summary: you're able to get your boyfriend to watch the new season of your favorite reality tv show with you
word count: dick- 804, jason- 746
warnings/tags: sfw, fem!reader, cursing, established relationship, love island s8 spoilers, use of pet names, fluff, no y/n
dick grayson
For the past week, you had been talking Dick’s ear off about the new season of your favorite reality TV show, Love Island, coming back for the summer. It’s the show where almost every night for the next six weeks, you get to sit down and relax while watching drama unfold on your TV and even getting a say in some of the actions that happen. Dick had taken it upon himself to make this a cozy night in for the both of you while you watch episode one.
When he came through the door, the nightwing suit peeking through his jacket he puts on when coming home to mask his identity, he's holding two bags of take out from the chinese restaurant down the street and another bag filled with candy from the convenience store, only fifteen minutes before the episode airs. He had rushed for the shower to wipe the smell off the smell of sweat mixed with Blüdhaven.
You already had the television set up and sorted through the takeout boxes to find your usual meal waiting for you at the bottom. When Dick comes out of the bathroom wearing just a pair of sweatpants, he’s also holding the face masks that you’d bought specifically for the both of you to use tonight.
He sits down on the couch, pulling you into his lap, before carefully helping you put the hydrating mask on. When you put his mask on, which you bought specifically because it had a tiger printed onto the sheet mask, you can’t hold back the laugh at the design.
“Don’t I look handsome?” He gives you his signature smile that brings out the dimple in his left cheek.
You just nod while you keep laughing, “Yeah, baby.”
Once you both settle down, he pulls you against him while you eat the food, being mindful of not getting it into the chemicals of the masks, and press play for the episode. You both try so hard not to cringe during the intro, but it's so bad Dick finally comments on it.
“Is this normal?”
“Yeah kinda. They did it first during season six, and when that blew up, they kept doing it thinking it would always be iconic, but it just never compared.”
“Yeah, this is just awkward to watch.”
“This is just the beginning.”
As the show progresses and the islanders start introducing themselves to both the viewer and other islanders, you and Dick start making comments and predictions about every contestant being introduced.
“How do they get six weeks of time off to come to a dating show?”
“I don't know. I’ve honestly never understood that part. I mean, Trinity even quit her job to come here, that's dedication.”
“That dude looks like Spencer Reid from Criminal Minds.”
“Yeah, just a less hot version of him,” you mumble while taking a bite.
You keep making these comments with Dick for the rest of the night, when you finally get far enough into the episode where the islanders are picking their couples for the first night. You both make your guesses, which you end up getting more correct, but neither of us expected KC to have an empty door on the other side.
“Oh, that's so awkward.”
You nod in agreement, "I'd die of embarrassment right then and there.”
The episode finally comes to an end with a teaser of the episode airing tomorrow night.
“I don't know why Kenzie is so upset over him. He stated he wasn't really into her,” you say as you turn off the TV for the night.
“Yeah, it's been less than 24 hours and the whole point of the show is to explore your options right?”
You nod.
“Exactly. She can find someone who actually likes her and chooses her, so she shouldn’t cry over him when she can have better.”
“Yes exactly!”
The next day while you're at work, Dick keeps sending you TikToks about people talking about their opinions on the episode or of clips already being made into memes. He also calls you on your ten minute break to make you promise not to start the next episode without him since he doesn’t get off patrol till an hour after it airs..
You didn’t think Dick to get so invested into the show that he wants to actually sit down and watch it with you, but you should’ve expected it–he does love his drama that doesn't affect him.
When Dick comes home that night from patrol, he gets one of the fastest showers you’ve seen him take after patrol, grabs the leftover candy from yesterday and comes to your side on the couch, pulling you against his chest and starting the episode. You start to wonder if introducing him to the show wasn’t one of your best ideas.
jason todd
You were sat down on the couch of Jason's apartment–which you unofficially live at–halfway through the first episode of Love Island's new season. The lamp in the small living room was flicked on to illuminate the walls in a soft light as you're curled up against the blankets wearing the hoodie that smells like Jason.
He wasn’t supposed to be back from patrol until late tonight, so you had decided to make yourself some food and watch the episode. You’ve already formed your own opinions about who you think is on the show for the right reasons or who might just be here for the fame, while they introduced themselves and then interacted with the other islanders.
You just got to the scene where the islanders are standing in front of the door making their choices of the questions asked, and then make out with the people on the other side, when you hear your favorite sound of the lock turning for the front door. Jason walks inside, dirtied boots leaving a slight trail of dirt in their path, with his helmet tossed onto the floor without care. You can immediately tell by his posture it was a rough night in the city of Gotham.
You grab the remote and pause the show, “Bad night?”
“Isn’t it always a bad night in Gotham?” He let out a humorless laugh.
You push the blanket off of you and walk toward him, not caring that he probably stinks of sweat and is covered in blood, you pull him into a hug. “I’m sorry, Jay,” you whisper as you feel all the tension as his shoulders slowly leave his body as he pulls you close against him.
“It’s okay. I just wanted to come back to you all night.”
You smile against his bicep at the crushing vulnerability of his words. “How about this? You go get a shower while I heat up the dinner I made earlier for you and we can watch TV and cuddle?”
He just nods against the crook of your neck, lingering for a couple more seconds before peeling off of you to get the stench of his double life off of his skin.
You grab the dinner you made earlier today and reheat the food for Jason so when he comes out of the bathroom, he doesn’t have to worry about anything for the rest of the night. It doesn't take long before he’s walking out of the bathroom with damp hair and tugging the loose t-shirt over his chest.
His plate is waiting for him on the coffee table with a slight steam coming off of it. You’d made sure to get him the biggest portion the plate could fit, knowing how hungry he gets after a long patrol.
He takes the spot on the couch next to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder to pull you closer to him, then grabs the plate to rest in his lap. “What’re we watching?”
“You remember the reality show I was talking about the other day? The one where they go to Fiji and couple up with others, do challenges, and even get voted off?”
He nods as he takes a bite of the food.
“It's that show. Tonight was the first episode, and I’m about halfway through it.” You unpause the show, and right as you do a couple had started to make out very aggressively on the screen.
“They’re just… making out?” You can hear the disgust lingering in his tone.
“It’s more than that, but also, yeah, kinda.”
“What the fuck?” He mumbles quietly.
“Trust me it's good! You just have to get past the slight ickiness of it.”
“I deal with enough drama on patrol, I don't wanna watch it on television.”
You turn to look at him with pleading etched onto every feature of your face. “Please, there's only thirty more minutes left.”
He sighs as he looks down at you, knowing he’d rather die again than deny you anything you want. “Fine,” he grumbles and takes another bite of the food.
“Thank you!” You kiss his cheek, before returning your attention on the screen.
When the episode finished he complained about how stupid it was to leave work, be stuck on an island with the same people everyday, just to make out with each other on national television, but the next night, he’s pressed against you on the couch as you press play for the next episode.
A/N: sorry this is really short, im taking summer classes to lessen my hours next semester and they take SO much of my time and leave me with no motivation to do anything else. might be a little less active for a bit to give my best in my classes!!
heyyy loved your bimbo gf x damian and i was wondering if you could do like an angst story of where she hears like someone in the fam or damian saying something about her personality/her in general, and she pulls back and tries to act “less stupid” IK SORRY I LOVE TJOSE calling their partner clingy and they start pulling away😖😖. all good if u can’t 🙂↕️🤚🏽
݁ 𓈒 ཐི 𓉸 𝓡EBRANDING ( 𝓑AD 𝓘DEA ) !!
⏜︵ pairing 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 damian wayne x bimbo!girlfriend
꒰ 🎀 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 damian trying to figure out why the girl who never stopped talking suddenly won’t even look at him.
BY GOD’S GRACE —- OR ALFRED’S PATIENCE, WHICHEVER COUNTED AS THE BIGGER MIRACLE — NO ONE KNEW HOW DAMIAN WAYNE ENDED UP WITH YOU.
you, in your hot-pink mini skirt and glitter nails and perfume that could probably be classified as a biochemical weapon. you, who once asked if bats had “like… eyelids?” and said it with total sincerity. you, who got distracted mid-sentence because you saw a dog wearing a sweater across the street and immediately forgot what you were talking about.
he didn’t understand it. not even a little.
in public, he looked like he was enduring a hostage situation anytime you laced your fingers through his, and yet he never pulled away. even when your rings (all four on one hand, because of course) dug into his knuckles. even when your bracelets jingled like an incoming sleigh team every time you moved. even when people stared — and they did stare, because you were a walking neon sign next to gotham’s resident brood incarnate — he held on.
the part that truly terrified him was how natural it had become. you walked a half-step ahead of him, your attention flickering everywhere at once, like a very pretty, very distractible magpie. every few seconds you’d gasp softly, at a storefront display, or a pigeon, or a baby in a stroller, and damian would be forced to stop, recalibrate, and wait while you admired whatever had stolen your focus this time. he pretended irritation, checking his watch, sighing dramatically, muttering something about time management, but he always waited. he always looked back to make sure you hadn’t tripped over a crack in the sidewalk or wandered into traffic because you spotted a cat.
he didn’t like how instinctive that check had become. how protective. how fond. even now, walking beside you through gotham’s crowded winter market, he found himself cataloguing every variable: uneven cobblestones you might twist an ankle on, the man selling roasted chestnuts who had a suspicious glint in his eye, the group of teenagers he didn’t trust within a ten-foot radius of you.
meanwhile, you were enthusiastically informing him that hot chocolate “tastes better when you’re cold, it’s like a scientific fact,” and waving your arms enough that he nearly intercepted a candy cane you almost smacked someone with. damian endured it with the same expression he used during board meetings: thin-lipped, jaw set, eyes forward like he was marching toward an execution he’d personally scheduled. you didn’t notice. you never noticed. you were too busy being incandescent.
you tugged him deeper into the market, past the string lights dripping like molten gold from the eaves, past the vendors shouting holiday deals, past the speakers humming old carols warped by cold air. your boots clicked over the cobblestones, a rhythm at war with itself, but you walked like someone incapable of stumbling. pure luck, damian thought grimly. or some divine protection he absolutely did not trust.
you stopped every ten seconds. literally every ten. at a stall selling knit hats shaped like reindeer. at a booth offering “mood scarves” that allegedly changed color with emotion. at a stand where a man was playing holiday songs on wine glasses filled with water, and you stood there, enraptured, like you had just discovered music for the first time in your life. you pointed at everything. gasped at everything. oohed and aahed and squealed at everything.
damian — who had been dragged out of the manor under the pretense of “getting fresh air” — followed silently behind you like a highly disgruntled bodyguard, hands in his pockets, scarf wrapped too neatly. he looked miserable. he was miserable. the cold, the crowds, the noise. you, on the other hand, were explaining — loudly — that snow “should be illegal because it’s too pretty and also slippery and also cold and also sparkly,” and damian was trying to figure out how one person could hold that many contradictory opinions in a single breath. then you gasped. you always gasped. this time it was because a vendor had tiny mason jars filled with glitter suspended in clear gel, labeled aesthetic snow globes. you sprinted.
damian muttered something in arabic that was probably a curse, then sped up to keep you from accidentally joining a passing family and wandering home with them. you pressed your face so close to the jars your breath fogged the glass. “damian,” you whispered. “it’s like… the universe. but tiny.”
he stared at you, then stared at the jar. then back at you. “…it’s glitter.”
“IN A JAR,” you insisted, as if that changed the nature of the cosmos.
he pinched the bridge of his nose, which he did often around you, because loving you required full-body endurance. you were beautiful, incandescent, a human firework. but you also operated on a wavelength that fried ninety percent of his higher brain function on contact.
after several minutes of you debating which jar “felt like your aura,” damian became aware of movement to his left. teenage boys again. different group, same expression: wide eyes, slow grin, subtle nudge. damian didn’t turn his head, just let his gaze slide sideways with the precision of someone trained to kill you with eye contact alone. he assessed them like threats. measured distance, posture, intent.
then he exhaled, and in one smooth motion he unwound his scarf, his favorite scarf, the dark green cashmere one alfred bought him. you looked up just in time for him to loop it around your neck. it swallowed your collarbone, your shoulders, half your face. you blinked at him, startled, already forgetting the glitter jars existed. “oh.. but… this is your scarf,” you said, muffled behind fabric.
“it’s cold,” he said simply. “and you’re incapable of dressing yourself appropriately for winter.”
he did not mention the boys. he did not acknowledge the way they looked away instantly, suddenly very interested in a nearby churro stand. he just tugged the ends of the scarf tight, adjusting it so it framed your jaw the way he liked. “you’re so cute!” you said, beaming, patting his cheek with a glove that had sequins glued onto it in a pattern that made absolutely no sense.
he closed his eyes, breathed in patience, and opened them. “we’re going home.”
“nooo,” you whined immediately. “i’m not done seeing things.”
“you have been ‘seeing things’ for two hours.”
you crossed your arms, pouting so dramatically a small child walking by mimicked it. damian watched this happen from the corner of his eye and genuinely considered the possibility that god was punishing him for past sins. “i’m not cold.” you said stubbornly.
“you were shivering.”
“i’m fine.”
“your lips are turning blue.”
“blue is festive.”
damian stared at you for several seconds, long enough that you began to sway a little under the weight of his silence. then he sighed, one of those deep, despairing sighs that felt like he was exhaling his whole soul. “please,” he said, voice barely above a murmur. “let’s go home.”
you paused. not because you understood, not because you perceived the emotional vulnerability behind the word please, but because your ears caught something else. “home?” you repeated, eyes lighting up. “can we make hot chocolate?”
“yes.”
“with the marshmallows?”
“yes.”
“AND whipped cream?”
“yes.”
you clapped your hands, delighted. “okay! we can go home!”
damian exhaled in relief so palpable the vendor at the next stall looked over, concerned. he took your hand, firmly, because you tended to wander, and began guiding you through the crowd. you were a lot. exhausting. irritating. distractible in a way that defied physics. but as you swung your joined hands happily, humming off-key, damian found — to his own horror — that he didn’t mind.
the manor came into view like a dark, brooding castle against the snowfall. you gasped again, you always gasped, as if you hadn’t seen it a hundred times already. “it looks like a big chocolate cake with snow frosting,” you whispered reverently.
damian closed his eyes for a full second. “it looks like a historical landmark.” he corrected, pulling you toward the door before you licked the railing “just to see if it tastes cold.”
inside, warmth hit you instantly, along with the low murmur of multiple voices. the wayne family was gathered like some kind of chaotic holiday constellation. dick was the first to spot you. “HEY! sparkles!” he beamed, using the nickname he’d given you on day one. he swooped in for a hug and you squealed, throwing your arms around him. damian’s eye twitched.
“you’re freezing,” dick said, rubbing your arms. “why didn’t demon spawn give you his jacket?”
“i gave her my scarf.” damian said, clipped, already regretting coming home at all.
“awww,” dick grinned, “look at you being thoughtful.”
damian turned away before anyone saw the betrayal of warmth on his face. steph popped up next, nearly knocking you over. “BABE, oh my god, your outfit. you’re like a peppermint bimbo dream.”
you gasped. “do you think i look like a candy cane?”
“yes,” she said solemnly. “but in a sexy way.”
damian muttered something that sounded like a vow of vengeance. jason leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, wearing that insufferable half-smirk. “barbie’s home.”
you waved enthusiastically. “hi jay!!”
he winked. damian glared so viciously jason only grinned harder. bruce looked up from a conversation with alfred, hands tucked behind his back. “welcome home,” he said, in that quiet, unreadable bruce-wayne-trying-to-be-approachable voice. he always sounded slightly startled when he spoke to you, like he hadn’t adjusted to your presence yet.
and then: alfred. alfred, who you adored. alfred, who adored you right back. you sprinted toward him like a toddler and he caught you with the reflexes of someone who’d been catching vigilantes his whole life. “miss,” he greeted warmly. “i see you’ve survived another outing with master damian.”
“barely,” you sighed dramatically. “he won’t let me buy important things.”
alfred raised a brow. “important things such as…?”
you lowered your voice. “a spoon.”
“i see.”
tim, on the other hand, lingered near the stairs. he nodded politely, said a quiet “hey,” and retreated upward with a mug of coffee. he didn’t dislike you. he was just… overwhelmed by you. which was fair. you overwhelmed most people, including yourself sometimes.
the rest of the family, though, stayed gathered in the living room, one of those rare nights where the manor felt less like a museum and more like… a home. the tree lights glowed warm gold, the fireplace crackled, and someone (probably dick) had put on a playlist of aggressively cheerful holiday music that clashed horribly with gotham’s usual mood.
you plopped down on the rug with zero grace, legs out, nearly knocking over a stack of presents. “careful.” jason said sharply from the armchair, leaning forward as if ready to catch whatever catastrophe you might accidentally summon.
“i am careful,” you insisted, immediately proving yourself a liar by elbowing a decorative nutcracker so hard its jaw snapped shut with a click.
damian lowered himself onto the sofa with the expression of someone bracing for incoming shrapnel. “try not to break anything else.”
“i didn’t break anything!” you said, horrified. “it just closed its mouth. maybe it’s shy.”
jason snorted. “yeah, that’s what it is. the nutcracker is shy.”
“don’t tease her.” dick scolded lightly, tossing a pillow at jason.
“i just think he closed it on purpose. maybe he’s, like, alive.”
bruce, who had been reading the newspaper and trying very hard to pretend his home wasn’t a sitcom, slowly lowered the pages. “the nutcracker,” he said evenly, “is not alive.”
“we don’t know that.” you whispered.
alfred passed through with a tray of hot cocoa, perfectly timed as always. “refreshments,” he announced. “and master richard, perhaps turning the music down two notches might save my hearing.”
“yes sir,” dick said, already adjusting the speaker. then he plopped down beside you on the rug, handing you a mug. “careful, sparkles. it’s hot.”
“that’s okay,” you chirped. “hot chocolate tastes better when it’s hot.”
jason choked on his drink. steph buried her face into a pillow to muffle her laughter. bruce closed his eyes like he was in pain. damian pinched the bridge of his nose. alfred, however, smiled with the serenity of a man who had survived decades of wayne-family chaos. “very astute observation.” he told you kindly, handing you a marshmallow like it was a medal of honor.
conversation resumed, steph teasing jason about his inability to drink like a normal person, jason threatening to “accidentally” drop a gingerbread house on her head, dick explaining some bizarre titans holiday tradition no one asked about, and bruce pretending the sports section of the newspaper was suddenly a riveting masterpiece of literature. you sat on the rug beside the couch with damian on the couch behind you, his arms crossed, expression unimpressed by everything except maybe you, though he would rather perish than admit it.
for a while, you stayed where you were, humming absently, nodding along to dick’s animated retelling of “the time starfire tried to cook a turkey using only solar energy.” but then you noticed it. damian. on the couch. without you. your lower lip jutted out immediately, a soft pout forming like a storm cloud gathering over a cartoon sun. you twisted around, peeking up at him. he didn’t look back—didn’t even pretend to notice your growing distress. he just sipped his tea like this wasn’t the emotional betrayal of the century. so you rose to your feet, brushing off imaginary dust like you were preparing for something noble.
you stepped behind the couch. damian didn’t turn. maybe he didn’t think you’d actually do it. but you did. you leaned down, looped your arms around the back of his neck, and draped yourself over him like he was the most comfortable office chair in existence. your cheek pressed to the top of his head. his hair was very soft. you made a content sound—something between a hum and a sigh, happy and unapologetically attached.
conversation stopped just for a second. just long enough for everyone to register the image of gotham’s most glaringly intense son sitting rigid and red-tipped and tragically resigned while his hyperactive, glitter-brained girlfriend clung to him. “aww,” dick said. loudly. too loudly. “she loves you.”
damian glared at him so hard dick should’ve combusted. “i was sitting alone,” you murmured into damian’s hair, like it was a tragic confession. “and you were up here. and i didn’t wanna be down there. without you.”
steph silently mouthed koala to jason, who nodded like this explained everything.
damian huffed, annoyed, increasingly embarrassed. “you are incapable of functioning without proximity, it seems.”
“that’s not true,” you said, tightening your arms around him. “i just like you.”
jason muttered, “simp.” behind his mug.
damian’s head snapped up, eyes murderous. “what was that?”
“i said ‘sip.’ this hot chocolate? amazing.”
bruce hid a smile behind his hand.
“we’re leaving.” damian announced abruptly, standing so fast your arms slipped from around him in a startled little flutter. his ears were red. his cheeks, too.
you blinked up at him, confused. “leaving? where?”
“my room,” he said, already taking your hand, already pulling you up from the floor with a rushed, awkward gentleness, as if he was trying very hard not to look like he was trying very hard. “we are going upstairs. now.”
jason smirked. “wow. didn’t even last ten minutes.”
“quiet,” damian snapped without turning around, posture stiff, every inch of him radiating tightly wound embarrassment. “both of you.”
dick waved cheerfully. “have fun, you two!”
steph added, “don’t do anything i wouldn’t do!”
“that leaves very little.” jason murmured.
you didn’t catch most of it, you were too busy trotting after damian, your smaller steps hurrying to keep up with his fast, purposeful stride. his grip on your hand was firm, determined, like if he let go for even a second the universe would see its chance and steal you. the manor’s main staircase curved upward in a grand sweep, damian practically marched up them, trying to retain some dignity, but his composure cracked every time he heard muffled laughter drifting from the living room.
you tried to keep close—closer than close—your free hand finding the back of his sweater as if you needed the extra anchor. he glanced over his shoulder, huffed, and tugged you along faster. “they’re so mean to you.” you whispered sympathetically.
“they’re insufferable,” damian corrected, though his voice wavered with residual fluster. “and your commentary is not helping.”
“i thought it was.”
“it wasn’t.”
you reached the landing. damian inhaled deeply, the kind of breath someone takes when they’re trying to reset their dignity. he released your hand, just to straighten his sweater, and immediately you reached for him again on instinct. he caught your wrist mid-grab. “wait.”
you froze. “wait?”
“stay here,” he ordered, pointing to a specific spot on the landing as if you were prone to drifting into the walls. “i’m going back down.”
you took half a step to follow him. he gently pressed a palm to your shoulder to keep you still. “no. stay.”
“but—”
“i am getting more hot chocolate,” he said, like you were a skittish deer and he knew any sudden movement would send you spiraling. “you don’t need to follow me everywhere.”
you blinked. “…but i like following you.”
“yes, I know,” he muttered, eyes briefly squeezing shut. “i am… acutely aware.” you leaned forward again. he immediately held up a hand. “stay.”
you pouted. “but—”
“i will return in less than two minutes.” his tone took on that strict, no-argument cadence that only partially worked on you. “you will be fine. stand here. do not go downstairs. do not wander. do not attempt to hug me while i’m on the steps.”
“but you’re warm.”
he inhaled sharply through his nose. “i will be warm upstairs,” he said tightly.
“will you be long?”
“no.”
“…are you sure?”
“yes.”
“…but what if you—”
he placed both hands on your shoulders. “if you follow me, todd will never let me hear the end of it.”
you gasped softly like he’d revealed a national secret. “oh. okay.” you nodded, suddenly solemn. “i’ll stay.”
damian exhaled, relieved. “good.”
he released you, took one cautious step down the stairs, then glanced back again just to make sure you were still in place. you were. standing exactly where he told you to. swaying slightly, humming, waiting.
for about… twelve seconds.
that was the absolute maximum amount of time your brain could focus on standing still before it started whispering intrusive thoughts like i wonder if my phone is downstairs, and maybe alfred made cookies, and i want to hug damian again.
you looked around. nothing to do. nowhere to sit. no sparkly things to stare at. you fidgeted. tapped your fingers together. shifted your weight from one foot to the other like a restless cartoon rabbit. then it hit you like a tragic revelation: your phone. you had left your phone.
damian said to stay. yes, but he also said two minutes. and it had probably been two minutes. or close. or approaching the general vicinity of two minutes.
so you took a quiet step down. then another. just enough to peek around the railing, scanning for the pink sparkle phone case you left —- and you froze. damian’s voice drifted up toward you, low and sharp in that way he only sounded when he was frustrated and trying not to be. “—exhausted,” you make out. “she drags me all over the city, asks the most ridiculous questions, wanders off every five seconds—i swear, i spend more time chasing after her than actually speaking to her.”
you blinked. damian complained all the time—he got grumpy, he lectured, he huffed and sighed and called everyone inept—but hearing it like this, when he thought you couldn’t hear him… it stung.
then jason’s voice cut in, louder, rougher, crueler in that careless way he didn’t always mean but absolutely could be. “please. you knew what you were signing up for. shes dumb as a bag of glitter and even clingier.” a snort. “she’s probably losing her mind right now being, what, sixty seconds away from you?”
your stomach dropped. like the floor disappeared under your feet for a second, leaving you suspended in the shock of it. you backed up—one careful, trembling step—then another, until the voices blurred into an indistinct hum beneath you. they kept talking, but it all blended together, washed out, meaningless, like your brain had hit some emergency switch that dimmed the world to static.
your hands lifted slowly. you stared at them. glittery nail polish, tiny rhinestones you’d spent an hour arranging, a smudge of hot chocolate on your thumb. they looked… wrong suddenly. too bright. too silly. like something made for a different kind of girl, one who knew where she fit, one who wasn’t just taking up space she didn’t deserve.
clingy.
dumb as a bag of glitter.
exhausted.
the words looped, sharp and quiet and far too convincing. you curled your fingers in, palms trembling. for a heartbeat, you actually felt monstrous. like some overly loud, overly bright creature someone had accidentally let into a place built for competent people. did they ever want you here?
you tried to breathe, but your chest tightened instead, squeezing the air you needed. you took another step back, spine brushing the wall, grounding and suffocating at the same time. your own boyfriend had to leave the room just to vent about you. that part hurt the worst.
it made something in your stomach twist. damian always looked tired after spending time with you—had you been misreading everything? all the little moments, all the soft touches, the tiny smiles he pretended weren’t real?
maybe he was just putting up with you.
you squeezed your eyes shut. the staircase felt too narrow now. the ceiling too low. the air too thick. you felt cornered and foolish and painfully aware of every inch of space you took up. they were all downstairs being… normal. competent. sharp-witted. capable. they fit each other.
you didn’t fit anything.
you pressed a hand to your chest and tried not to imagine what else they might’ve said once you stopped listening, but imagination didn’t need permission. it filled in the silence fast—too fast—spilling over with every insecure thought you’d ever tried to ignore.
you talk too much.
you never shut up.
you make him tired.
you’re only good for your looks.
you’re embarrassing.
you’re not smart enough to belong here.
you don’t know when to stop.
you make everything harder.
you make him miserable.
you knew you weren’t smart, not in the way they were. not in the strategic, clever way that made the whole family feel like a universe made of constellations you couldn’t read. you knew your thoughts came out tangled, loud, too bright. you knew you got excited about things no one else cared about. you knew you filled space you didn’t mean to fill. you weren’t stupid. you just… weren’t them, and suddenly that difference felt like a crack running through your whole body.
your chest tightened again, frustration building hot and prickling behind your eyes. you hated that you were upset. hated that you cared. hated that you were fighting three different internal battles when, moments ago, you’d been fine—happy, even. you didn’t want to cry. not here. not over this. not when crying would only prove you were exactly what they thought—overreactive, fragile, childish.
that’s when damian came back up the stairs. the first thing you saw was the tension in his shoulders, jaw tight, knuckles red like he’d scraped them on something. his eyes snapped to you, scanning your face like he needed to make sure you were still in one piece. “let’s go.” he said, hand flexing once before he reached for you. you pulled away.
damian froze.
you’d never pulled away from him. not once. not even when he was irritated, or short, or lecturing you about “awareness” and “basic survival instincts.” you were a limpet by nature—sticky, clingy, gravitational, so the tiny step you took back immediately raised his suspicion.
his brows pulled together. “what are you doing?” he asked quietly, like the words were foreign in his mouth.
you swallowed, forcing your face into something bright. something harmless. “i think i’m just—uh—gonna go,” you replied, voice wobbling in a way you desperately hoped he didn’t notice.
“go where?”
you gestured vaguely with both hands. “away. you know. like… elsewhere. in the world.”
damian stared at you like you were speaking a language he knew but couldn’t translate. “what are you talking about?”
“anyway!” you said, nodding too fast. “phone. downstairs.” you sidestepped him before he could reach for you again, before he noticed how your eyes were glassy or how your smile didn’t reach anywhere near your eyes. your footsteps were too light, like you were afraid the floor would creak loud enough to force him to follow.
the living room felt too bright when you crossed it. everyone looked up. your phone sat exactly where you left it. you grabbed it without slowing, no one said anything. jason wasn’t there anymore. you didn’t look at damian’s family. didn’t smile. didn’t trip into a conversation you didn’t belong in. for once, you were silent.
then you walked straight to the front door and stepped out before anyone could ask where you were going or why your hands were shaking so badly. the door shut behind you with a soft click. for the first time since you’d met damian wayne—you left without waiting for him to follow.
THAT WAS THREE WEEKS AGO.
three weeks of quiet, of measured distances, of self-imposed walls that hadn’t existed before. you had pulled back from damian, massively, and the change wasn’t subtle. the way you used to lean on him, hang from his arm, brush against him with every opportunity, had dwindled to nothing more than casual proximity, a few polite touches that didn’t linger. the energy you used to spill in torrents, in bubbles of laughter, tangles of words, and endless questions, was now trapped somewhere in your head, swirling in loops of overthinking and guilt.
you tried to talk less. you weren’t… cold, exactly. not frozen. just cautious, careful, distant. it was easier this way, you told yourself. easier to manage the way your chest would tighten whenever he looked at you too long, the way your stomach twisted when you remembered the words that had come out of jason and damian’s mouth, the way the heat of embarrassment and self-consciousness would settle into your bones.
your energy had shifted, rerouted. the bursts of color, the endless chatter, the way you used to loop damian into every tiny moment of your day, gone. replaced with shopping trips, coffee with friends, scrolling endlessly through things that sparkled or made your brain go soft and bubbly. you stopped including him. little things, first: a funny text that once would have gone to him, now sent to a friend instead. small selfies, small stories, small jokes. everything you had once handed him first now filtered through other people, other spaces, other worlds where the intensity wasn’t suffocating, wasn’t steeped in the weight of knowing him too well.
you loved him. absolutely. you didn’t stop loving him, you just thought you needed to be less. less clingy, less loud, less hyper, less distracting. damian had never asked you to shrink yourself, had never told you to dim, and maybe that was what made this worse: you assumed he preferred it. you assumed that by stepping back, by quieting yourself, you were giving him the room he needed, that the less obvious, less vibrant you was somehow easier for him to manage.
and yes, you missed him. some mornings you reached for your phone to tell him a dumb thing, and then stopped, realizing you were… stopping yourself. he hadn’t reached out. not to notice the change, not to prod, not to tease you back into yourself. he noticed, of course he did. the weight of your absence pressed in on him in subtle ways, the way he scanned a room and didn’t see your usual bright energy where he expected it, the way he thought of you mid-task and almost smiled before realizing you weren’t part of it anymore.
he brushed it off. called it temporary, a mood, a phase, maybe even a test, something he didn’t need to fuss over, but his chest tightened anyway. his thoughts lingered where you used to be. the absence of your voice, your laugh, the way you dragged him into ridiculous distractions—it left a hollow spot, and for the first time, he couldn’t just fix it by putting you in arm’s reach or side-eyeing the world into submission.
it had been three days since you’d last spoken. three days. three whole mornings, afternoons, and nights without damian. three weeks ago, this would’ve felt unbearable, but now you let it exist.
your phone buzzed. damian. the name made your chest twitch in ways you’d fought to ignore for days. you stared at the screen, fingers hovering, trying to gauge if this was courage or a trap. you finally swiped. “hello,” you greeted, voice careful, neutral. no enthusiastic hi, no giddy ‘i missed you’ that would’ve given him too much.
there was a pause. long enough that you could hear him breathing through the line, waiting for something—maybe the enthusiasm he always got from you, the little giddy inflections. you didn’t give them. “there is a gala tonight.” he said finally. “you will accompany me.”
you blinked, caught off guard. gala. fancy. sparkly. the very thought made your chest flutter before your brain scrambled to caution: he’s probably going to hate how much i distract him, everyone will stare, i’ll trip or say something dumb.
“probably… not.” you decline, voice small, careful, almost mumbling. the words sounded foreign even to you.
“excuse me?”
“i said… probably not.”
silence. you could almost hear him processing. “i was under the impression—” he started, measured, but there was an edge. “—that this would have been agreeable.”
you swallowed. you hated that your chest felt tight. “i just… maybe next time,” you said, hoping it sounded casual even though your stomach sank.
“you love these events,” he said, almost accusing. “what is the matter?”
you fumbled, scrambling for something—anything—sensible. “i think .. the cat might be mad at me?”
“that is… hardly a valid reason to refuse a gala. do you have another?”
you chewed your lip, wringing your hands together, flustered. “well… um… i… my… my shoes, they… they might be too sparkly. it could blind people.”
another pause. he was quiet for a moment, and you imagined the pinched line of his mouth, the narrowed eyes. “you are speaking nonsense,” he said finally. “yet i can hear—” he hesitated. “something. you are hiding something. tell me.”
you swallowed, wishing—like, really wishing—you were smart enough to conjure a reason that sounded real, that would satisfy him, that wouldn’t make you sound like a complete disaster. but your brain was doing that thing it always did: looping through sparkly shoes, cats, and ice cream flavors, none of which helped. “uh… okay, bye!” you blurted, voice a little too cheerful, and clicked the end call before he could ask anything else.
phew. you totally nailed that.
you flopped onto your couch, fuzzy pajamas tangling around your legs, grabbed the nearest pint of cookie dough ice cream, and dug in. you flipped through streaming apps with the emotional depth of a goldfish, settling on the first movie poster that had pretty colors. something with singing. something where no one looked like they were judging you from across a mansion living room.
the opening song started and you tucked yourself deeper into your couch cocoon, blanket shaped like a giant strawberry wrapped around your shoulders. ice cream: half-gone. brain: mercifully vacant. you weren’t wallowing—you refused to wallow—because wallowing required staying on one thought for longer than eleven seconds, and you simply weren’t built for that. you tried once, earlier, to reflect on the past few weeks, but halfway through thinking “maybe i am too much,” you saw a commercial for sparkly lip gloss and forgot what sadness was entirely.
so you watched your movie. you giggled when the prince tripped over the scenery, gasped dramatically at every plot twist even though it was a kids’ film, and kicked your feet when the heroine got her magical dress. for a while, it was easy to pretend the world was simple and that your heart wasn’t bruised in places you didn’t know how to fix. and then—
“you didn’t answer my texts.”
you screamed. not like a cute scream. like a full-body, weaponized shriek. your spoon flew upward, brandished like a dagger, cookie dough chunk poised for battle. “WHO—OH MY GOD—DAMIAN? WHY ARE YOU—THAT—YOU CAN’T JUST—TELEPORT!”
he did not look amused. or apologetic. or impressed by your ice-cream-based defense strategy. “i used the spare key,” he corrected, pinching the bridge of his nose. “and you clearly need instruction in self-defense. that was pathetic.”
you were still holding the spoon like it was a sword. “i—i could’ve blinded you.”
“with dessert?”
“it has chunks.”
he stared at you, long and defeated, and only then—only after your heart slowed and your lungs remembered their job—did you realize he was here. in your apartment. beside your couch. shoulders tense, breath steady in that controlled way he used when something was wrong. something he wasn’t willing to ignore anymore.
you froze. frozen like a marshmallow left out in the snow, like a popsicle that somehow knew it had to impress a god and didn’t stand a chance. normally you would’ve launched yourself at him—arms first, lips trailing kisses, a flurry of glittering enthusiasm that left him winded just from being near you. normally, you would’ve clung. right now, you were… decidedly not normal.
damian’s eyes narrowed. “well?” he prompted, voice flat but heavy with expectation, the kind of expectation that made you suddenly hyper-aware of every corner of your apartment. normally, this tone would’ve made your heart skip in excitement. now it made it do a weird little hiccup of anxiety.
“uh,” you mumbled. “i just thought maybe… maybe galas are, like… too fancy?” you added lamely, as if words themselves could distract from the gaping void of uncertainty settling in your chest.
“too fancy? for you?” his shoulders stiffened as if the very suggestion was a personal affront. usually he would have let you flail a little, let you stumble through a hundred excuses. now… his chest tightened, frustration bleeding into something heavier. you stumbled back a half-step, then another, blanket bunching under your hands, your stomach doing that weird tumble-your-insides thing that always showed up when damian looked at you like this. tall. looming. imposing. “enough,” he snapped, and it was tight, like he’d been holding it in so long that the words barely cleared his throat before they landed hard. “you won’t even let me touch you. what is the matter?”
you froze mid-step. your mind spun. normally, you would’ve fallen into his chest without thinking, melting into the warmth of his hands and the press of his body. now… now your instincts screamed no, and the resulting flush of guilt and embarrassment made your chest feel too tight. damian’s brow furrowed, and then the corners of his lips tugged down in that small pout that made him look younger and frustrated all at once. “do you understand,” he murmured, stepping closer, his presence filling every inch of the space around you, “how… difficult it is to… not feel you next to me?”
his chest rose and fell faster, not from exertion, but from the absence of contact, the starvation of closeness he’d been used to every time you had been your usual clingy, adorable self. the pout deepened as if the lack of your touch was physically weighing on him. he stepped closer again, unsure if you would flee or collapse into him. “i—” you started, voice trembling, then stopped. all your words felt stupid, worthless, inadequate. your brain short-circuited under the weight of his eyes and the sheer want radiating from him, and you pressed your lips together, biting the inside of your cheek, retreating another half-step despite every rational part of you screaming to just lean in.
you swallowed, words tripping out of you before you could stop them. “i just… don’t want to exhaust you. i don’t want to—” your voice faltered, a squeak barely audible, “—make things harder.”
damian froze mid-step, a slow inhale pulling the air into him as if he’d been holding it without realizing. his eyes widened slightly—not with anger, but with something more jagged: shock, confusion, and a flicker of… hurt. “what did you hear?” he asked, careful.
“i heard. what you said to jason. and… and what he said.”
the silence that followed was almost unbearable. the pout faded, replaced by a rigid line of restraint. you could feel it—the weight of all the emotion he’d been bottling for weeks. damian’s breath left him in a controlled exhale, the kind he used when he was forcing himself not to retreat behind pride or irritation. he lifted his chin a fraction, meeting your eyes head‑on, refusing to let you look away. “i won’t pretend i didn’t say those things,” he began. “i did. you do overwhelm me sometimes. you move fast, you talk fast, you feel fast—things i was not raised to understand.”
his hands flexed once, then stilled at his sides. “but that does not mean i don’t want you near me. it does not mean i’m… tired of you.” his jaw clenched for a moment before he forced it to ease. “i was frustrated. not with you— with myself. with not knowing how to keep up.” he took a step closer, the way he approached a frightened animal he didn’t want to spook. “but listen to me very clearly. i will never let anyone speak poorly of you.” another breath. “and when todd opened his mouth,” he continued, forming his words with visible disgust. “i struck him. immediately.”
your eyes widened, and he caught the flicker of shock before you could mask it. “i will not allow anyone—friend, brother, stranger—to demean you. even when i am frustrated. even when i am overwhelmed. especially then. you are…” he hesitated, searching for the correct word, something true. “you are too important.”
your mouth opened, closed, then opened again, nothing elegant, nothing clever, just a stunned scramble of breath. the words too important echoed through you like someone had rung a bell inside your ribs. warmth spread through your chest, an almost dizzy relief, ridiculous and overwhelming in the best possible way. “you… punched jason,” you said finally, voice disbelieving. “for me.”
damian’s expression barely shifted, but something in his eyes flickered—pride, irritation, stubborn protectiveness. “he deserved worse.” he mumbled.
you almost giggled. it was stupid, but the image of damian decking jason because of you made something in your stomach flip. of course damian would do that. of course he would. and yet knowing he actually had—that he hadn’t just stood there letting it happen—felt like someone had lifted a weight you didn’t know you’d been carrying. you swallowed, voice wobbling as your thoughts spilled out. “but… am i not embarrassing? i mean—maybe this is better, right? i thought giving you space would help. that you’d… appreciate it.” you fiddled with your sleeve. “i thought maybe you’d finally get a break from me.”
the sound damian made was halfway between a scoff and an incredulous breath. “a break,” he repeated, as if the word personally offended him.
“i just thought—”
“no,” he cut in. “if i wanted space, i would tell you. i never asked for this.”
you blinked at him, startled by how quickly he closed the gap between you—two steps, maybe three, but enough that you had to tilt your chin up, enough that you felt the heat of him, the intensity he never tried to soften. “you think this is better?” he asked, voice tight. “you think this—this distance—is something i want?”
your breath caught. he shook his head once, the movement irritated. his eyes met yours, almost pleading. “it’s maddening.”
“you don’t exhaust me,” he continued. “you… unsettle me. in ways i am still learning to navigate. but i do not want you far from me.” his voice softened, but only barely. “i need you close. this distance,” he added, gaze flicking down to your hands before snapping back to your face, “is the only thing that has exhausted me.”
the relief hit first. then the warmth. then the stupid, overwhelming, giddy joy that flooded through you so fast it made your knees weak. then you were moving. “oh my god—damiiiii,” you squeaked, and whatever distance had been between you shattered as you launched yourself forward, practically colliding with his chest. his hands flew up on instinct, catching you like he always did, prepared even when you weren’t.
you wrapped your arms around his neck, squeezing him so tight he let out a soft, startled grunt. “you need me close?” you beamed, already peppering his jaw with quick, excited kisses. “oh my god, i was dying—i missed you so much—you should’ve just said something, damian, i thought you hated me—and i wanted to go to the gala so bad—”
“beloved—” he tried, but you were already cupping his face, kissing him again, soft then messy then eager, like you were making up for every second you’d held back. his hands settled on your waist, grounding but firm, like he was afraid you’d vanish again. you felt him breathe out slowly against your mouth, tension draining inch by inch. “wait—” damian tried again, voice catching somewhere between stern and breathless, but you were already kissing him for the fourth—fifth?—sixth time, you’d lost count, your hands on his cheeks, then his jaw, then his collar, like you were trying to make up for three weeks of starvation all at once.
“i need—listen—”
another kiss.
“i’m trying to—”
another, this one landing on the corner of his mouth because you mis-aimed from excitement. “you are impossible—”
you kissed the complaint right off his lips.
he exhaled hard against your mouth, a shaky sound that betrayed how much he’d missed this. “i got you something,” he finally managed, pushing the words out between soft, stolen breaths.
you froze—dramatically, predictably—eyes wide, lips still brushing his because you had absolutely no spatial awareness when excited. “you didn’t,” you gasped.
he gave you a look that was half fond, half exasperated. “i did.”
you almost shrieked, clutching his shoulders. “what is it? oh my god—damian, did you—did you get me the spoon??”
he blinked. “no. not the spoon. i knew you wanted to go to the gala,” he murmured when you finally pulled back for air—only because you had to, not because you wanted to. his voice was that low, almost-raspy softness he only ever used with you. “i know you.”
you were grinning so hard it was embarrassing. “you do?” you asked, glowing, practically bouncing in his arms.
he huffed—fond, resigned, completely undone—in the way only someone hopelessly in love could sound. “yes,” he said simply. “which is why i bought you a new gown.”
you gasped like he’d just offered you oxygen after drowning. “AWWW.”
“do not yell,” he muttered, though his lips twitched like he was fighting a smile.
“damian wayne,” you clutched his shoulders, scandalized and delighted and unhinged. “you bought me a gown and you didn’t even tell me??”
“i attempted to.” he gave you a look. “you hung up on me.”
you took forever to get ready.
not ‘a little long,’ not ‘fashionably delayed’—no. this was a questline. a saga. a biblical-length journey of outfit changes, makeup crises, and one thirty-second meltdown where you thought your eyeliner betrayed you (it did not).
damian waited.
or rather: he stood behind you with his arms crossed, pacing once, sighing twice, and then finally submitting to holding your hair clips for you. but when you stepped out—sparkling, glowing, wearing the dress he bought you—his entire posture changed. his breath literally hitched.
and at the gala? he didn’t let you out of arm’s reach once. every time someone’s eyes lingered too long, damian’s hand slid to your waist. the kind of possessive that said: look all you want, she’s going home with me. he guided you through the crowd. kissed your temple once when you made him laugh, glared at at least six people for daring to compliment you, absolutely threatened one guy with eye contact alone.
you thrived. you sparkled. for the first time in weeks, you felt entirely, stupidly, loudly like yourself again.
when the night wound down, you walked out with your heels dangling from your fingers, damian’s jacket around your shoulders, his hand loosely holding yours like he still wasn’t convinced you wouldn’t disappear. “where are we going?” you asked, swinging your joined hands dramatically.
“a detour,” he said simply.
the detour was the winter market.
the spoon—your ridiculous, rhinestone-encrusted, princess-coded spoon—was in a display window. damian walked inside without a word, bought it, and handed it to you.
you stared at it, serious as death. “damian,” you whispered. “i will treasure this spoon more than i will treasure any of our hypothetical future children.”
“that is—”
he paused.
“…deeply concerning.”
you nodded solemnly. “they’ll understand.”
he pinched the bridge of his nose. you hugged the spoon. somewhere in the back of your head, one final thought sparked:
when i see jason, i’m gonna… i’m gonna… unplug his phone charger. so he wakes up with like… 4%.
a terrifying threat.
damian exhaled, half-laughing, half in love, tugging you against him, “please never change.”
A/N: HAIII thank you for the love girl u already know i was on this shit the second i got this request ive been obsessed with the idea of bimbo!reader for some reason lately 😭💕💕 i hope this was okayyy
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 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!!
tim drake didn’t really notice anyone when he went to uni. he was there to learn, not make friends. he was too busy for friends, anyways, so he never really tried. that was until he laid eyes on you.
you were in his advanced quantum physics class, loudly debating with some meathead about the correct answer to a question. he was tuned in, entirely unable to focus on his own work. you politely argued with the dumbass who tried to correct you that your answer was right (it was), and he couldn’t think about anything other than how perfect your voice sounded against his ears.
he nearly failed that class— not because he found it particularly difficult, because he couldn’t stop staring at you. he tried not to be creepy, looking away the moment your eyes even dared to meet his. he was memorizing everything about you, the way you played with your hair while you spoke, the way you smiled to yourself whenever you got a correct answer on the homework, how you were too quiet to raise your hand but always offering the answers to the people around you.
he couldn’t get you out of his head, and as much as he tried to deny himself of you, he was obsessed. he switched to the empty seat behind you, close enough to smell your shampoo, and watch the tabs you scrolled through mindlessly on your computer while the professor lectured. he took note of everything. if you bought a book, he’d read it overnight on the off chance you spoke to him. played an album on your spotify? he’s listening to the artist’s entire discography. he even bought a blind box of sonny angels when he watched you debate buying them for thirty minutes.
you’re the one who talks to him first, and god, did it make his year. “hey,” you said, smiling up at him. he hopes you didn’t notice the red that spread from his cheeks to his chest, burning the tips of his ears. “i think you dropped your water bottle.” you say, handing a transparent blue bottle back to him. it’s not his. he’s eternally grateful. he babbles some nonsense back to you, memorizing the way your eyes look when they’re focused on his. you give a kind smile and turn back to your work, completely unbothered while he can feel his heartbeat in his ears.
you opened the gates with that comment— now he finds any excuse to talk to you. yes, he needs help understanding the material. yes, he wants to know what the office hours are for the professor. obviously he’s obsessed with the band on your shirt, and he can’t believe you like it too.
he’s very left-brained. he wants to know everything thing about you, what makes you smile and what makes you mad. he wants to know what makes every neuron fire, what makes you tick. he wishes he could crack open your skull and dig around in your brain to better understand you, to know every aspect of why you are the way that you are. but, since he can’t do that, he does the second best thing and hacks into your phone.
it isn’t invasive, or weird. he just wants to know more about you— you’d understand. he goes through your texts, social medias, gradebook, notes app, bank statements, everything. when he realizes you’re broke, he anonymously pays your tuition under the guise of a scholarship. he’ll show up at your work (a coincidence, of course) and shove a hundred dollar bill in the tip jar when your back is turned. he just wants to take care of you. he slips your favorite snacks into your backpack when you go to the bathroom, doordashes your favorite foods to your dorm when you forget to eat— anything he can do for you, he will.
he broke into your dorm, not to do anything malicious, he just wanted to see how you live. he’s sickened by how easy it was to break the lock, and sent a work order immediately to update security. around your room, he took little things, stuff you wouldn’t miss, sticky note doodles and hair ties. he took note of all of the pieces of you around him, the soap you use, the games stacked on your desk, the makeup piled on the sink. he just likes knowing the intimate, little things about you.
don’t get him started on the pictures. he’s got hundreds— you in class, walking on the courtyard, at work, out with friends, driving around, whatever. he flips through them every night, studying every detail like a textbook and looking for new ones. he loves learning you, focusing in on every detail, putting together every piece of every puzzle.
he gets enraged when he sees any man talking to you, bothering you. he hates the way they can make you laugh where he can’t, that they’re bolder than he is around someone as delicate as you. he needs to be gentle, careful. he shoots death glares at any man who takes your attention for too long, making sure to block them on all of your social medias preemptively in case they try to annoy you again.
he practically has an aneurysm when he catches you walking home from work alone at night. it’s gotham, you can’t possibly think it’s safe, even on campus. lucky you, red robin is there to watch from the shadows, making sure you get home safe and sound. he slips a pepper spray bottle in your bag the next day.
you two become something of friends when he asks you to help him study. suddenly, all of his classes are on the way to yours, so obviously it makes sense to walk with you. listening to you talk— it’s the sweetest sound he could imagine. you tell him things (most of which he already knows) about your life, and constantly invite him to share his. you’re so kind, you never roll your eyes or get annoyed at his awkwardness around you, you only smile and nod until he finds his point. you’re filled with endless empathy, you find a reason to sympathize with anyone, regardless of how rude they may have been. your roommates boyfriend with a staring problem? he must just be nervous around someone so close to his girlfriend. the guy who grabbed your shoulder in class (who got a lesson taught to him by red robin that night)? probably had just been trying to get your attention for awhile.
he’s absolutely infatuated. he has your entire schedule memorized, he knows the hospital you were born in and your high school gpa. he fantasizes about a future with you, one where you love him a fraction as much as he loves you. one where he can spoil you and protect you and have you all to himself.
he spends hours in front of the mirror, practicing what he’ll say to you in the hallway when he finally asks you out. he needs to be casual, like you’re not the only thing he thinks about, but not nonchalant, because he cares more than you know.
he fails spectacularly.
“would you, uh, y’know, i was wanting to, uh… i have movie tickets, and i’d buy you dinner, uh… like a date?”
your little giggle kills him. you should refuse him, turn away and never speak to him again, he deserves it.
“i’d like that. saturday?”
once you start dating, it’s over, he’s over the moon every day. he doesn’t need an excuse to walk you to and from class, or home from work, or pick you up after a night out (where he totally wasn’t watching, lurking in the corner to make sure nobody bothered you), because that was his job. it’s not weird that he sits in the cafe you work at throughout your entire shift; acting like a personal bodyguard. nights when you’re too exhausted to see him, he watches from your window, just observing the way your chest rises and falls.
he kisses you over and over, memorizing how good you taste against his lips. he’d constantly press himself into you, or warm your hands in between his, or tuck his arm neatly against yours. anything to stay close to you. even the slightest shiver and his jacket is over your shoulders, and god forbid you’re out shopping, because he refuses to let you pay a thing, or hold a single bag. he’ll randomly send you money to get your nails done, or buy a book you want. multiple times he’s told you he’d take care of you if you quit your job, but you always refuse. he loves that about you, but wishes you’d let him do more.
he doesn’t even think about the possibility of you leaving him. because truly, it’s impossible. he won’t allow it, he’ll be attentive, caring, and the absolute perfect boyfriend, so the thought won’t even cross your mind. he knows everything about you, exactly what you want and exactly what you need. he loves you more than anything, and his only job is to take care of you, keep you safe and warm and happy for as long as you live.
he adores you, practically worships you. this isn’t puppy love, it’s pure and true and he intends for it to last forever.
pairing: Tim Drake x f! reader (has a pussy + uses fem pronouns) x Kon-El Kent
summary: bored of your roommates not giving you any attention while they're streaming, you offer some under-the-desk support
cw: 2.6k, smut/nsfw, streamer! Tim Drake, roommates with benefits, semi-public sex, humiliation, under the desk support, sucking tim's cock while he streams, face fucking, embarrassment, recording, praise + degradation, punishment (kinda) lots of fluids (spit and cum)
froggi yaps -> sorry this was so late my timkon enjoyers </3 i took a power nap which turned into a four hour nap which turned into me being sick ;-; anyway i hope you have as much fun reading this as i did writing it
“I’m bored,” you groan, letting your head fall back over the edge of Conner’s bed.
You squint at the stream playing on your phone—half of the screen dedicated to a particularly insane modded Minecraft run and the other half dedicated to none other than Tim Drake—and frown. He’s been streaming for eleven hours. Eleven.
In the time since he’d started streaming, you’d showered, taken a nap, gotten groceries and were now harassing Kon in the comfort of his bedroom. The man, also entirely locked in on the same Minecraft server, didn’t seem to mind.
“Why don’t you play with us?” He doesn’t even look away from his monitors—one running Minecraft, the other running an unholy combination of Discord, Spotify and OBS, “if you’re so bored.”
You shrug, “not feeling it. And I don’t wanna be on stream…some of those people are downright weird.”
He snorts at that but doesn’t bother to argue. It’s true that in the time Tim’s been streaming, there’s been no shortage of strange comments and ship edits of the three of you.
One time, in an attempt to be nice to the man, you’d brought him a sandwich on stream. Of course, Tim had slipped up and said something along the lines of ‘thanks, babe’ only for his chat to go insane. Your ship name had been trending online for weeks after that.
Arguably, though, Kon had it worse than you. ‘TimKon’, the shipname given to them by the fans, was almost always in the Top 10 on Ao3. Almost anytime the two of them played games together on stream, your Tiktok feed would be flooded with clips of the two of them.
Of course, if his fan base knew the true nature of Tim’s relationship with the two of you, they’d probably go ballistic. The three of you were roommates, sure. Friends, absolutely. But there was more to it, too.
Friends don’t seek each other out in the night, don’t shower with each other and help wash the blood from their hair after patrol. Friends don’t go down on each other for hours after a few too many drinks and a drunken game of ‘Never Have I Ever’.
That last one is burned into your memory. The sight of both Tim and Conner between your legs, sweaty and flushed, is not a sight you’d soon forget. They’d been fighting to see who could make you finish faster—your late night game of Never Have I Ever having revealed you’d never been eaten out before—only for them to leave in a draw.
“Do you think he’ll be done soon?”
Kon shrugs his broad shoulders. “I dunno.”
“Do you know if he’s eaten anything? Or had water?”
“I dunno.”
“Do you think he’ll care if I hide under his desk and suck his cock?”
“I dunn—what?” He sputters, finally turning to look at you only to see you running off down the hall towards Tim’s room.
He’s on his feet in an instant, ready to catch you before you burst into Tim’s room and do something regrettable. Any other day, he’d catch you in an instant. Today, however, his legs are stiff from sitting at his desk and he doesn’t manage to catch you before you’re opening Tim’s door and offering him a wink.
You try to stay as quiet as possible slipping into his room, phone clenched in your hand still playing his stream on mute. You can see yourself in the very corner, shuffling along the far wall until you’re out of view from the camera.
Tim offers you a strange look but says nothing, going back to addressing his chat about something you don’t quite understand. You make it to the window next to his desk, crossing your arms over your chest and pouting.
Blue eyes flick over to you, scanning over you for any sign of harm before realizing you’re entirely fine. He goes back to staring at his screen with bloodshot eyes.
Oh well, you sigh and pull your hair out of your face. You lower yourself to your knees, crawling across the mat beneath his desk until you’re settled squarely between Tim’s legs. That gets his attention.
He looks down at you with wide eyes, swallowing hard before going back to looking at his monitors. You rest a hand on his thigh, parting his legs slowly and shuffling forward until you’re slotted perfectly between his knees.
Looking at him through your lashes, you trail your hand higher and higher up his thigh until it rests just over the slight outline of his cock. His cheeks burn pink but he doesn’t dare look away from his game.
You smile sweetly and dip your hand into his waistband, going straight for his cock. The minute your hand brushes over his sensitive length, Tim gasps.
You tilt your hand, squeezing his cock and looking up at him expectantly. He glances down at you—eyes dark and lined with lust—before taking a deep breath.
“S-sorry chat, stubbed my toe on the wall again.”
You suppress a laugh. Tightening your grip, you slowly rub your hand up his length. You leverage your other hand on his waistband, using it to tug his sweats all the way down.
Thank god his camera only shows him from the chest up.
With his cock freed, you spit into your hand and use it to lube up his half-hard cock. Your strokes get quicker from there, hand gripping him tightly until he’s fully hard and dripping pre into your palm.
Tim makes the occasional strangled noise from above you, trying his hardest to keep his composure on stream. You frown, you were hoping he’d have turned off his stream by now.
Oh well. You open your mouth widely and close your lips around the tip of his cock, swirling your tongue around it to clean off his pre.
Tim swears, slamming one of his knees into his desk. The sudden impact causes his camera to fall off the top of his monitor and land flat on its face on his desk.
He muffles a string of curses on his palm, using the sleeve of his sweater to cover his mouth. With the camera no longer focused on him, he’s free to look at you directly.
Though he doesn’t say a word, his flushed cheeks and lustful eyes tell you everything you need to know. You swallow more of his cock, hollowing out your cheeks and taking him in until the head of his cock reaches the back of your throat.
“I’m having some, er, technical difficulties, chat,” he rambles out, trying to keep the breathiness out of his voice. “I’m gonna have to end stream, sorry, bye!”
It’s only a minute before the telltale sound of him dropping his headset on his desk lets you know he’s done streaming. And that you’re in a world of trouble.
You pull your mouth from his cock and scramble to push yourself out from under his desk. You force yourself to your feet, bracing yourself on the floor to run away.
You make it a whole six feet before Tim snatches you by your waist and pulls you into his chest. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Kon!” You shout.
Tim’s lips ghost over your ear, “what do you think he’s gonna do, huh?”
The door creaks open and Conner pads into the room, crossing his muscular arms over his broad chest. His eyes glance from the guilty expression on your face to Tim’s lack of pants.
He shakes his head. “What did you get yourself into this time?”
“Hey!” You smile guiltily, “it’s not my fault you guys weren’t giving me any attention.”
Tim, satisfied that Kon’s broad form is adequately blocking the door, lets you go. “Aw, is someone needy?” He teases.
“Shut up.”
Tim laughs, “feeling brave, are we?”
Tim pulls you against his chest once more, one arm slung across your chest, the other slowly trailing down your stomach. You swallow, half-heartedly squirming in his arms as his hand dips between your thighs.
“T-tim.” You shiver, parting your legs on instinct.
And then he pulls away entirely, letting you stumble forwards on shaky legs, still yearning for his touch. You look at him over your shoulder, fixing him with the most betrayal-filled stare you can muster.
“What?” He says, like he doesn’t already know what you want. He looks at Kon over your head, “did you get my text?”
He nods and takes your hand, “come on, then.”
You let them lead you away from Tim’s office and back to Kon’s room. Each step down the hallway feels charged, a newfound electricity crackling in the air.
The first thing you notice in Kon’s room is the tripod and the camera on top. You tilt your head in confusion, raising an eyebrow at him, “what’s this for?”
“What do you think?” Conner asks, settling on the bed and patting the spot next to him.
Dropping Tim’s hand from yours, you slowly sink into the mattress next to him, sitting perfectly still with your hands on your knees.
Tim fiddles with the camera, adjusting the angles and pressing a button that has a blinking red light appearing. “This,” he says, tugging off his shirt before walking into frame, “is for needy sluts that think it's funny to embarrass me on stream.”
Your face warms at that and somehow only now do you realize that you’ve walked into a trap.
Tim stands in front of you stroking his cock, still half hard from your earlier performance. “C’mon now,” he prompts you, “you were so eager to suck it earlier.”
“B-but the camera…”
He laughs, “didn’t seem to stop you earlier.”
You look for Kon for help but he has the same devilish look in his eyes that Tim does, eagerly watching to see what you’ll do. Hot shame burns at the back of your eyes but still, you lower yourself to your knees on the floor and wrap a hand around his length.
“Good.”
Slowly, you take his cock into your mouth, wrapping your lips around it like you did earlier. You bob your head up and down, taking more and more of his length in every time.
Tim grabs the back of your head and forces you all the way down, choking you on his cock. You gag, blinking back hot tears, but you don’t dare tap out. Your chest aches for air, the little breaths you take in through your nose doing little to satiate your need for air.
Finally, Tim lets you off of his cock, grabbing your chin and turning your head to look at the camera. “Smile, baby.”
You look into the lens with a pout on your lips and tears in your eyes. For a minute, all you can think about is how he’ll watch this back later and laugh at your pathetic face and how easily you submitted to this. The thought has warmth coursing between your thighs.
He grabs your head once more and guides you back down onto his cock. He doesn’t push you down this time, letting you suck him off at your own pace. You let your eyes flutter closed, trying to focus on his dick in your mouth and not the fact you’re being watched.
And then something fleshy is hitting you across the cheek. You open your eyes, blinking to adjust to the light, only to see Conner standing in front of you pantsless, his cock rubbing the side of your cheek.
Tim pulls you off his cock, a string of drool connecting the two of you. He rubs his thumb over your lip, smearing your spit across your face that has you looking even messier than before.
“Why don’t we give Kon some love, hm?”
You nod idly, dizzy from the sudden attention, and stick out your tongue. He rubs his cock along your tastebuds, slapping it on your tongue before he pushes it all into your mouth. You strain your jaw to take him, your mouth already aching.
Conner’s hand replaces Tim’s on the back of your head, guiding you along his length, pushing your head down until his cock reaches the back of your throat. He chuckles when you gag before letting you up for air and repeating the process all over again.
“You really are well-trained,” he murmurs, lovingly patting the back of your head. “You take cock so well.”
The compliment has you clenching your thighs and trying to take more of him in your mouth. You don’t even notice Tim has disappeared until you feel him crouching behind you, hands grasping at your chest.
You gasp, opening your mouth wider and giving Conner a better opening. He sticks his cock further inside of you, further than you’ve tried to take either of them, and holds your head down. You squeeze your eyes shut.
His cock is so far in your mouth, it burns. You can’t breathe, can’t think—all you can focus on is his throbbing cock and the way Tim is grabbing you.
“A few more seconds.” Conner groans, “that’s it, you can do it. I know you can take more than that.”
Conner releases your head at the same time Tim pulls out one of his pocket knives and cuts your shirt clean down the middle, leaving you half-naked in front of them.
He pinches one of your nipples, laughing when you shudder. “So sensitive.”
You hum in agreement, not trusting your voice to be anything but choked and raspy right now. Tim turns you to face the camera once more, still crouched behind you as he squishes your cheeks together and smears drool and precum across your face.
“You’re so messy.” He pushes himself back to his feet, shoving his cock into your face, “so fucking messy and needy.”
You hesitate before opening your mouth for him, remembering the camera is very much right there and that they are never going to let you hear the end of it. Still, Tim’s standing in front of you and he’s naked and goddamn, does his cock look good.
There’s a smile on his face when you open your mouth and take his cock in once more. You force your head down as far as you can, pushing past the ache in your jaw and the way your throat seems to push him out.
Then Tim is pulling out and his cock is immediately replaced with Kon’s, and once again you try to take him as deep as possible. They rotate out like that, using your throat one at a time, each cock replaced with another.
You’re sweaty and flustered and entirely messy but still, you gladly open your mouth and try your best to take them as deep as possible.
“Look so pretty like this,” Kon gasps, “like you’re made to be on your knees and suck our cocks.”
Tim makes a sound of agreement, brushing a tear out of the corner of your eye. “Like you were made to be used.”
The cycle only speeds up from there and it’s not long before Tim’s cock is twitching. He finishes in your mouth at first, pulling out his cock so the remaining ropes of cum drip onto your face and chest.
Kon takes advantage of this, sticking his cock in your still cum-filled mouth, thrusting a few times before he finishes, too. He starts in your mouth, pulling out so he can cover your face and chest in it too.
Both men are transfixed by the sight of you on your knees, covered in cum.
You swallow what’s left in your mouth, looking up at Tim and opening your mouth to show him.
“Good girl,” he says breathlessly.
Kon grabs the camera off the tripod, kneeling in front of you and shoving it in your face. You stare at the blinking red light, stare into the lens that’s capturing you in such a lurid position.
“Go on, sweetheart.” Conner prompts, “smile for the camera.”
dc masterlist | navigation | kinktober 2025
tysm for reading & have a great day! /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹
includes: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Hal Jordan, Wally West & Roy Harper
summary: when your boyfriend gets exposed to something on patrol, you're the only one who can help him
cw: 1k/part, fem! reader, sex pollen, dubcon, established relationships, unprotected sex, overstimulation, fingering, creampie, bondage, face fucking, breeding, yearning, whiny men, cum swallowing, masturbation, irresponsible use of superpowers, switch! Reader + switch! Boys, biting, riding, lmk if i missed anything
froggi yaps -> ive been hiding this in my drafts for weeks bcs im nervous people are gonna hate me for this >.< but oh well...had to delete clark & barry's parts cause after rewriting them a bajillion times, they just didn't fit </3 ty to my bestest buddy for holding me accountable LOL enjoy!
Dick Grayson:
Dick is home early, which can only mean two things: patrol went exceptionally well, or patrol when incredibly poor.
Judging by the faraway look in his eyes, you’re thinking the latter. He’s hardly through the door when he’s ripping off his mask and carding his fingers through his hair.
“Hey,” you greet him from the couch. “Everything okay?”
He nods, but the tension in his jaw and shoulders tells you everything you need to know: he’s lying. A frown falls over your face. Classic Dick.
You force yourself to your feet, the sleep you’ve been staving off all night leaving your body at the sight of your disheveled boyfriend. The minute you step towards him, he’s sucking in a breath, tugging at the collar of his costume to get some airflowing.
“Patrol went perfectly fine then?”
He dodges you, slipping into the kitchen before you can approach him any further. “I wouldn’t say that,” he admits. “But it’s okay. Don’t you worry your pretty head about it.”
You watch as he fills an entire glass of water and chugs the whole thing, water soaking the outsides of his mouth. It drips down his chin, down the more prominent than usual veins on his neck.
He wipes it lazily on the back of his hand and flashes you a smile when he sees you staring. “It’s rude to stare, you know.”
“Hard not to when you’re putting on such a good show.”
His joking demeanour disappears—only for a moment—replaced by pain-stricken eyes and clenched fists. His cheeks flush, his eyes fluttering shut while he takes what appears to be a strained breath.
“Okay, what aren’t you telling me?”
You expect him to brush you off, the usual lies about his time spent as Nightwing that will surely be contradicted in a news report later this week. Yet, Dick surprises you.
“I got dosed with something, but you don’t need to—” He trails off, freezing in his tracks at the way your lips purse and eyes flood with concern for him. “Fuck, baby don’t look at me like that.”
It’s the shift in his voice that you notice first. The carefully threaded restraint he’d been using up until now has disappeared, replaced instead with a hoarseness you’ve only ever heard from Nightwing.
You’re rushing to his side, then. Your hands grasp at his shoulders, trail down his biceps, rest over his forearms. You look up at him, blinking slowly while you closely—maybe too closely—examine him.
“Dosed with what?”
Having you so close is like torture to him, the breath stilling in his body. He can’t help but wrap his arms around you, shoving your face into his chest so you don’t have to see the downright predatory look on his face right now.
“Don’t worry about it.”
A sigh blows past your lips, both hands bracing against his abs to shove yourself away from him. “Stop saying…”
You trail off, eyes focused on the bulge pressing into the fabric of his costume. And suddenly you feel silly for missing all of the cues, for not realizing you’ve been accidentally torturing him this entire time.
“Don’t worry.”
He says it at the same time you say, “let me help.”
He blinks, blue eyes swallowed by the darkness of his pupils. His hand runs to your jaw, tracing the skin with the tips of his fingers. “We really shouldn’t…”
“Now is not the time to get modest, Grayson.”
He scoffs at your use of his last name. You keep your eyes locked on his while you slowly fall to your knees, resting your head against the side of his thigh. He gets the message, stripping out of the restraining fabric of his costume, leaving him in just his underwear.
His underwear are wet, every inch of his skin flooded with boiling warmth. You palm at him through the fabric, Dick sucking in a breath and clenching the edge of the counter. Now’s not the time to tease him, you realize, and waste no time stripping him completely.
The minute the cold air hits his aching cock, Dick gasps. The cold air offers the sweet relief he’s been craving, only to be immediately swallowed up by the warmth of your mouth. His eyes stay on you the entire time, his mouth falling open with pleasure.
You bob your head up and down, hollowing your cheeks and sucking like your life depends on it. The taste of him floods your mouth, all salty pre and the bodywash he’d used before patrol, and something new and sweet you don’t quite recognize.
Dick presses a hand on the back of your head, shoving you down on his length until you gag. Your eyes tear up, lashes wet with the strain, and the sight alone has Dick whining.
His tip reaches the back of your throat and then his hips are stuttering, bodies shaking as his orgasm rips through him. Hot ropes of cum run down your throat, coat your mouth, rest against your tongue.
You don’t even think before you swallow, sticking out your tongue after to show him. His face is entirely flushed now, sweat sticking to every inch of his skin, muscles shaking with restraint.
“Get up,” he says and it leaves no room for argument.
The second you’re on your feet, he’s pulling you into a dizzying kiss, his tongue dipping into your mouth. His hands roam your body, his still hard cock poking you where he presses against your body.
And then he’s stripping you of your clothes and bending you over the counter to fuck you silly.
-
It’s four rounds before Dick is able to regain his composure, pulling his sweat-slicked body away from you.
In the chaos, he’s moved the two of you to the couch, with you splayed out on your back. Your legs shake, your head spins, spots cloud your vision. Your pussy hurts from the beating you just took, splotches of his cum drying on your thighs, your stomach, your chest.
“I’m gonna be so tired tomorrow,” you mumble, wiping a hand across your forehead.
Dick kisses at your cheeks, eyes sweeping down your ravished body. You’re just as sweaty as he is, your skin feverish from the aftermath of your orgasms. Teeth marks linger on your thighs, your neck—anywhere Dick could access, apparently. His fingers idly trace the outline of his teeth on your skin while he frowns.
“I’ll take care of you.” It’s a promise. “Since you always take such good care of me.”
Jason Todd:
The last thing you’re expecting when you come home is Jason Todd naked and jerking off in your bed, but here he is.
When you first opened the door, back from your midnight gas station snack run, you’d expected at least a couple more hours alone. Jason wasn’t due to be home until at least five in the morning, so when you heard the distinct squeaks of your bedframe, your first thought was intruder.
And then you heard him moaning your name and all of the fear went out the window, replaced with confusion.
That’s how you got here, staring at him from the doorframe, listening to the sticky sounds of him fisting his cock and whining your name. You knock softly, “shirking your duties tonight, Red?”
He looks up at you, not even bothering to stop touching himself. “Needed a quick break,” he groans.
He’s stripped out of his helmet and pants but the dark compression shirt he usually sports with his costume remains glued to his abs. He’s soaked in sweat, his cheeks are flushed—Jesus, how long has he been at this?”
You laugh incredulously. “And how long is this break going to last?”
“Woulda been quicker but I came home to find my girlfriend abandoned me,” he looks at you seriously, “where were you?”
Your heart speeds up. It’s already strange for him to ditch his pursuit of crime, but for his tone to shift so drastically, for him to be staring at you like you did something wrong? Something’s off.
You shuffle your way into the room, hovering hesitantly just beside the bed. You can’t help but watch as he jerks himself off. You risk a glance, meeting his eyes only to notice that dark look behind them.
“Are you high?”
He stops, hand lazily resting on his cock. “Are you serious?”
You nod.
“Not on drugs.” At the incredulous look on your face, he sighs, “ran into Ivy tonight.”
That’s all he has to say for you to connect the dots. His flushed skin, the way he’s grabbing himself, the downright needy tone of his voice. It all makes sense.
“Jay…” You find yourself climbing into bed next to him, keeping a respectful distance, “are you okay?”
He clenches his cock. “I’m working on it.”
“Do you need anything?”
“You,” he admits. “I needed you but you weren’t here—maybe that’s for the best.”
You rest a hand on his shoulder and he gasps, squeezing his eyes shut. Even through the fabric of his shirt, you can feel the warmth of his skin.
“Do you still need me?”
He groans and furiously nods his head. You brace a hand on his thigh and you swear goosebumps raise across his skin. Your fingers wrap around the ones he keeps on his cock, taking over the motion for him.
Your other hand dips beneath your waistband, stroking at your clit. You’re already wet from the sight of him naked, from the way he’s been talking. You rub him in sync with yourself, your fingers wrapped tight around his cock.
Jason finally lets himself relax into the mattress, head rolling back while you work on him. You spit, giving yourself some lube to help with the friction and coat his cock. You dip a finger into your pussy, trying to work yourself open for what’s to come.
When you feel good and ready, you’re lazily tugging your pants down to your ankles and straddling his waist. The tip of his cock brushes between your folds, collecting your slick.
You press one hand against his chest, the other one dipping between your legs to align his tip with your entrance. The minute it slips inside of you, you whine. It’s big and he’s so hard and it’s such a stretch but God, it feels so good.
Jason whines, too. His eyes are still clenched shut, his hands finding their way to your waist to help brace you on his length. You start off slow, trying to get yourself in the rhythm of it before speeding up.
It’s not fast enough for Jason, though, not hard enough. He slams you down on his cock, his tip brushing your cervix. The two of you thrust together, his hips snapping up to meet yours before you can even bring them back down.
All of his movements—from his hands to his hips—are punctuated with pulsing need, lurid sounds leaving his lips. It’s a rare occasion you can hear him whine like this, a rare occasion he’s so brazen with his need for you, but you love it.
Your thighs slam against his hard enough that the sounds echo through the room, his cock inside of you bullying its way through your walls. And then he’s twitching, thighs shaking.
He pushes you all the way down, holding you against him while he finishes deep inside of you. You squirm, squishing a hand into your stomach as if you could feel him from the outside.
Jason’s left gasping, sweaty and still rock hard. He thrusts up into you lazily, eyes flicking open to meet yours, “need more. You can take more, yeah? For me?”
Your walls clench around him and you nod. His cock has his cum sloshing around inside of you, pushing it deeper with every needy thrust. His eyes are completely darkened with pleasure, his fingers digging into your skin so harshly it’s going to bruise.
-
It’s a long night for you, ending with you collapsed on Jason’s chest, his cum pouring out of you. He’s panting beneath you but still manages to draw slow circles on your back, your feverish skin twitching beneath his touch.
Every inch of you is sore, the muscles in your thighs aching from having them parted for so long. Your pussy hurts, too. From the stretch or the friction or the absolute beating you just took, you’re not sure.
Jason plants a kiss against your temple. “I need water,” he cups your jaw, tilting up your head to look at him, “you need anything?”
“Water sounds good.”
He nods and then he’s shifting your body away, which isn’t easy given the way you’re clinging to him. Your skin sticks to his from where you’ve been laying and even after he gets out of the bed, even though you’re utterly exhausted and fucked out, you still ache for him.
It feels like forever until he’s coming back with water and settling back onto the mattress next to you. Automatically, your body slots into his, your head resting on his chest.
“So what did you do to piss off Poison Ivy so bad?”
He laughs, “fuck if I know. All I know is I’ve hit my pussy quota for the week.”
“Oh?” You risk a glance at him, “does that mean I’m off the hook?”
He kisses you. “Not a chance, doll.”
Tim Drake:
You wake up to Tim kissing the side of your neck, his wet hair tickling your skin. You scrunch up your nose, trying to squirm out of his grasp but his arms are locked tightly around you.
“Tim,” you whine.
It’s not uncommon for him to wake you up like this. In the ungodly hours, when he’s finally stripped out of his suit and finished up whatever it is he’s been up to, he always seeks you out.
He climbs beneath your sheets, his hair still wet from his shower. He feels your skin on his, basks in the heat of your body, traces shapes up your body. It’s more than a routine—it’s a ritual.
You can feel something’s off before you finish opening your eyes. His breaths are faster, shallower. His hair lacks the distinct smell of his shampoo—instead, it’s matted with sweat.
“Tim.” You finally open your eyes, blinking groggily at your boyfriend. “You’re being needy.”
He looks up at you through his lashes, shadows cast across his skin from the moonlight streaming through the window. His eyes are half-lidded, the steely blue of his irises almost entirely drowned out.
“Not my fault,” he rasps, grinding his hips against your thigh. “Just need you.”
You prop yourself up on your elbows, pushing away his sweaty hair from his forehead. You wince at the sight of a pretty sizable wound in the corner of his forehead, dried blood crusted to his skin. Your blood runs cold.
“Did something happen?”
He grinds against you again, the hard length of his cock teasing your side. “Nothing important.”
He trails a hand down the length of your pyjama pants, stopping at your knee and dipping his hand into your inner thigh. You gasp, a hot trail of lighting running up your spine. Swallowing, you part your knees, watching with bated breath as his travels higher and higher.
Your open knee falls right between his own legs. A whimper slips past his lips, his hips grinding into you harder. You swear you can feel a new wetness from where he touches you.
His fingers ghost over your heat, staying just shy of where you really need him, before he shoves his hand into your waistband. On a normal night, he might be more gentle, more patient. Tonight is not a normal night.
His lips find their way to your neck again, teeth nipping at your skin. His hand travels downward simultaneously, slipping past your panties and to the wetness of your core. You gasp, eyes falling shut.
He dips his fingers into your heat, coating them in your slick while he rubs at your clit. A new heat grows in your stomach, radiating through you, seeping into every pore.
He slips a finger inside of you, sliding it up to the hilt in a matter of seconds. You bite your lip, trying to keep quiet in the dead of night.
He curls his finger inside of you, grumbling at the way your walls clench around him. “Fuck.”
You open your eyes at that. “Tim—“ You clear your throat. “Tim, are you sure everything’s okay?”
He thrusts his hips slowly in time with the finger inside of you, rutting against you like a man starved. His teeth sink further into your neck, eliciting a moan from you.
“I need—fuck, I need you.” His eyes meet yours, pure desperation behind them. “I need to have you. Please let me have you.”
A small shake of your head is all he needs, tugging your pyjama pants down to your knees and climbing on top of you. His own pants follow suit, his hard cock springing free. It looks painfully hard, the tip wet and glistening in the moonlight.
He pushes your legs apart—a little aggressively—and settles between them. He lays over you, one hand keeping himself up and the other guiding his cock to your needy entrance. You gasp when the tip slips inside of you, your walls stretching to accommodate him.
Tim lets his weight fall on top of you, his chest pressed against yours, his head nuzzled into your neck. His thrusts are fast, hard and desperate—each one punctuated with a plea and the sound of his skin on yours. Your hands trail up the nape of his neck, tangling in his sweat soaked hair.
His hips roll into yours, his cock barely moving out of you before he shoves it back in. His breathing is laboured, panting in your ear while he fucks the life out of you.
“Feels so good.” He gasps. “S-so good. Fuck, I need more.”
Tim fucks you like a man starved. Every thrust, every slam of his hips into yours has your eyes rolling back in your head, that pressure inside of you building. It’s too much and not enough—everything you needed and everything you didn’t.
You tug hard on his hair, bringing his face to yours and slamming your lips against his. You come undone, throwing yourself into the kiss, all of your muscles locking up. He tastes sickly sweet—so strange, so unlike him.
Tim fucks you through your orgasm, and even after you come to, he keeps going. Sweat drips from his temples, his face flushed all the way down to his neck. His hips stutter, and then he’s pushing himself deeper, burying himself deep while he finishes inside of you.
Even after he comes, he keeps going, fucking it further inside of you.
-
It’s hours later before Tim finally lets up. Every inch of his skin is flushed and feverish and coated in sweat, his muscles shaking from exhaustion. Despite all that, he’s still better off than you.
You’re half-conscious, panting for breath that won’t come. Your legs shake, your limbs long since numbed. Tim’s cum drips out of you, staining the skin of your thighs and the silk of your sheets. You feel so full of him that it hurts, your pussy aching from the friction of the night.
He finally rolls off of you, his heart rate having finally returned to normal. “You doing okay?”
You offer him a weak thumbs up, your throat dry and sore from both dehydration and exertion. He wipes the sweat off of your forehead, pressing a chaste kiss to your overly warm skin.
“I’m gonna grab you some water.” He forces himself to his feet despite his aching muscles, “then we can sleep, okay?”
You nod slowly, already starting to drift off when he leaves the room.
Wally West:
You’re just waking up to get water when you’re caught in a blur of blue lightning.
You were in the kitchen, fingers outstretched to the cabinet, oversized tee riding up over your bare thighs, when the door clicked open. You didn’t even have time to react before his arms were around you and you were being sped away to the bedroom.
Wally’s arms stay around you, one hand on the back of your head to keep you pressed into his chest. His breaths are heavy, the hammering of his heart beating in your ears.
Still in a sleepy daze, you let yourself fall against him, embracing his touch. “Hiya,” you murmur.
“Hey, doll.” His voice comes out as a rasp, all breathy and uneven. “What’re you awake for?”
You try to pull away so you can meet his eyes while he speaks but his grip tightens. You blink, “was grabbing water. Are you—is everything okay? You’re home early.”
He rests his chin on the top of your head, trailing his other hand down your back and into the arch of your spine. He rubs up and down, gentle pressures trying to keep himself grounded.
You grab at his hips, fingers tracing the bones that jut out through his costume. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”
He’s hesitant to let you go, loosening his hold on you little by little. You let yourself step back—only a few inches, but to Wally, it may as well feel like a multiverse away—and finally get a good look at him.
He’s pulled his cowl off, showing off his flushed cheeks and sweaty temples. His pupils are blown, almost swallowing the green entirely. His sights are fixed on you, eyes burning you where they land on your skin.
“What’s wrong?”
He takes a breath, “should be outta my system soon.”
“What should be?”
As if he can’t help himself, he’s gripping your hips and pulling you back into him. ”Got dosed with something,” he’s quiet, words almost too quick for you to catch. “Tried to run it off but—”
He slams your body into his, ducking his head into the crook of your shoulder so he can whisper into your ear. “I need you.”
A shiver crawls up your spine. Oh. You grab at his forearms, looking up at him through your lashes. “You need me, hm?”
He nods, desperation written across his features. His hands dip away from your hips, hiking up your shirt and rubbing on your bare thighs.
“Please.”
And how could you resist when he’s whining, pleading, begging for you to help him? The microsecond you nod your head, he’s walking you back onto the bed and laying you down against the sleep-ruffled sheets.
His head falls against your neck, hands tugging needily at the collar of your shirt. His lips brush over your collarbone, over the side of your neck, planting wet kisses across your skin.
His hips roll over one of your thighs and it’s now that you feel the hardness in his pants through the fabric of his suit. He grinds against you and cries out into your neck like just touching you has him close to finishing.
You stroke the top of his head, tugging at the unruly mess of red. A gasp leaves him, the air cold against the warmth he’s left across your skin. His hips rock into you, bulge digging into you in a way that has him whimpering against you.
“N-need more.” He gasps, “need to be closer.”
And then he’s shedding the suit, not even bothering to kick it off the bed before his underwear follows. He props himself up on his knees, squeezing his cock in anticipation.
Wally doesn’t even bother to take off your underwear. Your legs are folded into your chest, Wally inserting himself between them. He tugs your panties to the side, slipping his cock into your wetness.
The two of you sigh in sync as Wally pushes himself further inside. He’s rougher tonight, faster, wasting no time bottoming out. The sudden stretch stings a little, sure to leave your insides aching tomorrow, but you don’t mind.
Anything to make him feel better.
His thrusts are sloppy and quick and punctuated with whines. His face is pressed into your chest, inhaling the scent of your shirt like a drug. You’re soft and you’re warm and you smell fucking divine and Wally cannot get enough.
Your thighs shake from the way he’s holding them into your chest, an ache building in your tummy with every thrust. You dig your nails into his shoulders, raking them down his back.
Wally finishes quicker than usual, every cell in his body vibrating against you. He gasps, choked whines slipping from his lips. You grab onto his biceps in an attempt to ground him, keep him from slipping through your fingers.
It takes almost a minute for him to stop buzzing. Sweat slicks his brow bone, soaks into his hairline, glistens across every muscle.
“How’re you feeling, baby?”
His hips roll into yours once more, cock brushing your cervix. “N-need more. Please—god, please, doll, let me keep fucking you? Please?”
You kiss at his temple, “anything for you.”
-
It’s incredibly lucky that Wally’s metabolism has whatever he was drugged with out of his system within a couple hours. It’s incredibly unlucky for you that he has the most insane stamina out of any man you’ve ever been with.
When Wally’s finally done, when the ache in his cock fades and the heat in his chest cools, you’re left entirely fucked out. You’re sweaty and sore and exhausted, with cum dripping down your thighs and staining the sheets.
Wally’s exhausted too, collapsing onto the mattress next to you. He plants kisses down your temple and across your cheek, “you’re the best ever. You know that, right?”
“You’re just saying that to get more pussy.”
He laughs. “I’m saying that because I love you.”
“Enough to get me water?”
Wally kisses you one last time before he’s on his feet, returning only seconds later with a glass of ice water. “As you wish, princess.”
Hal Jordan:
Hal Jordan bursts through the door, tripping over his own feet on his way through the threshold. He gasps for air, his costume dissolves around him, leaving him in his street clothes.
You’re on your feet in an instant, discarding your phone on the couch and rushing to his side. You manage to catch him—barely—and drape him over your shoulder.
He leans on you, tentatively, and allows you to guide him to the couch. You’re gentle to roll him off of your shoulders and onto the soft cushions.
Crouching in front of him, you gently tap his flushed cheek. “Hal, baby, look at me.”
His eyes are droopy and bloodshot, the brown darker than you’ve ever seen it. Still, he manages to look up at you through his lashes.
“What happened out there?”
He swallows, shuddering beneath your gaze. “I got dosed.”
You scrunch up your face, rubbing your thumb over his feverish skin. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his pupils blown out.
“With what?” You frown, “the ring didn’t protect you?”
“Not if I—“ He grunts, shifting uncomfortably in his jeans, the fabric suddenly too tight. “Not if I drank it willingly.”
Your eyes widen. No, no, no—how could this happen? “Do you know what you were dosed with?”
His cheeks burn a brighter shade of red—a silent yes.
“Well, what was it?”
Hal tilts his head back, looking up at the ceiling and trying to catch his breath. Just the way you’re looking at him, the sound of your voice, is enough to have his blood rushing to his groin. It’s torture.
“Hal?”
He can’t take it anymore. The heat, the pressure in his groin, the scent of your perfume. It’s too much for him.
He snatches your hands from his face, pulling you into him so he can catch your lips in a hungry kiss. It’s hot, the taste of whiskey, Coke and something unusually sweet lingering on his mouth.
Hal’s a man starved, his teeth digging into your bottom lip, his tongue begging for access. You go to pull away—whether to catch your breath or get your bearings, you’re not sure—but Hal’s grip on your hands is ironclad.
“Hal,” you mumble into his lips.
Either he doesn’t hear you or doesn’t care. He collects your wrists into one hand, keeping you captive with a fraction of his strength.
“Hal.”
Finally, his grip loosens and you’re allowed to pull away, blinking at him with wide eyes. He’s smiling, and it would almost be reassuring if it wasn’t for the edginess behind his eyes, the desperation in his touch.
You rest your hands on his thighs, rubbing at the rough fabric of his blue jeans. “How can I help you, baby?”
“I need you.” His voice is breathy, raspy. “Please, sweetheart—please let me have you.”
It’s a rare occasion you can get Hal Jordan of all people to beg. Despite your concern, the clench of your heart just by looking at the state of him, you slowly nod your head.
He captures your hands in his grasp once more, a flash of green light wrapping around them. You watch as the light moulds, sculpts itself into something hard and real—and then you’re sitting in front of him in a pair of glowing green shackles.
Hal is eager to guide you down to your knees, your face perfectly aligned with the zipper of his jeans. You look up at him through your lashes, blinking in innocent anticipation.
On a better night, you would fall victim to his usual games. The teasing, the painfully slow way he strips, the way he doesn’t let you touch him until he’s fully satisfied that you need it.
Tonight, he’s quick to strip out of his jeans and underwear. His cock springs free, the already-hard length slapping your face. You open your mouth, sticking out your tongue and letting him slap it onto your tastebuds.
His familiar taste floods your mouth, his cock pushing all the way to the back of your throat. You gasp, his tip brushing your gag reflex and ripping the breath from your body. You wrap your lips around his length, hollowing your cheeks.
You pause, closing your eyes and taking a breath through your nose. Hal pushes on the back of your head, driving himself past the back of your throat. You gag, tears flooding your eyes.
“S-so fucking good at this, baby.” He groans, “mouth feels like heaven.”
You struggle in your bindings for only a few seconds before he catches on and releases you, giving you some time to catch your breath.
You fall into an easy routine after that. Hal guides you up and down his length, whining about how nice it feels and how good you’re doing. Heat rushes to your pussy with every moment you spend with your mouth around his cock, your panties soaking in anticipation.
Hal pulls you off his cock before he can finish, grabbing you by your shackles and hauling you up to your feet. He manhandles you onto the couch, a hand rubbing at the crotch of your pants.
“Always get so wet from sucking me off,” he groans. There’s a rip and suddenly the cool air is hitting your bare pussy. “So hungry for cock.”
“H-hal!”
Before you can berate him about your ruined pants and underwear, his fingers find their way between your folds, rubbing at your clit. You bite down on the front of your shirt, only managing to muffle half the desperate sounds that leave your lips.
When he’s satisfied you’re ready, he’s pushing himself inside you, greedily bottoming out before you can adjust. You squirm in your restraints, Hal’s hand on the small of your back keeping you down against the couch.
He pulls all the way out, slamming his hips back into yours in a way that has your knees shaking. He bullies his cock inside of you repeatedly, pushing you further and further into the couch with each harsh thrust.
“F-fuck,” his hips stutter. “Need to be deeper, fuck.”
Hal does his best to last but with the heat washing over him, it’s hard. He’s insatiable but overstimulated, needy but never satisfied. He needs you, he needs more, but if he goes any harder, he is going to break you.
Hal’s cock twitches inside of you, heat flooding your walls. You gasp, your body spasming as you finish with him. The clenching of your walls milks his cock, pulling every drop out of his needy length.
-
By the end of the night, you’re tied spreadeagle to his bedframe, green restraints bind you with barely-maintained willpower.
When Hal finishes for the fifth time, you’re utterly exhausted. The smell of sex is heavy in the air, all of your senses numbed from the way you’ve just been ravished.
Hal pulls his face away from your chest, his eyes soft, that light having finally returned. He plants a gentle kiss to your temple, “thank you, sweetheart.”
“Just—” You raise a shaking hand to your forehead and offer him a lazy salute, “just doing my part, sir.”
He laughs at that. “I think you’ve done your part for the entire year, if I’m being honest.”
“Does that mean no more sex for a year?”
“W-what?” His eyes practically bulge out of his head, “that’s not—I didn’t mean—”
You fall into a fit of weak giggles, letting your eyes flutter shut. Hal brushes the sweat and hair from your face, kissing your lips to interrupt your laughter.
“I love you.”
You tangle a strand of his hair around your finger, “I love you too.”
Roy Harper:
Roy’s naked when you come home. Abs coated in sweat, hair disheveled, thighs shaking and hand lazily fisting his cock.
Your shopping bags hit the floor, startling the naked man on your couch. His eyes flick up, meeting yours and suddenly you’re feeling shy.
There’s a harsh bruise on his chest, radiating down to his ribs in streaks of ugly purple and yellow. Your face draws into a frown and without thinking, you’re rushing to his side.
“What happened?” You settle yourself right next to him on the couch, fingertips tracing the length of his chest.
He shivers, gritting his teeth. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”
You lean in, gently kissing your way down the span of his bruise. You don’t notice the way he shifts uncomfortably next to you, the way every muscle in his body is clenched in barely-withheld lust.
Your lips brush dangerously close to his hip bone and suddenly he’s grabbing your hair, harshly tugging your face up to meet his.
Sweat glistens his temples, his jaw clenched. Slowly, he lets you go, but his eyes are fixed on you in a way that says ‘don’t you fucking move.’
“Are you okay?” You breathe.
Only inches away from him, the scent of smoke and sweat fill your nostrils, something sickly sweet burning behind it. He tugs at his own hair but the pressure does nothing to relieve the heat burning beneath his skin.
His mask starts to slip with you so close, his composure melting away. He shakes his head, slowly, subtly, and the way your lips purse in concern has him whining.
Between the three rounds he’d gone before you’d gotten home, and the heat pulsing in his groin, it’s too much. He reaches for you, fingertips tentatively hanging in the air just above your jawline.
“What do you need, baby?”
“You,” he confesses, and then his lips are on yours.
The kiss is needy and wet, every second you spend connected is pulsating in desire. His calloused fingers are rough on your skin, beckoning you closer, begging for your touch.
He twists the two of you around, slamming your back into the couch cushions. He’s mumbling your name against your skin, trailing his hand down to the crotch of your jeans while he grinds himself into your thigh.
His fingers dip into your waistband, trailing further and further down. You part your legs on instinct, giving him better access to you. He groans into your neck, teeth grazing at the sensitive skin.
“So needy,” you tease, and your words have him whining.
His thumb draws lazy circles around your clit while you tug at his hair, the strands as unruly as they are sweaty. On a normal day, Roy loves nothing more than having his hair pulled. But today? It has him shaking, his cock twitching in anticipation.
When you’ve had enough of his fingers, you’re grabbing his wrist and pulling his hand away. Roy looks at you with utter devastation, eyes pleading silently for you to not stop.
You slip out from under him, shimmying out of your pants. Roy watches with his mouth wide open, eyes glistening. You push at his bare chest, laying him down on the couch and setting a knee on either side of him.
The minute you sink down on his cock, Roy’s head is rolling back, a guttural cry leaving his lips. Sure, he’s already come three times, but the feeling of your walls clenching around him has him ready for a fourth.
You brace yourself against his chest, bouncing up and down on his cock, letting him split you open. He’s an utter mess beneath you, whines and whimpers and the sound of skin on skin filling the room.
You lean into him, lips finding their way to his chest, kissing dark marks down his skin. Your teeth graze at his collarbone and it’s all too much for him, and then he’s bucking his hips into you so harshly it has the air leaving your chest.
“R-roy, babe—”
His hands grasp at your hips and without thinking, he’s rolling the two of you over—both of you tumbling over the side of the couch. You’re lucky the carpet is soft and that Roy still has the good sense to cover the back of your head.
He drives himself deeper inside of you, his head dipping into your chest to muffle his own lurid sounds. It’s not long before he’s finishing again, hips stuttering against yours.
His warmth fills you but it’s not enough, his motions turning lazy but never stopping. It’s not enough, it’s never enough, he can never get enough of you.
“Roy—”
“More,” he gasps, “more, I need more, I need—”
You silence him with a kiss. “Shh, I know what you need, baby, it’s okay.”
-
Somehow, the two of you end up in the kitchen with you bent over the counter and Roy pounding into you.
By the time the two of you are done, you’re dehydrated and feverish with pleasure, your skin hot to the touch. It takes all the strength you have left to get back onto your feet and stretch your aching muscles.
Roy’s almost equally as exhausted, the veins in his muscles bulging from the strain. “How are you—” He clears his throat, “how are you feeling?”
Your voice is almost as raspy as his when you answer with a simple, “good.”
You stumble on your way to the sink to refill your water but Roy manages to catch you, bracing your body against his. He offers you a disapproving look, making you sit down on one of the stools you’d shoved aside during the hours that’d preceded this.
His hands shake around the cup when he hands it to you, a testament to the strain he’s just put on himself.
“Do you,” you say between sips of water, “do you want to talk about what happened? Before, I mean.”
He kisses the side of your head, “can we take a nap first?”
You can’t help but laugh at that.
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thanks for reading & have a wonderful week /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
summary: tim doesn't mean to peak in on you masturbating, but now that he's here, he might as well enjoy himself
cw: voyeurism, mutual masturbation, roommate! tim, pictured them living in a dorm together <3
froggi yaps -> omg almost 8pm on the dot :D happy to finally be giving tim some love, this poor man gets neglected by me sm </3 anyway enjoy!
Tim is ready to drop dead by the time he’s jamming his key into the door and turning open the lock. The world around him weighs heavily, shadows dancing in his peripheral vision. Yeah, he needs a nap.
He’s halfway across the kitchenette of the dorm you share—a forgotten mug of tea left on the counter from this morning—when he hears it. A moan.
He blinks, thinking he must have hallucinated it. Despite that, he stops dead in his tracks, breath slowing as he listens in for it again. It’s quiet for a few moments and then he hears it.
Quiet and muffled but unmistakably coming from the slightly ajar door of your bedroom.
All thoughts of his impending nap are wiped away, curiosity taking over. His footsteps are silent—ghostly—as he shuffles over to your door and peaks through the crack.
His cheeks burn at what he sees. You, sprawled across your bed, legs parted and fingers dipped inside your sticky heat. His mouth goes try, the blood rushing from his head to his groin.
God, this is so wrong, he thinks to himself, and yet his hand is palming himself through his slacks and the sight of your pretty pussy is burned into his mind.
I should go, I should—You arch your back, eyes squeezed shut, and moan again and this time, it’s not just a moan. It’s his name.
All thoughts of leaving are drowned out by the sound of his name on your tongue, and if he wasn’t rock hard before, he is now. He slips his hand into his pants, stroking his thumb over the sensitive tip of his cock.
His eyes are locked to your writhing figure, ears strained as they try to pick up on the whimpers that leave your lips. He squeezes his cock tightly, the pleasure sending a shudder down his spine.
You shift slightly and Tim’s mouth falls open, his free hand flying up to clamp over it before he can moan. He can’t help it—you’re so fucking sexy, touching yourself and moaning his name.
He jerks his cock quickly, rhythmically, never taking his eyes off of you. God, he needs you so bad. He needs to touch you, needs to fuck you, needs to see you arch like that for him, needs to feel your pussy clench when you finish—
“Tim, is that you?” You call his name, not even bothering to take your fingers out of your pussy.
He’s quick to adjust his pants, taking a big step back from the door. “Yeah I-I’m home early, gonna take a nap I—“
“I know you’re watching me.”
And fuck, is there something hot about the way you just said that. He wets his lips, watching as you push your fingers further inside of you.
“You can—“ You gasp when you curl your fingers, fingertips brushing against your spongy walls. “You can come in. Might be a better view.”
And Tim can’t even think about saying no, his body moving faster than his thoughts as he enters your room and climbs up on the bed with you. He’s not even settled in before you’re fisting a hand in his tshirt and pulling him in for a needy kiss.
He’s left breathless, his hand trailing back into his pants to touch his achy cock. He pulls away with a gasp and red cheeks, eyes locking with yours.
You swallow, head falling back in pleasure. “Why’re you still wearing those?”
He nods in agreement, your every word like law to him. Why is he still wearing his pants? He hooks his hands into the waistband of his pants and tugs them off in one fluid motion.
Your eyes flutter open to look at his hard cock and the pre leaking from his tip. You watch, mesmerized, as he strokes himself.
Tim keeps his eyes on the knuckles dipping into your pussy, trying to match his strokes to yours.
You whimper from the sensitivity, rolling your thumb over your clit and biting your lip. You’d been at it for almost an hour before Tim got home, but now that he’s here, you can finally feel the early warning signs of your impending orgasm.
Tim feels like he could finish just from watching you. You look so damn pretty like this, all wet and messy and moaning.
A few more thrusts and then your back is arching, walls clenching around your fingers so hard it hurts. Tim silence your lurid moans with his lips, kissing you hard while his cock twitches.
You let him hold you through it, too high on your pleasure to even realize that he’s cum all over your stomach.
You pull away and limply flop on your bed, taking deep breaths.
“Fuck.” Tim laughs, letting himself fall back onto the mattress next to you. “Do you always say my name when you masturbate?”
“Do you always watch me?”
He shrugs, “you left the door open.”
You slap him playfully, “okay, weirdo.”
dc masterlist | navigation | kinktober 2025
tysm for reading & have a great day! /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹
Summary: When you can't sleep, Bruce will do anything to help—even if it means sleeping somewhere unconventional
Word Count: 550
CW: insomnia, restlessness, established relationship, mostly cute and cozy
froggi yaps -> sat down to write the Leon fic & instead this came to fruition :p been a long time since i wrote abt bruce
The glittering gold lights on the Christmas tree wink at you, working with the exhaustion that hangs over you to settle in the backs of your eyes every time you blink.
The lights are soft and yet they catch on the ornaments, turn the whole tree into a spectacle of immaculately decorated wonder. A smile ghosts your lips, your hand reaching to brush the prickly branches.
You catch an ornament in your palm, your thumb rolling over it. Damian had hung this one, shifting awkwardly to make sure no one would question his placement of it before gently hanging it on the branch.
It had been your idea to decorate together, and though you’d been worried it would be hard to get everyone in one place, the minute you said you wanted it, Bruce decreed it law.
An intentional creak in the floorboards greets you, a pair of thick forearms around your waist follow. You don’t need to look to know who it is, the scent of his bodywash and the scars on his bare arms are enough.
“It’s late,” he says, resting his head on your shoulder.
You hum in agreement, dropping your hand from the tree to rest it at your side.
“You didn’t come back to bed.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
He plants a soft kiss to your temple, “anything I can help with?”
You open and close your mouth, the right words failing you. Part of you wishes for something to be stressed about, to be scared over, but nothing comes to mind. You just can’t sleep—simple as that.
But you know your partner all too well, you know the way something beneath his skin itches to solve every problem made available to him. You know the defeat he tastes when there is no proper solution.
“I think,” you say finally, “I just needed a change of scenery.”
“A change of scenery?”
You nod.
He considers this, a hand idly trailing over the fabric of your shirt. “Why don’t we sleep down here tonight?”
You shift in his arms, looking up at him.
“The couch is more than big enough, and we can take the bedding from our room.”
“You’d really do that?”
He dips his head down so that his lips can meet yours, a soft and silent ‘yes’ to your question.
The two of you are as silent as possible creeping through the manor, doing your best to not wake anyone amidst the impending sunrise. It’s a silly thought, really. You and Bruce, sneaking through the mansion like ghosts, collecting pillows and blankets to sleep out in the living room.
He helps you turn the couch into a bed, splaying pillows and blankets every which way until you’ve essentially created a nest. You settle in first, your back pressed against the cushions. Bruce settles in next to you, the bulk of his body squishing you into the back of the couch while also teetering on the edge.
His arms fall easily around you, the same way they do every night. He kisses your cheek, “goodnight, sweetheart.”
You press yourself closer to him, mumbling a sleepy goodnight back. Just beyond his figure, the twinkling tree lights silhouette him, passing through his hair like a halo. You can’t help but smile at the thought.
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thanks for reading & have a wonderful week /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
When you can't sleep, Bruce will do anything to help—even if it means sleeping somewhere unconventional
Chronic Illness Comfort
how they act with their chronically ill partner
Hocus Pocus (NSFW)
when you get infected with a mysterious substance on a mission, there are only two options: die, or fuck your coworkers (ft. Barry Allen, Hal Jordan, Clark Kent & Diana Prince)
Location
you send them your location and stop answering your phone. panic ensues
Need (NSFW)
the ways in which your boyfriend makes himself feel like he’s in control again
Tim Drake:
A Matter of Convenience
when your new friend at university discovers how close you live to campus, he spends a lot of nights crashing at your place
Camera Shy (NSFW)
bored of your roommates not giving you any attention while they're streaming, you offer some under-the-desk support (ft. Kon)
Drive Me Crazy!
the small things he does that drive you wild before you start dating
Fist Fight
your boyfriend reacts to you getting into a fight
Harness Your Hopes
when you fall into a depressive episode, he'll do whatever he can to help you feel better
Leaping Into The Light
he sees your old self-harm scars
Location
you send them your location and stop answering your phone. panic ensues
Need (NSFW)
the ways in which your boyfriend makes himself feel like he’s in control again
Pollenated (NSFW)
when your boyfriend gets exposed to something on patrol, you're the only one who can help him
The Perks of Being An Insomniac
after recurring nightmares, you turn to Tim for comfort in the dead of night
Wet n Wild (NSFW)
tim doesn't mean to peak in on you masturbating, but now that he's here, he might as well enjoy himself
blurbs:
tim's breeding kink (nsfw)
Duke Thomas:
Look for the Light
after the store you work at is robbed, Signal stays behind to make sure you're okay
Second Chance
a year after your breakup, you run into Duke once again
Surprise
everyone forgets your birthday...or do they?
Stephanie Brown:
girl, so confusing
When Barbara and Cass start training a new Batgirl, Stephanie isn't sure what to think. You're perfect, everything she wants to be and everything she could never have, and your arrival forces Stephanie to confront whether she wants to be you, or be with you
blurbs:
Stephanie reapplies your lipstick (& kisses it off)
hiiiiiii i just wanna say i love ur work so much. i was wondering if i could request a jason todd hurt/comfort fic. i recently had a really scary experience outside of a bar, and it has been taking a toll on me. maybe something like reader and jason fight over something silly, and then something like that happens to reader and he comforts them after and feels bad about the fight before? with a lot of fluff and reassurance. maybe he gives them a bath or something:) THANK YOUUUU
Never Let Me Go - Jason Todd
Pairing: Jason Todd x gn! reader
Genre: hurt/comfort, angst -> fluff
Word Count: 2.3k
Summary: after an argument with Jason, you're left to fend for yourself outside of a bar
CW: attempted assault, attempted SA, chasing, slight violence, dissociation/shock (reader), arguing, alcohol, hurt/comfort, pet names (Jason calls reader baby/hun), bathing together, jason is snarky at first
sorry this took so long! really hope you're feeling better, but if you (or anyone else reading this) ever need to talk, my inbox is always open <3 i talk about my own struggles with ptsd on this blog, and i want everyone to be able to feel safe enough to talk about theirs, too
i tried to keep the assault scene short and brief, but i've also added cuts before and after in case anyone would like to skip it.
(title slightly based on this song)
“You know that stuff is pure sugar and no alcohol, right?”
You roll your eyes when Jason gestures to your drink with a look of distaste, hiding his snark behind the rim of his glass. You’re tempted to remind him that the foamy beer he’s pounding back has even less alcohol than your Cosmo, but think the better of it. He’s in a bitchy mood, and there’s no point making it worse.
He’d gotten into a fight with Bruce the night before, and had practically gone on a rampage through Gotham’s underground. The anger radiated off of him still when he’d showed up at your apartment an hour earlier, even after he’d flashed you a tense smile and planted a tentative kiss to your lips.
You’d told him at least three times since then that he didn’t have to come with you—given the bar was around the corner from your home, and you could stumble home from it drunk, backwards and in your sleep—but Jason had insisted. As if you ever thought Jason would be able to relax knowing you’re out at a bar in the heart of Gotham, despite your assertions that you would only be having a couple drinks and maybe some chili fries.
You swish your glass around, watching the raspberry coloured booze slosh on the sides. “We can go home if you’re not feeling up to this,” you say gently. “I don’t mind.”
He gives his broad shoulders an irritating shrug. “You wanted to get out of the house, we’re out of the house.”
Though he doesn’t say it, you can hear the unspoken words crackling through the air. What more do you want from me?
“But do you want to leave?”
Jason’s eyes narrow, black pupils forcing out imperial blue. “I go where you go.”
It takes more effort than you’d like to admit to resist tugging at your hair. Though it’s been years since he lived in Wayne Manor, and even longer since he studied under Bruce, the lessons he learned have never left him. Including this form of aggravating, diplomatic speech where his answers gave no answers at all.
“Whatever,” you sigh under your breath, crossing your legs and tilting your body back to your drink.
Jason scoffs, “whatever? Really?”
“Yes, really!” You’re grateful that the mix of conversations and the drone of 90s rock are loud enough to cover up your rising voice. “I just wanted to get out of the house for once and you’re being mean.”
“I’m being mean?” There’s a cruel smirk on his lips. “The only reason I’m here is because of you, so that you wouldn’t have to be alone.”
“I never asked for that.”
Your heart races painfully in your chest. You’ve never liked arguing, especially not in public when the both of you have been drinking and especially not when Jason is already chafing under the expectations of others. It’s a nightmarish combination that leaves electricity sizzling in the air and everyone in the room on edge.
He chugs the rest of his beer, not even bothering to wipe away the tiny bit of white foam that catches on the shadow above his upper lip. “Fine then,” he grumbles, and tosses a fifty onto the counter. “I’ll see you.”
He leaves no room for protest, already barreling his way through the tables. By the time you’ve even processed what just happened, he’s already at the door, back muscles tensing beneath brown leather as he yanks it open hard enough to shake the hinges.
You wait until you hear the familiar rev of his motorcycle before ordering another round.
It’s late by the time you decide to pay your tab and head home. Your phone has long since been dead weight in your pocket, but even if it weren’t, you wouldn’t have bothered to check it. There was a part of you that hoped Jason would come back, that he would apologize, but that part is about as dead as your phone is.
It’s brisk outside now, and cold rain sprinkles from above. The dark rain clouds block out the moon, dim flickering street lights the only light you can see. You take a long, deep breath that clouds the air as you release it, rubbing your freezing forearms. Home is just around the corner, but that’s still an eight minute walk. Minimum.
A groan slips past your lips as you lean against the outside of the building, peering into the dark streets for any sign of a cab. A rock skids across the ground to your left and you snap your head in the direction it came from.
A man saunters towards you, his body encased in shadows. “Need a ride?”
A shiver rises up your spine. You shuffle further to your right, trying to put more distance between you and the stranger.
He doesn’t take the hint. He moves closer, purposefully slamming his boots harder into the ground to get your attention. “I said,” he repeats, “do you need a ride?”
“No,” you swallow hard, adding a quick, “thank you.”
You don’t know this man, but you despise him. You despise his imposition, the southern twang of his voice, the fact you’re instinctually polite to him so that you don’t risk pissing him off.
Despite your plea, he keeps coming towards you. “I reckon you do.”
The alarm bells in your head start to shriek. You shove off of the wall, stumbling only slightly before you regain your balance and take off down the sidewalk. It’s dark and though you can no longer see him when you glance over your shoulder, you can hear the pounding of his boots on the pavement behind you.
And then his cold, clammy hands lock around your wrist and tug you hard. You strain against his grasp, using your entire body weight to get away, to go anywhere but here.
He’s so close you can smell the alcohol on his breath, feel the warmth of his body. Not warm the way Jason is, but warm the way a fire you shouldn’t go near is. You cry out desperately. The bar is still within sight, someone has to come out, someone has to see.
“Why not just let me show you a good time?” He says, “I’m a really nice guy if you give me a chance.”
You drive your elbow into his arm and his grip loosens enough for you to tug away. You rip your wrist from his grasp, but as you do, you lose your balance and crash onto the dirty, wet Gotham pavement. With how cold you are and the adrenaline your heart is furiously pumping through your body, you barely feel the impact.
You can’t see the expression on his face as you drag yourself across the pavement, but you hear a low chuckle. You imagine it’s similar to that of a wolf zeroing in on its prey.
And then, a booming voice cuts through the darkness. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Jason sounds pissed, but it's maybe the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard. The most beautiful string of words in the English language.
The man spins on his heels away from you just in time to catch a harsh uppercut to the face. A loud crack reverberates through the buildings, and he goes down like a sack of potatoes on the concrete next to you.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, looking up at Jason through your lashes. “You’re—how?”
“Oh, baby. Baby, baby,” he sighs, dropping to his knees on the pavement next to you. His new jeans are probably ruined from touching the ground—as are yours—but that seems to be the least of his concerns right now.
He cradles your head in his lap, his hands trailing up your damp, aching skin for any sign of injury. You shiver, closing your eyes and letting Jason hold you. The adrenaline flooding your veins has not yet diluted, and the calloused warmth from Jason’s hands is the only thing keeping you from floating away.
“I didn’t leave, baby, would never leave you. I was waiting around back when I heard you and,” he sighs, “I’m so sorry.”
His words are faint, so faint, and more gentle than you’ve ever heard him speak. Though he clutches you tightly to him, the feeling registers as barely a whisper. And then you’re on your feet, propped up against his side as he helps you back to where he propped his bike.
Your mind is somewhere else now. You’d have completely forgotten about your own body if it weren’t for the frantic, rhythmic shove of Jason’s heart against his ribcage with every step you take.
You’re not sure how you got back to your apartment, but you’re sure it was through no small effort on Jason’s part. Your waist is warm from where his hand rests—he’s refused to let you go for even a moment since he saw you on that pavement.
You shiver violently even after you return to the warmth of your home. Jason had wrapped you in his jacket but even that did little to stop the shaking.
He cups your face, a soft intensity in his eyes. “Let’s get you warmed up, hm?”
You barely react to his touch, or to his words. It doesn’t take a genius to know you’re in shock—Jason’s seen it more than enough times in his lifetime to recognize it at a glance.
The shivering, that faraway and glassy look in your eyes, the way your lips move as if they’ll form words but no sound comes out. Your pupils themselves have almost doubled in size from the adrenaline coursing through your system.
He’d take the crowbar a thousand damn times if it meant he would never have to see you like this. He would give away all that he has, and all that he is, to never subject you to this kind of pain.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, and starts towards the dark hallway leading to your bedroom and bathroom.
You let out a choked gasp—the most sound you’ve managed since earlier—and Jason whips around. Blue eyes snap to yours, looking more like broken glass through the tears catching on your own lashes.
Don’t leave, you want to say. Not even for a minute, not even for a second. But your words fail you, and all you have to fall back on is a gasp of air and the tears in your eyes.
Jason understands, though. “Let’s go together, then.”
He grabs one of your hands in his, and holds your waist with the other. You walk like that down the hall, Jason holding you tight and guiding you to your bathroom. He helps you settle down on the toilet seat while he runs a hot bath.
Jason has you sit on the side of the bathtub, only your bare feet resting in the warm water. He sits with you, his legs on either side of your own and his arms around your waist. Already, the shaking has subsided and your eyes have started to clear. Relief floods his system, wiping away the guilt that’s been bubbling in his stomach.
He waits a few minutes, before saying, “let’s get you out of those clothes and into the bath.”
It’s posed more like a question, his fingers tracing inquisitive circles on your hip. He’s asking, you realize, if it would be okay for him to help you undress. If you’re comfortable being naked in front of him right now. The kindness of the gesture has your shoulders dropping from your ears.
“Y-yeah,” you manage.
Jason keeps his touch firm, steady, while he peels your dirty shirt over your head. He has you raise your feet above the water so he can help you with your pants and underwear, discarding your clothes in a pile on the tiled floor.
He squeezes your shoulders reassuringly when he sees you hesitate at the side of the bathtub before finally stepping in and letting your aching body settle in the warm water.
It’s an immediate relief. The chill your skin has taken on, the ice running through your blood, starts to defrost.
Jason watches you relax into the warm porcelain, your impossibly tense muscles finally loosening. “Feeling any better?” He asks quietly.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble quietly.
He grabs a washcloth from the drawer beneath the counter. “Hey, none of that.”
“I just,” you take a deep, shaking breath, “if we had never gone out tonight, none of this would have happened and you wouldn’t have had to help me and—”
Jason splashes warm water over your head. “None of that,” he repeats. “I don’t want to hear any of that.”
“But—”
“Nothing that happened tonight was any fault of yours.” He brushes the wet washcloth across your face, wiping away stray tears. “You did nothing wrong. I should never have left you, plain and simple.”
“It’s not your fault either, Jay.”
He strokes the washcloth over your forehead. “I’m supposed to protect you, hun. I didn’t do a very good job of it tonight.”
“Get in here with me?” You clutch his forearm.
He chuckles. It’s been a very, very long time since Jason Todd could comfortably fit in a normal sized bathtub, but for you, he’d do anything. He’s gentle climbing in the bath behind you, propping his legs around the outside of yours so you can comfortably lay back on him.
It’s a cramped fit, it couldn’t possibly be comfortable for anyone—but Jason sucks it up for your sake. Despite the ways his knees ache from the angle he keeps his legs, it all feels worth it when you lay your head on his chest.
“Thank you for being here,” you say quietly.
He plants a gentle kiss on the top of your head. “For you? Anything.”
And you know he means it.
(if you enjoy content like this, interactions go a long way! comments, likes & rbs are always greatly appreciated ^-^ !!)
includes: Hal Jordan, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd & Wally West
summary: your boyfriend refusing to dance with you was a wake up call—it's time to come home to the man you truly love (or, you break up with your boyfriend for them)
cw: part 2 of just dance, breakups (we are not sad abt it trust), first kisses, love confessions, some yelling, pining & yearning, wholesome i swear
—this was requested as a part 2 of Just Dance, req can be found here
froggi yaps -> eek ive been soo excited to write this one!! dedicated to everyone who has had a partner who just absolutely sucked the life out of you and ruined all your fun </3 this is your sign to dump them (jk, mostly) bcs life truly gets better on the other side <3 enjoy!
Hal Jordan:
It takes everything Hal has to not run into that apartment and drag you out to his car.
He can’t help it. When it comes to you, he can’t help himself. But tonight, he sits his ass down and takes deep breaths because no matter how badly he wants to help you, he knows you need to do it yourself.
It’s been five minutes but feels like hours since you called him, your voice quiet and pleading, asking him to come and pick you up.
“I’m doing it tonight,” you’d whispered. “I’m leaving him, and I need a getaway driver.”
Hal had been out the door, still tugging on his shirt, before you could finish your plea. Now, parked on the curb outside your boyfriend’s apartment, a million thoughts race through his head.
When you come running outside, a bag in your hand and a grin on your face, all of his thoughts melt away. Your smile—actual joy in your face for the first time in months—is all it takes to have him smiling right back.
You hop into his car and immediately throw your arms around him, the familiar scent of your shampoo making his head spin. “Thank you for coming,” you bury your head into his shoulder.
His touch is needy, desperate—holding you the way he’s yearned to do all these months. He’d gotten a taste of it last week, the way your body had brushed his while dancing left him high and dizzy and in a frenzy for more.
“Anytime.” He pulls away, putting the car in drive. “You never told me, what made you decide to finally do it?”
“Honestly?” Your tone is sheepish as you fiddle with the handle of his glovebox, “you. I was so sad the other night—and he didn’t even care. And then you got up and you danced with me and I just thought: this is what love should be.”
For a moment, you’re embarrassed at your confession. While you’ve spent dozens of drunken nights with him, told him hundreds of embarrassing stories and crushes you’ve had, you worry it’s too much too fast.
Lucky for you, Hal Jordan thrives on too much, too fast.
He pulls over, brown eyes serious. “You broke up with him for me?”
You barely nod, the gesture so slow and subtle it would be almost unreadable to anyone but your best friend.
You stay entirely still when he grabs the back of your neck and pulls your face to his, his lips on yours. You melt into him, all of the confusion and twistiness you’ve felt for him pouring out and burning you from the inside out.
His calloused fingers on the sensitive skin of the back of your neck ground you, collect the parts of you that threaten to fall away and make you whole again.
You’re drunk on him when he pulls away.
“How about we get a drink?” He asks.
“S-sounds good to me.”
Dick Grayson:
It’s a slow night in Bludhaven for Nightwing when he sees you toss a garbage onto the curb, your boyfriend stumbling out after it.
“And don’t ever call him that again!”
He suppresses a laugh at hearing you yell—it’s a sound he’s never heard before, at least, not like that. He’s heard you yell in excitement, in mock anger after losing a game of Mario Kart, but never has he heard you yell with such conviction.
Your boyfriend yells something back, the only words Dick can make out from here are ‘crazy’ and ‘bitch’. A wave of anger rolls through him, every muscle in his body tensing like he’s heading into a fight, and then his phone is buzzing.
There’s a moment of serenity for Dick at seeing your contact picture, at knowing you just literally kicked your boyfriend to the curb and you’re already calling him.
Your contact pops up but Dick doesn’t even bother to answer. Instead, he’s knocking at your window, crouched down on your fire escape in the dead of night.
Your eyes widen in shock from where you lay in bed, scrolling tiredly on your phone. You’re on your feet in an instant, unlocking the latches and letting him into your room.
“That was fast,” you note.
“I was in the neighborhood,” he shrugs and pulls off his domino mask, resting it on your nightstand. “What was that all about?”
A sigh passes through your lips. “I was hoping you didn’t see that.”
“I’m Nightwing, I see everything.”
You roll your eyes, dissolving into a fit of giggles when Dick mimes being shot and falls back into your bed. This is exactly why you called him, Dick has always made moments like these feel lighter, easier to carry.
“He was mad about what happened last week. Y’know….with us and the dancing.”
Dick’s eyes turn steely. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“What? No!” You shake your head frantically. “He just said some mean stuff about you and-and our friendship. And then I broke up with him.”
He doesn’t know what to be more shocked over: that you finally broke up with him, or that the last straw was your boyfriend saying bad things about him.
“What did he say about me?”
“That you’re a ‘slutty playboy’ who has ‘never had to work for anything in your life.’” You crack a smile at that, eyes flitting up the length of his Nightwing suit. “That you’re too attached to me.”
The last part is said quieter, a mumble on your lips, like you’re too afraid to speak it. It’s an unfortunate truth. One that Dick isn’t fond of other people—least of all your boyfriend—noticing.
It’s not lost on Dick the way your eyes light up hopefully when you say it, like a part of you wishes it's true.
You mistake his silence for sadness. “I don’t believe any of that, I hope you know. I-I told him to get the fuck out and never speak about you like that again! You mean so much to me and I would take a thousand million days with you over one more second with him and I—”
He stands up from your bed, cornering you against the wall you were just pacing in front of. You look at him through your lashes, your mouth falling open innocently, and that’s when he kisses you.
His mouth moves against yours perfectly, naturally, like it’s a dance he’s rehearsed a thousand times. He holds you softly, his fingertips just barely gripping your waist while he touches you.
You’re flustered when he pulls away, all the words you previously spoke hanging in the air. “Dick, I—”
His hands stay put on your waist, fingertips drumming to a beat only Dick can hear. His eyes are focused entirely on you, solid and warm, looking at you like you’re the first thing he’s ever seen in colour.
“So,” he breaks the silence, a grin rising to his cheeks, “a thousand million days, huh?”
You playfully hit his shoulder. “Shut up.”
Jason Todd:
For all the times you’ve come home and found Jason in your house—injured, reading, crashing in your bed—he’d never expected for you to do the same.
But here you are.
You’re curled in a ball in his bed, scrolling through some social media site on your phone. He blinks, wondering if he’d somehow gotten dosed with something when he was out taking care of business earlier.
He rubs at his eyes but you remain there, your back turned to him and definitely clad in one of his sweatshirts. He’s quiet to open the door, not wanting to startle you even though you’re the one that broke into his house.
“Hey,” he undoes a couple of his holsters, letting them drop to the floor. “Not that I mind the company, but is everything okay?”
You turn to him with wide eyes, shock evident on your face. “You’re home!”
You rise to your feet, running up to him and wrapping your arms around his muscled torso. Jason lets out a sound of surprise but slowly folds his arms around your back, rubbing gentle circles on the fabric of your—his—sweatshirt.
“I did it today,” you mumble into his shirt, inhaling the scent of blood and his deodorant. “I broke up with him.”
It’s Jason’s turn to be shocked, his mouth falling open. “Actually?”
You nod.
Jason’s been with you through a decent amount of breakups but he sees none of that usual sadness on your face. There’s no slight frown, no tear streaks on your face. That light in your eyes—the one he’d seen a glimpse of at the club—is back, and glowing.
“Did something happen?”
“I just realized he wasn’t what I wanted anymore.” You risk a hopeful glance to Jason, “I don’t want someone that doesn’t know me. That doesn’t know I love to dance, or what my favorite song is. I want something real.”
I want you. The words go unspoken but Jason reads them in your eyes, in the way you look at him, in the way you showed up at his house and waited up for him until the ungodly hours of the morning.
He breathes your name, his pulse suddenly unsteady. He dips his head down, lips hovering so fucking close to yours. It’s less of a kiss and more of the two of you falling together, that insatiable pull between you finally snapping into place.
Jason’s body falls over yours, walking you back to the bed. Your thighs meet the fabric of his comforter and then you’re falling over, Jason tumbling with you.
You pull away giggling, his face resting against your collarbones. “Trying to get me into your bed already, hm?”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
Wally West:
Wally’s enjoying a rare night at home when you come banging on his door.
“I did it,” is all you say when you walk in, hanging your bag by the door like it belongs there.
He cocks his head at you, eyebrows raising. “Did what?”
Your eyes are wide and filled with that wild light Wally’s missed so much. There’s a strange sort of smile on your face—confused, happy, dizzy. For a minute, he allows himself to hope that by ‘it’, you mean you finally kicked that asshole to the curb.
You suck in a breath. “I broke up with him,” you level him with a serious look, “for good this time.”
Wally feels like he’s dreaming—it was only a few nights ago that he’d been pining over you, holding you close and dreading when you went back to your boyfriend.
“What?”
He almost chokes on the word, adrenaline—or is it excitement—rushing through his chest. He searches your face, looking for any kind of sadness, but all he finds is that familiar spark in your eyes.
“We were arguing about what happened at the club and—ugh, it was so impulsive but I just…decided I was done.”
“Just like that?”
You nod, raiding his fridge and stealing a can of pop. You crack it open, downing around half of the can in one go. Wally hates—loves—how comfortable you are at his place, how you settle in and help yourself like you’re meant to be there. Because in his eyes, you are.
“Just like that.” Your eyes meet his, the way his eyes soften on you sends a whirlwind of butterflies into your tummy. “It’s silly, but when we were dancing the other night, I just felt so alive. I haven’t felt that way in forever, but singing with you, dancing with you, being with you—well, not in that way. Or yes in that way—”
Wally cuts you off, his lips suddenly on yours. The words die on your lips, replaced by the electricity radiating off of him. It takes you a moment to register what happens, to remember to shut your eyes and kiss him back.
“Sorry,” he says, but the wicked grin on his face doesn’t match his apologetic words.
dc masterlist
tysm for reading, have a great day! /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
Includes: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Wally West, Hal Jordan & Barry Allen
Summary: no thoughts just somno with the boys
Content/ CW -> smut/nsfw, fem! reader (has a pussy + fem pronouns), consensual somno, oral, fingering, unprotected sex, mentions of arguing (Dick's), nightmares (Hal), mostly slow and soft
froggi yaps -> this is 1/3 fics of this i did, ive been in such a somno mood lately idkidk <3 i hope you guys enjoy
Dick:
Dick feels bad even being here after your argument. After he stormed out like a child, after he silenced his phone and went on patrol. But fuck, he can’t help it. He needs to see you, needs to know he didn’t ruin this forever.
He settles easily into his place in your bed, discarding his shirt before pressing himself into the curve of your chest that fits so perfectly with his. He kisses the top of your head, arms folded around your body.
You’re peaceful like this, that angry expression you’d regarded him with completely gone.
He kisses your forehead, down your temples, to your jaw. His hands rub up and down your sides, antsy and impatient. Eventually, one finds its way to the peak of your nipple, lazily thumbing circles around it while his other hand dips between your legs.
You shift closer to him in your sleep, head lulling to his chest. You’d told him once this was okay, told him you wouldn’t mind waking up and feeling him inside you.
You wake to fingers in your pussy, curling into your walls. You instinctively press yourself closer to him, curling around him and whining. Your thighs clench, Dick’s hand dropping from your chest to hook a leg around his waist to give himself easier access.
“Hi, baby.”
You yawn, “hi.”
He slips a third finger inside of you, your pussy stretched around him. “I missed you,” he mumbles in your ear. “I’m sorry about before.”
You bite back a moan, nodding your head in a way that you hope indicates you’re not angry anymore.
“You still love me,” he says breathily, “right?”
Again, you nod, not trusting your voice to be anything but weak right now.
He slows his fingers inside of you. “Tell me, baby. Tell me you love me.”
“I-I love you,” you swallow. “Of course I love you.”
He relaxes, like your words were enough to sedate that beast inside of him. He keeps going, finger fucking you with a renewed vigor.
Jason:
Jason feels weird doing this. He knows you said it was okay, said it a dozen times, really, but he can’t help but feel he’s doing something wrong.
Still, with his tip breaking your entrance and your warmth wrapped around him, he can’t help it. He needs to feel you, needs to keep going. After everything that happened tonight, after everything he did, he just needs to feel human again.
He has your legs hooked around his waist, surprised you didn’t wake up when he was prepping and moving you into position. His arms are tight around your body, hugging you to him while he slowly bottoms out inside of you.
“So warm, doll,” he murmurs, force of habit to praise you even though he’s not sure you can hear him. “Always take me so well.”
You whimper, hands fisting in his shirt. You’re barely half-awake, the only sensations you’re aware of being Jason’s voice and his thick cock splitting you open. He’s fucking you slow and deep, every movement fluid and intentional.
“Shh, did I wake you?”
You nod weakly, “don’t worry about it.”
He rubs a thumb over your cheek, “Sorry, baby. Y’feel so damn good, fuck—I love you so much.”
“I love you too.”
The tip of his cock rubs your cervix and you whine loud, arching into him, hands finding their way to his shoulders. He pulls you in for a tantalizing kiss, tonguing away your moans before they have the chance to echo off the walls.
“That’s it,” he mumbles against your lips, all sloppy and gentle, “just relax, baby. I got you.”
You wake up to Jason still wrapped around you, dried cum on your thighs.
Wally:
Wally’s cold. Wet. Covered in bruises that will probably be healed before he wakes up. And all he wants in the entire world is one thing: you.
This isn’t uncommon for the two of you. One of you unable to sleep, missing the other so dearly it hurts, and seeking them out in the dead of night.
His body fits so easily against yours, your skin radiating heat from beneath the t-shirt that you definitely stole from Wally. He tugs you into him, maybe a little too harshly, and hooks a knee beneath your thighs to part them.
Wally kisses your neck, sinking his teeth into the skin while he preps you. The pads of his fingers massage your clit, gather your slick, prod at your opening. He’s gentle with you, every atom in his body clinging to your warmth like a planet orbiting the sun.
He’s slow to sink his cock inside of you, careful to move inch by inch so not to overwhelm you. He holds you close, arms crossed under your chest to keep you still.
“Walls?” You mumble.
He nips playfully at your neck, mouth hovering over your ear. “S-sorry baby, didn’t mean to wake you.”
You respond by grinding back into him.
“S-so warm, missed you so much.” He groans into your skin, “fucking love you, baby, you’re the best.”
You only nod along, still sleepy and dazed while he fucks into you.
Hal:
Hal wakes up breathless, his chest aching from the horrible tricks his mind is playing on him. He clutches his left pec, forcing himself to even his breathing.
His eyes ghost over to your figure, still fast asleep next to him. The slow and steady rise of your chest syncs with his until his lungs inflate and fresh air hits his system. He reaches a hand out, running it over the top of your head.
You’re here, he reminds himself. He’s okay.
But it’s not enough. Not tonight.
It starts with soft kisses on your shoulder, pulling his body closer to yours. It's cold and you’re warm and the glimpses of skin he catches in the moonlight serve as a reminder that this moment might not be as fleeting as he thinks.
Slowly, subtly, it morphs into something else. Fingers dipped between your thighs, touch featherlight as he spreads your slick around. His cock is hard against your lower back, hips rocking into yours.
You’d told him—begged, really—to reach out if he needed you. Told him you trusted him, that he could do whatever he needed to soothe himself and when he got that damned smirk on his face, you pulled him to your chest and whispered, ‘if that’s what helps you, I’m all yours.’
His brain chemistry hadn’t been the same since.
You wake up sometime after he slips his cock inside of you, a half-yawn half-moan slipping from your lips. Hal’s arms are locked around you, legs flush to yours. If you couldn’t feel him deep inside of you, you’d think he was just cuddling, trying to get close to you in the dead of night.
“Mm, morning sweetheart,” you mumble tiredly, resting a hand over his.
“F-fuck, didn’t mean to wake you, baby.” He presses a hand down on your tummy, his cock feeling bigger with the motion, “just—fuck, needed you so bad.”
You tangle your fingers with his freehand, humming in agreement. He’s moving slower than usual, each thrust deep and intentional like he really is just trying to feel you close.
The two of you fall asleep like that, Hal’s cock leaking and resting against your thigh while he sleeps much more peacefully now.
Barry:
Barry gasps when his cock bottoms out inside of you. You’re so warm and wet, and the relaxed state you’re in lets you take his cock so well. He makes a mental note to tell you that later, too focused on not waking you up right now.
His lips are pressed into the top of your head, your face buried in the skin of his neck. He’d tucked your thighs on either side of his hips, keeping them thoroughly parted so he could fuck you better.
The skin of your thighs is wet, the prep Barry had done on you lasting the better part of an hour. His lips are still wet with your slick, the taste of you lingering on his tongue.
His hips stutter, instincts of wanting to fuck you deeper fighting with his intention to not wake you up. He grips your hips tighter, throwing his head back and taking a deep breath. In, out, in out. Slow and steady, slow and—
You whimper, pulling your face away to look up at him. “Barr?”
He cups your face, planting a chaste kiss to your lips. “Shh, sorry to wake you, baby. Was trying to be—fuck, was trying to be slow.”
“You can—” You whine again, clamping down around him, “go faster.”
His lips part in surprise. “Are you—you’re sure?”
You nod, eyes fluttering shut as you rest your head back on his chest and let him fuck into you.
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Summary: your boyfriend tries to teach you that 'no' is a complete sentence
CW: gn! reader, suggestive, dubcon, saying no, the boys are very sweet, rough makeout (jason's), pet names
— requested ages ago by my truth serum nonnie <3
froggi yaps -> wrote this ages ago but didn't post cause i could not for the life of me write a part for the other boys </3 sorry this took so long to post nonnie! enjoy <3
Dick Grayson:
You’re not sure what changed. Five minutes ago, you’d been soaked in lust and ready to go, practically crawling over Dick. But now, when he dips his hand into your pants, something’s changed. A new panic swells in your chest.
You lay entirely still, eyes closed, trying to breathe. It’ll feel good, you try to tell yourself. Dick takes care of you, he always makes you feel good—just a couple minutes and you’ll forget all about it.
And yet, as time goes on, it doesn’t get better. You’re tense, nervous and it’s only now that you realize you’re digging your nails into your palms hard enough to draw blood. A few more minutes, you try to urge yourself.
Dick clocks the tension in your jaw, pulling his hand out of your pants and himself away from you. “Baby.”
“W-why did you stop?” You blink your eyes open slowly, tears brimming your lashes.
“Do you still want to do this?”
You brace yourself to meet his eyes, his disappointment, and yet you’re only met with warmth and concern. He tilts his head at you, offering up a small smile. He’s sitting away from you, hands resting on his knees as if to show you he’s not a threat.
“It’s okay if you don’t, sweetheart. Just say the word.”
Your voice is quiet and shaky, “I don’t want it anymore.”
Dick nods, opening up his arms for you to crawl between them. You slot your body into his, your head resting on his shoulder, his chest against yours. He’s warm, the smell of his cologne soothing your nerves.
“It’s okay to say no, you know that right?” He squeezes you tightly, “nothing bad is going to happen if you do.”
You nod slowly but his words don’t quite sink in. You want to explain it to him, to let him know that it isn’t his fault or anything he did, but the words won’t come out.
“I want to hear you say it.”
“I-” Your voice cracks with the weight of your feelings, “It’s okay to say no.”
He kisses the top of your head, “good.”
Jason Todd:
The minute Jason walks through the door, slamming his helmet on the counter so hard it cracks, fear blooms in your chest. Not fear of Jason—you could never be afraid of Jason—but of Red Hood.
You stand up from where you’ve been sitting on the couch eating a late-night bowl of cereal, tilting your head at him. “Jason?”
His head snaps up at the sound of your quiet voice, dark eyes fixed wholly on you. He walks himself over to you one step at a time, boots thumping against the floor with every step.
His hands fall over you, tracing the length of your thighs up to your hips and to your waist. He’s breathing heavily, chest heaving with every inhale. And then he’s nuzzling his head into your shoulder, lips grazing the soft skin of your neck.
“Jason.”
“I missed you.”
There’s a hard-fought battle inside of you between your anxiety and your urge to hold him. It’s Jason, he’s your boyfriend, he would never hurt you. But he’s a big man and he’s angry and he’s touching you and—
His teeth nip at your pulse point, his grip tightening as he walks you back to the couch. You can’t take it anymore, your hands bracing against the muscle of his chest and shoving him off of you hard.
You stagger back further than Jason does, toppling over your feet and landing flat on your ass on the rug in the living room. You blink up at him. Jason blinks back.
“Sorry…”
You can see the exact moment he comes back to himself, the exact moment the tension in his muscles ease.
“What do you have to apologize for?” He drops to his knees on the carpet in front of you, keeping a healthy distance so as not to overwhelm you, “are you okay?”
You nod slowly. “Just…scared, I guess. Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing, baby.” He sighs, tugging at his sweaty hair, “I’m sorry I scared you.”
You blink back tears, choking on your own embarrassment. “I didn’t—I don’t—I’m sorry.”
It’s the only word that comes to mind, wrapping itself around your brain and choking out everything else that comes to mind. Jason frowns, reaching a hand out for you to take.
You wrap your hand around his, the warmth of his skin soothing the iciness in your veins. He parts his legs, pulling you into his chest to sit between the muscles of his thighs. You lean back, your head cushioned by his pecs.
His arms fall over your shoulders, cocooning you in the safety of his body. “I’m proud of you, you know that?” He kisses the top of your head, “I know it’s not easy for you to say no.”
“I—”
“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry again.”
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Hello! Was wondering if I could request headcanons about batboys (Dick, Jason and Tim) having a touchstarved (gn)best friend reader who likes giving them hugs? It could also include just general hcs about the batboys as your best friends. Hope it's not too much, thank you!
Batboys + Touch Starved Best Friend
Pairing: Dick Grayson x reader, Jason Todd x reader, Tim Drake x reader
Genre: fluff
CW: cuddling, general fluff, jason being a tsundere, kind of wholesome?
i was so excited to write this one! i feel like i rarely get batfam reqs so this makes me super happy!! i really hope it does our boys justice and that you enjoy it <3
ALSO sorry guys about slacking so hard on requests—life has been so chaotic and honestly I’ve been a little lazy. I’m gonna try and get some done this week while I have time off but I also have esports stuff coming up this weekend and next week
Dick Grayson:
this man is SO huggable
like you could go up to him and just wrap your arms around him and he would not care
i feel like he’s a very touchy/feely guy
like he’s the type that’s just always touching the people close to him?
arm on the shoulder/waist, has his s/o on his lap
super respectful of boundaries though
if he’s your best friend, you won’t be touch starved for very long
will hug you as much and as long as you want
and he’s a detective
so if you’re too shy to ask or too sad or stuck in your own head
he will know and he will give you a hug
chronic people pleaser so he’ll do anything to make you happy/feel better
Jason Todd:
tries to act like he doesn’t care/like he isn’t touch starved
but he’s so down bad
it takes him a LONG time to get used to people and making contact with them
and of course you love & respect him so no matter how touch starved you are, you won’t make him
so one day when you’re especially needy and this man just randomly hugs you, you melt
and from then on, you’ll just wrap your arms around him or lay on his lap on the couch
he acts like he doesn’t care but really his heart is racing and you’re just so warm
once he’s used to you, he’ll reciprocate contact in any way he can
he especially loves to hold you against him to calm him down
probably not as cuddly as Dick or as often
but when you’re needy, he’ll always be there to be your personal pillow
and when he’s needy, you’re more than happy to let him maul you
he will NEVER admit to it or acknowledge it tho
Tim Drake:
this man is also incredibly touch starved
he’s never been as close to Bruce as the other batboys/as close to his brothers
and he doesn’t have tons and tons of friends either
so he doesn’t get much contact
so if you just hug this man, it’s benefiting both of you
he’s probably a little awkward and stiff the first few times, but he really likes it
once he’s comfortable with you, expects lots of platonic cuddling
even sleepovers tbh
you guys kinda connect over your loneliness and it makes you closer
probably shows up at your door after patrol at least a few times a week just to hug you
also Tim can tell from just looking at you if you’re upset/lonely/touch starved
so sometimes he’ll just randomly pull you into him or lay his head on you
still gets a little flustered when you randomly hug him though
whenever you cry, he definitely holds you until you feel better too
Hi! I'm a big fan of your writing and was wondering if you were still writing for the DC (Jason, Dick, Tim, and Wally)! If you are, would you be up for writing about them helping the reader through a depressive episode? Thank you so much :-))♥️Love your work! Take care!
— Harness Your Hopes - DC Boys
Includes: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Wally West
Genre: hurt/comfort
Summary: when you fall into a depressive episode, he'll do whatever he can to help you feel better
CW: depressive episode, symptoms of depression (exhaustion/insomnia, lack of appetite, avoidance/anger, withdrawing, loss of interest, doom scrolling, struggling with hygiene) bed sharing, Tim pavlovs you, our boys are a little overbearing but they mean well
ahhh thank you so much <3 and thank you for this request! i love writing stuff like this and hope you enjoy reading as much as i enjoyed making it! i kinda based the symptoms off the ones ive experienced in the past/tried to space out different ones between each of the boys.
have a great day & take care of yourself ♡
Dick Grayson:
Dick is a noticer. He recognizes patterns, behaviour. He knows what it means when you stop wanting to hang out as much, when the weather gets colder and you barricade yourself inside your apartment.
He’s sneaky about how he helps you through it. He knows you can be stubborn about sharing your feelings, and he doesn’t want to make you think he sees you as helpless. So he keeps it lowkey.
It starts with him calling you a little more often than usual—always with a good reason, of course. He’s calling to see if he left his favorite sweatshirt there last weekend, if he can borrow that DVD boxset of that tv show he likes. He calls just enough to make you feel attended to without being a bother.
Then he asks for favors. Little, simple things that you can finish quickly and feel good about yourself for. He asks for ideas for a birthday gift for one of his brother’s, small things like that.
Then one night, he calls to see if you can let Haley out when he’s held up at work. You’re hesitant—you haven’t had the energy lately, your life has entirely revolved around your obligations and your bed. Still, you reluctantly agree.
You’re just finishing up walking the pup when Dick gets home, a plastic bag of takeout in each hand. “It’s your favorite,” he prompts.
From there, Dick urges you to talk to him through bites of takeout. He’s sneaky about that, too. Just asking what you’ve been up to lately, if you want to get coffee later in the week.
When you open up to him about your feelings—lack of motivation, exhaustion, the works—he’s much more attentive. He’ll text you every day, just little reminders to let you know he cares about you.
He’ll treat you to little things, too. Your favorite chewing gum on the days you don’t feel like brushing your teeth, your favorite coffee on the days you have no energy, dry shampoo when you’re really dreading washing your hair.
Dick knows very well that he can’t magically make you feel better, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t let you know he supports you. Sometimes the world sucks but Dick is by your side every step of the way.
Jason Todd:
Jason knows better than anyone just how bad depressive episodes can be. He knows how it gnaws at your chest and twists your stomach, how the guilt shadows you like a storm cloud. And he knows how much it fucking sucks when people constantly ask what’s wrong with you.
So he doesn’t—but that doesn’t mean he’s not supportive.
He stops by at least weekly, usually in the ghost hours after making his rounds. He pretends he’s not surprised to see you awake at this ungodly time and you pretend like you don’t smell blood on his suit.
He’s not good at talking about feelings, or being soft. He’s brash, abrasive, and he knows that’s not always what you need.
You’ll ask what he’s doing here and he’ll shrug his broad shoulders and make up some excuse like there was a crime in the neighborhood and he’s just checking in. And then he’ll raid your fridge. Or at least, that’s what it looks like.
He’ll come back the next day with groceries—instant oatmeal and ramen, canned soup, granola bars—all stuff that’s easy to make and eat. He insists it’s because he feels bad about eating all of your food, but you both know that’s not the truth.
When he notices you’ve been sleeping less and less, his stops at your place get longer and more frequent. He doesn’t need an excuse this time when you confront him this time.
“You haven’t been sleeping,” is all he says.
You can’t exactly argue with that logic when your bedding sits untouched and your movements are so sluggish.
Jason stays with you most nights until you fall asleep. He’ll talk to you about his favorite books, about current events—whatever he can think of to keep you listening. You don’t realize that he’s trying to lull you asleep at first, only noticing when you wake up at noon on a Saturday to him cooking pancakes in your kitchen.
“Good, you’re awake.” He says when you pad out to the kitchen with confusion written on your features.
When you question what in the world he’s still doing here, he opens up to you about his own mental health. How he struggles to sleep sometimes, how he goes through phases where he shuts everyone out and pours himself into being Red Hood.
He hates talking about himself but if it means you’ll open up, he’ll gladly do it a million times. And it works, because you find yourself bleary eyed and nodding along, telling him about your own sleep problems and current episode.
And Jason listens along, flipping the pancakes and fighting to hide his smile.
Tim Drake:
Tim watches everyone closely but you especially. He watches you become withdrawn and vacant. He knows the early signs—he’s seen them a dozen times in himself. When he catches you staring vacantly at your phone screen, scrolling a social media app absentmindedly with a frown, he knows he needs to do something.
Much like everyone who trained under the Bat, he understands stubbornness and being unwilling to talk about his feelings better than most. So, instead of confronting you directly and possibly having a very awkward conversation, he finds ways around it.
Tim makes a checklist of the things you need right now and sticks to it like a law:
Fresh air—you can’t stay cooped up in your home all day
A schedule—regular meals and sleep will do you wonders
Support—you aren’t alone and as long as he lives, you never will be
He folds up the list and keeps it in his pocket, consulting it whenever he gets stuck on what to do. Every day, he unfolds it, takes a look, and builds his schedule around it.
He starts by inviting you out for coffee (schedule, fresh air) and when you try to decline by saying you don’t have the energy, Tim just grins at you.
“That’s what the caffeine is for.”
And though you try, he has an answer for everything. You haven’t showered? You can borrow a hat. You have work or class? He’ll coordinate the coffee run with whatever break you have. Tim is relentless and it’s as annoying as it is endearing.
On these coffee runs, Tim tries to show his support through the little things. He pays for your coffee, insists on buying you a snack too, and listens intently on what’s going on. He even bites his tongue and keeps himself from dishing out solutions, and just nods along with you.
Then, when you’re in a somewhat better mood from your favorite drink and a nice, short walk, Tim makes evening plans. He knows you’re more likely to agree while you’re riding your caffeine high, and kinda sorta takes advantage of that.
Of course, these plans are a facade to keep you on a schedule. His evening plans with you are always low energy and low commitment, like him cooking you dinner or watching a new episode of a show together. Something you can do even while exhausted.
Finally, he’ll always swing by your place while on patrol, not-so-creepily watching you through the window while you scroll on your phone. He waits until he sees your eyes glazing over with sleep, your limbs slumping further into the mattress, and then he strikes.
He sends you a goodnight text, just something short and sweet like: Goodnight <3 thanks for hanging out today. Had fun.
And slowly, over the course of a couple weeks, Tim Drake pavlovs you into a normal daily routine.
Months later, you find the crumpled up list, almost torn from how many times it’s been folded, laying on his desk. While Tim never outright said “I support you” or “You’ll get through this”, finding the list only confirms what you already knew: Tim Drake is the greatest man you’ve ever known.
Wally West:
Most people would never guess Wally pays that much attention to his surroundings, and most people would be wrong. When you move faster than the world, you start to see things no one else does.
And Wally doesn’t like what he sees lately when it comes to you.
You’ve always been slower than him—who isn’t—but lately there’s been something else to it, too. A sudden sluggishness, a newfound exhaustion in your eyes. You spend most of your time at home, napping or watching the same movie over and over.
Wally knows what that means and it leaves a lump in his throat. Times have been tough the past few years and he’s seen the signs in countless people—friends, family, strangers on the street. Still, while he felt for those people, his heart breaks for you.
His heart breaks even more when he realizes you’ve been avoiding him. He knows he can be a lot sometimes, that he has much more energy than the average person. Instead of getting upset, he resolves to tone it down, to take care of you until you can take care of yourself.
Wally’s not very lowkey about it.
He starts by checking in on you every day. Sometimes with a quick text or a phone call and sometimes he just comes right by your place unannounced. He’ll make sure you’ve eaten, examine you just a little too closely and then crack some corny jokes.
Most nights, you’ll eat a light dinner with him and then fall asleep on the couch, waking up in your bed to a goodnight text from Wally. Other nights, you’ll wake up on the couch to him snoring on the section next to you. It’s comforting to know he stays sometimes.
On the days where you can’t bring yourself to get up, whether it’s for work or an appointment or something else entirely, Wally’s there. He keeps a calendar—very hard work for someone as unorganized as him—of all the important things you need to, and stops by your place every morning to make sure you’re up on time.
He’ll stand by your front door and listen for you, only leaving when he hears the telltale sounds that you’re awake—a shower running or a kettle boiling.
On the days where he doesn’t hear that, he’s making a quick detour to Jitters and picking up a scone and your favorite drink. He’s gentle to coax you out of bed, sitting on the edge of your mattress and talking to you softly and poking your cheeks.
Even if you huff in annoyance, groaning and grumbling about how he’s relentless and such a keener and who even let him in, Wally doesn’t mind. He just wants to make life a little easier for you on the days where it feels like you can’t keep moving.
Little by little, with Wally’s unconditional, and maybe a little brash, support, your days get easier. The weather warms, the weight on your shoulders lifts and you find yourself enjoying your days more and more.
Wally watches the changes in you with a smile, offering to take you out to dinner. When you ask him what the special occasion is, he just shrugs his shoulders. “It just seems long overdue.”
-> smut/nsfw, afab! reader (has a pussy, no pronouns used), unprotected sex, requested
The first time Tim fucks you without a condom, it’s life-changing.
He’s tired, limbs feeling like lead after a long night of patrol. The sun outside is already kissing the horizon when he shows up at your door.
It’s a blur from there, Tim mumbling against your lips about how bad he needs you, how he needs to feel you.
And then he’s burying himself inside you, head dipped into your shoulder, pressed chest to chest with you while he fucks into you.
He finishes inside you, feeling your walls flutter around his cock, listening to you mewl in need. And something inside of him snaps, changes. Like you’ve set a fire in his chest with kindling he didn’t even know was there.
He watches the cum drip out of you, collecting it on his fingers and slipping it back inside of you.
He’s insatiable after that. He needs to keep you full, using his cock to plug you up with load after load of his cum.
Even long after you’re overstimulated, he’ll kiss along your collarbone, murmuring in your ear.
“Doing so good for me,” he groans. “D’you like being stuffed with my cum? Feels so good, huh?”
He’ll go until he’s spent, collapsing on top of you in the bed.
He breeds you daily, bending you over a counter, his desk, your bed—wherever he can get you. He fucks you real good every time, getting you to finish first because he knows it’ll take better that way.
Then he’ll pull up your panties to keep the cum inside, kissing your neck and giving your ass a cheeky smack.
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