just to hear your voice (300 words) by katachresis
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: DCU (Comics)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Tim Drake & Kon-El | Conner Kent, Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent
Characters: Tim Drake (DCU)
Additional Tags: Mentioned Kon-El | Conner Kent, Tim Drake-centric (DCU), Phone Calls & Telephones, Late Night Conversations, Pre-Reboot, Angst, During Canon, Canon Compliant, Missing Scene, Triple Drabble, Counted Word Fic, Ambiguous Relationships, maybe the love is romantic maybe the love is platonic and it's not gay to say you miss your bro
Do you think it'd be gay if I called you up every night while I'm in bed just 'cause I missed you that bad, bro?
(Posting this little triple drabble I wrote ages ago but never posted as a low effort way of acknowledging Tim’s birthday. Happy birthday, Tim! Sorry the date snuck up on me. But hey, at least I acknowledged the birthday?)
I posted a thing. It's not the thing anyone following me would've expected, but I posted something so I should take it as a win? Yay!
authors note: I heard you loud and clear people. While many of you guys were iffy about the male reader cheating on Dick, at the end of the day, this is fiction and I make the rules (lower your pitchforks, I still love you guys.) So, this will have the reader be with both Jason and Dick, and no, there won't be sex occurring between Jay and Dick. I find it kinda weird since Bruce adopted them both (and in my head that makes them related/family.) Anyways, Jason and Dick are not backing off and eventually come to an agreement that sharing is best since you are confused and it's better than you leaving both of them. Expect fighting between both Robins and just them getting their claws out to fight for their man. I love being messy!!!!!!
Jason woke up with a dull ache in his back and hips, which was not unusual, given how he slept on the couch half the time. Then yesterday hit him like a flood.
The fight. The confession. The way you’d said I think I love you too with your forehead pressed to his as you fucked him on the sofa. The way you’d held him afterwards like he was important and worth being careful with.
Jason didn’t open his eyes, because logically, you were gone. That was how this was meant to go, right? You’d slipped away before dawn, got back to the manor, back to being Dick's perfect boyfriend, and Jason was left with nothing but the smell of you and the task of cutting you out of his chest.
He was contemplating whether to stay on the couch and drink his feelings into submission when something soft brushed his lips.
A kiss.
Jason jerked, eyes flying open in panic, and found you leaning over the back of the couch, your hand braced beside his head. You were already dressed, in his shirt and a pair of worn pajama bottoms he’d shoved into the back of his closet months ago.
Domestic. Comfortable. Like you belonged here.
“Hey,” you said, a little sheepish, like you’d woken him from a nap instead of a path down self-loathing. “I felt kinda gross when I woke up. Hope you don’t mind me stealing some clothes.”
Jason hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until it left him in a rush. “You’re still here.”
You raised a brow. “Where else would I be?”
“Home,” he said bluntly, then winced at his own choice of word. “I mean the manor. With Dick.”
Something flickered in your eyes. Guilt, maybe, or the weight of the day ahead. You sighed and swung your leg over the back of the couch, effectively dropping yourself over Jason. With you looking down at him, Jason managed to glimpse at your collarbone, which was marked from where his mouth had been yesterday.
“If I wanted to run back like nothing happened, I wouldn’t have stayed the night.”
He swallowed. “People stay the night and still don’t mean it.”
“Yeah, but I’m not ‘people,’ Jay.”
You leaned in and kissed him again, your hand resting at his jaw. Jason melted before he could stop himself, one hand coming up to rest on your waist, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt clinging to you.
You pulled back with a small smile. “I made coffee.”
He blinked, then snorted. “You made coffee?”
“Okay, put on the coffee machine. Also, I found eggs. That pan is a war crime, by the way, but I’m handling it.”
Jason pushed himself upright slowly, still blinking like his brain was trying to reboot. “You cooked?”
“Trying to,” you re-iterated, standing to stretch. The hem of his shirt lifted a little and he looked away quickly, ears burning. “Come before the apartment burns down.”
He followed you to the kitchen on autopilot. The place didn’t look all that different, but somehow it felt different. There were two mugs on the counter. Bread in the toaster. You at the stove, stirring scrambled eggs with a focus that made his chest twist.
You moved around his too small kitchen like you’d done it a hundred times. When he passed behind you to grab plates, you leaned back without thinking, your shoulder brushing his chest. His arm automatically circled your waist, pulling you closer for a second.
“Careful, hot pan.” you mumbled, but you relaxed fully into him, your free hand squeezing his forearm.
His chin found your shoulder without him deciding it. “You’re unreal.” he muttered.
“How so?”
“You’re in my kitchen. Wearing my clothes. Making my tiny piece of shit apartment feel like…” He trailed off, chest tight. “I don’t know. Like it’s more than a hell hole.”
You went quiet for a moment, then turned the stove off and shifted in his arms to face him. “Maybe it is more than a hell hole,” you said softly. “At least to me.”
The urge to kiss you again was overwhelming. So he did.
You smiled against his mouth, kissing him back like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like this—you and him, morning light and mismatched mugs and eggs that were probably overcooked—wasn’t borrowed, doomed happiness.
You both ate on the couch, legs pressed together, the TV off, the quiet oddly cozy. Jason watched you more than he ate. The way you held the mug with both hands. The way you wrinkled your nose at the taste but kept drinking anyway. The way, every so often, your fingers would find his knee or his arm or his hand like you couldn’t not touch him.
It was everything he’d wanted. It was everything he was terrified to lose.
And then your phone rang. Dick's name flashing across the screen.
Jason watched you turn your phone face down, a small, defiant gesture that made his heart ache with a dangerous mix of hope and terror. He wanted to believe you. God, he wanted to believe you so badly it felt like his ribs were cracking open from the force of it. But the voice in his head, the one that sounded suspiciously like his father and the Joker and every single person who had ever left him, was screaming.
This is a dream. A beautiful, cruel dream. Wake up, Todd!
The silence after the phone stopped ringing was heavy. You were still looking at him, your expression earnest, but Jason couldn't see it anymore. All he could see was the inevitable future: you walking out that door, the scent of you fading from his pillows, the phantom warmth of your body on his couch turning cold.
"Sure," Jason said, his voice suddenly flat, all the softness from moments before evaporating. "Whatever you say."
You frowned, sensing the shift immediately. "Jason, what's wrong?"
He forced a laugh, a harsh, ugly sound that grated on his own ears. "What's wrong? You're sitting here talking about 'moments' and 'what we have' while your boyfriend is blowing up your phone. You're acting like this is some…some choice you get to make. Like you're not just slumming it before you go back to your golden boy."
"Slumming it?" you repeated, hurt flashing across your face. "Is that what you think this is?"
"What else am I supposed to think?" he shot back, pushing himself off the couch and putting distance between them. He needed to move, to pace, to do something with the frantic energy buzzing under his skin.
"You're not going to leave him. We both know that. So what is this? A pity fuck? A way to soothe your conscience before you go back and tell him it was all a big mistake?"
"It wasn't a mistake!" you insisted, standing up too. "I told you I love you."
"And I told you I love you too!" He stopped pacing and turned to face you, his eyes wild.
"I've been in love with you since I was fifteen! Since you were the only person at the manor who looked at me like I wasn't a broken, angry replacement! And now you're here, in my apartment, wearing my clothes, telling me everything I've ever wanted to hear, and it's perfect. It's so fucking perfect it has to be a lie, because people like me don't get perfect!"
He'd said too much. He'd shown you the raw, ugly desperation he kept locked away.
"So you need to leave," he said, his voice dropping to a low, weary monotone. He couldn't look at you. If he looked at you, he'd break. "Just go. Go back to Dick. Don't even bother with the big confession. Just tell him you stayed at a friend's. Let's just…let's just pretend this never happen."
"Jason, but I—"
"Please," he whispered, the single word a raw plea. "Just go. Don't make me watch you choose him. Don't make me be the second choice again. Just let me…let me have this. The memory of you here. Let me have that before you ruin it."
The front door opened then closed with a soft click that echoed the sound of his heart breaking. Jason sank onto the couch, the spot where you'd just been sitting still warm. He buried his face in his hands and let the self loathing wash over him. He'd pushed you away. He'd always known he would.
TIME SKIP
The walk back to Dick's apartment was a blur. You felt numb, Jason's words echoing in your head. People like me don't get perfect. You had broken him. You had taken his fragile hope and crushed it with your own cowardice.
Dick’s apartment felt wrong before you even knocked.
You’d been here hundreds of times. After patrol, for movies, to crash in his bed and pretend the world didn’t exist. Usually, just standing outside the door made something in you loosen. Today, everything in you was tight.
The door opened before you could knock.
Dick stood there in sweats and a t-shirt, hair mussed like he’d been running his hands through it all morning. His eyes flicked over you once, and whatever greeting he’d been formulating died on his tongue.
“You smell like smoke,” he said flatly. “and cheap soap.”
You swallowed. “Can I come in?”
He stepped aside mechanically. “I think you’d better.”
You walked in. The living room felt colder, the sunlight through the windows too harsh. Dick closed the door with quiet finality. “Where were you last night?” he asked, skipping every pretense of small talk.
"With Jason." No point in lying.
His jaw flexed. “Were you drinking?”
“No.”
“Drugged?”
You stared at him. “No.”
His eyes were dark when they met yours. “Did he touch you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you want him to?”
You held his gaze. “Yes.”
Dick laughed. A sharp, humorless sound. “Okay,” he said, nodding too fast. "Okay. So he what, cried? Play the victim? Tell you how sad and lonely he is? How no one understands him? He's always been good at that. Making people feel sorry for him—"
“Stop.” Your voice cut across his neatly. “This isn’t his fault.”
“He’s had a crush on you since he was a teenager.”
“And I knew that when I walked into his apartment,” you shot back. “Jason didn’t manipulate me. He didn’t drug me. He didn’t trick me. I went to him. I kissed him. I chose what happened.”
Dick stared at you like you’d slapped him. “You’re saying you cheated on me. Freely.”
“Yes.”
He flinched at the word, the honesty slicing deeper than even the betrayal. “Why?”
You inhaled, steadying yourself. “Because I haven’t been happy, Dick.”
His expression twisted. “That’s bullshit. We’ve been fine. You—you laugh with me, you sleep in my bed, you come over after patrol—”
“That’s routine. Not happiness.”
His hands curled into fists. “So he makes you happy?”
You shut your eyes for a moment then opened them. “Yes.”
Something wild flashed across his face. “He’s using you to get to me, Y/N. Can't you see that?”
Your patience snapped. “Dick, for once, this isn’t about you. This is about me and about what I feel.”
“And what is it that you feel for him? Do you seriously want to throw everything we've built over one night of pity sex with the perpetual fuck up that is my brother?"
“It wasn’t pity sex,” you hissed. “And don’t call him that.”
Dick’s temper finally slipped off its leash. “He’s always wanted what I have! The mantle, the name, my boyfriend. You think it’s a coincidence you ran to him after we fought? He’s been waiting for this—”
“He told you he wouldn’t cross that line,” you cut in. “He did the right thing for years. You’re the one who never believed him.”
“That’s because he wanted you!”
“And you didn’t?” you snapped. “Is your desire for me somehow purer that his? Less dangerous? Let's remember how we even got together, Dick. You remember that night? After the Joker? After everything fell apart? You cornered me in the training room. You told me if I didn't give you a chance, you'd lose it. That you needed something to hold onto because you feared you'll lose yourself among the madness."
Dick's face went white, the anger draining away to be replaced by something far more chilling. A cold, calculated stillness. "That was different."
"How?" you challenged, your own anger fueling you. "Because you were the 'golden boy'? Because your pain was more valid?"
"Because I love you! Not like him. Whatever he feels, it's twisted. It's obsession. He wants to own you to spite me. What we have is real. It's built on something good."
"Is it? Or is it built on you being terrified of being alone? Of not being the center of someone's world?"
The accusation hit its mark. Dick's composure shattered completely. He crossed the space between you in two strides, his hands gripping your upper arms so tightly you knew you'd have bruises tomorrow.
"You think you know me?" he hissed, his face inches from yours, his eyes burning with a feverish intensity. "You think you know anything about what I feel? I have watched you for years. I know how you take your coffee, I know which side of the bed you prefer, I know the exact way your eyes crinkle when you're trying not to laugh. I know you better than you know yourself."
"Dick," you struggled, but his grip was like iron.
"I have given you everything!" he continued, his voice rising with a frantic edge. "A home, safety, my heart! And you throw it away for him? For the broken, bitter shadow of a boy who has nothing left to give but his misery?"
"He loves me."
"And I don't?!" he shook you slightly. "I would die for you! I would kill for you! What has he ever done but bleed all over everyone who gets close to him?"
He finally let go, shoving you back slightly. He began to pace the room, running his hands through his hair, his movements agitated, almost manic.
"This is fixable," he muttered, more to himself than to you. "I can forgive you. I will forgive you. Because I love you more than he ever could."
He stopped and turned to you. His smile was gentle, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Here's what's going to happen. You're going to forget him. You're going to block his number. You're going to tell Bruce you need a transfer to a different city for a while, just to get some 'space'." He air-quoted the word, his expression dripping with condescension.
"You'll come live with me. We'll burn that shirt you're wearing. We'll pretend this never happened, and in a few months, you'll barely remember he even existed."
"And if I refuse?"
"You won't. Because you know, deep down, that I'm right. I'm the one who can give you the world. I'm the one who loves you enough to not let you ruin your life over a mistake."
He wrapped his hands around your neck, his thumbs pressing gently against your pulse points. "You're shaking. Don't be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you. I could never hurt you. I'm the one who protects you. Who takes care of you."
He leaned in, his face so close to yours that you could see the tiny flecks of gold in his blue eyes. "Jason can't protect you. He can barely protect himself. He's damaged goods and you know it. You'd be throwing yourself away on broken pieces."
His thumbs stroked the sensitive skin of your neck. "But me? I'm whole. And I want to give you everything. The apartment, the life, the future we planned. All you have to do is say yes."
Before you could answer, his mouth was on yours. It wasn't the desperate, angry kiss you expected. It was patient, almost reverent. His lips moved against yours with ease, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth until you parted for him with a gasp.
The kiss deepened, and despite everything—despite the betrayal, the manipulation, the terrifying possessiveness—you found yourself responding. Dick had always been a good kisser, and he knew exactly how to unravel you.
"See?" he murmured against your lips, pulling back just enough to speak. "We fit together. We always have."
His hands slid from your neck to your waist, pulling you flush against him. "This doesn't have to be the end. It can be the beginning. A stronger beginning, because now we know what we're fighting for."
His mouth found yours again, more insistent this time. One hand moved up to tangle in your hair, holding you in place as he kissed you with an intensity that bordered on violent. When he finally pulled away, you were breathless, your lips swollen and tingling.
Dick's eyes were dark with satisfaction.
"I forgive you," he whispered, his forehead resting against yours. "I've already forgiven you. All you have to do is accept it." His thumb stroked your cheek, his touch deceptively gentle. "Please say you'll stay with me. Say you'll choose me."
You opened your mouth, but no words came out. The choice felt impossible, like being asked to choose between drowning and burning.
Hey friends sorry it’s taking me a while to update the recs again and write my own stuff, I really do want to believe me but I’m not doing so great atm so it’s difficult to sit down and do what I want to do
authors note: I really enjoyed writing about de-aged Bucky Barnes, so I thought 'huh, what if Dick was de-aged by one of Joker's pranks, but instead of keeping his memories, he's literally a kid.' Like, yeah, he knows the basic info, but other than that, nothing. So while the rest of the batfam is protecting Gotham and finding an antidote for Dick, he male reader is tasked as Dick's babysitter. Anyways, hope you get the vision and like the fic!
synopsis: You were nursing a massive headache, your nose was clogged and your strength was non-existent. So the universe thought it would be hilarious to de-age your boyfriend Dick and make you his babysitter.
Of course. Just your luck. The day you fell down with a nasty cold was the day your boyfriend suffered the after effects of one of the Joker's gas. You were still half convinced this had to be a fever dream. Because surely, surely, the universe wasn’t cruel enough to line up both disasters on the same day.
Your nose was stuffed. Your throat burned. Your head felt like someone had stuffed cotton into your skull and then shaken it like a snow globe. You were wrapped in a hoodie despite the mild weather outside, and the cold medicine you’d taken earlier had done absolutely nothing except make you slightly dizzy.
So when you walked into manor and saw the scene in the living room, your brain simply refused to process it. “Please someone punch me and make me wake up from this nightmare.”
The nightmare in question was a ball of energy struggling to free himself from Jason's arms.
The child looked about five years old.
Dark hair bounced wildly as he twisted in Jason’s grip, small sneakers kicking uselessly while he tried to claw his way free. His bright blue eyes were blazing with determination, and the expression on his face was one you knew far too well. Jason held him under one arm like a football.
“Put me down!”
“No.”
“I can run.”
“That’s exactly the problem, bud. Also you're five and don't remember shit, so it's either me holding you or putting one of those baby leashes on you."
"Let me go!" the kid shrieked, and you winced as the sound drilled directly into your frontal lobe. Your headache, which had been a dull throb, upgraded itself to jackhammer status.
"Jason," you croaked, leaning against the doorframe because standing upright seemed like too much effort, "what exactly am I looking at?"
Jason grinned at you, the sadist. "Morning, sunshine. You look like hell."
"I feel like hell. Answer the question."
"This," Jason said, giving the kid a slight jiggle that made him squeak with indignation, "is Dick. Joker's new party favor. Age regression gas. Cute, right?"
The kid stopped struggling long enough to look at you before his eyes widened. Then, somehow, he became a liquid. That was the only explanation for how he slipped out of Jason's grip, dropped to the floor, and shot across the room like a missile before Jason could even curse.
You had approximately half a second to brace yourself before thirty five pounds of hyperactive child collided with your legs.
"You're here!" he shouted, wrapping his arms around your knees with enough force to nearly topple you. "You came!"
You looked down at the dark head pressed against your stomach. Then you looked up at Jason, who was staring with an expression of profound betrayal.
"He's been trying to escape for two hours," Jason said slowly. "Two hours. I had to tackle him off the chandelier. Twice. He bit Tim. He doesn't even know who I am, but he bites like a feral raccoon."
"I didn't bite him hard." the kid mumbled against your hoodie.
You swayed, lightheaded from the cold medicine and the sudden impact. "Get him off me."
"Nope." Jason pulled out his phone and started typing. "Bruce said you're on babysitting duty."
"I'm sick."
"And I'm needed in the field. Zucco made a move, Barbara and Cass are already tracking. Tim's analyzing the gas components. Bruce is being Bruce somewhere." Jason pocketed his phone and headed for the door, pausing only to pat your shoulder with mock sympathy. "Good luck. Try not to die."
"Jason—"
"Oh, and he only answers to 'Dick' now. Don't call him Richard, he cries. Don't ask me how I know."
The door shut.
You were alone. In Wayne Manor. With a cold. And a child.
The child in question looked up at you with those devastating blue eyes, still clinging to your legs like you were the last life raft on the Titanic. "Are you my boyfriend?"
Your brain short circuited. "What?"
"Jason said my boyfriend was coming to get me. Are you him? You're pretty."
"I'm—" You coughed, a horrible, wracking thing that made your ribs ache. "I'm your boyfriend, yes. But I'm also dying, so if you could maybe...not touch me..."
Dick's face fell. Then, impossibly, he tightened his grip. "You're sick?"
"Plague level sick."
"I'll take care of you!"
"You really don't have to—"
But he was already dragging you toward the couch, his small hands wrapped around your fingers, pulling with surprising strength. "Sit! Sit! I'll get you a blanket!"
You sat, mostly because resisting required energy you didn't have. Dick scampered off, returning moments later with not one but three blankets, a throw pillow he apparently considered medically necessary, and Alfred's tea tray, which he dragged across the floor with determination and zero regard for the scratches he was leaving on the hardwood.
"Here!" He dumped the blankets on you, then climbed up onto the couch and sat directly next to you, pressed against your side from hip to shoulder. "Better?"
You were now approximately ninety percent blanket and ten percent regret. "I can't breathe."
"That's because you're sick," he said solemnly, as if he'd cracked the code. "I read about it in a book."
"You can't read. You're five."
"I can so read. I can read letters and numbers. Up to twenty!" He paused, considering. "Maybe fifteen. Twenty is hard."
You closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the couch. Maybe if you pretended to sleep, he'd go away. Maybe—
A small hand patted your cheek. "Don't die."
"I'm not dying."
"Your eyes are closed like dead people."
"I'm resting."
"Oh." He was quiet for approximately three seconds. Then: "Can I rest with you?"
"No."
"Please?"
"No."
"I'll be quiet."
"Jason said you climbed a chandelier."
"That was before. I'm calm now."
You cracked one eye open to look at him. He was staring at you with an expression of such hopeful adoration that you felt your resolve crumbling like wet paper. "Fine, but you stay on your side. And if you kick me, I'm selling you to the circus."
Dick's face lit up like Christmas morning. "Really? A circus?"
"That was a joke. Don't get excited about the circus, you hate the circus, you have trauma about the—" You stopped, rubbing your temples. "Never mind. Just sit there. Quietly. For five minutes. Can you do that?"
He nodded solemnly, pressing a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture.
You closed your eyes again.
For thirty blessed seconds, there was silence. Just the sound of your own congested breathing and the distant hum of the Manor's heating system. You started to drift, your feverish brain sliding toward something resembling rest.
Then you felt it.
A small hand, creeping under the blanket to find yours.
You jerked your eyes open. Dick was pressed against your side, when had he moved?, with his head on your shoulder. "I said your side." you croaked.
"This is my side," he whispered. "You're warm. You're not supposed to be warm when you're sick, but you are. I like it."
"I'm feverish. That's not a good thing."
"I still like it." He snuggled closer, and you could feel his small heartbeat against your arm, rabbit fast and trusting. "Don't go away, okay?"
Something in your chest did that traitorous softening thing again. You hated it. You were miserable, congested, possibly hallucinating, and now you were feeling emotions.
"I'm not going anywhere," you muttered, because it was easier than arguing. "I'm too tired to move."
"Good," Dick said, satisfied. Then, after a moment: "Can I have juice?"
You stared at the ceiling. "There's a kitchen. It's that way. You can get it yourself."
"I'm not supposed to go alone. Jason said so. He said if I go alone, I'll 'get into trouble and probably explode something.'"
"Jason is dramatic."
"He said you'd get it for me. Because you love me."
"I—" You coughed again, a horrible wet sound that made Dick's eyes go wide with concern.
"You're too sick. I'll get it!" He scrambled off the couch before you could stop him, hitting the floor at a run. "Don't move! I'll be right back!"
"Dick, wait—"
But he was gone, small feet thundering down the hallway toward the kitchen. Somewhere in the distance, you heard a crash. Then a giggle. Then running water.
Your phone buzzed. A text from Bruce:
How is he?
You typed back:
He asked if I was his boyfriend and then told me he'd take care of me. He's currently destroying your kitchen to get juice.
Bruce:
He was affectionate when he was younger.
You:
Well, that hasn't changed. I'm currently sick, can't breathe and have a massive headache. Yet that somehow translates to me being his personal heating pad.
Bruce:
You're doing well. Alfred will bring soup later.
You:
I'm not doing well. I'm literally dying. Tell Tim to work faster on the antidote.
Bruce:
He says it'll take at least 24 hours.
You dropped the phone on your chest and groaned.
Twenty four hours. You had twenty-four hours of this. Of being clung to, climbed on and used as furniture by a child who had the energy of a caffeinated squirrel and the emotional attachment issues of a barnacle.
Dick thundered back into the room, holding a juice box high like a trophy. There was a smear of something purple on his cheek. Possibly jam. Possibly something worse.
"I got it!" he announced, climbing back onto the couch and immediately reclaiming his spot against your side. He held the juice box out to you. "You have the first sip. Because you're sick."
You looked at the juice box. Then at his hopeful face. Then at the purple smear. "I don't want juice."
"But you have to drink!" He shook the box insistently. "Liquids! For healing!"
"Where did you learn that?"
"TV."
You took the juice box, mostly to make him stop shaking it. Apple juice. Room temperature. You took a sip and handed it back. Dick beamed like you'd given him the moon, put the straw in his mouth, and drank while maintaining eye contact. It was unsettling.
"You're staring."
"You're very pretty." he replied, around the straw.
"I'm aware. I'm also highly contagious so you might get sick."
"I don't care." He finished the juice box in one long slurp, then tucked himself against your side again, one small hand finding yours under the blankets. "I'm staying here. Forever."
"Twenty four hours," you muttered. "Just twenty-four hours. Then you're an adult again and we can find you something else to amuse yourself with."
Dick didn't answer. He was already falling asleep, worn out from his earlier escape attempts and kitchen raid. You looked down at his dark head, at the way his fingers were curled trustingly in yours, and sighed.
"Fine," you whispered, adjusting the blanket to cover him better. "Forever. But only because you're cute and I'm too tired to argue."
Dick smiled in his sleep, smug even unconscious, and held on tighter.
Your phone buzzed again. Jason:
He asleep yet?
You:
Finally.
Jason:
Told you he likes you. Even as a kid, he knows who his favorite is.
You:
He's using me as a mattress.
Jason:
Like I said. Favorite.
You didn't answer. You were too busy trying not to sneeze on your boyfriend's head and wondering exactly how much soup Alfred was bringing, because you were going to need approximately a gallon of it to survive the next day.
tagged (because you commented it): @stvrw1tch @rebelioussavant
You know what? You were so done.
After what felt like the hundredth time you cried on the living room floor, curled up against the couch cushions with swollen eyes and an aching chest, you finally lifted your head and glared at the framed photograph sitting on the coffee table.
It was one of Dick’s favorites.
You remembered the day clearly now, which honestly pissed you off more. The two of you had been out on the pier after patrol, exhausted and sweaty and delirious from lack of sleep. Dick had wrapped his arm around your shoulders while laughing at something stupid Wally said, and Roy had snapped the picture before either of you noticed.
Dick loved that photo because, according to him, “You smiled like you forgot the world sucked for a second.”
You hated it now. Not because the memory was fake. That was the problem. It wasn’t fake. That’s what made this hurt so much.
You stared at Dick’s smiling face. Beautiful blue eyes. Stupid perfect grin. The same mouth that told you he loved you while conveniently forgetting to mention you’d originally been his emotional rebound after Kory left him.
“He fucked up,” you muttered bitterly to yourself. “He fucked up and I’m the one acting like my life ended.”
You shoved yourself upright off the floor, wiping your face aggressively with the sleeve of your hoodie. Your entire body ached from days of crying, rotting in bed, ignoring texts, and replaying memories until you made yourself sick.
Sure, you didn’t want Dick dead.
And if he really was falling apart like Kory said, well, that sucked. But it wasn’t your responsibility to hold together the man who shattered you. He had Bruce. He had the Titans. He had a family that worshipped the ground he walked on.
You? You had yourself, and honestly? You missed him. You missed being Y/N instead of whatever miserable shell this was.
“What the fuck am I doing? I’m not Bella Swan.”
That actually made you snort a laugh. A real one. Slightly hysterical, maybe, but still.
The sadness didn’t disappear overnight. But rage? Rage was useful. Rage got you off the floor. Rage made you shower for the first time in days. Rage made you throw away the cold takeout containers piling in your kitchen. Rage made you open the curtains and let sunlight into your apartment again.
You started going out again.
You hit the gym hard enough to leave your muscles screaming. You started reconnecting with friends outside the hero circle. You started sleeping without checking your phone every five minutes for Dick’s name lighting up your screen.
And eventually? The ache dulled. Not gone. Never gone, but survivable.
Dick showed up at your apartment three weeks later. You opened the door wearing sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, looking mildly annoyed more than heartbroken.
“Hey.”
You leaned against the doorway. “What do you want?”
His throat bobbed nervously. “Can I come in?”
“No.”
“Right. Okay.”
Dick looked exhausted. Too thin. Dark circles under his eyes. Hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets like he was trying to physically hold himself together.
“I miss you.”
You stared at him without reacting.
“I know I don’t deserve another chance. I know I hurt you. I know I lied to you and destroyed your trust, but I swear to god, Y/N, I love you. I love you. Not Kory. Not anyone else.” His voice cracked slightly.
“And Kory wanted me to tell you she never knew—”
“Dick, I genuinely do not care anymore.” That visibly stunned him. “I’m serious. Kory doesn’t owe me anything. She didn’t betray me. You did.”
“I know.”
“And honestly?” You crossed your arms. “You coming here to swear you aren’t secretly in love with your ex anymore isn’t exactly helping your case.”
His face crumpled. “That’s not what I meant—”
“I know what you meant.” Your voice stayed calm. “But you still don’t get it. I was with you for three years. Three years, Dick. And at no point during those three years did you trust me enough to tell me the truth. You decided for me. You decided what I could handle. You decided I’d stay if I never found out.”
His eyes watered immediately. “I was scared.”
“And I was in love with you. Do you understand how humiliating that feels now?”
Dick looked like he’d rather you hit him. “I do love you,” he whispered desperately. “Please believe that much.”
“I do believe you,” you admitted. “That’s the fucked up part. You know, I spent weeks thinking my life was over. Crying over you. Missing you. Wanting you back so badly it physically hurt.” Your expression hardened slightly.
“And then one morning I realized something. You’re not the center of my universe. I loved you a lot. Maybe part of me always will, but I’m finally starting to feel like myself again. And I don’t want to lose that by trying to glue together something already broken.”
“Y/N…” His voice cracked apart completely now. “Please.”
“No.”
Dick looked utterly destroyed standing there in your hallway, eyes red, shoulders slumped, heartbreak written all over his face. You softened just slightly. “I don’t hate you, Dick.”
His expression broke further somehow.
“That almost makes this worse.” You gave him one last look before stepping back and closing the door of your apartment.
could I request a Dick Grayson x male!reader whos very into fashion? He finds joy in dressing Dick up with his own spare clothes, occasionally even comments about how “un-chic” his Nightwing suit is because “it’s too plain, needs more color” but doesnt nag him to change in nonetheless
and reader wouldn’t even be ashamed of wearing feminine attire if he feels like it. One day he’s all spikes and leather jackets, and the next Dick could get startled by the sight of a random girl in pink frilly clothing suddenly appearing in his room until said “girl” waves and calls him over with the familiar deep voice he’s grown accustomed to (reader is just trying on the new clothes he ordered)
I GOT AN EYE FOR THESE THINGS
Dick Grayson/Nightwing x Male Reader
The first time you met Dick Grayson, you were wearing a custom-made, asymmetrical wool coat over a vintage band t-shirt and tailored leather pants. He, in contrast, was in civilian clothes that screamed "I just threw this on," which, to be fair, he probably had. You couldn't help but let your eyes roam over his frame, a designer's instinct kicking in before you could stop it.
"You have excellent bone structure," you had said, tilting your head. "However, that jacket is doing you a disservice."
Dick just laughed in response. "I'll take that as a compliment, I think."
That was the start of it. Your relationship blossomed amidst a whirlwind of fabrics and colors. Your apartment was less a home and more a curated collection of your passions: racks of clothing, shelves of shoes, and a mannequin you'd named Beatrice who was currently modeling a rather avant-garde latex dress. Dick found it fascinating. He loved watching you work, the way your eyes would light up when you found the perfect accessory, the passionate rants about the decline of modern tailoring.
He also became your favorite mannequin.
"C'mere, try this on." you'd said, holding up a silk shirt that shimmered like an oil slick. Dick obliged, standing still as you dressed him, your fingers deftly working the buttons. "See? Now that's a look. It brings out the blue in your eyes. Much better than that thing you wear for work."
"You mean my Nightwing suit?" he asked, amused, as he looked at his reflection in your full-length mirror.
"Calling that a suit is being generous. I think you meant to say the black and blue unitard," You waved a dismissive hand. "It's so terribly un-chic. It's functional, I get it. But darling, it's plain. It needs more color. Maybe some accents? A splash of cyan, a dash of magenta…"
You didn't actually corner him to change it. You knew his suit was his armor, his symbol. Yet you never missed an opportunity to offer your unsolicited, and frankly, brilliant, design advice. And Dick never took offense, just chuckled and pressed a kiss to your forehead, letting you undress him and return him to his own far less exciting (in your opinion) attire.
Your own style was a beautiful, chaotic symphony. One day you wore black skinny jeans, a heavy leather jacket covered in spikes, and combat boots that could probably break concrete. The next day could be a complete one-eighty.
Dick was exhausted after a long night of patrol. He stumbled into his apartment at Blüdhaven, peeling off the suit that you had so eloquently described as "a sad, colorless puddle." All he wanted was a shower and twelve hours of sleep. He walked into his bedroom, rubbing his eyes, and froze.
There was a girl on his bed.
A very pretty girl, at that.
She was sitting cross-legged, surrounded by a mountain of pink tissue paper. She wore a frilly, pastel-pink sundress with puffy sleeves and a generous amount of tulle underneath. Her hair was styled in soft waves, and she was busy examining a pair of delicate white ankle boots.
Dick’s mind, still foggy with fatigue and adrenaline, went into overdrive. How? When? Did I forget to lock the window? Is she a target? A distraction? He was about to say something, to demand an explanation, when the girl looked up. She gave a small, confused wave.
"Hey, you look wrecked. Rough night?"
Dick blinked. The voice was deep, familiar, and utterly beloved. You watched the cogs turn in his head, a slow smile spreading across your face. You wiggled your fingers, the polished nails a contrasting dark black against the pastel pink of your dress.
"Close your mouth, handsome," you teased, your voice at odds with your appearance. "You'll catch flies."
It took Dick another three seconds to process. The voice. The mischievous glint in your eyes that he knew so well. The sheer, unadulterated you-ness of the situation. A grin finally broke across his face, replacing the confusion with pure, unadulterated delight.
"You," he breathed, shaking his head with a laugh. "You scared the hell out of me."
"I did?" You feigned innocence, holding up a boot. "I was just admiring my new haul. This dress is to die for, don't you think? The cut is divine. And these boots? They're a little plain, but I can fix that. Maybe some studs? Or a nice pink ribbon?"
Dick walked over, collapsing onto the bed beside you, sending a flurry of pink tissue paper into the air. He looked at you, really looked at you—in your frilly dress and your combat boots (which you'd insisted on wearing because "the juxtaposition is everything")—and felt his heart swell.
"You're something else," he said, his voice soft. He reached out, his thumb brushing a stray lock of hair from your cheek. "Pink looks good on you."
You beamed, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips. "See? I have an eye for these things. Now, about that Nightwing suit…"
I'm binging your fics right now. Your writing is REALLY that good for me to read any fandom I'm not familiar with. Thank you for blessing my feeds ❤️🩹
Can I request something with Bruce Wayne and male reader? Bruce and reader has so much tension even people around them get tired of it (the batboys, or even the Justice League). Reader has this calm and cool personality, also more of a listener than a talker, so when he all of sudden said something unexpectedly sounds a lot like flirting, Bruce get caught off guard and flustered.
Seriously, I am in NEED of Bruce Wayne.
BATMAN AND FLUSTERED DON'T GO TOGETHER
Bruce Wayne/Batman x Male Reader
The Watchtower was filled with tension and it was always like this when Batman was in the same room as you. You, the quiet strategist who could sit through a three-hour debrief without saying a word, only to offer a single observation that unraveled the entire problem. Batman, the stoic pillar of control, who seemed to lose all his composure the moment your gaze lingered on him for more than a second.
It was a running joke at this point. A very, very tired running joke.
"Are they going to do 'the thing' again?" Jason whispered, not-so-subtly nudging Dick with his elbow as they stood by the monitor bank. You were reviewing mission parameters, your brow furrowed in concentration, while Bruce stood a mere two feet to your left, pretending to read data on a separate screen but clearly just staring at the side of your head.
"Yes," Dick hissed back, his smile strained. "Just be glad they're not injured or anything."
Tim, sitting at the console, didn't even look up. "The ambient temperature in this sector has risen by three degrees since they entered the room. It's statistically significant."
Even Clark, floating a few feet away, cleared his throat with a little too much force. "Bruce, maybe you could, I don't know, actually look at your own screen?" Bruce didn't react. His focus was entirely on you. He was like a predator, but one that was utterly fascinated by its prey, with no intention of ever pouncing.
The mission briefing continued. It was a hostage situation in a crumbling Gotham building. The stakes were high, the variables numerous, so the League had an array of plans. You listened to them all, your expression unreadable, your hands clasped behind your back. Finally, after Hal suggested a very loud, very green, very messy frontal assault, you spoke. It was the first time you'd opened your mouth in an hour.
"The structural integrity reports are a week old," you stated, your voice a low, even timbre that cut through the noise. "A frontal assault, even a precise one, could bring the whole building down before we get to the hostages."
Bruce nodded, a rare flicker of approval in his eyes. "So we go in quiet. Through the basement."
"That's what they'd expect," you countered. "The basement is the most obvious stealth entry. They'll have it rigged."
"Then what's your suggestion?"
You turned your head, and for the first time today, your eyes met his directly. Jason let out an audible, exasperated sigh.
"I've been studying the schematics," you said, your gaze not leaving Bruce's. "There's a service elevator shaft on the north side. It's been decommissioned for years. It's narrow, but it's clean. No one would think to check it."
Bruce processed this, his mind already working through the angles. "It's a tight fit and a long climb."
You tilted your head slightly, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on your lips. It was this smile that always did it for Bruce. It was like a secret shared only between you two.
"I don't mind a tight fit," Your voice dropped to a suggestive tone, so blatant it was shocking. "As long as I have a good partner to help me work up a sweat."
Silence.
Complete, utter, deafening silence.
Dick's jaw was on the floor. Jason looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. Tim was frantically typing, probably trying to calculate the exact probability of hell freezing over. Clark had to physically turn away, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
And Bruce—Bruce Wayne, the Batman, the man who faced gods and monsters without flinching—was completely, utterly flustered. A dark blush crept up his neck and cheeks.
"I…the plan has…merits," he stammered, his voice rougher than usual. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure, but the damage was done. He couldn't meet your eyes, instead focusing on a very interesting spot on the floor. "We'll…we'll reconvene in ten minutes to finalize logistics."
Bruce practically fled the room, his gait uncharacteristically stiff. The moment he was gone, the dam broke.
"Oh my God," Dick wheezed, clutching his stomach. "Did he just…did the Batman just blush?"
Jason was pointing a finger at you, his expression a mixture of horror and awe. "You. You absolute menace. I've been trying to get a reaction like that out of him for years and you do it with one sentence? What kind of dark magic is that?"
You simply turned back to the monitor, a serene expression on your face as if nothing had happened. But the slight, triumphant curve of your lips told a different story.
