ᓚᘏᗢ Maleanor Draconia x reader
ᓚᘏᗢ Warnings: Fem reader. Non-sexual nudity. Suggestive. MDNI; ageless and blank blogs don't interact.
ᓚᘏᗢ A/N: i sometimes think of maleanor too......................
An eternal downpour blanketed Briar Valley. Thunder reverberated across the frigid walls of Castle Blackscale, and the thunderclap lightened its darkened halls. The residents of this castle had grown accustomed to the chilly mood that had taken over since Laverne’s departure took longer than expected. Moreover, the fact that Maleanor hadn’t received one clue of his whereabouts, whether he was alive or not, further soured her mood. This much was evident if the dreary weather meant anything.
You stood by the door, waiting for any signal that your lady required aid. Under normal circumstances, you would’ve been within those dark tiled walls, scrubbing along her svelte back or other hard-to-reach areas. Or lighting up some aromatic candles—or incenses—whatever her majesty’s whims were. You were but a mere servant; her personal handmaiden, to be more precise.
Earlier, when you had seen that stern look she sent you before entering the bath chamber, your feet stopped dead in their tracks. You hadn’t even dared to ask her if she wanted you to light her favorite candle. As mercurial as she was, the weather did the speaking in her stead. That was a semblance of predictability everyone in the castle (and outside) had to learn by force, lest they have the bravery to imperil themselves into getting stricken down.
Amidst the loud booms of thunder outside, a silken voice called for you in those brief seconds of silence.
A drop of sweat was already rolling down your forehead when you stepped inside. Assuming that her tantrum had finished because of her gentle tone of voice was a beginner’s mistake, after all.
“Come on over, my darling handmaid.” She beckoned you closer with a finger, head tipped back against the corner of the marble tub. Her hum reached your ears when you got within her requested distance. “Be a dear and help me ease my pain, won’t you?”
…Ease her pain…?
“Do you need me to scrub your back, your highness—?”
“Did I enunciate such words?” At your question, she snaps her head in your direction, and lightning flashed from outside, illuminating her now open eyes. “Get to it.”
Maleanor lacks predictability in most parts. She’d demand things in the most cryptic of ways, and if you didn’t figure them out on your own, that would infuriate her too.
You got behind her, following the damp tresses of raven hair clinging to her back and scales. The candles on the chandelier didn’t offer much visibility in this gloomy space, and you weren’t sure where to venture. Did she want you to adjust the temperature of her water? Bring her some medicinal ointment? You had to do something quick before you left her waiting for too long. She wasn’t fond of waiting.
“My shoulders,” at last, Maleanor griped when you reached for the assortment of oils waiting by the small table next to the tub.
How she didn’t strike you down with her thunder before clarifying eluded you. Not like you were about to complain, of course; thus, you got to work. You brushed her hair out of the way, splitting it half and half on her shoulders. With that out of the way, you pressed your thumbs into the base of her nape. A soft rumble vibrated from her throat as minutes went by, working through the knots of her stiff shoulders and upper spine. You were careful with her spines and scales. Imagining you touching her somewhere that would discharge her anger on you made you shudder.
“Mmmh…” body lax into the tub, she submerged more into the water. The claps of thunder had stopped for the time being, although the rainstorm was still present. “These past days have been so bleak, and work keeps piling up. On top of that, everyone has been acting rather strangely. They muster a smile when they see me, but I can see them trembling behind that guise. Don’t you think that’s entertaining?”
“…I do.”
“And you—” the water suddenly rocked into the tub’s walls when she rose from it, rivulets cascading down her smooth skin and dripping past her thighs. You rushed to grab a towel, but you didn’t make it a step far when she shot a hand to grasp your face. You aren’t given a chance to fret over her exposed figure, at risk of tripping and injuring herself if she made a brash movement. “You too shiver when I walk close by.”
“Your highness, please…” your throat closed in on itself, your plea coming out in a pathetic whine. “You-You’re going to slip if you—”
The tip of her nose ghosted over the skin of your neck, and you can’t do more than take it, given that she was holding onto your face.
“There’s this pesky, aggravating scent in the air I can’t shake off. It’s both alluring and exasperating,” she turned your face to the side, opening more space for herself to satiate her curiosity. You grip at your skirt, mustering effort to stay still and control your legs from getting you out of here. “You exude this cloying scent that clings to my nose even after you’re away.”
Your heart rattled in the confinement of your poor ribcage, anticipating electricity to strike you down at any time with how things were developing.
Finally, she parted. However, she didn’t let go of your face yet, redirecting your head towards hers. Her dark slit pupils settled on your gaze, unwavering in their intentions. “What type of fae are you? Surely not one that comes from fire, do you? You’re burning up. You always seem to be rather warmer than the rest of these fretting servants.”
“I’m a regular fae, I promise.”
“Is that so? Regardless, I might want you next to me for the remainder of the night, you see. I want you to keep my company.”
With that, her hand abandoned your face. You had been so focused on surviving, you didn’t take note of how hard she had been gripping your cheeks. If not for seeing her lick her thumb off the smudge of blood, you wouldn’t have noticed.
✦Clark Masterlist - Read on aO3! - Main Masterlist✦
✦summary: all week, clark's been acting strange. he won't go near you, won't look at you, and by friday he's vanished all together. everyone seems to know why but you. but nothing's going to keep you away from him. not for that long.✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, secret identity shenanigans, emotional angst, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (male masturbation, manhandling, clark's feral, emotional sex, dry humping, blowjobs and facefucking, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, clark gets nasty, body worship, crazy overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, fingering, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick clark, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 10.5k✦
✦author's note: request and voted fic! i got. real horny with it✦
Clark has been acting strange all week.
He got into work on Monday with a red face, and you didn’t question it. He runs everywhere. It’s a little ridiculous he doesn’t have a red face more.
“Want some water?” You’d tapped on his desk, and he’d let out a sharp breath.
“Yeah.” His voice had been strangely rough, his glasses almost slipping off his nose. “Water- Water would be nice. Thank you.
He hadn’t looked you in the eyes.
Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.
You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.
“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.
“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“
“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“
Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘
“It’s not a mating dance!”
“It seems like a mating dance-“
“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”
Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.
You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.
“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“
You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.
He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.
His eyes are black, and gleaming.
You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.
Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.
You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.
“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”
Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.
Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.
But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.
He looks dangerous.
And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.
But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.
“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”
Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“
Clark looks at you.
And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.
“You smell good.” He mutters.
He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.
“What the fuck is up with him?”
Nobody seems to be sure.
On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.
“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.
“There are no other words I could use, though-“
“Corrupt?”
“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”
You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.
“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.
“Dogshit.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“
“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“
“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.
“Yeah. Because I had a source.”
“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.
You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.
“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“
“Shut up, I’m excited-“
“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.
He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.
Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.
You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.
And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.
Today you keep it under control.
It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.
“It’s- Uh- Superman.”
You blink. “What?”
“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”
“I- You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
“I can find someone else-“
“No, I- I’ve got it.”
He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.
You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.
But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.
You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”
He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.
“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.
Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.
He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.
He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.
And you have no idea what to do.
Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.
He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.
You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.
And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.
“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”
His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.
“Clark-“
“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”
You blink. “Back up?”
He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.
He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.
But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.
You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.
He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.
“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“
“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.
“You’re sick-“
“No. I’m not.”
“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”
He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.
“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”
That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.
His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.
And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.
It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.
The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.
But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.
“Clark- Please-“
He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.
“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”
You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.
And you look back. You can’t help it.
But all he does is stare at you.
So you walk away.
Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.
“Is he-“
“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”
You frown. “But-“
“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“
Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.
“Don’t go visit him.”
You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“
“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”
“But-“
“Don’t.”
“What if he needs something-“
“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”
“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”
Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“Lois-“
“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”
She walks away without another word.
On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.
You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.
Don’t.
His door is right there.
Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.
Don’t.
You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.
But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.
You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.
Don’t.
But you want to.
Don’t.
He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-
Don’t.
Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.
And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.
He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.
You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.
Before Clark can open it, you walk away.
On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.
It’s a distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-
You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.
This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.
It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.
He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.
He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.
Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.
You miss him.
Goddamnit.
Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.
You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.
He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.
You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.
You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.
Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.
But why is he home visiting you.
Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.
You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.
“Hello?”
Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.
He doesn’t look well.
Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-
Like Clark.
Just like Clark.
And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.
Or something else.
Without the glasses, there’s something else.
He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.
He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.
“Clark?”
“I’m here for your interview-“
You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.
He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.
Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.
His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.
“Clark- Wait-“
Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.
At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.
You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.
He’s burning at 150 degrees.
He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.
The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.
You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.
Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.
That time it was definitely your name.
Superman moaned your name.
You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.
Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.
It does nothing for hearing him.
And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.
It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.
Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-
Oh.
That’s… Big.
You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.
The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.
You still haven’t really dealt with that.
Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.
And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.
To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.
When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.
You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.
Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.
Dear lord.
Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.
You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.
Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.
He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.
You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.
Clark is Superman,
And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.
His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.
“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.
This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-
You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.
He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-
No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.
But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.
The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.
If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.
And you’re not that strong at all.
Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.
You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.
When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.
He’s naked.
Fully naked.
And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.
He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.
But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.
And his cock.
You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.
Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.
“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“
“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”
He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of release on his thigh. He’d been humping the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-
“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”
“Clark-“
“Stop saying it like that.”
You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.
His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.
“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”
Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.
“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”
You laugh softly, despite everything.
Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.
“Don’t laugh either.”
“I- I’m sorry-“
“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“
He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.
“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”
“No- That- That’s weird-“
“Kal-El?”
“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.
“I need to be able to call you something.”
“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”
That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.
“No, not- Not like that-“
“Not like what-“
“It’s just, when you talk-“
“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.
It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.
“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.
“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”
“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“
“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”
He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”
“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”
“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“
“You said I shouldn’t talk.”
“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“
“Shut up.”
“Sorry.”
The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.
“You better fix the wall, Kent.”
“I will. ‘M sorry-“
“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”
You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.
“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”
That’s not promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.
“You know kryptonite?”
You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”
“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“
“Clark.”
“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.
“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.
His cock twitches. You try not think about it.
“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“
“It what-“
“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”
He trails off, words hanging in the air.
Saw you.
You activated the red kryptonite in him.
There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.
“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.
Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.
“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.
“Please don’t make me say it.”
You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.
“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“
“Can’t you?”
Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.
And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.
“You- You can’t mean that-“
“Why not?”
You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.
“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.
“You don’t have to pity me-“
“It’s not pity.”
He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“
“Who says it’s not how I feel?”
You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.
“Uhh… Steve?”
You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”
Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.
You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.
“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.
You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”
His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.
“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”
“No, you-“
“Don’t tell me what I feel.”
He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.
“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”
He nods, tight and controlled.
You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.
Not with fear.
With excitement.
“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”
And Clark snaps.
He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.
Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.
If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.
But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.
He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.
There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.
You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.
Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.
You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.
He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.
“Clark-“
“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“
He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.
“Smell so good.” He almost whines. “So good.”
You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.
Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.
It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.
“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“
“You- You can’t-“
“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“
“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.
You don’t mind at all.
“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“We talked about this-“
“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.
You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.
And you feel it.
The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.
Oh.
Right.
Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.
“I need to get you ready.”
You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“
Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”
“How do you know-“
“Nose.”
“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“
“Not enough.”
He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.
“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.
That’s his agreement hum.
Your jaw drops.
“Are you serious-“
“I can’t help it.”
“You- You could wear nose plugs-“
“No. Like it too much.”
Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.
“You- Can’t move-“
“You should move-“
“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”
You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.
“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”
Clark grunts. You smile at the air.
“You came in bed last night.”
He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”
“About who?”
You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”
And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.
“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”
“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.
“Yeah? Like what?”
Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.
“A brat.”
A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.
And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.
“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.
Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.
“You- You can’t just say that-“
“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”
Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.
“Can you please look at me-“
“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.
“Clark-“
“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.
You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.
“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”
“I- I need to get you-“
“I’m going to touch you, okay?”
His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.
Enough.
You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.
“Sorry-“
“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”
He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.
You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.
The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.
He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.
You add a second, and squeeze at the base.
Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.
“Be- Be careful.”
You pause. “Does it not feel-“
“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“
Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.
You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.
And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.
You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.
Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.
“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“
He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.
You want to taste him.
When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.
“What- What are you-“
You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.
The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.
There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.
You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.
“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“
You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.
It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.
“Are you-“
You moan, and Clark gives in.
He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.
“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“
Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.
“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“
You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.
And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-
Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.
He’s cumming.
And he’s not stopping.
Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.
Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.
“If you-“
“Do that inside me.”
You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.
“I- I mean- Clark-“
He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.
“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”
His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.
“Don’t- Don’t tease-“
“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”
Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.
“Oh- Oh god-“
“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”
You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.
“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”
He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.
“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.
You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.
He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.
“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“
You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.
Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.
Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.
You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.
You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.
There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.
It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.
“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”
His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.
“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.
Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.
“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”
Well. If he needs it.
It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.
“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“
“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”
It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.
You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.
“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.
He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.
“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”
And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.
“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“
“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.
Clark hears it.
“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”
You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.
Maybe Clark could let you live with him.
Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.
Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.
That’s a good plan. The best plan.
There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.
“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.
You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.
“Don’t do that.”
Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.
He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.
“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.
You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.
He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.
Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.
He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.
His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.
You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.
Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.
“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.
“I liked it.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”
Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.
And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.
He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.
“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”
You nod. It’s all you can manage.
He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.
“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“
He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.
Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.
“Big.”
He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.
“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“
You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.
“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.
“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”
You blink, and his eyes widen.
“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“
Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.
“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.
Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.
“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”
Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.
“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.
Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.
You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.
He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.
Safe and attended to.
You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.
It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.
“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“
He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.
Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.
He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.
Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.
It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.
Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.
Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.
And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.
Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.
Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.
You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.
There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.
Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.
You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.
He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.
It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.
If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.
On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.
There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.
Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.
It’s an oddly romantic thought.
There are lots of those to go around.
Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.
“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.
“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”
“See it-“
“X-ray vision.”
“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.
Clark bows his head, almost in shame.
“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.
You shake your head. “It fine-“
“I wanted to-“
“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”
He blinks at you, then relaxes.
“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.
“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”
Clark laughs at that, and you beam.
It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.
“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.
“I-“
“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“
“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”
He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”
You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.
“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“
“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“
Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”
You laugh. “Bring it on.”
✦End note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary high✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
synopsis: what comes after the secret you’ve been keeping all your life — that you’re in love with your best friend, manjiro — is revealed in the most unexpected way?
part one
pairings: racer!sano manjiro x fem!reader
content warnings: mature themes, 18+, ns/fw, M.D.N.I.
Dread fills your bones, making your whole body go still on the edge of your bed while the last message sent by Manjiro keeps replaying in your head.
"Let's talk, y/n."
In an instant, it’s like your world crumbles beneath you, stripping away everything that protects you and leaving only your naked, embarrassed self. You didn't expect a situation like this to come — and yet, it arrives when you are at your most defenseless. Nothing could be worse than this.
You feel shameful. Pathetic, even. The tears keep flowing down your face because there’s no way to undo it now — not when the evidence is spitting right in your face: that he answered the call while you were touching yourself, he heard you screaming his name, he listened to you falling apart with him on your mind, and then he texted you, asking to talk. And goddamn, what does any of this mean if not that you have feelings for him?
You thought you could keep your secret locked in a vault for years, only for it to be revealed in the most careless way possible. Now, you can’t do anything but cry, your mind overflowing with the fear that you’ve stained the only connection you have with him — your friendship. The one thing that will now surely meet its end, all because of your selfish desires and the feelings he never asked for.
Weeping eventually leads you to falling asleep. The endless thinking drowns you so deeply that you don't even notice the time passing. You simply fall asleep out of pure exhaustion, and only wake up when your phone alarm goes off.
Just when you thought it was all a dream, you open your phone to turn it off, only to be met with the reality you’ve been living in.
Manjiro's text is still there. As real as everything that happened last night.
You press your palms into your face as a fresh wave of worry sinks in. What now? you think. What are you even supposed to do now that everything is out in the open?
You stare at Manjiro’s last message. He hasn’t followed up, and that somehow makes it worse. The silence feels heavy, loaded with everything you’re afraid of: a disappointed man sitting on the other end, betrayed and disgusted, just waiting for you to finally say it out loud so he can be done with you.
The moment you roll out of bed, you decide you won't face him. Not yet. You tell yourself you need to distance yourself first, that you need time to sort everything out before you can face him.
But deep down, you know that's not it.
The truth is, you're just a coward. And the only thing you can bring yourself to do right now is avoid him completely, at all costs.
So that's what you'll do.
Using every bit of strength you can muster, you prepare yourself for work. Your mind hasn't drifted from thoughts of Manjiro even for a second, but you do everything you can to drag yourself out the door anyway. At least at the office, the pending tasks and deliverables can pull your focus away from him even just for a little while.
But you're wrong about even that.
The moment you step inside, your closest colleagues, the ones who know about your connection to the famous racer, immediately corner you to ask about his performance on the track. Manjiro's wins have been all over social media since last night, so of course they knew, and of course they had to bring it up. You nod along, give them short polite answers, and get to work.
By the time the day ends, it's clear that trying to distract yourself was never going to work. For most of the day, you've been sneaking glances at your phone, waiting for a message from him that never comes. You don't know whether to feel relieved that you haven't heard anything from his side, or more worried because of it. Either way, the dread never leaves your body and you come home that night more exhausted than ever.
This carries on for two days straight — the distance you've put between you and the silence on his end. It starts affecting your performance at work badly enough that you find yourself considering filing for a leave just to sort your head out. But every time you come home to your apartment and are met with nothing but quiet, your thoughts grow louder than anything else — you'd rather exhaust yourself fixing mistakes at work than spiral alone through endless overthinking.
However, this whole avoidance has to end eventually. Whether you are prepared or not, you must face the consequences of your actions, and Manjiro makes sure of that on the third morning when a notification from him finally pops up.
Your heart starts to pound as you unlock your screen with trembling fingers.
Fr: Jiro
y/n…
Are you busy?
That isn't what you were expecting. You were bracing yourself for something devastating, something that would confirm every worst fear you’ve spent two days constructing in your head, not this. However, the innocent message does nothing to ease your mind, and before you can even process it, your phone begins to ring.
He's calling.
The panic hits so fast that instead of answering or declining, you turn your phone off entirely. You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your palms against your face.
What are you doing? you think. What are you doing, what are you doing, what are you doing…
And the coward wins again. Instead of facing him after he finally reaches out, you decide to keep your phone off.
You tell yourself it’s just for a few hours, enough time to breathe and figure out what to say. But those few hours become the whole morning, and the morning bleeds into the afternoon. Before you know it, you’re back home, the sun is gone, and your phone is still a dark weight in your hand.
You stare at it for a long moment. Then, you turn it back on. Your heart tightens as the screen instantly floods with notifications.
Fr: Jiro
10:47 AM: I was busy with training, I didn't get to message you.
11:06 AM: Still no reply? Stop ignoring me, please.
11:10 AM: Emma’s birthday on friday. It would be just the usual circle, nothing big. Come, okay?
Before you can even think, your fingers hover over the keyboard and start typing.
To: Jiro
I’m not sure…
The moment you hit send, regret sinks in. It’s too late. Manjiro’s response comes immediately, the notification dinging before you can even look away.
Fr: Jiro
Why? It’s emma’s birthday.
Are you avoiding me…
The familiar nervousness tugs at your heart so sharply you almost drop the phone. His last message sits there like a quiet accusation. Your chest tightens as you spiral: Why is he asking the obvious when you both know what happened that night? Is this a test? Is he waiting to see if you’ll finally be honest, or if you’ll run again?
You stare at the screen for a long time. Then, you lock it.
You can’t reply. Not when your mind can only offer two things: excuses you’re too tired to sell, or a confession that will surely end everything. So, you say nothing. You set the phone face down and stare at the ceiling instead, trying to force your heartbeat to slow down.
It doesn’t.
Minutes pass. Maybe more. Then, your phone dings again. You pick it up slowly.
Fr: Jiro
I didn't hear anything, y/n.
The air leaves your lungs. You read it again. Twice, thrice. You search those four words over and over, looking for a hidden meaning.
He didn't hear anything…
Whether he meant he didn't hear your response to his message or he didn't hear anything on the phone that night, you aren't sure.
You aren't sure of anything anymore.
In the crushing quiet of the night, the only response you can muster is a silent sob.
"I didn't hear anything, y/n."
The words echo in your head, a lifeline and a threat all at once. You have to face him now, whether you are ready or not. You have to find out if he truly heard you. You have to see if you are capable of telling the truth, or if you’re just going to fall apart.
Friday arrives before you're ready for it.
You stand in front of the mirror, face adorned with makeup — your best attempt at hiding the exhaustion that five days of sleepless nights have carved into you. Five days since that night, and not once have you had a real moment to think anything through.
You’re still caught in a haze of embarrassment and dread, but the world doesn’t care if you’re ready to face him. Time moves forward, and if you want any hope of returning to a sense of peace, you have to move with it. Even if "peace" means confessing your biggest secret — that you are hopelessly in love with your best friend — and watching it ruin everything you’ve ever known.
You take one last look at yourself in the mirror, grab your bag, and go.
You step into the hotel where Emma's birthday is being held. Somewhere inside that private dining room, Manjiro is already there.
Waiting.
You smooth down your dress, take a deep breath, and walk in.
As expected, the birthday party is an intimate affair. For a moment, seeing the familiar faces of your mutual friends settles the frantic beat in your chest...
But the relief is short-lived.
Your heart begins to thump again the second you spot members of the race team. You know Manjiro's right there. He couldn't be far, and if you just let your gaze wander a little further, you’d find him.
You keep your gaze carefully ahead, focused on nothing, avoiding the edges of the room where you know he might be standing. But before you can blend into the background, someone catches your arm and pulls you into a sudden hug.
"I thought you weren't going to come, y/n! You’ve been radio silent lately!"
It’s Emma. She’s her usual bubbly self, pulling you into a hug so tight it almost forces the air out of your lungs. Your heart slowly eases as you return the embrace, clinging to her just as tightly.
"As if I’d miss your birthday, silly. If I did, you’d never let me hear the end of it" you chuckle. But even as the words leave your mouth, you’re reminded of how close you actually came to staying home, of how you almost disappointed her just because you couldn't face her brother.
You let the thought slip away and focus on Emma, who pulls back from the hug first, beaming at you.
"You know me." She giggles. "Though I really wouldn’t have minded if you were busy. We could always celebrate another day — it's not like there's a law against it."
You squint at her, searching for the lie in her statement, and she laughs at your skeptical expression. "Come on, I’m telling the truth!"
You sigh, a gentle smile tugging at your lips. "Just be thankful I'm here."
You reach out and hand her the gift you've been holding. "Happy birthday, Emms."
Emma beams, clutching the gift to her chest. "Thank you, y/n! And thank you for actually coming. I was lying when I said it would be okay if you stayed home."
The two of you burst into shared laughter, and for a fleeting second, the weight pressing down on your chest vanishes. You bask in the giggles, feeling almost normal again.
Then the laughter slowly fades, and Emma's eyes drift across the room.
"Honestly, I could accept it if you didn’t show up. But you know who wouldn't?" Her gaze lands on someone specific. Even without turning around, the frantic skip of your heart tells you exactly who she’s looking at. "Mikey would have definitely thrown a tantrum. Have you talked to him yet?" she asks, her delight suddenly tinted with a quiet worry.
You don't respond, letting her continue.
"Draken told me he's been kind of off lately. We figured it's the new training — the sponsors have been watching closely with the championship coming up. I think the pressure's getting to him more than he lets on."
The bitterness settles on your tongue before you can stop it. He's out there pushing himself through rigorous training, carrying the weight of an entire season on his shoulders, and here you are, about to add to it. About to walk up to him and drop something that has nothing to do with racing and everything to do with ruining what you have.
Right then, without so much as glancing in the direction of his sister's gaze, you make up your mind.
Not tonight.
"Talk to him, okay?" Emma says, her voice gentle. "He's your best friend. He'd tell you if something was wrong."
You smile at her, small and tired.
He would. But the problem he doesn't know about yet...that's you.
Tonight, like every night before it, you choose to keep your distance.
You immediately try to lose yourself in the room, weaving into casual conversations and forcing yourself to look busy. But despite your best efforts, a restless energy claws at you. A prickling sensation on the back of your neck that tells you you’re being watched.
You aren’t wrong.
A sudden, accidental sweep of the room brings you face-to-face with the source of your unease.
Manjiro is standing beside Takemichi, his gaze fixed directly on you. You catch the slight widening of his eyes when your stares collide. He looks just as caught off guard as you are.
You look away first as the tension rises slowly up your throat, settling there and making itself impossible to ignore.
"You alright?" The voice cuts through the noise as a hand grasps your elbow. It’s Kazutora.
You look at him and quickly clear your throat, trying to find your voice.
"Y-yeah. Of course."
He nods, and the conversation folds back around the two of you like nothing happened. Because to everyone else in the room, nothing did. You are the only one coming apart on the inside, thread by thread, behind a perfectly composed face.
Needing to steady yourself, you excuse yourself to find a drink, desperate to wash down the lump in your throat.
You walk over to the small bar counter and grab a glass of champagne. You down the first one instantly, the sharp bite of the alcohol doing its best to steady your nerves. You reach for a second, but just as you bring the flute to your lips, your eyes traitorous as always, drift across the room on their own. And land on Manjiro.
He’s moving now, weaving his way through the crowd, his eyes locked onto yours. You realize with a jolt of panic that he’s walking straight toward you. Your grip tightens around the glass.
In a frantic attempt to look natural, you set the flute down and pivot, walking away from the bar to lose yourself among your friends again. You let the group crowd you, using them as a human shield.
It’s a game of cat and mouse that lasts the entire night. The moment you find yourself isolated for even a second, Manjiro is there, instantly trying to close the distance between you. His stare never wavers. no matter where you move, you can feel the weight of his gaze.
And you can tell he's growing frustrated. The crease between his brows deepens every time he watches you slip away again, every time you choose a crowded corner over facing him.
The guilt eats at you too. It carves into you steadily the same way it has been for days. But what can you do?
What can you really do?
It's not as if you wanted any of this. But the idiocy had to happen, and now here you are — trapped in this constant, exhausting battle with yourself. If only you could have said it on your own terms. A confession born from courage and not from the embarrassment of being caught, not from something as humiliating as what happened that night.
But could you have, really? Would you have confessed if the circumstances were different? Would you have done it at all?
You doubt it. Because you are a fucking coward.
And you would have kept it buried forever if not for that one mistake over a phone call.
So, for the hundredth time tonight, you bury yourself in the crowd so Manjiro can't get to you.
Then Emma's birthday cake is brought out and everyone gathers to sing. You try to steady yourself, dropping your messy thoughts for her sake. It's the least you can do after spending the better half of the night dodging her brother.
You finally lower your guard, giving Emma the attention she deserves and sing along with the rest.
You don't notice the body that slips in beside you.
Emma blows out her candles just as the last note of the song fades. The room erupts. Clapping, cheering, greetings overlapping from every direction. And in the middle of all that noise, while your guard is still down and your attention is still forward, a hand closes around your wrist.
You're being pulled before you can register it.
Everything blurs. The steps are fast, the crowd falling away behind you, and it's only when the cool air of the balcony hits your face that you understand who has been pulling you all along.
Manjiro releases your wrist and turns to face you.
There is no crowd to hide in. No conversation to slip back into. No way out.
You can’t fucking escape this one.
On the balcony, the crowd you used to hide in is suddenly out of grasp. Even though you’re isolated now, you still don't dare look up. You can’t bring yourself to meet the eyes that have been burning holes through you all night and are now fixed intently on your bowed head.
You swallow and wait for the first blow to land. It doesn't take long.
He lets out a heavy sigh, the sound of someone who has finally run out of patience.
"y/n"
You don't respond but your eyes move. Not toward him. Just anywhere that isn't him.
You’re painfully aware of the relentless beat of your heart. It feels powerful enough to rip through your chest if it keeps up this frantic pace. But you stay still, waiting for him to say the words that will end everything once and for all. Soon, you’ll be left with nothing but your ruined self and a friendship stained beyond repair.
You hear him shuffle, his slow footsteps approaching where you stand. He stops abruptly, just a few feet away, and lets out another sigh.
"Why are you avoiding me?" His voice is leveled, not nearly as cold as you deserve for what you’ve done.
You know that staying silent won't help you escape this. You have to respond, even if your brain refuses to give you the right words.
"I…" you exhale slowly, the sound shaky in the cold night air. "I don’t know what to say. I really don’t."
That's all you have. The only words you could pull from the wreckage of your thoughts.
You still haven't looked up at him but you can feel something radiating off of him in the silence. Something restless. Frustrated, maybe. Or dreading this just as much as you are.
"You don’t have to force yourself to say anything. I understand" he pauses, like he's choosing his next words carefully. "Just… would you stop avoiding me, y/n?"
That’s the cue. You finally find the strength to look up and meet his eyes.
There they are — his midnight irises that have haunted your imaginations, now staring at you, stripped of their usual light and replaced by a hollow, drained expression that almost makes you crumble on the spot.
"What do you mean… I don’t have to say anything?" your voice trembles. You search his face, desperately trying to find the meaning behind his words. Because there’s something underneath them, there has to be. But he doesn't flinch. He just stands there, his gaze fixed on you.
"What do you mean, Manjiro?"
For someone who spent the entire night chasing you, he chooses this exact moment to go silent. He looks away, his jaw tightening as he stares out at the dark horizon instead of at you. The sudden wall he’s built up agitates you, the uncertainty sparking a frantic need for an answer.
Because what is he trying to say? You don't have to say anything? After all of that and this?
"Manjiro, please" you call out again, your voice rising and shaking. He inhales sharply, the sound suggesting that whatever he’s about to say pains him just as much as it does you.
"I didn’t hear anything, y/n."
His words land like a match dropped into gasoline.
"That’s bullshit!" your voice comes out sharper than you intended. "I was wailing like a mess in there — chanting your name over and over and you were on the other end of that call for a full two minutes. Two fucking minutes, Manjiro! And now you're standing here telling me you didn't hear anything?!"
"What was I supposed to fucking do then?" he snaps in return. The unreadable mask he wore minutes ago is gone, replaced by a raw frustration that matches his voice. "You’ve distanced yourself from me for days. You wouldn’t even talk to me. The only thing I could think to do was tell you I didn’t hear shit, just so you’d stop running away—"
"But you did." It comes out barely above a whisper. The fight drains out of you as quickly as it came.
"You heard everything."
You don't wait for him to fill it. You push forward, even as you shake trying to pick up the broken pieces of yourself in front of him.
"And I was so—" you bite your lip as your vision blurs, tears threatening to spill at any second. "I was so embarrassed."
"y/n—"
"I—" You shake your head, cutting yourself off before he can reach you with your name.
Across from you, Manjiro goes still. His expression torn open, caught between something you don't have the clarity to name right now. He looks like he wants to reach for you. His foot shifts forward as if to close the gap but he stops himself abruptly, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
"I didn't mean for any of it to… I mean, I never—" you bite your lip hard, almost drawing blood to ground yourself and stop your flowing tears.
He says your name again. Softer this time, like he's afraid the wrong pressure will destroy you completely. And that's exactly what undoes you.
Because you feel it rising the moment his voice gentles — that familiar pull of retreat. The same cowardice that has kept you silent for years rises in your chest, already building the excuses, already forming the words: It’s fine, forget it, pretend I said nothing.
Maybe you can salvage this without saying another word and just apologize for the mess you’ve caused. Maybe you could choose to believe his lie. Maybe you could convince yourself that you don’t need to confess. You could take the exit he’s giving you and continue living your life, even if the secret would eat you alive day by day.
Maybe that's enough. Maybe it has to be.
But before the retreat can fully form on your tongue Manjiro speaks.
"We can…" He pauses, his gaze dropping to the floor between you.
"If you want, we can forget this. All of it. I can pretend… if that's what you need."
The most generous thing he has ever offered you and somehow, the most devastating. He is giving you exactly what the coward in you always wanted: an exit. A way back to "before." A way to keep him safely as just your best friend.
But you’re so tired.
You’re exhausted from keeping everything hidden away. You're tired of loving him only in your mind — the only place where you could do so without restrictions, without the feeling of crossing a line, without staining or ruining anything.
You can't have that anymore.
"But I can't."
It feels as if a vault has finally been forced open, the words you’ve tried to bury acting as the key. The feelings you thought would never see the light of day are finally laid bare before him.
"I can’t do the 'pretend' anymore."
"Not when I’ve spent years feeling this way."
Every word feels like blood being spat from your mouth. It makes you shake, but it would be more painful to keep it in than to let it out. You continue, even as your voice breaks. Even as your heart does, too.
"Not when I’ve already crossed every line — willingly, Manjiro. All of it, willingly. Just so I could at least feel like you could finally see where I am."
Tears continue to spill, blurring your sight until he’s barely more than a shape in front of you. You pull a split second of bravery to look directly into his eyes as you spill your heart out. Cowardice be damned. Let him see you break. He already heard you at your highest and it shattered you even more after. What difference does it make if he witnesses you at your lowest, standing here as the same shattered self?
"Turn around and see me, Manjiro...I was here. I still am...I'm in love with you."
And you finally break.
You cover your face, the sound of your own wailing sending a violent shiver down your spine. It's terrifying to hear yourself cry this loudly. To feel the raw, unfiltered sound of your heart breaking in the open air. Your legs feel hollow, and you’re certain that at any moment your knees will give out and you'll stumble.
But before you can fall, you feel a sudden, firm tug at your wrist.
And then you're moving.
No words. No warning. Manjiro pulls you back through the balcony doors and into the hall and you don't have the strength to resist. You don't have anything left. You just follow, face still hidden behind your hand trying to hold whatever remains of yourself together.
You’re being led through the crowd, still sobbing openly, and you feel the suffocating weight of every eye in the room following your every move. You’re powerless to shield your messy, broken self from the sudden spotlight. Manjiro’s eager, relentless pace doesn’t break until he reaches the table where Emma and his inner circle are sitting.
Emma's face shifts the moment she sees you. The smile she was wearing dissolving first into confusion, then into something closer to alarm when her eyes find yours.
"Mikey, what happen—"
But Manjiro is already moving. He steps in front of you, catches Emma by the shoulders before she can reach you, and holds her steady.
"Mikey, is y/n alright? What's going on—" Emma’s voice is rising toward panic, but Manjiro reaches out and squeezes her shoulder firmly, grounding her.
"I’ll make it up to you. We have to go now" he says.
He presses a swift, apologetic kiss to his sister’s temple before pulling you away again. He offers no explanation to the confused crowd — not to Emma, who tries to follow, nor to the rest of the guests. Only Draken catches his eye, sending a silent, knowing look Manjiro’s way. The raven-haired man simply nods in return, an unspoken understanding passing between them.
Everything follows in a dizzying blur. Cold city air. The sharp ding of an elevator. Until the world finally stops spinning.
Before you can even process the shift in atmosphere, the heavy doors click shut, and you’re being led inside his penthouse.
Maybe it's resignation settling into your bones that keeps you from responding properly to any of this. It all feels like a fever dream. The avoidance. The confession. Him pulling you through a crowded room without a single word of explanation, and you following without resistance. You don't fully return to the reality until you feel Manjiro's grip tighten around your hand.
The gravity of the situation hits you like a physical blow to the chest.
You confessed. You actually did it.
You told your best friend of years that you are in love with him. For all the time you spent locking that truth away in the deepest part of your soul, convinced it would stay a secret you’d take to the grave, it only took one moment of weakness to bring you here. Standing in his room, the door locked behind you.
Across from you, Manjiro's face gives nothing away. Not anger. Not relief. Not even surprise. Just focus as he reaches up to shed his jacket, then moves to step out of his pants, like this is any other night. Like you didn't just crack yourself open in front of him twenty minutes ago.
Your mind begins to spiral, even as your body makes no effort to move. You stand paralyzed in the dark with him, your head filling with questions that make your skin crawl. Why did he bring me here? Why is he undressing? Why isn’t he saying he doesn't love me?
Why won’t you just push me away?
Before your head can split open from the weight of it, the words slip free on their own.
"Manjiro…" It comes out so soft. The way you utter his name isn't a call for attention. It’s a plea for him to end the silence before it destroys you.
Manjiro catches it. His head snaps toward you, and that focused expression dissolves replaced by something uncharacteristically soft. Almost meek. He waits for you to continue.
"Why are we here? What are you doing?"
He avoids your gaze, turning to sit at the edge of the large bed. Stripped down to only his shirt and boxers, the barrier between you finally feels thin.
In the dim light of the room, he looks reachable. He would almost feel safe if you weren't so paralyzed by the confusion of his actions.
"Why did you bring me here—"
"I just need you to rest, y/n"
"And you think I can? After everything that happened — everything I’ve said? Manjiro, we need to address this."
"We can, yeah? We can" he says, his voice low. "But let’s just rest first. You need it. We both need it, y/n."
He stands to approach you and you instinctively step back. A flash of pure hurt crosses his face when you retreat, but he continue reaching for your elbow. Maybe it's the exhaustion. Maybe it's the deep, aching want to just be held, to stop carrying all of this alone for one moment. Either way, you don't step back a second time. You let him pull you toward the bed.
He pulls you down, laying gently beside you. The proximity silences the frantic noise in your head, replaced only by the steady rhythm of his breathing. He wraps his arms around you like a vice, clinging to your body as he buries your face against the heat of his chest.
"Jiro." His name comes out muffled against his shirt, and you're almost grateful for the fabric between you.
Your voice has started to shake again. "I can't think anymore. I can't think about anything."
"Then don’t think. Just rest" he murmurs. You push slightly against him to look up, only to find him staring directly back at you.
"I'm not going to fall asleep and pretend none of this happened. We can't just—" The words die in your throat as fresh tears spill over.
A flicker of what looks like agonizing pain crosses Manjiro’s eyes. Seeing him look at you like this, a devastating thought takes hold: He’s doing this to compensate.
He’s holding you now because he knows he has to let you go later. This is the last kindness he can offer because he won't return your feelings, and what’s been said can never be unsaid.
So, you don't speak anymore. You just cry.
He pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin to muffle your sobs. His hand moves in slow, soft caresses across your back, your waist, and your arms. He doesn't say another word and he just lets you weep.
He stays there as a silent anchor, listening to every broken sob and jagged breath as the night bleeds away. The weight of your grief and the heat of his body slowly drain the last of your strength, making your limbs feel like lead.
Just as the darkness of sleep begins to pull you under, you feel the ghost of lips against your forehead — a pressure so soft it feels like a dream.
"Just so you know" a raspy whisper brushes against your skin. "I’m not going anywhere. Not anymore."
The morning after is a montage of moments you can't quite grasp. You wake up in his bed, and the flashbacks of the night come crashing down with a force that almost sends you into a fresh panic, only for the air to settle the moment Manjiro re-enters the room.
The next thing you know, he is driving you home because you insisted on going. The drive is filled with nothing but silence, but every time Manjiro brakes, he quietly reaches for your hand. He doesn't look at you when he does it. He just finds your fingers with his, squeezing briefly before the light turns green.
But what seals everything into one big knot of confusion is the way Manjiro kisses your forehead as he leaves you at your door. It’s a kiss that lingers, so long and so heavy, that you can still feel the ghost of his warmth on your skin even after he pulls away.
And then he leaves without a word. There is no rejection, but there is no acknowledgment of the confession you made at the party, either. He just disappears back to his car, leaving you standing there with the weight of everything unsaid pressing against your chest.
You're not stupid enough to miss the shift in him. You know something changed. But the only thing stopping you from leaning into those more hopeful thoughts is the massive question mark still hanging over your head. Two terrifying possibilities and you're caught right in the middle of both.
Did Manjiro do all of this out of guilt — his way of softening the blow before he cuts you off? Or does he feel something too?
That doubt turns the full-blown panic of last night into a tight, suffocating knot of overthinking.
What does any of this mean?
And somehow that question leads you here, to your current predicament — lying in bed, checking your phone every few minutes, waiting for a message that may never come.
Would he text you? Or was that kiss on the forehead the end of it?
You wait and wait until the exhaustion of your own thoughts pulls you under without warning. You fall asleep without meaning to, and when you open your eyes again, the sun is already setting outside your window.
You rub your eyes and reach for your phone to check the time...and find three unopened notifications from him.
Fr. Jiro:
What are you doing?
Just took a break from training. You busy?
Can I come over to yours after my training?
Your heart suddenly remembers its existence. It starts to beat again, but it dances to a different rhythm this time. It’s no longer following the frantic steps of panic, instead, it moves to a slow, hopeful sway of excitement.
You:
sure
And as if he's been waiting on the other end this whole time, the reply comes immediately.
Fr. Jiro
I have something to tell you..
Also, I miss you.
Though your heart is still racing, the heavy weight of that massive question mark finally dissolves. It is replaced by a soft, blooming heat for the man you hope will finally answer your yearning and longing.
You barely have time to prepare yourself when you hear the revving of a motorcycle outside your house. It’s a sound you’ve heard a thousand times, but tonight, it makes your stomach flip in a way that’s entirely new. You don’t have to look outside to know that it’s him.
It doesn’t take long before you hear the steady knock on your door. You exhale, readying yourself for another night of facing Manjiro. You hope, god you hope, that all the silent pining, the wishful thinking, and the secrets whispered into the quiet are finally going to be answered, once and for all.
You pull the door open. There he is — the man who haunts every crevice of your mind, the one you secretly call "mine" every chance the quiet nights give you. Your best friend stands there, looking at you with a soft, knowing smile that feels both familiar and brand new.
"Hey," he says, his voice low and steady.
"Hey," you respond, the word catching slightly in your throat as you look at him.
"Can I come in?"
For years, Manjiro has drifted into your space without a second thought, inhabiting every corner of your life as if he belonged there by birthright. But this sudden hesitation, this soft request for permission, is the cue that the old rules no longer apply.
It is the beginning of something entirely new. And as the weight of the day’s anxiety begins to lift, you find yourself feeling lighter, though your heart still hammers a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
You don't answer and simply pull the door wide open. He pauses for a second and stares at you, then he finally steps inside.
He stands in the middle of your living room, eyes still lingering on you. You, on the other hand, avoid his gaze as you make a beeline toward the kitchen.
"Uh... have you had your dinner yet? I can coo—" You hear his soft footsteps following you as he calls your name.
"y/n."
You shut your eyes tightly, your back still facing him. You want to slap yourself for acting this way again, you really do. But you can't help the awkwardness that clings to you like a second skin.
There's no running anymore, though. Right? Please.
"Hmm?"
"Let's talk."
He utters the same words that ripped your heart apart the night he called you — but this time, you don't feel that same dread settling in your chest. What you feel instead is nothing but anticipation. Maybe it's the way he let those words slip out with a quiet, almost imploring tone, as if to say that this is not like that night. He wants to talk, but in a way that won't make you feel like you need to put yourself out of his reach again.
So with a gathered courage, you turn around and face him. You exhale.
"Okay. Let's talk."
Manjiro's expression remains calm as he begins.
"I heard it." His eyes search your face, catching for any small expression that might slip through.
You remain steady, even as you force down the tension rising in your chest from his words. You already knew it — but he had to lie because you yourself weren't ready to accept it. Hence the days of avoiding him. Yet hearing the truth come directly from his own mouth is an entirely different wave to weather.
"I heard it, y/n. All of it" Manjiro shifts his weight, his eyes never leaving yours. He looks as though he is physically weighing the next words to say.
But you beat him to it. Before he can find the right way to piece his thoughts together, you find your own voice. You don't let the silence stretch any longer. You throw the question at him, the one that has been burning in the back of your mind since the night of the party.
"Then why didn’t you say anything further than that? I know you had to lie because I couldn’t face you, and the truth. But why—"
The rest of the question dies in your throat, the air suddenly too thin to carry the words. Manjiro nods, his gaze softening as if he finally understands the tangled mess of your thoughts without you having to finish the sentence.
He takes a step closer, closing the gap as if the distance itself is a barrier to being understood. It is so different from the night of the party. That night, he was afraid to cross an invisible line, and you were in a blind panic at his proximity while you poured your heart out. But tonight, that fear is gone — replaced by a magnetic pull, a shared itch to be closer. And so you stay rooted to the spot, letting him enter your space.
"I couldn’t say anything more than that because I didn’t know what to tell you anymore that would not make you run away again," he confesses as his stares level yours. "I only brought up excuses to forget, if that’s what you wanted, because I don’t want you to run away anymore. That’s all it was."
His eyes search yours, looking for any sign of the flight instinct that usually takes hold of you. But for the first time, you aren't looking for the exit. You’re looking at him.
"But why… why don't you want me to avoid you?" The words come out sounding more like a flicker of hope than a real question.
"Why do you need me to stay close, when everything I’ve done shows that I no longer see you as… a friend?" You shakily inhale, feeling the lump rise in your throat. And as the silent seconds follow, the tears in your eyes start to well. "Why Manjiro?"
That is his cue. He cuts the little distance left between you, fully invading your space. He reaches out, his thumb catching the first stray tear as he caresses your cheek before finally letting his forehead fall against yours.
"Why do you think, baby?"
Hearing that endearment directly from his lips is the final blow to the charade you have both been maintaining. It is a single word that dissolves years of careful distance, revealing the raw truth of what you truly feel for each other.
"I’ve been a fucking idiot for a long time, y/n" He pulls away to stare down at you, as if he is memorizing every inch of your face, as if it were the first time he has been given a chance to look at you this closely.
In his abyss-colored irises, you are the only one reflected, from before until now.
"If only I focused on what you were feeling rather than focusing on mine… I should have known earlier. I should have told you sooner. I should have loved you more sooner."
Your heart finally beats in a way that doesn’t tell you to run away; instead, it pulsates with elation, a damn neon sign that tells you: finally.
The kitchen, with its humming fridge and dim light, feels like the safest place in the world. Manjiro’s hands are steady on your face, his thumbs wiping away the salt of your tears, and for the first time in your life, you don't feel like you have to find an exit. You are exactly where you belong. In his arms.
"I’m sorry it took me this long."
You immediately shake your head in disagreement, reaching up to cup the handsome face that you love so much. He closes his eyes, basking in the warmth of your hands, and then he says,
"But I’m here now."
And then he kisses you.
A sharp gasp leaves your throat as his lips press firmly against yours. For a heartbeat, you stay frozen, the shock of the contact vibrating through your chest. But as he begins to slowly move his lips, the tension in your shoulders finally dissipates.
You close your eyes. Your hands slide from his cheeks to wrap around his neck and pull him closer. You arch your back slightly, closing every inch of the gap between you and begin to move your lips in sync with his.
Manjiro’s hands tighten on your waist, his grip firm and grounding as he pulls you flush against him. You let out a shaky breath into the kiss, finally surrendering to the heat of him.
When he pulls back, he opens his eyes to gaze at your face, feeling his heart rate quicken at the sight of your dazed expression. He bites his lower lip before leaning in once more to press a few soft pecks to your lips. Then whispers against your mouth.
"Let me stay with you tonight"
It doesn't sound like a request despite the rasp in his voice, but more like a certainty. Like something already decided. And you know —you've always known, that there isn't a version of yourself that would ever turn him away.
The way your fingers are already curled tightly into his shirt is answer enough. But he waits patiently and gives you the space to say it.
So you look up at him. You hold his gaze. And you breathe.
"Please."
Manjiro doesn't waste another second. His arms sweep under you, lifting you off the floor in one fluid motion, and he moves toward your room with a certainty that makes your breath catch. The same room that once witnessed everything you ever did with him only in your mind.
And as he lays you down and hovers above you, you realize, this is the same room, the same mattress, and the same sheets that once held only your longing and your guilt and your secret.
But this time, your fatal fantasies are finally and irrevocably about to be real.
You feel it snap. You watch it fade in real time — the invisible line that once connected you to a world you built in your head, the one where you could have him all to yourself.
You would still believe this was a lie, another trick of your mind, if not for the way Manjiro is currently stealing the very breath from your lungs. If he had given you even a few more seconds before leaning down to snatch the air from your lips, you might have basked in the sweet reality of it. You might have finally processed that this isn't just another vision playing against the back of your eyelids.
But Manjiro doesn't give you time to think. His actions echo his words: he has waited long enough.
You both have.
And so, he effectively destroys the final thread of your imagination by kissing you roughly, his tongue sliding deep to explore the heat of your mouth. He devours the sound of your gasp, his tongue tangling with yours in a messy, desperate rhythm.
There is no such thing as reverie anymore. Not when your fingers thread through his hair to tug him closer, eliminating the space between you until you can feel the heavy press of him against your skin. You open your legs wider, finally accommodating the body you once prayed would ride you instead of his motorcycles. You lock your ankles behind him, tethering him to you, making sure he cannot pull away even if he wanted to.
Settling perfectly between your legs, Manjiro doesn’t waste a second. He grinds his groin hard against you, the sudden pressure punching a sharp whine from your lips. It is a fleeting relief from the restriction of his pants, but a delicious ache to your already pulsating heat.
Driven by a sudden spike of impatience, you grind back against him. Manjiro lets out a low, guttural groan and instantly breaks the kiss. He lifts his head just enough to stare directly into your eyes, his gaze dark and blown wide with raw hunger.
He bites his already red and swollen lower lip, his gaze roaming over your face and your body, taking in how completely undone you look beneath him. His left hand moves from your hair to your face, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek. You can’t help but let out a shaky sigh at the contact.
"Do you think everything you did in this room... everything you thought about... I can't make it happen?" His voice is raspy, quiet but tinted with confidence. It’s a challenge.
A shiver immediately runs down your spine as his gaze grows even darker. It is a telltale sign that he isn't going to hold back and whatever you imagined before, he is going to make the experience more and better.
Your hand shifts to caress his face, and he turns his head slightly to press a kiss into your palm. "Say it, y/n. I want to hear it from you."
"Make it happen, Jiro," you whisper, the words coming out breathless and desperate.
"Please, baby... do me."
He dives back into you, his mouth clashing against yours as if your air is the only thing keeping him alive. His left hand roams downward, sliding from your cheek to the curve of your neck before dropping to the swell of your chest. He catches you in a firm, desperate squeeze.
A sharp moan escapes your lips as Manjiro continues kneading your clothed breast, his palm heavy and insistent. His kisses shift from your lips to your cheek, trailing down the line of your jaw until he buries his face in the crook of your neck. He focuses his mouth there, his teeth grazing your skin as he marks you.
The temperature rises as Manjiro continues his ministrations, and you are helplessly responsive. You arch your back to meet his lower body, trying to grind against him again, but Manjiro pins you down with the full weight of his frame.
"J-Jiro..." you whine, the sound trapped between your teeth.
You feel Manjiro smile against your skin. He lifts his head to look at your face, stealing one more kiss before trailing his mouth down your chest. Even through the fabric of your clothes, the heat radiating between you is suffocating.
Manjiro’s hand slides beneath your shirt, his fingers roaming with practiced intent until he finds the lock of your bra. He unclasps it with a sharp click. Moving with a sudden surge of energy, he lifts himself up to pull both your shirt and bra over your head. Once you’re undressed, he goes silent, his gaze burning as he stares at your naked body.
The one who had haunted his dreams as well.
You have no time to be embarrassed, not when you feel the painful throbbing between your thighs. You are pulsating with a desire that only Manjiro can ease, and your body aches for him to finally focus his attention lower. But he isn't in a hurry; he is in a trance of his own, as if it would be a sin not to give every part of you the appreciation it deserves.
He starts with your breasts, massaging the weight of them as if he has done it a thousand times before. You arch your body further, offering yourself to him, and he crouches down to meet you. Manjiro sucks your left nipple, and you let out a sharp whimper at the sudden, wet heat of his tongue circling the tip. Your hands immediately fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the strands to pull him even closer, pinning him to your chest. His right hand finds your other breast, molding and squeezing the flesh at a pace that matches the rhythmic pull of his mouth.
"Jiro—ah!"
He gives your nipple an experimental tug with his teeth, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core before he shifts his attention to the right, giving it the same ruthless treatment. You keep squirming beneath him, but Manjiro doesn’t allow an inch of space between his mouth and your chest; he buries his face deeper, sucking and biting and licking at you as if he can’t get enough of the taste.
Manjiro finally lifts his head to look at you. You are breathless and damp with sweat from the ministrations he just performed. He licks his lower lip, taking in your completely fucked-out expression.
"Baby, you’re not getting exhausted on me, right? At least, not yet."
He smirks when you can’t find your voice to answer him. You can only whine as your hands reach for your own chest, massaging your skin right in front of him in a desperate attempt to ease the ache.
"Please, Jiro... please..."
Something raw and predatory settles in Manjiro’s eyes. The second your hands paw at his shirt, he’s already stripping it off, ripping the fabric over his head and throwing it to the floor. He doesn’t wait for you to ask about his pants, he rids himself of them in one fluid motion while his gaze never leaving yours. You follow suit, kicking off your shorts too.
Manjiro settles between your thighs again, leaning down for one brief, bruising kiss before he starts his descent. His hands stay busy, roaming and squeezing your curves as he moves. You brace yourself, your breath hitching as you watch him trail kisses down the valley of your breasts, over the sensitive skin of your stomach, and finally to the place where you need him most.
You’re still wearing your underwear, but Manjiro can already smell the sweet scent of your arousal. He doesn't waste another second. He presses his mouth directly against the fabric, sucking the sensitive nub of your clit through your panties. The initial contact sends a shock through you — your head falls back, eyes rolling as a ragged gasp escapes you.
"You have no idea what I would have given just to have you like this."
His words make your head spin, but he doesn't give you a moment to recover. Manjiro hooks his fingers into the edge of your underwear, pulling the lace aside to dive in. His tongue finally meets your wet, gushing pussy, tasting you for the very first time.
You swear you see lights flashing behind your eyelids as you throw your head back. You start babbling, the sounds of pleasure incoherent as you feel his tongue continuously swiping between your puffy lips. The sensation makes your toes curl and you close your legs unconsciously, but Manjiro doesn’t let you. He holds your thighs firmly, his grip bruising as he slots his head further between them. He forces you open, giving you no chance to hide from him as he continues his relentless assault.
The pleasure he’s giving you is becoming overwhelming, but he is nowhere near finished, not when he can feel you getting wetter and slicker against his tongue by the second. His eyes lift from your pussy to look at you and watches you squirm as you moan his name. He can’t help the surge of pride. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you. He knows he’s making you feel incredible, and he’s savoring every frantic move you make.
"Jiro—baby! Ah… nghh… please"
Manjiro pulls away just enough to slide a finger inside you. He bites his lower lip the moment he enters, his expression tightening when he feels your walls instantly clench around him. It gives you another sensation to scream about and if you thought you were the only one electrified by the pleasure, you were wrong. Manjiro is already humping against the mattress, a low groan vibrating in his throat as he finger fucks you while sucking your clit.
"Fuck… I could stay down here for hours," he rasps. He gives you a hard, demanding suck followed by a slow lick, all while his finger relentlessly pumps in and out of you. "Tastes like a fucking dream, if you ask me."
The pleasure is so overwhelming that you don’t know whether to hold on tight until you cum or push Manjiro’s head away because it’s simply too much. But you know yourself, that if you push him away now, you’ll definitely cry. You make a conscious decision to reach for Manjiro’s head, your fingers tangling in his hair to bury him deeper against you. You start to grind small, desperate circles against his mouth, forcing the stimulation even further.
Manjiro lets out a guttural sound against your skin. He continues to swipe his tongue against you until you scream the moment his finger hits that one particular spot. You start to shake, your entire body vibrating with the force of it.
"Ah—Jiro, yes... right there... r-right there—"
Manjiro doesn’t waver. He lets his finger hit that spot again and again, coaxing scream after scream from your throat until the shaking turns into a violent tremor. He knows you’re about to break. Your breath comes in shallow, ragged pants; your vision blurs and your toes curl so tight they feel like they might snap. Then, with one final, deep curl of his finger and an insistent swirl of his tongue, you scream.
Manjiro drinks you in through the spasming, holding you open until your body finally goes limp against the mattress. Once you’ve settled, he begins his slow ascent, kissing his way back up your body until he reaches your face. He peppers your face with soft, loving kisses, his hands now gentle as they stroke your hair.
Your eyes slowly flutter open to see him. Half of his face is drenched, and his jet-black tresses are messy, but his eyes have lost their predatory edge, replaced by a familiar, heavy softness.
"You tired now, baby?"
You push yourself up and kiss him, tasting yourself on his mouth. He kisses you back with the same intensity, only stopping when he feels your hand creep between his thighs. He raises an eyebrow at you as you start palming him through his boxers.
"Not yet. Not when you still have this to give me" you say, your voice raspy from all the screaming. You wouldn't mind letting out a few more cries if it meant Manjiro giving you this one last piece — the last thing he has to give to be fully and completely yours.
Manjiro removes his boxers immediately, his cock springing free from the confinement. He gives himself a slow stroke, staring down at you as you discard your panties and start playing with your pussy.
If Manjiro doesn’t have enough strength, the sight of you, so raw and so goddamn beautiful, might make his knees buckle. If you ever thought Manjiro’s best look was the one he wore after a race, you were wrong. He is the prettiest when he’s above you like this: strong, handsome, and unruly.
And if the world suddenly reverses and forces you to return to the moments where you had to hide and keep everything in, you’re willing to go through all of it again, as long as you’re promised to end exactly where you are now: underneath him, with only his eyes on you.
Bracing his weight on his forearms, he leans down to press his forehead against yours, and you instantly wrap your arms around his neck. He reaches down, his hands steady as he finds the place where you meet. With slow, unwavering pressure, he guides his length into you. You let out a sharp gasp as you feel the slow, heavy breach of the entrance, but neither of you looks away. Manjiro doesn’t rush, despite the heavenly sensation starting to cloud his mind. He wants to feel the pulsing, delicious clench of your walls as he ensures you feel every agonizingly slow inch while he slides deep inside.
You know that when he finally pours everything he has into you, he is in this for the long haul. No more fantasizing. No more imagining. No more looking from afar.
He is yours, from the beginning until however long you want him.
Manjiro kisses your forehead, your nose, and your lips. Against your mouth, he whispers the words that were once allowed only in your mind:
"I love you."
Then, he finally sinks himself fully inside you.
The roar of cheers erupts all over the circuit as the blurring streaks of motorcycles blast through the final lap. As much as you want to close your eyes and pray, the deafening noise is impossible to ignore, and this is not the time to miss the chance to see who reaches the checkered flag first.
The only thing you can do is clasp your hands tightly, your eyes glued to the large display screens that show the play-by-play. It shows that it isn't just one person pulling ahead; there are several frontrunners driving at the same punishing pace. Your heart thumps and nervousness rises when you catch a glimpse of the familiar red and black bike banking to increase its speed, trying to outdrive the motorcycles beside it. It’s the championship race, and everyone knows a win here is a step toward becoming undefeated — a chance to conquer the world.
But you’re not mostly worried about whether Manjiro wins this race, it’s the fact that he’s using critical techniques and pushing his bike to its absolute limit. The risk of an accident is what makes your stomach lodge in your throat.
You can’t help but pry your eyes away from the LED for a second, unable to handle the anxiety that eats at you. But that one second of missing the run is what makes the blonde girl beside you holler. Emma screams at the top of her lungs and starts jumping, pointing at the large screen.
"Mikey! Mikey!"
Your eyes immediately return to the screen to see Manjiro pushing ahead at a terrifying speed — a predatory surge that leaves the other motorcycles behind to eat his smoke. You and Emma face each other and scream in unison, your voices blending with the frantic spectators. Your nervousness instantly fades, replaced by pride as the commentators rain praise down on the crowd’s favorite.
"And look at the inside line! The red and black is screaming through turn four! Sano Manjiro isn't just riding, he’s hunting! He’s pulling away from the pack like they’re standing still — nobody can match that pace, and there it is! There it is!"
The crowd becomes a singular, deafening wave of sound when he crosses the line.
First.
The world seems to blur for a second, the roar of the engines replaced by the sound of your own jagged breathing as the reality sinks in.
"Undefeated! Untouchable! The king of the race track has reclaimed his throne! Sano Manjiro! What a performance!"
You and Emma exchange a tight embrace, both of you shedding tears from the overwhelming excitement. When you pull apart, you pause to watch the screen as Manjiro hops off his motorcycle. The crowd doesn’t falter, erupting further when the camera zooms in on his face. Your heart remains relentless as you watch Manjiro remove his helmet, a knowing smile playing on his lips. He turns the helmet in his hands, pressing a lingering kiss directly to the elegant, bold letters painted on the side before holding it high toward the sky. The camera follows the movement, focusing on the gear to reveal the painted letters Manjiro just kissed.
You cover your mouth in shock, eyes brimming with tears.
It’s your name.
In his helmet, like a victory charm to kiss and raise after a win, and for thousands of people to see.
You don’t have to turn to Emma to see her smiling wildly. You don’t have to hear the questions rising from the crowd, wondering who he dedicated this win to. You don’t even have to watch the screen to see Manjiro being lifted up, his hand still holding the helmet with your name on it high above the world.
You only need to listen to your heart as it screams one thing:
Summary: a reunion ten years in the making serves as a reminder that absence doesn’t always make the heart grow fonder- especially when history has a tendency to repeat itself
Pairing: dick grayson x fem!vigilante!reader
Requested: no
Warning: nsfw!!! (18+ MDNI), porn with plot, lovers to enemies, unprotected sex, implied breeding kink, choking, angst, minor barbara gordon slander (for the plot, I swear)- do not read if you are not comfortable with the warnings listed above!!!
Word Count: 12,874
masterlist
Light reflects off the crystals that hang from the chandeliers above, and like a moth drawn to a shiny flame, you bask in the warmth of their glow. For as beautiful as the crystalline teardrops twenty-two feet overhead are, they dull in comparison to the- equal parts blinding and mesmerizing, simultaneously gorgeous, yet gaudy- diamonds that dangle from earlobes, rubies that rest against décolletages, and the pearls placed upon dainty fingers in an over the top display of money, power, and status. It’s the epitome of wealth, and though meant to allure, you find yourself disgusted by the flashy exhibitions of greed and corruption.
Every smile is artificial. Every laugh is humorless and diluted. Any feeling beyond complete and utter misery is a hoax. Yet, they play their parts. Each and every one of them continues to mingle, boast, and feign genuineness, but it’s obvious what they are, even beneath their disguises, you recognize the vultures circling the fresh carnage of the innocent- with blood on their talons and a hunger that’s never truly satiated. Do they even know what they’ve done? Do they even care? Given a chance to make amends, would any of them take it?
Revulsion counters amusement as you watch the elite interact with one another. It’s pathetic. In a room full of affluence, not a single person knows pleasure beyond material possessions, and that’s an injustice in itself. Amongst thieves, you’re the honesty that rivals them all- and that’s a scary revelation, all things considered.
Taking advantage of the large crowd, you continue to bump elbows with the rich- literally- as you weave your way through the opulent mass. A tight-lipped smile is granted when you pass an older woman, and an even wider flash of teeth catches your attention from a man around your age. Mimicking the gestures seal your fate, damning you- even if only temporarily- to this game of confusion, a game in which approval and disgust are indiscernible. Having had years to grow accustomed to the tricks of this elitist trade, it’s almost impossible to recall a simpler time. Back when you still thought there might be a modicum of authenticity behind the action, back before you were close enough to spot the invisible strings controlling the marionettes, you believed- and even hoped- that you had it all wrong. There was a time, long, long ago, when you were desperate to believe that there was still some good left in these people, but you grew out of your naivety. Now older, and wiser, you won’t make the same mistakes you once made. Under the influence of optimism, your purpose became convoluted. Not anymore.
Without anyone to dissuade you from reaching out- to challenge you from swiping a few bejeweled tennis bracelets, engagement rings, or even one or two watches and calling it a day- a thrum of urgency spreads through your fingertips. It’s an impulsive electricity you can’t deny. Besides, it’s not like social dynasties would crumble if a few diamonds went missing. If only it were that easy…
Wealth doesn’t doom these poor, unfortunate souls, but their greed- coupled with the blood on their hands- paints a distinguishable target on their backs. If you look closely, it’s impossible to miss that they’re all cut from the same cloth. A hundred different reflections of the same privileged archetype imitate the same gestures, mannerisms, and movements to a tee. An amateur would operate under the guise of distraction- causing a small scene and offering their apologies before making off with their prize- but you’re not an amateur. Not anymore. Not by a long shot.
A few women- four or five, at most- nurse flutes of bubbling booze a few feet away. The sound of their laughter is a little too joyous to be feigned and when one of them waves a manicured hand towards a waiter, signaling another round of drinks, you start to put the pieces together. Perhaps, the ladies in your sights are the most genuine in attendance- even if they’ve lost themselves to their cups. Matching their demeanor is child’s play. Once equipped with a half-empty glass from a server on their way back to the kitchens, you stumble towards the group, plastering on the same elated- intoxicated- grin, and hope that they’re inebriated enough to be welcoming towards a newcomer. Masking the bitter taste of insincerity with a sip of prosecco, a greeting rises from the mix, but it never has the chance to come to fruition because a large hand wraps around your wrist- effectively halting your heist before it even really had a chance to begin.
You should’ve known better.
As you turn to glare at the idiot who dared to put their hands on you, your breath catches.
Two birds die from the blow of one stone, and he takes advantage of your stupor- finding that you’re more pliant in your daze- leading you away from the women you intended to rob, and into the crowd. More witnesses make it less likely for you to cause a scene. At least, that’s his logic, anyway. While it’s not exactly flawed, it’s not all that accurate, either, but for old time's sake, you’ll play along. His hold on you remains firm, and he reaches for the flute in your hand with his other, placing it on a tray and discarding the prop. Your surprise begins to morph into anger- especially when he pulls you closer towards him as the orchestra starts to play a tune. Remembering the steps forced upon you as a child is muscle memory, and you glare daggers up at him- though, they don’t pierce nearly as deeply as the blue of his irises.
“Nice hair,” Dick revels in your obvious frustration of being thwarted, his lips curling into a smirk when your frown deepens, and he asks, “I thought you were blonde, last I saw you?”
“I was,” For the sake of maintaining appearances, you don a phony expression of your own and respond with as much benevolence as you can muster- even though you’re filled with animosity- as he leads you through the steps of the dance. “And you didn’t have a five o’clock shadow,” You note, allowing yourself a split second to take in everything that’s changed since the last time you saw him, before pressing your lips together tightly with a huff.
“Things change.”
As if he needed the reminder…
Chance has never meddled in your relationship. Coincidence doesn’t exist within the realm of precision both you and Dick operate from. Everything has always been on purpose, calculated and planned, never left blindly to fate or possibility- which is why this meeting isn’t an accident. As if he can feel you about to pull away, he flexes his fingers against you, tightening his grip and holding you in place. Ten years later- ten years too late- he’s found you. Not destiny, not a fluke, but with his own intention, and you wish that he would’ve just stayed away.
“What are you doing here, Dick?” As you abandon your costume, your smile falls away to reveal genuine loathing as you force the question from behind gritted teeth. Still, despite your obvious disdain, he doesn’t let you go. “Last I checked, you were in San Francisco- and more recently, Blüdhaven. You’re not supposed to be here.”
“You keeping tabs on me?” His amusement contradicts your revulsion, and a shallow breath purges the threat of an outburst. Dick has always had a way of getting under your skin, of pushing your buttons and doing everything he possibly could to make you tick, but the sudden onslaught of such juvenile taunting fills you with a fire not even he can extinguish- not anymore. Despite his charming exterior, the steady flow of his breath, and the easy grin of confidence that was once impossible not to mirror, dampness swells where your palms meet, and you feel the rough, raised reminders that he’s kept busy during your time apart- that he’s evolved into a stranger despite how familiar he still seems- and you wonder if he can feel it too, if he can tell just by touch, that you’re not the same girl he once knew.
“I keep tabs on everyone who might get in my way,” Your eyes narrow accusatorially, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re not special.”
“That’s not what you said the last time we-“
“Yeah, well, the last time was when we were teenagers, and a lot has changed since then.” Any attempt to remain cordial flies out the window when he dares to mention the last time- like it hasn’t plagued you for a decade. Not even he possesses the antidote to the venom your words carry, and he winces slightly as your rebuttal shakes. He clears his throat softly, the sound filling the lull where an apology should sound, and he takes a look over your shoulder before meeting your eyes again.
“Any chance I can convince you not to go through with whatever it is you’re planning?” It brings little joy to watch his smile dissolve into something more serious. His face hardens, and you notice lines and creases that you aren’t well acquainted with- unable to distinguish battle scars from the divots of age- and you quickly shake the thought away. Instead, you stare at him blankly, not revealing an answer. Though, he takes your lack of conversation as a reply, and with a heavy sigh, he shakes his head, “Yeah, I figured.”
He dares to express melancholy. Stunned by his nerve, after everything, not even shame or regret could rattle his courage enough for him to reconsider such a crestfallen expression, and the discouraged twist of his lips and the downcast slant of his eyes are so pronounced and dramatic that you’re unable to discern whether or not this is part of a ruse, or his genuine reaction.
“Did you think that would work?” Your skepticism is muddled with ridicule, a mocking scoff filling the line meant for his counter. It’s almost laughable- the nerve he has to look dejected by your questioning. To be fair, it’s been a while since he’s danced this dance- a routine once familiar, consisting of bite and bark, push and shove, before simultaneous defeat and victory- but he’s smart enough to know that that’s not how this works. “I mean what did you think would happen, birdy? I’d take one look at you, all grown and handsome, and reconsider my plans?”
Even in heels, he’s taller than you remember. He’s always been pretty- all mesmerizing eyes, slightly crooked smile, and sunkissed skin- but not even he was immune to the awkwardness brought forth by puberty. There was a time when he thought his shoulders were too broad, his ears too big, and the angular structure of his face too sharp and strong for a boy. It didn’t look right. Features that were admirable on their own, looked out of place on his face- or so he feared. You always thought he was beautiful- especially when he didn’t know it.
Now, Boy Wonder is all grown up, exuding confidence and oozing charm. He knows he’s attractive, but he doesn’t parade his arrogance- not anymore. His early twenties were a never-ending roller coaster of trying to find himself, his purpose, and where he fit into the grand scheme of things. Conflicted by right and wrong, tempted by lust and surrender, divided by good and evil, he’s had a lot of time to awaken from the grogginess inflicted by nightmares of freedom and liberation. Still, his eyes are just as mesmerizing, his teeth are straight- but his smile is still crooked- and he’s truly grown into himself. The man before you is a boy evolved- still a bird, but with a different set of wings. Robin is an old friend, a fond recollection of a different time, and though the stranger before you mimics the familiarity you’ve longed for, he’s not Robin, anymore- he’s Nightwing.
“Look, they’re anticipating for you to strike,” His warning is low and hushed, but even in whispers you’re able to detect his plea. Call it concern, or at the very least interest in serving justice as quietly as possible, but his timbre urges you to reconsider- if not for his sake, then for the sake of those around you. He really doesn’t want to cause a scene. “Security has been tripled, and you’ve grown sloppy-“
“Did you ever consider that the trail I was leaving behind wasn’t for anyone else but the one person I wanted to find me?” There’s no affection behind the way your fingers thread through the dark tresses at the nape of his neck. Without any fondness, without passion, or care, the action is mindless, meaningless, and merely muscle memory. There’s no repressed feelings you wish to convey, no animosity you’re trying to diffuse. With no hidden agenda, the gesture serves no purpose- except to unintentionally torture you both. Old habits die hard, and something undefined urges you to reach for him. He flushes, and the sight is so droll that you can’t bring yourself to stop. His lips part once, twice, three times, trying to produce an answer, but he’s at a loss. When you cock your head to the side, he tenses. “Of course, you didn’t,” You purr, and he clears his throat softly.
Dick’s no stranger to berating. He knows what it feels like to be chastised, scolded, and reprimanded. This exchange feels similar. The only difference is that you don’t raise your voice, your eyes don’t darken and you don’t threaten him- not with words, at least. If anything, the remark feels like a gentle rebuke, but the sting left from the impact of your insult brands him with shame. You’ve always seen right through him. Easily able to discern real from fake- truth from falsity- under both his domino mask and the hardened mask of his stoic expressions, you’ve always had a knack for exposing his most vulnerable self- welcoming his flaws, humility, and weaknesses to light. Even though he’s not the same kid he was when you first crossed paths, he feels just as naive and guileless as the boy he once once.
“You and the bat were never really known for considering every angle,” Spoken so thoughtfully, he’s almost able to forgive the verbal assault. As intended, the blow lands- precise, heavy, and unforgiving in the center of his chest- and the muscles in his jaw tighten with thinly veiled frustration. It seems, that in the moment he needs his voice the most, it evades him. He swallows consonants and vowels, a jumbled mix of letters that sit heavy atop his palate, and focuses on maintaining his composure- though, his steps are a beat behind and his footing seems, suddenly, unsure. You’ve struck a nerve. Whether or not you intend to wound, the damage is already done. Picking at scabs that should’ve scarred a long time ago cause his insecurities to bleed- a punch more lethal than brute strength and weaponry combined.
Blindsided by the truth, he feels utterly defenseless.
“Can I ask you something, Dick?” Your brows barely pinch together, your voice calm and steady as something softens in your gaze. Dick should know better than to let his guard down- especially when you lean in, and your lips brush against his ear, “If you’re the hero, here to save the day, does that make me the villain?”
“No, you’re not-“
“How about this, which is the lesser of two evils- knowing that you’re protecting a corrupted establishment because it’s what you believe to be morally correct, or taking back what was wrongfully stolen and returning it to its rightful owners?” As you tilt your head to the side, he hates the way that you look up at him through your lashes. It’s not a demure move. You’re demanding an answer, and a look like that- a look meant to allure, tempt, and bait- would have a weaker man spilling his deepest darkest secrets. With a sharp inhale, he reminds himself that the tricks up your sleeve aren’t new. He knows all of the cards you’re going to play- albeit, he’s unaware of the order in which you’re going to play them- and he won’t allow history to repeat itself. Purposely, your thumb caresses the back of his hand- the touch feather-light, but far from hesitant or accidental- and his breath hitches. Dick doesn’t undermine the small, sinister smile that threatens to spread into a victorious grin when he fails to answer your question. Perhaps, he doesn’t know the answer. Or, perhaps, he’s just distracted. Either way, your voice fills the absence of his own. “We’re not on different sides of a playing field, Grayson. You and I aren’t on opposite ends of a spectrum, we’ve always been right in the middle- dancing on a thin line.”
Prompted by the soothing symphony of strings, Dick twirls you- delicately extending his arm and leading you into a spin before pulling you back in- and it’s fitting, the push and pull between you so familiar it almost feels as choreographed as the steps of the waltz you’re dancing.
History repeating itself, just one more time.
“We both know you’re not here to turn me in, because if you were going to, you would’ve done it by now.” Your arrogance causes something to snap within him. Clarity comes rushing back as he breaks free from your spell. Without meaning to, his grip on your hand tightens.
“Look, I understand why you’re doing this, but-“
“No, you don’t.” Like a switch being flipped, your façade shatters- revealing a face so unbridled with emotions that not even a mask could obscure. He’s defensive. Tired of grappling for control over the situation, he tastes power as he parts his lips with a clever retort, but you don’t allow him the space to get a word in. “Did you know that last year, the city council held a vote to refurbish a few run-down parks on the south side of Gotham with the hopes of restoring the communities destroyed by violence, or increasing the GCPD budget?” The heat behind your accusation pokes and prods at his curiosity, coloring him intrigued. Admittedly, he’s not the most up-to-date on Gotham’s politics, but something this large shouldn’t have slipped under his radar- or the watchful eyes of those who swore themselves to protect the beloved city.
It’s deeper than that, though.
Your frustrations, however warranted, seem to extend beyond such an injustice. Between the lines, amongst all the words you haven’t said, there’s a decipher hidden in every twitch, gesture, and glare. From the way your eyes narrow, to the sharp exhale and tightening grip of your fingertips. To sweaty palms and clenched teeth, all the way to flared nostrils- there’s something just beneath the surface that he can’t crack. Too much time has passed for him to unscramble tacitness when he no longer understands the codes in which you speak, and, unfortunately, he needs you to paint a clearer picture than the vague abstract before him.
“When it came down to it, do you think that the citizens of the south side had a say in the matter?” Dick’s smart. He’s not just a pretty face or a nice body- he’s actually got brains to match. You know- deep down- that sooner or later, shapeless pieces will fall into place to reveal the completed puzzle, but you need him to come to the conclusion all on his own. It would be easy to simply reveal your motive, and while a straightforward approach may have been less complicated than the mental gymnastics you’re forcing him to perform, it wouldn’t have been as impactful. Dick needs to understand, and to understand, he needs to feel- the same anger, outrage, and upset you felt. “Do you think the people on the other side of the tracks were given a chance to speak in front of the council?”
“They can’t segregate who speaks publicly-“ The gears are turning- some slower, some faster, and others completely out of control as he struggles to make sense of your elusiveness. When the current song fades out, a scattered round of applause takes its place before a new song begins. Hardly anyone else is dancing, save for a handful of couples who look just about as miserable as you and Dick- without the coordination or grace, the two of you share. It takes him too long to jump to the conclusion, and you tire of waiting for him to put the pieces together on his own. He always did work better with a helping hand- though, the quality of his work declined greatly whenever your hands were involved.
“You’re right,” Your agreement further confuses him, until an additional explanation provides the last bit of clarity he’d been seeking. “But they can change the date, time, and venue of the meeting without alerting the other parties involved, parties that spent weeks building the foundations of a strong claim, and vote on the matter without them being present- subsequently, granting them access to funnel more funds back into their pensions.”
“That’s not possible,” His argument is backed by disbelief instead of reason, denial influencing his refusal to accept such an absurdity, even in spite of proof, and every ugly, undesirable, nasty feeling you’re not supposed to have swirls together in the pit of your stomach at his incredulity.
How can he still be so blind? How, after all of the evil that he’s witnessed, how can he deny the truth in favor of possibility? He may be a man grown, but he still lives in a delusional state of boyhood- where he still clings to hope and the prospect of good intentions even when the jury has already delivered a conviction.
“Why not?” You seethe, simultaneously demanding an answer without allowing him the chance to speak. Unfortunately, whatever’s been brewing amongst your insides finally bubbles over and your own reluctance to accept an outcome where he doesn’t justify your point of view sharpens the words at the tip of your tongue until they’re as lethal as any weapon. “Because good old Commissioner Gordon wouldn’t let that happen?”
It’s resentment- the concoction without a name- but it’s also envy, pain, and perhaps a bit of fear. At the very least, it’s petty, to bring her into this and force him to pick a side, but it’s been corroding your logic- eroding a place in your chest that’s been dormant ever since he last filled it with life and meaning- and you watch his demeanor shift when his lips part to defend her. You can’t bear whatever praise he’s sure to dole out in her defense, especially when she’s just as guilty as the rest of them, as far as you’re concerned. Before he has a chance to tear you to shreds with his ire, you interrupt.
“Look, just because the commissioner has a heart, doesn’t mean that the animals working for the force do.” Without any conviction, you start to claw at the mire on either side of you, closing you in. “It’s always been bad, but it’s gotten a lot worse.” He can’t argue with that. Worse doesn’t even come close to how downright doomed Gotham is now that someone’s poisoned most of the police force. The one group of people who are supposed to remain impartial to power and abide by the laws they’re sworn to uphold, have turned their backs on the people who needed them most, and the people hurting- the ones without flashy jewels or the stomachs for caviar and champagne- don’t have anyone looking out for them.
Not the way they used to, anyway.
“You don’t get to come here and lecture me about what’s right and what’s wrong, just because she asked you to.” Bittersweet tips towards bitter and a sour taste settles in your mouth at the suggestion that she had even the slightest part to play in your reunion. “You’re a few years too late for that, birdy.” This time when the song ends, you take a step back- though, his thumb brushes against the back of your hand before you pull away, the phantom of a silent prospect lingering even when the warmth of him is gone. Once, it was what you sought. He was what you sought. Years of desolation turned your desire for that same heat- tender touches and gentle caresses against skin- into favor of bleakness. You don’t regret pulling away from him, not as much as you did back them. This time, it’s warranted- a choice you make unobstructed by what you’re feeling, now that you know the outcome of what was fated to happen between the two of you.
“I appreciate the dance,” You swallow, your throat tightening with words you won’t allow yourself to say. Instead, a retort finds you, though it feels foreign as you speak it into existence. “Maybe we’ll do it again in a couple of years,”
Without waiting for a reaction, you head off down the same way you came, and this time, without any intervention, he lets you go.
The bathroom door shuts behind you, and the sounds of lively chatter and the hum of instrumentals fade away until you’re consumed by a silence so stark that it buries you. It doesn’t feel real. The soft tapping of your heels against the glossy marble floors cuts through the nothingness- even the slightest echo in the void registering as an alarm, coaxing panic and fear from the rusted, forgotten cells you banished them to long ago- and when you finally take a look in the mirror, you don’t recognize the face that stares back at you.
Your reflection is plagued by guilt, and haunted by ghosts of the past. Well, one ghost, in particular.
Running into Dick Grayson was something you’d prepared for. Since the day you last parted, you always knew that there was a possibility your paths could, and inevitably would, cross again. It was destined to happen, and you were doomed from the start. He makes you reckless. He makes you sloppy and distracted and forgiving. He makes you weak. Back then, before everything that drove a wedge between the two of you, you had a bit of a soft spot for him. He was the only other person in the world who truly understood the life you lived because he was living a different version of the same life. Both protégés, both headstrong and zealous- attributes recognized as both strengths and faults- and both dancing a choreographed routine in the shadows cast by the bat and the cat. The two of you were fated. It was only a matter of time before you started pulling your punches, and he started letting you get away.
The chase was always the best part- second only to the capture.
Still, it’s been years since he left. You’re not the same girl he once knew, and he might as well have been a stranger. More than a decade apart will do that to two people. For everything that’s changed, one thing remains the same- the chase and the capture are unavoidable.
With a shaky exhale, your chest tightens. Resting your palms on either side of the expensive stone washbasin, you attempt to focus on regaining your composure- but another heavy intake of breath punches your lungs. You haven’t come this far just to let him swoop in and gain the upper hand. You’re done pulling your punches. Flipping the golden faucet on, you allow trickling water to interrupt the unbearable silence that surrounds you- a lull so loud it sounds like buzzing static without the interruption of something mundane. With a few more deep breaths, in and out, you begin to fumble with the clasp on your clutch, opening the small bag to retrieve a tube of lipstick. The color has started to fade from your lips, and you use the moment of stillness to touch up your makeup. If nothing else, maybe your reflection will look less distraught with a signature swipe of dark red. You long for a sense of familiarity that you can control.
Above the trickling from the luxurious spout, the door squeaks- or perhaps, it cries- as it’s pushed open, revealing a mirage basked in artificial light and a custom-tailored suit. As your fingertips graze the fixture responsible for the steady stream of distraction, a thud sounds, and seconds later, the unmistakable click of a lock latching into place seals your fate. A wave of emotion- a tsunami of feelings- brings forth a myriad of everything, all at once. Just as you suspected you always would, you’re drowning- caught in a riptide of your past and present, finally merging in a deadly current that threatens to pull you below the depths of your worst fears and direful imagination. You swallow thickly as you close your eyes. It fills your mouth with delusions of saltwater.
This isn’t supposed to happen- at least, not like this, it’s not- but the one thing you’ve been running from has finally caught back up to you. Now’s the time to set the record straight. No more ties. No more draws. Tonight, the victory is yours- regardless of his intervention. He’s taken too much from you to take this too, and you’re done letting him.
“I already told you that this is pointless,” You don’t even look at him. Refusing to give him the satisfaction of meeting his overbearing stare. A swirling sea of darkening blue attempts to sail back to shore- pleading to find refuge within familiar comforts and intimacy- but you cast your gaze back to your reflection, focusing on fixing the corners of your lipstick and leaving him afloat. “You’re not going to stop me.” The promise is backed by conviction- though, you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince him, or yourself.
The muscle in Dick’s jaw flexes as he grits his teeth- forcing ivories to clench and grind against each other, creating a perfect, white prison to cage the words he wishes to speak. Stifling his emotions is conventional. It’s a routine he’s perfected through years of reluctant practice. Though uncomfortable and daunting, the void in which he sentences all that’s repressed is secure. It’s safe- if only in the sense that it’s familiar.
You’re familiar- rather, you were once familiar- but he can’t cross a bridge that’s been burned, molten ash still ablaze amongst the rubble, and expect to be welcomed back with open arms. Not after everything that’s changed. Not after everything that’s happened.
Not after what he did.
“I need a list of names,” The determination in Dick’s voice contradicts everything he feels inside. His face hardens- a mask, a shield, protection- and he stands a little taller, fixated on resolving the one problem he could actually solve. “Names of the officers involved in whatever this is,” He clarifies with an uneasy edge to his voice- like he already knows he’s bit off more than he can chew, but he can’t stop himself from going back for seconds, thirds, and fourths.
For all that’s changed, Dick remains the same. A phantom- a spirit, a memory, a ghost- of the boy you once knew disappears just as quickly as your imagination teases familiar red, yellow, and green. He’s not the same. You know it to be true, and yet, you find yourself distracted by glimpses and figments from a different life entirely.
“Grab a pen,” A scoff, an eye roll, and the gentle shake of your head, disbelief and credence existing in tandem- contradicting each other when your eyes finally meet his. “It would be a shorter list if you started with the people who aren’t guilty of committing some type of fraudulent activity.”
You’re not a bad person. Despite varying beliefs, you’re not evil. Mayhem doesn’t bring you joy. Confrontation doesn’t get you off. There’s little pleasure to be found in being the itch that people can’t scratch. You’ve never sought out violence or peril, and you seldom plan on causing either. Just like Dick- just like Bruce- you operate under a different moral code, but a moral code, nevertheless. Even if the only thing it provides is an excuse to justify why you do what you do, you still hold yourself to a standard. Unlike the vile, chaos-thirsty cravens that would happily light the match and watch the world burn, you’re selfless- bound to your morals, if nothing else.
What you do, the sacrifices you make- everything that you’ve lost and everything you’ve fought for- is fueled by benevolence. You’re in a position to fight for those who can’t fight for themselves, to speak up for those who can’t speak for themselves. The power to defend those who have had their rights stripped from them- those who have had their power stolen by greed corruption and profit- is in your hands. You’ll be damned if you let anyone stand in your way and prevent you from doing what you know is right.
Through the reflection in the mirror, you recognize the face that stares back at you. Gone is the fear and doubt that mangled your features unrecognizable. With a heavy sigh, you unclip the earrings that dangle from your earlobes- and the buzzing sound of static fades away completely.
You know what you have to do.
The sound of your heels against the tile might as well have been deafening in contrast to the silence that follows your remark. As you cross the room, your resolve sharpens. Dick Grayson has taken so much from you, you won’t let him take this, too.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me-“ You feign saccharine, your tone phony and filled with counterfeit regret, as you reach for the locked door handle, but Dick blocks the latch, stepping in front of you before you have a chance to wrap your hand around the lever. He knows exactly what buttons to press and genuine annoyance, anger, and frustration fill the space where your poor imitation of remorse once occupied. Through gritted teeth, you command him, lowly, “Move, Dick.”
“You know I can’t do that, sweetheart,” He says it so easily, with a sorrowful sigh and undisputed repentance, that you almost buy the sincerity he’s trying to sell. Unfortunately, for him, you’re not in the market for his misery. He’s a few years too late. Dick can turn his charm up to ten thousand- he can say all the right things and plead with his perfect crystalline eyes- but you won’t risk everything you’ve fought for for a few crocodile tears. You know, now, that you’re better than that. One way or another, you’re getting out of this bathroom- and if you have to go through him to do so, then so be it.
“And you know I’m not above fighting you, right?” He’s entirely unprepared for your snark, the bite that fuels your reply nearly nipping his sense of control straight from the palm of his hand. It’s obvious that this isn’t the same game that it once was, but something much more dangerous. “The dance wasn’t enough?” With your arms across your chest, you challenge, and he hates the way you’re looking at him- like your eyes are piercing straight through him instead of actually looking at him. If you bothered to look closely enough, you’d be able to decipher all of the blatant emotions he’s never been the greatest at hiding. One look and you’d see him- and his heart beating proudly on his sleeve. It’s why you don’t spare him a glance. “You still feeling nostalgic for old times? Because this feels awfully familiar, doesn’t it?”
“What are you going to do with the money?” He asks, fighting to keep his voice stern. His poker face was never the best- or, maybe you could just read him better than most people could. Still, as he stands before you, he grapples with his devotion to whatever this competition is. This clash will never see a winner- only two losers- and he knows it. You do, too- but unlike him, you’re not willing to back down without a fight.
“Give it back to those who rightfully deserve it.” He doesn’t deserve your honesty. He has no right to the truth, but you don’t have it in you to scheme an elaborate lie. However gratifying it might’ve been to feed him false information and watch him fly in circles, you’re too exhausted for mental gymnastics. Like clockwork, you give, and he takes- his stare narrowing, almost accusatorially.
“And who are you to decide who rightfully deserves it?” There’s an edge to his question- like he can’t fathom justice without his divine intervention- and it’s grating, the way he can make you feel so small, and worthless with a single sentence. His arrogance is astounding. Who was he to seek vengeance against Slade Wilson? Who was he to target Heartless? Who was he to sentence Tony Zucco to his death- by placing him behind bars, and granting other enemies easy access to the crime lord, which ultimately led to his demise? The self-righteous guilt trip nearly gives you whiplash from how fast it makes your head spin. He’s no different than you are- no better or worse, since you operate on the same playing field. He doesn’t get to act like he is. Someone needs to knock him down a few pegs, and you’re happily up for the challenge.
“Who are you to try to stop me?”
“Someone who knows you,” He replies, instinctively. “Someone who’s a friend, not a foe.”
“Hmm,” With a bitter laugh, your stomach churns- twisting, clenching, and swirling with swells of irritation, regret, and sorrow- and although it’s a familiar discomfort, it’s been years since you’ve felt the threat of splintering cracks, chipping away at the stone-cold facade of your exterior. Come to think of it, the last time you felt this way was when Selina had told you that Dick left for San Francisco. The reminder fills you with a bitterness you’ve long tried to suppress, and as it bubbles to the surface, so do all of the repressed thoughts and emotions that’ve haunted you for years.
For a moment, you ache- chasing forgotten remembrance plagued by wistfulness. Then, you burn.
“Friends call every once in a while, and if they can’t make it to a phone, they send a postcard to let you know that they’re still alive and well.” Vexation forces your eyes to narrow, the color of your eyes morphing into something much more bleak. With a heavy exhale- filled with frustration and a semblance of humility- you remind him, “Friends don’t disappear into thin fucking air without letting you know why- especially, after those friends, were always a little more than just friends.” There’s a darkness behind your eyes that Dick’s not familiar with, and a weight settles in the hollow emptiness of his chest before sinking deeper and deeper into the pit of his stomach. His jaw clenches and he swallows thickly- the tastes of bile, rue, and shame all indiscernible from one another as he forces them back down.
He knows you’re right.
While his absence was abrupt, it had nothing to do with any ill will towards you. There was never a falling out- no crossing a line of no return or being pushed past a point that shattered a shared fantasy. Though the bullet posed no real threat of death by passing through his arm- beyond the phantom agony of lead tearing through flesh, and the hot, wet feeling of crimson pouring from the wound- a part of Dick Grayson did, in fact, die that night, at the hands of the Joker. The Clown Prince of Crime set off a domino effect when he fired at the young Boy Wonder, inevitably altering the course of his life forever. Acts of violent intent seldom harm a single soul, and as if it were fated, you became another casualty from an attack that was never meant for you.
When Bruce fired Dick, he was angry. Back then, thoughts of hanging up the cape never, ever, crossed his mind. Back then, he was content with fighting crime alongside his mentor, and never really considered what would happen next- or if there’d even be a next, or an after. He felt betrayed, abandoned, and filled with cynicism. As selfish as it was, you weren’t even really an afterthought in the downfall of his life caving in and swallowing him whole. He needed time to heal- time to rebuild- and prioritize who he was when he wasn’t hiding in the shadows left behind by a cape and cowl. Years passed, and with time to reflect, Dick’s bitter resentment morphed into a new kind of devotion to himself, and the few that started to look to him for guidance.
Before the Titans, he never really considered himself to be a leader. He spent most of his life abiding by rules and plans- roles and paths- that were set for him by another. Had he been hungry for control before, his first real taste solidified an insatiable appetite for the very thing he felt himself deprived of for too many years. Though, he’d come to learn that there was an ugly side to the power he wielded. Some days, the responsibility felt like a burden, and others, he felt like his guilt and uncertainty would swallow him whole. He bottled up all of his doubts, packed them somewhere deep inside the closed-off caverns in his heart where darker demons haunted, and forced them elsewhere- out of sight, and out of mind, but never truly gone.
It’s not fair that, somehow, you’ve come to possess the key that matches the lock on his Pandora’s box. Every emotion, every feeling, and every thought meant to be suppressed and banished to a place where they couldn’t torment or harm him, refuses to go gently when one simple, magnetic look threatens to release them from their cages of skin and bone. The most daunting realization of all, however, is that he’s the one to blame- for everything.
For all of it.
Selfishly, he’s hoped for an ember amongst the carnage he’s created. He’s held onto some convoluted idea of hope that whatever was once alight could be reignited again if he fully committed himself to an apology, but he failed to acknowledge the amount of ashes he’d have to sift through for a hint of a spark. There’s too much disappointment, too much duplicity, regret, and time passed between the two of you for things to ever revert back to even a semblance of what they once were.
He looks to you now, and he sees it- your anger is a mask for your pain. It’s so faint he almost misses it, but your lip threatens to wobble. Beyond the wrath you try to convey with the narrowed glare of your eyes, he watches as thinly veiled yearning mingles with what’s left of the color of your irises- simultaneously faint, yet prominent to the only other person who knows what it’s like to push away the person you love. What Dick and you shared wasn’t love, but it could’ve been and that’s what you’re both mourning- what could’ve been.
“You and I aren’t friends, Dick.” He hates the finality behind your conviction. It’s so cold, and void of the warmth he associated with you once upon a time. A split second threatens to expose the façade, and you blink back tears instead of allowing them to fall- swallowing emotion and banishing it elsewhere. Feelings have no place here. Instead, you grit your teeth, clenching them together so tightly that your jaw begins to ache. He watches you struggle to commit to the act- because that’s what your rage is, an outlet for your passions- and as you take a step closer toward him, his breath hitches. “Now, get out of my way,”
Toe to toe, you meet his gaze, and no matter how hard you try to fight it, despite your best efforts to disguise what you truly feel, Dick sees right through you- recognizing the parts of you that you try to mold and shape into something else. After all, he’s your greatest weakness- and you’re his. You always have been, and he always will be.
He dares to move. This close, he resists the urge to reach out for you and never let you go again, but this isn’t about him. It’s about you. Hesitantly, he raises his hand, his eyes never leaving yours as the shaky tips of his fingers graze your chin with a tenderness you’ve sought since the last time you felt it. The air is tense, passed back and forth by sharp breaths and thundering pulses- intimate with warmth and affection that mimics that of a simpler time- and when his palm rests against your cheek, cradling it with such gentle endearment in the face of betrayal, you let him. Dick’s throat bobs, and he pours everything he can’t bring himself to say into such a delicate touch. Every apology he wishes he had the courage to speak aloud, every declaration of devotion he was too afraid to voice, and every inevitable truth he attempted to ignore lingers, and you can feel it- in every shy stroke of his thumb across your cheek.
“You’re not going to distract me,” A single tear merges with the pad of his thumb- a testament to your resilience, but no match for the broken, battered, beaten bond you share with the man before you- and your certainty begins to dwindle. There’s a string that ties you to him- an invisible thread strong enough to stitch the two of you back together when you should remain apart- but you’re destined for him, the same way he’s always been destined for you.
It was foolish to believe any differently.
“I’m not trying to distract you,” Barely above a whisper, he pleads, desperate to make you understand, “I’m trying to apologize.”
He hangs his head with defeat, his shoulder slumping forward as he peers down at you. He’s never known such cruel torture. Such sick and twisted suffering is self-inflicted. The past erodes his future, but he can’t stop himself from resurrecting his demons. Foolishly, he invites them to haunt him further- and you’re no exception. His tightrope is stretched taut, and it’s a long way down. How much longer can he balance between anemoia and actuality before tipping one way or the other? It’s insanity- repeating the same act and hoping for a different outcome- but Dick can’t bring himself to accept that this time won’t be different. If nothing else, the possibility that this never-ending game could crown two winners is enough for him to play the martyr, and suffer whatever repercussions might follow after barring himself whole. What more does he have to lose, if not everything he’s already lost, again?
It would be so easy to reach past him and turn the lock in your favor, granting your escape. Hell, with the way he’s looking at you now, you know that he wouldn’t even put up a fight. He’d let you waltz right past him, slipping through his fingers for the umpteenth time because he knows that this time won’t be the last. It never is. Visions blurred by uncertainty flash before your eyes- infinite possibilities, each with consequences and punishments, rewards and sacrifices- but the unknown doesn’t elicit the same adrenaline-filled excitement that it once did. Maybe because this time, Dick isn’t fighting back. Surrendering his shield, he abandons resistance- instead, entrusting you with the vulnerability that spills from his heart, blood crimson against his fingers as he squeezes it with each thump and thud- crumbling before you, and submitting everything he has to give to you. Even if he can’t bring himself to support your cause.
You lean in closer, drawn to him- the same way you always have been, and likely, always will be- and your palm hovers over his chest. For a second, it’s unclear whether or not you’re going to reach out for him or push him away, but when your hand meets the fabric that covers hard muscle, you know you’re done for- because in the same ways he’s willing to fall before you, you’re willing to fall before him, too. Over and over again. Repeatedly and infinitely.
“Well, you have impeccable timing,” Your reproach is close enough for him to taste. It wavers against his lips and slips past his tongue, allowing him to savor parts of you he hasn’t been allowed to indulge in for so long. There’s no mistaking the invitation of your reprover, and Dick’s palm rests against your lower back, coaxing you closer towards him as his nose brushes against yours. It’s dizzying, and your arms find their way around his neck to steady yourself when he rests his forehead against yours with a soft sigh. The irony of the situation isn’t lost upon you- even when the two of you have ceded to one another, you’re still fighting to see who will give in first. As if he’s come to the realization at the same time, a large hand- rough and callused, but soft and tender in the way that it trembles against your cheek with anticipation- encourages you to tilt your head back, and you follow his lead. You hold your breath as your lips part, and Dick surges forward, slotting his mouth against yours in a kiss that’s fueled by the release of years of pent-up longing, need, and want. The gesture is foreign, yet familiar. Reminiscent of the past, yet entirely new. Everything you remember and everything you’ve ever dreamed of merge together in this moment and bring life to what had only ever been fantasy before his lips found yours once more.
It’s exhilarating.
“I missed you,” The affirmation rumbles against your skin, warm with fervor and urgency, and it’s completely unnecessary- considering that each movement acts as a balm to soothe wounds of time, fear, and doubt- but he vows with each breath, relying on words to convey what his actions can not, and vice versa. Masks are off. Shields have been abandoned. Capes remain long forgotten at the door. This is no longer about duty or morality. No, this moment is about two people seeking confirmation for what they’ve always known to be true- that a love unspoken, but never absent has always existed between them. Two people- not vigilantes or heroes- two hearts, beating to guide the other back, are bare, open, honest, and raw without the theatrics of a chase or the pretense of a game. Surrender invites you to balance on the edge of a precipice, and you’re the first to lose your footing.
Desperation is an influence, and his lapels wrinkle with the severity of your hold. Through the haze of everything unknown, he’s the only thing that’s clear, and you reach for him- blindly, but intentionally- clawing at the fabric that keeps him from you. Clashing teeth and bruising grips don’t elicit pain, not when real suffering exists in the absence of the other, and you allow him to paint you violet, blue, green, and red with desire, becoming the embodiment of his want. Your only regret is that the evidence of this divine crime will eventually fade away to nothing more than a memory- another ache that will never dull, a moment so unique that it can never be replicated. As you rejoice, you mourn.
“Sure you did.” His blazer drops to the floor as you follow your script, hardly taking a moment to realize that the page you’re reading from is blank- without word or direction- as you venture into unknown territory. Even when you don’t mean to be, you’re combative. Even when you don’t want to be, you’re still on edge. This is different. This already feels different than before, and maybe it’s because there’s a lot more at stake now that both of you have already lost one another, but for as overdue as this homecoming is, something subconsciously prolongs it further.
“No, really, I-“ He begins, ready to mold rhetoric and force it to take on a form that would allow you to see just how much you mean to him, but that would make this real, and you’re not sure if you’re ready for this to be real yet- because if this is real, if this isn’t just a cruel imitation of memory like so many variations before or a concocted fantasy so vivid you can feel yourself shaking, then that means you can lose it all, again. Just like last time. Within your grip, one minute, slipping through your fingers the next.
“Don’t.” Fear sounds different when there’s a bite to it. It could almost pass as annoyance, if you’re able to keep your voice just steady enough, and he mistakes the command for irritation, rather than the timidity it actually is. Whatever you’ve intended and he’s interpreted gets lost along the way, and he takes a hesitant step back. It’s impossible not to lunge for him as he retreats, but you remain still- your breath hitching when he holds both hands out to you, surrendering his palms while he shows he meant no harm.
“Can I…”
“You don’t have to ask,” You silence his fears quickly, closing the space between you before you even realize that you’ve taken a step. This self-sacrificial eagerness to light yourself on fire just to keep him warm has always been one of your greatest downfalls, but a most ardent gesture, and with ash on your tongue and soot in your lungs, you strike a match the minute he begins to second guess himself. “Just pretend it’s like before.” The suggestion sounds just as unsure as you are, but with a heavy breath, you encourage, “Pretend that nothing’s changed…pretend that we’re still…” You can’t even bring yourself to say it, because the kids you were back then are gone. They’re never coming back. You can’t avenge them or try to seek vengeance for what they’ve lost. It’s over for them, but this is just the start of this new beginning for the two of you. “Just for tonight.”
He moves promptly, gathering the skirts of your dress in one hand, fisting the fabric- a blue so dark he mistook it for black, or perhaps it was, until his fingertips were close enough to paint the illusion with light, making it appear different than it was- without any regard for creases or lingering proof of your affair. Support rests at your back, his chest firm and protective as you lean into the rippling muscle, and Dick continues to illuminate shadows of the past with each touch- eager to help you forget all of the agonies suffered at his hands in favor of remembering glimpses of peace. He’s ready to give you more than just a taste. Now, he wants to gorge you with the pleasure he’s reserved.
His hands shake- not with hesitancy, but anticipation, and when you catch his eye in the mirror, you shiver. You’ve never seen a blue so dark it looks black- until now. Without warning, he mouths at your neck- kissing, sucking, biting, any part of you he can get his lips on- reacquainting himself with parts of you that were once so familiar, and you allow him to explore. Blindly, you reach for one of his hands, taking it in your own, and he begins to intertwine his fingers with yours, but you gently guide his hand where you want it most- and he lets you, following your lead just as impulsively. You jolt at the first brush of his fingertips between your legs, even though you were expecting it, and he lets out a few ragged breaths against the back of your neck. It’s paradoxical, the chills that contradict the flush of your skin, but this relationship has never really made sense before. Why should that change now?
Almost as if he’s in a trance, Dick is overwhelmed by the twists and turns of the evening, but the whiplash is starting to subside in favor of something much more exhilarating. He never thought he’d have this again. He believed moments like these to be lost to time, and he wasted years grieving memories he could never replicate, only to feel the weight of your body against his once more. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s everything he never knew he wanted or needed until it was stolen from him, swiped right out from under his nose by his own negligence. He won’t make the same mistakes this time. No, this time, he’s going to do it right. He’s going to-
“Fuck,” When you grow tired of his stalling, you force his hand, again. This time, when your fingers meet his wrist, you press your palm on top of his- coercing him to mimic the shape- and maybe you’re the one in control, or maybe he finally rises to the occasion, but with a newfound determination, he cups your cunt- a choked sound catching in his throat when he feels how wet you are. You briefly wonder how something so vulgar can sound so pretty, but you already know the answer- it’s him. It’s always been him. Had it been anyone else, the effect would cease to exist, but it’s Dick, and that desire- that pull that you can’t ever deny- will always bind you to him.
You can’t help yourself from rutting against his palm, and he presses himself further into your back, allowing you to feel the hard outline of his cock against your ass. The hand that isn’t between your legs rests on your arm, and when he tries to hold your hand, you don’t deny him. There’s just too much fabric for you to hold in just one hand and some of it drapes over his forearm, but you manage to keep most of it from obscuring his movements. It’s a strange angle, and both of you are fumbling to make it work, but you crane your neck in search of him, and he answers your call with an eager kiss. Your tongue caresses his, savoring the feeling and committing it to memory, just in case-
He swallows your surprised gasp when he nudges your panties aside and begins to circle your clit. With just a bit of pressure, a crease forms where your eyebrows pull together, and you untangle your hand from his hold to brace yourself against the counter. It’s been a while since someone else has touched you, and it’s been even longer since the last time Dick had, but it’s so much better than evocations of pleasure. You swear figments are tangible. Spurred on by the reaction his touch has coaxed from you, he’s torn between making the moment last as long as possible or picking up the pace. He settles on the latter, considering that if this is heading the way he hopes it’s heading, he’ll have all the time in the world to make it up to you, but right now, he’s on borrowed time. You both are. With the reminder looming overhead, he adjusts his hand so that he can continue to work your clit while lining up a finger with your pussy. You’re so wet, and warm when he curls his middle finger inside, and he can’t remember why he ever left in the first place. What persuaded him away from Gotham when you were always right here? Would you have waited for him? Would you have followed him if he asked you to? He supposes none of that matters now, but he can’t help but wonder…
He adds a second finger, and even though your body gives little resistance to the intrusion, you groan at the feeling. His fingers are so long, reaching that spot inside of you that your fingers are just too short to reach, and they’re thick enough for you to feel yourself stretching around him with each thrust- not enough to cause pain, but an ache that serves as a reminder that it’s been too long since the last time you’ve had him like this. You vow not to let another ten years pass before you let him have you, again.
He continues a steady pace, curling his fingers in such a way that sweat begins to glisten across your chest, and when a third finger threatens to join his others, you wrap your hand around his wrist- abruptly halting his movements.
“N-not enough time,” He doesn’t even get the chance to ask before you supply him with an answer, but he nods in understanding once you offer an explanation. He’s already reaching for his belt, unbuckling the clasp and roughly shoving his slacks down before you have a chance to catch your breath, and you’re grateful- if the speed in which he undresses is any indication of his own eagerness- that he’s just as desperate for you, as you are for him. Taking a moment to adjust your skirts so that you don’t have to hold them, you bunch them above your hips and lean forward, resting your forearms against the counter while Dick frees himself from his boxers, and when you look back in the mirror and catch sight of his cock behind you, you can’t help but swallow thickly.
He strokes himself a few times, smearing the pre-cum beading from his slit down his shaft as he prepares to take you. This doesn’t feel like last time. As he reaches for your waist and lines himself up with your cunt, this doesn’t feel like last time at all. This is new, and different and everything he’s wanted ever since the last time he had you in his grasp. This time, he won’t let you get away. With as much self-restraint as he can manage, you feel the tip of his cock against your opening, slowly splitting you open, and your back arches. Your own strangled cry prompts a groan from him he sinks into you, inch by inch until his hips are flush against you. You’re so full that you’re not sure if it’s too much or not enough.
“I’ve got you,” Dick assures, his grip on your hip tightening when he feels you struggling to accommodate him. He tries to be a gentleman. He tries to give you a few minutes to adjust- even though he wants nothing more than to take what’s right under his nose, what’s always been his- but his restraint snaps when he feels you begin to rock back against him.
“Move,” You command, and he doesn’t have to be told twice. With your permission, he’s happy to follow orders and obliges with a sharp thrust upwards. The sound you make is a mix between a sob and a moan, and his fingers flex against your hip as he repeats the action.
“I forgot…” Through clenched teeth, he confesses, and you don’t think anything of the admission, too lost within your own feelings to attempt to decipher his. Instead, he wraps an arm around your waist, offering thick muscle to serve as a buffer between your body and the stone he has you pressed up against- relying on intimate gestures to make up for words lost in translation. Even now, when you’re not on the same page, you still know. Somehow, you know, and he does, too. Every time. Without fail. Always. Your head rolls back to meet his shoulder, and your fingertips claw at the back of his neck awkwardly, with transparent desperation to pull him closer. Within reach isn’t close enough. Near is too far. With a muted gasp, you push back to meet his next thrust, and he hisses softly before elaborating, “I’m so sorry if I made you forget.”
“Dick-“ Realization begins to splinter the mirage of bliss, and you manage to say his name with enough caution to serve as a warning. You don’t want to think about the past. Not right now. Not when you can see your future so clearly in the foggy reflection of the vanity. He wraps his hand around your neck, encouraging you to bare your throat to him and he licks at the vein that calls out to him.
“I won’t let you forget, not this time.” He vows, bucking his hips faster and faster as you whine in his hold. In some sick twisted way, he loves that he’s the only one who has this power over you- that he’s the only one who could ever elicit such a reaction- and it’s a testament to how much the two of you care for one another; the influence both of you have over one another. “This time, I want to remember.”
It’s going to be impossible not to.
“I-“ He can barely get a word out with how good you feel around him, and he takes a breath before trying again. “I know you want to pretend, but fuck…I can’t.” Dick wraps his arm around you, guiding your back to rest against his chest, and one of his large hands splays across your stomach, where he can feel himself inside of you. “I really did miss you,” Somehow he manages to find his voice. “Not just like this, either,”
“I-I missed you, too.” You don’t seem certain, not with the way you stutter, but your reply is genuine. It only appears dubious because Dick’s palm begins to press against you, and you all but choke on your confession. He can’t help himself, but neither can you.
“I’m close,” He rasps, brokenly. “Shit,” His thrusts begin to falter, and his eyes meet yours in the mirror. “Are you-“
“Yes!” You yelp when his fingers start circling your clit, and he doesn’t relent, even when he feels you start to tremble beneath him. You’re overwhelmed by him, in the best way possible, and as eager as you are to chance your release, a part of you never wants this moment to end. “Dick, please d-don’t stop,” Your muscles grow taut, and when his thrusts lose their precision, you know that he’s almost there. “Just like before,” You encourage him, clenching hard when he bites your shoulder and your orgasm washes over you. “J-just like before.”
He knows what you’re asking for. He understands what you’re practically begging for, and in a fleeting moment of clarity, he catches a glimpse of the faded scar on your arm- his only regret being the fact that an implant still stands in the way of what he truly wants with you- but the thought disappears as quickly as it materializes.
A few seconds more and he grunts against your neck, pulling your hips to meet his and spilling himself inside of you. It’s even better than you remember and your body shakes with aftershocks of pleasure. Luckily, he’s there to keep you upright. Your vision starts to blur and the only sound you’re able to make out is both of you struggling to catch your breaths. With a heavy sigh, he pulls out, and you can feel his cum start to leak from you, but you’re too disoriented to clean it up. Instead, you lean forward, relying on the countertop for support as you hang your head and try to come back to your senses.
Dick leaves a trail of soft kisses down the back of your neck and his forehead is both warm and damp when it meets your shoulder, resting comfortably against your skin while he takes a minute to catch his breath, and these sensations- these tiny little reminders that he’s here, this moment is present and real- ground you. Where your mind is a mess, reeling with indecision, emotions, and thoughts you can’t yet process, your body is at ease.
As your eyes flutter shut, greedy gulps of air fail to satisfy your lungs, and you swallow thickly, allowing pressure to build up in your chest until you simply can’t take it anymore. Darkness saturates all that you can see, and you’re caught in a void- trapped, without any light to guide you back home. The gentle caress of his touch along your arm brands you, flush enough to make you burn with reminders of this fleeting moment- when embers of devotion inevitably fade into ashes- and you stiffen in his hold, not that he’s coherent enough to notice.
He seems to be in his little world as he tucks himself back into his pants and presses another gentle kiss to your shoulder before wrapping his arms around you. Violent delights really do have violent ends and it’s not fair that you let it get this far without thinking about the consequences of your actions. None of this would’ve happened if you just let yourself love him- without fear, without judgment, without regret- and if you had just been honest with yourself all those years ago, this mess would’ve never spiraled so far out of your control.
Whatever repercussion await you, you’ll brave. Regardless of what happens next, you know that you have to tell him the truth- even if it kills you. The thought is often more daunting than the action itself, but as you turn yourself around in his arms so that you’re facing him, you’re petrified.
“I’m sorry,” The magnitude of your apology isn’t supported by the handful of letters that arrange themselves as they slip past your tongue. There has to be a better way to express your remorse, but if one exists it evades you. Over and over again, the same words come to mind and it’s not fair that you know exactly what you want to say, but you just can’t find the right words to absolve your shame. At your inability to voice your regret, frustration overwhelms you. Your lips part, ready to divulge your sins, but only a pathetic, meek sigh comes out. Why is this so difficult? You know the answer, and yet, you play the part of the fool- leaning on ignorance as a crutch for what you can’t bring yourself to brave. He deserves it, doesn’t he? The truth- not something partial, but whole. Transparency is the only piece left of a nearly complete puzzle, the only thing keeping this tragic tale of two lovers who break each other’s hearts only to stitch them back together again from reaching its inevitably doomed end. When your lip begins to tremble, Dick reaches for you, pulling you into his chest and embracing you in a hold that’s absolutely suffocating. You don’t deserve his kindness. You don’t deserve his love or affection- his tenderness or his forgiveness.
You don’t deserve him.
“Me too,” He sighs into your hair, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of your head before resting his head on top of yours. You can hear his heart- how steady it beats- and the sound rivals the racing of your own where it threatens to burst straight from your chest, and your eyes flutter shut, savoring the gentle lull of his own serenity before you poison his relief with your own disruption. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how difficult it may be, you know that you have to tell him. With a breath, you prepare for carnage.
“No, Dick, I-“
“Dick? Are you in here?” Barbara’s voice seeps through the wooden barrier that separates the two of you from the rest of the world- from reality- and as soon as she calls out to him, the illusion of tranquility is broken. Of course, it’s her. Of course, she’d be the one to interrupt you before you had the chance to speak, and of course, it would be her that drives a wedge further between the two of you with one simple revelation, “They’re getting away!”
It’s almost impossible to miss the sounds of commotion that follow her declaration. Faint screams and chaos replace the background of symphony strings and he turns to you then, a divot dividing the smooth skin of his forehead while his eyes narrow. Blue is black. Dark, and unmistakable. The muscle in his jaw looks like it’s about to burst with the severity of his clenching and his nostrils flare with a shallow exhale. It’s excruciating to watch him slip back into consciousness after being caught up in a dream, but a nightmare unfolds before you, twisting your stomach into knots so intricate they threaten to snap. You can’t breathe, and when you gather enough courage to finally take a step forward, he takes a step back. He’s never looked at you with so much hostility before, and you open your mouth to explain, to shower him with honesty and desperate pleas to make him understand that this wasn’t meant to happen like this, but no sound comes out. Not even a sigh. Not even a huff. Not even a pathetic, broken whimper. Nothing.
Unfortunately, Dick’s left to draw his own conclusions- to fill in the gaps in which your silence fails to atone for your crimes- and he paints a picture so drastically different from the truth, relying on his interpretation to establish a story so vivid he believes it to be real- even if it’s a figment of his own imagination, a product of his own devastation. Dispelled doubts come rushing back, and he allows them to influence the narrative- since you still can’t seem to find your voice- and everything left unsaid becomes louder in the silence. He mistakes your tears for guilt, instead of recognizing the regret and shame that mingle with saltwater. As gutted as he is, he looks to you for an explanation, but you can’t bring yourself to justify what you’ve done- even if it wasn’t your intention. Distracting him was part of the plan. Keeping him occupied was your mission, but confessing your true feelings and allowing yourself to fall back in love with him- not just the idea of what it would be like to love him- wasn’t part of your job description.
The second your paths crossed again, you were done for. It was never about seeking vengeance or getting even for the hurt that he caused you, because the minute that Dick waltzed back into your life, you knew you were doomed- because he makes you reckless. He makes you sloppy and distracted and forgiving. He makes you weak- and you let him. Every single time. Always and forever. Infinitely.
When he looks at you, he looks past you and towards your belongings on the counter. No. You shake your head, vehemently encouraging him to look away. If his eyes would just meet yours, if only for a second, you know you could save this. If not for the sake of putting broken pieces back together you could at least salvage fragments amongst the wreckage, but he doesn’t spare you a glance. No, no, no. His attention is solely on the expensive stone behind you, and when you reach out for him, your fingertips shaking as you grasp his bicep with all of the strength you can muster, he shakes you off of him.
Everything splinters.
When he reaches for your earring, you know that this is the end. It’s all over. A new moment will erase everything you thought you knew about pain, heartbreak, suffering, and betrayal. This moment, as it unfolds before you, will plague you until you meet your demise, because the second that he dares to bring the jewel up to his own ear, the exact moment that he hears Selina’s command through the gravely static of the earpiece you discarded earlier in the evening, you know that any hope for a future together vanishes- ripped straight from your fingers before you even had the chance to hold onto it and guard it with your life.
Even with his back towards you, you can see his face harden in the reflection of the mirror. Through the thin material of his crumbled dress shirt his shoulders tense and when he finally looks up to meet your stare through the glass, all traces of red, green, and yellow are gone. A piece of him- the piece of him that you’re most familiar with- dies, sprawled out and oozing across the marble. It’s too late to try to revive him. All that’s left in the wake of his slaughter is blue and black.
Blue and black, forevermore.
There’s nothing left for either of you here. Not anymore. Hope begins to decay, and the hollow hole in your chest that only he could ever fill begins to die from rot. Nothing will ever be the same. Not after this. Perhaps the final thought passed back and forth between a glare is the last thing you’ll ever share- beyond moments of destruction and beautiful chaos- but it’s clear to you both, that not all ghosts are meant to be resurrected.
Some ghosts should just stay ghosts.
a/n: hey, I’m raen and I’m down bad for this man lol…anyway, I’ve been working on this story for months. I literally poured bits and pieces of my soul into this (so if you wouldn’t mind interacting or providing feedback I’d be forever grateful) but I just wanted to write a tale of doomed lovers who care about each other in such a way that it leads to their downfall. I wanted this to hurt, and I hope it did- in the best way possible! I’m not above begging, so please, please, please feel free to send some feedback- as this is my first time writing for Dick and I would love to hear what people think! that being said, requests are also open! check out my request guidelines before submitting! and if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading!
tagging a few of my favorite accounts: @becauseicantthinkwritings @dxckgrxsonx @lightwing-s @makethatelevenrings @littleredwing89 @bat-writer @wingbcrn @rebelbluerobin @idyllcy @dick-nightwing-grayson @damiansgrayson @gone-batty-fics @graysonspet @graysonswonder @angry-nightwing
Send me some feedback, or request to be added to my taglist! (please specify which taglist you’d like to be added to- character or general) !Requests: OPEN!
i miss fandom before ai. there was no risk of accidentally reading an ai generated fic based on stolen material. i don't want to stumble upon ai generated videos my ship kissing and see comments like "this is what ai should be used for". i don't want to see gifs of those ai generated kisses when i browse for fun reactions gifs of them. i don't want ai generated photos and definitely not ai generated art. i don't want ai to be part of my community and i definitely don't want to hear anything about anyone using it because they "can't write" or they "can't draw".
there's no valid excuse for anyone to use ai. use your imagination.
in which, DICK GRAYSON and KORIAND'R have had their eye on their best-friend & have had enough waiting for her to make the first move.
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includes: dick grayson x fem!reader x koriand'r, best-friend!reader, mature content (17+), pwp, piv, threesome, jealousy-play, teasing, dirty-talk, making out, dry-humping, voyeurism, cuckolding, brief slapping, spitting, fingering, oral (f. receiving), palming, hair pulling (m. and f. receiving), cow-girl, face-sitting, creampie, cum-eating, switch!reader, switch!dick, switch!kori, 6.0k words.
‧₊˚✩彡
kinktober masterlist.
THE APARTMENT was warm, much like it always was following patrol. comforting air crept along the ceiling freely, clinging to the walls and the furniture and the people that made themselves at home in the depth's of dick grayson's couch. both him and kori lounged carelessly together-- a pile of toned and warmed limbs spent from crime fighting away the night. beside them, you laid easily against the couch's throw pillows-- spine decompressing as the movie you had all decided on (something nostalgic, as per dick's wish) echoed throughout the living room.
the smell of popcorn drifted from the coffee table, a bowl of the convenient snack resting teasingly on top of the glass; you reached a hand forward from where you were perched on the other end of the sofa, popping kernels into your mouth effortlessly.
lazy irises of yours gazed towards the couple. dick's hand traced absentminded shapes along kori's skin, and every so often, the girl's lips planted sloppily at dick's pulse-point. it was familiar. normal.
as was the simple pit of jealousy that burned beneath your ribs.
swallowing, you turned your vision back to the movie.
the three of you had fallen into this routine without ever meaning to. long nights blurred and warped into even longer mornings, the sun becoming an awful reminder that you could not spend eternity wrapped up in the amenity of your team-mates; the amenity of your best friends. somehow, though, it became normal for you to crash here, to eat whatever dick burned, to listen to whatever foreign songs kori hummed beneath her breath while you tried not to gawk too longingly.
again, it was easy. familiar.
until it wasn't.
peeking her head out from the crook of her boyfriend's neck, kori tore her vision from the television, allotting it to your frame. hearty cheeks dimpled, and a finger of hers crooked, motioning you closer.
your heart skipped a few beats, though you did not hesitate at kori's silent command. scooting closer, your thigh brushed against hers, palms resting at her ankles. it was light; unthinking. but perhaps it was not so unthinking, because when kori's body seemed to lean into your touch, her smile deepened.
your name echoed gently throughout the room, the sound falling from kori's lips with a certain sort of care that ripped itself through your soul. "you are always so tense after missions," kori commented, quiet enough to almost be hidden underneath dick's laughter at her comment, "even now, resting against me-- your shoulders are like stone."
you hummed, willing the heat that began crawling up your neck to dissipate. "it's the adrenaline," you lied, referring to your nightly patrol, "it'll wear off, kor,"
despite your inadvertent protests, kori's palms still found themselves running along your forearms, all the way up and backwards towards your shoulder blade. "may i?" she asked, green eyes blinking curiously at you. her gaze lingered heavily, question building tensely within the air-- as if her hands on your body were the answer to the inquisitiveness that enveloped her now.
dick glanced over-- damp strands of hair (he had refused to dry his hair properly after his post-mission shower) sticking stubbornly to his forehead. his gaze, you noticed, carried not only something akin to amusement-- but perhaps the same curiosity his girlfriend harnessed as well. permission.
the movie rambled on in the background as you offered her a simple nod.
kori's thumb grazed your bicep, heat prickling beneath her touch. "it is strange," she mused, tilting her head to the side, "when i place my hands on you, your heart-rate quickens," the alien tossed a look behind her to dick, "much like dick's did when i first met him as robin." she swallowed, touch still scorching against your arm, "do you know why that is? perhaps it is a human trait i am unfamiliar with,"
behind her head, you watched dick's face contort into an expression that seemed uncomfortable to anyone who didn't know the man-- but you knew him, and you knew he was fighting back a grin.
your lips parted after a few moments of silence. "i think you know why." the urge to roll your eyes washed over you-- for kori's naivety did not equate stupidity. and in this moment, as you knew koriand'r all too well too, you knew she was weaponizing neither.
the laugh that fell from her lips only confirmed your suspicions. "maybe," she conceded eventually, "but perhaps i want to hear you say it yourself."
envy punctured your lungs as you watched dick raise kori's other hand to his lips, dusting thoughtless kisses along her skin.
"there's nothing to say," you answered simply, ignoring the blood rushing to your cheeks.
"nothing to say," dick echoed, tongue running along the inside of his cheek, as if to himself, "you're not a very good liar, babe,"
you shot the man a glare, nails digging crescents into the plush of your palms; it came out weaker than you wanted though, and landed truthfully instead of coldly-- your expression mirroring a child who'd gotten caught arm's deep into a cookie jar. "what're you even talking about?"
"you," he laughed, the sound raising goose-bumps along your skin, "you get all quiet when you're trying to hide something-- you've always been like that."
the reminder of how long you've known each other-- how well dick grayson knew you-- caused something to churn within your belly. you opened your mouth to protest, brows knitting-- before kori's hand slipped from your shoulder to your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip. whatever words you had had, vanished.
"i don't believe it's about lying," kori said, voice laced with amusement, "more just an admission of... uncertainty."
"uncertain?" dick asked, leaning forward to rest his chin on kori's shoulder, eyes lingering intensely on your frame. "'bout what?"
kori nodded, fiery curls bouncing softly. "about what she wants,"
"what i want?" you questioned, a laugh falling from your throat all too shortly, all too breathless.
both kori and dick ignored you, eyes flickering towards each other momentarily-- before landing back on your frame.
you squirmed underneath their gaze, suddenly all too aware of the way your face fit perfectly in kori's palm, and the way dick's eyes scanned your body-- analyzing. dark lashes resting along his cheek, ocean irises locking onto yours again. you shivered.
"this isn't fair," you tried, face contorting into something desperate.
that got both of their attention, all four eyes snapping upwards to yours. "what isn't, love?" kori questioned.
your veins pulsed beneath your skin, finger-tips tingling and ears prickling with heat. "you're talking about me as if i'm not even here," you voice was unwavering, impressively, as kori's digit still pressed lightly against your bottom lip, "you're... acting as if you know how i feel, and you're laughing about it--!"
dick's tongue darted outwards, wetting his lips. "we're not laughing at you." his voice was steady. certain. believable.
"then what are you doing? if not making fun of me," you questioned, eyes lowering and voice trailing off.
"you are misunderstood," kori acknowledged solemnly. "we never intended to make you upset-- all i am is curious about the way you are," she admitted, "curious about the way you get so... bashful, around dick and i."
"i don't get bashful," you snorted, though your voice was thin and unconvincing-- even to your own ears.
dick grinned, jutting his chin forward gently, towards you. "yes you do," he fought, "like right now."
heat bloomed across the expanse of your skin-- your tank-top now painfully revealing.
"you are our best friend," kori continued, "it is only natural i inquire about the way you make us feel,"
"i... what?" you asked, confusion soaking into your expression. "the way i make you both feel?"
"for i have noticed that you are only reciprocal in these feelings." kori finished, ignoring your question. "am i wrong?"
you swallowed deeply, your skin flushing in places you weren't even aware could heat up. "i--"
"what do you want?" dick interjected, voice low. "be honest with yourself," he murmured, circling back to kori's previous comment.
"you're both ridiculous," you finally managed, jaw tightening, "i don't want anything. everything you're... accusing me of, it's adrenaline, i told you."
"so, the way that you stare at kori when you think i'm not looking-- are you saying that's adrenaline, too?" dick asked.
shiiit.
"i don't stare at--" you sighed, "you're imagining it."
"am i?" he asked, tone maddeningly gentle.
kori pressed her thumb harder into your lip, a reminder of the reality of your situation. dick's chin remained glued to kori's shoulder, his gaze warm and taunting-- unrelenting, just as his girlfriend's.
"you're allowed to look at me," kori finally offered, voice impossibly low. her own eyes traced your lips in full now, unashamed in her gawking. "you're allowed to look at dick, too."
"you're allowed to want us," dick added on, blinks slow. purposeful.
you swallowed. "it's selfish."
"it's hot." dick corrected.
"we wouldn't have brought it up like this, had it been upsetting to either of us," he reassured, reaching one of his hands across the small gap between you and kori, his fingers finding the strap of your tank-top, fiddling idly.
"we know what we want-- and it is not to play with your feelings-- so just say with words that it's what you want, too," kori urged calmly, "because your body has said it for you for far longer than you realize."
silence settled heavily between the three of you. the kind that buzzed, electric and full of static. kori's thumb was still against your lip, her skin warm and steady; for the first time tonight, you hadn't felt like there was an insatiable desire burning between your bones that could not be cured. for the first time in weeks, you felt surprisingly close to the edge of contentment-- like this was the crescendo of every yearning thought that wafted throughout your mind, like every flip of your stomach, every jitter within your finger-tips, every throb of your cunt, was finally being answered.
you didn't feel ashamed to be in love with your best friends.
not as you watched kori breathe-- the slow rise of her chest, the curve of her mouth softening. softening as if something inside of her had finally decided that this was a line she wanted to cross. then, so gently you almost missed it, her hand migrated from your jaw to the side of your neck. your pulse raced underneath her palm.
kori's touch was no longer questioning; it was certain.
"may i?" she asked again, quieter this time-- but there wasn't really a question in it.
your answer was barely a nod, but it was enough.
kori leaned forward. the scent of her shampoo-- sweet, intoxicating, something akin to bitter-sweet summer evenings-- hit before anything else. her lips brushed the corner of your mouth, feather-light. not quite a kiss, but something that made your pulse stutter.
from somewhere behind her, dick exhaled-- a low sound, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. completion, perhaps.
you were not certain who moved-- whether it was you, desperately clambering yourself into kori's lap, or kori, lifting you easily on top of her-- but you had found yourself straddling the woman. both of your thighs wrapped around her hips, your mouths still connected as you kissed without regard for anything else.
it was growing messy, reckless-- your tongues had not waited to meet, and spit dribbled from the corners of your mouth. the sound of your kisses battled the noise of the long forgotten movie, wet and obscene in comparison.
kori hummed against your lips, her palms finding purchase on the plush of your ass-- holding you impossibly close to her body, tilting her head ever so slightly to deepen the kiss. deepen how close the both of you were, deepen how tightly you both were to be infused with the other's soul.
your own hands had snaked their way to the nape of kori's neck-- fingers dancing along scorching hot baby-hairs, tugging at the roots of the mane of curls that made kori kori.
dark lashes of hers batted gently against your cheek as she continued to suck on your tongue-- sounds emanating wildly from the both of you. vaguely, dick huffed beside you; grumbling under his breath, hand running through the dark locks that slowly dried on top of his scalp.
you attempted to pay the man no mind as you and kori continued to kiss; her hands wandering from you ass to your hips, briefly squeezing and rocking you against her crotch-- you whined, bucking your own hips in response.
what little friction you were craving burned between the both of you. your cunt was throbbing beneath the fabric of your pajama pants, panties dampening with each swipe of kori's tongue along your own. the woman beneath you was not shy in her showcase of affections and desire either-- hips rocking upwards into you with the same amount of fervor coursing through her veins as well.
an evil grin broke out across your face as your hands jumped from the back of kori's head to her tits-- groping and squeezing the fat against her chest overtop of her own tank-top; she gasped, and you took the opportunity to tilt your head and stick your tongue down her throat even deeper than before.
the scene was filthy. with the movie long forgotten, heat radiated off of both you and the alien in extraordinary waves.
if only dick had allowed you to continue; big, sturdy palms found your hair and yanked (as gently as he could, given the action) you backwards and off of the alien. opening your eyes in shock, you were met with a prettily flushed koriand'r, and a mean looking dick grayson-- who, despite the cockiness dripping from his face-- had a slight dusting of pink scattered along his cheeks as well.
"m'getting jealous over here," he murmured, blue irises darting towards your swollen lips, before he brought your face to his.
rolling your eyes, you kissed him back; it was sweet, at first. almost hesitant-- before dick remembered he had just watched you and his girlfriend make-out, and you felt as the rest of his resolve crumbled.
where kori had licked your bottom lip in a sweet command for you to open your mouth, dick bit. it was quick and fairly painless-- but the fat of your mouth still tingled as you gasped at the action, feeling the sudden intrusion of dick's tongue in you own mouth.
the grasp dick had on your jaw was intoxicating. gripping your chin with a purpose, your head was tilted within his palm-- giving himself perfect access to your mouth without him having to ask. the strength he used, skin burning beneath his touch, made your pussy pulse. with little care, your hips bucked instinctively again on top of kori-- and you felt her hands snake their way around your waist, guiding your movements to continue.
"i know," she hummed, finger-tips digging into your midsection, "dick kisses so good, huh? makes you want to grind your cunt against me, right, sweet-heart?"
you moaned into dick's mouth at kori's words-- nodding along to the filth that fell from her lips as though you had no clue what else to do. your hips seemed to move on their own, bucking and bucking and bucking, chasing a friction only kori's body seemed to cure.
dick continued to kiss you back with an intensity that only made your cunt ache desperately-- his tongue, his lips, his saliva purely taking up every thought that floated within your mind. only when he pulled back ever so slightly, did you open your eyes; blinking hazily at the couple, vision flickering between the two of them as if they were god's greatest gift to you.
"hey," dick whispered, thumb running along the bottom of your lip, "did kori tell you you could stop trying to fuck yourself on her?"
a shiver travelled tantalizingly up your spine-- igniting something impossibly needy and loud between your legs.
"well, no--" you tried, before kori's palm met your cheek in a muffled slap!
...
your panties were beyond saving.
"that's right," dick spoke again, paying his girlfriend's hit no mind as he brought his lips impossibly close to yours, forced your mouth open with his thumb and spat right into your mouth. "she didn't."
kori purred beside dick, her hands leaving your waist only to find purchase on dick's cheeks instead-- forcing his face mere inches away from her own. "it's alright," she said, feigned sympathy dripping from her words, "since you simply don't want this," she beckoned to dick by sticking her tongue outwards and slooowly licking her way from his adam's apple to his mouth, "you'll just have to watch dick and i instead."
rendered speechless, you watched painfully as kori and dick's lips found each others-- and the both of them fused as if it was the most natural thing in the world. dick groaned against kori's lips, tongues slotting against the other's with zero regard for you-- who, little by little, was being inched off of kori's lap.
"no, i do want that," you whispered.
when the couple heard you and pulled away from each other, a strand of saliva kept them connected-- green and blue irises boring themselves into your figure.
"oh, you do?" dick asked, cocking his head to the side.
you nodded, head bobbing.
the duo laughed, and kori gently pushed you off of her-- your knees meeting the rug of dick's apartment with a soft thud.
"you should've said it properly, n' like a good girl, when we asked the first time then." dick mother-fucking grayson giggled, leaning forward to suck on kori's neck. they were both turned towards each other on the couch now, bodies facing away from the television, and you, as kori's fingers tangled themselves in dick's damp hair.
"say what you really want," kori addressed to you, your name stuttering from her lips as dick pressed a hot kiss to pulse-point. "then we'll consider it."
no words came to you as you continued to watch dick imprint himself onto kori-- searing lips travelling every inch of her skin, hands fondling and groping where yours had once been-- over top of her tits, onto her toned belly, beneath her tank-top.
the woman whined as, what seemed like an eternity later, dick's fingers finally dipped below the waistband of her sleep-shorts. "dick," she muttered, eyes squinting as her boyfriend's hands slinked south, "isn't this about her tonight?"
your stomach flipped from your spot on the carpet.
how fucking pathetic. you were sure if you had had ears and a tail, they'd be perked upwards and wagging with a stupid amount of anticipation. it was shameful, how worked up you had become, at the thought of being given attention.
not that you cared though. not with the heat that was becoming painful within your lower belly.
all dick did in response, however, was shake his head-- peeling kori's shorts and panties off of her body and tossing them somewhere across the room.
"maybe," he sighed, looking pleased at the way kori's pussy had glistened underneath the lighting of the television, "but i think she's better off sayin' what she wants if she can see what she's missing, first."
dragging a finger through kori's cunt, dick grinned. dimpled cheeks suddenly faced you, pointedly, as two of dick's fingers found kori's clit-- rolling heavy and tight circles methodically.
"isn't that right?" he asked you, fingers unrelenting against kori's clit.
you whined, bottom lip being caught between your teeth as you watched dick continue to finger his girlfriend. "m-mhm,"
dick tsked, vision moving back towards kori's pussy at your response. his pupils were blown, and his digits were steady along kori's cunt-- all the while she shuddered and gasped, hips bucking against his hand in a steady rhythm.
"gods-- dick," she heaved, hands clutching desperately at a throw-pillow. strong thighs closed and re-opened against dick's hands as he leaned forward again-- painting feather-light kisses along her collarbone.
dick's free hand found one of her thighs, shoving and holding it open as his thumb replaced his two longer digits, pointer finger now prodding at her sopping entrance. when the man pressed in, your own pussy pulsed in anticipation, as if you could feel him within you too, and kori's back arched meanly away from the couch.
he hushed kori, finger beginning to pump in and out of her with obscene squelches emanating from her cunt. "see? isn't this what you want?" dick asked you, as your name echoed throughout the room.
"yeah, yes-- please," you stuttered, your own grip on your thighs going iron.
dick added a second finger, crooking them within kori juuust right-- causing her to cry out in pleasure. "c'mere then; come put your mouth to use, prove that you want us to fuck you."
he motioned with a jut of his chin towards kori's weeping cunt-- and you, making no mistake, crawled between her legs.
pressing kisses up kori's thighs, you watched her shudder against dick's fingers; the man knuckles deep within his girlfriend. your lips dampened with your saliva and her sweat-- an oddly sweet and exhilarating taste filling every possible sense.
when your lips reached impossibly close to her pussy, dick finally pulled his fingers out-- they shone obscenely underneath the lighting of his living room, and, shameless, dick popped them into his mouth. he groaned at the taste of her, using a sturdy hand to push your face into her cunt. "she tastes so good, so sweet," he moaned, "try for yourself."
(you could've sworn the tiniest of whimpers fell from kori's lips).
you peppered hot and teasing kisses to her cunt, feeling her fingers explore the back of your head-- pulling you closer to her. with a certain dip of your head, your lips connected to her pussy-- wet kisses painted across her folds with reckless abandon.
kori moaned into her fist, head tilting backwards onto the couch as dick stuck his fingers back down onto her clit-- rubbing, rolling, pinching as if only to tease his girlfriend as you finally stuck your tongue out. dick had been right; as you swirled your digit along kori's folds, a passionately sweet taste annihilated your senses. kori's slick dampened the lower half of your face, and you continued to lap at her as she tugged you impossibly closer to her pussy.
"yes--!" she gasped, hips bucking against your face, "just like that,"
flattening your tongue, you dragged it up and down again and again and again along kori's cunt-- chasing her pleasure as if it was your own. dick's fingers remained glued to her clit, pushing her closer and closer towards her release; glancing over at the man above kori's toned thighs, you saw how he was palming himself.
despite your best friend doing nothing to deserve it-- one of your hands left kori's thighs, and reached beside her to dick's. you gave his leg a hearty squeeze, muscle thick underneath your palm-- before moving towards the outline of his cock. your ministrations at kori's pussy, however, remained unrelenting. curling your tongue and poking it forward, your appendage breached her entrance; slick sweeter than ever before. you moaned against her at the taste, hand curving delightfully against dick's bulge.
you heard the man hiss, his own hips jutting forward ever so slightly to keep your hand against his hardening cock-- the pressure of your palm against him just enough to keep his satiated for now. "shit," he mumbled, watching you begin to tongue-fuck kori, "aren't you the over-achiever?"
at his teasing, you managed to flip him off; the sound of dick's laugh reverberating throughout his living room playfully. you felt a finger-- one of dick's, that had been incessantly rolling kori's clit-- push forward to flick your nose gently, before going back to their previous action. you grinned against kori's cunt. she clenched around your tongue, throbbing underneath the sheer desire to cum.
kori's fingers still remained curled along your head, keeping you impossibly close to her pussy. her chest was heaving, a glittering sheen of sweat glistening against her apricot skin. "it d-does not matter," kori mumbled, hips steadily rocking against your face, "she's doing such a wonderful job,"
dick hummed in agreement, your palm still rubbing and aiding the dull throb underneath his sweatpants. "that's right," he purred, "being such a good girl for us."
breaking the rhythm that had lapsed over the room, kori cried out-- back arching off of the couch again. at her pleasure, dick glanced downwards to see that you had, somehow, managed to pull your face away from kori's pussy. in the abcense of your tongue, however, you had stuck two of your own fingers inside of the woman; crooking and curling them against kori's g-spot, pistoning them in and out and in again.
the combination of your fingers, as well as dick's, had kori spiraling quickly towards an orgasm. her legs twitched in an attempt to close around the two sets of hands that ambushed her pussy, but dick's grip of her legs kept her spread and open for the both of you. "take it," dick groaned, bulge grinding into your hand, "i know you can, kor,"
"please," you whined helplessly, fingers sliding in and out of kori with ease-- "i want you to cum on my fingers so bad, baby,"
hearing your pleas, kori shuddered; her mouth fell open, the slightest trail of drool beginning to seep down her chin, and the silent cry of her orgasm washed over her. the intensity had you reeling-- watching kori's cunt weep and pulse right in front of you, you couldn't help it; your mouth found her pussy again.
dick grinned widely, his fingers also keeping a steady pace against her clit-- your mouth and his digits now pushing her orgasm, milking every single tremour and twitch her body could provide.
"that's it," you hummed, muffled vibrations sending shocks up kori's spine, "been wanting this so badly."
green irises blew open, and kori suddenly gasped-- her entire body aching away from your actions. "it's too much!" she sobbed, pussy beginning to ache with overstimulation.
there was a pause in your movements, to dissect kori's face, and-- god. several curls stuck to her forehead from sweat, and her cheeks were tinged a deep shade of orange; if you squinted, you could even pick up flickers of emerald and ivy dancing within her irises. she was stunning.
pulling away, you used the back of your palm to wipe your chin; not before licking any remaining residue of kori from your lips, though. dick delivered a few careless smacks to her cunt, causing the alien to jolt, before pulling his hand off of her. he too, stuck his fingers in his mouth-- desperate to taste whatever lingering traces of her orgasm remained seeped into his digits.
warmth radiated off of all three of you-- and you pressed your palm, harder than before, onto dick's cock. he exhaled shortly at your action, cobalt irises blinking down at you through thick lashes as your voice broke through the comfortable silence that had formed.
"can i fuck you now?" you questioned, to neither one of them in particular. on any other occasion, you would have despised sounding so desperate; but your own pussy was pulsating with a need you were sure now, had grown insatiable. it clenched and throbbed against nothing, craving nothing more than to be filled by someone's fingers, mouth, or cock--
"well you've certainly earned it, love," kori said eventually, after letting her breathing even; "dick," she mumbled, tilting her head towards the man, "lie down on the couch."
✩✩✩
there was no way to tell how long you had been riding dick's cock, save for that the movie's credits had longed ended. your bare body glistened underneath the soft lighting of the living room, hands holding steadily against the back of the couch as you rocked back and forth, grinding your cunt against the bottom of dick's lower stomach. he throbbed inside of you, his own hips rocking upwards to meet your sloppy bounces, moans muffled by kori's cunt.
"f-fuck," you breathed, head tilting backwards to expose your neck to kori-- who, from her seat on dick's face-- leaned forward to suck and kiss and lick at your throat. she too was bare, and grinding her own cunt down onto her boyfriend's mouth-- reveling in the feeling of his big, sturdy palms grasping and molding the flesh of her ass underneath his grip.
the tip of dick practically abused your g-spot-- rubbing again and again and again along the spongy tissue within your cunt, every vein and every ridge of his cock massaging your insides. "you feel so good, dick," you moaned, ass slapping against dick's thighs as you continued to ride him.
in response, all the man could do was moan against kori's folds-- causing kori to moan against your neck.
every sensation you had was being ravaged all at once. the room stunk of sweat and sex and lust, not a single coherent thought beyond fuck me floating around any of your heads. it was almost too much-- but perhaps, that was what made it tantalizingly enough. every second you had spent yearning for something more with your best friends, remained now a thing of the past as your pussy squelched around dick. there was no telling where you began and where either kori or dick ended-- only the sensation of being filled, being stuffed, consuming your mind.
"you like-- haah-- being used like this, don't you?" kori asked dick, suddenly, reaching behind her to grab a fistful of raven locks. through hazy, tear-ridden vision, you watched dick nod-- his tongue still working tirelessly at his girlfriend's cunt. kori tugged, and the man whined from beneath her; you felt his cock twitch impossibly within your pussy, and you grinned.
bringing your body upwards, you slammed down onto the length of dick once again-- causing his back to arch off of the couch, and hips to stutter against yours. he throbbed again, growing desperately, achingly hard within the plush and warmth of your cunt.
"you gonna cum, dick?" you asked, eyes rolling into the back of your head as you continued to riiide dick into the couch. frantically, you watched the man nod-- his chin dripping with kori's slick, and palms gripping almost painfully hard at her thighs.
kori laughed-- an airy sort of sound that broke through one of her moans. you joined her, hands diving into the thick mop of curls on top of her head.
"'course," you quipped, hips speeding up on top of dick, "such a slut for us."
with kori's teeth sinking into your shoulder, suddenly-- (dick had begun spelling his name out against her pussy)-- your cunt fluttered, strangling the man's cock. and that was what sent dick over the edge; a strangled set of moans and expletives flew from his mouth, muffled by kori's cunt, as dick's cum flooded your cunt. his cock throbbed and throbbed and throbbed-- hot ropes infiltrating your womb as if there was an endless supply. you moaned in tandem, too, the sensation of being filled up letting you teeter precariously close to the edge of your own orgasm.
without thinking, you reached upwards softly-- gripping kori's face, only to smash your mouths together. kori made of a sound almost akin to shock, before kissing you back with no hesitation. it was just as sloppy as kissing her before had been; drool everywhere, lips swollen, and cunt's throbbing-- puckering and sucking on the alien's mouth messily.
just as her hands found your hair-- you paused, pulling off of her; pleasure wracked through your body, and you wanted to speak before your orgasm hit you. "shiiit," you moaned, pussy clenching desperately onto the cock within you, "k-kor," you gasped, "switch with me,"
kori had not faltered at your words-- pulling herself off of dick's face with little struggle, her cunt was sopping and easily sucked in her boyfriend's cock as she took the seat you had once been. you, on the other-hand, placed yourself easily onto dick's mouth, ignoring any protests falling from the man.
coincidentally, though, you did not think you had heard any.
you sighed, back arching as dick's tongue began to lap your cunt-- the taste of your arousal and his cum bombarding his senses. he whined underneath you-- crying out about how it was t'much! but you hadn't paid him much mind as your hips rocked against his mouth. you were chasing your orgasm now, grinding your cunt down onto dick's tongue with little regard for the man beneath you.
"c'mon dick," kori cooed from behind you, tone mockingly sweet, "you can take it."
a laugh broke itself from your chest as kori mocked what dick had told her earlier-- before plump lips wrapped around your clit. you gasped, hips stuttering on top of dick's face as he sucked harshly on your sensitive bundle of nerves.
much like your alien counter-part, your hands had found dick's hair with no issue-- pulling on it as a means to make yourself cum on your best friend's mouth.
dick had had the same plans too-- his hands, momentarily, found your hips to raise you off of his face, and he muttered (voice terribly fucked out), "please, baby-- please, cum on my tongue-- we taste s'good together, it's all i want,"
cutting him off with a slam of your cunt back down on his face, you moaned as his tongue curled its way inside you-- prodding at your insides, coaxing your orgasm out.
his efforts proved fruitful as your pussy began to spasm along his mouth-- hips rocking forward desperately to draw every last twitch and flutter and pulse of your cunt, out. your mouth had fallen open silently in an 'o' shape, eyes screwing shut in pure ecstasy.
dick moaned whorishly beneath you, as if he, too, could feel the pleasure that prickled your finger-tips-- the taste of your cum coating his tongue, your lust causing his vision to blur. the sound of skin slapping-- kori's ass now against dick's thighs-- echoing distantly throughout the room as your own thighs closed desperately around dick's head.
"holy shit, dick--!" you cried, legs twitching.
he groaned between your folds, hands keeping your cunt impossibly close to his face. "m'not done," you heard him say, twisting your head backwards to watch kori fuck herself onto her boyfriend's cock. she moaned and whined feeling his appendage keep her terribly full, the tiniest bulge in her lower belly appearing every time she slammed herself down onto him again.
your cunt fluttered, and the hot, raging sensation of needing to be filled again consumed you; "you better-- fuck-- not be," you whispered, grinding down onto dick's mouth, "wanna watch you fill kori up,"
from behind you, kori moaned-- the idea of dick's cum stuffing her cunt entirely too intoxicating. the feeling of it dripping down his shaft as he continuously pulsed inside of her, perhaps even the feeling of you licking it out of her-- made her hips stutter, a slutty little whimper falling from her lips. "god--"
"then i want you to fill me up," you moaned, pussy drooling into dick's mouth, "again n' again n' again."
the words tumbled past your lips with a reckless sort of passion, absorbing and engorging every feeling of lust, desperation, love-- that had somehow tangled itself between you and your best friends. from beneath you-- dick's hands gave a hearty squeeze to your waist, keeping you anchored to him (perhaps in more ways than one). behind, kori had snaked her fingers onto your wrist, threading her steady and slender ones with yours; the three of you somehow seemed to move in sync, and despite the absolute obscenity of the entire night-- you felt oddly at peace. oddly wholesome. oddly, not overwhelmed-- at home.
PLUVOiA 25’ ® - masterlist
loren's thots: i feel like a deadbeat dad the way i abandon yall and then sometimes come back. ......... can yall forgive papa 💔 speaking of deadbeat..... i think i got ghosted by my situationship,,,, wtvvvv more time to write for yall ion een want him fr....
synopsis: you meet damian wayne, the boy you hated as a ten year old, again after years and suddenly he’s the hottest thing you’ve ever laid your eyes on, so might as well get laid by him too
warnings: [nsfw] - smut (sex) long ahead in the story - both of you hate each other as kids - he grows up way too hot - you are thirsting almost the entire time - very intimate damian - they do the deed - idk how to put warnings - enjoy!!!
a/o: oof 4.3k this is a little long but i hope it’s good i love writing dami like this + pfft who am i to not jump on the sabrina carpenter bandwagon so here u go, inspired by ‘when did you get hot?’
you had met damian wayne as a kid.
back then, he was the embodiment of everything you hated. arrogant, cold, and undeniably lethal. he had been, quite frankly, a brat and a demon spawn the moment he arrived at wayne manor— unable to follow batman’s staunch moral code, always desperate to prove himself, and always fighting with everyone. you included.
he was just plain point blank annoying. the second you’d see his grimacing face with those thick arched eyebrows complimented by his scrunched small button nose, and that chubby with baby fat chin, and his full lips that were always frowned, with his big, always narrowed almond shaped hazel eyes— green by the irises and brown around the edges— decorated with unfairly long eyelashes, somewhere in the manor— you’d scowl; wanting to hit his stupid little entitled face; wanting to tug at his dark wavy brown hair, which was short but enough for you to grab and drag him around the manor with.
he wasn’t even that big nor tall, so it’d be easy to fight his 4’8 frame, with his tiny arms and tiny shoulders and tiny legs— though deep inside you knew better than to provoke the literal ticking assassin who grew up with the lack of a moral compass.
you didn’t understand, living under bruce too at that time— since your parents were big business owners who worked in tandem with wayne enterprises, thus living abroad often, leaving you here in gotham—how someone so similar in age to you (and circumstance, but you only thought that because you didn’t know much about what he had gone through at the league), could act so differently to you.
you despised him for the way he acted; for the way he treated bruce, idolising him yet arguing with him all the time, as if that wasn’t your guardian figure first; the way he was entitled and cocky, arguing with dick, tim, and jason about how he was the blood son— how he was superior to them.
there were absolutely no redeeming qualities of damian wayne, and so, as a child— you hated him. you had every reason to.
but then you had moved to a different country for boarding school when you were fourteen, and you didn’t have to see him again. not for years.
four years, to be exact.
your jaw drops when you do see him again.
you’re in the batcave, eyes wide, trying to glue your jaw shut. your flight had landed about an hour ago and alfred had come to pick you up, bringing you to the wayne manor where you’d be residing during the period of applying to colleges and such.
but bruce, or well, batman, was out on a mission, and so the man of the house to greet you was unfortunately— or maybe fortunately— his son.
damian had grown into his disproportionate scowl. his eyebrows had become bushier, furrowed as usual, yet there was something about them that made them so natural on his tan, brown face.
you gulp, the spit barely making it down your dry throat when his dark emerald eyes meet yours. you did not remember them being that detailed. he had grown much taller of course, some height akin to his father’s, maybe 5’11. definitely, unfortunately, much taller than you.
his hair, still clipped but longer and wavier, framed the structure of his face perfectly. there was, of course, no longer any baby fat— or well, fat at all— instead stood a lean, domineer figure with the prettiest features and face you’d ever seen.
there is a quiet grace and calculation in the way he walks up to you: not his old arrogance, but rather a disciplined outwardly look— straightened back, hands by his sides, lips flat.
“welcome back,” his voice is smooth, almost like silk, but it still has that rough undertone it had from his childhood. zero inflection. the sound of your name at the end of the sentence feels foreign and almost authoritative on his lips.
his eyes move over you once and once only, and it makes your cheeks heat up. your fingers tighten around your luggage.
“let me take your luggage to your room.” it’s not a question: it’s a blank statement. he’s indifferent as he reaches over, brushing your fingers on the handle and you pull away as if his hand burns. he doesn’t acknowledge, simply tilting the suitcase and dragging it along him as he turns to walk towards your old room.
oh god. when did damian wayne get hot?
it had been four months since that encounter.
four months of pure agony and torture. at first it was seeing damian almost every other night for family dinners with the bats. he was often uninvolved in the discussions, simply eating and going back to his room or training. then, when family dinners fizzled out, it was mostly running into damian by accident.
you were constantly tormented by the beautiful sight of him. most times, he was eye candy from afar. when he’d come out of the training room, all sweaty and bothered, rubbing himself off with his towel while you were in the kitchen in your pyjamas, sandwich mid-bite in your mouth, eyes wide and staring abashedly as he passed by the hallway to his room. or it was seeing him work away in the batcave, eyebrows furrowed in focus on some mission data or files or something— you didn’t care. he looked annoyingly good, all serious and preoccupied, leaning forward with his sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
what was extra brutal were the awkward conversations. the blurted out ‘good morning’s to which he’d simply acknowledge with the nod of his head. the casual ‘how was your day?’s when he’d come back, tending to his wounds in the batcave at 3 am while you’d come out of your room to make yourself coffee to power through applications. often you felt unemployed in comparison to his almost daily missions and patrols, but you were too distracted by his stupidly good looking scowling face; lean, chiselled body; and meticulously maintained short hair, to take it personal.
the first time you saw him in his robin suit your legs pressed together themselves.
and then came his birthday. you knew there was some sort of celebration at night with cake for him with the batfamily, but you had already made a commitment with friends you hadn’t met for years (you can’t blame you for forgetting his birthday, it had four years), and so were out most of the night. when you return to the wayne manor, it’s just half an hour before midnight. just enough time for you to rush upstairs, knock on damian’s door, crossing your fingers in prayer that he’s in a good mood and also doesn’t look delicious so you don’t lose it.
the door clicks open and your open mouth, which was prepared to blurt out the wish, cannot let out words. this has to be some sort of joke.
damian’s dark, emerald eyes are almost lazily open— slightly tired, mostly unimpressed. his eyebrow raises leisurely, hand gripping the knob of the door. his hair is slightly disheveled from it being the end of the day, but still mostly neat, lips flat in a line. he’s wearing a casual black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his veiny forearms, and loose pants. he doesn’t say anything, waiting for you to speak first. your throat feels dry.
“happy birthday,” you blurt out haphazardly, lips pursed, looking at him with slightly wide, wary eyes. your voice is a little awkward, unsure of how to interact with the boy you’d spent your entire childhood fighting and arguing with, and then not even conversing let alone seeing for years.
damian looks at you, expression controlled and disguised as always. all you can see to get a hint of his emotion is the slightly elevated rise of his chest when he breaths. instead of a normal ‘thank you’ in response to your wish, his eyes linger on your face until his mouth finally opens.
“when we were children,” his lips purse in between phrases, voice flat. “father forced me to have a fourteenth birthday party with my classmates.”
you blink. okay. totally unexpected, but sure. you remember. this was probably your first normal conversation with damian during your entire stay here, and also in, well.. four years.
your heart is beating so fast you swear you’re going to pass out if he doesn’t get to the point of his story quicker.
“they were all so frustratingly childish,” he mutters, realising how petulant he sounds. “i hated it, so i fought and threw a tantrum on my own birthday. everyone had to go home.” he sounds almost indignant as he recalls. your heart skips a beat. “you must remember.”
you do. vividly. you remember damian had one of his worst fights with bruce that day. it was the first time you had seen damian as something other that entitled, because he had..
damian looks away. “i had gone to my room and cried.” he sucks in a deep breath. “you know this because you came in. i tried to shout at you. you hugged me instead.”
your eyes feel almost glossy for some stupidly pathetic reason. you remember. you had never seen damian cry before that, not even after. just that once. you remember how he struggled against your grip. how you had forcibly held him until he finally gave in and cried in your tiny arms on the floor. that was the first time you ever saw him as what he was— a kid. that was the first time anyone ever truly saw him. that’s why he hadn’t forgotten. neither had you.
you pitifully stare at his side profile with twisted eyebrows while he looks away from you, his own indifferent expression cracking.
“i knew you hated me growing up,” his eyes finally find yours again, dry and controlled once more. “but i couldn’t hate you anymore after that.”
you look away. you can’t bear to look at him again. you had moved away after that, not to see him again for years.
your lips are sealed together, unsure, and also too scared to say anything in return. your eyes finally return to his face, lingering for a long moment.
“you’re not as annoying grown up,” you finally breathe out, deciding that if you spoke even a word of vulnerability, either you’d cry or he’d cringe.
he lets out an amused scoff, almost grateful you didn’t say anything sappy about his story. he hated being pitied, and yet he knew you got the message he was delivering by the retelling. “right back at you.”
your jaw drops in offence. “i was never annoying as a kid—”
your freeze, words still on your lips when damian gently leans forward, hand delicately placing on your cheek, tipping your face closer and pressing the softest kiss in the world to your mouth. his own eyes are closed, while you stare at him in shock, his lips holding the fuzzy kiss against your mouth for a moment before pulling away with a soft mch sound.
you’re a blushing, frazzled, panicked mess. and well.. damian had gotten hot, okay? it wasn’t your fault that he had just practically confessed that he didn’t hate you, and that he still vividly remembered the first time you were nice to him, while looking slightly tired and horribly attractive. it wasn’t your fault that you felt the need to press your thighs together.
damian raises an eyebrow, fingers still delicately placed on your cheek as his casual, emerald eyes finding yours. “you didn’t kiss back, but i assume you enjoyed that.”
you wish you could melt into a puddle and escape this situation. he had noticed.
“it’s not my fault you got insanely hot,” you look away, cheeks red and blazing. “like— you were just normal then. but now..”
damian’s eyebrows raise in surprise and he scoffs, coated with humour, but there’s a slight telling pink tint on his cheeks. “i was ten.”
you blush. “yeah well i was ten too. never had a crush or anything back then. but now you’re like—” you suck in a breath, realising how stupid you must sound, blurting out random pathetic confessions. you gulp, hard in your throat.
damian watches you gulp, his other hand reaching out so his finger can trace down your throat.
your breath hitches.
he bends a bit and leans in, much further, lips by your ear. “you’re yet to give me a present,” he breathes out, and your whole body lights on fire.
you dare to ask. “what— what do you want?” your voice is shaky despite your best efforts.
he lets out a soft breath, yet his voice lacks any inflection. “maybe some catching up.” he whispers it plainly, as if this is normal, as if that doesn’t make you pool in your underwear.
“it’s been four years..” his hand moves down your throat, over your curves to your lower back, and in one graceful move he steps back while pulling you into his room, using his other hand to close the door and simultaneously back you up against it.
your whole body ignites. his hands are nimble and big on your body, sliding from your lower back to your abdomen, tickling up your sides, mapping out your frame.
he leans closer, pressing a hovering kiss to your jaw. it barely touches your burning skin. your eyelashes flutter as your eyes struggle to remain open, heart beating insanely fast, thrumming against your ribs.
“how was school there?” damian has the audacity to ask, his lips peppering kisses from your jaw down to your throat, down to your nape, over your pulse point.
you blush. “f-fine,” you breathe, chest heaving up and down, back against his door, hands hovering over his arms before firmly gripping his biceps for support, since your legs feel like jelly. “k-kind of.. boring.. with lots of studying,” your breath hitches as damian’s mouth lingers over a spot on your neck, his tongue moving out to kitty lick over your skin.
he hums absentmindedly, eyebrows furrowed in focus as his hands slide up and down your waist, and then rest at your hips. he pulls away, just enough to whisper in your ear.
“i’m going to touch you,” he states plainly, eyelashes fluttering against your skin when he presses a peck to your burning ear. “tell me now if you don’t want it.”
you can barely breathe, fingers tightening around his biceps. “i’ve been ogling you for months,” you confess, way past shame because you’re sure you’re dripping down there. “shoot me if i ever say no.”
damian, who maybe smiles once a year, lets out a short, breathy chuckle against your ear.
destroy this earth for not letting you get a visual of his face during that.
damian’s long fingers move down your abdomen, lifting your shirt with his thumb just a bit before he slides his hand underneath your pants. you try to control your ragged breathing.
his knee moves in between your legs, resting against the door behind from in between as he keeps your thighs apart. his hand finds the fabric of your underwear, and you pray that he doesn’t taunt you for how soaked it is.
he doesn’t.
instead, he presses the pads of his fingers over your clothed clit, rubbing up and down. dissatisfied by the feeling, he moves his hand back up to your waistband, and directly shoves his hand down your underwear.
you can’t help but gasp when two fingers slide up and down in between your folds, gathering your slick in between his digits.
“that’s better,” he whispers, kissing your jaw. and then. casually. “was the standard of education satisfactory there? was the city pleasant?”
your mind is a jumbled mess and he’s questioning you like you’re giving an interview, while his index and and middle finger hold your folds apart, his thumb rubbing and toying against your clit.
you have no idea what you’re saying, honestly, because you mumble out something about it being good. “n-yeah,” you whimper, eyelids falling down for a moment as your lips part to let out a shaky breath. “pretty place.. f-fun, but tests—” his thumb presses hard against your clit, and you shiver. “all the time..”
he hums, pulling away to look at your fucked out face. your eyes open to meet his concentrated eyes, and it’s almost annoying how serious he looks. same lazy eyes, creased brows, flat, pink lips. but his cheeks are darker, and that propels you to ask.
“did you ever think about me while i was gone?” you find yourself blurting out, a little pathetic, but there’s nothing more pathetic than the sound you let out from your throat when a long, nimble finger buries deep inside your hole, down to his knuckle.
he thinks for a moment, eyes on your parted lips as you let out a string of shaky breaths.
“sometimes,” he finally confesses, finger sliding in and out of your hole. “father showed me a picture of you once, a few months before you came back. told me you would be returning,” he explains, and you try to listen while he slips another finger inside your aching cunt. he continues, voice flat and unbothered:
“touched myself that night.”
your jaw drops, eyes comically wide. he raises an eyebrow at your reaction, as if he hadn’t just said the hottest, most confusing thing ever.
“excuse me?!” you rasp out, mouth agape. he bites the inside of his cheek, and you blush when you notice he’s hiding a smile.
this whole time you’ve been finding damian hot without ever considering that he could also find you hot.
“you looked good,” he shrugs, shiny eyes finding your own bewildered ones.
your face tints hotter, remembering the picture you had sent bruce as an update. remembering the tight top you were wearing. the cleavage. you look away.
“you’ve grown up into such a boy,” you whisper-scoff, feeling shy.
he sneers, eyebrows raised, plunging his two fingers in deeper.
“as if you didn’t confess to ogling over me.”
you melt into the door behind you, pouting slightly, legs beginning to tremble from the feeling of his fingers working you up.
and then your eyes drop to his pants.
damian notices.
“don’t,” he says simply, unknowingly chivalrous, eyes on yours. “you don’t have to think about that.”
your body tingles, clenching around his fingers at the thought. “i want to,” you analyse the bulge, straining against his pants. “if— if that won’t, you know, make things weird between us,” you mumble shyly.
“i made it weird first,” he reassures, voice still casual, never vulnerable. your eyes land on his.
he kisses you.
“kissed you first,” he breaths against your mouth. “touched you first,” another kiss, right at the centre of your lips.
in a second you’re wrapping your arms around his neck, wrapping your legs around his waist. damian’s a little surprised but he wastes not a second before one arm is snug under your ass, one around your waist, leisurely taking you to his bed. he gently places you down on it, crawling up over you.
“if you’ve done this before, tell me now,” he breathes, leaning back on his knees and unbuttoning his pants while you kick off your own.
you raise an eyebrow, a little thrown off by the question. “the question is usually ‘if you don’t want to do this, tell me now’,” you smile a little, confused.
he looks down at you, suddenly a little serious, hands pausing at his zipper. he exhales sharply before looking away.
“i haven’t done this before, so if you have, i would be offended.”
you blink. oh. your heart skips a beat.
you sit up, tugging him closer by his waistband, hands moving to unzip his pants for him.
“yeah, there’s not a lot of hot guys where i went to study,” your eyes are focused on his thighs as he lifts his hips to help you tug down his pants. “you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
he blushes. damian wayne actually blushes. your eyes move up to his face, and your eyes soften, a small grin on your lips.
you think for a moment for teasing him before you instead tug him closer by his jaw, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth.
he melts into the kiss, hands already on your body, over your curves. his hand moves down to pull off your panties, tossing them irrelevantly to the side. he uses his free hand to part your thighs, still kissing you.
still precautionary, he pushes two fingers into you, moving them in and out of your dripping, clenching hole whilst he tugs his boxers down, his hard length springing free. you stare shamelessly, and he groans, embarrassed.
“it’s better if you gawk when i don’t notice,” he pulls his fingers out and you clench around nothing, cheeks turning crimson.
“yeah,” you breathe. “more used to that anyway.”
he gives you a small, intimate smile. just the hint of one, the slight curvature of his lips.
your heart thumps in your chest. “you’re fuckin’ beautiful,” you blurt out by accident, and his smile drops, eyebrows furrowing in irritation as his cheeks heat up.
“that’s supposed to be my line,” he whispers, a blushing mess as he strokes himself twice. he leans over, opening his drawer to quickly pull a condom out of the side-table. his heart speeds up when he sees you notice the whole pack in his drawer, your jaw dropping, and he quickly comes to his own defence.
“it was a gag gift from jason,” he rushes to explain, face hot. “some.. stupid joke about how i’d never get a girlfriend,” he flushes as he fumbles to put on the rubber, and you can tell he’s telling the truth by his inexperience. who are you to judge? you’re as confused as you watch his roll it over himself. you bite your lower lip, concealing a genuine smile.
he grumbles at your smile, narrowing his eyes at you in disdain while lining his covered yet leaking mushroom tip against your puffy cunt.
suddenly things are a little serious.
you whimper. “damian,” you breathe out, arms reaching out to grab his forearm. he hums as if to reassure you he’s there, before gently pushing just the tip inside. he’s long, thick too of course, but longer, and it takes a few minutes of whining and gripping the sheets until he snuggly adjusts himself in you, his neat, trimmed base hitting your pelvis.
“good?” he asks simply, eyebrows furrowed, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead. his arms are on either side of your head, leaning down to kiss your cheek in a rare moment of intimacy. his chest heaves up and down with heavy breaths, lips parted. when you nod rapidly, he pulls out a bit, thrusting himself back inside.
when he finds a pace that’s good based on your moans and whimpers, and the way your eyes roll back, he begins to rock back and fourth, pounding with the perfect rhythm. it’s almost smart and calculated, the way he’s perfected even having sex.
you’re a moaning, vocal mess when you come. damian is the opposite. you wouldn’t even think he’d have reached his high if it wasn’t for the most unhinged breathing you’ve ever heard— he’s panting heavily, still mostly silent except for a few awkward grunts, but his chest is rising up and down so fast you’d be concerned if you weren’t busy shaking and whining yourself.
damian is gentle when he slides himself out, and your hole aches from the emptiness, missing the stretch. he’s careful when he pulls the condom off, a little more focused on disposing it off properly than on you, but he does make sure to come back to ask if you’re okay, pressing a shy kiss to your cheek.
damian, who is also a little bit of a neat freak, isn’t comfortable until he cleans himself up in the bathroom with a shower (also bringing a towel to wipe in between your legs while you complain and claw at his biceps about how he’s ‘cruel’) and clothes himself in a shirt and shorts (also of course throwing your own clothes for wash and bringing you one of his own large t-shirts)— you’re still complaining about him being mean when he crawls into his bed beside you, raising an eyebrow.
when your big eyes and pouty lips meet his slightly judgemental raised eyebrow, you flush, looking away. “yes i too am realising i am slightly clingy after sex,” your voice is muffled as you bury your face into the sheets. “i’m discovering this for the first time too, so don’t judge.”
damian scoff-chuckles. “not just slightly,” he comments condescendingly, but still reaches out to slide an arm under your waist (you of course accommodate by lifting your back off the bed for him), tugging your body beside his to cater to your clinginess, despite him classifying himself as a non-physical touch person.
you sigh, finding your spot on his shoulder. it’s comfortably silent for a long moment, your head on his shoulder, your fingers toying with his fingers, his arm around you and resting on your chest.
until you speak.
“it’s a little weird to think about how we grew up together and then didn’t see each other for four years and then lost our virginities to each other the moment you turned—” your voice becomes strangled when damian’s hand cups your mouth, physically shutting you up, palm against your lips.
he cringes. “don’t,” he says simply, his other hand rubbing his forehead while he winces.
“do not make me think about that. i might want to do this again in the future.”
you smile against his hand, cheeks hot. honestly, you couldn’t breathe with his hand cupping your mouth, but oh boy would suffocating like this be a good way to go, especially because damian wayne had gotten exceptionally hot, and you couldn’t get enough of it. you knew damn well you’d be taking full advantage of this new development in you two’s relationship.
tw: best friend!tim, feelings first/sex last, fingering, dry humping, markings, hint of switch reader, squirting, rough sex, multiple orgasms, cockdrunk, video-taping, unprotected sex, riding, doggy-style, squint of dirty talk, dumbification, spanking, one-time slapping, hint of dacryphilia, making you scream his name !
➤ synopsis: Tim was genuinely sick of your fuck-ass boyfriend, sick of the way you’ve cried about the last-minute excuses on your date nights, doesn’t communicate with you, or isn’t there emotionally. His last straw was the fact you’ve had sex with the guy and he didn’t pull an orgasm out of you. Tim is going to change that.
dc kinktober list wc: 6.2k
There’s a lot Tim Drake loves, though most of it comes with a cost. His overdriven brain is a prime example. He loves to observe, form hypotheses, conduct research and experiments, analyze, and draw conclusions that allow him to establish facts. Another is his love for caffeine, it doesn’t have to be coffee; it could be energy drinks that he tends to consume when gaming, tea when it’s night, soda when he’s hanging out, or chocolate-covered espresso beans if he’s in the mood to watch a movie marathon.
Is it a bit unhealthy? Yes.
Did he get taken off a case in order to stop neglecting himself?
Fortunately, yeah.
Tim loves his family in the same way, carefully and completely.
He knows Dick hums under his breath when he’s cooking breakfast whenever he quickly stops by in Blüdhaven at his apartment, usually old rock music no one else recognizes. Jason taps his pointer finger twice against the table before saying something he genuinely means, it’s usually a translation to “fine, I guess I trust you” or “stay safe.”
Damian had researched a ton of beneficial foods for Titus, giving him fish oil and glucosamine to help his joints and other health supplements, softening once he realized what Titus actually meant for him.
Steph leaves sticky notes on everyone’s doors with dumb doodles or reminders, half of them written in glitter pen. Cass falls asleep on the couch mid-movie but somehow always wakes up just before the credits. And Bruce— he checks the locks twice or thrice before bed, every night, like it’s the one thing he can still control.
Alfred folds everyone’s laundry differently, Bruce’s neat and military, Damian’s quick and simple, Tim’s sleeves tucked in carefully because Alfred knows he tends to forget and make it wrinkled.
And Duke leaves lights on for him when he’s still up working, even though he jokes about the power bill.
Tim notices all of it.
The sounds, the gestures, the quiet consistencies that build a life. That’s how he loves them: not through words, but through knowing. Through memorizing the rhythm of their days. Through paying attention, even when no one’s looking.
There’s a lot Tim Drake loves.
Timothy Jackson Drake loves you.
He’s been in love with you for nearly two years.
Though, he’d never say it out loud.
Words make things real, and real things can fall apart.
So instead, he watches.
He learns.
He knows the way your expression changes when you’re trying not to laugh, how your eyes dart to the side first, like you’re hiding it from him. He knows you always take your caffeinated drink too hot and regrets it every time, but you’ll still do it again tomorrow.
He knows you can’t sit still when you’re nervous, that you twist your rings or tap your foot in a steady rhythm, and he pretends not to notice because calling attention to it would make you stop.
He doesn’t want you to stop.
He loves the small things, the ordinary ones. The way your voice sounds through his ear piece when you’re half-asleep while he’s out as Red Robin, staking outside a warehouse. The way you hum while scrolling through your phone, smiling widely when you read the comments. The way you always forget where you put your keys, and the way he always remembers.
He stores these moments like evidence, quiet proof of something he’ll never admit.
That’s how Tim loves: silently, methodically, and with too much care for his own good.
And then, there’s one thing that Tim hates.
Queue the sound of agony.
Your boyfriend.
Your relationship with your fuckass (ex) boyfriend.
It was some guy that he couldn’t even bother to remember the name of. You’ve cried over the last-minute excuses, the texts that came hours late, the way your boyfriend always says he’s busy but never tells you with what. You’ve tried to understand, to give him space, but the space just keeps getting wider. He cancels date nights because “something came up,” and when you ask what, he just shrugs it off.
You’ve thankfully broken up with him a week ago, but yesterday happened.
It was one of those nights when Tim came over after you’d stopped trying to hide the fact that you’d been boiling beneath the surface, a fire laced in your veins after yesterday.
The wrath hadn’t faded; it had just settled into a low, simmering heat that made it impossible to focus on anything else.
He’d brought your favorite drink and queued up your comfort show, the one you always turned to when things fell apart. He didn’t bring wine or beer, because he knew you hated both the taste and the smell. Instead, he just sat there beside you, quiet and steady, as if his being there could make the room feel whole again.
“I hate him.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them. The room went still, except for the faint noise from the TV. You glared at the fruit bowl sitting on the coffee table, the one you made because you didn’t like how popcorn kernels get stuck in between your teeth or the fact it’ll have you in a coughing-fit because it went down wrong.
“I absolutely hate him.”
You took another sip from the drink Tim brought, letting the sweetness coat your tongue.
“C’mon, you don’t actually mean that.” Tim winced, feeling the lack of empathy in his words.
Hollow. Easy. Fake.
“You sound constipated when you say that, Tim.” You snort, making him flush immediately, a rush of pink creeping up his neck.
“Well—no, actually—yeah, you’ve caught me.” He sighed, glancing toward you, eyes glancing away as if he were trying to measure how much to reveal. “I don’t like the fact that he practically got tickets to your favorite band… only to end up with his ex.”
You groaned in frustration.
“Don’t even piss me off with that bullshit! They don’t even like the band like WE do. I can’t even believe we had to see them in the pit! THE PIT!” You’ve emphasized, recalling the events when you both watched the man suck on his ex’s face while everyone around them looked horrified from the display.
Tim was happy that it wasn’t you and him.
You gripped the glass cup so tightly your knuckles flexed, and Tim flinched from that, his eyes flicking to it nervously. He could feel the tension radiating off you in waves, the kind that made him want to reach out, to take the glass from your hands before it shattered under your grip.
“I can’t believe I was with him for nearly five months, and it’s obvious he’s been in contact with his ex even before we broke up,” you grumbled under your breath. “It’s not even about his ex— it’s about how he practically wasted my damn time!”
Tim’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he stayed quiet, letting you vent.
You looked like you wanted to strangle someone.
“Not only that, he has the audacity to ask to get back together?!”
Tim automatically could feel his jaw tighten as he watched the raw fury radiate off you, the kind that made the air between you almost tremble.
“He… what?” he blinked, furrowing his brows with his voice low, careful, almost like testing the waters. “He asked to get back together?”
What kind of a humiliation ritual was he trying to do?
You let out a harsh laugh, more disbelief than humor. “Can you believe it? After everything? After what he’s done? Does he think I’m stupid?” You ran your hand through your hair, tugging at the strands as if trying to wring out the anger.
“Especially sending a sex-tape of them together because I said ‘no’? Do you know how crazy you have to be to act like that? As if it’s my fault?”
Tim’s jaw dropped in disbelief, eyes wide as he stared at you. You were about to explain, to tell him every detail, but he cut you off before a single word left your mouth.
“Hold on, he’s tried to what? I can’t believe he would disrespect you to that degree!” Tim inhaled, waving his hand around. “That’s disgusting of him and a straight-up juvenile.” Tim exhaled sharply, shaking his head, the tension in his shoulders radiating frustration.
You opened your mouth, but he continued to speak, stopping you. “He’s an absolute piece of shit. He doesn’t deserve you whatsoever, clearly he doesn’t know what an absolute mistake he made.” Tim scoffs, rambling on. “It hurts to think about the fact that someone could be so blind to what they had.” It was your turn to stare in disbelief, hearing Tim’s frustration pour out.
The idiot thinks he can walk back into your life like it’s nothing?
His voice dropped slightly, quieter now but still thick with emotion, raw and unfiltered. “And I’m not just talking about the stupid concert tickets, or the texts, or the ex. I’m talking about everything he’s done to make you feel small, like your time, your feelings, like you don’t matter at all. And it makes me so utterly furious I can’t even… I can’t even stand it!”
He ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight with memories of pure torture of the last 4 and a half months you’ve been with him, holding his gaze towards you.
You stare at him in confusion.
“Tim?”
Your voice was quiet, uncertain, but it cracked something in him.
His heart, the one he had spent years barricading behind layers of logic and restraint, finally tore free from its confinement. The pressure that had lived in his chest for months burst open, flooding his veins with a heat that made his pulse thunder in his ears.
His throat felt tight, breath uneven, as if every word he had swallowed down was clawing its way out at once. All those careful walls he had built, every line of logic meant to keep him safe were cracking apart, and his emotions were spilling through the gaps, wild and uncontrollable, faster than his mind could catch them.
“I…” He stopped himself, rubbing the back of his neck, his breath uneven. “I didn’t mean to say it like that. I just…” He exhaled sharply with wavering eyes. “You have no idea how hard it is to sit here and watch you fall apart over someone who never even tried to understand you. And I’m supposed to be your friend, right? Just your friend. But I can’t. I can’t keep pretending that’s enough anymore.”
“Tim… are you—”
“You’re too good for him. You’re too smart, too kind, too… everything. And I swear, if he ever gets another chance, I’ll—” He stopped, shaking his head again, struggling to contain the whirlwind of anger, frustration, and something else he didn’t want to confess.
Oh, fuck it.
He leaned closer now, closer than before, the heat of his frustration mixing with something heavier, something softer. “I can’t just watch you get hurt by someone who doesn’t deserve you. And… I can’t lie to you anymore.”
Your whole attention was on him, drawn to the heavy quiet that filled the space between you. Tim’s hands gripped his knees, knuckles white, his chest rising and falling too fast, like he was trying to hold himself together.
Is he drunk? Insane?
What the hell is he even thinking?
“Are you in love with m—”
“I’m in love with you.”
You both stared at each other, frozen in place, as silence swallowed the room whole.
It clung to the air, dense and suffocating, wrapping around every sound until even the faint hum of the refrigerator felt too loud. The air was heavy with everything unspoken, the kind of stillness so fragile that a single breath, a shift in weight, a pin falling to the floor could have shattered it completely.
Fuck, he definitely fucked up the friendship now.
“I’m sorry, I— I should go.”
His voice cracked midway, the words stumbling out before his brain could filter them. He pushed up from where he sat, fingers trembling slightly, trying to avoid your eyes as if looking at you might make it all worse.
Before he could take a step, you moved.
The sound of his apology faded when you reached out, catching him by the sleeve, and pulled him towards you.
The kiss wasn’t graceful, nor kind.
It was desperate and messy and full of everything that had gone unsaid. His breath caught, body stiff for a heartbeat, not sure how to react before his hands fell above your waist, wanting to be respectful while he tries to process what’s happening, not believing any of this was real.
Yet, it was very real— the both of you didn’t need to say anything, starved with kisses he’s been wanting to taste for the last two years. There was a faint sweetness on your lips; the lingering taste of the drink he’d brought you, mixed with the hint of your favorite fruit. It was familiar and intoxicating all at once, something soft and warm that made his head spin.
His hands continued to hover above your waist, fingers trembling with restraint.
You could feel how careful he was, how he was trying not to overstep— his touch respectful, reverent, and almost shy.
It was so him that it made something ache in your chest.
So you reached for him. Your hands slid up his arms, grounding him, before guiding his touch lower— a quiet, unspoken permission that made his breath stutter against your lips. He froze for just a heartbeat, eyes wide with disbelief, before he melted into you again, his restraint unraveling thread by thread.
“You don’t wanna know how long I’ve been wanting to do this.”
“How long? Tim?”
“Eternity."
You’ve spent the last hour making out on the couch, you were laying on your back, your hands lightly wrapped around his neck while Tim was above you, his arms resting beside your head.
Breathless and panting, your foreheads rested together, the air between you heavy with the sound of uneven breathing and the faint thrum of your racing hearts. His lips were still parted, his eyes half-lidded, like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.
You stared at him, really stared at him, taking in every detail you’d never let yourself linger on before: the faint flush along his cheekbones, the shaky rise and fall of his chest, the way his lashes fluttered when he tried to catch his breath.
And then, slowly, Tim pulled away, your hands falling.
His arms, which had been bracing the sides of your head, had shifted to rest gently beside your thighs, a quiet, possessive presence.
“Gosh,” you laughed, the sound light and full of happiness, your eyes shining as you looked at him.
There was something about the way you were right there, so close, that made his chest ache with adoration.
“That alone would’ve made me cum, but that’s something I wouldn't know.” You mentioned it off-handingly as if it was nothing, like it wasn’t a regular thing when it came to sex.
Tim hoped you were joking, but you rarely talked about your sex-life like this.
Tim frowned, sliding his hand back and forth on the side of your thighs in comfort. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had an orgasm before.” A look of concern washed over his face when you shrugged effortlessly, like it wasn’t a major concern.
“I just… use my fingers after he’s done? Is that bad?”
Wow.
That was the craziest thing he’s ever heard.
That dumbass was really just a pretty face with nothing to offer.
Tim sighed, leaning down slowly, his hands sliding up to rest lightly on your waist while his lips traced against your collarbone until he rested his chin there, his nose softly brushing against your neck with every quiet exhale.
“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he murmured, voice low and rough in your ear, shivering under him with a silent gasp.
“Tim, what are you trying to do—” your eyes flutter shut when you feel his wet kisses across your throat, your jaw, the corner of your lips, teasing the fact he won’t steal your lips.
And his hands, slowly gliding your shirt back and forth, not taking it off with the bare knuckles lightly touching the warmth of your skin.
“Isn’t it obvious?” He chuckles, “all you have to do is ask.” You felt the back of your neck warming with the implication.
Was this too fast?
No, it wasn’t.
“C’mon,” he whispered softly, his voice gliding like honey.
“I’ll give it to you if you just ask.”
The sound of it made you melt under his touch.
There was something in the way he spoke, every word dipped in patience and quiet devotion, flowing over you like sunlight breaking through soft clouds. His voice carried a rhythm that made the air hum, tender and endless, as if the world itself was listening. It felt timeless, sacred even, the way he cherished you, as though you were something precious he had spent his whole life searching for.
Yet, you wanted to drop it with sin.
Tim was caught off-guard as you grabbed him, your grip firm yet gentle, and quickly flipped him so his back pressed against the plush cushions of the couch. His eyes met the tiny, rebellious strands of your hair that danced across your face, clinging to the warmth of your cheeks. Your hands, soft and assured, lay across his chest, fingers splayed as if to capture every beat of his heart.
“You think I was going to beg?”
You questioned, tilting your head slightly down at him with a playful expression.
“Fuck.”
He cursed under his breath, his body tensing as you leaned into him, your lower-half glides teasingly across his tent, sending waves of pleasure through his veins. His hands, driven by urgency, grasped the hem of your shirt, slowly lifting it as you complied, your body rising to meet the cool air. With a fluid motion, you slipped the shirt over your head, revealing the smooth, unadorned expanse of your chest.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing covered your perky nipples.
Tim's eyes widened, his mouth falling open as he took in the sight.
“Are you trying to kill me?" he breathed, his voice a mix of awe and desperation.
You quietly laughed, the vibrations traveling through your body, resonating in your moving hips and sending a new wave of sensation coursing through both of you.
He moaned, shutting his eyes for a brief moment of bliss. His hands held onto your tits as if they’re lifelines.
“Mm’, maybe," you murmured, your voice low and teasing.
You continued to grind against him, the fabric of your clothes creating a tantalizing friction. Each deliberate movement sent waves of sensation through both of you, the barrier of clothing only intensifying the anticipation.
The rhythm of your hips against his, slow and purposeful, drew out a low groan from deep within him, a sound that vibrated against your skin, heightening the already charged atmosphere.
Tim could no longer contain himself, his need to feel your skin against his own became an overwhelming urge. The rough material of his pants, once a sense of pleasure with you on top of him, now felt like a cruel barrier, each movement against you sends jolts of frustration through his body, lifting his hips to chase what’s behind the fabric.
“Fuck, I need you right now.”
Tim's strong hands grip your thighs firmly as he lifts you effortlessly, his fingers digging into your soft skin. You gasp as your body is suddenly suspended in the air, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist for support. The sudden movement causes your breasts to press against his chest, the thin fabric of your clothing barely a barrier between your heated skin.
“You better take me, then.” You whispered against his lips.
You wrap your arms around his neck, your fingers find the muscles of his shoulders, digging in slightly as you hold on tight. You can feel the tension in his body, the power coiled beneath his skin as he holds you effortfully. His breath is hot on your neck, his lips brushing against your skin as he whispers your name, his voice low and husky with desire.
Your heart races as you feel the prominent hardness of his body against yours, the evidence of his arousal pressing into you. You shift slightly, your hips moving against him, eliciting a low groan from deep in his throat.
His hands move to your ass, squeezing and kneading as he supports your weight, his fingers tracing the curve of your flesh.
As Tim carries you towards the bedroom, his lips find yours in a passionate, hungry kiss. Your mouths move together in a dance of desire, your tongues exploring and tasting each other. The world outside ceases to exist as you lose yourself in the sensation of his lips on yours.
He kicks open the bedroom door, his mouth never leaving yours as he walks you backwards towards the bed. The room is dimly lit, casting shadows across the walls and creating an intimate atmosphere. He gently lowers you onto the mattress, your body sinking into the softness beneath you.
As he pulls away, you prop yourself up on your elbows, watching as he reaches for the hem of his shirt. With a swift, fluid motion, he pulls it over his head, revealing the muscular contours of his chest and abs. The light from the bedside lamp plays across his skin, highlighting the defined lines of his muscles.
Your eyes trace the v-line until it ends, your breath catching as he drags them and lets them fall to the floor. He stands before you in his boxers, the fabric doing little to hide the evidence of his arousal. You can see the outline of his erection, straining against the cotton, and your mouth goes dry at the sight.
You needed him to fuck you.
Like now.
To the point that you won’t be able to walk.
As Tim dips his knee into the bed, he slowly crawls towards you, his movements deliberate and purposeful. His hand finds the hem of your shorts, hooking his finger on your underwear, and with a gentle yet firm pull, he slides them down your legs. The fabric glides against your skin until it’s thrown somewhere in your room, leaving you exposed and vulnerable.
You unconsciously obstruct his view, Tim scoffs, putting his hands against your knees to slowly push them apart.
“Don’t hide from me.”
And what a sight it was for Tim.
Goosebumps littered across the warmth of your skin, lips wet and parted. There was a slight tremor in your legs when he held them apart and every shaken breath you took, glimpsing the way your bare chest rose and fell rapidly from his intense gaze.
The sight alone made his dick twitch.
Tim was so sure that all he had to do was graze a single finger down your skin would be all that was needed to make you shiver in his hands.
“Tim, are you going to—”
You moaned, his thumb presses on your clit and you have to do your best not to spasm. "Oh, fuck," you moan in sweet, sweet relief.
Tim has been waiting for this for too long, much too long, meanwhile you feel that you're going to come undone much embarrassingly quickly.
Slowly, Tim slides one finger into you, then two, and your body trembles in pleasure and obvious relief. Nights alone with your hand between your legs just doesn't cut it anymore, not when you've been introduced with fingers that work so much better than yours.
“Look at you, soaked from what? Us? Grinding on me?” Tim mumbled, dragging the pads of his fingertips against your walls.
You’re in a whole different dimension, your mouth openly panting into the air with half-lidded eyes, watching his predatory gaze on you.
A delicacy.
A show he's enjoying.
"So tense," Tim muses, and he kisses your neck as he starts shifting his fingers out and then back in, slow and purposeful. Each stroke is measured; each point of pressure is planned.
"Tim," you whisper, but then he bites down on your neck and you whimper.
Thankfully, it doesn't seem like he's planning on teasing you for long, because Tim starts working his fingers at a decent pace. He hits your sensitive spot every time, causing you to moan breathlessly into his ear, which is a blessing to know that you’re like this because of his undoing.
Tim’s mouth assaults the top of your breasts, leaving marks before he latches onto your nipples, his hot mouth providing a stimulus that has you going absolutely bat-shit crazy.
It's almost embarrassing how fast your orgasm builds up in you once he adds a third finger. You choke on air as he opens you up, his fingers tearing you apart from the inside.
“Oh my fuck—”
You're dizzy with sensation, the three fingers almost too much for you to handle. It's not the thickness, it's the fucking pressure.
Tim’s hitting every spot, every pressure point, like he's mapped you out and knows exactly what to touch to get you to moan.
"You’re so noisy," he breathes against your collarbone, and you cry as his thumb presses down on your clit. He draws a torturously slow circle on your clit and you clamp down around him. "C'mon, I need you to come."
You feel it, that burning sensation in the pit of your stomach, the signs that your climax is approaching, and you rake your nails down his back, hissing through your teeth. "Fuck," you choke as he twists his fingers inside of you.
“On my fingers, come on them.”
His teeth bite lightly onto your collarbone before sucking to leave a beautiful purple mark.
"Fuck, Tim, please, I'm- I'm going to-"
His mouth breaks off of your skin just so he can whisper, "so do it, then."
You do. White streaks blind your vision as blissful ecstasy seizes your body, rippling through it like waves. Your orgasm feels heavenly, after so much build up and so much tension. You moan as Tim’s fingers work you through your climax, eventually slowing down in time with you as your body relaxes.
You take deep gulps of air, trying to resupply the oxygen to your brain, wondering how the fuck Tim made you come quickly.
Fuck, you wonder what he’s like when he’s fucking you mean.
You could feel yourself clenching from the thought without realizing his fingers still laid within you.
“You want me to fuck you mean?” Tim quirks an amusing brow, making you realize your thoughts might’ve escaped faster than your mouth could.
“That was something you weren’t meant to hear,” you quickly replied, feeling the heat from the back of your neck traveling to your cheeks, not sure if its desire and mortification.
"Huh, like the fact you've never came before or clenched my fingers from the thought?" Tim asks, his voice low and teasing before he brings the slick-coated fingers, dragging them out to his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours as he tastes you, savoring the flavor.
You watch with your mouth-wide opened, feeling a tad bit wetter from the filthy voyeuristic display,
Yeah, you want to ride this man like never before.
With a surge of determination and desire to ride him, you’ve lifted yourself from the bed to grab hold of his shoulders, gasping when you swapped positions, his back against his sheet while you grabbed the waistband of his boxers, raising his hips slightly to help you slide them down that reveals his hardened length.
“Do you like riding or something?”
“And if I do?” You feel a thrill of power and desire as you arch your back, one hand gripping his shoulder for leverage while the other guides him to your entrance.
Tim's smirk is both challenging and inviting, his hands firm on your waist, pulling you down as he thrusts up to meet you without a warning.
You gasp with pleasure overcoming your face, taking initiative when it fails. Your hands finding on his shoulders for support when Tim grips onto your ass greedily, watching you take everything when he’s guiding you by the fat of your ass and his hips slightly moving upwards to meet repeatedly.
Tim realizes you haven’t said a thing.
“Are you still there with me,” he jokes, lightly slapping against your cheek before it lands onto your ass once more.
Nothing.
You’re pulled down hard against his pelvis, taking absolutely everything from him.
Your mouth flies open in a gasp and moan, brows scrunching as the sensation of your core traveling up your spine. Not a single word uttered from you and your gaze that held no thoughts behind it, only the sensation of him within you.
The sight was lewd, knowing you’re absolutely done for.
You had more cock than air, silent tears streaming down your cheeks when your fingers dug into his shoulders, creating crescent moons.
“Fucking hell, you’re so tight.”
He hissed from the slight sharp pain from his shoulders, smacking your ass before pulling you down hard, eliciting another gasp that clenched down onto him. Clearly, you enjoyed that, having you briefly come back to him with: “again.”
God, you’ve never had dick this good before.
“You’re absolutely insane.”
He still follows through, twitching within you.
Your toes curl, feeling the blunt tip of his cock hit the roof of your core like a fucking battering ram. Then, he strikes against your ass again that has him hiss sharply with your clenching onto him, in response you tug on his hair with one hand in retaliation, feeling his dick twitch within your tight walls with a deep moan that escapes his lips.
“I’m gonna make sure you don’t remember his name.”
Who? You furrowed your brows, staring down at Tim’s gaze.
There’s nothing but wet slaps in the room that smells like nothing but sex in the air, Tim lifts you again only to fuck fiercely against the resistance of your walls, pounding into you like no tomorrow, your hips had stopped moving, the ache in your legs persistent while Tim does the work, bouncing your ass against his pelvis while his hips creates brutal thrusts that has your insides twisting and turning.
There’s a tight feeling in your core—fuck, these devastating penetrations feel like you’re going to wet yourself with the way he’s impaling you with his cock. An inexplicable force pulls your eyelids back, brows pinching at the building pressure in your lower gut. There's a dangerous peak you're headed to, and you think you're really gonna–
“Tim, I’m—ohmyfuckinggod—“ you yelped, tears trailing down in the amount of pleasure you’re getting from this.
“Tim! Im gonna fucking—“
“Fuckin’ come on me.”
Droplets splash between the both of you as Tim continues to slam into you, his mouth drops in disbelief, yet a gleeful expression written on his face. You toss your head back into a sorry shriek, your release drenches his lap and his thighs.
His hands dragged from the ass to your hips, continuously thrusting harder than before, panting into the suffocating room that feels a thousand degrees. “With that cute face you’re making, I don’t think you’ve squirted before.”
Yeah, you couldn’t believe it either. The way your jaw trembles and hangs loose as he bounces you on his cock has obliterated any sense of shame and logic.
“I need your cum,” you slurred against your words, your eyes glazed over with bliss. It made Tim crack a smile, amused from your reaction, especially one he’s never seen, drinking it all in.
You were 100% cockdrunk.
“Where? Right ‘ere?” He exhales in a mocking tone, pressing a firm thumb against your lower stomach as he penetrates you.
Your groan is guttural when his length brushes punishingly against your insides with the force he pushes into your gut.
“Yeah, y-yeaa-ah –” you're nodding your head dumbly, clouded with ecstasy.
He lets go of your hips as you drop down onto his cock, and you look at him like he's shot you in the knee.
“Tim, what the f—” he playfully chuckled, silencing you while he leaned back, his hands resting lightly on your thighs, tracing circles.
“Go on, ride me if you want my cum so bad.” He’s eyeing you with expectations that have you baffled.
“C’mon, show me that you deserve it.” He mockingly says with an act of gentleness in his tone that has you seething a bit of anger and disbelief.
(Honestly, it was kind of hot,)
You're gripping his shoulders tightly before you know it, bouncing yourself on his cock like he paid for you, desperate for his cum.
“Is—fuck, is this good? Huh, Tim?” Your eyes lock onto his, knowing your pussy is gripping his twitching length that has him digging into the palm of his hands. Fuck, if he says that you’re utterly unraveling him, he’s going to cum without doing what he wanted to do.
“Y-yeah, so goddamn good—” he cuts himself off, pulling you into a heated kiss that leaves you breathless. You didn’t react fast enough when Tim breaks the heated kiss, tossing you off him before he finds you again with your arched back and your face in the sheets.
He thrusts into you with a force that sends new waves of pleasure crashing through your body from the new position. His hands grip your hips tightly, pulling you back against him with each powerful stroke. You can feel the tension building inside you, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you push back against him, meeting his rhythm.
If you thought you’re crazy, Tim was crazier.
You’ve left your phone in your bedroom on your nightstand, charging peacefully on top of a book you were reading.
Tim immediately knew your password, finding the camera-app before sliding into a video.
The bounce of your ass against his pelvis, the slick of your pussy on his dick that peeks slightly for the camera before it’s engulfed within your tightening walls that sucks the living soul out of his dick.
He’s memorized, striking your ass once more that you moan for.
“Tim,” you gasp out, his name a plea on your lips. “Yeah?” He breathlessly squeezed your hips, pulling you to meet his. God, he’s going to cum from this sight alone. “Bet none of them could make you act like this.” You slowly nodded your head, moaning his name once more.
“Tim’, I’m gonna fuckin’ cum again.”
“Yeah? Gonna cum for the third consecutive time?” Tim wickedly smiled, hearing you let out a small “uh huh”. You can feel the first tremors of your release, the world around you fading away as you focus solely on the sensation of his body against yours.
“Mm’, I’m gonna cum too.”
Your orgasm hits you hard, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure wash over you that’s obvious to the camera. You can feel him follow soon after, his grip on you tightening as he finds his own release.
His thick cock pulses against your walls, twitching happily as it shoots ropes of cum into your tight little cunt. You're breathless at the sensation, feeling the warmth pool in your belly with the satisfying pulses of your pussy in sync. Moans escape your throat freely.
Tim stills after the last few pulses of his cock, pulling out with a wince as he continues to catch his breath, ending the video before sending straight to himself.
If you let him, he’s gonna send that shit over to your ex. He lightly tosses your phone away from him, running his hand through his hair before resting them against your hips, squeezing them in assurance.
“You okay?” He asks, hearing the grin in your voice with a delightful sigh that drags out of you.
“More than okay.” You muttered, twisting your head to find his face, bubbles of laughter erupting from you. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so happy to make me come.”
The corner of lips twitched upwards. “What can I say? I’m glad to know that my dick is just that good.”
“Tim, don’t start thinking you’re all that—” He thrusts deeply into you to stop the nonsense you’re spouting, pushing the cum deeper than ever making you drop your mouth with a look of pleasure on your face.
“Or what?” A grin appeared, not bothered to hide his pride. It makes you speechless when he thrusts deep again, hearing you moan sweetly into his ear. Shit, he’s going to get hard again if he doesn’t fucking stop and if you don’t push back your hips.
“I’m all that you need to make ya’ cockdrunk.”
FUCKASS
fuckass: [video attachment]
fuckass: you’re gonna miss out on this dick
you: don’t make me laugh I’m not missing out anything read 8:39PM
you: the last four months I’ve been faking my orgasms lol. read 8:39PM
a/n: this isn’t my best work, but do tell me how yall feel about it! I feel like there wasn’t as much dialogue than the previous ones I’ve done, but I still enjoyed writing this out for you and dropping another kinktober fic lol. Anyways, don’t be a stranger xx
anything is appreciated but I love comments and reblogs of everyone’s thoughts !!!
Taglist (I’m so sorry I forgot!!): @sugacor3 @ratio-kals @ella-oldtime @maryjlawrenceatservice @min-the-monster @sakiigami @hobi-kobi @thetruecardinalsinner
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ you broke up with Tim a year ago. Too bad he still thinks of you as his. Too bad everything he does reminds you that you are.
word cnt. 16.2k
includes ›››› sexual language, dairy queen, car make out, denial, you match his freak and that's why you dumped him
Tim has been living inside the fraction of a second you hesitated before sitting beside him — that infinitesimal pause where your body seemed to remember him before your mind could intervene. He’s worried it like a loose thread, convinced it means something, that it proves there is still warmth there, buried but intact.
“I don’t think you’re good for me,” you’d murmured, voice dulled by exhaustion rather than certainty, even as your hands betrayed you—tugging your scarf tighter around his neck, fingers lingering just long enough to make the words feel like a lie you were both pretending to believe. You’d said it gently, like a confession instead of a sentence. Your eyes were watering, your hands shaking against the scarf. That was a year ago.
He remembers the cold that night more vividly than your words, the way you tried to protect him from it even as you stepped away, leaving him standing there with a warmth he didn’t know what to do with—except keep it.
Tims kept it alright.
It’s almost grotesque, how fiercely.
He’s preserved that pause of yours the way people preserve saints’ bones—wrapped in memory, reverent to the point of ruin. The fraction of a second where you hovered before sitting beside him, knees angled toward him before you caught yourself. That hesitation lives under his skin. Proof, he tells himself. Evidence that your body remembered him even when you tried not to.
And God, the things he’s kept.
The ribbon, slid carefully from your hair when you slept over, breath held like a thief afraid of waking something holy. The broken bracelet beads, every last one collected from the floor on hands and knees, replaced weeks later with diamonds he pretended meant nothing — an upgrade, he said lightly, as if he hadn’t memorized the exact way the original had looked against your wrist. The origami robins and flowers you folded when boredom softened you, creased wings and petals tucked into books, pinned above his desk, carried with him through every move like talismans.
You’d said it so quietly, then.
“I don’t think you’re good for me.”
Murmured, not declared. Your mouth said no while your hands betrayed you — tugging his scarf tighter around his neck, fingers brushing his jaw, thumbs warm against his throat as if instinct refused to let him freeze. The words felt practiced. The touch didn’t. He remembers the smell of your shampoo, the faint press of your knuckles, the way you exhaled like you were bracing for something sharp.
That was a year ago.
A year of being careful. A year of agreeing, without ever speaking it aloud, to be friends.
Friends.
After he’s been inside you, after he knows the exact sound you make when you’re trying not to beg, after he’s memorized the curve of your spine like scripture.
Sure. Friends.
School makes it easier to lie. Same friend group, same bleachers at lunch, same unspoken rule: don’t touch, don’t linger, don’t look like you remember.
Your new boyfriend is a theater geek.
Volleyball team captain, too, and somehow managing to keep a perfect tan even in the dead stretch of Gotham’s winter, when the sun feels more like a rumor than a fact and everyone else looks faintly gray around the edges.
Lloyd.
Same height as Tim, just a little bulkier—closer to Dick’s build than Jason’s—but he doesn’t carry it the way Dick does, doesn’t wear his body with confidence. He's a blonde, freckles scattered across his face like someone forgot to finish the job.
Gemini.
Six hundred fifty-two followers on Instagram. Bio reads ‘i love my gf’.
Yeah.
Tim loves his girlfriend too.
“Stop glaring,” Stephanie hisses, elbowing him sharply in the side beneath the library table, her shoe nudging his ankle a second later just to make the point stick.
“I’m not glaring,” Tim mutters back, not looking away.
“You’re still watching,” she says, exasperated, “and it’s creepy.”
You’re a few tables over, earbuds in, head bent forward just enough that Tim’s almost certain you’re blasting white noise—something steady, something meant to drown out the world. The library hums around all of you: pages turning, keyboards clicking, the low murmur of whispered conversations bouncing gently off tall shelves and stained-glass windows that filter Gotham’s weak afternoon light into dusty gold.
You were seated with Steph and a few other friends at one of the long tables, five chairs pulled in close, bodies overlapping in that casual, communal way people slip into without thinking. But now your back is to Tim, the familiar line of your shoulders framed by your coat draped over the chair, the curve of your neck half-hidden by your hair.
And there he is.
Lloyd sits next to you, angled just enough that his face is fully visible to Tim, a script spread open on the table between you, pages already dog-eared and marked up with pencil notes. He mouths lines under his breath, brows furrowed in concentration, tapping the edge of the paper with his pen like it might jog something loose.
Every so often, his green eyes flick up.
They land on Tim.
And every single time, the idiot smiles at him—awkward, polite, uncertain—before ducking his head back down and returning to memorizing lines for whatever stupid play he’s involved in this week.
Tim exhales slowly through his nose.
“He’s not even the main lead,” he mutters, barely above a whisper. “Why the fuck is it taking him so long to memorize so few lines?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Lucas says from beside him, tone flat and edged with sarcasm, “maybe he wants to spend time with his girlfriend. Just a thought.”
Tim doesn’t bother looking at him. Lucas isn’t exactly close—not really—but Stephanie and you had introduced him to Tim after spending time together in art class, and he lets Tim rant without interruption, which counts for something.
“My girlfriend,” Tim corrects automatically.
Dina, Lucas’s girlfriend, groans outright from where she’s leaning back in her chair. “This is why she isn’t sitting with us,” she mutters.
“She isn’t sitting with us because the idiot needed help,” Tim snaps back, keeping his voice carefully light, carefully neutral, even though the words come out sharper than intended.
And he’s not wrong. You had been sitting at the head of the table, comfortably centered, until Lloyd showed up—nervous, bashful, clutching his script like it might bite—and asked if you could help him run lines for an audition. You’d hesitated for exactly half a second before changing seats, scooting closer, tilting the pages toward yourself with practiced ease.
Tim had wanted to shove the script straight into Lloyd’s mouth.
Instead, he watches.
Watches the way you lean in when Lloyd gets stuck, the way you tap the page lightly and murmur corrections, the way Lloyd listens with an intensity that borders on reverence. The library settles around them, quiet and warm and heavy with books that smell like dust and ink and old promises, Gotham pressing its gray, unlovely afternoon up against the windows while, inside, you sit close enough to someone else that your shoulders almost touch.
Tim keeps his gaze fixed there, steady and unblinking, like if he looks away for even a second something permanent might shift without his permission, like the world might quietly rearrange itself while he isn’t watching.
“I hope they start making out,” Dina murmurs into her tea, voice low and wicked, steam curling up around her face, “just so I can watch Tim strangle himself with his computer cord.”
Lucas snickers beside her, shoulders shaking.
Tim finally drags his eyes away from you and turns to Dina, incredulous. “Come on,” he says, voice clipped, restrained by effort alone. “You can’t seriously think he’s actually good for her. He’s a fucking idiot.”
That makes Dina pause. She cups her mug in both hands, fingers warming against the ceramic, gaze drifting back toward your table as if she’s trying to see something she missed. “I’m not saying that, Tim,” she says, slower now. “I’m just… she seems happy. I guess.”
“You guess?” Tim echoes, one brow lifting as he flips his notebook open and starts scribbling absently, blue ballpoint pen gliding across the page. A stick-figure Scarecrow takes shape under his hand—crooked hat, lopsided grin—the ink dark and precise. One of the fancy pens you bought him for his birthday a few months ago. He presses a little harder than necessary.
Stephanie shrugs, spinning her pencil between her fingers. “It could be worse,” she says. “He’s just… awkward.”
Lucas snickers again when he catches the expression that crosses Tim’s face, all tight disbelief and quiet offense.
Tim turns on him immediately. “Fuck you, man,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face.
“I mean,” Lucas adds, holding up his hands, “I’m actually with Tim on this one. I don’t like him that much either.”
Oh.
Oh okay.
So Lucas is Tim’s best friend now, apparently, and they are the closest people in the fucking universe.
Tim straightens instantly, pointing at Lucas like he’s just been handed a winning card and swiveling back toward Dina and Stephanie. “You hear that?” he says, vindicated. “He agrees!”
Stephanie shoots Lucas a look and tilts her head. “Dude, come on—”
“She had to ask him out,” Lucas says, shrugging like this is obvious. “Once or twice, whatever, but it’s like—every time. Even for the winter dance. She had to ask him.”
“What happened to feminism?” Dina tries weakly, staring into her cup.
“That’s not what I mean,” Lucas replies, turning toward her. “Come on, you’ve seen how much she overthinks it every time. When have I ever made you feel like you needed to ask me just to see me?”
“Then why does he look like you just proposed?” Stephanie asks, exasperated and amused in equal measure.
Lucas furrows his brow, confused for half a second before following her gaze.
Locking eyes with Tim.
“Dude…?”
Tim leans in immediately, grin sharp and hopeful, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “So you’ll help me?”
“Fuck no.”
Oh.
Okay.
Tim Drake fucking hates Lucas, actually, and he can go die.
Tim groans, letting his forehead drop forward onto his notebook with a soft thunk, pen rolling slightly under his hand. “You all want me dead,” he mutters, voice muffled by paper. “What if I killed myself, huh? What if—”
“She’d probably save you a seat at her wedding with Lloyd,” Stephanie cuts in cheerfully, chin propped in her palm, freckles creasing as she smiles, “and just keep it empty.”
Tim kicks her under the table.
The library exhales as the evening thins out. Lucas and Dina leave around six, their voices fading down the marble stairwell, footsteps swallowed by the building’s cavernous quiet. Gotham presses itself against the tall windows, the sky outside bruised purple and gray, streetlights flickering on one by one like tired sentries. The stained glass above the stacks bleeds muted color onto the floor—dusty golds and blues that settle into the cracks of old stone.
By seven, Stephanie finally closes her textbook, the heavy thud echoing louder than it should in the near-empty room. She leans back in her chair, stretching her arms over her head, curls spilling down her shoulders in loose blonde spirals that catch the lamplight. Her skin still holds a faint tan despite Gotham’s winter, freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks like constellations she never bothered to memorize.
She glances between Tim and you.
Lloyd left a few minutes ago.
You drifted back to the head of the table after, slipping into the seat like it was always yours, familiar and effortless. Tim doesn’t look up—not once—but Stephanie notices everything anyway. The way his fingers fly faster over the keyboard, knuckles pale, veins standing out against skin that’s already too light from long nights indoors. The way he takes a sharp pull from his energy drink, throat working like he needs to swallow something down before it crawls out of him.
Gods save him.
She stays put.
Doesn’t pack.
Doesn’t even pretend to.
Just slouches sideways in her chair, one knee tucked up, phone glowing softly in her hand as she doomscrolls with deliberate casualness, firmly wedged between the two of you like a human barricade.
“Don’t you have a date with Cass?” Tim asks eventually, voice rougher than he means it to be.
He doesn’t look up. He keeps his eyes locked on his screen, lashes casting dark shadows against sharp cheekbones, jaw clenched tight enough to ache. His black hair falls messily into his eyes, untouched since this morning, making him look more tired than he’ll ever admit in Stephanie's eyes.
Stephanie lifts her head slowly. “What?”
Tim swallows. Shifts in his chair. Still doesn’t look at you. Not at the way you tilt your head when you’re confused, not at the way the overhead lamp warms your eyes into something soft and dangerous. “Your date,” he clarifies, aiming for nonchalance and missing by a mile. “With Cassandra.”
Stephanie’s eye twitches.
Ah. Message received.
“I don’t recall what you’re talking about, Timothy,” she says, tone sugary enough to rot teeth.
There are maybe six people in this world Stephanie Brown would willingly do something stupid and petty for.
Right now, she’s sitting between two of them.
“Dinner,” Tim adds, coughing slightly. “That ramen place.”
He probably assumed she’d help him for free.
And leave you alone with this monster?
Absolutely not.
“Ohhh,” Stephanie drawls, suddenly thoughtful. “Yeah. That nice, expensive one near the GCPD? The new one?”
Tim blinks, confused, watching as she nods to herself and begins packing her bag with exaggerated slowness, slipping pens into pockets, zipping and unzipping compartments. “Yeah, I guess—”
“Oh darn!” she interrupts brightly, patting her jacket pockets. “I left my wallet at home. Guess it’d be easier to cancel on Cass and reschedule.”
You pull one earbud free, brow knitting as you glance between them, noticing the way Tim’s eyebrow jumps, a sharp little tell he never quite learned to hide.
“You—” Tim cuts himself off, exhales hard through his nose, then reaches into his jacket and pulls out his wallet. He doesn’t even look at Stephanie when he hands it over. “Here. Don’t be a bad girlfriend and—”
“Aww, you’re so sweet,” Stephanie cuts in, batting her lashes dramatically as she plucks his black card straight from his wallet. She slips on her jacket, curls bouncing as she turns to you with a grin that’s all mischief and affection. “Isn’t he just the sweetest?”
You hesitate, head tilting slightly. “Uh… yeah.”
“YOU’RE GOING TO BE LATE,” Tim suddenly snaps, voice echoing through the quiet library, drawing irritated looks from a few remaining students as he stands and physically herds a giggling Stephanie away from the table. “GOODBYE. HAVE FUN.”
She laughs as she goes, practically skipping toward the exit, boots clicking against stone, blonde curls swinging as she throws a careless wave over her shoulder.
Tim watches her disappear into the stairwell, shoulders slumping just a fraction.
With the way she vanishes into Gotham’s night, he already knows—deep, deep down—that he’s losing at least two thousand dollars tonight.
The library settles again, lights humming softly, the city breathing outside the windows.
And you’re still there.
There’s an empty seat between the two of you where Stephanie sat.
You don’t hesitate. You stand and move into it like it’s muscle memory, like gravity still knows where to put you, like you didn’t just walk Lloyd out to his car ten minutes ago with your hand wrapped around his sleeve, laughing softly like you were something out of a storybook—like his fucking prince charming.
The chair scrapes quietly against the floor as you pull it in, close enough that Tim feels the shift in air before he sees you settle beside him. His shoulders tense instinctively, pale skin already gone tight under the library lights, hair falling into his eyes as he stares a little too hard at his screen.
“What are you working on?” you ask, easy and conversational, fingers sliding up to tune your music down as you keep sketching, pencil moving in loose, confident strokes. It looks like something for art class—shading layered gently, lines purposeful without being precious. Stephanie finished the final touches on her landscape the moment she arrived, declared it done, and promptly started meddling.
Tim’s answer comes a beat late.
“Uh—” His voice stutters slightly, like it caught on the way out. “Just… trying to learn this new code. Finished school stuff already.”
You lean just enough to glance at his screen, not touching him, not quite, but close enough that he can see your reflection faintly in the dark glass. You nod, lips pursing thoughtfully. “Looks complicated.”
And then you go back to drawing.
Just like that.
Like you didn’t used to lean into him when you worked, shoulder to shoulder, knee pressed against his under the table. Like your head didn't tilt toward his when you concentrated, lashes brushing his sleeve. Like that wasn’t a year ago, like it wasn’t still burned into him in exact, brutal detail.
Tim swallows.
“Mhm,” he murmurs, the sound rougher than he intends, barely there, fingers hovering uselessly over his keyboard as the library hums around you both—lights buzzing softly, pages turning somewhere far off.
And you sit there beside him anyway, close enough to undo him, drawing like nothing has changed at all.
Tim doesn’t take your closeness for granted. He never has. Tim breathes it in the way he’s learned to breathe in every narrow allowance of proximity these days, slow and careful, like the moment might bruise if he holds it too tightly. You smell like your perfume—soft, familiar, worn into the fibers of your coat—layered with the papery dryness of old books and the faint, comforting bitterness of tea you shared earlier with Dina, mugs cooling forgotten on the table between half-finished thoughts.
And under all of that–barely there but persistent once he catches it–is cedarwood.
Not his.
The stupid blonde’s.
It clings faintly, like static, like a reminder pressed into the air itself.
You walked him to his car.
Tim isn’t a traditionalist, not really, but it’s winter and Gotham doesn’t do gentle cold; it bites, sharp and personal, and it only took Lloyd four quiet, “No, I insist—”s from you to give in.
Amateur. Tim files it away automatically before he lets himself breathe again anyway, because denying it would hurt worse, because this is still you. His fingers crack at the knuckles without him realizing, a soft, dry sound swallowed by the library’s hush, and his gaze drifts—unintentional, unguarded—down to your sketchbook.
And stops.
Freezes.
Red Robin stares back at him from the page.
Not stiff. Not posed. Caught in motion, balanced on the edge of something unseen, weight shifted to one hip like he’s mid-turn, cape flaring in a way that suggests momentum rather than drama.
The pencil work is confident—dark where it needs to be, light where it breathes—shading layered patiently along the lines of the suit, the texture of the fabric suggested with nothing more than pressure and restraint. The mask sits just right on the face, angular but not harsh, eyes narrowed with focus rather than anger.
It isn’t copied. It’s remembered.
Tim sees details no camera would ever bother with: the slight tension in the jaw, the way the line of the neck curves when he’s bracing to move, the subtle asymmetry that makes the figure human instead of iconic.
When Tim looks up, slow and careful, he finds you smiling softly as you draw, lashes lowered, pencil moving with quiet certainty. You once told him you’d never draw him—that it was bad luck, that you loved him too much to risk it, that some things shouldn’t be pinned down or flattened onto paper.
Gods help him, you’ve drawn him the way people draw something they’re afraid to lose.
Tim almost scoffs. Almost tells you that Red Robin looks worse in real footage, that cameras catch the sweat, the smudges, the moments where he’s off-balance and barely holding it together. He almost jokes, almost reaches for distance—
And then he sees it.
The small beauty mark at the base of the neck, just beneath the line of the mask, placed so casually it could only come from familiarity. From proximity. From having looked at him up close, when the mask was off and the world was quiet.
Something in Tim’s chest tightens, not painful, just full.
You drew him. And you did it sitting close enough that your sleeve brushes his arm when you shift, close enough that he can feel the steady warmth of you beside him, real and grounding, like you never stopped knowing exactly who he was beneath the masks and names and careful compartments.
“Thought you were a Nightwing fan,” Tim murmurs, the words coughing their way out of him in a whisper meant for no one else.
You glance up at him, pencil pausing mid-stroke where it’s shaping the fall of hair along the mask line, graphite smudged faintly along your fingers. “Thats all you, Tim,” you say easily, like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been obvious. “I’ve always liked Red Robin the most.”
“…Yeah?” Tim says after a second, his heart thudding too loud in his chest, the sound filling his ears until it feels like it might spill out of him. He shifts in his chair, shoulders drawing in slightly, like he’s bracing for impact. “He’s kinda boring, though. Don’t you think so?”
You laugh softly, the sound low and warm, shoulders lifting just a little as you shake your head. Your gaze drops back to the page, curls of hair falling forward as the pencil moves again—confident, unhurried—adding loose locks along the mask line, adjusting the angle of his jaw with a few precise strokes. “He’s nice to look at, and his suit is cool” you say, thoughtful, like you’re deciding it in real time. “That’s all that matters for the project.”
Heat rushes to Tim’s face, sudden and overwhelming, creeping up his neck and burning across his cheeks under the blue glow of his laptop screen. He swallows, fingers tightening around the edge of the table as if that might anchor him. “Just… nice?” he asks, voice thinner than he’d like, cracking ever so slightly at the end.
You don’t look up. You hum instead, soft and considering, a small sound tucked between breaths as your pencil hesitates—then continues. “Mhm. Well,” you add after a beat, lips curving faintly, “maybe a little bit more.”
Tim’s knee starts bouncing under the table, fast and restless, the motion telegraphing everything he refuses to say. He doesn’t know what to do with that—whether it’s a compliment or a deflection or something gentler and more dangerous. His mouth opens, closes, then settles on a useless, noncommittal, “Mhm…”
You tilt your head, studying the sketch with a critical eye, tapping the pencil lightly against the paper once. Then, without warning, you say, “He looks like if an Oreo Blizzard was a person.”
Tim pauses.
His fingers still on the keyboard. His knee stutters mid-bounce. The blush drains from his face, replaced by pure, quiet confusion as his brain stalls out completely. He stares at his screen like it’s betrayed him, cursor blinking patiently in the corner.
“Tim?”
He blinks, slow and deliberate, like he’s surfacing from deep water.
You’re looking up at him now, wide-eyed and earnest, lashes catching the warm lamplight, pencil hovering mid-air. Your mouth is tilted into something unsure, something fond.
“Mhm?” he says, automatically, voice distant.
“…Dairy Queen closes in ten minutes.”
The words land soft and absurd between you. Tim exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, shoulders loosening just a fraction, something in his chest easing even as his heart picks up again. He glances at you, then at the sketch, then back at you—caught somewhere between disbelief and something dangerously close to hope.
“…I know.” His voice is careful, deliberate, each word weighed like a stone he’s been carrying around for years. “…And… what does that have to do with us?”
You groan, letting the edge of your sketchbook tap softly against his forearm, a playful, almost affectionate smack that makes him flinch just slightly. “Come on!” The protest is sharp but light, threaded with warmth that curls into the space between you despite the library’s stale, paper-scented air and the muted hum of fluorescent lights overhead.
Tim giggles, curling his fingers around the spot where the sketchbook landed, the sound of it mingling with his heartbeat in his ears, loud and jarring in the quiet. “Hey! You just watched me give my card to Stephanie, Tim Drake is broke now.” he protests, voice clipped with mock indignation, but the curve of his lips and the crinkle at the corner of his eyes betray the joy of being near you, of sharing this space with you.
“I’ll pay!” you insist, leaning a little closer, pencil still in hand, tracing shadows in the sketchbook as if the very act grounds you enough to be closer.
“Absolutely not,” Tim says, shaking his head, pale skin still flushed faintly beneath the library’s dim glow, sharp jawline catching light, lashes brushing against the tops of his cheeks. His grin is soft, but the tilt of his head, the way his shoulders draw back and his hands still, betray a protective instinct he never can fully hide from you. “When have I ever let you pay for anything?”
Your mouth opens, ready to argue, “Well… that was when we were dating, that’s different—”
You cut yourself off mid-sentence. The words hit him like a sudden draft of winter air, sharp and real, and he sees it: the way your eyes flick toward his, the trace of hesitation. His smile falters, eyes no longer crinkling into the familiar crescent moons but softening into a tentative curve, a dimple barely showing at the corner of his mouth. His shoulders draw in slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if he’s bracing himself against a memory he’s never allowed himself to touch.
He’s never heard you say it—name it—before.
That what you two had, what you still carry in the spaces between words and touches, was over and that the over part was actually real. Broken, maybe, but real. Your breakup wasn’t a spoken ending; it was a silence he’d been forced to interpret, a confession he always assumed, but now you’re saying it anyway, in subtle, quiet ways, and it feels like the city itself has paused to make him process it.
“…Mhm…Yeah,” he murmurs, voice lower now, almost swallowed by the soft hum of the library. His gaze drops to his lap, hands brushing against each other in that small, nervous way he does when he’s unsure what to say but doesn’t want to let the moment slip. “…Uh I should have a 20 on me though, I'll just pay, yeah?”
The casual tone is a mask. He’s giving up the nonchalant act he’s perfected over months of careful observation, of distancing himself from his own feelings, of hiding in plain sight. Beneath it, there’s something else—something protective, careful, a quiet pursuit to make this moment of pause yours as much as it is his, because he's so sick of your pauses only having an impact on him.
You glance at him, heart squeezing faintly at the expression on his face, at the way he shapes his sadness into something neat, contained, so it doesn’t spill over into the world. There’s frustration in it, sure, but it’s measured, practiced—the same way he’s always measured his words with you, the same way he’s always carried your heart alongside his own without ever breaking stride.
The subtle history of your relationship—the jokes, the shared silences, the afternoons spent wandering Gotham’s streets side by side, the whispered plans, the quiet fights and louder reconciliations—all of it hums beneath the surface, threading through every glance, every brush of sleeves, every half-smile that was exchanged across the sketchbook between you.
For a fleeting moment, the world outside the library disappears, and the city—gritty, cold, unforgiving Gotham—fades behind the steady pulse of proximity, the weight of unspoken words, and the quiet certainty that some things, even after endings, never truly go away.
Not if Tim will let it.
He didn't let go of Robin and he won't let go of you.
“Come on,” Tim mumbles, already rising to his feet, a small, careful smile tugging at his mouth as he starts packing up—laptop slid into its sleeve, notebook stacked neatly on top, cords coiled with muscle memory precision, the pens you gifted him gathered like he’s afraid to leave any trace of you behind. “We can use my car. You probably walked here right?”
You don’t answer right away.
You’re still stuck on the look he wore just moments ago, the way his expression cracked open without warning. Tim has always been controlled about this—too controlled. When you called things off, he didn’t argue. Didn’t bargain. Didn’t ask you to stay. Sometimes, in your worse moments, you resented that. It felt like indifference masquerading as respect.
But the way his blue eyes widened earlier, bright and unguarded for just a second, the way his composure slipped—it was the first time you saw how deeply it landed. How much it still mattered.
The realization unsettles you, stirring something low and uncertain in your gut, the quiet sense that maybe following him now isn’t as harmless as it feels.
“You comin’?” Tim asks over his shoulder as he adjusts the strap of his bag, posture easy but hopeful. He pauses, glancing back. “Or… I can heat up the car first. If you want.”
“No, I—” You stop yourself, then shake your head gently, moving to pack your things instead. Pencil tucked away, sketchbook closed with care. You hesitate only a moment before taking one last look at the Red Robin drawing, fingertips lingering at the edge of the page like a goodbye—or a promise—before you slide it into your bag, almost reverently.
When you turn back around, Tim is already there.
Holding your coat out for you.
You jump a little, startled enough to laugh, the sound breaking the tension. “God,” you chuckle, slipping your arms into the sleeves, “Alfred is rubbing off on you.”
“Yeah, well,” Tim says casually, adjusting the collar for you without thinking, “he says you rubbed off on me, so.”
He hopes what he just said sticks.
It does.
Your fingers pause mid-button, the moment stretching thin and quiet between you.
+1 point to Tim Drake.
“How bad is it?” you mumble, voice pitched with playful dread as Tim cracks the heavy library doors open just enough to peer outside.
Your fur coat does not have a hood.
“Uh…” Tim glances back at you, a nervous smile flickering as a gust of icy wind snakes raindrops inside. “How about I just pull the car up front?”
You sigh, already knowing the answer. “They won’t let you.”
Gotham’s library sits stubbornly away from main roads, tucked back like a secret it’s trying to protect. With the city’s endless appetite for destruction, they’ve decided some things are worth guarding—this place being one.
“Come here,” Tim murmurs.
He tugs gently at the sleeve of your coat, pulling you closer before you can overthink it. He unzips his jacket and angles himself instinctively, lifting one side to shield your head and shoulders from the cold, creating a small pocket of warmth that smells like clean fabric, ozone, and something unmistakably him.
You falter.
Tim doesn’t move. Doesn’t rush it. Just stands there, steady, letting you decide.
Your hands hover for a second before settling against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric like you’re reminding yourself that friends do this too. That this doesn’t have to mean more.
+1 point to Tim Drake.
The cold rain hits the moment you step outside, sharp and immediate, Gotham winter cutting through fabric and skin alike, the wind threading itself between buildings like it knows exactly where to hurt. Snow hasn’t quite committed yet, but the ground is slick with old ice and slush, the sidewalk shining faintly under the amber streetlamps like it’s been lacquered with danger.
Tim moves first.
Not rushing you, not pulling—just angling himself so his shoulder blocks the worst of it, his jacket still half-open, one arm hovering close enough to guide without touching. You fall into step beside him automatically, boots striking the pavement a little too fast, breath puffing white in front of you, laughter caught somewhere between nerves and cold.
The library looms behind you, all stone and quiet judgment, while Gotham opens up ahead—wet streets, distant sirens, the low hum of traffic threading through the night. The parking lot feels farther than it should, stretched thin by the cold, by the way your coat slips just slightly on your shoulders, by the fact that your fingers are numb and your steps are getting shorter.
You slip.
It’s small—just a fraction of a second where your heel skids on a patch of ice you didn’t see—but it’s enough. Enough for your balance to tip, for your stomach to lurch, for the world to tilt wrong.
Tim catches you without thinking.
His hand is firm at your waist, fingers splaying through the fur of your coat, his other arm bracing you before you can even gasp. The contact is sudden and close and undeniable, your momentum carrying you straight into him, chest to chest, the impact softened only by the way he adjusts instantly, grounding you like this is a problem he’s solved a hundred times before.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.
Your breath tangles with his, warm against cold, your gloved hands pressing instinctively against his jacket. You can feel the tension in his grip—not rough, not hesitant—just precise, protective, like his body decided this was non-negotiable. His pulse jumps under your palm, fast and real, a quiet tell he never quite learned how to hide from you.
Then the moment passes.
He steadies you, eases you upright, hands lingering a second longer than strictly necessary before pulling back, giving you space without fully stepping away. The cold rushes back in immediately, reclaiming what little warmth you stole from him.
The car is close now.
He opens the passenger door for you, quick and efficient, one hand still hovering near your elbow as you slide inside, the seat cold even through your clothes. Snow crunches under his boots as he rounds the hood, movements smooth, practiced, the kind of unconscious choreography that comes from years of doing things fast and right.
You watch him through the windshield as he slips into the driver’s seat, shutting the door with a solid thunk that seals the world out. The car fills with the quiet whir of the heater starting up, the windows fogging faintly at the edges.
Inside, the air is warm, sealed tight against Gotham’s cold, the heater humming low beneath the dash. Everything unsaid sits between you, dense and heavy, pressing at your ribs.
Friends do that, right?
You’d catch Stephanie at the waist if she slipped. You’d grab Lucas too, even if he made a joke about it afterward.
Yeah.
You’re friends.
+2 points to you.
You turn just in time to see him rake his fingers through his hair, trying to shake the rain loose, droplets scattering across his knuckles and the collar of his jacket. His black hair sticks up in damp, uneven strands, darker with moisture, lashes clumped slightly as he blinks.
When he catches you looking, his mouth curves without hesitation—easy, familiar—eyes crinkling at the corners, teeth flashing, one dimple cutting deep into his cheek.
Your heart stutters, sharp and traitorous.
+2 points to Tim Drake.
You look away too quickly, forcing your hands to move, to do something normal, something harmless. You dig through your bag like you’re on autopilot, fingers brushing past pencils and folded paper until you find the packet of tissues. You hold it out to him, tone light, practiced, the way you talk when you don’t want him to notice anything’s wrong.
“Dry your hair, you’re going to get sick—”
“Hands are full,” Tim hums, distracted but smiling, one hand reaching back to shove both your bags into the backseat, the other twisting the key and cranking the heater higher. Warm air spills over your legs almost immediately.
So you move.
You pull a tissue free and lean in, close enough that your knee brushes his, close enough that his warmth bleeds into you. You scrunch the damp front of his bangs between your fingers, careful at first, then a little more deliberate, dragging the tissue through dark strands.
Tim freezes.
Not stiff—not pulling away—just… still. Like his body hasn’t been updated with whatever rule you’re operating under now. His shoulders lock, breath hitching just slightly as your fingers brush his scalp, familiar in a way that hurts. You can feel how soft his hair still is, how it curls faintly at the ends when it’s wet.
God. It’s been so long.
You’d do this for Stephanie.
You would.
You’d even do it for Lucas if he complained enough.
Tim is caught somewhere between letting himself melt into the touch and the dull ache of realizing he’s been reduced to the same category. Just another friend. Another person you’re gentle with.
+2 points to you.
“I think it’s dry,” he mumbles, voice lower now.
“No, it’s—” You pause, lifting the tissue, fingers brushing through once more. It’s slick. Too slick. You frown slightly, eyes narrowing as realization clicks.
You look at him.
He doesn’t look back.
“Uh—” His jaw tightens, gaze fixed firmly on the windshield.
“Tim.”
“So what do you want to get?” he rushes out, too fast. “Soft serve, maybe? Blizzard probably—”
“Tim.”
“You know I was thinking—”
“Tim Drake,” you burst out laughing, the tension snapping, “you stole my fucking hair serum!”
You smack his shoulder, not hard, just enough to make a point, before leaning back to toss the used tissue into the tiny trash can tucked by the console—the one you bought and insisted he keep there. He complained about it. Still kept it.
“You left it in my room,” Tim huffs, finally looking at you again, defensive but amused, cheeks pink as he flips on the seat heater under you. “That’s your fault.”
You stare at him for a second, mouth still parted like you’re gearing up for an argument, then think better of it. The tension drains out of you in a soft exhale, and you turn toward the mirror instead, lifting a hand to smooth down a few stray flyaways, checking your reflection in the dim interior light. Your smile lingers there, small and unguarded, like it always has.
Some things, annoyingly, haven’t changed at all—even if it feels like everything else has.
And that’s what makes it so sickening for Tim.
Because you still smile at him the same way, still tilt your head when you listen, still buy him an extra soda from the vending machine without asking because you know he’ll drink it later, still memorize a new coffee order for him every season like it’s muscle memory. Like loving him was a habit your body never quite unlearned.
You do all of that—and then you kiss someone who isn’t him.
Tim presses his tongue hard against the inside of his cheek as he pulls out of the library parking lot, jaw tightening just enough to ache. The tires hiss softly against wet pavement, streetlights bleeding into long, smeared reflections across the windshield as Gotham opens up around them—brick and neon and rain-slick streets, the city breathing low and restless even this late.
He keeps his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, posture relaxed in a way that feels practiced rather than real. The heater hums, the radio stays off. There’s no room for anything else.
Five-minute drive to Dairy Queen.
Plenty of time to pretend this doesn’t hurt.
The radio settles into a song neither of you bothered to change, something mellow and familiar, the kind that feels like it’s always existed in Tim’s car. The bass is low, steady, syncing with the hum of the engine and the whisper of tires over rain-dark pavement. Gotham slides past in slow motion—storefronts half-lit, steam curling up from subway grates, traffic lights blinking like tired eyes that never quite close.
The dashboard casts a soft glow over Tim’s hands on the wheel, pale against the dark interior, veins faintly visible where his grip tightens and relaxes in small, unconscious adjustments. His black hair is still slightly damp, curling at the edges, lashes casting shadows when he blinks.
There's a drop of water at the corner you watch fall from the reflection on your window. He drives like he always does—precise, smooth, attentive—but there’s something restrained about him now, like he’s holding himself a fraction too carefully.
You sit angled toward the passenger window, knee pulled up slightly, coat tucked close around you. The glass reflects pieces of you back at yourself—your eyes, the curve of your cheek, the movement of your fingers as you absently toy with a loose thread. Every so often, without really deciding to, your gaze drifts back to him.
It happens at a stoplight first.
Tim glances over, brief and instinctive, like checking a mirror. Your eyes meet, and for a second the city noise dulls, the song flattening into background hum.
It’s not charged.
It’s worse than that.
It’s soft. Easy. Like nothing ever broke.
There’s no surprise, no tension, just recognition—quiet, familiar, intimate in a way that doesn’t ask permission. You look away first, clearing your throat softly, adjusting the hem of your coat like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t.
The light turns green. He looks forward again.
His free hand lifts from his knee, fingers flexing once, twice, hovering in the narrow space between you and the console. Close enough that you feel the shift in air, the warmth of him.
Tim’s knuckles brush the seam of your jeans when the car rolls over uneven pavement, and for half a heartbeat his hand drifts higher, instinctive, memory-driven to protect you.
He almost rests it on your thigh.
Almost.
You feel it—the pause, the jerk—before he pulls back, settling his hand firmly against his own leg instead, thumb rubbing into his black jeans like he’s trying to erase the impulse. His jaw tightens, then eases. The song swells briefly, chorus bleeding into the small space, and the moment dissolves without ever being acknowledged.
You shift again, uncrossing and recrossing your legs, pretending it’s just for comfort. The next time you glance at him is when you move to put your hands in front of the heater, he’s already watching you, eyes softer now, unreadable in the dim light. The corner of his mouth twitches like he might smile, but he doesn’t. The road curves, and he turns his attention back to it, streetlights sliding in rhythmic flashes across his face.
The Dairy Queen sign appears ahead, bright and almost ridiculous against Gotham’s muted palette. The song on the radio fades into its final notes as Tim signals and slows, the car easing into the lot.
Five minutes have passed.
It felt longer than that. Gods save him.
+2 points to you.
“I’ll go order,” Tim mumbles, already reaching for his wallet like it’s a lifeline, fingers curling tight around the worn leather. He cranks the heat up another notch before you can protest, warm air rushing over you in a sudden wave, fogging the edges of the windshield. Then he’s gone—door opening, cold slicing in for half a second before it shuts again.
You watch him through the glass. Trying to ignore the fact he still remembered your order, that he didn't need to ask.
The night swallows him immediately, Gotham’s winter biting hard, breath blooming white as he steps onto the slick pavement. Tim shrugs his jacket higher on his shoulders, posture straightening as if the cold has given him something tangible to focus on. His reflection ghosts faintly in the window as he walks, pale under the fluorescent lights, black hair getting soaked again before he remembers to put his hood on.
He looks smaller out there. Or maybe farther away.
Inside the car, it’s too warm, too quiet. The radio hums low, some late-night song bleeding softly into the space he left behind. You rub your hands together, then still them, feeling strangely restless. The seat still holds the impression of him, warmth lingering like a memory your body hasn’t caught up to yet.
You lean back in the seat, staring at the ceiling for a second, exhaling slowly.
Outside, snow starts to fall—not enough to stick yet, just thin flakes catching the light as they drift down. Gotham pretending, briefly, to be gentle.
You don’t know why your chest feels tight.
You don’t know why you’re counting the seconds until he comes back.
You don’t know why the way the warm lights of the Dairy Queen reveal the fact that Tim is blushing makes you want to whine into your hands.
It’s ridiculous. Embarrassing, even. The glass is smudged, the fluorescent glow too soft for Gotham, and yet there he is—standing a little too close to the counter, shoulders slightly hunched, ears pink where his dark hair curls against them.
He keeps shifting his weight like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, like the choice between a Blizzard or soft serve is somehow a high-stakes decision. You can tell exactly when the cashier smiles at him, because the color in his face deepens, creeping down his neck.
You shouldn’t notice things like that anymore.
You press your palms flat against your thighs, grounding yourself, reminding yourself that this is fine, that this is normal. People blush. Tim has always blushed easily. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything.
And yet.
Your chest feels tight in that familiar, unwelcome way—like your heart has recognized something your brain is refusing to name. You told yourself you ended things because it was the right choice, because timing and fear and the city itself were all stacked against you. You told yourself that love doesn’t always mean staying. You’ve repeated it enough times that it almost sounds true.
Almost.
Because watching him now, framed in broken tile and menu boards and warm yellow light, you feel that old ache stir, the one you never quite managed to bury. It’s not sharp anymore. It’s worse than that—dull and constant, like a bruise you keep pressing just to check if it’s still there.
You think about the way his hand hovered in the car.
About how easily you slipped back into orbit around him.
About how natural it felt to sit close, to touch his hair, to laugh like nothing fragile existed between you.
You loved someone else. You’re supposed to now too.
Lloyd is kind and steady and uncomplicated, and you chose him because choosing him felt safe. Because he doesn’t know how to look at you the way Tim does—like he’s memorizing you for later, like he’s afraid of forgetting.
Maybe that’s the problem.
Tim has never forgotten you. Not once. And some treacherous part of you wonders if you ever really wanted him to.
You swallow, forcing your gaze away from Tim, staring instead at the fogging glass, your own reflection staring back at you—uncertain, flushed, caught somewhere between past and present.
You don’t know what this feeling is.
You just know it hasn’t gone away.
And maybe that’s because you never really knew it at all—never gave it a name, never looked it straight in the eye—especially not in that library parking lot not even five hours earlier when Lloyd ended things, headlights painting the asphalt gold and gray, cutting long slices of shadow between you.
You’d walked him to his car like you always did, side by side, shoulders brushing ever so slightly, pretending the cold wasn’t gnawing through your coat.
You gave him a blow job in the back seat. Thinking back on it now, you cant really find it in yourself to regret it even if it ended in a break up, because imaging Lloyd as Tim in the moment was so fucking easy.
“Hey… look, you’re great and all, but—” Lloyd had said after, voice low and panting as his hand started fumbling at the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but yours, like he was afraid of seeing something permanent there. “I just think you like me a bit more than I like you and– fuck its making me feel so guilty that…its kind of hard to be around you.”
And he wasn’t wrong.
You had liked Lloyd. You liked that he could smile and make it feel ordinary, the sort of steady warmth that didn’t demand constant attention or complicate your life. You liked that he made it easy to exist without thinking twice, that holding his hand didn’t feel like carrying a secret you weren’t allowed to tell anyone. He was the right shape for comfort. A safe harbor in a city that preferred to chew up and spit out anything soft.
But every time he leaned close, every time his lips brushed yours, your mind betrayed you, sneaking past the warmth and settling on the memory of someone else.
You had always pretended it was Tim. Always.
Lloyd’s hands on your waist became Tim’s in your imagination—steady, careful, asking permission in the way only Tim ever had. Lloyd’s smile faded into the one Tim gave you when he was nervous, the way it crinkled his eyes and made his dimple appear like a secret he didn’t know you had already discovered.
The warmth in Lloyd’s chest became the slow, even thrum of Tim’s heartbeat, the one you had memorized during years of side-by-side walks through rain-slicked Gotham streets.
Every kiss, every casual touch, every laugh you gave Lloyd was quietly replaced in your head by a ghost that looked like a boy in black and red, hair curling into his forehead, sharp jawline cut just enough by shadows to make you think of nights spent leaning too close, breathing too fast, and wanting to memorize him in ways that felt too intimate to ever say aloud.
With Lloyd it felt like standing under a lamp-post in the rain that only warmed one shoulder.
Comfortable. Enough. But never whole.
Never the way Tim was whole, even when he was frustrating, even when he made you want to scream or run or hide.
Because Tim would always stand in the rain and hear you scream at him to come in the warmth too with a smile on his face.
Tim would never listen to you.
You never meant it to be cruel. You never wanted to betray the quiet warmth Lloyd offered. You told yourself it wasn’t fair to Lloyd. You tried—God, you tried—to be present, to let yourself fall for the person who waited in front of you instead of the one who had always haunted the shadows behind your eyes.
And yet, just hours ago, when Lloyd said it, naming the imbalance, the truth hit harder than the cold ever could.
You did like Lloyd more than Lloyd would ever love you.
Because even without him realizing it, all you saw was Tim.
Through tan skin, blonde hair, green eyes and freckles–you saw pale skin, dark hair, blue eyes and beauty marks.
Every small gift, you'd come home and set it besides the ones given to you by Tim.
For fucks sake you recommended Lloyd the same cologne Tim used.
You were disappointed when he tried the tester in the store and scrunched his nose, shaking his head with a soft and awkward smile.
Sitting in Tim’s car now, the heater blasting warmth that can’t chase away the memory of that parking lot, the streetlights reflecting off the damp asphalt like shattered glass, you see Tim in the glow of the Dairy Queen sign, all pale skin and dark lashes and eyes wide enough to swallow everything you think you’ve built.
The blush creeping up his neck is more than color; it’s a reminder, sharp as a blade, of everything you’ve tried to forget.
You trace the curve of his jaw in your mind, remembering every late night, every quiet conversation, every time he had said nothing at all but made you feel known in a city that never wanted to know anyone. Every casual brush of fingers, every laugh, every way he moved—like he belonged in the same orbit you couldn’t leave—floods you now with all the things you’d denied yourself, all the longing you’d tried to disguise as ordinary life with someone else.
And Tim… Tim never stopped noticing. Never stopped caring. Never stopped being Tim.
And maybe that’s why your chest aches so much right now. Maybe that’s why the warmth in the car, the song low on the radio, the smell of him mixing with the faint hint of gasoline from your city outside, feels like a tether you can’t break.
You don’t know what this feeling is.
But you know one thing for certain.
It has always been him.
And you used to be furious about it. Angry in the way you only are when something is both inevitable and unfair, when it’s been carving into your chest for years and you’ve spent every ounce of energy pretending it wasn’t there. Now it feels… numb.
Like touching a wound that never healed but also never bled, a dull ache that pulses quietly under the surface, paralyzed, anesthetized, but still very much alive.
Tim slides back into the car, shaking a light drizzle off his hair, the glow from the Dairy Queen sign painting him in gold and wet streaks. He’s smiling, that soft, crooked smile that used to make your chest flip entirely against your will. “Got us two Oreos,” he says, setting the cup holder between you, carefully balancing the blizzards against the gear shift before he locks the doors.
You remember your own words from earlier, muttering about Red Robin.
“He looks like if an Oreo Blizzard was a person.”, you said.
Irony doesn’t even begin to cover it.
He hums as he adjusts the heater, flicking the vents toward you. “The cashier was just about to close up—we got really lucky, so—”
You shrug, eyes tracing over the familiar curve of his jaw and landing on the beauty mark you had drawn on Red Robin, the one just below his ear, just the right spot to catch a glimmer of light. “Probably because she thought you were cute,” you say casually, but your voice carries just enough weight to make him pause.
Tim freezes mid-zip, one hand suspended over his jacket like he’s been caught mid-breath. “Huh?”
“That’s why you were blushing, right?” You tilt your head, faintly amused, tracing the warmth spreading over his cheeks. “You’re still red. Come on, tell me—what pick-up line did she use on you, hmm?”
It’s a reflexive memory. The same teasing he used on you the first time you had dared talk openly about Lloyd in front of him, that sly tilt of his head, the curve of his mouth as he dug his nails into his palm, “What pick-up line did that Greek god use on you, hm?”
You watch him now, fingers tightening on his zipper, knuckles pale, jaw working as though he’s chewing over his words before they leave his lips. Tim’s never been good at casual lies. He’s too honest, too exact, too weighted by the things he feels.
“What—What are you talking about?” His voice comes out careful, slightly high, trying to steady, but it trembles anyway.
You blink, caught off guard by the genuine confusion in his expression. For a split second, the playful rhythm of your teasing falters. “It was a joke, Tim… relax.” You straighten in your seat, shoulders lifting, trying not to let the sting in your chest show. You lift a spoon of your blizzard to your lips, the cold a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from him, and the way he’s frozen there makes your stomach twist in ways that Lloyd never could.
The city hums quietly outside, Gotham rain tapping against the roof, a soft percussion to the pulse between you. Tim’s eyes flicker to yours, a mixture of something like guilt, embarrassment, and that all-too-familiar longing you can read in him like Braille. He’s close, too close, and every small movement—the way his hand hovers near the cup holder, the slight lean of his shoulder toward yours—pulls at old threads in your chest, tangling with feelings you thought you’d put away neatly in labeled boxes.
“…She wasn’t flirting with me.”
Tim says it like he’s placing something fragile on the dashboard between you, careful, deliberate. The sentence sits there for a second, humming with the low noise of the car, the heater, the city outside that never quite shuts up.
“She was teasing me to her co‑worker,” he continued after a beat, eyes fixed straight ahead, unfocused, like he’s watching something far past the windshield. “About being ‘another slave in the rain for their master.’ Some other guy was here ten minutes earlier rushing for his girlfriend.”
You pause with the spoon still in your mouth. An oreo crumb dissolving slow and sweet against your tongue, cold blooming where you don’t want it. You don’t swallow right away.
“What I was… blushing about,” Tim adds, quieter now, voice thinning, “was that I realized I’m worse than an actual slave.”
The Dairy Queen lights flicker once, then go dark, leaving the interior of the car wrapped in soft amber and streetlight glow. Outside, two girls laugh as they lock up, their footsteps crunching faintly on wet pavement as they head for the same car, shoulders bumping, warmth shared without thinking.
“I’m choosing to be here,” Tim says, jaw tightening, “after being thrown out of the palace.” His fingers curl tighter when he moves his hands to rest against the steering wheel. “How pathetic is that?”
The word lands heavy, not dramatic—just tired. Worn smooth by repetition.
You don’t answer right away. You wait until the girls’ car pulls out of the lot, headlights sweeping once across the windshield before disappearing into Gotham’s throat. Until it’s just the two of you again, sealed inside this small, warm pocket of light and breath and old habits.
Only then do you turn.
Tim’s cheek is pressed into his forearms now, those braced against the steering wheel like he’s holding himself upright by force alone. His lashes cast shadows against pale skin. His shoulders are drawn in, posture small in a way he only ever allowed around you.
+4 points to Tim Drake.
“…I always liked you pathetic,” you murmur finally, voice low, casual, like it doesn’t cost you anything to say. You scoop another bite of ice cream, deliberately unhurried. “You know that.”
Tim huffs a laugh before he can stop himself, the sound sharp and breathless, and he drops his face fully into his arms like he’s hiding from the relief of it. When he speaks again, his voice is muffled, thinner, pitched exactly where he knows it will make you soften.
“I was too scared to ask you,” he admits. “When you said you didn’t think I was good for you… did you honestly think that sounded like a breakup?”
Your spoon pauses halfway to your mouth.
“It wasn’t meant to be a breakup…exactly…I guess,” you say, quietly.
Tim scoffs, straightening just enough to rake a hand through his hair, frustration crackling under his skin like static. He shoves a too-large bite of ice cream into his mouth, jaw working like he’s punishing himself for it. “Yeah, you just went home and blocked me on Instagram.”
“Didn’t block your spam, though,” you shoot back automatically. You knew he'd just hack into your account if you did that.
He groans your name, long and exasperated, twisting in his seat until he’s facing you fully now. His knee bounces once before he stills it with his own hand. “What the hell did I do?” he asks, not accusing—just genuinely lost. “I—God, I know I fuck up more times than I’d like to admit, but we always talked through things. Always. I let it go because you seemed so sure it was what you wanted, but—”
He stops mid-sentence.
Because your hand moves.
Your fingers slide into his hair, cool and gentle, adjusting his damp bangs where they fall too low over his forehead. The contact is soft, familiar, devastating. Tim goes utterly still, breath hitching like you’ve pressed a switch inside him. His lashes flutter once, then lower, instincts winning out as he leans just slightly into your touch.
You feel the heat of him under your palm. Alive. Real.
“You always looked like Red Robin the most when your hair was like this,” you murmur, thumb brushing his temple. “I liked drawing you with wet hair. In suit or otherwise.”
Oh.
Fuck.
Tim’s eyes open slowly, tracking your face like he’s memorizing it all over again. He searches your expression, looking for a joke, a deflection, a safe place to land—and when he finds none, his gaze drifts anyway. Your nose. Your mouth. The familiar curve of your jaw. Your brows. Like this might be the last time he’s allowed to look this closely.
“…When did you find out?” he asks at last, voice barely there. “Is that why you broke up with me?”
The question isn’t sharp. It’s scared.
Were you afraid?
That someone would come for him?
For you?
Or that he didn’t trust you enough to tell you first?
“…Yeah.” The word is a whisper, a soft confession that hangs between you, stretching longer than it should. You let your hand shift from where it had rested in his hair, moving carefully to his cheek, tracing the line from jaw to temple with a gentle touch, almost reverent.
It pains you to feel him flinch just slightly, a reflex, the tiniest hesitation to let you keep touching him, and it twists something raw in your chest.
“I… I was actually going to argue about you being late to our date,” you admit, voice shaking a little, caught between guilt and memory, “then I saw you with that bandage on your neck, after watching Red Robin get struck in the news. I’ve drawn you both before—no, I’ve drawn you a million times, with and without the mask but that… that was the first time I noticed the beauty mark was the same. Because you were hiding it, covering it with a bandage.”
Your thumb brushes over his skin again, the motion gentle, unconscious, like you’re trying to soothe the memory away, like the touch can erase the hours of fear and worry that was tucked into your chest. Tim flinches again, but this time doesn’t pull away; instead, his hand rises to press yours against his cheek, anchoring you there as though letting go would mean you leaving for good.
“Do you know… do you know how scared I was?” you whisper, voice tight, breath catching. “How horrible it felt, knowing I was making you run from one end of Gotham to the other, after getting struck by a sword… all for a stupid coffee date?”
The car is still except for the low hum of the heater and the rhythmic tick of rain against the windshield, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you. The city has receded, the distant rumble of traffic and sirens muted, as though Gotham itself is leaning away, giving you this small, private corner in the chaos. Tim presses his cheek more firmly into your hand, and you feel the subtle warmth of him there, the heat of his skin against yours, grounding you in the moment.
“You didn’t make me do anything, I—” His words falter, swallowed in the space between heartbeats.
“Tim,” you interrupt, firm, the edge of your voice tempered with care, “you were going to kill yourself doing that. Being Red Robin, working at Wayne Enterprises, keeping your grades decent enough for this semester—how could I ask for more than that?”
Your words float in the car like smoke, curling around both of you, and Tim’s shoulders slump slightly, tension leaking out as he exhales harshly through his nose.
“How dare you not?” he hisses, voice low and almost desperate, but the words tremble. “How could you make that choice for me?”
“I wasn’t making the choice for you,” you murmur, softening, pulling your hand slightly away—but not fully, keeping it hovering over his cheek, tethering him to you. “I was making the choice for me. I didn’t want to feel guilty for using your time. I was being selfish… I am selfish, and I—”
“You don’t have to feel guilty,” he whispers, cutting through the quiet like a knife, but the tremor in his voice betrays him.
“Well I did.” You let it slip past your lips, a quiet affirmation, almost too soft for the sound to travel over the heater hum and the patter of rain.
Tim bites the inside of his cheek, tilting his head just enough to avoid your gaze while trying to form a coherent thought, a shield against the storm of everything you’ve just said. His eyes, those blue storms, flicker briefly to yours before darting to the dash, the blurred neon outside reflecting like water on glass. Your chest tightens, because even in his attempt to hide it, you see him unravel, every careful layer of control peeling back with each blink.
“I couldn’t handle you,” you mumble, the words slipping out quieter than you mean them to, like they’re embarrassed to exist at all. You’ve never said it out loud before. Never shaped it into something real enough to hear yourself. “I couldn’t give you—”
“All I’m hearing,” Tim cuts in briskly, too fast, too sharp, “is that you loved me too much and your little head hurt at the thought of it.”
He rolls the window down, cold air rushing in, carrying the smell of rain and wet asphalt, and with a flick of his wrist he tosses his Blizzard toward the far trash can. It arcs clean and perfect through the air, lands dead center with a hollow plastic thunk.
A perfect trick shot.
Any other night, any other version of you, you would’ve rolled your eyes and muttered, show off, just to watch him preen about it later.
Tonight, your chest feels too tight for sarcasm.
“You’re hearing what you want to hear,” you say instead, flat, defensive, staring down at your melting ice cream like it might offer backup.
“You’re saying what I want to hear,” he replies, softer now, turning fully toward you. He shifts in his seat, shoulder angling perpendicular to the driver’s side, body open in a way that makes your stomach flip unpleasantly. His knee bumps the center console. He’s too close again. He’s always been too close.
You don’t respond. You just huff quietly and scoop up another bite of your Blizzard, chewing slower than necessary, dragging the moment out. It makes him smile—small, crooked, fond, like he’s catching a glimpse of something familiar and precious that he thought he’d lost.
“God,” Tim murmurs under his breath, not quite looking at you, not quite not. “How does he stand you being so in love with me?”
The words land heavy and wrong and accurate all at once.
Your entire body freezes.
It’s like being flash-frozen mid-thought, like your blood turns to slush in your veins, like you might shatter if you move too fast. Mr. Freeze would be proud. You feel brittle. Exposed. Seen in a way you’ve spent months pretending wasn’t possible.
“…He doesn’t,” you mumble finally, voice barely holding together. There’s no point lying. You know Tim—he’d peel it apart eventually. “He broke up with me.”
Tim blinks.
Then he straightens abruptly, posture snapping upright like you’ve yanked a wire inside him. His face scrunches with confusion, eyes scanning yours like he’s waiting for the punchline, the laugh track, the gotcha moment.
“Huh—wait, what?”
“Lloyd broke up with me,” you repeat, quieter. “In the parking lot.”
Tim actually gapes at you.
His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, like the words keep slipping past whatever part of him is supposed to process reality. Under different circumstances, you might’ve laughed. Might’ve cataloged it as another fond memory. Instead, your brain chants relentlessly:
Stay mad at him. Remember the guilt. Don’t forget why this hurts.
“He broke up with you?” Tim repeats, disbelief thick in his voice.
“Mhm.”
His hands lift helplessly, gesturing vaguely at you—your coat, your hair, your existence. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” you say too quickly, the lie sliding out smoother than the truth ever could. “Maybe the blow job I gave him in the parking lot was ass.”
Tim freezes.
Completely. Like the sentence unplugged him.
For half a second, you consider backtracking, rolling your eyes, adding it’s a joke, Tim, relax, but you don’t get the chance. He’s already lunging for the window controls, shoving the glass down with frantic urgency before leaning out and promptly throwing up into the rain.
The car fills with the sound of retching, the cold air rushing in, the absurdity of it all crashing over you in waves.
You stare ahead, spoon suspended halfway to your mouth, wondering distantly how the hell the universe keeps finding new, deeply stupid ways to prove what you already know.
That it has always been him.
And that loving him has never been simple, or clean, or survivable without a little collateral damage.
Once your brain finally catches up, you move instinctively, slamming the empty Blizzard cup back into the holder with a clatter that echoes in the quiet car. Your hands reach for him, hesitating only a second before gathering the wet, dark strands of hair away from his face, bunching them carefully in your fingers.
“TIM—Hey—” you whisper, voice tight, low, unsure.
He just retches harder. His body shudders violently, leaning against your hand, the heat of him radiating through the sleeves of your coat. The smell of rain-soaked hair and ice cream fills the small space, cloying and intimate, and for a moment you can’t breathe around it. Your hands stay there, cradling the damp strands, unsure if you’re holding him back or holding yourself together.
You rub his back in slow, tentative circles, trying to anchor him, trying to be the thing that doesn’t move when everything inside you feels like it’s breaking. His shoulders tremble, and the quiet rattling of his breath mixes with the sound of the heater and the faint hum of the idling engine. The world outside the car blurs into wet, dark shapes and flickering streetlights.
After what feels like a lifetime, he pauses, shivering and slumped over, and then leans forward against the steering wheel with a deep, ragged heave. You kneel slightly on the seat to press a hand to his shoulder, letting your thumb brush the tense muscles under his jacket, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his back.
“Hey,” you murmur again, softer this time, leaning your forehead briefly against his shoulder. You don’t know what else to say—there’s no script for this moment, no words that could make it less raw, less humiliating, less…human. All you can do is be present, your hands stubbornly refusing to leave him, letting the warmth of your body tether him just slightly to reality.
He heaves again, slower this time, chest shaking against the wheel, and finally slumps fully against it. His wet bangs stick to his forehead, and you brush them gently aside, letting your fingers linger there. The storm of the city presses against the windows, but inside the car, with the heater warming your legs and the smell of ice cream and rain, the world narrows to him—this broken, beautiful, utterly human version of Tim Drake—and the ache of wanting to fix him when there’s nothing to fix but his own exhaustion and embarrassment.
You whisper his name again, almost a prayer, almost a curse.
His head lifts from the steering wheel, dark hair plastered to his forehead, eyelashes wet and trembling, and for a moment his brain seems to catch up to the situation. “He breaks up with you after the blow job? What a fucking douchebag.”
Of course he’d always defend you, even if the rest of the world couldn’t be bothered. Even if he has no context.
“He didn’t like it, I guess,” you mumble, heat crawling up your neck like slow flames, your ears burning in the dim orange glow of the Dairy Queen lights outside.
“Babe, don’t fucking play with me—your mouth is fucking—” Tim begins, voice low and strangled, before you cut him off by shoving a spoonful of Oreo Blizzard into his mouth.
“Does that get rid of the throw-up taste?” you murmur, squeezing your eyes shut as if the act could erase the memory of his words entirely.
He chews and swallows, still pulling back from the spoon, face scrunching. “I’m going to fucking kill him. I swear on Batman’s life you hear me—I—”
“He didn’t like that I was… too into it,” you whisper, embarrassment curling in your chest like smoke. Even if no one else could hear, Tim could. Oh, Tim could.
“Okay—what?” he stammers, eyes widening in disbelief as a faint greenish flush creeps across his pale cheeks. A wave of nausea flickers across his expression, sharp and threatening, and your heart lurches.
Gods, he’s going to throw up again.
“Wait! Wait!” you exclaim, hands flying up defensively, waving like flags, as your voice cracks from both embarrassment and fear, “I was pretending he was you—so it wasn’t that hard, Tim—”
“Our dicks are the same size?!” Tim yells, scandalized in a way that makes your stomach do somersaults, your cheeks warming hotter than the car seat heater under your thighs. “I’M NOT BIGGER?”
You blink at him, dumbstruck, voice caught somewhere between mortification and awe. “Uh… sorry?”
He groans into his hands, still slouched against the wheel, hair wet and clinging to his temples. “I owe Stephanie four hundred bucks,” he mutters, like that explains everything.
Then, delirious, still tasting the faint bite of ice cream and bile, he flicks a glance at you, eyes wide, incredulous. “Did you… look for a guy with the same… on purpose?”
You stare at him, tilting your head slightly in the low, warm light of the Dairy Queen, the heater humming between you like it’s holding the moment hostage. “I went for a tan man with blonde hair,” you murmur, voice low and sharp, like a whip against his disbelief. “I want you to use your fucking brain and re-think that question and if you think Im that shallow.”
Tim opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it again. The pale skin of his cheeks blooms pink, almost purple under the harsh fluorescent lights that slice through the car like guilty spotlights. You always had a way of making him look like a kid caught with his hand in a jar of Bat-snacks.
“Gods, you—” he starts, voice rising like a fragile dam on the verge of bursting, “you always pull shit like this to throw me off—so… what, you were okay with him since he had free time?”
You blink at him, unsure if you should laugh or huff, but then you murmur, “…Don’t word it like that.”
“I am!” he hisses, sharp and fragile all at once, his fingers twisting into his dark hair as if he can physically pull the frustration out. “God… was this not hard for you like it was for me? Being away from me? Do you know how much I missed you? I—” He pauses, jaw tightening, eyes flashing with something raw and desperate. “I sold out your fucking perfume, you know that? Bought forty bottles. I've gone through four in the past three weeks.”
You freeze, blink once, and feel your stomach twist with a strange, bittersweet mix of guilt and something almost like pride. Oh. That’s why your niche fragrance—the one you've had for years—was suddenly impossible to find, why you’d been clutching the last few sprays like they were oxygen. You’d thought it was coincidence, scarcity, Gotham nonsense. But no. He’d bought it all.
Your chest tightens. The heater hums low, the soft buzz filling the car like it’s conspiring to keep you trapped in this too-close, too-small world. Tim’s cologne fills your nerves as he shifts forward. You can smell him—aftershave faint under his natural scent, a mix of charcoal and night air, sweat from nerves and embarrassment.
Your hand twitches, wanting to reach out, to smooth the tension from his shoulder or his hair, to do something that doesn’t require words. But you stop, fingers frozen in midair, because every movement feels too loud in the shared quiet, too intimate.
Tim swallows, lips pressing into a thin line as his chest rises in a slow, uneven rhythm. “You… you really didn’t… think about me, did you?” he murmurs finally, not a question, more a plea. His voice is low, rough, weighted with longing and frustration and that thing he never lets anyone see—the part of him that’s still a kid in the backseat of life, afraid he’ll never measure up, afraid he’s too much or not enough.
“I thought of you too much,” you murmur, voice low, almost lost in the hum of the car heater and the faint pitter-patter of rain against the windshield. “That was the problem. That’s why I broke up with you. That’s why… you’re not good for me.”
Tim groans, face pressing into the steering wheel as if the leather can absorb all the chaos between you. “Hey, babe… I think you need to see a fucking therapist,” he mutters, voice muffled, defeated, but still sharp enough to make you blink.
“You first,” you hiss back, crossing your arms, heat creeping up your neck, heart hammering too fast.
Tim scoffs, finally lifting his head just enough to reveal his dark eyes, pale skin flushed pink from both embarrassment and the heater’s warmth. Then, almost casually, he reaches into the back seat, where a brown grocery bag rests behind the passenger seat, and pulls out a tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush.
You blink at him, unsure if you’re seeing things. “That… that’s the brand I use,” you say slowly, voice cracking slightly between disbelief and awe.
“I know,” he says, voice quiet but firm, almost a whisper of obsession, a breath of intent you can feel pressing against your skin. “Bought your whole hygiene routine before I came to the library. It's coming in useful more quickly than I thought it would.”
You stare at him, mouth slightly open, unable to process the layers of thought, care, and absolute chaos wrapped up in his words. He pops open the toothbrush like it’s nothing, casual and deliberate, but your brain freezes on the fact that he—down to the exact shade of pastel pink on the bristles—bought the same one you use.
“Your… you’re actually crazy,” you whisper, awe and incredulity warring in your tone, your fingers brushing against your lips as if touching them would anchor you back to reality.
Tim twists in his seat just enough to lean toward the open window, toothbrush already in his mouth like this is the most normal thing in the world. The rain has slowed to a fine mist, the kind that hangs in the air instead of falling, and the parking lot is empty enough that Gotham feels briefly abandoned—like the city has stepped away to give you privacy it never usually allows.
You watch his jaw move as he brushes, quick and methodical, too hard the way he does everything when he’s trying not to think. His shoulders are tense, drawn up near his ears, black hair still damp and curling at the ends where your fingers were not that long ago. Pale knuckles grip the steering wheel when his free hand comes back to steady himself, and you can tell he’s grounding himself in motion because stopping would mean feeling.
It’s hard not to stare, even if he's doing something like brushing.
It’s harder not to ache.
Because the whole time he’s brushing his teeth out the driver’s side window of his car like some feral raccoon, all you can think about is how familiar this is—how many versions of this exact moment live in your head. Tim brushing his teeth at your sink at two in the morning. Tim rinsing his mouth and leaning over to steal a kiss that tastes like mint and coffee and him. Tim doing mundane things in your orbit like that’s where he’s always belonged.
You dig your nails lightly into your palm, trying to stay present, trying not to drown in the weight of what you lost and what you never really let yourself keep.
He spits out the window, sharp and practiced, then reaches for a water bottle from the cup holder, cracking the seal with his teeth. The sound is loud in the quiet car. He takes a mouthful, tips his head back, throat working as he gargles, eyes screwed shut like he’s holding something back that isn’t just nausea.
Your chest tightens.
Because this—this is the part you never knew how to explain to him. How loving Tim was never about grand gestures or dramatic heartbreak. It was this constant, low-level strain of being too aware of him. Of every breath he took, every sacrifice he made without complaint. Knowing that every small ask from you was another weight on an already overloaded system.
He spits again, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then closes the window, caps the bottle and exhales slowly, shoulders finally dropping an inch.
You realize you’ve been holding your breath.
It was hard the whole time, you think—not just now, not just after you found out. It was hard when he showed up tired but smiling. Hard when he apologized for things that weren’t his fault. Hard when he tried to be everything, all at once, and still looked at you like you were the one thing he couldn’t afford to lose.
Loving Tim felt like standing too close to a live wire—warm, electric, intoxicating—and knowing that one wrong move could burn you both.
Tim leans back into his seat, blinking a few times, eyes glassy but focused now. He sets the toothbrush aside into the grocery bag, hands lingering there for a second longer than necessary, like he’s stalling.
You don’t say anything.
Because if you do, you might admit that even now—after watching him spit toothpaste into the Gotham night, watching him exist inches from you—you still want to choose him.
And you’re terrified of what that says about you.
“…I’ll be whatever you want me to be,” Tim says quietly, the words slipping out like a confession he’s been holding between his teeth all night. His voice is rough around the edges now, scraped thin. “Gods—I just can’t do friends.”
The car feels smaller suddenly. Too warm. Too close. You look at him and it’s unbearable how much of him there is to look at—his eyes still glassy from nausea and something worse, his lips a little pinker than usual, lashes clumped just slightly from rain. All the familiar details stack up in your chest until it aches.
“You…” You swallow. “I can’t ask you to be what I want.” The truth presses at you from all sides, heavy and immovable. “I wanted you to be my… everything. You know how selfish that sounds? You can’t handle that.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” Tim says immediately.
There it is. That stubborn, immovable core of him. The part that never learned how to back down when something mattered to him.
“I do,” you huff, a small, tired smile tugging at your mouth despite yourself, because he’s still the same—still arguing even while he’s trying to give you everything. “I want you by my side twenty-four seven. I want you to only think about me. I want you to not even look at anyone else.” You let out a breath that’s half laugh, half plea. “Don’t you hear how crazy I sound?”
Tim hears it. He hears all of it.
And instead of recoiling, a slow smile starts to bloom on his face, soft and reverent, like he’s just been handed something holy. He shifts fully toward you, body turning perpendicular in the driver’s seat, cheek pressing into the cushion as if he wants to stay right here forever. His eyes don’t leave your face.
“Gods, I love you,” he murmurs. “They sent you just for me, huh?”
“You’re insane,” you hiss, heat flooding you all at once, down your spine and into your fingertips, because it’s been so long since he’s said that word like it means salvation instead of danger.
“You’re perfect,” Tim says, voice dropping, gentler now. “You’re too in love with me to see how fucking crazy I am too. Wow—you’re perfect.”
Your breath catches. You look back at him and watch the way his pupils widen just a fraction, the way his gaze drags over you like he’s memorizing something he’s afraid he’ll lose again. When he speaks, it’s quieter than it’s been all night, stripped of humor, stripped of bravado.
“I know I’m not good for you,” he says. “I want you to choose me anyway.”
Your mouth opens.
Closes.
Opens again.
“I—I can’t,” you say, the words barely holding together. Saying them feels like pressing on a bruise you’ve been protecting for months.
“You have,” Tim answers, gently now. Not accusing. Just certain.
“I don’t want to,” you whisper.
“You have,” he repeats, softer still, like he’s not trying to convince you—like he’s just stating a fact you’ve both been circling all night.
The car hums around you, engine ticking as it cools, heater blowing steadily, Gotham quiet outside in a way it rarely is. Two people alone in a parked car, suspended in a moment that feels less like a choice and more like gravity.
And the worst part is—you don’t know when you started leaning toward him.
The space between you collapses quietly.
Not all at once—no rush, no collision—but the slow, inevitable pull of two people who have already crossed this line a hundred times in their heads. Tim leans in first, tentative in a way that feels almost reverent, like he’s afraid sudden movement might break the moment. His hand comes up, hovering near your jaw, hesitating there like he’s still giving you time to pull away.
You don’t.
When his thumb finally brushes your cheek, it’s barely there, a test more than a touch. Warm. Steady. Real. The contact sends something sharp and familiar through your chest, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you tilt your head up just enough for him to close the last inch.
The press is soft at first. Careful. Like he’s relearning you.
Tim’s lips press to yours with a gentleness that hurts, the kind that carries memory with it—every late night, every almost, every time he wanted this and didn’t let himself reach for it.
You feel him exhale against you, shaky and quiet, like he’s been holding that breath for months.
He has.
Then you kiss him back.
And that’s all it takes.
The sound he makes is small and involuntary, a broken little breath that slips out as his hand cups your face properly now, thumb resting under your cheekbone like it belongs there. The kiss deepens, still unhurried but surer, his mouth moving against yours like he’s afraid to stop once he’s started.
Your fingers find his jacket without thinking, bunching the fabric at his chest. He leans into it immediately, body turning further toward you, shoulder pressing into the seat. The world outside the windows fades—the rain, the parking lot, Gotham holding its breath—until there’s only warmth and the quiet rhythm of two people breathing each other in.
Tim kisses you like he’s been missing you.
Like he never stopped.
When he finally pulls back, it’s just enough for his forehead to rest against yours, noses brushing, breaths mingling. His eyes stay closed for a second longer, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, like he’s grounding himself in the fact that this is happening.
It doesn’t stay gentle for long.
Something gives the moment you press back into him, and Tim reacts like he’s been waiting for permission. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers firm now, anchoring you there as his mouth finds yours again with more intent. The kiss deepens, unhurried but hungry, like he’s making up for every second he forced himself to keep his distance.
His lips move against yours with purpose this time—still careful, still restrained, but undeniably heated. You feel it in the way his grip tightens just slightly, thumb pressing into your pulse point as if to reassure himself that you’re still here, that you haven’t disappeared again.
You shift closer without realizing it, knees on the center console, moving as careful as you can be. Tim follows the movement instinctively, body leaning back further, shoulder braced against the seat as he leans back for you. The kiss grows warmer, breaths breaking between touches, foreheads brushing when you part for half a second before coming back together again.
Tim freezes for half a heartbeat when his arm hooks under your thighs and lifts you, like even that small escalation startles him. Then instinct takes over. He settles you onto his lap carefully, one hand steady at your hip, the other still at your neck, holding you like something precious he’s afraid to drop.
Your teeth catch his bottom lip—soft, tentative, almost reverent—and the sound he makes is wrecked. A low groan that vibrates into your mouth, more feeling than noise. It’s enough to make your pulse spike, enough to make your hands curl into his jacket like you need something solid to stay upright.
He responds without thinking, mouth tilting, pressure increasing just enough to mirror you. When his teeth catch your lip back, it’s not cruel—but it’s real. Sharp enough to make you gasp, sharp enough that there’s a brief, metallic tang between you. Copper and heat and something dangerously close to relief.
He pulls back immediately, forehead dropping to yours, breath uneven. One hand tightens at your waist, not to pull you closer, but to keep you there. To stop himself from doing more.
“Hey,” Tim murmurs, not a warning—more like a check-in, like he’s grounding both of you at once.
Your noses brush when you breathe. Your hands are still fisted in his jacket. His thumb traces a slow, soothing line along your side, undoing the bite even as his eyes stay locked on your mouth like it’s gravity itself.
The kiss that follows is slower, deeper, restrained by sheer force of will. All warmth and pressure and promise, none of it rushing anywhere. Your knees are tangled, hearts loud enough to drown out the city—both of you painfully aware that this could tip into something unstoppable if either of you lets go.
And neither of you does.
The realization makes his restraint crack—it doesn't shatter, but splinters.
Tim’s hand tightens at your waist, fingers digging in like he needs the pressure to stay present, to keep from tipping completely. The next kiss turns rougher in rhythm rather than content—more insistence, more heat. He kisses you like he’s been starving politely and just lost his manners. No finesse now, just want, mouth pressing harder, chasing yours when you try to pull back for air.
Your hands slide up into his hair, tugging without thinking, and the sound he makes is sharp—half breath, half warning. His grip shifts, one arm bracing you fully against him now, anchoring you there like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens even a little.
Tim kisses you again, deeper, teeth catching your lip—not enough to hurt this time, but enough to remind you he could. Enough to make your stomach flip and a whine leave your mouth. His breathing is uneven against you, chest rising fast beneath you, heart thudding like it’s trying to escape.
For a moment it’s messy—foreheads knocking, breaths stealing, the car creaking faintly as he adjusts the driver's seat. His thumb presses into your hip, grounding, claiming, stopping himself.
Then he breaks the kiss abruptly, breath ragged, forehead dropping to your shoulder.
“Fuck,” he exhales, voice wrecked, like the word is torn out of him. His grip doesn’t loosen. If anything, he holds you tighter, hands moving to work the buttons of your coat open.
You can feel it in the way he’s shaking—not with fear. With effort.
The kind it takes to stop.
Tim’s breath keeps stuttering against your neck, the kind that can’t decide if it wants to steady or fall apart completely. He doesn’t let go. Instead, he shifts, pressing you more securely against him, like gravity itself is insisting you stay right there. The car feels too small for the way everything in him is brimming over—fogged windows, the low hum of the engine still warm beneath you, the rain ticking faintly outside like it’s counting time neither of you are keeping.
Tim leans back in, slower this time but heavier, like the weight of it finally landed. His mouth finds your neck, not frantic now but insistent, deliberate. Every kiss feels like a choice he’s making again and again. His hands stay where they are—one firm at your waist, one steady at your hip—like he’s drawing hard lines around what he won’t cross, even as everything else tilts.
You feel the tension in him through every point of contact. The way his shoulders stay tight. The way Tim’s jaw clenches when you press closer on him. When your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket, he lets out a sound that’s barely there, swallowed before it can become anything dangerous.
Tim breaks a kiss on your collarbone, moving to rest his forehead resting against yours now. His nose brushes your cheek when he exhales, warm and shaky. You can feel his pulse under your hands, fast and unguarded, like he forgot how to hide it with you.
For a second, neither of you moves.
It’s not restraint born of distance—it’s restraint born of knowing exactly how badly this could spiral if either of you gave an inch more. His thumb presses once at your side, grounding, almost apologetic.
Then he pulls you into one last kiss, slower, deeper, less rough but heavier in meaning—like punctuation instead of a sentence. When he finally lets you go, it’s only by a breath, hands still bracketing you, eyes dark and searching, like he’s memorizing the moment in case it’s taken from him again.
He doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t have to.
The silence between you is loud with everything you both know now.
“Get in the back.” Tim mumbles, “Mm…gonna give you head.”
You chuckle at that, running a hand through his hair just to watch the way goosebumps form on his neck, feel the way his breath stutters against your lips, “Gonna give your girlfriend head?”
“Yeah.” Tim mumbles against your skin, “Mm…my girlfriend.”
For once in this past year–you're exactly where you want to be. And you don't think Tim’s ever going to let you leave again.
author is too tired to add the tag-list rn I'ma do it tmrw. tagging my fav Tim Drake stan tho: @moonologyy
you know what, fuck it be free, keep reading that bad fan fiction, keep writing that bad fanfiction, keep using y/n, keep staying up to 4 a.m reading x reader, to be cringe is too be free
