over the table once again, until Wally breaks it with, “So. I have a question. Y’know, about your hair.”

“Go for it.”

“Does dyeing it like you do, like— hurt it?” He asks with a questioning look.

“Does it hurt it?” You laugh. Like, genuinely laugh. “Coming in with the hard hitting questions, I see.”

He dips his head a little with a soft laugh, “You know what I mean. Sorry if I worded it wrong.”

“Don’t sweat it. Yeah, it does damage it a bit. I’d say it’s worth it, though.”

He rests his head on his hand, staring at you, “I’d say the same.”

A red blush slowly spreads from your neck to your face. Why the hell is this actually working on you? You’re supposed to be better than this. You attempt to change the topic, “So why were you late, anyways?”

He looks away while laughing, “Funny story. So this girl was getting mugged, so I had to run home, put my suit on, run back, help, and then run back to change again.”

Admirable excuse, I guess. “Wow. What a hero.” The way you responded with such vitriol almost made you flinch. It came out a lot more harsh than you meant for it to. You immediately back track, putting your head in your hands, “That sounded rude. Sorry.”

He laughs with a boyish grin, “I know what you meant, don’t worry.”

After this, you two fall into a somewhat… normal conversation? He’s asking what songs you can play on your guitar and you’re asking about his family. This is going a lot smoother than you thought it would. At this point, you’ve long abandoned your quest to mess with him. Strangely enough, you’re just enjoying his presence.

You look at your phone, 8:56. Damn. Were you guys seriously talking for that long? You decide to end this little date situation there, “I think I should go.” you say with a short breath. And with a soft, genuine smile, you continue, “This was… nice.”

Wally couldn’t believe what he was hearing, “Yeah,” he says in a dreamy haze, “Wait— Really?”

“Yes, really,” you say with a soft laugh, “What, you invented me out here thinking I wouldn’t enjoy myself?”

“No! I mean— kinda? No actually, I just didn’t even think you’d show up in the first place. Let alone see you enjoying yourself.”

“Guess I’m full of surprises.”

“Guess so.”

And so, you were. Because four days after your little date, he received his first letter from you. It read:

Wally,

I had fun the other day. Like, actual fun. Hope to see you again soon. Text me.

And written in very small text on the bottom of the paper was your number. Sure, the letter’s short, but it meant the world to Wally. He immediately pulled out his phone to text you.

You were sitting in your bed watching a shitty reality TV show when the first text came. Ping. Picking up your phone, you see a text from an unknown number.

Unknown: So when can I see you again? :)

You: Thursday at 12pm. Let’s meet at the cafe.

Straight to the point, sure, but that’s all he needed to hear. You really aren’t one to waste your words.

So, when Thursday rolls around, you and him both are all nerves. You’re pacing around your room, awaiting your departure. But something feels different this time around. You’re nervous. You can barely believe that thought. You don’t get nervous.

But suddenly you feel every single need to impress Wally. You need to look perfect. You need to say just the right things. You have to be the cool girl he thinks you are. And you just can’t do it. You look at your phone, 11:47. It’s far past your time to leave and you just can’t do it. You’ve completely psyched yourself out.

Meanwhile, just about 15 minutes later, Wally stands outside of the cafe, awaiting your arrival. He waits. And waits. And waits. He looks at his phone, 12:24. Maybe you’re just… running late? No way he’s being stood up right now. After all, he was late to your last date. Is that even what this is? A date? He makes the wise decision to text you.

Wally: Hey :) Where r u?

You stare at your phone with pure shame before responding.

You: Can’t make it today. Sorry.

Wally reads your text over and over. And then a couple more times after that. You ‘can’t make it today?’ Are you serious? This has to be another one of your dark jokes. He stands there dumbfounded for a moment, rethinking all of his actions. Did he do something wrong?

Truth is, even after you standing him up, he knows he’s still in deep. You’ve completely turned his world upside down with just a couple small interactions. He rushes home, deciding that he’s going to write you yet another letter. Sure, he has your number, but it’s romantic, right?

He sits at his desk, pulling out a piece of lined paper. He signs your name at the top, and writes the following:

Did I do something wrong? I don’t know, but after today, with you not showing, it just feels like I did. Let me make it up to you. I swear I can. Still think you’re the coolest ;)

Yours truly,

Wally West

It’s about 4 days later when you get the letter. Seeing the usual pseudonym, you immediately know who it’s from. Your heart almost skips a beat. You run to your room and tear the letter open with eagerness.

You read it over and over again. Why did you have to be such a jerk? You’ve thought about your no-show nearly every night this week. And this letter only furthers the fact that you’re the biggest asshole ever.

You walk around your room, debating just what to do. Until you ultimately decide to take a seat at your desk and text Wally.

You: Got your letter. I know I can be a lot sometimes. Let’s reschedule?

It takes a few moments for Wally to respond. You stare at your messages with him, seeing the grey typing bubble disappear and reappear multiple times. Ping.

Wally: Don’t even worry about it. How about tomorrow at 12pm?

You: It’s a date.

Wally’s heart flutters at your choice of words. It’s a… date? Say less. For the next 21 hours and 33 minutes, Wally’s buzzing in anticipation for said date. Which isn’t unusual for him. But there’s something different about it this time.

The next day, Wally shows up to the cafe 15 minutes early, with a beautiful bouquet of pink, purple, and white flowers in hand. He’s attempting to make a good impression. You show up exactly 10 minutes later. You might be trying to make a good impression too.

As you walk up, he notices something different about you. You changed your hair again. It’s now this beautiful vibrant purple color. As you walk up to him, he holds the flowers out to you. “Hey. These are for you,” he takes another look at your hair, “They match your hair. Kinda.”

You respond with the softest smile known to man, “Thanks, Wally,” you take the bouquet and hold it tight to your chest, taking in a long smell of the flowers, “They’re amazing.”

You two walk inside the cafe, put in your orders, and take a seat. The two of you talk for hours, once again. When night falls, you make the bold choice to invite him back to your place. “You should come back to my place. My family isn’t there right now.”

“Your place? I don’t know… not that I don’t want to! It just seems… risky.”

“You scared, West?”

He gives you a sheepish look, “Kinda.”

“Well it’s your choice. Just saying, you can use your super speed to get in and out, or whatever.” You say coyly, giving him a look. Yes, that look.

He’s completely mesmerized. “Of course. Let’s go.”

The two of you take your car back to the manor. Once you’re there, Wally completely second guesses himself and his actions. “You sure your family isn’t here?”

“Very.” You’re actually not 100% sure. You kinda just made that up.

“My rooms on the second floor. 5th door on the left, if you want to speed there now.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Is all you hear before a blurry streak leaves your car, leaving behind a small gust of wind. You just laugh at his antics, heading into the house yourself.

Once you’re in your room, you see Wally already sitting awkwardly on your bed. You take a seat next to him. The two of you are sitting at an odd distance, maybe 3 feet apart. Not close enough for intimacy, but close enough for comfort. You see Wally shiver a bit. “Are you cold?”

He lets out a little laugh, “This place is always freezing,” you notice him look at your comforter, then you, “Maybe we can both get under it… y’know, since it’s cold.” Nice one, Wally. He mentally face palms.

You just laugh at him. “Is that what you really want?” You look at his lips, then his eyes. And then he says, “I think… I want to kiss you.”

“Do it.”

He slowly leans in, pressing his lips to yours. The kiss deepens, as you pull your shirt over your head. You push him back a little, allowing him to lay down on the bed. His hands are everywhere, softly lingering over your skin. You place yourself on top of his body, deepening the kiss even more.

Until you slowly pull away. “I changed my mind.” He looks into your eyes, “Changed it to what? From what?”

“I don’t want to have sex with you, West. Not right now.” You say raising your eyebrows, falling over to the spot right next to him in only your bra. As his arm is resting behind your head, he jokingly and confusingly groans, saying a long, “Oookay.”

“It’s not like I’m going to send you home or anything,” you look at him, “You can sleep in my bed,” taking a short breath, “And I reserve the right to change my mind about the sex later.”

“Well, this is nice. Just this. It’s been like, a really long time, so,” he looks into your eyes, “I think I needed this. Whatever it is. So, thank you.”

You lean in, kissing him once more, “You’re welcome.” You say, as if you’ve just granted him his biggest wish. And the two of you stay cuddled up like that for the rest of the night.

The last thing Wally could’ve expected from his silly little mission to win you over was to actually accomplish it. But he did. And now he’s in bed with you, right next to you. He swears this is a moment straight out of his wildest dreams.

[kennysflowers]

IT’LL NEVER BE THE CURE — ˚࿔ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ TIM DRAKE X READER

Warnings: depressed!reader, angst, unhealthy relationship, mentions of comparing yourself to other ppl, gn!reader, this is very short lol the song came out like two hours ago so I wrote this very quickly.

Divider: @angeliicide

574 words

Tim Drake is all you could’ve ever wished for. Sometimes, you think you dreamed him into existence. After years and years of endless battles in your head and heart, Tim Drake stepped into your life at what you thought was the exact right moment.

Maybe now, all of the doubts in your head will finally float away. All the pretty people that you compare yourself to in the forefront of your mind would be no more. God, how you wished it worked that way. As every little kid dreams of, all your life you thought that love would be the antidote for the all-consuming dark thoughts you have.

With him, you’ve stopped your habit of tallying up the other people your partner’s been with until you cry. You stopped worrying that there may be someone else. That you’re not what your partner truly wants.

Your relationship is perfect on paper. You two just work. And that’s the worst part, everything should be going well. But you just can’t seem to out run the thoughts in your head. It has absolutely nothing to do with him. You had really thought that you found the antidote with him.

But your head is full of poison and your heart is full of doubt. You used to think there was no way to cure that. And you might be right.

About 7 months into your relationship with Tim is when he finally, truly, realized that he might not be enough to fully heal you. Some things just can’t be cured.

You started to pull away. You stopped eating as much. You were sleeping at times as irregular as he was. You stopped communicating with him almost entirely.

Tim tried his absolute hardest with you, he really did. He immediately questioned your actions. You couldn’t help but be honest with him. Telling him that sometimes love isn’t enough to fix someone’s problems. He pretended you saying that hurt less than it did.

But he stayed silent, continuing to try and help you. With long nights of sweet, intricate talks. But truth is, you’re unraveling right in front of his very eyes. Why can’t it ever be enough? You wish that his love could just stitch you up. But it’s not that simple.

Even though he’s done everything he can to be there when you need him, you’re still feeling so alone. You might as well be on the moon. He’s cut his hours at Wayne Enterprises, stopped patrolling as frequently, and stopped interacting with his peers as much for you. And it’s still not enough.

You two are stuck in this sick push and pull limbo. You shut him out, then come crawling back when the thoughts in your head ever so slightly subside. And he feeds into it every time. He can’t help that he loves to see you being stable enough to communicate, even if it’s brief.

But one day, after months of your continued sadness, it becomes all too much. Not for him, but for you. You can’t keep this routine up. You can’t act like you’re suddenly going to get better any longer.

You thought his love would be like medicine. It’s good for you, you’re sure. But it can’t solve all of your problems. So, you make the unbearable decision to leave him. You can’t drag him down with you. You see him slowly deteriorating trying to help.

It doesn’t matter how his love feels anymore, it’ll never be the cure.

[kennysflowers]

Olivia Rodrigo’s new song just dropped… now y’all KNOW I’m writing a fic for it just wait….