me before talking to anyone: plz be weird plz be weird plz be weird plz be weird plz be weird plz be weird plz be weird plz be weird
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@nerdylicious360
me before talking to anyone: plz be weird plz be weird plz be weird plz be weird plz be weird plz be weird plz be weird plz be weird
Remus Lupin who's constantly reminded that people find him intimidating, his big stature and the dozen of scars littering his face and body, the deep, gravely voice.
Then you come along and stumble over your words, can't look him in the eye and seem to be avoiding him. Obviously, you must be scared of him. So, when he tries to remidy that, being extra nice to you, making sure to smile instead of keeping his stern resting face (allthough that always comes easy to him around you) and bringing you coffee and yet it somehow gets worse he's just stumped.
Once, he mentions how you must be scared of him offhandidly and you get so confused. Blinking up at him, with a questioning look. When he finally explains his thought process, you start blushing so hard!! "Oh! ehm... I actually- I kinda have a crush on you... That's why- Nevermind. Just- I'm not scared of you." And now he's looking at you like :O??? This cute girl, constantly blushing and getting nervous has a crush on him???
Next thing you know, you're making out and he's caging you against the door with his huge frame in the way you have been fantasizing about for months and it's even better than you imagined.
I need to kiss him all over until he realizes that he's worthy of love
zuko having one child is insane i would’ve been pregnant every damn year
#KeepPounding
The Only Exception.
summary: getting a list of everything damian hates, you feel self-conscious about ticking the boxes in that list—and try to fix that, not knowing that you’re damian’s only exception.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: fluffff, pre-established relationship, tim drake uses the wrong words and ensues a chaotic week.
“You want to know what Damian hates?”
Your inquisitive nature has become a known trait to Damian's family, and if anything, it fits you right in. Damian credits your 'detective work', he terms affectionately, as a perfect fit to his own.
Tim’s busy digging through another case, but your question surprises him enough to pause, an incredulous look crossing his tired features. “You know that doesn’t apply to you at all, right?”
“You’re the only person available to ask.” You plead. “It's a little awkward to storm right up to him with a ‘Good morning! Do you secretly hate me and I should jump off the face of the Earth?’”
“Define available.” Tim mutters, before snorting softly. “And Damian hating you? That’ll be impossible.”
You don’t budge, eyes purposely wide as saucers, hoping your pleading's visible enough to coerce his sleep-deprived brain cells to work on something that wasn't the large Bat-Computer, illuminating a spotlight on his eye-bags.
He sighs. “Fine. It shouldn’t be that hard to think of.”
“I guess..” He mutters distractedly, multitasking your strange request and his work and an indulgent sip of his over-steeped tea. “He hates clumsiness? One time, Dick knocked over his printed Bat-Cow mug and even though he caught it immediately, you should’ve seen the look on Damian’s face.”
Not off to an amazing start. You don't dare recall the amount of times he’s caught you from face-planting in your shared apartment—or the number of plates you’ve broken when they slipped from your hands while washing them.
“Right. Clumsiness.” Your laugh comes out forced. “Anything else?”
“Hoarders.” He mutters through another sip, even as his nose scrunches at the bitterness. “I keep a bunch of files in the Bat-Cave, because forbid a man for wanting physical archives in case the Bat-Computer’s compromised. He snapped at me on the amount of useless cases I had collecting dust in the corner.”
Your heart squeezes traitorously, already aligning yourself with the trait before you could even deny the semblance. You didn’t expect him to accurately describe someone like.. you?
Your collection of junk is still stored inside a designated cardboard box, keeping letters he’s given you throughout your relationship, receipts from closed-down restaurants, or even the bed that's littered with your worn plushies. You rarely threw away anything as long as it held a small amount of sentimental value.
“Uh-huh.” You mutter distractedly—thinking back on your shared apartment and the amount of drawers you took up.
“I suppose—people who can’t protect themselves?” Tim shrugs apathetically. “He’s already so strict on his own training regime, I doubt he could possibly understand anyone who doesn’t know self-defence.”
You feel like you’re going to pass out. Tim finally stops, looking over to your distressed expression. “Oh, I wasn’t referring to you.” His mug’s 'Best Detective' claim flashes at you, sipping awkwardly at the realisation that he may have made a huge error with his words. “I just think he naturally has a lower tolerance for anyone that isn’t you.”
Tolerance, something that wears out in time. What if Damian was holding in all these things and it could potentially lead to resentment that you’re a combination of all the traits he finds annoying?
“Don’t take it to heart.” Tim says, his expression akin to one trying to disarm a bomb. “Seriously, hell will freeze over before that demon spawn ever hates something about you. You’re like—his only exception.”
You nod faintly, mind too preoccupied to truly listen. Your phone buzzes, lighting the lock screen and a notification for one of your packages has arrived. “Ah, I better get back! Nice seeing you, Tim. Thanks for the.. information.”
“No problem?” He answers, sounding unsure. “Don’t tell Damian I said anything!”
—
“Beloved?” Damian calls.
You barely hear his voice over the furious typing on your laptop, much less his trained footsteps that you could never detect. You raise your head, casting him an over-enthusiastic smile. “Hey, Dami!”
He tugs his coat off, placing it on the coat rack—gaze lingering on your laptop. “What are you doing?”
You feel as if you’re caught in the middle of a heinous act. “Um—” It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong. Maybe he might even be proud that you’re being proactive about improving your self-defence. “I’m signing up for a martial arts class.”
His brows furrow, his expression perplexed. “All of a sudden?”
“Just thought I’d try something new.” Your white lie slips out easily. “With how Gotham is, I realise I should probably learn some moves. Just in case.”
He frowns. “Is there something concerning you regarding safety?” Looking around the apartment, he analyses the astounding upgrades he’s done with a displeased frown. “I was thinking of thickening the window’s glass to have an increased bullet-proof rebound rate. Or installing motion cameras-”
“No! No.” You stop him, already detecting the pattern of his mind, unravelling into a never-ending state of over preparation. You’re sure that even if the Earth splits into two, your apartment would still be standing unscathed with what he’s already done to the structure. “It’s just a hobby, Dami. You did a great job already.”
The last thing you wanted was to add on more burdens for him. He’s been taking on more cases than usual, back on another silent war with Tim on a silly tally-off, not like either has been keeping a fair count, and him being away for more hours meant that you had time—the chance to show him this improved side to you.
He pauses in his fretting, blinking slowly like a feline before beckoning himself over to where you laid, chin tucked to your neck as you hoarded your favorite corner of the sofa.
Brushing your hair aside, he places a soft kiss on your forehead. “Alright. Anything you want.” He obliges. “You’ve already charged it to my card, yes? If you feel anything inadequate about the instructor, cancel it immediately. I’m more than willing to train you myself.”
From the way he’s looking at you, it’s almost like he wants you to say you prefer his suggestion. You almost do, tempted to let him teach you instead—because a hot trainer who is also your boyfriend sounds like a match-made in heaven, then you remember Tim’s words. I doubt he could possibly understand anyone who doesn’t know self-defence.
If Damian saw you with his own eyes on how ill-equipped you were to protecting yourself, what if he sees you as even more inadequate? You shake your head, a perfect vision of Damian's disappointment swarming your thoughts. “I’ll see how the first class goes. Apparently, it’s super beginner-level so it should be perfect for me.”
He stares at you, and you can feel his mind racing in its analysis before he nods slowly. “Alright. I’ll join you.”
“What!” You splutter.
“I have to ensure the instructor is truly capable in teaching you.” He states casually.
“Damian. You’re probably more knowledgeable than he is.” You deadpan. “It’s going to feel like how advanced calculus was for you. Toddler’s work.”
His expression doesn’t so much as shift, but you spot tension in his shoulders. “He? Even more reasons to join then.”
Oh god, what did you just unleash?
—
“Welcome to ‘Gotham Martials-Beginner’s Class'!”
The instructor is in the tightest, most neon-green outfit you’ve ever seen and under the intrusive lights, it nearly blinds you with its reflective power. Damian doesn’t bother hiding his grimace at the sight.
“Don’t be intimidated, folks. I've only held a black belt in Taekwondo for the past fifteen years.” He boasts. “If there’s anyone who’s going to make you Nightwing-material, it’s yours truly!”
The mention of his brother sours Damian’s expression, visible in the tick of his jaw. Sibling rivalry was only ever intensified among him and his brothers. He schools it into perfect nonchalance when you look over at him, trying to contain your laugh.
“Now, who’s a willing volunteer to come up and let me show them the ropes?” The instructor calls out. “As I always say, learning from example is better than theory!”
The instructor eagerly scans the room, and his mark makes its target. “What about you, lady? You look excited to start your journey in becoming a Martial Arts expert!”
It must’ve been your nearly-dying expression over Damian’s scowl that caught you in the web of his gaze. Your smile drops, feeling nervous with the numerous eyes on you from the other trainees. “Well—”
”There’s no need.” Damian calls out, his hand brushing against yours in reassurance. “I volunteer.”
“Ah! An enthusiastic young man.” The instructor claps. “Very well, come on to the front.”
Damian casts you a grimace, before he strides to the front. It was almost a comical sight with how he towers over the instructor, his arms crossed in disinterest. His gaze flickers over to you, clearly unimpressed.
“Ah, the first rule is to never cast your eyes off your opponent—”
It happens in a flash. One moment, the instructor is charging at Damian, and the next, he was on the ground with a loud bang!, with Damian pinning him down.
“Agh!” The instructor chokes out, and a chorus of gasps echoes through the room.
Damian lifts himself off, brushing his hands against his shirt. “You were saying?” He says dryly.
Your own hand is clasped over your mouth, but unlike the others, you’re trying so hard not to laugh. Damian's clearly terrified the rest in the room, as the circle of trainees distance themselves from the spectacle.
The instructor lifts himself off the ground, gripping onto his lower back for dear life. “Ha-ha—Right! I was going easy on you. Good example, folks. This is exactly how you pin someone down.”
His eyes avert Damian’s raised brow, sweat pooling at his brows. “Now, let’s resume the class at its usual distance. I’ll be in the center, and all students will be behind the red circle.” He points down at the faded drawn line, suddenly not willing for an up-close demonstration.
The class continues on with a series of stretches followed by beginner poses. You doubt any moves you were taught would actually save you against an actual criminal on the streets, but seeing Damian being forced to do such minimal movement with a disgusted expression made it all worth it.
“I think I gained a six pack just by watching you.” Your core was still burning from the restraining laughter as he inserts the key to the door of your apartment. “Never seen you so—restrained.”
He casts you an unimpressed look. “The mystery of how this city has so many civilian kidnappings was all answered by that lacklustre session. If that’s the highest rated ‘self-defense’ class in Gotham, it’s no wonder this city’s crime rate hasn’t gone down.”
“It must’ve been a pain for you." You sympathise as best as you could with an Al Ghul prodigy. "Even if the session had been a hundred times better than Mr. Neon Tights, I doubt it would’ve been useful compared to your experience.”
His narrowed eyes soften, hand kept extended to hold the door open for you. When you enter, he swiftly closes the door, arm still hovering over you and cornering you in. “That wasn’t my intention.” He says. “If I had attended for self defence, that would’ve been highly unproductive. But—”
His free hand comes up to caress your chin, guiding your gaze to meet his eyes fully. “My intention was to spend time with you. And seeing you have a good time, regardless of the quality of the session, had always been the goal.”
Your cheeks warm, and he’s doing that weird thing again where he makes you feel special for doing absolutely nothing. “You’re cheesy.”
“Hm.” He hums. “Maybe I’ve been too affected by Mr. Neon Tights.”
You can’t help the laugh that slips out, and his smile deepens—highlighting a soft dimple that you secretly obsess over. Falling into character, you clear your throat. “Aren’t you aware, Mr. Wayne? It’s not always about the result, it’s the journey.”
He huffs in amusement. “I wasn’t aware of such peculiar words of wisdom. From now on, you’ll be training with me. No more of that nonsense, even if it entertains you, beloved.”
“What?” You pretend to gasp. “Whatever shall I do without his neon tights to motivate me, Dami? You’re cruel.”
Leaning in, he murmurs. “I can think of other ways to motivate you.” Hands parting from the door, they wrap comfortably around your waist, gently pushing you back against the wood as he leans in. His lips press softly against yours, and it’s the soft moments of domesticity like this that you wish so desperately to stay longer.
By the time he parts from you, your lungs were screaming for more air than they’ve ever did in that class.
“How’s that?” He taunts lowly.
“Not bad. I feel pretty motivated to do a push-up right now.” You affirm, a little dazed.
Damian’s rare laugh is heavenly to the ears.
—
Damian’s away on another patrol, and in the midst of his absence, you’re uncovering your hoard of memories that look more kindled to trash now that it’s laid out on the floor. Damian’s letters, still too precious to ever even consider throwing away are stacked in a pile to your left, and your childhood stash is on the right.
You stare seriously at your pre-school drawing, a horrible attempt of drawing the Bat with fangs coming out under his mask. It's abstract, and you're much too biased to throw away a four year old's masterpiece. Maybe you could use it as a birthday card for Bruce?
“Beloved, what are you doing?”
You quickly hide the card, your body covering the junk as Damian enters the bedroom from the window. He’s covered in soot, but no blood is seen on his suit. Your immediate relief soothes your body, but his gaze set on the mess behind you seizes you to stand.
“Dami!” Your voice sounds way too chirpy to be anything but suspicious. “Nothing, I was just cleaning out some old stuff.”
“At 3 A.M.?” He asks incredulously.
“Cleaning jitters.” You shrug.
“Alright.” He says slowly. “I’ll take a quick bath, then I’ll assist in sorting it out with you.”
“No, it’s fine!” You quickly interject. “You must be tired after patrol. I’ll just quickly clean this up. So you can go to sleep, I know you don’t like mess.”
His hand lifts to detach his domino mask. Nothing stops his trained eye from sweeping the floor for this supposed ‘mess’ you’re talking about.
“My letters?” He asks, surprised.
“Oh, I just wanted to store them somewhere safely.” You explain. “If it hadn’t been for the letters, we.. wouldn’t be here now. I didn’t want dust mites to get to them.”
His lips quirk up faintly, softening at the memory. He looks over to the corner, where Mr. Paddington, one of your remaining childhood plushies was stuffed into a paper bag.
“Why is Mr. Paddington there?” He interrogates.
You swallow, averting your gaze. It's just a bear. A bear who's been through your ups and downs for the past decade. “I realised he’s—in really bad condition. And I keep hoarding things because of sentimental value, but it’s taking up space over the apartment. Like the bed is 55% my plushies and I don’t want you feeling like you’re running out of space because it’s your apartment too.”
He stares long enough that you start to feel it dig into your skull, before he turns fully and stops in front of you, lowering himself to your eye level.
“Is this an indirect method of asking me to expand our living quarters?” He asks, straight to the point as ever. “I can have us a new apartment by the end of the week.”
“No way.” You say flatly, his words stoking a flame of protectiveness over your shared home.
It’s an understatement to say you love this apartment. Call it being biased, but it was the first place you and Damian truly created into a home, and the memories stored within the brick walls (another addition you love), is something that will have to be pried, tooth and nail, from your cold hands.
“I just—I want to be more considerate, of the space and my junk. You may need more hanger space for your 10% shade differences in sweaters.”
He doesn’t so much as shift at your teasing, a blunt attempt at distraction to his skeptical eye. “Whatever is mine is yours.” He emphasises. “I got us this place because I wanted you to have a comfort space. I want you to use it.”
He bends, taking Mr. Paddington into his arms and patting away some dust that’s gotten on him. “You’re right, the stitching in his eyes has come loose. I’ll send it over to Alfred. He has been itching for something to do ever since most of us moved out, and he’s adequate in sewing.”
You don’t know why, but Damian being so considerate despite you having full evidence of your hoarding habit splattered over the bedroom floor tugs your heartstrings hard. You can’t resist hugging him, even when his suit is dirty. He holds you tight, Mr. Paddington squished between the two of you.
“Is there anything else you want?” He asks gently, his other hand gently rubbing your back. “You can always ask, beloved.”
You shake your head. “No, this is perfect.”
He hums. “Leave it be. We’ll sort it out tomorrow, together. I’ll run a quick bath, so why don’t you put Mr. Paddington back on the bed where he belongs, and I’ll accompany you to sleep as soon as I’m done?”
He’s perfect. It’s almost terrifying how easy it is to lean into his arms and accept his help. You should take care of your mess, not give him another task to do when he’s already tired from patrol. Still, when he places a soft kiss over your forehead, you find it hard to disagree tonight.
When he sinks into the bed, the faint smell of his body wash envelopes your senses. His weight tips you towards him, but even gravity isn’t as quick as your boyfriend’s instincts, pulling you into his arms till his frame shields yours. His chest moves in synchronicity with your breathing against your back, and the thought hits again that you don't deserve him.
Somehow, against all odds of your bad luck where he’s discovered your flaws two times in a row now when you're only trying to improve them, the softness in his gaze has never shifted, annoyance never once making its way into his expression.
Was Tim really right? That Damian’s intolerance for the flaws he listed out fades when it comes to you? You want to ask, but hearing Damian’s slowed breathing, meaning he’s fallen asleep—you think not all hope is lost yet. There’s still one more flaw you could work on, to make his life a little easier for all the times he’s loved you despite your flaws.
—
If you’re not going to get better at self-defence or the habit to hoard, at least you’ll master tackling your clumsiness. You’ve managed in avoiding plate arson for the past week, and call it over-confidence, but when you spot the clock’s hand frozen over the kitchen, you think it’s finally time you get over your fear of ladders.
“Beloved? What are you doing?” Damian calls out, a hint of distress in his voice when he spots you, on the second highest level of the ladder, hands fumbling with the clock.
“Taking out the clock.” You answer, distracted with the hook that’s stuck onto the nail. “Its battery needs changing.”
“I can do it.” He offers, his hands coming up to stabilise the ladder. “You need not concern yourself with small matters like these.”
”Yeah, but I want to.” You answer, finally unlatching the clock. “Got it!”
When you feel your balance tilt, you realise your miscalculation. With both your hands on the clock, you’re no longer holding the wall, and your feet stumble as your back arches backward. You yelp, falling backwards—right into Damian’s arms.
The clock is still in your hands, covering your face halfway to hide your shame as Damian stares at you, and you see the waver of relief, worry, and amusement playing out in the flickers of his gaze.
“That’s so embarrassing.” You mutter to yourself, still using the clock to shield your face from his prying eyes. “Let me down. Oh—can we please pretend that never happened?”
He doesn’t respond, hands still firmly wrapped around your torso, leaving your feet dangling in the air as he pins you under his gaze. “No, I think I quite favour this position.”
“Don’t tease, Damian.” Calling him by his full name doesn’t do the trick. If anything, it makes his smugness triple in size. “I seriously thought I accomplished getting over my fear of ladders. Now it’s hyper-intensified and my fears have turned to actual trauma.”
He snorts softly, carrying you over to the sofa and settling down. You lay there in his arms, which is admittingly, very comfortable, making it difficult for you to climb out of his hold. Not like he’d let you, the only time his arms wasn’t wrapped around you was when he took one hand to tear the clock out of his hands, settling it at the coffee table.
“What is bothering you?” He finally asks.
You freeze. “What do you mean?”
“First, the training classes, then Mr. Paddington, and now, the clock?” He lists out. Damn him and how observing he was. “Something’s bothering you.”
You hesitate. It’s irrational, but what if you list out the traits he hates, and he realises that you’re really all the things he despises? Your mind knows Damian loves you, but at moments, your heart wonders why.
”Well..” You swallow. “Promise not to get mad?”
“I could never be mad at you.” He answers immediately.
You don’t even know where to start. “You always take care of me. And you rarely complain. So I was starting to wonder if there was anything I did that could.. piss you off that you never mentioned.”
His brows pinch together. “Was there anything I did to make you reach that assumption? I know my communication of my feelings still needs.." He grimaces as he manages the word out. "Improvement. If I ever made you feel at unease, it was never my intention. I’ve never felt that way about you. Ever.”
“No—no.” It’s a relief to hear him say that, but it’s much harder to sound convincing when he’s looking down at you with his unbridled concern, his gaze softer than you’ve ever seen. “I just didn’t want to accidentally do something in habit that irritates you when you’ve been nothing but good to me.”
Averting eye contact, you focus on the jammed hands of the clock. “I asked for a list about what you hated and—it felt as if each description pierced right through me, so I panicked and over-compromised.”
His gaze sharpens. “What list?”
“Um—” You discreetly feel Tim’s lifespan shortening. “Just a couple of things. Hearing them made me realise that I could be a burden to you because of all the annoying things you have to deal with—so I tried to improve them. I don’t want you feeling like you have to take care of me because I’m not good in doing it.”
He shakes his head, mouth pursed and ready to argue but not quick enough to avoid the finger you place on his lips. “It’s not that I don’t want you taking care of me, because I love that you do. I appreciate it so, so much that I’m scared that I’m relying too much on you.” You admit, feeling a lump growing in your throat. “And I’m scared that taking care of me gets tiring.”
He gently caresses your wrist, pulling it aside so he can speak. “I want to take care of you.” He reassures you.
“But you hate clumsy people.” You croak out.
“I love your clumsiness.” He answers in a factual tone. "It's easier to get you into my arms."
“And you hate people who hoard.”
“I hoard things you gift me.” He bites back. “It’d be hypocritical of me to judge you for that when I partake in the same habit."
“You—“ Somehow, his easy way of dissuading your worries is working, and you can’t think of much else. “You hate people who can’t protect themselves.”
“Then what is my purpose, beloved?” He asks. “If not to protect you. If I could not fulfill even that duty, I would condone that hatred on myself. Never you.”
“Then what has this week been for?” You moan. “Felt like a humiliation ritual—Like I was horribly incapable as Damian Wayne’s partner.”
His lips quirk up. "Adorable." He whispers, as if he can't help himself. "You are capable. Of more things than you think.”
“You understand people better than I do, which is why you tried to be considerate of me by doing this.” He adds. “I appreciate your efforts, beloved, but you don’t need to be anything more or change yourself because I cherish you as you are. You’re already perfect for me.”
Damian’s love has always been shown through his actions, his unwavering patience he’s harnessed just for you, evident by his siblings’ complaint of unfair treatment. Yet, to hear him say it so directly—you can barely think of what to say back without sounding like an emotional mess.
“Where did you obtain such an unreliable list?” He asks after a moment.
You wince. He stares and stares, akin to a falcon, till it comes out of you. “…Tim?”
He scowls, gaze hardening with a familiar murderous intent. “I’m going to kill Drake.”
“Please don’t.” You plead. “It’s my fault, really. And if it hadn’t been for him, I would still be avoiding this conversation and I wouldn’t have gained the guts to say it out loud.”
His lips purse in a thin line, which is his best attempt at consideration. “I’m still not pleased that he indirectly made you feel unworthy when that’s never been the case. But you are right.” His free hand brushes over your cheek, growing serious. “Next time, if you ever feel this way, tell me first. I’ll listen, always.”
“And believe me when I say—you could never irritate me.” He declares. “You’re my gift in this world, and there’s no other person who brings me peace the way you do. You’re not meant to exist without flaws, and I love every single one of them. It makes you human, and more precious in my eyes. So don’t hide your worries from me. Bear them with me instead, and I’ll reassure you.”
Your eyes feel wet when you blink, your lashes clumping together, and your heart is thumping louder than it should. “Oh, man.” You mutter. “You just made me fall for you all over again. That’s not fair.”
His lips twitch into a soft smile, and presses a feather-light kiss over your forehead. “Then you’ve been unfair on me too. I suppose I'll have to be more unbearable in my affections to not let such silly worries get to you. I haven't been doing a good job in my duty if you could believe in a list like that."
“And for the record.” His gaze softens. “I didn’t see anything we did this past week as a burden. I enjoyed spending time with you, at the martial class, and the morning we spent organising your childhood memories, and even now—because that’s the reason I want to be with you. To be in your life, to be your support, your person.”
Your throat clogs together, and if he wants to succeed in making you a wreck, he's done it well.
“Cause..” He murmurs. “You’re mine. And I’m yours. Isn’t that what we promised?”
“Then, do you also solemnly swear, Damian Wayne—” Lifting up your pinky finger to him, you muster your most serious expression. “That you’re truly in this even with my flaws, on the good and bad days?”
He links his pinky with yours, wrapping it close to his chest right above his heart. “I solemnly swear.”
Damian always keeps his promises. You could ask him to capture the Sun for you, and he'd somehow find a way to do it before Monday.
“What else did that lunatic say?” Damian interrogates.
Your mind scrambles for anything to save your future brother-in-law’s life. “Tim did say I was your only exception.”
He huffs. “I suppose there’s one thing Drake finally got right.”
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <3333
dc masterlist -> other damian + dc works
My hot take that l am definitely gonna be flamed for:
runnin' back to you.
summary: damian wayne, in your memories, was the child assassin prodigy who had a horribly obvious crush on you in your shared childhood. years later, your return to wayne manor shocks you when the kid you once teased relentlessly has grown taller, meaner, into his looks... and is determined to make you regret ever tormenting him.
pairing: damian wayne x fem!reader
content: fluff, damian wayne yearns and time has only amplified his intensity, childhood attachment combined with emotional suppression, little mix of jealousy
"That is not Damian."
"I believe you are referring to the growth spurt." Alfred answers, unsurprised at your reaction. "All the masters have gone through quite a change while you were away."
That couldn’t be it. Growth spurt didn't answer for the unfair angles that make up his face, or the way his lashes framed the captivating green of his eyes, or the way his sleeves fit tight around his arms.
You harshly avert your gaze, feeling something hot burn at the back of your neck. Was this a form of punishment, for all your teasing years ago? You sure hoped he didn't remember that.
His looks may have become a weapon of its own, but you didn't need a clear reminder on his temper. The way his glare used to pierce through you, ears reddened in shame when you had pointed out that he was staring for too long, before hurling threats that contained illegal methods of torture and certain death, then storming off in a hurry.
Spying Damian from the corner of your eye, he must've certainly forgotten about you by now. He's probably used to the mass attention from The Gotham Times, enough to forget the mess that happened between you and him. That you made horrible, ruthless fun out of his feelings, taking every chance you could to piss him off, using the fact that his heartbeat would race around you against him.
"Master Damian and you have fond childhood memories together." Alfred comments. "I'm sure he will be delighted to see you."
Is that what it looked like to the adults? The strange push-and-pull you once had with the only blood heir in Wayne Manor?
"Hi." Your voice comes out brash—awkward, not at all the confident persona you wanted to portray. Damian was even more intimidating up close, with his gaze narrowed down on you, emotions completely hidden behind a perfect blank, towering over you in a way he never did before.
"How are you, Damian?" You try again when he doesn't answer. You might as well ask for the foundation of Wayne Manor to swallow you whole. You'll find better use supporting the infrastructure than in this dead-end of a conversation.
He blinks slowly, at least a suggestion that he's somewhat human. His scowl deepens, arms crossed. "You've somehow become more unimpressive, if that's even feasible."
Your jaw drops. Out of everything, forced curtesy, straight-up ignorance, you didn't expect that. It takes you a second to recover, and it only makes you feel more foolish. "That's uncalled for."
"I don't recall you taking consideration of what others think before spouting nonsense." His assault lands roughly, despite his tongue never quickening in its pace or abrasiveness. In fact, his coolness as he directly insults you only buries you deeper in shame.
It's a strong sense of alert, to abort this mission of reconciliation. "This is making me nolstagic already." Your grin splits too wide, desperation seared into your tone. "Good to see you haven't changed either."
His expression darkens, and you've somehow pissed him off with your harmless comment.
"I have changed." He answers briskly. "And I can guarantee that this new version of me... won't tolerate you so easily."
Before you can even blink or process his outright threat, you feel his shoulder brush harshly against yours, bumping you to the side as he walks off.
Yeah... he definitely remembers you.
Damian proves to be relentless in his promise to be intolerable of your presence.
When you had wandered your way down to the West Wing’s kitchen in your Superman pajamas, you’re greeted with a glare from Death himself when you find Damian sitting across the counter.
"Hi." You greet, almost afraid your voice will shatter the pin-dropping silence the atmosphere has suddenly descended into. You really have to stop with that horrible greeting.
His expression sours further at the sound of your voice, as if you've confirmed his worst nightmare really exists at eight in the morning, standing in his kitchen decked out in Superman merch. His gaze drops pointedly to your attire and grimaces, before shoving another spoonful of his breakfast down his throat.
"No trimming Alfred's hedges included in your morning routine?"
Your joke in an attempt of familiarity clearly strikes the wrong nerve, as the only response you receive is the harsh creak of his chair. He stands abruptly with a point to look on forward as he makes his exit, as if you didn't even exist in the very room.
It's fine. It's only been your first day back. He'll warm up to you... eventually. You just have to prove that you're not that annoying kid anymore, who thought poking fun at a child assassin prodigy who harboured grudges like no tomorrow was a smart move.
You’ve still managed to harness some luck. When you open the cabinets, you find it fully stocked with all your favourite tea brands and flavours. Bless Alfred, his kind soul.
Damian does not warm up to you. When you found him resting in the study, laid out on the leather couch, you barely make it past the barrier of the wooden doors before he slams his book shut. The loud echo vibrates through the entire room along the oak bookshelves, freezing the atmosphere before you even have a chance to say a word.
When you take a seat beside him for dinner, he makes it a mission to have a pointed remark for every attempt of yours at small talk. That slithered tongue of his somehow turns every conversation into a violent game of chess, with his strategy as outright assault, leaving you on the defense.
It's tiring, infuriating. This wasn't even punishment; this was hatred.
You’re at your wits end when you find yourself in a moment of surrender, perched at your balcony, watching the starless sky above you. Sleep doesn’t find you easily when the person roomed beside you hates your guts.
You don’t deny that stationing out here in the cold didn’t serve a purpose. At least there was one thing you could still predict about Damian, and that was his habit of lingering on his balcony, only a few feet away from yours, for a moment of reprieve after his patrols.
He’s just come out from the shower, water droplets catching at the ends of his dark locks, dripping small streams down to the towel around his neck. His eyes are closed, head pressed against the brick stone, but a furrow deepens between his brows. He knows that you’re watching him.
Your fingers tighten around the railing, and for once, you keep your mouth shut. The silence stretches, taut and timed with each vivid heartbeat that hammered against your rib cage.
“Are you going to keep staring?” His voice, raw and tired from patrol, finally breaks through the tension. Yet, you can’t conjure a semblance of hope, even if this was the first time he started a conversation since you arrived at the Manor.
“Depends on how long you plan on avoiding me.” You answer truthfully.
He scoffs, a low unamused rumble in the back of his throat. “You are unbelievable.”
Your frown deepens, irritation flaring at his tone. “You’re seriously the one to say that? You’ve been—”
His green eyes peer open, meeting yours. There’s a challenge in his gaze, daring you to address his behaviour.
Swallowing back your insults, you force yourself to look away. “If I'm making you that uncomfortable, fine. I’ll keep my distance. I wasn’t planning on staying long anyways.”
Eyeing his reaction from your peripheral vision, you expect him to be relieved, ecstatic even that you’re leaving after all the effort he's gone through to be a horrible host. You don’t expect to see the rare look of hurt displayed on his face.
Your head twists fully to face him, convinced you must have hallucinated, but he’s already turned his back. His imprudent leave ends with the harsh slam of his door, leaving you alone to the freezing wind whipping at your face. Yet, you feel that being on the receiving end of his hatred is much colder than being out here alone in the dark.
When Tim returns from his mission, you’re practically in tears in the light of your saviour. You love Alfred, but even he is beginning to tend to the gardens more, in an attempt to avoid your distractive antics from his never-ending tasks around the manor. Bruce is a terrible converser outside of the cameras, too tired to put on his charm or his patience when he’s busy sleeping till noon, and off on another patrol by sundown.
Tim, the second closest person you have to your age, and often too insomniac to garner the needed strength to send you away—is your closest chance of normal bantering without feeling like you’re one step away from becoming a murder victim.
"He hates me." You rant, hands resting over Tim's armrest, watching Tim sort through his cases using a system he calls 'chaotic orderliness'. "I’m not kidding. Damian genuinely despises me."
Tim snickers, placing another unceremonious stack on the desk. You doubt there was much improvement from his sorting, but he's convinced it works. "Trust me. Damian does not hate you."
"What will you call it then, Wonder Genius?" You groan. "Annoyance? Irritation? Loathing?"
"Did you know he personally restocked the kitchen with all your favourite tea packets?" Tim blurts out.
Your frown dissipates, his words slowly sinking in. "I—thought that was Alfred's doing."
Tim shakes his head. "He claimed that you would only be more of a nuisance if it wasn't done right."
He continues on, suggesting that he was paying attention more than he led on. "The bookshelves were completely revamped by genre too, even when he finds it distasteful. He also lets you tackle Titus, which he has never allowed any of us to do."
"He has a hard time communicating how he feels." Tim mutters. "Trust me. I’m well aware of that. So, don't take it too personally. He's just processing your presence and what you mean to him."
"Processing?” Your brows furrow. “What could he possibly need to process on such a level?"
Tim tosses you a ‘Are you seriously asking me that question?’ look, but the sound of a loud revving of an engine cuts off his further explanation. You spot the Batmobile entering the cave, its lights blinding your sight as the giant machine stops in its tracks.
The wing door lifts, and out steps Damian, home from his patrol. His domino mask is nowhere to be found, and that's how you witness firsthand that he's glaring daggers into your soul. His gaze doesn't leave you when he shuts the door with a solid slam, even when it flickers between you and Tim, assessing the situation.
For some reason, seeing Damian in his suit makes your mouth dry, eradicating all line of thought from your conscience, leaving you to stare at him speechlessly like a gaping fish. Gone were the silly tights and hooded cape. You don’t recall Robin ever looking that sinfully good, it was almost unfair.
You’re distracted—and the fact that he was coming towards you in a rapid, terrifying pace as if he's found his next victim, steals away precious time for a proper escape. Realising you’re still leaning over the armrest in contact with Tim's arm, who's watching the entire exchange with unhidden amusement, you inch away with your hands raised.
"Damian, if you're mad I snuck into the cave—"
He doesn’t deign you a second more to explain, grabbing your wrist and tugging you harshly towards the exit.
He's definitely mad. His entire body is tense, forming harsh movements as he drags you across the hallway. It takes you a moment to guess where he's heading, when he passes the study, the kitchen, up the stairs—to his bedroom.
He was going to murder you, and no one would be any wiser of his crime. Except for Tim, who betrayed you seamlessly, still typing away at the Bat-Computer after giving you a sarcastic wave when you had twisted your neck, silently begging him for non-discreet assistance.
Damian’s hands never part from you when he slams the door closed with you pinned against the wood. His glower alone is enough to incinerate you.
"What did I do this time?" Your sigh is honest, a tired numbness of this pretense of trying to be amiable with him. Your ability to read his deflecting moods has long gone dormant.
"Did you seriously think it wouldn't affect me?" He sneers. "You've made a big show of making Drake the next victim of your tiring schemes."
Your lips part, brows creased in frustration. "What are you talking about?"
"Isn't it enough?" He snaps. "Driving me insane with your presence. Now, you must attack Drake as well?"
"I am not doing anything!"
"Really?" He scoffs. "So, you laughing over his jokes during dinner, finding him in the Cave, asking him to show you around the city as if you didn't live in it yourself once—it's all just you naturally being insufferable?"
Your brows furrow in utter confusion. This sounds maniacal, and... seething with jealousy?
"It's not like I can ask you.” You retort. "You'll probably blow up the city before you would even consider the suggestion of showing me around."
"I would never consider taking you anywhere." He hisses.
"Exactly—"
"You'll just wrap me around your finger, and render me incapable of all sense."
"...What?"
"You're a weakness." He mutters. "Being around you only amplifies this fact. But—"
"I refuse to let you parade around Drake." Inching closer to you, you can’t tell if his desperate refusal is pointed at you… or himself. "That will only ruin me more."
Your lips part and close, shock visible in every nerve pulled from your facial expression. "You sound... jealous."
His jaw ticks, and he stares down at you, lips pursed.
"So, what if I am?"
His hands come up to either side of your face, trapping you with nowhere to face but his cold expression. His eyes have darkened to an almost-black, swarmed by his pupils that are focused on you.
"What will you do then?" He mocks. "Will you terrorise me? Laugh in my face? Trample my heart and smile as if you didn't do anything?"
"I'm curious." His voice grows bitter, almost resentful. "Just how will you torture me this time?"
His question sucks all the oxygen out of your lungs. There's something all-consuming about his gaze, staring at you with such vivid conflict, a desperation swirled with frustration... and longing.
"I thought your crush on me was over." You whisper.
His jaw flexes, annoyance on full display. "Of course, you would still use that infuriating term."
You don't even have time to process it. His lips meet yours in a harsh clash, but it's only fitting that a kiss broken out between the two of you would be a fight of push-and-pull. You've long driven each other mad, and now this tension, dragged to its peak, has finally crashed—and it feels akin to tectonic plates shifting off-course.
You expect him to push you off when he realises his impulsive mistake—or pull you closer, you don't know. In his strength, he can easily do it. Break this kiss and berate you as he once did, cheeks flushed and rage consuming his vision.
Yet, you find your hands tangling into his hair, releasing a series of groans that sound inhuman coming from his mouth. He chases your every movement, consumes, and you're left with nothing to hold onto, to think of—but him.
His hands find their way through your hair, maneuvering you easily to slot your lips however he wanted against him. You've never felt him so unrestrained, so destroyed and desire-driven.
"Damian." You gasp, twisting your head when you realise just how intense the session was getting. You still didn't know his intentions, the reason why he dragged you into his room. "Wait, we need to talk."
He's half-conscious, kisses peppering your jaw from the access you've given, and when he finally stops, parting just enough for you to face him again without him attacking you—you sense his impatience, his detested longing bridling right below his mask.
“Did you ever think about me?” His question comes out softer than you expected, weak and hoarse from his lips that are bitten.
“What?" You breathe out, chest still heaving from the intensity only he could create. "Of course I did.”
Suspicion clouds his gaze, because for some reason, he can’t seem to fathom that you’re wrapped around his finger just as much as he claims to be around yours.
“Why did you think I teased you so much?” You confess. “I was a silly kid, who had a big crush on a boy who refused to admit he has a heart! I wanted to get a reaction out of you... because it proved to me that you liked me even half as much.”
His frown deepens, unsatisfied. "Yet, you don't even remember."
Your brows furrow. "Remember?"
"The—" The rarest shame coats his features. "Promise you made. Before you left."
You try to recall a promise, anything you must've said that remained in his memory for as long as it did. Before you left—yes, Damian had bid you farewell. If you could call it that.
"You're leaving." Damian states. It's a fact, not a question.
Honestly, you thought he'd be more pleased. He was always going on about how you were a distraction, a nuisance, and some other colourful vocabulary you've added to your adjectives list for your English homework, which you'd proudly shown him in retaliation.
Yet, here he was, standing at the front door like a barrier to the outside world, staring holes into your luggage as if it had done a personal crime against him. Knowing how easily offended he could get, maybe the wheels ran over his polished shoes once.
"I'm not leaving forever." You tease. "Promise I won't let you be free of me so easily.
"Who says I want you back?" He scoffs, ears reddening as he averts his gaze. "You'll just cause more problems, as you always do."
You grin, hand parting from your luggage handle and tackling him into a hug. He lets out a string of curses, all Arabic and undecodable to you. Still, he doesn't push you off like you expect. Maybe he's deigning you some honour, because this will be the last you'll see him in a really long time.
"I'll come back soon." You promise. Casually. In an after-thought. Unknowing of its effects on a boy who took each promise as a solemn vow. "So you won't be alone in this big, lonely manor all by yourself. Who else will you threaten to kill at six in the morning?"
You feel the stutter of his voice, the huffs in his breath as he tries to restrain himself. Cute.
You part from him, pressing a soft kiss on his cheek just to tease him further. His cheeks blossom that signature red and you see the sizzling in his gaze, like he's ready to blow from shame and rage.
"Don't change, Dami." You murmur. "I want everything just the way it is now when I come back."
You never expected him to hold you to a ten years old promise. You wouldn't have remembered it, if it weren't for the look he was giving you now. Your vision was fracturing, multiplying with the Damian of your past and the one right in front of you.
Right. Back then—hadn't he looked at you in this same way? With a quiet, desperate plea to not leave him alone? It had stuck with you, as the car turned away from the Manor, watching his silhouette disappear into a smaller frame at the door, unmoving till you were out of reach.
"You waited." Realisation creeps in with an unexpected guilt. He held you to that promise. That’s why he kept the arrangement of the books the same way in the study, and the tea packets, and your room.
"And you came back." He huffs. "Carelessly smiling as if you had forgotten. I should've guessed that you did. You handled promises as easily as you handled my heart."
"We were kids—" You splutter.
His gaze narrows. "I was four when my grandfather handed me the expectations he had of his heir. Six when I understood what an assassination attempt meant. Eight when I learnt not to flinch when ending a life. How much do you think promises are worth to a boy who went down that path?"
"...Everything." You whisper.
"Everything." He mutters. "You had always been different. Light, free of burdens. I despised you for it, and… I craved your normalcy. You made me feel human, and I had mistaken that for weakness. When you left, I realised then that your absence felt worse than keeping any weaknesses near."
"Dami..."
His body shudders involuntarily at your call, arms still caged around you. He grits his teeth, glare enough to pierce through your skin. "Don't do that."
"I'm not pitying you." You answer, even if he hasn't uttered his accusation. You can see it in his vulnerability, how it aches for him to even admit this to you. That you matter, and your promises matter.
"I'm sorry I didn't keep my promise." Your hand comes up to cup his cheek, and his lashes flutter, shock registering at your warm touch. He doesn't pull away, even when conflict arises in his gaze. "I really am. I know you think I'm some trickster, and that you can't depend on my words."
"But truthfully, I was most excited to see you." You admit. "I had been away for so long, but whenever I thought of Gotham, of home, I thought of you. I wondered about how you must've become so much stronger, smarter, and still carried that heart you tried so desperately to keep hidden. That you were the most capable, and striking boy I ever laid my eyes on."
"Now, I see who you've grown up to be." You exhale, eyes tracing over his features, and you can't help but smile. "Even all of my dreams couldn't have pictured who you are now. You're amazing, Dami, and I'm sorry if I ever made you feel small, or unworthy of promises."
Pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, as you once did when you were children, you think it's time you made a proper promise. One you'll remember, and one you hope he'll give you a chance to keep. "I've fallen for you, Dami. Whatever crush I had on you when we were kids? It pales in comparison to this—snowballed into something even I can't control."
"I'm here now." You remind him. "With a promise to stay. I'm no longer that silly kid, who runs her mouth without thinking. I keep my promises, especially if it's for the one right in front of me, who's taken my heart from the first moment I laid my eyes on him."
A low rumble escapes his chest, satisfaction hidden within his features. In moments like this, he really reminds you of a feline. Hard to please, and yet, you find yourself in awe of that soft glow in his eyes.
“You’re mistaken.” He murmurs, and your heart drops. “What I feel for you is not even close to half.”
"I waited, even when I knew the chances of you remembering was close to zero." He admits. "Because I chose you. From the moment you entered my life, my heart already sealed its fate to yours, even if you hadn't known."
"I would've kept waiting—and if you took too long." He leans in, nose brushing against yours. "I would find you. And make you live up to that promise."
"And now?" He smirks, turning his head as his lips brush against your palm. Even a soft touch like that was enough to make your heart combust, and the trace of his lips makes you hyperaware of your own, still swollen from the kiss earlier. It's the intimacy, the way he's completely unraveled in your hands that reminds you of just how much power you have over him.
"I'm holding you to your new promise." He mutters. "You'll stay. In Gotham, with me."
You nod breathlessly. "I'm staying."
"Good." Even in his composure, you sense the drop of his shoulders, his relief in hearing you say it again. "You have a lot of wasted time to make up for."
"How should I make up for lost time?" You tease, lashes fluttering as your gaze diverts between his lips and his darkened gaze.
"I'm sure you've invented all sorts of new ways to terrorise me." His voice deepens into a dangerous lure, rendering you speechless. "I'll give you some freedom to explore that."
Your hand still lingering on his cheek traces past the corner of his mouth, right over his lip. His gaze lowers to your touch, and you sense the impatience that slips through his restraint.
You tilt his head to face you, and he's waiting. You never realised how patient he was when it came to you.
Leaning closer, your lips brush over his again, and you feel his fingers still tangled in your hair tighten, inching you closer.
"Is this allowed?" You tease, gaze flickering back up to his.
He huffs out a low breath, and when he descends, you get your answer. Damian Wayne has always held restraint like a perfected soldier, but when it came to you... he finds that control is an overrated concept.
Now that you're finally here, in his arms, all his, he's making you live up to your promise.
extra: timmybird: have you guys worked on processing his feelings? ;)
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works
damian taglist: @supercheesygarlicbread @bloomfaery @enmzgn @jxybirdiv @vanillakirstein @celestills @katzenia @chikenuggetrat @mrrayjay @arabellas-barbarella-swimsuit12 @amandjslpz @mossmydarling @batslilwhore @dclover567 @gojoswaterbottle @annabelleleefrench @neonsquad303 @strawberryfire17 @treebranch23 @vampiranne @tofudubicho (to be added, check masterlist)
His gaze narrows. "I was four when my grandfather handed me the expectations he had of his heir. Six when I understood what an assassination attempt meant. Eight when I learnt not to flinch when ending a life. How much do you think promises are worth to a boy who went down that path?" "...Everything." You whisper. "Everything." He mutters. "You had always been different. Light, free of burdens. I despised you for it, and… I craved your normalcy. You made me feel human, and I had mistaken that for weakness. When you left, I realised then that your absence felt worse than keeping any weaknesses near."
this is genuinely one of the most stunning fics i’ve ever read. your way with words and your absolutely beautiful portrayal of damian’s character… i’m in awe.
this is so kind and means so much, thank you!! it really made my day thank you a million times lovely <333333
someone tell damian to return jon’s glasses for me please
ꮼ Hal Jordan tries to avoid waking you up at all costs
ᦸ having a superhero!husband is sooo sweet, until he wakes you up at ungodly hours of the night and you can't even be mad.
"Son of a—" Hal grumbled under his breath, hissing in pain as his foot made contact with one of the many plants that littered your bedroom. "Fuckfuckfuck."
His eyes flicked to the bed—watching your sleeping form, still snug & calm under the blankets
"Thank god." He sighed, stretching out in bliss as he took in how pretty you looked in the moonlight, taking one step forward before bam!
He tripped over one of your heels & landed flat on his ass.
"Motherfucker!" He yelped, curling up in pain for a moment, freezing in fear as he heard the sheets shifting, before your head leaned over the edge of the bed, glaring down at him.
"You're on the wrong side of the bed, Hal." You hissed, flicking on the lamp with a slow hand. "Why were you coming in on the wrong side?"
"Honey, princess, beautiful, darlin', light of my life," he whispered, scrambling to his knees, padding over to you quickly. "I just wanted to lie with the prettiest girl I've ever seen."
"So annoying, you are sooo annoying, baby." You huffed, tossing a pillow at Hal's chest. "I need my beauty sleep." You glanced at the clock, jaw clicking as you processed the time. "Being woke up at 2 in the morning is not beauty sleep."
"You don't need beauty sleep, you just hate being woken up"
"Everybody hates being woken up."
"I don't hate when you wake me up." Hal mused, crawling on top of you on the bed. "I actually find it pretty endearing."
"Yeah, well, you're weird." You mumbled, averting his gaze as he ducked down to leave soft kisses along your jaw. "So—shit—so weird."
"You married weird." He hummed against your skin, pulling the blanket over both of you with a soft nip to your earlobe. "You looove weird so much, dont'cha baby?"
"Well, weird was tall and muscular."
"Wow, so I'm just nice to look at, nice to know, princess." He grunted, peeling back to kiss your forehead. "I married you over chemistry, & you married me because I'm a nice piece of ass."
"Mm. A sweet, caring, annoying piece of ass." You sighed, pulling him down to press a soft kiss to his lips. "But yes, a sexy little piece of ass that I claimed alllll to myself."
“In hue-less day and greyest night, no colour shall escape my sight. Let those who worship saturation’s might beware, Beige Lanterns Light!” Ass colour grading. Son 😭
He’s in the middle of something…
You’re just jealous lisa
info dumps from autistic!bruce wayne ᡣ𐭩
You asked one question. Just something offhand, not even really directed at him.
“It’s crazy how they can find the exact gun used,” you say casually as you walk past the tv, which is playing the news about a recently solved murder. “I guess if there’s no bullet they’re fucked, right?”
You should have known better.
“Well, actually,” he says, already reaching out to gently grab your thigh and tug you down to sit beside him on the sofa. “Bullets have microscopic markings from the barrel of the gun, so even if the bullet isn’t recovered intact, fragments can still be matched using comparison microscopes.”
“Oh. That makes sense,” you reply with a small smile, shifting like you’re about to stand again before you feel his hands settle on your waist. You turn back and catch the slight pout on his face, eyes already lighting up.
“And they also use computer algorithms to compare bullets and shell casings against national databases from previous crimes,” he continues, the energy in his voice making him look more awake than he’s been all day. “Even if there’s no full bullet, which is extremely rare, they can still look at gunshot residue, fibers, and impact patterns—”
He keeps going.
You listen to all of it. Not because you’re particularly interested. You really aren’t. But the way he gets so focused, so animated, like he’s finally talking about something he doesn’t have to filter or simplify, makes it impossible not to watch him.
“…so most cases are never built on just one piece of evidence,” he finishes eventually, completely unaware that he’s been talking for over an hour straight.
You don’t point it out.
“Thank you for telling me, Bruce,” you say instead, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. He immediately relaxes, colour blooming across his face as a small, pleased smile appears.
Honestly, you’d let him explain how paint dries if it meant getting to see him like this.
AWWW
hello tumblr I need more rick grimes fics 💔💔💔
(p.s still on s5)
IF I WAS YOUR BOYFRIEND !
-> art credit: @/non_unoo on Twitter !
pairing: timdrake/f!reader
𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 — whereas Tim Drake had his eyes on you from the very first week of the semester, he never expected his college best friend to start dating you— the person he’d wanted all along. So now he’s praying for your (ex) boyfriend’s downfall, because God forbid a man openly plots to have you for himself instead.
cw: yearning, strangers to lovers, one-sided love, requited love, slight manipulation, mr. steal your girl(?), Tim wants reader so badly, HAPPY ENDING, fluff, irrelevant OCs, slowburn, reader is in a relationship, NO CHEATING INVOLVED, tim respectfully plays the waiting game, he is more of a plotter than a messy person.
lwk listened to girlfriend by avril lavigne & boyfriend by justin bieber on loop. wc: 16k
The first time Tim had met you, it was not anything special.
There was no dramatic collision in the hallway, no moment where time seemed to slow and the world sharpened around your face.
You were simply there, seated a few rows ahead of him in a lecture hall that smelled faintly of dry erase markers and iridescent lights, flipping through your notebook with absentminded focus and a laptop that had an open tab of a clothing brand, another piece of shirt that would compliment you.
Tim knew you both had taken a class together in the first semester, one of those general education requirements that pulled students from every major into the same crowded room.
It had been easy not to notice you then, easy to let you blend into the background of rustling backpacks and low conversation before the professor began to speak while he completely zones out.
What registered first was familiarity.
When he walked into the classroom and spotted you again in the second semester, a quiet recognition settled in his chest, the subtle surprise of realizing someone else had survived the same academic gauntlet and ended up here too.
It was rare to see a familiar face that was not tied to his major, rarer still for it to be someone he vaguely remembered for reasons he could not immediately place.
He remembered your handwriting from group work signs in sheets, the way you always underlined titles twice, the fact that you asked questions that were thoughtful without trying to impress anyone.
Someone who arrived a few minutes early and claimed the same seat near the aisle. Someone who sighed softly when the professor went off on a tangent, who laughed under your breath at jokes that barely landed. Tim noticed these things without meaning to, the same way he noticed patterns everywhere else in his life. None of it felt important at the time.
You were just another student, another name on the roster, another presence in a room full of them.
If anyone had asked him then, he would have said meeting you meant nothing at all.
Just a coincidence.
Just shared schedules and overlapping paths.
But it kind of changed when he started to interact with you.
It was never anything important, never anything that felt like the start of something. Small comments exchanged before class, a quiet complaint about an upcoming exam, a brief conversation about how unbearable the assigned readings were. Mundane things. Things he would not have remembered on any other day.
And yet, he found himself listening.
He listened when you talked about how you always forgot to bring a charger and lived in a constant state of low battery panic. He listened when you mentioned grabbing coffee after class, not as an invitation, just as information offered into the air. He listened to the way your voice softened when you spoke about things you liked, even when the topic was painfully ordinary compared to.. well, Tim’s night life.
Somehow, you had decided to sit next to him through these lectures.
You went on about your weekend plans, part time jobs, a professor you could not stand.
Tim told himself it was nothing.
He was just being polite.
Just filling the silence like everyone else did.
But somewhere along the way, he realized he was paying attention in a way he did not with anyone else.
He remembered details he did not need to remember.
The brand of pens you preferred, the way you tapped your fingers against the desk when you were thinking and the way you slightly lift your shoulders when you laughed, like you were surprised by your own amusement.
The conversations never lingered long.
They ended when class began, when one of you packed up your things, when life naturally pulled you in separate directions.
Still, he caught himself replaying them afterward, cataloging your words as if they held weight simply because they had come from you.
It unsettled him, a little.
How something so ordinary could start to feel significant.
That was when it started, when he began to have this small, itsy bitsy, nothing serious kind of crush on you.
“It was just proximity,” he told himself, over and over, as if repeating it enough times would make it true. As if that alone explained why he started waking up earlier than he ever had before, setting alarms he did not need, just so he could take his time.
Why he stood in front of his closet longer than usual, choosing something awfully comfortable yet still deliberate, still stylish in a way that looked effortless if no one thought too hard about it.
He paid attention to things he normally did not.
Made sure his hair did not resemble a bird’s nest, fingers combing through it until it sat just right. He actually showered in the morning now, instead of the night before, letting the hot water wake him fully as he went through the motions with more care than necessary.
He chose a scent that lingered without being overwhelming, something clean, something he thought you might notice if you were close enough.
And then there was the mirror.
He’d lowkey snap outfit flicks.
Sometimes, it would be little videos or photos perfectly timed to show off how his clothes fit just right, and the fact he could fit your aesthetic, or match your outfits like what couples usually do (you guys barely interacted more than 15 minutes and he doesn’t even have your instagram, because he’s a wimp to ask, even though he had found you on Instagram easily).
Everyone likes a guy that could dress and match them, right? Right.
He’d pick a song that matched the vibe as well, something cool but casual, and post it to his Instagram story, followed by hundreds of thousands of people since he’s famously one of Bruce’s adopted sons, which comes with perks and downsides (this was one of the downsides), but without making a big deal out of it.
Then, of course, he’d save those stories to his highlights, making it easy for you to stumble across them whenever you felt like it. All so you could—whether you wanted to or not— notice just how cool and awesome his fits were.
Yeah, he was a total D1-plotter, and he wasn’t even the slightest bit ashamed of it.
Because, really— if girls could do it, why couldn’t guys?
He has a second account as well, only followed by his close friends, his annoying older brothers and Damian too, but he absolutely could not wait for you to eventually be added to his spam account.
One that had more outfit flicks saved neatly in his highlights. Another filled with his friends getting up to shenanigans he would never post publicly on the main, the kind of moments meant only for people he trusted.
Mixed in between were appearances from his brothers, candid shots and blink and you miss it videos that felt oddly domestic for someone like him, and then there were the miscellaneous things. Late night thoughts typed in tiny text, blurry city lights, half eaten food, dumb memes, moments that did not need context to matter.
And because Tim is a show-off, he’s definitely bringing his skateboard to ride around campus today, so he could catch your attention, most likely talk to you, compliment your outfit of the day, ask for your Instagram, and uh, talk about how long he’s been skateboarding and if he could do a kickflip, which he abso-flipping-lutely could do one.
Not only that, he also had a highlight of videos of skateboard tricks too on his spam account, clean landings, a few near wipes, proof that he actually knew what he was doing and was not just carrying it around for show.
And boom.
There ya’ go.
Simple as that.
A small plan with a big hope: to get a little closer, one casual skate session and maybe even one date with you.
Before he knew it, Tim was out of his apartment, cruising down the sidewalks with the breeze tugging at his jacket, the familiar hum of wheels against concrete keeping his mind sharp. Up ahead, something, or rather, someone— caught his eye. A familiar figure, moving at their own pace, completely unaware of him approaching.
“Yo, Miro!”
Tim called out, his voice cutting through the morning air with an easy confidence.
He stopped smoothly, catching his skateboard with one hand and tilting it casually within his hold, like it was no effort at all.
“Hey, man!”
Miro greeted him with a laugh, already extending his hand.
Tim understood immediately, muscle memory kicking in as they went through the usual handshake without missing a beat.
Their knuckles met first, fingers bumping, followed by their fingers interlocking for a brief second, It ended with a solid dap up before Tim tugged Miro in for a quick side hug, shoulders knocking together in an easy, comfortable way that spoke of routine and familiarity rather than anything forced.
“You freshened up today, bro, tryna impress someone?”
Miro pulls away with a raised brow, clearly noticing the way Tim’s hair sat a little too neat to be accidental, the whole look pulled together in that effortlessly intentional way. And then there was the scent— something clean, subtle, and lingering just enough to be noticed when he stepped closer.
Tim scoffed, rolling his eyes as he shifted his grip on the skateboard. “What? Nah,” he said a little too quickly, which absolutely did not help his case.
He shrugged like it was nothing, like he always looked this put together, like the extra effort not been deliberate at all.
But the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying him.
“Can’t a guy look good for himself?” He added, tone light, defensive in that way that meant Miro had hit a nerve that made Miro whistled a teasing tune, nudging his shoulder against Tim’s own.
He leaned back on his heel, pretending the conversation was amusing rather than mildly exposing, even as the smell of his cologne hung in the air, undeniable proof that, yeah— he had definitely freshened up for a reason.
“You’re such a liar, Tim. Is it that girl you’ve been tellin’ me about in your class?”
Tim’s shoulders deflated.
“Yeah,” he admitted, voice dropping just a notch, “she’s the pretty girl I’ve been telling you about.” He confirms, glancing away for half a second, jaw tightening like he was bracing himself. “I wanna ask her out, but I’m flippin’ nervous.”
Miro immediately cooed in mock sympathy, dragging it out just to be annoying. “Aww,” he teased, pressing a hand to his chest. “Look at you. Tim Drake, nervous over a girl.”
Tim shot him a look, equal parts warning and embarrassment. “Don’t,” he muttered, shifting his weight, skateboard tapping lightly against the pavement. “This is serious.”
Miro just grinned wider, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Nah, I get it,” he said, still not letting go of the teasing tone. “She’s got you down bad.”
Tim huffed, rubbing the back of his neck.
Miro was more than just some random guy he talked to in passing that happened to be going in the same direction, but he was an actual friend.
They had shared a computer science class in their first semester, ended up sitting next to each other by chance, and somehow never stopped talking after that. What started as borrowing a charger and comparing notes had turned into easy conversations, inside jokes, and a familiar presence that made long lectures more bearable.
Miro is also the kind of friend who notices things.
And if anyone was going to call him out for putting in extra effort, for being nervous in a way he rarely was, it was Miro and most likely Steph.
Which made admitting it out loud both easier and infinitely more embarrassing.
“Are we still going out for drinks with Steph, Zinnia, and Ezra?” Tim asked, a little too quickly, very obviously changing the topic before Miro could dig any deeper into his small crush.
“Mhm,” Miro hummed, an entertained smile tugging at his lips at the sudden change of topic as he nodded along. “Though Ezra said he’s bringing his girl to meet us, even though he doesn’t want to.” He shook his head, a small frown settling in. “Don’t get why Ezra’s ashamed of her. It’s cool if he brings her along, y’know?”
Tim frowned at that, brows knitting together. “Ashamed?” he repeated, tone sharper than he intended. He shifted his skateboard under his arm once more, jaw tightening.
“That’s… weird, I didn’t know he had a girl.”
“Right?” Miro pitched his voice, pulling a drink from the side of his bag. “Like, either you’re with someone or you’re not, hiding her just makes it worse and yah’ I didn’t know either.”
Tim nodded slowly, the thought sticking with him longer than he expected. The idea of being embarrassed by someone you chose to be with rubbed him the wrong way.
He exhaled, forcing his expression back to neutral.
“Ya’ think it’s like a situationship? I thought he was still hung up with ya’know who.”
Miro snorts at that.
“Nah,” Miro said immediately, waving it off. “Even though Ezra keeps talkin’ about how many people he’s getting and all that, he’s been telling me she’s a keeper and that he’s moved on from that big ol’ crush.”
Tim hummed at that, thoughtful, eyes briefly dropping to the pavement, letting Miro run his mouth to fill the silence between them as he took a swig of his bottled water. “Man, how does Ezra do it?” Miro muttered, kicking a pebble. “Dude has the charisma that could probably rival Nightwing.”
Miro scoffs, but Tim raised a brow at his own words, the comparison landing heavier than he expected.
His older brother’s vigilante name had a way of doing that, slipping into conversations uninvited and lingering longer than necessary, becoming a symbol to Gotham and his charm that had women posting forums about how they bet he looks good underneath that mask.
Dick had always been like that, though.
Effortless charm, easy smiles, and the kind of presence that pulled people in without trying.
“I would pay to see Nightwing and Ezra going toe to toe,” Tim mused, lips quirking up as the image formed in his head.
He already knew how it would end.
Ezra would lose.
Badly.
Even with a pretty face, it did not come close to Dick Grayson, which he could honestly admit— it was a fact that everyone and their mama knew.
That was just an unfair comparison.
Dick’s face is literally a public service at this point, plastered across magazines and billboards, the undisputed #1 lethal face card of the Wayne family, according to Reddit, Twitter, and an article that had statistics, polls, and the golden ratio of their face displayed on Gotham Gazette’s ranking on the Wayne family.
It was the kind of face that launched headlines, sponsorships, and unnecessary levels of public adoration.
Tim shook his head, half amused, and half resigned.
It was wild growing up next to that kind of genetic overachievement that did things to a person. Still, he could not deny it. If charisma were a competition, Nightwing would win without even realizing he was playing.
Tim was fine with that.
He was perfectly content sitting at number three on Gotham’s Gazette ranking, unofficially crowned “pretty boy” by the internet and whatever unhinged ranking system people had cooked up that week.
A pretty boy should be with a pretty girl.
And you’re a pretty girl.
“Hey, don’t bail on us again,” Miro nudges his shoulder into Tim’s.
Tim stumbled half a step, scoffing as he steadied himself. “I don’t bail,” he protested automatically, even though they both knew that was a lie.
“You and Steph bail way too much,” Miro continued, pointing at him. “You guys gotta stop studying for once and live a little.”
Tim sighed, eyes flicking away as he adjusted his grip on the skateboard. “Alright, alright,” he conceded. “We’ll live a little.” He paused, then added more quietly, “No promises, though.”
Miro grinned, clearly taking that as a win anyway.
Even if he did not know the exact reason why Tim and Stephanie were always the first to cancel, always the ones juggling too much, there was a reason for it.
One neither of them could ever say out loud.
The weight of responsibility sat heavy on their shoulders, the unspoken duty of protecting the city of Gotham shaping their choices long before plans with friends ever could.
“Hey, after classes wanna go grab lunch?” Miro offered, grinning like he already knew the answer.
And he did.
“Yeah,” he accepts, like it was the simplest decision in the world. “I’m down.”
Obvious, really.
If you thought Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne would obtain your phone number, then you were dead wrong.
He was far too much of a wimp to ask.
Instead, he stuck with the casual approach, offering a compliment on your outfit as he watched you walk in dressed cutely. You always tended to dress up a bit more on Fridays, he had noticed that over time. A little extra effort, a little more intention, like you already had plans waiting for you once the day was over.
Most likely going out with your friends, since your Instagram did not show any highlight of a significant other. No tag in your bio, no initials tucked beside your name, no subtle hints hidden in your profile picture.
Tim had noticed all of it, cataloged it without meaning to, filed it away like evidence he was not supposed to be collecting.
“Hey, Tim.” You greet, “you look nice today.”
“Hey, UH, um,” he started, the words tripping over each other as soon as you sat down beside him. He froze for half a second, watching you turn toward him, grinning with clear amusement at how flustered he suddenly was.
He cleared his throat. “Thanks, your outfit looks really nice too,” he managed, finally meeting your eyes. “Going somewhere?”
The question hung there, casual on the surface, but his heart was already racing ahead of it, waiting to see what you would say.
““Thank you— cat got your tongue?” you teased playfully, your smile only widening as you spoke. “But yeah, I’m gonna be with a few of my friends at the shopping center.”
The way your mouth curved when you smiled did something to him, a quiet rush of satisfaction settling in his chest. Tim felt his chest loosened as he nodded along, listening closely, like every word mattered. “That’s nice,” he softly replied. “Anything particular you’re getting?”
You perked up at that, launching into a small tangent about something you had been eyeing for a while, hands moving as you spoke and pulled out your phone to show an image of models wearing the products you’ve been looking for. Tim listened, really listened, mentally noting every detail even though he did not need to.
“A red scarf?” he repeated, brows lifting slightly.
He paused, eyes flicking over you for half a second longer than necessary. “That would… look good on you,” he added, softer now. “Compliments you a lot.”
Tim had a red scarf in his closet, it’s the exact same brand and color of a burgundy red from the picture you’ve shown.
He got it last year from Kon.
Perhaps, he could wear that scarf when he goes out for drinks with the others later tonight?
Yeah.
“Really, you think so?” you asked, and Tim could have sworn your eyes twinkled as you fiddled with your necklace, fingers brushing the chain in a way that felt unintentionally devastating and he could tell that you’re imagining the red scarf on you.
“Yeah,” he repeated, a little more certain this time. His voice softened, earnest without trying to be. “I do.”
He shifted slightly in his seat, forcing himself to hold your gaze even as his heart picked up speed.
“Thank you.” You were grinning brightly, flustered from the way you stopped fiddling on your necklace and decided to prop your hand against your chin, glancing away from Tim’s gaze to his skateboard that’s settled beside the space you’re in, settled on the nose and tail of the board, displaying the deck that only had stickers filled every corner of the space, leaving no room.
“You skate?”
Tim’s face lit up immediately, the nerves easing just a bit. “Yeah,” he admits, almost too quick, shifting the board with his foot so it leaned closer into view. “For a while now, actually.” He glanced at you, catching the interest in your eyes on the stickers.
“Most of these are from places I’ve been or people I’ve met,” he explained, a little sheepish. “I keep telling myself I’ll stop adding them since it’s already filled, but I never do.”
He straightened when he realized he was rambling, clearing his throat. “Uh— do you skate too? Or just appreciating the aesthetic?” There was a hint of a smile there, something softer, hopeful.
Your eyes flicked back up to his, amused, and the way you leaned in just a bit made his chest tighten.
“Kind of, but it never stuck around.” You shrugged, “it’s definitely fun, I enjoy longboards to cruise, but nothing crazy.” Tim positively hummed at that, a plan forming within his mind.
“Well, if you don’t mind, you should definitely ride along with—”
The door swung open.
The professor walked in with an announcement that cut straight through the low hum of conversation, immediately pulling everyone’s attention forward and shutting Tim’s offer down mid sentence. He froze, mouth closing just as quickly as it had opened.
You glanced at him, lips tugging into a small, pitying smile that made his chest ache a little. You leaned closer, whispering, “tell me after?”
Tim nodded, just once, trying not to smile too hard as he turned back toward the front. “Yeah,” he murmured.
“After.”
The lecture dragged on in a blur of slides and half-heard explanations, Tim’s focus slipping every time his mind circled back to you.
He replayed the moment over and over, the way you’d leaned in, the quiet promise in your voice. Tell me after. He told himself he wouldn’t forget. That he’d wait, that he’d bring it up when the second class ended.
Except class ended too fast.
People stood, bags zipped, chairs scraped against the floor. Someone asked him a question about notes and someone pointed out his skateboard asking where’d he got it from. And by the time Tim looked up again, you were already halfway out the door, glancing back once with a small wave before disappearing into the hallway.
He lifted his hand too late.
And just like that, the moment was gone.
Hours later, he was sitting at the bar with Miro and Steph at a circular booth table, nursing a drink he hadn’t touched much, wearing that red scarf you mentioned, to fight the cold outside but a reminder he served himself of his failure today.
The place was loud enough to blur the edges of the day, music humming low, glasses clinking around them.
“I literally had the perfect opening,” Tim was saying, frustration leaking into his voice despite how casually he tried to sound. “She told me to tell her after. After. And then I just— didn’t.”
Steph stared at him, unimpressed, twirling around a lock of her blonde hair. “You didn’t… what? Ask her to ride with you?”
For half a second, a wildly inappropriate image flashed through Tim’s mind.
He immediately shut it down.
“No,” he groaned, dropping his head back against the booth. “I forgot. It just completely flew over my head. By the time I realized, she was gone.”
Miro blinked at him. Once. Twice. “Tim,” he said slowly, “you’re telling me you fumbled a clean invite because you got distracted and didn’t even ask for her socials?”
“Yes,” Tim snapped, then sighed, rubbing his face. “Yes. That is exactly what I’m saying.”
Steph shook her head, already laughing. “That’s actually tragic.”
“I’m actually mad at myself,” Tim muttered, staring into his glass like it had personally betrayed him. “I had a plan…”
Miro snorted, not even trying to hide it.
“Congrats, dimwit.”
Tim shot him a look, but the bite wasn’t there. He exhaled instead, shoulders slumping as the frustration finally settled in. “Next time,” he wished quietly, more to himself than to them.
Steph raised her glass, eyebrow arching as she clinked it lightly against the table.
“You say that every time.”
Tim winced, glaring at her at the comment, but before he could utter a word in his own defense, someone finally joined them.
“Heyy!”
Zinnia slid into the booth next to Steph, grinning like she hadn’t just shown up late. “Sorry, it took me a bit of time to get here— I just saw Ezra and his girl outside talkin’ bout something. They should be coming in any moment now.”
Miro waved a hand dismissively over the thrum of the music. “Nah, you’re good!” he called back, already shifting to make room.
Tim leaned back against the booth, the tension easing just a bit as the table filled out again, though his thoughts stubbornly lingered on everything he hadn’t said earlier that day.
Yeah, he won’t mess up next time.
“Yo!”
A familiar male voice grabbed Tim’s attention, pulling his focus toward the entrance. His head turned automatically— only for his eyes to widen, just briefly, at the figure standing beside Ezra.
“Sorry we were late,” Ezra started, a hand lifting in apology. “My girl was fixing her— ow!”
You nudged his side hard, sharp enough to shut him up. Your lips dipped into a brief frown before a smile slid into place, easy and practiced, like nothing had happened at all.
“Sorry, sorry, I was joking! There was traffic.”
Tim’s brain short circuited.
You.
Here.
With Ezra.
The room felt a little louder all of a sudden, the music pressing in as he stared a second too long before catching himself.
His grip tightened around his glass, disappointment settling heavy in his chest, quiet and unwelcome, as the realization hit him all at once.
Fucking hell.
“Yeah, traffic has been bad, but I’m glad to meet Ezra’s friends!” You smiled before introducing yourself easily, shaking Miro’s hand when he offered it, your smile warm and polite. Then you slid into the circular booth, settling in beside Zinnia like you belonged there, like this was natural, adjusting your blue scarf.
Wait, blue scarf?
“I like your nails, they’re cute!” You complimented Zinnia, seeing the cute charms on them as she flashes them to you for a closer look.
“Thank you! I got them done at—”
You nodded along, laughing at something funny with Zinnia when Steph mentioned something.
And then your gaze lifted.
It locked onto Tim.
For half a second, everything stalled.
The disappointment didn’t disappear, but it shifted, tangled with something sharper— surprise, maybe, or hope he didn’t want to name. Your expression softened when you recognized him, brows lifting just slightly, a smile tugging at your lips like you were pleasantly caught off guard.
Tim swallowed, forcing himself to straighten, to look normal, to look unfazed. His mouth curved into something that resembled a smile, even as his thoughts scrambled.
Of all places.
And of all people.
You had to date fucking Ezra.
“Tim, I didn’t know you’re friends with Ezra!” You exclaimed, eyes bright with genuine surprise as you glanced between him and Ezra.
Ezra hummed thoughtfully, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth as he glanced between you and Tim. “You know Tim?” he asked you, watching you nod your head, explaining you have a class with him.
“Ezra and I have been friends for a while,” Tim replied to your unanswered question. “Miro was the one who introduced us.”
Miro grinned, clearly proud to have brought them together.
“Yeah, small world, isn’t it?”
Tim thinned his lips, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “A small world.”
Steph leaned in, curiosity bright in her eyes. “So how long have y’all been together? We didn’t even know Ezra was talkin’ to someone,” she said lightly, like it was just friendly banter.
Tim took a slow sip of his drink, gaze dropping to the glass. He wondered, distantly, if you’d take that to heart, if it stung even a little to realize his friends hadn’t known about you.
“Oh, we just recently made things official,” you answered easily. “Two weeks ago, maybe? We’ve been dating for like a month and a half, but we’ve known each other for a while as friends.”
“That’s cool,” Miro comments, leaning back. “Congrats on the new development.”
“Yeah,” Steph added, smiling at you. “Happy for you guys.”
Tim forced himself to follow suit, lips curving into something polite. “Yeah. That’s— nice.” His voice came out quieter than he meant, so he cleared his throat and took another sip, mostly to give himself something to do.
Ezra draped an arm along the back of the booth behind you, casual, like it was second nature.
Tim noticed the way you didn’t lean into it immediately, just a half second pause before settling.
He hated that he noticed.
Hated more that it gave him hope.
“So,” you dragged the ‘o’, turning slightly, eyes landing on Tim again. “You come here often?”
The question caught him off guard.
He blinked once, then nodded. “Uh. Yeah. With them,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the table. “It’s kind of our usual spot.”
You smiled, warm and familiar, the same one from earlier that day, like nothing had changed.
Tim’s chest tightened.
He told himself to get it together.
You were taken.
Ezra was his friend.
This was a dangerous territory.
Still, as the conversation carried on and the night settled in, Tim couldn’t shake the quiet, persistent thought that kept circling back.
A mischievous, devious glint sparked in his heart.
He was late.
But not too late.
Don’t get him wrong— Tim wasn’t about to earn the label homewrecker, and he wasn’t about to turn you into a cheater or make Ezra one either.
He wasn’t like that.
He wouldn’t let Ezra cross that line, wouldn’t let things unravel in a way that hurt people for the sake of his own feelings.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be patient.
He would keep things clean.
Honest.
If anything were to happen, it would be because feelings shifted on their own, because choices were made freely, not because he forced them into the wrong shape. He’d wait, pick apart a relationship piece by piece.
Be there in the spaces where Ezra wasn’t paying attention.
If the door ever opened, even just a crack, Tim would step through only when it was right.
Until then, he’d play the long game.
“Hey,” he called, saying your name just loudly enough to catch your attention.
You turned toward him, brows lifting in question.
“You don’t mind tutoring me, do you?” he asked, tone easy, almost sheepish as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I know the current subject— you’re better at it than I am. Would you be okay with that?”
It was harmless on the surface. Academics, it was reasonable. He wasn’t asking for anything that crossed a line, wasn’t pushing for something personal.
He only requested help.
Even though his grade was perfectly fine and he understood the subject well.
You nodded.
“Sure! I don’t mind. We can probably do it over the weekend, does tomorrow work?”
Tim hummed in response, already running through his schedule in his head. Tomorrow he had things to take care of— leads Dick had asked him to follow up on, work that mattered, work that usually came first.
Normally, he wouldn’t hesitate.
This time, he did.
“Yeah,” he said after a beat, decision made. “The weekend works.”
Dick would understand, he always did.
“You’re not getting turnt?” Miro asked you, tilting his head with a grin, clearly assuming your plans lined up with the rest of the group.
Tim stayed quiet, lifting his glass, listening a little too closely to your answer. It was honestly a good thing he’d never mentioned your name around Steph or Miro— not yet, anyway. He knew it was only a matter of time before they caught on.
You can’t really hide anything from the bats’.
“I’ll still drink!” You laughed, shaking your head with a smile. “Not too much, though, since I do know—” you nudged your head gently against Ezra’s side, “this guy’s going to get blackout drunk, and someone has to drive us home.”
Ezra laughed, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “Yeah, yeah, don’t remind me. Someone’s gotta keep me in check.”
Tim watched the exchange quietly, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips.
Zinnia frowned playfully. “Girl, don’t even worry— I rarely drink, so if you need a ride, I’ve got you. Same with Tim.” She points at him. “He’s not lightweight, so he can handle his shit.”
Tim glanced at her, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he nodded slightly.
It wasn’t just about handling his drink; he’d be there to make sure you got home safe, no matter what.
“Yeah, I know Ezra can be a handful,” Tim smirks, voice steady but quiet. “So I don’t mind taking you home— if he doesn’t mind, of course.”
Tim looked over at Ezra, eyes steady as he waited for his response.
Ezra just shrugged, flashing that easygoing grin.
“Whatever works. As long as you don’t make me miss out on all the fun.” Ezra begins to lift himself out of the booth, ready to hit the bar.
Tim smirked slightly, already knowing this was his way of giving a reluctant okay.
You caught Tim’s glance and smiled softly, a subtle acknowledgment passing between you both.
Steph nudged him sharply on the elbow, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “Come on, Tim, pool’s waiting,” she teased, tugging him toward the center of the bar.
Tim sighed, rolling his eyes, but the smile tugging at his lips said otherwise— he wasn’t really complaining.
The night blurred after that.
Tim didn’t remember much.
Actually, that was a lie.
He remembered a lot.
Every laugh, every glance, and every quiet moment tucked between the noise.
He watched you from the edge of the group, eyes quietly tracking as you went head-to-head against Ezra, Miro, Steph, and Zinnia at the pool table. You had the confidence, cockiness, and a tongue that had sharpness when you landed another ball within the hole effortlessly.
Your fingers absentmindedly fiddled with the little stick of your too many cocktails, a subtle sign of nerves or excitement— Tim couldn’t tell which.
When Zinnia fired off a sharp remark at Ezra that made you laugh, you bit down on your bottom lip, and Tim caught the small, almost shy gesture.
Then, after a few more drinks, it was clear you’d taken Zinnia’s offer to heart, leaning a little too heavily on the idea that either she or Tim would be willing to give you a ride home.
You got along with everyone easily.
“She’s cute— hic— isn’t she?” Ezra slurred slightly, clearly well into his drinks, following Tim’s gaze toward you with Zinnia. He watches you nudge Zinnia’s arm playfully, teasing you with a wide, mischievous grin.
“Yeah, she’s getting pretty close to Zinnia easily, and everyone else.” Tim plainly comments, still looking at them without a glance to Ezra, his voice calm and steady. There wasn’t an ounce of jealousy in his tone— just quiet admiration, watching you from the circular booth, fully aware that Ezra was the one lucky enough to be in a relationship with you.
A sharp thud echoed against the table, but Tim barely flinched. It was most likely just Ezra slapping another drink down with a bit too much enthusiasm.
“Make sure you treat her—“ Tim started, his words trailing off into a loud snore that cut through the noise.
He furrowed his brow and finally looked over, only to see Ezra face-planting straight onto the table, completely out cold.
“You’re kidding,” Tim muttered under his breath.
It was to be expected.
And that usually meant it was time to wrap things up.
The night finally caught up to everyone all at once.
Zinnia was the first to react, leaning forward to check on Ezra, pressing two fingers to his neck like she was taking a pulse.
“He’s alive,” she announced. “Barely.”
Steph laughed, grabbing her purse. “Alright, that’s our cue. Someone grab his keys before he wakes up and tries to prove he’s invincible.”
Miro slid Ezra’s drink out of reach to make sure it doesn’t spill and shook his head.
“Told him to pace himself, which he never listens to.”
Tim stood, slipping his jacket on as his eyes searched for you without thinking. You were still by the pool table, gathering all of the numbered balls and organizing things back to its place.
He approached calmly, not making it a big deal. “Hey,” he said gently, catching your attention. “Looks like your boyfriend’s officially done for the night.”
You blinked, glancing past him to where Ezra was being carefully propped upright by Miro and Steph, his head tilted down. “Oh… wow,” you laughed softly, a little dazed.
“Yeah, that tracks.”
Tim smiled, easy and reassuring. “Zinnia said she could give you a ride, or—” he paused, just enough to make it sound casual, “—I can, if you want. Whatever you’re more comfortable with.”
No pressure.
“Hm, it just depends which way you guys are going,” Tim nodded, offering a simple explanation without overthinking it. “Well, if it helps— I’m heading toward the school. My apartment’s pretty close to it, so I’m willing to give you a ride over there.”
You straightened a bit, visibly perking up. “Sweet, my apartment is around the school too!”
Tim internally screams.
“Oh—nice,” he replies. “That works out then.”
Zinnia shot him a look, one that spoke of an understanding, before turning her attention back to Ezra, who was already half-asleep again. “Alright, that settles it,” she declared. “You’re with Tim.”
Steph hummed approvingly.
“Responsibility buddy system. Love to see it.”
Tim shrugged like it was nothing, beginning to walk towards the exit with you.
“I’ll make sure she gets back safe.”
“Alright, bye Tim! And it was nice meeting you—” Zinnia called out, already half-turned as she wrangled Ezra on her shoulder with Miro that also offered their farewells.
“Yes, I hope to see you guys soon!” You chuckled.
“Text us when you’re home!” Steph added, waving.
Tim lifted a hand in a brief wave, an easy smile in place.
“Night.”
It was just the two of you now.
“You good?” he asked gently. “Not too dizzy?”
Outside, the cool air hit sharper, the night quieter than the bar had been. You walked side by side toward the lot, steps a little unsteady but determined. Tim matched your pace without comment, subtly positioning himself closer to the curb, like it was instinct.
“Yeah, I’m good,” you said with a small laugh. “I didn’t drink too much, but definitely don’t put me behind the wheel.”
Tim huffed softly, amused. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best.”
He unlocked his car and held the door open for you without making a big show of it, waiting until you were settled before closing it gently. Once he slid into the driver’s seat, he adjusted the mirrors out of habit, movements easy and familiar.
“Seatbelt,” he reminded lightly, already pulling out of the lot once you were ready. “I would hate taking my midterms just to get taken out by bad decisions.”
You chuckled, shaking your head before buckling in and taking his phone when he offered it to you, the screen still warm in your hands as you typed in your address. Tim glanced over just long enough to confirm the route, nodding once before his attention returned to the road.
“Alright,” he said easily. “Got it.”
The car filled with a comfortable quiet, the city lights slipping past the windows. Tim kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console, occasionally tapping along to the low music playing through the speakers.
Every so often, he’d glance over, just to make sure you were alright, that you hadn’t drifted off.
“I couldn’t help but notice you’re wearing a blue scarf instead of red,” Tim remarked, eyes flicking to the fabric with a curious tilt.
You blinked, a small ‘oh’ slipping out as your expression shifted. “Yeah, they were sold out of red,” you admitted with a slight frown. “There were only a few colors left, so I went with blue— it’s a safe, neutral choice.”
Tim glanced over at you, then at the scarf, a soft smile tugging at his lips.
“Blue works,” he said easily. “Looks good on you. Kinda brings everything together.”
He paused, eyes flicking back to the road before adding, a little quieter, “But honestly? Red would definitely look better.”
He lifted a hand briefly, tugging at the edge of his own scarf. “So if you want,” he offered, tone casual like it wasn’t a big deal at all, “I’m willing to trade with you.”
You glanced at him, a small, surprised smile tugging at your lips. “Trade scarves?” you asked, amusement shining in your eyes.
“It’s the same brand and everything?”
“Yep,” Tim popped the ‘p’ with a playful grin, clearly enjoying the way you practically lit up in your seat.
“Well, if it’s the same brand, I guess that makes it official,” you grinned, reaching out to tug lightly at the end of your blue scarf.
Tim chuckled, the sound easy and warm.
“Guess it does.”
Then, you unfold the blue scarf, leaving it on your lap while Tim lends you the red scarf, his gaze still forward.
“I just realized— I don’t have your number, or your socials. And since we’re supposed to study together…”
You smiled, holding out your phone expectantly.
Tim’s eyes flicked up, a small spark of surprise and something else, shining through.
He quickly pulled out his own phone, unlocking it as he met your gaze before focusing it back on the road, conveniently the light turning red.
“Guess I’m going to have to fix that.”
You grinned, tapping your screen as you handed Tim your phone.
Tim took it, fingers moving swiftly but deliberately, the soft glow of the screen illuminating his focused expression.
Once he was done, he handed it back with a small smile.
“There. Now you’ve got me on speed dial.”
You laughed softly, slipping your phone back into your pocket.
“If you already follow Ezra on Instagram, you’ll find me pretty easily,” Tim added with a sly grin, his voice casual but carrying a hint of something more.
You raised an eyebrow, amused.
“Is that your way of making sure I can’t avoid you?”
He shrugged, still smiling.
“Maybe, or I’m making it easier for us to actually hang out.”
You chuckled, shaking your head but clearly entertained.
“Clever move, I’ll hold you to that.”
When Tim finally reached your apartment, (10 minutes away from his own) he waited until you were safely within before pulling away, but the night lingered in the air— a promise of what could come next.
Especially when he’s finally lying in his bed, staring up at the ceiling with a dazed look, his fingers tracing the soft fabric of the blue scarf you’d exchanged.
His phone buzzes suddenly, breaking the quiet.
He glances down to see a new notification—
You have a new follower!
Tim’s lips twitched into a small, knowing smile as he unlocked his phone, the familiar username lighting up the screen.
Months.
It took months to get to where Tim was now.
Tim had grown bolder— maybe even too bold.
What had started as small gestures and subtle attentions had slowly shifted into something more confident, more intentional.
His friends began to notice.
The way he lingered a little longer in conversations with you, how his smiles held a different kind of warmth, how his presence seemed to quietly claim space beside you.
Ezra, distracted and careless, unwittingly gave too many openings, moments where his attention drifted, words left unfinished, or promises forgotten, leaving cracks wide enough for Tim to slip through with ease.
He started painting himself in a better light— not because he wanted to manipulate, but because he genuinely believed you deserved someone better.
Tim wasn’t one for games or deception; he was honest, sometimes brutally so.
He just couldn’t stand the idea of you falling for Ezra’s careless promises and half-truths.
“Strange, you say he’s doing homework? We were playing a game for a couple of hours with Miro,” Tim remarked one afternoon, a hint of frustration slipping into his voice.
When you were in the library together, you often found yourself venting to him— about Ezra being late, canceling plans, or how you had to keep asking to meet his other friends, always feeling a little on the outside quite disappointed after being friends for a long time.
Tim listened quietly, letting you speak without interruption, his expression softening.
“You’re really patient, I don’t know how you put up with that,” Tim commented, leaning casually against his chair.
Inside, he was quietly cheering for every one of Ezra’s slip-ups, each missed call, every forgotten promise, because it made this whole thing disgustingly easy.
An unspoken opening formed, clearing the path for a clean break.
Tim’s voice softened, almost careful.
“You deserve better than that, you know.”
Him.
Give him a chance.
You are on his spam account, a secret corner of Instagram where he quietly follows you and posts things meant just for you to notice. He shares Instagram stories that catch your eye, knowing you’ll like them. Each post is carefully chosen, like a subtle message only you can understand.
He often checks your Instagram Notes, the little snippets where you share song lyrics. When he sees a song from a particular artist you like, he posts a track from the same artist onto his notes as well. It’s his way of connecting without saying a word, hoping you’ll see it and send that tiny heart reaction that means everything to him.
When he uploads videos of himself skating, you don’t hesitate to comment or message him, teasing him to do a kick-flip. After a few tries, he finally nails it and sends you a video just to show off. It feels like a private celebration, something between the two of you.
Every time you spend time together, no matter how casual the hangout, he posts a photo or a story of the both of you, or how you always show up in his spam posts.
Steph caught on pretty quickly to how much time Tim had been spending with you.
Her brow raised the moment she noticed his hand brushing against yours and how you didn’t pull away.
Later, during patrol, she didn’t hold back.
“Hey, Tim,” her voice crackled through the comms, sharp and teasing. “You’ve been awfully cozy with someone lately. What’s going on?”
Tim hesitated for a moment, then grinned.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied, though the tone didn’t quite convince.
Steph’s laughter came through, warm and knowing.
“You’re lying, isn’t she still with Ezra?”
Tim shrugged, a small smirk tugging at his lips.
“It’s not like she’s married, Spoiler.”
Spoiler gasps.
“Red Robin, you dirty dog! You better not cause any drama in the friend group, or become a homewrecker!”
“Oh trust, I won’t.”
There’s a pause, just long enough to make it sting, before Tim snickers softly into the comm. “But she wouldn’t say no to seeing her favorite band, would she?”
Another sharp, scandalized gasp crackles through the line.
“Tim!”
He can practically hear the glare through the static. He grins anyway, fingers tapping idly against the console as if he hasn’t already crossed several invisible lines.
“What,” he says, faux-innocent. “It’s just a concert, friends do nice things for each other.”
If Tim were your boyfriend, he would never let you go— always keeping you close, his arm draped around yours like you belonged there.
He’d notice when you’re cold, slipping his jacket over your shoulders without a word, making sure you stayed warm.
He’d never leave you alone in a crowd, always by your side, a quiet but constant presence.
And sometimes, he’d act like he already was, like the time he absentmindedly picked lint off your sweater, his fingers brushing your skin with a tenderness that felt surprisingly intimate and the look you gave him absolutely melted him.
The way you looked at him, the softness in your eyes, it was enough to make him forget everything he told himself about waiting.
He nearly wanted to break his own morals, screw the friendship he had with Ezra, to kiss you right then and there.
But he held back, swallowing the urge, knowing some lines shouldn’t be crossed— at least not yet.
After a few months, Miro finally caught on.
They were sitting across from each other in a quiet café, just the two of them, talking about life and whatever else came up. The conversation drifted, as it often did, until Miro brought up something he’d been meaning to ask.
“So,” Miro said, smirking as he nudged Tim’s shoulder lightly, “you’re not trying to steal Ezra’s girl, are you?”
Tim’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes flicking away quickly, avoiding Miro’s gaze.
He didn’t answer right away.
The silence between them spoke volumes.
“You’re kidding.”
And eventually, it leads to Tim explaining himself. Not all at once, not cleanly, but enough for Miro to understand what’s really been going on.
Miro goes quiet as it sinks in.
Too quiet and blocking everything out.
He pushes his chair back, standing abruptly, muttering that he needs to go before he says something he can’t take back.
Tim barely has time to react before Miro is already heading for the door. The last thing Tim catches is a sharp glare thrown over his shoulder, disbelief written plainly across his face.
It wasn’t until two days later, they were on call together.
“You’re respecting her boundaries though, right? She doesn’t know you like her?” Miro asked through FaceTime, sprawled across his bed, reading glasses perched low on his nose as he watched Tim demolish his food after the debrief once he’s fully explained the entirety with Miro opening his ears once again.
Tim didn’t look up right away.
He chewed, swallowed, then shrugged like it was obvious.
“Of course I am.”
He finally glanced at the screen, expression calm in a way that felt rehearsed. “She doesn’t know. I’m not… crossing anything.”
A beat. Then, quieter, more certain, “I’m just being there.”
He took another bite, unfazed, like he hadn’t just admitted to hovering in the margins of your life, waiting for the moment you’d realize he fit better than the person you were already with.
“Yo, that’s genuinely the most insane thing you’ve ever done, Timothy Jackson Drake.”
Miro snorts, laughter bubbling out of him as Tim rolls his eyes, completely unbothered.
“It’s not insane,” Tim says, tone flat, defensive in the way only he can be. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”
Miro lifts a brow behind his glasses. “You are actively emotionally investing in your best friend’s girlfriend, if that doesn’t say anything wrong then I don’t know what does and you’re lucky you explained yourself before I would’ve had Ezra blasted you.”
Tim scoffs, reaching for his drink. “I’m being supportive.”
Another laugh from Miro, sharper this time. “You’re being strategic.”
Tim doesn’t correct him.
“Fuck’s sake, bro, how long have you been plottin’ on her?” Miro exclaims, shifting to sit straighter on the bed.
Tim huffs, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m not plotting.”
Miro just stares at him through the screen, unimpressed.
“…Okay,” Tim concedes after a second, quieter. “I don’t know. Longer than I should have.”
He picks at the edge of his bowl, jaw tightening. “Long enough to know she deserves better. Long enough to know I could be that, if I was given the chance.” Tim huffs, stabbing his fork through his food. “Ezra has the most unbelievable girlfriend in the world and he doesn’t even know it.”
“That’s not an answer, Tim.”
Tim looks away.
“Since the bar.”
A beat.
“THE FUCKIN’ BAR?”
Miro yells, nearly dropping his phone as he jolts upright.
Tim winces.
“Lower your voice.”
“You met her at a bar,” Miro hisses, eyes wide, “and instead of doing the normal thing, like moving on or being a decent human being, you decided to emotionally annex your best friend’s girlfriend?”
Tim’s jaw tightens. “I didn’t know she’d end up with him.”
“That makes it worse!”
Tim finally looks back at the screen, expression serious, almost stubborn.
“To be fair, I knew her before the bar,” Tim says, pointing at the screen with his fork. “She was the girl I told you about, from my class. The one I wanted to ask out.” He picks his food and eats it.
Miro just stares, disbelief spilling out in half-formed sounds. “I— I genuinely— what— how could you— is that why you stopped talking about ‘pretty girl’?” His eyes widened, everything clicking to him.
“That was her!?”
Tim doesn’t answer right away.
He drops his gaze to his plate, letting go of his fork into his bowl.
“Well,” he mutters, almost to himself, folding his arm to lean closer to his propped up phone. “She’s going to be mine eventually...”
Miro goes dead silent.
“…Tim,” he says carefully, “you sound clinically insane.”
Miro exhales slowly, scrubbing a hand down his face like he’s trying to reset reality, carefully not breaking his glasses. “You cannot say shit like that and then act normal,” he mutters. “That’s not confidence, that’s a manifesto.”
Tim shrugs, too casual for someone who just admitted to mentally claiming his best friend’s girlfriend. “I’m not acting on it, not directly.”
“Timothy.”
“I’m waiting,” Tim corrects, voice steady. “There’s a difference.”
Miro lets out a sharp laugh once more. “You’re waiting for what? Him to screw up?”
Ideally, yes. It would make things quicker, but no.
It was more of you making comparisons, how you should be treated versus asking how you should be treated.
“For her to realize,” Tim says finally. “I’m not forcing anything.”
Miro watches him for a long second, expression shifting from disbelief to something more serious. “And if she doesn’t.”
Tim looks back at the screen, eyes calm, unsettlingly sure.
“She will.”
Then Miro’s eyes flick to the top of his screen, his brow knitting together as confusion twists into disbelief, watching him immediately shoot up from his bed and readjusting his glasses.
“…No FUCKING way,” he murmurs.
Tim frowns.
“What.”
Miro doesn’t answer right away.
He just stares, scrolling once, then twice, like he’s hoping the information will change if he looks again.
“Zinnia just texted me that Ezra broke up with—”
“YES! FUCK YES!”
The shout explodes out of Tim before Miro can even finish the sentence. Tim’s chair screeches back as he shoots to his feet, fist clenched, grin sharp and unguarded in a way Miro has never seen before.
“Tim—” Miro starts, half laughing, half horrified.
“Months! It took months of waiting!”
Tim drags a hand through his hair, pacing now, adrenaline buzzing under his skin. “I mean—” He stops himself, forces a breath, tries to reel it back in.
“I mean, that sucks, for him. Send my condolences.”
Miro blinks at the screen. “I’ve never seen you happier than that time when Taco Bell put the Quesarito back on the menu.”
Tim scoffs, trying and failing to wipe the grin off his face.
“That was a big deal.”
“This is bigger,” Miro says flatly.
Tim exhales, finally sinking back into his chair, fingers drumming against the table like he’s trying to ground himself. “I shouldn’t be happy,” he admits, quieter now. “I know that.”
Miro tilts his head.
“But you are.”
Tim doesn’t deny it.
“I am.” He grins, sharp and a little reckless, like he’s daring the universe to stop him now.
“Wait, you gotta ask Zinnia why they broke up,” Tim points out, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Or, like, why Ezra broke up with her instead of the other way around?”
He ran a hand through his hair, frowning slightly. Tim had always assumed his plan would play out the other way that eventually you’d be the one to walk away.
So hearing that Ezra was the one to end it caught him off guard more than he expected.
Miro shook his head, amusement flickering across his face. “You make it sound like you’re some kind of relationship expert or something.”
Tim smirked, leaning back in his chair.
“Well, I’ve been watching this mess long enough to know where it’s headed.” He glanced at his phone, eyes sharp. “But still— gotta know if he knew, or if he just gave up.”
Miro sighed, shaking his head again.
“Man, you’re way too invested.”
Tim’s grin didn’t falter. “Maybe. But when you know what you want, you don’t just wait around forever.”
Tim could see Miro’s face up close, the way his fingers jabbed at his phone with a mix of urgency and hesitation. He was most likely texting Zinnia right now, trying to get the details Tim needed.
“Said ‘they were better off as friends,’ ended it mutually, but I think that reason is bullshit.”
Tim glanced up as his phone buzzed, a familiar caller ID.
“Steph’s calling— I’m gonna add her to the call.”
Miro didn’t look away from his screen.
“Fine by me,” he muttered, fingers still flying over his phone’s keyboard.
Within seconds, Steph’s face popped up on the screen, her eyes sharp and curious.
“Alright, spill. Zinnia is texting me that Ezra broke up with his… ex girlfriend now! Congratulations to Tim, condolences to Ezra. What’s happening?”
Miro filled Steph in, catching her up on the last bit of the conversation.
“Zinnia’s saying Ezra broke up with her to stay ‘friends.’ Do you buy that?”
Steph made a disgusted face, pressing her phone against the mirror as she swiped through her makeup wipes.
“That’s absolute bullshit.”
Miro paused.
“Do you know the actual reason, Steph?”
Tim watched as Steph hesitated, her brow furrowing in thought.
“No, I’m not really sure,” Steph replied thoughtfully. “Usually when people say that, it means one of three things:
1. They’ve lost feelings but don’t want to hurt the other person,
2. They’re scared of commitment, or
3. They’re interested in someone else.” She raises each of her fingers, going through the reasons.
“Are you asking Zinnia right now?” Tim asked, eyes fixed on Miro’s screen.
Miro nodded, then his screen froze for a moment, the lag dragging out the tension.
“When I pressed her, she said it’s ‘nunya’ business,” he explained after the lag had passed, “but honestly, she admitted she doesn’t really know.”
Tim let out a slow breath, his eyes never leaving the screen.
“Hm’ okay.”
The next time Tim sees you, he’d ask about what happened between the both of you.
Which was a few days later, when he finally found a quiet moment to ask. You were in his apartment, sprawled at opposite ends of the couch, a new season of a rom-com playing on the screen. You had mentioned wanting to watch it weeks ago but never had the time until now.
How did that happen?
Well.
Tim: Hey, is it alright if we study at my place?
Tim: the library’s is too noisy
Girlfriend (soon): ???
Girlfriend (soon): it’s a library?? How can it be noisy??
Girlfriend (soon): aren’t we on spring break right now??
Tim: cmon
Tim: don’t make me say it
Tim: fuck, could you pretty please come over to my apartment?
Tim: and hangout?
Tim: I miss our weekly study sessions
Tim: I’ll even beg on my knees?
Girlfriend (soon): alright alright
Girlfriend (soon): I’ll come over, no need to beg on your knees
You were already five episodes in, curled into the corner of his couch, while Tim sat at the other end with his laptop balanced on his knees. His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, a case file pulled up and neatly organized, which he excused as getting ahead on work for his criminal justice class.
He looked focused, intent, the soft glow of the laptop lighting his face.
Too focused, maybe.
Every now and then his fingers paused over the keyboard, attention drifting back to the sound of your laughter or the way you shifted closer without realizing it.
The episode’s credits rolled and automatically skipped to the next one.
You stretched, shifting on the couch, eyes still on the screen.
“I’m kind of surprised,” you spoke casually, breaking the comfortable quiet. “You haven’t asked me why we broke up.”
Tim’s fingers stilled on the keyboard.
For a split second, his gaze stayed on the laptop, jaw tightening just enough to give him away.
Then he looked over at you, expression carefully neutral.
“I didn’t want to pry,” he slowly dragged, making it sound reasonable, which it honestly did— he didn’t want to pry it out of you.
But his laptop screen had long stopped updating, the case file forgotten as his full attention settled on you now, waiting to hear what you’d say next.
“Do you want to know?” You asked, raising a brow towards him.
Tim shrugged.
“Only if you’re okay with sharing it.”
Please do.
“He broke up with me because he couldn’t give me what I deserved.”
Oh.
“He realized he was unintentionally hurting me,” you explained, voice drifting as you stared up at the ceiling. “Missing things, forgetting dates, always prioritizing other parts of his life. He’s overwhelmed right now, so he decided to break it off and just be friends. Instead of trying to work through it.”
You let out a dramatic sigh, sinking further into the couch, the weight of it settling in now that you’d said it out loud.
“Really…?” Tim murmurs, brow furrowing.
He doesn’t quite connect the dots yet, doesn’t realize just how hectic Ezra’s life must be right now.
Geez.
“And,” you add, almost as an afterthought, “he also lost feelings for me. Apparently he’s been falling for one of my guy volleyball friends.”
What.
“Excuse me—” Tim chokes, coughing as he straightens up on the couch, suddenly very alert.
You laugh, gazing at Tim with a glint in your eyes.
“Yeah,” you said with a small shrug. “I actually set them up on a date two weeks from now. We’re happily just friends since the dating scene with each other wasn’t working. We only tried dating because he had this big, obvious crush on my friend, and I guess it turns out he never really got over it.”
You glanced back at the screen like it was no big deal, but Tim stayed frozen beside you, thoughts spiraling too fast to catch. The breakup had not been about distance or effort or timing.
It had been about someone else.
He did not need to calculate, wait, or maneuver at all.
Are you fucking serious.
You kept talking, unaware, filling the space with idle rambling about schedules and volleyball practice and how awkward it all felt in hindsight.
Tim barely heard you.
He shifted the laptop onto the coffee table before he could stop himself, and the couch dipped under his weight as he moved closer.
Too close.
You cut off mid-sentence when his presence suddenly crowded yours. Your eyes widened as Tim leaned in, bracing his hands on either side of your head, caging you in without quite touching. You pressed back instinctively against the cushions, heat rushing to your face, heart kicking hard against your ribs.
Tim froze too, just as startled by the proximity as you were, breath shallow, eyes locked on yours.
You were frozen there, Tim hovering above you, caught between your legs, his arms braced on either side of your head as if he’d accidentally cornered himself. The air felt thick, charged with the kind of tension neither of you dared to acknowledge out loud.
Then you broke it.
You grinned up at him, slow and mischievous.
“Did you get a haircut?” You hummed, lifting a shy hand to gently brush a lock of his hair back behind his ear, but it didn’t last long because of his position.
“Your face-framing pieces are shorter than the last time I saw you.” Your fingers lingered for just a second too long.
Tim forgot how to breathe.
His hands stayed planted on the couch, but every muscle in his body went rigid, pulse thundering loud enough he was sure you could hear it. Of all the things he had planned for, all the conversations he’d rehearsed, this was not one of them.
He swallowed hard, gaze dropping to your mouth before snapping back to your eyes, completely undone by how easily you’d closed the distance.
Tim was a wimp though, and slowly pulled away from you, sliding back to sit upright.
He ran a hand through his hair, cheeks flushing hotter by the second.
“Yeah, I got a haircut… yesterday,” he mumbled, avoiding your gaze. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”
He could practically feel the heat pooling at the back of his neck, spreading in a way that made him painfully aware of every second that had just passed.
You grinned, swinging yourself upright and sliding your knees to sit right in front of him with a playful bounce on the cushion, you gave his shoulder a gentle shove.
“Aww, are you flustered?” you teased, voice light and full of mischief.
Tim’s eyes flickered up to meet yours, a mix of surprise and something softer lurking beneath the surface. He rubbed his shoulder where you’d nudged him, trying to play it cool but clearly caught off guard.
“Maybe a little,” he admitted, voice low and a bit shaky.
You leaned in just enough to close the space between you, your smile widening.
“I knew it.”
Tim swallows, his breath hitching in a way he definitely does not mean for you to notice. His gaze drops for half a second, then lifts again, steadier this time, like he’s forcing himself to stay present.
“You’re enjoying this,” he says, not accusing, just stating it softly.
You hum in response, eyes flicking between his, unbothered by how close you are now. The rom-com keeps playing in the background, the laugh track distant and ironic, like it belongs to another room entirely.
“Maybe,” you reply, just as quietly. “Though, I just like looking at your shirt ‘Big Dick Back in Town’? Really?” Tim grins, shrugging with a slight raise of a brow.
”What’s wrong with that?”
You could only shake your head.
His shoulders relax a fraction, his hands easing against the couch instead of gripping it so tightly.
“You aren’t sad about the breakup?” he asks, studying your face.
“Nope.” You pop the p, grinning wide.
“We’re grown adults. We had a whole four-hour conversation about everything. About what it meant, what issues were there, about our friendship. So we’re fine and it was three and a half months anyway,” you shrug, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
Three and a half months was way too long by Tim’s definition.
“Well, three and a half months is a pretty long time.” Tim commented, watching you nod, understanding where Tim is coming from. “That’s true, but I don’t regret being with Ezra. There were good moments in that short-lived relationship, and honestly, half the time it just felt like we were friends more than anything romantic. So it doesn’t really feel like a waste, you know?” Tim hummed, quietly understanding with a so-so motion with his hand.
“Then, it must’ve been… not a serious relationship?”
You snapped your fingers, then a grim expression took over your face. “Yeah! Or… well, I think so. It definitely hurt when he didn’t show up for a lot of things a boyfriend should’ve— but honestly, he wasn’t as invested in it as I was.”
You sighed softly, shaking your head a little as if trying to shake off the lingering disappointment.
Tim hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek, debating whether he should say what was on his mind.
Fuck it.
“Does that mean… you’re officially available?”
You raised an eyebrow at the question, a teasing smile tugging at your lips, making Tim suddenly self-conscious.
“You’re making me sound like I’m some kind of product you can pre-order.” You snort, waving your hand. “Go ahead— someone can preorder me, I’m the only item on the shelf, limited availability, guaranteed to arrive before Valentine’s Day.” You shake your head in disbelief.
Tim chuckles, a little breathless.
And he doesn’t know what came over for him to say this—
“Well, lucky me, then. I guess I’d better place my order before someone else beats me to it.”
He winks, trying to sound casual but failing spectacularly as his smile widens.
You grin, nudging him lightly.
“Oh, sure, you’re joking… right?”
Tim raises an eyebrow.
“You wanna kiss me and find out?”
He watches as the room falls into a heavy silence.
He can almost feel the air holding its breath between them besides the Netflix series.
Time seems to stretch endlessly as he waits, watching your mouth open slightly but no words come out.
Your face completely blue-screens, and Tim can’t help but smile at how utterly caught you are.
Tim burst into laughter, clearly amused by the shock on your face.
He noticed the telltale signs of your flustered reaction: how you suddenly went quiet, how both your hands flew up to hide half of your face, even if he could see it in your eyes of your uncontrollable smile that you’re trying to get it under control, and the clear way that you’ve scoot back.
He reached over to nudge your shoulder too but you slap it away playfully, hearing him laugh harder.
“Don’t get any closer to me!”
“Relax, I’m just messing with you.”
But the way you couldn’t quite meet his eyes told him you weren’t entirely sure if he was joking or not and that made the moment even better.
He watched you struggle to keep your composure, the way you would try to hide your facial reaction from him every time he nudged you or threw out a cheeky comment.
The quick, sharp shove to his shoulder made him laugh quietly, but he could see the way your eyes sparkled with a mix of irritation and something softer— something that told him you secretly enjoyed the attention just as much as he did.
In fact, there’s an entire day where the two of you just “hung out.” And though it started off as just the two of you, you eventually ended up meeting the rest of the group later that night, a couple of weeks after the breakup, like it was the most natural progression in the world.
Though, obviously, Tim had already labeled it as a date in his head.
I mean, you two had unintentionally matched outfits, he picked you up from your apartment, and even stopped by that one café to grab your favorite drink along with the menu item you always order without fail.
The rest of the day melted into wandering downtown, poking around trinket shops you always insisted on visiting before any hangout. You had mentioned it back at his place while you were on Episode 10, and he had gone along without hesitation.
At some point, you kept bumping into him, drifting a little too close to the curb every time you laughed or got distracted by a shop window.
Tim caught it after the third time, lips twitching as he reached out to steady you.
“Do you always walk like this,” he teased, lightly tugging you back toward the sidewalk, “or is this a special performance just for me?”
You scoffed, swatting at his arm. “I walk perfectly fine. You’re just standing in my way.”
“Uh-huh,” he murmured, clearly unconvinced.
The next time you veered off course, he didn’t even bother commenting. He simply draped his arm around your shoulders, easy and natural, guiding you away from the curb like it was instinct.
His hand rested warm and secure against your upper arm, like it had always belonged there.
You glanced up at him, putting on your most innocent look. “Wow, so now you’re supervising how I walk?”
“Someone has to,” Tim said easily, a crooked grin pulling at his mouth. “You keep drifting like you’re aiming for traffic, starting to think you planned this just to get my arm around you.”
That wiped the smug look right off your face.
You went quiet, lips parting like you had a comeback ready, only for nothing to come out at all.
Tim noticed, of course, and his grin widened just a touch as he kept you tucked safely at his side.
You were still very much in control of where you wanted to go, which was not surprising at all. Somehow, that freedom led you straight into another store and Tim barely had time to read the sign before realizing where you were.
PopMart.
He slowed to a stop, glancing around at the walls lined with blind boxes and glossy displays. “Of course,” he muttered under his breath. “I should’ve known.” You were very much who you’re expected to be, one to feed capitalism and spend money on these lil’ guys.
You, meanwhile, had already zeroed in on a display, eyes lighting up as you leaned closer as if you’ve been waiting for this day.
Tiny figurines were lined up behind the glass, all sharp details and dramatic poses.
The Gotham City Series.
“Oh my god,” you breathed, pointing. “Look at them.”
Tim stepped closer, folding his arms as he followed your gaze. Vigilantes in miniature, capes frozen mid-swoop, masks carved with ridiculous precision, in a display box with all twelve figures.
Then he saw it.
Red Robin.
You stared a second longer, squinting thoughtfully.
“This one’s kinda cute.”
Tim coughed.
“Kinda?”
You glanced back at him, grin turning mischievous.
“What? You seem defensive.”
“I’m not,” he said too quickly, shifting his weight. “Just saying. If you’re ranking them, that one’s objectively… fine.”
You hummed, clearly unconvinced, eyes drifting back to the figure.
“Wait, Red Hood might be cuter.”
Oh hell no.
“Absolutely not.”
You blinked at him, amused.
“What do you mean absolutely not?”
“He’s wearing a helmet,” Tim shot back, gesturing vaguely at the tiny figure. “You can’t even see his face. That’s not cute, that’s… just anonymous and ugly.” You laughed, clearly enjoying this.
“Mysterious can be cute and you don’t even know he’s ugly!”
Tim scoffed.
“Well, he for sure doesn’t look like Prince Charming, that’s a traffic cone with trauma.”
You burst out laughing, and Tim tried very hard not to look too pleased with himself as he watched you reach for a blind box, silently hoping you’d pick the right one.
Not even a minute later, you were already drifting toward another section of the store.
This one was… different.
Rows of small figurines stared back at you, each one wearing the same expression of pure misery. Angry little side-eyes and sad, hollow looks.
Not a single smile among them.
Tim slowed beside you, taking them in. “…Why do all of these look like they’re judging me?” You crouched slightly to get a better look, eyes lighting up.
“Oh my god, Tim! They’re all so cute!”
He glanced at you, then back at the figures.
“They all look the same.”
You read a little note they have on the figures, glued to the glass and the artist of them. “They’re called Hironos, they’re supposed to look like that. And look at that one!”
Tim leaned in despite himself, following where you pointed. In the back of the display box sat one figure giving a particularly nasty side-eye, a tiny castle perched on its black hair. It was crouched low, bound in rope, dressed in a black-and-white uniform that was unmistakably prison-striped and bandages on its knee.
“Really?” Tim asked flatly.
You nodded without hesitation.
“He looks like you.”
Tim stared at it.
Then at you.
“He’s literally wearing a prison outfit.”
“Yeah,” you said easily. “Exactly, you belong in prison with the way you’ve been treating me.”
Tim snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. Then, without missing a beat, he swung his arm back around your shoulders, pulling you close until your noses were almost touching. The warmth of his breath brushed against your skin as he leaned in just slightly, voice low and amused.
“Unbelievable,” he murmured. “I took you out this morning, with your favorite drink in hand and your food too, and now I’m already getting sentenced?”
You smirked, feeling the subtle heat of the moment settle between you, both of you caught somewhere between playful and something much more electric.
Without hesitation, you slipped under his arm, catching him off guard as you picked up a box, turned toward the register with the two boxes in hand.
Tim blinked in surprise, a slow, impressed grin spreading across his face as he watched your smooth escape.
“Will that be all for today?” the cashier asked, glancing between you and Tim, pulling up the total and placing them in a bag.
Tim mouthed ‘don’t let her pay,’ making the cashier smile knowingly.
“Yes, that’ll be all,” you replied with a smile, already reaching for your card— only to see Tim’s phone beat you to the card reader, the screen glowing as he swiftly completed the payment and your head snapped back towards him, eyes wide with shock.
He just grinned, completely unfazed.
“Tim, what the—!”
He, of course, wasn’t about to let you pay.
The cashier chuckled, handing over the bag, while you were too busy scolding Tim to reach for it yourself. Tim just laughed and grabbed the bag, dodging your playful slap on his shoulder.
“You guys are cute, have a nice day!” The cashier called after you, still smiling.
You completely ignored the cashier’s playful comment, but Tim caught it and that knowing smile didn’t escape him.
It was clear someone had already picked up on the way you two fit together, especially with the subtle, unplanned ways you matched, whether it was your similar jacket colors or the way you moved in sync like a practiced duo.
“You absolutely didn’t need to do that!” You exclaimed, narrowing your eyes and pointing at him with mock exasperation.
Your brow furrowed as you crossed your arms, the frustration genuine but softened by the teasing edge in your voice.
“I have my own money, you know. I don’t need you to pay for me every time.”
Tim just shrugged, that familiar, cocky grin tugging at his lips, clearly enjoying the moment and you.
“I know, I know. Just return the favor later tonight, or when we grab something to eat,” he mentions with a teasing glint in his eyes.
He handed you the branded bag, watching as you rolled your eyes in exasperation at his good deed.
“So,” he added, voice playful, “are you going to open up those blind boxes, or are you just going to stare at the bag all day?” You huffed, nodding reluctantly. “I’ll open them, but maybe we should find somewhere to eat first. It’s way more fun to do it with food.”
Tim grinned, clearly pleased with the suggestion, and didn’t hesitate to drag you toward a nearby restaurant he’d heard good things about. As you walked, you could already feel the excitement building, blind boxes, a good meal, and friends later on— the perfect combo for a day like this.
After about twenty minutes of scanning the menu and deciding on your orders, you caught the waiter’s attention and placed them with a few quick questions about the specials. Drinks arrived shortly after, glasses clinking softly as you both settled into the cozy booth, the warm buzz of the restaurant wrapping around you like a comfortable blanket.
The conversation flowed easily— small laughs, shared stories, and that quiet, familiar rhythm you both fell into when no words were wasted.
Finally, when the plates were still moments away, you reached into the bag and pulled out the first box: the Gotham City Series. The crisp packaging caught the low light, hinting at the tiny surprise waiting inside. Tim’s eyes flicked up to yours, curiosity and anticipation mirrored in his expression.
With a quick breath, you tore open the box and reached inside, your fingers brushing over the tiny figure waiting to be revealed. You pulled it out slowly, turning it over to admire the fine details: the sharp mask, the cape, the laptop, and carefully sculpted utility belt.
“He’s so cute!”
Tim’s grin widened as he watched you, feeling a sense of warmth and a tad-but of jealousy from that compliment, clearly impressed. “Nice one,” he compliments, voice low. “Red Robin suits you.”
You shot him a playful glance, pretending to mull it over seriously before setting the figure down on the table. “Please, you wish you were Red Robin.”
He is Red Robin.
“Better than Red Hood,” Tim shot back with a smirk.
You laughed, shaking your head, then reached into the bag for the next box— the Mime Hirono series.
“Which one do you want?”
You hummed, pointing at a few figures you found adorable, “but I would be fine with any of them.” You smiled, peeling the tab.
The anticipation between you only grew as you peeled back the packaging and the plastic, ready to see what surprise awaited inside.
You gasped softly as you pulled out the next figure, a tiny Hirono with a delicate feather perched on his head, wearing a makeshift newspaper kite strapped like a backpack. A thin rope was tied to his leg, the other end secured to a small bolt embedded in the ground beneath him.
The little guy looked calm and relaxed.
“I changed my mind, this one looks like you.”
Tim watched as you flipped the tiny figure toward him, slowly turning it a full 360 degrees to show off every detail.
“Is it because I have black hair and pale skin?” Tim teased, raising an eyebrow.
You shrugged casually, a sly smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, and blue eyes too,” you added, pointing to the Hirono’s faintly dark blue eyes, contrasting with Tim’s lighter shade.
“Wait, he has a lil’ card and it says Patience!” You cooed, taking a picture of your new ‘baby’, talking about your collection of them on your shelves, making this one your 17th Hirono.
Or your 17th ‘child.’
Tim will never admit this, but he honestly found your love for blind boxes, specifically Hironos’ or the trinkets, veryenduring.
Later that evening, once the sun had dipped below the horizon and the city lights began to flicker on, you found yourselves back at the bar with the usual group.
The familiar buzz of conversation and clinking glasses filled the air, but surprisingly, there was no awkwardness between you and Tim.
There was no awkwardness with Ezra either— in fact, when you saw him, you greeted him with a warm, genuine hug that felt natural and unforced.
Still, Ezra wasn’t blind to what was unfolding around him.
His eyes caught the subtle details, the way Tim’s arm casually settled around your shoulders, the slight protective tilt as if claiming his space beside you. He noticed how you leaned in without hesitation, your body relaxing against Tim as though it had always belonged there.
Ezra caught the quick, knowing looks shared between you two: the brief smiles exchanged over inside jokes, the gentle teasing that seemed to flow effortlessly, and how you would slap Tim’s shoulder playfully.
Even Zinnia noticed, her raised eyebrow and subtle side glance betraying her surprise at this sudden shift.
Then, when it was just Ezra and Tim left at the table, the tension thickened— both of them knowing what was coming next. Ezra let out a low, bitter sigh, raising his glass to take a shot. This time, it was noticeably less than last time, his movements sharper, more controlled.
“It doesn’t matter to me anymore,” he begins, voice rough but steady, “since we’re no longer together. But don’t lie to me.”
His eyes locked onto Tim’s, piercing and unyielding, searching for any trace of dishonesty beneath the surface.
Tim felt the weight of that gaze like a physical pressure, the room shrinking around them. The air buzzed with unspoken accusations and simmering resentment, the calm before the storm.
“You’re going to have to be honest, Tim,” Ezra continued, voice low but edged with anger. “Because if you think I’m just going to let this slide, you’re wrong.”
Tim’s jaw tightened, eyes narrowing as he met Ezra’s intense gaze without flinching. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, but he wasn’t about to back down or give in to the silent demands.
“Honest?” Tim’s voice was steady, edged with a controlled fire. “I’m not here to stir things up or hurt anyone, but yeah, I like her. I have for a while.”
Ezra’s eyes darkened, hurt and anger flashing through them like lightning. “You decided to not tell me anything about it whatsoever? What the fuck, Tim? Don’t tell me—“
His gaze was sharp, filled with a mix of hurt and a desperate need for honesty. It wasn’t just about the breakup anymore.
This was about trust, respect, and everything tangled in between.
Tim swallowed, feeling the weight of Ezra’s stare like a physical force. “I will tell you,” he replies, voice quieter than usual but unwavering. “I like her, I have for a while before you two got together. But this wasn’t some calculated move to take advantage of what was between you two.”
“So you’re saying you didn’t break us apart?”
Tim shook his head firmly, his words deliberate and honest. “No. Absolutely not. You did that yourself,” he gestures toward Ezra with a pointed look. “I cared about both of you too much to ever create some stupid cheating situation. That’s not who I am, and I never wanted to be the reason you two ended.”
Ezra’s voice tightened, the anger barely held in check. “So you were just… there for her? The fuck, waiting for your chance?”
Tim met the accusation head-on, his jaw clenched but his eyes sincere. “Yes and no, I didn’t plan for this to happen. I hated watching her hurt, hated seeing you both drift apart. I tried to stay out of it because I respected you, but eventually, it became clear things weren’t going to work due to your own personal reasons, but yeah.”
Ezra’s jaw tightened as he studied Tim, the tension thickening the air between them. After a long pause, he finally spoke, his voice quieter but still edged with frustration. “I messed up our relationship. I got overwhelmed and missed things I shouldn’t have not only in a relationship, but as friends. I had leftover feelings for… and new feelings.” He hesitated, letting the words hang, making Tim furrow his brow. “But this… waiting in the shadows— it doesn’t make it any easier to accept, even if it wasn’t a serious type of relationship.”
Tim nodded slowly, his expression softening just a bit. “I get that, which you’re valid to feel that way. I’m not trying to make this easier or pretend I’m some hero, but I was there because I care about her and about both of you. I never wanted to be the cause of your breakup.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of everything settling between them.
“Just to clarify, we never did things romantically while you were both together. We hung out a lot, yes, I will admit. There’s some things I’ve done that could be interpreted as a move, but I knew to be patient and respect your relationship.”
Ezra finally let out a slow breath and shook his head, a reluctant acceptance in his eyes.
“Well, I’m just glad you explained yourself,” Ezra speaks, his voice rough but sincere, “and that you’re giving her what I couldn’t. I wasn’t the person she needed, and maybe I never really was.” He ran a hand through his hair, eyes searching Tim’s. “And yeah, we were truly better off as friends.”
Tim softened, nodding slowly.
“I’m glad. You two already talked about it, right?” Tim asked, though he already knew the answer— it was more about hearing it from Ezra.
Ezra gave a slow, firm nod.
Ezra smirked, a teasing glint in his eyes as he raised his glass. “Yeah, treat her better than I did, you two already look good together.” He downed the shot in one smooth motion. “You’re matching with her, but not dating her yet? You gotta get on that, Timothy.”
Tim rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at his lips. “I will,” he promised, taking the shot Ezra poured for him without hesitation.
“I already thought you had plotted for this moment.”
Tim snorts, “man, I didn’t plot shit.” Yeah, he absolutely did.
As the night wore on, the crowd inside the bar began to thin.
Zinnia and Steph were the ones supporting Ezra this time.
The guy really knew how to relax once the drinks kicked in, but he was definitely a lightweight. He leaned heavily on them, laughing more loudly than usual, his steps unsteady as they guided him through the cool night air.
Tim and Miro watched them, snorting before they see each other off.
“Well, it was nice seeing the both of you,” Miro warmly told, glancing between you and Tim with a relaxed smile.
You agreed, nodding your head with excitement on your grin.
Tim also nodded, but instead he extended his hand.
Miro laughed, understanding immediately. His muscle memory kicked in as they went through the usual handshake without missing a beat while you watched.
Their knuckles met first, fingers bumping, followed by their fingers interlocking for a brief second, It ended with a solid dap up before Tim tugged Miro in for a quick side hug, shoulders knocking together in an easy, comfortable way that spoke of routine and familiarity rather than anything forced.
“Alright, see ya’ man, drive safe.”
“Will do,” Miro replied with a wave as he turned and walked away.
You both started walking toward Tim’s car, the night air cool around you.
“That was cool,” you commented, glancing over at him. “I never realized you only do that handshake with Miro, not the others.” Tim smiled, eyes on the path ahead. “Yeah, it’s kind of our thing. Something that just stuck between us.”
You hummed in affirmation.
“Why? You want us to have our own handshake?”
You immediately shook your head. “No, no, I’m okay. I was just thinking it was cool, that’s all.” Tim glanced over with a playful smirk. “Come on, don’t act like you don’t want one. We can have our own handshake— something small, nothing crazy.”
You hesitated, pretending to consider it but clearly curious.
“Just a little one,” Tim added with a grin. “Nothing complicated. What do you say?”
After a moment, you finally smiled and nodded.
“Alright, fine. But just a small one.”
Tim’s grin widened.
“Deal.”
You both paused right in front of his car, determined to get this handshake just right. Even though it was a small, simple one, the timing and coordination still mattered.
You stumbled a bit, struggling to remember the steps, and Tim couldn’t help but laugh softly at your concentration.
“It’s okay,” he said, patient. “We’ll get it down eventually.”
Tim noticed the way your hand slightly shook when he reached out to hold your hand during one of the handshake steps. Your hand felt soft and smooth in his grasp— delicate in a way that made him instinctively careful.
His own hands were rougher, marked with calluses from everything he’d been through, but he wrapped his fingers around yours gently, mindful of the contrast.
His thumb brushed lightly over your skin, and when his eyes met yours, there was a quiet spark between you— an unspoken connection that caught him by surprise.
Even as you stumbled over the handshake, fumbling to remember the steps, Tim realized it wasn’t about the routine anymore. It was about the moment, the warmth of your hand in his and the closeness you shared.
He knew the handshake would take practice, but he didn’t mind at all.
After about fifteen minutes, you finally got it down.
The first couple of tries came with one or two small mistakes, but you were confident enough to try again.
“Okay, okay, one more time and then we go home,” you laughed, a determined smile lighting up your face.
“Alright, one more,” Tim agreed easily, but there was a flicker of mischief in his eyes you didn’t notice.
You focused intently on the handshake, your fingers carefully following his as you moved through the steps again.
The rhythm was growing familiar, the motions less awkward.
Just as you reached the moment where your hands were supposed to part, Tim’s grip shifted without warning.
Both of his hands slid from your fingers down to your waist, wrapping around you with a steady, firm hold.
Before you could react, he pulled you closer in one smooth, deliberate motion.
You stumbled slightly, your breath catching as your body pressed against his.
The sudden closeness sent a warm rush flooding through you, your heart quickening in surprise.
You could feel the solid strength of his arms holding you, his fingertips gently pressing against your back, grounding you. Your skin tingled where he touched you, and the soft scent of his cologne filled your senses.
Tim’s eyes locked onto yours, the usual teasing glint replaced by something softer but still filled with that playful spark.
His grin widened into that little shit smirk he wore when he knew exactly the effect he was having— when he knew he had you a little off balance in more ways than one.
For a moment, the handshake was forgotten.
The world around you blurred as you both stood there, caught in the electric tension and unexpected intimacy. You felt the steady beat of his heart against yours, the subtle rise and fall of his chest so close to yours.
Tim watched you freeze, your eyes wide as you stared up at him— disbelief, surprise, and a flicker of irritation crossing your face as you tried to process how he had completely messed up the handshake by pulling you in so suddenly.
You stumbled against him, caught off guard, and he couldn’t help but notice the way you struggled to hold back a mix of shock and mild frustration.
But then his mischievous grin grew wider, that confident smirk that he knew always managed to catch you off guard in the best way. You found your gaze flickering from confusion to something softer, as if despite yourself, you were charmed by him.
He held you close for just a moment longer, feeling the warmth of your body pressed against his, the electric charge in the air thickening.
Tim knew exactly what he was doing, pushing your buttons, teasing you, and drawing you in closer, and he loved every second of watching you fall, even if just a little bit, under his spell.
His voice dropped to a low murmur, almost too quiet to hear but impossible to ignore.
“I like the way you’re looking at me right now.”
You lean in slightly, your voice soft but teasing, though your eyes betray you completely.
“Oh yeah? And how exactly am I looking at you?”
Tim’s grin deepens, amused by how effortlessly you fell into his trap and the way he falls for your doe eyes, hypnotizing him.
“Like you’re waiting to find out what it’s like to kiss me.”
You freeze for a moment, the weight of his words settling between you like a spark ready to ignite.
Your breath catches, and you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks. You try to steady yourself, but your heart is pounding loud enough that you’re sure he can hear it.
With a half-smile, half-challenge, you meet his gaze again and whisper—
“Maybe I am… but you’re the one who has to make the first move.”
Tim’s eyes gleam with that mischievous light, and without breaking eye contact, he inches just a little closer, the space between you shrinking.
The playful tension hangs thick as the moment stretches, charged and electric.
“I guess… I will have to make the first move.”
Without a word, he closes the space between you.
His lips meet yours with a softness that takes your breath away, like the gentlest brush of a feather. The kiss deepens, warming and steady, spreading a quiet fire through your chest.
His hand left from your waist to lift to cup your jaw while you wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers light but sure, tilting your face just enough to hold you still in this suspended moment. You feel the subtle press of his body, the heat from him seeping into your skin, blending with the rapid beat of your heart.
Time seems to slow, the world narrowing to just the two of you. That kiss speaks volumes— unspoken feelings, careful restraint, and raw, tender promise all wrapped in the softness and intensity of this perfect, unforgettable moment.
He does not pull away.
If anything, he leans in closer, like the space between you is unbearable now that he knows what it feels like to close it.
The kiss deepens with a quiet urgency, not rushed but full of need and patience. His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers curling there as if he is afraid you might disappear if he lets go. There is a faint hitch in his breath against your lips, something almost desperate slipping through the careful control he usually keeps wrapped tight around himself.
He kisses you again, slower but heavier, like he is trying to tell you everything he has been holding back for months. Every near moment and every time he stopped himself. You can feel it in the way he lingers, the way his thumb presses softly at your skin, grounding himself while still wanting more.
For a second, his forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling, his eyes closed like he is steadying himself. Then he goes back in, softer now but no less intense, like he is savoring this instead of rushing it. Like he knows this is something precious and he refuses to waste it.
There is yearning in every movement, his pupils that are enlarged, a heat that consumes his own being, a quiet desperation that says he has waited, that he has earned this, and that now that he finally has you here, he is not letting the moment go.
“I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmurs quietly, like admitting a secret he has been carrying far too long. “For longer than I should’ve.”
His thumb brushes along your jaw again, pausing for just a beat, like he is silently checking that you are still here with him. When you do not pull away, his voice drops, softer and more intimate than before.
“Tim’s girlfriend,” he murmurs, the words careful, almost reverent. “It kind of has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
You hum thoughtfully, lips curving as if you are genuinely considering it, a teasing lightness in your voice even though your eyes give you away.
“Really?”
“Yes. Really.” His voice is steady, sincere, even as he leans closer again, like the distance between you is already too much. “You should give me a chance, you’re all I need.” His breath brushes your lips as he adds, quieter, more certain, “I’d never let you go from me.”
Your lips graze his as you speak, the words barely a whisper.
“Are you begging me?”
Tim’s eyes lock onto yours instantly, something intense and unguarded flashing through them. Your hand comes up to his cheek, warm and sure, pulling him back in before he can answer.
If anything, he leans into your touch, like your hand on his cheek is permission he has been waiting for. His breath stutters, warm against your lips, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low, honest, completely stripped of teasing.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “I am.”
His forehead rests against yours, eyes still locked on you, searching your face like he is afraid this moment might slip through his fingers. His hand comes up to cover yours where it cups his cheek, holding it there, grounding himself.
“I don’t care how it sounds,” he admits, voice rough with feeling. “I want you, I’ve wanted you, and I’m asking now.”
He leans in just enough that your noses brush, his words spilling softly against your lips.
“Let me be completely yours, please.”
Your breath catches, heart pounding as you meet his intense gaze.
Then, you answered him without words, pulling him closer and capturing his lips once more.
Your fingers tangled in the strands at the nape of his neck, gently tugging him forward as he melted into the pull, falling deeper into the irresistible pull of your own magnetic kiss.
Beneath the shadowed skyline of Gotham, a shooting star streaked across the night, briefly igniting the darkness with its fleeting, brilliant light.
And Timothy Jackson Drake is completely yours.
a/n: HEHEHEHEEHE. now how we like thattttt, I lwk wished…. I had the balls to make Tim messier in this fic, but my boy is just a D-1 plotter and just nudging like “oh, how could you be so patient with him…” “you deserve better…” “that was all on you, not me.” (To Ezra) type of thing, which he wasn’t lying!! It was literally the matter of time before they cut that relationship off!! AND I made him such a lil’ shit truly. I hope you guys caught that Hirono moment!!! I decided to use ‘Patience’ because it truly fitted Tim, a man that yearns is a man that EARNS.
THIS TOOK FOREEVERRRR to finish, please interact with this fic since that would mean a lot to me!! Happy holidays everyone!!
The Bat is in love! … with Mrs. Wayne?
summary: in which the Justice League notice that Batman is infatuated with Bruce Wayne’s wife, and need to help him get over her (impossible)
pairing: husband!bruce wayne/batman x wife!reader
warnings: none? maybe mentions of slight violence. fluff.
a/n: inspired by this fic by @ilianasbruce
dividers by: @saradika-graphics and @cafekitsune
MASTERLIST part two!
it started when batman and superman were at the watchtower together.
they were doing their own work silently, at opposite ends of the table.
superman was pretending that he wasn’t secretly writing an article for the daily planet that was due within the week (that he had completely forgotten about), and batman was pretending that he wasn’t secretly texting his wife under the table.
bruce: how is the opera, my love? i’m sorry i couldn’t be there, the league has demands.
a lie. he just had a headache earlier and felt like jumping out of a window at the thought of having to put on a smile for the folk and sit through an opera. he did feel guilty about you being on your own, though.
you: it’s alright. i actually know some people here, and they aren’t all bad, bruce.
bruce: you say that now, but wait until they each give you a rundown on each car in their garage.
you: like how you give me a rundown on each gadget you come up with in the batcave?
bruce: that’s different.
you: of course it is. i actually like listening to you.
the familiar ‘ping!’ of one of batman’s gadgets interrupted the silence.
superman looked up, eager to be doing something other than whatever paper in front of him that he wasn’t even focusing on.
“what is that?” his words came out immediately, and before batman could answer, he was speaking again. “robbery? alien invasion?”
“Poison Ivy in Gotham.” Batman is already standing, beginning his exit of the watchtower. Superman follows him.
“Can I come? Please?”
Batman turns, looking at him. “What?”
“It’s boring in here!” Superman gestures around. “And if I’m on my own it’ll be even more boring. C’mon, Batman, I can help you.”
Batman considers it for a moment before sighing. “Fine. But we’re going in the Batmobile.”
“But I can-“
“You are not flying me there, Superman.”
A few minutes later, they’re in the opera hall. Ivy seems to have taken over the stage, giving a speech on ways for the average person to decrease their carbon footprint.
Batman can see a few different people caught between her weeds. Long, thick plants have people in their grip. He scans the room quickly for you, breathing a silent sigh of relief when he sees that you are not captured, but instead just huddled in the corner with a group of others.
Superman doesn’t notice the way that Batman isn’t looking at Ivy, and begins his attack. Batman quickly follows. After a swift battle (turns out having Superman as an ally cuts down on battle time), Ivy is restrained and authorities arrive. The two start on recovering civilians before they both encounter you.
You’re comforting one of the women that was tangled in the weeds. You’re sitting beside her, nodding as she talked. You recognise the familiar pair of boots coming from the side of you. Your head lifts up slightly as you catch sight of the two men.
“Are you alright, Mrs. Wayne?” Superman speaks first, the familiar concern he has for everyone clear in his voice and expression. He recognises you from articles, and he’s heard enough from Cat Grant at the Daily Planet to know you’re married to Bruce Wayne.
“Yes, I’m fine,” you answer with a small smile. Your eyes move to Batman. “Thank you.”
Superman gives Batman a side glance as he hears Batmans heart skip a beat when you smile at him. He tries to not to make his suspicion obvious. However, he turns a little when he hears that Batmans heartbeat is now quicker than it had been five minutes ago.
However, nothing on Batmans mostly covered face gave away any feelings. He just nodded and said a quick: “Stay safe, ma’am.”
And Superman didn’t bring it up again. Perhaps it was just a coincidence. A heart skip doesn’t always mean feelings of infatuation, right?
The second time is with Flash and Green Lantern.
Batman is a stark contrast to the pair. Barry and Hal are close friends, and joke around when put together. Bruce will sigh, and tell them to be quiet, and then Barry tries to be serious, but Hal will mutter a sarcastic comment that makes him start laughing again and the cycle repeats.
So Batman is already tense from working with the two.
They’re investigating a case together, and encounter you somehow. (sorry that’s so vague i literally cannot think of a specific scenario here to save my life)
Flash asks you a few questions if you’ve seen or heard anything suspicious, and you shake your head and answer. Barry notices Batmans shoulders softening a little beside him.
It isn’t hugely noticeable, but Barry senses it. Batmans shoulders loose some of their tension as he talks to you, this civilian. And when Hal opens his mouth to make an implying comment, he tenses right back up again.
Barry’s eyes narrow. It isn’t often that the Bat actually feels emotions, so when he does, his friends take an interest.
On the way back, Barry nudges Hal.
“Hey, you notice the way Bats was acting around that woman earlier?” He whispers so the third man in front of them doesn’t hear.
“You mean that really hot one? Who wouldn’t act like that around her? Did you see her, Bar?”
Barry gives him a look, “yeah, but this is Batman. Brooding, stays-in-the-shadows, feels-nothing-but-rage-24/7, Batman.”
Hal ponders before shrugging. “I don’t know, maybe Spooky’s changed. Never underestimate the power of a beautiful woman, Barry.”
Barry thinks. “She looked kinda familiar, didn’t she? I can’t think of where I’ve seen her before.”
And when they see that the familiar face they were talking to was Bruce Wayne’s wife, they give each other an alarmed look before looking at Batman from across the room.
The third time was with Oliver goddamn Queen.
A charity gala. Bruce couldn’t go because he had intel that Scarecrow was planning on infiltrating the building while everyone was distracted, something about wanting to ‘test out a new gas’, and he had to be on watch as Batman for the evening.
You, however, decided to go. You had a nice dress and were getting close to some of the women there your age. It was nice to not be a total stranger in the room anymore.
So, as you filtered around the room, you met Oliver Queen. He sometimes teases Bruce on purpose by asking for a dance with you at other galas, but without Bruce he was simply a friend to enjoy a chat with.
When Scarecrow did burst in, you actually had been dancing with Oliver. A friendly turn around the room like the others were doing. By the time Batman had taken him down, and everyone emerged from the corners or hidden rooms, Oliver checked to see if you were okay. Lord knows Bruce would probably blame him if anything happened to you.
You were fine, thank God. Oliver’s sentence was interrupted by the Bat himself.
“Was anybody harmed?” the gruff voice asked, his gaze trying not to linger on you for too long.
“I don’t think so,” you replied. Oliver looked at Batman with a certain questioning that nobody seemed to notice.
“Good.” Batman was silent for a moment before speaking again. “Perhaps you all should start making your ways home. Scarecrow might return, or someone worse.”
You don’t miss a beat. “It’s a good thing we have someone like you to protect us, Batman.”
“Only a fool wouldn’t protect you, ma’am.”
Oliver blinked. Is Batman . . . flirting? With a married woman? Also, was that sentence a sneaky diss on him?
and Oliver could’ve sworn on his entire fortune that Batman’s lips were almost in a grin during his next sentence.
“Your husband is probably waiting on you, Mrs. Wayne.”
Oliver raised his eyebrows at your response. You laughed a little under your breath before speaking, “probably. I wouldn’t want to keep him up.”
Oliver looks between you and Batman. Perhaps he’s imagining things. You turn to him as if you’ve just remembered that he’s still there.
“Oliver, you have a safe way home, right?”
“Yeah, I’ll call my driver.”
He doesn’t bring it up the next time he sees Batman as Green Arrow. Batman doesn’t speak of it either. But his eyes narrow a little at the Bats whenever Bruce Wayne or his wife is mentioned.
Eventually, it comes up in conversation when Batman isn’t there.
They’re in the common room, and Diana is flipping through the newspaper. She’s on a page that features a picture of you at the latest event with a description of your outfit beside it. Beside her, Hal recognises you.
“Hey, Flash,” he begins, stabbing the page with his finger. “Isn’t that who we were talking to a couple days earlier?”
Barry is behind the couch in a second, nodding. “Yeah, we asked her a couple questions with Batman.” He looks up a takes a quick glance to see if anyone’s expression changes. “He seemed . . . different around her.”
Clark closes the book in his hand with a loud snap, looking at the three on the couch.
“You’ve noticed too?”
Hal laughs, “that Bats has the hots for a married woman? Yeah.”
Diana frowns a little. “That is unlike Batman. He’s known for his self-restraint. It doesn’t seem likely he would harbour a liking for someone else’s wife, especially Bruce Wayne’s. Doesn’t Wayne sponsor him or something?”
Oliver joins in. “Wonder Woman, you haven’t seen him with her. I mean, it was only a few seconds but he was a totally different person.”
“How so?” Diana asked curiously.
“He . . . relaxed a little.”
She raised her eyebrows. Barry cut in.
“Wonder, you need to see it to understand it. It’s like no one else even enters his mind when he’s looking at her. I think everything else sorta faded away, you know?”
“Like in those rom-coms I’ve been shown?” She suggests.
“Yeah!”
Clark thinks for a moment, wondering what to do to help his obviously hopeless friend. How do you break the news to an emotionally constipated Bat that he has to squash his feelings before anything terrible happens?
So, they organise an intervention. A very unorganised organised intervention.
Your name gets mentioned during a briefing. About how you could be potential target for a kidnapping due to your status.
Hal’s mouth works quicker than his mind.
“What about Bruce Wayne?”
“What about Bruce Wayne?” Batman asks in his low voice, his back still turned to the team.
“Just saying, he’s probably a potential target too, right?” Green Lantern points out. “He’s her husband, after all.”
Batman turns. They all seem to be looking for his reaction.
“Right, I was just getting to that.” He says stiffly. “So I think until Joker is tracked down again, a pair of eyes should be on them. Since Gotham is my city, I can-“
“Ohhhh, hold on,” Flash says, leaning forward. “Central City has been very quiet lately, so I’m free too.”
Wonder Woman joins in. “I’m interested too. I think the more people, the quicker we could get this done.”
Batman blinks. “Why the sudden interest in Gotham from you two?”
They both shrug, mumbling incoherent words that overlap each other. Something about “new environments” and “change of pace”.
Green Arrow smirks. “I wouldn’t mind accompanying. (Name) and her husband should get all the protection they can get.”
Batman isn’t showing it, but he’s confused. Less members have volunteered themselves for prison breaks. Why are three other members wanting to go to Gotham for an unconfirmed threat? And why do they keep looking at him like that?
“Yes,” Superman clears his throat. “Mrs (Name) is a kind woman who shouldn’t be in danger. And Bruce Wayne is similar in nature. He is valuable to Gotham City.”
Batman prepared his disliking-Bruce-Wayne act with practised ease. “Bruce Wayne is a spoiled idiot.”
“Of course you think that.” Green Lantern mutters with a smug smirk. Flash nudges him.
“What do you mean?” Batman asks, and Hal practically explodes.
“We know you’re attracted to (Name) Wayne!” He says, making Barry cover his eyes with his hands. Not how the conversation was supposed to go.
“Excuse me?” Batman is -frankly- appalled. Hal grimaces, instantly reminded of who exactly he’s talking to.
“You’re, uh . . .” he splutters before quickly mumbling, “you’re in love with (name).” He gains some of his confidence, and straightens up again, “and you were about to let Bruce Wayne get kidnapped, so you could swoop in and seduce her!” He tops it all off with hand gestures of the supposed ‘swooping’.
Batmans gaze sweeps the table. Nobody meets his eye except Diana, who just seems to be staring at him for his response. A few of them have to stop themselves from laughing at the idea of Batman ‘seducing’ someone.
“And what exactly gave you that idea?”
Barry is filled with a newfound confidence. “Oh, c’mon Bats, a blind man would see how you act around her!” He smirked a little. “You went a little . . . soft.”
Green Arrow snorts. “Sometimes I think you’re only protecting Gotham because she’s in it.”
Batman thinks. Has he been that transparent? He’s always careful about his expressions and body reactions. Maybe he is getting soft. He obviously didn’t take enough care.
A fleeting image passes his mind, where he declares his love for you to the team. How could he not show you off? He would love to tell them that you were with him.
But, of course, he doesn’t do that. He just blinks.
“I am not in love with (name), that’s ridiculous.” He scoffs. “Number one, I don’t fall in love with anyone. Number two, she’s married, so I think that means she’s out of the dating pool.”
Not one face looking back at him looks convinced.
However, a cold stare and a swift change of topic ensured that nobody tries to start the conversation again.
They do, however, take a bigger interest in Gotham nowadays. Whenever a mission includes you somehow, there’s always one of them volunteering to go. They all think that distance will make sure Batman goes back to his cold and steely ways of not having a crush on anyone’s wife.
Bruce crawls under the covers with a small groan, shuffling next to you. His arms go around your warm body as he rests his face near yours. He’s desperate to soak up your warmth after being out in the cold all night.
“Long night?” you ask, your voice still quiet from sleep.
“Long day,” he responds, tucking himself into you. You keep your arms around him. “The League accused Batman of being attracted to Bruce Wayne’s wife today.”
It takes you a moment to realise what he’s talking about. You breathe out a laugh. “Is Batman not in love with me?”
Bruce grins against your skin. “He might be.” He murmurs. “Just a little, though.”
You raise your eyebrows, turning to look at Bruce. “Does Batman know I’m married? And that I’m very loyal to my husband?”
“Oh, yes,” he responded, and sits up a little. he pressed his forehead to yours. “and Batman knows that there’s nobody else on this earth that loves you more than I do.”
You smile, your fingers in his hair now. he leans closer to press his lips to yours, an action that you return. Bruce keeps himself against you for a long time. He likes falling asleep with you in his arms. He likes feeling like the protector.
It’s why he needs to sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door. It’s why he needs to know where you are each night. It’s why he needs to know you’re safe. And if your safety comes along with each League member giving him looks because they think he’s harbouring a crush for another man’s wife, then so be it.
He’d do anything for you, anyway. 





