DAN HENG WORLD DOMINATION
Feel free to chat with me about Dan heng, i need moots
- amateur writer with shit grammar but wild ideas ✯
- Sometimes post HSR leaks
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WAIT I CANT HELP BUT THINK OF THIS SHORT STORY IDEA
What if one day Alfred was at a grocery store doing his usual to grab groceries for the house and black reader was with them and there was a old black lady around Alfred’s age and she complimented him and soon a whole conversation started and black reader is just looking at Alfred so proudly as he’s talking to a melanin goddess bc black don’t crack and there literally on face time with Duke showing him the interaction and now there just teasing Alfred but Alfred is going on a date with the woman
ALSO PEAK IDEA THIS MAN NEEDS A OLD BLACK WOMAN FOR HIS SOUL
"HELLO MISS???"
The manor had seen many strange things — alien invasions, time travel, even Damian’s “pet” demon once but nothing, nothing, compared to Alfred Pennyworth humming Luther Vandross while dusting the chandelier.
He’d been… happy. Suspiciously happy. Smiling to himself, laughing under his breath, and cooking meals that tasted like they came straight out of a Southern kitchen. And the smell of cocoa butter? That was the final straw.
So there you were two of Gotham’s finest detectives hiding behind a stack of oranges at the local farmers market, fake aprons on, fake name tags reading “Gary” and “Steve.” You watched as Alfred strolled through the aisles, smiling like a man half his age, beside a woman who looked like she’d stepped out of a warm summer memory. Brown skin glowing, silver-streaked sister locs touching her shoulders, her voice soft and honeyed with a Southern drawl.
They were holding hands.
You nearly dropped your binoculars.
“Bro,” Duke whispered, “Alfred’s got game.”
You elbowed him. “Since when do you know what game looks like?”
He threw an orange at you. You caught it barely before the two of them approached the stand.
“Excuse me,” the woman said sweetly, “how much are these oranges?”
You froze. Duke froze. Alfred raised an eyebrow.
“Uh—uh—it’s a buy one get one free, ma’am,” Duke stammered.
You hissed, “That’s for shirts, idiot!”
He shot back, “You can buy one get one free with food too, dip—”
“Ahem.” Alfred’s polite cough cut through your argument like a knife. “Master Duke. Miss [Name]. I wasn’t aware you’d taken up employment at the market.”
You both stood at attention like soldiers caught sneaking out of formation. “We’re, uh volunteering!” Duke blurted.
Alfred’s eyes narrowed. “And you’re not stalking me, I presume?”
Silence.
You both wordlessly filled the woman’s bag with oranges far too many and practically shoved it into her hands. “Have a great day, ma’am!”
“But I didn’t pay—”
“Never mind, Miss! Have a great day!” you said, pushing them along before Alfred could interrogate you further.
As they walked away, you heard her laugh softly. “How odd. Do you know them?”
Alfred smiled, that rare, gentle smile that made him look years younger. “My grandchildren, my dear.”
She chuckled, looping her arm through his. “Well, they were certainly sweet. You’ll have to take me there sometime.”
And just like that, Alfred Pennyworth the stoic, unflappable butler of Wayne Manor melted.
You and Duke just stood there, dumbfounded, surrounded by oranges and disbelief.
Listen, I know you just did Reader x Jason without knowing he’s Red Hood, but an idea popped in my head for Tim and I’m absolutely dyin
Like imagine Reader is talking to Tim about how hot the Gotham vigilantes are, but then they get to Red Robin and go “He’s adorable! Just a baby!” Ends up with a debate on whether or not Red Robin could be sexy or just adorable before Tim finally decides to prove it to you
You’d sat down beside Tim for just a second which definitely turned into hours even though he had work to do on his Laptop.
Tim being Tim, had simply adjusted around the inconvenience. He didn’t mind you sitting nearly on him at all. Now he sat squeezed into one corner of the couch with a Laptop balanced against his knee while you scrolled through social media.
The apartment was comfortable. No pressure to constantly talk. No pressure to entertain each other. Just being here in the same space. Tim genuinely loved afternoons like this. Until you suddenly laughed and this wasn’t your usual laugh. He will be confronted with something.
Without looking up from his Laptop, he sighed.
“What is it?”
“Oh my God.”
“What happened now.” Tim closed his eyes.
“There are people ranking Gotham vigilantes by attractiveness.” That got his attention. Slowly, he closed the Laptop.
“You found that side of the internet.” He asks while taking a long breath. Hm.. he remembers taking down a few because some of them made him look like a complete idiot. oops-
“You knew this existed?”
“I know Gotham citizens need hobbies.” You grinned and shifted closer to him, already reading comments aloud. The next ten minutes were genuinely entertaining. Mostly because you had strong opinions for someone who had never met a single vigilante in your life.
Tim nearly laughed himself unconscious when you described Nightwing as looking like someone who definitely knew he was attractive.
If only you knew you’re talking about his brother.
Then you kept scrolling. Biggest mistake there.
“Oh.” Tim immediately knew that tone. That usually means you found something and you will talk about it for hours.
“What?” You sat up straighter, staring at your screen with growing interest.
“No way.”
“What?” Instead of answering, you shoved your phone toward him. A picture of Red Robin which was a rooftop photograph taken from several buildings away. The image quality was terrible. Tim recognized it instantly and then he made the mistake of looking at your face. Because you were smiling.
“Oh Red Robin. The coolest vigilante in my opinion. Really attractive.” Tim muttered.
“What?” You pointed dramatically at the screen.
“He’s adorable.” Tim stared. Did you just call him adorable? I mean, technically you don’t know you just called him adorable.
“What?”
“Look at him.” Tim did. Technically speaking because he was mostly staring at you. You looked delighted by your own discovery.
“He’s cute.” Tim blinked again but this time it was slower. As if he is trying to process what you just said.
“Cute.”
“Yes.”
“Not attractive.”
“No.” You immediately shook your head. Tim felt personally attacked.
“None at all?”
“Nope.” You looked far too confident about this. Meanwhile, Tim was trying very hard to understand how the conversation had somehow ended with his girlfriend calling his vigilante persona adorable. You zoomed further into the picture.
“Look at him.”
“I am.”
“He looks so innocent.” Tim nearly dropped his poor Laptop because of what you just said.
“Innocent?”
“Yeah.” You looked genuinely fond now. Tim wasn’t sure he’d ever recovered from a sentence so quickly.
“He looks like he studies a lot.” That part is true.
“What does that even mean?”
“You know exactly what it means.”
“No, actually. I really don’t.”
“He looks like he reminds people to bring jackets when it’s cold.” Tim buried his face in one hand. This was unbelievable. He didn’t imagine his day to end like this. Him being called adorable while he was supposed to look intimidating.
“He looks responsible.”
“Responsible isn’t an insult.”
“It is when we’re discussing attractiveness.” Tim stared at the ceiling. Somewhere in Gotham or Blüdhaven, Dick would find this story absolutely hilarious. Tim was never telling him. Dick would always remind him. Never letting him forget about this.
The longer you looked at the picture, the more committed you became to the argument.
“He has absolutely zero sex appeal.” Tim choked. He DID NOT expect you to say that. He kinda felt his heart break here.
“Are you okay?” You immediately turned toward him.
“No.”
“Tim?”
“No.” You frowned because why is this affecting him so much? Does he know who this guy is? Is it a close friend of his?
“Why are you acting like this personally offends you?” Because it did.
“I just think you’re wrong.”
“I’m not.” You laughed. Like what? How does he know? Did he sleep with him once? You know he is bi. Why doesn’t he just tell you that he slept with Red Robin if this was the case?
“You are.”
“I’m really not.”
“You are.”
“He looks like he gets excited about sex. Like he would yell YAYYY whenever he gets laid.” You pointed toward the picture again. Tim froze.
“Okay, that one was unnecessary.” You gasped.
“YOU AGREE.”
“No.”
“You absolutely agree.” Tim set his Laptop down. The motion immediately caught your attention. Something about his expression had changed. The amusement was still there but now there was something else underneath it. And it all looks suspicious.
“What?” you asked. Tim smiled. Just a small smile that immediately set off every alarm bell in your head.
“What?” you repeated.
“Nothing.”
“Tim.”
“Nothing.” He repeated but you know him better than this. He is definitely planning something in his brain.
“You have a look.”
“What look?”
“The one you get before doing something questionable.” His smile widened slightly. That was never a good sign. Especially because Tim was usually reasonable. When Tim looked pleased with himself, it meant he’d already figured something out and somehow that was always worse.
“You know what?” he said, closing his book completely. “I think we should settle this.”
“Settle what?” You blinked.
“The argument.”
“What argument?” Tim stood. You immediately became suspicious.
“The one where you’re objectively wrong.” A laugh escaped you.
“Oh my God.”
“I’m serious.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am.”
“You are defending a vigilante you’ve never met.” Tim’s expression twitched. That seemed to amuse him for some reason. Then he held out a hand.
“C’mon.” You looked at it. Then at him. What is he trying to do?
“Why?”
“Trust me.”
“No.” His laugh was immediate.
“Fair.” He says in between his laugh. Oh god, what is he trying to do?
“Where are we going?”
“The bathroom.” You stared now, completely confused because you actually don’t understand where this is all going.
“The bathroom.” You repeated.
“Yep.”
“Tim.”
“Yep.”
“Why?” You ask him suspiciously.
“You’ll see.” His smile somehow became even more suspicious. That answer did not help. Every instinct told you this was a terrible idea. But curiosity won.
A few minutes later you found yourself standing inside the bathroom while Tim stood outside the doorway, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“No peeking.”
“That sentence has never ended well.” You pointed at him.
“It’ll be worth it.”
“Tim.”
“No peeking.” You narrowed your eyes and he simply grinned. Then stepped backward into the hallway and shut the door, leaving you alone and you’re still very much confused.
For several minutes, the bathroomremained completely silent. Then you heard footsteps approaching slowly. Stopping directly outside the bathroom with a knock following a second later..
Your heart was suddenly beating a little faster because whatever was happening had become ridiculously dramatic.
“Tim?”
“Open the door.” You frowned, reached for the handle and pulled it open. The question died before it left your mouth.
Because Tim wasn’t standing there. Or at least, not the version of Tim you’d known for the last several years. Instead standing in the hallway was Gotham’s so called adorable vigilante. The unmistakable red and black emblem stretched across his chest.
For a long moment, your brain simply refused to process what it was seeing. Then Red Robin tilted his head slightly and you see Tim smiling in a very dangerous way.
“I don’t think you’ll find me adorable after what I have planned for you.”
Tim Red Robin takes slow steps towards you now and you feel yourself backing up against the sink. Oh shit. He is definitely going to prove you the exact opposite of what you called him earlier.
He slowly turns you around so you can watch yourself in the mirror. With a swift motion his hands remove your shorts along with your now damp panties.
He pushes you a little down agains the counter which causes a shiver run down your spine. While holding eye contact (sort of) with you can see how Tim is preparing himself to enter your now pulsing pussy.
“Look at yourself when I fuck you.”
And you do as he says.
You look at yourself as Tim enters into your tight pussy slowly, your walls now expanding around his cock.
You gasp at the feeling.
“Look at yourself. I just pushed inside and you’re already breathing heavily.” Tim laughs above you.
Picking up the motion, tim thrusts inside you while his hands hold your hips steady. Knees feeling very weak now and your hands holding the edge of the counter. You feel every single inch of him and the veins sliding in and out your pussy.
“Fuuuuck.”
The feeling leaves your mouth hang open while the sound of his skin hitting against yours fills the bathroom.
“Still adorable? Huh? Tell me how good I fuck this sweet pussy of yours”
“so good- hmph-”
You close your eyes as soon as you feel a knot build in your lower stomach. Tim’s thrust only gets more and more rough and you feel your whole body jerking.
“Pussy belongs only to me.”
you let out a wet moan which makes Tim feel getting closer. You clench tightly around his veiny cock, feeling him closer now.
“I’m gonna fill you up with my cum yeah? Fill this pussy up until it drips down your legs.”
“Tim, please!” you scream and this earns you a laugh from Tim.
“Baby… Tim is not here.”
He thrusts inside you a few more times until you both come undone at the same time, cum mixing up with each other now.
You rest your head on top on the counter while you try and catch your breath. Fuuuuck.
He doesn’t pull out from you just now. He needs you to say it. He needs you to call him something else other than adorable.
“Say it baby. How do I look.”
He slowly lifts your head up by your hair and you watch the smirk on his face.
“Fuck. You’re fucking sexy. Anything but adorable.”
!!: fluffy fluff. gn!reader but written with fem! in mind. no use of y/n. reader can sing (a little self-indulgent). reader has a cat. insomniac!Tim. established relationship. first "i love you". 1k words.
[dc masterlist]
Tim Drake often finds himself falling asleep in the most unlikely places you can imagine, but when he really wanted to get a good night's sleep, he just couldn't. That’s why he always went to your apartment.
You were his rock; you made him feel safe. You were the only one who could calm his nerves and put his mind at ease. He needed you to be able to fall asleep.
He had keys to your apartment so he could come in whenever he wanted. He knew you locked the windows at night; he’d told you to do it just to keep you safe. And the moment he walked into your home, the breath he’d been holding escaped his lungs.
The scent of cinnamon from your scented candles—the ones that were now unlit—still lingered in the air. He loved that smell; it reminded him of you.
You had left a warm-toned lamp on in the living room. The one next to your bookshelf.
You knew he was coming. He always did, and you would always be there, waiting for him.
Your bedroom door was ajar, just enough for your cat to come and go as she pleased, but not enough for the light to come in and wake you up.
Tim, as quietly as he could, left his shoes by the door and tiptoed to your room. You were sleeping peacefully, with your cat curled up between your legs. The cat looked up as soon as she sensed movement in the room and let out a sleepy meow when she recognized Tim.
“Hi, Laia,” Tim whispered, stepping closer to gently stroke your cat’s fur, which made her purr.
“Tim?” you whispered his name.
“Hi, babe.” He kissed you on the temple and began undressing to get into bed with you.
You had already gotten used to Tim coming to sleep with you, which is why you always left the living room light on and always slept on the right side of the bed, leaving the left side free for him.
As soon as Tim was completely covered by the sheets, his arm moved to wrap around your waist and pull your body toward him.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Tim said, and you kissed him on the cheek.
“You always say that, but you keep coming into my room even though you know Laia’s going to meow at you." Your voice sounded less hoarse and sweeter by the second.
“And you’re a light sleeper,” your boyfriend pointed out.
“Yeah, that too,” you said with a laugh, and then you gave him a short peck on the lips. “How was patrol?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Tim said. That night, the patrol had taken an unexpected turn, and everything that could have gone wrong did go wrong, and he kept blaming himself for it. In the end, Bruce fixed everything he could and sent Tim home for the night—not as a punishment, but to look out for him. Because Tim had been disoriented these past few days, and what he needed was sleep.
You stroked his chest so tenderly that some of the tension he’d been carrying melted away.
“Don’t worry about that now, let’s go to sleep.” You gave him one last kiss before drifting back into a deep sleep.
But as time went on, Tim couldn’t fall asleep. You hadn’t moved from his side; your hand was still resting on his chest, and he could feel your deep breaths against his shoulder. Laia had shifted toward the pillow, lying next to Tim’s face.
He didn’t want to wake you, but he didn’t know what else to do. So he moved his hand to rest it on yours and began to stroke it.
“Babe,” he called softly, looking at you and admiring how beautiful you were even while sleeping.
You responded with a soft moan before you opened your eyes. “What?” The word didn’t sound harsh; it came out of your mouth wrapped in absolute tenderness and love for your boyfriend.
“I can’t sleep,” Tim said, as if it weren’t obvious.
You, now with your eyes slightly half-open, lifted your head to get a better look at him.
“Do you want me to sing to you?” you smiled.
Yes. He’d love that.
He loved your voice more than anything in the world, and every time you sang, it was as if you were casting a spell on him, hypnotizing him and making him fall even more in love with you.
You started singing to him. A lullaby your mother used to sing to you when you were a baby, and that you used to sing to your little cousins when you babysat them. The only song you knew that could make someone fall asleep faster, the one you sang to Tim once when he had a nightmare and it worked. The one you’ve always sung to him ever since.
Tim’s eyelids began to close and his breathing evened out.
It was then, before he fell completely asleep, that he spoke.
“I love you,” he whispered, as if it were a secret. Something intimate just for the two of you.
It was the first time he had said it and he meant it. And he’d say it again if you asked him to.
You smiled, not even bothering to finish the song, and kissed him. Your lips touched his and melted into them, fitting together like a puzzle. The missing piece that you’d both been searching for forever, had finally been found in each other.
“I love you too.”
Tim will never be able to fall asleep without you. And he didn't mind, because he wanted you by his side forever.
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Tim walking past the coffee shop you frequented years ago. He glances inside the window as he carries on.
Until his eyes glaze over you, and his heart stops.
He stops in his tracks and turns to look back through the glass almost desperately. Searching for you.
He thinks he hallucinated, until he sees you typing on a laptop. He stares. His hand lowers the umbrella that he was holding. His movements automatic as he closes it.
The rain hasn’t stopped, It’s pouring. But he’s too stunned to see you. The rain soaking his hair and his clothes.
You look the same to him, just a bit more refined.
Fucking ethereal
He’s trying to get the courage to actually go in, say hi. Catch up. Something
But he’s stuck in that spot, reminiscing of what could have been if he didn’t dump you years ago.
You were too good, too sweet, he cared so much about you but he became robin. He couldn’t juggle you and being robin. He was hurting you. He kept lying about his whereabouts.
You brought it up to him. He lied. You could tell, but you didn’t say anything. He was young, he didn’t know he could have both.
His thoughts are interrupted when your eyes meet his through the coffee shop window. Yours widen in shock, as you witness the man you love, standing there. You tried to date, a little over a year after he left you. It never worked out.
He was it for you and now he’s outside. Staring at you, like you’re going to slip away. He is soaked, head to toe and it doesn’t even seem to register in him.
You wave him inside, a bit worried he’s going to get sick. He comes in and makes his way toward your table.
He sits down across from you and is at a loss for words.
“Hi, Tim”
He breathes out a sigh of relief.
“Hi….wow, look at you!”
You chuckle awkwardly, heat rising to your cheeks.
“I didn’t realize I had that effect.”
You tease lightly.
“On me? Yeah, that never went away”
He spoke earnestly. You raise an eyebrow, a bit shocked at the honesty coming out of him.
He smiles as he combs through the hair on his forehead. Still as handsome as ever.
He stares, like he’s memorizing every bit of your face.
He did that before he dumped you. He catalogued every line, every freckle, every small scar, the specks in your eyes. He hasn’t forgotten you. To see you in person again, god his heart is beating out of his chest.
“You okay Tim?”
He clears his throat and looks down at his hands on the table.
“Yeah I uh— I just want to be honest about everything….Can I?”
You walked into Wayne Manor with a smoothie in one hand and a grin on your face that immediately made everyone suspicious. Dick looked up from the couch and frowned. “Okay, what did you do?” You rolled your eyes. “Nothing.” Jason snorted. “That’s exactly what someone who did something would say.” Tim glanced over and noticed an aftercare spray sticking out of your bag. “Why do you have that?” You froze. “Uh…” Dick immediately sat up. “OH MY GOD, YOU GOT A TATTOO!” “No!” you shouted. Jason pointed dramatically. “A piercing.” The room went silent. Everyone stared at you. You groaned. “Fine. I got a belly piercing.” “YOU GOT A WHAT?!” Dick yelled. Jason fell back laughing. “No way. That’s hilarious.” Tim blinked. “When?” “Today.” “Without telling anyone?” “It’s my stomach, not a family group project!” Just then Bruce walked into the room. “What’s all the yelling?” Everyone pointed at you. Bruce frowned. “What happened?” You sighed dramatically. “I got a belly piercing.” Bruce looked genuinely offended. “You did what?” “I got a belly piercing.” “Without discussing it with me?” You stared at him. “Bruce, you’re not my manager.” Jason was practically crying from laughter at this point. Damian, who had been reading quietly the entire time, finally looked up. “I fail to see why everyone is reacting as if she joined a circus.” Dick pointed at him. “Because she stabbed a hole through her stomach!” “That is not how piercings work, Grayson,” Damian replied. Before anyone could continue, Alfred walked into the room carrying a tray. “Is there a reason I can hear shouting from the driveway?” Jason immediately pointed at you. “Y/N got a belly piercing.” Alfred looked at you, then nodded. “Very nice.” The entire room froze. Bruce looked betrayed. “That’s it?” Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Master Bruce, Master Jason once attempted to jump a motorcycle over a fountain. Compared to that, this is rather tame.” “I WAS TWELVE!” Jason protested. “And yet my point remains.” You smirked and took a sip of your smoothie while everyone started arguing. Tim narrowed his eyes. “Why are you smiling like that?” You slowly lowered your drink. “No reason.” Dick gasped. “There’s more.” Jason sat upright immediately. “You got another piercing, didn’t you?” You turned and sprinted toward the stairs. “GET BACK HERE!” Dick screamed as the entire family chased after you, while Alfred calmly continued serving tea like this wasn’t the most normal Tuesday at Wayne Manor.
DIVIDERS - @uzmacchiato
well that took a turn, I’m talking about me not the fic btw
Mark Grayson X Gn! Reader (Ft. Platonic Oliver Grayson & Debbie grayson)
summary : he rather take you anywhere other than his house.
cw : sfw, fluff, gn! they/them reader, literally just a short silly drabble. also oliver being that one roblox kid who has no filters but they're funny instead of being insufferable just sits right with me.
an : nolan is out of the picture, i don't rlly care abt him (sorry nolan lovers but debbie deserves better). also this was mainly inspired by my own little brother who always begs me to play roblox or minecraft with him everyday, even though he has his own friends (i'm literally a grown ass adult).
masterlist.
mark hated it whenever you visited his house.
not because he was embarrassed of you—god, far from it. if anything, mark would scream from the rooftops about how much he loved you if debbie didn't threaten to ground him for 'disturbing the entire neighborhood.'
no, the real problem was his family. because the moment you stepped into the grayson household, it was a battleground on who gets to hog you for the day.
and mark was getting very tired of competing for your attention in his own home.
the second your knuckles tapped against the front door, you heard a loud thud from the inside, you raised an eyebrow as you heard another louder thud.
"I GOT HERE FIRST!"
"MOM! HE KNEED ME IN THE STOMACH!"
"OLIVER, GET OFF HIM—"
debbie’s exhausted yelling echoed through the house, followed by hurried footsteps and something crashing into the wall hard enough to shake the picture frames.
you barely managed to hold back your laughter before the door finally swung open, revealing your boyfriend who stood there panting heavily, his dark hair is disheveled and cheeks flushed from exertion.
hanging off his back like an angry koala was oliver, the purple-skinned boy wrapped around him with all four limbs, tiny fingers hooked tightly into mark’s shirt as he desperately tried to drag his older brother away from the entrance.
"don’t let them in!" oliver grunted, straining with all his might. voice cracking slightly in those childish high pitched tone, "they’re here for me!"
"last time i checked, they are literally MY partner," mark snapped, trying to pry oliver off his back.
"but you hog them all the time! it's not fair!" the little boy grunted louder as he tries to push mark away harder.
"i’m supposed to hog them! i’m dating them!"
you snorted, stepping inside while the two continued wrestling in the doorway and oliver immediately perked up the second he saw you.
"i found a new roblox horror game!" he announced excitedly, "you promised you'd play with me!"
mark stared at him in disbelief, did his little brother seriously wanted to kidnap you just to play some roblox game?? "you already played with them for HOURS last week!"
oliver stuck out his tongue at his older brother. "and? friends hang out all the times!"
"friends don’t steal someone's time with their boyfriend every single visit!"
"ever heard the saying of friends before ho-"
"what was that?"
"nothing, mom!" oliver and mark simultaneously yelled with a panicked tone the second they heard debbie's warning tone.
mark wrapped an arm possessively around your waist before oliver could latch onto you instead, shooting his little brother a victorious grin.
oliver responded by clinging to your sleeve with all the determination of a child denied candy.
"see?" mark complained to you, pursing his lips with furrowed eyebrows akin to a kicked puppy that made oliver's face contorted into a disgusted expression— "this is what i deal with every day."
"you’re just jealous because they like me more," oliver shot back smugly.
"I WILL THROW YOU INTO THE SUN."
"no superpowers!"
"mom!" mark shouted. "can i atleast throw a chair at him? you know that he can tank it-"
"no property damage before dinner!" debbie yelled from somewhere deeper in the house.
while the brothers continued bickering, you quietly slipped away, already knowing exactly where to find debbie.
the warm scent of vanilla and cinnamon guided you into the kitchen.
debbie stood by the counter pulling a tray of cookies from the oven, humming softly to herself. the entire kitchen felt warm and lived-in, golden evening sunlight pouring through the windows while the radio played quietly in the background.
the moment she noticed you, her face brightened instantly.
"there you are, sweetheart," she said warmly. "ignore those two gremlins. come help me taste test these."
you happily accepted the cookie she offered, still warm enough to melt against your tongue.
"oh, before i forget," debbie started, already reaching for her phone. "i bought that moisturizer i told you about."
that was the beginning of the end, and by the time mark and oliver finally stumbled into the kitchen—still arguing and slightly out of breath—they froze in horror.
you were seated comfortably beside debbie at the kitchen island, completely absorbed in conversation while she enthusiastically scrolled through skincare products on her phone.
"and then you use the serum before the night cream,” debbie explained seriously. you nodded with equal seriousness while munching on the cookies she prepared.
mark’s shoulders slumped instantly and oliver looked equally devastated as both boys exchanged the same miserable expression of defeat.
because once debbie started talking about skincare routines, absolutely nobody could pull you away from her.
"traitor," mark muttered under his breath making you glanced over innocently. "hm?" he sighed dramatically before shuffling over and collapsing against your shoulder anyway, arms wrapping around your waist while oliver climbed onto the stool beside you with a pout.
neither of them will get your full attention anymore.
"mark- I can't. So good. I swear I can't live without you. Please."
Mohawk Mark's hands gripped your waist, bouncing you faster on his dick. Sweat covered your bodies, clothes long discarded. His eyes were piercing into you, never letting you break eye contact. Everything you tried he gripped your face making your turn back to him. All these years, after losing you on his planet he couldn't believe he finally had you. It took almost nothing to convince you to get into bed with him.
Mark pushed you to lay down on your back. His thrust never stopped, thrust deepening with each stroke. His tongue slid up your body until he got to your nipple. Tugging harshly with his teeth made you arch yourself into him. The sound of skin slapping filled the room, mixing with your moans of "not so rough". Your nails dug into his shoulder causing blood to catch under them.
"He doesn't even know what he's missing. Think he's the original, lame ass. Keep going baby, gonna make you cum all fucking night.
mark ... w a physically affectionate reader ... they love holding him , blowing him kisses from afar in the most dramatic way possible, holding his waist when walking or standing behind him , sitting on his lap etc .. theyre GLUED to mark i fear 🙂↕️
stuck like glue
“Don’t pull out yet…” You sniffle softly, turning your head to try and peak at him. “Hm?” Mark hums, blinking stupidly. You wriggle a bit on his lap, he hisses quietly, “I said don’t pull out yet, wanna be close still.” Mark sighs, but holds your hips to keep you still, his dick can’t handle you wriggling around.
He slumps forward, his cheek against your clothed back, the two of you had been impatient. Life can get in the way of sex, you thought with Mark in a dorm you’d be able to fuck 24/7 but alas… between his superhero shenanigans, classes, william being around… it was pretty difficult to get his cute girlfriend bent over and fully naked.
So in the midst of attempting to study it went from your sweet mewls for a hug… then a kiss… reassurance that he still sees you as the apple of his eye… his dick just sort of ended up in you… Mark can’t help but find your need to stick to him kind of hot. So hot that your shirt never even came off, and he just kind of grabbed his dick through the fly of his boxers… sue him. It’s not like your pussy minded, still slick and leaking against his balls.
“You okay? Too much?” Mark contemplates pulling out hearing you sniffle. He stops when you shake your head, “I’m okay, just wanna be close to you.”
“Baby… my dick is still inside, how much closer could we be?” Mark doesn’t mean to be crude, but he’s realized it’s best to be honest with you. “Sorry…” you mutter leaning forward on his desk, the surface is cool against your clammy skin. “No sorries, you just missed me didn’t you.” He teases only a little, his hands going from your hips to rub your stomach, it’s almost uncomfortably hot, he shudders when you tighten around him, the attention is welcomed. “I did… you’ve been really busy… thought you forgot about me..”
Mark doesn’t think he could forget about you even if he got thrown to a different planet, pussy this good gets a guy whipped fast, he’s at your beck and call. “How could I forget about someone as perfect as you?” Mark twitches inside you, fuck he’s so easy, brushing your hair over your shoulder to mouth at your nape. “Was in a fucking coma and I couldn’t forget about you.” He sighs, eyes almost rolling back as he gently adjusts you forward, taking a little peak to see your labia spread around him, the creamy mess making every slick noise audible.
“Mark— don’t joke about that.” You sigh, lulling forwards, his strong arms wrap around you. Maybe you did it on purpose, just to feel his strong biceps tense around you.
“‘s true though, shit—” Mark shudders, his hand snakes down past your navel, slowing his thrusts to gather slick and drag it up, parting your folds to rub your clit. There is no way he’s gonna come before you…again. You hiccup, between the first orgasm and the duel sensation you arent far off. “Still sensitive?”
“Mmph yeah.”
“Me too.” Mark gasps, his mouth kissing whatever is in reach, your nape, behind your ears, your shoulders. “I can’t be apart from you for so long again.” He groans, maybe he’s just as needy as you are, or maybe you’ve just rubbed off on him, in a metaphorical way of course… “Me neither, I can’t stand it.” You hiccup, reaching behind and squeezing his tense thigh, the wet little noise you make makes Mark shiver, you pussy spasms around him as it clenches with second long intervals, the jerky little shake of your hips has him practically hearing colors, “Fuck— inside?” He hiccups like an idiot, like he hadn’t already come in you earlier, you whine at his stupidity, he’s spilling inside you before you can confirm, he’s too fucking sensitive, going tense, biting into your shoulder so he shuts the fuck up and doesn’t moan like a amateur porn star as any brains he has left explodes in favor of overstimulating himself with your pussy.
You shiver as he catches his breath, “I think I need a minute… your pussy fried my brain.”
“Huh?”
“Just… Just shut up and I’ll shower with you and give you a massage.”
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summary: the justice league thinks bruce has lowkey lost his mind when he hosts a pool party at the manor, but hey, who are they to turn one down?
cw: swearing, silly siblings
a/n: shoutout to @/ragingbookdragon, i read their pool party fic in the first few months of getting tumblr and it was so fire. idek why im writing this tbh it's winter in australia rn.
You told your dad a pool party would be fun, and after a significant amount of convincing him, he relented.
The first time Bruce announced the idea at dinner, the entire table went silent.
“So kids, me and your sister were talking, and I’m planning on hosting a pool party.”
Jason blinked. “You mean like… socially?”
“Yes.”
Damian slowly lowered his fork. “Why?”
Bruce sighed deeply. “It’s for the start of summer.”
Tim looked up from his coffee. “You’re willingly inviting the justice league into the manor.”
“Correct.”
“Voluntarily.”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m beginning to regret sharing ideas with you people.”
The League thought Bruce had finally snapped too.
Hal laughed for like five straight minutes when Clark told him.
“Bruce?” Hal wheezed. “Hosting a POOL PARTY?”
Diana smiled knowingly though. “It was probably Y/N’s idea.”
Clark nodded instantly. “Absolutely Y/N’s idea.”
Pre-planning for the pool party starts like it’s a military operation. Bruce genuinely makes spreadsheets. Colour-coded ones.
Barbara somehow gets dragged into organising RSVPs because apparently nobody else is “capable of answering messages like functioning members of society.”
“I need final numbers by Friday,” Barbara says into the Justice League official WhatsApp group chat (look me in the eye and tell me they wouldn't have one c'mon)
Wally replies instantly: put me down for 3
Barbara: Why three.
Wally: idk im hungry
The family group chat, on the other hand, becomes unbearable within hours.
Dick: Can I invite the Titans?
Bruce: They were already invited.
Jason: Can Roy bring his weird grill
Bruce: No.
You: Do you think we can hire one of those huge inflatable water slides
Bruce: Also no
Costco shopping day is genuinely catastrophic.
Alfred takes you, Steph, and Cass because Bruce “doesn’t trust the boys to grocery shop responsibly.”
Which is fair because Dick once bought jalapenos and cream cheese to make jalapeno cream cheese takis but actually forgot the takis (my brother did this once)
“Guys we need mozzarella sticks.”
“My dear Stephanie,” Alfred says calmly, “we already have three boxes.”
“Okay but what if people want MORE mozzarella sticks?”
You and Cass disappear for twenty minutes and come back with enough chips to survive the apocalypse.
Alfred looks at the trolley.
Looks at both of you.
Then simply sighs in tired acceptance.
Cass records Steph trying to lift the giant catering-sized tub of potato salad and immediately dropping it.
“WHY IS IT SO DENSE?”
“Because,” you laugh, “it’s potato salad.”
You and Alfred spend the night before the party making food together in the manor kitchen.
Sandwich platters. Fruit trays. Sliders. Pasta salad. Desserts. Mocktails. Fancy lemonade. Literally everything imaginable.
Meanwhile outside Dick and Tim are in charge of chairs, lights, and decorations.
Dick tries making things aesthetic.
Tim tries making things practical.
They argue the entire time.
“The fairy lights go HERE.”
“Nobody cares about fairy lights.” ("nobody cares about TIIIM Drake" type shit)
“You have no vision.”
“You spent forty minutes arranging cushions.”
“Because pillow decor matters, Timothy.”
Jason gets assigned floatie duty because Bruce refuses to let him near “anything expensive or explosive.”
Unfortunately, Jason takes the floaties VERY seriously.
There are giant flamingos, sharks, an inflatable Batmobile, a dragon the size of a sedan.
He’s outside sweating with an industrial air pump muttering angrily.
“If one more damn inflatable swan deflates I’m ending it all.”
Damian gets stuck wrangling the house pets into the manor before guests arrive.
Which sounds easy until you remember: Titus exists, Ace exists, Alfred the cat exists, and Elizabeth exists
Damian walks into the kitchen carrying a lot of leashes and visible irritation.
And finally everyone starts showing up, getting the party started.
The driveway becomes ridiculous.
Cars everywhere.
Bikes everywhere.
Somebody parked a spaceship nearby
Alfred starts tweaking at the sight of the horrific parking jobs the fucking Justice League of America have done.
The energy shifts instantly once everybody arrives.
Music starts booming through the speakers, of which you are in full control of because everyone agrees you have the best music taste (and spotify premium).
People jump in the pool immediately. Conversations overlap everywhere. Somebody’s laughing every five seconds.
Kori and Donna end up securing the hot tub and camp there for a significant amount of time until Dick successfully bribed them out with food
Bruce stands near the patio watching everyone anxiously for a moment before you walk over handing him a drink.
Jonathan and Damian screw off to play Cheese Vikings
Chicken fight is going on and shit hits the fan in the water.
Jason spends most of the party throwing people (mainly Damian) into the pool
Bruce spends most of the afternoon yelling about running and sunscreen and it drives him up the wall.
"STOP RUNNING."
Nobody listens.
"I MEAN IT."
Still nobody listens.
The sunscreen situation becomes a coordinated operation.
Bruce, Diana, and Dinah have all agreed that nobody is escaping.
Nobody.
You try.
Naturally.
"I'm literally fine."
"No."
"Dad."
"No."
Ten minutes later Bruce is physically holding your face still while applying sunscreen.
The water gun war starts because of you (Bruce confiscated Damian's nerf guns moments prior to this)
It always starts because of you.
You, Tim, and Steph form an alliance.
A dangerous one.
Mostly because all three of you are unbelievably annoying together
Steph shoots first.
Tim immediately follows.
You get Bart directly in the shoulder.
"BETRAYAL."
"You were never on the team."
The backyard descends into war.
Then Steph makes a horrible decision.
A truly horrible decision.
She sprays Bruce.
Silence.
Bruce slowly lowers the martini he was holding.
Everybody freezes.
Steph immediately realises. "...Oops."
Bruce disappears into the main garage.
Nobody likes that.
Nobody likes that at all.
Three minutes later he returns carrying a garden hose.
The screaming is immediate.
"OH MY GOD."
"WHAT THE FUK HE'S GOT THE HOSE."
"RUN."
Bruce absolutely hoses down every single person involved.
Including you.
"DAD."
"Consequences."
"I WASN'T EVEN THE ONE WHO STARTED IT."
"You were encouraging her."
In the kitchen, you and Cass slather vegetable oil over the melon so you guys can play Greased Watermelon and that was a complete flop when Jason tried to take the melon away from Roy and in an attempt to score, threw it out of the pool and it cracked.
Your earring falls in the water (rip)
Whenever any water games were going on, everyone would get scared and scream in terror when Arthur, Garth or Kaldur entered the pool lmao
"Can we boycott Atlanteans from water games"
"Yo I lowkey second that"
You threw a beach ball at Hal and lied and said it was Barry so for the remainder of the day he had a vendetta against the poor man.
You, Dinah, Steph, Diana, Cass and Lois end up playing volleyball for a short while but Diana absolutely volleymogged everyone (#amazonianthingz)
Eventually Bruce makes the mistake of asking you to order more food.
Specifically because the heroes have somehow consumed enough food to feed a village.
"Can you order more pizzas?"
"Sure."
Your brothers gather around to listen because nobody trusts you to make phone calls normally.
"Hi, yes."
"..."
"How many pizzas?"
You look around.
"How many people are here?"
Dick starts counting.
Gives up halfway.
"Like fifty?"
"Sixty."
"Seventy if Wally and Uncle Barry eat."
"Fuck okay," you tell the employee. "Hi! Can I please get twenty pizzas?"
Silence.
"Yes."
"Two zero."
"Twenty."
The employee genuinely thinks it's a prank.
"No ma'am, I swear this is real."
"Yes, people are actually going to eat all of that."
"No, I'm not hosting a school."
"Can I get 4 barbecue, 3 vegaterian, 4 meat lovers, 2 Hawaiian and a couple of pepperoni please"
"Thank you, that'll be to 1007 Mountain Drive, Crest Hill, Bristol Township."
Bruce genuinely spazzes out trying to get you, Dick and Jason to stop jumping out of the second floor window into the pool.
"Do you kids not value your lives."
"Chill out Bruce we jump from skyscrapers like every night"
Your siblings get on your nerves normally, but today it was particularly worse when Tim decided to run upstairs to your room and use a spare bikini of yours to catapult grapefruits at Damian from your balcony and you get your dad to yell at him.
"TIMOTHY STOP USING YOUR SISTER'S CLOTHES TO SLINGSHOT FRUIT AT YOUR BROTHER"
"SORRY BRUCE"
At one point Titus ends up escaping the manor when the door to outside is left open and goes and steals food and you have to stop him from jumping in the pool.
"DAMIAN COME GET YOUR DOG"
Bruce considers the day a total disaster because his blood pressure was through the rood, but everyone else thinks it was a success.
He'll probably get pressured into doing this again next year or some shit.
But it was definitely worth it seeing the smiles on everyone's faces <3
A/N: So much of this shit was based off me and my family and extended family. I am always put on food duty when it comes to parties at my house no lie.
Damn! Your tim drake x reader HOT TO GO fanfic look interesting. I'll wait 1000 years for that. (Or should I just cut the stem of my hope early on?)
dw!!! it's about 22 pages long now, i'm just looking for the last bit of inspiration i need to finish it... in the meantime, have an unedited snippet :)
It’s not often that Jack and Janet take Tim with them on vacations — in comparison to how often they go on work trips, at least. Mostly, they leave him with Mrs Mac if he’s not already at boarding school, and then convince themselves that they’ll find the time to take him on another vacation as soon as the holidays arrive. Usually they rarely find the time, but from what he knows about this trip, it’s your father who persisted on the Drakes coming with your family.
And that’s how Tim finds himself in a red swimsuit, tracking behind you with a shovel and a bucket as you hold a pink hand net from the beach store right in front of your hotel in your palms. “Move, Timmy!” you insist — you’re very dictatorial, like always. “We’ve gotta find some crabs!”
Timmy does not want to move. He does want to help you find crabs, but the sun’s killing him even with all the sunscreen he put on earlier and the bucket hat his father insisted on him wearing. Meanwhile, you’re happily strutting around in your newest rosy one-piece swimsuit with red polka dots, your mother’s Prada sunglasses resting over your eyes like you own them. Briefly, he wonders if the spa at the hotel accepts kids, because he could really use some actual relaxing in the cold bath as of now.
You manage to snatch a small, orange crab from a rock and it almost manages to nip at your fingers when you try to feed it some seaweed in the bucket. “He’s so cute, Timmy,” you gush, crouched in front of the poor crab’s new enclosure, “I’m going to call her Princess.”
Your friend deadpans, “You don’t even know if it’s a she or a he,” he reminds you.
You coo like you hadn’t even thought about that, “You’re right! I should give her a name that works for both ways, just in case.”
“Like Andrea?” he suggests.
You think about it for a while, then giggle mischievously like you’ve just had the best idea ever. “No — like Robin.”
Tim gasps incredulously, “Robin’s a male name!”
“It isn’t!” you insist, “Robin the sidekick may be a boy, but if it could only be a boy, then he would be called Robinman or something!” you hug the bucket to your chest, “Worry not, Robin, I will love you even if you turn out to be a boy — but I will dump you back in the water if you are.”
“You’ll have to dump it back in the water anyways,” Tim grumbles, “you can’t exactly keep it alive with love and seaweed in a hotel room, y’know.”
You pout, “A dad should love his kid without reservations– even if said kid is a crab?”
Tim stutters, “I’m its dad now?”
“Of course!” you reply, and if this wasn’t you he’d guess you’re about to call him dumb. “If I’m its mom, it only makes sense that you’re his dad.”
“So now we have a kid, who we still aren’t sure is a girl or a boy by the way, that we called Robin for that specific reason?”
You nod, convinced. “It will do until we grow up and actually marry each other.”
Your friend blanches, and his stutter becomes even worse. “M– marry each other?”
The frown you give him is the same one you give your father whenever he refuses to buy you the newest Barbie’s Dream House. “Duh! What are we supposed to do, stay friends forever? We’ll get married in the same church mom and dad got married in and we’ll have three kids — Barbie, Ken and Stacy. Then we’ll get old in an apartment at the Solar Tower and spend our days playing with our twenty grandbabies.”
He feels like fainting. He calls your name out once, twice, until he has your full attention. “You know we’re not dolls in your Dream House, right?” he’s got the feeling you don’t really know that.
“Of course, I know that, silly,” you answer, but your voice lacks your usual chipper in it. Your eyes go down, back to Robin, and you act like he didn’t say anything. “I’ll be a model and you can be– dunno, whatever you want to be. You’re smart, you probably won’t even have to make an effort to have things your way. If you don’t like Solar Tower we could find a house in Mount Royal–”
Tim says your name again, and this time you snap. “What?” It's only then that he notices that your eyes are full of tears.
ONESHOT, REQUEST: through others eyes, people realize how much tim needs you in his life
a/n: can be read as a standalone, also sorry this is so long i got carried away :]
part one
“Alfred made dinner,” Dick said carefully, his voice carrying through the cavernous space of the Batcave as he leaned against the metal railing above the workbench.
Tim, however, didn’t look up. His staff lay dismantled across the table in precise pieces, scattered like an anatomy lesson of something once whole. Tiny screws and half-finished circuitry glittered under the cold light, and Tim’s hands moved through it all with automatic precision. Tighten, adjust, repeat, as though the motion itself had become the only thing anchoring him to the present.
“Not hungry.” The answer came too quickly. It was too clean. Too practiced.
Dick’s eyes narrowed slightly, concern tightening in his chest before he even had time to name it. Tim had been down there for hours, maybe longer, time losing meaning in the artificial glow of monitors and fluorescent strips. He couldn’t even remember the last time his brother had stood up for anything other than necessity, let alone left the chair.
The Cave made everyone look worse than they felt, but Tim didn’t look like someone merely tired. He looked like someone eroding in place. Shadows clung beneath his eyes like bruises that refused to fade. His shoulders slumped forward, posture folding inward as if even occupying space required effort he no longer wanted to spend. His hair, usually at least somewhat controlled, had given up entirely. It lay flattened on one side, as though he had dragged his hands through it so many times it had forgotten what shape it was supposed to be.
And yet, despite all the movement of his hands, there was something disturbingly still about him. Like the body was operating on leftover instructions while the person inside had stepped back entirely.
“You’ve been down here since this morning,” Dick tried again, softer this time, like volume alone might keep Tim from retreating further into himself.
“I know.” His voice scraped out of him, rough in a way that didn’t belong to exhaustion alone. Not the usual vigilante weariness, not the kind that came from broken ribs or sleepless nights on rooftops. This was something else. Something disused. Like his voice had simply stopped being needed and had started forgetting how to function.
Dick felt something twist unpleasantly in his stomach. But Before he could push further, the silence of the Cave fractured. A sharp buzz cut through the air. Tim’s phone.
The reaction was immediate, almost violent in its speed. Tim’s head snapped toward the sound with a jolt that looked like it hurt, like his body had moved faster than whatever was left of his awareness could safely allow. For half a second there was something raw on his face - hope, sudden and unguarded, bright enough to be almost painful in how quickly it appeared.
Then he was reaching. Too fast, too careless. His hand knocked lightly against scattered parts on the table as he fumbled for the device, nearly sending a component rolling off the edge. Dick watched it all in silence as Tim unlocked the screen. Watched the hope collapse before anything was even said.
Tim stared at the display longer than necessary anyway, as though if he just looked hard enough it might change into something else. Something better. Something that mattered.
Then, carefully, he set it face-down on the table.
“Spam email,” he said flatly. And immediately returned to the staff like nothing had happened at all.
Yett Dick didn’t move. Because that expression, that flicker of expectation, the split-second belief that something had finally broken the silence, had become painfully familiar over the past weeks. Every notification, every vibration, every meaningless interruption of electronic noise… Tim reacted to all of it like it might be you.
And every single time, it wasn’t.
“You should sleep,” Dick said instead, trying to shift the weight of the moment, trying to find something, anything, that would stick.
“I’m fine.” The screwdriver slipped slightly in Tim’s grip. Just a fraction. Just enough.
His hand shook once before he forced it steady again, knuckles whitening as he tightened the same screw he had already adjusted twice before. On the surface it looked like work. Like focus. Like control. But Dick could see the pattern now. Tim wasn’t repairing anything, he was looping. Repeating. Breaking and reassembling the same section over and over again not because it needed fixing, but because stillness had become unbearable.
“You know,” Dick started carefully, choosing each word like it might detonate, “there’s a place a few blocks from here. New spot. We could-”
“No.” Still too fast. Still automatic.
Tim finally leaned back in his chair, dragging both hands over his face with enough force to leave faint red impressions on his skin. For a moment, the exhaustion that surfaced there was unfiltered, unmasked by anything resembling discipline. It wasn’t just tiredness. It was something heavier, deeper, like fatigue had settled into bone and refused to leave.
His eyes flicked, almost unconsciously, toward the phone again. And again nothing. Still waiting anyway. That was what hit Dick. Not the silence itself, but the way it had rearranged everything around it. The Cave wasn’t quieter because you were gone. It was quieter because Tim no longer filled the space you used to occupy.
No muttered commentary under his breath when systems lagged. No distracted half-responses while multitasking five different streams of data. No sharp, irritated sarcasm when someone interrupted him at the wrong moment. Those pieces of him hadn’t vanished on their own, they had gone with you, so naturally that no one realized they were missing until the absence became too large to ignore.
Tim had always been tired. But this wasn’t just tired. This was hollowing.
“You could call them,” Dick said before he could stop himself.
Tim froze, not dramatically, not visibly at first glance, but enough. Enough that even the smallest movement in his hands ceased for a fraction of a second too long. Enough that the air around him seemed to tighten.
Then he resumed working, whispering a small, harsh, “I’m busy.”
The excuse was almost laughable in its fragility. Because Tim Drake had solved impossible cases while concussed, stitched together disasters while bleeding, calculated outcomes that left entire teams scrambling to keep up with him. He could absolutely make a phone call. But instead, he reached for a tool he was already holding. And missed it.
Dick watched him glance toward the silent phone again, watched him pretend he hadn’t, watched him rebuild the same thing for the third time like repetition might eventually become resolution.
And somewhere between one breath and the next, Dick realized this wasn’t something Tim was going to simply “get over.” Whatever had existed between you and Tim hadn’t just faded, it had taken root. Deep enough that its removal left something exposed underneath, something raw and unprepared for absence.
And now Gotham’s brightest mind was sitting in the dark, pretending that if he just kept his hands moving long enough, the silence wouldn’t win.
Crime Alley had always felt different after midnight. Not quieter exactly, Gotham was never quiet, but emptier in the way abandoned churches felt empty. Hollow. Like the city itself had finally run out of excuses to keep pretending it could still be saved. Streetlights buzzed overhead with weak yellow light, illuminating puddles stained with oil and old rainwater while somewhere far off a siren screamed through the night before abruptly cutting itself short. Most people avoided the Alley entirely once the clock pushed past two in the morning. The desperate disappeared into their apartments. The dangerous came out to hunt. And vigilantes with any self-preservation left in them usually found somewhere else to patrol after a bad night. Which was exactly why Jason noticed the moment Tim volunteered to go back.
It was nearly four by the time they stumbled into the cave, battered and exhausted from what should have been an easy operation at the Iceberg Lounge. Penguin’s men had turned a simple weapons bust into a disaster the second someone panicked and opened fire too early. Everything after that became the usual Gotham catastrophe. Cheap shots in cramped hallways, collapsing scaffolding, blood on concrete floors, bruises blooming beneath armor before the adrenaline could fully wear off. Dick looked one good shove away from falling asleep standing upright. Damian carried the stiff posture of someone actively replaying every tactical mistake in his head so he could stay angry instead of tired. Bruce had disappeared upstairs with Alfred without so much as removing the cowl completely. Normal. Predictable. The kind of exhaustion they all knew how to survive.
Tim looked worse than all of them combined. Not dramatic worse. That would’ve been easier to deal with. Easier to justify concern over. Instead it was the kind of exhaustion that slipped quietly beneath the skin until suddenly someone looked less like a person and more like something held upright entirely by momentum. There was dried blood darkening the edge of his jaw beneath the domino mask. One side of his suit hung torn badly enough that every movement exposed the ugly purple bruise spreading across his ribs. His gloves were split across the knuckles from punching through someone’s face shield earlier in the night. Yet despite all of it, despite the way his shoulders dragged downward like gravity had doubled for him specifically, Tim still walked straight toward the Batcomputer the second he entered the cave.
Jason dropped heavily into one of the chairs with a groan, every rib in his body protesting the movement. “I’m officially declaring tonight terrible.”
Dick snorted tiredly from somewhere near the med table, already peeling off one glove with half-lidded eyes. Damian muttered something in Arabic under his breath that was probably either an insult or a death threat. Nobody bothered responding. The cave settled into familiar post-patrol silence, the hum of computers, the distant dripping of water through ancient stone, the soft metallic clink of discarded gear hitting tables.
Then the police scanner crackled- “possible robbery in progress. Corner of Finger and Kane. Suspect armed-” Crime Alley.
Jason barely processed the location before Tim spoke.
“I’ll go.”
Every head turned instantly. Tim was already reaching for his helmet again before anyone answered, fingers moving automatically toward the cracked buckle on his gauntlet like his body had made the decision before his brain could catch up.
“Seriously?” Dick blinked at him slowly.
“It’s five minutes away.”
“It’s also four in the morning,” Jason cut in.
Tim shrugged one shoulder while adjusting his gear. The motion looked sluggish, wrong somehow, like every inch of movement required conscious effort instead of instinct.
“Then the guy probably assumes nobody’ll respond.” His voice sounded terrible. Thin. Raspy. Worn down at the edges from disuse and exhaustion. Like he hadn’t spoken enough lately to remember how.
Jason frowned before he could stop himself. Because now that he was actually paying attention, really looking at him instead of glancing past him the way everyone accidentally had for weeks now, none of this felt normal anymore. Tim swayed slightly while reaching for his staff. Not enough that anyone else would necessarily notice. Barely noticeable at all. But Jason noticed because Tim Drake never swayed. Tim moved like sharpened instinct wrapped in caffeine and bad coping mechanisms. This looked different, was different..
“You can barely stand,” Damian said bluntly.
“I’m fine.”Complete bullshit.
Jason’s irritation crawled higher beneath his skin the longer he watched him. Not anger at Tim exactly. Anger at the situation. At the way Tim had somehow become a ghost inside his own life over the last few weeks without anyone fully acknowledging it out loud. Because Tim had always been tired. God, all of them were tired. But there used to be something alive underneath it. Something sharp enough to cut through the exhaustion. Sarcasm. Obsession. Energy. Tim used to argue strategy until sunrise just to prove Bruce wrong. Used to make snide comments during patrol when Jason annoyed him. Used to vibrate with restless intelligence even while running on three hours of sleep.
Now he just looked empty. Not broken. Not falling apart loudly enough for intervention. Just… hollow. And Jason finally noticed where Tim’s attention kept drifting every few seconds. Phone. Computer screen. Phone again. Waiting.
The realization hit him slowly enough to make it worse. This wasn’t about the robbery. Tim didn’t care about the robbery. Tim just didn’t want Gotham to get quiet. Because quiet meant thinking. And apparently thinking about you was killing him.
The scanner crackled again somewhere overhead while Tim straightened too quickly at the sound, almost desperate for the distraction. Jason suddenly remembered every night you used to interrupt patrols with a single text. The way Tim would vanish the second his phone lit up. The way he used to come back afterward less tense somehow. Less exhausted. Not fixed, Tim Drake would probably require divine intervention and several years of therapy to qualify as fixed, but human. Warmer around the edges. Alive enough to laugh occasionally.
Now Jason was watching that disappear in real time.
“Drake.” Tim looked over immediately.
“You look like roadkill.” Jason gestured vaguely toward him.
“Thanks.”
“No, seriously. You got slammed through a wall like an hour ago.”
“I’ve had worse.”
Jason scoffed. “That’s not the point.”
Tim slid the helmet over his head before answering this time, voice muffled beneath the distorted speaker. “Someone still has to go.”
The cave went silent for half a second. Because that wasn’t really what he meant. Jason heard it anyway. Someone still has to move. Someone still has to stay busy.
Someone still has to keep their mind occupied long enough not to think about the person who stopped answering their messages.
Dick heard it too. Jason could tell by the sudden exhaustion on his face shifting into something softer. Something concerned.
Tim reached for his bike keys.
Jason sighed heavily before forcing himself upright again, joints protesting immediately. “Sit down.”
“I said I’ll handle the robbery.” Tim stopped near the exit. “You don’t have to-”
“Yeah,” Jason interrupted sharply, “I do, because you look two seconds away from passing out into the Batmobile.”
Tim opened his mouth automatically, probably preparing some irritated argument out of pure instinct. Then he stopped.
That unsettled Jason more than anything else had all night. No sarcasm. No defensive remark. No annoyed glare. Just exhaustion. Heavy enough to silence him completely.
Tim stared down at the floor for a long moment before finally pulling the helmet back off slowly. Sweat had flattened his hair awkwardly against his forehead beneath it. Without the mask fully hiding his expression anymore, the exhaustion underneath became impossible to ignore. His eyes looked dull. Not emotionless exactly. Worse. Overused. Like someone who had spent too many nights staring at a phone screen waiting for a notification that never came.
“Fine,” he muttered quietly.
Defeated.
Tim lowered himself into the nearest chair with slow, careful movements, elbows resting against his knees while both hands dragged down over his face. And suddenly, horribly, he looked young. Not Red Robin. Not the detective everyone relied on to keep functioning when Bruce spiraled too far into obsession. Just a twenty-something kid awake at four in the morning trying not to think too hard about someone he missed.
The cave felt unbearably silent without you in it.
Damian liked routines. Precision. Predictability. Patterns that repeated so consistently they became instinct rather than thought. The manor itself breathed through routine: Alfred’s footsteps before dawn, the distant hum of the Batcomputer somewhere beneath the house, Bruce vanishing for hours only to reappear exactly when needed, Dick’s laughter carrying through hallways before patrol. And Tim- insufferable, sleep-deprived, irritating Tim Drake- had always understood routine better than anyone. Wake up at impossible hours. Tea brewed first thing in the morning next to an energy drink. Patrol reports. Training. Casework. Annoy everyone in the cave. Repeat. Tim functioned through ritual like a machine held together by caffeine, stubbornness, and pure refusal to collapse. Which was exactly why Damian noticed when the patterns began to decay.
At first, the changes were small enough to ignore. Missed breakfasts. Unread reports sitting untouched in the Batcomputer for hours before Tim finally answered them. Half-finished cans abandoned throughout the manor like evidence of some unfinished thought. Patrol schedules changed next. Later shifts. Longer routes. Tim returning to the manor after sunrise with bruises buried beneath his eyes and blood dried into the fabric of his gloves. Even his silences had changed. Before, Tim’s quiet had always been sharp, calculating, full of thoughts moving faster than his mouth could keep up with. Now his silence felt empty in a way Damian found himself noticing more than he cared to admit.
And now this.
The training room beneath the manor echoed with the violent rhythm of fists striking flesh. Sweat soaked into the mats beneath them, streaked with faint drops of blood that mostly belonged to Tim. Damian ducked beneath a lazy punch before driving his elbow sharply into Tim’s ribs. The hit landed cleanly enough to force air from his lungs, yet Tim barely reacted. That alone felt wrong. Three weeks ago Tim would have complained instantly. Rolled his eyes. Muttered something sarcastic while resetting his footing. Half their spars usually dissolved into arguments disguised as combat. Now there was only silence. Heavy breathing. The dull sound of gloves against skin.
Tim came forward again. Slow.
Damian blocked easily before striking him hard across the jaw. Another hit Tim should have avoided. The impact snapped his head sideways, dark hair falling into exhausted eyes. Damian waited for the inevitable glare. The irritated comment. The smug little “cheap shot.” Nothing came. Tim simply reset his stance mechanically and raised his fists again.
Something unpleasant twisted in Damian’s chest. Because Tim always talked. The cave felt eerily still without it.
Damian circled him carefully, watching every sluggish movement. Tim looked exhausted in a way that went beyond bruises or sleepless nights. Physically, yes, his movements dragged with fatigue, reactions delayed by fractions of seconds Damian would normally never catch, but mentally too. His focus flickered strangely. Sharp one second, vacant the next. His eyes kept drifting somewhere distant before snapping back to the present too late. Distracted fighters irritated Damian more than careless ones. Tim Drake had once been one of the most attentive people Damian knew. Now he looked like someone barely tethered to the room around him.
Tim swung again. Too slow.
Damian swept his legs out from beneath him, watching irritation crawl beneath his own skin when Tim stumbled clumsily instead of recovering cleanly. Another strike to the shoulder. Another missed counter. Every mistake reminded Damian of another fracture in Tim’s routine. Tim arriving late to training yesterday. Tim forgetting a case file in the cave for the first time in years. Tim staring at his phone during briefing while pretending not to. Tim leaving messages unanswered. Tim no longer disappearing midway through patrol because someone had texted him. Because you had texted.
At first Damian had found your absence relieving. You had been disruptive. Tim softened around you in ways Damian once found nauseating. He left patrol early. Smiled at his phone like an idiot. Became quieter, though not in this terrible way. Softer around the edges. Human in a manner Damian preferred not to examine too closely. Yet now, watching Tim stagger through another failed dodge, Damian realized something he hated entirely.
That version of Tim had at least looked alive.
Damian lunged forward again, fist connecting sharply against Tim’s mouth. Blood split across his lip instantly, crimson dripping onto the mat beneath them. Tim hissed through his teeth but kept moving, breathing uneven now. His knuckles had split open nearly twenty minutes ago. His nose had started bleeding shortly after. Still he refused to stop.
“Again,” Tim muttered.
Damian frowned. “You failed to dodge.”
“I know.”
“Your footing is unstable.”
“I know.”
Another punch landed against his ribs hard enough to force him backward. Tim barely defended himself anymore. That was what unsettled Damian most. Losing did not matter. Tim had lost spars before. They all had. But Tim Drake never stopped protecting himself properly. Never stopped adapting. Never let himself become sloppy enough to simply absorb damage without purpose.
“You are fighting poorly,” Damian snapped.
Tim wiped blood beneath his nose with the back of his glove. “Then stop holding back.”
“I am not holding back.”
That earned a laugh from Tim. A Weak laugh, as if it was barely there. Damian hated the sound immediately.
Tim’s laughter used to be unbearable. Sharp and smug and loud enough to start arguments from across the cave. This sounded worn down. Exhausted. Like something fraying apart strand by strand.
Another memory surfaced before Damian could stop it. Three weeks ago, Tim had cut training short the second his phone buzzed. Damian had insulted him relentlessly for abandoning practice midway through sparring. Tim only rolled his eyes while shoving gear hastily into a bag.
“I have somewhere to be.” He had to go to you. Always you.
And somehow Damian had preferred that version more than this one standing before him now half-broken and bleeding beneath the cave lights. Because at least then Tim had looked eager to leave. Like the world still held something waiting for him outside patrols and missions and sleepless nights.
Now he looked like there was nowhere he wanted to be at all.
Damian struck him across the cheek again. Tim staggered sideways, catching himself too late. For the first time all night, he did not immediately recover. He simply stood there breathing heavily, head lowered while blood dripped steadily from his nose onto the floor beneath him.
The silence stretched painfully. Then Damian understood. Not fully. Not enough to make sense of the ugly tightening in his chest. But enough.
“You are waiting for them.”
Tim froze. The stillness afterward swallowed the entire cave. Slowly, carefully, Tim reached for the phone resting near the edge of the training mat. The screen remained dark. No messages. No missed calls. Nothing. He set it back down with far too much care before finally speaking.
“Drop it.” It was meant to sound sharp. It didn’t.
Damian studied him quietly then. The bruises dark beneath sleepless eyes. The split knuckles. The exhaustion woven through every movement. The way he kept throwing himself into pain like maybe it would distract him long enough not to think.
Pathetic. Human. Damian hated that he understood it.
“You have become unbearable,” he said finally.
Tim let out another humorless laugh, quieter this time. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”
No argument followed. No sarcasm. No defensive remark designed to irritate Damian into a fight. And somehow that unsettled Damian more than anything else had all night. Because Tim Drake always argued. Always. Even exhausted. Even injured. Even furious.
But standing there now beneath the cave lights, Damian realized something horrifying.
You had not disrupted Tim’s routines. You had become one of them. And without you, everything else in Tim’s life seemed to be collapsing alongside it.
Barbara first heard your voice at two thirty-seven in the morning, soft laughter crackling through the cave speakers as she descended the elevator with a tablet tucked beneath her arm. The sound echoed strangely against the metal walls of the Batcave, too warm for a place built from stone and shadows. For one disoriented second she genuinely thought someone else was awake down there, another vigilante lingering after patrol, another exhausted body refusing sleep. Then Tim’s voice drifted through the speakers quietly, rough with fatigue yet softened by something she had not heard from him in weeks.
“I know, I know. I was late.”
Barbara slowed immediately.
The cave sat half-asleep around him, dim overhead lights switched off except for the pale glow surrounding Tim’s workstation. Screens cast blue reflections across the sharp angles of his face while the rest of the cavern disappeared into darkness. He sat hunched in his chair, hood discarded somewhere nearby, exhaustion woven so deeply into his posture that it looked permanent now. His shoulders curved inward like he had spent too many nights trying to make himself smaller beneath the weight pressing against him. The monitor in front of him was dark. No case files. No surveillance footage. No endless spreadsheets tracking Gotham’s newest catastrophe.
Just an audio file. Your voice spilling through the speakers again, distorted faintly from poor recording quality, yet still warm enough to shift the atmosphere around him.
“Tim, normal people don’t answer texts three business days later.”
A pause followed before Tim laughed quietly under his breath. Not current. Not live. Old. Barbara realized it instantly, and something unpleasant twisted sharply in her chest.
Voice memos. He was listening to old voice memos.
Tim leaned back slightly in his chair, one hand dragging across his mouth as your laughter filled the silence again. The sound seemed to settle over him carefully, easing the constant tension buried inside his expression for only a moment. Barbara watched his eyes close briefly, watched him breathe a little deeper like hearing your voice allowed his lungs to finally work properly again. It was not happiness exactly. Not relief either. Something softer. More dangerous. Like this was the closest he had come to peace in weeks.
Then the recording ended. The cave immediately felt colder afterward.
Tim replayed it.
Barbara looked away before he could notice her sitting there because suddenly the entire scene felt painfully intimate, like witnessing someone bleed out quietly without realizing another person had entered the room. Guilt settled heavily in her stomach as understanding finally forced itself into place. She had spent weeks pretending this would pass eventually, convincing herself Tim simply needed time, needed distance, needed another case to throw himself into until the ache dulled naturally.
But Tim was not moving on. He was not even trying to.
Barbara wheeled forward deliberately this time, making enough noise against the cave floor for him to hear her approach. Tim startled immediately, scrambling to pause the recording so quickly he nearly dropped his phone in the process.
“Sorry,” he muttered automatically, voice shredded from disuse. Again that rasp. Like he barely spoke anymore unless absolutely necessary.
Barbara pretended not to notice what he had been listening to. Pretended not to notice the way his hand remained wrapped tightly around the phone afterward, thumb hovering protectively over the screen like someone afraid the memory might disappear if he loosened his grip.
“Need help with something,” she said instead, lifting the tablet slightly.
Tim blinked at her for a moment before forcing himself upright. “What is it?”
“Possible weapons shipments moving through the Tricorner ports. The tracking keeps bouncing.”
He nodded instantly. Of course he did. Anything to focus on. Anything sharp enough to drown out the thoughts chasing him tonight.
Barbara watched him roll toward the main computer, exhaustion dripping from every movement. Thin cuts stretched across his knuckles, still healing badly from patrol earlier that week, pale skin split open every time his fingers flexed over the keyboard. Yet despite the exhaustion hollowing out his face, the moment the system loaded something inside him sharpened automatically. His attention narrowed. His posture straightened slightly. Tim Drake still worked with frightening efficiency no matter how badly he was unraveling everywhere else.
That part of him would probably never break.
Silence settled between them outside the rapid clacking of keys. Fast. Precise. Mechanical. Barbara pretended to review files on her tablet while watching him carefully instead, studying the quiet deterioration he kept trying so hard to hide from everyone around him.
His phone rested beside the keyboard. Screen still unlocked. And there you were. A photograph glowed faintly beneath the cave lights, grainy from low brightness yet impossible to ignore. You sat beside Tim somewhere Barbara did not recognize, sunlight pouring across both of you while your head tilted toward him mid-laugh. Your expression looked open and bright enough to soften even the poor quality of the image. Tim was not looking at the camera. Of course he was not. His entire focus rested on you instead, eyes carrying that devastatingly unguarded expression Barbara had never seen directed at anyone else before.
She had known Tim for years. She knew every version of his face: focused, annoyed, calculating, sarcastic, angry, exhausted. But this one felt entirely different. This one looked vulnerable.
Like loving you had reached into him and pulled something painfully human out into the open, something he normally kept buried beneath strategy and sarcasm and careful control. Barbara’s throat tightened unexpectedly as she looked away from the picture, only for her gaze to catch on the half-open notebook resting near the edge of the desk.
At first she assumed patrol notes filled the pages. Then she noticed the crossed-out lines:
hope youre okay (A thick line carved through it.)
i saw something today that reminded me of you (Crossed out harder.)
i think i messed this up (The words nearly destroyed beneath angry black ink.)
can we talk? (Another line through it.)
Page after page after page of Drafts. Things he wanted to say to you but never sent.
Barbara suddenly felt like she had stepped into something far too private because Tim was not dramatic about pain. He never had been. Dick burned loudly. Jason exploded. Bruce buried himself alive in silence until it poisoned everyone around him. But Tim suffered methodically, quietly, organizing his grief into neat little boxes like if he catalogued the damage carefully enough no one would notice it consuming him whole.
“You haven’t slept again, have you?” Barbara asked softly.
Tim never looked up from the screen. “Probably.”
Probably. Not even denial anymore.
The keyboard continued clacking rapidly beneath his fingers, systems opening and collapsing across the monitors faster than Barbara could fully process. Shipping routes appeared highlighted in red. Fake manifests surfaced within seconds. Three shell companies flagged almost immediately afterward. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Six minutes passed before Tim leaned back slightly in his chair.
“Done.”
Barbara stared at the completed work on the monitor before slowly turning toward him instead. At the exhaustion hollowing out his features. At the untouched coffee beside him gone cold hours ago. At the notebook overflowing with words he could not bring himself to send. At the phone screen still glowing softly with your photograph. And suddenly heartbreak pressed painfully against her ribs because Tim did not look like someone avoiding you anymore. He looked like someone terrified. Someone hanging helplessly between missing you too much and fearing what would happen if he reached out only to discover you no longer wanted him there.
“You can track international weapons shipments in six minutes,” Barbara said quietly. “But you can’t call one person?”
Silence swallowed the cave immediately afterward, deep and endless beneath the hum of computers surrounding them. Tim stared at the monitor for a long moment without speaking. Barbara watched his expression tighten subtly, watched his fingers curl slightly against the edge of the desk like he needed something physical to ground himself.
When he finally answered, his voice sounded small. “What if they don’t answer?”
Barbara’s expression faltered instantly. Because there it was. Not pride, not stubbornness, not avoidance. Just fear. Simple and painfully honest.
Tim lowered his gaze toward the notebook again before speaking softer this time, barely audible beneath the machinery humming around them.
“I think that might be worse.”
Gotham had a way of swallowing people whole. Not all at once. Never dramatically. The city preferred patience. Preferred sinking its teeth into someone slowly until exhaustion became routine and silence became easier than asking for help. Bruce had lived inside that silence for most of his life, had learned to recognize the different ways it manifested in the people he loved long before any of them realized he was watching closely enough to notice.
Dick became reckless when he was hurting. Brighter smiles, louder laughs, faster movements across rooftops that bordered too closely on self-destruction for Bruce’s comfort. Jason became angry in the way Gotham itself became angry, sharp edged and explosive, fists first and apologies never. Damian became quieter than usual, every emotion locked so tightly behind clenched teeth that the entire manor seemed to tense around him.
Tim, however, disappeared. Not physically. That would have been easier to confront.
Tim still arrived for patrol exactly on time. Still solved cases before anyone else had fully pieced together the evidence. Still sat through briefings with that same analytical stare that made people forget he was far too young to carry the responsibilities constantly dropped onto his shoulders. The work itself remained flawless for the most part, every report neatly filed before dawn, every mission completed with near obsessive precision. To anyone standing far enough away, he looked fine.
But Bruce had never learned how to love his children from a distance. So he noticed the absences anyway.
The pauses where conversation used to be. The way Tim drifted through the manor like a ghost that remembered how to imitate routine but no longer understood the purpose behind it. The exhaustion hidden beneath coffee cups and computer screens. The subtle delay before responding whenever someone spoke to him, as though his thoughts remained somewhere else entirely and he had to force himself back into the room each time.
And perhaps worst of all, The cave had become silent again.
Bruce stood in the entrance late one evening watching the glow of the Batcomputer wash over Tim’s face in pale blue light. The cave itself hummed quietly around him, monitors flickering endlessly against dark stone walls while surveillance footage rolled across multiple screens untouched. Rainwater dripped somewhere deeper within the cavern, the sound echoing through the emptiness between them.
Tim sat hunched over the main console pretending to work. Pretending being the important part. A case file remained open across three separate monitors, security footage looping repeatedly beside unfinished reports, yet Tim had not typed a single thing in nearly ten minutes. His attention remained elsewhere entirely. Not on the case. Not on the cave. On the phone sitting inches from his hand. Waiting.
Bruce had noticed that too over the past several weeks. The constant checking. The immediate flashes of hope every single time the screen lit up. The disappointment that followed almost instantly afterward. Tim tried hiding it now, angling the screen away whenever someone entered the room, locking the device too quickly whenever messages appeared.
He was terrible at hiding heartbreak.
“You missed dinner.”
Tim blinked at the sound of Bruce’s voice like he had forgotten other people existed down there with him. His shoulders stiffened briefly before relaxing again, exhaustion settling back into his posture almost immediately.
“Sorry,” he murmured quietly, voice rough from disuse and too much coffee. “Lost track of time.”
Another phrase Bruce had begun hearing far too often. Tim losing track of time. Tim forgetting things. Tim, who once scheduled every hour of his life so meticulously that Alfred used to joke he could predict the exact second sunrise would become inconvenient.
Bruce stepped farther into the cave, boots heavy against the metal flooring as he studied him more carefully beneath the monitor light. The exhaustion had worsened. There was no denying it anymore. Dark circles carved themselves permanently beneath Tim’s eyes now, his frame thinner than before, clothes hanging looser around sharp shoulders from too many sleepless nights spent in front of glowing screens. Even the way he sat had changed somehow. Curled inward. Smaller.
But the worst part remained his expression. Not emotionless. Just tired in a way that reached deeper than physical exhaustion. Bruce recognized that look because he had once worn it so long he forgot his own face underneath it.
Tim’s phone buzzed suddenly against the desk. Immediate reaction. Hope crossed his face before he could stop it. Small. Fragile. Painfully human.
Bruce watched the exact moment it disappeared again. Tim locked the phone quickly afterward, setting it down harder than intended before dragging a hand across his face. The movement carried frustration beneath it now. Frustration with himself for caring this much. For waiting this much.
Bruce said nothing because he already understood. The entire family did.
You had not simply become important to Tim somewhere along the way. You had become stitched into the rhythm of his life so naturally that your absence now echoed through everything else. Every silence in the manor seemed louder because you were no longer filling it. Every patrol lasted longer because Tim no longer rushed through reports to answer your texts afterward. Even his laughter had disappeared quietly enough that Bruce had not realized how accustomed he’d become to hearing it until it stopped altogether.
Bruce moved closer to the workstation, gaze drifting toward the corner of one monitor. That was when he noticed the photo. Small enough most people would have overlooked it entirely.
You and Tim standing close together somewhere under city lights, your smile bright enough to draw immediate attention despite the dimness of the screen. Yet Tim was not looking at the camera in the picture. His eyes rested entirely on you, expression softer than Bruce could ever remember seeing from him. No walls. No caution. No overthinking hidden behind calculated responses. Just love.
Simple enough to be terrifying. Something ached unexpectedly in Bruce’s chest at the sight because he could not remember the last time he had seen Tim look at anything with that much openness.
Tim noticed where his attention had landed and minimized the window immediately. Too late. Bruce had already seen it.
Silence settled heavily between them afterward, broken only by the distant hum of machinery and rainfall echoing somewhere beyond the cave walls. Tim rubbed tiredly at his eyes before finally speaking again.
“Was there something you needed?”
Bruce almost answered automatically. A patrol adjustment. A case update. Something practical. Easier. Instead his gaze lingered on the exhaustion etched into Tim’s face and he heard himself ask quietly,
“When was the last time you slept?”
Tim let out a faint breath that might have been amusement once upon a time. “Define slept.” Deflection. Another routine.
Bruce ignored it.
“You’ve been making mistakes.”
That finally got a reaction. Tim stiffened almost instantly in front of the computer, shoulders pulling tight beneath the worn fabric of his suit. “I fixed them.”
“You shouldn’t be making them in the first place.”
The words came out harsher than intended. Bruce regretted them immediately. Because this was not a soldier failing orders. Not Robin standing before Batman awaiting criticism.
This was his son quietly unraveling in front of him while pretending he was still holding himself together. Tim’s shoulders curled inward slightly at the reprimand, exhaustion suddenly making him look younger than Bruce liked to remember. Too young for this kind of grief. Too young to carry heartbreak like another piece of armor.
Bruce’s eyes drifted again toward the cold coffee abandoned beside the keyboard. Toward the phone still resting face-up within immediate reach. Waiting. Always waiting.
And suddenly Bruce understood what the others had been trying to do these past few weeks. Dick constantly inviting Tim out for late-night food runs and patrols that lasted longer than necessary. Jason taking over missions before Tim could volunteer for them himself. Barbara sending him extra tech work just to keep his mind occupied. Even Damian extending training sessions with sharp insults disguised as concern.
Distractions.
Every single one of them trying desperately to keep Tim moving long enough not to think about you. But none of it was helping.
Because every time the manor quieted down, every time patrol ended and the cave emptied and no one remained nearby to occupy his attention, Tim drifted right back to the same place. Back to you.
Bruce moved beside the desk slowly, leaning one hand against the console as he studied his son more carefully. Tim looked exhausted enough to fall asleep sitting upright. Bruised knuckles rested against the keyboard beside healing cuts scattered across trembling fingers, evidence of patrols growing rougher over recent weeks.
Yet despite everything, despite how miserable he clearly was, Bruce noticed something else too. Tim still had not called you. Not because he didn’t want to. Because he was afraid.
Bruce understood that fear more intimately than he cared to admit. The fear of reaching for something important only to discover it no longer belonged to you. The fear of hearing silence where love used to exist.
His gaze lowered briefly toward the untouched phone one final time before he made his decision.
“Go.”
Tim frowned slightly, clearly pulled from thoughts too far away to process the command immediately. “What?”
“Go find them.”
The cave fell completely still. Tim stared at Bruce like he had misheard him entirely.
Bruce rarely involved himself in emotional matters. He had failed too often in that department to pretend otherwise. Practicality had always come easier than comfort. Missions easier than conversations. Still, he continued quietly,
“You haven’t been here in weeks.”
Something flickered across Tim’s face then because they both understood Bruce did not mean physically. Tim looked down at his hands for a long moment. At the bruises. The cuts. The exhaustion trembling through his fingers from too many sleepless nights spent trying not to miss someone.
“I don’t think they want to see me.”
The admission sounded painfully young coming from him. Not Red Robin. Not the detective. Just Tim.
Bruce watched grief settle visibly across his son’s face and felt something twist sharply in his chest at the sight. Tim had always been the one who kept moving no matter how badly he was hurt. The one who buried pain beneath productivity until even his family struggled to tell where exhaustion ended and heartbreak began.
“You won’t know until you try,” Bruce answered softly.
“What if I already ruined it?” Bruce looked at him carefully then. Really looked.
At the fear hidden beneath the exhaustion. At the grief Tim kept trying to suffocate beneath case files and patrol routes and endless nights inside the cave. At the way he still checked his phone even now despite expecting disappointment every single time it buzzed.
And for perhaps the first time in a very long while, Bruce answered honestly instead of strategically.
“Then fix it.” Tim laughed quietly at that. Not amused. Just tired enough that hope itself sounded painful.
“I don’t know how.”
Bruce thought again of the photograph hidden on Tim’s monitor. The way his son looked at you like you were something precious enough to lose. Important enough to break him afterward.
Then Bruce reached over and closed the untouched case file Tim had been pretending to read for the past hour.
“Start by leaving the cave.”
Tim stared at the darkened monitor for a long moment after that. The silence stretched long enough Bruce wondered if he would retreat back into routine again, bury himself beneath another report, another mission, another excuse not to confront the thing hurting him most.
Instead, slowly, Tim reached for his keys instead of the keyboard. Bruce said nothing as he stood. Did not stop him when he headed toward the exit. Only watched as something shifted within the exhaustion weighing down his posture. Something sharper now. Brighter. Urgency. Hope. Fear. And maybe, finally-
Enough determination to run back toward the person he should have chosen sooner.
Tim had faced armed mercenaries with steadier hands than this. Men with rifles trained on his chest, blades flashing beneath alleyway lights, bombs counting down in abandoned warehouses somewhere beneath Gotham’s rotting streets. He had stood bloodied and half-conscious in front of enemies that wanted him dead and still managed to keep his breathing even. Gotham had carved survival instincts into his bones years ago. Fear was supposed to come later for people like him. After the mission. After the adrenaline wore off. After the bruises settled beneath skin already stained purple and yellow from older fights.
Yet somehow your apartment door reduced him to this.
The hallway stood silent around him, dim overhead lighting buzzing faintly as rain tapped somewhere against the apartment windows farther down the building. Nothing about this should have felt dangerous. No hidden threat waiting in the shadows. No gunfire. No masks. No blood. Just one door standing between him and the conversation he had spent weeks avoiding.
And still his body refused to move.
His hand lifted once toward the wood, fingers twitching like he meant to knock, before falling uselessly back to his side. Again a second later. Worse this time. Hesitation curling ugly in his stomach.
Coward.
The thought hit sharper than he expected. Tim swallowed hard, lowering his gaze to the stained carpet beneath his shoes as exhaustion dragged heavily at the back of his skull. He had rehearsed this entire walk over. Every possible version of how this could go. What he would say first. How he would apologize. Which truths he could survive speaking aloud and which ones needed to stay buried somewhere deep inside him where even Bruce couldn’t dig them back out.
Now his mind sat horrifyingly empty. Because Barbara had been right. What if you didn’t answer?
The silence of the past few weeks suddenly felt deafening again. Every unanswered text. Every missed call he never finished making. Tim had spent night after night staring at your contact until the screen dimmed in his hands. Some part of him had convinced itself that staying away was safer. Easier. Better for you. Gotham destroyed everything eventually and Tim had never learned how to exist around people without becoming another form of collateral damage.
But another part of him, the weaker, uglier, far more human part, had missed you so badly it physically hurt.
And somehow that terrified him more than any rooftop fight ever had.
His phone weighed heavily in his pocket. Silent. Unforgiving. Tim pressed his tongue briefly against the inside of his cheek before finally forcing himself forward. The motion stiff. Mechanical. Like walking into a gunfight he already knew he would lose.
Three knocks echoed softly through the apartment. Too late to run now.
Almost immediately he heard movement from inside. Quiet footsteps crossing the floor. The sound alone made something tight pull painfully in his chest. Tim suddenly became hyperaware of himself in the worst possible ways. The bruises still hidden beneath his jacket sleeves. The healing cut near his collarbone stretching uncomfortably every time he breathed. The exhaustion hanging off him so heavily he felt hollowed out by it. He couldn’t remember the last time he had actually slept without waking up reaching for weapons that weren’t there.
Then the lock clicked. The door opened. And there you were.
For one terrible second Tim forgot every sentence he had prepared.
You looked tired too. Comfortable clothes hanging loosely against your frame, hair slightly messy like you had been trying to relax before he ruined your evening by showing up unannounced. Surprise flickered openly across your face the second you recognized him standing there beneath the dim hallway light. Not anger. Not resentment. Just surprise.
Somehow that made this harder.
Neither of you spoke at first.
Tim could only stare, caught somewhere between relief and disbelief because you were real and here and looking at him instead of turning him away. Weeks suddenly felt much longer standing in front of you now. Long enough for him to notice every tiny thing he had missed. The familiar softness in your expression. The warmth spilling from your apartment into the cold hallway. The way your eyes searched his face quietly, almost carefully, like you were trying to figure out how much of him Gotham had managed to wear away this time.
Then you smiled. Small. Gentle. Tired around the edges maybe, but real. And something inside Tim cracked open so suddenly it nearly hurt.
“Hi,” you said softly. The word wrapped around him warmer than the apartment ever could.
Tim stared for half a second too long before forcing himself to answer. “Hi.”
God. His voice sounded wrecked. Rough from disuse and exhaustion and too many nights spent speaking only through comms or not speaking at all. He watched your expression shift almost immediately at the sound of it. Concern slipping quietly into your features. Maybe sadness too.
You noticed. Of course you noticed. But even then, you still stepped backward first, opening the door wider without hesitation.
“You should come inside.”
Relief hit him so fast it nearly made his knees give out beneath him.
Tim nodded once because trusting himself with more words right now felt impossible. As he stepped past you into the warmth of your apartment, the door clicking softly shut behind him, something devastating settled quietly inside his chest.
For the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel exhausted anymore.
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You grab Tim by his tie, dragging him behind you as your high heels click against the floor and god help him he’s into it.
“Wait-“
“I said follow me. You didn’t listen.”
And you’re still dragging him. Don’t help that man he’s exactly where he wants you to be. You shove him in an empty meeting room.
“You. You lied.” You back him to the wall.
“You let me handle them alone, you said you’d show up to the meeting, you did not.” You continue, a finger poking his chest accusingly. The tips of his ears go bright red.
“I wanted you to have your moment- it’s your project.” And he also wanted you at his throat but he won’t really say that.
“So you play me?”
“That’s not-“
You shush him with your index on his lips.
“Don’t cut me off, Drake.” He flushes further, letting out a little ‘mm’.
“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. You try not to smile.
“What was that? Didn’t hear you.”
He drops to his knees, arms wrapped around your body, his chin on your stomach.
“I’m sorry. Won’t do it again. I love you, baby..” He murmurs, half lidded blue eyes staring up at you, so freaking desperate it has you biting your lip.
You grab his face, squishing his cheeks in the process, staring down at him before laughing, leaning down and kissing him despite the awkward angle.
He’s on cloud nine.
—————————————————————————
inspired by a clip i saw of a kdrama where the fmc drags a guy by his tie,, i thought it was so tim heh..
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