#stephcasstim

hey hey 😘 here's some fluffy timstephcass for ya ❤️

For the life of him, he could not find his favorite hoodie. Tim had searched every drawer, closet, nook and cranny in three safe houses–the Nest included–and the damn thing was nowhere to be found. He'd had it for years; he had picked it up at a music festival he'd visited with the rest of Young Justice (before a villain crashed it). It was two sizes too big at the time, so it still fit, and the GOO FIGHTERS graphic had cracked and faded.

But it was gone. And Tim was this close to a meltdown only his comfort hoodie could cure.

It wasn’t that he never let anyone borrow his clothes. He didn’t like to, but when all kinds of kid vigilantes were in and out of your room and sometimes covered in various fluids (human or alien), they borrowed your clothes. Kon had worn it before he died, and then Tim had worn it, unwashed, for long after it stopped smelling like his cologne and simply stunk. That was a while ago, though. Things were better now. And he liked his showers frequent and his laundry crisp.

Before he'd passed out after last night's patrol, Steph invited him to a late brunch at the local Gotham chain diner Grindstone’s. The Hill location was fairly close to the apartment she shared with Cass, enough so that the rotating cast of teenage servers knew all of their names. Tim was a less frequent visitor, strict as his diet was, but he suspected the staff gossiped about the guy with two girlfriends, or the girlfriends who sometimes brought their boyfriend, or whatever. It was also possible that they simply knew who Tim Drake was.

When he reached the diner, the girls were already there. They dragged him into their side of the booth and smoothed the paper place mats all together. Someone had procured a box of crayons and the beginnings of a very purple and yellow doodle of both Batgirls covered half the local ads. Steph squeezed him under her arm in a headlock because he wasn't going to order fries to share (and Grindstone's had the best cornmeal-coated fries in town), and he found himself face-to-face with the very familiar fabric of Cass's sweatshirt.

How had he missed it?

“That's mine,” he choked out, launching at her across Steph's lap the moment he was out of the headlock. “Where did you get that?!”

Cass blinked at him, a smug little twist to her lips. “You left it.”

No, he distinctly remembered folding it and placing it in his Favored Location in his closet beneath the theater–Oh. Oh, no. He'd worn it to movie night two weeks ago. And then the three of them had gotten a little…distracted, and he'd gone home the next morning in something else. Steph's oversized denim trucker jacket, with the huge pockets, he thought. He'd forgotten all about the hoodie.

“I need it back,” he sniffed. Steph elbowed him in the side. Their server was balancing five plates in her arms and didn't look prepared to handle whatever they were doing. Once he sat up, she spread out their dishes as best she could with the three of them on the same side of the table. Steph had gotten chocolate chip pancakes, Cass had ordered a cheesy omelet and a plate of corned beef hash, and Tim had gotten his favorites: strawberry-stuffed French toast and the fries he'd been threatened bodily harm over. Shortly after, she returned with a strawberry shake (Steph), an iced hot chocolate with whipped cream and shaved chocolate (Cass), and a frothy cappuccino with pistachio syrup (him). “I've been looking for that for days,” he said, because he wasn't going to let it go.

“Shut up and eat your berries,” Steph said, and cuffed his ear. She scooped some whipped cream off of Cass's drink. Cass simply took a bite of her omelet.

He leaned into Steph, giving Cass his best puppy eyes over her shoulder. “You don't understand,” he whined, “I need it for my health.”

“Bathroom,” Cass said, still with that twinkle in her eye, as she forced them to file out of the booth. When she stood, he noticed the odd fit of her jeans: they were narrowest at the top and too wide for her hips. They were shaped like Stephanie.

He pointed incredulously. “Do any of the clothes you're wearing belong to you?!”

Cass looked over her shoulder and smirked. “Underwear.” That shut him up. He flopped back in the booth to pick at his food. Steph relayed an engrossing story about her feral poetry professor, and then abruptly stopped. She tapped his shoulder frantically.

“Tim. Ohmigod.”

In front of their table, Cass was standing with the hoodie looped over one arm, but that wasn't the interesting part. She was wearing…well, underwear, he supposed, if one was the conservative sort. It was one of those bodysuits Steph had DM'd him, but he could never parse out if it was a hint for the next gift-giving occasion or if she just wanted to show him hot women in goth lingerie. The bodysuit itself was mostly translucent black, with twisting snakes slithering around the waist and breasts. Cass's stomach was almost bare under the fabric, but an ornate diamond shape clung above her belly button. She was wearing pasties. Tim could feel something very embarrassing happening to him under the table.

“Oh my God, you sexy creature!” Steph squealed. She very openly felt up Cass's waist and twirled around her to appreciate a 360 of the bodysuit (or, Tim thought painfully, what parts of it were visible above her jeans). “Tim! Say something!”

His throat felt dry. This was his punishment from God for asking Cass to take off a hoodie he could mostly live without. “I'm dying,” he said, “you're killing me. You're too beautiful.” It was very possible he would die in this diner crushed between Cass's femme fatale bodice and Steph's ample chest. There were certainly worse ways to go.

Nevertheless, as soon as he had his hoodie back, he threw it over his head and melted into the thick fabric. This time it was scented with Cass and the shampoo she shared with Steph.