💟technically my fics are character/sxoc(becuz tbh i cant be bothered writing y/n or reader am i the only one annoyed writing it especially when dialogue is mentioned??)
💟i only write fem!ph mc’s becuz its rare to see books with mc’s that are of filipino heritage or having filipino/southeast asian features in general, so thats whyyy if nobody wants to do it then ill do it myself! but anyone can read it as a character/sxreader/self-insert cuz i mostly write on second pov so everyone can interact with it.
💟 also english is not my native tongue so correct me or gimme some tips to improve my writing! warning tho im a sensitive betch so spare me ur rage✨
PUBLISHED:
DESPERADO • the last ronin (future! mikey x reader)
After being saved by one of your clients, you're life as a prostitute changes to a journey of motherhood.
EUPHORIA • rise!tmnt (various x reader)
The turtle brothers visit April at the wrong time — oh no! She has some family over. Quickly boys! Find a good place to hide before they spot you!
COLLIDE • bayv!tmnt (various x reader)
What's it like being the spoiled daughter and the only child of New York's most influential scientist?
UNPUBLISHED:
DRINK COFFEE, EAT MY PIE • bayv!raph x reader
In a world where humans and mutants coexist, your family clan and the Hamato family clan are well-known for their status and money. An arranged marriage contract between you and the Hamato’s second son. A story of one-sided love, or is it one-sided?
DEAREST, NUMBER SIX • 2012!donnie x reader
six years. six months. six weeks. six days. six hours. six minutes. ...but it took you nothing to toss me aside.
PART OF YOUR WORLD • bayv!leo x mermaid!reader
Your love for him was like the ocean, vast and beautiful. But like the ocean — it was blue and like a salty wave...it has it’s limits.
hiiii. I mostly made this list for myself because I tend to lose track of what I'm reading. I will keep updating this list every time I find a new fanfic that I like, and I finally started adding more stuff ;)
𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝘂𝘁!
Batfamily x neglected!reader (I loveee angst)
HOLD ON TO REASON (or fall for the Illusion) -by @echo-exco
again &. again -by @acid-ixx
Your Other Family -by @dumpsterdiverinc
Undoing Fate -by @rizzanon
BURNT OUT -by @cupids-cruel
Fractured Wings -by @pomegranatelifethis
platonic!Batfam x neglected!gn!reader -by @gloopfruit (this one has no set title)
𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋 𝐃𝐔𝐄𝐓 -by @bloodinroses
EYES WITHOUT A FACE -by @dehydratedoverlord
“So much to do, so little RAM.” -by @cafeoa (kinda neglected)
Invisible Heart -by @pomegranatelifethis (this one made my chest hurt a little ngl)
Oh my God, Oh my God. Who wrote this? -by @luludeluluramblings (there are both SFW and NSFW versions) here's also her whole master list cuz she's an amazing writer and has many more bat family work!
Yan! Neglectful! Batfam x Replaced! Reincarnated! Time-loop! Crazy! Reader -by @candysparks (TW cause this one is horror/angst)(also has evil Yuri)
a loving family, an unpalatable desire (batfamily x under appreciated!batmom) (superfamily x batmom) -by @acid-ixx
don't romance the npc (batfam x npc isekai’d! reader) -by @acid-ixx
THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT -by @bnny0rgnz
girl with one eye -by @neellscapsule
“UNDER THE MASK.” -by @geniusgirlalert
No use for your apologies. -by @mareszawrites (i actually cried reading this omg)
Socialite!BatSis!Reader x Yandere!Bat Family -by @luludeluluramblings
Static On The Line (Batfam x batsis) -by @suigenerisisadiva
Yandere BatFam x other dimension Reader -by @sangunary
Long Gone -by @cosmicasteroid
My Heart -by @neellscapsule
; Coming Full Circle. -by @oddlylovingaddiction
the ballad of a bygone blight. -by @kenyummy
Why are you so obsessed with me?! -by @zippysmusings
𝔈𝔳𝔞𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 -by @stpatriziaofconstantinople
BATBOYS X READER (NOT PLATONIC)
In The Car ! tim drake x reader - by @dark-tulipss
dick grayson x loser!reader pt2 - by @doki-doki-imagines
All Ours Bernard and Tim x reader - by @dark-tulipss
dairy queen closes in 10 minutes tim drake x reader -by @shisuni
INVINCIBLE X READER (MOST ARE NSFW)
Yours Truly, Your Favorite Ex mark grayson x reader - by @elainewonderswriting
"I’ll Breed You Into Loyalty"Mark Grayson x Viltrumite!Fem!Reader - by @vinnyvamppp
Don’t fight it Viltrumite!fem reader x Mark Grayson - by @justevelynnnn
𝐁𝐅𝐅! 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊 | accidentally sending him a lewd photo Marg Grayson x reader - by @sunaskura
Mark begging you not to break up with him Mark Grayson x reader by @ignominiousgirl
OBSESSED WITH HIS EX-WIFE Mark Grayson x reader pt2 -by @ymirxex
Mark Variants x reader - by @wooobuddyletsgetnasty
𝑪𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝑴𝒆 𝑵𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝑻𝒊𝒎𝒆 Mark Grayson variants x reader - by @wordsofwhimsy
"Kinda look familiar, I done caught amnesia" Mark Grayson variants x reader - by @crims0nsp4de
Best Friends Brother OC Mark Grayson older brother (young nolan) x reader - by @acheronlovely
midnight sun ! mark grayson x fem reader - by @junleb
Cunnilingus failure-ness Mark x reader - by @secretaccountlol
jerk. Omni-Man/Nolan Grayson x fem!assistant!reade - by @themonstertheybecame
Pink with Pollen Young Nolan OC whos Mark’s older brother pt2 - by @acheronlovely
Hit me as hard as you can Cecil Stedman/f! Reader - by @jnw1813
To Be Desired pt2 - by @vinnyvamppp
IN ANOTHER UNIVERSE (Reader x Mark¡Variants) - by @ymirxex
Equilibrium Mark Grayson/Invincible x Reader with Powers (part of invinciweek) -by @elainewonderswriting
Invinciweek! (actually here’s her entire masterlist because im not a gatekeeper)- by @elainewonderswriting
nolan grayson who’s big in every aspect - by @notmclovinn
She Threw Me—Then Kissed Me (Her entire masterlist here because it’s peak) - by @vinnyvamppp
A better fate, for all involved | Thragg/f! Grayson! Reader @/jnw1813
DUBIOUS CHICKEN AND POTATOS mark grayson x reader - @secretaccountlol
If any of the writers are uncomfortable or don't want their work on this list please let me know!
(Some of the writers couldn't be tagged due to mention limits)
summary: Turns out you had met the Waynes well before meeting your husband.
pairing: Bruce Wayne x fem!reader
tags and warning(s): Nothing as far as I'm aware, wrote this in an hour and I'm way too sleepy to proofread this. some info might not be accurate, Maybe OOC
word count:1.1k
dc mlist bruce wayne mlist
Bruce Wayne had a hollow pit in his heart that ached for the simple things in life, such as Jason picking up his call, dick staying the night at the manor, among others. But like everyone else, he wished for things that could never happen, like his parents alive and well beyond their early thirties, and meeting you, his wife.
But what if fate had other plans?
It's a random Tuesday as Bruce, and you stand in the middle of your grandfather's beloved attic. The wooden floors creak under your weight, dust particles moving in spirals as the early rays of sunshine flit through the glass panes of the dormer window. Your mother had asked for your help in cleaning your grandparents' place, and so you pulled in Bruce - offering him a break from his corporate duties, which he gladly agreed to.
"Wow, I did not realise my grandad hoarded so many things", you say, looking at the vast number of trinkets and boxes stacked along the walls on both sides of the attic. Each was well organised, with a label pasted on the top.
"Your grandad was a man of culture", Bruce chuckles, looking at the various band posters from the 40s and 50s. There were even autographs from some of them, neatly preserved.
Both of you got to work immediately, knowing it would be hours before everything was cleaned out. You had decided to split the work by concentrating on different ends of the triangular room.
Bruce had struck gold by ending up in the corner where your granddad had seemed to store much of the photo albums and cassettes, stacked on top of each other, labeled in detail about what the insides contained. It gave Bruce an insight to your family, a family from looking at the albums that had photos from back since your grandparents got married, having their daughter — your mother, to her getting married, and having you.
He had seen a lot of your photos since the early days of dating, but these were different. Your grandfather was an avid photographer, and Bruce could sense it through the varied angles and poses that he made everyone do.
"Having fun, huh?" you mumble, looking at Bruce as he suppresses a chuckle while looking at the pictures of you — a two-year-old, wearing a princess gown and a wand gripped tightly within your grubby fingers.
"You get stuck with the more fun part, while I have to dust some old documents", you grumble, looking at files and files of documents.
"Do you wanna exchange, sweetheart?"
"Nope," you say, emphasizing the 'p' as you shift to the next box, "Besides, I like hearing you laugh, even if it comes at the cost of my pictures"
An hour passes by.
You had finished four out of the twelve boxes. Heaving a sigh, you decide it's time for a well-deserved break. And what better to do than annoy your beautiful husband?
"Bruce, Brucie Wayne," you turn to look at him at the lack of any response "Bruce?"
Bruce doesn't answer, his broad back turned towards you. There is something different in the air from a few minutes ago, almost tinged with melancholic fragrance. You move towards, hoping to see what made him go so still, only to let out a gasp when you see it.
There you were, maybe five or six years old, wearing a large doctor's coat that reached well beyond your limbs, dragging onto the marble floor and a cute pink stethoscope around your neck. But that was not what made you gasp; it was the couple you were standing with in the photo.
Thomas and Martha Wayne.
Both of them were crouched next to you on either side. Thomas Wayne in his fitting black suit paired with a dark blue silk necktie embellished with motifs, while Martha Wayne wore a simple black silk dress paired with a blue plaid jacket.
There was a tiny piece of description below the photograph, a little shabby, like your grandpa wasn't sure what to write.
' Y/N & famous couple from Gotham (VHS #155)'
Bruce let out a laugh— loud but bittersweet. It made sense for your grandad to not know them, considering the only people he thought to be rich were the Queens.
You looked at Bruce, his eyes a little glazed as you cupped his face, fingers rubbing against the expanse of his cheek. Pressing a small kiss on his forehead, you whisper, "Shall we watch the VHS tape?"
He hums as you both try finding the exact tape among two hundred of them. Once retrieved, you dust the Toshiba VCR at the corner, pulling it slightly towards the center. You and Bruce try to get it to start since it probably hasn't been used in a while.
After a few minutes, the VCR lights up. Inserting the tape, you press play, and both of you stand back, Bruce's arm over your shoulder as you lay your head on his chest, arms wrapped around his waist.
The VCR displays a blue gradient before buzzing to a grainy film of you in a purple and pink frock , smiling widely at the camera. There's a lot of noise around you — people clapping , speeches being read as your grandad records the stage when Thomas Wayne was giving his speech. Bruce shifted a little, hand holding yours a little tighter, from hearing his father's voice after so many years.
The video then shifts to you, standing in front of the couple, wearing a pink stethoscope and a white coat a little too large for your frame. Martha Wayne smiles , a smile so radiant, before crouching down to her knees as she shakes your hand.
"Hi, there. What's your name?"
You say your name before letting out a giggle at her calling you beautiful.
"You want to be a doctor when you grow up?" She asks, hands pointing at the instrument hanging around your neck.
"Yes, ma'am. I want to be a heart doctor," you say, peering at the woman beside you. Thomas Wayne smiles before exchanging pleasantries with your grandfather.
"Oh, that's wonderful! You will be a great doctor one day, my dear."
And with that, the VHS comes to an end.
Bruce sniffles a little , his hands holding your waist, chin placed on top of your head. Silence fills the space along with the sounds of your nieces playing around the house. You don't know how long the both of you stayed like that, but it could have been forever, and you didn't mind at all.
Bruce is beyond happy. While it may not be visible to the naked eye, you could feel the joy emanating from the open crevices of grief and gaps of affection. He was happy that you —his wife, the love of his life — had met his parents. And they had gotten the chance to meet you.
Perhaps both of you really were soulmates.
A/N: Comments and Reblogs appreciated! Writing something for bruce after a long time.
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
StopNCII.org is operated by the Revenge Porn Helpline which is part of SWGfL, a charity that believes that everyone should benefit from technology, free from harm. Founded in 2000, SWGfL works with a number of partners and stakeholders around the world to protect everyone online
[Image ID: screenshot from TikTok(?) containing the following text:
Cousins, if someone ever edits your photo with Al or Photoshop to create a nude photo, then you go to www.stopncii.org/and submit the original photo and the edited photo, then they will remove the edited photo from all the places on the Internet. You don't need to talk directly to anyone for this and your identity will remain confidential
/end ID]
Per StopNCII.org, only their partner sites will remove the images, not “all the places on the Internet”—but that’s better than nothing.
practice (requested! + nsfw)
tim drake x fem!reader
mentions: friends to lovers, oral sex (f!recieving), we pushin the pathetic!tim agenda, reader talks tim thru it, praises, dirty talk, pussy drunk! tim, uh is that all
(was debating between this or dom!tim but where's the fun in that?)
—————————————————————————
“wait— so let me get this straight. you show up at my doorstep”
“yes”
“sending me sos messages”
“ that too”
“to ask on how to eat out girls”
“…. yes?”
you blinked twice, staring at a very flustered tim as he sat on your couch beside you and looking everywhere but your eyes. you didn’t expect your best friend to show up on your doorstep in the middle of the night with an sos for sex education
“look— i know its so sudden” he brought his hands up defensively. “but i-i couldn’t stop thinking about my date tomorrow and im so nervous”
you raised an eyebrow as the corner of your lips tugged. “didn’t know you’d get straight to the point for a first date” you teased, making tim groan and cover his red face with a shake of his head before finally looking up at yours. “can you help me or not?”
“im still shocked you don’t know how to eat pussy, you dated stephanie brown and cassie sandsmark for god’s sake”
“i do! its just… been a while, considering this is my first date in a while”
“are you a virgin t—"
tim exclaimed your name, making him groan and already regretting coming to you. “enough” he sighed as you were quietly chuckling. “hey relax, im just playing with you” you reassured softly with a smile, watching tim sharply exhale to calm himself
“alright then” you turned your body to face him, now taking your poor friend’s situation seriously. “what do you need to know?”
“everything” tim responded, making you blink once. “o…kay but first, tell me what you already know” you said as you saw him nervously trying to remember. “uh…”
“you haven’t got laid in a while, haven’t you”
“… patrols have been hectic”
you let out a sigh, now knowing what you were working with. “tim drake, what have you been doing in your free time…” and before he could actually respond, you immediately hushed up with a finger raised as a silent plead for him to not continue. you dont know if your respect or sympathy for tim increased
you knew just telling him wouldn’t cut it out, especially since men were usually visual learners, which made an idea pop up
“wanna try it out with me?”
your casual words made tim’s eyes immediately widen, the blush coming back but intense as it spread not just on his face, but to the tip of his ears. “don’t joke around like that” he murmured
“im serious” you clarified, shifting a bit closer to him. “i know if i just told you how to eat, you’d probably forget everything when an actual pussy is in front of your face” tim could see the seriousness in your eyes, how you weren’t joking around with him— how you were offering yourself for him
“…are you sure?” barely a whisper came out from his lips. “i don’t want to force you… and wouldn’t this change… you know” he gestured between him and you— more specifically, your friendship that has lasted for years. tim didn’t want you to put yourself in an uncomfortable position for his problem
but you just smiled softly as a reassurance. “im sure, tim. do you want to do it?” you asked, wanting to make sure he had a say in this. the moment he looked down and shyly nodded, you slowly tilted his chin up for his eyes to face yours, slowly leaning your face to his till your lips were inches away from his. you could see how his breath slightly hitched and his eyes went down to your lips
“then what are friends for?” you whispered, closing the distance by placing your lips on his. tim froze, but only for a second before his eyes fluttered shut and his lips moved in sync, moving his hand to hold your jaw and the other sliding to your waist as his sounds were swallowed by your mouth
slowly, tim leaned forward. you spread your thighs, your foot placed on the floor while the other leg was thrown over tim’s shoulder, feeling his hips nest in between your thighs.
“good thing you still know how to kiss a girl” you murmured on his lips before you softly gasped, feeling his lips trail lower to your neck and collarbone. you felt his hand tug on the shirt, his way of asking if he could take it off— in which you gladly did so.
you slightly lifted yourself up, tim watching you take your shirt and bra off with blown eyes and pants leaving his lips. your boobs came to view, nipples already hard from the cold air holding them
tim’s hands decided to help you by taking your panties off and lord, did he miss the sight. your pussy was right there, the clit already throbbing and glistening with arousal— all enough for his mouth to almost drool
his lips trailed from your stomach all the way to your inner thigh, positioning himself and now facing your cunt
“cmon, pretty boy” you smiled, a hand burying itself in tim’s hair. “i know you want a tas— oh fuck”
tim licked a long stripe of your cunt, a loud moan leaving your lips and gripping his hair tighter from how warm his tongue was, while a moan left him from your taste on his tongue— a divine taste
tim looked up at you with blown eyes that were silently asking if what he did was correct. you caught his gaze immediately. “mhm” you looked down with half-lidded eyes. “keep going, but start off slow”
his arm locked around the leg that was thrown over his shoulder while his other hand was placed on your thigh to keep them spread. tim went back for another taste, his tongue going slow— just like you instructed
“uh huh, little higher— thaaaaats it” you sighed, your hand twitching in his hair and slightly nudging his face more to your pussy. a muffled moan was heard from him, both the vibration of his sound and his tongue making you let out a sound
“fuck—fuuuuuuck tim” you moaned, knocking your head back. “you didn't forget shit” your other hand was gripping the mattress of your couch, panting. tim’s eyes didn’t leave yours, watching and observing your expressions to see if he was doing something right— when in fact, he was doing everything right
your taste made him addicted, heavy pants often leaving his busy mouth as his pace started to speed up. “so good” he moaned. “fuck, you taste divine”
and when you felt his tongue brush on a spot just right, it made you immediately cry out. “right there! t-thats’s it— ohhhh fuck—attaboy, mmmm”
muscle memory began to kick in and tim’s tongue focused on the spot that made your hips slightly jerk back, jaw locked in and his entire mouth on your soaking pussy with muffled sounds leaving his busy lips
“more, more, more, mmm”
“can’t stop— shit”
“wanna taste your cum, pleasepleaseplease—“
that made a dazed grin form on your lips. “yeah? want me to soak your chin with my cum?” you cooed, burying his face deep that the tip of his nose was nudging on your clit.
that familiar knot was slowly breaking and breaking, all from each stroke of his tongue. your thighs clamp over his head and your grip in his hair tightened. “tim i— shit, i’m gonna cum” you moaned, feeling your body lock up
“give it to me” he murmured on your cunt. “want—" lick. “—every—" lick. “-drop” lick.
your orgasm came hard, clit pulsing like crazy on his tongue as hot waves of cum came out of you. even there, tim doesn’t stop. his mouth kept sucking and his tongue kept stroking, drinking every last drop like nectar
“oh, oh” he moaned, rolling his eyes to the back of his head as your cum dripped from his chin. “so good, so— mmm, cant get enough” he sobbed
once the buzz faded, you collapsed on the couch, panting as tim lifted his head from your legs. he was panting, eyes half lidded and locked with yours. his chin was soaked from your orgasm, his lips coated before licking them off clean and immediately going to meet your lips
your grip on his hair tightened and you moaned on his mouth, tasting your residue on his tongue. a small hiss left tim from your grip on his hair, not tight enough to hurt but enough to send sensations to his body
slowly, both of you broke the kiss, tim hovering on top of you as he held eye contact. “how— how was it?” tim panted
hands down the best orgasm you’ve ever had in your life, but you were too breathless to say that. once you caught your breath, you gave him a dizzy nod. “like you never forgot”
who would have known that tim drake was an eater, and an amazing one at that
—————————————————————————
masterlist! ⤷ 2k event !
(a/n: five more orders left! inspired by nora's dinah piece 😜 busted when i read it)
practice (requested! + nsfw)
tim drake x fem!reader
mentions: friends to lovers, oral sex (f!recieving), we pushin the pathetic!tim agenda, reader talks tim thru it, praises, dirty talk, pussy drunk! tim, uh is that all
(was debating between this or dom!tim but where's the fun in that?)
—————————————————————————
“wait— so let me get this straight. you show up at my doorstep”
“yes”
“sending me sos messages”
“ that too”
“to ask on how to eat out girls”
“…. yes?”
you blinked twice, staring at a very flustered tim as he sat on your couch beside you and looking everywhere but your eyes. you didn’t expect your best friend to show up on your doorstep in the middle of the night with an sos for sex education
“look— i know its so sudden” he brought his hands up defensively. “but i-i couldn’t stop thinking about my date tomorrow and im so nervous”
you raised an eyebrow as the corner of your lips tugged. “didn’t know you’d get straight to the point for a first date” you teased, making tim groan and cover his red face with a shake of his head before finally looking up at yours. “can you help me or not?”
“im still shocked you don’t know how to eat pussy, you dated stephanie brown and cassie sandsmark for god’s sake”
“i do! its just… been a while, considering this is my first date in a while”
“are you a virgin t—"
tim exclaimed your name, making him groan and already regretting coming to you. “enough” he sighed as you were quietly chuckling. “hey relax, im just playing with you” you reassured softly with a smile, watching tim sharply exhale to calm himself
“alright then” you turned your body to face him, now taking your poor friend’s situation seriously. “what do you need to know?”
“everything” tim responded, making you blink once. “o…kay but first, tell me what you already know” you said as you saw him nervously trying to remember. “uh…”
“you haven’t got laid in a while, haven’t you”
“… patrols have been hectic”
you let out a sigh, now knowing what you were working with. “tim drake, what have you been doing in your free time…” and before he could actually respond, you immediately hushed up with a finger raised as a silent plead for him to not continue. you dont know if your respect or sympathy for tim increased
you knew just telling him wouldn’t cut it out, especially since men were usually visual learners, which made an idea pop up
“wanna try it out with me?”
your casual words made tim’s eyes immediately widen, the blush coming back but intense as it spread not just on his face, but to the tip of his ears. “don’t joke around like that” he murmured
“im serious” you clarified, shifting a bit closer to him. “i know if i just told you how to eat, you’d probably forget everything when an actual pussy is in front of your face” tim could see the seriousness in your eyes, how you weren’t joking around with him— how you were offering yourself for him
“…are you sure?” barely a whisper came out from his lips. “i don’t want to force you… and wouldn’t this change… you know” he gestured between him and you— more specifically, your friendship that has lasted for years. tim didn’t want you to put yourself in an uncomfortable position for his problem
but you just smiled softly as a reassurance. “im sure, tim. do you want to do it?” you asked, wanting to make sure he had a say in this. the moment he looked down and shyly nodded, you slowly tilted his chin up for his eyes to face yours, slowly leaning your face to his till your lips were inches away from his. you could see how his breath slightly hitched and his eyes went down to your lips
“then what are friends for?” you whispered, closing the distance by placing your lips on his. tim froze, but only for a second before his eyes fluttered shut and his lips moved in sync, moving his hand to hold your jaw and the other sliding to your waist as his sounds were swallowed by your mouth
slowly, tim leaned forward. you spread your thighs, your foot placed on the floor while the other leg was thrown over tim’s shoulder, feeling his hips nest in between your thighs.
“good thing you still know how to kiss a girl” you murmured on his lips before you softly gasped, feeling his lips trail lower to your neck and collarbone. you felt his hand tug on the shirt, his way of asking if he could take it off— in which you gladly did so.
you slightly lifted yourself up, tim watching you take your shirt and bra off with blown eyes and pants leaving his lips. your boobs came to view, nipples already hard from the cold air holding them
tim’s hands decided to help you by taking your panties off and lord, did he miss the sight. your pussy was right there, the clit already throbbing and glistening with arousal— all enough for his mouth to almost drool
his lips trailed from your stomach all the way to your inner thigh, positioning himself and now facing your cunt
“cmon, pretty boy” you smiled, a hand burying itself in tim’s hair. “i know you want a tas— oh fuck”
tim licked a long stripe of your cunt, a loud moan leaving your lips and gripping his hair tighter from how warm his tongue was, while a moan left him from your taste on his tongue— a divine taste
tim looked up at you with blown eyes that were silently asking if what he did was correct. you caught his gaze immediately. “mhm” you looked down with half-lidded eyes. “keep going, but start off slow”
his arm locked around the leg that was thrown over his shoulder while his other hand was placed on your thigh to keep them spread. tim went back for another taste, his tongue going slow— just like you instructed
“uh huh, little higher— thaaaaats it” you sighed, your hand twitching in his hair and slightly nudging his face more to your pussy. a muffled moan was heard from him, both the vibration of his sound and his tongue making you let out a sound
“fuck—fuuuuuuck tim” you moaned, knocking your head back. “you didn't forget shit” your other hand was gripping the mattress of your couch, panting. tim’s eyes didn’t leave yours, watching and observing your expressions to see if he was doing something right— when in fact, he was doing everything right
your taste made him addicted, heavy pants often leaving his busy mouth as his pace started to speed up. “so good” he moaned. “fuck, you taste divine”
and when you felt his tongue brush on a spot just right, it made you immediately cry out. “right there! t-thats’s it— ohhhh fuck—attaboy, mmmm”
muscle memory began to kick in and tim’s tongue focused on the spot that made your hips slightly jerk back, jaw locked in and his entire mouth on your soaking pussy with muffled sounds leaving his busy lips
“more, more, more, mmm”
“can’t stop— shit”
“wanna taste your cum, pleasepleaseplease—“
that made a dazed grin form on your lips. “yeah? want me to soak your chin with my cum?” you cooed, burying his face deep that the tip of his nose was nudging on your clit.
that familiar knot was slowly breaking and breaking, all from each stroke of his tongue. your thighs clamp over his head and your grip in his hair tightened. “tim i— shit, i’m gonna cum” you moaned, feeling your body lock up
“give it to me” he murmured on your cunt. “want—" lick. “—every—" lick. “-drop” lick.
your orgasm came hard, clit pulsing like crazy on his tongue as hot waves of cum came out of you. even there, tim doesn’t stop. his mouth kept sucking and his tongue kept stroking, drinking every last drop like nectar
“oh, oh” he moaned, rolling his eyes to the back of his head as your cum dripped from his chin. “so good, so— mmm, cant get enough” he sobbed
once the buzz faded, you collapsed on the couch, panting as tim lifted his head from your legs. he was panting, eyes half lidded and locked with yours. his chin was soaked from your orgasm, his lips coated before licking them off clean and immediately going to meet your lips
your grip on his hair tightened and you moaned on his mouth, tasting your residue on his tongue. a small hiss left tim from your grip on his hair, not tight enough to hurt but enough to send sensations to his body
slowly, both of you broke the kiss, tim hovering on top of you as he held eye contact. “how— how was it?” tim panted
hands down the best orgasm you’ve ever had in your life, but you were too breathless to say that. once you caught your breath, you gave him a dizzy nod. “like you never forgot”
who would have known that tim drake was an eater, and an amazing one at that
—————————————————————————
masterlist! ⤷ 2k event !
(a/n: five more orders left! inspired by nora's dinah piece 😜 busted when i read it)
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ you broke up with Tim a year ago. Too bad he still thinks of you as his. Too bad everything he does reminds you that you are.
word cnt. 16.2k
includes ›››› sexual language, dairy queen, car make out, denial, you match his freak and that's why you dumped him
Tim has been living inside the fraction of a second you hesitated before sitting beside him — that infinitesimal pause where your body seemed to remember him before your mind could intervene. He’s worried it like a loose thread, convinced it means something, that it proves there is still warmth there, buried but intact.
“I don’t think you’re good for me,” you’d murmured, voice dulled by exhaustion rather than certainty, even as your hands betrayed you—tugging your scarf tighter around his neck, fingers lingering just long enough to make the words feel like a lie you were both pretending to believe. You’d said it gently, like a confession instead of a sentence. Your eyes were watering, your hands shaking against the scarf. That was a year ago.
He remembers the cold that night more vividly than your words, the way you tried to protect him from it even as you stepped away, leaving him standing there with a warmth he didn’t know what to do with—except keep it.
Tims kept it alright.
It’s almost grotesque, how fiercely.
He’s preserved that pause of yours the way people preserve saints’ bones—wrapped in memory, reverent to the point of ruin. The fraction of a second where you hovered before sitting beside him, knees angled toward him before you caught yourself. That hesitation lives under his skin. Proof, he tells himself. Evidence that your body remembered him even when you tried not to.
And God, the things he’s kept.
The ribbon, slid carefully from your hair when you slept over, breath held like a thief afraid of waking something holy. The broken bracelet beads, every last one collected from the floor on hands and knees, replaced weeks later with diamonds he pretended meant nothing — an upgrade, he said lightly, as if he hadn’t memorized the exact way the original had looked against your wrist. The origami robins and flowers you folded when boredom softened you, creased wings and petals tucked into books, pinned above his desk, carried with him through every move like talismans.
You’d said it so quietly, then.
“I don’t think you’re good for me.”
Murmured, not declared. Your mouth said no while your hands betrayed you — tugging his scarf tighter around his neck, fingers brushing his jaw, thumbs warm against his throat as if instinct refused to let him freeze. The words felt practiced. The touch didn’t. He remembers the smell of your shampoo, the faint press of your knuckles, the way you exhaled like you were bracing for something sharp.
That was a year ago.
A year of being careful. A year of agreeing, without ever speaking it aloud, to be friends.
Friends.
After he’s been inside you, after he knows the exact sound you make when you’re trying not to beg, after he’s memorized the curve of your spine like scripture.
Sure. Friends.
School makes it easier to lie. Same friend group, same bleachers at lunch, same unspoken rule: don’t touch, don’t linger, don’t look like you remember.
Your new boyfriend is a theater geek.
Volleyball team captain, too, and somehow managing to keep a perfect tan even in the dead stretch of Gotham’s winter, when the sun feels more like a rumor than a fact and everyone else looks faintly gray around the edges.
Lloyd.
Same height as Tim, just a little bulkier—closer to Dick’s build than Jason’s—but he doesn’t carry it the way Dick does, doesn’t wear his body with confidence. He's a blonde, freckles scattered across his face like someone forgot to finish the job.
Gemini.
Six hundred fifty-two followers on Instagram. Bio reads ‘i love my gf’.
Yeah.
Tim loves his girlfriend too.
“Stop glaring,” Stephanie hisses, elbowing him sharply in the side beneath the library table, her shoe nudging his ankle a second later just to make the point stick.
“I’m not glaring,” Tim mutters back, not looking away.
“You’re still watching,” she says, exasperated, “and it’s creepy.”
You’re a few tables over, earbuds in, head bent forward just enough that Tim’s almost certain you’re blasting white noise—something steady, something meant to drown out the world. The library hums around all of you: pages turning, keyboards clicking, the low murmur of whispered conversations bouncing gently off tall shelves and stained-glass windows that filter Gotham’s weak afternoon light into dusty gold.
You were seated with Steph and a few other friends at one of the long tables, five chairs pulled in close, bodies overlapping in that casual, communal way people slip into without thinking. But now your back is to Tim, the familiar line of your shoulders framed by your coat draped over the chair, the curve of your neck half-hidden by your hair.
And there he is.
Lloyd sits next to you, angled just enough that his face is fully visible to Tim, a script spread open on the table between you, pages already dog-eared and marked up with pencil notes. He mouths lines under his breath, brows furrowed in concentration, tapping the edge of the paper with his pen like it might jog something loose.
Every so often, his green eyes flick up.
They land on Tim.
And every single time, the idiot smiles at him—awkward, polite, uncertain—before ducking his head back down and returning to memorizing lines for whatever stupid play he’s involved in this week.
Tim exhales slowly through his nose.
“He’s not even the main lead,” he mutters, barely above a whisper. “Why the fuck is it taking him so long to memorize so few lines?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Lucas says from beside him, tone flat and edged with sarcasm, “maybe he wants to spend time with his girlfriend. Just a thought.”
Tim doesn’t bother looking at him. Lucas isn’t exactly close—not really—but Stephanie and you had introduced him to Tim after spending time together in art class, and he lets Tim rant without interruption, which counts for something.
“My girlfriend,” Tim corrects automatically.
Dina, Lucas’s girlfriend, groans outright from where she’s leaning back in her chair. “This is why she isn’t sitting with us,” she mutters.
“She isn’t sitting with us because the idiot needed help,” Tim snaps back, keeping his voice carefully light, carefully neutral, even though the words come out sharper than intended.
And he’s not wrong. You had been sitting at the head of the table, comfortably centered, until Lloyd showed up—nervous, bashful, clutching his script like it might bite—and asked if you could help him run lines for an audition. You’d hesitated for exactly half a second before changing seats, scooting closer, tilting the pages toward yourself with practiced ease.
Tim had wanted to shove the script straight into Lloyd’s mouth.
Instead, he watches.
Watches the way you lean in when Lloyd gets stuck, the way you tap the page lightly and murmur corrections, the way Lloyd listens with an intensity that borders on reverence. The library settles around them, quiet and warm and heavy with books that smell like dust and ink and old promises, Gotham pressing its gray, unlovely afternoon up against the windows while, inside, you sit close enough to someone else that your shoulders almost touch.
Tim keeps his gaze fixed there, steady and unblinking, like if he looks away for even a second something permanent might shift without his permission, like the world might quietly rearrange itself while he isn’t watching.
“I hope they start making out,” Dina murmurs into her tea, voice low and wicked, steam curling up around her face, “just so I can watch Tim strangle himself with his computer cord.”
Lucas snickers beside her, shoulders shaking.
Tim finally drags his eyes away from you and turns to Dina, incredulous. “Come on,” he says, voice clipped, restrained by effort alone. “You can’t seriously think he’s actually good for her. He’s a fucking idiot.”
That makes Dina pause. She cups her mug in both hands, fingers warming against the ceramic, gaze drifting back toward your table as if she’s trying to see something she missed. “I’m not saying that, Tim,” she says, slower now. “I’m just… she seems happy. I guess.”
“You guess?” Tim echoes, one brow lifting as he flips his notebook open and starts scribbling absently, blue ballpoint pen gliding across the page. A stick-figure Scarecrow takes shape under his hand—crooked hat, lopsided grin—the ink dark and precise. One of the fancy pens you bought him for his birthday a few months ago. He presses a little harder than necessary.
Stephanie shrugs, spinning her pencil between her fingers. “It could be worse,” she says. “He’s just… awkward.”
Lucas snickers again when he catches the expression that crosses Tim’s face, all tight disbelief and quiet offense.
Tim turns on him immediately. “Fuck you, man,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face.
“I mean,” Lucas adds, holding up his hands, “I’m actually with Tim on this one. I don’t like him that much either.”
Oh.
Oh okay.
So Lucas is Tim’s best friend now, apparently, and they are the closest people in the fucking universe.
Tim straightens instantly, pointing at Lucas like he’s just been handed a winning card and swiveling back toward Dina and Stephanie. “You hear that?” he says, vindicated. “He agrees!”
Stephanie shoots Lucas a look and tilts her head. “Dude, come on—”
“She had to ask him out,” Lucas says, shrugging like this is obvious. “Once or twice, whatever, but it’s like—every time. Even for the winter dance. She had to ask him.”
“What happened to feminism?” Dina tries weakly, staring into her cup.
“That’s not what I mean,” Lucas replies, turning toward her. “Come on, you’ve seen how much she overthinks it every time. When have I ever made you feel like you needed to ask me just to see me?”
“Then why does he look like you just proposed?” Stephanie asks, exasperated and amused in equal measure.
Lucas furrows his brow, confused for half a second before following her gaze.
Locking eyes with Tim.
“Dude…?”
Tim leans in immediately, grin sharp and hopeful, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “So you’ll help me?”
“Fuck no.”
Oh.
Okay.
Tim Drake fucking hates Lucas, actually, and he can go die.
Tim groans, letting his forehead drop forward onto his notebook with a soft thunk, pen rolling slightly under his hand. “You all want me dead,” he mutters, voice muffled by paper. “What if I killed myself, huh? What if—”
“She’d probably save you a seat at her wedding with Lloyd,” Stephanie cuts in cheerfully, chin propped in her palm, freckles creasing as she smiles, “and just keep it empty.”
Tim kicks her under the table.
The library exhales as the evening thins out. Lucas and Dina leave around six, their voices fading down the marble stairwell, footsteps swallowed by the building’s cavernous quiet. Gotham presses itself against the tall windows, the sky outside bruised purple and gray, streetlights flickering on one by one like tired sentries. The stained glass above the stacks bleeds muted color onto the floor—dusty golds and blues that settle into the cracks of old stone.
By seven, Stephanie finally closes her textbook, the heavy thud echoing louder than it should in the near-empty room. She leans back in her chair, stretching her arms over her head, curls spilling down her shoulders in loose blonde spirals that catch the lamplight. Her skin still holds a faint tan despite Gotham’s winter, freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks like constellations she never bothered to memorize.
She glances between Tim and you.
Lloyd left a few minutes ago.
You drifted back to the head of the table after, slipping into the seat like it was always yours, familiar and effortless. Tim doesn’t look up—not once—but Stephanie notices everything anyway. The way his fingers fly faster over the keyboard, knuckles pale, veins standing out against skin that’s already too light from long nights indoors. The way he takes a sharp pull from his energy drink, throat working like he needs to swallow something down before it crawls out of him.
Gods save him.
She stays put.
Doesn’t pack.
Doesn’t even pretend to.
Just slouches sideways in her chair, one knee tucked up, phone glowing softly in her hand as she doomscrolls with deliberate casualness, firmly wedged between the two of you like a human barricade.
“Don’t you have a date with Cass?” Tim asks eventually, voice rougher than he means it to be.
He doesn’t look up. He keeps his eyes locked on his screen, lashes casting dark shadows against sharp cheekbones, jaw clenched tight enough to ache. His black hair falls messily into his eyes, untouched since this morning, making him look more tired than he’ll ever admit in Stephanie's eyes.
Stephanie lifts her head slowly. “What?”
Tim swallows. Shifts in his chair. Still doesn’t look at you. Not at the way you tilt your head when you’re confused, not at the way the overhead lamp warms your eyes into something soft and dangerous. “Your date,” he clarifies, aiming for nonchalance and missing by a mile. “With Cassandra.”
Stephanie’s eye twitches.
Ah. Message received.
“I don’t recall what you’re talking about, Timothy,” she says, tone sugary enough to rot teeth.
There are maybe six people in this world Stephanie Brown would willingly do something stupid and petty for.
Right now, she’s sitting between two of them.
“Dinner,” Tim adds, coughing slightly. “That ramen place.”
He probably assumed she’d help him for free.
And leave you alone with this monster?
Absolutely not.
“Ohhh,” Stephanie drawls, suddenly thoughtful. “Yeah. That nice, expensive one near the GCPD? The new one?”
Tim blinks, confused, watching as she nods to herself and begins packing her bag with exaggerated slowness, slipping pens into pockets, zipping and unzipping compartments. “Yeah, I guess—”
“Oh darn!” she interrupts brightly, patting her jacket pockets. “I left my wallet at home. Guess it’d be easier to cancel on Cass and reschedule.”
You pull one earbud free, brow knitting as you glance between them, noticing the way Tim’s eyebrow jumps, a sharp little tell he never quite learned to hide.
“You—” Tim cuts himself off, exhales hard through his nose, then reaches into his jacket and pulls out his wallet. He doesn’t even look at Stephanie when he hands it over. “Here. Don’t be a bad girlfriend and—”
“Aww, you’re so sweet,” Stephanie cuts in, batting her lashes dramatically as she plucks his black card straight from his wallet. She slips on her jacket, curls bouncing as she turns to you with a grin that’s all mischief and affection. “Isn’t he just the sweetest?”
You hesitate, head tilting slightly. “Uh… yeah.”
“YOU’RE GOING TO BE LATE,” Tim suddenly snaps, voice echoing through the quiet library, drawing irritated looks from a few remaining students as he stands and physically herds a giggling Stephanie away from the table. “GOODBYE. HAVE FUN.”
She laughs as she goes, practically skipping toward the exit, boots clicking against stone, blonde curls swinging as she throws a careless wave over her shoulder.
Tim watches her disappear into the stairwell, shoulders slumping just a fraction.
With the way she vanishes into Gotham’s night, he already knows—deep, deep down—that he’s losing at least two thousand dollars tonight.
The library settles again, lights humming softly, the city breathing outside the windows.
And you’re still there.
There’s an empty seat between the two of you where Stephanie sat.
You don’t hesitate. You stand and move into it like it’s muscle memory, like gravity still knows where to put you, like you didn’t just walk Lloyd out to his car ten minutes ago with your hand wrapped around his sleeve, laughing softly like you were something out of a storybook—like his fucking prince charming.
The chair scrapes quietly against the floor as you pull it in, close enough that Tim feels the shift in air before he sees you settle beside him. His shoulders tense instinctively, pale skin already gone tight under the library lights, hair falling into his eyes as he stares a little too hard at his screen.
“What are you working on?” you ask, easy and conversational, fingers sliding up to tune your music down as you keep sketching, pencil moving in loose, confident strokes. It looks like something for art class—shading layered gently, lines purposeful without being precious. Stephanie finished the final touches on her landscape the moment she arrived, declared it done, and promptly started meddling.
Tim’s answer comes a beat late.
“Uh—” His voice stutters slightly, like it caught on the way out. “Just… trying to learn this new code. Finished school stuff already.”
You lean just enough to glance at his screen, not touching him, not quite, but close enough that he can see your reflection faintly in the dark glass. You nod, lips pursing thoughtfully. “Looks complicated.”
And then you go back to drawing.
Just like that.
Like you didn’t used to lean into him when you worked, shoulder to shoulder, knee pressed against his under the table. Like your head didn't tilt toward his when you concentrated, lashes brushing his sleeve. Like that wasn’t a year ago, like it wasn’t still burned into him in exact, brutal detail.
Tim swallows.
“Mhm,” he murmurs, the sound rougher than he intends, barely there, fingers hovering uselessly over his keyboard as the library hums around you both—lights buzzing softly, pages turning somewhere far off.
And you sit there beside him anyway, close enough to undo him, drawing like nothing has changed at all.
Tim doesn’t take your closeness for granted. He never has. Tim breathes it in the way he’s learned to breathe in every narrow allowance of proximity these days, slow and careful, like the moment might bruise if he holds it too tightly. You smell like your perfume—soft, familiar, worn into the fibers of your coat—layered with the papery dryness of old books and the faint, comforting bitterness of tea you shared earlier with Dina, mugs cooling forgotten on the table between half-finished thoughts.
And under all of that–barely there but persistent once he catches it–is cedarwood.
Not his.
The stupid blonde’s.
It clings faintly, like static, like a reminder pressed into the air itself.
You walked him to his car.
Tim isn’t a traditionalist, not really, but it’s winter and Gotham doesn’t do gentle cold; it bites, sharp and personal, and it only took Lloyd four quiet, “No, I insist—”s from you to give in.
Amateur. Tim files it away automatically before he lets himself breathe again anyway, because denying it would hurt worse, because this is still you. His fingers crack at the knuckles without him realizing, a soft, dry sound swallowed by the library’s hush, and his gaze drifts—unintentional, unguarded—down to your sketchbook.
And stops.
Freezes.
Red Robin stares back at him from the page.
Not stiff. Not posed. Caught in motion, balanced on the edge of something unseen, weight shifted to one hip like he’s mid-turn, cape flaring in a way that suggests momentum rather than drama.
The pencil work is confident—dark where it needs to be, light where it breathes—shading layered patiently along the lines of the suit, the texture of the fabric suggested with nothing more than pressure and restraint. The mask sits just right on the face, angular but not harsh, eyes narrowed with focus rather than anger.
It isn’t copied. It’s remembered.
Tim sees details no camera would ever bother with: the slight tension in the jaw, the way the line of the neck curves when he’s bracing to move, the subtle asymmetry that makes the figure human instead of iconic.
When Tim looks up, slow and careful, he finds you smiling softly as you draw, lashes lowered, pencil moving with quiet certainty. You once told him you’d never draw him—that it was bad luck, that you loved him too much to risk it, that some things shouldn’t be pinned down or flattened onto paper.
Gods help him, you’ve drawn him the way people draw something they’re afraid to lose.
Tim almost scoffs. Almost tells you that Red Robin looks worse in real footage, that cameras catch the sweat, the smudges, the moments where he’s off-balance and barely holding it together. He almost jokes, almost reaches for distance—
And then he sees it.
The small beauty mark at the base of the neck, just beneath the line of the mask, placed so casually it could only come from familiarity. From proximity. From having looked at him up close, when the mask was off and the world was quiet.
Something in Tim’s chest tightens, not painful, just full.
You drew him. And you did it sitting close enough that your sleeve brushes his arm when you shift, close enough that he can feel the steady warmth of you beside him, real and grounding, like you never stopped knowing exactly who he was beneath the masks and names and careful compartments.
“Thought you were a Nightwing fan,” Tim murmurs, the words coughing their way out of him in a whisper meant for no one else.
You glance up at him, pencil pausing mid-stroke where it’s shaping the fall of hair along the mask line, graphite smudged faintly along your fingers. “Thats all you, Tim,” you say easily, like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been obvious. “I’ve always liked Red Robin the most.”
“…Yeah?” Tim says after a second, his heart thudding too loud in his chest, the sound filling his ears until it feels like it might spill out of him. He shifts in his chair, shoulders drawing in slightly, like he’s bracing for impact. “He’s kinda boring, though. Don’t you think so?”
You laugh softly, the sound low and warm, shoulders lifting just a little as you shake your head. Your gaze drops back to the page, curls of hair falling forward as the pencil moves again—confident, unhurried—adding loose locks along the mask line, adjusting the angle of his jaw with a few precise strokes. “He’s nice to look at, and his suit is cool” you say, thoughtful, like you’re deciding it in real time. “That’s all that matters for the project.”
Heat rushes to Tim’s face, sudden and overwhelming, creeping up his neck and burning across his cheeks under the blue glow of his laptop screen. He swallows, fingers tightening around the edge of the table as if that might anchor him. “Just… nice?” he asks, voice thinner than he’d like, cracking ever so slightly at the end.
You don’t look up. You hum instead, soft and considering, a small sound tucked between breaths as your pencil hesitates—then continues. “Mhm. Well,” you add after a beat, lips curving faintly, “maybe a little bit more.”
Tim’s knee starts bouncing under the table, fast and restless, the motion telegraphing everything he refuses to say. He doesn’t know what to do with that—whether it’s a compliment or a deflection or something gentler and more dangerous. His mouth opens, closes, then settles on a useless, noncommittal, “Mhm…”
You tilt your head, studying the sketch with a critical eye, tapping the pencil lightly against the paper once. Then, without warning, you say, “He looks like if an Oreo Blizzard was a person.”
Tim pauses.
His fingers still on the keyboard. His knee stutters mid-bounce. The blush drains from his face, replaced by pure, quiet confusion as his brain stalls out completely. He stares at his screen like it’s betrayed him, cursor blinking patiently in the corner.
“Tim?”
He blinks, slow and deliberate, like he’s surfacing from deep water.
You’re looking up at him now, wide-eyed and earnest, lashes catching the warm lamplight, pencil hovering mid-air. Your mouth is tilted into something unsure, something fond.
“Mhm?” he says, automatically, voice distant.
“…Dairy Queen closes in ten minutes.”
The words land soft and absurd between you. Tim exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, shoulders loosening just a fraction, something in his chest easing even as his heart picks up again. He glances at you, then at the sketch, then back at you—caught somewhere between disbelief and something dangerously close to hope.
“…I know.” His voice is careful, deliberate, each word weighed like a stone he’s been carrying around for years. “…And… what does that have to do with us?”
You groan, letting the edge of your sketchbook tap softly against his forearm, a playful, almost affectionate smack that makes him flinch just slightly. “Come on!” The protest is sharp but light, threaded with warmth that curls into the space between you despite the library’s stale, paper-scented air and the muted hum of fluorescent lights overhead.
Tim giggles, curling his fingers around the spot where the sketchbook landed, the sound of it mingling with his heartbeat in his ears, loud and jarring in the quiet. “Hey! You just watched me give my card to Stephanie, Tim Drake is broke now.” he protests, voice clipped with mock indignation, but the curve of his lips and the crinkle at the corner of his eyes betray the joy of being near you, of sharing this space with you.
“I’ll pay!” you insist, leaning a little closer, pencil still in hand, tracing shadows in the sketchbook as if the very act grounds you enough to be closer.
“Absolutely not,” Tim says, shaking his head, pale skin still flushed faintly beneath the library’s dim glow, sharp jawline catching light, lashes brushing against the tops of his cheeks. His grin is soft, but the tilt of his head, the way his shoulders draw back and his hands still, betray a protective instinct he never can fully hide from you. “When have I ever let you pay for anything?”
Your mouth opens, ready to argue, “Well… that was when we were dating, that’s different—”
You cut yourself off mid-sentence. The words hit him like a sudden draft of winter air, sharp and real, and he sees it: the way your eyes flick toward his, the trace of hesitation. His smile falters, eyes no longer crinkling into the familiar crescent moons but softening into a tentative curve, a dimple barely showing at the corner of his mouth. His shoulders draw in slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if he’s bracing himself against a memory he’s never allowed himself to touch.
He’s never heard you say it—name it—before.
That what you two had, what you still carry in the spaces between words and touches, was over and that the over part was actually real. Broken, maybe, but real. Your breakup wasn’t a spoken ending; it was a silence he’d been forced to interpret, a confession he always assumed, but now you’re saying it anyway, in subtle, quiet ways, and it feels like the city itself has paused to make him process it.
“…Mhm…Yeah,” he murmurs, voice lower now, almost swallowed by the soft hum of the library. His gaze drops to his lap, hands brushing against each other in that small, nervous way he does when he’s unsure what to say but doesn’t want to let the moment slip. “…Uh I should have a 20 on me though, I'll just pay, yeah?”
The casual tone is a mask. He’s giving up the nonchalant act he’s perfected over months of careful observation, of distancing himself from his own feelings, of hiding in plain sight. Beneath it, there’s something else—something protective, careful, a quiet pursuit to make this moment of pause yours as much as it is his, because he's so sick of your pauses only having an impact on him.
You glance at him, heart squeezing faintly at the expression on his face, at the way he shapes his sadness into something neat, contained, so it doesn’t spill over into the world. There’s frustration in it, sure, but it’s measured, practiced—the same way he’s always measured his words with you, the same way he’s always carried your heart alongside his own without ever breaking stride.
The subtle history of your relationship—the jokes, the shared silences, the afternoons spent wandering Gotham’s streets side by side, the whispered plans, the quiet fights and louder reconciliations—all of it hums beneath the surface, threading through every glance, every brush of sleeves, every half-smile that was exchanged across the sketchbook between you.
For a fleeting moment, the world outside the library disappears, and the city—gritty, cold, unforgiving Gotham—fades behind the steady pulse of proximity, the weight of unspoken words, and the quiet certainty that some things, even after endings, never truly go away.
Not if Tim will let it.
He didn't let go of Robin and he won't let go of you.
“Come on,” Tim mumbles, already rising to his feet, a small, careful smile tugging at his mouth as he starts packing up—laptop slid into its sleeve, notebook stacked neatly on top, cords coiled with muscle memory precision, the pens you gifted him gathered like he’s afraid to leave any trace of you behind. “We can use my car. You probably walked here right?”
You don’t answer right away.
You’re still stuck on the look he wore just moments ago, the way his expression cracked open without warning. Tim has always been controlled about this—too controlled. When you called things off, he didn’t argue. Didn’t bargain. Didn’t ask you to stay. Sometimes, in your worse moments, you resented that. It felt like indifference masquerading as respect.
But the way his blue eyes widened earlier, bright and unguarded for just a second, the way his composure slipped—it was the first time you saw how deeply it landed. How much it still mattered.
The realization unsettles you, stirring something low and uncertain in your gut, the quiet sense that maybe following him now isn’t as harmless as it feels.
“You comin’?” Tim asks over his shoulder as he adjusts the strap of his bag, posture easy but hopeful. He pauses, glancing back. “Or… I can heat up the car first. If you want.”
“No, I—” You stop yourself, then shake your head gently, moving to pack your things instead. Pencil tucked away, sketchbook closed with care. You hesitate only a moment before taking one last look at the Red Robin drawing, fingertips lingering at the edge of the page like a goodbye—or a promise—before you slide it into your bag, almost reverently.
When you turn back around, Tim is already there.
Holding your coat out for you.
You jump a little, startled enough to laugh, the sound breaking the tension. “God,” you chuckle, slipping your arms into the sleeves, “Alfred is rubbing off on you.”
“Yeah, well,” Tim says casually, adjusting the collar for you without thinking, “he says you rubbed off on me, so.”
He hopes what he just said sticks.
It does.
Your fingers pause mid-button, the moment stretching thin and quiet between you.
+1 point to Tim Drake.
“How bad is it?” you mumble, voice pitched with playful dread as Tim cracks the heavy library doors open just enough to peer outside.
Your fur coat does not have a hood.
“Uh…” Tim glances back at you, a nervous smile flickering as a gust of icy wind snakes raindrops inside. “How about I just pull the car up front?”
You sigh, already knowing the answer. “They won’t let you.”
Gotham’s library sits stubbornly away from main roads, tucked back like a secret it’s trying to protect. With the city’s endless appetite for destruction, they’ve decided some things are worth guarding—this place being one.
“Come here,” Tim murmurs.
He tugs gently at the sleeve of your coat, pulling you closer before you can overthink it. He unzips his jacket and angles himself instinctively, lifting one side to shield your head and shoulders from the cold, creating a small pocket of warmth that smells like clean fabric, ozone, and something unmistakably him.
You falter.
Tim doesn’t move. Doesn’t rush it. Just stands there, steady, letting you decide.
Your hands hover for a second before settling against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric like you’re reminding yourself that friends do this too. That this doesn’t have to mean more.
+1 point to Tim Drake.
The cold rain hits the moment you step outside, sharp and immediate, Gotham winter cutting through fabric and skin alike, the wind threading itself between buildings like it knows exactly where to hurt. Snow hasn’t quite committed yet, but the ground is slick with old ice and slush, the sidewalk shining faintly under the amber streetlamps like it’s been lacquered with danger.
Tim moves first.
Not rushing you, not pulling—just angling himself so his shoulder blocks the worst of it, his jacket still half-open, one arm hovering close enough to guide without touching. You fall into step beside him automatically, boots striking the pavement a little too fast, breath puffing white in front of you, laughter caught somewhere between nerves and cold.
The library looms behind you, all stone and quiet judgment, while Gotham opens up ahead—wet streets, distant sirens, the low hum of traffic threading through the night. The parking lot feels farther than it should, stretched thin by the cold, by the way your coat slips just slightly on your shoulders, by the fact that your fingers are numb and your steps are getting shorter.
You slip.
It’s small—just a fraction of a second where your heel skids on a patch of ice you didn’t see—but it’s enough. Enough for your balance to tip, for your stomach to lurch, for the world to tilt wrong.
Tim catches you without thinking.
His hand is firm at your waist, fingers splaying through the fur of your coat, his other arm bracing you before you can even gasp. The contact is sudden and close and undeniable, your momentum carrying you straight into him, chest to chest, the impact softened only by the way he adjusts instantly, grounding you like this is a problem he’s solved a hundred times before.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.
Your breath tangles with his, warm against cold, your gloved hands pressing instinctively against his jacket. You can feel the tension in his grip—not rough, not hesitant—just precise, protective, like his body decided this was non-negotiable. His pulse jumps under your palm, fast and real, a quiet tell he never quite learned how to hide from you.
Then the moment passes.
He steadies you, eases you upright, hands lingering a second longer than strictly necessary before pulling back, giving you space without fully stepping away. The cold rushes back in immediately, reclaiming what little warmth you stole from him.
The car is close now.
He opens the passenger door for you, quick and efficient, one hand still hovering near your elbow as you slide inside, the seat cold even through your clothes. Snow crunches under his boots as he rounds the hood, movements smooth, practiced, the kind of unconscious choreography that comes from years of doing things fast and right.
You watch him through the windshield as he slips into the driver’s seat, shutting the door with a solid thunk that seals the world out. The car fills with the quiet whir of the heater starting up, the windows fogging faintly at the edges.
Inside, the air is warm, sealed tight against Gotham’s cold, the heater humming low beneath the dash. Everything unsaid sits between you, dense and heavy, pressing at your ribs.
Friends do that, right?
You’d catch Stephanie at the waist if she slipped. You’d grab Lucas too, even if he made a joke about it afterward.
Yeah.
You’re friends.
+2 points to you.
You turn just in time to see him rake his fingers through his hair, trying to shake the rain loose, droplets scattering across his knuckles and the collar of his jacket. His black hair sticks up in damp, uneven strands, darker with moisture, lashes clumped slightly as he blinks.
When he catches you looking, his mouth curves without hesitation—easy, familiar—eyes crinkling at the corners, teeth flashing, one dimple cutting deep into his cheek.
Your heart stutters, sharp and traitorous.
+2 points to Tim Drake.
You look away too quickly, forcing your hands to move, to do something normal, something harmless. You dig through your bag like you’re on autopilot, fingers brushing past pencils and folded paper until you find the packet of tissues. You hold it out to him, tone light, practiced, the way you talk when you don’t want him to notice anything’s wrong.
“Dry your hair, you’re going to get sick—”
“Hands are full,” Tim hums, distracted but smiling, one hand reaching back to shove both your bags into the backseat, the other twisting the key and cranking the heater higher. Warm air spills over your legs almost immediately.
So you move.
You pull a tissue free and lean in, close enough that your knee brushes his, close enough that his warmth bleeds into you. You scrunch the damp front of his bangs between your fingers, careful at first, then a little more deliberate, dragging the tissue through dark strands.
Tim freezes.
Not stiff—not pulling away—just… still. Like his body hasn’t been updated with whatever rule you’re operating under now. His shoulders lock, breath hitching just slightly as your fingers brush his scalp, familiar in a way that hurts. You can feel how soft his hair still is, how it curls faintly at the ends when it’s wet.
God. It’s been so long.
You’d do this for Stephanie.
You would.
You’d even do it for Lucas if he complained enough.
Tim is caught somewhere between letting himself melt into the touch and the dull ache of realizing he’s been reduced to the same category. Just another friend. Another person you’re gentle with.
+2 points to you.
“I think it’s dry,” he mumbles, voice lower now.
“No, it’s—” You pause, lifting the tissue, fingers brushing through once more. It’s slick. Too slick. You frown slightly, eyes narrowing as realization clicks.
You look at him.
He doesn’t look back.
“Uh—” His jaw tightens, gaze fixed firmly on the windshield.
“Tim.”
“So what do you want to get?” he rushes out, too fast. “Soft serve, maybe? Blizzard probably—”
“Tim.”
“You know I was thinking—”
“Tim Drake,” you burst out laughing, the tension snapping, “you stole my fucking hair serum!”
You smack his shoulder, not hard, just enough to make a point, before leaning back to toss the used tissue into the tiny trash can tucked by the console—the one you bought and insisted he keep there. He complained about it. Still kept it.
“You left it in my room,” Tim huffs, finally looking at you again, defensive but amused, cheeks pink as he flips on the seat heater under you. “That’s your fault.”
You stare at him for a second, mouth still parted like you’re gearing up for an argument, then think better of it. The tension drains out of you in a soft exhale, and you turn toward the mirror instead, lifting a hand to smooth down a few stray flyaways, checking your reflection in the dim interior light. Your smile lingers there, small and unguarded, like it always has.
Some things, annoyingly, haven’t changed at all—even if it feels like everything else has.
And that’s what makes it so sickening for Tim.
Because you still smile at him the same way, still tilt your head when you listen, still buy him an extra soda from the vending machine without asking because you know he’ll drink it later, still memorize a new coffee order for him every season like it’s muscle memory. Like loving him was a habit your body never quite unlearned.
You do all of that—and then you kiss someone who isn’t him.
Tim presses his tongue hard against the inside of his cheek as he pulls out of the library parking lot, jaw tightening just enough to ache. The tires hiss softly against wet pavement, streetlights bleeding into long, smeared reflections across the windshield as Gotham opens up around them—brick and neon and rain-slick streets, the city breathing low and restless even this late.
He keeps his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, posture relaxed in a way that feels practiced rather than real. The heater hums, the radio stays off. There’s no room for anything else.
Five-minute drive to Dairy Queen.
Plenty of time to pretend this doesn’t hurt.
The radio settles into a song neither of you bothered to change, something mellow and familiar, the kind that feels like it’s always existed in Tim’s car. The bass is low, steady, syncing with the hum of the engine and the whisper of tires over rain-dark pavement. Gotham slides past in slow motion—storefronts half-lit, steam curling up from subway grates, traffic lights blinking like tired eyes that never quite close.
The dashboard casts a soft glow over Tim’s hands on the wheel, pale against the dark interior, veins faintly visible where his grip tightens and relaxes in small, unconscious adjustments. His black hair is still slightly damp, curling at the edges, lashes casting shadows when he blinks.
There's a drop of water at the corner you watch fall from the reflection on your window. He drives like he always does—precise, smooth, attentive—but there’s something restrained about him now, like he’s holding himself a fraction too carefully.
You sit angled toward the passenger window, knee pulled up slightly, coat tucked close around you. The glass reflects pieces of you back at yourself—your eyes, the curve of your cheek, the movement of your fingers as you absently toy with a loose thread. Every so often, without really deciding to, your gaze drifts back to him.
It happens at a stoplight first.
Tim glances over, brief and instinctive, like checking a mirror. Your eyes meet, and for a second the city noise dulls, the song flattening into background hum.
It’s not charged.
It’s worse than that.
It’s soft. Easy. Like nothing ever broke.
There’s no surprise, no tension, just recognition—quiet, familiar, intimate in a way that doesn’t ask permission. You look away first, clearing your throat softly, adjusting the hem of your coat like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t.
The light turns green. He looks forward again.
His free hand lifts from his knee, fingers flexing once, twice, hovering in the narrow space between you and the console. Close enough that you feel the shift in air, the warmth of him.
Tim’s knuckles brush the seam of your jeans when the car rolls over uneven pavement, and for half a heartbeat his hand drifts higher, instinctive, memory-driven to protect you.
He almost rests it on your thigh.
Almost.
You feel it—the pause, the jerk—before he pulls back, settling his hand firmly against his own leg instead, thumb rubbing into his black jeans like he’s trying to erase the impulse. His jaw tightens, then eases. The song swells briefly, chorus bleeding into the small space, and the moment dissolves without ever being acknowledged.
You shift again, uncrossing and recrossing your legs, pretending it’s just for comfort. The next time you glance at him is when you move to put your hands in front of the heater, he’s already watching you, eyes softer now, unreadable in the dim light. The corner of his mouth twitches like he might smile, but he doesn’t. The road curves, and he turns his attention back to it, streetlights sliding in rhythmic flashes across his face.
The Dairy Queen sign appears ahead, bright and almost ridiculous against Gotham’s muted palette. The song on the radio fades into its final notes as Tim signals and slows, the car easing into the lot.
Five minutes have passed.
It felt longer than that. Gods save him.
+2 points to you.
“I’ll go order,” Tim mumbles, already reaching for his wallet like it’s a lifeline, fingers curling tight around the worn leather. He cranks the heat up another notch before you can protest, warm air rushing over you in a sudden wave, fogging the edges of the windshield. Then he’s gone—door opening, cold slicing in for half a second before it shuts again.
You watch him through the glass. Trying to ignore the fact he still remembered your order, that he didn't need to ask.
The night swallows him immediately, Gotham’s winter biting hard, breath blooming white as he steps onto the slick pavement. Tim shrugs his jacket higher on his shoulders, posture straightening as if the cold has given him something tangible to focus on. His reflection ghosts faintly in the window as he walks, pale under the fluorescent lights, black hair getting soaked again before he remembers to put his hood on.
He looks smaller out there. Or maybe farther away.
Inside the car, it’s too warm, too quiet. The radio hums low, some late-night song bleeding softly into the space he left behind. You rub your hands together, then still them, feeling strangely restless. The seat still holds the impression of him, warmth lingering like a memory your body hasn’t caught up to yet.
You lean back in the seat, staring at the ceiling for a second, exhaling slowly.
Outside, snow starts to fall—not enough to stick yet, just thin flakes catching the light as they drift down. Gotham pretending, briefly, to be gentle.
You don’t know why your chest feels tight.
You don’t know why you’re counting the seconds until he comes back.
You don’t know why the way the warm lights of the Dairy Queen reveal the fact that Tim is blushing makes you want to whine into your hands.
It’s ridiculous. Embarrassing, even. The glass is smudged, the fluorescent glow too soft for Gotham, and yet there he is—standing a little too close to the counter, shoulders slightly hunched, ears pink where his dark hair curls against them.
He keeps shifting his weight like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, like the choice between a Blizzard or soft serve is somehow a high-stakes decision. You can tell exactly when the cashier smiles at him, because the color in his face deepens, creeping down his neck.
You shouldn’t notice things like that anymore.
You press your palms flat against your thighs, grounding yourself, reminding yourself that this is fine, that this is normal. People blush. Tim has always blushed easily. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything.
And yet.
Your chest feels tight in that familiar, unwelcome way—like your heart has recognized something your brain is refusing to name. You told yourself you ended things because it was the right choice, because timing and fear and the city itself were all stacked against you. You told yourself that love doesn’t always mean staying. You’ve repeated it enough times that it almost sounds true.
Almost.
Because watching him now, framed in broken tile and menu boards and warm yellow light, you feel that old ache stir, the one you never quite managed to bury. It’s not sharp anymore. It’s worse than that—dull and constant, like a bruise you keep pressing just to check if it’s still there.
You think about the way his hand hovered in the car.
About how easily you slipped back into orbit around him.
About how natural it felt to sit close, to touch his hair, to laugh like nothing fragile existed between you.
You loved someone else. You’re supposed to now too.
Lloyd is kind and steady and uncomplicated, and you chose him because choosing him felt safe. Because he doesn’t know how to look at you the way Tim does—like he’s memorizing you for later, like he’s afraid of forgetting.
Maybe that’s the problem.
Tim has never forgotten you. Not once. And some treacherous part of you wonders if you ever really wanted him to.
You swallow, forcing your gaze away from Tim, staring instead at the fogging glass, your own reflection staring back at you—uncertain, flushed, caught somewhere between past and present.
You don’t know what this feeling is.
You just know it hasn’t gone away.
And maybe that’s because you never really knew it at all—never gave it a name, never looked it straight in the eye—especially not in that library parking lot not even five hours earlier when Lloyd ended things, headlights painting the asphalt gold and gray, cutting long slices of shadow between you.
You’d walked him to his car like you always did, side by side, shoulders brushing ever so slightly, pretending the cold wasn’t gnawing through your coat.
You gave him a blow job in the back seat. Thinking back on it now, you cant really find it in yourself to regret it even if it ended in a break up, because imaging Lloyd as Tim in the moment was so fucking easy.
“Hey… look, you’re great and all, but—” Lloyd had said after, voice low and panting as his hand started fumbling at the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but yours, like he was afraid of seeing something permanent there. “I just think you like me a bit more than I like you and– fuck its making me feel so guilty that…its kind of hard to be around you.”
And he wasn’t wrong.
You had liked Lloyd. You liked that he could smile and make it feel ordinary, the sort of steady warmth that didn’t demand constant attention or complicate your life. You liked that he made it easy to exist without thinking twice, that holding his hand didn’t feel like carrying a secret you weren’t allowed to tell anyone. He was the right shape for comfort. A safe harbor in a city that preferred to chew up and spit out anything soft.
But every time he leaned close, every time his lips brushed yours, your mind betrayed you, sneaking past the warmth and settling on the memory of someone else.
You had always pretended it was Tim. Always.
Lloyd’s hands on your waist became Tim’s in your imagination—steady, careful, asking permission in the way only Tim ever had. Lloyd’s smile faded into the one Tim gave you when he was nervous, the way it crinkled his eyes and made his dimple appear like a secret he didn’t know you had already discovered.
The warmth in Lloyd’s chest became the slow, even thrum of Tim’s heartbeat, the one you had memorized during years of side-by-side walks through rain-slicked Gotham streets.
Every kiss, every casual touch, every laugh you gave Lloyd was quietly replaced in your head by a ghost that looked like a boy in black and red, hair curling into his forehead, sharp jawline cut just enough by shadows to make you think of nights spent leaning too close, breathing too fast, and wanting to memorize him in ways that felt too intimate to ever say aloud.
With Lloyd it felt like standing under a lamp-post in the rain that only warmed one shoulder.
Comfortable. Enough. But never whole.
Never the way Tim was whole, even when he was frustrating, even when he made you want to scream or run or hide.
Because Tim would always stand in the rain and hear you scream at him to come in the warmth too with a smile on his face.
Tim would never listen to you.
You never meant it to be cruel. You never wanted to betray the quiet warmth Lloyd offered. You told yourself it wasn’t fair to Lloyd. You tried—God, you tried—to be present, to let yourself fall for the person who waited in front of you instead of the one who had always haunted the shadows behind your eyes.
And yet, just hours ago, when Lloyd said it, naming the imbalance, the truth hit harder than the cold ever could.
You did like Lloyd more than Lloyd would ever love you.
Because even without him realizing it, all you saw was Tim.
Through tan skin, blonde hair, green eyes and freckles–you saw pale skin, dark hair, blue eyes and beauty marks.
Every small gift, you'd come home and set it besides the ones given to you by Tim.
For fucks sake you recommended Lloyd the same cologne Tim used.
You were disappointed when he tried the tester in the store and scrunched his nose, shaking his head with a soft and awkward smile.
Sitting in Tim’s car now, the heater blasting warmth that can’t chase away the memory of that parking lot, the streetlights reflecting off the damp asphalt like shattered glass, you see Tim in the glow of the Dairy Queen sign, all pale skin and dark lashes and eyes wide enough to swallow everything you think you’ve built.
The blush creeping up his neck is more than color; it’s a reminder, sharp as a blade, of everything you’ve tried to forget.
You trace the curve of his jaw in your mind, remembering every late night, every quiet conversation, every time he had said nothing at all but made you feel known in a city that never wanted to know anyone. Every casual brush of fingers, every laugh, every way he moved—like he belonged in the same orbit you couldn’t leave—floods you now with all the things you’d denied yourself, all the longing you’d tried to disguise as ordinary life with someone else.
And Tim… Tim never stopped noticing. Never stopped caring. Never stopped being Tim.
And maybe that’s why your chest aches so much right now. Maybe that’s why the warmth in the car, the song low on the radio, the smell of him mixing with the faint hint of gasoline from your city outside, feels like a tether you can’t break.
You don’t know what this feeling is.
But you know one thing for certain.
It has always been him.
And you used to be furious about it. Angry in the way you only are when something is both inevitable and unfair, when it’s been carving into your chest for years and you’ve spent every ounce of energy pretending it wasn’t there. Now it feels… numb.
Like touching a wound that never healed but also never bled, a dull ache that pulses quietly under the surface, paralyzed, anesthetized, but still very much alive.
Tim slides back into the car, shaking a light drizzle off his hair, the glow from the Dairy Queen sign painting him in gold and wet streaks. He’s smiling, that soft, crooked smile that used to make your chest flip entirely against your will. “Got us two Oreos,” he says, setting the cup holder between you, carefully balancing the blizzards against the gear shift before he locks the doors.
You remember your own words from earlier, muttering about Red Robin.
“He looks like if an Oreo Blizzard was a person.”, you said.
Irony doesn’t even begin to cover it.
He hums as he adjusts the heater, flicking the vents toward you. “The cashier was just about to close up—we got really lucky, so—”
You shrug, eyes tracing over the familiar curve of his jaw and landing on the beauty mark you had drawn on Red Robin, the one just below his ear, just the right spot to catch a glimmer of light. “Probably because she thought you were cute,” you say casually, but your voice carries just enough weight to make him pause.
Tim freezes mid-zip, one hand suspended over his jacket like he’s been caught mid-breath. “Huh?”
“That’s why you were blushing, right?” You tilt your head, faintly amused, tracing the warmth spreading over his cheeks. “You’re still red. Come on, tell me—what pick-up line did she use on you, hmm?”
It’s a reflexive memory. The same teasing he used on you the first time you had dared talk openly about Lloyd in front of him, that sly tilt of his head, the curve of his mouth as he dug his nails into his palm, “What pick-up line did that Greek god use on you, hm?”
You watch him now, fingers tightening on his zipper, knuckles pale, jaw working as though he’s chewing over his words before they leave his lips. Tim’s never been good at casual lies. He’s too honest, too exact, too weighted by the things he feels.
“What—What are you talking about?” His voice comes out careful, slightly high, trying to steady, but it trembles anyway.
You blink, caught off guard by the genuine confusion in his expression. For a split second, the playful rhythm of your teasing falters. “It was a joke, Tim… relax.” You straighten in your seat, shoulders lifting, trying not to let the sting in your chest show. You lift a spoon of your blizzard to your lips, the cold a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from him, and the way he’s frozen there makes your stomach twist in ways that Lloyd never could.
The city hums quietly outside, Gotham rain tapping against the roof, a soft percussion to the pulse between you. Tim’s eyes flicker to yours, a mixture of something like guilt, embarrassment, and that all-too-familiar longing you can read in him like Braille. He’s close, too close, and every small movement—the way his hand hovers near the cup holder, the slight lean of his shoulder toward yours—pulls at old threads in your chest, tangling with feelings you thought you’d put away neatly in labeled boxes.
“…She wasn’t flirting with me.”
Tim says it like he’s placing something fragile on the dashboard between you, careful, deliberate. The sentence sits there for a second, humming with the low noise of the car, the heater, the city outside that never quite shuts up.
“She was teasing me to her co‑worker,” he continued after a beat, eyes fixed straight ahead, unfocused, like he’s watching something far past the windshield. “About being ‘another slave in the rain for their master.’ Some other guy was here ten minutes earlier rushing for his girlfriend.”
You pause with the spoon still in your mouth. An oreo crumb dissolving slow and sweet against your tongue, cold blooming where you don’t want it. You don’t swallow right away.
“What I was… blushing about,” Tim adds, quieter now, voice thinning, “was that I realized I’m worse than an actual slave.”
The Dairy Queen lights flicker once, then go dark, leaving the interior of the car wrapped in soft amber and streetlight glow. Outside, two girls laugh as they lock up, their footsteps crunching faintly on wet pavement as they head for the same car, shoulders bumping, warmth shared without thinking.
“I’m choosing to be here,” Tim says, jaw tightening, “after being thrown out of the palace.” His fingers curl tighter when he moves his hands to rest against the steering wheel. “How pathetic is that?”
The word lands heavy, not dramatic—just tired. Worn smooth by repetition.
You don’t answer right away. You wait until the girls’ car pulls out of the lot, headlights sweeping once across the windshield before disappearing into Gotham’s throat. Until it’s just the two of you again, sealed inside this small, warm pocket of light and breath and old habits.
Only then do you turn.
Tim’s cheek is pressed into his forearms now, those braced against the steering wheel like he’s holding himself upright by force alone. His lashes cast shadows against pale skin. His shoulders are drawn in, posture small in a way he only ever allowed around you.
+4 points to Tim Drake.
“…I always liked you pathetic,” you murmur finally, voice low, casual, like it doesn’t cost you anything to say. You scoop another bite of ice cream, deliberately unhurried. “You know that.”
Tim huffs a laugh before he can stop himself, the sound sharp and breathless, and he drops his face fully into his arms like he’s hiding from the relief of it. When he speaks again, his voice is muffled, thinner, pitched exactly where he knows it will make you soften.
“I was too scared to ask you,” he admits. “When you said you didn’t think I was good for you… did you honestly think that sounded like a breakup?”
Your spoon pauses halfway to your mouth.
“It wasn’t meant to be a breakup…exactly…I guess,” you say, quietly.
Tim scoffs, straightening just enough to rake a hand through his hair, frustration crackling under his skin like static. He shoves a too-large bite of ice cream into his mouth, jaw working like he’s punishing himself for it. “Yeah, you just went home and blocked me on Instagram.”
“Didn’t block your spam, though,” you shoot back automatically. You knew he'd just hack into your account if you did that.
He groans your name, long and exasperated, twisting in his seat until he’s facing you fully now. His knee bounces once before he stills it with his own hand. “What the hell did I do?” he asks, not accusing—just genuinely lost. “I—God, I know I fuck up more times than I’d like to admit, but we always talked through things. Always. I let it go because you seemed so sure it was what you wanted, but—”
He stops mid-sentence.
Because your hand moves.
Your fingers slide into his hair, cool and gentle, adjusting his damp bangs where they fall too low over his forehead. The contact is soft, familiar, devastating. Tim goes utterly still, breath hitching like you’ve pressed a switch inside him. His lashes flutter once, then lower, instincts winning out as he leans just slightly into your touch.
You feel the heat of him under your palm. Alive. Real.
“You always looked like Red Robin the most when your hair was like this,” you murmur, thumb brushing his temple. “I liked drawing you with wet hair. In suit or otherwise.”
Oh.
Fuck.
Tim’s eyes open slowly, tracking your face like he’s memorizing it all over again. He searches your expression, looking for a joke, a deflection, a safe place to land—and when he finds none, his gaze drifts anyway. Your nose. Your mouth. The familiar curve of your jaw. Your brows. Like this might be the last time he’s allowed to look this closely.
“…When did you find out?” he asks at last, voice barely there. “Is that why you broke up with me?”
The question isn’t sharp. It’s scared.
Were you afraid?
That someone would come for him?
For you?
Or that he didn’t trust you enough to tell you first?
“…Yeah.” The word is a whisper, a soft confession that hangs between you, stretching longer than it should. You let your hand shift from where it had rested in his hair, moving carefully to his cheek, tracing the line from jaw to temple with a gentle touch, almost reverent.
It pains you to feel him flinch just slightly, a reflex, the tiniest hesitation to let you keep touching him, and it twists something raw in your chest.
“I… I was actually going to argue about you being late to our date,” you admit, voice shaking a little, caught between guilt and memory, “then I saw you with that bandage on your neck, after watching Red Robin get struck in the news. I’ve drawn you both before—no, I’ve drawn you a million times, with and without the mask but that… that was the first time I noticed the beauty mark was the same. Because you were hiding it, covering it with a bandage.”
Your thumb brushes over his skin again, the motion gentle, unconscious, like you’re trying to soothe the memory away, like the touch can erase the hours of fear and worry that was tucked into your chest. Tim flinches again, but this time doesn’t pull away; instead, his hand rises to press yours against his cheek, anchoring you there as though letting go would mean you leaving for good.
“Do you know… do you know how scared I was?” you whisper, voice tight, breath catching. “How horrible it felt, knowing I was making you run from one end of Gotham to the other, after getting struck by a sword… all for a stupid coffee date?”
The car is still except for the low hum of the heater and the rhythmic tick of rain against the windshield, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you. The city has receded, the distant rumble of traffic and sirens muted, as though Gotham itself is leaning away, giving you this small, private corner in the chaos. Tim presses his cheek more firmly into your hand, and you feel the subtle warmth of him there, the heat of his skin against yours, grounding you in the moment.
“You didn’t make me do anything, I—” His words falter, swallowed in the space between heartbeats.
“Tim,” you interrupt, firm, the edge of your voice tempered with care, “you were going to kill yourself doing that. Being Red Robin, working at Wayne Enterprises, keeping your grades decent enough for this semester—how could I ask for more than that?”
Your words float in the car like smoke, curling around both of you, and Tim’s shoulders slump slightly, tension leaking out as he exhales harshly through his nose.
“How dare you not?” he hisses, voice low and almost desperate, but the words tremble. “How could you make that choice for me?”
“I wasn’t making the choice for you,” you murmur, softening, pulling your hand slightly away—but not fully, keeping it hovering over his cheek, tethering him to you. “I was making the choice for me. I didn’t want to feel guilty for using your time. I was being selfish… I am selfish, and I—”
“You don’t have to feel guilty,” he whispers, cutting through the quiet like a knife, but the tremor in his voice betrays him.
“Well I did.” You let it slip past your lips, a quiet affirmation, almost too soft for the sound to travel over the heater hum and the patter of rain.
Tim bites the inside of his cheek, tilting his head just enough to avoid your gaze while trying to form a coherent thought, a shield against the storm of everything you’ve just said. His eyes, those blue storms, flicker briefly to yours before darting to the dash, the blurred neon outside reflecting like water on glass. Your chest tightens, because even in his attempt to hide it, you see him unravel, every careful layer of control peeling back with each blink.
“I couldn’t handle you,” you mumble, the words slipping out quieter than you mean them to, like they’re embarrassed to exist at all. You’ve never said it out loud before. Never shaped it into something real enough to hear yourself. “I couldn’t give you—”
“All I’m hearing,” Tim cuts in briskly, too fast, too sharp, “is that you loved me too much and your little head hurt at the thought of it.”
He rolls the window down, cold air rushing in, carrying the smell of rain and wet asphalt, and with a flick of his wrist he tosses his Blizzard toward the far trash can. It arcs clean and perfect through the air, lands dead center with a hollow plastic thunk.
A perfect trick shot.
Any other night, any other version of you, you would’ve rolled your eyes and muttered, show off, just to watch him preen about it later.
Tonight, your chest feels too tight for sarcasm.
“You’re hearing what you want to hear,” you say instead, flat, defensive, staring down at your melting ice cream like it might offer backup.
“You’re saying what I want to hear,” he replies, softer now, turning fully toward you. He shifts in his seat, shoulder angling perpendicular to the driver’s side, body open in a way that makes your stomach flip unpleasantly. His knee bumps the center console. He’s too close again. He’s always been too close.
You don’t respond. You just huff quietly and scoop up another bite of your Blizzard, chewing slower than necessary, dragging the moment out. It makes him smile—small, crooked, fond, like he’s catching a glimpse of something familiar and precious that he thought he’d lost.
“God,” Tim murmurs under his breath, not quite looking at you, not quite not. “How does he stand you being so in love with me?”
The words land heavy and wrong and accurate all at once.
Your entire body freezes.
It’s like being flash-frozen mid-thought, like your blood turns to slush in your veins, like you might shatter if you move too fast. Mr. Freeze would be proud. You feel brittle. Exposed. Seen in a way you’ve spent months pretending wasn’t possible.
“…He doesn’t,” you mumble finally, voice barely holding together. There’s no point lying. You know Tim—he’d peel it apart eventually. “He broke up with me.”
Tim blinks.
Then he straightens abruptly, posture snapping upright like you’ve yanked a wire inside him. His face scrunches with confusion, eyes scanning yours like he’s waiting for the punchline, the laugh track, the gotcha moment.
“Huh—wait, what?”
“Lloyd broke up with me,” you repeat, quieter. “In the parking lot.”
Tim actually gapes at you.
His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, like the words keep slipping past whatever part of him is supposed to process reality. Under different circumstances, you might’ve laughed. Might’ve cataloged it as another fond memory. Instead, your brain chants relentlessly:
Stay mad at him. Remember the guilt. Don’t forget why this hurts.
“He broke up with you?” Tim repeats, disbelief thick in his voice.
“Mhm.”
His hands lift helplessly, gesturing vaguely at you—your coat, your hair, your existence. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” you say too quickly, the lie sliding out smoother than the truth ever could. “Maybe the blow job I gave him in the parking lot was ass.”
Tim freezes.
Completely. Like the sentence unplugged him.
For half a second, you consider backtracking, rolling your eyes, adding it’s a joke, Tim, relax, but you don’t get the chance. He’s already lunging for the window controls, shoving the glass down with frantic urgency before leaning out and promptly throwing up into the rain.
The car fills with the sound of retching, the cold air rushing in, the absurdity of it all crashing over you in waves.
You stare ahead, spoon suspended halfway to your mouth, wondering distantly how the hell the universe keeps finding new, deeply stupid ways to prove what you already know.
That it has always been him.
And that loving him has never been simple, or clean, or survivable without a little collateral damage.
Once your brain finally catches up, you move instinctively, slamming the empty Blizzard cup back into the holder with a clatter that echoes in the quiet car. Your hands reach for him, hesitating only a second before gathering the wet, dark strands of hair away from his face, bunching them carefully in your fingers.
“TIM—Hey—” you whisper, voice tight, low, unsure.
He just retches harder. His body shudders violently, leaning against your hand, the heat of him radiating through the sleeves of your coat. The smell of rain-soaked hair and ice cream fills the small space, cloying and intimate, and for a moment you can’t breathe around it. Your hands stay there, cradling the damp strands, unsure if you’re holding him back or holding yourself together.
You rub his back in slow, tentative circles, trying to anchor him, trying to be the thing that doesn’t move when everything inside you feels like it’s breaking. His shoulders tremble, and the quiet rattling of his breath mixes with the sound of the heater and the faint hum of the idling engine. The world outside the car blurs into wet, dark shapes and flickering streetlights.
After what feels like a lifetime, he pauses, shivering and slumped over, and then leans forward against the steering wheel with a deep, ragged heave. You kneel slightly on the seat to press a hand to his shoulder, letting your thumb brush the tense muscles under his jacket, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his back.
“Hey,” you murmur again, softer this time, leaning your forehead briefly against his shoulder. You don’t know what else to say—there’s no script for this moment, no words that could make it less raw, less humiliating, less…human. All you can do is be present, your hands stubbornly refusing to leave him, letting the warmth of your body tether him just slightly to reality.
He heaves again, slower this time, chest shaking against the wheel, and finally slumps fully against it. His wet bangs stick to his forehead, and you brush them gently aside, letting your fingers linger there. The storm of the city presses against the windows, but inside the car, with the heater warming your legs and the smell of ice cream and rain, the world narrows to him—this broken, beautiful, utterly human version of Tim Drake—and the ache of wanting to fix him when there’s nothing to fix but his own exhaustion and embarrassment.
You whisper his name again, almost a prayer, almost a curse.
His head lifts from the steering wheel, dark hair plastered to his forehead, eyelashes wet and trembling, and for a moment his brain seems to catch up to the situation. “He breaks up with you after the blow job? What a fucking douchebag.”
Of course he’d always defend you, even if the rest of the world couldn’t be bothered. Even if he has no context.
“He didn’t like it, I guess,” you mumble, heat crawling up your neck like slow flames, your ears burning in the dim orange glow of the Dairy Queen lights outside.
“Babe, don’t fucking play with me—your mouth is fucking—” Tim begins, voice low and strangled, before you cut him off by shoving a spoonful of Oreo Blizzard into his mouth.
“Does that get rid of the throw-up taste?” you murmur, squeezing your eyes shut as if the act could erase the memory of his words entirely.
He chews and swallows, still pulling back from the spoon, face scrunching. “I’m going to fucking kill him. I swear on Batman’s life you hear me—I—”
“He didn’t like that I was… too into it,” you whisper, embarrassment curling in your chest like smoke. Even if no one else could hear, Tim could. Oh, Tim could.
“Okay—what?” he stammers, eyes widening in disbelief as a faint greenish flush creeps across his pale cheeks. A wave of nausea flickers across his expression, sharp and threatening, and your heart lurches.
Gods, he’s going to throw up again.
“Wait! Wait!” you exclaim, hands flying up defensively, waving like flags, as your voice cracks from both embarrassment and fear, “I was pretending he was you—so it wasn’t that hard, Tim—”
“Our dicks are the same size?!” Tim yells, scandalized in a way that makes your stomach do somersaults, your cheeks warming hotter than the car seat heater under your thighs. “I’M NOT BIGGER?”
You blink at him, dumbstruck, voice caught somewhere between mortification and awe. “Uh… sorry?”
He groans into his hands, still slouched against the wheel, hair wet and clinging to his temples. “I owe Stephanie four hundred bucks,” he mutters, like that explains everything.
Then, delirious, still tasting the faint bite of ice cream and bile, he flicks a glance at you, eyes wide, incredulous. “Did you… look for a guy with the same… on purpose?”
You stare at him, tilting your head slightly in the low, warm light of the Dairy Queen, the heater humming between you like it’s holding the moment hostage. “I went for a tan man with blonde hair,” you murmur, voice low and sharp, like a whip against his disbelief. “I want you to use your fucking brain and re-think that question and if you think Im that shallow.”
Tim opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it again. The pale skin of his cheeks blooms pink, almost purple under the harsh fluorescent lights that slice through the car like guilty spotlights. You always had a way of making him look like a kid caught with his hand in a jar of Bat-snacks.
“Gods, you—” he starts, voice rising like a fragile dam on the verge of bursting, “you always pull shit like this to throw me off—so… what, you were okay with him since he had free time?”
You blink at him, unsure if you should laugh or huff, but then you murmur, “…Don’t word it like that.”
“I am!” he hisses, sharp and fragile all at once, his fingers twisting into his dark hair as if he can physically pull the frustration out. “God… was this not hard for you like it was for me? Being away from me? Do you know how much I missed you? I—” He pauses, jaw tightening, eyes flashing with something raw and desperate. “I sold out your fucking perfume, you know that? Bought forty bottles. I've gone through four in the past three weeks.”
You freeze, blink once, and feel your stomach twist with a strange, bittersweet mix of guilt and something almost like pride. Oh. That’s why your niche fragrance—the one you've had for years—was suddenly impossible to find, why you’d been clutching the last few sprays like they were oxygen. You’d thought it was coincidence, scarcity, Gotham nonsense. But no. He’d bought it all.
Your chest tightens. The heater hums low, the soft buzz filling the car like it’s conspiring to keep you trapped in this too-close, too-small world. Tim’s cologne fills your nerves as he shifts forward. You can smell him—aftershave faint under his natural scent, a mix of charcoal and night air, sweat from nerves and embarrassment.
Your hand twitches, wanting to reach out, to smooth the tension from his shoulder or his hair, to do something that doesn’t require words. But you stop, fingers frozen in midair, because every movement feels too loud in the shared quiet, too intimate.
Tim swallows, lips pressing into a thin line as his chest rises in a slow, uneven rhythm. “You… you really didn’t… think about me, did you?” he murmurs finally, not a question, more a plea. His voice is low, rough, weighted with longing and frustration and that thing he never lets anyone see—the part of him that’s still a kid in the backseat of life, afraid he’ll never measure up, afraid he’s too much or not enough.
“I thought of you too much,” you murmur, voice low, almost lost in the hum of the car heater and the faint pitter-patter of rain against the windshield. “That was the problem. That’s why I broke up with you. That’s why… you’re not good for me.”
Tim groans, face pressing into the steering wheel as if the leather can absorb all the chaos between you. “Hey, babe… I think you need to see a fucking therapist,” he mutters, voice muffled, defeated, but still sharp enough to make you blink.
“You first,” you hiss back, crossing your arms, heat creeping up your neck, heart hammering too fast.
Tim scoffs, finally lifting his head just enough to reveal his dark eyes, pale skin flushed pink from both embarrassment and the heater’s warmth. Then, almost casually, he reaches into the back seat, where a brown grocery bag rests behind the passenger seat, and pulls out a tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush.
You blink at him, unsure if you’re seeing things. “That… that’s the brand I use,” you say slowly, voice cracking slightly between disbelief and awe.
“I know,” he says, voice quiet but firm, almost a whisper of obsession, a breath of intent you can feel pressing against your skin. “Bought your whole hygiene routine before I came to the library. It's coming in useful more quickly than I thought it would.”
You stare at him, mouth slightly open, unable to process the layers of thought, care, and absolute chaos wrapped up in his words. He pops open the toothbrush like it’s nothing, casual and deliberate, but your brain freezes on the fact that he—down to the exact shade of pastel pink on the bristles—bought the same one you use.
“Your… you’re actually crazy,” you whisper, awe and incredulity warring in your tone, your fingers brushing against your lips as if touching them would anchor you back to reality.
Tim twists in his seat just enough to lean toward the open window, toothbrush already in his mouth like this is the most normal thing in the world. The rain has slowed to a fine mist, the kind that hangs in the air instead of falling, and the parking lot is empty enough that Gotham feels briefly abandoned—like the city has stepped away to give you privacy it never usually allows.
You watch his jaw move as he brushes, quick and methodical, too hard the way he does everything when he’s trying not to think. His shoulders are tense, drawn up near his ears, black hair still damp and curling at the ends where your fingers were not that long ago. Pale knuckles grip the steering wheel when his free hand comes back to steady himself, and you can tell he’s grounding himself in motion because stopping would mean feeling.
It’s hard not to stare, even if he's doing something like brushing.
It’s harder not to ache.
Because the whole time he’s brushing his teeth out the driver’s side window of his car like some feral raccoon, all you can think about is how familiar this is—how many versions of this exact moment live in your head. Tim brushing his teeth at your sink at two in the morning. Tim rinsing his mouth and leaning over to steal a kiss that tastes like mint and coffee and him. Tim doing mundane things in your orbit like that’s where he’s always belonged.
You dig your nails lightly into your palm, trying to stay present, trying not to drown in the weight of what you lost and what you never really let yourself keep.
He spits out the window, sharp and practiced, then reaches for a water bottle from the cup holder, cracking the seal with his teeth. The sound is loud in the quiet car. He takes a mouthful, tips his head back, throat working as he gargles, eyes screwed shut like he’s holding something back that isn’t just nausea.
Your chest tightens.
Because this—this is the part you never knew how to explain to him. How loving Tim was never about grand gestures or dramatic heartbreak. It was this constant, low-level strain of being too aware of him. Of every breath he took, every sacrifice he made without complaint. Knowing that every small ask from you was another weight on an already overloaded system.
He spits again, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then closes the window, caps the bottle and exhales slowly, shoulders finally dropping an inch.
You realize you’ve been holding your breath.
It was hard the whole time, you think—not just now, not just after you found out. It was hard when he showed up tired but smiling. Hard when he apologized for things that weren’t his fault. Hard when he tried to be everything, all at once, and still looked at you like you were the one thing he couldn’t afford to lose.
Loving Tim felt like standing too close to a live wire—warm, electric, intoxicating—and knowing that one wrong move could burn you both.
Tim leans back into his seat, blinking a few times, eyes glassy but focused now. He sets the toothbrush aside into the grocery bag, hands lingering there for a second longer than necessary, like he’s stalling.
You don’t say anything.
Because if you do, you might admit that even now—after watching him spit toothpaste into the Gotham night, watching him exist inches from you—you still want to choose him.
And you’re terrified of what that says about you.
“…I’ll be whatever you want me to be,” Tim says quietly, the words slipping out like a confession he’s been holding between his teeth all night. His voice is rough around the edges now, scraped thin. “Gods—I just can’t do friends.”
The car feels smaller suddenly. Too warm. Too close. You look at him and it’s unbearable how much of him there is to look at—his eyes still glassy from nausea and something worse, his lips a little pinker than usual, lashes clumped just slightly from rain. All the familiar details stack up in your chest until it aches.
“You…” You swallow. “I can’t ask you to be what I want.” The truth presses at you from all sides, heavy and immovable. “I wanted you to be my… everything. You know how selfish that sounds? You can’t handle that.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” Tim says immediately.
There it is. That stubborn, immovable core of him. The part that never learned how to back down when something mattered to him.
“I do,” you huff, a small, tired smile tugging at your mouth despite yourself, because he’s still the same—still arguing even while he’s trying to give you everything. “I want you by my side twenty-four seven. I want you to only think about me. I want you to not even look at anyone else.” You let out a breath that’s half laugh, half plea. “Don’t you hear how crazy I sound?”
Tim hears it. He hears all of it.
And instead of recoiling, a slow smile starts to bloom on his face, soft and reverent, like he’s just been handed something holy. He shifts fully toward you, body turning perpendicular in the driver’s seat, cheek pressing into the cushion as if he wants to stay right here forever. His eyes don’t leave your face.
“Gods, I love you,” he murmurs. “They sent you just for me, huh?”
“You’re insane,” you hiss, heat flooding you all at once, down your spine and into your fingertips, because it’s been so long since he’s said that word like it means salvation instead of danger.
“You’re perfect,” Tim says, voice dropping, gentler now. “You’re too in love with me to see how fucking crazy I am too. Wow—you’re perfect.”
Your breath catches. You look back at him and watch the way his pupils widen just a fraction, the way his gaze drags over you like he’s memorizing something he’s afraid he’ll lose again. When he speaks, it’s quieter than it’s been all night, stripped of humor, stripped of bravado.
“I know I’m not good for you,” he says. “I want you to choose me anyway.”
Your mouth opens.
Closes.
Opens again.
“I—I can’t,” you say, the words barely holding together. Saying them feels like pressing on a bruise you’ve been protecting for months.
“You have,” Tim answers, gently now. Not accusing. Just certain.
“I don’t want to,” you whisper.
“You have,” he repeats, softer still, like he’s not trying to convince you—like he’s just stating a fact you’ve both been circling all night.
The car hums around you, engine ticking as it cools, heater blowing steadily, Gotham quiet outside in a way it rarely is. Two people alone in a parked car, suspended in a moment that feels less like a choice and more like gravity.
And the worst part is—you don’t know when you started leaning toward him.
The space between you collapses quietly.
Not all at once—no rush, no collision—but the slow, inevitable pull of two people who have already crossed this line a hundred times in their heads. Tim leans in first, tentative in a way that feels almost reverent, like he’s afraid sudden movement might break the moment. His hand comes up, hovering near your jaw, hesitating there like he’s still giving you time to pull away.
You don’t.
When his thumb finally brushes your cheek, it’s barely there, a test more than a touch. Warm. Steady. Real. The contact sends something sharp and familiar through your chest, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you tilt your head up just enough for him to close the last inch.
The press is soft at first. Careful. Like he’s relearning you.
Tim’s lips press to yours with a gentleness that hurts, the kind that carries memory with it—every late night, every almost, every time he wanted this and didn’t let himself reach for it.
You feel him exhale against you, shaky and quiet, like he’s been holding that breath for months.
He has.
Then you kiss him back.
And that’s all it takes.
The sound he makes is small and involuntary, a broken little breath that slips out as his hand cups your face properly now, thumb resting under your cheekbone like it belongs there. The kiss deepens, still unhurried but surer, his mouth moving against yours like he’s afraid to stop once he’s started.
Your fingers find his jacket without thinking, bunching the fabric at his chest. He leans into it immediately, body turning further toward you, shoulder pressing into the seat. The world outside the windows fades—the rain, the parking lot, Gotham holding its breath—until there’s only warmth and the quiet rhythm of two people breathing each other in.
Tim kisses you like he’s been missing you.
Like he never stopped.
When he finally pulls back, it’s just enough for his forehead to rest against yours, noses brushing, breaths mingling. His eyes stay closed for a second longer, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, like he’s grounding himself in the fact that this is happening.
It doesn’t stay gentle for long.
Something gives the moment you press back into him, and Tim reacts like he’s been waiting for permission. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers firm now, anchoring you there as his mouth finds yours again with more intent. The kiss deepens, unhurried but hungry, like he’s making up for every second he forced himself to keep his distance.
His lips move against yours with purpose this time—still careful, still restrained, but undeniably heated. You feel it in the way his grip tightens just slightly, thumb pressing into your pulse point as if to reassure himself that you’re still here, that you haven’t disappeared again.
You shift closer without realizing it, knees on the center console, moving as careful as you can be. Tim follows the movement instinctively, body leaning back further, shoulder braced against the seat as he leans back for you. The kiss grows warmer, breaths breaking between touches, foreheads brushing when you part for half a second before coming back together again.
Tim freezes for half a heartbeat when his arm hooks under your thighs and lifts you, like even that small escalation startles him. Then instinct takes over. He settles you onto his lap carefully, one hand steady at your hip, the other still at your neck, holding you like something precious he’s afraid to drop.
Your teeth catch his bottom lip—soft, tentative, almost reverent—and the sound he makes is wrecked. A low groan that vibrates into your mouth, more feeling than noise. It’s enough to make your pulse spike, enough to make your hands curl into his jacket like you need something solid to stay upright.
He responds without thinking, mouth tilting, pressure increasing just enough to mirror you. When his teeth catch your lip back, it’s not cruel—but it’s real. Sharp enough to make you gasp, sharp enough that there’s a brief, metallic tang between you. Copper and heat and something dangerously close to relief.
He pulls back immediately, forehead dropping to yours, breath uneven. One hand tightens at your waist, not to pull you closer, but to keep you there. To stop himself from doing more.
“Hey,” Tim murmurs, not a warning—more like a check-in, like he’s grounding both of you at once.
Your noses brush when you breathe. Your hands are still fisted in his jacket. His thumb traces a slow, soothing line along your side, undoing the bite even as his eyes stay locked on your mouth like it’s gravity itself.
The kiss that follows is slower, deeper, restrained by sheer force of will. All warmth and pressure and promise, none of it rushing anywhere. Your knees are tangled, hearts loud enough to drown out the city—both of you painfully aware that this could tip into something unstoppable if either of you lets go.
And neither of you does.
The realization makes his restraint crack—it doesn't shatter, but splinters.
Tim’s hand tightens at your waist, fingers digging in like he needs the pressure to stay present, to keep from tipping completely. The next kiss turns rougher in rhythm rather than content—more insistence, more heat. He kisses you like he’s been starving politely and just lost his manners. No finesse now, just want, mouth pressing harder, chasing yours when you try to pull back for air.
Your hands slide up into his hair, tugging without thinking, and the sound he makes is sharp—half breath, half warning. His grip shifts, one arm bracing you fully against him now, anchoring you there like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens even a little.
Tim kisses you again, deeper, teeth catching your lip—not enough to hurt this time, but enough to remind you he could. Enough to make your stomach flip and a whine leave your mouth. His breathing is uneven against you, chest rising fast beneath you, heart thudding like it’s trying to escape.
For a moment it’s messy—foreheads knocking, breaths stealing, the car creaking faintly as he adjusts the driver's seat. His thumb presses into your hip, grounding, claiming, stopping himself.
Then he breaks the kiss abruptly, breath ragged, forehead dropping to your shoulder.
“Fuck,” he exhales, voice wrecked, like the word is torn out of him. His grip doesn’t loosen. If anything, he holds you tighter, hands moving to work the buttons of your coat open.
You can feel it in the way he’s shaking—not with fear. With effort.
The kind it takes to stop.
Tim’s breath keeps stuttering against your neck, the kind that can’t decide if it wants to steady or fall apart completely. He doesn’t let go. Instead, he shifts, pressing you more securely against him, like gravity itself is insisting you stay right there. The car feels too small for the way everything in him is brimming over—fogged windows, the low hum of the engine still warm beneath you, the rain ticking faintly outside like it’s counting time neither of you are keeping.
Tim leans back in, slower this time but heavier, like the weight of it finally landed. His mouth finds your neck, not frantic now but insistent, deliberate. Every kiss feels like a choice he’s making again and again. His hands stay where they are—one firm at your waist, one steady at your hip—like he’s drawing hard lines around what he won’t cross, even as everything else tilts.
You feel the tension in him through every point of contact. The way his shoulders stay tight. The way Tim’s jaw clenches when you press closer on him. When your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket, he lets out a sound that’s barely there, swallowed before it can become anything dangerous.
Tim breaks a kiss on your collarbone, moving to rest his forehead resting against yours now. His nose brushes your cheek when he exhales, warm and shaky. You can feel his pulse under your hands, fast and unguarded, like he forgot how to hide it with you.
For a second, neither of you moves.
It’s not restraint born of distance—it’s restraint born of knowing exactly how badly this could spiral if either of you gave an inch more. His thumb presses once at your side, grounding, almost apologetic.
Then he pulls you into one last kiss, slower, deeper, less rough but heavier in meaning—like punctuation instead of a sentence. When he finally lets you go, it’s only by a breath, hands still bracketing you, eyes dark and searching, like he’s memorizing the moment in case it’s taken from him again.
He doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t have to.
The silence between you is loud with everything you both know now.
“Get in the back.” Tim mumbles, “Mm…gonna give you head.”
You chuckle at that, running a hand through his hair just to watch the way goosebumps form on his neck, feel the way his breath stutters against your lips, “Gonna give your girlfriend head?”
“Yeah.” Tim mumbles against your skin, “Mm…my girlfriend.”
For once in this past year–you're exactly where you want to be. And you don't think Tim’s ever going to let you leave again.
author is too tired to add the tag-list rn I'ma do it tmrw. tagging my fav Tim Drake stan tho: @moonologyy
Small. Stupid. Jason shutting down the second things got too real.
You’d asked him - gently - why he’d disappeared for three days after a rough patrol. No text. No call. Just radio silence while you sat in your apartment worrying yourself sick.
“I was handling it,” he’d said, voice flat, arms crossed like he was bracing for impact. “You don’t need to know every detail of my shit.”
“I’m not asking for every detail,” you’d replied, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m asking you to let me in. I’m your girlfriend, Jason. Not some civilian you have to protect from the truth.”
He’d laughed - short, bitter. “Yeah? Well maybe I don’t want you in. Maybe I don’t want you seeing the parts of me that are still fucked up from the grave.”
The words had landed like punches. You’d stood there, chest tight, and said the thing you’d been thinking for weeks.
“Maybe we need a break.”
Not a breakup.
A break.
Time. Space. Air.
Jason had gone very still. “What?”
“Just… a break,” you’d said, voice cracking. “Not forever. I just need to breathe, Jason. And you need to figure out if you even want me in your life or if I’m just another person you’re protecting from yourself.”
He hadn’t argued. Hadn’t fought. He’d just nodded once, jaw tight, and left.
That was nine days ago.
Jason Todd had never been good at feelings.
He’d spent years building walls so high no one could climb them. Death had only made them taller. But you - quiet, patient, stubborn you - had somehow slipped through the cracks anyway.
Now those cracks felt like canyons.
He’d spent the first few days throwing himself into work. Patrols. Warehouse raids. Anything to keep his hands busy and his mind quiet. But every night he came home to an empty apartment and the silence screamed louder than any gunshot.
Then he saw you.
It was at a small café near the university. You were sitting outside with a guy — some tall, friendly-looking idiot with glasses and a soft smile. He said something that made you laugh, head tilted back, eyes bright the way they used to be with him.
Jason’s stomach dropped.
He told himself it was nothing. Just a friend. You were allowed to have friends. But the image stuck - you smiling at someone else while he was falling apart.
That night he did something he’d sworn he’d never do.
He drank.
Not a beer. Not a glass of whiskey.
A bottle. Then another.
The alcohol burned going down, but it didn’t quiet the noise in his head. It only made it louder. By 2am he was drunk for the first time in his life, sitting on the floor of his apartment with his phone in his hand, thumb hovering over your name.
He pressed call.
You answered on the third ring, voice sleepy. “Jason?”
“You’re out there smiling at other guys,” he slurred, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “While I’m sitting here like a fucking idiot thinking about you every second. You said a break. Not a breakup. But it feels like you’re already moving on. Like I was just a phase. Like-“
“Jason,” you cut in, sounding more awake now. “Are you drunk?”
He laughed — ugly and raw. “Yeah. First time in ages. Congratulations. You made the emotionally constipated zombie drink. Happy now?”
There was a pause. Then your voice, sharper. “Stop it. You’re spiraling. Come over. We need to talk.”
“No,” he snapped, but his voice cracked. “You wanted space. You got it. Go smile at your new friend. I’m sure he’s nicer. Doesn’t have blood on his hands. Doesn’t wake up screaming—”
“Jason Todd,” you said, voice firm but gentle, the way you always got when he was like this. “Stop. You’re breaking my heart right now. I’m coming over. Do not hang up.”
He didn’t.
He sat on the floor, phone pressed to his ear, listening to you move around your apartment, the sound of keys, the door closing. Twenty minutes later there was a knock.
He opened it.
You stood there in sweatpants and one of his old hoodies, hair messy, eyes wide with worry. The second you saw him - red-eyed, swaying slightly, looking smaller than you’d ever seen him - your face crumpled.
“Oh, Jay…”
He broke.
The tears came fast and ugly, shoulders shaking as he tried to hold them back. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m so fucking sorry. I thought… I thought you were done. I saw you with that guy and I just… I panicked. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be someone worth staying for.”
You stepped inside, closing the door behind you, and pulled him into your arms. He collapsed against you, burying his face in your neck, arms wrapping around your waist like you might disappear.
“I’m not done,” you whispered, holding him tight. “It was a break, Jason. Not a breakup. I needed space because I was scared too. Scared that you’d keep shutting me out until there was nothing left of us. But I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.”
He cried harder, the kind of raw, broken sound that tore at your chest. You guided him to the couch, pulling him down so his head rested in your lap. Your fingers stroked through his hair, slow and soothing, the way you knew he liked.
“I love you,” you said quietly. “The angry parts. The scared parts. The parts that think they’re too broken to be loved. All of them. You’re not too much. You’re not too damaged. You’re mine. And I’m yours. Okay?”
He nodded against your thigh, fingers clutching the hem of your hoodie. “Okay,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry I got drunk. I’m sorry I said those things. I was just… scared. I saw you smiling and I thought I’d lost you for good.”
“You haven’t,” you assured him, leaning down to kiss his temple. “I’m right here. And I’m staying. We’ll figure out the rest. Together.”
Jason stayed curled in your lap for a long time, breathing gradually evening out as your fingers continued their slow path through his hair. Every so often he’d press a kiss to your thigh or your wrist, like he needed the constant reminder you were real.
“I love you,” he said again, softer this time. “More than I know how to say. I’ll try to be better. Less… constipated.”
You laughed quietly, the sound warm. “I love you too. Even when you’re emotionally constipated. Especially then.”
He shifted, pulling you down so you were lying beside him on the couch, your head on his chest. His arms wrapped around you, holding you like you were the only safe thing left in the world.
The city hummed far below. The argument, the fear, the drunk call — all of it faded into the background as Jason held you close, his heartbeat steady under your ear.
“I’m keeping you,” he whispered into your hair. “For as long as you’ll let me.”
You smiled, pressing a kiss to his chest. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”
In the quiet dark of the apartment, Jason Todd — the man who came back from the dead, the one who built walls so high no one could climb them — finally let someone in.
And you?
You stayed.
Because loving Jason Todd had never been easy.
But it had always been worth it.
a/n : this is a newer request I got but I’m working on older ones sorry! (Reqs open <3) @moviecritc bc u wanted to be tagged babe 🌷 ac as usual : @/ciricearts
⤷ BRUCE WAYNE
⤷ DICK GRAYSON
⤷ JASON TODD
⤷ TIM DRAKE
⤷ HAL JORDAN
⤷ CLARK KENT
⤷ CONNER KENT
⤷ SUPERBOY PRIME
⤷ DIANA OF THEMYSCIRA
⤷ DONNA TROY
⤷ BARRY ALLEN
⤷ WALLY WEST
⤷ TALIA AL GHUL
⤷ KYLE RAYNER
007 COLLECTION
+more to come!
———————————————————————-
(all works will be under #bat1nsignia)
-> main masterlist
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synopsis: you and damian just got arranged married by the league, having grown up promised to each other. it would be so cliche to have sex on your wedding night, right?
warnings: nsfw - smut (uh bro… fingering, they do the deed..)
a/n: this is such an old draft idea but i got inspired now.. ofc cannot thank you guys for your endless patience with me :( i hope you guys enjoy this soo much and i will def try to be more active. also will i ever stop writing paragraphs about damian’s upbringing? prob never 😛 ILY GUYS SO MUCH SRRY AGAIN BUT IM BACKK
marriage, to the league, was duty. honour. never romance. never choice, and certainly never desire.
compassion was weakness. dependency was decrepitude. fatal.
these ideas had been drilled into damian wayne’s skull long before he had ever even learnt how to hold a sword properly. talia al ghul had spoken it to him everyday in the way other parents said goodnight— casually, habitually, as though it was an indisputable principle.
hypocritically, the same league upheld one of the greatest vows of dependency— marriage— and stripped the union of all the elements that made it an intimate attachment, instead transforming it into an obligation the heir owed; thus, damian knew very well the inevitability he would eventually have to accept.
you were the inevitability.
the two of you had been promised to each other before either of you even knew what the concept of marriage meant— two prodigies raised under the same roof of sharpened steel and impossible expectations; two children who sparred like enemies and bled for validation competitively like rivals.
neither of you had good examples of such a union growing up, but still, along the way, swallowed the resentment for it to uphold duty.
the arranged marriage was simply the league’s idea of ‘uniting strong bloodlines’, but the two of you had understood the subtext early: as trainees, the two of you were meant to sharpen each other; as teenagers battling for dominance, the two of you were meant to break each other; and eventually, as young adults? the two of you were meant stand beside each other.
neither you nor damian liked the idea, but it was childish to even think for a moment of your own feelings about the fated entanglement.
it was even more frustrating to damian that you were the one person he couldn’t intimidate; couldn’t out-discipline; couldn’t fully ignore. the one who beat him in drills when he got careless. the one who mocked him when he slipped. the one who smirked when he got scolded to behave properly as the heir. the one he was meant to spend a lifetime with. the one who was in the same boat as him regardless of it all.
it always lurked in the back of his mind: every spar. every function. every league formality, forced to attend together.
as much as you enjoyed getting under his skin and being superior, he bested you too, and often. then you would have the same thought that either mellowed or worsened down the aggression— he would be your husband.
it wasn’t hatred; not quite, and it certainly was not affection. it was something coiled between those extremes— a rivalry inherited and cultivated, seeped into every look, every spar, every word exchanged since childhood. perhaps it was something even more troubling— understanding.
even after damian temporarily left the league for gotham, adopting the name ‘wayne’ more solidly than ‘al ghul’, your existence remained a quiet constant. not only mentally in his thoughts every night as he imagined you training tirelessly back at the league (thoughts he’d shake his head to remove), but even physically when he’d visit— a shadow trailing beside his in every corridor, an echo of his past, and a cruel reminder that his future had already been decided for him.
so when the elders finally declared the alliance formally, when the engagement was announced without either of you being consulted, neither of you protested. you both knew it was coming— just not so soon.
the two of you were barely nineteen.
of course, damian was not joyous. neither were you. he had simply treated it like another mission he’d have to complete perfectly. duty.
the ceremony was perhaps the closest thing to torture, and though the both of you had been trained to endure it, nothing could’ve prepared either of you for the awkwardness during it. the big event, the festivities, the traditions, the elders, the deceit, the political aspect of it all— the closeness.
when the vows were spoken; when your fingers brushed his as the rings were exchanged; when your face softened for the briefest second at the feeling of calloused fingers meeting each other, damian felt something unfamiliar stir inside him.
something dangerous. something not sanctioned by the league. something nothing in his training had prepared him for.
for the past few months before the ceremony, you had seen damian quite a lot, but that didn’t eliminate the emptiness for the years he spent away before that in gotham after growing up together. he got to get away and you bound him. he had to have held resentment for that. you knew.
now, in your forcibly shared grand bedroom on your wedding night with the doors locked, guards dismissed, and a lingering tradition older than either of your bloodlines weighing in the air, the two of you stand facing each other like opponents, as you both did before sparring as kids.
promised to each other since childhood: sparring partners, reluctant allies, competitive rivals, both raised to believe marriage would eventually be another battle to win.
and somehow, through all the bruises and victories, you grew into the only person he could never fully beat.
so the moment you step to the other corner of the room, near the vanity table, and begin to remove your heavy jewellery, damian truly realises you are unbeatable.
the tension in the room is heavy. the room is hot. the silence is deafening. damian’s eyes linger on the way your fingers meticulously remove the expensive earrings; his posture rigid, shoulders locked, jaw set. his breathing is shallow but controlled: guarded and tense. his emerald eyes are too dark and too sharp for someone supposedly indifferent, and the moment your eyes find his in the mirror, he stupidly looks away. he berates himself for the clear give-away. the night has not been easy on the heir.
you break the silence first.
“strange, isn’t it? finally getting married,” your voice is low and controlled, carefully detached, eyebrows raised as if to ask for a penny for his thoughts, watching his expression through the mirror. tactical.
you both know what lingers in the air. the two of you had been lectured on it before in your own time.
marriages are meant to be consummated. completed. affirmed. sealed.
damian allows his head to return to your gaze in the mirror, chin tilted downward, on guard. his eyes narrow. just slightly. just enough for you to notice.
“strange implies a lack of inevitability.”
his voice is low and straight to the point, lacking infliction, disguising all emotion.
and he is right— both of you always knew this would happen. eventually.
but neither of you knew just what it would feel like. and both of you were about to find out.
you let out an unamused hum, instead moving your hands back to begin unzipping your heavy, extravagant dress, wanting to be out of it as soon as possible.
damian’s eyes expand for a millisecond before he snaps his eyes away, down, anywhere but at you. eventually they return when you begin to pace around the room with your hands stretching oddly to try to pull the tight zipper down. his head doesn’t move but his eyes follow you, watching you struggle silently.
he’s no knight in shining armour. he’s not chivalrous. he has no reason to want to assist you. he knows you’re capable enough, you always have been, and would probably refuse his help anyway. it shouldn’t be that hard anyway.
but yet you continue to struggle, shoulders lifting in annoyance as you silently struggle, while the zipper refuses to budge. at that point, damian cracks.
he sighs exasperatedly, eyes narrowed and lips contorted in a grimace as he takes big, languid steps forward to reach you.
“showing incompetency in such trifling matters is abysmal,” he breathes out, eyes dropping to your back as his hands nudge yours away and pluck the zipper in between his fingers, rowdily tugging on it to free it from the fabric. “does marriage abruptly make you abandon all prior ability?” he quips, voice low.
you immediately scoff but allow him to help, arms falling to your sides, hand twitching at the warmth his hands radiate. “absolutely,” you joke back humourlessly, voice restrained, teeth grit. “just following tradition as we should, no?” you spit wittily.
you hear damian’s shallow breath waver.
“if you think marriage means that i am suddenly at your mercy, then you are gravely mistaken.”
you suck in a sharp inhale. god, he is being infuriating, and it is even worse because you know him. you know the front he puts on when he is on edge, and that is bothering. your nerves are on fire. his voice was so cold. so stiff. almost offended.
“don’t presume my intentions.”
the zip finally frees from being stuck in the fabric with damian’s forceful tug. it slides down. way too much. way too quick.
damian’s eyes drop. he sucks in a breath. his hand freezes, fingers absently gripping the zipper.
it’s dead silent for a long moment. when damian’s fingers don’t move, your heart begins to race. what’s wrong with him? you’re about to speak when damian interrupts instead.
his voice is rough and hoarse. “to be clear, nothing has changed.” the defensiveness is prevalent in his barely stoic words, his usual gruff tone.
you can’t help but respond instantaneously. “yeah, only that everything’s changed.”
damian’s eye twitches. his fingers remain lingering at the curve of your spine. “we agreed not to indulge.”
you fire back swiftly. “we’ve made no agreements.”
damian sucks in a deep breath. his eyes flutter shut, eyelashes falling unfairly long against the top of his cheeks. he shouldn’t. he has never before, and he shouldn’t now. he does not know how to.
when his dark emerald eyes open and fall on the nearly exposed expanse of your back, he realises that his other hand had been resting on your shoulder. with the zipper open and sleeves drooping, he can feel the softness of your skin. he lets out a restrained, shaky exhale.
you can feel it. he knows you can feel it. the strain in his touch— the way the calloused pads of his fingers linger cautiously and hesitantly at the velvety skin on your shoulder. you can feel the tight attempt to control his breathing, the need to remain calm, and the way he fails.
your own heart races in your chest. you let the silence linger, uncertain on what to say or do, until the pads of damian’s fingers finally plant onto your skin with enough force to declare their presence. you almost flinch when damian’s low, grating voice follows.
“yes, we did,” he adds to the previous conversation. “since we have both known the conditions from birth,” he pauses. “and now— you are making things difficult,” he accuses blatantly, barely able to keep his tone steady and infliction-less. your lips part in offence at his words. you slowly twist towards him, head tilting to narrow your eyes at him.
“i’ve done nothing. you helped by choice.”
“you were struggling pathetically.”
“when have you ever cared about that?”
damian’s eyelashes flutter as he half-blinks exasperatedly. he takes in a deep breath. he lets his intense eyes persist on yours enough for you to notice them in concerning detail— the deep, rich emerald colour, and the pretty flecks of gold that decorate the edges. he is simply, undeniably beautiful, and for someone not used to possessing things in their life, he is unmistakably yours.
for the first time, something is yours. someone. atop that, someone unjustly irresistible.
it seems damian is thinking the same thing.
damian’s fingers tighten around your shoulder and you take the sign, hesitantly turning more to face him. your eyebrows twist upwards, big eyes finding his.
he hates how his pulse spikes when you look at him.
he hates that he’s wanted you since you were fourteen and beat him in a spar you weren’t supposed to win. he hates that the league chose you for him, because it means his desire feels predetermined, like a weakness planted in him by someone else. but most of all? he hates that he no longer hates you. at all.
“we do not owe anything to each other,” he exhales under his breath, just for himself, but you seem to hear.
“obviously,” you mumble. “you seriously cannot be considering fulfilling a pathetic old custom. are you that much of the league’s lapdog?” you roll your eyes, but the idea prickles under your skin. pollutes your brain. and so does his touch.
“i refuse—” damian takes in a deep breath, voice toneless. “i refuse to allow you to reduce my stature to the degree of acting on a platitude.”
you scoff, this time fully turning to face him. damian can’t help when his eyes drop to the loosened neckline of your dress at your cleavage— how it dips tauntingly. he forces his eyes to return to your challenging gaze.
“we’re not living in the nineteen hundreds, wayne. we don’t have to follow every tradition.”
“we were born to,” damian counters, and you can hear how shallow his breathing has gotten.
“so what if this marriage was predetermined? that doesn’t mean we have to adhere to every pathetic custom.”
“you do not seem to understand,” he leans closer abashedly as if he cannot help himself, his head tilting so his breath hits your cheek. “i am trying—” he takes a deep breath. “not to.. want more than i am permitted.”
your heart drops to your stomach. there’s a strange, unusual sensation in between your legs. you gulp, throat suddenly dry. “and what is it,” your breath shakes. “you want?”
when damian does not respond, you push. “apart from convention?” you almost whisper, vulnerable in front of the boy you’d grin if you made bleed as a kid.
damian shakes his head, downright pathetic. he closes his eyes, eyebrows crinkled with tension and embarrassment. his eyelashes tickle your skin.
“i have been forced to think about you for more than a decade.” damian’s heart aches with how pathetic he feels. “you must know how you have ruined me, since i will never tell you.” his words are pushed out begrudgingly.
damian expects you to call him crazy, but instead you step closer toward him until your bodies brush, and that is somehow worse. everything tightens. his breath. his shoulders. his whole composure.
your voice is a low whisper. “and what you’ve done to me?” your face is so close to his. “you even left me.”
damian suddenly decides he’s heard enough of you with the way his mouth finds yours, sudden and careless, yet meticulous and planned in the way you can tell he has probably considered this idea multiple times in his head the moment the two of you entered his room. he breathes you in as he keeps his lips puckered around you in one long kiss, before breaking away as if he’s been burned.
his hand is tight on your shoulder as he pulls back, lips parted as he breathes heavily, looking at you with sharp, frustrated eyes as if you assaulted him first.
your own chest heaves in nervousness, eyebrows pinched upwards in shock and disbelief. that happened. he kissed you.
and it felt electric.
damian watches you for a long moment, having forced a weak distance between the two of you. his hand slides down your shoulder, fingers grazing your skin until he pulls it away, fingers curling into a fist. his eyebrow raises cautiously, eyes searching yours.
“i am above this,” he tries, voice breathy and quiet. he holds himself like someone who knows how to control ten thousand instincts at once, but desire? vulnerability? affection?
you scoff. you subconsciously step closer, matching his defensive gaze. “above this? then what is on your level?” you spit, heart thrumming against your chest. “being an extension of those who treat sanctity as duty?
“is that not what you’d prefer?”
youe eyebrows furrow, an offended scoff leaving youe mouth. “of course not, is that what you would prefer?”
damian’s jaw clenches. his eyes dig into yours. you take another daring step forward, just to taunt him, when his hand slides down to your waist, jerking you closer. not harsh, not aggressive, but simply a raw, sharp, unfiltered action. it makes your eyes widen.
“i would prefer you want me.”
your lips part, wide eyes blinking in surprise. your cheeks tint pink, hazy gaze falling to his lips. damian meets your idea halfway, fisting the fabric at your waist and pulling your mouth to his with a sound he’d kill before admitting he made.
his lips meet yours harder than before, like he’s genuinely been holding back. his hand moves up to cradle your face, tilting it so he has a better angle to kiss you deeper. your own hands find his collar and tug him closer, lips parting and enclosing around his as if starved. the kiss is hot and aggressive, mouths gliding against each other, teeth clashing, tounges plunging into each others mouths to filthily twist and twirl around each other. it’s clumsy and sloppy, but somehow, it’s perfect.
a lifetime in the league, deprived of physical connection and depraved by rational pragmatic ideas, all amalgamating into an incoherent chaos of foreign unbridled desire and proclivity.
mid-kiss damian’s hand fists more and more of your dress, the fabric bunching up at your waist, gliding up your leg up till your thigh. he lets out a shaky exhale into the kiss, his lips pausing against yours to savour the feeling. the squelching sound of the kiss breaking rings in your ears and you feel flush with damian’s sharp gaze on yours, his emerald eyes searching yours.
“i have spent my entire life being told attachment is weakness,” he murmurs, voice dark and quiet. his hand continues to move your dress up, other hand hovering over your thigh. “but now, standing in front of you, all i want is to be allowed to be weak.”
you can’t help but press your body against his in return. your eyes bore into his dark, enlarged pupils. “who else could you be weak with if not your wife?”
damian seems to lose it at that comment, because in a second, you’re pushed back onto the bed— a little rougher than intended, but not carelessly. his hand supports the back of your head as he continues to press plush, sloppy kisses to your mouth, his other hand shoving your dress up fully. instead, you push it down, completely taking it off, in which he assists you once he gets the hint.
damian’s eyes loiter over your exposed skin as if he has been starved, lips slightly parted at the sight of you in your underwear. there’s small scars here and there, he recognises, probably from sparring with him. or after.
he kisses your neck. your collarbone. his hands push down your bra, greedily feeling up your chest, before sliding down. his hand finds your thigh, caressing it, and then pulling the plushness of it to the side so he can trail his fingers to the crotch of your underwear, and take in a deep breath at how soaked it is.
“you degrade me for following tradition,” damian’s voice is low, near your cheek. his middle finger glides up and down your slit over your underwear. “but you do not seem to mind that much.”
your eyes snap to glare at him, cheeks hot pink. “i can feel you against my thigh.” damian hears your words and presses his growing bulge harder against your skin.
“because it is no more ceremony to me.”
damian doesn’t let you register his words, instead kissing you so hard your brain feels fuzzy. at the same time, his fingers slide your underwear to the side, hesitating for a moment before pressing between your folds, easily slipping up and down.
his mouth stays against yours, head tilting to get a better angle to lap your tongue in your mouth, lips glued to yours, savouring the opportunity to have you after years of frustration, always wondering why he felt so differently with you than with others he despised.
his fingers glide easily in between your soaked folds, letting them get equally as wet. when you let out a small sound of impatience, his thumb places flat on your peeking clit, the middle finger sliding inside.
“there you are,” he breathes, pulling away enough to look down at the way his finger pushes in and out of your sopping hole. “horrible to know how delightful you have been behind all those snarky comments during training.”
that makes your cheeks burn hot. you tug him down. “horrible to discover that you’re not only good with swords,” you press a firm kiss to his mouth. “but also your fingers.”
damian’s eyes lock onto yours in a daze, genuinely feeling his heart race in a way it has never before. he adds his index finger into your pulsing hole, helping stretch you out. his fingers twist and move in and out, a soft squelching sound filling the room, combining with every wet sound of a smooch.
damian works you open with his long fingers until you let out shaky low breaths akin to whines. “do it,” you whimper, keeping nervous eye contact.
damian’s eyebrows raise, fingers still pushing deeper in. “do it?” he leans closer, clicking his tongue.
“consummate this marriage?” he whispers against your ear, almost shy himself. “cement it with more than just blood? selfishly claim you?”
your entire face feels hot as his fingers start hitting deeper inside, bullying you now. “bold of you to assume that when i’m the one claiming you.”
damian’s fingers pause.
you hear his breath hitch in real time. you feel the heat crawl up his neck.
his forehead drops to your shoulder. his fingers slide out, hands clumsily moving to undo his pants, shoving them down. you try to look down but he’s too heavy against you.
you feel him.
thick hard mushroom tip against your entrance. he pulls away to look at you with narrowed eyes, glaring with his pretty brown skin shining red.
“i have the title,” he tries, the retort weak, his hand positioning his length properly, being careful to not hurt you. “i claim,” he breathes, almost petulant. his tip slides up and down your pussy, gathering slick.
you almost smile. “you wish.” you look down at his pretty brown cock, red mushroom tip, long and neat, feeling butterflies in your stomach.
he slowly nudges the tip forward. damian’s eyes flutter shut for a moment, eyebrows furrowing as he feels your body protest the entrance, before your arousal makes way for him, allowing him to slip his head inside your pink opening. one of his hands digs into your hip, gripping, the other holding his base as he smoothly moves the rest in, bottoming out.
his pelvis stays against your lower abdomen for a moment before his hand moves down to hoist your thigh up more to bury himself deeper, manhandling you into a more fitting angle.
he twitches inside you at how warm you are around him. you feel him deep, deep inside— even stationary, edging just the right spot.
damian’s eyes open to find yours, searching. you nod, biting your lower lip. his hand moves up to hold your chin, watching your reaction closely as he pulls his long length out, before slowly thrusting back in, grinding his base against your thighs so you can feel him dig deep in.
your head falls back. you let out a small moan at the overwhelming new sensation.
“good,” damian breathes, feeling more and more turned on just by your expressions, thumb rubbing over your wet lip. “so possessive. clenching so hard around me.”
he pulls back, shallower this time, snapping his hips back, harder. almost mean. “and you called me a lapdog.”
your eyes find his, dark and hazy, lips parted to let out soft breaths. your head shakes a little, voice breathless and serious. “this is not for the act.”
he knows what you mean. you know he knows. you don’t have to elaborate.
his fingers tighten around your jaw. he leans forward, eyes heavy with unspoken words. “do you want to break me even more?” he breathes out, chest heaving up and down, hips pulling back and snapping forward, lodging his cock up into your pussy at the perfect angles, careful yet punishing at the same time, taking his time to savour the way your walls take him in. “of course you do. you cruel, cruel woman. always cruel, even as a child. making me think of you even when i was away.”
he pulls away again as his eyes move down to watch the way your hole sucks in his cock, thrusting harder and building up speed now, mesmerised by the sight of your folds around his length, seeing himself disappear into you. it makes him feel things that make his stomach churn.
you physically cannot respond, the feeling of his thrusts building up. your fingers dig into the sheets, hole clenching tighter and tighter, feeling the urge in your abdomen form. it doesn’t help that damian’s thumb moves down over your clit, right on top of it, pushing it around as if it’s his personal plaything. he continues to fiddle with it and your thighs twitch.
he hums, leaning closer, the act breaking even further as his thrusts get harder and deeper, but clumsier. the intimacy builds— they are still careful, but sloppier, more clingy, keeping himself inside you for longer to feel you tighten around him.
it takes a few more harshly calculated thrusts for your release to hit hard. you gasp the moment you feel yourself snap, thighs lifting up, squirming, whining as thick creamy liquid slips out from the sides of damian’s cock, coating him.
his palm places on your lower belly, the other holding your thigh up as he continues fucking into you, watching your face and pussy with pleasure. he feels his own orgasm build, his breathing much heavier, lips curled in distress. he pumps harder again and again to help you ride out your high before letting out a barely audible groan and pulling out. his hand pumps three times before he’s spilling out onto your dress beside you, panting himself.
when he regains his senses, his eyes widen as they find yours, and you’re luckily too busy panting to notice him ruining your literal wedding gown. instead your thighs snap shut as you writhe in the afterpleasure, twisting your face into the pillow from the overwhelming remnants of your release.
as soon as damian’s done, his hand moves to push your hair out of your face. “wait.”
he moves off of you to grab a towel from the shared bathroom, taking your dress to the wash and then walking back to the bed to gently part your thighs, clinically cleaning you and himself up. he returns again, laying on his side beside you after disposing of the towels, pants pulled back up.
damian feels an odd mix of fulfilment yet with a strange disposition. he never thought the night could ever end up like this. never outside of his sickest fantasies. he turns to you, watching your tired breathing, chest heaving up and down. his finger moves out to trace over your collarbone, voice low and almost soft for once in his life.
“our marriage has been consummated.” you can hear the smirk in his voice.
“use that word again and i will divorce you.” your eyes are closed, snatching the covers further over yourself.
“you know you cannot.” damian’s eyes stay on your resting face. he sounds like he is almost smiling tjis time. almost. you cannot tell. you would not know how to either, because he never smiles.
“i can dream of it.”
“i’d rather you not.”
you pause, just breathing for a moment. processing.
“goodnight, husband.” you mumble, pretend irritation in your voice.
the way damian’s voice softens in his response is painfully obvious.
