𝒜𝔪𝔬𝔯 𝒱𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔦𝔱

The bright camera flashes shuttered rhythmically. Pop, pop, flash. The blinding bursts of light bounced off the polished marble floors of the Wayne Foundation Gala, a constant reminder that in Gotham, privacy was a luxury even the grandest fortunes couldn't entirely buy. It was something you and Dick Grayson had been dealing with since you were both children.

As the eldest adopted son of Bruce Wayne, Dick was Gotham’s golden boy—blessed with a devastating smile, effortless charm, and the kind of liquid-gold wealth that made high society look normal. You were his mirror image under a different family crest. Born into old Gotham money, wrapped in silk, and taught how to navigate the complex social hierarchies of a charity gala before you were old enough to speak, you were the city’s darling.

It was an unspoken law of the universe that two children raised under the suffocating weight of such massive legacies would either become bitter rivals, competing for the scraps of the spotlight, or inseparable confidants. You both chose the latter. You had traded stolen hors d'oeuvres under grand banquet tables at eight, shared a mutual, silent loathing for classical piano lessons at twelve, and protected each other's deepest vulnerabilities as the years grew heavier and the city outside grew darker.

Tonight, you stood near the edge of the sprawling ballroom, where the heavy velvet drapes offered a modicum of shade from the oppressive glare of the chandeliers. A crystal flute of champagne rested loosely between your fingers, the amber bubbles rising and popping unnoticed while you politely nodded along to whatever Mayor Hill’s wife was saying. Your family’s name carried just as much weight in this metropolis as the Waynes', which meant your entire life had been a carefully curated series of choreographed public appearances, impeccably tailored outfits, and the suffocating expectation of absolute perfection. One wrong look, one slouch of the shoulders, and the tabloids would dissect it by morning.

"Oh, look at you. You know, you and Richard would look so good together if you two finally made it official,” Mrs. Hill sighed, her eyes darting past your shoulder with a knowing, matchmaking gleam that every high-society matron seemed to weaponize. She tapped her manicured fingers against her fan, leaning in closer. "Speak of the devil. You two truly are the crown jewels of this city's youth. It is simply a matter of time."

Before you could even begin to turn, a warm hand settled on the small of your back, the heat of his palm cutting straight through the fine fabric of your evening wear. The familiar, comforting scent of sandalwood and expensive cologne washed over you, instantly lowering your guard. Dick effortlessly slid into the empty space beside you, his broad shoulder brushing yours in a familiar, comforting gesture. He looked maddeningly handsome in his tailored midnight-blue tuxedo, a single, stray lock of dark hair falling perfectly across his forehead in a way that looked entirely accidental but was devastatingly effective.

"Mrs. Hill, you're looking lovely as always," Dick Grayson’s voice was smooth, dripping with that trademark Romani charm that Gotham couldn't get enough of. It was a cadence that could disarm a room in seconds, a perfect blend of high-society polish and genuine warmth. "Mind if I steal my favourite dance partner? I promise to return them in one piece, though I might try to hoard them for the rest of the evening."

"Oh, Richard, go right ahead!" Mrs. Hill gushed, waving her hand dismissively as a sly smile broke across her face. "We were just saying how absolutely darling you two look together. Honestly, it’s a crime you haven’t made it official yet. The press would have a field day, and quite frankly, you would make the most beautiful couple this city has seen in a generation."

You offered a practiced, polite smile, the kind you had perfected in front of bedroom mirrors by the age of twelve— pleasant but utterly vacant of your true thoughts. "You're too kind, Mrs. Hill, but Dick and I are just—"

"The best of friends," Dick finished smoothly, cutting in with a flawless sense of timing that kept the conversation light. He flashed his trademark smile, the one that usually left even the toughest political reporters completely tongue-tied, and wrapped a casual arm around your waist. With a subtle pressure, he drew you just a fraction closer against his side, letting your hip rest against his. "I’d hate to ruin a good thing by forcing her to put up with me full-time. I'm afraid my charm wears off after the third hour."

Mrs. Hill let out a delighted, tittering laugh, completely enchanted by the display. "Oh, nonsense! True love always starts as friendship. Mark my words, children, it's inevitable. You can't fight a match written in the stars." With a final, knowing wink that suggested she knew far more than she was letting on, she drifted back into the swirling sea of silk and diamonds on the ballroom floor.

The moment her cloying perfume faded from the air and she was safely out of earshot, the polite, rigid posture you both held melted away. You let out a small, dramatic groan, letting your head drop against the steady expanse of Dick's shoulder for a brief second.

“If I have to hear one more socialite tell us we'd make 'the most beautiful babies’ for one more second, I'm going to fake a medical emergency,” you muttered into the fabric of his lapel, your voice a hushed, exasperated whisper. “I mean it, Dick. I’ll fake an allergy to the caviar and demand an ambulance.”

Dick let out a low laugh, a rich sound that vibrated right through his chest and against your side. His hand remained comfortably resting on the small of your back, his long fingers splaying over your waist as he began to guide you away from the crowded center of the room and toward a quieter area of the Gala.

"Oh, come on. Mrs. Hill means well," he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a wicked, playful glint as he looked down at you. "She’s just obsessed with the idea of a grand Gotham dynasty. It’s the ultimate high-society sport." He paused, a slow, roguish grin spreading across his lips as he leaned down slightly. "And to be fair... we would make beautiful babies," Dick murmured, his voice dropping into a low, smooth purr right against the shell of your ear, sending a sudden shiver straight down your spine.

You froze in your tracks, your heart giving a violent, erratic thump against your ribs before you recovered and playfully shoved his chest. “Shut up, Grayson!" you laughed, though you could feel heat rushing to your cheeks, something that had very little to do with the stuffiness of the crowded ballroom. "Don't let the media hear you say that, or the Gotham Gazette will have our wedding registry published by tomorrow morning. They’ll have us married off at Wayne Manor before the weekend."

Dick didn't even stumble from the shove. He just absorbed the hit with that effortless, athletic grace of his, a soft, amused chuckle echoing in his throat. His hand slid seamlessly from your waist down to your hand, his long, calloused fingers lacing through yours with practiced ease. He squeezed your hand gently, a reassuring, familiar gesture that instantly relaxed you, as he led you toward the ornate, glass terrace doors.

"Let them print it," Dick murmured, his voice softening as he pulled you into the shadowed alcove near the exit. His thumb did a slow swipe across the back of your knuckles, his touch entirely too warm. "Think of the perks, Y/N. We’d get a great discount on a blender, and Bruce would probably finally buy us that ridiculously overpriced espresso machine we've been eyeing for the penthouse. We could spin it into a charitable tax write-off."

"You're entirely ridiculous," you sighed, letting out a soft breath as the cool night air began to bleed through the cracks of the terrace doors.

Yet, despite the exasperated words, the smile pulling at your lips was entirely genuine now. The stiff, suffocating mask you had been forced to wear all evening had completely evaporated the moment he stepped into your space. It always did. No matter how bright the camera flashes were, or how heavy the expectations of your families became, Dick was the only person who could make you feel like yourself in a room full of strangers.

"It’s part of my charm," he replied smoothly, pulling open the heavy glass door and guiding you out onto the sprawling stone terrace.

The transition from the stifling, perfume-heavy air of the ballroom to the crisp, cool Gotham night was instantaneous. The distant hum of the city’s traffic and the faint lapping of the river below replaced the classical orchestra with a peaceful sort of quiet. Out here, the paparazzi's flashes were nothing but a faint, ambient glow behind the tinted glass.

You walked over to the balustrade, resting your hands against the cool stone. You closed your eyes for a brief second, letting the breeze wash over your face and soothe the burning heat on your cheeks his comment had left behind.

Dick leaned against the balustrade next to you, mirroring your posture but keeping his body turned slightly in your direction, his shoulder brushing against yours. He reached up, his fingers working to loosen the silk bowtie at his collar. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his dress shirt, taking a deep, unhurried breath of the cool air.

For over a decade, you had been each other’s safe harbour in a city built on quicksand. When his world had shattered as a boy, you were one of the few who didn't look at him with pitiful charity or morbid curiosity. When your own family's scandals had threatened to crush you under the weight of public scrutiny, Dick had been the one to drag you out of your house in the dead of night, forcing you to eat greasy diner food in your finest clothes until you laughed so hard your ribs ached.

"Seriously, though," Dick said, his voice dropping into a softer, more grounded register. The playful billionaire facade he put on for the likes of Mrs. Hill faded completely. He stepped up beside you, leaning his forearms against the stone railing and looking out over the manicured lawns of Wayne Manor and looming city ahead. "They're not entirely wrong, you know," he said quietly, his gaze shifting from the distant city skyline back to your face.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden drop in his tone. "About what? Mrs. Hill's terrifying obsession with our future lineage?" You tried to keep your voice light, but your heart was still racing against your ribs.

"About us," Dick murmured as he shifted, his body completely blocking out the glowing warmth of the ballroom doors behind him, creating a small, intensely private corner just for the two of you on the dark terrace. He reached out, his hand wrapping around yours where it rested on the cool stone. His fingers laced through yours, his thumb tracing a slow circle over the back of your knuckles.

"We've been playing this game since we were teenagers," Dick continued, his brilliant blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the cool night air feel suddenly very warm. "Every time someone says we'd make a good couple, we laugh it off. We tell them we’re just friends, or like family. But..." He paused, his grip tightening as he gathered the courage to finally say what he’d always wanted to say to you. "Every time they say it, I find myself wishing I didn't have to lie about it."

Your breath hitched in your throat. The ambient noise of the gala—the live orchestra, the clinking of glasses, the low roar of conversation—all of it faded into static. "Dick..."

"I'm serious," he said, taking half-step closer until the faint, clean scent of his cologne enveloped you completely. "I know everything about you, and you know the worst parts of me. You've been my anchor in this city for as long as I can remember. I don't want to be just your childhood friend anymore. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life pretending that’s all we are."

The sheer honesty in his voice was staggering. Dick Grayson, the man who could charm the entire world with a flash of his teeth, was standing before you entirely stripped of his armour. There was no playboy performance left in his eyes. Only the raw, terrifying honesty of the boy who had once promised you, in a diner booth at three in the morning, that he would never let this city swallow you whole. 

"Dick," you whispered, your voice trembling slightly as your eyes darted down to his lips, then back to his eyes. "Do you have any idea what you're saying? If we cross that line..."

"I don't want to keep pretending anymore," he interrupted gently. He took another step closer, his chest nearly brushing against yours, effectively trapping you between his broad frame and the cold stone of the balustrade. The warmth radiating from him was a sharp contrast to the biting breeze. Slowly, Dick lifted his free hand, his long, calloused fingers brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. His fingertips lingered on your jawline, his knuckles lightly brushing against your cheekbone in an agonizingly tender gesture.

"I’ve spent half my life pretending to be exactly who people want me to be," Dick murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to lock with yours. "I put on the tuxedo, I smile for the cameras, I play the charming, carefree son. But the one lie I’m utterly exhausted of telling is the one where I pretend I don’t look at you and see my entire world. Every time someone looks at us and says we belong together, I don't see a society joke anymore. I just see what I want. I see you."

A breathy, stunned laugh escaped your lips, your hands instinctively rising to rest against his chest, clutching the fine fabric of his tuxedo jacket just to keep yourself anchored. "You're insane, Grayson. You choose a Wayne Enterprises gala, surrounded by three hundred of the nosiest people in the tri-state area, to tell me this?"

"Hey, I've always had a flair for the dramatic," he teased softly, though the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth was entirely tender, a private expression reserved only for you when the rest of the world was locked outside. His thumb traced a slow, soothing path along your cheekbone. "But I mean it. I’m done waiting for the 'right time.' There is no right time in a city like this. There’s just us. Right here, right now."

"So, what do you say?" Dick whispered, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of hope and his signature, playful charm. "Want to give Gotham society something real to talk about?"

Looking at him—the golden boy who had always held your hand through the madness of your worlds—the answer was suddenly the easiest thing in the world. Your hands tightened their grip on the lapels of his tuxedo, holding him close.

"You're sure about this?" you asked, giving him one last chance to take back his words. "There's no going back from this, Grayson."

"I don't want to go back," he murmured, his face tilting down toward yours as you squeezed his hand back. "I've been moving toward you my entire life."

When his lips finally met yours, it was slow and gentle, a dam breaking after years of carefully maintained boundaries. He tasted like champagne and mint, his hands shifting from your jaw to wrap securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. 

When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was shallow, but a brilliant, genuine smile lit up his face in the moonlight as he stared down at you.

"You're going to ruin my reputation," you whispered, another breathless laugh breaking through your shock.

"I think I'm improving it," Dick countered, his voice dropping into a low, affectionate purr.

He leaned down and kissed you again. This time, it was deep, possessive, and filled with the fierce intensity of years of unspoken longing. His arms tightened securely around your waist to pull you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly until your toes barely brushed the marble floor. Your hands slid up his chest, tangling in the soft, dark hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as the last of your defences completely dissolved. Every shared glance across a crowded ballroom and every midnight escape to a greasy-spoon diner converged into the rhythm of his lips against yours.

When he finally allowed you to breathe, his eyes crinkled at the corners with that signature, devastating charm. "Well," he whispered, his chest heaving slightly against yours. "The paparazzi are definitely going to notice we've been gone for twenty minutes."

You let out a soft laugh, wrapping your arms securely around his neck and feeling lighter than you had in years. "Let them notice. For once, let's give them exactly what they want to talk about."

The rain over Star City came down in icy needle-like torrents, crashing down on the neon-lit concrete of the docks and making it hard to see for anyone caught out in the storm. But for Roy, the rain wasn't the problem. The problem was the noise in his own head—the constant, clawing itch under his skin that had been steadily building.

Six months. Five months and twenty-eight days, to be exact. That was how long he had been clean. It was a milestone anyone else would celebrate, but today, it felt like a prison sentence. The yearning in his veins was screaming, demanding for him to just give in, and Roy was running out of ways to drown it out.

So, he chose violence.

When word hit the wire that Cheshire was moving a shipment of experimental high-grade weaponry through the shipping yards, Roy hadn't waited for backup. He hadn't thought it through. He had just grabbed his bow and ran, chasing the only other thing that could make his heart race enough to satisfy the craving: adrenaline.

You had followed him, because that is what you always did. When the rest of the team had given up, when Oliver had turned his back, when Roy was sweating through night terrors and screaming at you to leave him to rot in a dilapidated apartment—you had stayed.  Six months of cold sweats, of holding him through the violent tremors of withdrawal, of taking verbal blows that cut deeper than any blade, only to stay by his side until the fever broke. You knew it was the addiction talking, not the boy you grew up loving. And now, he was finally clean. He had fought like hell to get clean.

But tonight, his recklessness was hitting a fever pitch.

"Roy! Fall back! We’re outnumbered!” you yelled into your comms, your boots skidding on the wet tarmac as you ducked under a stray throwing knife that one of Cheshire’s goons sent towards you. The blade hissed through the freezing, torrential downpour, slicing clean through a rogue strand of your hair before burying itself deep into the rusted metal of a nearby shipping container. The impact rang around you , but you barely heard it over the roaring of your own blood in your ears and the deafening sound of the storm.

Through the driving rain and the flashing glare of a faulty floodlight above you, you saw him vault over a stack of steel crates. He fired a rapid succession of trick arrows, the explosive payloads detonating in bright bursts of heat and sound against the shipping containers. The concussive blasts sent mercenaries flying, but Roy didn't stop to assess the damage. He dropped down into the center of the remaining group, using his bow as a staff to strike, parry, and kick with a manic kind of speed. He was overextending, purposely leaving his defences open just to force himself to react at the very last second, trying to force his brain to dump enough endorphins to mimic the high he was starving for. He was playing chicken with a knife edge, chasing a high that could never compare to the first, but desperate enough to try anyway.

"I've got it under control!" Roy’s voice snapped back over the comms channel. It wasn't the voice of Arsenal, the seasoned hero. It was laced with an ugly, defensive, razor-sharp edge that made your stomach instantly drop into a bottomless pit. It was the exact same tone he used when he got into those moods—the dark, suffocating regressions where the walls built back up and he viewed the entire world as an enemy. He ducked under a sweeping strike from a mercenary’s knife, the wind of the near-miss whistling over his microphone, before bringing the heavy riser of his bow up to crack the man across the jaw with a sickening crunch. "Just stay out of my way!"

"Roy, you're not listening to me! You're going to get yourself killed!" you shouted, throwing your entire weight forward. An assassin had emerged from the haze of the explosion, raising a submachine gun and aiming it squarely at Roy's completely exposed blind spot. You didn't think. You slid across the rain-slicked ground, your leg sweeping out to hook behind the mercenary’s ankles. He went down hard, his skull bouncing off the wet tarmac with a dull thud, the gun skittering away into a puddle.

You scrambled back to your feet, wiping a mixture of rain and sweat from your eyes, before looking back up at the red-clad archer. "You're chasing the rush, Roy! Look at yourself! Look at how many of them there are! Fall back so we can regroup!"

That struck a nerve. It tore through his mania and hit the raw, bleeding nerve of his pride.

Roy spun around entirely, abandoning the fight for a split second. His chest was heaving from the exertion and anger. The torrential rain had slicked his red hair flat against his forehead. His hands were shaking but it wasn't from fear; you knew him too well to ever mistake his shaking for fear. It was the sheer, overwhelming exhaustion of fighting his own mind.

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about!" he roared. "Stop treating me like some kind of patient! I am fine!"

"You're not fine!" you pleaded, stepping toward him, your hands slightly raised in a gesture that was half-surrender and half-begging. You were desperate to pierce through the thick wall of defiance he had thrown up. "Roy, please—"

"I said, back off!" he snarled, the sound feral and dripping with a bitter animosity that sounded like he was back at the worst nights of his withdrawal. He turned his back on you and lunged straight toward the center of the docks—straight toward Cheshire herself.

The assassin was perched atop a triple-stacked shipping container, watching the bloody chaos below with a cruel, deeply amused smirk playing on her lips. Her gaze was set on Roy, watching him not as a threat, but as a fascinating, broken toy spinning out of control.

“I don't need a babysitter, and I don't need you holding me back!” Roy’s voice echoed through the comms. His words cut deep into your chest. “If you're too scared to finish this, get the hell out of my way!"

The words stung, a familiar, poisonous echo of the insults he used to hurl at you when he was sweating through the sheets of that dilapidated apartment, trying to claw his own skin off to get to the itch beneath. It was the voice of the addiction trying to isolate him, trying to push away the only person who cared enough to stay. But as much as the words sliced into you, you didn't have the luxury of time to process the hurt.

Roy fired three arrows in rapid succession, pulling the string back with a violent, jerky motion. But the subtle tremor in his hands betrayed him; the trajectory was off by inches. Cheshire didn't even have to use her full speed; she dodged them effortlessly, twisting her body with feline grace before vaulting down from the container, her twin, poison-tipped daggers unsheathed and gleaming in the strobe of the floodlight.

Roy engaged her instantly, completely consumed by the absolute tunnel vision of the fight. The world outside of Cheshire’s blades ceased to exist for him. He was so focused on trying to match her speed, that he completely ignored his periphery, remaining deaf to the surrounding environment.

He didn't see the heavy-set mercenary slipping out from the shadows cast by the massive loading crane behind him. The man was huge, moving silently, as he pulled a  serrated combat knife from his vest, stepping directly into Roy's blind spot while Roy was locked in a desperate blade-against-bow struggle with Cheshire.

"Roy, behind you!" your yell tore through your throat, raw and frantic, but it was swallowed by a sudden crack of thunder.

He didn't look. In his desperation to score a hit on Cheshire, he merely pushed her back with a rough shove of his forearm, throwing a reckless, over-committed punch with his right hand. The movement pulled his upper body forward, leaving his entire right flank and lower back completely, fatally exposed to the assassin creeping up from behind.

The mercenary lunged, his weight shifting forward as he aimed a lethal, downward thrust directly for the base of Roy’s unprotected spine.

There wasn't time to yell another warning that he wouldn't hear. There wasn't time to draw a weapon. There was only the terrifying reality that the boy you grew up loving, the boy you had spent six agonizing months pulling back from the dead, was about to be snuffed out in front of you.

You threw yourself across the wet asphalt. Your boots lost all traction on the wet concrete, and you converted your momentum into a desperate, flying tackle, your body launching through the rain. You slammed your hands and shoulder directly into Roy’s torso, using every single ounce of strength and adrenaline in your body to shove him forcefully out of the knife's trajectory.

The sudden impact sent Roy sprawling sideways into the dirt and pooling water, his bow slipping from his fingers and clattering away across the tarmac.

But before he could even register the rush of cold mud against his face, before the flash of furious irritation at being pushed could even form in his mind, a sickening, wet sound echoed through the noise of the rain. It was immediately followed by a sharp, choked gasp.

The heavy, serrated blade meant for Roy's spine had found a home in your shoulder instead, tearing deep and unyielding through leather, muscle, and tissue until it struck bone.

Time seemed to fracture, splitting into agonizingly slow, jagged fragments. The world lost its sound, save for the heavy, rhythmic thud of your own decelerating heartbeat. For a fraction of a second, you didn't feel pain—only a strange, vacuum-like emptiness where the steel had entered your flesh, followed by a sudden bloom of white-hot heat that radiated down your spine and stole the oxygen right out of your lungs. The mercenary, unbothered by the swap in targets, callously wrenched the serrated blade backward to strike again, the wet drag of the metal tearing further at the wound.

The sheer horror of the sight unlocked something primal, dark, and terrifyingly sober in Roy. The manic, chemical fog that had clouded his brain evaporated in an instant, leaving behind a cold, crystalline reality. With a guttural, animalistic roar that tore at his vocal cords, he lunged from the mud. He didn't reach for his bow; his hand flew straight to the combat knife at his thigh. He moved with a terrifying lethality born of absolute panic, driving his blade straight into the vulnerable seams of the mercenary's heavy body armour, delivering a strike so brutal, it sent the massive man crashing completely unconscious into the pooling water of the tarmac.

Cheshire, standing just a few feet away, paused. She saw the sudden, violent shift in Roy's posture—the reckless desperation of a man chasing a high replaced instantly by the cold, unhinged, and murderous intent of a protector who had nothing left to lose. Recognizing that the shipment was no longer worth the price of a feral Arsenal, she stepped backward into the gloom, her green eyes flashing once through the dark before she retreated entirely, vanishing like smoke into the labyrinthine shadows of the shipping containers.

But Roy didn't care about the escape. He didn't care about Cheshire, or the weapons shipment, or the Team, or the six months of agonizing progress he had just risked on a phantom craving. The entire universe narrowed down to a single, bleeding point on the wet ground.

"No, no, no... please, God, no," Roy stammered, his voice losing all its edge, breaking into a ragged, frantic chant. He dropped to his knees as he threw his arms out, catching you just as your knees buckled and your strength gave out entirely, pulling your collapsing, shivering body directly into his lap.

The blood was warm—terrifyingly warm against the freezing torrents of the rain—and it was blooming rapidly across your chest, a dark, visceral crimson that stained his hands and soaked through the fabric of his uniform. The contrast of that heat against the icy downpour made him lose his breath.

"Hey, hey, look at me," Roy begged, his hands hovering over the wound in a panicked frenzy before he pressed them flat against your shoulder, trying desperately to hold your life inside your body. His voice was completely stripped of all the anger, all the defensive bravado, and the toxic pride that had driven him all night. It left behind only a terrified, broken boy who was suddenly very aware of how fragile the world was. "Look at me, sweetheart. I need you to stay with me. Do you hear me? Keep your eyes open. Just focus on me."

"Roy..." your voice was barely a breath, your eyelashes heavy with rain and the crushing weight of fading consciousness. The neon lights of the docks were beginning to bleed together into long, fractured streaks of colour, and the cold was moving inward, settling deep into your chest. Your fingers twitched against the wet leather of his suit, trying to ground yourself, but the darkness was pulling hard at the edges of your mind.

"Don't close them, don't you dare close them," he sobbed, his chest heaving as a full-blown panic attack choked his throat. He pressed down harder on the wound, a ragged, desperate sound escaping him as he rocked you slightly in the rain. Tears mixed with the storm on his cheeks, dripping down onto your face. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I did this. Stay with me, please... I can't do this without you."

“I—“

"Don't talk. Don't say anything, just breathe," he pleaded, his hands trembling violently against your torn shoulder. His chest heaved as the tears finally tracked distinct, warm paths through the grime on his face. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I was angry, I was craving, I—I wasn't thinking.”

"Not... your fault," you managed to whisper. The words cost you a staggering amount of energy, your vision tunnelling down until the only thing left in the world was the dark, tortured shape of his face. Even now, bleeding out on a the rain-slicked pier, your first instinct was still to protect him from the crushing weight of his own guilt.

"It is my fault! It's entirely my fault!" he choked out, his forehead dropping down to rest against yours, his breath hot, ragged, and frantic against your cold skin. The physical contact was the only thing keeping him anchored, his mind spinning out at the terrifying volume of blood slicking his fingers. "God, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I was being stupid. I was being a selfish, reckless bastard. Please, just hang on."

He scrambled for his comms unit with one bloody hand, his fingers smearing crimson over the transmitter as he forcibly patched directly into the Watchtower’s emergency frequency. His voice cracked into the comms line. "This is Arsenal! I need an emergency medical evac at the Star City north docks! Right now! They're bleeding out, do you hear me?! Move!"

He dropped the comm into the pooling water, not waiting for a response, and brought both hands back to press against your shoulder with a desperate, heavy force. The pressure flared through your fading nerves, causing you to groan weakly and instinctively try to pull away from the pain.

But he held you tight, refusing to let you slip into the dark. He gathered you closer into his arms, pulling your head up securely against his chest, right over his racing heart.

"I've got you," he whispered frantically, his voice a broken, trembling rasp against your hair. He rocked you slightly, his entire frame shuddering as he fought the suffocating panic clawing at his throat. "You've been holding me together for six months. You can't leave me now. I can't do this without you. Please. I need you to stay."

For months, you had been his anchor, pulling him back from the edge of a self-destructive abyss when the rest of the world had written him off. Now, as the brilliant crimson and blue lights of the incoming rescue vehicle finally broke through the blinding downpour, reflecting in fractured, dancing ripples across the puddles around you, Roy held onto you like a drowning man clutching his final lifeline.

The frantic itch in his veins was completely gone, replaced by a devastating clarity.  There had never been a rush in the world worth losing you for. He didn't need to chase a phantom rush to feel alive—the only high he ever truly needed was the moments he had with you by his side.

There was one thing anyone who knew you could agree on: you loved to drive a little too fast. In fact, that heavy right foot of yours was the exact reason you met your boyfriend, Dick. He had pulled you over for speeding a little over a year ago. Hoping to flirt your way out of a hefty ticket, you had flashed him a smile and started teasing him—which somehow resulted in you agreeing to go to dinner with him. One thing led to another, and you’ve been inseparable ever since.

However, despite dating an officer of the law, you still couldn't shake the habit of stepping on the gas pedal just a little too hard. You especially loved the winding, rural backroads, where you figured no cops would ever bother to linger.

Until tonight.

The moment the familiar, blinding flash of red and blue lights illuminated your rearview mirror, a sharp curse escaped your lips. Pulling over to the gravel shoulder, your stomach sank. Dick was never going to let you hear the end of this lecture, especially since you were definitely getting a ticket this time.

Sighing, you fished your license and registration out of your visor, waiting for the officer to approach. But the second the figure stepped into the glow of your driver's side window, your eyes widened.

"You asshole," you breathed, a breathless laugh escaping you as you looked up at your boyfriend. "You scared the shit out of me."

Yet, Dick didn't smile. His expression remained completely blank, masked by a cool, detached professionalism that made your stomach do a weird little flip. "License and registration, please."

You scoffed, leaning back in your seat. "Are you serious?"

"Ma'am, I need to see your license and registration," he repeated.

"Dick, come on," you huffed, crossing your arms.

"Ma'am, I won't ask a third time." His voice was entirely devoid of the warmth you usually woke up to.

He looked devastatingly good in his Blüdhaven Police Department uniform—the dark blue fabric was crisp, and his silver badge caught the dimming twilight. His hands rested casually near his utility belt, but his posture was tense.

Grumbling under your breath, you shoved your license and registration through the open window. He took them, his fingers brushing against yours. Usually, that slight contact would prompt a secret squeeze or a wink, but tonight? Nothing. He merely glanced down at the cards, then back up at you.

"Do you know how fast you were going, Miss Y/N?"

"I was going... a little over," you muttered, leaning back into your seat.

"You were doing eighty in a fifty, on a winding backroad with zero streetlights," Dick corrected. His tone dropped into that authoritative cadence he used when he was genuinely unhappy about something. "If a deer had jumped out, or if your tire had caught the gravel on the shoulder, you’d be wrapped around a tree before you could even hit the brakes."

You softened slightly, realizing the sternness wasn't just him playing a part—he was worried about you. You sighed, the annoyance completely draining out of you. "I know. I'm sorry. I just wanted to get home to see you faster."

A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his stoic facade. But he caught himself, clearing his throat as he stepped back toward his cruiser. "Wait here."

"Oh, come on!" you called out, but he was already walking away, his hips swaying just enough to remind you exactly why you’d agreed to that first dinner date a year ago.

You sat in the quiet cabin of your car, watching him in your rearview mirror as he leaned against the hood of his cruiser, pretending to run your perfectly clean record. The red and blue lights continued to flash, painting the dark interior of your car in rhythmic pulses of colour.

After a gruelling five minutes, he finally walked back. But instead of just handing the documents through the window, he reached down and pulled open your driver's side door.

You blinked up at him, genuinely surprised. "Am I under arrest, Officer?"

"Step out of the vehicle, please," he said. His voice had finally lost that rigid, robotic edge, replaced by something much lower and smoother.

Curious, you unbuckled and stepped out onto the gravel shoulder. The night air was cool, rustling the thick canopy of trees around you. The moment your feet hit the ground, Dick closed the gap between you, crowding you back against the frame of your car.

He didn't hand you a ticket. Instead, he carelessly tossed your license and registration onto the driver's seat, planted his hands on the roof of the car on either side of your head, and leaned in close.

"I’m gonna have to check to ensure you have no weapons on you," he stated flatly. "Turn around. Hands on the roof."

Your eyebrow quirked as you caught the slight, wicked twinkle in his eyes. "Yes, Officer," you murmured, doing exactly as he said.

You felt his large, warm hands slide along your shoulders, tracing down your chest and your sides. His palms traveled lower, sliding over your ass and giving it a firm, possessive squeeze before moving back to the front of your waist, where your keys were hooked to a belt loop. He unclipped the carabiner, raising the keys up to eye level to inspect the small, pink canister attached to the ring.

"Well, well, well. Pepper spray is considered a weapon," he drawled, a smug smile tugging at his lips. "I’m gonna have to arrest you. Hands behind your back."

"Dick, you gave that to me," you stated, looking back at him.

"It’s Officer Grayson to you, and I won’t repeat myself," he ordered, his eyes darkening with playful authority. "Hands behind your back."

You slowly did as you were told. Your eyes widened a fraction as you felt the cold bite of metal around your wrists. The handcuffs clicked shut, the sharp, metallic snap of the mechanism echoing clearly in the quiet night air. You flexed your fingers, testing the tautness of the chain, a genuine laugh bubbling up from your chest.

"Okay, Grayson, you’ve had your fun," you said, glancing over your shoulder at him. "Uncuff me."

You weren’t sure what your boyfriend was trying to prove, but it had been a long day. You were tired, and the patience you had for his little games was starting to dwindle.

But Dick didn't budge. He stepped in close, his solid chest pressing firmly against your back, his warmth instantly cutting through the crisp night air. He leaned down, his lips brushing the sensitive skin right below your ear and sending a sharp shiver down your spine.

"I told you, it’s Officer Grayson," he murmured, his voice a low, raspy purr that went straight to your core. "And I don’t negotiate with dangerous speeders who carry unregistered chemical agents."

"Unregistered? You literally bought it for me on Amazon because you were worried about me walking to my car after dark!"

"Quiet!"

A sharp gasp tore from your throat as you felt his open palm crack against your ass. The sudden sting made your cheeks flush instantly.

"You have the right to remain silent," Dick recited smoothly, his voice dropping into a dark, commanding cadence as he leaned his weight heavily into your back. "You have the right to an attorney. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."

"This is becoming ridiculous," you breathed, a mix of adrenaline and genuine worry fluttering in your chest as you looked around the dark road, slightly panicked that someone might drive by and assume you were actually being arrested.

He didn't answer. Instead, he led you toward the hood of his cruiser, his grip firm on your arm. He spun you around slowly, keeping one large hand flat against your waist to steady you. With your hands bound behind your back, you were forced to lean slightly into his chest, looking up at him through your eyelashes. The flashing red and blue lights of his cruiser danced across his face, highlighting the wicked, playful grin that had finally broken through his professional mask.

You let out a soft sigh. "Are you done having your fun yet?"

"What? I thought you had a thing for a man in a uniform," he teased, leaning down slightly so his chest brushed against yours. "I’m just giving you the full experience."

You raised a brow, refusing to make this easy for him. "And what exactly does this full experience entail, Officer? Am I going to the station?"

"Normally, yes," Dick murmured. "But considering the local jail is a little crowded tonight, I’m thinking we can come to some sort of agreement."

Your eyes narrowed playfully. "What kind of arrangement?"

His grin widened as he stepped even closer, crowding you against the metal of the hood. His hands fell to your waist, the heat of his palms soaking right through your clothes as he leaned down, his voice dropping into a velvety whisper that vibrated right against your ear.

"Well, you see, the paperwork for a reckless driving charge and weapon possession is exhaustive," he drawled, his lips brushing along your jawline. "It’s a beautiful night, and I really don’t want to spend the rest of my shift stuck behind a desk at the precinct. So, I’m willing to exercise some officer discretion and offer you a plea bargain.”

You let out a soft huff, though the feeling of his solid chest pressed against yours was making it increasingly difficult to stay annoyed. “I’m listening,” you managed to say, tilting your head back just an inch to keep his gaze.

"You plead guilty to being completely irresistible, and in exchange, I commute your sentence," Dick murmured, pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes. The playful, devastatingly charming glint in his gaze was on full display now.

You knew exactly what that meant, and your eyes narrowed further. "And if I reject the plea deal?" you challenged, tilting your chin up defiantly, a small smirk playing on your lips. “What if I want my day in court, Officer?”

Dick’s grin widened, a wicked little spark flaring in his eyes. Before the sarcasm could fully leave your mouth, his hands shifted. In one fluid, shockingly fast motion, he grabbed your waist, spun you around, and bent you clean over the hood of his cruiser.

The sudden change in perspective made the world spin for a split second. ”If you reject it,” he growled, his voice dropping an octave as his heavy weight came down directly over your back, pinning you flush against the car, “I’m forced to exercise my authority and punish you.”

“You are incredibly corrupt, Officer Grayson,” you breathed, your face pressed sideways against the hood, your heart hammering like a trapped bird against your ribs. The metal of the car was cool against your skin where your clothes shifted, a stark and thrilling contrast to the absolute furnace of his body trapping you from behind.

"I’m not corrupt, sweetheart. I’m just highly dedicated to community service," Dick whispered, his voice dropping into a dark, gravelly register that sent an electric jolt straight down your spine.

He leaned even lower, his solid chest flattening your shoulder blades as his mouth found the sensitive juncture where your neck met your shoulder. He nipped lightly at the skin, his teeth grazing just hard enough to make you gasp and arch into the bite, before he immediately soothed the sting with the slow deliberate drag of his tongue.

“Besides,” he murmured against your wet skin, his breath burning hot in the cool night air as his hands left your waist, sliding down the backs of your thighs to anchor you exactly where he wanted you, “you’re the one who chose to break the law in my jurisdiction. And you know what they say about Blüdhaven cops... we're notoriously tough on repeat offenders.”

His large, warm hands traced a slow, steady path down the backs of your thighs before smoothing their way back up to cup the undersides of your cheeks. He gave a firm, possessive squeeze that made a soft, breathless whimper escape your lips. He chuckled, the vibration of it rumbling directly against your spine, thoroughly enjoying the complete control he had over you.

Slowly, his fingers hooked under the waistband of your pants.

The fabric yielded easily under his practiced touch, and you shivered violently as the crisp midnight breeze hit your freshly exposed skin. Dick didn't rush. He took his time, savouring every second of your vulnerability, his thumbs brushing light circles against your hip bones. The rhythmic friction was torturous as he began to slide the fabric down over your hips, exposing you inch by inch to the biting chill of the night air and the blistering heat of his hungry gaze.

“Dick…” you breathed, a volatile mix of adrenaline and desire hitching in your throat as your lower half was stripped bare on the side of the road. “Someone... someone could drive by.”

“Let them look,” he whispered wickedly, though he knew as well as you did that this stretch of backroad was completely abandoned at this hour. 

His lips ghosted a path from your shoulder up the column of your neck, hunting for the ultra-sensitive spot beneath your ear. His teeth grazed the tender skin, nipping just hard enough to make you whimper and arch your back, while his knuckles brushed in a feather-light, tormenting stroke against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. The sheer sensory overload made your knees go dangerously weak, your thighs trembling beneath his hands.

“But if you’re worried about the public indecency charge, you better cooperate fully with the arresting officer,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, thick with intent. “Understand?”

He shifted his weight, his muscular thigh sliding between yours from behind. With an unyielding nudge, he forced your legs a little wider apart, bracing your shins against the lower frame and tire of the police car. Your fingers curled tightly behind your back, the links of the handcuffs rattling sharply against one another as your nails dug into your palms, trying to find any semblance of leverage or stability. But with your wrists securely bound, you were completely at his mercy.

“I need an audible answer, civilian,” Dick growled softly. The playful charm was entirely gone now, completely replaced by a raw, primal look that made your blood run hot. He nudged his thigh higher between yours, a deliberate tilt of his pelvis that forced you to feel the rigid, heavy length of his desire straining against his trousers. “Do you understand the terms of your custody?”

“Yes,” you choked out, your voice trembling as his thigh nudged you even further apart, stretching you out and leaving you completely, hopelessly vulnerable to his touch. “Yes, Officer. I understand.”

“Good girl,” he murmured, the praise thick, and laced with a deep satisfaction that settled deep against your skin.

He didn't make you wait. His hand incredibly hot as it cupped you from behind. When his long, calloused fingers slipped between your thighs, finding you already slick and aching for him, a low, ragged sigh escaped his lips. He began to stroke you with maddeningly slow, teasing pressure, his thumb finding your clit and working it in deliberate, steady circles until your breath came in shallow, desperate stutters.

You threw your head back, your hips instinctively bucking against his hand as you sought more of that agonizingly perfect pressure. Above you, the flashing emergency lights of the cruiser danced in dizzying patterns of crimson and sapphire across the windshield, fracturing the night into a blurred, hypnotic trance. Every touch of his fingers felt magnified a thousand times over by the illicit thrill of the open air, the vulnerability of your wrists bound behind you, and the sheer, unyielding dominance of his body pinning you down.

"Ah-ah," Dick chided softly, his grip on your hip tightening just enough to pin you still against the framework of the cruiser. "I didn't give you permission to move."

“Dick, please,” you whimpered, your hips unconsciously bucking back against his hand, begging for a deeper satisfaction.

“Shh, stay still,” he commanded, his teeth catching the lobe of your ear in a sharp, grounding nip that made you gasp. With his free hand, he reached down to unbutton and lower his own trousers, the sound of the zipper cutting through the quiet rustle of the surrounding woods. "Tell me what you want, sweetheart.”

You shivered violently, your forehead resting against the cool hood of the car as you tried to catch your breath. "I want you. Please, Dick... Officer Grayson... please."

A low, satisfied growl rumbled in his chest at the title. "Spoken like a true cooperative citizen."

He reached around to his utility belt with one hand, the distinct, sharp sound of tearing foil slicing through the quiet night air. He repositioned himself, the broad, blunt head of his length pressing directly against your aching core. He paused there for one maddening second, letting you feel the sheer size and heat of him, waiting until you let out a needy, fractured cry.

“Look at me,” he whispered, his grip tightening on your hip, anchoring you firmly.

You strained to look over your shoulder, your vision swimming as you caught his gaze. His eyes were completely blown out, his pupils dilated so wide that the vibrant blue of his irises was reduced to a thin ring. There was a hungry possessiveness burning in his stare that made your chest ache with a volatile mixture of deep affection and untamed desire.

With a slow, smooth thrust, Dick drove himself fully inside you.

The sudden, thick fullness tore a loud, uninhibited sob from your throat, the sound immediately swallowed by the vast, empty backroad. The sheer intensity of the entry made your mind go entirely blank. He didn't let you adjust to the stretching heat; he pulled back almost entirely, teasing the edge of your core before burying himself inside you again, deeper this time, his hips crashing against yours with a bruising, relentless force. The car creaked beneath your combined weight, the shocks absorbing the rhythmic, violent momentum of his strokes as he pinned you to the polished surface.

The pace was unbearably slow and punishingly deep. His hips slammed rhythmically against yours, the solid, unyielding weight of his chest pressing you down into the hood of the cruiser with every single thrust. You could feel the metal buttons of his uniform shirt scraping against your bare spine, a harsh friction that contrasted sharply with the blistering heat of his skin.

"God, you feel so good," he groaned, his professional facade completely shattering into a million pieces as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent. "So tight. Every single time."

“Fuck, Dick,” you sobbed, your hands twitching uselessly within the metal restraints, your knuckles scraping against his kevlar vest as you tried to find a purchase that didn't exist.

Suddenly, he straightened up. His free hand reached down, his fingers wrapping firmly around the center chain of your handcuffs, and he yanked it back toward his chest. The sudden, sharp tug on the metal sent an electric shock of pure sensation straight through your nervous system. Your back arched violently, your chest lifting completely off the hood of the cruiser as your spine curved into a tight, desperate crescent. The forced position tilted your pelvis upward and drove your hips back even further against him, burying him inside you to the absolute hilt, the bruising depth made you cry out in a breathless mix of shock and pleasure.

"Dick—!"

“Last warning, that’s Officer Grayson to you,” he growled against your ear, his voice dropping into a dark, gravelly register that made your blood run hot.

With his hand firmly gripping the center chain of the cuffs, he held you aloft, completely controlling your posture and rendering you utterly defenceless. You were entirely suspended between the cold metal of the car biting into your thighs and his solid body locking you in from behind. He began to move again, but the rhythm transitioned instantly from slow and deep to fast, punishingly hard thrusts that rocked the entire frame of the police cruiser. The cruiser groaned in protest beneath the force of his thrusts, as it joined the wet, slapping sounds of his skin crashing against yours.

Your breath hitched, the sheer force of his increased tempo rattling your lungs as every hard, frantic plunge sent brilliant sparks behind your closed eyelids. The flashing red and blue strobes overhead sliced through the heavy darkness, illuminating the ragged mist of your breath in the cool midnight air and casting your silhouetted shadows across the deserted tree-line. You couldn't run, you couldn't pull away; you were entirely chained to his dominance, balanced on the edge of his control.

"Dick—please, Officer—" you sobbed, the official title tearing from your throat as your head rolled back helplessly against his shoulder, your strength entirely spent. 

He leaned into your arched back, his chest flattening against your shoulder blades as his pace became completely unhinged. The sensation of the restrictive metal biting into your wrists and the unmerciful feeling of him filling you over and over drove you closer to the brink. Dick’s breath came in ragged, burning gasps against your ear, his grip on the handcuffs never wavering as he held you perfectly in place to take every unrelenting inch of him.

"Keep talking like that," he panted, his breath a scorching brand against your neck. He pulled back on the cuffs just a fraction harder, forcing you to take him even deeper as his hips slammed home. "Let me hear how cooperative you are after being such a bad girl and breaking the law.”

"I'm sorry—I'm sorry," you whimpered, though your hips were unconsciously bucking back against him now, completely addicted to the punishingly perfect friction, begging for the release that was clawing at the base of your spine.

"God, you're so responsive," Dick groaned, a fierce, ragged sound catching in his throat as your inner muscles convulsed around him in a series of tight, involuntary tremors. "Look at what you do to me.”

You strained your eyes open, your vision swimming with tears and adrenaline. In the reflection of the glass, illuminated by the rhythmic flashing of the cruiser's lightbar, you could see the silhouette of your own body arched like a bow beneath him, completely undone as his emergency lights painting your skin in flashes of crimson and violet. His uniform shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his tie askew, the pristine authority of the Blüdhaven Police Department thoroughly corrupted by the sheer, unhinged desperation of his hunger for you. It was an illicit, intoxicating sight that sent a fresh wave of heat and wetness to your core.

He shifted his grip, letting go of the cuffs for a split second only to wrap his massive arm entirely around your waist, pulling you so flush against his chest that there wasn't a single millimetre of space between you. His free hand reached around to the front, his long fingers finding your swollen, slick clit and drawing tight, quick circles that perfectly matched the brutal pace of his hips.

The dual stimulation nearly shattered you. Your vision blurred into a kaleidoscope of red and blue. Your inner walls clamped down around him in tight, frantic spasms, desperately trying to lock him inside you as the pressure in your lower stomach built to a breaking point.

“Please—I’m gonna—I’m close,” you whimpered, your head thrashing against his shoulder.

“Let go,” he commanded against your skin, his thrusts becoming sloppier, more desperate as he neared his own peak. “Come for me, sweetheart. Let me feel it.”

With a final, shattering plunge, you broke. A loud, uninhibited cry tore from your throat as your orgasm hit you in violent, crashing waves, paralyzing your muscles and causing your body to tremble helplessly against him. The tight, rhythmic squeezing of your internal walls tore away the last shred of Dick’s control. He let out a low, guttural roar, his hips driving into you to the absolute hilt one last time as his entire body went rigid. He buried his face in your damp hair, holding you tightly against the hood of the car as his own release tore through him in thick, ropey pulses as he emptied himself inside the condom.

You remained collapsed against the hood, the cool metal a blissful relief against your overheated skin, while Dick held you tightly from behind. His heartbeat was a frantic, comforting thud against your back. For several long, breathless minutes, neither of you moved. The only sounds on the empty backroad were the ragged sound of your chests heaving in unison.

Slowly, carefully, Dick pulled out of you, a soft groan escaping his lips as he stepped back to fix his uniform. The sudden absence of his heat made you shiver against the cool midnight air. You felt the satisfying click of the handcuffs unlocking, and your arms weakly fell forward onto the hood of the car as the metal restraints were slid free.

Before you could even move to pull your clothes up, you felt Dick’s arms wrap tenderly around your waist from behind. He lifted you up effortlessly, turning you around to face him and sitting you on the hood of the cruiser. He carefully helped you pull your pants back up, his large hands surprisingly gentle now, completely devoid of the dominant edge from moments before.

He looked up at you, his blue eyes soft and shining with an undeniable warmth, a crooked, boyish grin finally spreading across his face. His hair was completely messy, and his uniform shirt was wrinkled and slightly unbuttoned, making him look devastatingly handsome in the pulsing red and blue lights.

"So," he murmured, his thumb gently wiping a stray tear of pleasure from your cheek. "Are you going to keep speeding on my watch, or do we need to schedule regular... rehabilitation sessions?"

You let out a weak, breathless laugh, winding your arms weakly around his neck and pulling him close. "I think I might just continue to be a repeat offender, Officer Grayson."