𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙𝑢𝑠𝑡-

you’ve never been a lead singer kinda girl. 

never.

too showy, jeans too tight, and definitely too cocky. 

young justice’s lead singer was no different.

now, you’re not faulting him for any of this. 

like you get it. you do.

his studded leather jacket long forgotten on the stage, his shirt is barely clinging to the biceps that ripple as he plays a lick on his guitar. 

his fingers grip at the microphone, a guitar pick tucked between his thumb and forefinger as he downright moans out the lyrics. 

the girls around you, easily swayed, (easily soaked) scream unintelligibly as he grinds on the mic stand, your panties.. unaffected. 

he’s just not your type. 

but what really caught your eye—

now that had to be the drummer. 

his hands are a blur, his face hidden by sweaty hair as his knees bounce furiously on his kit’s double bass pedals. 

the singer’s hand goes up after he plays the last note, nodding. he angles his body to give the drummer his spotlight, the crowd’s attention. 

the drums and guitar have a conversation, their blonde guitarist whipping her hair from her face as she chugs out a response. 

the drummer spins a stick, his left hand steadily keeping the beat on his snare. the lead singer takes his cue, stepping back in front of the mic to deliver the next line. 

you and your friend dance, swaying, losing yourself into the music as it shakes the pit.

“they’re good, i guess.” you say, smiling at her. she’s been a longtime fan, personal friends with their guitarist, cassie sandsmark. 

bee rolls her eyes, scoffing. “what have i been saying?” 

the singer’s voice swirls from the speakers, his voice anchored by the bass drum beating. 

“pull me in, push me out..”

“could i get a vodka diet coke, please?” you yell over the music, grabbing a ten from your bra. you hope the bartender doesn’t care his tip is sweaty. 

you roll your eyes, smiling, as bee pushes her tits out at the guy next to her, giggling and batting her eyelashes. you watch as stars twinkle into his eyes and he buys her a drink.

“do whatever it is you think about..”

she’s good, you’ll give her that. looks like the bartender would’ve given it to her for free anyways. you laugh to yourself, taking your drink from the bar. 

“okay, okay,” the singer says. “you all have been a sick crowd. truly sick.” 

the crowd cheers in response, you lift your cup to him. 

“it’s that time.” he continues, and you look around confused. the person next to you is filming, her friend’s hands clutched up by her chin, shivering with excitement. 

“now for those of you that don’t know, we have a little tradition we’ve started this residency.” 

you could hear a pin drop, the room’s so enraptured. you sip your drink, savoring the bubbles as they dance on your tongue.

“it’s time to switch.” 

the room just erupts, and you watch the singer dart back towards the drum kit, the bassist and guitarist swapping their instruments as they cross in the middle of the stage. 

the drummer’s in front, grabbing the mic from its stand to wrap the cord around his hand. 

he clears his throat, and he finally brushes the hair back from his face. 

you feel like you’ve been hit by a fucking truck. 

he flashes a cheshire cat smile, his lip piercings glinting in the light. the opening notes of the song pour from the subwoofers. 

“i’m tim, and we’re young justice. this is switch.”  

bee notices your face, cackling, and the girl next to you turns her head, nodding as she commiserates. 

“been there too, sister.”

“you drive to me, i’m driving to you,” tim starts, voice ragged, like he’s been screaming the songs from behind the kit the whole set. 

you think you forgot how to breathe.

you barely register how poorly the singer’s playing the drums in the background, how offbeat the riff sounds.

ripped black jeans lead into a pair of beat up old vans, a thin black and white baseball style tee that reads step on me pulls tight across his chest. his dark hair’s messy, sweaty. black eyeliner rims his neon blue eyes, his cheekbones carved into his face. 

“switch, switch, she screams, pour it over me,” he continues, one hand on his stomach as he clutches the mic.

you can’t take your eyes off of him, his lips, as he leads the song deeper into the chorus. 

“pull at the seams, break into the sea,” he rasps, eyes squeezed shut.

“i can’t breathe.” he clears the high note, his voice cracking like he meant it. the crowd around you is into it, dancing. it’s obvious they’ve been waiting for this song the whole night. 

you’re rooted to the spot, and it gets you noticed. 

tim locks eyes with you, raising an eyebrow. you smile up at him, leaning closer to the stage. 

you blow him a kiss, and he grabs it, pressing it to his lips. suddenly all eyes are on you, the people around you turning to get a glimpse at the drummer’s girl.

“you’re taking it out of me, switch, switch, please, there’s nothing left to be!”

he practically folds at the waist, the lyrics fighting their way out of him as he lets them out into the microphone, voice steady. the song continues around him as you watch him pant, his eyes on yours again.

a few more notes, and then tim’s back. 

“nothing left to be..”

the lights black out, the crowd breaking out into riotous cheering, whooping, screaming. 

all you can hear is tim’s laugh as the band runs off the stage, your heart pounding in your chest. 

♩♬♩♩♬♩♬♩♩♬♩♬♩♩♬♩♬

you left your phone at the venue. rookie mistake. 

you stop in to grab it the next day, still cursing yourself: it’s probably been stolen. 

venues always look so jarring with the lights on. vulnerable, void of the energy they’re so well known for. 

something stops you, making your steps scuff on the concrete floor. 

you pick up your foot, grabbing at the poster plastered to the sole of your boot. 

“DOOM PATROL PLAYS HOUSE SHOW!! 

SUNDAY NIGHT, 4557 Thomas Wayne Dr, Gotham. 

BE THERE OR BE SQUARE!! 

SHOW UP!!” 

you smirk to yourself. show posters aren’t known for their subtlety. you walk towards the bulletin board, hoping to pin it back into place. 

you reach the hallway with the bathrooms, the board, startling as someone opens the door to the mens’ room. a pair of guys come out, talking, laughing. 

seeing them up close, personal, is a lot different than seeing them under the harsh stage lighting. it takes you a second to register who it is, the dark haired boy’s bottom lip piercings giving it away. 

it’s tim and bart, the drummer, bassist. 

tim stops as he passes you, flicking the flyer in your hands. 

“go to that.” 

you raise an eyebrow at him, crossing your arms. 

“what’s in it for me?” you ask, a fluttering feeling spreading through your limbs. 

“i’ll be there.” 

he heads after bart, giving you a parting nod, smile. bart shakes his head, grinning, as they walk out of the venue together. 

thankfully, your phone was in the lost and found. you ended up answering far too many questions from the bartender about your status as its true owner. but, you got it back. 

you haven’t missed too much, but one notification in particular catches your eye:

@timdrake89 has requested to follow you.

♩♬♩♩♬♩♬♩♬♩♩♬♩

you post a story. one of the blurry pics you and bee took the night before, the caption something like ‘hot girls love @youngjustice.’ 

not too long until your phone dings. 

hook, line, and sinker!

tim drake: couldn’t have said it better myself. lookin’ good. 

you clutch your phone in your hands, staring down at his message. you feel so ridiculous, your insides alight with satisfaction. he replied, just like you wanted him to.

you: bet you say that to all your fans. ;)

tim drake: wouldn’t dare.

tim drake is typing…

tim drake: so you’re officially a fan?

you snort to yourself, shaking your head. bee must’ve said something to cassie. it makes sense, it’s probably how he found your instagram in the first place. 

you: if that’s what you want to call it. you definitely know your way around a drum kit, i’ll give you that. 

tim drake is typing…

it tells you he’s typing, typing. you put your phone down, forget about it. 

you’re at work, checking out a customer buying tripp pants when you feel your phone buzz in the pocket of your jeans. 

tim drake: high praise. thank you :))

♩♬♩♩♬♩♬♩♩♬♩♬♩♩♬♩♬

“we are doom patrol! let’s tear the fucking roof off this place!” their lead singer, crazy jane, launches into the first song. it’s loud, unapologetic. 

you look over. tim’s got his eyes locked onto the drummer’s hands, head bopping to the beat. he turns his head like he can feel you staring at him. (you are.) 

somehow you’d found him immediately upon entry, his disheveled black hair easily spotted a mile away.

you raise an eyebrow, and he automatically smirks in return, making his way over. 

“hey!” he half-shouts, grin so huge you’d think his face was about to split in two. “you came!”

“duh,” you reply, nudging him with your elbow. 

“well, it’s nice to see you.” he blurts, punctuating the sentence with your name. hearing him say it makes you want to melt. 

 tim pulls you closer, his hand on the small of your back. 

you’re far enough away from the pit that neither of you are being thrown around. he turns you to face him, taking your hands in his. you dance through the rest of the first song, clapping loudly and cheering even louder when it ends. 

they know how to create an atmosphere, that’s for sure—but you’re not sure it’s exactly your scene. 

you’re suffocating, shoulder to shoulder in someone’s living room.  the house show is a crush, living room packed wall to wall. a homegoods stock painting hangs sideways on the wall, the carpet wet under your boots from spilled beer.

“thirsty?” tim asks, his voice low in your ear. you turn, realizing how close he is. nodding, you grab his hand.

tim leads you back through the crowd, your spots immediately filled in. 

you follow him to the dimly lit kitchen, taking tiny steps as you push through the hallway.

you watch as he cracks himself open a beer, digging through the fridge to get options out for you. an indulgent smile plays upon your lips as you lean against the counter, grabbing the spiked seltzer he’d pulled out. 

he watches your throat bob as you take a heavy swig, gulping down his own drink as his eyes trace along your jawline. you’re gonna be the death of him. 

bass pounds through the very bones of the house, rattling the glass in the cupboard. tim’s only got eyes for you, listening intently as you describe what you’re in school for, replying enthusiastically when you turn the question onto him, talking about his favorite bands, what venues he’d love to play. 

you’re not even sure he really cares about the show going on—he might just have to be seen here as a member of young justice. 

the party plays out around you, music thudding through the shut bathroom door. but you’re indifferent, a thrill twirling through your veins as you make out with the drummer. 

you roll your hips, nudging yourself back and forth over him. 

you trace your tongue over the hoops looped through each side of his bottom lip, your fingers gripping into his hair. 

he keeps his groans jailed tightly behind the press of his lips, but his hands are clenched at the fabric of your shirt. 

the shower curtain bathes him in a dreamy light, closing the two of you off to the world. you’d laughed when he’d closed it, before quickly pulling him into you, his lips slotting over yours. 

you know you’ve just met him. you know you don’t really know him. 

but you just can’t find it in yourself to care. 

you don’t care this is the third time you’ve seen him in person, the second you’ve ever talked to him. 

(not that you’re doing much talking right now, anyways.)

you plant a hand over his head, on the tile of the shower wall. the angle of your arm pushes your breasts into his face, and he pushes up your shirt. pressing into them, licking, sucking. 

he grows harder between the two of you, and you rub against something unfamiliar. something inorganic. something hard, too hard. 

“..you have a dick piercing?” 

“it would seem so, yeah?”

you roll your eyes at him, at his tone. 

“what’s the name for that one? like a jacob’s ladder?”

“yeah,” tim replies, trying to ignore the blush rising up his neck. “but i only got two so it’s more like jacob’s step stool or something. nothing special.” 

you giggle at this, and a grin spreads over his lips as the result of making you laugh. 

he pinches your hip, smile widening as he watches you squirm. 

“you’re real gorgeous, you know that?”

nodding, smiling something sheepish, you look away. 

“i do, but you’re always welcome to tell me some more.” 

you tug at his shirt, bringing his lips to yours. 

he doesn’t say much after that. 

time is loose, hard to catch, hold onto, like water in your cupped hands. but it’s definitely later when the door crashes open, two voices pushing into the already inhabited bathroom. 

tim goes silent, deathly pale, when he realizes who it is. you’re both trying to regulate your breathing into something unhearable, your lips an identical pair—pink, swollen. 

“people won’t stop fucking talking to me about switch.”

“isn’t that a good thing?” 

“they keep asking me where tim’s at, like i have tabs on him at all times, or some shit.” 

tim’s hand rests on your back, his thumb rubbing reassuring circles just underneath the hem of your shirt. 

your thoughts are loud, a grating, buzzing sound that makes it difficult to focus on the conversation being held just barely two feet away. 

you’re worried. it’s not like they’re talking about you. 

“he is our drummer, kon. he’s a crucial part of the band.” 

kon’s probably nodding, probably agreeing. it’s an objective statement, how could he not?

“still. sucks for me that he’s the better songwriter. sucks for me the fans obviously like him better. it's killing me a little bit, cass.” 

you watch as tim raises his eyebrows, purses his lips, considers the points being made. 

the other person snorts. “think what you want, kon. i need another shot.”

they exit, but neither of you move, listening to only one set of steps head down the hallway. the toilet seat clanks where it’s set against the tank. you hear the buckle of a belt, the unzipping of a zipper, and then the unmistakable sound of piss hitting toilet water. tim makes the most disgusted face, and then shoves his hand over your mouth to stifle your incoming giggle. 

the toilet flushes, and then you two are truly alone again. 

“of course he didn’t wash his hands, either. just nasty.” tim shakes his head, his mouth twisting. 

you can’t help but laugh again, the situation so ridiculous it’s bordering on unbelievable. 

his expression swiftly changes. it’s like an overcast day: the sun was covered by clouds, but now it’s out again. you feel lucky to bask in it. 

“come over tomorrow.” he blurts out, cheeks immediately turning bright pink. 

you act like you’re thinking about it, just to make him squirm. his eyebrows knit together, his hand clenched tight into the fabric at your waist.

“please?”

you nod, and he sweeps you into a mind-melting kiss, his lips crashing into yours. 

♩♬♩♩♬♩♬♩♩♬♩♬♩♩♬♩♬♩♩♬♩

“so.. this is where the magic happens?” you ask, looking around. a trash can, full of energy drink cans. band posters plastering the walls: deftones, pearl jam, incubus. 

“as much magic that can happen in my family basement.” tim replies, turning to face you. 

“..wanna see my room?” 

you snort, roll your eyes. 

“why, tim?” 

he flounders. 

“trying to get me into your bed?” you prod, crossing your arms. 

he gives up, shooting you a filthy grin. 

“yes.”

his room smells like essential oil. not the cheapo, pyramid scheme, kind. 

a deep, earthy, kind. it’s calming, reassuring. lavender, sage, eucalyptus. 

it washes over you as you step in, but it’s not overwhelming. 

your socked feet sink into the plush carpet, tim’s presence at your back. 

you feel his nervous energy, his shifting. he must not get a lot of visitors. 

it's a converted attic, or something, a weird extra room in the highest point of the house. 

the only window, a round one at the end of the room, is covered by curtains in a breezy, dark green fabric, throwing a dreamy shade over the room, only echoed further by the light gray shiplapped walls. 

there’s only three posters on his wall. alice in chains, gojira, and beastie boys. 

you note them, turning to look at his bookshelves. 

comics galore. battles in deep space. cloning. sea monsters, vampires, zombies, musicians, superheroes, spies, poets, dreamers, artists. books you recognize, books you’ve been wanting to read for age. books you’ve never heard of, books full of prose about music, writing, society. pain, fear. 

the shelves hold a finished rubik’s cube, cds, concert-won drumsticks, the weight of his memories. 

you pick up a studded picture frame, holding a faded digital camera photo. studying it. 

one’s a younger tim, sans piercings, ripped jeans. hair gelled from his face, smile wide as he squeezes a certain younger lead singer closer. 

“me and kon as kids.” 

“wow,” you breathe out. “known him a long time, huh?” 

“since third grade.” 

“ever get sick of him?” 

tim shrugs. he tips his head back and forth, slowly, like he’s thinking about it. like there’s anything to really think about. 

“not enough to matter.” he finally says, his eyes meeting yours. 

you nod, considering his answer. setting the picture frame down, exactly where you found it, you fully turn towards him. 

he looks down at you, his eyes boring a hole into yours. you link your fingers through his belt loops, dragging him closer. 

a little grin kicks up the edge of his mouth. 

not something practiced, something surprised. 

later, your cheeks still feel flushed, lips chapped from how long you’d spent under tim—he’d kiss you for three days straight, if he had the chance, you just know it. 

you’d only pulled him away with the promise of flicking through records at a new spot in town. 

“oh, this one’s my favorite!” tim shouts, yanking a record from the confines of its neighbors. you stop your browsing. turning to him, your eyebrows shoot up when you see it.

“skrillex?” you ask, tone uncontrolled. not incredulous, just surprised. 

“i’m a slave to the bass, babe.” 

his face is so plainly honest you snort, sputtering out a laugh as the people nearby turn to look. 

you watch as he spots the $65 dollar price tag, sliding it back into its place. 

in the corner of your eye, you catch the sight of a fighter jet. there’s no way. 

“hey tim?” 

“yeah, gorgeous?” 

you lean to where he wouldn’t be able to see the album, nonchalant as ever. 

“do you have all the beastie boys vinyls?” 

he shakes his head, attention bouncing between you and the genre he’s looking through: crunkcore. 

“nah, still need license to ill and aglio e olio.” 

“ah, man. only two more!” you say, pointing out a poster across the way. 

once his back is turned, you grab license to ill, quickly stuffing it between the two other records in your hands. 

“it’s a sick poster, but it’s $40 bucks. i don’t like avril lavigne that much.” 

“owner wouldn’t budge?” you ask, sticking out a pouty lip in commiseration.

tim huffs, trudging to the register. 

“hey, while you pay, i’m gonna go start the car.” 

you look up, thanking whoever’s playing puppetmaster in the clouds.

quickly paying for the albums, tim’s album, you head out to the parking lot. 

straight for the late ‘90s toyota 4runner with loud music leaking from every crevice. 

you smirk. drummers. ears ruined by loud music. solution: listen to louder music. 

he hops out when he spots you, opening the passenger door for you. 

you slide in, waiting for him to get back into the car before you turn towards him, batting your eyelashes.

“that was so nice of you, timmy, i really appreciate it.”

“what’re you talking about, s’bare minimum.” he shakes his head, making sure you’re buckled before putting the suv in reverse. 

“..timmy?” he half-asks, half-mutters to himself. 

“i’m so thankful, in fact, that i got you something.” you reply, talking all sugar-sweet like you’re someone you’re not. tim looks over, eyes blowing wide as you hold up the album you just bought him. 

the car jolts as he slams onto the brakes, flicking it back into park. 

“no fucking way.” 

you giggle, shrugging. “..yes, fucking way.” 

his hands go to your face, pulling you into a deep kiss that has you laughing into his mouth. safe to say he’s satisfied. 

♩♬♩♩♬♩♬♩♩♬♩♬♩♩♬♩♬♩♩♬

the world grows colder, autumn drenching the world in a golden light as leaves fall, crunching under your shoes. tim’s been a constant in your life since you first saw him on that stage, reliable, always down to hang out. 

the beginning of a long, storied relationship, it feels like. your early memories with him are beautiful and candid, like pictures in a scrapbook. like you’re flipping through decorated pages, with silly captions, pointing out your favorites to each other. 

flip

just like every show this time around, the last song is switch. 

boots planted, you’re front and center, eyes on your drummer that’s suddenly towering over you on the stage. bee giggles next to you like she knows something you don’t, taking a video you’ve watched so many times since it’s committed to memory. 

tim hits the note he’s always worried about, to cheers from the crowd, crouching as he sings the last line. 

you blink up at him, eyebrows furrowed in the most adorable way. he’d already talked to the lighting technician, cleared it with the band, asked your best friend if it was a good idea—the only thing left was to check with you. 

instead of the lights shutting off right after the song ends, like usual.. this time is different:

tim says your name into the microphone, his voice shaky like he’s nervous. you nod, very aware of everyone’s eyes on you. 

“yes?” you reply, looking completely baffled. 

“will you be my girlfriend?” 

the audience bursts into excited cheers, loud whoops and whistles ringing through the room. tim looks up, willing them to pause so he can hear your answer. 

it quiets, and it’s ridiculous the difference: going from loud, raucous cheering to deafening silence. you blink, the answer coming to you immediately as it’s the easiest thing you’ve ever agreed to. 

“yes!” 

flip

that time he’d picked you up from work, walked you out with a hand in the back pocket of your jeans. listening intently as you complained about a customer interaction you’d had, nodding sympathetically. 

so tired that you’d accidentally opened the door to the backseat, tim ushered you in anyways, smiling that cheshire cat smile as you laid back, yawning. 

“lemme take care of you,” he’d whispered, tugging your pants off as much as he needed to to get his face between your thighs. you’d smiled lazily as tim licked a long, flat stripe up your folds, groaning at how wet you were. like you’d been thinking about him at work.

the night hid the two of you as he pulled you deeper into pleasure in his backseat, chin dripping with your arousal by the time you finished. thighs shaking, back arched in your work shirt as he whispered sweet nothings into your cunt. 

“let’s drive through somewhere,” he’d rasped out after your stomach growled, hands kneading at your hips. 

flip

“okay,” he’d said, legs spread as you sit in front of him on the stool. “remember the beat i showed you?” 

you’d nodded, wondering how he was so focused when he had such a great vantage point down your shirt. you were definitely thinking about drums too, not the way his half-chub was pressing into your lower back. 

tim had counted you off, acting as your human metronome as he kept the beat with his hand on his thigh, listening to you drum messily through the fill he’d taught you, holding the sticks the way he’d shown you.

you finished with a great clanging of the cymbals, beaming as tim wrapped his arms around you, cheering for you. 

“excellent, baby, really good!” he’d said, the praise filling you with a sense of warmth.

flip

you’d flicked the bathroom light off, shuffling down the hallway as quietly as you could. tim’s parents are pretty cool, and while he is an adult, they’re not always privy to how late you really stay over. 

his bedroom door had creaked slightly as you slid inside, squinting in the light from his desk lamp. tim’s sprawled on his bed, scribbling into the leatherbound notebook you’d gotten him. 

“ready for—,” he’d said, eyes widening as his sentence cut off. 

you hadn’t noticed at first, putting your skincare back into your bag. 

“yeah, i’m ready for bed.” you replied, standing back up. you weren’t wearing anything but a comfortable pair of panties and one of his shirts, one of the first iterations of their band logos. 

giving it to you to wear was obviously much different than actually seeing you in it, at the way tim looked you over. 

“can i—,” he’d started, eyes on you as you watched the way his cock grew harder under the thin fabric of his pajama pants. no wonder he was speechless, there was no blood left in his head. “can i write a song about you?”

flip

“you said yellow too, right?” 

“mm, yeah,” tim replied, arms full of painting supplies as he followed you down the aisle. “not mustardy, more like—yeah, that one.” 

you’d nodded, headed towards the register. tim had paid before you could even get your card out, shrugging and mumbling something about it being a business expense, the dork. 

he’d sat, humming along to the playlist you’d put on as you carefully sketched out the young justice logo, setting up a paper plate with all the paint colors you needed. 

once you’d started painting he was laying nearby, legs up on the basement wall as he watched, enraptured at how precise you were being. 

“i can’t believe no one thought to do this before.” you’d said, first coat of paint done. 

“we’re all shit at art,” he’d replied, coming over to make you take a break. “would’ve never been as good as what you can do.” 

he’d rubbed your back as you chugged water, raided the pantry to see if they still had those snacks you like. 

you got the best side of tim drake, the side no one saw except for you. 

he has so many people who think they know him, hundreds of fans.

but no one was a bigger fan of you than him. 

flip

you can already feel this one becoming another scrapbook memory, your thighs pushed wide as you straddle his chest. 

“sure you can breathe under there?” you ask again, leaning back. 

“stop saying stupid shit like that,” he replies, cracking his eyes open. the sight of you over him is enough to make blood start throbbing through his cock, his cheeks flushing slightly. 

“you just like it, huh?” you reply, leaning forward again, eyeliner braced in hand. your other hand cups his jaw, fingers holding him still. his eyelashes flutter slightly like he wants to look up at you, your hand steady as you smudge on some black. when he doesn’t respond, face looking mildly tortured, you continue. 

“the first time i ever saw you, your shirt said ‘step on me’,” you reminisce. “still wondering when you’re gonna ask me to do that.”

tim audibly swallows, shrugging as he tries to play it off. you laugh, shaking your head. 

“but that was just a joke, right?”

“r-right.” tim replies, his cock twitching underneath the worn fabric of his jeans.

safe to say you two are late to the party. 

somehow young justice has a dj friend, an up and comer by the name of v stone. you hadn’t heard of him before, but you couldn’t deny the beats leaking through the windows of the house were good. 

“where’ve you guys been?” kon shouts, and you’re not sure whether you should read it as playful or annoyed. 

“traffic,” tim replies, fake-grimacing. it makes cassie and bart laugh, each of them greeting you in turn. you sidehug cassie, listening as she explains that bee was going to come until she heard it was a dj set. it makes you laugh, launching into a conversation with her and bart about it. 

at some point tim and kon disappear, and you dance around with cassie, letting her spin you as you try to scan the room. 

“and this is our drummer,” kon says, gesturing at tim with the cup in his hand to the group of girls he’d materialized out of nowhere. tim didn’t want to be over here, he wanted to be with you, dancing with you. wanted to take you home and have you handcuff him to his bedframe for the second time tonight. 

“hi,” one of the girls says, practically purring as she steps closer. “you should teach me how to play sometime.” 

“nah, i’m good.” tim replies, sticking his hands into his pockets. he would rather be anywhere but here. 

“what about a backstage pass? i’ve always wanted to be the rockstar’s girlfriend type.” 

tim makes a face, cringed out—is she serious right now? 

“uh, this rockstar’s already got a girlfriend.” he says, the expression on his face not nearly as mean as he’d like it to be. 

“oh, weird. i mean, i don’t see her..kon-el said you were single.” 

tim’s speechless at that. utterly, totally speechless. what the hell is she talking about. 

“he did, did he?” tim replies, said more at his bandmate than her. his eyes are going to burn a hole into kon, who’s trying to kiss the girl he’s talking to. he hopes they do, hopes his shitty leather jacket will start to sizzle any moment now. 

“you’re the one that writes the songs, right?” she continues, determined. 

tim can feel kon’s gaze turn to steel as he gives up to watch the situation unfold with an arm still around the girl next to him. “just some of them,” tim replies, laughing awkwardly. get him out of here. “this guy over here writes more than me.” 

kon nods, appeased, which makes tim’s shoulders lower from where they were around his ears. 

“yeah, what’s your favorite?” kon asks. “we’ll tell you which one of us wrote it.” 

another girl chimes in, looking at tim. “i like the song you guys sing about getting away, like driving away.” 

tim laughs, snorting at kon’s expression. “thanks, but chino moreno wrote that one. we just cover it.” 

her face falls, and she turns back to the other conversation she was in. 

the first girl giggles, clapping her hands excitedly. “okay, i think mine is the one you guys always sing last! who wrote that one?” 

kon’s lip curls even further, which tim didn’t even really think was possible, and opens his mouth to speak. 

“he did,” tim cuts in, pointing at kon. “he wrote it.” 

with that, he turns on his heel, crossing back through the dancefloor to look for you. something tugs on his shirt, and it’s you, looking up at him with a worried expression. 

“everything okay?” you ask, eyebrows furrowed so sweetly it makes tim want to cry. 

“yeah, yeah.” he replies, distractedly. “everything’s good."

“okay.” you nod, letting him sweep you into his arms as you dance, glancing over at where he was with kon. the lead singer’s staring daggers through your boyfriend, eyes squinting at you as tim suddenly dips you, making you giggle. 

♩♬♩♩♬♩♬♩♩♬♩♬♩♩♬♩♬♩♩♬♩♬♩♩♬

“swear we’re true..”

kon’s crooning is echoed through the venue, the crowd swaying along to the slower song. it’s a break for tim, bart. it’s just kon and cassie, the singer and his guitarist. he doesn’t even play guitar himself, it’s so stripped down. it’s a big hit with their fans. 

but you’re not paying any attention to what’s happening on stage. 

you’re wiping tim’s sweaty hair from his face, holding a coke in one hand as he chugs down a second water bottle. it’s muted, in the wings. like everything’s on pause. you exist in some sort of alternate dimension, in the wings. 

“swear it through..”

tim finishes his water, taking the coke from you with a grin. he mouths his thanks, taking a swig. you blink and he’s pulling you into a kiss, his lips cold and wet, cinnamon-flavored. 

“you say you love me..”

his hands grip into your shirt, pulling you impossibly closer. you know if he had his way, the two of you would be finishing out the show in a storage closet somewhere, the backseat of his car. but he has a greater duty to the band, his fans. his drum kit. 

“swear you do..”

you pull away, eyes widening as you see kon watching you from on stage, his lips hovering at the microphone. he looks upset, a little angry. 

a feeling of unease settles into your stomach, taking root. 

“song’s almost done, see you after?” tim asks, words so faint you’d miss them if his mouth wasn’t at your ear. kon won’t look away. 

you nod, unable to verbalize anything. it feels like you’re pinned to the spot. 

“now, that’s what i call a show, huh?” bart shouts, slinging an arm around tim’s neck as the group walks towards the pizza place. your boyfriend laughs, a hearty one that you know is happy, making you smile. 

“it was really good, everyone. i thought it was an awesome night.” you reply addressing cassie, bart, avoiding eye contact with kon. 

cassie grins, bumping you with her hip. “i guess you’re not too bad yourself, either,” she replies, following the boys in as tim holds the door to the restaurant open. 

he kisses you on the cheek as you walk by, and it makes you giggle. 

"table for five, table for five!" bart cheers when the hostess calls kon's name, leading the group over to a booth in the back. cassie smiles indulgently, but turns to make a face at you and tim—bart's definitely still a little bit drunk. kon slaps him on the back, following after him into the squeaky leather bench surrounding the table. 

"one hundred beers, please!" bart says, raising a finger. it makes the waitress snort, tim cackle from next to you. 

cassie interjects over him: "he'll take ginger ale if you guys have it, or water." 

the waitress nods, scribbling onto her notepad. "got it. so one hundred beers, five waters..anything else?" 

tim smiles, nodding at you. "she definitely wants a diet coke, and i'll have an unsweetened iced tea, please. thank you so much." 

"no problem. y'all hungry?" 

you roll your eyes, cheeks hot as you whisper to your boyfriend. "you just know me so well, do you?" 

"..yes." he replies, leaning in like he wants to kiss you. 

"yes, very," kon starts, elbows onto the table as he leans forward. you and tim turn, the moment gone. "we'll have a large meat lovers, with extra bacon, and then a kid's size vegetarian pizza. thank you so much." 

"sounds good, i'll bring those drinks out in a second." 

the table choruses their thank yous, settling back as the waitress walks away. the place is packed, filled to the brim—it's saturday night. the noise level is high, even for a restaurant, with tables full of people college-aged to families. there's a birthday party across the room, staff speedwalking pizzas out, steaming they're so fresh out of the oven. 

"i didn't know you were vegetarian, bart." you say, eyes on the redhead who's now slumped onto the table, head on his arms. "very cool." 

"yeah, like, save the animals, guys, seriously." bart says, voice suddenly grave like he's speaking at a funeral.

tim and kon laugh, but it quickly dies down when they look at cassie, who's not laughing. her eyes are glancing back and forth to a nearby table, hands fidgeting. 

"what's wrong, cass?" kon asks, leaning back against the booth. 

"that table keeps looking over," she whispers, lips barely moving. "like they recognize us, or something." 

you look over to the table cassie's talking about, making eye contact with one of the girls. she's gorgeous, thick brown hair sweeping over one shoulder, black lipstick painted onto her lips. she's dressed like she was at the show, combat boots on her feet. 

"you're young justice, right?" she asks, a smile creeping onto your lips. 

"yes!" kon says, rubbing his hands together. "what's up?" 

"you all played a great show tonight, we had so much fun." she says, gesturing back to her table. 

"thank you so much," tim says, grinning. it's so nice to hear that his hard work's been paying off, that something he practices in his family basement is something people actually like, want more of. 

"your new stuff has been very like, nothing but thieves meets incubus. i'm really into it." she continues. 

you probably should've kept your mouth closed, but you were too excited—you blurt out. "oh my god, yeah! that's exactly it, i've been trying to think of what sounded so similar for months!" you laugh, smiling at her. cassie nods, bart humming out his agreement. 

kon scoffs, barely looking at you as he sneers out his next words. "like you listen to them." 

your jaw drops, you're so taken aback. what is he on?

"shut the fuck up, dude," tim says, laughing. it's his awkward laugh. his brows are knit together on his forehead as he looks across the table at his bandmate, who's shrugging, trying to brush it off. "she listens to all the same shit i do, seriously." 

cassie nods, giving kon a look. "yeah, what are you talking about? her and bee go to shows like every weekend. she's not gonna be dating a musician and not be into music, too. like what?" 

bart's not said anything, but he's long since sat up, leaning back against the booth as he stares at kon, the confused expression on his face so cartoonish, it's almost funny. 

"well, uh, nice to meet you guys? let us know if you'll want a pitcher or something, we'll buy you a round!" she shuffles back to her table awkwardly, leaning into her friends like she's about to recount the very odd exchange in whispered tones. you get it—what the hell just happened?

"kon, you scared her off with your ch-chauvin-," bart stops, trying to remember how to say the word. he's still drunk. 

"chauvinism." tim supplies, a smirk kicking up the side of his mouth. 

"yeah that," bart continues, squinting at kon. "she was totally into me, and you scared her off with your chauvicisinism." 

"almost had it here, buddy." tim says, grimacing, glancing down at you. you haven't said anything since kon snapped at you.

"she was not into you, bart, she likes our music. those are not the same thing." cassie says, reaching past kon to shove bart. 

"beg to differ." kon says, smirking. you roll your eyes, and his expression sours. he opens his mouth like he's going to say something else, but then the waitress arrives. 

she sets your drinks down, another employee behind her pushing the pizzas down onto the tabletop. 

"and there's your diet coke," she says, carefully setting it in front of you. 

"thank you!" you chirp, grabbing it. without really meaning to, you gulp it down, closing your eyes. right now, one of those hundred beers sounds like a good idea.

♩♬♩♩♬♩♬♩♩♬♩♬♩♩♬♩♬♩♩♬♩♬♩♩♬

“so, why this? why wings, tim?” you ask, voice soft as you straddle his back. 

it's 2:30 pm on a friday—neither of you have work or class, so of course you're together. snow falls quietly outside his bedroom window, the world hushed, powdery white under a gray sky. 

it's supposed to snow all weekend. tim's got a houseshow/party you're going to try and make it to after work tomorrow night; you're far from thinking about it. you would stay here forever, if you could. 

it's below freezing outside, but your boyfriend's room is warm—he's laying under you in bed without a shirt on. his well-worn plaid pajama pants slung so low on his hips you can see the dimples on his lower back, just above his ass. 

you trace the tattoo on the smooth expanse of his back, the linework that details a folded pair of feathery wings, like a bird. he hums beneath you, rumbling like a content cat at your hands on him, your weight comfortably pinning him to the mattress like a heated blanket. 

"'cause," he mumbles into his pillow, eyes still shut. "i know that i'll make it big, i know that i'll do something great, somethin' that'll help people. i want my music t'help people." 

"mmm," you respond, caring more about what he has to say than anything you could possibly reply. 

he's sleepy, radiating warmth like a fireplace. exhausted because he worked the late shift at a venue across town, acting as stand-in roadie to a visiting band. 

"i'm gonna help 'em get away from their problems, cheer them up with my songs." 

"like an angel? or like a bird?" 

"like a bird. a robin. they're my favorite kind." 

the admission makes you chuckle. every time you think you've learned everything about your boyfriend, he surprises you. he's rambling now, but the talking seems like it's helping to wake him up. 

"at our old house, we had this tree in the backyard that the robins just loved. i would sit and watch them for hours, flying around and singing to each other. their little chirping made me so happy. made me realize that i could do that for other people, no matter what they were going through. you know?" 

"yeah, babe. i know." you whisper, sliding off of him to fall onto the mattress beside him. 

"c'mere." he replies, snaking an arm around your waist. "now that i'm through baring my soul to you." 

you note his sneaky grin, squealing as he maneuvers you until you're underneath him. 

"y'done teasing me?" he asks, voice low, dangerous, as he plays with the hem of your shirt. 

"i wasn't teasing you," you reply, half pleading. he's the worst when he gets like this. but you can feel how hard you've made him as he presses you to the mattress. 

"hm..," tim growls, pretending to think. like he'd actually take any of your begging into account. "prove it." 

"happily!" you blurt, leaning forward to shuck your shirt off. it makes tim break, cackling despite his cheeks going pink at how forward you're being. like he hasn't taken your clothes off himself countless times. it'll always feel like the first time, with you. 

his lips are warm, plush as he's kissing you, his hands immediately falling to slip underneath your waistband. a trail of open-mouthed kisses lead him down to your breasts, his tongue swirling around one of your nipples as his fingers play with your folds. 

it’s always been amazing to you, how quickly he’d figured you out, how easy getting you to orgasm has always been for him. if he was a guitar player or some shit it would make more sense—but it doesn’t, and he fucks you so senseless you stopped caring around the first time he had you clenching around his cock. 

his fingers work at your clit, a steady motion at the brutal pace he’s kept the whole time. all the while he’s whispering compliments into your skin, telling you all the nasty things he wants to do if you’ll let him. 

it’s too much, too good, and you’re scratching patterns into his back, thigh muscles tensing and spasming as you come. tim groans along with you, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as you mark him as your own. the sting is his favorite part, the burn of his skin as flames of pleasure lick away at you beneath him. 

you watch as he pulls his pants down, practically drooling at the sight of his hard cock springing free from under the waistband. his piercings glint in the soft light, and you're glued to the sight, the way his pretty pink tip's weeping precum. his knuckles are white as he tugs his fist over his length, hissing at the way he's squeezing himself. 

you gasp when he pushes in, still somehow never quite used to the way he feels inside. it's almost special, like a secret only the two of you know, your hands gripping at the nape of his neck by the time he bottoms out. 

"all good?" he rasps, looking you over to make sure, not that you'd ever lie when you tell him: "yes." 

"tim, can we," you start, blinking up at your boyfriend. you can barely finish your sentence with the way he's rubbing your clit. his heart's pounding in his ears, looking down at you. you're everything to him, and he's been yours ever since you looked up at him during switch. 

"anything you want, gorgeous, anything," he replies, swallowing hard as he watches the way your face changes when he hits that spot. 

"wanna turn over," you pant out, eyes fluttering as his hips crack into you. his calloused hands knead into your waist as he pulls out, flipping you up onto your knees. you adjust, arching your back, hugging his pillow into your face. 

"ready?" his voice is rough behind you, his erection settled between your thighs as he waits for you to give him the go-ahead. 

"mm-hm," you reply, hands fisting into his pillowcase as he pushes back in, your lungs expanding as you breathe deeply. 

his piercings drag against your walls, and you're crying out, trying to muffle it the best you can. 

“thas’ right, gorgeous, lemme hear you.” he says, and you can hear the smile in his words. “my parents aren’t home.”

♩♬♩♩♬♩♬♩♩♬♩♬♩♩♬♩♬♩♩♬♩♬♩♩♬

you flick off the lights in the store, lock up. sighing heavily as you walk out to your car, your feet dragging down the cleared path to your car. you’re so ready to see your boyfriend. 

it’s cold, bitterly cold, but it’s made worse by the fact that you have to get out of your warm car to step back into the white world around you. you don’t see tim’s car, but you know he’s here. why wouldn’t he be? you look forlornly back at your puffer jacket sitting in your passenger seat. you know you’ll be too hot with it in the party, but the chill was starting to seep into your skin, into your bones. a lone streetlight casts a cold, white light onto the empty street, harsh as it illuminates the snow falling past it. 

stepping over a couple sitting on the front steps, half-smoking, half-making out, you steady yourself before you go inside. music pounds into the quiet street as you yank open the front door. 

you turn when you hear your name, disoriented by the noise—there’s a lot of people here. a fog machine burps every now and then in the corner, filling the room with a haze backlit by colorful lighting. musicians: they’re always gonna throw a party like it’s a show they’re putting on. 

cassie and bee stumble over, giggling into each other as they push through the fray. 

“hey, work! how was work!” bee asks, cheeks bright as she gives you a tight hug. “’m glad you’re here now! ‘m’gonna go get ‘nother shot, ‘kay!” 

you laugh, squeezing her as she scurries off. cassie’s soon to follow. 

“good to see you!” she says, hurrying after bee. 

“have you seen tim?” you blurt, more frustrated than you realized. it was a bad shift, a long one, and you just want to see your boyfriend. she points, but it’s not in any direction, and you turn, heading further into the house. 

you finally spot the back of tim’s head, his unruly black hair sticking in every direction like it always does, especially when he’s at a party—usually from you running your hands through it. 

he’s facing away from you, leaning against the wall as he listens to kon, who’s getting persistently closer to tim like tim can’t hear him, or something. you’re about to walk up, you’re setting one foot in front of the other, when you stop in your tracks: what are they doing?

kon angles his face down slightly, leaning in towards your boyfriend. he presses his lips to tim’s, his hands on tim’s cheeks. the gesture is so familiar it almost knocks you to your knees, 

tim’s hands fall to kon’s hips, his shoes scuffing as he stumbles, and your face grows hot. 

you watch in horror, almost sick at how fast it all played out. you can’t see tim’s face, you’re not sure you want to. he’s known kon his whole life, of course he’d pick him over you. what were you thinking, like you truly had a chance? 

kon’s trying to get rid of you. trying to replace you, in one way or another. you don’t realize you’ve ran, that you’ve clawed your way out of the house, back to your car until you’re standing, staring at your jacket in the passenger seat. the same way you had barely even ten minutes ago. 

the wind whips through your hair as snow twirls by, carefree and indifferent to the storm happening in your chest. 

a/n:

{part two will be out shortly. jealousy can turn anyone into a raging monster, can't it?}

thanks so much for reading! this fic has finally clawed its way out of my drafts, the poor thing.

drummer tim is so special to me as someone actually dating a drummer. i’ll never forget the time i wrote a scene between tim and reader just to go out with my bf after and have him say the same thing to me, word for word! it’s truly subconscious, y’all.

please don't like if you're not going to reblog as well—likes mean nothing to the tumblr algorithm, unfortunately.

come yell at me in my ask box! i'm happy to answer any questions regarding this fic or otherwise :)

xoxo ness

p. s. thanks to @arkhamsgirl for being willing to cameo: you really held my hand throughout this whole journey, ready for it as soon as i first texted you about the au. you get me, girl 🖤