#dickroy x reader

Roy chuckles low against Dick’s neck, the sound vibrating through both of them.

“She gets this tiny crease right,” he lifts one hand from under Dick’s shirt to gently tap the spot between his brows, “here. Like she’s personally offended by bad grammar and misplaced modifiers. It’s fucking adorable.”

Dick tilts his head so Roy’s lips brush his temple.

“Adorable’s one word for it,” he murmurs. “Devastating is another. You ever catch her reading their essays out loud to herself in that disappointed-teacher voice? I almost came in my pants the first time I walked in on it.”

Roy groans.

“Don’t. I’m trying to behave for at least five more minutes.”

“Since when do you behave?”

“Since I realized if we both go in there horny and handsy she’s gonna threaten to grade our bedroom performance and assign us extra reading on consent theory.”

Dick snorts, then sighs happily when Roy’s fingers resume their slow, possessive drag up and down his spine.

“She would too,” Dick says. “And she’d use that red pen. The one that bleeds through the page.”

They both shudder theatrically, then grin at each other like idiots who know exactly how much they love being put in their place by you.

Roy ducks his head, nosing along Dick’s jaw.

“I’m so gone for her,” he admits, quieter now. The morning roughness in his voice has softened into something rawer. “Like… stupid gone. I catch myself thinking about what kind of lunch she’d like on a random Tuesday and then I have to sit down for a second because my chest feels too tight.”

Dick’s arms come up around Roy’s neck properly now, fingers threading through longer red strands and tugging just enough to make Roy’s eyes flutter.

“I know,” Dick whispers. “I keep a stupid little running list in my notes app. ‘Things she smiled at this week.’ Coffee with oat milk, that ugly orange cat video, when you call her ‘trouble’ in that specific drawl… I add to it like a lunatic. Yesterday she laughed at one of my dumb puns and I almost put a fucking heart emoji next to it.”

Roy pulls back just far enough to look at him.

“You’re such a sap, Grayson.”

“Says the guy who keeps her favorite hoodie under his pillow when she’s not here.”

Roy doesn’t even try to deny it. Just smirks, sheepish and proud at once.

“She smells like vanilla and that bergamot hand cream she likes. I sleep better when it’s there.”

Dick’s expression goes unbearably tender.

“She’s our girl,” he says simply, like that explains everything.

And it does.

Roy exhales through his nose, forehead dropping to rest against Dick’s.

“Yeah. Ours.” A beat. “Think she knows how bad we’ve got it?”

Dick laughs under his breath.

“She graded my last attempt at dirty talk like it was—’” He cuts off, blushing high on his cheekbones. “She knows.”

Roy barks a laugh, loud enough that they both freeze and glance toward the bedroom door.

Silence.

Still asleep.

Roy lowers his voice again, but the grin stays.

“I’m gonna marry her someday,” he says, like he’s talking about the weather. “You in?”

Dick doesn’t even blink. “Been planning the playlist for the reception since last spring.”

Roy’s brows shoot up.

“Already?”

Dick shrugs one shoulder, smug.

“You think I’m gonna let you or Ollie handle the music? We’d end up with three hours of Springsteen and AC/DC. She deserves better.”

Roy snorts, then kisses him slow, tasting like cigarette smoke and devotion. When they part, Roy’s voice is barely audible.

“Love you both so fuckin’ much it scares me sometimes.”

Dick cups Roy’s face with both hands.

“Good. Means it’s real.”

They stay like that a minute longer (chests pressed, breathing in sync) until Dick finally tips his head toward the bedroom.

“C’mon. Let’s go remind our girl she’s got two very stupid, very in-love boyfriends waiting to make her coffee and grovel about how late she stayed up working.”

Roy grins, already moving.

“And maybe a shoulder rub. She gets all stiff when she’s hunched over papers too long.”

Dick laces their fingers together as they pad quietly down the hall.

“She’s gonna wake up grumpy and gorgeous and complain we’re both too clingy.”

Roy squeezes his hand.

“That’s exactly how I like her.”

After the accident, it was like all the years you three spent together had vanished between Roy and Dick. It was hard to see two men who loved each other as much as they love you despise the other that much. Both of them knew that you wouldn't like the situation they are in, but you are unconscious on a bed.

Long nights like this, when Dick was sleeping at the Manor and Roy at Oliver's house (because neither of them were brave enough to return to your shared apartment), were the hardest. They both sink in some type of loneliness they can't quite describe. At the end, they were used to the warm of another two bodies, to the sound of your laugh, to Roy's eyeroll or to Dick's soft dimples. Now they just lay in a bed, forcing themselves to sleep because fighting their own thoughts would left them in the same state as you.

Until one night, the inevitable happens.

Dick’s been at the hospital for too long, eyes red-rimmed from exhaustion and from guilt. Roy shows up earlier than usual, soaked through his jacket, and the moment he spots Dick sitting beside your bed, his breath catches. For a split second, there’s silence, the kind that hums just before a gunshot.

Dick turns, jaw tightening. “You shouldn’t be here yet.”

Roy scoffs, a bitter sound that scrapes against the sterile white noise of the monitors. “Didn’t realize you had visiting hours reserved under your name, Grayson.”

The nickname stings, he only called that when they were joking around. Now it was with intend to hurt him.

“Someone has to make sure she’s not alone,” Dick bites back, standing up. His voice trembles just a little. “And you’ve done enough, don’t you think?”

That’s all it takes. The words slice through Roy like shrapnel. His hands curl into fists.

“You think this is my fault? You were the one running your mouth in the middle of the fight! You never take anything seriously until someone gets hurt!”

Dick’s laugh is sharp and humorless. “At least I was doing something! You can barely keep your aim straight without blaming someone else when it goes wrong!”

The next few seconds are heat and noise. Voices rising, the room shrinking around them. They throw old words like knives: failure, coward, liar, selfish. Things that can’t be unsaid.

“Don’t pretend you care more than me,” Roy snarls finally, voice cracking. “You just want to be the hero again. You love it when people need saving.”

Dick steps closer, eyes wet but burning. “And you? You’d rather everyone bleed beside you than admit you’re scared.”

The silence that follows is brutal. Only the rhythmic beeping of your heart monitor fills the space between them. Both of them are trembling, terrified of what they’ve become without you holding the center together.

Then the monitor stutters for a heartbeat. Just one blip, nothing dangerous, but enough to make them both freeze. Enough to remind them why they’re here.

Roy’s voice is barely a whisper. “She wouldn’t want this.”

Dick doesn’t answer. He just stares at you, pale against the sheets, and then back at Roy, seeing the same grief reflected back at him.

Roy turns first, shoulders shaking. “Don’t follow me,” he mutters. But his voice breaks on the way out.

Dick doesn’t. He just sinks back into the chair, hands shaking, head bowed. Outside, the rain keeps falling, indifferent and endless.

His elbows rest on his knees, hands pressed against his mouth, shoulders shaking. For a long time he just breathes, those shallow, uneven gulps of air that sound more like someone drowning than crying. He tries to blink it back —be good, be strong, be the one who keeps it together— but it comes ugly and loud.

He hides his face in his hands when it hits him full force. The sob that tears through him isn’t graceful; it’s a sound dragged from the bottom of his ribs. It makes his throat burn and chest ache like he's been punched. He hasn’t cried like this since the day he buried his parents.

He keeps whispering your name, like it might ground him. It doesn’t. It just hurts more.

The chair creaks beneath him as he leans forward, forehead pressed to the edge of your bed. He grips your sheets, the same way he used to hold your hand, fingers trembling against the fabric.

“You gotta wake up,” he murmurs between sobs. “Please. I don’t— I can’t do this without you.”

He chokes on a laugh.

“Roy can’t either. You know that, right? He acts all tough, but he’s just— he’s just breaking slower.” His voice cracks again, thinner now. “God, we were so stupid. We could’ve been happy, all of us. And now look at us.”

He lifts his head, eyes swollen, nose red. He looks at you, at the faint rise and fall of your chest, at the small patch of tape holding the IV to your arm.

“You’d tell me to stop crying,” he mutters. “You’d tell me to ‘get my shit together, Dick.’”

His mouth twitches into a half-smile that falls apart as quickly as it comes. He wipes his face with his sleeve, but the tears keep coming.

“I miss him,” he admits finally, the words ripping out of him like a confession. “I miss Roy so much. I hate him, but God, I miss him. I miss his stupid grin, his terrible jokes, the way he looks at you when he thinks no one’s watching. The way he used to look at me.”

He leans back, staring at the ceiling now, eyes glassy. “I don’t even know how to talk to him anymore. Everything we built just exploded. And I don’t know how to pick up the pieces when you’re not here to help us.”

The room hums with the soft whir of machines and the faint drumming of rain against the window. He sits there until his throat is sore, until the tears have run out, until he’s left hollow and shaking and ashamed of how small he feels.

Then he takes your hand. It’s warm, faintly, just enough to trick him into pretending you can feel it.

“I’ll fix it,” he whispers. “I don’t know how, but I’ll fix it. For you. For us.”

His voice breaks again, but quieter this time. “Just… come back, please.”

Roy doesn’t remember the drive back. One minute he’s storming out of the hospital, rain hammering against his hood, and the next he’s sitting on the couch in Oliver’s guest apartment, dripping water onto the floor. His bow is still in the backseat of the truck, arrows somewhere he doesn’t care to find. His hands won’t stop shaking.

He’s still angry. Or maybe he’s just empty and anger is the only thing left that feels like something. He keeps replaying it: Dick’s face, the sound of his voice when he said you’ve done enough. Like Roy’s hands were poison. Like he wasn’t already carrying enough guilt to drown in.

He kicks over a chair. It splinters against the wall, but the sound isn’t loud enough to drown out the noise in his head. You missed the shot. You failed. You hurt her. You hurt the love of your life.

His chest tightens. He drags a hand through his soaked hair and stumbles toward the kitchen. The drawer sticks when he pulls it open, and he’s grateful—grateful for the friction, for the tiny resistance that almost makes him stop. But then it gives, and he sees it: the old kit. Still there from years ago. Still hidden under spare batteries and rubber bands, because he could never bring himself to throw it away.

He stares at it for a long time. His reflection in the metal spoon is warped, broken, his own face twisted into something unfamiliar. His heart’s hammering so hard it hurts. He thinks about how easy it would be. How quiet.

Then he sees you. Your laugh, the way you used to nudge his shoulder when he got too in his head. You promised me, Roy. That’s what you said the last time he relapsed. Your voice had cracked on his name.

He squeezes his eyes shut, jaw clenched so tight it aches. “I’m sorry,” he whispers to no one. Or maybe to you. Maybe to Dick. Maybe to himself.

He drops the kit on the counter and backs away like it’s radioactive. The chair hits his legs and he sinks to the floor, head in his hands. His breathing’s shallow now. He presses his palms to his eyes until he sees stars, until the pressure gives him something to focus on other than the gnawing emptiness.

He tries to think of anything else. The smell of your shampoo. The warmth of your hand on his neck when you’d tell him to breathe. The way Dick’s stupid grin used to make him roll his eyes but secretly, secretly, it made him feel like he belonged.

He laughs a dry, broken sound. “You two really fucked me up,” he mutters. “Guess I let you.”

The clock on the wall ticks louder than it should. He stares at it, counting seconds just to make time move. He doesn’t pick up the kit again. He doesn’t throw it away either. He just sits there, knees pulled to his chest, rocking slightly, whispering under his breath like a prayer he doesn’t believe in: “She’s gonna be okay. She’s gonna be okay. She has to be okay.”

At some point, the shaking stops. Not because he’s calm, because he’s too tired to keep trembling. He drags himself to the couch and lies there, eyes open, listening to the rain pounding against the window.

He imagines you waking up. He imagines Dick there, holding your hand. And for the first time in a long time, he lets himself cry, not out of anger this time, but out of grief so deep it feels endless.

Outside, the storm keeps raging, and inside, Roy clings to the thin thread of not doing it. Just one more night. One more breath.

Roy almost lets the call go to voicemail.

He’s sprawled on the couch, eyes swollen and gritty, the faint ache of last night’s near relapse still humming in his veins. The phone buzzes on the coffee table, vibrating against a stack of unopened mail. Then he sees the name.

Dick.

For a second, his brain blanks out. They haven’t talked since that fight in the hospital. His thumb hovers over the answer button. He’s ready to ignore it. To keep pretending that silence is easier.

But something in his gut twists, something wrong. He presses accept.

“Yeah, what do you want?” he mutters, voice sandpaper-rough.

Nothing.

Just breathing.

“Dick?”

Then—

A broken noise, half gasp, half cry. The sound of someone trying to speak through a tidal wave.

“Roy…” Dick’s voice cracks in half on his name. “Roy—she—” Another sob. “She’s gone.”

It doesn’t register at first. Just a word without meaning. “What?”

Dick’s trying to speak, but every word stumbles out like glass through his throat.

“She—this morning—she—” He gulps for air. “She stopped breathing. I—she was right there, Roy, I was holding her hand, and she just—”

Roy sits upright. The room spins.

“Stop. Stop, Dick, don’t—” His chest tightens so fast it hurts to breathe.

“They tried—” Dick’s voice breaks. “They tried so hard, but she—she didn’t come back. I—Roy, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.”

For a moment, all Roy can hear is static. The clock ticks too loud. His heart is hammering so hard it feels like it might punch a hole through his ribs.

“Dick,” he whispers, but his voice sounds far away, like it’s coming from underwater. “Don’t say that. Don’t you say that.”

“She’s gone,” Dick chokes out. “She’s gone and I don’t—”

Then the words collapse into noise. A raw, animal sob that tears through the line.

Roy presses a hand to his mouth. His body starts shaking. He wants to throw the phone, wants to scream, wants to wake up in the hospital hallway yesterday, or last week, or before. Before the fight. Before the shot. Before everything cracked.

His knees give out, and he sinks to the floor, still clutching the phone like it’s a lifeline.

“No,” he breathes, again and again. “No, no, no.”

“I didn’t know who else to call,” Dick’s voice trembles. “Please, Roy. Please come. I can’t be here alone. Please. I don’t know how to—”

Roy’s throat closes. His whole body feels hollow. The rain outside sounds like applause for something cruel.

“I’ll be there,” he says. He doesn’t recognize his own voice.

He doesn’t remember hanging up. Doesn’t remember getting in the truck, just the drive. Red lights smearing in his vision, rain mixing with tears until he can’t tell what’s what. His hands grip the steering wheel too tight. Every breath feels like swallowing fire.

The hospital looms out of the fog like a ghost. He stumbles inside, heartbeat thundering in his ears. The smell of disinfectant hits him like a punch.

Then he sees Dick.

Sitting on the floor outside your room, back against the wall, legs folded up like a kid. He’s shaking so hard it looks painful. His face is blotchy, his eyes red and raw. His clothes rumpled, his hair sticking to his forehead. He looks like someone who’s forgotten how to exist.

Roy stops a few feet away. His voice barely makes it out. “Dick.”

Dick looks up. His eyes are empty and full at the same time. When he speaks, it’s a whisper that sounds like it’s falling apart. “She’s really gone, Roy.”

Something inside Roy just breaks. There’s no slow collapse, it's instant. His breath catches on a sob, and before he knows it he’s on his knees in front of Dick, grabbing at him, holding him, both of them clinging so tight it’s almost violent.

They’re crying into each other’s shoulders, unable to stop.

“I was right here,” Dick keeps saying. “She was breathing and then she wasn’t, and I— I thought she’d open her eyes, I thought—”

Roy can’t answer. He can only shake his head, tears streaming down his face, his whole body trembling. He presses his forehead against Dick’s.

“We were supposed to get her back,” he whispers. “We were supposed to fix it.”

The hallway feels too bright. Somewhere down the hall, a nurse is crying quietly too.

Roy’s hands are shaking as he grips Dick tighter. “I should’ve protected her,” he mutters. “I should’ve taken the shot. I should’ve—”

“Don’t,” Dick says, his voice breaking again. “Don’t. Please.”

But they both know they’ll spend the rest of their lives replaying it anyway.

They stay like that for a long time.

And when Roy finally lifts his head, he catches a glimpse through the small window in the door. The white sheets. The stillness. The space where your laughter used to live.

He presses his fist to his mouth to keep from screaming.

Outside, the rain doesn’t stop. It never does.

main masterlist a/n: um hi lol i started writing this the 7th of october and finished it the 30th... it's been a ride. not apologizing tho, i actually loved doing this, might write more about you guys dying tragically

"Hear that, slut? You're built to take it," you hissed in his ear, then slammed your hips forward. Your hard, rubber cock drove past his tight resistance, right up to the base. Dick's body spasmed, a strangled whimper escaping him, which was immediately cut off by Roy's cock filling his mouth to the gag point.

"Look at him, Roy! He's crying again," you barked a laugh, reaching around to grab Dick's balls, squeezing them just enough to make his eyes water even more. "You like being fucked senseless, don't you, Dick? You aren't happy with one hole being filled, you need both completely uselles, you greedy whore."

Roy pulled back just enough for Dick to gasp a painful breath, then thrust again, making the boy's head snap back. "He loves it. He loves being stretched and taken. Look how wet his little hole is for you," Roy pointed the tip of his own cock at Dick's slick, gaping asshole. "Fill him up, sweetheart. I want to feel him break."

"With pleasure, honey," you mocked his own voice, then grabbed his hips and started a piston-hard, unrelenting rhythm. Each thrust of your strap-on drove deeper, harder, making Dick's spine pop and his ass cheeks slap wetly against your hips. Roy drove his cock in just as hard, filling Dick's mouth with a rough, rapid pace.

You both fucked him in unison, a grinding, brutal rhythm that made his entire body shudder and shake violently. The pleasure was too much for the boy, his muscles tensing for a climax that he wasn't allowed to take.

"You'll take our loads, little whore," Roy muttered right before a choked, final grunt. He pulled out of Dick's mouth, thick ropes of spit and come trailing from the boy's chin. "I'm done. Your turn to ruin him."