Fangirl things

21, Chem E student surviving on caffeine, taurine, fanfics, and good books.

[stcrgazerlily]

━━━━━━━ VOGUE BEAUTY SECRETS WITH MRS. WAYNE

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: bruce wayne x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: fresh off a gala in metropolis, mrs. wayne shares the simple skincare routine behind her signature glow. with a little help from her husband bruce wayne, of course!

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: none, 1.5k words, dick + damian cameo, super super brief selina cameo? its a comment so idk if it counts?, reader (you) is the ultimate baddie, not edited just proofread

<𝟑: tags at the end :) please tell me if im missing anyone! (some weren't working so please lmk if they still dont so i can fix it). part of the mrs wayne in media series

Your make up is strewn across the bathroom counter, but this is out of shot. Instead, the skin care products are all neatly lined up on Bruce’s side.

You’re dressed in a fluffy white robe with your initials embroidered, hair clipped away from your face. Your make up from the gala is still on and you’re beautiful diamond studs— a present from Bruce, glitter under the bathroom’s lights. 

“Hello!” You smile at the camera. “And welcome to Vogue Beauty Secrets. Today, I’ll be showing you my skincare routine for after galas. We literally got back from the gala..." 

You glance over at Bruce, who is getting rid of his tie in the main bedroom. Luckily, the camera can’t see him. "What, twenty minutes ago?"

"Twenty-three," he corrects.

You laugh. "Twenty-three minutes ago. I wanted to film this while everything was still on because I feel like that's the only way to really show what works for me."

You carefully unclip the earrings, gently setting them down on a tiny golden plate. The camera picks the small metallic sound of the diamonds clicking against the metal. “These are usually the first thing to go because I'm terrified of dropping one down the sink. Bruce says that's what insurance is for, but I think he'd still judge me."

Somewhere off-camera, “I absolutely would.”

You laugh. “He's lurking somewhere off camera, don’t mind him.”

Slow and sure steps approach, Bruce’s is wearing a matching robe to yours and fluffy slippers the hotel provided. He looks absolutely adorable, but not like the camera sees it– the angle is too far off.

You pick up the cleansing balm, a yellow thing with a metallic lid. “This is the Elemis Cleansing Balm and an absolute jewel.” You rub the balm with circular motions all over your face. “And no, this isn’t sponsored.”

“When people always ask what my biggest beauty secret is.." You slightly turn your body in Bruce's direction. He grabs a cotton cloth, previously soaked in warm water. “It's probably hydration. Which is the most boring answer imaginable, but unfortunately it's true.”

Bruce begins removing the make up, with soft and soothing motions. His eyes are soft and focused on the task. Your heart swells, how is it you have such an amazing husband?

"People always think the gala is the exhausting part." Your eyes are still closed as Bruce keeps wiping a stubborn streak of mascara. "It's actually this. You're tired, your feet hurt, and the last thing you want to do is spend another ten minutes in front of the mirror." You smile. "It helps that Bruce loves to help with my skincare.”

He smiles, small and just for you. “If I didn’t you’d probably forget.”

You laugh. “That's not true!” You turn to the camera again. “Show them the cloth.”

Bruce’s massive hand appears in frame, veins noticeable and his golden wedding band shining. The cloth is now dirtied with varying shades of brown and a speck of maroon. 

“As you can see I was wearing loads of make up, and for that reason– where is i–”

Bruce hands you the next product. 

You barely look at him. “I use a second cleanser.” 

You quickly apply it. “Okay, boom! Makeup is off.” You move your head, showing the different angles. “Now comes the fun part.” A small pause. "When I was younger I used to think skincare was something you only did when your skin looked bad."

Bruce hums. "It showed."

You gasp, pretending to be offended. "You're unbelievable."

“You still married me.”

You hum, smirking at the camera. “It’s never too late to get a divorce.”

“Hydration,” Bruce clears his throat, and hands you the SK-II bottle.

“I was actually terrible with skincare,” you say as you press your product-soaked hands onto your cheeks. “As Bruce here snitched.”

“She used a barsoap.” Bruce dryly says. 

You laugh, glancing at him. “You’re getting kicked out of my video.”

“But then who would hand you everything?”

Just as you’re about to reply your phone rings. You quickly rinse your hands in the sink before picking it up. You click the speakerphone and set it on the counter.

“Dick, baby. What's wrong?”

“Can’t I just call to ask how my wonderful mother is doing?”

You suppress a smile. “So nothing is on fire?”

“Not on fire, no. Hypothetically... are all the cars insured?”

Beside you, Bruce pales. “Is someone hurt?”

Dick groans. “Please don’t tell me Bruce is there.”

“Sorry, baby,” You pause, shooting the camera a look. “And yes, all of the cars are insured. After you and Jason crashed the last one we weren’t taking risks.”

“Oh, okay! Thank you mom, love you. Bye!” He hangs up.

You look back at the camera with a fond smile. "Everyone says parenting gets easier when they're older."

Bruce slowly shakes his head. "It just gets louder."

You nod. "He's right. When they’re older they have their own opinions and personalities, and they have the confidence to argue back.” You scrunch your nose. “Eventually they realize I can out-stubborn every single one of them.”

You sigh affectionately. “This is part of the routine as much as the other steps. There’s always some emergency– so even if my phone is off there are certain calls from certain numbers that come through.”

“That being the kids and me.”

You grab the next product before Bruce can beat you to it. He grumbles something, but it lacks any heat.

You show it to the camera. It’s a tiny dark purple bottle, with a black pipette as lid. You squint your eyes, trying to read the description. “This is the Skin Ceuticals Hya–Hyaluronic… Acid Intensifier... Multi-Glyyycan. Wow, what a mouthful. Who even came up with the name?”

"Scientists."

You shake your head. "It’s all marketing." You slowly apply it. “I forgot to mention the names of the other products– wait, can I mention them? Since I’m not doing publicity or anything. Wait, am I going to get sued?"

Bruce shakes his head. “I’ll ask the lawyers tomorrow.”

"See?" You grin at the camera. "I don't even have to think about things like that anymore."

Bruce shrugs. "Occupational hazard."

You shift the camera slightly, so it doesn’t catch you giving Bruce a sweet peck on the cheek. His shoulders slump and you give him another.

A second after you’re back to the camera. “Sorry guys, I can’t resist my husband.”

Your phone rings yet again, the noise interrupting you mid-speech. You immediately pick it up, setting it on speaker again.

“Mother.” Damian’s voice can be heard. “I understood Richard called you?”

You raise a conspiratorial brow at the camera. “Yes, darling.”

“Richard has made yet another poor decision.”

“Ahuh.”

“I simply wished to clarify that I advised against it.” 

“Thanks sweetheart— please go to sleep now, it’s getting late.”

There’s a beat of silence. “Fine,” he grumbles. “Good night, mother.”

“Good night Damian, I love you.”

He hangs up after a second.

You laugh, bright and amused. “I think we’ve gotten a bit sidetracked. But there’s only two more steps to go!”

Bruce’s hand appears on screen again, showing the eye cream. You offer your face, your side profile is the only visible thing aside from Bruce’s gentle fingers applying the cream on your under eyes.

“You know, you’re really good at this.”

He barely smirks. “I’ve had practice.”

"Bruce always does the eye cream." You whisper to the invisible audience.

"You poke yourself."

You roll your eyes. "Once."

He looks at you, stopping his ministrations for a second. 

You sigh. "Twice."

Then the lipbalm, this time it's you who shows it to the camera. “And now my favourite part. The lip balm!” You apply it on your lips. “This one is honestly so good…” you finish rubbing it, “I keep one in each bag. A bit pricey though.”

“I think everyone expects some elaborate forty step routine. There isn’t one, just make sure your skin is clean and healthy. Oh, and really, really important. Don’t forget to drink water. The key for the whole glowy look is to be hydrated.”

“And marry someone who reminds you.” Bruce chimes in.

You smile. “That one definitely helps.” You unclipp your hair away, your hair gently framing your face. “Be kind to your skin. Don’t pick it, it’ll just get red and you’ll get more pimples.” 

“Don’t compare yourself to people on the internet either— I’m literally standing under a studio light.”

Bruce leans into frame just enough to kiss the top of your head. You look up at him, then at the camera again. “Thanks for watching!”

Comment Section:

@snoopycftheday the fact that she looks BETTER after taking her makeup off ?????????

@vogue Thank you for joining us 🤍

@slutforthestarks Bruce's entire personality is 'yes dear'

@metropolismetrosfan she genuinely has the most insane face card i've ever seen

@parasocialalert she has the personality of a wallpaper

@sukunt its sending me that 80% of the video is her flirting with her husband and talking to her kids and the other 20% is actual skincare

@selinakyle Can your husband fight?

@selinakyle Bruce CANNOT handle all that

@officialgothamgazette "there are certain calls from certain numbers that come through" being a mom never clocks out 

@slutforgreenlantern they're both so hot idk if i want to be them or be with them #pleasepleasepleaseletmethird

@boostergoldslefttoe just added everything to my cart... why is the total $672 😭😭😭

@daschundmom "Bruce is lurking somewhere off camera" Bruce proceeds to become half the video.

@user7696the way she instinctively tilted her face up so bruce could put on her eye cream... they've done this a thousand times IM SICK

@truthhurts she's only famous because she married bruce lmao she's not even that pretty

@mrswayneisamilf everyone talks about his green flags but can we discuss HER ?? she's so patient and kind every time one of the kids called she's my role model

@hdjsiosjnx, @cassini-among-the-stars, @zhonglibestie, @jdksjsalaka, @godwishiwasreal @sogayitsalmostscary, @bat2nsignia, @mruizsworld, @just-a-random-girl1, @boundlessgladiatorrook, @nalah-whimsy, @xaxamd, @thestupidgirlakira, @queengirl2345, @whitemelanin, @deerest-darling, @outpostsworld, @gglouise23, @marliyndreams, @siennatk an extra big smooch for @llovelygood she was an absolute lifesaver i cannot stress enough how grateful i am for her!! THANKYEW LOML

[browniesforsale]

The Wayne Brothers | Hot Ones Versus

warning: cursing, sibling banter, appearances from Bruce and Damian, (there might be some errors that I missed) wordcount: 3,407 author's notes: the respond to this series has been just wow. I had to turn off the notifications because there was just so much. As always like, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated. Credits of inspiration given at the end.

[Batfamily Interviews Masterlist] | <- previous - next ->

The video starts with a quote from Dick Grayson.

"I can already see the comments shaming us for going for the milk. You try these wings! Try them!" he yells at the camera.

The introduction montage starts to play.

"This is Hot Ones Versus." the narrator of the video said, "In front of these contestants is a stack of deeply personal questions. They can either tell the truth…"

It cuts to a moment featuring Jason.

"I think this might actually kill Tim…" he's quoted saying.

"Or suffer the wrath of The Last Dab." the narrator continues.

Tim's voice cuts through, "Oh my gods, this is so bad!"

"Whoever eats the most wings…loses." the narration ends.

Sitting at the table was Tim on the left side; Dick and Duke sitting at the center fully in front of the camera; and Jason sitting on the right side. Palate of wings were laying in front of each boy, along with glasses of milk and water.

"We binged watch every episode of Hot Ones in preparation for this by the way." Dick states.

"I'm scared." Tim says.

"I'm excited actually." Duke states.

Round One

Dick picks up the first card, "This one is for Tim."

"Shit." Tim says.

"For this first challenge, you can only use one your senses. Choose wisely." Dick read.

"Let's go with taste since we're here. That's the respectable thing to do when your doing a wing challenge." Tim said.

Dick laughs as he read ahead to himself.

"Oh no, that was a bad idea wasn't it."

Dick nods his head, "After gracing us with their presence sixteen years ago, Mattel introduced to us a Justice League toy line featuring the six original members. The line continue to grow as the League did. You must now successfully identify Justice League toys only using the sense you selected. Which was taste."

There was laughter coming from the crew and Tim instantly regrets his choice.

"I don't think anyone but Tim could do this." Duke said as a crew member comes and places a blindfold and headphones near Tim.

"I live for this shit." Tim said as he put on the headphones. "Alright I'm ready!"

A tray featuring action figures of the original six Justice League was place in front of Dick. He grabs the Aquaman figurine first and holds it up.

"Open up." Dick said.

Tim begins to practically make out with the toy. Jason, on the other side of the table, was loosing it.

"Someone clip this please." Jason said looking at the camera.

"Hold it still!" Tim mumbled out, mouth full was Aquaman's head. "Can I have the arm please?"

"What do you want? The weapon?" Dick asked.

"Aha." Tim said before wrapping his lips around the trident. "Aquaman."

Dick hold up the Wonder Women figurine next. Tim clamps down on the head, feeling the toy with his mouth. Dick is trying to not to laugh too much.

"Can you provide me with the feet?" Tim asked.

Dick turned the figurine so that Wonder Woman's feet were now being bitten by Tim.

"I think it's Wonder Woman."

"Yes!" Dick exclaims.

Flash was next. Dick slows protrudes Tim's mouth with Flash's head.

"I've got no idea." Tim said, sitting back a little.

"Focus on it's head…it's got two identifiably things on its head." Duke said.

Tim goes back for the head once more before sitting back after a minute.

"Okay is it Batman?" Tim said unsure, "Flash."

Dick looks towards the crew, "Does that count?"

"I'll let you make the call." a male crew member said.

Tim still blindfolded knew what verdict his brother was going to make.

"Bullshit, you just shoved plastic in my mouth for the last twenty minutes. I should be given that." Tim yells. Dick, Duke, and Jason all lean in various of ways in laughter, "Is it Flash?"

"Yes, but you guess Batman first." Dick reminded.

"No, but I corrected myself immediately." Tim defended.

"Cause I didn't immediately say yes." Dick argued.

"This is rigged. Do I have to eat a wing?" Tim looked between his brothers and the crew.

"Yes that's literally the whole point." Dick stated.

Reluctant, Tim ate a wing. the others waited with baited breath for his reaction.

Tim swallowed, "I'm fine-" His words were interrupted by a cough that made the others laugh.

"I think this might actually kill Tim…" Jason said.

"Our little Victorian child." Dick commented.

Tim held up his middle finger as he drunk from his water glass.

Jason picks up the next card.

"This is a wildcard for Dick." an air horn sounds and the words 'wildcard' goes across the screen. "Okay then um…Dick you grew up in a traveling circus, where you were performing acrobatic tricks by the age of five."

"True." Dick confirms.

"Put your skills to the test by beating me in a handstand competition. Whoever loses must eat a death wing." Jason read.

"Oh great." Dick said, sarcastically.

The tables have been pushed to the side. It was just Dick and Jason against the white back drop with Tim and Duke standing to the side.

"You ready to go?" Dick asked is brother.

"Let's do this." Jason responds.

Both boys fall into a handstand, their backs facing the camera.

"We're gonna be here a while." Tim mention.

Duke has a card in his hand, "To spice up the competition, the other opponents can now try to sabotage the competitors."

"What?!" both Dick and Jason yelled.

Foam balls were given to Duke and Tim. They started to throw the balls at their older brothers. The older boys start to let out a series of complaints. Both had now turned so they were facing the camera. Jason had caught a ball and threw it back towards Duke. Tim nailed Dick in the balls causing him to falter.

Dick groans as he falls backwards. Jason remains in a handstand.

"Ha, I win!" Jason boast.

"This game is rigged." Dick stated.

The tables are back and everyone is back in their seats. Dick sighs and looks up at the ceiling before taking a bit.

"Mhm, mhm. Okay." Dick wipes his fingers on the black napkin. He lets out a breath that turns into a cough. "Coughing does not help."

"Duke, you led the We Are Robin youth movement after Batman was presumed dead leaving Gotham hero-less.." Tim read from the card.

"Oh, y'all did research, I see." Duke commented to the crew.

Tim continues to read, "Rank all of the Robins from best to worst."

Duke thinks for a moment, "There's five Robins or four past Robins and we are on number five now. I'm going to say Robin 3, Robin 2, Robin 1, Robin 5, Robin 4."

Round Two

Tim: I Dick: I Duke: 0 Jason: 0

"Jason, you love and know romance novels, but how well do you know your RomComs? I will now read poorly described plot descriptions and you must tell me which movie it is. Miss one and eat a death wing." Tim said.

"Poorly described?" Jason questioned. He makes a face, not confident in his skills.

Tim nods goes to read the first plot, but the wing from earlier was still effecting him. "It doesn't get better with time," he states, "Okay a woman falls for her arch nemesis via email."

"You've got mail." Jason said instantly.

Second plot: "Two people who desperately want to break up realize that Staten Island is for lovers."

"How to lose a guy in ten days?" Jason said unsure.

"Yeah." Tim confirmed.

Third Plot: "A high-schooler who can't drive realizes she falling in love with her step-brother."

Jason laughs, "Clueless."

"I'm sorry what? She falls for her step-brother?" Duke makes a face.

"They were step-sibling," Jason explains, "we'll watch it next movie night."

Fourth plot: "A man doesn't think he came be friends with a woman, but he can share a sandwich with her."

"When Harry me Sally, which I've actually never seen before." Jason states.

Fifth plot: "A boss blackmails her assistant into marriage."

"The Proposal."

Sixth plot: "A woman accepts a proposal from a recovering asshole."

Jason brows pinch, "Huh?"

Tim stifles a laugh, "Dude, you have to get this. You're going to be so mad if you don't."

Jason mumbles the sentence back to himself. Dick leans over to see what the movie was and makes a face.

"Jay, come on you know this." Dick hinted.

"Can we give hints?" Duke asked looking towards the crew.

"Yes." someone answered.

"This is like a movie adaptation of a really popular book." Tim said.

"That like fifty percent of Rom-Coms!" Jason exclaims.

"Do you give up?" Tim asked.

Jason sighs in defeat and picks up a wing, "What was it?"

"Pride and Prejudice."

"Fuck! Are you serious?" Jason fumed.

"I told you you were going to be mad." Tim reminded.

"Kudos to you, you did good, Jay." Duke praised.

Jason shook his head, upset that he didn't guess his favorite novel. He takes a huge bite of a drumstick.

"Oh Jason is just going in…" Duke said watching Jason.

"Damn Jay…" Dick observed.

"It taste the way bleeding feels" Jason coughed out.

Tim smirked, "Yeah, you would know all about that wouldn't you."

Jason threw him a death stare, "You are so lucky that there is about five feet between us — holy shit, I feel like it's getting worse." he goes to chug some water while his brothers laugh at him.

"Duke, you are still relatively new to the family." Jason struggles to read out.

"You okay there, Jay?" Duke asked, chuckling.

Jason clears his throat, "Shut up…rank all of us from most to least likable." He throws the card down.

"Rank like rank all of the siblings or rank everyone in the family." Duke looks to Jason then the crew.

"Yeah, we'll say just us sibling." Jason said.

Duke shakes his head, "I can't do that. You've all been so welcoming to me."

"See we haven't broken him in yet because everyone else would have answer this in a heartbeat." Jason told the crew/camera.

"So you can rank the Robins just fine, but not us?" Dick questioned.

Duke picks up a wing and takes a bit. He chews on it then makes a satisfied face.

"It's good." He clears his throat, "Definitely feel it in the chest."

Round Three

Tim: I Dick: I Duke: I Jason: I

"Dealer's choice. The player who picks this can ask one of their opponents any question they wish…their opponent must answer truthfully or eat a death wing." Dick reads out loud. His voice was going in and out still affected by the wing from earlier. "Well this can actually be a question…for everyone, but going to mostly directed to Jason…"

"Fuck you." Jason said, sweating from the heat of the wing.

"What happened to my motorcycle, Jason?" Dick asked.

"That's why I said fuck you in advance." Jason said, voice breathy.

"What happened to my motorcycle?" Dick asked the question again.

"Which one?" Tim asked trying to act oblivious.

"Don't play stupid with me, Timothy." Dick argued.

"I think we should pretend that this card never happened…" Duke said.

Dick looked forward, a little past the camera, "Bruce, where's my bike? I know you know…"

There was a pause before Bruce's voice was heard in the distant, "Ask Jason."

Dick turned to Jason again, "Jason…"

Jason also looked off camera, "Damian."

"I swore an oath to father that I wouldn't tell…" Damian said from behind the camera.

Dick looks at Bruce with tight lips, "Now why would he have to do that, Bruce?"

"Everyone eat a wing." Bruce declare.

Duke took a bit of a wing without complaint. Tim picked up a wing and took the smallest bite in the world. Jason took a bite, but bite of a lot more than he wanted to.

Dick saw him about to spit it out, "Nope, you got to eat that."

"Tim you've been in more hostage situation than anyone else in the family." Duke says.

Tim looks towards the crew, "Alright, who the fuck made these cards?" Everyone laughs.

"Rank these villains that have held you hostage from least intimidating to most intimidating. Condiment King…."

"Condiment King, really Tim." Dick looks at his brother.

"I was just trying to get a bat burger." Tim grumbled.

"…Kite-Man, Polka-Dot Man, and The Mad Hatter." Duke finished saying.

"Mad Hatter, I understand, but Kite-Man and Polka-Dot Man, Tim." Jason threw a disappointed look at him.

"From least to most intimidating? Um…Kite-Man, Condiment King, Polka-Dot Man, and Mad Hatter." Tim answered.

"Hey Richard…" Jason says with the biggest grin on his face.

Dick, already not liking this, "What the fuck do you want, Jay?"

Jason laughs as he reads the card again, "I love whoever made these cards."

"Get on with it!" Dick yelled.

"You've had many public girlfriends, one of whom was the police commissioner's daughter…" the camera zooms in on Dick's face, which was sweating and scared for the question. "Out of all your girlfriends whose the worst kisser?" Jason laughs starts silence before it gradually getting louder as he watches his older brother complaint life.

"Um…" Dick began as he picked up a wing, "Y'all play dirty and I don't appreciate it."

Dick hesitates before taking a bit of the wing, "I feel like it gets hotter every time I eat it." He lets the taste settle.

"Are those tears, Grayson?" Damian asked from behind the scene.

"No…" Dick denied. "I can already see the comments shaming us for going for the milk. 'Oh, they can't handle it blah blah.' You try these wings! Try them!"

Round Four

Tim: II Dick: II Duke: II Jason: II

Duke picks up a card, "It's tradition around here to put a little extra on the last wing…"

"You and your opponents can add an extra dab to your final wings now." Duke finished reading.

Tim and Dick both get up, but Tim goes to grab a bottle of sauce while Dick walks straight off the set.

Jason laughs, "Dick just left."

Tim confused, "Where is he going?"

There is laughter coming from the crew. The camera pans off set to where Jason was coming back in.

"You good brother?" Duke asked when Dick walked back.

There's a cut in the video, the boys are back at the table. Each putting a little extra one their wings…maybe a little too extra.

The camera is on Jason's wing. The sauce pours out of the bottle fast.

"Oh gosh is that too much?" Jason picks up the wing to show the crew/camera, "Will this send me to hell?"

The camera is on Duke's wing next. He pour the tiniest bit of sauce on his wing.

"Duke…" Tim observed both Jason's and Duke's wing, "Look at the difference."

"It said a little." Duke defended himself.

Dick was next, pouring the same amount of sauce as Jason.

"Oh see they like living life on the edge" Duke stated to the camera.

Tim pour a little extra than Jason and Dick.

"Yeah no, you guys are cooked." Duke shook his head and the three boys laughed. "Our local vigilante Batman is know for his unique utility belt that houses gadgets such as the bat shaped ninja stars. For this last challenge we'll be testing how good your aim is while wearing inverted goggles. The player with the most points wins."

The set changes. A backdrop of the skyline of Gotham city is rolled down. Crew members roll in a dart board and lock it into place. Each boy was given inverted goggles and three 'bat-a-rang'.

"Okay should we throw to see who goes first?" Dick asked.

"Nah let's just do youngest to oldest like we always do." Jason said.

Duke puts on the goggles and looks around, "Woah."

"Alright, ready? Gonna spin you." Jason said and began to spin Duke.

Jason stopped and then position Duke so it was facing the board. Duke throws his first dart - 20.

"Shit." Jason said.

Duke threw the other two darts - 4, then 14. Duke lifted his goggles to see his score.

"Oh wow, I did better than I thought." Duke surprise with himself.

Tim was up next. Jason spun him faster than he did Duke. Stopping Tim and lining him up with the board. Tim stumbles a little when Jason stops him.

"Why did you spin me so fast you jerk." Tim whined before holding his hand up to throw the first dart. He had missed the board completely causing everyone to laugh.

"I fucking missed didn't I…" Tim frown getting ready to throw his second one.

"No no, you're doing great." Dick reassures.

Tim throws his second dart - 20. Then lastly his third - 3. Tim took his goggles off.

Jason was next. Dick spun him for longer than Jason had spun Duke and Tim.

"Alright, Dick!" Jason shouted, holding his hands out to steady himself. "Am I lined up?"

"Yeah." Dick lied.

Jason first throw missed, sticking itself on the backdrop instead. Jason turned a little to his left and threw his second - 1. The boys let out a laugh. Jason threw his final dart - 3. Taking his goggles off, Jason saw his darts.

"This game is rigged." Jason stated.

Dick walks up next. All three boys join together to spin him. Though it was more of Dick getting jolts around. Jason patted Dick's shoulders as to settles him into position. Dick throws his first dart - 5. His second dart was close to the green center, but not quite and his third dart missed. Dick removed his goggles.

"Okay could be better, but hey, I was the closest to the bullseye." Dick said.

Duke: 38 Tim: 23 Jason: 4 Dick: 17

The camera cuts and Jason, Dick, and Tim have their palette of wings in their hands. While Duke just stands beside them.

"Cheers." Dick said as him, Jason, and Tim bumped their wings together. "Alright guys, I'll see you…"

"On the other side." Jason finished.

"On the toilet." Tim said also finishing Dick's sentence.

The three take bites of their wings and the effects are immediate.

"Oh…OHHHH." Tim yelled.

"I ate the whole splotch…." Jason mumbled out already beginning to sweat.

"This is the end of my week." Dick declared.

The videos skips to moments later, Dick, Jason, and Tim have accepted their fates. Duke stands in front of the camera with the trophy wing in hand, completely un-phased. The rest of the boys are seen panting, crying, or chugging milk.

"So I won. Uh white people are crazy." Duke says as he starts his winning speech.

The camera is focus on Duke, but in the background was Tim, actively dying. The boy had tears in his eyes and a glass of water in hand.

"Oh my gods, this is so bad." he said bent over laughing through the pain.

Duke ignores the cries of distress and continues, "This is for my parents and my people. A shout out to Bruce and Y/N." He gives a smile as the crew applause. "All righty, thank you!"

"Bru- Dad!" Dick yells holding his arms out towards Bruce, who was coming in frame.

Bruce chuckles as his eldest wraps him in a hug.

"Alright there, chum?" Bruce amuse by the situation.

Dick sucks in a breath, "I'm gonna died, this is hotter than Cass' Buldak noodles."

Jason comes into view with a traumatic look and red eyes from crying, clutching onto Damian. Seeing that everyone in a state of…not functioning, Duke closes out the video.

"This has been Hot Ones with the Wayne Brothers. Thank you so much for having us. Be sure to catch our next video, whatever that might be." Duke said throwing an arm around Jason. "How are you feeling?"

Nothing but a small whine came from Jason. Duke laugh enjoying the sight of his surrogate brothers in different states of unwell. The crew starts to clap, and credits start to roll as Duke leaves Jason and Damian.

8,838 Comments

@ princesscello

Duke giving a speech while the rest of the boys roam the background

melting down was amazing.

@ everythingsred

New meme unlock

@ classyapple

They forgot ALL the media training they had and I'm here for it.

→ @ bridge4756

Funny you think they had any to begin with.

@ fallenangel4012

Okay, but now I'm curious as to what happen to Dick's motorcycle.

@ iamirobot

Why are they acting like this is their first time eating spicy food. They have zero tolerance.

extra notes: credits to Dylan (Dyllikescomic) for the 'what happen to the wingcycle' bit. art credit: @jasmingen92. Also, I don't know why half of the tags aren't working.

taglist: @sleepyyluciel, @lettucel0ver, @dontmindmeboo, @ginathewolf53106, @lunarlightxt, @hilaryinumaki1, @pinklyred, @fantasydreamer420, @chxyz-ctrl, @lil-riddle-kiddle, @lilacmage-blog, @androgynousstrangerbouquet, @xirquen, @kayleighisreallycool, @inherdiary77, @cresent-moon-gallery88, @ndelkh6, @astralpandamoniumfox, @moonlit-obsidian, @bearchermer, @boomgshakalaka, @deerest-darling, @jessk23, @some-lovely-day, @peachydoki, @iheartshota, @dauntlessfissurecloud, @lililiyayy, @tmrs-basilisk, @hdjsiosjnx, @astrum-a, @brucewayneisavirgin, @calzone-d, @tenshi-tenshi-no-mi, @totallynotashieldagent, @marliyndreams, @miakxn, @otakusimp1, @p1x-3l, @clairince77, @liliesofth3valley, @sashadonat, @twiceasmanystars1122, @starrydustedwinter, @cOcOnutbiscuit, @yourcherrykisser, @lamby-loveheart, @dlthl, @gglouise23, @professionalmaldaptivedreamer, @iamburdened, @your-mum3000, @siennatk, @itonlyhastobetruetoday, @halaeth-oldis, @fanficeatsandenjoys, @babydollbunnyy, @tmrs-basilisk, @waltermis, @phi-kobold, @lvrr4lisaa, @oh-sheetcake, @ilocuras24, @bunniotomia, @d-z-20, @missmontiopath, @simpforyoubitch, @chubbyduumpling

[megafangirlcentral]

Bruce Wayne, Father of Seven

If you had told Bruce Wayne five years ago that he’d officially be married to the woman of his dreams, he would say there’s no way.

If you were to tell him that not only was he married but he also finally got to experience the baby stage of having children, he’d tell you to get out and stop trying to mess with him. Yet here he is, finally experiencing the stage of a child’s life he never got to with his other children.

Who knew that the best way for Bruce Wayne to settle down was to be nap trapped by a twelve pound three month old. It hasn’t been easy for anyone in the family, it was the biggest adjustment the both of you had to face. Having six children and bypassing the baby stage made it even harder. By the time each child came into your lives, they could already talk, walk, and basically survive without the both of you constantly hovering over them.

However the minute little Martha was conceived, the life you knew was over.

“Bruce I’m telling you, that’s a second a line.”

“It could be a faulty test, an evaporation line.”

“For the world’s greatest detective, your deduction skills need to be brushed up on. You watched me pee on four other tests. All of which confirmed that there’s a fetus,” you sighed and set the last of the pregnancy test on the sink counter before turning to him.

“What’re we going to do? We have no idea how to take care of a baby”

“We will figure it out. We always do.” He replied and pulled you in for a hug.

“A baby.” You say again still in disbelief.

“Our baby,” he confirms and rubs your back.

“What’re you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that this baby is going to be loved and that they’ll have to learn to survive in a house with six older siblings,” he replied softly with a teasing tone. You laughed and hugged him a bit tighter.

Since then the two of you did figure it out. Well… as much as you could. Bruce panicked a bit when you heard the heartbeat for the first time. Instead of talking it out like he knows he should’ve, he used Batman.

“Are you and Bruce fighting?” Dick asked one day as he came to Wayne Enterprises to have lunch with you.

“What? No, why would you say that?” You replied as you shuffled papers around at your desk so he could set the food he brought down.

“He’s been more stressed than usual. Swearing that our patrols haven’t been enough. That we’re not getting enough done.” Dick replies as he flopped in the chair across from you.

You bite the inside of your cheek and sigh. “We’re not fighting but he is stressed. I’ll talk to him about it”

You and Bruce did talk about it later that day. It was honestly more like you chewing him out.

“You’re pushing yourself too hard, you’re pushing the kids too hard.”

“I’m trying to make everything go smoothly so when you’ll need me further in the pregnancy I can be there”

“Gotham’s always going to need you Bruce but it can survive without Batman. It’s not like there’s not at-least six other vigilantes that can keep watch in your place.” You say a bit teasingly.

He grumbles, a sign he’s not impressed.

“We should tell the kids. I’d rather they hear it from us than figure it out on their own”

“You’re barely nine weeks along, we should wait.”

“I’m two months along, and luckily the first trimester has been good to me. I want to tell the kids.”

“Okay”

Cue trying to gather all your children before patrol and trying to make sure everyone is in Gotham for the announcement. This was a much harder task than you thought it’d be but you succeeded.

In front of you and Bruce, all dressed in their uniforms stood Dick, Jason, Cass, Tim, Duke, and Damian.

“Right, so before everyone gets going for patrol. I want to tell you all something important.”

“Are you dying?” The question came from Jason followed by a “Are you sick?” From Tim.

“No and No. I’m pregnant.” You say, figuring the best way to get it over with was just to say it outright.

It was quiet for a bit then the yelling came,

“Pregnant?! You guys are having a baby?” Jason reacted first

“I knew Bruce was acting weird when I went to see you last week!” Dick yelled over Jason.

“Congratulations mom! How far along are you?” Cass, comes up to hug you and then Bruce.

“Congrats you two,” Duke came up next and gave you both a half hug.

“Does this mean we all have to help orrr?” Tim asked next.

After the initial shock went down, the boys gave their congratulations, all except Damian who just stood there silent.

“Dami? You alright?” You asked softly approaching him.

“I’m fine mother, congratulations to you and father,” he says a little harsh before turning away.

It took a lot of encouragement and reassurance for Damian to finally come around to the idea of being a big brother.

The rest of your pregnancy was relatively easy going if you consider always having a bodyguard in the forms of your husband, sons, and daughter, easy going. Everyone hovered but it was out of love.

When you finally went into labor, everyone lost their minds. Bruce, for once lost his cool.

“We need to get you to the hospital. Your water broke.”

“Bruce my contractions aren’t even consistent right now. We have time.” You argued.

That argument didn’t last long as baby Wayne was just as impatient as their father.

Less than three hours later in a private suite at Gotham General, your sweet baby girl Martha Alice Wayne was born. Bruce cried when he heard her cry. He cried again when he cut the umbilical cord and held her for the first time.

“She’s perfect” he whispered as he held her to his chest.

“She is. Bruce Wayne officially a father to two girls now. How’s it feel?”

“Unreal, I don’t have any idea what I’m doing but having her in my arms just feels right”

Since that day in the hospital when Martha was born, Bruce felt like a whole new person. Which is how now, even after the more lack of sleep than usual, the millions of dirty diapers, the tantrums, and spit up, Bruce does his best to enjoy every second of it.

Even if that means being nap trapped and screamed at by a three month old.

A.N: I literally couldn’t get this out of my head since I went on a Batman rereading spree. DC give him a tiny baby now. I can definitely see myself making more fics on this in particular, especially with Bruce and processing his feelings and Damian’s reaction. Hope you guys liked it! Love ya

[megafangirlcentral]

Who Let Mom Drive??? (Pt.2)

This is the second part to this.

Warning, it is a bit suggestive but nothing happens. It has been a while since I’ve written anything, I hope you guys like it!

You should have known everything was not going to be fine and dandy after winning that race. Honestly you should have known things wouldn’t go down great when Babs approached you for the mission. Now pulling the car into the garage of Wayne Manor with your phone ringing in the background, you know you're in for it.

“Yes, Batman, how can I help you?” You answer the phone as you finally park and gather your stuff before exiting your car.

“Meet in the Cave, we need to talk. Now.” He says before ending the call, leaving no room for argument.

“Wow not even leaving room for me to reply, real classy Bruce” you mutter before entering the manor and heading straight for the grandfather clock. The stairs to the cave are cold as usual but the cave itself feels more icy than usual. You know the boys will have questions and that Bruce is just flat out mad. As you walk towards the batcomputer, the batmobile pulls in. Damian exits first.

“Mother, you never told us you knew how to race like that. Why were we not informed of this, we could have used you on more missions.”

You let out a nervous laugh, “Dami, there’s still quite a bit you don’t know about me. I’m sure your father informed you and Tim that I was a street racer when I was younger. I don’t do it anymore. Not unless I need to.”

Bruce and Tim come up behind where Damian is standing. In typical Bruce fashion, his scowl is deep and his arms are crossed. 

“I’m still upset that I had to learn from B that you raced mom. That was amazing to watch. I am also so jealous of Dick and Jason that they got to see you in your prime for racing. Where did you learn to drive like that? Why did you like racing so much? Could you out race Bruce then?” Tim asks one after the other,

“Well, Timmy, Bruce and I were just getting together when I was still a very active street racer. After we started dating and I learnt about all of this (you gesture to the cave), I gave it up. Let’s leave the rest of the story for another day, yeah? Here is the card with the time and place Ronnie gave me.” 

“Damian, Tim clean up and head to bed. Reports can wait until the morning. I need a moment with your mother.” Bruce says as he starts taking the cowl off, “Now.” he gestures to the stairs.

As Tim and Damian get changed, the tension between you and Bruce is thick. You can feel his eyes tailing your every move and that he’s more than just a little upset. 

“Bruce-” You try to start as soon as the boys went upstairs.

“No, I don’t want to hear why you thought going to that race was a good idea. Do you have any idea what could have happened tonight?” He says low, trying to keep himself from yelling.

“Babs said you were dealing with Ronnie’s group Bruce, what did you want me to do? Stay here and monitor the computers as per usual? I knew I could handle it so I did,”

“I didn’t need you to handle it. I had a plan. You could have gotten seriously hurt, do you understand that? There’s a reason I didn’t tell you about this race.” He replies exasperated, running a hand over his face and stepping closer.

“Bruce, I know you don’t like when I race, but Babs said you needed the information so I got it. Nothing happened, nothing would have happened. You know that. You know if there is one thing I can do it’s drive”

“You. Couldn’t. Know. That.” He says as he takes a step closer to you after each word. Before you know it, you’re up against a wall of the batcave and he’s staring down at you.

“What would have happened if Ronnie or any of those other people racing decided to play dirty? What would be your plan then, love? Drive away and hope for the best?”

“You aren’t being fair Bruce,” You say trying to push him back off of you, but of course it’s not very successful. You smile and look up at him a bit mischievously “Besides, if something did happen, you’d save me. You always do. Unless you think I’d fare better calling for Clark?”

“Don’t you dare bring up Clark to just get under my skin. I would save you, doesn’t mean I’m happy about you putting yourself in danger,” Bruce grumbles as he strokes your cheek. 

“Ronnie still doesn’t know how to drive, I would have won either way. Besides, you liked seeing me beat him again, admit it.” 

“You were reckless,” 

“And you enjoyed it.” 

“Stop changing the subject, I am trying to stay mad at you,” 

“You never last very long at that,” You reply with a smirk on your face. Bruce sighs and steps back to really look at you.

“You did drive really well, Tim and Damian want to learn how to drive like that.”

“Yeah, well it wouldn’t be fair to them if I didn’t teach them since I showed Dick and Jason how to drive like that. Maybe we make a family day out of it? Have Cass and Duke there too, maybe even Steph if she wants. Show all of them how to drift and take a tight turn.”

“Don’t push it. I already have to deal with them on motorcycles, we don’t need them in cars too,”

“Oh come on, it won’t be that bad.”

“You only say that because you don’t have to wrangle them all out on patrol.” Bruce says as he walks you to the stairs of the cave and starts undoing his cowl.

“Now, why don’t you wait for me in our room while I shower, I’ll be up in a bit.”

“I could always just join you, saving water and all that,” you say with a smirk and try to pull him along with you.

“Very funny but no.”

As Bruce turns back to put his suit up and shower he looks back at you with a serious face. 

“I hope you know there’s absolutely no way you will be going to the meeting place with Ronnie.”

You sigh, “Yeah I know, don’t have me waiting too long Mr. Wayne,” 

“Never”

Two Weeks Later: Wayne Manor Front Lawn

“So who was going to tell me that mom could drift like that?” Duke says flabbergasted as you do a number of donuts in the front lawn with your Porsche.

“Oh Duke you don’t know the half of it. While I was still Robin, she was a street racer.” Dick says from his spot next to him.

“She’s so badass, the best driver I’ve ever seen.” Steph says in awe in front of them.

As you stop the car and open the door half stepping out with a smile, all your kids crowd around you. 

“Alright so who wants to learn to drive like me?” 

“You don’t look too happy B,” Jason says from behind Bruce, where the two men are a bit away from the crowd.

“Yes, well your mother basically just made patrol a whole lot worse now.” 

[megafangirlcentral]

Who Let Mom Drive??

It has been forever since I have written anything but I just watched Your Fault: London and inspiration struck. The Noah versus Cruz race tickled my brain and so without further ado I give you Batmom raising Bruce's pressure. Small note Batmom's code name will be BM. There’s now part 2!

Bruce should have known attempting to do anything without his wife finding out would eventually bite him in the ass especially when it comes to street racing. Currently he's suited up with Damian and Tim attempting to infiltrate the ungerground car meetup and race that is about to take place on the streets of Gotham. Normally he just has to make an appearance in the Batmobile and send a batarang or two into the crowd to get them to disperse, however right now he needs information on the ringleader of this little car party.

"Are you sure we can't just hack into the phones of the people here to find where their leader is?" Tim spoke over the comms from his outpost on the building overlooking the parking lot where the cars are.

"None of them are going to know where the leader is Red Robin, whoever wins the race gets a time and place to meet him. We corner the winner after the race." B replied unimpressed.

"There is someone approaching from the other end of the bridge, it looks like the Starter." Damian says clearly bored, "Father, do not make me agree with Red Robin, but is this even necessary? We could just use the batcomputer-"

Before Damian could finish there is the sound of another car pulling up, it is not like the others. There's no neon paint or extended exhausts, the car only really makes itself known by the sound coming off it.

"There's a new player tonight? I thought it was usually six cars only, also why does that car look so familiar?" Tim responded already getting into position to intervene.

"Hello boys, I really hope you don't mind me butting in but Oracle informed me that you needed to win a little street race. Batman did you really think I couldn't do it or were you hoping I wouldn't?" You say as you enter into their comm chanel. Both Tim and Damian let out noises of surprise and a big "Mom?!" "You shouldn't be here, you know that. Go home before things get out of hand." B said thorughly annoyed before Oracle interruppted.

"B you know as well as I that she is the best one for the job. The second in command, Ronnie Veil, is racing tonight. The ring leader knows you're after him so the plan was for Ronnie to win so you wouldn't be able to get the information from the winner."

"Oracle told me about the plan you and Robin had to interrogate the winner of the race. You failed to tell me you were going after the group Ronnie races with Batman." You reply while pulling into position for the race.

"That's because I knew you'd want to get involved and Ronnie cannot be trusted." "Would someone explain what is going on?! Why is BM down there revving her Porsche that apparently has blacked out plates??" Tim yells.

"I am going to get the information you need while also getting payback on Ronnie Veil." You reply calmly while gripping the steering wheel waiting for the pistol to go off. " Now would you boys stop asking so many questions so I can drive and win this thing?"

As soon as the pistol fired and she took off after the second car, Bruce swears he feels a vein bulge. "BM, get off the track now. This is dangerous and you promised you'd never street race like this again!"

You shift gears and get in line behind the second car leading the race, making sure to get in its slip stream, as a turn comes up. Taking the inside turn, you over take before replying.

"Well that was before I found out Ronnie was back, you know better than to think I wouldn't find out B." The cars behind you try their best to gain on you and the upcoming corner is tight. To maintain your position you brake late and the squeal is heard over the comms.

"Father, why weren't we informed mother could drive? She's in the lead and good, it would have been easier to ask her from the beginning." Damian asked as he now stood besides Batman watching the race from above. Tim also approaches.

Bruce grunts and decides to tell them while silencing his comms.

"Your mother used to be involved in street racing with some of her friends before we started dating. She wasn't really in it for the money, rather the practice and adrenaline. She knows the second in command of the man we are trying to track because she's beat him multiple times. He's tried to get her killed multiple times which is how we met."

"You've never told us that, you only said she used to work for you before and it was an instant connection." Tim replies using air quotes around instant connection. "Do Nightwing and Red Hood know?"

"Yes, Nightwing, Oracle and Hood have seen her race." Bruce replies while clenching his fist as he sees the feed of two cars attempting to run her off the road into the barriers. However, you're quicker and smarter, braking quickly so the two end up crashing into eachother before you drive around them and take back second place to go after Ronnie.

"That's so not fair, they got to see her and they never told us anything!" Tim exclaims as he takes a seat on the edge of the bulding roof.

"We were all sworn to secrecy," Oracle says from the comms, "From the CCTV footage, it looks like BM is in the lead and will win."

"I have Ronnie right where I want him, seems like he forgot how to drive. Well...it's not like he ever really knew," You reply while shifting gears and preparing to round the last corner as the finish line comes into view.

As you cross the finish line with a grin on your face, Bruce and the boys make their way down the building. Before climbing out the car, you put on the extra helmet you borrowed from Jason. Equipped with a voice modifier and a visor that blocks people from seeing your face.

"Nice race man, hope I didn't catch you too off guard." You stick your hand out to shake Ronnie's hand. The man begrudgingly takes it and mutters.

"Who the hell do you think you are!? I have never seen you in my life for you to be partaking in my races." Ronnie yells looking really aggitated.

"Wow, calm down man" you side step to keep distance betweeen you both. "I heard through the Lightnings that you were hosting a race and I couldn't resist. You're a legend." The lie came easy and using the name of the old group you used to race with would definetly get him on your side.

"You know the Lightnings?" He asked you suspicously.

"Let's just call them close family friends, they taught me how to drive."

Ronnie is not very convinced, but he's a lot more inclined to believe since he knows the Lightnings are very much only if you know them personally will you know how they drive.

"I wasn't supposed to let anyone win this race, but you drive a lot like someone I used to know. My boss won't be very happy to know I lost but he would be even more livid if I let talent like you walk away. I would want to have you on the team but before that I really do need to see your face-" Before Ronnie can continue the sirens of GCPD can be heard down the street.

"We need to go! Everyone go! Do not let them catch you!" Ronnie yells to his men, before hurryingly handing her a card. "Be there exactly at that time or else"

Before she has a chance to say anything, he's running to his car and she decides to do the same.

"Batman, I have the location," You say into the comms, "I'll meet you all back at the cave."

"Copied BM, we will meet you there." Tim replies.

As you pull out and speed past Bruce you could feel his gaze on you. You're so in for it later tonight.

A.N: There is not much Bruce x reader in here, initially the post was a lot longer but I decided to cut it back as I thought it would be a little too long for my first post back. I promise the second half is them!

[ohangeleyes]

alright, i'll be the one to say it. ao3 and tumblr becoming "mainstream" did so much damage to the community and the writers. i have seen loads of videos and posts about:

1. people hating on writers and fics. writing is something we do for free and for fun. if you stumble upon a fanfic that isn't necessarily your cup of tea or you just don't like, scroll. dont read it. literally leave their page. you don't know if this could be the author's first work that they're so excited about, you dont know if the language they're writing in isn't their first language, you dont know that the writer could be a literal teen and loads of other reasons. fanfictions don't HAVE to be perfect. you write what you want to write because we do it for fun and enjoyment and we want to share that to the world. seriously, what is the wrong with that?..

2. x reader consumers getting WAY to entitled. the number of tiktoks i've seen that "i run a strict program when it comes to reading fanfics." girl you aint running shit. this is FAN FICTION you're reading. F A N F I C T I O N. there is no denying that most fanfiction writes are beyond talented but just because you read one fanfic that exceeds your expectations doesn't give you the right to talk down on others that don't. people have their own personal writing style, their way of doing things and you talking shit on that isn't right.

at the end of the day, we are all humans, reading and writing is what we do and what we're meant to do. and for you to talk shit about a person WRITING is so insane. we are humans. not some robots that you can tell what to do so you can consume it.

i've seen so so many authors take down their fanfics and losing all motivation to write because of a hate comment. DONT LIKE DONT READ‼️

and to every author reading this, this community values your work and your contribution. we love u and, please, never let anyone's negative words have an effect on you.

[ohangeleyes]

this!!! i completely forgot to mention this!!! so many anon bots have been treating authors like some robots who HAVE to post fanfics 24/7!! happened to my lovely talented mutuals too. you do nothing to contribute to the community or support the authors, you don't like, don't reblog, you don't leave a comment and then you think you get a say in what others will write or get mad that someone's writing style doesn't match the one you like.

get over urself girl omfg. you don't get a say in shit. ‼️‼️‼️

[megafangirlcentral]

I’ve been in the fandom space since I was 14 years old, was it a good thing being on these sites so young? Probably not but I learned proper fan fiction etiquette. That includes if you don’t like something don’t read it and if an author asks minors dni, you did not interact! Seeing people I know irl talking about reading fan fiction, specifically through Ao3 and Tumblr, they don’t know how to interact in fandom. Some of these people are the same ones that used to make fun of me for being involved in fandom when I was a teenager, now they are all entitled. They act as if they’re entitled to fanfics, going as far as bullying authors and others within the space that don’t hold the same views as them or don’t post as often for their liking. I’ve genuinely gotten into so many arguments about this with people because fan fiction exists for the fans! You cannot control what other people post and make demands of the authors you say you love. Like please wake up and realize the world does not revolve around you.

Sincerely,

A tired, retired Fan fiction Writer and lover

[supermenz]

fall in love (again and again)

summary: You and Kyle meet during one of the hardest times of your life, and despite it all — your rudeness, rage and violence — he still finds a way to fall in love with you.

pairing(s): kyle rayner x batsis!reader, platonic!batfamily x batsis!reader

word count: 13.1k (mama didn't raise no quitter)

warnings: swearing, gotham typical violence, troubles with drinking/alcoholism, broken bones, fear toxin and everything that comes with it, reader is LITERALLY haunted by the fact that she's batgirl, hurt/comfort, a lot of it, bruce is a bad dad but he learns from his mistakes, gordon guessed the batfam's identities and he's right about them, call me flash cuz i wrote the first 5k of this in like two months and the rest between yesterday and today, implied torture, mentioned puke, some comics canon (knightfall, pre-retcon parallax, barbara's still in a wheelchair) if there's anything else PLEASE let me know!!

author's note: GRANDPA BRUCE! GRANDPA BRUCE! GRANDPA BRUCE! also, merry crisis! merry crisler! merry crismus! this is my gift for you all and is both a sequel and a prequel to not a lot, just forever, even if i'm pretty sure that they can be read separately :) this is just... a lot. start your engines because it's going to be a long ride LMAO

dividers from @uzmacchiato and @cursed-carmine!

GOTHAM CITY — NOW. 

“Have you ever thought about how your life has changed so much for the better ever since you quit Batgirl?”

The Manor’s kitchen is a mess, pea pureè splattered all over the table and walls, and you’re sure that once he comes back, Alfred will skin both you and Bruce alive — but he doesn’t seem to care; not when Tommy has been laughing for the last thirty minutes non-stop. He must think that making you and his grandpa look like you just killed a vegetable monster is hilarious, because most of his lunch ended up flying on your faces rather than going in his stomach. He’s amused now, but you know that in less than thirty minutes he’s going to be whining and grabbing at your collar for some well-deserved milk snacktime. 

The question catches you off guard — it’s not because you never thought about it, but rather because you never expected Bruce to ask something like that right now. He’s been softer around the edges lately, and the detachment between Bruce Wayne and Batman has never been so evident in your eyes. Maybe that’s why you’re surprised; because he’s talking about your time as Batgirl — something that once took you months to open up about — on a normal Friday, while trying and failing to feed your kid pea mousse. 

You shrug, trying to play cool like you don’t still have nightmares about Batgirl coming back and getting her revenge on you for abandoning the cowl. “I do. Still– without her, Tommy wouldn’t be here right now.” you wipe away a smudge of green mush on the corner of his mouth, and he instantly reaches out to you, babbling ‘mamamamamama’ in hopes to get you to lift him in your arms — and as much as you’d like to, he’s going nowhere but on the highchair until he finishes everything on his plate. “I mean– I met his dad while in the suit.” 

The engagement ring on your left hand shimmers under the light coming from the window — Kyle had proposed on the first date the two of you had following the birth of Tommy, as despite the two of you having never cared for a shiny party and being comfortable in your relationship as it was, he still felt like showing you openly that he had no intentions in spending his life with anyone but you. The wedding’s all but near, as you both agreed to let your son grow up a bit more before organising anything, but it is nice to have a fiancèe, and the thought of Kyle being your husband in the future makes you giddy. “Why do you ask?”

He hums, raising the silicone spoon to feed his grandson, who in response sticks his tongue out at him in such an innocent manner that it’s difficult to get frustrated at him. “It’s just that I often wonder how things would be if I didn’t drag you or your brothers into the whole Batman madness — but, you were the first one. And you were also the one who took it harder upon you.” 

You stay silent for a moment. “Nah,” you opt to reply, “it’s all good. I’ve left those years behind me.” Sure, you have a nightmare here and there, but it’s nothing in comparison to all the violent nights you spent out there beating up people just because. 

You don’t miss the remorseful twitch of Bruce’s mouth. “You may have, but it sure wasn’t thanks to me — and it was my duty to understand that you weren’t okay.” you can see the strain it takes him to say the next phrase, “And as much as I act like I don’t like him, I’m aware that I have to thank Kyle for your sanity.”

GOTHAM CITY — THEN. 

You’ve heard of him — the new Green Lantern — from Clark. 

They fought Mongul together, apparently; he said he looked like a kid (which, by Clark’s standards, meant he could be either your age or a few years older) and still didn’t really know how to use the ring. Hal Jordan was still missing and probably in deep space, and until Superman or one of the others didn’t have a breather from all the people that have been plaguing the Earth recently to go and search for him, he is to remain missing. 

A shame. He was kinda funny. 

You guess it comes with the job. When the ring chose him, he didn’t really have a choice — there’s a reason why it went looking for him, and that was because of his morals, who wouldn’t have let him leave bad deeds unpunished. And talking about bad deeds…

“Are you sneaking up on me?”

The breeze behind you stops — whoever was flying, stopped. You have a hunch for who it could be: Conner, who in Tim’s absence always tried to pull a prank or two on you; Donna, for an impromptu girl’s night; Kory, for the same reason; Shazam, for the mere reason that he has taken a liking into you and loves to interrupt your patrols regularly. It surely isn’t a malevolent presence, because if they were, they would’ve already pushed you down the railing of the building you're perched on. But then you turn, and all the hope for a girl’s night vanishes as quickly as it had appeared. 

“Ah. It’s you.”

The new Green Lantern — Kyle, if you remember correctly from Bruce’s research — doesn’t look too bummed about your clearly dismissive tone. “Hi,” he holds his hand out, and if he didn’t have a mask, you’re sure you’d see his eyes shine like children’s do on Christmas. “Green Lantern. Big fan of yours.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Piss off.” 

He doesn’t let your comment ruin his happiness, and takes out a pen and a comic from whatever green pouch he’d made with that big head and ugly ring of his. “The biggest fan! Could you sign this, before we get to the chase of the bad guys? It’s the limited edition one shot about that run-in you had with Professor Pyg! They only made about a hundred copies but I was able to snatch one the day they were released. I also have, like, lots of posters back at home — but I guess that it wouldn’t be appropriate to ask you to sign those too, right?"

You take the comic from his hands as he goes on, looking briefly at the cover, “I also have one of your twenty platinum-plated cards in the Bat-cards game– hey!” 

He stops his ramblings when you throw the comic off the building, and immediately goes after it to retrieve the thing. “This is collection material, you know! I had to fight people to get my hands on it, and believe me, sixteen year old me wasn’t that athletic!” 

Your expression is one of pure disgust. “What kind of Green Lantern are you, creep?” 

“I’m not a creep! I’m a dedicated fan!” 

“That’s even creepier. I don't have fans.” 

He gasps dramatically. “That's not true! Don't talk about yourself like that!”

Your expression seems to get more skeptical by the minute. “Please, dude, have you ever read a newspaper? They're begging me to hang the cowl up.” 

GL seems flabbergasted, “Well, uh, actually, not– but you won't do it, right? Hang the cowl, I mean. Please, don't — there's people like me out there that like you!” 

You don't look too relieved about it. “Yeah, because that's reassuring.” Of course the only times you have fans it's when they're weirdos or violence fanatics. Why can't you have normal fans, or just don’t have them at all? Can’t people leave you alone? “Just get away from here before things go downhill.”

You jump off the railing and land in the alley beside the building, but that doesn’t deter him from following you. In fact, he’s attached to your tail in a way that reminds you of baby ducks waddling behind their mother. “Didn’t you hear me? I want you to leave me alone. I’m not going to be your babysitter, and things are really about to get ugly.” 

“Hey, if you’re trying to score a hit on the Joker or something I can help!”

Really, just who is this guy? “This isn’t the Joker. This is Falcone — worse, if you ask me. He has resources, and two dozens more henchmen than the clown does. His crimes are pretty standard in comparison to the Joker’s, but that doesn’t mean you can stay here.” the last thing you need is a rookie on the scene.

He pouts, “But I could never let a lady go through the trouble of fighting all the bad guys alone. I could take them down–”

“This lady,” you snarl, finger pointed at his chest aggressively, “is more than capable of handling herself, and you would not be of any use but alert Falcone of a presence he doesn’t want. So you go right back where you came from — Coast City, LA, I don’t care — before anyone sees you, because I. Work. Alone.” 

He raises his hands in defeat. “Whoa, I didn’t mean to say you couldn’t handle it alone! I just offered some help. You know– just lending a hand to a fellow hero.” 

“Then don’t. Go bug Batman, and if you see him, tell him that I ask him to fuck off.” 

Ouch. That was harsh. “I thought that you and Batsy were, like, besties or something. Isn't he the whole reason you're Batgirl?”

You laugh bitterly. “Oh, no, not him.” 

Whatever– he’s not going to leave you alone in a fight — you’ve been his favourite hero since he was twelve! This was his chance to fulfill his dream of fighting alongside– nevermind. You’ve already disappeared. 

The mission is simple: gather up enough evidence of all the drugs that they’re smuggling, maybe get to beat up either Falcone or his bootlickers, and tie them up real nice for the police to find — hopefully that’ll make Gordon hate you a little less than he already does, because you know he’s been on Falcone’s tracks for weeks.

He settled in an abandoned building in the last few months, going under Jean-Paul’s radar — not that it took that much, anyways; the guy is, in fact, crazy, if not a complete schizo. He sees criminals that aren’t there, and while you may understand the whole beating goons to a pulp thing, that does not include jaywalkers. It’s a wonder that he has managed not to end up in Arkham, though; you have to give him credit for that. 

The thugs outside of Falcone’s hideout are barely awake, and are playing tic-tac-toe with two sticks on the mud of the porch just to stay alert. They don’t expect you to jump over their heads and knock them out cold, face-down in the mud, nor do their peers inside the building: they start blindly shooting everywhere as soon as you turn off the lights — a real show of the IQ test that Falcone surely makes every aspiring hoodlum take before hiring them — but ultimately slump to the floor when you drop down a gas bomb full of sedatives. 

And of course, things always go south when they start looking a little too easy. 

You barely dodge a bullet on your way up to the stairs, and the same guy that shot it — who must’ve forgotten to load his gun earlier, because that was the last shot he had apparently — lunges at you, and while you manage to avoid the fall by shooting a grapple gun into the upper floor, the guy’s elbow on your nose is a completely other story, as you find yourself sneezing blood on the stairs beneath you while Falcone’s lapdog tumbles down the staircase. 

Congratulations! You now have a probably broken nose and an aware-of-your-presence mafia boss who won’t be happy about you meddling into his affairs. Still better than how Jean-Paul handles things, anyway–

That is, until a crashing sound comes from the upper floor — where you were headed until the thug tried to topple you down the stairs — and a familiar scream echoes throughout the building– Falcone. 

You run up the last steps left to his floor, where you find him hanging upside down, swaying like a wrecking ball in motion, his bodyguards not too distant from him — tied up like a salami. You blink, unamused, at the green light that surrounds the bindings, only to huff at the voice that comes out of Falcone’s office. “Awe, stop screaming like that, I didn’t even touch you!”

Green Lantern comes out of what you guess to be the boss’ office, some papers in hand, and lights up when he sees you. “Hey! Thought I could’ve handled the last bit for you, figured you’d want a break from all the fighting.” 

You stomp up to him, snatching the papers from his hands, “Has anyone ever told you about Gotham’s no-metas rule?”

He frowns. “But I’m not a meta.”

“Aliens and humans powered by alien technology count as metas.”

He's pretty sure they don't, “I was just trying to help–” 

“You did not want to help. You wanted to impress me.” 

He pouts like a kid caught stealing candy. “I mean… also that, but not entirely.” 

“Get out of my way.” You shove him away from the doorway and enter the office, not losing any time rummaging through drawers and shelves. He frowns, “Your nose is bleeding. I just wanted to–”

”Yeah, yeah, to help. Whatever. You’ve already said that, like, five times.” Your tongue peeks out from your lips, licking the blood that dripped onto your upper lip, and Kyle feels like his knees could collapse any moment now. “Just like I’ve already asked you to leave me alone at least six times.” 

He snaps, “What is your problem? What happened to Batman and why are you mad at him? Why are you two not working together and why did I only see you and Robin out in the streets tonight?”

You come up close to him, so close he can smell the metallic scent of blood — and, if he dares to, kiss you by lowering his face the smallest bit. “None. Of. Your. Concern.” Your stare is one of pure disdain, so much so that he can feel it despite the domino mask. 

Kyle falters the littlest bit. “…So, no autograph?” 

“Oh, just get outta here.” 

Falcone and his thugs are handed to the GCPD still in GL’s green handcuffs, even if he had fled the scene a while ago. Gordon frowns at them, questions swarming through his mind, before he sighs and chooses not to ask any. He looks at you, dark bags under his eyes, too tired to reprimand you about… well, about everything he usually complains to you about. “Just don’t let the other bat-maniac see him, or he’ll start going around lookin’ for green demons or somethin’.”

You get back home — a loft in Gotham Heights — at almost four in the morning, after patrolling around for the rest of the night, and after a shower you launch yourself on the bed and try your best not to think about the meeting with the executives of WE that you have in four hours. Of course, even in your own home you can’t have a moment of peace, because soon after — right when you’re about to fall asleep — a tap comes from your window. 

You groan loudly, covering your ears with your pillow, “Whoever you are, go away.”

“Awww, c’mon,” from the voice, you guess it’s Tim, “won’t you open up? Not even for your little brother who just wants a break from whiny and boring Bruce?”

You freeze — argh, he knows your weak spots! Bitching about Bruce and running away from the Manor– a classic. You barely manage to drag yourself out of bed to open the window, and Robin laughs as he plops down on your carpet. “Careful with the rug, Boy Wonder– one mud stain and I’ll make you scrub it off with your toothbrush.” 

“Grouchy today, eh?” You go back to bed, barely hearing him in your haze. “Huh-uh.” 

“Have you seen Green Lantern? He passed by the Narrows during patrol and asked me about you.” Tim throws himself on your bed, smug, “Batgirl and Green Lantern, K-I-S-S–”

You slap a hand over his mouth, face still snuggled in your pillow, “Not another word.” 

He grins underneath your palm, tearing it off gently, “I’m just saying, you could really use a superhero boyfriend — try to find out if he can get rid of Valley for us.” 

You wave him off, voice muffled by the cushion, barely coherent. “Yeah, like a boyfriend is what I need right now.” 

“You could try.”

“Or I could not. Besides, he’s creepy.”

Tim perks up, “You talking about that comic he had? I thought it was cool. I have the Batman version of that edition, second hand — you don’t want to know how much it cost me. He’s a dedicated fan, and I respect that. It’s cute — cute in a rom-com way.” 

“More like a non-con way,” you grumble, managing to raise your head from the pillow, “so what, you came here just to complain about my non-existent love life and to try to set me up with a guy I just met and don't like?”

He thinks about it for a moment. “No, not only that. Do you know who the new Green Lantern is?”

“Uh…” your sleepy, fuzzy brain only manages to come up with his first name — it's not like you read the file Bruce had made about him with much interest, anyway. “Kyle? Cole?”

He nods, “Kyle Rayner. Sounds familiar to you?” 

You think hard. “No, not really.” 

“Tomorrow you have a few meetings. One of those is with the new graphic designer of the marketing department — and guess who that is!”

You groan loudly, “Please, don’t let it be Rayner,”

“Jackpot! It’s Rayner!” Tim smirks, “What would you do without me? You don’t even remember your own meetings.” 

“I have a secretary for a reason, Timothy. Did you stalk my schedule for fun or were you looking for something?” 

He shrugs. “Curiosity.” Yeah, he was definitely looking for something. 

Irritated, you look over at the clock — five in the morning now. “I’ll deal with it in the morning — later on in the morning, anyways. Now, can I go to sleep or what?” 

You wake up three hours later feeling like you slept two minutes, already late for work and with bags under your eyes so big that not even the concealer can really do anything about it — so you end up slapping a pair of sunglasses on in hopes that the executives just think that you’re hangover or something. You wake up Tim, who slept in the guest room, and tell him that the fridge’s stocked and you’re leaving $20 on the kitchen counter if he wants to buy anything for breakfast, and then you’re off to Wayne Enterprises. 

With Bruce half-dead in the Manor — or, in a spiritual retreat somewhere in Tibet, as far as the tabloids knew — all the weight of WE fell upon your shoulders, considering that out of Bruce’s alive children the only ones able to do math are you and Tim — and with the latter being fourteen, it’s not like he can actually work as CEO. So you barely make it through finance, hiring and budget meetings, and when the time comes for the marketing one, you’re running on caffeine and smoke breaks, shoulders slouched and too close to sleep to direct another meeting with anyone but Mr Sandman. 

Your secretary knocks on the door of your office just when you’re about to open the window and take the fourth smoke break in less than three hours, and you scramble to close it back up and hide the cigarette in your pocket — you feel like a high-schooler caught smoking in the bathroom, but alas… “Uh… come on in.” 

“Miss,” she greets, then makes way for Rayner to come in,“your appointment of three o’clock,” 

Considering the amount of papers and tubes he’s holding, you can’t even see his face — and you wonder if he can even see where he’s going. He’s got jeans on and, from what you can see, a rumpled white shirt. A green — laaame! — jumper’s tied to his waist, and since you’ve been in the game of let’s just pretend we’re all the best version of ourselves for a long time, you can tell he’s just started playing it. 

“Um, evenin’?” he says, even if it sounds more like a question than anything, as he takes a peek out of what you guess to be all his drawings and projects. 

You blink, unimpressed. “Please, feel free to sit down. And you can set your… bags down in the other chair, if you want.” 

“Oh– yeah, yeah, thanks, um… boss?” you have to bite down your tongue to hold in an incredulous laugh — if it’s for actual amusement or simple exhaustion, you’re not sure. He unceremoniously lets the drawings down onto one of the two chairs, moving to sit on the free one. He then holds out his hand — calloused and with faint ink stains on the palm — for you to shake, “Pleasure to meet you, sorry about the mess.”

You take a look at his hand and then sigh, reluctantly taking it in yours and shaking it, “The pleasure is mine,” lie, “please, Miss Wayne will do.” presumptuous much? Maybe, but you’ve got no intention of being on a first name basis with Green Lantern. 

He smiles awkwardly, “Um– sorry if I’m, I don’t know, a bit anxious. I’ve been a freelancer up until now, so all of this is kinda new to me.” 

You blink — honestly, you couldn’t care less. You just want to get this over with and go to sleep. “Yeah, sure. I usually don’t do this kind of interview, but the girl that runs your department went on maternity leave last week, and while we look for a substitute I’m mostly handling her duties.” 

You take a paper from one of your drawers, pushing it towards him on the table. “These are all the things you need to start out. Your floor is the 36th, and as soon as we find one I’ll let you know who your supervisor is. Lunch is on the 20th floor from 12 pm to 2 pm, either way you can get a lunch bonus from the reception on the ground floor and go eat outside. If you ever need to report anything, HR is on the 28th floor, and your working hours are from 9 to 5, but we’re pretty flexible on that if you’ll ever need to get in later or get out sooner.” you hide a yawn into a cough, “Any questions?” 

Before he can say anything, your phone rings. “Sorry about that,” you hang up without even seeing who the caller is, because it’s still working hours and the last thing you want to do is the new Green Lantern thinking you’re anything but professional, but the phone rings again not even two seconds later. And when you look at the screen just to understand who’s the spammer whose name you’ll have to wipe all over the next unsolved case you come across, your eyes widen at the realization that it’s Tim. “Uh… yeah, forget it, I’ll have to take this one– give me a minute, please.” 

You get out of the office, because whenever Tim calls, it’s either because one, he got in trouble at school and doesn’t want to call Bruce, or two, a catastrophic disaster has just happened. It’s definitely the latter, as his school day usually ends at two. “Tim, be quick because I’m in the middle of an appointment–” 

“Maroni just blew up the old mill near the Narrows,” just like you feared, “Dick and Babs are already on their way. I’ll be waiting for you in the cave.” 

The pounding in your head could just get better at this point. You try to keep your voice low, even if aside from your secretary and Kyle, there’s not many people who could hear you right now. “...Okay, okay. I’ll take the underground route and meet you there in fifteen. If Jean-Paul gets there before me…”

“I know, I know. The cave’s already sealed– we’re waiting for you. If he does enter, I’ve told Alfred to close the airways and go off with the sleeping gas.” He never disappoints, does he? 

You hang up and get back to the office, where Rayner is sitting like a kid whose mother told him to sit up straight during Thanksgiving dinner. “I’m sorry, Mr Rayner, but I have a family emergency to take care of — the meeting ends here, but feel free to rely on my secretary for any question you might have.” 

You wait until he scrambles back up on his feet with all his drawings in his arms and sigh, resigned, as he joins you in the elevator. You press your thumb on the button for the 36th floor, already accepting the fact that it’s going to be a long 24 floors. You were hoping you’d be able to get in alone and immediately put in your key for the unknown-to-staff option of the superspeed ride to the underground passage under Wayne Tower, but fate must not be on your side. 

“Sooo…” he mumbles, side-eyeing you, “Hope the emergency isn’t anything too serious.” 

“I wouldn’t have stopped the meeting if it wasn’t,” you grumble — professionalism isn’t his best asset, huh? 

He freezes. “I meant… uh, yeah, sorry.” 

You rub your eyes under the lenses of your sunglasses, groaning, still tired out of your mind, and lean onto the elevator’s wall, “Nah. ‘S okay.” 20 more floors to go and you already want to throw either him or yourself off of the building. To fill in the silence, he even starts whistling, and the glare you send him can be seen even through the sunglasses, “Stop that,” you hiss. 

Kyle grimaces, “Sorry– I do that when I’m nervous.” 

“Don’t be. I’m not the one in charge of firings.”

His surprise is obvious, “You’re not?” 

A yawn escapes you before you can reply, “I’m not. Unless someone really pisses me off.”

In exchange for not whistling, he starts tapping his fingers against the plastic tube in his arms, “Hey, I know this is probably the least professional question I could ask you right now,” he says, and you prepare yourself to be asked out by an employee for the… what? Fifth time in a month? Only, that seems to be the last thing on his mind. “But do you know bars that make decent drinks and maybe put on nice music? I haven’t been able to find one ever since I got here.” 

You’re surprised by the question — you’re always so engrossed in your life, both the normal and the vigilante one, that you often forget that your peers are actually able to enjoy their twenties. “Uh… I wouldn’t know. I don’t really get out there.” 

He seems pretty bummed about it. “Oh. Okay. Well– I’ll try to let you know if I find one.”

Your face is blank. “I’ll pass.” When you drink, you usually do it at home and let yourself pass out from the alcohol, but you’re not going to tell him that. “Do avoid the Iceberg Lounge, though.” 

He nods, and finally, the 24 floors are over. The elevator dings and Kyle exits it at the same time as you take out the key for the underground floor, “Well, have a good–” by the time he turns around to say goodbye, the door’s already closed, and you’re already thinking about why the hell Maroni would care about the old mill. “...day. Whew, these billionaire people are as weird as the tabloids say.” 

GOTHAM CITY — NOW. 

“Who’s the cutest boy in the world? Why, of course, you are!”

If anyone had told Bruce that one day he would be sitting on the edge of the bathtub, watching his first daughter give a bath to his grandson while using that voice that people use just for babies, he would’ve actually laughed, because there was no way that the little girl who had to be hauled into the bath by Alfred actually came to accept hygiene. Yet he’s watching that same girl gently scrub her baby’s head with shampoo as he coos and blows raspberries, all the while trying to sink a boat toy. 

Tommy tries to gnaw at your arm — he started teething a few months back, and since then he's been nothing but a bite monster. His favourite victim is his father, but in his absence, he usually makes do with you. “Mama,” he says, looking at you like you hung the stars and the moon. 

Bruce thinks that you might as well do, because the look you give back to him is just as full of love. “Yes, baby?”

“Mamaaaa,” he whines, holding his arms out for you to pick him up. “A minute, baby,” you hum, taking a towel to wrap him in as soon as you're done rinsing him off. He snuggles in your arms, wrapped like a burrito in the fluffy bath towel while you press kisses to his damp tufts of hair. He looks more and more like Kyle as the days pass — he has your eyes and his dark hair, and also that really dumb look his father sometimes makes. 

Tommy holds his hand out for Bruce, opening and closing the palm while giving him the big eyes, “Babababababa–”

Bruce gives him his hand, and Tommy's fingers wrap around his index and medium, quietening down. “Hi, bud.” 

As you dress him in the spare clothes you brought with you, Bruce is quiet. “Penny for your thoughts?” you say, offering him a small smile. 

He shakes his head, “Nothing,” he murmurs, “I was thinking about what we talked about earlier and– I hate to say this, but I don’t think you actually ever told me how you and Kyle got together.” 

You blink, surprised, “I didn’t?”

GOTHAM CITY — THEN. 

You don’t know when you start being friendly with Green Lantern. 

How you went from absolutely despising him to almost accepting him as one of Gotham protectors is a mystery, even to you. Your best guess is that it all started when he brought you a sandwich during patrol, or that time when he saved you from drowning in the Gotham River and it was really cold outside and he was… well, pretty much the only warmth source available. Anyways, it’s thanks to you if Kyle Rayner gets eventually admitted into the Justice League. 

After Hal went rogue, the others have been nothing but doubtful of him — probably because one, they wondered how he was able to have a ring when technically Parallax had them all, and two, he is kind of a goof. He’s still new to the hero world compared to you and the others, despite being in it for almost two years now. 

(Yes, it took over a year for you to even start being friendly with him. A girl has her boundaries to respect, and tall, tanned. pretty men who have no sense of danger are no exceptions to that.)

Still, it is your fault that he finds out your identity — you should’ve been more careful, really, but you were so tired that night that you didn’t even notice that half your mask kinda got fucking blown away in an explosion. 

Despite his amusement at finding out his boss (now ex-boss, because he got back in the comics freelance business after barely five months into his office job) was Batgirl, his heart laid in the right place — it always did. After denying multiple times to having seen anything, he insisted to let you know about his secret identity, too, leading to the awkward conversation of ‘I knew who you were ever since you first landed in Gotham and I just pretended not to know’. 

Anyways, it’s kinda nice to have a friend around that isn’t Dick or Tim (he’s been a real bore lately — all that teenage angst really got into his head). You still don’t understand why he would want to be around you, but you guess he’s still not quite found a crew to hang with yet ever since he moved. That means Friday nights — very early nights, before patrol — become pizza movie nights, and as much as you pretend you don’t like them, the fact that you let Kyle show up again and again at your apartment is a statement as big as they can get. 

“You know, I really think you should take a break,” he mutters one evening, forty minutes deep into Mean Girls, mouth full of pizza and popcorn. 

You look at him, suspicious, “Meaning?” 

He looks off to the side, “Y’know… from Batgirl. Just one night. I’d…” he’s as red as a tomato, "I was thinking that I’d, well, it would be nice– you know, that I’d like to…”

“Just spit it out,” you urge him. 

“Well, I’d like to take you out on a date,” he finally concedes, ears pink. “Only if you want to, obviously.” 

You think about it — a date. 

You haven’t had a date since… high school. Senior prom, maybe. Even if you don’t know if that counts, since the whole thing was stopped by Joker and you had to step in as Batgirl not even an hour after the music started. You’ve had people ask you out these past few years, but dating never looked that appealing to you — after all, it never ended well neither for your father nor brothers, so why would it be different for you? You still had a whole secret identity nobody could know about, and it was set to become a problem in any relationship with civilians.

But Kyle is different. He already knows about the whole Batgirl thing, he has a secret identity too, and while you ponder about his easy smiles and blushing cheeks, for a moment you think that for once in your life, it could actually work. So, before he can start doubting himself, you hear yourself uttering out a small, “Yes.” 

When Saturday rolls around, you find yourself in front of your closet, wondering what exactly possessed you to say yes — you’ve been out of the dating game ever since you were a teenager, and you’re not sure your wardrobe was ready for you to be back in it. “He said to dress casual,” you tell Donna over the phone, “what does that mean? Do I wear the Louboutins or not?” 

She deadpans, “Girl, I knew you were rusty, but I didn’t think the situation was that desperate. If I had known, I would’ve flown over there to help.” she stretches her arms, “Okay, turn the camera around– lemme see what you have in store.” 

After countless tries — and making Kyle wait outside with flowers and a box of chocolates in hand for thirty minutes — Donna ends up choosing an off shoulder cream sweater paired with a pair of black low-rise jeans (no Louboutins, unfortunately) and as soon as you hang up on her and take your Birkin, you’re ready to go. You open the door of your apartment, almost startling him, “Okay, where are we going?” 

He looks at you as you take the flowers, mouth hung open, ears red. “I… you look really pretty.” 

You feel yourself trying to get smaller under his gaze. “Don’t say things like that so suddenly,” you manage to stutter out, heat creeping up your cheeks. God, how old are you, five? How many years has it been since you found yourself blushing? 

He grins, “Ooh, I think I’ll keep saying those things,” he holds out his arm for you, ever the gentleman, “I was thinking about going to the fair– what do you think?” 

You perk up, “Oh, that sounds fun! Last time I went there I was eight, it was the first time Bruce ever took me anywhere,” he doesn’t miss the way your smile turns into a grimace, “oh, yeah, Dick’s parents also died that night.” you shrug at his baffled expression, “What can I say? It happens.” 

Throughout the various dates that follow, Kyle learns that this is a staple that comes with dating you — you seem to have at least one bad story about every single place he takes you to, and if he has to be honest, he has to admit that it’s quite disheartening. He likes going out with you, though; he doesn’t mind taking things slowly, and as of now, he’s just waiting until the time for the right move comes. 

Which is why, when a new nightclub opens downtown, he’s ready to go all-out for your first disco night. 

He’s already checked the background of the club — no criminal affiliations, no incidents involving the previous owners in the last fifteen years (a miracle in Gotham, really) and it’s near a place open 24/7 that makes cookies just the way you like (perfect for post-drinks munchies!). He’s got the whole night planned out and nothing is going to stop him. 

… Except the fact that you’re simply terrible at chilling out. 

He gets it, okay? You’ve spent years breaking into the Iceberg Lounge to find out about Penguin’s schemes, so your trust in clubs of any kind is completely demolished — but the funniest thing is that you aren’t reluctant to go with him for that; you’re reluctant because apparently, you don’t know how to dance. 

Kyle blinks in shock when you first tell him. “What do you mean? I thought you rich people took classes in everything when you were young. Didn’t you have dance lessons or something? Did you never dance at those fancy galas your dad forces you to go to?” 

You scowl, hiding deeper into your couch, “I did take dance lessons,” you grumble, “classic dance lessons. Ballet, if you will. I know how to waltz, but not to… y’know…”

He raises an eyebrow, “Know what?” 

“…Do that thing Shakira does.”

He smirks, and you’re sure you’re giving him laugh material for the next ten years, “You mean, moving your hips?” 

You hide your face into a pillow when he chuckles, “Stop making fun of me!” 

“Awe, come on, I’m not making fun of you!” He still can’t hold back his laugh, but he rubs your arm comfortingly, “I just think it’s really sweet that you’ve never partied before– it’s easy, you just need to relax and follow the beat.” 

And follow the beat you do — because later on that same week, as he watches you (just one drink in, by the way) go all out on the dancefloor, he’s sure that you thought you couldn’t dance just because you never even tried. “Having fun?” he asks you — basically yelling to be heard over the loud music — as he comes up from behind, his hands tentatively on your hips. 

That was the right move, it seems, because while your left hand stays on top of his conjoined ones over your bellybutton, the right one moves to his nape, lowering his face down to yours so that you can press a kiss to his cheek. “Definitely more fun now that you’re here, pretty boy.”

As the night goes on, he assumes that it’s probably the alcohol that makes you more touchy — he is a bit concerned about how much you’ve drank so far, though, because you seem to have the ability to hold down drinks better than a sponge ever would. 

By the time Kyle manages to drag you out of the club, it’s three am and you’re stumbling and barely able to stand up alone. He has to keep an arm around your back to prevent you from falling, and enters the diner near the nightclub with a reassuring pat on your shoulder. “C’mon, let’s get something in your system, huh?” It's a good thing he never drinks before finding out how much his date usually does, because either way, the both of you would probably have ended up falling on the sidewalk thanks to the smallest puddle. 

Your eyes are barely open and you’re putting your whole weight on him by hugging him tight as you look at the menu. “Hmm… let’s– hic– see… I’ll take the salted caramel cookie and– uh– the white chocolate one.” 

He pats the small of your back, looking at the unamused college student behind the counter, who has the face of someone who’s seen way too many drunk people enter in the last hour. He highly doubts two cookies will suffice to let your inebriation pass just what you need to be able to walk on your own, so he takes the matters into his own hands. “We’ll also take a strawberry smoothie, a jug of cold water and a plate of pancakes.” As for the strawberry smoothie, he just really wanted it. 

As you wait for your order sitting on the booth by the corner of the shop, you rest your head on his shoulder, eyes barely open. “Hey, don’t fall asleep on me, okay?” he mumbles softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. 

You nod, purring like a cat, “I feel bad,” you murmur, making him tense. 

Kyle Rayner, catastrophe-preventing mode: activated. “What? How do you feel? What do you feel? Do you need to puke? Do I have to carry you to the bathroo–” 

“Shhh,” you hold a finger over his lips, bleary, “I feel bad ‘cuz I made you pay.” 

He blinks — he can’t decide if he likes the drunk version of you or if she’s just a you who isn’t holding anything back. “Oh, don’t worry about that– whenever we don’t split the bill you always pay anyways. It’s nothing.” 

“Ye– hic– ah. But you’re broke.” 

He deadpans — okay, maybe his salary can be considered to be the one of a brokie by someone who’s got millions under their name, but his situation is not that bad. “You know, there’s people who would consider my salary comfortable. I happen to be one of those people.” 

You hum again, taking his hand into yours and intertwining them, the conversation already on the back of your mind. “You know, I had lots of fun tonight.” 

His smile could light up the whole block, and he swears he feels his arm tingling from where it’s connected to yours. “Really?” 

You nod, blinking blearily at the plates the waiter places in front of you. “Yeah, I’m not used to– hic– drinking like this.” 

He pouts. “You’re reducing this whole night to drinking?” he didn’t even drink– that was all you!

You give him a soft, questioning look, already sipping on his strawberry smoothie before he can get his hands on it. “Well, ‘course not. I’m just not used to– hic– drinking for fun.” 

Kyle frowns, “Watcha mean?” 

“Usually I drink until I physically can’t handle it anymore, duh.” he can almost hear his stomach drop, and he doesn't even find it in himself to stop you from finishing his smoothie. He fears this isn’t one of your unfunny jokes, and even if it was, he can’t bring himself to laugh at it like he usually does. “I don’t even know why I’m telling– hic– you this but– hic– every year, I take two weeks off from both my jobs before or after my– hic– birthday.” 

He’s dead silent, waiting for you to continue as you put down the smoothie and pick up his fork to try the pancakes — really, what about the cookies? “And I tell my family that I’m gonna spend them at some– hic– bougie resort God knows where, but then I just lock myself into my apartment and drink myself to unconsciousness for fourteen days straight.” and as if Kyle doesn’t already feel sick enough, you add, snorting, “I didn’t know drinking less could actually be funnier with the right company.” 

This night has taken a bad turn — and as if he didn’t already want to vomit here and there, the fact that you talk about it like it’s normal makes him feel even worse. Horrified, he asks, “Why would you do that?” in such a quiet voice that he actually wonders if he really said it out loud or if it was just a thought. 

You shrug, holding out a piece of pancake for him to bite into. “I dunno, dude. I guess it’s just to forget life for a while.” your nose scrunches, and if Kyle wasn’t so dazed about the whole bomb you just dropped on him, he would think that you’re really cute when you do that. “Even if it is gross to, y’know, wake up covered in your own puke.” 

He watches you snuggle back into his shoulder like you didn’t just admit to something definitely out of the ordinary, chewing the pancake you fed him and trying not to make you understand that he feels like it’s made out of brickwall. “And… does Bruce know about it?” he asks, dumbfounded. 

“What? No!” you sputter, shaking your head, “You remember Roy, right?”

He’s not good with names, but he tries his best anyway, “Harper, you mean?” 

“Hic– yeah, that guy. When we were teens, he started using drugs — heroin, I think. Fact is, when Oliver found out, he disowned him and kicked him out. Even worse, when B found out, he gave me and Dick this long ass talk, saying that if we ever got addicted to anything, he’d kick it out of us. Anyways, Roy got clean, like, six years ago and there’s people that treat him like he’s still actively using.” 

Kyle blinks, confused, “And… selective alcoholism was included in that?” Does selective alcoholism actually exist or is he just inventing things? He wouldn’t know how to describe someone who’s an alcoholic for just two weeks a year.

“How would I know? I never asked. I assume so.” 

He frowns, looking down at you, “How are you even still alive? How is it possible that every year you spend two weeks getting black-out drunk and you still haven’t gotten into an alcoholic coma or something?” He's definitely making some things up. 

“Hic,” you let out quite helpfully, with an opposed expression, “are you complaining?”

“No, I’m just concerned about your well-being. Do you know how much it takes for me to get concerned? I once drove my car into a stop sign and didn’t think it was a big deal until the cops showed up.”

You squint at him, “I think you’re being a little overdramatic about this whole thing.” you pat his arm, yawning, “Just forget about it, ‘kay?” 

“How can I forget that now?” he mumbles, looking like a soldier in the trenches, “I just found out you have an alcohol problem and I let you drink freely the whole night.” 

“I don’t have an ‘alcohol problem’,” 

“You call drinking yourself to a stupor for two weeks straight ‘not having an alcohol problem’?” 

You squeeze your eyes like the lights over your head are effectively hurting them, “Well, now that you word it that way, it does sound bad.” 

He pauses, taking the jug of water still on the table and downing some in a glass, offering it to you, “Why do you even do this to yourself?” he mutters, now sad more than anything — he’s known you for two years, and he didn’t know anything about this. Two years where you could’ve drowned in your own vomit, fallen from your window, got into a coma and– and he doesn’t even want to think about all the other options possible. 

You shrug yet again, still cuddled up to him while sipping your water. “She gets easier to handle whenever I do that.”

By his face, it’s clear that Kyle now thinks that you have some serious case of weird hallucinations going on. “She who?” 

“Batgirl,” you whisper, so that only he can hear, “whenever I’m in the suit, I feel like I’ve got this– this rock in my chest and I take it out by beating the bad guys an inch away from death. But those two weeks I spend alone every year — sure, the aftermath is agonizing and the need to continue drinking makes me want to rip my hair out, but it’s the only time in the year where I feel almost okay with myself and how I turned out.” 

His eyes are so sad that if you were just a little more aware of your surroundings, you’d probably start crying. “That’s… something.”

Your lips form a pout, “Too much information?”

“I– you know what? No information is too much information when you’re drunk. It’s okay.” he groans, “No, actually, it’s not okay at all. I mean, it’s okay that you told me, but it’s not okay that you feel so bad about a stupid costume that you’d spend two whole weeks getting alcohol poisoning. I didn’t know you felt so bad about your alias.” 

You let out a very, very bitter laugh. “And you wouldn’t, after spending every night in almost fifteen years punching people left and right and not stopping until there was more blood on them than clothes?” 

He says your name, completely serious, “You’ve been beating them up for fifteen years. You can stop whenever you want.” 

Your voice is firm– firmer than it has been since you started drinking earlier when you got into the club. “And I’m telling you, it’s like that fuckass suit possesses me. You got me? I. Can’t. Stop. Being. Violent. Trust me, I tried, and whenever that happened, something would drive me up my walls and I’d end up hurting people again.” 

Kyle’s eyes are soft despite the steadiness of his voice. “Why do you keep getting back into the suit, then?” 

It’s like that single sentence sobers you up completely. You stare at him like he just grew horns, mouth agape, stunned. 

You never thought about that. You guess that with your whole family and friends being in the vigilante business, you didn’t have much choice — hell, Bruce broke his back and still got back to fighting crime. Dick changed towns just to start anew as Nightwing, and Tim… well, Tim quite literally chased the Robin job offer like it paid him in anything but nightmares and traumatic experiences. And if Jason died as Robin, then what right did you have but to continue living this life? He sure as hell never got the choice to live it all behind.

But you’re twenty-four now. If you ever survive Batgirl, you think you’d like to live your life a little — who knows, maybe even get married and have a family someday. But as long as she’s in your life, you’re not going to have peace. 

You find yourself grabbing Kyle’s face in your hands as you give him the sloppiest smooch ever — so much so that it leaves him stunned. “Kyle Rayner, you’re the sanest person I’ve ever met in my entire life."

He blinks, the tips of his ears even redder than his face, “…That bad?”

GOTHAM CITY — NOW. 

Of course, you give Bruce the very watered down version of the story — the same one you’ll give Tommy: that his father just asked you out and boom, love was there. No alcohol abuse and no partying until three am in the morning. B does look suspicious, but given his own past romances, maybe he just guesses that it’s better if some things remain untold. 

“I don’t remember the two of you being together until after you stopped being Batgirl, though,” he says while holding Bitey — the plushie looking very battered after not even a year with your infant — over Tommy’s head. 

You nod, “Yeah, that’s because we only got officially together after the Scarecrow incident.” you blow a raspberry onto Tommy’s cheek like you didn’t just mention your and Bruce’s worst trauma ever. 

Your father pales. “Yeah,” he mutters, “the Scarecrow incident…”

GOTHAM CITY — THEN. 

Leaving the superhero business is much harder than you thought it would be. You tried talking to Bruce about it countless of times and instead got brushed off like it was nothing — even if you doubt you can blame B for the position you’re finding yourself in right now. 

“…Gordon? Is that you?” 

Your voice is so weak you barely recognise it. It’s scratchy from days of endless screaming, lack of water and also fear, undiluted and in its purest form. You can’t see him — you haven’t been able to see anything but hallucinations ever since Crane put his hands on you, despite not feeling a blindfold over your eyes — but you can hear his steps. The guy hates your guts, and in the past few years, you’ve come to learn to listen out for his footing, so that you could make yourself scarce whenever he didn’t. 

For once in your life, you hope that this isn’t a fluke — that this is actually Gordon. Anything would be better than staying here. 

“Go– Gordon, I asked, is that you?” You pull onto the restraints over your wrists right before a big, calloused hand goes over your arm, caressing the exposed skin gently before the other goes up to your head. When he does speak, the Commissioner sounds tired as you’ve never heard him before, “It’s me,” he mumbles, as someone curses in the distance, “everything will be okay now, you hear me?”

He loosens one of the belts tied to your wrist while barking orders at the other policemen you can hear, “Montoya– rip that IV off– no, I don’t care if it’s unsanitary, I won’t wait for the paramedics to get her off the fear toxin–”

“God, Commissioner, her legs–” 

“I know, Kasinski, we all have working eyes–”

“Stop fucking yelling, chief, it’s been four rough days for everyone–”

“The second Robin only needed three days to die, Bullock, you imbecile–” 

Four days? Only four days? It feels like you've been trapped down here a lifetime. Did the hallucinations really start just four days ago? Did you get any sleep at all? Why can’t you see? 

“–Atgirl? Batgirl, you still with us?” Gordon taps two fingers on your cheek, “Can you hear me? Blink once for yes, twice for no, if you can’t speak.” 

Your eyes feel like they’ve been wide open for hours as, with much more effort than you’d like to admit, you close them once. “Good, good. Can you see me, or were you just disoriented earlier?” two blinks. You can’t, in fact, see anything. Poor girl, you hear Montoya whisper from your other side of the bed, her hands working on the straps keeping you tied to the oparating table relentlessly. You hope the fear toxin doesn’t start acting up now of all moments, because it would be really unfortunate. 

“Okay, hun, now listen to me carefully,” in all these years that he’s been so against you, you’ve almost forgotten that the Commissioner is, after all, a girl dad. You wonder if he's seeing Barbara after she was shot instead of you on this table, and if he does that every time he saves a young girl his daughter’s age. “We’re going to get you out of here, I promise. You just need to stay awake and everything will be fine, you got me?”

“‘M not sure that’s the best idea,” you croak, your voice trembling in a way you haven’t heard since you were a kid. God, you feel like you’re eight again. You’re tired in a way that goes beyond the physical sense — your mind feels completely broken, scarred by thousands of sceneries happening all at once and by four days of fear toxin being pumped in your blood.

“It is when there’s no better option,” he replies, sliding one arm behind your shoulders. “Listen, the ambulance will be taking too long. I’m going to count to three, and then I’ll get you off this table, trying to be as careful as I can. Understood?”

You nod weakly, your head against his chest. His other arm slides behind your knees, and he starts, “One, two– three!” 

You bite your tongue until it bleeds to avoid screaming out in pain — guess the comments about your legs weren’t just jokes, after all. You can’t see them, but by the feeling they give, you’d bet all your money on the fact that they’re both broken in various and different places. “It’s okay,” Gordon pats your hip where he’s holding you, and after four days of hell, a comforting pat feels so good you might just start crying. “We’ll ask the paramedics if they have some sedatives for you– would it be okay?” 

You nod again, your form slumped over his chest as he moves– away from the warehouse, away from Scarecrow, away from everything you just went through. Your legs feel like a thousand splinters are going through them at once, and for all you know it might be so — but you also know that you’d rather spend the rest of your life feeling this pain than spending just another minute trapped there. 

You don’t remember being loaded into the ambulance, but you do remember holding onto Gordon’s hand like a lifeline when he tried to leave you alone with the paramedics. “Please,” you whispered, eyes unfocused behind the white lenses of your mask. 

And the Commissioner understood what it meant to be afraid — so he did the right thing and held your hand tighter, joining the paramedics in the ride to the hospital. And as the EMS quietly chatter in the background — probably trying to avoid thinking about the fact that they’ve just loaded a fucking vigilante in their ambulance — your lips tremble again. “I miss my dad.” 

You’ve been plagued by visions of Batgirl — worse, you — killing him, or him slaughtering you, or him dying a terrible death– “Batman, you mean?” Gordon asks, quietly, a gentle hand coming up to brush your bangs away from a cut over your temple. You nod, a tear slipping out of your eye. 

He hums, “Y’know, I’ve always wondered if all of you sidekicks were his actual kids or something. It would explain a lot.” 

“Not all of us,” you croak. There’s still Steph and Barbara — and as much as Bruce would probably adopt them on the spot if needed, you doubt they’d be too happy about it. 

He chuckles quietly — that same tired laugh B lets out when he’s had too much coffee and too little sleep. “What about Green Lantern? Is he one of his spawns too?”

And if you had let out a small tear earlier, you find yourself bringing out the whole waterworks now. “Kyle,” you murmur, so low that only Gordon hears you, “I miss my Kyle so much…” 

You can’t know that — because the sedatives are working egregiously — but soon after you pass out, the ambulance comes to a stop. Gordon’s ready to yell at the driver to move his ass and get back going, because they have an emergency going on, for God’s sake, but it’s only when the doors open and Robin steps inside that he understands what’s happening. “She needs a hospital,” he says, putting himself between you and your brother, “a real one. Not whatever care you have to offer.” 

Robin doesn’t even seem to hear him — his gaze is first on you, then to the Commissioner, then back to you. In the end, he looks behind him and goes, “Nightwing, can you move her to the Batwing?”

The first Robin emerges from the other side of the ambulance, his movements stoic and almost robotic as he takes a good look at you. “Yeah, I can. Commissioner…” he spares him a glance, “Believe me when I tell you that it’s best if she comes with us.” 

When you wake up two days later, you still can’t see anything — but the good news is, you can feel the bandages around your eyes this time. A machine is beeping in the distance, your arm feels sore from the IV that’s definitely attached to it and you can’t feel either one of your legs. A breathing mask is placed over your mouth, and the only reassuring thing you can feel on you are the warm fingers wrapped around your good hand. For a moment you wonder if Gordon really stayed with you this whole time, but the hushed whispers around you and the softness of the hand holding yours tell a whole other story. 

You’re in the Batcave. The hushed whispers are those of Tim and Dick — they’re talking about Bruce, and about how he’s just back from space and already back in the streets to look for Scarecrow, and Alfred butts in to shush them both, pleading them to keep quiet at least until you wake up. And, judging by the snoring you hear on your bedside, and the fact that Dick is at least a bit far away from you, you’d guess the hand holding yours is Kyle’s. 

You stir. The whispers stop immediately, and as you try your best to at least get up on your elbows, firm hands keep you down. “It’s okay,” it’s Alfred, voice tender and… teary, maybe? “It’s okay. You’re out of there. I’ll get the bandages off now– try to stay still, yes?”

You do as he says as he removes the gauze around your eyes, and after a few, pretty hurtful blinks, you manage to pry your eyes open decently. There’s a few black spots in your line of vision, but most of all, you can’t miss Alfred’s relieved smile. “Welcome back, Miss. How’s your sight faring?” 

You blink up at him, confused, as Tim and Dick crowd into your visual, too. “Alfred… how…?”

“Witnesses at last week’s hostage situation involving Dr Crane told the GCPD you gave yourself up to the captors in order to assure the victims’ safety,” he explains, as resolute as ever, “Commissioner Gordon started the search before we were even aware of your disappearance, and as Master Bruce was still off-Earth, they also got lucky before us.”

Right. The off-world JLA mission that basically everyone with the minimum experience needed for space combat took part in. Considering that Kyle’s sleeping it off in the chair beside your bed, you’d guess everyone’s back, and since the Earth still hasn’t blown up, it must’ve been successful. “In the end, you were missing for four days. Both of your legs were broken, and Crane kept you on stimulants and constantly pumped fear toxin in your veins– no wonder you needed some well-deserved sleep. I’m administering the antidote every four hours as of now, but it’s impossible to tell if the toxin is going to have long-term effects. As for your eyes, Crane probably used tropicamide– it’s mostly used in eye surgeries, and it can turn the patient blind for up to a few hours. You shouldn’t have any long-lasting effects.” Scarecrow probably just wanted you terrified at the prospect of losing your sight. 

He sighs — a long, dragged out sound of someone who hasn’t slept in a long time, “Master Bruce and Mister Rayner got back yesterday. Mister Rayner refused to leave your side ever since he heard what happened, while Master Bruce… well, what can I say? He’s being Master Bruce.” 

“He took a look at you and fled,” Tim says helpfully.

You sigh, your throat scratchy, “Figured,” you rasp, “Alfred, can you help me sit up? Also, a glass of water would be nice…” 

As soon as you so much as twitch your fingers in his hand, Kyle flinches like he’s just been slapped, then jumps up from his seat, “I’m up! I’m up! I swear I wasn’t sleep–” he looks at you, completely awake, then at Alfred, positioning some cushions behind your back, “–ing. Well, hi.” 

“Hi, Kyle,” you murmur, and even if you can’t find it in you to smile, you wish you could give him one just to repay him for staying here with you. He’s still in his GL suit, looking as rough as they make them — you suspect he didn’t even change ever since he got back from space. 

Your brothers and the butler try to make themselves scarce, because they know from their own experiences that maybe it’s better to leave the two of you alone — hopefully just to talk. 

Kyle brushes some hair away from your forehead and caresses the skin under your eye with his thumb, “I know it’s a stupid question,” he whispers, “but… are you okay?” 

You’re definitely not. You feel tears rushing to your eyes, heat rising up your neck and your throat closing, but before you can even start crying, Kyle’s already engulfed you in a hug, careful of your injuries. “I was so scared, Ky,” you sob, your hand coming up to his forearm, “and– and you weren’t there, and whenever you were, it was horrible–”

“Shh, I know, sweetheart, I know, I’m sorry–” 

“And I can’t handle her anymore, Kyle, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fit in the costume ever again–” 

“It’s okay, I understand, it’s–”

“No, Ky, you don’t, I swear she’s the one that scared me the most– she tried to kill me and the others– and you– and– and I couldn’t see, and when I had these– these lucid moments everything was black and too quiet– I– I thought I was dying, Kyle, I’ve never been more scared of death in my entire life–” 

“I know,” he pulls back the smallest bit, and it’s just then that you notice he’s crying, too. His hand comes up to your cheek, brushing away your tears. “You can let it out. You survived– that’s all that matters.”

You shake your head, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. “I don’t think I’ll ever be the same again,” you admit, trembling, “I don’t want to put the costume on ever again.”

He cards a gentle hand through your hair and presses a gentle kiss over the crown of your head, “That’s okay,” he murmurs gently, holding you impossibly close, “nobody’s ever going to blame you for that.” 

The recovery is excruciating. 

You have to deal with the remainders of the fear toxin still in your blood every day — every shadow makes you flinch, every fast movement causes a panic attack — while the tabloids are talking about a fucking skii accident. Poor Wayne heiress fell down a slope in the Alps and broke both her legs. Yeah, what about the absolute horror your mind just went through? 

The nights are the worst. Nightmares become a staple — you see Batgirl trying to kill you or, worse, the others and Kyle — and your family has to organize shifts to your apartment so that you’re never alone and stay trapped in your sleep for too long. 

Bruce stays away — at this point in time, it’s what he knows how to do best. He can’t bear to see you in the wheelchair with both legs wrapped in casts, and when Babs once jokes that now the Batgirl alias has a 50% cripple rate, he turns visibly green and excuses himself from the room. 

Kyle brings you to the hospital for your appointments — and he doesn’t miss a single one. Whenever he can’t attend one, he makes sure to call Dick or Alfred so that at the very least one of them will be able to be there, and you won’t be alone during the visits. 

During the second month check up, you end up in the same elevator as Commissioner Gordon. He’s at the hospital to question some victim about a burglary and didn’t think he would get to see you, as that’s clear by the way his eyes widen when he does. 

“Morning, officer,” Kyle says casually, pushing the wheelchair into the lift. You give the man a nod, and he gives you a small, imperceptible grimace back, as the younger man starts humming to fill out the silence in the stall. 

“So, how were the Alps?” Gordon asks sarcastically. 

“Terrific,” you snort. Aside from being Batgirl, you know him because one, you’re technically his daughter’s friend, and two, he was the one who had to tell you that your parents were kaputt. 

He hums, holding his hand out to Kyle. “And who’s this young man with you?”

“Oh– Kyle, Kyle Rayner, sir,” he shakes his hand enthusiastically, “thank you, um, for what you do for the city.”

You’ve always suspected that Gordon might know your secret identities, and the fact that he doesn’t react to Kyle’s name just makes your suspicions grow. If you recall correctly, you had said his name while in the post-saving haze. As you reach your floor, the Commissioner just pats your shoulder reassuringly, “Get back on your feet, okay?” he says, a crinkle in his eyes, “The casts don’t look too good on you.” 

“Sure,” you find yourself muttering. 

The worst part of it all, once the toxin completely wears off, is the physical therapy. Five months after the accident, you find yourself between two metal bars, struggling to even stand up by yourself while holding on to them, falling down to the cold pavement as Kyle reaches out for you. 

“I can’t do this any longer,” you whisper, lips trembling. “I can’t even make my own body work properly anymore, Kyle.” 

You know you’re selfish — because Bruce broke his spine and still recovered. Barbara won’t be able to walk ever again, but she’s still thriving. Jason is still fucking dead, and you’re whining because you can’t walk like you would want to. 

And somehow, Kyle always ends up seeing the sunny side of it all. “It’s difficult now,” he murmurs, trying to smile, “but you just have to learn how to walk again. And it sounds complicated, but you already learnt to do it once, no? The sooner you’ll get back on your feet, the sooner we’ll go dancing together again. What do you think?” 

You sniffle. “My treat this time.” 

He laughs, giving your lips a soft kiss, “When isn’t it?” 

You haven’t been down to the Batcave ever since the accident, and the crutches still feel new in your hands when you descend the stairs as carefully as you can. “Bruce, are you there?” 

A grunt — his favorite answer — can be heard in the dark. You huff, reaching the floor and limping towards the Batcomputer — where, as always, he’s doing some research on his newest case. Looking around, you can see that the only costume not on display is yours, and that the glass case it was kept in is now left empty — courtesy of Alfred, no doubt. 

B pushes his chair your way, “Sit,” he tells you, eyeing the crutches, “did you really take the stairs? There’s an elevator for these type of situations,”

You shrug, “Wanted to try using the stairs with the crutches,” you reply easily, “how’s the Riddler case going?”

“Slow.” A long pause follows, where neither of you speaks. Then, you start, “Bruce, I… I don’t think I’m ever going to wear the costume again.” 

He freezes, and had you known your father less, you’d think he was disappointed. But the way his shoulders slump and his breath gets a little slowed tell you everything you need to know: he’s relieved. “…I figured.” he finally looks down to you, removing his cowl, “I’m… I’m sorry for not being there. I should’ve been more present for you. I think… I think we both needed to be there for each other at that moment.” 

“It’s a thing we both do,” you tell him, “try to run away from our problems. I– I’m trying to be better, though. I, um… started therapy. I mean, I can’t tell the therapist about all the things that happened to me as Batgirl, but it might help with everything else, you know?”

The loss of your parents. The anger issues. Jason’s death. The whole alcohol problem Bruce is still completely unaware of. “That’s great,” you can tell he’s trying his best to be supportive, even if it might come out a bit rough, and one of his arms circles your shoulders, “I’m just grateful that you’re still with us. When I first got the call, I… God, I thought I was going to have to bury one of my kids again. When Jason died, I…” he shakes his head, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “I just couldn’t lose you, too.” 

The hug he gives you is like nothing you’ve ever received from him, and silently, you wonder if he hugged Jason’s body the same way. After a few moments, he asks, “How’s Kyle, by the way? Thanks for not telling me the two of you were dating. When Dick told me, I nearly had a stroke.” 

You chuckle tearily, “Oh, it’s going great,” you muse, “we’re going out for dinner tonight– and I think he’s going to ask me to be his girlfriend.” 

GOTHAM CITY — NOW. 

“Oh, how’s Batgirl, by the way?” 

Batman frowns at Gordon’s question, the first morning lights just peeking out of Gotham’s skyline. “What do you mean?” 

The commissioner raises an eyebrow, “You know… the first Batgirl. The one who got captured by Scarecrow… five years ago, was it?”

Batman hums, “She’s doing great.” 

“I haven’t seen her in a long time,”

“She got engaged a few months ago,” B slips — he often lets things slip with Gordon, just because he knows that he’s not going to tell anyone about their conversations. “She’s got a kid now, and his birthday’s–”

“Move it, father!” Robin yells from behind him, “I still have to get more presents!” 

His father sighs, “…Today. Robin, you already picked out enough presents for him–” 

“No presents are enough for my nephew — he surely won’t choose his favourite uncle based on sympathy!” 

Batman sighs, “Have a good day, Jim.” 

The Commissioner blinks, surprised, “Well… wish happy birthday to the little chum from me.”

“Happy birthday, Bruce and Tommy, happy birthday to you!” 

You’re pretty sure your son has got no idea what’s happening around him, but he wiggles happily in his grandfather’s arms as the cameras go off, and still tries to blow out his candles with the best raspberries he can muster up — he grins when they actually work, clueless to the fact that Bruce just blew them out for him. 

“I still think it's so weird that your father and our son share a birthday, y’know?” Kyle whispers to you, still holding the camera to capture Tommy smashing his fist into his cake, “Like, are you sure that the guy who’s getting his face covered in cake by our infant is the same dude I had to convince I wasn’t using you for money by challenging him into a boxing match?”

You shrug, “What can I say? The universe has its ways,” 

It’s been six years since you’ve spent a birthday alone, drinking yourself into oblivion. Six years since Kyle entered your life — since everything became a little easier, because you found out you didn’t need to necessarily do everything alone. 

It’s been five years since the Scarecrow incident, and you’ve learned how to walk again in the year after it happened. Last week, you even managed to make a joke to Barbara about it, and told her that the Batgirl crippling rate is back at 25%. She laughed and told you that it’s better this way. 

Jason — whose death had completely scarred your whole path of vigilantism — is now alive and, mostly, well. He's now choking on the cake with Damian, who you didn't even know existed until about three years ago.

You’ve been officially together with Kyle for four years, and he proposed a few months ago. Almost two years ago you found out you were pregnant, and a full year ago your boy — who is now using cake frosting as paint to draw on his grandfather’s Versace dress shirt — was born. 

You were Batgirl for more than fifteen years, and to be honest, you didn’t completely hate it before Kyle came around. But as you hold Tommy in your lap and feed him little, much more dignified bites of his cake as he coos and laughs at the faces his dad makes at him, you think that you’d do everything again without changing a single thing if it only meant that you got to be here once again. 

“Oh, by the way,” Babs comes up to you, another present in her lap, “my dad gave me this for Tommy — said it was ‘for old times’ sake’, whatever that means.” 

Kyle makes a big show out of it, and when he sees what it’s inside, he’s even more excited than his own kid. “Finally, a Green Lantern plushie!” more specifically, a plushie modeled after him. All your kid got from close family were Batman-themed toys, and since the Lanterns have been banned from every Tommy related parties ever since they made the venue literally explode during his first six months celebration, their gifts are expected to arrive a little later this year.

Extatic, Kyle holds out GL Junior up to Tommy, who promptly takes it into his death grip. “What do we think, champ?”

Tommy looks at the plushie for a long time before biting into his arm — a sign of approval, no doubt. “Dada.”

congratulations! you've reached the end of this fic :) have some memes:

also!! as a christmas gift, i plan to publish another fanfic by the time the holidays end, but i have so many drafts that i'm inevitably going to have to choose. i'll leave the options here, and then try my best to complete the fic that wins!!

which fic would you like to read before the holidays end?

catgirl!reader/dick grayson

al ghul!batsis!reader/conner kent

al ghul!batsis!reader/ben tennyson

batsis!reader/jon kent (sequel to if you're done with your ex)

Voting ended onDec 27, 2025

[megafangirlcentral]

I come back to this fic every month for a reread because it’s that good. Love the story telling and family dynamics

[moonologyy]

SPLIT KNUCKLES YOU KISS

pairing: boxer!jason todd/coach!reader

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 — whereas, Jason originally didn’t want to become a boxer at first, but a flyer of a tournament offers money that he finds interest in taking home. Now, he’s getting his ass handed to him by his coach’s daughter that’s his assistant, becoming a rising star while he’s finding hard to resist you while your father laughs at the bruised cheek given by his daughter.

cw: reader is a badass, strangers to lovers, fluff, smut, jason is highkey obsessed with reader, no y/n mentioned (you’ll never catch me using y/n), flirting, eventual romance, jealousy, Jason sucks at feelings, slight grinding, blow job, blood and injury mentioned obviously, slight vaginal fingering, rough sex, p n v, orgasm control/slight denial, slight degradation, idfk, he gets down and dirty.

wc: ~18k

Jason had been coming to this gym for a while now.

It was one of those well known chains scattered across the states, but this location sat close enough to his run down apartment to make it convenient. Close enough that he could funnel his frustration somewhere productive, into weights and sweat, into something that bruised his body instead of his pride.

He worked an average nine to five waiting tables at a restaurant, then picked up nights as a bouncer at a club.

Long hours, sore feet, and barely any sleep in between.

It was enough to get him by, enough to keep the lights on and the rent paid, even if it stung knowing how far he was from where he wanted to be.

An education felt like a distant luxury, something meant for other people, not for someone like Jason.

University is a scam, but he chases after it.

FAFSA couldn’t help him as much as he wished when it came to securing an acceptance letter to the prestigious Gotham University. The tuition alone was impossible, an expense he could never cover out of pocket, even with a scholarship on top of it.

Rejecting that offer had felt like swallowing glass, a future dangled just close enough for him to see before it was ripped away.

FAFSA had been kind enough to cover the cost of community college, at least. He was stuck with an associate’s degree in Criminal Justice, scraping together whatever money he could in the hopes of pushing his education further someday. Even if that someday felt unreachable, more fantasy than plan.

Jason drove his fist into the heavy boxing bag.

The impact sent it swinging, chains rattling softly as it absorbed the force of his frustration.

Jason ripped the headphones from his ears, the music cutting off abruptly as he let them hang loose around his neck while the world of machinery, grunts, and thumps were heard.

His chest heaved with each breath, lungs burning, sweat slicking his skin and sliding down his temples to drip from his brow. His hands ached, knuckles throbbing beneath worn wraps, but he welcomed the pain.

It was grounding for him, tangible, and easier to deal with than the mess of thoughts pounding through his head.

“You have one hell of a build, boy.”

Jason quickly flicked his head toward the source of the voice, eyes locking onto a man standing a few feet away. He had dark hair threaded with silver strands, the kind that spoke of years rather than neglect, and warm brown eyes that carried a quiet wisdom. Fine lines crinkled at the corners when he moved, evidence of age and experience, yet his body told a different story.

His build was solid and strong, with toned muscles that were clearly defined without being bulky.

A slight softness around his stomach showed the passage of time but still held undeniable strength. It was the kind of body that carried experience, what some might call a dad bod, balanced between resilience and the natural wear of age, giving him an air of quiet confidence.

“Thank you—”

“Your technique sucks.”

The man snorted, a sharp, amused sound that made Jason raise an eyebrow in surprise.

“I’m August. Yeah, like the month. You ever done actual boxing before?”

Jason thinned his lips and shook his head.

“Only picked up bits from my… dad, watched videos, and gained some tips from the other guys around here, but it was never anything permanent.” He shrugged, feeling a tad-bit weird out of this guy that came up to him randomly on a Tuesday.

August picked up on the pause immediately, his expression easing as his voice dropped into something more measured.

“Hn. Well, if you’re interested, my partner’s been looking for people around this time. He’s recruiting boxers.” He tilted his head slightly, studying Jason with a knowing look. “He’s got his own gym, proper equipment, the whole deal. And if he sees potential in you,” a faint, confident smile tugged at his mouth, “you could go further than you think. Big leagues, even.”

Big leagues.

“Not interested.”

Jason replied immediately.

He could already see how this was shaping up, the way August pitched it like a door to door sale, all confidence and promises, as if a few words were enough to change the course of someone’s life, selling your soul type, controlling over someone and putting them in debt.

It reeked of a scam.

The man sighed, clearly catching the defensive edge in Jason’s tone.

“You don’t have to own a membership or anything like that,” he points out, adding sugar to his words. “Unless you want to, of course. Just give it a try.” August reached into his pocket and pulled out a card, holding it between two fingers.

The business card was sleek, clearly well kept.

Out of courtesy, Jason took it, deciding to put it into his wallet without bothering to glance at the name or details printed on it to satisfy the weirdo.

August watched him for a moment, then gave a small nod, as if that was all he needed. “No pressure,” he puts his hands up, giving a simple shrug before stepping away from Jason, moving on to probably find another poor person to recruit.

“You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

He highly doubts he’ll change his mind.

Jason gave a noncommittal hum, erasing the interaction within a second once he had left his vicinity, slipping his headphones back over his ears and flexing his fingers.

Then his fist slams into the bag.

Unfortunately, Jason would have never expected to be swallowed by the life of boxing, to have his motivation and desperation quietly reshape themselves into a career he had never once imagined for himself.

Jason wasn’t one to quickly change his mind either.

It took him an entire month and a half.

Why?

First of all, scammers.

Second of all, he genuinely forgot about it.

And third, because it was absolutely, undeniably, one hundred percent screaming scammer alert.

Some random weird lookin’ old guy at the gym finding boxers, offering to train and an opportunity that felt like the opening line to a debt that can’t be repaid Mafia style, or trafficking him in the worst way possible.

And Jason was not in the financial position to fuck around and find out.

But how the hell did he end up—

There was a bulletin board at the club where he worked, cluttered with old flyers curling at the edges, corners yellowed and wrinkled from time and neglect. He had passed it countless times on his way to the bathroom without a second glance.

This time was different.

Mid stride, his eyes snagged on it, the bulletin board. A new flyer pinned among the decaying ones, edges still crisp, ink still dark. He read it, feeling a sense of curiosity and remembering the card August had given him, one that he hesitates to contact, but deeply sighed.

This time, he felt the need to fuck around and find out.

CARNAGE KNOCKOUT !

Boxing Rookie Tournament— step into the ring and prove you’ve got what it takes!

Win up to $7,000!

The flyer displayed information on the date, six months from now and the location of the fight. The registration displays there, but Jason didn’t go on it.

He wasn’t even sure if he was serious about it, but the annoying old man had given Jason a card to call, or the location of the gym.

But— Jason really needed a new used car.

He's maintained his car for quite some time since junior year of high school, but it’s been wearing down easily and needs new repairs every few months.

7,000 dollars is enough to land him a nice used car on Facebook marketplace if he’s willing to scout.

That night, when Jason got home, he found himself digging through his wallet. His fingers brushed against the smooth card that’s still intact, pulling it out and turning it over in his hands.

He was surprised to find that August’s name wasn’t on the business card. Instead, it bore someone else’s name and a location of the gymnasium.

Curious, Jason quickly looked up the name online, wondering if there’s public information about the man.

His jaw only dropped in disbelief.

The card belonged to a retired boxer— a legend who had not only dominated the MMA championship multiple times but had also held countless titles. There were articles of rumors and stories painted him as a notorious lady killer, a man who commanded attention both inside and outside the ring and one of the biggest competitors against Bruce Wayne.

But that was twenty five years ago.

Everything was buried in old Reddit threads, faded articles, and grainy videos dissecting the rise and fall of the fighter and his retirement.

And then, Jason fell into the rabbit hole.

One link led to another.

Fight highlights stitched together with dramatic music, slowed down punches, commentators shouting over roaring crowds. Old forum posts arguing about whether each boxer’s technique was ahead of its time or reckless, possible disqualification. Interviews clipped short, the boxer younger, sharper, cockier, and a different man entirely.

He started digging through the rules, tactics, and techniques. He quite literally fell deep into breakdowns of footwork, positions, and strategy. He watched specific workout routines, rewound clips to catch subtle movements, and even found himself following a few fighters and trainers on social media that caught his interest.

Before he knew it, Jason lost track of time.

Suddenly, he’s standing inside of the gym.

It was definitely interesting, it wasn’t a chain like Planet Fitness, VASA, LA, or Anytime Fitness that’s located in a plaza.

Don’t get him wrong, Jason had been aware that gyms that were a small business were sometimes located in basements, junkyards, or units.

But this was Jason’s first time being at a sketchy fucking location, even if it was broad daylight.

There wasn’t a logo, signage, or an indicator that this was a gym unless you’re searching it up on google maps.

It was quite literally a small storage warehouse that crackheads would probably roam around, or a gang would trade weapons.

At first, Jason thought he had the wrong location.

The place looked deserted, quiet enough to make his skin prickle, yet the parking lot was dotted with cars that didn’t match the emptiness of the building. His unease grew the more he stood around, his thoughts spiraling into darker possibilities, the kind that made his stomach twist and clutching the strap of his duffle bag.

Yeah, hell no.

He was going to leave.

He did not want to fuck around and find out.

But that's when August spotted him around the corner of the warehouse.

Recognition lit up his face as he let out a full bellied laugh, running up and clapping a heavy hand against Jason’s back like they were old friends.

“Well, well! Didn’t expect you to come!”

Before Jason could question any of this, August glimpsed at the garage door, reached up and hauled the garage open.

The metal screeched as it lifted, and the space beyond was revealed to him.

“Ya could’ve used the door on the other side of the building,” August pointed with a grin, gesturing behind him, “but welcome to our boxing gym.”

Jason barely heard the last part.

His attention had already been stolen by the space beyond the warehouse(?) garage. Equipment all over the place, worn but well loved, steel frames and hanging bags stretching farther than he expected. The air hummed with the steady rhythm of machines, the scrape of weights, the sharp thud of gloves colliding with canvas and padded shields.

Grunts and exhaled breaths echoed off the walls, raw and relentless with instructive yells were heard.

It was expensive.

Way different than the equipment at the gym, although it is nice— it seemed like it didn’t compare to this.

“Don’t get too excited, you gotta meet the big man.”

August nudged Jason’s shoulder and started walking, clearly expecting him to follow. They moved deeper into the warehouse, rounding a corner that revealed the building’s L shape and a whole another level that the gym couldn’t offer, specializing in its usage.

The ring.

His heart practically jumped at the sight of the ring in all its glory. His palms turned clammy, a rush of excitement crawling under his skin, tangled tightly with nerves.

The man he recognized from the internet stood nearby, arms folded, eyes sharp as he watched a few fighters move around the ring. He barked out commands with authority, voice cutting clean through the noise of the gym. Titles, championships, and decades of reputation carried under his belt in the way he stood alone were no longer just headlines or grainy videos on a screen.

The ex boxer glanced toward August, having caught the sound of approaching footsteps. His gaze then settled on Jason, sweeping over him slowly from head to toe as he let out a low, thoughtful hum.

“Ah,” August said, glancing toward the ring, “your daughter at it again?”

He bumped his elbow lightly against him, earning a groan from the former boxer as his eyes stayed fixed on the fighters in the ring.

Jason’s eyes flickered on the ring, noticing a woman up there, panting heavily before you countered a man’s punch easily.

You were absolutely…

something.

You hauled the man over your shoulder with ease before dropping down on him, driving a rapid series of jabs into his core.

He grunted beneath you, scrambling to recover, managing a desperate jab aimed at your face.

You blocked it without effort, muscle memory taking over.

Your father’s voice cut through the noise of the gym as he shouted your name. At that, you withdrew immediately, pulling off your glove with ease before stepping back and offering the fighter a hand up as if nothing had happened.

“That’s his daughter,” August muttered to Jason, pointing out the obvious. “She’s his assistant when it comes to training. And trust me, she’ll whoop your ass, a lil’ dirty spitfire, that kid.” August chuckled, shaking his head as you took a long swig from your water bottle, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

Sweat clung to your skin as you wiped your mouth, then your gaze lifted, sharp and curious, landing on the two of them next to your father.

“Aye! August, did you drag in another newbie?” You called out, grinning wide, straight perfect teeth flashing as you leaned against the ropes. You grabbed the towel draped there, wiping sweat from your forehead and down your neck like it was nothing.

You were really unfairly attractive.

“I did! What’d you think?” August points to him, having a conversation as if he wasn’t standing right here.

Jason felt his spine straighten the moment your eyes landed on him. Your gaze dragged over him slowly, openly, leaving a trail of heat crawling up the back of his neck as he suddenly became painfully aware of every inch of himself.

“Hm,” you hummed, licking your top lip.

“I could definitely take him.”

A sexual innuendo coming from you definitely provokes an image to his head.

But he’s quick to wipe it away.

You grinned like you knew exactly what you’d just done, like you were fully aware of the provocative thought you’d planted.

“Well, get on up there, boy,” your father grunted, giving Jason a firm slap on the back that nudged him forward toward the ring.

“Wait—”

August barks out a laugh.

“No point in waiting! She said she could take ya’!”

Jason furrows his brow, flickering his gaze up at you.

Your grin doesn’t disappear, but there’s a mischievous glint in your eyes. “We can do it with or without boxing gloves,” you said with a casual shrug. “Though gloves might be better. Gives me an idea of where you’re at,” your brow lifted slightly, deliberately, “especially since you look pretty new to all of this.”

Your father crossed his arms, eyes sharp as he studied Jason from where he stood.

“Gloves on,” he decided. “We’re not breaking him on day one, August wrap him up and prepare him.”

You rolled your shoulders, still watching Jason like a cat sizing up something interesting. “Hear that? Lucky you.” You stepped back, gesturing toward the corner of the ring.

“You’ll stand there when you’re done.”

Jason bit the inside of his cheek, heat still lingering at the back of his neck.

“Don’t you think we should talk about this—”

You laughed, sharp and effortless, cutting him off as you waved your wrapped hand dismissively.

“That’s for later.”

You turned away from him, already moving toward the center of the ring, confidence rolling off you like it was second nature. The canvas dipped slightly under your steps, familiar territory, owned.

You tugged at your gloves, tightening the straps with practiced ease.

“Clock’s running,” your father called out from the side, voice firm.

“No fancy shit.”

Jason exhaled slowly and followed, stepping into the ring proper and August followed with a smirk, wrapping his fists and helping Jason. The ropes framed his vision, the noise of the gym dulling into a low hum as his focus narrowed to you. Up close, it was worse.

The intensity.

The way you stood relaxed but ready, weight balanced, and your eyes sharp as if you were an animal catching prey.

You tilted your head, studying him. “Relax,” you spoke lightly. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

Then your smile curved.

“Unless you give me a reason.”

Then, your father’s voice rings the gym.

“Start!”

You closed the distance the moment your father’s voice sounded, footwork smooth and deliberate.

Your hands stayed high, chin tucked, eyes locked on Jason like you were reading him line by line. Jason barely had time to register the sound. Instinct kicked in and he brought his guard up, shoulders tight, and his stance stiff that you immediately note.

You feinted left.

His gloves snapped up in response, exactly where you wanted them. You stepped in and tapped his guard with a quick jab, not hard, almost considerate. It was a test of his experience that brings a tad bit of frustration that he wasn’t really trained for this, bringing out the fact he wasn’t as experienced as the people you’ve fought earlier.

You’re—

“You’re in your head,” you mentioned, snapping his focus back into the ring. “Get out of it, this is a practice match.”

amazing.

He swallowed, nodding at your advice and tried to adjust, in fact, he threw a jab of his own.

There was raw power there, but it sailed past your cheek by inches.

You slipped it easily, close enough that he could feel the rush of air, then answered with two quick short shots to his ribs.

Jason sucked in a breath, a sharp grunt leaving him as he stumbled back a half step. His eyes widened, not from pain, but realization.

August whistled from the sidelines. “Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s about right.”

You circled around him, light on your feet, hopping back and forth to keep your feet moving with your gloves still raised but posture loose.

Jason analyzes your form, matching it to which you grinned with pride.

“Well, that’s definitely a start.”

Heat flushed up his neck, but something stubborn sparked behind his eyes.

Then, you crushed it.

His weight shifted forward just a second too slow, just a fraction too heavy on his front foot, and you were already gone from where he thought you’d be. A quick pivot, light and effortless, your feet barely making a sound against the canvas. He swung anyway, a wide hook fueled by frustration more than strategy.

You slipped it clean.

The glove cut through empty air as you stepped inside his range, close enough that he could see the focus in your eyes.

You planted your feet just long enough to land a sharp jab to his cheek, followed immediately by another to his shoulder, then a short shot to his ribs.

Jason hissed through his teeth and staggered back, guard scrambling to catch up. His breathing was already off, chest rising too fast, thoughts lagging behind his body. He tried to reset, but you were already circling him, cutting off angles, forcing him to turn instead of advance.

“Feet,” you reminded him calmly. “They matter.”

He lunged again, stubbornness flaring, throwing another punch that carried real power but no patience.

You ducked under it smoothly, shoulder brushing past his torso, then tapped the back of his head lightly with your glove as you passed. By the time he turned, you were already facing him again, gloves up, balanced, and waiting for him when you could’ve punched again.

“I just realized you’re not much of a talker.”

August laughed under his breath somewhere off to the side. Jason growled and came in harder this time, swinging fast, messy, trying to overwhelm you.

His predictable approach created an opening.

You stepped in and snapped a clean jab into his mouth, not enough to split skin, but enough to sting. Before he could react, you followed with a quick combination to his body, then one final tap to his jaw that sent his head snapping to the side.

Jason stumbled, boots skidding against the canvas as he caught himself on the ropes.

He stayed, breathing heavily.

You stopped, lowering your gloves.

“Alright,” you announced. “I’ve seen enough.”

Jason pushed himself off the ropes, swallowing hard, humiliation from your words and awe mixing in his expression, respect in his gaze.

He nodded once, unable to argue your words— knowing you were trained for this, he wasn’t.

You studied him for a moment, then cracked a small grin.

“Let’s talk now.”

“Ah, that’s why you’ve come. ‘Carnage Knockout’? The rookie tournament.”

August folds his arm, understanding dawns on him before glancing at Jason, who sat on the bench catching his breath, shoulders still tense as he explained his reasons for wanting to box.

Across from him, you and your father listened in.

“Well, we can definitely get you ready for the rookie tournament happening in…” You paused, unlocking your phone and scrolling through the Instagram page for Carnage Knockout. Your eyes scanned the dates until you found the next event. “…six months.”

You looked up, meeting Jason’s gaze with a small, confident smile.

“If you’re serious, willing to put in the work, and ready to commit to boxing, then I’ll train you,” you firmly stated, folding your arms as your foot taps against the floor. “But if you start treating this like child’s play, I’m kicking you out.”

Your father grunted in agreement, his few words carrying heavy weight, making it clear he didn’t tolerate anything less than dedication.

“Would your father also train me?” Jason asked, genuine curiosity, wondering why you were training him, but not in a disrespectful way. He didn’t mind, but he simply questioned why your father wasn’t going to—

“He’s old.” You bluntly told him with a laugh escaping from your lips, your father slaps your back in retaliation, hearing an audible ‘ow!’ That still causes you to laugh, pushing your father’s bicep to quit it.

August barked out a laugh, shaking his head.

Your father shot you a look, unimpressed but fond. “I’m not old,” he muttered. “I’m experienced.”

You smirked. “That’s what old people say.”

Another swat came your way, lighter this time, and you leaned away, still grinning. Then your expression shifted, focus snapping back to Jason.

“I’ll be the one in the ring with you,” you confidently say, tone more serious now. “I’ll push you, correct you, and knock bad habits out of you before they stick. He—” you jerked your chin toward your father, “watches, steps in when needed, and makes sure I don’t go easy on you and relax if I’m going overboard.”

Your father nodded once more.

“Listen to her, all of your opponents in the ring will most likely be my daughter.”

Jason huffed out a quiet laugh, nerves easing just a little. He straightened on the bench, settling the nerves into his posture before looking at you. “I’m serious,” determination leaning through. “I won’t waste your time.”

You hummed softly, a gentle smile curling at your lips as the usual mischievous spark in your eyes softened.

“I believe it.”

The words landed heavier than he expected.

Something in his chest shifted, unfamiliar and unguarded, catching him off balance.

And you weren’t the kind of person who lied.

The certainty on your face, a grin on your face displayed with confidence lingered with Jason in the days that followed.

When the nightclub cut his hours and sales failed to meet quota, his schedule suddenly cracked open, leaving him with more time than he’d had in months. Training slid neatly into those empty spaces, even if it came at a cost. To stay afloat, he picked up more shifts at his serving job.

Thankfully, that part wasn’t so bad.

The restaurant was quite popular, the tips were enough, and it was one of the few places that didn’t leave him completely drained by the end of the night.

And on the first few days, training him—

You grilled him.

“You can’t just be stiff,” you snapped, circling him. “You gotta move, put more energy into your footwork. Loosen up!”

You tapped his shoulder with your glove, then his hip, forcing him to adjust, to think on his feet instead of locking himself in place. Every mistake was called out, every hesitation corrected, until sweat soaked through his shirt and his legs burned from keeping up.

“Again.”

Hit.

“Again.”

You hit.

“Jason, again.”

Another hit lands.

“You’re making the same mistake again!” You grumbled, annoyance filled onto your face with a frown.

Jason tried to follow, feet dragging just a second too late as you shifted directions. You cut to his blind side, light and quick, hitting his ribs with your glove to make the point that has him groaning in pain while you snickered.

“I told you, don’t do it again! Roll your shoulders and relax, dammit! You’re not moving those feet!”

He exhaled sharply, nodded, and tried again.

This time he stayed lighter, bouncing just enough to keep momentum and focusing on defense.

After another round of drills, sparring, fixing, and instructing his form— you finally called a pause. Jason bent forward, hands on his knees, breathing hard against the ring’s ground.

You crouched down to his level, tilting your head as you studied him. Throughout the entire session, you hadn’t even broken a sweat.

“You’ve clearly been relying on strength training,” you point out calmly. “Not cardio. That’s the first thing we’re fixing.” You tapped the canvas lightly with your knuckles. “And your reflexes are decent. You dodge well when I’m on the offensive, but the second I start moving and changing pace, your defense falls apart.”

You straightened slightly, eyes sharp but not unkind. “You don’t anticipate my moves and you’re too much in your head—”

Jason grit his teeth, a scoff slipping past his lips.

“Then what do you suggest I do?”

You ignored the sharp edge in his tone, the frustration bleeding through his words. You’d dealt with this kind of pushback before, and you never took it personally.

Anger was easier than admitting weakness.

And you knew, deep down, that he wasn’t lashing out because he didn’t care.

He was lashing out because he wanted to get better.

“I’ve got a workout plan in mind, if you’re up for it,” you offered, shrugging lightly. “We need to build your cardio first, that’s non-negotiable. And I want to do sparring with footwork involved.”

You glanced at him, gauging his reaction. “It’s illegal in the ring, yeah, but this isn’t about rules. It’ll force your legs to stay active, keep you moving instead of freezing up. And without the gloves, I’ll get a much clearer read on where you’re really at.”

Your gaze drifted for a moment, distant, like you were turning over an old memory.

“You won’t be the first in this situation.”

He was grateful to you, more than he ever said out loud.

For the last three months— you provided him with a full workout regimen, including calorie targets, and protein as well. There were even meals you’ve recommended including the restaurant if he ever wanted to go out, or a list of ingredients of the meal to make.

You introduced him to other rookie boxers, going up against them.

They weren’t you.

Sometimes, he stayed late at the gym with you.

Long after the others filtered out, when the lights hummed softly and the place felt almost calm.

You would often find him staying behind, driving jab after jab into the punching bag. The echoes rang through the gym, sharp and brutal, each impact cracking through the space with a violence that could rival a gunshot.

He was majorly improving.

Jason would shadowbox while you watched from the side, eyes sharp, offering the occasional hum of approval or a quick note of criticism. Sometimes you would join him, adjusting him immediately, muscle memory starting to take shape and hits landing sharper and stronger than before.

Your relationship stayed purely professional.

Jason undeniably found you attractive, but it never tipped into anything reckless or distracting. If anything, it settled into something steadier, teetering on the edge of friendship rather than anything complicated.

Even if you’ve teased him way too many times.

There’s one night, after the gym had mostly emptied out, Jason sat on the bench with a towel draped over his shoulders, chest still rising and falling as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. The air smelled like rubber and metal, the low hum of the lights filling the silence between rounds.

He hesitated for a moment, then glanced up at you.

“What made you become your father’s assistant?” He asked, voice casual but curious, like it had been sitting with him for a while.

You folded your arms, one brow lifting as you studied him, surprise written in your expression.

“I was wondering how long it’d take you to ask,” you chuckled, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Believe it or not, I’ve wanted to do this for a long time, I’ve been trained for years.”

You shifted your weight, arms still folded as you continued, your voice smooth with honesty. “I went to college for an athletic training degree. I wanted to be here, working alongside my dad, learning how to train people the right way and treating injuries.”

A hint of fondness crept into your expression. “And I wasn’t lying about him getting old,” you added lightly, nudging your elbow against his side. “Someone has to keep him from running himself into the ground, it’s not a secret how he retired.”

Your gaze drifted downward then, something quieter settling over your features.

“The old man never learned how to quit,” you laughed, your eyes speaking in a way of a fond memory. “He loves boxing too much to do that. Even now— he’s retired from the scene, but never from life. It’s the reason why he created this ‘sketchy ass’ gym for people that wanted to become greater.” You shrugged.

“And besides,” you added, glancing back up at him with that familiar spark returning, “turns out I’m good at it, I love it actually. I love teaching, breaking things down, pushing people without snapping them in half.” Your mouth curved upwards. “At least most of the time.”

The gym hummed around you, the distant sound of the air conditioner and your quiet breathing beside him. Jason nodded, something settling in his chest.

“What about you?” You asked, a teasing edge in your voice. “You’re obviously about the same age as me, and I know you want the money to buy a new car,” you cross your legs, shaking your head. “But is there anything else? Any real aspirations? Something you’re trying to gain in life?”

You leaned in slightly, tilting your head as you watched his brows furrow in thought and his lips press together briefly before easing into a more relaxed line.

“I wanted to be a lawyer,” Jason simply stated, seeing your eyes widen with surprise. “I had a rough childhood, figured if I could help others in tough spots, maybe it’d mean something— university is expensive, so the money could help a bit.”

You nodded slowly, letting his words hang in the air without pressing for more. After a beat, you offered a small smile.

“Well, don’t stress yourself out too much over it. I somehow have a feeling that you’ll win and be… something greater.”

Those nights at the gym became something more.

In fact, he learned a lot of things that surprised Jason about you.

First, you were obviously a fighter.

Your strength or your experience as one was not something to be underestimated, honed through years of discipline across taekwondo, Muay Thai, boxing, and judo. It showed in everything you did. The way you moved with purpose, the way your body seemed to know what to do before your mind ever had to think about it.

You were always busy whenever Jason found you in the gym, rotating between drills, sparring partners, and corrections without ever looking winded. Especially that first day he’d walked in, when he watched you take a man twice your size and put him on the mat with effortless precision, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

That image had stuck with him.

Second, you weren’t cruel about it.

You corrected without belittling, pushed without breaking. Even when you were sharp with your words, there was intent behind them, not ego.

Every command, every adjustment, was meant to make him better, not smaller.

And then there was the way you watched him.

Not like he was weak, or wasting your time, but like he was a problem you were determined to solve. As if his rough edges and bad habits weren’t annoyances, but potential waiting to be shaped under your hands.

Third, you were sharp around the edges, all bite and precision when it mattered, yet after hours your words softened especially when you found a cut on his cheek.

You chuckled softly. “Did Alejandro rough you up again?” You asked as you carefully cleaned the wound and slid a bandage on the cut.

Jason rubbed the back of his neck, grumbling under his breath.

“He’s good.”

“Not better than me I would assume?”

Jason scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“He could never be better than you.”

For a moment, you fell silent, and Jason caught the way you inhaled just a little sharper at his words and the pause.

Jason didn’t know when he had fallen so, so hard for you.

Maybe it was the nights you both spent closer than before, sharing takeout at the park, sitting side by side under the whisper of rustling trees and the soft chorus of crickets. The quiet hum of the night wrapped around you, and the close proximity between you

Maybe it was the time you were too tired to make it home yourself, and Jason offered you a ride in his beat-up car, nothing flashy, far from your own, but it didn’t matter. You didn’t judge him, not once of his background, the state of his car, or his current job of being a waitress/server at a restaurant.

Maybe it was the time you found yourself scolding him for pushing too hard— when he’d ended up with a fever from overtraining. You showed up at his run-down apartment with medicine in hand, but somehow, you ended up gently pressing a damp, thin towel to his forehead, trying to cool the heat.

You made him eat the soup you’d cooked as a remedy, sitting by his side quietly, the usual sharp edge in your voice softened by concern.

You would plant your arm against his bed, leaning against your arm and nearly falling asleep.

Jason didn’t know how long you’d been there, but when the towel on his forehead warmed from the cold, he shifted to replace it.

Before he could move, you stirred awake, a soft protest slipping from your lips. “Hey, lay back down,” you murmured, “I’ll go change it—” You pushed yourself up too fast, failing to notice your legs falling asleep from sitting so long.

Before you could steady yourself, a sudden weakness made you lose your balance, and you tumbled forward, landing right on top of Jason.

He caught you instinctively, steadying your weight as you both froze for a moment, the unexpected closeness filling the quiet room with a new, electric tension.

For someone usually so bold, you were completely flustered in that compromising position— your eyes snapping wide, suddenly fully awake. Your faces hovered mere inches apart, each breath shared in the stillness between you.

Jason swore you could feel and hear his heart racing in his chest.

“Ah— um, uh, my legs are numb,” you stammered, quickly pulling yourself off him.

You quickly grabbed the small towel and moved away awkwardly, wincing as the sharp tingles from your still-asleep legs shot through you while Jason watched you, feeling his heart beat with craze and his cheeks heat up with such overwhelming warmth.

He knew it wasn’t the fever.

Maybe it was after that first time he lost a spar against you, the sting of each hit still fresh, or the way you’d effortlessly pinned him to the ground more times than he could count.

It was one of those moments.

Jason would circle cautiously, eyes locked on yours, trying to read your movements. You mirrored him, light on your feet, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Without warning, Jason lunged, aiming a quick jab toward your face. You ducked low, sliding to the side and catching his arm mid-swing. With a swift twist, you swept his leg out from under him. He hit the mat with a grunt but rolled immediately, pulling himself up to his knees.

Jason came at you again, this time feinting a punch before shooting a low kick. You caught his ankle, yanking him off balance. He stumbled, but you didn’t give him a moment to recover— you closed the distance fast, driving your shoulder into his ribs, pushing him back.

He gasped but countered with a knee strike to your side. The wind knocked out of you for a second, but you twisted away, grabbing his wrist and locking it behind his back in a quick armbar.

Jason gritted his teeth, struggling but finally tapping out.

You released him, both of you panting, sweat dripping down your faces.

You extended a hand to help him up, and he took it, pulling himself to his feet with a tired smile.

This time, Jason looked at you.

Fully.

He thought about all the times you’d pushed him harder than he thought possible, how you moved with a strength and precision that seemed almost effortless.

Then there was the way you looked— tired sweat glistening on your skin, your hair pulled back but still escaping in wild strands around your face, eyes fierce and focused.

Oh fucking god, he admittingly couldn’t look at you for a few days one time, having you in his spank bank for how much you’re on his mind, for how much you tease him, and the way your eyes would stay glued on him.

He wants your eyes to stay on him.

You are magnetic to Jason— irresistibly compelling in the way you carry yourself with effortless strength, quiet beauty, and unshakable resilience.

There’s something about you that pulls at him, drawing him closer even when he tries to keep his distance. His heart aches in ways he can’t ignore, bleeding quietly for you, tethered to every glance, every moment you share with him.

It's so utterly painful when his thoughts are kept to himself.

He admired how you never backed down from a challenge, how you held yourself with a quiet confidence that could fill a room without needing to say a word. You had this fire— this fierce, unbreakable spirit, that inspired him to keep going, even on days when he wanted to give up and leave the gym in frustration.

Yet, he’s standing here.

It had been exactly six months since the day he first stepped into your gym. Six months of bruises, sweat, and relentless training under your watch and alongside the others. Six months of you pushing him past limits he never knew he had.

He felt different now.

Stronger, sharper, and more relaxed. His body had changed, yes, but so had something deeper. The way he moved, the way he thought, and the way he carried himself.

“You ready, champ?”

You asked, leaning lazily into the ropes, eyes dragging over him in a slow, deliberate sweep. There was a glint in your gaze, playful and knowing, the corner of your mouth curling as if you already liked the answer.

By all means, your eyes on Jason made him feel goosebumps linger on his arms.

He wore lightweight red boxing shorts matching his gloves, satin catching the light every time he moved. They were a gift from you, a quiet reward for surviving everything you’d put him through, hell and back included.

You hadn’t realized how different it would feel seeing him like this. All those months of training, he’d always been in undershirts clinging to broad shoulders, fabric stretched over bulging biceps, or worn graphic tees that did nothing to hide the veins running along his forearms.

Now, stripped down to just the essentials, there was nothing to soften the reality of how much he’d changed.

And your eyes lingered, unashamed and instinctive, tracing the hard lines of his chest down to the cut definition of his abs, then back to the strength packed into his arms. Sweat glinted on his skin from the warm-up, catching the light in a way that made your breath hitch before you could stop it.

It was almost predatory, the way your gaze followed him, slow and deliberate, like a hunter appreciating the power of what stood in front of them.

For someone usually so composed, you felt it then, the heat crawling up your spine, the sudden awareness of how close you were standing, how much he’d filled out under your hands over months of training and how the heat in your eyes slowly travels down to your panties.

“Yeah, I’m ready,” Jason mumbled, his voice husky, betraying more than nerves. His gaze dipped, just briefly, catching on your lips before he dragged it back to your eyes like he’d been caught doing something dangerous.

You notice, biting onto your bottom lip to stop yourself from grinning but you fail to cover it, looking away briefly as if to compose yourself.

Jason couldn’t help but smirk at that, erasing it quickly so you don’t catch it.

You cleared your throat, running a hand through your hair as if to steady yourself. “There’s going to be people here,” you stated, voice settling back into something calm and assured. “Recruiters, patrons, and watchers. They might try to get in your head.”

Your eyes softened as you looked at him, more sincere now. “If anyone bothers you, find my dad. Or find me.” A pause, then a grin curved across your lips, confident and fox-like.

“I know you’ll win this tournament.”

And you weren’t wrong.

When you’re watching from one of the cracked metal seats in the small junk warehouse hosting the tournament, the lights dim and the low hum of the crowd swells. About a hundred people pack the space shoulder to shoulder, voices overlapping, anticipation thick in the air.

The place smells like sweat, metal, and adrenaline.

Your eyes never leave the ring, watching him put on the mouth guard before August helps him wrap his hands, and putting on his boxing gloves, tightening them.

The match begins.

You’re on your feet before you even realize it, hands cupped around your mouth as you call his name, your voice cutting through the noise. You cheer without restraint, sharp and fierce, every movement of his answered with a nod, a shout, a grin he doesn’t see but somehow feels.

You track him instinctively, reading his footwork, his breathing, the way his shoulders settle when he finds his rhythm. When he lands a clean hit, you punch the air. When he stumbles, your heart lurches, your voice rising louder, steadier.

Jason rolled his shoulders, breath steady, eyes locked on the man across from him. The crowd blurred into a low roar, lights glaring overhead, heat clinging to his skin. All he could hear was his own breathing and, faintly, your voice somewhere out there.

His opponent came out aggressive, swinging heavy and wide, trying to overwhelm him early. Jason slipped the first punch, just barely, feeling the rush of air graze his cheek.

He pivoted, light on his toes, letting the next punch sail past him before snapping back with a quick jab to the ribs. The man grunted, surprise flashing across his face.

He remembered you barking at him to loosen up, to stop muscling everything, to let his body do the work. His arms felt lighter now, his movements cleaner. When the other fighter tried to corner him, Jason ducked low, slipping out along the ropes instead of backing straight up.

The crowd erupted when he landed a clean hook to the jaw.

His opponent staggered, recovered fast, and came back swinging harder, frustration bleeding into every punch. One caught Jason on the shoulder, another clipped his cheekbone, sending a sharp jolt through his head.

He tasted metal for a second and welcomed it.

The opponent growled and came back harder, swinging wild. Jason ducked under a looping hook, countering with a sharp cross that snapped the man’s head back. The crowd surged, sound crashing over him in a wave. He caught a glimpse of movement beyond the ropes and imagined your grin.

He cut Jason off, backing him toward the ropes.

Jason slipped along the ropes, narrowly avoiding being trapped, and came out the other side with a quick combination.

Each punch flowed into the next, his body loose, his strikes efficient.

The man stumbled.

He heard your voice in his head, sharp and calm.

Don’t get greedy, let it come to you.

His opponent tried to recover, swinging in desperation now, to balance off.

Jason waited for the mistake.

It came.

Jason stepped in, driving a clean jab straight down the center, followed immediately by a heavy cross. The impact echoed through his arm. The man staggered backward, crashing into the corner.

The referee edged closer.

Jason closed the distance, cutting off escape, forcing the man to stay put. Another combination, it’s controlled, ruthless and lethal. One final punch landed square, and the man dropped to a knee, glove pressed against the canvas as the referee rushed in.

The count rang out over the roar of the crowd.

Jason backed away, chest heaving, fists still raised as sweat dripped down his spine. His legs shook, not from weakness, but from adrenaline. When the count hit ten, the bell rang again, loud and final.

Jason stood there for a moment, stunned, heart pounding, hands trembling as the realization settled deep into his bones.

The noise of the crowd washed over him, distant and unreal, but inside, everything felt achingly clear.

He didn’t think he could quit boxing.

And when he found you in the crowd, screaming his name, pride and fire written all over your face as you celebrated his first win like it was your own.

Something in his chest broke open.

Jason realized that he didn’t think he could quit you either.

Seven thousand dollars was a lot to Jason.

At least, it was when he was twenty years old, having a criminal justice degree, dreaming about becoming a lawyer at Gotham’s University, imagining a future where he stands for Justice that felt distant but possible.

He hadn’t planned on ending up in the boxing gym of a legend. Hadn’t planned on being trained and rebuilt by the man’s daughter, his coach’s assistant, the woman he had slowly and hopelessly fallen in love with.

Now, he is twenty-four.

Jason Todd is an MMA fighter now.

He’s earned more trophies, more belts, more gold, silver, and bronze than he ever did in high school or any life he imagined for himself back then. Each one is proof of how far he’s come, victories carved from sweat, blood, and stubborn refusal to quit.

He’s stronger than he has ever been, carved by discipline and hunger. His name is rising fast, climbing the ranks with every fight and every win. Word spreads quickly, faster than he ever expected. Clips of his matches flood social media, his face, his name, donations he’s poured into shelters, charities, and hospitals and his story plastered across screens he once scrolled through in silence.

Meanwhile, you were always in the crowd.

Always.

You cheered louder than anyone in the room, louder than August, louder even than your father, the former champion whose name had once ruled the scene.

Your voice cut through the noise without hesitation, raw and full of pride. Your name had always existed on the edges of the boxing, MMA, and JLC (Justice League Championship) world, familiar because of your father, because of the legacy he left behind. But now, it was different.

Your name was inseparable from Jason’s now, listed beside him in headlines and fight cards as his assistant, his coach. There were clips, photos, and everything between the both of you.

It was purely professional.

That’s what he likes to say himself.

Oh, who is he really kidding?

A clip blew up when you straddled his thigh without a second thought, fingers careful and steady as you cleaned the swelling beneath his eye and tended to the cuts on his face like it was second nature.

Your brows were furrowed, a small frown set in concentration as your foreheads touched, close enough to blur the rest of the world out. The cameras never caught your words, the audio lost beneath the roar of the crowd, but Jason knew exactly what you’d said.

He heard it anyway, clear as day, etched into him just as deeply as the bruises, cuts, and scratches you were so careful to mend.

You had your hands on his cheeks, thumbs pressing in just enough to ground him, to make sure he was looking at you and no one else. Your grip was steady, intimate, almost reverent, yet there was nothing gentle in your eyes. You searched his face like you were carving the moment into memory, breath close enough that he could feel it. Jason’s heart stuttered in his chest, lungs pulling in a deep, shaky breath as the world narrowed to just the two of you.

“Jay,” you murmured, voice low and lethal, “knock him the fuck out.”

Those clips went viral, edits, screenshots frozen and replayed a thousand times over.

And safe to say, the image lives rent-free in Jason’s mind.

It stayed there, uninvited and permanent, replaying in the spaces between fights, between breaths, reminding him just how impossible it was to separate the ring from you.

Yet, he was still a wimp to actually be more than… whatever you guys are.

Is this a situationship? He doesn’t know.

And people still have the nerve to ask to be his coach.

“Don’t you think it’s time to switch—”

“How do you feel about your assistant!?”

“Jason, have you thought of Hal Jordan’s offer!?!”

“What’s your thoughts on Lady Shiva AKA Sandra Wu-San’s offer?!”

“Are you dating—!?”

“Is your assistant planning to recruit—!?”

Jason snorted, the barrage of questions more amusing than tempting as he pushed through the flashing cameras and microphones shoved in his face as he walked through the red carpet, his hands tucked into his dress pants. The noise blurred together, names thrown at him like bait, legacies dangled as if loyalty were something to be traded.

“Excuse me! I’m Lois Lane from the Daily Planet,” a voice cut through the chaos. “Could you share your thoughts on declining the offer from the former MMA champion, holder of the most titles in history, Bruce Wayne?”

Jason’s head snapped toward the name.

Not Wayne’s— hers, Lois Lane.

“Lois Lane,” he repeated, already moving in her direction. “Congratulations on your tenth anniversary with Clark Kent. How’s retirement looking for him?” Lois laughed into the microphone, genuine and warm, clearly at ease. “Doing well. He’s on dad duty right now, taking care of our son. Now,” she added, lifting the mic again, “back to the question? The offer rejected by Bruce Wayne?”

The cameras went wild at that, shutters popping faster as he stopped just short of the barrier separating them. He didn’t blink at the lights, didn’t flinch at the microphones crowding his face, anticipating his answer.

“Why would I downgrade?”

A crooked, unapologetic smirk pulled at his lips as the lights bore down on him, blinding and relentless. A beat of silence followed before scandalized gasps rippled through the crowd, sharp and hungry.

He could already picture the headlines forming in real time, the outrage, the dirt people would swear he’d just thrown at Bruce Wayne.

You’re going to kill him.

Lois only smirked, a soft chuckle slipping out as she adjusted her grip on the microphone.

“I don’t think Bruce is going to like hearing that,” she dragged a note, amused, before smoothly shifting gears. “But you are competing in the JLC! For the new viewers, it’s short for Justice League Championship, and you’ve been absolutely crushing it! Your next match is against Roy Harper. What do you expect after that match?”

Jason rolled his eyes, a slow, amused scoff leaving him as if the answer were obvious.

“After that match?” Jason planted his hands on his hips, tilting his head like he actually had to think about it.

He didn’t.

Roy Harper wasn’t worth the mental effort.

“Hm,” he hummed, lips tipping into a slow, dangerous grin. “Dick Grayson should start getting real comfortable with second place.” The shrug that followed was careless, almost bored, like the result had been written long before anyone stepped into the cage.

The roar of the crowd only fed it, the screams bouncing off him like fuel on a fire.

“Because I’m bringing the title home,” he went on, voice smooth but edged with promise, ego worn without apology, “and I already cleared a space for it.”

Lois shook her head, laughing softly into the microphone, the kind of laugh that came when confidence crossed into something sharper, something inevitable.

Lois lifted the microphone again, eyes sharp with curiosity, clearly enjoying herself now.

“Confidence aside,” she pitched her tone higher, a teasing edge slipping into her voice, “a lot of people credit your rapid rise to the team behind you, specifically your coach. How much of tonight’s performance belongs to you, and how much belongs to her?”

The crowd stirred at that, cameras immediately angling for his reaction.

“And speaking of her,” Lois continued smoothly, “what are your thoughts on the relationship between your coach assistant and Dick Grayson? Bruce’s protégé, currently having the most belts in—“

Huh???

“Wowowow—“ he stops Lois Lane, a clear furrow of his brow. “What do you mean relationship with MY assistant? I am not aware of my assistant’s dating history, but I assure you that Dickhead hasn’t been with—”

Lois burst out laughing before he could finish, the sound bright and uncontrollable as she lowered the microphone for a second.

“Whoa, easy, tiger,” she grins, still chuckling. “Not that kind of relationship.”

Cameras snapped faster the second Jason’s expression changed, shutters clicking in rapid fire as photographers caught the way his jaw set and his eyes darkened.

A few of the paparazzi leaned toward one another, voices hushed but urgent.

Jason froze, scowl faltering into open confusion. “…Then what the hell are you talking about?”

Lois wiped at the corner of her eye, composing herself before lifting the mic again to herself. “Then you must be unaware,” she explained smoothly, slipping back into reporter mode, “that Dick Grayson was trained by your coach assistant long before Bruce Wayne recruited him. It was early in his career, formative years.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

Lois continued. “By most accounts, she helped build the foundation of his fighting style. Footwork, defense, and adaptability when he was nineteen and she was seventeen. The very things that earned him those belts.”

Jason’s jaw tightened, slow and deliberate.

“Oh,” he flatly replied.

Lois watched his reaction with interest, smirking as if she could read his thoughts. “So,” she pressed, “knowing that your possible opponent was once trained by the same coach who trains you now… does that change how you see the match?”

Jason’s lips curled, sharp and dangerous.

“If anything,” he began, voice dipping lower, edged with something dark and certain, “it just means she knows exactly how to take him apart.”

The TV flickered, then cut to black.

Jason sat back against the worn couch cushions, the room suddenly too quiet without the crowd, the cameras, and the noise.

The glow from the screen faded, leaving only his reflection staring back at him for a split second before it disappeared completely. He let out a slow breath through his nose, jaw tight, replaying his own words in his head instead.

The interview looped in his mind anyway.

As expected, he’d won his match against Roy Harper. It’s been two weeks, Roy Harper, respectfully was a name checked off the list, another highlight reel already circulating online.

His knuckles still ached faintly, a dull reminder of the fight, but it barely registered.

What lingered was you.

The thought of you standing cage-side, sharp-eyed and unflinching. The way your voice cut through the noise when it mattered. The certainty in your hands, the confidence in your touch.

Dear god, the way he— Jason groans, tilting his head back until he looks at the high-rise ceiling of his penthouse.

The way his head rewinds two weeks ago.

Two weeks.

After winning his match.

“Now, in what world was it a good idea to provoke Roy Harper?”

Jason frowned, irritation flashing across his swollen lip.

“Provoke? Please. I was speaking the truth.”

You rolled your eyes, unimpressed, and pressed deliberately into a darkening bruise along his ribs. He hissed sharply, fingers snapping around your wrist on instinct.

“Hey—”

“Don’t grab,” you warned lightly, though your mouth curved into a smirk when his expression pulled into a small, offended pout. “That’s what happens when you let your ego do the talking.”

Jason released your wrist, muttering under his breath, but there was no real bite to it. Not when you were this close. Not when your hands were already back on him, methodical and careful, tending to him like it was routine.

“Still won,” he simply whispered with a bit of attitude. You huffed, shaking your head as you reached for another wipe.

“Which I’m really happy you did, but you kiddin’? That was a close call.”

A brief pause followed, Jason's shoulder slumping, furrowing his brows together at the way you’ve been frustratingly been so…

So damn annoying.

A pain in the ass, and yet somehow he had still found a way to like you. No, that wasn’t even accurate. There were too many things about you to like, too many moments that had piled up quietly over time. Enough that it startled him when he realized the truth.

He’d been pining over you for three years.

He dragged his hands through his face, closing his eyes in disappointment of the lack of courage to ask, to just ask you officially instead of interfering the way you’ve found yourself on a date, or talking to someone.

Ughhhh.

I mean, it was obvious, wasn’t it?

He brought you flowers on Valentine’s Day and brushed it off like it was nothing. He paid every time you went out to eat without even asking. Tuesdays somehow turned into movie nights at his place, him cooking while you hovered nearby, stealing bites and commentary. He drove you everywhere in his new car, never once complaining, and when your car broke down, he fixed it himself, wrapped your car in a color you’ve liked as if they were your pretty nails that HE HAS PAID FOR.

And if there’s one thing that he will never ever admit?

Whenever he’s injured, he looks forward to your hands.

He really likes your hands all over him in any sort of way.

He’d loved your hands since the first time you’d slipped on your boxing gloves and proved him wrong, ever since the sharp crack of leather against skin and the bruise blooming on his cheek from your own hand, your unapologetic smile while your father pointed and laughed from the ringside at his cocky assumption that he’d had the upper hand.

August had gotten a good chuckle out of the fifth fight of the week with you, losing once more with a hope that he’s able to turn the tables against you, having you pinned underneath Jason.

The imagery of your wrists pinned beneath his palms, the mat cold against your back, his control effortless and precise. It was something he wished to happen once.

Yet, the thought crept in uninvited and unwelcome, settling like a bruise he could not ignore.

The way your hand kisses any bruises he has, healing them under your touch.

The thought of those hands ever belonging to anyone else, or pinned underneath anyone else.

He hates it.

“You trained with Dick Grayson.”

The question— no, the statement slipped out sharper than he intended.

Your hands stilled for half a second.

You glanced up at him, expression unreadable, then went back to cleaning the cut along his cheek like nothing had changed.

“What about it?”

Jason lets out a short, disbelieving scoff, his jaw tightening as heat crawls up his neck.

“What about it?” he echoes, incredulous. “You trained one of the biggest names in the MMA world. One of the biggest names in the JLC. And it just… never came up? You didn’t think that was relevant?”

This time, you really look at him.

Your brows lift slightly, eyes searching his face with quiet precision, like you’re peeling back layers he hasn’t even admitted are there. The room feels smaller under your gaze, heavier, and Jason suddenly wishes he’d chosen his words more carefully.

“Is that what this is about, relevancy?”

He hesitated.

The locker room felt smaller all of a sudden, the hum of fluorescent lights louder, the sting on his cheek forgotten.

He opened his mouth, then shut it again, fingers curling against the bench.

“I just—” he exhaled through his nose, voice low and raw. “Feels like something I should’ve known.”

Your hands, the same ones that had been there to put him back together more times than he could count, found their way to his jaw, gently tilting his face upward.

Your touch was steady, unwavering, like a silent question lingering between you.

“Why?” You asked softly.

Jason swallowed hard, caught in the weight of that simple word and the way your eyes held him so completely.

From this angle, looking up into your calm, steady gaze, something deep inside him tightened— a mix of longing and vulnerability he couldn’t fully voice.

He wanted to pour everything out, to lay bare the ache and the hope and the quiet desperation in his chest, but the words caught, tangled in his throat.

Because the idea of someone else standing where he stood made his chest burn.

Because hearing Dick Grayson’s name attached to you made something ugly and possessive twist in his gut.

Because he didn’t like how much it bothered him.

Because he didn’t want to imagine your hands belonging to someone else.

Jason stayed quiet.

“I didn’t tell you,” you begin after a moment, voice low and even, “because it wasn’t about you, or him. It was about work— training, boxing, and MMA. We’re friends, acquaintances, but it wasn’t anything more.” He nodded, but the motion was shallow, unconvincing.

His eyes stayed on yours, searching, like he was bracing for a hit he wasn’t sure was coming.

“I know,” he murmured. “Doesn’t make it better that I had to find out through them… well, Lois.”

The complaint slipped out in a low grumble, all the fight finally draining from his voice. His shoulders loosened, tension easing as he let himself lean into you, his face turning pliant in your hands like he trusted you not to drop him.

For someone who fought for a living, Jason went oddly still when you touched him like this.

Your fingers remained steady against his jaw, thumbs warm, and grounding. He exhaled slowly, eyes fluttering shut for half a second before opening again to look at you.

You were smiling.

Quiet amusement at the familiar name.

“Why am I not surprised you found out through Lois?” You chuckled softly. “Working with Dick wasn’t exactly a secret, but it also wasn’t something people cared to dig into.” Your smile turned a little wry. “Guess that’s changed now.”

Your thumbs brushed his skin again, absent but intimate, as if you were smoothing the moment itself.

“Fans love a narrative,” you continued. “They connect dots that don’t exist, twist history into drama. It makes for good headlines.” You shrugged easily, as if it doesn’t bother you of what people say on Twitter, Tiktok, or any social media platform.

“You should get some rest, Jason,” you commented, the edge of authority slipping back into your tone like armor. “I’ll see you later. You’ll have a month to recover before your final match.”

Your hands finally fell away, the sudden absence making the air feel colder.

“Oh, I forgot one thing—”

Then, before his brain could catch up to his body, you leaned in.

A brief kiss pressed to his cheek, warm and unguarded, lingering just long enough to leave him stunned.

You turned away immediately after, already heading for the door like you hadn’t just rearranged his entire nervous system.

But just before you stepped out, you paused.

You glanced back over your shoulder, a slow, knowing smirk curling at your lips, eyes glinting with something dangerously unreadable.

“Congratulations, Jay.”

Then you were gone.

Jason sat there, frozen on the bench, like the world had stalled mid-breath. His pulse thundered in his ears, cheek still warm where you’d kissed him, your voice replaying on a loop in his head.

Congratulations, Jay.

Jason sat there, frozen on the couch of his living room. His pulse thundered in his ears, cheek still warm where you’d kissed him, your voice replaying on a loop in his head only differently.

The kiss on his cheek still felt like an imprint, one you’d left behind even two weeks later, he wondered how it would feel if your kisses were possessive.

If your lips lingered instead of retreating, if they traced the line of his neck with intention, leaving behind nothing visible but everything felt. The kind of closeness that didn’t need marks to claim him, only the quiet certainty that he was yours in a way that mattered.

The kind that leaves him panting for more, his hands tightening on your naked hips, watching your tits bounce from every lift that comes down onto his pelvis, and your hands trailing from his shoulders to his chest, running through his pecs before they settle on his abs, flexing under your hands while your pussy clenches around him.

He had always felt guilty of these dirty thoughts, avoiding your gaze at one point two years ago, where you licked your lips, flipped him onto his back, caging him while you stared down on him while he tried to control his dick from twitching.

He really couldn’t face you, tried to wipe those thoughts, but he’s given up too many times, looking on pornhub, Twitter, and had one or two hookups that had him accidentally imagining what you’d be like.

The pure imagery of your voice, pitched pornographic moans echoing in his mind, his hands stroking his cock as he calls out your name under his muffled breath, his arm thrown across his eyes, his head tilted to the ceiling from his couch, biting onto the hem of his shirt that he bunched up from the wet dream that has been on his mind for days, uncontrollably moaning, feeling his cock twitch and the sound of his slick echoing his living room.

How he would love to see your lips around his cock, pressing a kiss onto his tip before spitting onto it, running your tongue all over the base to the tip that leaks pre-cum.

Filthy.

Jason isn’t usually dramatic.

He isn’t big on theatrics, doesn’t care much for putting on a show. Though, if he were being honest, he’s always had a soft spot for musicals. The way actors exaggerate emotion, how they lean fully into feeling without shame, how everything is bigger and louder, trying to fight for the spotlight.

He pretends to scoff at it, calling it ridiculous.

Yet, here he is.

Jason feels like he’s been hurled through a glass window, the impact sudden and merciless. The world fractures on contact, splintering into a thousand sharp reflections as he falls, helpless, watching everything he thought was solid shatter around him.

It’s slow motion and absolutely disgusting to see.

Richard Grayson has no business having his hands on your wrists, staring down onto you with a fucking grin on his face.

That’s not only the worst part: he’s pinning you down into the floor mats, something Jason has never been able to achieve, breathing harshly as you glared up at him, pinned underneath him.

At 6 in the damn morning.

It was the night before the match, facing Dick Grayson.

Jason’s hands curl at his sides, nails biting into his palms as something ugly and heated coils in his chest. Jealousy, yes, but tangled with something worse.

Your father stands off to the side like this is just another Tuesday, arms crossed over his chest. Meanwhile, Bruce fucking Wayne is in the gym. In your father’s gym. As if it’s not absolutely insane to have a former world champion, global icon, philanthropist with a reputation built on charity fights and clean victories, just casually observing sparring sessions on scuffed mats.

The contrast is jarring.

“I fold,” you whispered into the quiet.

Dick laughed immediately, bright and easy, like he’d won something harmless. He released your wrists and stood, offering you a hand to pull you up, that same grin still firmly in place. You took it without ceremony, brushing yourself off as if you hadn’t just been pinned in front of an audience that mattered far too much.

And then Dick looked past you.

Straight at Jason.

The grin shifted. “Well,” Dick realized a new figure in the gym, clapping his hands together once, “been a while since I’ve seen ya’! You did great in your match against Harper last month!”

Jason didn’t return the smile. His jaw tightened, eyes flicking briefly to where Dick’s hands had been on you before settling back on his face.

The air between them went taut, stretched thin with something unspoken and ugly.

“Didn’t know you were comin’ here.” Jason grunted, pulling his headphones out of his equipment bag before throwing his equipment bag to the side, passing Dick to your side.

You turned to him as he wrapped the headphones around his neck.

“He’s here to briefly visit,” you explained. “It's been a while since we’ve seen each other, especially since the championship is going to be in New Jersey, the home of the well-respected boxers: Jason Todd and Dick Grayson!” You flung your arms out as if you were an announcer, hearing the roar of a nonexistent crowd.

Bruce chuckled at that, landing his gaze onto Jason.

“You sure you don’t wanna take up on my offer?”

Jason scoffed, “disrespecting my coach in front of me? In your dreams, you’ve heard my answer in the interview.” You glanced at him, your lips curving upwards, knowing exactly what he’s referring to.

“Well, all due respects to your coach.” Dick winks at you playfully, coming up to your other side. “You could learn some tricks from Bruce and maybe I can catch up with—”

“Not a fat chance in hell.”

Jason rolls his eyes.

You raised a pointed brow at him, wondering what’s with the attitude against your former teammate, or whatever the fuck.

“Oi’! Be nice, Todd.” Your father sways a finger at him, knowing he’s half-joking, but Bruce could only laugh at Jason’s intimidation.

Yuck.

Dick, of course, looked delighted. He walks over to a towel hanging off a bench, slinging it over his shoulder, entirely too relaxed for someone standing in the middle of a territorial standoff. “Didn’t realize I’d walked into your gym with your name on it,” he pokes at his response, his voice filled with sarcasm. “You always this friendly, Todd?”

Jason stepped closer, tension rolling off his shoulders.

“Only when necessary.”

You insert yourself between them before it could escalate further, noting down Jason’s hostile attitude.

“Both of you,” you dryly cut their conversation. “Save it in the cage, tomorrow.”

Dick lifted his hands in surrender, a grin still lingering on his face, showing off the pearly whites.

“Relax, coach. We’re just talking.”

Jason’s jaw ticked.

“Sure.”

Bruce observed the exchange like it was a chess match unfolding. Your father, meanwhile, looked one smirk away from enjoying this far too much.

“Unless yall wanna fight it out now.” Your father suggests, hearing Dick laugh, waving his hand around.

“Nah, let’s save that for the match tomorrow!” Dick shot back easily, clapping Jason once on the shoulder.

Then his gaze slowly trails off to you, dragging the towel through his hair, grin still shamelessly intact. “Hey, do you mind if we get dinner—”

Jason clicks his tongue.

“She’s busy tonight.”

Dick slowly side-eyed him. “Oookay…” he drawled, clearly amused. “Do you mind if we grab some friendly coffee?”

He emphasized on friendly.

Your brow twitched, glaring at Jason behind Dick’s shoulder when his mouth opens before it shuts. Your gaze clearly tells him that you can answer yourself.

Jason internally grumbled, jaw flexing.

You crossed your arms, looking at Dick with a polite smile. “Yeah, I’m down.”

And that was that.

And Jason— Jason’s fist tightens, his teeth clenching before he walks away from the conversation to start his warm-up, annoyed with Dick Grayson and his punchable face.

“Do you want me to get you anything—” you called after him, noticing the tension radiating off his back.

“I’m good,” he replied, loud enough to cut the air between you.

He didn’t look at you.

He just pulled the headphones from around his neck up over his ears, sealing himself off. The music wasn’t even playing yet, but he needed the barrier. Jason could already hear and see the furrow between your brows, your snark of his behavior, and the sigh filled with frustration that makes Jason wanna bite down on his tongue and die from being the reason for your frustration.

There was just something aggravating about Dick Grayson.

And he knew it was going to bite him in the ass later.

It always happens.

And today was no different, except the fact when you came back to the gym with Jason’s regular order— he had left already.

You expected to see him at the heavy bag, or in the corner stretching, or arguing with someone about footwork.

Instead, his space was empty.

“Hey, where’s Todd?” you asked casually.

Your father glanced up from his conversation with Bruce.

“Left.”

You blinked. “Left?”

“An hour in,” he added, mildly confused himself. “Didn’t say much when he left except talked with August about tomorrow.”

That didn’t make sense.

Jason never left early.

Left immediately after the first hour which was highly unusual of him— Jason had never left the boxing gym, he would at least stay for four hours, yet he had left.

You were left with confusion.

And Dick simply sips his coffee.

While Jason is in a turmoil of feelings.

After multiple messages left on read by him, your name flashing with a vibration of his phone that automatically went through voicemail while he begrudgingly ignored the flash of a picture of him and you together, ridiculous face masks on, fluffy headbands with bows, a night of self-care of one of the movie nights you’ve had, leaning into him for a selfie that he had pretended to hate.

It had quieted down after 2:00 PM.

“I think you should really tell her how ya’ feel.”

And like every other time, he has to consult with Artemis on FaceTime, her fiery red hair is down, brushing through it with a pointed gaze, piercing through the device into Jason’s soul.

Jason choked.

“Did you even listen to what I said for last four hours!?”

Artemis groaned, dragging a hand down her face like she was the one exhausted. “Oh my god, I’ve been listening since day one of this whole situation,” she snapped. “And I can’t help but say you’re blind as a damn bat!”

“I am not blind,” Jason shot back.

“You are catastrophically blind and we truly didn’t need this debrief and your internal crisis,” she corrected. “You think she memorizes your coffee order, patches you up like you’re something fragile, and looks at you the way she does because you’re just another fighter? The fact she motivates you every single time? Or the kiss on your cheek? Or have that viral clip go everywhere and not say a word of what yall are?”

Jason opened his mouth, then he closed it.

Artemis pointed at him. “Exactly.”

He stood abruptly, pacing now, agitation crawling under his skin.

“You didn’t see her with him!”

“With Grayson?” Artemis scoffed. “Please. I’ve seen that man flirt with a mirror. That literally means nothing.”

“It didn’t look like anything?!”

“And what did it look like?” she challenged, folding her arms.

Jason hesitated, jaw tight.

“She looked comfortable with him.”

Artemis’ expression shifted from exasperated to something almost pitying. “Jason. She’s comfortable with him because they’ve trained together. History doesn’t equal romance and I thought she cleared that up from the last conversation we had when y'all were in the locker room.”

And Artemis once again— had a point.

“She’s not choosing between you and him,” Artemis sighs quietly. “She doesn’t even know there’s a competition, because you’re the only one fighting it, dumbass.” Jason shouts a ‘hey!’ Before he frowns.

“You gotta stop being a wimp and just— I don’t know, take her out on a date for once!”

“I am not doing that!”

“Holy fuckin’ shit! Man UP, dude. Do you want to see her with Dick Grayson, then!?”

The fuck!?

“I thought you were on my side!”

Jason stares at her in disbelief.

“I am literally on your side!” Artemis annoyingly says. “Don’t drag this out any longer.”

“I—”

Jason’s door starts banging.

Artemis swears she saw Jason become ten-times paler.

“I know you’re in there, Jason! You better explain yourself!”

Fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck.

“What the fuck do I do—!?”

He hisses into his phone.

The call disconnects.

The last thing he sees is Artemis smirking at him before she hangs up.

Oh, what the absolute fuck, bruh.

The banging continues.

“Jason!”

He drags both hands down his face.

“Okay,” he mutters to himself. “Okay. You can absolutely tell her— you fight grown men for a living. You can open a door and confess.”

Another bang.

He flinches.

“JASON TODD.”

“Alright! Give me a second, woman!” He shouts back automatically, then winces from the annoyance in his tone.

He takes a deep breath, praying mentally to himself, and opens the door.

He leans against the doorframe like that might steady him.

“Hi,” he says weakly.

And like every other time that he had pissed you off—

You do not look amused.

You’re standing there in a plain graphic t-shirt wearing comfortable sleep shorts, arms crossed, eyes blazing with anger, hurt, and worry.

“You left,” you state.

“Yes.”

“You ignored my calls.”

“…Also yes.”

Your eyes narrow. “Are you five?”

He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “In my defense, I was having a crisis.”

“A crisis,” you repeat flatly.

“An internal one.”

You stare at him for a long second.

“Jason,” you say slowly, dangerously calm, “did you really leave training early, ignore me for hours, and spiral because Dick asked me to get coffee?”

He freezes.

You blink.

His silence answers him.

“Oh my god,” you breathe.

He winces. “It sounds worse when you say it out loud.”

“It is worse out loud!”

He steps aside automatically when you push past him into the apartment, pacing once like you’re trying to process the level of stupidity before he closes the door.

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter.

“I know,” he says immediately.

You turn on him.

“Why?”

“Tell me, Jason,” you step closer until his back hits the door with a dull thud. “What exactly happened? Why were you so pissed at Dick? I’ve told you before we’re just friends! We’re old acquaintances!”

Something in him snaps.

“I know that!” He fires back, louder than he means to.

“You think I don’t know that?” he continues, running a hand through his hair. “You think I’m stupid?”

“I think you’re being absolutely ridiculous,” you shoot back.

“Yeah?” he laughs, sharp and bitter. “You wanna know why I’m being ridiculous?”

You stare at him, jaw set.

“Enlighten me.”

“Because I absolutely hate how I feel.”

And he seethes, watching the way your eyes widen, your face written in confusion while he continues. “I hate that he pinned you when I couldn’t and that I haven’t. I hate that he’s got history with you, I hate that you light up when you talk about old training stories with him—”

His chest heaves. “I hate the fact that the media has this narrative between the two of you the last few weeks as if I am not there, I hate the fact we aren’t anything more than friends, and I hate that I don’t get to say anything about it because technically I have no right!”

He steps closer now, frustration radiating off him.

“I hate being friends. I hate the fact you don’t realize how much— how much I feel for you and I hate that we label the times we go out together ‘hangouts’ when I want it to be a date, or whenever you’re with someone else!”

The anger fractures, bleeding into something raw.

“I buy you flowers. I fix your damn car. I let you come over every Tuesday. I let you yell at me. I let you patch me up every round because it’s the only time you touch me without thinking and when you drop off medicine when I’m sick.” His voice breaks slightly at the edges. “And I don’t say anything because I don’t want to fuck this up!”

You stand there, taking it all in.

You watch the way his chest rises and falls like he’s just gone twelve rounds. The way his fists are still clenched at his sides, knuckles pale, like he’s bracing for impact that never comes. The anger is still there, but it’s fraying at the edges now, splitting open to reveal something far more vulnerable underneath.

Then, as if a switch flipped, the air changed.

And then he caught the subtle way you wet your lips, almost unconsciously, like you were thinking too hard about something you hadn’t decided yet.

His gaze dipped before he could stop it.

To your mouth, then back to your eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered under his breath, voice lower now, rougher.

“Like what?” You asked, though your voice had lost its earlier edge.

“Like you wanna fuck me.”

You didn’t flinch.

Instead, you hummed lightly, fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your knuckles and all the blood rushes to his dick.

“You’re really funny, you know that?” You murmured.

And then you leaned in, not to kiss him, but enough that your lips hovered near his ear, your breath warm against his skin.

“You’re not the only one that has feelings, Jay.”

And suddenly, your mouth crashes against his, teeth grazing, breath stolen. Jason makes a startled sound against your lips before he’s kissing you back just as hard, hands gripping your waist like he needs something solid to hold onto.

There’s nothing tentative about it.

Your fingers slide from to the hem of his shirt in one decisive motion.

He barely pulls back long enough to breathe.

“You’re—”

“Shut up,” you murmured against his mouth.

Fuckin’ crazy hot.

You drag his shirt up and over his head in one swift pull, tossing it somewhere behind you without looking.

His hands automatically find your hips again, tightening them as a low sound rumbling from his chest as your palms press flat against the bare skin of his chest— warm, solid, and real.

He’s basically grinding against your core, the imprint of his dick on his sweatpants rubs against your shorts that hugs your thighs, and every time he lifts you every few seconds, he catches your clit through the thin piece of a poor excuse of shorts, hearing you moan from the slight pleasure.

It doesn’t take long for your shirt to also be thrown somewhere in the living room, which unsurprisingly, you’re not wearing a bra that leaves him in a daze, staring at your tits that makes his head spin from how perfect they are.

Your hands slide up his chest, over his shoulders, and then you’re pulling him down again, mouth finding his skin with the same confidence you dragged him into that first kiss. He exhales sharply when your lips press to his jaw, then lower and slower.

He’s imagined this, too many times.

Jason doesn’t know what to do with you, especially with the way you’re not afraid to be the one directing the pace, being the bold one to pull the first move, to have your lips marking him up everywhere.

Your teeth graze lightly over his skin.

He sucks in a breath.

“Mm,” you hum against him, clearly pleased with the reaction. “You’ve thought about this before?”

Shit, did he say that out loud?

You nip gently at the side of his neck, it wasn’t hard, but it was enough to make him let out a small, involuntary sound that vibrates through his chest.

“Don’t—” he starts, but it dissolves into a breath when you press another slow kiss just below it, knowing full well the faint flush of red will linger.

You pull back slightly to admire your work, fingers brushing over the spot you’ve claimed and the other red spots that linger all over his collarbone.

Jason’s eyes are dark, blown wide, chest rising a little faster now.

“Answer me,” you murmur, lips ghosting over his pulse point. “How many times?”

His hands tighten at your waist, fingers digging in just enough to steady himself.

“You don’t wanna know,” he says hoarsely.

“Oh,” you whisper, pressing another deliberate kiss to his throat, “I think I do.”

Your hand moves slowly, unhurried, sliding from his shoulder down over the firm plane of his chest. Your pretty manicured hand drags lightly over warm skin, fingers splaying as if you’re mapping him out from memory.

“Once?” you press.

A huff of breath leaves him— half laugh, half disbelief.

His dick twitching.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

You drag your nails lightly down his chest in response, watching the way his stomach tightens under your touch.

“It’s okay if you don’t wanna answer.”

Then, your hand drags down till you’ve grasped onto his cock, feeling it slightly twitch beneath your palms even through the cloth.

“Oh f—“

You softly chuckled.

“I’ve thought of sucking your dick before, ya’ know?”

With that, you squeeze him a tad-bit, fueling the fire in his stomach when you watch his facial expression twisting into pure pleasure, closing his eyes in bliss, releasing a sharp moan from your words, his cheeks flushing in a pretty red color before he slowly opens them to face your devilish smile.

Without a single thought behind Jason’s eyes, he watches you stick out your tongue, placing it on his chest—

And dragged it down.

His mind focused on the pink muscle, everything thrown out the window, gliding your tongue lower, tracing the defined line of his abs, feeling it clench when you run the ridges between them, tasting the salt on his skin as you go.

His breath hitches, a ragged sound that vibrates through his chest and into your mouth. You pause just above the waistband of his sweatpants, looking up at him through your lashes.

His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with lust, fixed on you as if you’re the only thing that exists in the world, mouthing the imprint.

And it feels heavenly, the intensity of the heat, the wet mouth of yours sucking him through the cloth for a second.

With a slow, deliberate movement, you hook your fingers into the elastic of his sweatpants and boxers, pulling them down together. The fabric catches for a moment on his erection before you free it, and his cock springs out, hard and flushed.

The sight makes your own arousal spike, a wet heat pooling between your thighs and your fingers dragging to your core providing relief when you rub yourself.

You don’t waste any time on Jason.

You lean in, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the head, tasting the bead of pre-cum that’s gathered there. Jason’s hips jerk, a choked gasp escaping his lips. You smile against him, then part your lips wider, taking just the tip into your mouth.

Your tongue swirls around the sensitive ridge, teasing him, savoring the way he trembles under your touch and when you follow a particular vein that nearly makes him lose it all.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his hands resting on top of your head. “Don’t fuckin’ stop.”

You take him deeper, inch by inch, until he’s hitting the back of your throat. You relax your muscles, letting him slide even further, your nose brushing against the coarse hair at his base. The guttural moan he lets out is raw, unrestrained, and it sends a thrill straight through you. You start to move, bobbing your head in a steady rhythm, your other hand stroking what your mouth can’t take.

His hands tangle in your hair, his grip tight but not painful. He’s trying to hold back, you can feel it in the tension of his thighs, the way his breaths come in short, sharp bursts.

But you don’t want him to hold back.

You want to break him, to make him lose all control. You pick up the pace, sucking harder, your tongue flicking against the underside of his shaft with every pass.

His hips start to move, thrusting forward to meet your mouth, moving your head slowly to follow and you let him, taking him deeper each time.

And the way your eye rolls to the back of your head.

“That’s—fucking hell,” To hear the broken thoughts of the man stuffed in your mouth only encourages you to repeat the entire process of pulling yourself to the tip of his cock before taking him all-over again to the back of your throat.

“Fuck, take all of it.”

Jason finds himself encased in a wet heat that holds him hostage, shutting his eyelids from the pure bliss you’ve given him from your lethal tongue of yours.

The room fills with the wet, obscene sounds of your mouth on him, his ragged moans as he starts to lose himself. His groans were becoming a higher pitch now, bordering on whimpers as he grew more daring with moving his hips against your face. His excitement was only spurring you on, a desperate little moan rumbling in your throat as you watched his face contort.

You greedily licked as he fucked your throat, your fingers repeatedly circle your clit as his cock twitched against your palate.

“God, I’m gonna—” he chokes out, his grip tightening in your hair.

The head pushes against the back of your throat when you try to fit as much of him as you can. You struggle to breathe, airways blocked by the thickness of his cock. But it’s fucking worth it when he quivers under you, knowing he’s so close, the back of your skull reveling in the pressure of his palm.

You hum around him, the vibration pushing him closer to the edge and with a final, broken cry, he comes, his release hot and bitter on your tongue.

You swallow it all, milking him for every last drop before slowly pulling back.

You look up at him, his chest heaving, his face flushed and glistening with sweat.

He looks completely wrecked, and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

You don’t know how long you’ve been having sex with Jason last night.

You can’t remember when you’ve found yourself in his bed, having multiple rounds with one another but you know you’ve come onto Jason’s tongue multiple times, and Jason has only come a few times, still wanting to continue, even though there was the final match the next day.

You goddamn nearly blacked out from how good he was eating you off the damn bone.

And he still is— except all you feel and remember is the divine stretch, a full, aching pressure that steals the air from your lungs. You can feel every thick inch of him pulsing inside you, a hot, heavy presence that makes your head spin. Your arms snake around his shoulders, nails digging into the sweat-slick skin of his back as you pull him down, crushing his chest to yours.

“Knew you could take it,” he rumbles, his voice a low, smug vibration against your ear.

You clench around him deliberately, a tight, wet squeeze that makes his breath hitch. A smug little smirk plays on your lips. "Yeah? Well, you gonna just sit there and admire the view, or are you actually gonna fuck me?"

He lets out a low groan, a sound of pure annoyance that only makes you wetter. He pulls out, a slow, agonizing drag that leaves you feeling empty, before sinking back in just as slowly that feels tortuous.

A slight pull out, and then back in.

"Is that all you've got? I'm bored." You let your forearm fall over your eyes, a dramatic gesture you know will piss him off. "Wake me up when you're done."

You hear the sharp grind of his teeth. "You've got a smart mouth on you suddenly," he mentions, his voice dangerously low. "Keep talking and I'll make you choke on my dick from earlier."

You peek out from under your arm, a defiant glare in your eyes. "Then, move faster—”

A sharp, forceful thrust punches the air from your lungs, choking off your next smart-ass remark. Your eyes fly wide, a gasp tearing from your throat as he hits a spot so deep you see stars.

"What was that?" he snarls, doing it again, harder this time, hooking one of your legs around his waist to change the angle. "Fuck you," you spit, but there's no heat in it, only desperate, needy pleasure.

"Oh, I am," he snorts, a wicked, cocky laugh escapes that makes your stomach flip. "I'm fucking a goddamn slut that can’t keep her legs shut." He sets a brutal pace, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the room.

Each thrust is deep, powerful, designed to punish, to overwhelm, grasping onto your hips to pull you into him further, reaching deeper that has blubbering moans uncontrollably while your hands, your pretty nails drags his back, knowing there’s going to be marks tomorrow imprinted on his skin.

"Still bored?" He grunts, his hand wrapping around your throat, not squeezing, just holding you in place, a possessive brand that makes you dizzy.

"Look at me when I'm fucking you."

Your vision snaps to his gaze, it’s blurry with unshed tears of pleasure coming from the corner of your eyes. His eyes are dark, burning with a fire that matches the one building in your core.

"You're such an asshole," you moan loudly, your voice breaking as he drives into you relentlessly.

"And you love it," he counters, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. "Take what I'm giving you."

The coil in your stomach tightens, your muscles tensing as the pleasure builds to an impossible peak.

“Jason… I'm gonna—"

"No," he cuts you off, his voice firm. "Don’t cum yet. Not until I say so." He slows his pace, rolling his hips in a way that drags his cock against your clit every second with every stroke, keeping you right on the edge without letting you fall.

“Please—”

“No.”

Then, without listening to a damn word Jason had told you, the coil in your stomach snaps, his thumb rolling just once against your clit and your orgasm crashes over you with the force of a tidal wave.

“Jay!”

A strangled cry tears from your lips as your walls clamp down on him, a series of violent, rhythmic spasms that milk his cock. Your vision whites out, your body arching off the bed as wave after wave of intense pleasure wracks you.

“Not really a good listener, are you?”

Jason groans, a deep, guttural sound of pure satisfaction as he feels you come apart around him.

He doesn't stop, his thrusts becoming erratic, chasing his own release as you ride out the last tremors of yours. "Ts’ okay, you feel so good when you come on me anyway," he pants, his forehead pressed against yours, his thumb still rolling on your overstimulated clit. "So fucking tight around me."

There’s a certain slight burn to it that feels so fucking good, allowing him to continue to chase his orgasm while your own continues to crash like a continuous tidal wave.

Jason grunts melt into desperate mewls and whines with each rut of his hips.

He sounds so needy.

And there's a raging urge within you to hold him as he reaches his climax. To wrap your arms around his head and cradle him when he makes noises like that. And without a second thought, you did that— pulling him into you before he stills, cumming within you while your name leaves his lips.

There’s nothing in the room except the smell of sex, heat in the room and two bodies.

Your body becomes limp, exhausted and completely spent. You barely register the moment Jason slips out of bed.

But he’s back within seconds.

The mattress dips beside you, and there’s a soft touch against your thigh— gentle and careful. You blink lazily and see him with a small towel in hand, damp and warm.

“Hey,” he murmurs quietly, brushing your hair back from your face. “Stay with me a second.”

You hum in response, too tired to form words.

He cleans you up slowly, respectfully, checking in without making it clinical. His thumb strokes along your hip in between, grounding, reassuring.

“You okay?” he asks, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it.

You nod faintly. “Yeah.”

A small, proud smile tugs at his swollen lip.

“You were incredible,” he murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder. “Did so good for me.”

When he’s done, he tosses the towel aside and slides back under the covers immediately. You instinctively roll toward him, pressing into his chest like it’s the only place that makes sense.

Your skin sticks slightly from the heat of the room, but neither of you cares. Jason wraps his arms around you automatically, pulling you flush against him. One hand settles at the small of your back, the other cradles the back of your head, fingers threading lazily through your hair.

He exhales like something in him finally unclenched.

“Got you,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

You tangle your leg with his, forehead resting against his collarbone, his heartbeat steady. Every so often, his thumb traces absent patterns against your spine.

His lips brush your temple.

“You need water?” he asks quietly. “Pain anywhere?”You shake your head again, sleep already pulling at you.

“Good,” he whispers.

He presses one last soft kiss into your hair before his body fully relaxes, holding you close like he has no intention of letting go anytime soon.

“And welcome back, ladies, gentlemen, and nonbinary folks— if you’re just tuning in, you chose one hell of a night to do it!”

The arena is shaking.

The noise of the arena vibrates through bone and steel, rattling camera rigs and makes the commentators lean closer to their headsets just to hear themselves think. Spotlights sweep across a sold-out crowd, catching handmade signs, painted faces, phones already recording before the first punch has even been thrown.

“Tonight’s main event is one we’ve been anticipating since Roy’s match!” The announcer says, voice rising over the roar of the crowd. “Isn’t that right, Clark?”

The arena responds instantly— loud, sharp, and multiple voicing his name when they recognize who’s seated at the commentary table.

Clark Kent adjusts his headset, offering that modest, almost sheepish smile to the camera as the crowd continues to cheer.

“For once,” Clark replies smoothly, “I’m glad I’m on the ringside and not in the middle of it. These two?” He laughs, shaking his head. “This has been building for such little time!”

The other commentator lets out a low chuckle. “That’s putting it lightly.” He gestures toward the massive screens overhead as highlight reels flash— Dick’s acrobatic knockouts and Jason’s brutal finishes.

“On one side, the golden prodigy of Bruce Wayne— Richard Grayson.” The crowd cheers at the mention of his name. “And on the other— the so-called underdog who refused to stay one. Jason Todd!” Clark whistles low, the commentators letting the crowd’s cheer bypass, but he can’t help but swear he’s never heard a crowd this loud since his own match against Bruce Wayne, ages ago.

“He’s the man who fights like he’s got something to prove every single time he steps into a ring!”

The camera cuts briefly to Bruce Wayne seated close to the ring, waiting for the show to go on.

“And here’s the kicker!” The commentator continues, leaning into it. “They’re both molded under the same coach!” The camera pans to the person next to Bruce Wayne, your father before it flickers to you.

“To be specific, the assistant coach of the former boxing champion! They’re two fighters forged in the same fire— who took very different paths once they stepped out on their own!”

“And tonight,” the announcer finishes, as the bell official steps forward, “we find out which path leads to gold.”

“Give it up… for DICK GRAYSON!”

His music slams through the speakers again, louder this time, bass thundering through the floor. The crowd leaps to its feet in a wave of sound that feels almost physical.

Dick Grayson bursts through the tunnel like he owns it. All easy confidence and loose limbs, he jogs down the ramp with that signature grin— playful, effortless, like this is just another rookie fight.

He shadowboxes toward the ring, light on his feet, tossing sharp combinations into the air for the cameras. A wink to the front row. A quick spin just to hear the crowd react louder. He slaps hands with fans leaning over the barricade, soaking in the cheers like sunlight on bare skin.

The arena is still buzzing from Dick’s entrance when the lights suddenly cut to black.

A low, distorted bass hum rolls through the speakers— slow, heavy, and almost predatory. It vibrates through the floor, through the barricades, through the ribs of everyone in attendance.

“And now…” the announcer’s voice drops, stretching the anticipation tight. “His opponent.”

A single spotlight snaps on at the mouth of the tunnel.

“Fighting out of Gotham City… weighing in at—”

The music hits.

“Give it up for… JASON TODD!”

A mix of roaring support, sharp boos, and that electric kind of chaos that only follows someone unpredictable.

Jason steps into the light.

He wears a simple black robe, the hood up with his fingerless gloves already on. His shoulders are broader than they look on screen, posture heavy with controlled tension.

Jason rolls one shoulder as he walks, loosening it. Cracks his neck once, sharp and audible even through the music.

He steps into the center of the ring and finally reaches for the tie at his waist.

The arena feels like it collectively leans forward.

He unties it slowly.

He lets the robe fall open just slightly— revealing his ribs, defined muscle, the faint outline of old scars earned the hard way.

Then he shrugs it off completely.

And the reaction shifts instantly. What begins as admiration fractures into something else entirely—gasps ripple outward in a visible wave, followed by scattered, disbelieving laughter and sharp, scandalized shouts from the lower rows close enough to catch the screen in full detail.

The production team, bold or messy, lets the camera linger half a second too long as it pans across Jason’s back. Under the harsh white arena lights, the marks are unmistakable.

Darkened impressions bloom against his skin, scattered along the broad plane of his shoulders, trailing down between his shoulder blades and curling up toward the side of his neck.

Some are half-hidden beneath athletic tape, peeking out like secrets that were never meant to stay private. Others are fully visible— deep plum and fading crimson against flushed, fight-warmed skin.

The crowd noise swells into something chaotic— half shock and the other half in delight. Someone wolf-whistles from the upper rows, he nearly hears a chant almost start before dissolving into laughter.

The camera zooms instinctively, catching the curve of muscle and the unmistakable shape of one darker mark near his shoulder, before snapping back to a wide shot as if remembering this is, technically, a sanctioned sporting event.

“Well,” the other commentator manages, clearing his throat as he tries— and fails— to suppress the grin bleeding into his voice, “it appears Mr. Todd had a very… thorough preparation phase.”

Clark exhales softly beside him, professional but clearly aware of the moment. “That is certainly one way to make a statement before the opening bell.”

Jason rolls his shoulders once, slow and deliberate, like the noise is nothing more than background static. The referee steps between them. Dick bounces lightly on his toes across the ring, grin sharpened now into something competitive.

The bell rings.

“And here we go!”

Dick comes out fast, testing range with quick jabs, light on his feet. He circles left, then right, throwing a clean combination that snaps against Jason’s guard.

JLC matches tend to take forever.

They average at least an hour or two, so it was no different that two experienced fighters would drag on the match with split knuckles, bruises, a spit of blood escaping someone’s lips, or wiping away the corner of their mouth.

“This is dead even,” the commentator says, voice tight, sweating profusely from the last few matches exchanged between the two men. “You could make a case either way.”

Dick moves first, snapping a jab that splits Jason’s guard, followed with a quick cross that forces Jason back half a step. The crowd surges at the shift.

“Grayson finding rhythm!”

Jason pivots.

“Look at the way he moves!”

“Dear god, is Jason simply going to take that brutality!?”

“And oh my god, here comes Dick Grayson!”

“And Jason strikes again him!”

“Holy crap! Look at him!”

Then, it was silent.

A left hook comes from tight and brutal, compact and devastating.

It lands clean against Dick’s jaw.

The arena goes silent for half a heartbeat.

Dick’s body stutters mid-motion, balance unraveling in slow, terrible clarity. His knees give. He hits the canvas hard, the impact echoing through the ring.

The crowd explodes.

Jason steps back immediately, chest heaving, eyes still locked on his opponent as the referee dives in.

The count begins.

Dick rolls to his side, blinking, trying to orient himself. He pushes to one knee at six.

The crowd counts with the ref.

The referee looks into his eyes.

Hesitates.

And waves it off.

“That’s it! It’s over!”

The arena detonates into chaos.

Jason exhales slowly, tension draining from his shoulders all at once, blood streaked down his temple. Chest rising and falling like he just outran a storm.

The referee grabs his wrist and raises it high.

“And your winner— by knockout— JASON TODD!”

Dick steadies himself against the ropes, one glove hooked over the top strand as he regains his balance. His jaw is tight, chest rising and falling hard, but when he looks across the ring at Jason, he gives a single nod.

In the center of the ring, Jason stands still as the official approaches with the JLC belt. Blood continues to slip from the cut above his brow, trailing down the side of his face and along his jaw before dripping onto his shoulder.

The belt is fastened around his waist briefly before he shrugs it off and slings it over his shoulder instead. It rests there heavy and earned, gold catching the lights as flashbulbs explode around him.

He grins.

“Oh— hold on,” the commentator says, voice rising. “He’s heading somewhere.”

Jason doesn’t wait for the post-fight interview.

He doesn’t pause for the cameras.

He hops down from the ring apron in one fluid movement, belt still hooked over his shoulder, ignoring a handler trying to steer him back toward center ring.

“He’s not going to the panel— he’s not—”

The camera scrambles to follow as he pushes through some individuals that try to interrupt his path.

Straight to you.

The crowd begins to realize what’s happening before the commentators do.

His hands find your waist first, firm and grounding, pulling you flush against him as the belt nearly slips from his shoulder.

And then he kisses you.

A full, claiming kiss right there under the arena lights. The crowd gasps, audible and scandalized, before the sound erupts into cheers so loud it nearly drowns out commentary.

“Oh my—!” the announcer laughs in disbelief. “He just sealed the victory with that!”

Clark exhales a quiet, almost amused breath. “Well… that will be replayed for a while.”

“Doesn’t it remind you of that time with Lois, winning that match against Lex Luthor?”

“Huh, it quite does.”

Jason pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath still heavy, grin spreading wider: feral, victorious, and entirely unapologetic. The belt hangs loose against his shoulder, gold catching the lights while a thin line of blood slips from the cut above his brow and tracks down his cheek.

They’re close enough now that the overhead screen fills with the two of you— your hands fisted in the front of his wraps, his fingers still firm at your waist. The arena noise swells again, cheers rolling like thunder.

But in that small pocket of space between your foreheads, it feels quieter.

His lips brush near your ear as he says something— too low for the microphones, too close for anyone else to catch. From the outside, it looks like nothing more than a breathless murmur, a champion whispering something triumphant after a win.

“Hey, kiss it better?” He murmurs softly, almost shy beneath the swagger.

And he feels your breath hitch into a quiet laughter, nodding your head before he drags you away.

Behind close doors with not a single eye of media, you kiss the split knuckles dedicated for you.

a/n: HELLO EVERYONE!! it’s been a while!!! this quite literally took a month and a half to write? I was on hiatus for a bit! Don’t expect me to stick long haha, I’m doing slow updates, so any work from now on will take a fat minute to write out. But I’m glad I was able able to push this fic out!! Let me know your thoughts on boxer!jason winkwink b/c holy cow. Never in my life have I ever wanted to suck the living soul out of jason todd… PLUS be sure to reblog, comment, and like!!! It means the world if you interact, especially if you comment or reblog your thoughts!!

taglist: @jasontodd2whatt

[moonologyy]

IF I WAS YOUR BOYFRIEND !

-> art credit: @/non_unoo on Twitter !

pairing: timdrake/f!reader

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 — whereas Tim Drake had his eyes on you from the very first week of the semester, he never expected his college best friend to start dating you— the person he’d wanted all along. So now he’s praying for your (ex) boyfriend’s downfall, because God forbid a man openly plots to have you for himself instead.

cw: yearning, strangers to lovers, one-sided love, requited love, slight manipulation, mr. steal your girl(?), Tim wants reader so badly, HAPPY ENDING, fluff, irrelevant OCs, slowburn, reader is in a relationship, NO CHEATING INVOLVED, tim respectfully plays the waiting game, he is more of a plotter than a messy person.

lwk listened to girlfriend by avril lavigne & boyfriend by justin bieber on loop. wc: 16k

The first time Tim had met you, it was not anything special.

There was no dramatic collision in the hallway, no moment where time seemed to slow and the world sharpened around your face.

You were simply there, seated a few rows ahead of him in a lecture hall that smelled faintly of dry erase markers and iridescent lights, flipping through your notebook with absentminded focus and a laptop that had an open tab of a clothing brand, another piece of shirt that would compliment you.

Tim knew you both had taken a class together in the first semester, one of those general education requirements that pulled students from every major into the same crowded room.

It had been easy not to notice you then, easy to let you blend into the background of rustling backpacks and low conversation before the professor began to speak while he completely zones out.

What registered first was familiarity.

When he walked into the classroom and spotted you again in the second semester, a quiet recognition settled in his chest, the subtle surprise of realizing someone else had survived the same academic gauntlet and ended up here too.

It was rare to see a familiar face that was not tied to his major, rarer still for it to be someone he vaguely remembered for reasons he could not immediately place.

He remembered your handwriting from group work signs in sheets, the way you always underlined titles twice, the fact that you asked questions that were thoughtful without trying to impress anyone.

Someone who arrived a few minutes early and claimed the same seat near the aisle. Someone who sighed softly when the professor went off on a tangent, who laughed under your breath at jokes that barely landed. Tim noticed these things without meaning to, the same way he noticed patterns everywhere else in his life. None of it felt important at the time.

You were just another student, another name on the roster, another presence in a room full of them.

If anyone had asked him then, he would have said meeting you meant nothing at all.

Just a coincidence.

Just shared schedules and overlapping paths.

But it kind of changed when he started to interact with you.

It was never anything important, never anything that felt like the start of something. Small comments exchanged before class, a quiet complaint about an upcoming exam, a brief conversation about how unbearable the assigned readings were. Mundane things. Things he would not have remembered on any other day.

And yet, he found himself listening.

He listened when you talked about how you always forgot to bring a charger and lived in a constant state of low battery panic. He listened when you mentioned grabbing coffee after class, not as an invitation, just as information offered into the air. He listened to the way your voice softened when you spoke about things you liked, even when the topic was painfully ordinary compared to.. well, Tim’s night life.

Somehow, you had decided to sit next to him through these lectures.

You went on about your weekend plans, part time jobs, a professor you could not stand.

Tim told himself it was nothing.

He was just being polite.

Just filling the silence like everyone else did.

But somewhere along the way, he realized he was paying attention in a way he did not with anyone else.

He remembered details he did not need to remember.

The brand of pens you preferred, the way you tapped your fingers against the desk when you were thinking and the way you slightly lift your shoulders when you laughed, like you were surprised by your own amusement.

The conversations never lingered long.

They ended when class began, when one of you packed up your things, when life naturally pulled you in separate directions.

Still, he caught himself replaying them afterward, cataloging your words as if they held weight simply because they had come from you.

It unsettled him, a little.

How something so ordinary could start to feel significant.

That was when it started, when he began to have this small, itsy bitsy, nothing serious kind of crush on you.

“It was just proximity,” he told himself, over and over, as if repeating it enough times would make it true. As if that alone explained why he started waking up earlier than he ever had before, setting alarms he did not need, just so he could take his time.

Why he stood in front of his closet longer than usual, choosing something awfully comfortable yet still deliberate, still stylish in a way that looked effortless if no one thought too hard about it.

He paid attention to things he normally did not.

Made sure his hair did not resemble a bird’s nest, fingers combing through it until it sat just right. He actually showered in the morning now, instead of the night before, letting the hot water wake him fully as he went through the motions with more care than necessary.

He chose a scent that lingered without being overwhelming, something clean, something he thought you might notice if you were close enough.

And then there was the mirror.

He’d lowkey snap outfit flicks.

Sometimes, it would be little videos or photos perfectly timed to show off how his clothes fit just right, and the fact he could fit your aesthetic, or match your outfits like what couples usually do (you guys barely interacted more than 15 minutes and he doesn’t even have your instagram, because he’s a wimp to ask, even though he had found you on Instagram easily).

Everyone likes a guy that could dress and match them, right? Right.

He’d pick a song that matched the vibe as well, something cool but casual, and post it to his Instagram story, followed by hundreds of thousands of people since he’s famously one of Bruce’s adopted sons, which comes with perks and downsides (this was one of the downsides), but without making a big deal out of it.

Then, of course, he’d save those stories to his highlights, making it easy for you to stumble across them whenever you felt like it. All so you could—whether you wanted to or not— notice just how cool and awesome his fits were.

Yeah, he was a total D1-plotter, and he wasn’t even the slightest bit ashamed of it.

Because, really— if girls could do it, why couldn’t guys?

He has a second account as well, only followed by his close friends, his annoying older brothers and Damian too, but he absolutely could not wait for you to eventually be added to his spam account.

One that had more outfit flicks saved neatly in his highlights. Another filled with his friends getting up to shenanigans he would never post publicly on the main, the kind of moments meant only for people he trusted.

Mixed in between were appearances from his brothers, candid shots and blink and you miss it videos that felt oddly domestic for someone like him, and then there were the miscellaneous things. Late night thoughts typed in tiny text, blurry city lights, half eaten food, dumb memes, moments that did not need context to matter.

And because Tim is a show-off, he’s definitely bringing his skateboard to ride around campus today, so he could catch your attention, most likely talk to you, compliment your outfit of the day, ask for your Instagram, and uh, talk about how long he’s been skateboarding and if he could do a kickflip, which he abso-flipping-lutely could do one.

Not only that, he also had a highlight of videos of skateboard tricks too on his spam account, clean landings, a few near wipes, proof that he actually knew what he was doing and was not just carrying it around for show.

And boom.

There ya’ go.

Simple as that.

A small plan with a big hope: to get a little closer, one casual skate session and maybe even one date with you.

Before he knew it, Tim was out of his apartment, cruising down the sidewalks with the breeze tugging at his jacket, the familiar hum of wheels against concrete keeping his mind sharp. Up ahead, something, or rather, someone— caught his eye. A familiar figure, moving at their own pace, completely unaware of him approaching.

“Yo, Miro!”

Tim called out, his voice cutting through the morning air with an easy confidence.

He stopped smoothly, catching his skateboard with one hand and tilting it casually within his hold, like it was no effort at all.

“Hey, man!”

Miro greeted him with a laugh, already extending his hand.

Tim understood immediately, muscle memory kicking in as they went through the usual handshake without missing a beat.

Their knuckles met first, fingers bumping, followed by their fingers interlocking for a brief second, It ended with a solid dap up before Tim tugged Miro in for a quick side hug, shoulders knocking together in an easy, comfortable way that spoke of routine and familiarity rather than anything forced.

“You freshened up today, bro, tryna impress someone?”

Miro pulls away with a raised brow, clearly noticing the way Tim’s hair sat a little too neat to be accidental, the whole look pulled together in that effortlessly intentional way. And then there was the scent— something clean, subtle, and lingering just enough to be noticed when he stepped closer.

Tim scoffed, rolling his eyes as he shifted his grip on the skateboard. “What? Nah,” he said a little too quickly, which absolutely did not help his case.

He shrugged like it was nothing, like he always looked this put together, like the extra effort not been deliberate at all.

But the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying him.

“Can’t a guy look good for himself?” He added, tone light, defensive in that way that meant Miro had hit a nerve that made Miro whistled a teasing tune, nudging his shoulder against Tim’s own.

He leaned back on his heel, pretending the conversation was amusing rather than mildly exposing, even as the smell of his cologne hung in the air, undeniable proof that, yeah— he had definitely freshened up for a reason.

“You’re such a liar, Tim. Is it that girl you’ve been tellin’ me about in your class?”

Tim’s shoulders deflated.

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice dropping just a notch, “she’s the pretty girl I’ve been telling you about.” He confirms, glancing away for half a second, jaw tightening like he was bracing himself. “I wanna ask her out, but I’m flippin’ nervous.”

Miro immediately cooed in mock sympathy, dragging it out just to be annoying. “Aww,” he teased, pressing a hand to his chest. “Look at you. Tim Drake, nervous over a girl.”

Tim shot him a look, equal parts warning and embarrassment. “Don’t,” he muttered, shifting his weight, skateboard tapping lightly against the pavement. “This is serious.”

Miro just grinned wider, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Nah, I get it,” he said, still not letting go of the teasing tone. “She’s got you down bad.”

Tim huffed, rubbing the back of his neck.

Miro was more than just some random guy he talked to in passing that happened to be going in the same direction, but he was an actual friend.

They had shared a computer science class in their first semester, ended up sitting next to each other by chance, and somehow never stopped talking after that. What started as borrowing a charger and comparing notes had turned into easy conversations, inside jokes, and a familiar presence that made long lectures more bearable.

Miro is also the kind of friend who notices things.

And if anyone was going to call him out for putting in extra effort, for being nervous in a way he rarely was, it was Miro and most likely Steph.

Which made admitting it out loud both easier and infinitely more embarrassing.

“Are we still going out for drinks with Steph, Zinnia, and Ezra?” Tim asked, a little too quickly, very obviously changing the topic before Miro could dig any deeper into his small crush.

“Mhm,” Miro hummed, an entertained smile tugging at his lips at the sudden change of topic as he nodded along. “Though Ezra said he’s bringing his girl to meet us, even though he doesn’t want to.” He shook his head, a small frown settling in. “Don’t get why Ezra’s ashamed of her. It’s cool if he brings her along, y’know?”

Tim frowned at that, brows knitting together. “Ashamed?” he repeated, tone sharper than he intended. He shifted his skateboard under his arm once more, jaw tightening.

“That’s… weird, I didn’t know he had a girl.”

“Right?” Miro pitched his voice, pulling a drink from the side of his bag. “Like, either you’re with someone or you’re not, hiding her just makes it worse and yah’ I didn’t know either.”

Tim nodded slowly, the thought sticking with him longer than he expected. The idea of being embarrassed by someone you chose to be with rubbed him the wrong way.

He exhaled, forcing his expression back to neutral.

“Ya’ think it’s like a situationship? I thought he was still hung up with ya’know who.”

Miro snorts at that.

“Nah,” Miro said immediately, waving it off. “Even though Ezra keeps talkin’ about how many people he’s getting and all that, he’s been telling me she’s a keeper and that he’s moved on from that big ol’ crush.”

Tim hummed at that, thoughtful, eyes briefly dropping to the pavement, letting Miro run his mouth to fill the silence between them as he took a swig of his bottled water. “Man, how does Ezra do it?” Miro muttered, kicking a pebble. “Dude has the charisma that could probably rival Nightwing.”

Miro scoffs, but Tim raised a brow at his own words, the comparison landing heavier than he expected.

His older brother’s vigilante name had a way of doing that, slipping into conversations uninvited and lingering longer than necessary, becoming a symbol to Gotham and his charm that had women posting forums about how they bet he looks good underneath that mask.

Dick had always been like that, though.

Effortless charm, easy smiles, and the kind of presence that pulled people in without trying.

“I would pay to see Nightwing and Ezra going toe to toe,” Tim mused, lips quirking up as the image formed in his head.

He already knew how it would end.

Ezra would lose.

Badly.

Even with a pretty face, it did not come close to Dick Grayson, which he could honestly admit— it was a fact that everyone and their mama knew.

That was just an unfair comparison.

Dick’s face is literally a public service at this point, plastered across magazines and billboards, the undisputed #1 lethal face card of the Wayne family, according to Reddit, Twitter, and an article that had statistics, polls, and the golden ratio of their face displayed on Gotham Gazette’s ranking on the Wayne family.

It was the kind of face that launched headlines, sponsorships, and unnecessary levels of public adoration.

Tim shook his head, half amused, and half resigned.

It was wild growing up next to that kind of genetic overachievement that did things to a person. Still, he could not deny it. If charisma were a competition, Nightwing would win without even realizing he was playing.

Tim was fine with that.

He was perfectly content sitting at number three on Gotham’s Gazette ranking, unofficially crowned “pretty boy” by the internet and whatever unhinged ranking system people had cooked up that week.

A pretty boy should be with a pretty girl.

And you’re a pretty girl.

“Hey, don’t bail on us again,” Miro nudges his shoulder into Tim’s.

Tim stumbled half a step, scoffing as he steadied himself. “I don’t bail,” he protested automatically, even though they both knew that was a lie.

“You and Steph bail way too much,” Miro continued, pointing at him. “You guys gotta stop studying for once and live a little.”

Tim sighed, eyes flicking away as he adjusted his grip on the skateboard. “Alright, alright,” he conceded. “We’ll live a little.” He paused, then added more quietly, “No promises, though.”

Miro grinned, clearly taking that as a win anyway.

Even if he did not know the exact reason why Tim and Stephanie were always the first to cancel, always the ones juggling too much, there was a reason for it.

One neither of them could ever say out loud.

The weight of responsibility sat heavy on their shoulders, the unspoken duty of protecting the city of Gotham shaping their choices long before plans with friends ever could.

“Hey, after classes wanna go grab lunch?” Miro offered, grinning like he already knew the answer.

And he did.

“Yeah,” he accepts, like it was the simplest decision in the world. “I’m down.”

Obvious, really.

If you thought Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne would obtain your phone number, then you were dead wrong.

He was far too much of a wimp to ask.

Instead, he stuck with the casual approach, offering a compliment on your outfit as he watched you walk in dressed cutely. You always tended to dress up a bit more on Fridays, he had noticed that over time. A little extra effort, a little more intention, like you already had plans waiting for you once the day was over.

Most likely going out with your friends, since your Instagram did not show any highlight of a significant other. No tag in your bio, no initials tucked beside your name, no subtle hints hidden in your profile picture.

Tim had noticed all of it, cataloged it without meaning to, filed it away like evidence he was not supposed to be collecting.

“Hey, Tim.” You greet, “you look nice today.”

“Hey, UH, um,” he started, the words tripping over each other as soon as you sat down beside him. He froze for half a second, watching you turn toward him, grinning with clear amusement at how flustered he suddenly was.

He cleared his throat. “Thanks, your outfit looks really nice too,” he managed, finally meeting your eyes. “Going somewhere?”

The question hung there, casual on the surface, but his heart was already racing ahead of it, waiting to see what you would say.

““Thank you— cat got your tongue?” you teased playfully, your smile only widening as you spoke. “But yeah, I’m gonna be with a few of my friends at the shopping center.”

The way your mouth curved when you smiled did something to him, a quiet rush of satisfaction settling in his chest. Tim felt his chest loosened as he nodded along, listening closely, like every word mattered. “That’s nice,” he softly replied. “Anything particular you’re getting?”

You perked up at that, launching into a small tangent about something you had been eyeing for a while, hands moving as you spoke and pulled out your phone to show an image of models wearing the products you’ve been looking for. Tim listened, really listened, mentally noting every detail even though he did not need to.

“A red scarf?” he repeated, brows lifting slightly.

He paused, eyes flicking over you for half a second longer than necessary. “That would… look good on you,” he added, softer now. “Compliments you a lot.”

Tim had a red scarf in his closet, it’s the exact same brand and color of a burgundy red from the picture you’ve shown.

He got it last year from Kon.

Perhaps, he could wear that scarf when he goes out for drinks with the others later tonight?

Yeah.

“Really, you think so?” you asked, and Tim could have sworn your eyes twinkled as you fiddled with your necklace, fingers brushing the chain in a way that felt unintentionally devastating and he could tell that you’re imagining the red scarf on you.

“Yeah,” he repeated, a little more certain this time. His voice softened, earnest without trying to be. “I do.”

He shifted slightly in his seat, forcing himself to hold your gaze even as his heart picked up speed.

“Thank you.” You were grinning brightly, flustered from the way you stopped fiddling on your necklace and decided to prop your hand against your chin, glancing away from Tim’s gaze to his skateboard that’s settled beside the space you’re in, settled on the nose and tail of the board, displaying the deck that only had stickers filled every corner of the space, leaving no room.

“You skate?”

Tim’s face lit up immediately, the nerves easing just a bit. “Yeah,” he admits, almost too quick, shifting the board with his foot so it leaned closer into view. “For a while now, actually.” He glanced at you, catching the interest in your eyes on the stickers.

“Most of these are from places I’ve been or people I’ve met,” he explained, a little sheepish. “I keep telling myself I’ll stop adding them since it’s already filled, but I never do.”

He straightened when he realized he was rambling, clearing his throat. “Uh— do you skate too? Or just appreciating the aesthetic?” There was a hint of a smile there, something softer, hopeful.

Your eyes flicked back up to his, amused, and the way you leaned in just a bit made his chest tighten.

“Kind of, but it never stuck around.” You shrugged, “it’s definitely fun, I enjoy longboards to cruise, but nothing crazy.” Tim positively hummed at that, a plan forming within his mind.

“Well, if you don’t mind, you should definitely ride along with—”

The door swung open.

The professor walked in with an announcement that cut straight through the low hum of conversation, immediately pulling everyone’s attention forward and shutting Tim’s offer down mid sentence. He froze, mouth closing just as quickly as it had opened.

You glanced at him, lips tugging into a small, pitying smile that made his chest ache a little. You leaned closer, whispering, “tell me after?”

Tim nodded, just once, trying not to smile too hard as he turned back toward the front. “Yeah,” he murmured.

“After.”

The lecture dragged on in a blur of slides and half-heard explanations, Tim’s focus slipping every time his mind circled back to you.

He replayed the moment over and over, the way you’d leaned in, the quiet promise in your voice. Tell me after. He told himself he wouldn’t forget. That he’d wait, that he’d bring it up when the second class ended.

Except class ended too fast.

People stood, bags zipped, chairs scraped against the floor. Someone asked him a question about notes and someone pointed out his skateboard asking where’d he got it from. And by the time Tim looked up again, you were already halfway out the door, glancing back once with a small wave before disappearing into the hallway.

He lifted his hand too late.

And just like that, the moment was gone.

Hours later, he was sitting at the bar with Miro and Steph at a circular booth table, nursing a drink he hadn’t touched much, wearing that red scarf you mentioned, to fight the cold outside but a reminder he served himself of his failure today.

The place was loud enough to blur the edges of the day, music humming low, glasses clinking around them.

“I literally had the perfect opening,” Tim was saying, frustration leaking into his voice despite how casually he tried to sound. “She told me to tell her after. After. And then I just— didn’t.”

Steph stared at him, unimpressed, twirling around a lock of her blonde hair. “You didn’t… what? Ask her to ride with you?”

For half a second, a wildly inappropriate image flashed through Tim’s mind.

He immediately shut it down.

“No,” he groaned, dropping his head back against the booth. “I forgot. It just completely flew over my head. By the time I realized, she was gone.”

Miro blinked at him. Once. Twice. “Tim,” he said slowly, “you’re telling me you fumbled a clean invite because you got distracted and didn’t even ask for her socials?”

“Yes,” Tim snapped, then sighed, rubbing his face. “Yes. That is exactly what I’m saying.”

Steph shook her head, already laughing. “That’s actually tragic.”

“I’m actually mad at myself,” Tim muttered, staring into his glass like it had personally betrayed him. “I had a plan…”

Miro snorted, not even trying to hide it.

“Congrats, dimwit.”

Tim shot him a look, but the bite wasn’t there. He exhaled instead, shoulders slumping as the frustration finally settled in. “Next time,” he wished quietly, more to himself than to them.

Steph raised her glass, eyebrow arching as she clinked it lightly against the table.

“You say that every time.”

Tim winced, glaring at her at the comment, but before he could utter a word in his own defense, someone finally joined them.

“Heyy!”

Zinnia slid into the booth next to Steph, grinning like she hadn’t just shown up late. “Sorry, it took me a bit of time to get here— I just saw Ezra and his girl outside talkin’ bout something. They should be coming in any moment now.”

Miro waved a hand dismissively over the thrum of the music. “Nah, you’re good!” he called back, already shifting to make room.

Tim leaned back against the booth, the tension easing just a bit as the table filled out again, though his thoughts stubbornly lingered on everything he hadn’t said earlier that day.

Yeah, he won’t mess up next time.

“Yo!”

A familiar male voice grabbed Tim’s attention, pulling his focus toward the entrance. His head turned automatically— only for his eyes to widen, just briefly, at the figure standing beside Ezra.

“Sorry we were late,” Ezra started, a hand lifting in apology. “My girl was fixing her— ow!”

You nudged his side hard, sharp enough to shut him up. Your lips dipped into a brief frown before a smile slid into place, easy and practiced, like nothing had happened at all.

“Sorry, sorry, I was joking! There was traffic.”

Tim’s brain short circuited.

You.

Here.

With Ezra.

The room felt a little louder all of a sudden, the music pressing in as he stared a second too long before catching himself.

His grip tightened around his glass, disappointment settling heavy in his chest, quiet and unwelcome, as the realization hit him all at once.

Fucking hell.

“Yeah, traffic has been bad, but I’m glad to meet Ezra’s friends!” You smiled before introducing yourself easily, shaking Miro’s hand when he offered it, your smile warm and polite. Then you slid into the circular booth, settling in beside Zinnia like you belonged there, like this was natural, adjusting your blue scarf.

Wait, blue scarf?

“I like your nails, they’re cute!” You complimented Zinnia, seeing the cute charms on them as she flashes them to you for a closer look.

“Thank you! I got them done at—”

You nodded along, laughing at something funny with Zinnia when Steph mentioned something.

And then your gaze lifted.

It locked onto Tim.

For half a second, everything stalled.

The disappointment didn’t disappear, but it shifted, tangled with something sharper— surprise, maybe, or hope he didn’t want to name. Your expression softened when you recognized him, brows lifting just slightly, a smile tugging at your lips like you were pleasantly caught off guard.

Tim swallowed, forcing himself to straighten, to look normal, to look unfazed. His mouth curved into something that resembled a smile, even as his thoughts scrambled.

Of all places.

And of all people.

You had to date fucking Ezra.

“Tim, I didn’t know you’re friends with Ezra!” You exclaimed, eyes bright with genuine surprise as you glanced between him and Ezra.

Ezra hummed thoughtfully, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth as he glanced between you and Tim. “You know Tim?” he asked you, watching you nod your head, explaining you have a class with him.

“Ezra and I have been friends for a while,” Tim replied to your unanswered question. “Miro was the one who introduced us.”

Miro grinned, clearly proud to have brought them together.

“Yeah, small world, isn’t it?”

Tim thinned his lips, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “A small world.”

Steph leaned in, curiosity bright in her eyes. “So how long have y’all been together? We didn’t even know Ezra was talkin’ to someone,” she said lightly, like it was just friendly banter.

Tim took a slow sip of his drink, gaze dropping to the glass. He wondered, distantly, if you’d take that to heart, if it stung even a little to realize his friends hadn’t known about you.

“Oh, we just recently made things official,” you answered easily. “Two weeks ago, maybe? We’ve been dating for like a month and a half, but we’ve known each other for a while as friends.”

“That’s cool,” Miro comments, leaning back. “Congrats on the new development.”

“Yeah,” Steph added, smiling at you. “Happy for you guys.”

Tim forced himself to follow suit, lips curving into something polite. “Yeah. That’s— nice.” His voice came out quieter than he meant, so he cleared his throat and took another sip, mostly to give himself something to do.

Ezra draped an arm along the back of the booth behind you, casual, like it was second nature.

Tim noticed the way you didn’t lean into it immediately, just a half second pause before settling.

He hated that he noticed.

Hated more that it gave him hope.

“So,” you dragged the ‘o’, turning slightly, eyes landing on Tim again. “You come here often?”

The question caught him off guard.

He blinked once, then nodded. “Uh. Yeah. With them,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the table. “It’s kind of our usual spot.”

You smiled, warm and familiar, the same one from earlier that day, like nothing had changed.

Tim’s chest tightened.

He told himself to get it together.

You were taken.

Ezra was his friend.

This was a dangerous territory.

Still, as the conversation carried on and the night settled in, Tim couldn’t shake the quiet, persistent thought that kept circling back.

A mischievous, devious glint sparked in his heart.

He was late.

But not too late.

Don’t get him wrong— Tim wasn’t about to earn the label homewrecker, and he wasn’t about to turn you into a cheater or make Ezra one either.

He wasn’t like that.

He wouldn’t let Ezra cross that line, wouldn’t let things unravel in a way that hurt people for the sake of his own feelings.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be patient.

He would keep things clean.

Honest.

If anything were to happen, it would be because feelings shifted on their own, because choices were made freely, not because he forced them into the wrong shape. He’d wait, pick apart a relationship piece by piece.

Be there in the spaces where Ezra wasn’t paying attention.

If the door ever opened, even just a crack, Tim would step through only when it was right.

Until then, he’d play the long game.

“Hey,” he called, saying your name just loudly enough to catch your attention.

You turned toward him, brows lifting in question.

“You don’t mind tutoring me, do you?” he asked, tone easy, almost sheepish as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I know the current subject— you’re better at it than I am. Would you be okay with that?”

It was harmless on the surface. Academics, it was reasonable. He wasn’t asking for anything that crossed a line, wasn’t pushing for something personal.

He only requested help.

Even though his grade was perfectly fine and he understood the subject well.

You nodded.

“Sure! I don’t mind. We can probably do it over the weekend, does tomorrow work?”

Tim hummed in response, already running through his schedule in his head. Tomorrow he had things to take care of— leads Dick had asked him to follow up on, work that mattered, work that usually came first.

Normally, he wouldn’t hesitate.

This time, he did.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat, decision made. “The weekend works.”

Dick would understand, he always did.

“You’re not getting turnt?” Miro asked you, tilting his head with a grin, clearly assuming your plans lined up with the rest of the group.

Tim stayed quiet, lifting his glass, listening a little too closely to your answer. It was honestly a good thing he’d never mentioned your name around Steph or Miro— not yet, anyway. He knew it was only a matter of time before they caught on.

You can’t really hide anything from the bats’.

“I’ll still drink!” You laughed, shaking your head with a smile. “Not too much, though, since I do know—” you nudged your head gently against Ezra’s side, “this guy’s going to get blackout drunk, and someone has to drive us home.”

Ezra laughed, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “Yeah, yeah, don’t remind me. Someone’s gotta keep me in check.”

Tim watched the exchange quietly, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips.

Zinnia frowned playfully. “Girl, don’t even worry— I rarely drink, so if you need a ride, I’ve got you. Same with Tim.” She points at him. “He’s not lightweight, so he can handle his shit.”

Tim glanced at her, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he nodded slightly.

It wasn’t just about handling his drink; he’d be there to make sure you got home safe, no matter what.

“Yeah, I know Ezra can be a handful,” Tim smirks, voice steady but quiet. “So I don’t mind taking you home— if he doesn’t mind, of course.”

Tim looked over at Ezra, eyes steady as he waited for his response.

Ezra just shrugged, flashing that easygoing grin.

“Whatever works. As long as you don’t make me miss out on all the fun.” Ezra begins to lift himself out of the booth, ready to hit the bar.

Tim smirked slightly, already knowing this was his way of giving a reluctant okay.

You caught Tim’s glance and smiled softly, a subtle acknowledgment passing between you both.

Steph nudged him sharply on the elbow, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “Come on, Tim, pool’s waiting,” she teased, tugging him toward the center of the bar.

Tim sighed, rolling his eyes, but the smile tugging at his lips said otherwise— he wasn’t really complaining.

The night blurred after that.

Tim didn’t remember much.

Actually, that was a lie.

He remembered a lot.

Every laugh, every glance, and every quiet moment tucked between the noise.

He watched you from the edge of the group, eyes quietly tracking as you went head-to-head against Ezra, Miro, Steph, and Zinnia at the pool table. You had the confidence, cockiness, and a tongue that had sharpness when you landed another ball within the hole effortlessly.

Your fingers absentmindedly fiddled with the little stick of your too many cocktails, a subtle sign of nerves or excitement— Tim couldn’t tell which.

When Zinnia fired off a sharp remark at Ezra that made you laugh, you bit down on your bottom lip, and Tim caught the small, almost shy gesture.

Then, after a few more drinks, it was clear you’d taken Zinnia’s offer to heart, leaning a little too heavily on the idea that either she or Tim would be willing to give you a ride home.

You got along with everyone easily.

“She’s cute— hic— isn’t she?” Ezra slurred slightly, clearly well into his drinks, following Tim’s gaze toward you with Zinnia. He watches you nudge Zinnia’s arm playfully, teasing you with a wide, mischievous grin.

“Yeah, she’s getting pretty close to Zinnia easily, and everyone else.” Tim plainly comments, still looking at them without a glance to Ezra, his voice calm and steady. There wasn’t an ounce of jealousy in his tone— just quiet admiration, watching you from the circular booth, fully aware that Ezra was the one lucky enough to be in a relationship with you.

A sharp thud echoed against the table, but Tim barely flinched. It was most likely just Ezra slapping another drink down with a bit too much enthusiasm.

“Make sure you treat her—“ Tim started, his words trailing off into a loud snore that cut through the noise.

He furrowed his brow and finally looked over, only to see Ezra face-planting straight onto the table, completely out cold.

“You’re kidding,” Tim muttered under his breath.

It was to be expected.

And that usually meant it was time to wrap things up.

The night finally caught up to everyone all at once.

Zinnia was the first to react, leaning forward to check on Ezra, pressing two fingers to his neck like she was taking a pulse.

“He’s alive,” she announced. “Barely.”

Steph laughed, grabbing her purse. “Alright, that’s our cue. Someone grab his keys before he wakes up and tries to prove he’s invincible.”

Miro slid Ezra’s drink out of reach to make sure it doesn’t spill and shook his head.

“Told him to pace himself, which he never listens to.”

Tim stood, slipping his jacket on as his eyes searched for you without thinking. You were still by the pool table, gathering all of the numbered balls and organizing things back to its place.

He approached calmly, not making it a big deal. “Hey,” he said gently, catching your attention. “Looks like your boyfriend’s officially done for the night.”

You blinked, glancing past him to where Ezra was being carefully propped upright by Miro and Steph, his head tilted down. “Oh… wow,” you laughed softly, a little dazed.

“Yeah, that tracks.”

Tim smiled, easy and reassuring. “Zinnia said she could give you a ride, or—” he paused, just enough to make it sound casual, “—I can, if you want. Whatever you’re more comfortable with.”

No pressure.

“Hm, it just depends which way you guys are going,” Tim nodded, offering a simple explanation without overthinking it. “Well, if it helps— I’m heading toward the school. My apartment’s pretty close to it, so I’m willing to give you a ride over there.”

You straightened a bit, visibly perking up. “Sweet, my apartment is around the school too!”

Tim internally screams.

“Oh—nice,” he replies. “That works out then.”

Zinnia shot him a look, one that spoke of an understanding, before turning her attention back to Ezra, who was already half-asleep again. “Alright, that settles it,” she declared. “You’re with Tim.”

Steph hummed approvingly.

“Responsibility buddy system. Love to see it.”

Tim shrugged like it was nothing, beginning to walk towards the exit with you.

“I’ll make sure she gets back safe.”

“Alright, bye Tim! And it was nice meeting you—” Zinnia called out, already half-turned as she wrangled Ezra on her shoulder with Miro that also offered their farewells.

“Yes, I hope to see you guys soon!” You chuckled.

“Text us when you’re home!” Steph added, waving.

Tim lifted a hand in a brief wave, an easy smile in place.

“Night.”

It was just the two of you now.

“You good?” he asked gently. “Not too dizzy?”

Outside, the cool air hit sharper, the night quieter than the bar had been. You walked side by side toward the lot, steps a little unsteady but determined. Tim matched your pace without comment, subtly positioning himself closer to the curb, like it was instinct.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you said with a small laugh. “I didn’t drink too much, but definitely don’t put me behind the wheel.”

Tim huffed softly, amused. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best.”

He unlocked his car and held the door open for you without making a big show of it, waiting until you were settled before closing it gently. Once he slid into the driver’s seat, he adjusted the mirrors out of habit, movements easy and familiar.

“Seatbelt,” he reminded lightly, already pulling out of the lot once you were ready. “I would hate taking my midterms just to get taken out by bad decisions.”

You chuckled, shaking your head before buckling in and taking his phone when he offered it to you, the screen still warm in your hands as you typed in your address. Tim glanced over just long enough to confirm the route, nodding once before his attention returned to the road.

“Alright,” he said easily. “Got it.”

The car filled with a comfortable quiet, the city lights slipping past the windows. Tim kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console, occasionally tapping along to the low music playing through the speakers.

Every so often, he’d glance over, just to make sure you were alright, that you hadn’t drifted off.

“I couldn’t help but notice you’re wearing a blue scarf instead of red,” Tim remarked, eyes flicking to the fabric with a curious tilt.

You blinked, a small ‘oh’ slipping out as your expression shifted. “Yeah, they were sold out of red,” you admitted with a slight frown. “There were only a few colors left, so I went with blue— it’s a safe, neutral choice.”

Tim glanced over at you, then at the scarf, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“Blue works,” he said easily. “Looks good on you. Kinda brings everything together.”

He paused, eyes flicking back to the road before adding, a little quieter, “But honestly? Red would definitely look better.”

He lifted a hand briefly, tugging at the edge of his own scarf. “So if you want,” he offered, tone casual like it wasn’t a big deal at all, “I’m willing to trade with you.”

You glanced at him, a small, surprised smile tugging at your lips. “Trade scarves?” you asked, amusement shining in your eyes.

“It’s the same brand and everything?”

“Yep,” Tim popped the ‘p’ with a playful grin, clearly enjoying the way you practically lit up in your seat.

“Well, if it’s the same brand, I guess that makes it official,” you grinned, reaching out to tug lightly at the end of your blue scarf.

Tim chuckled, the sound easy and warm.

“Guess it does.”

Then, you unfold the blue scarf, leaving it on your lap while Tim lends you the red scarf, his gaze still forward.

“I just realized— I don’t have your number, or your socials. And since we’re supposed to study together…”

You smiled, holding out your phone expectantly.

Tim’s eyes flicked up, a small spark of surprise and something else, shining through.

He quickly pulled out his own phone, unlocking it as he met your gaze before focusing it back on the road, conveniently the light turning red.

“Guess I’m going to have to fix that.”

You grinned, tapping your screen as you handed Tim your phone.

Tim took it, fingers moving swiftly but deliberately, the soft glow of the screen illuminating his focused expression.

Once he was done, he handed it back with a small smile.

“There. Now you’ve got me on speed dial.”

You laughed softly, slipping your phone back into your pocket.

“If you already follow Ezra on Instagram, you’ll find me pretty easily,” Tim added with a sly grin, his voice casual but carrying a hint of something more.

You raised an eyebrow, amused.

“Is that your way of making sure I can’t avoid you?”

He shrugged, still smiling.

“Maybe, or I’m making it easier for us to actually hang out.”

You chuckled, shaking your head but clearly entertained.

“Clever move, I’ll hold you to that.”

When Tim finally reached your apartment, (10 minutes away from his own) he waited until you were safely within before pulling away, but the night lingered in the air— a promise of what could come next.

Especially when he’s finally lying in his bed, staring up at the ceiling with a dazed look, his fingers tracing the soft fabric of the blue scarf you’d exchanged.

His phone buzzes suddenly, breaking the quiet.

He glances down to see a new notification—

You have a new follower!

Tim’s lips twitched into a small, knowing smile as he unlocked his phone, the familiar username lighting up the screen.

Months.

It took months to get to where Tim was now.

Tim had grown bolder— maybe even too bold.

What had started as small gestures and subtle attentions had slowly shifted into something more confident, more intentional.

His friends began to notice.

The way he lingered a little longer in conversations with you, how his smiles held a different kind of warmth, how his presence seemed to quietly claim space beside you.

Ezra, distracted and careless, unwittingly gave too many openings, moments where his attention drifted, words left unfinished, or promises forgotten, leaving cracks wide enough for Tim to slip through with ease.

He started painting himself in a better light— not because he wanted to manipulate, but because he genuinely believed you deserved someone better.

Tim wasn’t one for games or deception; he was honest, sometimes brutally so.

He just couldn’t stand the idea of you falling for Ezra’s careless promises and half-truths.

“Strange, you say he’s doing homework? We were playing a game for a couple of hours with Miro,” Tim remarked one afternoon, a hint of frustration slipping into his voice.

When you were in the library together, you often found yourself venting to him— about Ezra being late, canceling plans, or how you had to keep asking to meet his other friends, always feeling a little on the outside quite disappointed after being friends for a long time.

Tim listened quietly, letting you speak without interruption, his expression softening.

“You’re really patient, I don’t know how you put up with that,” Tim commented, leaning casually against his chair.

Inside, he was quietly cheering for every one of Ezra’s slip-ups, each missed call, every forgotten promise, because it made this whole thing disgustingly easy.

An unspoken opening formed, clearing the path for a clean break.

Tim’s voice softened, almost careful.

“You deserve better than that, you know.”

Him.

Give him a chance.

You are on his spam account, a secret corner of Instagram where he quietly follows you and posts things meant just for you to notice. He shares Instagram stories that catch your eye, knowing you’ll like them. Each post is carefully chosen, like a subtle message only you can understand.

He often checks your Instagram Notes, the little snippets where you share song lyrics. When he sees a song from a particular artist you like, he posts a track from the same artist onto his notes as well. It’s his way of connecting without saying a word, hoping you’ll see it and send that tiny heart reaction that means everything to him.

When he uploads videos of himself skating, you don’t hesitate to comment or message him, teasing him to do a kick-flip. After a few tries, he finally nails it and sends you a video just to show off. It feels like a private celebration, something between the two of you.

Every time you spend time together, no matter how casual the hangout, he posts a photo or a story of the both of you, or how you always show up in his spam posts.

Steph caught on pretty quickly to how much time Tim had been spending with you.

Her brow raised the moment she noticed his hand brushing against yours and how you didn’t pull away.

Later, during patrol, she didn’t hold back.

“Hey, Tim,” her voice crackled through the comms, sharp and teasing. “You’ve been awfully cozy with someone lately. What’s going on?”

Tim hesitated for a moment, then grinned.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied, though the tone didn’t quite convince.

Steph’s laughter came through, warm and knowing.

“You’re lying, isn’t she still with Ezra?”

Tim shrugged, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

“It’s not like she’s married, Spoiler.”

Spoiler gasps.

“Red Robin, you dirty dog! You better not cause any drama in the friend group, or become a homewrecker!”

“Oh trust, I won’t.”

There’s a pause, just long enough to make it sting, before Tim snickers softly into the comm. “But she wouldn’t say no to seeing her favorite band, would she?”

Another sharp, scandalized gasp crackles through the line.

“Tim!”

He can practically hear the glare through the static. He grins anyway, fingers tapping idly against the console as if he hasn’t already crossed several invisible lines.

“What,” he says, faux-innocent. “It’s just a concert, friends do nice things for each other.”

If Tim were your boyfriend, he would never let you go— always keeping you close, his arm draped around yours like you belonged there.

He’d notice when you’re cold, slipping his jacket over your shoulders without a word, making sure you stayed warm.

He’d never leave you alone in a crowd, always by your side, a quiet but constant presence.

And sometimes, he’d act like he already was, like the time he absentmindedly picked lint off your sweater, his fingers brushing your skin with a tenderness that felt surprisingly intimate and the look you gave him absolutely melted him.

The way you looked at him, the softness in your eyes, it was enough to make him forget everything he told himself about waiting.

He nearly wanted to break his own morals, screw the friendship he had with Ezra, to kiss you right then and there.

But he held back, swallowing the urge, knowing some lines shouldn’t be crossed— at least not yet.

After a few months, Miro finally caught on.

They were sitting across from each other in a quiet café, just the two of them, talking about life and whatever else came up. The conversation drifted, as it often did, until Miro brought up something he’d been meaning to ask.

“So,” Miro said, smirking as he nudged Tim’s shoulder lightly, “you’re not trying to steal Ezra’s girl, are you?”

Tim’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes flicking away quickly, avoiding Miro’s gaze.

He didn’t answer right away.

The silence between them spoke volumes.

“You’re kidding.”

And eventually, it leads to Tim explaining himself. Not all at once, not cleanly, but enough for Miro to understand what’s really been going on.

Miro goes quiet as it sinks in.

Too quiet and blocking everything out.

He pushes his chair back, standing abruptly, muttering that he needs to go before he says something he can’t take back.

Tim barely has time to react before Miro is already heading for the door. The last thing Tim catches is a sharp glare thrown over his shoulder, disbelief written plainly across his face.

It wasn’t until two days later, they were on call together.

“You’re respecting her boundaries though, right? She doesn’t know you like her?” Miro asked through FaceTime, sprawled across his bed, reading glasses perched low on his nose as he watched Tim demolish his food after the debrief once he’s fully explained the entirety with Miro opening his ears once again.

Tim didn’t look up right away.

He chewed, swallowed, then shrugged like it was obvious.

“Of course I am.”

He finally glanced at the screen, expression calm in a way that felt rehearsed. “She doesn’t know. I’m not… crossing anything.”

A beat. Then, quieter, more certain, “I’m just being there.”

He took another bite, unfazed, like he hadn’t just admitted to hovering in the margins of your life, waiting for the moment you’d realize he fit better than the person you were already with.

“Yo, that’s genuinely the most insane thing you’ve ever done, Timothy Jackson Drake.”

Miro snorts, laughter bubbling out of him as Tim rolls his eyes, completely unbothered.

“It’s not insane,” Tim says, tone flat, defensive in the way only he can be. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”

Miro lifts a brow behind his glasses. “You are actively emotionally investing in your best friend’s girlfriend, if that doesn’t say anything wrong then I don’t know what does and you’re lucky you explained yourself before I would’ve had Ezra blasted you.”

Tim scoffs, reaching for his drink. “I’m being supportive.”

Another laugh from Miro, sharper this time. “You’re being strategic.”

Tim doesn’t correct him.

“Fuck’s sake, bro, how long have you been plottin’ on her?” Miro exclaims, shifting to sit straighter on the bed.

Tim huffs, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m not plotting.”

Miro just stares at him through the screen, unimpressed.

“…Okay,” Tim concedes after a second, quieter. “I don’t know. Longer than I should have.”

He picks at the edge of his bowl, jaw tightening. “Long enough to know she deserves better. Long enough to know I could be that, if I was given the chance.” Tim huffs, stabbing his fork through his food. “Ezra has the most unbelievable girlfriend in the world and he doesn’t even know it.”

“That’s not an answer, Tim.”

Tim looks away.

“Since the bar.”

A beat.

“THE FUCKIN’ BAR?”

Miro yells, nearly dropping his phone as he jolts upright.

Tim winces.

“Lower your voice.”

“You met her at a bar,” Miro hisses, eyes wide, “and instead of doing the normal thing, like moving on or being a decent human being, you decided to emotionally annex your best friend’s girlfriend?”

Tim’s jaw tightens. “I didn’t know she’d end up with him.”

“That makes it worse!”

Tim finally looks back at the screen, expression serious, almost stubborn.

“To be fair, I knew her before the bar,” Tim says, pointing at the screen with his fork. “She was the girl I told you about, from my class. The one I wanted to ask out.” He picks his food and eats it.

Miro just stares, disbelief spilling out in half-formed sounds. “I— I genuinely— what— how could you— is that why you stopped talking about ‘pretty girl’?” His eyes widened, everything clicking to him.

“That was her!?”

Tim doesn’t answer right away.

He drops his gaze to his plate, letting go of his fork into his bowl.

“Well,” he mutters, almost to himself, folding his arm to lean closer to his propped up phone. “She’s going to be mine eventually...”

Miro goes dead silent.

“…Tim,” he says carefully, “you sound clinically insane.”

Miro exhales slowly, scrubbing a hand down his face like he’s trying to reset reality, carefully not breaking his glasses. “You cannot say shit like that and then act normal,” he mutters. “That’s not confidence, that’s a manifesto.”

Tim shrugs, too casual for someone who just admitted to mentally claiming his best friend’s girlfriend. “I’m not acting on it, not directly.”

“Timothy.”

“I’m waiting,” Tim corrects, voice steady. “There’s a difference.”

Miro lets out a sharp laugh once more. “You’re waiting for what? Him to screw up?”

Ideally, yes. It would make things quicker, but no.

It was more of you making comparisons, how you should be treated versus asking how you should be treated.

“For her to realize,” Tim says finally. “I’m not forcing anything.”

Miro watches him for a long second, expression shifting from disbelief to something more serious. “And if she doesn’t.”

Tim looks back at the screen, eyes calm, unsettlingly sure.

“She will.”

Then Miro’s eyes flick to the top of his screen, his brow knitting together as confusion twists into disbelief, watching him immediately shoot up from his bed and readjusting his glasses.

“…No FUCKING way,” he murmurs.

Tim frowns.

“What.”

Miro doesn’t answer right away.

He just stares, scrolling once, then twice, like he’s hoping the information will change if he looks again.

“Zinnia just texted me that Ezra broke up with—”

“YES! FUCK YES!”

The shout explodes out of Tim before Miro can even finish the sentence. Tim’s chair screeches back as he shoots to his feet, fist clenched, grin sharp and unguarded in a way Miro has never seen before.

“Tim—” Miro starts, half laughing, half horrified.

“Months! It took months of waiting!”

Tim drags a hand through his hair, pacing now, adrenaline buzzing under his skin. “I mean—” He stops himself, forces a breath, tries to reel it back in.

“I mean, that sucks, for him. Send my condolences.”

Miro blinks at the screen. “I’ve never seen you happier than that time when Taco Bell put the Quesarito back on the menu.”

Tim scoffs, trying and failing to wipe the grin off his face.

“That was a big deal.”

“This is bigger,” Miro says flatly.

Tim exhales, finally sinking back into his chair, fingers drumming against the table like he’s trying to ground himself. “I shouldn’t be happy,” he admits, quieter now. “I know that.”

Miro tilts his head.

“But you are.”

Tim doesn’t deny it.

“I am.” He grins, sharp and a little reckless, like he’s daring the universe to stop him now.

“Wait, you gotta ask Zinnia why they broke up,” Tim points out, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Or, like, why Ezra broke up with her instead of the other way around?”

He ran a hand through his hair, frowning slightly. Tim had always assumed his plan would play out the other way that eventually you’d be the one to walk away.

So hearing that Ezra was the one to end it caught him off guard more than he expected.

Miro shook his head, amusement flickering across his face. “You make it sound like you’re some kind of relationship expert or something.”

Tim smirked, leaning back in his chair.

“Well, I’ve been watching this mess long enough to know where it’s headed.” He glanced at his phone, eyes sharp. “But still— gotta know if he knew, or if he just gave up.”

Miro sighed, shaking his head again.

“Man, you’re way too invested.”

Tim’s grin didn’t falter. “Maybe. But when you know what you want, you don’t just wait around forever.”

Tim could see Miro’s face up close, the way his fingers jabbed at his phone with a mix of urgency and hesitation. He was most likely texting Zinnia right now, trying to get the details Tim needed.

“Said ‘they were better off as friends,’ ended it mutually, but I think that reason is bullshit.”

Tim glanced up as his phone buzzed, a familiar caller ID.

“Steph’s calling— I’m gonna add her to the call.”

Miro didn’t look away from his screen.

“Fine by me,” he muttered, fingers still flying over his phone’s keyboard.

Within seconds, Steph’s face popped up on the screen, her eyes sharp and curious.

“Alright, spill. Zinnia is texting me that Ezra broke up with his… ex girlfriend now! Congratulations to Tim, condolences to Ezra. What’s happening?”

Miro filled Steph in, catching her up on the last bit of the conversation.

“Zinnia’s saying Ezra broke up with her to stay ‘friends.’ Do you buy that?”

Steph made a disgusted face, pressing her phone against the mirror as she swiped through her makeup wipes.

“That’s absolute bullshit.”

Miro paused.

“Do you know the actual reason, Steph?”

Tim watched as Steph hesitated, her brow furrowing in thought.

“No, I’m not really sure,” Steph replied thoughtfully. “Usually when people say that, it means one of three things:

1. They’ve lost feelings but don’t want to hurt the other person,

2. They’re scared of commitment, or

3. They’re interested in someone else.” She raises each of her fingers, going through the reasons.

“Are you asking Zinnia right now?” Tim asked, eyes fixed on Miro’s screen.

Miro nodded, then his screen froze for a moment, the lag dragging out the tension.

“When I pressed her, she said it’s ‘nunya’ business,” he explained after the lag had passed, “but honestly, she admitted she doesn’t really know.”

Tim let out a slow breath, his eyes never leaving the screen.

“Hm’ okay.”

The next time Tim sees you, he’d ask about what happened between the both of you.

Which was a few days later, when he finally found a quiet moment to ask. You were in his apartment, sprawled at opposite ends of the couch, a new season of a rom-com playing on the screen. You had mentioned wanting to watch it weeks ago but never had the time until now.

How did that happen?

Well.

Tim: Hey, is it alright if we study at my place?

Tim: the library’s is too noisy

Girlfriend (soon): ???

Girlfriend (soon): it’s a library?? How can it be noisy??

Girlfriend (soon): aren’t we on spring break right now??

Tim: cmon

Tim: don’t make me say it

Tim: fuck, could you pretty please come over to my apartment?

Tim: and hangout?

Tim: I miss our weekly study sessions

Tim: I’ll even beg on my knees?

Girlfriend (soon): alright alright

Girlfriend (soon): I’ll come over, no need to beg on your knees

You were already five episodes in, curled into the corner of his couch, while Tim sat at the other end with his laptop balanced on his knees. His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, a case file pulled up and neatly organized, which he excused as getting ahead on work for his criminal justice class.

He looked focused, intent, the soft glow of the laptop lighting his face.

Too focused, maybe.

Every now and then his fingers paused over the keyboard, attention drifting back to the sound of your laughter or the way you shifted closer without realizing it.

The episode’s credits rolled and automatically skipped to the next one.

You stretched, shifting on the couch, eyes still on the screen.

“I’m kind of surprised,” you spoke casually, breaking the comfortable quiet. “You haven’t asked me why we broke up.”

Tim’s fingers stilled on the keyboard.

For a split second, his gaze stayed on the laptop, jaw tightening just enough to give him away.

Then he looked over at you, expression carefully neutral.

“I didn’t want to pry,” he slowly dragged, making it sound reasonable, which it honestly did— he didn’t want to pry it out of you.

But his laptop screen had long stopped updating, the case file forgotten as his full attention settled on you now, waiting to hear what you’d say next.

“Do you want to know?” You asked, raising a brow towards him.

Tim shrugged.

“Only if you’re okay with sharing it.”

Please do.

“He broke up with me because he couldn’t give me what I deserved.”

Oh.

“He realized he was unintentionally hurting me,” you explained, voice drifting as you stared up at the ceiling. “Missing things, forgetting dates, always prioritizing other parts of his life. He’s overwhelmed right now, so he decided to break it off and just be friends. Instead of trying to work through it.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, sinking further into the couch, the weight of it settling in now that you’d said it out loud.

“Really…?” Tim murmurs, brow furrowing.

He doesn’t quite connect the dots yet, doesn’t realize just how hectic Ezra’s life must be right now.

Geez.

“And,” you add, almost as an afterthought, “he also lost feelings for me. Apparently he’s been falling for one of my guy volleyball friends.”

What.

“Excuse me—” Tim chokes, coughing as he straightens up on the couch, suddenly very alert.

You laugh, gazing at Tim with a glint in your eyes.

“Yeah,” you said with a small shrug. “I actually set them up on a date two weeks from now. We’re happily just friends since the dating scene with each other wasn’t working. We only tried dating because he had this big, obvious crush on my friend, and I guess it turns out he never really got over it.”

You glanced back at the screen like it was no big deal, but Tim stayed frozen beside you, thoughts spiraling too fast to catch. The breakup had not been about distance or effort or timing.

It had been about someone else.

He did not need to calculate, wait, or maneuver at all.

Are you fucking serious.

You kept talking, unaware, filling the space with idle rambling about schedules and volleyball practice and how awkward it all felt in hindsight.

Tim barely heard you.

He shifted the laptop onto the coffee table before he could stop himself, and the couch dipped under his weight as he moved closer.

Too close.

You cut off mid-sentence when his presence suddenly crowded yours. Your eyes widened as Tim leaned in, bracing his hands on either side of your head, caging you in without quite touching. You pressed back instinctively against the cushions, heat rushing to your face, heart kicking hard against your ribs.

Tim froze too, just as startled by the proximity as you were, breath shallow, eyes locked on yours.

You were frozen there, Tim hovering above you, caught between your legs, his arms braced on either side of your head as if he’d accidentally cornered himself. The air felt thick, charged with the kind of tension neither of you dared to acknowledge out loud.

Then you broke it.

You grinned up at him, slow and mischievous.

“Did you get a haircut?” You hummed, lifting a shy hand to gently brush a lock of his hair back behind his ear, but it didn’t last long because of his position.

“Your face-framing pieces are shorter than the last time I saw you.” Your fingers lingered for just a second too long.

Tim forgot how to breathe.

His hands stayed planted on the couch, but every muscle in his body went rigid, pulse thundering loud enough he was sure you could hear it. Of all the things he had planned for, all the conversations he’d rehearsed, this was not one of them.

He swallowed hard, gaze dropping to your mouth before snapping back to your eyes, completely undone by how easily you’d closed the distance.

Tim was a wimp though, and slowly pulled away from you, sliding back to sit upright.

He ran a hand through his hair, cheeks flushing hotter by the second.

“Yeah, I got a haircut… yesterday,” he mumbled, avoiding your gaze. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”

He could practically feel the heat pooling at the back of his neck, spreading in a way that made him painfully aware of every second that had just passed.

You grinned, swinging yourself upright and sliding your knees to sit right in front of him with a playful bounce on the cushion, you gave his shoulder a gentle shove.

“Aww, are you flustered?” you teased, voice light and full of mischief.

Tim’s eyes flickered up to meet yours, a mix of surprise and something softer lurking beneath the surface. He rubbed his shoulder where you’d nudged him, trying to play it cool but clearly caught off guard.

“Maybe a little,” he admitted, voice low and a bit shaky.

You leaned in just enough to close the space between you, your smile widening.

“I knew it.”

Tim swallows, his breath hitching in a way he definitely does not mean for you to notice. His gaze drops for half a second, then lifts again, steadier this time, like he’s forcing himself to stay present.

“You’re enjoying this,” he says, not accusing, just stating it softly.

You hum in response, eyes flicking between his, unbothered by how close you are now. The rom-com keeps playing in the background, the laugh track distant and ironic, like it belongs to another room entirely.

“Maybe,” you reply, just as quietly. “Though, I just like looking at your shirt ‘Big Dick Back in Town’? Really?” Tim grins, shrugging with a slight raise of a brow.

”What’s wrong with that?”

You could only shake your head.

His shoulders relax a fraction, his hands easing against the couch instead of gripping it so tightly.

“You aren’t sad about the breakup?” he asks, studying your face.

“Nope.” You pop the p, grinning wide.

“We’re grown adults. We had a whole four-hour conversation about everything. About what it meant, what issues were there, about our friendship. So we’re fine and it was three and a half months anyway,” you shrug, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

Three and a half months was way too long by Tim’s definition.

“Well, three and a half months is a pretty long time.” Tim commented, watching you nod, understanding where Tim is coming from. “That’s true, but I don’t regret being with Ezra. There were good moments in that short-lived relationship, and honestly, half the time it just felt like we were friends more than anything romantic. So it doesn’t really feel like a waste, you know?” Tim hummed, quietly understanding with a so-so motion with his hand.

“Then, it must’ve been… not a serious relationship?”

You snapped your fingers, then a grim expression took over your face. “Yeah! Or… well, I think so. It definitely hurt when he didn’t show up for a lot of things a boyfriend should’ve— but honestly, he wasn’t as invested in it as I was.”

You sighed softly, shaking your head a little as if trying to shake off the lingering disappointment.

Tim hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek, debating whether he should say what was on his mind.

Fuck it.

“Does that mean… you’re officially available?”

You raised an eyebrow at the question, a teasing smile tugging at your lips, making Tim suddenly self-conscious.

“You’re making me sound like I’m some kind of product you can pre-order.” You snort, waving your hand. “Go ahead— someone can preorder me, I’m the only item on the shelf, limited availability, guaranteed to arrive before Valentine’s Day.” You shake your head in disbelief.

Tim chuckles, a little breathless.

And he doesn’t know what came over for him to say this—

“Well, lucky me, then. I guess I’d better place my order before someone else beats me to it.”

He winks, trying to sound casual but failing spectacularly as his smile widens.

You grin, nudging him lightly.

“Oh, sure, you’re joking… right?”

Tim raises an eyebrow.

“You wanna kiss me and find out?”

He watches as the room falls into a heavy silence.

He can almost feel the air holding its breath between them besides the Netflix series.

Time seems to stretch endlessly as he waits, watching your mouth open slightly but no words come out.

Your face completely blue-screens, and Tim can’t help but smile at how utterly caught you are.

Tim burst into laughter, clearly amused by the shock on your face.

He noticed the telltale signs of your flustered reaction: how you suddenly went quiet, how both your hands flew up to hide half of your face, even if he could see it in your eyes of your uncontrollable smile that you’re trying to get it under control, and the clear way that you’ve scoot back.

He reached over to nudge your shoulder too but you slap it away playfully, hearing him laugh harder.

“Don’t get any closer to me!”

“Relax, I’m just messing with you.”

But the way you couldn’t quite meet his eyes told him you weren’t entirely sure if he was joking or not and that made the moment even better.

He watched you struggle to keep your composure, the way you would try to hide your facial reaction from him every time he nudged you or threw out a cheeky comment.

The quick, sharp shove to his shoulder made him laugh quietly, but he could see the way your eyes sparkled with a mix of irritation and something softer— something that told him you secretly enjoyed the attention just as much as he did.

In fact, there’s an entire day where the two of you just “hung out.” And though it started off as just the two of you, you eventually ended up meeting the rest of the group later that night, a couple of weeks after the breakup, like it was the most natural progression in the world.

Though, obviously, Tim had already labeled it as a date in his head.

I mean, you two had unintentionally matched outfits, he picked you up from your apartment, and even stopped by that one café to grab your favorite drink along with the menu item you always order without fail.

The rest of the day melted into wandering downtown, poking around trinket shops you always insisted on visiting before any hangout. You had mentioned it back at his place while you were on Episode 10, and he had gone along without hesitation.

At some point, you kept bumping into him, drifting a little too close to the curb every time you laughed or got distracted by a shop window.

Tim caught it after the third time, lips twitching as he reached out to steady you.

“Do you always walk like this,” he teased, lightly tugging you back toward the sidewalk, “or is this a special performance just for me?”

You scoffed, swatting at his arm. “I walk perfectly fine. You’re just standing in my way.”

“Uh-huh,” he murmured, clearly unconvinced.

The next time you veered off course, he didn’t even bother commenting. He simply draped his arm around your shoulders, easy and natural, guiding you away from the curb like it was instinct.

His hand rested warm and secure against your upper arm, like it had always belonged there.

You glanced up at him, putting on your most innocent look. “Wow, so now you’re supervising how I walk?”

“Someone has to,” Tim said easily, a crooked grin pulling at his mouth. “You keep drifting like you’re aiming for traffic, starting to think you planned this just to get my arm around you.”

That wiped the smug look right off your face.

You went quiet, lips parting like you had a comeback ready, only for nothing to come out at all.

Tim noticed, of course, and his grin widened just a touch as he kept you tucked safely at his side.

You were still very much in control of where you wanted to go, which was not surprising at all. Somehow, that freedom led you straight into another store and Tim barely had time to read the sign before realizing where you were.

PopMart.

He slowed to a stop, glancing around at the walls lined with blind boxes and glossy displays. “Of course,” he muttered under his breath. “I should’ve known.” You were very much who you’re expected to be, one to feed capitalism and spend money on these lil’ guys.

You, meanwhile, had already zeroed in on a display, eyes lighting up as you leaned closer as if you’ve been waiting for this day.

Tiny figurines were lined up behind the glass, all sharp details and dramatic poses.

The Gotham City Series.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, pointing. “Look at them.”

Tim stepped closer, folding his arms as he followed your gaze. Vigilantes in miniature, capes frozen mid-swoop, masks carved with ridiculous precision, in a display box with all twelve figures.

Then he saw it.

Red Robin.

You stared a second longer, squinting thoughtfully.

“This one’s kinda cute.”

Tim coughed.

“Kinda?”

You glanced back at him, grin turning mischievous.

“What? You seem defensive.”

“I’m not,” he said too quickly, shifting his weight. “Just saying. If you’re ranking them, that one’s objectively… fine.”

You hummed, clearly unconvinced, eyes drifting back to the figure.

“Wait, Red Hood might be cuter.”

Oh hell no.

“Absolutely not.”

You blinked at him, amused.

“What do you mean absolutely not?”

“He’s wearing a helmet,” Tim shot back, gesturing vaguely at the tiny figure. “You can’t even see his face. That’s not cute, that’s… just anonymous and ugly.” You laughed, clearly enjoying this.

“Mysterious can be cute and you don’t even know he’s ugly!”

Tim scoffed.

“Well, he for sure doesn’t look like Prince Charming, that’s a traffic cone with trauma.”

You burst out laughing, and Tim tried very hard not to look too pleased with himself as he watched you reach for a blind box, silently hoping you’d pick the right one.

Not even a minute later, you were already drifting toward another section of the store.

This one was… different.

Rows of small figurines stared back at you, each one wearing the same expression of pure misery. Angry little side-eyes and sad, hollow looks.

Not a single smile among them.

Tim slowed beside you, taking them in. “…Why do all of these look like they’re judging me?” You crouched slightly to get a better look, eyes lighting up.

“Oh my god, Tim! They’re all so cute!”

He glanced at you, then back at the figures.

“They all look the same.”

You read a little note they have on the figures, glued to the glass and the artist of them. “They’re called Hironos, they’re supposed to look like that. And look at that one!”

Tim leaned in despite himself, following where you pointed. In the back of the display box sat one figure giving a particularly nasty side-eye, a tiny castle perched on its black hair. It was crouched low, bound in rope, dressed in a black-and-white uniform that was unmistakably prison-striped and bandages on its knee.

“Really?” Tim asked flatly.

You nodded without hesitation.

“He looks like you.”

Tim stared at it.

Then at you.

“He’s literally wearing a prison outfit.”

“Yeah,” you said easily. “Exactly, you belong in prison with the way you’ve been treating me.”

Tim snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. Then, without missing a beat, he swung his arm back around your shoulders, pulling you close until your noses were almost touching. The warmth of his breath brushed against your skin as he leaned in just slightly, voice low and amused.

“Unbelievable,” he murmured. “I took you out this morning, with your favorite drink in hand and your food too, and now I’m already getting sentenced?”

You smirked, feeling the subtle heat of the moment settle between you, both of you caught somewhere between playful and something much more electric.

Without hesitation, you slipped under his arm, catching him off guard as you picked up a box, turned toward the register with the two boxes in hand.

Tim blinked in surprise, a slow, impressed grin spreading across his face as he watched your smooth escape.

“Will that be all for today?” the cashier asked, glancing between you and Tim, pulling up the total and placing them in a bag.

Tim mouthed ‘don’t let her pay,’ making the cashier smile knowingly.

“Yes, that’ll be all,” you replied with a smile, already reaching for your card— only to see Tim’s phone beat you to the card reader, the screen glowing as he swiftly completed the payment and your head snapped back towards him, eyes wide with shock.

He just grinned, completely unfazed.

“Tim, what the—!”

He, of course, wasn’t about to let you pay.

The cashier chuckled, handing over the bag, while you were too busy scolding Tim to reach for it yourself. Tim just laughed and grabbed the bag, dodging your playful slap on his shoulder.

“You guys are cute, have a nice day!” The cashier called after you, still smiling.

You completely ignored the cashier’s playful comment, but Tim caught it and that knowing smile didn’t escape him.

It was clear someone had already picked up on the way you two fit together, especially with the subtle, unplanned ways you matched, whether it was your similar jacket colors or the way you moved in sync like a practiced duo.

“You absolutely didn’t need to do that!” You exclaimed, narrowing your eyes and pointing at him with mock exasperation.

Your brow furrowed as you crossed your arms, the frustration genuine but softened by the teasing edge in your voice.

“I have my own money, you know. I don’t need you to pay for me every time.”

Tim just shrugged, that familiar, cocky grin tugging at his lips, clearly enjoying the moment and you.

“I know, I know. Just return the favor later tonight, or when we grab something to eat,” he mentions with a teasing glint in his eyes.

He handed you the branded bag, watching as you rolled your eyes in exasperation at his good deed.

“So,” he added, voice playful, “are you going to open up those blind boxes, or are you just going to stare at the bag all day?” You huffed, nodding reluctantly. “I’ll open them, but maybe we should find somewhere to eat first. It’s way more fun to do it with food.”

Tim grinned, clearly pleased with the suggestion, and didn’t hesitate to drag you toward a nearby restaurant he’d heard good things about. As you walked, you could already feel the excitement building, blind boxes, a good meal, and friends later on— the perfect combo for a day like this.

After about twenty minutes of scanning the menu and deciding on your orders, you caught the waiter’s attention and placed them with a few quick questions about the specials. Drinks arrived shortly after, glasses clinking softly as you both settled into the cozy booth, the warm buzz of the restaurant wrapping around you like a comfortable blanket.

The conversation flowed easily— small laughs, shared stories, and that quiet, familiar rhythm you both fell into when no words were wasted.

Finally, when the plates were still moments away, you reached into the bag and pulled out the first box: the Gotham City Series. The crisp packaging caught the low light, hinting at the tiny surprise waiting inside. Tim’s eyes flicked up to yours, curiosity and anticipation mirrored in his expression.

With a quick breath, you tore open the box and reached inside, your fingers brushing over the tiny figure waiting to be revealed. You pulled it out slowly, turning it over to admire the fine details: the sharp mask, the cape, the laptop, and carefully sculpted utility belt.

“He’s so cute!”

Tim’s grin widened as he watched you, feeling a sense of warmth and a tad-but of jealousy from that compliment, clearly impressed. “Nice one,” he compliments, voice low. “Red Robin suits you.”

You shot him a playful glance, pretending to mull it over seriously before setting the figure down on the table. “Please, you wish you were Red Robin.”

He is Red Robin.

“Better than Red Hood,” Tim shot back with a smirk.

You laughed, shaking your head, then reached into the bag for the next box— the Mime Hirono series.

“Which one do you want?”

You hummed, pointing at a few figures you found adorable, “but I would be fine with any of them.” You smiled, peeling the tab.

The anticipation between you only grew as you peeled back the packaging and the plastic, ready to see what surprise awaited inside.

You gasped softly as you pulled out the next figure, a tiny Hirono with a delicate feather perched on his head, wearing a makeshift newspaper kite strapped like a backpack. A thin rope was tied to his leg, the other end secured to a small bolt embedded in the ground beneath him.

The little guy looked calm and relaxed.

“I changed my mind, this one looks like you.”

Tim watched as you flipped the tiny figure toward him, slowly turning it a full 360 degrees to show off every detail.

“Is it because I have black hair and pale skin?” Tim teased, raising an eyebrow.

You shrugged casually, a sly smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, and blue eyes too,” you added, pointing to the Hirono’s faintly dark blue eyes, contrasting with Tim’s lighter shade.

“Wait, he has a lil’ card and it says Patience!” You cooed, taking a picture of your new ‘baby’, talking about your collection of them on your shelves, making this one your 17th Hirono.

Or your 17th ‘child.’

Tim will never admit this, but he honestly found your love for blind boxes, specifically Hironos’ or the trinkets, veryenduring.

Later that evening, once the sun had dipped below the horizon and the city lights began to flicker on, you found yourselves back at the bar with the usual group.

The familiar buzz of conversation and clinking glasses filled the air, but surprisingly, there was no awkwardness between you and Tim.

There was no awkwardness with Ezra either— in fact, when you saw him, you greeted him with a warm, genuine hug that felt natural and unforced.

Still, Ezra wasn’t blind to what was unfolding around him.

His eyes caught the subtle details, the way Tim’s arm casually settled around your shoulders, the slight protective tilt as if claiming his space beside you. He noticed how you leaned in without hesitation, your body relaxing against Tim as though it had always belonged there.

Ezra caught the quick, knowing looks shared between you two: the brief smiles exchanged over inside jokes, the gentle teasing that seemed to flow effortlessly, and how you would slap Tim’s shoulder playfully.

Even Zinnia noticed, her raised eyebrow and subtle side glance betraying her surprise at this sudden shift.

Then, when it was just Ezra and Tim left at the table, the tension thickened— both of them knowing what was coming next. Ezra let out a low, bitter sigh, raising his glass to take a shot. This time, it was noticeably less than last time, his movements sharper, more controlled.

“It doesn’t matter to me anymore,” he begins, voice rough but steady, “since we’re no longer together. But don’t lie to me.”

His eyes locked onto Tim’s, piercing and unyielding, searching for any trace of dishonesty beneath the surface.

Tim felt the weight of that gaze like a physical pressure, the room shrinking around them. The air buzzed with unspoken accusations and simmering resentment, the calm before the storm.

“You’re going to have to be honest, Tim,” Ezra continued, voice low but edged with anger. “Because if you think I’m just going to let this slide, you’re wrong.”

Tim’s jaw tightened, eyes narrowing as he met Ezra’s intense gaze without flinching. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, but he wasn’t about to back down or give in to the silent demands.

“Honest?” Tim’s voice was steady, edged with a controlled fire. “I’m not here to stir things up or hurt anyone, but yeah, I like her. I have for a while.”

Ezra’s eyes darkened, hurt and anger flashing through them like lightning. “You decided to not tell me anything about it whatsoever? What the fuck, Tim? Don’t tell me—“

His gaze was sharp, filled with a mix of hurt and a desperate need for honesty. It wasn’t just about the breakup anymore.

This was about trust, respect, and everything tangled in between.

Tim swallowed, feeling the weight of Ezra’s stare like a physical force. “I will tell you,” he replies, voice quieter than usual but unwavering. “I like her, I have for a while before you two got together. But this wasn’t some calculated move to take advantage of what was between you two.”

“So you’re saying you didn’t break us apart?”

Tim shook his head firmly, his words deliberate and honest. “No. Absolutely not. You did that yourself,” he gestures toward Ezra with a pointed look. “I cared about both of you too much to ever create some stupid cheating situation. That’s not who I am, and I never wanted to be the reason you two ended.”

Ezra’s voice tightened, the anger barely held in check. “So you were just… there for her? The fuck, waiting for your chance?”

Tim met the accusation head-on, his jaw clenched but his eyes sincere. “Yes and no, I didn’t plan for this to happen. I hated watching her hurt, hated seeing you both drift apart. I tried to stay out of it because I respected you, but eventually, it became clear things weren’t going to work due to your own personal reasons, but yeah.”

Ezra’s jaw tightened as he studied Tim, the tension thickening the air between them. After a long pause, he finally spoke, his voice quieter but still edged with frustration. “I messed up our relationship. I got overwhelmed and missed things I shouldn’t have not only in a relationship, but as friends. I had leftover feelings for… and new feelings.” He hesitated, letting the words hang, making Tim furrow his brow. “But this… waiting in the shadows— it doesn’t make it any easier to accept, even if it wasn’t a serious type of relationship.”

Tim nodded slowly, his expression softening just a bit. “I get that, which you’re valid to feel that way. I’m not trying to make this easier or pretend I’m some hero, but I was there because I care about her and about both of you. I never wanted to be the cause of your breakup.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of everything settling between them.

“Just to clarify, we never did things romantically while you were both together. We hung out a lot, yes, I will admit. There’s some things I’ve done that could be interpreted as a move, but I knew to be patient and respect your relationship.”

Ezra finally let out a slow breath and shook his head, a reluctant acceptance in his eyes.

“Well, I’m just glad you explained yourself,” Ezra speaks, his voice rough but sincere, “and that you’re giving her what I couldn’t. I wasn’t the person she needed, and maybe I never really was.” He ran a hand through his hair, eyes searching Tim’s. “And yeah, we were truly better off as friends.”

Tim softened, nodding slowly.

“I’m glad. You two already talked about it, right?” Tim asked, though he already knew the answer— it was more about hearing it from Ezra.

Ezra gave a slow, firm nod.

Ezra smirked, a teasing glint in his eyes as he raised his glass. “Yeah, treat her better than I did, you two already look good together.” He downed the shot in one smooth motion. “You’re matching with her, but not dating her yet? You gotta get on that, Timothy.”

Tim rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at his lips. “I will,” he promised, taking the shot Ezra poured for him without hesitation.

“I already thought you had plotted for this moment.”

Tim snorts, “man, I didn’t plot shit.” Yeah, he absolutely did.

As the night wore on, the crowd inside the bar began to thin.

Zinnia and Steph were the ones supporting Ezra this time.

The guy really knew how to relax once the drinks kicked in, but he was definitely a lightweight. He leaned heavily on them, laughing more loudly than usual, his steps unsteady as they guided him through the cool night air.

Tim and Miro watched them, snorting before they see each other off.

“Well, it was nice seeing the both of you,” Miro warmly told, glancing between you and Tim with a relaxed smile.

You agreed, nodding your head with excitement on your grin.

Tim also nodded, but instead he extended his hand.

Miro laughed, understanding immediately. His muscle memory kicked in as they went through the usual handshake without missing a beat while you watched.

Their knuckles met first, fingers bumping, followed by their fingers interlocking for a brief second, It ended with a solid dap up before Tim tugged Miro in for a quick side hug, shoulders knocking together in an easy, comfortable way that spoke of routine and familiarity rather than anything forced.

“Alright, see ya’ man, drive safe.”

“Will do,” Miro replied with a wave as he turned and walked away.

You both started walking toward Tim’s car, the night air cool around you.

“That was cool,” you commented, glancing over at him. “I never realized you only do that handshake with Miro, not the others.” Tim smiled, eyes on the path ahead. “Yeah, it’s kind of our thing. Something that just stuck between us.”

You hummed in affirmation.

“Why? You want us to have our own handshake?”

You immediately shook your head. “No, no, I’m okay. I was just thinking it was cool, that’s all.” Tim glanced over with a playful smirk. “Come on, don’t act like you don’t want one. We can have our own handshake— something small, nothing crazy.”

You hesitated, pretending to consider it but clearly curious.

“Just a little one,” Tim added with a grin. “Nothing complicated. What do you say?”

After a moment, you finally smiled and nodded.

“Alright, fine. But just a small one.”

Tim’s grin widened.

“Deal.”

You both paused right in front of his car, determined to get this handshake just right. Even though it was a small, simple one, the timing and coordination still mattered.

You stumbled a bit, struggling to remember the steps, and Tim couldn’t help but laugh softly at your concentration.

“It’s okay,” he said, patient. “We’ll get it down eventually.”

Tim noticed the way your hand slightly shook when he reached out to hold your hand during one of the handshake steps. Your hand felt soft and smooth in his grasp— delicate in a way that made him instinctively careful.

His own hands were rougher, marked with calluses from everything he’d been through, but he wrapped his fingers around yours gently, mindful of the contrast.

His thumb brushed lightly over your skin, and when his eyes met yours, there was a quiet spark between you— an unspoken connection that caught him by surprise.

Even as you stumbled over the handshake, fumbling to remember the steps, Tim realized it wasn’t about the routine anymore. It was about the moment, the warmth of your hand in his and the closeness you shared.

He knew the handshake would take practice, but he didn’t mind at all.

After about fifteen minutes, you finally got it down.

The first couple of tries came with one or two small mistakes, but you were confident enough to try again.

“Okay, okay, one more time and then we go home,” you laughed, a determined smile lighting up your face.

“Alright, one more,” Tim agreed easily, but there was a flicker of mischief in his eyes you didn’t notice.

You focused intently on the handshake, your fingers carefully following his as you moved through the steps again.

The rhythm was growing familiar, the motions less awkward.

Just as you reached the moment where your hands were supposed to part, Tim’s grip shifted without warning.

Both of his hands slid from your fingers down to your waist, wrapping around you with a steady, firm hold.

Before you could react, he pulled you closer in one smooth, deliberate motion.

You stumbled slightly, your breath catching as your body pressed against his.

The sudden closeness sent a warm rush flooding through you, your heart quickening in surprise.

You could feel the solid strength of his arms holding you, his fingertips gently pressing against your back, grounding you. Your skin tingled where he touched you, and the soft scent of his cologne filled your senses.

Tim’s eyes locked onto yours, the usual teasing glint replaced by something softer but still filled with that playful spark.

His grin widened into that little shit smirk he wore when he knew exactly the effect he was having— when he knew he had you a little off balance in more ways than one.

For a moment, the handshake was forgotten.

The world around you blurred as you both stood there, caught in the electric tension and unexpected intimacy. You felt the steady beat of his heart against yours, the subtle rise and fall of his chest so close to yours.

Tim watched you freeze, your eyes wide as you stared up at him— disbelief, surprise, and a flicker of irritation crossing your face as you tried to process how he had completely messed up the handshake by pulling you in so suddenly.

You stumbled against him, caught off guard, and he couldn’t help but notice the way you struggled to hold back a mix of shock and mild frustration.

But then his mischievous grin grew wider, that confident smirk that he knew always managed to catch you off guard in the best way. You found your gaze flickering from confusion to something softer, as if despite yourself, you were charmed by him.

He held you close for just a moment longer, feeling the warmth of your body pressed against his, the electric charge in the air thickening.

Tim knew exactly what he was doing, pushing your buttons, teasing you, and drawing you in closer, and he loved every second of watching you fall, even if just a little bit, under his spell.

His voice dropped to a low murmur, almost too quiet to hear but impossible to ignore.

“I like the way you’re looking at me right now.”

You lean in slightly, your voice soft but teasing, though your eyes betray you completely.

“Oh yeah? And how exactly am I looking at you?”

Tim’s grin deepens, amused by how effortlessly you fell into his trap and the way he falls for your doe eyes, hypnotizing him.

“Like you’re waiting to find out what it’s like to kiss me.”

You freeze for a moment, the weight of his words settling between you like a spark ready to ignite.

Your breath catches, and you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks. You try to steady yourself, but your heart is pounding loud enough that you’re sure he can hear it.

With a half-smile, half-challenge, you meet his gaze again and whisper—

“Maybe I am… but you’re the one who has to make the first move.”

Tim’s eyes gleam with that mischievous light, and without breaking eye contact, he inches just a little closer, the space between you shrinking.

The playful tension hangs thick as the moment stretches, charged and electric.

“I guess… I will have to make the first move.”

Without a word, he closes the space between you.

His lips meet yours with a softness that takes your breath away, like the gentlest brush of a feather. The kiss deepens, warming and steady, spreading a quiet fire through your chest.

His hand left from your waist to lift to cup your jaw while you wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers light but sure, tilting your face just enough to hold you still in this suspended moment. You feel the subtle press of his body, the heat from him seeping into your skin, blending with the rapid beat of your heart.

Time seems to slow, the world narrowing to just the two of you. That kiss speaks volumes— unspoken feelings, careful restraint, and raw, tender promise all wrapped in the softness and intensity of this perfect, unforgettable moment.

He does not pull away.

If anything, he leans in closer, like the space between you is unbearable now that he knows what it feels like to close it.

The kiss deepens with a quiet urgency, not rushed but full of need and patience. His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers curling there as if he is afraid you might disappear if he lets go. There is a faint hitch in his breath against your lips, something almost desperate slipping through the careful control he usually keeps wrapped tight around himself.

He kisses you again, slower but heavier, like he is trying to tell you everything he has been holding back for months. Every near moment and every time he stopped himself. You can feel it in the way he lingers, the way his thumb presses softly at your skin, grounding himself while still wanting more.

For a second, his forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling, his eyes closed like he is steadying himself. Then he goes back in, softer now but no less intense, like he is savoring this instead of rushing it. Like he knows this is something precious and he refuses to waste it.

There is yearning in every movement, his pupils that are enlarged, a heat that consumes his own being, a quiet desperation that says he has waited, that he has earned this, and that now that he finally has you here, he is not letting the moment go.

“I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmurs quietly, like admitting a secret he has been carrying far too long. “For longer than I should’ve.”

His thumb brushes along your jaw again, pausing for just a beat, like he is silently checking that you are still here with him. When you do not pull away, his voice drops, softer and more intimate than before.

“Tim’s girlfriend,” he murmurs, the words careful, almost reverent. “It kind of has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

You hum thoughtfully, lips curving as if you are genuinely considering it, a teasing lightness in your voice even though your eyes give you away.

“Really?”

“Yes. Really.” His voice is steady, sincere, even as he leans closer again, like the distance between you is already too much. “You should give me a chance, you’re all I need.” His breath brushes your lips as he adds, quieter, more certain, “I’d never let you go from me.”

Your lips graze his as you speak, the words barely a whisper.

“Are you begging me?”

Tim’s eyes lock onto yours instantly, something intense and unguarded flashing through them. Your hand comes up to his cheek, warm and sure, pulling him back in before he can answer.

If anything, he leans into your touch, like your hand on his cheek is permission he has been waiting for. His breath stutters, warm against your lips, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low, honest, completely stripped of teasing.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “I am.”

His forehead rests against yours, eyes still locked on you, searching your face like he is afraid this moment might slip through his fingers. His hand comes up to cover yours where it cups his cheek, holding it there, grounding himself.

“I don’t care how it sounds,” he admits, voice rough with feeling. “I want you, I’ve wanted you, and I’m asking now.”

He leans in just enough that your noses brush, his words spilling softly against your lips.

“Let me be completely yours, please.”

Your breath catches, heart pounding as you meet his intense gaze.

Then, you answered him without words, pulling him closer and capturing his lips once more.

Your fingers tangled in the strands at the nape of his neck, gently tugging him forward as he melted into the pull, falling deeper into the irresistible pull of your own magnetic kiss.

Beneath the shadowed skyline of Gotham, a shooting star streaked across the night, briefly igniting the darkness with its fleeting, brilliant light.

And Timothy Jackson Drake is completely yours.

a/n: HEHEHEHEEHE. now how we like thattttt, I lwk wished…. I had the balls to make Tim messier in this fic, but my boy is just a D-1 plotter and just nudging like “oh, how could you be so patient with him…” “you deserve better…” “that was all on you, not me.” (To Ezra) type of thing, which he wasn’t lying!! It was literally the matter of time before they cut that relationship off!! AND I made him such a lil’ shit truly. I hope you guys caught that Hirono moment!!! I decided to use ‘Patience’ because it truly fitted Tim, a man that yearns is a man that EARNS.

THIS TOOK FOREEVERRRR to finish, please interact with this fic since that would mean a lot to me!! Happy holidays everyone!!

[rumncokebaby]

our brightest light

pairing: johnny storm x reader

synopsis: just another day with johnny, a little chaos, and a whole lot of love.

The box says “easy assembly,” which is a lie so egregious you consider writing the manufacturer a passionate dissertation. Johnny has already declared the Allen key an enemy of the state—twice—and you’re ninety percent sure he’s installed and uninstalled the same screw four separate times.

“It’s a conspiracy,” he mutters, squinting at the instructions like they’re classified. “They want dads to look dumb on purpose.”

“You’re the one who threw the manual across the room and said, ‘I’ve got this, babe, I’m a genius,’” you remind him, shifting on the padded nursery chair. Your due date is close enough to taste; your daughter rolls beneath your palm like she’s supervising the project.

Johnny, cross–legged on the floor in a drift of wooden rails and hardware packets, flashes you a grin that’s all crinkle-eyed warmth. “Okay, yes, but that was a different Johnny. This Johnny is humble now. This Johnny respects the manual.”

He picks it up, turns it upside down, and frowns. “Is this… a cartoon?”

You laugh, helpless. “It’s a diagram.”

“Oh. Right.” He tilts the page, chewing his lip. “A very unhelpful diagram.”

The Baxter Building nursery is a soft dream: pale walls with a wash of warm blush that only shows when the light hits, floating shelves Reed leveled to the millimeter, a tiny galaxy nightlight waiting on the dresser, an armchair so comfortable it should require a permit. The mobile on the floor—stars, clouds, and a little rocket—was supposed to be “so easy a raccoon could do it,” according to your husband. It currently resembles interpretive sculpture.

He’s in soft joggers and a battered tee with a scorch mark he calls “historic.” He’s been all gentle-urgent today, hovering but trying not to hover, offering water every ten minutes, sneaking in kisses like he thinks he’s getting away with something. It’s endearing, and also how you ended up with three bowls of grapes and a leaning tower of crackers on the dresser.

A light knock taps the doorframe, followed by a breeze of a voice. “Knock knock! We brought snacks and supervision.”

Sue steps in with her steady calm, Franklin small and buzzing at her side. He’s five, vibrating with excitement, clutching a paper covered in marker stars and a pink-helmeted rocket with eyelashes. “Hi, Auntie Y/N. Hi, Uncle Johnny. Is the baby here yet?”

“Not yet, buddy,” you say, reaching to ruffle his hair. “But you’re just in time to help.”

Johnny brightens at reinforcements. “I accept assistance,” he announces, like a foreman addressing the crew. “But I’m still the boss.”

“You can be whatever you want as long as you don’t set anything on fire,” Sue says mildly, kissing your cheek and taking in the battlefield of parts. “Wow. This looks… ambitious.”

“I have made shapes,” Johnny says, proudly indicating a heap that may or may not be crib-adjacent. “Abstract progress.”

Franklin kneels by a mountain of bubble wrap and sticks his head through a loop like a sea creature. “Can I pop it?”

Johnny and Sue reply in perfect unison, “Yes—but later.”

“It’s very important,” Franklin insists.

Sue opens her tote—a cape disguised as a bag—and produces cut fruit, lemon muffins, and a thermos of peppermint tea that suddenly becomes the single greatest invention known to humankind. “Snack breaks for morale. And instructions,” she adds, neatly flipping Johnny’s diagram right-side up. “Step one is not ‘stare at screws until they confess their secrets.’”

Johnny points at the page. “Those pieces look identical. Are they messing with us?”

“They’re labeled,” Sue says, patient. “See the little letters?”

He squints harder, turns suspiciously pink, and mutters, “I knew that.”

You hide your smile in your tea. Franklin crawls under the half-assembled frame and pops his head up through the slats. “I’m helping.”

“You are,” you promise, smoothing a curl from his forehead. “And you brought something?”

“Oh!” He scrambles up and presents the paper like treasure. “It’s for my baby cousin. See? That’s her rocket. And that’s a star. And that’s a hot dog.”

Johnny blinks. “A hot dog?”

Franklin looks pitying. “For snack.”

“Snack is vital,” Johnny agrees solemnly, as if Franklin has imparted new science.

Sue crouches by the mess. “Okay, let’s build this before our girl arrives and files a complaint with HR. Johnny, line up the side rails. Franklin, you’re the screw counter.”

“Screw counter is very important,” Franklin announces, taking the role with the gravity it deserves. He begins, “One, two, three—Uncle Johnny, you dropped one.”

“It ran away,” Johnny says, patting the floor. “A rogue screw. Classic.”

You watch them find a rhythm. Sue’s voice is calm and steady, pointing out which piece fits where. Johnny—who would charge a dragon with zero planning—follows her guidance like a champ. Franklin delivers hardware with ceremonial precision. Something warm loosens in your chest. This isn’t just a room; it’s a net strung out of love. A boy who loves rockets and snacks. A sister-in-law who carries grace like oxygen. A husband who is chaos and tenderness braided into one human.

“Hey,” Johnny says suddenly, sensing you drift. “You comfy? Need another pillow? Another another pillow? Water? A small moon?”

“I’m good,” you say, stroking over a curve that is unmistakably an elbow. Your daughter nudges your hand, as if to say, I’m listening. “Someone’s practicing her drum solos.”

Johnny’s face does that thing that wrecks you every time: his whole heart turning to face you. “Hi, little torch,” he murmurs, reverent.

“She has a name, you know,” you tease, because you’ve said it to him in the quiet just-after moments and tried it on your tongue alone in the shower, and it’s become a secret you both protect—your daughter’s name tucked away like a star in your pocket. You’re not ready to hang it on the world yet. Not until she’s here to wear it.

Johnny goes pink, soft as sunrise. “I know. I just—until she’s here, it feels like… a spell.”

“It is,” you admit, and your throat tightens.

Sue catches the moment and smiles, a little mist in her eyes. “She definitely kicks more when Johnny talks,” she says knowingly.

“I’m very soothing,” Johnny says, and immediately yelps as a bolt slips. “Ow. The screw bit me.”

“It didn’t,” Sue says serenely. “But thank you for your sacrifice.”

There are mishaps. Johnny installs a side panel upside down and scowls at it like betrayal. Franklin loses count and starts again. Reed appears at one point with a laser level and a dissertation on torque, then vanishes when Sue clears her throat. Ben sticks his head in the doorway, takes in the scene, and rumbles, “I’ll come back when nobody’s cryin’,” then, gentler to you, “You need anything, kid?”

“I’m okay,” you tell him, and he nods at some private warmth and leaves with a wink for Franklin.

Eventually—miraculously—there’s a crib. A real crib. Simple and beautiful and suddenly the most monumental object in the world. Johnny stands back, hands on hips, hair a mess, chest puffed. Sue runs a hand along the rail and checks the wobble. Franklin hugs a leg and declares victory in three languages he invents on the spot.

Johnny turns to you like he’s afraid to breathe too loudly. “Look,” he says, awed and quiet. “We did it.”

“We did it,” you echo, and your voice wobbles on the last word.

He notices. Of course he notices. In three graceless steps, he’s kneeling in front of you, eye level, palms cupping your cheeks. “Hey,” he says. “Too much? Want me to clear the room? I can clear the room. Sue, cover Franklin’s ears while I politely request—”

Sue laughs. “We’ll give you a minute.” She squeezes your shoulder on her way past. “Call if you need me. We’ll be down the hall… popping three pieces of bubble wrap.”

“Exactly three,” Franklin agrees, already backing out with contraband clutched to his chest. He pauses, plants his hands on your belly with exquisite care, and whispers, “Hi, baby girl. I’m your cousin. We’re gonna look at space together.” Then, louder: “I love you, Auntie Y/N!”

“Love you too,” you say, wrecked and full at once. The door settles mostly shut, leaving a seam of light and the faint celebration of distant pops.

Johnny’s thumbs sweep along your jaw. “Talk to me.”

You swallow and laugh because the truth is the easiest thing with him. “It’s just… a crib. But it feels like a lighthouse.”

“A lighthouse?” he repeats, soft.

“Like something to steer toward,” you say. “Something steady.” Your hand slides from your belly to his shoulder, tugging him close until your foreheads touch. “I know it’s furniture. But it feels like a promise.”

He makes a quiet sound—the one that means the tide of feeling is high. “I used to chase sparks,” he says, voice low. “Anything bright. Any party. I liked feeling lit up because I didn’t know how to feel… real.” He tiptoes carefully, but today the words land with a new kind of weight. “Then you walked in and it all got clear. I wasn’t looking for sparks. I was trying to find a hearth.” His smile is wobbly. “Now we’re building someone else’s.”

Your chest aches, warm and raw. “You’re getting good at metaphors.”

“I read a blog,” he whispers, conspiratorial, and you snort. His eyes shine. “I’m scared sometimes,” he admits. “Not of the crib. Okay, yes, a little of the crib—it has energies. But also… of messing up. Of being too much. Not enough. Of her thinking I’m a joke.”

“Johnny.” You angle his chin so he has to meet your eyes. “You’re loud and ridiculous and occasionally allergic to instructions. You also have the most generous heart I’ve ever known. Our daughter is going to inhale that love like air.” You hold there, sure as bedrock. “You are good. Not cool. Not fun. Good.”

His breath shudders out. He nods like you’ve given him coordinates. “Okay,” he says, smile breaking through. “If the lighthouse says so, it’s law.”

You yawn, betraying your carefully constructed aura of composure.

“Nap,” he commands instantly, bustling with pillows and blanket adjustments. “Doctor Storm’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“I’m a doctor of vibes,” he says gravely, tucking the blanket. He kisses your forehead, then lingers, mouth near your ear. “Need anything else?”

“Just you,” you say, because honesty is easy here, and he makes a quiet, undone sound.

He drags the footstool over and perches at your knees, one hand warm on your shin, the other returning—inevitably—to your belly. He’s always careful with you now, reverent and awed, like he can’t believe he gets to love something this much.

From the hall: laughter and the ceremonial snap of bubble wrap. Sue’s voice floats back, all soft directives and joy. Johnny smiles, then bends and presses a kiss to the curve of you.

“Hey, little torch,” he murmurs. “Your dad here. We finished your crib. It’s very safe and absolutely not haunted. Your mom is the bravest, loveliest person in all known galaxies. I’m trying to be good. I’m going to be good. I promise.” He pauses, then adds, shy, “Also, for the record, I’m already wrapped around your tiny finger. Just so we’re clear.”

Your daughter rolls, slow and sure, under his palm. Johnny’s eyes go wide, wonder-struck, like it’s the first time every time. He kisses you there again, softer.

There’s a polite knock and a careful face peeking in. Reed. “Is construction complete? I have a level that—ah. Structural integrity achieved.”

“We achieved it with the power of love,” Johnny says loftily, not lifting his head.

“Also screws,” you offer.

“Screws were a factor,” Sue adds, stepping in with Franklin, both grinning. “How’s the lighthouse?”

“Solid,” you say, and she tilts her head, understanding the part you didn’t say aloud.

Franklin tiptoes to the crib like approaching a sacred relic. He peers over the rail and whispers, “Hi, baby girl crib. I’m your cousin. I have snacks.” He turns back, earnest. “She can have fruit first, but I’ll save a muffin.”

“Of course you will,” Johnny says, sweeping him up for exactly one inch of air—your eyes on him—and Franklin squeals like he’s been launched to the moon.

“Rules,” Sue smiles. “No flips in the nursery.”

“One flip,” Franklin bargains.

“No flips,” Johnny echoes. “We’re a no-flip-crib family.”

Franklin sighs the sigh of a diplomat and wriggles down. He presses his drawing into your hand. The rocket has a bow now. The hot dog has sparkles. “Can we put it on the wall? For her?”

“Absolutely,” you say, voice going soft and watery because it shifts the room when you say it like that: for her. “Right above the dresser?”

Reed is already squint-measuring. “If we center it between those shelves—”

“Reed,” Sue says, fond-exasperated. “Tape.”

He produces tape like a magician and, together, you hang Franklin’s art. The room changes around it. It feels claimed now. Like a place a girl can grow in.

Johnny slides an arm around your shoulders from behind, his palm warm over your heart, his chin on your shoulder. He smells like laundry and a memory of smoke he didn’t let out. “Perfect,” he says, and means the room, the day, and you.

Later, after the snacks are decimated and Franklin has narrated a full space saga using a plush octopus and a sock puppet (origin unknown), Sue offers to take him to the roof garden to “jet around” while the grownups tidy.

“We’re grownups?” Johnny whispers, scandalized.

“Apparently,” you whisper back, and he squeezes your hand like he’s proud and alarmed at the same time.

When the door shuts, the nursery narrows to the sound of your breathing and the hum of the city. Johnny faces the crib again like it’s a work of art. He taps the rail and looks at you. “Want to try the sheets?”

“Only if you want to fight a fitted corner,” you tease.

He squares his shoulders like a knight. Watching him wrangle a crib sheet is the comedy you didn’t know you needed. He stretches one corner; the opposite pops off. He groans, remembers the tiny ears-in-the-making, and amends, “Heck,” with the gravity of a monk.

At last, gloriously, the sheet cinches into place. Johnny stands, arms spread like a gymnast sticking the landing. “Ten out of ten,” he declares.

“Eleven,” you say, because he’s impossibly easy to love today, and his ears go pretty pink.

He pads over, drops to one knee like a man about to propose for the second time, and takes your hands. “I’m ready,” he says softly, and you know he doesn’t mean linens. He means the 3 a.m. feeds and the scary minutes and the first giggle and the thousand ways you will be new together. He means bows on rocket ships and scraped knees and “Daddy, watch me!” and the tiny hand that will hold court over his whole world.

“I know,” you say, and it settles between you as surely as sunlight. “Me too.”

He rests his forehead to your belly and his voice goes lower, steadier. “Hey, baby girl. We’re waiting for you. Take your time, okay? But also… not too much time, because I made up a lot of songs for you and Mom won’t let me perform the extended versions unless you’re here.” He hesitates, then whispers like a vow, “I’m going to learn to braid hair. Like, for real. I already watched three videos and I practiced on Ben’s mop—don’t tell him. I’ll carry your backpack and check under your bed for monsters and pretend to be scared when you roar. I’ll be there, always. And I’ll love you so much you’ll get annoyed, and I’ll do it anyway.”

You slide your fingers into his hair. It’s ridiculous how much he undoes you with a promise. You picture him clumsy with tiny elastics, triumphant over lopsided braids, kneeling to tie pink-laced sneakers. You picture your daughter asleep on his chest, soothed by the beat of a heart that learned steadiness because it found yours.

From the hall comes a final volley of bubble wrap pops and Franklin’s triumphant shout. Reed says something about tensile strength. Sue laughs, bright as a bell.

Johnny tilts his face up, eyes soft. “Okay, big question.” He laces your fingers with his. “Do we still like her middle name? Because three nights ago at two a.m. I thought of another one and I almost woke you up, but I didn’t, and I think that’s growth.”

You smile. “What was it?”

He whispers it, testing the sound in the air. It’s pretty. It’s almost right. You try your secret name with it. It falls a little heavy.

You shake your head, gentle. “Still love the original.”

He sighs in happy relief. “Me too.” He kisses your knuckles. “I like that her name means light.”

“She’s going to be light,” you say, certain. “And loud. And probably stubborn.”

“Genetics,” he says, stricken. “We’ve done this to ourselves.”

A quiet settles. You both look at the crib, at the little rocket mobile you finally finished (after it briefly argued with physics and lost), at the pink-stitched blanket Sue tucked into the corner earlier like a wish. The room hums with a new gravity: the kind that holds planets in place.

“Ready to show off the closet?” Johnny asks, sly. “You’ve been dying to.”

“Don’t expose me,” you gasp, hand to your chest.

“You color-coded onesies,” he stage-whispers.

“You labeled the drawers,” you counter.

“That’s called growth,” he says, chin high.

He helps you stand like you’re made of spun glass—he always does, lately—and you waddle (gracefully, in your opinion; endearingly, in his) to the tiny closet. You slide it open to reveal your absurd, beautiful over-preparedness: baskets for diapers and wipes and lotions, socks folded like pastries, a line of minuscule hats including one with bear ears that makes Johnny whisper, “We’re putting that on a head,” like he’s discovered the meaning of life. On the top shelf sits a small shoebox full of notes—things you’ve been writing to her since the second line appeared on the test. You’ll add another tonight: today we built your crib and your dad promised to learn braids.

Sue’s voice floats in. “Tour time?”

You and Johnny share a look, then nod in unison. When you open the door, your family is there as if they’ve formed an honor guard: Sue with her steady gaze, Reed with curious hands he’s trying so hard to keep to himself, Franklin in a plastic astronaut helmet, bouncing on his toes.

“Presenting,” Johnny announces, sweeping an arm toward the crib, “the finest construction in Manhattan, assembled by yours truly, under the watchful eye of General Susan Storm and Screw Counter First Class Franklin Richards.”

Franklin salutes. “We built a baby princess palace.”

“You did,” Sue says, pride warm and gentle. She looks between you and Johnny, sees the quiet shine still in his eyes, and softens in that way that means she’s proud of both of you. She turns to the crib and, with a small smile that feels like a benediction, says, “Welcome home, little girl.”

The words hang like a ribbon from the ceiling. You stand there with your husband and the people who love you most, and the realization moves through you like tide: this is the start of everything good. Not a spark—those are easy. A hearth—the kind you build and tend.

Johnny bends to your temple. “We got you,” he whispers to you and to her and maybe to the version of himself he didn’t know could exist. “All the way through.”

You believe him. You always have. And when Franklin is permitted to pop exactly three celebratory bubble wraps—no more, no less—and does it with the gravity of a coronation, it feels perfect in a way you couldn’t have planned, even if you tried.

Dusk leans gold across the city by the time everyone drifts out—Reed to a lab that is definitely not still holding a borrowed laser level, Sue to wrangle pajamas, Franklin narrating constellations to anyone who will listen. You and Johnny sink back into the chair. Your head finds his shoulder, his hand covers your belly like a vow he intends to keep for the rest of his life. The rocket mobile spins lazily, stars turning in a breeze you don’t feel.

“I like it when you call her ‘little torch,’” you say, eyes heavy.

He kisses your hair. “I like it when she kicks because you laugh,” he murmurs. “I like… all of this.”

You’re quiet a long moment. Then, soft as water over stone, Johnny says, “Hey, lighthouse.”

You look up, smiling. “Yeah?”

“Thanks for steering me in.” He clears his throat, earnest and a little shy. “I didn’t know where the shore was. Not before you. And now we get to light it for her.”

You press your thumb to the corner of his mouth. “We found it together,” you say. “And we’ll keep it bright.”

He closes his eyes like he’s storing that somewhere safe. When he opens them, the mischief is back, a tide you know by heart. “For the record, I’m still going to let her eat ice cream before dinner sometimes.”

“That’s fine,” you say, settling deeper into him. “As long as you learn to do a proper braid.”

“I will,” he promises immediately. “I’m going to be great at braids. And bows. And tea parties. And also karate if she’s into that. But mostly… I’m going to be there.” He nuzzles your hair. “Every bedtime story, every scary storm, every first day. I’ll be there.”

Your daughter shifts, a slow hello. Johnny smiles into your shoulder and hums one of the songs he wrote for her at two a.m., the one you pretended to sleep through because he sings better when he thinks only the dark is listening. You think of a tiny fist curling around his finger, of pink laces, of crayon stars taped up crooked, of a crib that isn’t just wood and screws—it’s a beginning.

You fall asleep to his voice and the lazy spin of the mobile, anchored by the lighthouse you built together and the bright new shore waiting just ahead, where a baby girl with a secret name will teach you brand-new ways to be brave.