So,this is for @male-thoughts. A bit of porn to make everyone's day better lol.
Sleepy mornings
Clark Kent x male! Reader
Tw: smut,jerking off,mean reader,kinda sub Clark
Now,being Superman's boyfriend is incredible. That’s like,obvious. You love him to the moon and back and he literally would give you the moon if you as much as asked. He was kind,respectful,funny,and an idiot in the most endearing way possible. He cared for people and genuinely tried to do good things. You loved him for that.
But God was he always horny.
It had been an horrendous week. The type of week that makes you want to throw everyone else out the window. Especially when that everyone else is your boyfriend waking you up by humping you in his sleep at 5 a.m. on a Sunday morning. He was hard as a rock,because of course he was,and now you couldn’t fall back asleep because of all the moving.
Now,you could just wake him up and tell him what he’s doing. It would definitely put a stop to it,he would never do anything without your explicit and enthusiatic consent. He might be a bit embarassed,but nothing more than that.
That doesn’t sound very fun,does it? And you’re already awake anyway,why not just helping him?
You huff under your breath and close your eyes back,blindly reaching for his cock. This of course wakes him up,or maybe it was the way your heartbeat probably sped up a bit. You knew he always listened to your heartbeat,a habit more than a choice. He had told you so a few months ago. You don’t wait for him to fully wake up before grabbing his cock in one of your hand,earning a surprised,but not displeased,whine from him. “Darling?” He murmurs grogilly,but you don’t even bother opening your eyes,just giving his dick a clumsy stroke. He moans again,flustered,and unconciously fucks up into your hand. “You woke me up rubbing your damn hard-on on my thigh.” You answer his unasked question,doing your best to glare at him with your eyes still closed. He attempts to apologize but you squeeze him as hard as you can and instead he relases a half moan,half scream kind of sound.
“Shhh. I’m trying to rest here. You’re Superman,you can take some rough play.” You whisper harsly,annoyed. He nods,an apologetic look in his eyes,and moves his hand to cover his mouth to stop a sound as your hand moves again. “And no hands.” You add,shifting to lay down more comfortably. He nods,biting his lips to keep silent. This goes on for a few slow,agonizing minutes,you only occasionally squeezing or stroking his cock,and him trying not to whine or beg you to go faster.
You start to get tired of the game pretty soon and begin to go quicker,your thumb brushing against his tip to gather the precum there and smear it over his length,making the movements easier. Running a finger on the vein running on the underside of his dick,your nails barely scratching it,your eyes still closed all troughout. You fell it pulsating in your hand and the sheets move slightly as he grips them for dear life. You wait until he’s right on the edge,every muscle in his body tensing,his hips bucking up into your hand. You stop for a moment,just to tease him,and he actually cries out. You tsk at him,one eye opening slightly to better glare,and as his mouth open to apologize,or maybe beg,your finger sneaks its way to the tip,playing with it before pressing a fingernail down right over the slit until you know it start to hurt. He was always way more sensitive on his dick,especially when hard. You think it might be related to alien biology or something. Never really cared to ask.
He whines loudly and his hips squirm,unsure whetever to move away from the pain or closer to feel more pleasure. A few more strokes and he’s gone,bucking up in your hand as thick white ropes of cum stain his stomach,the sheets and your wrist. You stroke him trought it and a bit after,just to overstimulate him a bit. You wipe your hand down on his thigh and turn around,finally going back to sleep. At least this time Clark seems way too out of it to wake you up.
I love the idea of dating Jason Todd as a somewhat sugar daddy sort of situation. He pays your rent, won't let you pay for anything when you are together. And he never says no to anything you could ask for if you ask him right after sex. There isn't enough ftm!reader sugar daddy fics/drabbles.
I think Jason would but I also think he’d be so lowkey about it
examples! ˙⋆✮
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You go out to a coffee shop and you sway back and forth as you try to decide if you want your regular or something—Jason just holds your hand as he waits for you to finally blurt out what you want and before you can even think about the total that the barista announces, his card is pressed against the reader and the transaction had gone through.
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You’re looking over your finances for the month—they aren’t necessarily bad they were just a little tight. You’d probably have to put off your car maintenance for a while because rent and bills had to take priority. Jason bites into an apple as he peeks over your shoulder, looking at your current balance and your expected expenses—he swallows before telling you not to worry about it—he’ll cover your rent and bills, you should go get your car checked out. You try to argue, telling him you could at least split it, it wouldn’t be fair on him to shoulder everything. He argues that it wouldn’t be fair on you considering your salary differences (if you could consider his collections from a drug ring a salary)
You decide to split on percentage the next month. He still insists on paying the full rent (you tuck the $10 you theoretically owe him into his wallet every month).
(Also he looks at your car himself; how silly of you to think you would need to go to anybody else to fix a motor oil when your boyfriend could do it for you.)
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You stumble into your apartment, exhausted after being awake for 20 hours straight and working some ungoldly shifts—you almost don’t notice the extra pair of shoes sat by your door—the only reason you do is because they are shiny and new and too small to be Jason’s. Your first thought should have been that Jason had invited somebody into the apartment while you were out but that was actually so far from your mind. In what world would Jason bring somebody back to your shared home?? His safe space?
Oh yeah, I bought you a new pair of shoes, he answers casually as you collapse on him. Something about noticing that your current shoes are falling apart so he just bought you the same pair, only with less holes. You mumble something that sounds like a ‘thanks’ and he’s mentioning something about going shopping for more if you didn’t like them anymore but you’re already out like a light
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➜ ftm specific ♡
It often comes up during late night musings what your plans are for yourself in the future, especially when it came to transitioning. You’d done some of it, but there’s still so much more you want to do—you muse about top surgery like it’s a distant dream and with the current state of your salary and the lack of trans healthcare around, it might as well be. Hope is what keeps you going, but you absently rub at your sternum as you quietly admit to Jason how much of a relief it would be for you when you finally get it. He cups your face, gently rubbing the circles under your eyes as he asks furthering questions, where you want it done, if you have a surgeon in mind yet, what kind of surgery would you want, where would you want to stay to recover.
You answer every questions, it makes it feel more real as you do.
He asks when you want it done and honestly? As soon as you have the funds.
He asks if he can cover it and your heart leaps.
You want to argue, say it’s an insane amount of money and he’d have to cover a lot more than just the surgery because you’d have to skip out on work and you’d have to travel and all that other stuff he might not be thinking about but he’s staring with such earnest eyes that everything dies in your throat. And you nod wordlessly because both of you would love nothing more than for you to feel comfortable in your own body. ♡
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uh,, tada! I didn’t expect to write so much lmao, clearly I missed this
hope you enjoyed ˙⋆✮ the last one almost made me tear up icl
Summary: Jason Todd was supposed to be dead, so how was he currently in your apartment after years of being buried?
A/N: he won the poll and while I intended it to be all fluff, I had to add some angst cause Jason Todd and angst go well together. Leaning more towards Jason's look in the Arkham game. Not a fan of this, but here we are.
A cold draft filtered through the opened window, rain lashing against the windowsill and the rusted bars of the fire escape outside. The floorboards, already warped, were soaked, the wood a slick, dark mahogany from the pooled rainwater. Even the heavy curtains were clinging, damp, to the wall. Your room, once smelling faintly of stale caramel and cheap coffee, now carried the heavy, cloying scent of wet concrete, cold iron, and damp earth.
Heavy boot prints started just inside the sill, circling the perimeter of the room. They drifted past your dresser where an old photo sat—a picture of you and Jason, both in your early teens, slightly bruised and scratched up from a patrol with Batman. They continued to the low dresser where a few drawers were now pulled open, and then towards your bedside table where you’d sometimes wake up and find Dick, or the majority of the time, find Damian sleeping beside you. The prints lingered there, before coming to your side of the bed where they seemed to pause, etching a deep, heavy outline into the sodden floorboards, before heading off towards your kitchen.
You always kept your bedroom window unlocked. Not because Blüdhaven was safe—it was anything but—but because you knew that Dick, Tim, Stephanie, or even Damian would sometimes sneak in. Dick would do it to check on you after you had left, after Jason all those years ago, after you had abandoned all morals and gone after the Joker, nearly ending his life before Bruce—or rather, Batman—stopped you. It was a reminder that you were a broken weapon, but still theirs. Tim would stop by when he needed advice about Kon, claiming it was too embarrassing to go to anyone else. Stephanie simply enjoyed your company and hated that you were alone, and Damian sometimes just wanted to be a kid, and you allowed him that freedom his parents wouldn’t.
A sudden crack of lightning and the accompanying thunder had ripped you from your sleep. Your eyes drifted towards the window, barely registering the boot prints as you got up to close it, your bare feet immediately chilled by the wet floor.
“Damnit,” you whispered, pulling the sash down hard. “Dick? Did you leave my window open?” You assumed it was him; he was the only one who would often leave it ajar while he was somewhere else in your apartment.
No response. Typical of Dick, especially if he had passed out on your couch because you were sprawled across the mattress. You padded to the bathroom, grabbing a towel to clean up the water that had soaked your floor.
When you bent down, the smell hit you first: something metallic, not quite blood, underneath the rot of the street. Then you noticed the boot prints—crisp, deep military treads you hadn’t seen since... Every hair on your body stood on edge. The adrenaline rush you felt fighting alongside Batman, before he replaced you with Tim, had suddenly kicked back in. You crept towards your bedside table, slowly and carefully opening the drawer and grasping the bow staff you had kept.
You checked every inch of your room, following the footsteps around until they headed towards the small kitchen. A faint, flickering light caught your eye, coming from the old TV that faced your ratty old kitchen table.
The apartment was small, the kitchen and living room practically one room separated only by the threadbare couch you found on the sidewalk one day. A figure sat slumped, dark and motionless, silhouetted against the grainy light of the screen.
A low, gritty rumble broke the silence. “You remember how to use that?”
Your breath hitched as they rose, at least a good foot taller than you. You had never been a tall guy. Before, your height hadn't mattered when confronting the evil in the world, but since Jason died, since you lost your morals and became terrified of everything, your lack of height seemed a definitive disadvantage in this moment.
You took a step back as they stepped forward, hands clutching the bow staff tightly. You felt the cold floor give no purchase beneath your heels.
They took a slow, deep breath, hands raised in a familiar, non-threatening gesture. “You wouldn’t actually hit me,”
You didn't even respond, stepping forward and aiming the staff low for the man's side—a quick, disarming strike. He was quicker. His hand shot out, grabbing the bow staff and quickly wrenching it away. The wood scraped loudly against the wet floor as he discarded it. Within what seemed like a split second, you were on the floor, pinned beneath muscle that was too hard, too cold, too much.
Your eyes widened, hands coming up instantly, weak and shaking, as you tried to push the man off. It was a pathetic scramble against the unyielding weight pressing your spine into the waterlogged floorboards.
Then, the sound. A laugh. Not the joyful, reckless bark you remembered from the rooftop chases, but a low, rusty, humorless sound that clawed its way up your memory. A sound you remembered all too well came from the man above, causing every muscle in your body to seize.
“Clearly someone’s lost his touch.” His voice was deeper, rougher, like gravel rolling over metal, but the cadence was unmistakable.
He leaned down, the sudden shift in his massive weight making your stomach drop. His face was so close that your vision swam with the details. His skin was pale, almost gray beneath the grime of the street, and covered in faded, silvered scars you hadn't put there. His hair was black, messy, but framed eyes that pierced you—irises that weren't the familiar, warm blue-green of your memory, but a sharp, terrifying, piercing emerald green.
One particular scar stood out, a jagged, sloppy letter "J" carved deep into his cheekbone, pulling the corner of his mouth into a permanent, grim line.
“Jason?” The name was a fragile, desperate whisper, a ghost of a sound caught in your throat.
You were dreaming. You had to be dreaming. Or maybe you'd somehow inhaled a pocket of Scarecrow's fear toxin, because Jason was dead. You were there. You watched helplessly as the warehouse went up, saw the ceiling collapse, saw the dust and smoke, while Batman did nothing but scream your name. You remembered crying on the charred chest in the morgue, your teenage hands gripping his costume, begging him to be okay.
“You’re dead,” you whispered, the breath leaving your lungs in a ragged gasp. “I’m fucking dreaming!” You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head so violently your wet hair stuck to your forehead. The smell of damp earth and cheap cologne was suffocating.
“Open your eyes,” the voice commanded, cold and immediate. His grip on your shoulders tightened, a painful pressure that threatened to crack bone. “You’re not dreaming. And I’m certainly not a hallucination.”
The contact was too real. The pressure was too solid. You didn't open your eyes, instead forcing your arms to fight again, shoving against the solid muscle of his chest. “Get off me! Get the hell off!”
A wave of vertigo hit you as Jason abruptly released one shoulder and slammed his free hand, hard, next to your head, making the floorboards rattle. He wasn't pinning you with sheer force anymore; he was pinning you with his presence, his sheer, overwhelming mass.
“Stop.” The word was soft, yet it felt like a gunshot. He leaned in until his breath—stale, metallic, and utterly wrong—ghosted over your ear. “Look at me. I need to know you know who it is.”
Reluctantly, slowly, you cracked open your eyes. The green was the first thing you saw, burning with a cold, unsettling intelligence. This wasn't the boy you buried. This was something else. Something resurrected. Something forged in a different kind of fire.
“The smell… the boots…” You trailed off, looking down at the heavy military treads still visible in the wet patch near your head. “You were watching me sleep.” A chill deeper than the Blüdhaven rain seeped into your bones. He hadn’t just broken in; he had been standing over you.
Jason Todd, or whatever this terrifying facsimile of him was, gave a slow, predatory smile. The jagged scar on his cheek twitched with the movement.
“Gotta check up on the little bird, don’t I?”
The sudden familiarity of that phrase—“little bird”—a nickname reserved only for you, was a blow more solid than any punch. It was a pinprick of recognition in the overwhelming wall of denial, and it terrified you. Your hands, still braced weakly against the unyielding muscle of his chest, suddenly found purchase.
A desperate, primal surge of adrenaline—the same rush you used to feel cornered by a dozen thugs, the one you thought you’d lost forever—ripped through you. You didn't think; you just acted. With a harsh, guttural cry, you shoved hard, putting every ounce of your weight and panic into the push.
It was enough.
Jason hadn't been expecting it. The pressure on your spine instantly vanished as his massive form, caught off-guard, slid backward. You didn't wait. You scrambled, kicking your feet out from under his legs and rolling onto your side, the freezing, waterlogged floorboards scraping your skin. You were on your knees, then your feet, instantly putting the scarred kitchen table between the two of you.
You didn't trust him. He looked like Jason, talked like Jason, but the cold, dead emerald of his eyes and the brutal weight of his body belonged to a nightmare, not a memory.
"Don't fuck with me!" The shout tore itself from your throat, raw and hoarse, a desperate plea to the universe to stop this cruel joke. "You aren't real!"
Your chest heaved, wet air rasping in your lungs. You had had nightmares before—ones where Jason's body was lying next to you, staring up blankly, only to wake up in a panic covered in sweat with Dick trying to calm you down. This felt too real, too sharp, too immediate. You couldn't stop the tears that welled in the corners of your eyes, hot and stinging as you watched the figure stand fully, his gaze never leaving yours, before he slowly started to walk toward you.
He sighed, the sound heavy and weary, before he stopped short of the table and, with a casual grace that belied his bulk, bent down onto one knee. The sight was instantly disarming—a position he would have taken to tie your skate, or to check your busted lip after a rough night.
"What happened to you?" he whispered, his deep, gravelly voice a sudden, soft counterpoint to the storm. "You used to be so brave, nothing scared you."
Nothing scared you because you had Jason, you thought, the memory a crippling weight. Now, everything scares you.
"Stop! Please," you cried, your voice cracking. "I just want to wake up."
His eyes, those terrifying green stones, softened at the edges, if only for a fraction of a second. He did not rise. Instead, his hands came forward, movements slow and deliberate, a silent promise of no harm. They gently grasped your shoulders, the immense warmth of his palms a shocking contrast to the chill of your apartment. He pulled you forward, slowly and steadily, until your head bumped lightly against his chest and his arms fully enveloped you in a hug.
He was warm. Incredibly, terrifyingly, real. And he still had that familiar scent you loved so much—not the cheap cologne, but the faint, underlying scent of motor oil, leather, and rain-soaked Gotham asphalt.
"You are awake, I'm real," he murmured directly into your ear, his breath stirring the wet hair on your temple. The embrace was solid, comforting, and yet every muscle in your body remained rigid with a terror that clawed at the edges of the comfort.
You were trapped between the crushing reality of his body and the unshakable conviction that the man who held you had been dead for years. You gripped the wet fabric of his jacket, clinging to him like a lifeline while simultaneously pushing against him, your entire being a contradiction. You desperately wanted him to be real, yet you knew that if he was, the world you had finally built—fragile, broken, but yours—would shatter completely.
“How?” you whispered, the word muffled against the rough material of his chest. “The warehouse… the bomb…”
He tensed, a ripple of hard muscle beneath your cheek. The warmth instantly became cold. He didn’t pull away, but the hug, once an embrace, felt like a cage.
“Don’t ask about that,” he said, the softness gone, replaced by the deep, guttural rumble that felt more like a threat. “Not now. I need to know you’re okay.”
You finally pulled back, your hands slipping from his jacket to his arms, anchoring yourself as you searched his face. The jagged scar, the pale, almost gray skin, the terrifying eyes—it was still all wrong.
“I’m not okay, Jason,” you choked out, the name both a balm and a barb. “I haven’t been okay since you died. What are you—what are you doing here?”
The moment the name left your mouth—Jason—the warmth in the hug evaporated. He flinched, a minute but total withdrawal that was more devastating than any physical blow. His massive hands slid off your shoulders, and he pulled back, separating your bodies. He didn't rise, but simply shifted, sitting back on his heels on the slick, cold floorboards.
His emerald eyes—still terrifying, still wrong—locked onto yours. The intense scrutiny felt like a physical pressure, examining every scar and exhaustion line on your face. You were both breathing heavily, the silence only punctuated by the rhythmic, drumming lash of the rain against the window and the erratic, frantic thump of your own heart.
Then, he moved. Not with the frantic, predatory energy of a moment ago, but slowly, almost reluctantly. He pushed himself off his heels and sat down directly beside you on the wet, cold floor. His closeness was immediately overwhelming. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, the broad width of his shoulder a familiar, immovable presence inches from your own.
His hand came up, a thick, scarred slab of muscle, and rested gently on your bare knee, just below the torn hem of your boxers. The contact was shocking: warm, heavy, and achingly familiar. It was exactly the kind of casual, anchoring touch he used to give you on those nights when the two of you—little, bruised Robins—would crawl into your twin beds together at the Manor, curling close to chase away the nightmares.
He leaned his head back against his shoulder, letting out a deep, shaky exhale that sounded more like a damaged machine than a man. The scent of motor oil and rain-soaked leather filled the space between you.
"I needed to see you," he whispered, his voice a low, rough confession that vibrated against your ear. He paused, his thumb beginning to trace a slow, gentle circle just above your kneecap. "No, something in me needed to see you." He admitted, the correction hanging heavy in the air. The "something" was the terrifying part—was it a memory? A compulsion?
You sniffled, the sound pathetic and small, and looked over at him through blurry, tear-filled eyes. Your hand, trembling uncontrollably, came up to rest on top of his. Your fingertips brushed his skin—the texture was rough, scarred, but it was real. You weren't dreaming; the contact was solid. God, how you wished it was one.
"Why me?" The question was a fragile whisper, a plea for sense in a world that had ceased to have any.
You knew it wasn't a fair question. Why come and see the boy he grew up with, the one who had loved him, the one who had been his entire, fragile world all those years ago? You knew the answer, yet the terror of this Jason, this resurrected specter, demanded to hear it.
Jason let out a dry, humorless chuckle that scraped against the silence, his head still leaned back against the wall.
"You were everything to me," he whispered, the words carrying the weight of a decade of death and regret. "Everything. I needed to make sure you were... okay." He finally turned his head, his eyes trailing slowly from the wet strands of hair plastered to your forehead, over the dark bruises beneath your eyes, down the slump of your shoulders.
His hand tightened once, a brief, reassuring squeeze, before he delivered the blunt truth with the classic, abrasive honesty you remembered.
"You look like shit."
The absurdity of the insult, delivered with such tenderness, cracked the seal of your terror. You let out a half-laugh, half-sob that tasted like salt and fear. You threw your arms around his neck, burying your face against the cold, muscular curve of his shoulder. The embrace was desperate, a confusing mix of relief and fresh, agonizing grief.
"I missed you so much," you wept, the words muffled and choked. "I missed you, I missed you—"
He hugged you back instantly, hard, his massive arms wrapping around your torso and pressing your spine against his chest. The smell was real. The warmth was real. The weight of his returned ghost was the only real thing left in your life.
“I know,” he mumbled, his voice a low, comforting vibration against your ear. “I know.”
He didn't offer explanations or apologies; he simply held on, matching the desperation of your embrace with a secure, grounding pressure. He smelled like Jason, he held you like Jason, and the weight of him—the sheer, immovable presence that used to make the world feel safe—was finally real.
You finally managed to pull your head back, though your arms refused to unlock from his neck. Your eyes, red-rimmed and blurry, searched his face again. The terrifying green was still there, but now, seeing it through the lens of relief, it looked less like a warning and more like a consequence. He was damaged, yes, but he was yours.
"Don't you ever," you whispered, the words barely audible over the receding thunder, "don't you ever do that again."
A genuine smile, the first you’d seen, cracked through the grime and the grim scar on his face. It was crooked, a little feral, but it was the Jason smile—the one that meant he was proud of you for nailing a landing, or had just snuck you an extra dessert.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he murmured, his thumb gently wiping a tear track from your cheek. He then leaned in, pressing a soft, familiar kiss to your forehead—a deep, comforting pressure that spoke volumes. It was a paternal, protective gesture that instantly chased away the cold, the fear, and the nightmare.
He pulled back just enough to sweep your legs out from under you with a practiced ease, and before you could register the movement, he had lifted you. He rose to his full, immense height, cradling you effortlessly against his chest, the rain-soaked floorboards forgotten.
"Let's get you warm, little bird," he said, his voice husky with emotion. He carried you through the small apartment, the heavy military boots no longer sounding like a threat, but a promise. He walked past the kitchen, past the bathroom, and into the bedroom.
With a gentle shove of his shoulder, he nudged the sash closed, finally silencing the harsh drumming of the rain. He walked straight to your bed, which was currently a chaotic sprawl of tangled sheets and blankets. He lowered you onto the mattress, and then, without hesitation, he crawled in beside you.
He settled in with a deep groan of relief, pulling the damp, heavy comforter up and over both of your shivering bodies. You immediately molded yourself to him, tucking your smaller frame against his side, your head resting securely on his massive chest. The scar tissue, the cold scent of iron and rain—it was all there, but it was enveloped in a profound, irresistible warmth.
Your hand instinctively reached up, tracing the rough line of the "J" scar on his cheek. He didn't flinch. He simply captured your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before interlacing his fingers with yours.
"I’m real," he said again, not as a command this time, but as a soothing confirmation. "I'm right here. Go to sleep."
You closed your eyes. For the first time in years—since you watched the warehouse burn—the frantic tension in your shoulders eased. You felt the rhythmic, steady thump of his heart beneath your ear, a solid anchor against the shifting world. The fear was gone. The loneliness was gone. The only thing left was the immense, comforting weight of him, alive and real, holding you close. You were home.
You drifted off, the scent of motor oil and cheap coffee your final reality, knowing that when you woke up, those unsettling emerald eyes would be the first thing you saw.
how about tim drake x ftm reader that hasn't transitioned yet / is scared to go through all the medical stuff ?? since he's bi i dont think it'll bother him but im still curious about your take on this
The Prettiest 'Girl' In the World
Characters: Tim Drake x FtM Reader
Summary: You haven't been feeling right for days, months, years even. Every person you consulted, every person you talked to, every person you pleaded for help, they all saw it as phase. Blaming it on the pandemic mania warping your brain 6 years ago. You don't think it's a phase anymore.
Warnings: Major body dysmorphia, reader is mentioned to have a chest, mentions of fear of T, mention SH but nothing is described, cursing, Bruce looses money...suggestive scene but nothing happens...
A/N: Yo, did you guys see the mom who put her kid on a dog bed outside whilst SICK? 😭Slowly getting through all these requests though lollll.
It was the first thing Tim noticed, that's what he always told you; recounting the day he first saw you in your shared lectured hall over and over again.
Your beauty was breathtaking, subtle, striking people in the face before they could realize you were even gone. Allowing them to only pause in stunned silence as a trail of perfume was left behind.
You had the sort of stature that made even fully grown men sway, doubting their dominance, doubting their egos, doubting their own words and ways. Your head was held high, perfectly trimmed hair bouncing with every click of your -very expensive looking- high heels on the lecture floor.
You had the body that made every single dress drape your figure perfectly, every piece of jewelry placed onto you was outshined by the mere look that settled in your eyes, you weren't an elegant figure; you were elegance. That small, charismatic, smile you gave to onlookers? Sent them swooning as you made your by- hips swaying softly in the wind.
Because yes, wind had suddenly formed; allowing you to shift your hair perfectly out of your face like some sort of cheesy Hallmark movie. The strands not even getting caught in your lip gloss as you all but practically shone like the first sunrise on a winter day.
Your look was sleek, simple.
The epitome of femineity.
That's why he fell in love with you in the first place.
So how could you do this to him?
Your face looks dirty in the mirror, and no matter what angle you use, no matter what way you look at it - at yourself. You look horrible, unnatural.
You're unnatural.
Your contour that usually glides so sleek over your cheeks, giving you the perfect finish? Only makes your skin look patchy, dusty, like you had just gotten a weird spray tan at a tacky salon. The eyeshadow you had applied to make your eyes look darker, slimmer? It just makes you look gaunt - unnatural - something Tim and his siblings would be beating the shit out of right about now.
The concealer you applied to your lips to make them look more chapped? The 'man bun' you had done? Tim's clothes that you had thrown on to hide your figure? The fake facial hair you had added on at the end to try and fix everything?
It all looked horrible.
No matter what lighting you used, no matter what angle you pushed to body to bend to, you just looked like some 12 year old who got into their moms makeup bag for the first time.
Ding!
Your phone lights up as you blink, your friends message lighting up on your screen.
You
He's out with his brothers rn :(
I'm just chilling...
1:02 AM
Muscle Mommy
UGHHHHHHHH
was hoping for another good story
sorry babe
cant believe he just left a hottie like you in his room
l mean...I'll CUM overrrrr LOLLL ;p
1:05 AM
You
LMAOOOOO
No fr, cum over bbg
weird question
do u think I'd look good as a boy??
2:39 AM
Muscle Mommy
wtf
were did that come from????
your so pretty as a girl tho
did he say something?
beat his ass
2:54 AM
Eternity passes in an eerily silent way, an anxious buzz filling your ears as you just stood there.
...
You're tired, and you should probably wash this off before you go to bed so you don't break out.
So Tim doesn't see.
Placing your phone screen side down, the facuet squeaks in resistance before you dip your face down; groaning when water much too icy for this time of the night hits your face. It's not soon after that you're padding back over to Tim's bed to wait for him like some pliant puppy; still in his clothes as you plop back onto the bed. Spreading out like a starfish.
The perfect girlfriend.
You stare at the ceiling like it's the most important thing in the world, like it holds all of the answers in life.
But it doesn't.
"Babe?"
You feel a knuckle brush past your cheek, and it hits you all too suddenly that Red Robin is suddenly looming over you; poking into your vision like some kind of cheesy sitcom.
"Tim!"
He reels back as you shoot up, narrowly avoiding post-patrol head trauma from your heads colliding - per usual; and your hands are around him fast. Your arms slink around his neck, pulling him close before your hand pulls down his cowl, intertangling with the dark coils on the back of his head.
"I was so worried," You mutter, pulling away, eyes scattering, searching, scanning him for any signs of injuries when he doesn't hug you back - unworried of sounding selfish, "Where were you? Why didn't you text me?"
"I did." He muttered in a tone not of his own, eyes not leaving your face. His lips purse, face screwing up as he looks down at you, "You were that worried?"
Your eyes shoot up in surprise, confusion riddling your features before you find your sense of words again, "Of course...I-I'm sorry, I must've fallen..." Your eyes search, falling on your phone that was currently face down on the floor.
Shit.
You try to scramble to grab it. Yet, Tim stops you short. Grappling both of your forearms before you can pull away fully; pressing a few small kisses to your face, and you can't help but giggle.
"You fell asleep?" Tim murmured, voice sounding a million miles away as he kisses down your neck.
"I guess, if I didn't see your texts." You shift uncomfortably when you realize how close he's getting to your chest, the exact one you had just tried hiding the same night, "I-I'm sorry."
He mutters slightly, the unheard words warm in your ear, a small hum reverberating out of his chest as he presses an ear to yours.
You blink down at him, confused at his actions. He had started kissing you like he wanted to start something, but now it just looked like he was playing Doctor, "Tim?"
He peers up at you, blue eyes piercing into you, staring like he wasn't currently pressing up into your body like some sort of cat,
"Yea?"
You quirk an eyebrow, "What are you doing?"
He grins a bit, not at all giving anything away -if there was even anything, he had his quicks just like rest of his family- before moving back up to press a kiss to your temple. Hands sliding down to press his thumbs to your pulse points for a few seconds before pulling away,
"It's nothing baby don't worry about it." He pulls away, shifting off at you, "Did you go out?"
"No I just stayed in," You say off handedly, watching him begin to strip down to his boxers; freeing his no doubt sore muscles from his suit as he groans in relief, "Jessica is in Bludhaven for some school thing, so no one to really go out with."
He shrugs, "You could've just gone next door to Stephanie. She was off tonight."
You scoff, plopping down sideways onto the bed as your eyes rake down each line of his back, soaking him up, watching him glisten, "I am not asking your ex to go out with me to a club, that sounds like a threesome situation. No offense."
Tim snorts, "Just what kind of videos are you watching?"
"You already know." You tease, and you can practically hear him smirking, "The same ones as you."
His suit finally goes limp on the ground, pooling around his feet in a red puddle.
He sighs, body glistening with sweat when he stretches out. Each muscle twitching perfectly under the skin. Your eyes soak up the scene, and you hate how you feel something bitter shift in your stomach.
Tim fit most of the 'check-lists' for masculinity, body wise at least. He was short, yet he made up with it for how bulky he was. Each muscle worked and sculped to the bone from years of jumping around from rooftop to rooftop.
And from how your throat dries? How your stomach begins to flip? How you feel your teeth begin to knaw down into your bottom teeth?
You can't tell if you're feeling arousal or jealousy.
"Like what you see?" He taunts a little, grinning ear to ear; and you're acutely aware of the bed beginning to creak as he leans over you. Hand cemented by your head, supporting him.
"Yea." You offer what has to be a lame smile, because he's back to smothering you again. Each kiss a sweet reminder of his presence.
Tim hums, straddling one of your thighs so his leg was inside both of yours with ease, "Did you have another nightmare?"
A scoff leaves you, and you can't help but raise an eyebrow, "Who are you, Batman?"
"What did I say about calling me that." Tim groans, but you can feel a snort behind it as he dips down to your neck; trying to access the skin under your hoodie, "I have a much cooler name."
"You're interrogating me." You slightly pout, and he grumbles when you slap a hand on his forehead - forcefully pushing him up, "Why? What's with all the sudden questions?"
He paused, eyes chasing off, gaze scattering for a moment - and you can feel your heart rate pick up a bit when his face suddenly gets all too serious,
"There was a crime tonight..." Tim mutters, grabbing your wrist to press small kiss to the palm.
You wince, that sentence could mean that condiment man got loose again and put mustard instead of ketchup on somebodies hotdog, or that Joker had just blown up half the city again.
Hesitation laces your words, "What kind of crime?"
"This girl..." Tim pauses, and you know you've been doped when his dopey smirk comes on, "People have been saying she's been walking down the streets, stealing everyone's hearts tonight. Because she's just too pretty."
You can feel your face deadpan as he bursts into laughter, the only audience member in his own comedy club as you just lay there.
"You stole that from Dick," You mutter, trying to hide your embarrassment at being pranked as you push him off you, "Didn't you?"
He gasps, "Of course not!"
You huff.
"My own girlfriend, doesn't believe in my very own detective skills." Tim sighed, pressing a few more kisses up your jawline; and you can't help but sigh a little when he presses a deep and final one to your lips, "But since you're asking," he smirks against your mouth, "You smell like the make-up wipes you use after you go out, and your eyes are all red like when you're a sad drunk."
You blink at him and he snickers at your reaction.
"See, I'm good." Tim mutters, pressing a small peck to your lips, "I can figure anything out, just like how I can figure out..." he grins, eyes catching yours, "How you wearing my clothes in really turning me on right now."
A yelp flies through the air as he's suddenly yanking you to the edge of the bed by the ankles, hooking your legs on his shoulders as he's all too quick to kneel before you on the ground.
He's quick to work with you, kissing passionate, open kisses to the insides of your thighs; leaving you squirming, leaving you wanting. His grin practically tattoo's to the inner skin of your legs as he worked his way up, hands following his mouth before he's hooking onto the waist band of your pants.
"T-Tim-" You mutter weakly, hands stiff at your sides and his eyes gaze up to yours.
And you hope he doesn't notice.
You really hope he doesn't notice.
You really hope he doesn't notice how pale you have to look, how your teeth feel like their rattling in your jaw from how nervous you suddenly are, how your teeth are curled into your bottom lip.
You really hopes he doesn't see you stiffen, your hands tight and curled at your side instead of loosing yourself in his hair.
Because before this, it had been fine.
You had put off all your thoughts of unhappiness at your gender to the side, pushed away your questioning, thought you could turn it all off with a flick of a light switch.
But you couldn't.
And now your body just looked...
Wrong.
As wrong as the thoughts in your head.
And you really hoped he didn't notice.
But of course he did.
Because he's Tim Drake.
One of the best detectives in the world.
You could hear a pin drop.
You blink at his sudden stiffness, those bright eyes of his just staring at you in the dark before you shift up slightly; shimmying back on the bed when his hands fall.
"Tim?" You call out weakly, watching him finally blink out of his gear grinding haze, "You okay?"
He's all too quick to explain, "You're making that face."
You raise an eyebrow at him.
"Like when I wanted to take you grappling." Tim muttered, kissing a small peck to the inside of your knee, "You're doing the face you do when you don't want to do something."
"Tim-"
"No, you're tired." He leans forwards to press a small kiss to the soft of your stomach, "I'm sorry, I kept you up."
He groans as he stands, hands smoothing out your his pajama pants.
"W-Wait Tim-"
"It's fine, seriously." He says, his tone genuine and you can feel yourself practically relax - the shame still burning hot in your ears and you hope to hell he doesn't notice.
He interlaces his fingers with yours; pressing a searing kiss to each knuckle. Lips soft against your skin, curved into a smirk, "Not all of us have the late-night skills of an ass-kicking vigilante. Get some sleep, we'll go out for some coffee tomorrow."
You can only nod, not noticing how he's glancing back at you with every step.
"Babe."
You flinch when you suddenly feel a hand on your forearm, your latte clutched - untouched - in your hand. Tim's attention completely on you, leaning across the small circular table at the cafe you both like.
"You okay?"
Your coffee is long cold in your hand before you let go, "Yea, I'm sure." An easy smile rises to your face when you intertwine both of your fingers, "Is something wrong?"
Tim's brows do that thing, arching down at a barely regonizable 10 degree angle before he no doubt forces his expression back to complete normacy,
"No. Nothing."
His short words make you wince as he squeezes your hand, the skin warm and comforting against yours.
He looks at you head on, blunt but not unkind, "You've just been acting off, I just wanna make sure you're comfortable. That's all." He shrugs.
"Off?" You blink, feigning ignorance that you're praying he cant see through. All because you're squeezing his hand. All because you are off, because everything isn't alright, because you're lying straight to your boyfriends face, "Sorry, I didn't mean to make you worry." You sheepishly grin, "I guess with exams and everything I'm just a little more tired than usual."
Tim gaze wanders to look at a group of gossips nearby, and you can tell he's anaylzing something in his head before he's turning back towards you, "Is that why you were crying yesterday?"
Your heart staggers and you press a small kiss to his knuckle, "Yea, just calc and chemistry." You sigh quietly, "You know how it is."
He furrows his eyebrows a bit, "You're wearing a hoodie and sweatpants in 70 degree weather too."
"Tim," You're all to quick despite how your mouth goes dry, how your heart rate picks up, leaning in slightly, "Baby, I just didn't feel like doing my hair or makeup today. And you know I can't have a good outfit and a butter face."
Tim's eyebrows arch down, "Butter face? You don't have a butter face, you're gorgeous."
Your heart clenches in a way you don't like at that last word, "You know what I mean."
He hums, taking in your words, analyzing them, poking through them like some sort of interrogating scientist. All before he nods, seemingly okay with your answer, "Alright, don't push yourself. Burn out is real, you know? Will snatch you up like the Joker."
You can't help but snort, and you see him smirk right back, "Says you."
Pulling away, Tim finally seems content when you take a sip of your coffee. The silence that falls over you is a blanket of comfort now before your ears begin to trinkle in the voices of others.
"So she's not a model?" One girl squawked from a table a few ways away from you.
"I know right?" Another whispered, her keeping quiet skills all too rusty, "I searched her up when they started dated, because its Tim Drake, duh - and she's just a university student!"
"She's so pretty..." The first one murmured again, "She's like- perfect."
You put your coffee cup back down, the drink barely heating up your lips before you turn your head away; looking out a near-by window as you try and swallow down something you can't even chew.
Tim narrows his eyes.
Permanent?
'Permanency: Once your voice deepens, facial hair grows, or male-pattern baldness sets in, these traits will generally remain if you stop taking testosterone'
The words slowly churn in your brain as you scroll through the site, eyes flickering from word to word with a quiet intensity.
Potential pain during Sexual Intercourse, a second puperty, worse B.O., oiler skin, bad acne. Your hand runs over your face at the thought, scrolling through effects as little from facial hair to death from blood clots or even liver failure.
It feels like something is sitting at your chest, eating away at your heart as you read through the articles. Your nails chipped away at by your teeth.
If it was a phase, which it still could be - right? You could be bald for the rest of your life, get horrible acne which already took years to get rid of, and even die from something in your body just straight up shutting down.
And sex...
Tim wasn't shy about his needs or wants, only somewhat when trying new things; but he would break into your house sometimes just to do a quickie or give you oral.
You groan, thumb almost bleeding as you chew. So not only could you be bald with acne like a tween boy, not only could you take away your looks like your boyfriend loves so much, but you could also be unable to give him sex.
You can't even think about the risks with gender re-asignment surgery.
"Did Bruce Wayne die or something?"
Your gaze rises when the chewing across from you stops, Duke sitting there - for some reason slurping down his cereal.
"Or are you just getting nervous. Plotting to kill me or something?" He paused, "Answer the second one first..."
"Just exams..." You force out a breathy laugh, "I have a bunch this week and y'know, they're all kinda a big part of my grade."
"Tell me about it." Duke snorts, spoon clinking in his bowl, "Izzys been freaking the fuck out too. No matter how much I tell her she'll be fine."
"Yea." You agree off-handedly, making empty conversation, "I miss Izzy we'll all have to hang out again."
"Speaking of which." Duke plopped his spoon down, "Izzy wanted me to ask you if you'd be down for shopping together. She digs your clothes. Your look. Y'know, all that. Apparently your makeup is good or something." He shrugs, "Pinterest postable."
"Sure, we can go after finals, I'm kinda swamped right now - you get it. But when its all said and done..." You nod, giving him a small smile.
"Thanks, seriously." Duke licked his lips, "She's been freaking out a bit lately. She's never been into the whole makeup thing. Since she was in 'We Are Robin' she was out kicking ass rather than practicing normal kid stuff."
Your eyebrow quirks at that, "You don't need makeup to fit in."
"Yea. She knows. She like your glam though." Duke took a spoon full of mushy cheerios, "Says you're like the 'pinnacle' of femineity." He mutters, "Something like that."
You feel something in the back of your mind burn.
"Thinks your outfits are some vogue shit and stuff too." Duke rambles a little, perking up a bit, "She's pretty fucking into fashion and stuff like that. Or, trying to be. You-"
Duke can barely blink before you're out of the room, much less before your chair - the stool- clatters on the ground.
You barely look at Dick and Jason, accidentally hitting them on your dash up their stairs; shoulders bumping so quickly you almost teeter over. Barely getting an apology out before you're slamming Tim's door shut.
Silence.
Duke pokes his head out of the kitchen gingerly as his two fellow bats just stand there.
Jason snorted, "Nice job, Narrows."
"What the fuck did I do?" Duke threw his hands out, more flabbergasted than upset.
"Duke." Dicks voice creeped in, like he was debating something, "I would totally run for it, y'know. If you don't want to wake up with your phone hacked tomorrow. Your phone leaked on every prank site in Gotham." He grins, quirking an eyebrow, "Maybeeeee, before Timbo gets home?"
"Man, it's always fucking me." Duke groans, already on his way out, "Why is it always fucking me!?"
The door barely creaks open hours later, and you don't dare to move. You know who it is, it can only be one person. You're in his house, in his room, in his bed, in his clothes.
And he's on you.
The bed dips and his breathe is warm on your neck when he presses a kiss to your pulse point, a weak spot for you. You can barely think about what to say to him with how tight your chest is, how heavy your eyes feel, how dry you lips are when you press them together; so you don't say anything, staying quiet even as he hovers over you.
"Babe."
You freeze at how sure he sounds, and you already know it before he says it,
"I know you're awake." Tim sighs, muttering in your neck, "Your pulse is racing."
It's silent, deathly so, even eerie.
"Can you sit up and look at me?" He tries, voice going weak when he doesn't even see you flinch, "P-Please?"
His voice cracks and you can feel your heart break, your body slowly turning over to face him; and you can feel the worry raditating off of him.
"There you are." He jokes quietly, eyes soft as he looks at you. He motions his hands, but hesitates when he goes to touch you. Pausing before speaking, "Come on, sit up."
You do so, the worry evident enough on his face; evident enough to fuel your aching, tired, body to sit up. Yet you can't even face him, body facing the wall instead of him as he kneeled at your hip - weighing down the mattress.
His eyes look over you, scan you, analyze you like one of his cases - gaze not leaving you in the dark.
He doesn't take a moment, "You've been acting weird."
You open your mouth.
"And don't say its from exams again," He sounds desperate, pleading, and you can feel your gut churning in your stomach, "Please, please just- just talk to me. There's obviously something wrong."
You hesitate, voice quiet, "Tim-"
"You don't even have to tell me what it is," He pleads, voice shaky, "You don't even have to- to allude to anything. I can figure it out, you know I can. I've done if before, I'll do it again, if you'll let me. I'll hack into the deepest of data bases, I'll hack into the computers of the most dangerous men alive, I'll hack into the pentagon, I'll go on the wildest of goose chases - just for you. You don't even have to tell me a thing, just say the word. Just give me permission. I'll figure it out-"
"You can't-"
"I'll fix it." He says, words certain, "I'll fix it, I'll fix everything."
"It's not just-" You can't even look at him, voice watery when you turn your head away; hand shadowing your face, hiding you from the world, your world, from him, "You can't just hack it away, i-it's not something you can fix."
He's quiet, firm, "Then I'll learn how to fix it."
You squeeze your eyes shut, crying, "You can't."
His voice cracks now, "Why?"
"Because its not fixable!" You snap, and you can feel the blanket taunt under you when his fingers curl into it, "It can't be fixed its just-"
"Everything can be fixed. Everything can be fixed. Everything." Tim pushed, eyebrows furrowing, "Even- Even if it doesn't seem like it, with time, with love, with you and me together, everything can- will be fixed." He sighs, "It'll be fine, that's what I promised when I started dating you isn't it? I can't back out now, I won't."
"Tim its not that simple." You groan, irritation bumbling up under your skin. Not at him- no never at him. At yourself, at your sheer selfishness. Your selfishness for feeling this way, your selfishness for making him worry, "I can't just- you wouldn't understand-"
"You don't think I'd understand?" He mutters, pursing his lips - and this sudden look of determination crosses his face, "Show me your arms."
You falter, voice going flat; and you almost laugh, you almost laugh, "Are you fucking serious?"
Tim groans, almost tearing the hair out of his head, "How can I not be?!"
"You seriously think its that?!"
"Even if it isn't, I'm asking you to trust me! Please!" He sucks in a breathe, taking a moment to calm himself; hand running down his face, "Please." He's quiet now, like he's whispering a secret to you, "You know I'd never force you to say or do anything, you know I wouldn't do anything to ever make you uncomfortable." He paused, "Unless it meant protecting you." He grimaces, "So please, just show me. Don't make me get on my computer. Don't make me snoop around. Don't make me stalk around for weeks just to find out. Don't make me do this. So just show me."
Silence.
He barely breathes, "Trust me."
A pause.
You hear him release a held breathe, scrambling back to stand in front of you as you scoot to the end of the bed. Sitting on its edge.
There's hesitation when you realize you're not wearing a shirt, or even a sports bra -your go to these days- but you silently peel his sweatshirt off your figure. Kicking off his pants awkwardly.
The fabric pools together like a wet puddle next to your feet, and your hands come up to do an 'x' across your chest - covering yourself, covering something that feels shameful, like it's not supposed to be there.
He doesn't waste even a moment, and he quickly pushes forwards, working through his obvious hesitation given the context of the situation. Eyes grazing over your chest in concern for a moment, confusion, heartbreak at how your suddenly covering yourself from him. Before he probably realizes that's not his course of direction right now.
Apologies, shuddering ones, fall quietly from his lips as he examines every inch of your skin. Scanning. Carving his gaze into your cells. Like if he didn't look ten times over he would miss something.
He moves from your shoulders, to your collarbone, to your stomach, to your navel, to your thighs. By the end of it, he's kneeling in front of you, head plopping down on your closed knees in relief. You can practically feel his sweat seeping onto you, pooling. His lips grazing your skin as he whispers tiny, 'thank gods' into it.
You don't miss a beat when he finally raises his head, gaze searching yours at - and you can barely look at him.
"Is it your family? Your friends?" Tim says quietly, eyebrows arched down in a quiet plea, "Me?"
"I'm fine." You mutter bluntly, eyes wet and avoidant.
"School?" He rakes over your form, "Did I hurt you during sex? Did I say something wrong? Did I do something wrong?"
"Tim-"
"You know I'll change anything-"
"Tim!" You snap, your heart squeezing in your rips.
And you hate it.
You hate how loving he is, no matter how you act, no matter what you do. You hate how he thinks every problem in your relationship is himself. You hate how he's on his knees, on his knees begging you for answer, begging you to trust him. You hate how you're slowly chipping away at him, slowly chipping away at his character with your own selfishness.
"Is it-" He swallows a lump in his throat, looking up at you with those warm, loving, eyes, "Is it your body? Your face? Is that why you've been doing your makeup at 3 AM? Is that why you were crying when I came home? Is that why your heart was racing, did someone say something mean to you? Is that why you're covering yourself?"
You swallow.
He shifts,
"You-" he shifts, concern gnawing at him, "Are the most beautiful girl in the world-"
"I don't want to be!" You sob, the tension in your head finally snapping as your tears fall; curling down your face, "What if I don't wanna be the most beauitful girl in the world?!"
He just stares at you.
And so you're just sitting there, wailing. Crying and sobbing while you're sitting there only in your underwear, with a crazy sense of bed head. Tim kneeling infront of you, and you're not in the best state of mind right now - but you're fairly certain if anyone walked in, they'd say to send you to Arkham.
You wail, "Y-You hiccup don't u-under- hiccup-"
Tim can barely understand you through your blubbering, or that's what you think. Because he's just sitting there, kneeling infront of you like some sort of devoted believer, staring up at you with those wide confused eyes. And your heart feels like its shattering into a million pieces.
Because now you're certain this is the last night he will ever love you.
Because all the pent up emotions, the ones that began to bleed through the depths of your mind days ago, weeks ago, years ago begin to resurface. All the thoughts, all the doubts you've ever had, they're swirling in your head, swimming, running, like a wretch to a finely tuned set of gears.
How you felt like you were going through a phase where you were a tom-boy in 3rd grade. How you forced femineity on yourself to finally get along with the other girls, so the boys would stop bullying you, so you would finally fit in. How you used to scroll through videos, through sub-reddits, envying all the people who completely passed as their true gender. As their true selves - having the freedom to do so, the courage. How you almost transitioned back in 2020 during the pandemic, only to push it off as a 'cringey second phase' before pushing your basket ball shorts aside and buying yet another stick of water proof mascara.
"Hey, hey-" Tim shushed.
And thats when you realized you said it all outloud.
He's quick, rushing to wipe the tears and drool thats blubbering all over your face. Hands firm as they press into your tearducts, not even flinching before sullying his own fingers with your spit.
"I- hiccup- ruin every- hiccup- everyt-thing-" You cry, trying to wipe the tears from your face. He catches your fingers instead, cradling them in his.
Tim doesn't even frown, not even a dash of disappointment on his face as you wailed. He just sat there, grounding you with his hands, with just his mere Prescence, really. Fingers tapping twice against the back of your hands before morphing into a soothing rub, trying to calm you.
"M'-" you sniffle, "M' such a- hiccup- bother-"
A sharp exhale left him, gentle, quiet - disbeliving in your words,
"You're not bothering me," The words are simple, but they naw at your heart when he says them, "I'm always here for you. I just wish you knew that."
Because he's Tim.
Your Tim.
And when his hands curl around yours tighter, comforting - not confining - squeezing? You want to break down all over again.
"I-I am though, you're always talking about how when you first saw me - how it was love at first sight." You rambled, sobbing, "I don't want to be bald, and sexless, and have blood clots, and heart problems before I'm thirty- because that would be so fucking stupid!"
He pauses, words low yet steady, "You're talking about Testosterone."
"W-What if I wake up one day and decide it was all a m-mistake?" You don't even try to stop the tears now, "Fuck- Fuck- what if I wake up and feel like this all over again, just- and I just want to be a girl again? It would be s-so- so stupid- so-"
You sniffle, and he just sits there, listening,
"I'm just so scared." You finally mumble, you finally admit it, "About everything."
"I know..." He says after a moment, hands sliding up to cradle either side of your face, "Not that exactly-" He sighs, "But- I get it. The fear?" His voice is quiet, "All my years as Red Robin- Hell, my whole life. I have spent every day. Every night. Every hour pretending that everything is fine. Because that's what the Drakes did. Because thats what the Waynes do. That's what the bats do." He stands, pressing a kiss to your forehead, "But not you. You're different. You're you. And that's why I love you. I love how soft you are. I love how strong you are. I love how kind you are. I love you. Not some image of you. So even if you're bald, even if you have ten heart conditions? I'm still going to be right there." He sighs, scoffing a bit, "Because the chance for even having those is barely over 20 percent by the way."
"It'll still be different." You mutter, words wet when he presses your foreheads together.
"No. It wont." Tim pushed, "You wont be stupid, or anything less to than everything to me." He breathes in your scent, taking in it, not even minding your messy hair, "You'll just finally be you. You'll be the real you. You'll be the real you, who's hiding under all that makeup and jewelry." He pulls you into his chest, hugging you tight like you'd suddenly just vanish, like you're a thing to cherish, "And it you do wake up one day and decide its all bullshit, if you wake up and decide differently. We'll figure it out together." He snorts softly, "Even if you are balder than Alfred."
You can't help but giggle at that last part, his heartbeat helping to steady your mind before he's leaning down; kissing away all the dried tears from your face, licking away the salt.
"Besides," He leans down, begin to kiss down your neck; nuzzling into you so you're chest to chest, "How many times have I told you to test your hypothesis." A click of the tounge, a smirk, "You can't keep jumping to conclusions."
"That doesn't count." You huff, voice still crackly and he presses a soft kiss to your mouth, "There was no way to test this one."
He grins against your lips, "Only bad scientists say that. Looks like you still have a lot of training. Baby Bird."
You huff, weakly pushing him back yet he goes anyways.
Tim bounds to his computer after pulling away, pouncing into his chair and spinning around a few times before locking in. Pulling up to his computer.
"What are you doing?" You slur a little, tired from your sudden outburst - yet content, settled.
"Doing some research for my handsome boyfriend of course," And he grins when you flush at his words, "Get dressed. We'll buy you some clothes right now."
"I don't have any money..." You mumble sheepishly, watching him quirk an eyebrow at you.
He shakes his head, shit eating grin reaching his face, "Just because you're a guy, doesn't mean you're paying. Not for this. Not for coffee. Not for anything." He swings around as you pull on his sweatshirt, "Bruce is paying!"
__________
Alfred clears his throat, "Goldfish, sir."
A low sound resonates in Bruces chest, sighing as he chose his next move.
Alfred smirks at his next card, "Very well Sir, lets see how well you fend against-"
Bruce head snaps around.
Alfred raises an eyebrow, "Sir? Sha'll I fetch the Bat-mobile?"
✭warnings: dysphoria, content 18+, FTM reader, male pronouns, sweet nicknames.
✭synopsis: if there's one thing Jason doesn't like, it's hearing his boyfriend talk badly about himself,so he has to take care of his boyfriend to make sure that his boyfriend doesn't talk such nonsense anymore.
"no, don't look away" Jason said as he held you on his lap in front of the mirror "look in the mirror, see how your little boy pussy is being so greedy and swallowing my cock" he said with a thrust, making you roll your eyes in pleasure, Jason had been overstimulating your pussy for too long, preventing you from reaching your climax, he's your boyfriend and he heard you making negative and nasty comments about yourself in front of the mirror, so as a good boyfriend he did what he needed to do.
"eyes. in. the. mirror" he punctuated each word with a thrust "where's my good boy obeying me?" he said taking his fingers to your lips and forcing them inside, receiving a moan from you that was muffled by his fingers. "oh my poor boy can't speak, this is good for you to learn to stop belittling yourself" he said kissing his neck and leaving hickeys "you know what I see? a beautiful boy who just needs to have his brain drunk on my cock to forget his bad thoughts"
he said giving one more thrust to affirm his words, then he moved the hand that was on your lips to your clit, he started rubbing lazy circles, looking in the mirror you were a mess with tears dripping from your eyes, drool running down your chin, your pussy red and swollen from Jason's thrusts and the smug smile on his face.
"who's my pretty boy?" Jason asked, looking into his eyes through the reflection of the mirror, the smile never leaving his lips.
"I am" came from his lips, dragged by his movement, his cock hitting the sweet spot in his pussy. "That's right you are, now be a good boy and cum on my cock you're allowed to but don't close your eyes, keep them on the mirror so you can see how beautiful you look when you cum."
with his words and the thrusts now becoming sloppy on your sweet spot the hand on your swollen and overstimulated clit was all you needed to finally climax, looking at yourself in the mirror as you came Jason's smile as he saw your mouth open and a loud moan dragging from your lips.
"good boy, my beautiful, perfect boy, you've learned that you can't talk badly about yourself, talk badly about my perfect boy" he waited for your reply before finally kissing your lips and laying you down on the bed with him being the biggest spoon. "Get some sleep, I'll run you a hot bath with your lavender bath salts," he said, kissing your neck and humming in response.
This is a small ramble about Clark Kent and ftm!reader!
Uh I think no proof read, still hella dyslexic so if you find any mistake don't be afraid to tell me!
MDNI
Warnings!- shower sex, cuddling too, uh probably bad sex scene because its my first time putting my imagination to paper so, sorry guys 😭🥺😞
You and Clark were out shopping, looking for more of your favorite body wash and maybe some more masculine smelling things. That's when you saw it, Superman scented soap, appropriately named 'Man of Tomorrow', omg you couldn't believe it! As you giggle and start to laugh as you look at it, Clark drops whatever he's doing and tilts his head in confusion. Walking over to you, he sees what you're looking at, and oh boy does this boy go red.
You pick it up, looking at what the scent was supposed to be, bright citrus and cosmos. You smirk, wickedly as you turn to him, showing it off, "I want this one" you hum. Clark stares at you, blushing and shifting awkwardly, "Really? That one? Why?" he laughs a little at the end, "I don't know! It's a funny image to imagine, me washing myself with your soapy essence" you practically purr at him, having to much fun watching him squirm and blush. You pause, a more twisted and smug smile, "Wanna help me test it out? See if it really smells like you after?~" Clark can't help the flame of red that goes up his neck to his ears and cheeks, "Wha-uh I mean, I'd have to be an idiot to turn down such a sweet offer?" His smile is soft as he walks closer, holding you by the waist, you giggle and smile back, leaning your head on his shoulder, "Sweet, let's check out!" You seem way to exited to get home and get him in the shower
Nsfw under cut if you'd like it :3
You're back has started aching from being pressed against the shower wall to long, but it's so fucking worth it!
Clark's got your legs a bit higher, almost touching your chest but not fully, gotta think of your safety first. He has his face buried in your neck, huffing and kissing you neck. His cock buried deep in you, hitting every right spot as he pounds you into the wall, your head resting on the wall as you let everything slip out. "Does it compare to me now?" He mumbles against your ear, god it sent shivers down your spine as your thighs jerk, "No! You're-hpmp better! Always better" you pant out, speaking as he bites done on your neck. His grip on your thighs tightens as he grows closer to climax, but he'd never leave you unsatisfied. He repossessions both of you, holding you by the waist as you wrap your thighs around his midsection, his free hand wanders up from your thigh to you t-dick, lightly stroking as he traps your mouth into a strong kiss, taking the air from your lungs as he strokes you, trapping your delicious moan between his lips. All of this seems to catch up to your body, the hot water, Clark, your thighs shake as your body spasms, letting out a whale of a moan as Clark let's your lips free. Wrapping your arms around his neck as you ride out your high, "God you always sound so pretty for me" he hums as he speeds up, chasing his own climax as you teasingly cheer him on, matching his thrusts. Once he finally cums, he presses his entire body into you, trapping you between him and the wall, he growls as he feels himself inside of you, but as your both coming down from the high, you feel something fall onto your shoulder, it spooked you, squeezing Clark inside of you, making him squeak, 'Oh how cute! But wtf!?' You look at your shoulder....'is that fucking tile!?' You look up a bit to see Clark's hand on the wall. Oh my god! He broke the section of tile, you burst out laughing, pointing it out to him, he's never looked so embarrassed! Aw, it really is so cute
You're cuddling in bed, he's always been so good with aftercare makes you feel so loved, you sigh happily as you burry yourself into him, the silence is nice, but the you snicker, "you broke the tile, omg" he's never living this down!
NSFW minors do not interact/read, ftm!reader, 430 words.
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Thinking about Jason cockwarming your strap while you work…
Jason, after a terrible patrol the night before, waking up the moment you leave the bed. You normally let him sleep in while you make yourself breakfast and leave for work, but he drags himself into the kitchen with you, draping himself over you and hugging you in a way that lets you feel the residual tension in his body. He pressed his face into the back of your shoulder and mumbles about how he needs you.
You can’t leave your sweet boy alone like this, can you? Not when he’s clearly so needy.
You shoot off an email from your phone to your workplace, explaining that you need to work from home today. They allow it; whatever gets the job done. In Gotham, people can be bed bound for any number of reasons. It’s not their concern as to why.
You beckon Jason into your home office and he follows like an obedient pup. You swear you can see a tail wagging behind him when you tell him to stay there only to return with your harness on and a strap attached.
He crawls on his knees beneath your desk without you even needing to ask, lips parted obediently, sea green eyes all soft and sweet and reverent as he looks up at you. He moans in a way that makes your cunt ache as you gently feed the strap past his lips, eyes fluttering closed as he hugs onto one of your legs.
It’s hard to work with such a pretty distraction between your thighs but you make it work, getting through the menial tasks for the day, occasionally taking a break to lavish your sweetheart with attention. You comb your fingers through his hair, hearing his quiet hums and moans around your strap, watch as he lifts his head from your thigh a little to look up at you as if you’re a god. His god.
Because you are. You’re his boyfriend, yes, but you’re so much more. You’re his world, his life, his everything. He’d gladly stay here for an eternity, sucking on your dick until his brain is completely quiet, until the static in his veins settles into a buzz of contentment.
And when your work is done? Well, then you’ll make sure to give Jason the nice, deep fucking he deserves, until any lingering thoughts escape him and he’s all boneless and pliant beneath you with that blissed out look on his face that only you get to see. But for now, this is enough.
Please please please please make more headcanons about Bane x ftm reader,maybe some angst,hurt/comfort ones where reader is feeling extremely dyshorphic (I hope I spelt that right),maybe even because his family is transphobic and hurt him,and Bane comforts reader.
I'm asking this bc I myself am a trans man,and my own family is transphobic,and I'm going trought a very,very bad time and feeling like doing something really bad,so it would help me a lot to get some headcanons for one of my favourite characters.
Thank you very much,and sorry for bad English,love from Italy❤
Bane x FTM reader
Headcanons
I'm really sorry you are going through that anon, life can truly be a struggle sometimes, especially when those close to us don't support us, but we can get through this. I believe in you.
Hello Italy, ive only been once, but I enjoyed it a lot.
Find part 1 and 2 here.
Bane as stated before is an extremely intelligent guy, but even he seems to struggle when it comes to very emotional situations and how to cope.
Hes like Batman in that way, both of them are emotionally constipated and have grown up suppressing their feelings and desires for a goal, but seeing you struggling with dysphoria and family causes Bane to start looking into it.
Up until this point, Bane would have mostly looked into psychology for ways to torment his enemies and psychoanalyze them, but now he looks up how to help you where he can.
Bane isn't the kind of meathead to just punch your problems, but, he can if you want. For the most part he will go the psychological warfare way.
Everyone experiences dysphoria in different ways, so there are different ways to cope with it, and Bane will observe you for a good while to figure out how you deal with it best.
Being who he is, Bane is also able to step in and help in many ways when it comes to your body. Like, let's say you wanna get on hormones or get top surgery, or look more masculine, then Bane will know what to do.
But if you just want comforting, then he can do that too. He may not be the best at words, at least in the beginning, but he will be there to hold you and tell you that he loves you, and that you will always be a man in his eyes.
If your dysphoria stems from your family and their transphobic actions, I see Bane being very angry. Not at you, of course, but at your family and circumstances.
His reaction will depend a lot on you though. If you want to cut off your family, then he is more than happy to help you do that. If you want to stay in contact, he will also support you, but warn you about keeping your distance for your own safety.
No matter what, Bane will support you and be there in his own way, even if hes locked away in Arkham for a good part of your relationship.
Honestly, I can see him breaking out of Arkham if you show up looking worse to wear and express that your family have been transphobic and mistreating you again.
What will he do? Again, up to you. Anything from causing chaos to just going home with you and comforting you.
He gets a lot better with words as time goes on too, so he knows just what to say after a while.
Bane also has a lot of personal experience with struggle, he may not know exactly what you are going through, but he has gone through a lot of stuff himself, and knows how hard it can be. And that sometimes, we just need someone to love us and be there for us.
