dickdevotionals

[dickdevotionals]

Opening up requests because I have the writing itch but no ideas. Feel free to send asks for Dick or Tim my way!

[dickdevotionals]

when i get you alone (it's so simple)

summary: Tim Drake is pretending to be the poster boy of composure. You'd very much like to make him lose said composure.

tags: tim drake x reader, fem!reader, no use of y/n, nsfw

link to ao3: here

You arrived before him.

Not by much, but enough that you are half a glass of champagne in when he enters. You are standing by the musicians, your trail of your gown artfully pooled behind you, scanning the crowd almost restlessly when you catch Tim's eye.

He sees you, you know he sees you—there's a fraction of a pause in his step that you wouldn't notice if you hadn't spent so much time getting to know every inch of him.

He smiles tersely, gives you a once-over, and moves on.

No second take, no smirk, no move towards you, nothing.

The audacity.

You’d picked this dress for him. Chosen the colour he once muttered made him lose track of what he was saying. Picked the fabric with a slit high enough to make the fitting assistant raise her eyebrows. You’d even pinned your hair the way he liked—off your neck, darling—which wasn't an easy feat, by the way.

And now he's talking to some rich shareholder effortlessly, like he couldn't have cared less if you'd worn a plastic bag to this gala.

You take another sip of champagne, let it fizz against your tongue while you stare daggers into the back of his immaculately tailored head. The nerve. The unmitigated gall.

It's not that you want the world to know. When Tim had suggested keeping your budding relationship under wraps, you'd agreed quickly—not eager to get ripped apart by Gotham's journalists while you both were still finding your feet. You don't want a grand gesture. You don't want Tim to throw himself at your feet in front of the Gotham elite (though you do amuse yourself by imagining that for a few moments). You just want a look, a proper, real look. A flicker of heat in his eyes, a shift in his posture, something that tells you that he wants you, wants to touch you, wants to show everyone of the rich assholes here that you're his.

But no. Tim Drake, poster boy of composure, is being cool and collected and utterly boring about the whole thing.

Fine.

Fine.

If he's so insistent on being composed, then you'll just have to see how long it takes for that composure to break.

You set your empty glass down and step into the crowd.

No plan, not really. Just the itch under your skin that demands satisfaction. You won’t be overt—you’re not reckless, not stupid. But you don’t need to be obvious to get under Tim’s skin. You just need to be you.

The crowd is thick with Gotham’s glittering elite—shimmering gowns, tailored tuxedos, far too much cologne. You know how to move in this world. You’ve done it before. Charity reps are meant to be gracious, approachable, a little naive but very charming. Which is convenient, because right now? You’re feeling particularly charming.

You spot your first opportunity quickly—an older woman with a crisp blonde bob and too much jewellery, mid-conversation with someone who looks even younger than you. She's standing right behind Tim, close enough that he'll hear you, far enough for plausible deniability.

You sweep in with an apologetic smile and a hand on her arm. "Oh! I'm so sorry to interrupt, I just wanted to say how much I adored your panel last spring. That bit about micro-grants for community gardens? Absolutely wonderful."

The kid she was talking to thanks you quietly as he leaves, even as the lady herself beams at you. "Oh, how lovely—what a memory you’ve got!"

"Oh, it stuck with me," you say warmly, like you aren’t hyper-aware of the man standing with his back to you not five steps away. "I’ve quoted you at least three times since. Once to our board, and once to a very snooty hedge fund manager. That one was especially satisfying."

The woman laughs, delighted. Tim hasn’t moved. Hasn’t turned. But you can tell—you can tell—that his head has tilted just slightly. Listening.

It's a start.

You keep your conversation with the lady brief, and as you make your excuses, she tells you to contact her office as soon as you can, she can tell you're a 'bright young lady'. Happy tidings all around.

You drift off with a smile and a quiet thank you, already scanning for your next move.

This time, you don’t approach. You pass by—elegantly, slowly, just enough to make it seem like coincidence. Tim is still standing in profile, speaking with a man you think once tried to buy the building your charity operates out of. You don’t acknowledge him. You walk behind him, close enough that your shoulder brushes the back of his jacket sleeve.

You don’t look back, but you feel the shift in the air like static. A hiccup in his posture. A half-second stall in the perfectly pleasant conversation he’s having about renewable infrastructure tax incentives. You try not to feel too smug about it.

Good.

You keep moving.

Another circuit of the room—charming, sociable, engaging. You catch him glancing your way when you compliment an older man’s cuff links. His eyes flick over briefly from across the room, then return to his conversation. But his hand flexes at his side.

You bite back a smirk.

Now that you’ve got his attention—really got it—you set the final stage.

You’ve primed him like a match: a little heat, a little friction, and just waiting for the spark.

The spark being, of course, the smug guy holding court in the corner who hasn't been able to keep his eyes off you for longer than a minute since he saw you. You catch his pointedly, before heading to the drinks table, already knowing he'll find you there in a couple seconds at best. You try to remember his name—Mark, you think, or maybe Matt?

He’s already approaching, drink in hand, eyes locked on you like a dog on a steak. And you’re happy to be the steak. Just for a little while.

"Didn’t expect to see someone under forty here tonight," Mitch says, offering you a drink. "Much less someone who looks like you."

You tilt your head and smile, accept the drink without sipping. "That’s funny," you say lightly, "I was just thinking the same about you."

Max laughs. It's a bit too loud, but you don't mind. He’s leaning in already, standing just a bit too close, projecting confidence like a cologne that doesn’t quite cover the notes of entitlement underneath. And sure, maybe under normal circumstances, you’d have peeled away by now—offered a polite smile, found a convenient board member to corner—but you’re not here for Mason.

You're here for Tim. And even without looking at him, you can feel his gaze at you, hair raising on the back of your neck.

Holding back that smirk is getting harder and harder.

You let the conversation stretch—nothing too interesting, just enough to give the illusion of engagement. Martin is talking about his father's company now, and your smile is all teeth and patience. You’re angled just enough to give Tim the perfect view—of your profile, the way your hand drapes casually against the table, the way that Marcus is standing a little too close to be polite.

Mike is halfway through describing his mansion when you feel a familiar presence at your elbow, butting in rather rudely.

Tim, posture stiff and far too close to you, says, "Excuse me."

His voice is pleasant. Polite. Murderously neutral.

It shouldn’t be hot.

It is.

You turn with an arched brow, eyes wide with mock-innocence. "Do you need me for something, Drake?"

Tim turns to look at you, effortlessly cutting poor Micah out of the conversation. His jaw tightens ever so slightly, but there’s something else there—a flicker of heat beneath the practised calm. Like a dam about to break. His eyes rake over you—slow, deliberate, a touch possessive—and then flick briefly toward Maxwell, who is still hovering awkwardly with his drink like he hasn’t yet realised he’s already lost.

Tim doesn't even do him the courtesy of a proper excuse, just puts a hand on your elbow and politely but firmly drags you off.

You let him.

Of course you let him.

You go without protest, casting poor Morgan one last apologetic smile over your shoulder—though it’s a little hard to sell, what with the way your eyes are practically glittering. You don’t even try to suppress your grin once Tim’s hand curls more securely around your arm, guiding you through the crowd like a man walking a tightrope: very carefully, very precisely, and one sharp gust away from disaster.

He drags you out of the ball room and into a dark closet you're not sure guests are allowed in. You can barely get a witty comment out before his lips are on yours, harsh and unforgiving, and he's pressing you into the wall.

His hands are on your waist—no, your hips—no, everywhere, all at once. Hot and firm and just shy of bruising. Like he’s catching up for every minute he spent pretending you weren’t the only thing in the room worth looking at.

"You did that on purpose," he mutters against your mouth, low and hoarse and wrecked already. His teeth catch on your lower lip, and you gasp, which only makes him smile—sharp and hungry. "You think I don't know that?"

"I would never—" You break off when he bites his way down your throat, and have to figure out how words work for a moment. "—insult your detective prowess that way."

His laugh is soft and breathless against your skin. "You’re a menace."

"I’m a delight," you correct, eyes fluttering shut as his hands skim your thighs, pushing your dress higher—greedier now, less composed, more his. "I just didn't want you pretending you were unaffected."

"You think I was unaffected?" he huffs, incredulous, like the very idea offends him. His mouth grazes your jaw. "You think I didn’t see that dress and forget my own name for a full five seconds?"

You smile, slow and wicked. "You didn’t act like it."

"I couldn’t." His breath stutters against your collarbone, the words torn from him like a confession. "You walk in looking like that and expect me to what? Abandon a conversation with the guy holding a third of the Foundation’s portfolio?"

"That would've been flattering, sure."

He huffs a laugh, but it’s not amusement—it’s disbelief. Like he can’t fathom you don’t already know exactly what you do to him.

"Flattering?" he repeats, voice low and strained. "It would've started a scandal."

"Mhm," you hum, letting your head tip back against the wall. "Would’ve been a hell of a statement though."

His hands dig into your thighs as he lifts you up with infuriating ease, like he's finally decided composure is for boardrooms and not closets with you in them. Your breath catches as your back hits the wall again, harder this time. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and you can feel the exact moment he stops pretending he's not shaking with restraint.

"You’re not getting out of this without consequences," he murmurs, one hand sliding up the inside of your thigh, fingers teasing at the edge of your underwear like a threat. "You probably traumatized poor Marvin for life."

"Is that what his name was?"

Tim groans—an honest-to-god groan, torn from somewhere deep in his chest like it pains him to find you this funny right now. His forehead drops to your shoulder, laughter muffled in the curve of your neck, breath warm and unsteady against your skin.

"You are infuriating," he says, but it’s hoarse and fond and dangerously close to a moan as his fingers rub your slit over the fabric, still driving you half-mad without even properly touching you.

"That’s rich," you whisper, breath hitching as you try to rock into his fingers and he tightens his hand on your hip in a warning. Someone's feeling controlling tonight, you think but do not say, because frankly, it probably won't improve your position here. Instead, you say, "I’m infuriating? You stonewalled me in front of two hundred people after I spent forty minutes figuring out which shade of lipstick would make you lose your mind—"

"You picked the right one," he cuts in, sounding more strangled than smug. "Congratulations."

You don’t get the satisfaction of gloating, because that’s the moment he yanks your underwear to the side and slides two fingers in deep—no warning, no build-up, just a filthy, perfect pressure that knocks all the air out of your lungs. You let out a sound that might be a curse or a prayer; whatever it is, it makes Tim smirk.

"Well, I hope I've proven—" he whispers, mouth grazing your ear. "—just how affected I was. I’ve been gritting my teeth since I saw you."

You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders, legs tightening around his waist as your head falls back. "Fuck, Tim—"

"Keep your voice down," he says, a smug whisper against your collarbone, even as he curls his fingers inside you just the way you like, the way he knows makes your legs boneless. You shudder against him, grip tightening like your body's trying to anchor itself to reality. His fingers work you open in slow, precise motions—infuriatingly in control, even now, even here—but you can feel the tension coiled in his arms. Barely leashed.

"You know," he says, out-of-breath as if he's the one being undone by masterful fingers, "I have half a mind to leave you like this. See how you like having to control yourself in public."

You bite your lip hard enough to hurt, dragging your teeth across it until you can taste the sharp copper tang of restraint. Control. You could match him, if you wanted to. You’ve done it before—kept your legs closed and your smile tight and your voice steady while he whispered absolute filth in your ear at a fundraiser luncheon.

But right now?

Right now you want to win.

Your laugh is breathless and wrecked, more air than sound. "You wouldn’t."

"I absolutely would." But his voice is shaky now, words strained by proximity and the damp heat of you clenching around his fingers. "You think I don’t know how this game works? You start it, you deal with the fallout."

"Tim," you gasp, hips bucking against his hand, "I swear to God—"

"Careful." His lips brush your cheek, soft contrast to the hand gripping your leg tight enough to bruise, and the fingers deftly getting you closer to the edge. "You’ve already been blasphemous once tonight."

You want to fire back something clever, something wicked and smug—but his thumb presses against your clit and all you can manage is a bitten-off whimper that leaves your lips slack and your pride in shambles.

Tim groans at the sound, chest against yours, no distance left. "You’re gonna be the death of me."

"You’re the one—" you gasp, "—manhandling me into a broom closet, Drake."

"Yeah, well," he mutters, voice rough against your throat as he fucks his fingers into you, precise and punishing, "you asked for it."

You try making some witty remark but your breath keeps catching on gasps instead of words. Every muscle in your thighs is trembling, nails digging into whatever part of Tim's body you can hold on to. You’re right on the edge now—hips rolling into his hand, head thrown back, mouth parted as you try to hold yourself together through sheer force of will. You feel like you're burning alive.

And right when you think he’s going to push you over—when your toes curl and your thighs twitch and you gasp his name like a half-moan, half-warning—

He pulls his fingers out.

The whine that escapes you as your body chases the touch would have been humiliating if you were capable of feeling anything but arousal.

He grins against your neck, the smug little bastard. "You look so pretty like this, all flushed and righteous."

"Don't you dare—" you breathe, voice hoarse and legs trembling, barely standing straight as Tim pulls away.

He doesn’t go far.

You barely have time to glare—barely have time to remember what glaring even is—before he sinks to his knees in one smooth motion.

You make a sound, a half-startled, half-wrecked inhale that punches out of your chest before you can swallow it down, and his hands are already back on you, firm and unapologetic, spreading your thighs apart like a man who’s already made up his mind.

"Tim," you manage, unsteady. Not a protest. Just his name, again.

He glances up, mouth hovering just shy of where you want him, blue eyes dark and fevered. "Yes?"

The word’s a mockery. Polite, like he’s about to offer you another canapé instead of—

Then he leans in, and your knees buckle.

You don’t fall—his hands are locked tight on your thighs, anchoring you to the wall like you’re something sacred. But the jolt that rolls through you is visceral, molten, and immediate. His tongue is hot, sure, greedy. He doesn’t tease now. Doesn’t ease in slow. No soft kisses, no idle licks.

He’s intent. Devout.

Your head tips back against the wall with a thud as you bite down on the back of your hand, desperate to keep the sound in. It’s obscene, the way he moves—like this is some long-overdue penance for the hours of polite detachment, for every second he pretended your dress wasn’t the most dangerous thing in the room. The composure from earlier is gone, abandoned somewhere with his suit jacket. You'll have to remember to feel arrogant about how little effort it took to have this—Tim Drake, on his knees in a supply closet with your dress hiked up to your hips, eating you out like he needs it to survive—later.

Your hand is still in your mouth, teeth sunk into the soft flesh of your knuckle, but it’s not enough. Not nearly. The noise building in your chest wants out, and Tim isn’t helping—he’s groaning against you now, deep and low, fully enjoying this, the way you shake for him.

You try to hold back the sounds—really, you do—but your body has never cared much for decorum when he’s between your legs. You hear a breathy, half-broken whimper echo off the closet walls and it takes you a second to realise it’s yours.

Tim hums against you, wickedly pleased.

The vibration punches through your hips like a live wire. Your hand slides off your mouth as you brace yourself against the wall, grip trembling.

You barely gasp out, "Tim—" when your orgasm hits like a goddamn freight train—blinding, full-body, ripping through you so fast and sharp that your head knocks back against the wall again and the sound you make is entirely out of your control.

Tim doesn't stop until you're trembling, twitching, practically sinking down the wall—and only then does he pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and breathing like he just ran a marathon.

You’re still panting, legs jelly, trying and failing to catch your breath. Tim smooths down your dress as he stand back up, and you hope it's not too obvious that you've just been ravished in a supply closet. You still do, unfortunately, have to put in an hour of face-time at least.

Tim doesn't exactly look better—his hair is a mess, and his pants and shirt are crinkled beyond measure. You press a closed-mouth kiss to his lips, and say, "I'd offer to reciprocate, but frankly, I don't think I'd be getting back up if I went on my knees right now."

Tim exhales a soft laugh, and you feel it against your lips—warm, dizzy, pleased. "Gotta save some things for home."

He presses one last kiss to your cheek, then glances toward the door, jaw clenched like he’s trying to rebuild all that composure you spent the last half hour tearing apart. Oh, you're never letting him live this down. All that composure, and all it takes to undo it is one conversation with some trust fund guy named Marty.

"Give me a two-minute head start," he murmurs, brushing your hair gently back into place like the act of tenderness will make up for the fact that your knees are still shaking. "Then come out like nothing happened. Smile. Mingle."

"Oh, you'll have more than two minutes," you say. "I need to hide the evidence of you turning into a vampire on my neck, once I can remember how my legs work."

Tim glances down at your neck, then smirks. "Didn’t hear you complain."

"Big talk for someone who’s still catching his breath," you murmur. "Where's your jacket, Mr. Drake?"

He huffs a soft laugh and kisses you one more time. "You started it," he mutters, backing toward the door, before pausing. "Where is my jacket?"

taglist: open!

[dickdevotionals]

when i get you alone (it's so simple)

summary: Tim Drake is pretending to be the poster boy of composure. You'd very much like to make him lose said composure.

tags: tim drake x reader, fem!reader, no use of y/n, nsfw

link to ao3: here

You arrived before him.

Not by much, but enough that you are half a glass of champagne in when he enters. You are standing by the musicians, your trail of your gown artfully pooled behind you, scanning the crowd almost restlessly when you catch Tim's eye.

He sees you, you know he sees you—there's a fraction of a pause in his step that you wouldn't notice if you hadn't spent so much time getting to know every inch of him.

He smiles tersely, gives you a once-over, and moves on.

No second take, no smirk, no move towards you, nothing.

The audacity.

You’d picked this dress for him. Chosen the colour he once muttered made him lose track of what he was saying. Picked the fabric with a slit high enough to make the fitting assistant raise her eyebrows. You’d even pinned your hair the way he liked—off your neck, darling—which wasn't an easy feat, by the way.

And now he's talking to some rich shareholder effortlessly, like he couldn't have cared less if you'd worn a plastic bag to this gala.

You take another sip of champagne, let it fizz against your tongue while you stare daggers into the back of his immaculately tailored head. The nerve. The unmitigated gall.

It's not that you want the world to know. When Tim had suggested keeping your budding relationship under wraps, you'd agreed quickly—not eager to get ripped apart by Gotham's journalists while you both were still finding your feet. You don't want a grand gesture. You don't want Tim to throw himself at your feet in front of the Gotham elite (though you do amuse yourself by imagining that for a few moments). You just want a look, a proper, real look. A flicker of heat in his eyes, a shift in his posture, something that tells you that he wants you, wants to touch you, wants to show everyone of the rich assholes here that you're his.

But no. Tim Drake, poster boy of composure, is being cool and collected and utterly boring about the whole thing.

Fine.

Fine.

If he's so insistent on being composed, then you'll just have to see how long it takes for that composure to break.

You set your empty glass down and step into the crowd.

No plan, not really. Just the itch under your skin that demands satisfaction. You won’t be overt—you’re not reckless, not stupid. But you don’t need to be obvious to get under Tim’s skin. You just need to be you.

The crowd is thick with Gotham’s glittering elite—shimmering gowns, tailored tuxedos, far too much cologne. You know how to move in this world. You’ve done it before. Charity reps are meant to be gracious, approachable, a little naive but very charming. Which is convenient, because right now? You’re feeling particularly charming.

You spot your first opportunity quickly—an older woman with a crisp blonde bob and too much jewellery, mid-conversation with someone who looks even younger than you. She's standing right behind Tim, close enough that he'll hear you, far enough for plausible deniability.

You sweep in with an apologetic smile and a hand on her arm. "Oh! I'm so sorry to interrupt, I just wanted to say how much I adored your panel last spring. That bit about micro-grants for community gardens? Absolutely wonderful."

The kid she was talking to thanks you quietly as he leaves, even as the lady herself beams at you. "Oh, how lovely—what a memory you’ve got!"

"Oh, it stuck with me," you say warmly, like you aren’t hyper-aware of the man standing with his back to you not five steps away. "I’ve quoted you at least three times since. Once to our board, and once to a very snooty hedge fund manager. That one was especially satisfying."

The woman laughs, delighted. Tim hasn’t moved. Hasn’t turned. But you can tell—you can tell—that his head has tilted just slightly. Listening.

It's a start.

You keep your conversation with the lady brief, and as you make your excuses, she tells you to contact her office as soon as you can, she can tell you're a 'bright young lady'. Happy tidings all around.

You drift off with a smile and a quiet thank you, already scanning for your next move.

This time, you don’t approach. You pass by—elegantly, slowly, just enough to make it seem like coincidence. Tim is still standing in profile, speaking with a man you think once tried to buy the building your charity operates out of. You don’t acknowledge him. You walk behind him, close enough that your shoulder brushes the back of his jacket sleeve.

You don’t look back, but you feel the shift in the air like static. A hiccup in his posture. A half-second stall in the perfectly pleasant conversation he’s having about renewable infrastructure tax incentives. You try not to feel too smug about it.

Good.

You keep moving.

Another circuit of the room—charming, sociable, engaging. You catch him glancing your way when you compliment an older man’s cuff links. His eyes flick over briefly from across the room, then return to his conversation. But his hand flexes at his side.

You bite back a smirk.

Now that you’ve got his attention—really got it—you set the final stage.

You’ve primed him like a match: a little heat, a little friction, and just waiting for the spark.

The spark being, of course, the smug guy holding court in the corner who hasn't been able to keep his eyes off you for longer than a minute since he saw you. You catch his pointedly, before heading to the drinks table, already knowing he'll find you there in a couple seconds at best. You try to remember his name—Mark, you think, or maybe Matt?

He’s already approaching, drink in hand, eyes locked on you like a dog on a steak. And you’re happy to be the steak. Just for a little while.

"Didn’t expect to see someone under forty here tonight," Mitch says, offering you a drink. "Much less someone who looks like you."

You tilt your head and smile, accept the drink without sipping. "That’s funny," you say lightly, "I was just thinking the same about you."

Max laughs. It's a bit too loud, but you don't mind. He’s leaning in already, standing just a bit too close, projecting confidence like a cologne that doesn’t quite cover the notes of entitlement underneath. And sure, maybe under normal circumstances, you’d have peeled away by now—offered a polite smile, found a convenient board member to corner—but you’re not here for Mason.

You're here for Tim. And even without looking at him, you can feel his gaze at you, hair raising on the back of your neck.

Holding back that smirk is getting harder and harder.

You let the conversation stretch—nothing too interesting, just enough to give the illusion of engagement. Martin is talking about his father's company now, and your smile is all teeth and patience. You’re angled just enough to give Tim the perfect view—of your profile, the way your hand drapes casually against the table, the way that Marcus is standing a little too close to be polite.

Mike is halfway through describing his mansion when you feel a familiar presence at your elbow, butting in rather rudely.

Tim, posture stiff and far too close to you, says, "Excuse me."

His voice is pleasant. Polite. Murderously neutral.

It shouldn’t be hot.

It is.

You turn with an arched brow, eyes wide with mock-innocence. "Do you need me for something, Drake?"

Tim turns to look at you, effortlessly cutting poor Micah out of the conversation. His jaw tightens ever so slightly, but there’s something else there—a flicker of heat beneath the practised calm. Like a dam about to break. His eyes rake over you—slow, deliberate, a touch possessive—and then flick briefly toward Maxwell, who is still hovering awkwardly with his drink like he hasn’t yet realised he’s already lost.

Tim doesn't even do him the courtesy of a proper excuse, just puts a hand on your elbow and politely but firmly drags you off.

You let him.

Of course you let him.

You go without protest, casting poor Morgan one last apologetic smile over your shoulder—though it’s a little hard to sell, what with the way your eyes are practically glittering. You don’t even try to suppress your grin once Tim’s hand curls more securely around your arm, guiding you through the crowd like a man walking a tightrope: very carefully, very precisely, and one sharp gust away from disaster.

He drags you out of the ball room and into a dark closet you're not sure guests are allowed in. You can barely get a witty comment out before his lips are on yours, harsh and unforgiving, and he's pressing you into the wall.

His hands are on your waist—no, your hips—no, everywhere, all at once. Hot and firm and just shy of bruising. Like he’s catching up for every minute he spent pretending you weren’t the only thing in the room worth looking at.

"You did that on purpose," he mutters against your mouth, low and hoarse and wrecked already. His teeth catch on your lower lip, and you gasp, which only makes him smile—sharp and hungry. "You think I don't know that?"

"I would never—" You break off when he bites his way down your throat, and have to figure out how words work for a moment. "—insult your detective prowess that way."

His laugh is soft and breathless against your skin. "You’re a menace."

"I’m a delight," you correct, eyes fluttering shut as his hands skim your thighs, pushing your dress higher—greedier now, less composed, more his. "I just didn't want you pretending you were unaffected."

"You think I was unaffected?" he huffs, incredulous, like the very idea offends him. His mouth grazes your jaw. "You think I didn’t see that dress and forget my own name for a full five seconds?"

You smile, slow and wicked. "You didn’t act like it."

"I couldn’t." His breath stutters against your collarbone, the words torn from him like a confession. "You walk in looking like that and expect me to what? Abandon a conversation with the guy holding a third of the Foundation’s portfolio?"

"That would've been flattering, sure."

He huffs a laugh, but it’s not amusement—it’s disbelief. Like he can’t fathom you don’t already know exactly what you do to him.

"Flattering?" he repeats, voice low and strained. "It would've started a scandal."

"Mhm," you hum, letting your head tip back against the wall. "Would’ve been a hell of a statement though."

His hands dig into your thighs as he lifts you up with infuriating ease, like he's finally decided composure is for boardrooms and not closets with you in them. Your breath catches as your back hits the wall again, harder this time. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and you can feel the exact moment he stops pretending he's not shaking with restraint.

"You’re not getting out of this without consequences," he murmurs, one hand sliding up the inside of your thigh, fingers teasing at the edge of your underwear like a threat. "You probably traumatized poor Marvin for life."

"Is that what his name was?"

Tim groans—an honest-to-god groan, torn from somewhere deep in his chest like it pains him to find you this funny right now. His forehead drops to your shoulder, laughter muffled in the curve of your neck, breath warm and unsteady against your skin.

"You are infuriating," he says, but it’s hoarse and fond and dangerously close to a moan as his fingers rub your slit over the fabric, still driving you half-mad without even properly touching you.

"That’s rich," you whisper, breath hitching as you try to rock into his fingers and he tightens his hand on your hip in a warning. Someone's feeling controlling tonight, you think but do not say, because frankly, it probably won't improve your position here. Instead, you say, "I’m infuriating? You stonewalled me in front of two hundred people after I spent forty minutes figuring out which shade of lipstick would make you lose your mind—"

"You picked the right one," he cuts in, sounding more strangled than smug. "Congratulations."

You don’t get the satisfaction of gloating, because that’s the moment he yanks your underwear to the side and slides two fingers in deep—no warning, no build-up, just a filthy, perfect pressure that knocks all the air out of your lungs. You let out a sound that might be a curse or a prayer; whatever it is, it makes Tim smirk.

"Well, I hope I've proven—" he whispers, mouth grazing your ear. "—just how affected I was. I’ve been gritting my teeth since I saw you."

You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders, legs tightening around his waist as your head falls back. "Fuck, Tim—"

"Keep your voice down," he says, a smug whisper against your collarbone, even as he curls his fingers inside you just the way you like, the way he knows makes your legs boneless. You shudder against him, grip tightening like your body's trying to anchor itself to reality. His fingers work you open in slow, precise motions—infuriatingly in control, even now, even here—but you can feel the tension coiled in his arms. Barely leashed.

"You know," he says, out-of-breath as if he's the one being undone by masterful fingers, "I have half a mind to leave you like this. See how you like having to control yourself in public."

You bite your lip hard enough to hurt, dragging your teeth across it until you can taste the sharp copper tang of restraint. Control. You could match him, if you wanted to. You’ve done it before—kept your legs closed and your smile tight and your voice steady while he whispered absolute filth in your ear at a fundraiser luncheon.

But right now?

Right now you want to win.

Your laugh is breathless and wrecked, more air than sound. "You wouldn’t."

"I absolutely would." But his voice is shaky now, words strained by proximity and the damp heat of you clenching around his fingers. "You think I don’t know how this game works? You start it, you deal with the fallout."

"Tim," you gasp, hips bucking against his hand, "I swear to God—"

"Careful." His lips brush your cheek, soft contrast to the hand gripping your leg tight enough to bruise, and the fingers deftly getting you closer to the edge. "You’ve already been blasphemous once tonight."

You want to fire back something clever, something wicked and smug—but his thumb presses against your clit and all you can manage is a bitten-off whimper that leaves your lips slack and your pride in shambles.

Tim groans at the sound, chest against yours, no distance left. "You’re gonna be the death of me."

"You’re the one—" you gasp, "—manhandling me into a broom closet, Drake."

"Yeah, well," he mutters, voice rough against your throat as he fucks his fingers into you, precise and punishing, "you asked for it."

You try making some witty remark but your breath keeps catching on gasps instead of words. Every muscle in your thighs is trembling, nails digging into whatever part of Tim's body you can hold on to. You’re right on the edge now—hips rolling into his hand, head thrown back, mouth parted as you try to hold yourself together through sheer force of will. You feel like you're burning alive.

And right when you think he’s going to push you over—when your toes curl and your thighs twitch and you gasp his name like a half-moan, half-warning—

He pulls his fingers out.

The whine that escapes you as your body chases the touch would have been humiliating if you were capable of feeling anything but arousal.

He grins against your neck, the smug little bastard. "You look so pretty like this, all flushed and righteous."

"Don't you dare—" you breathe, voice hoarse and legs trembling, barely standing straight as Tim pulls away.

He doesn’t go far.

You barely have time to glare—barely have time to remember what glaring even is—before he sinks to his knees in one smooth motion.

You make a sound, a half-startled, half-wrecked inhale that punches out of your chest before you can swallow it down, and his hands are already back on you, firm and unapologetic, spreading your thighs apart like a man who’s already made up his mind.

"Tim," you manage, unsteady. Not a protest. Just his name, again.

He glances up, mouth hovering just shy of where you want him, blue eyes dark and fevered. "Yes?"

The word’s a mockery. Polite, like he’s about to offer you another canapé instead of—

Then he leans in, and your knees buckle.

You don’t fall—his hands are locked tight on your thighs, anchoring you to the wall like you’re something sacred. But the jolt that rolls through you is visceral, molten, and immediate. His tongue is hot, sure, greedy. He doesn’t tease now. Doesn’t ease in slow. No soft kisses, no idle licks.

He’s intent. Devout.

Your head tips back against the wall with a thud as you bite down on the back of your hand, desperate to keep the sound in. It’s obscene, the way he moves—like this is some long-overdue penance for the hours of polite detachment, for every second he pretended your dress wasn’t the most dangerous thing in the room. The composure from earlier is gone, abandoned somewhere with his suit jacket. You'll have to remember to feel arrogant about how little effort it took to have this—Tim Drake, on his knees in a supply closet with your dress hiked up to your hips, eating you out like he needs it to survive—later.

Your hand is still in your mouth, teeth sunk into the soft flesh of your knuckle, but it’s not enough. Not nearly. The noise building in your chest wants out, and Tim isn’t helping—he’s groaning against you now, deep and low, fully enjoying this, the way you shake for him.

You try to hold back the sounds—really, you do—but your body has never cared much for decorum when he’s between your legs. You hear a breathy, half-broken whimper echo off the closet walls and it takes you a second to realise it’s yours.

Tim hums against you, wickedly pleased.

The vibration punches through your hips like a live wire. Your hand slides off your mouth as you brace yourself against the wall, grip trembling.

You barely gasp out, "Tim—" when your orgasm hits like a goddamn freight train—blinding, full-body, ripping through you so fast and sharp that your head knocks back against the wall again and the sound you make is entirely out of your control.

Tim doesn't stop until you're trembling, twitching, practically sinking down the wall—and only then does he pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and breathing like he just ran a marathon.

You’re still panting, legs jelly, trying and failing to catch your breath. Tim smooths down your dress as he stand back up, and you hope it's not too obvious that you've just been ravished in a supply closet. You still do, unfortunately, have to put in an hour of face-time at least.

Tim doesn't exactly look better—his hair is a mess, and his pants and shirt are crinkled beyond measure. You press a closed-mouth kiss to his lips, and say, "I'd offer to reciprocate, but frankly, I don't think I'd be getting back up if I went on my knees right now."

Tim exhales a soft laugh, and you feel it against your lips—warm, dizzy, pleased. "Gotta save some things for home."

He presses one last kiss to your cheek, then glances toward the door, jaw clenched like he’s trying to rebuild all that composure you spent the last half hour tearing apart. Oh, you're never letting him live this down. All that composure, and all it takes to undo it is one conversation with some trust fund guy named Marty.

"Give me a two-minute head start," he murmurs, brushing your hair gently back into place like the act of tenderness will make up for the fact that your knees are still shaking. "Then come out like nothing happened. Smile. Mingle."

"Oh, you'll have more than two minutes," you say. "I need to hide the evidence of you turning into a vampire on my neck, once I can remember how my legs work."

Tim glances down at your neck, then smirks. "Didn’t hear you complain."

"Big talk for someone who’s still catching his breath," you murmur. "Where's your jacket, Mr. Drake?"

He huffs a soft laugh and kisses you one more time. "You started it," he mutters, backing toward the door, before pausing. "Where is my jacket?"

taglist: open!

[dickdevotionals]

when i get you alone (it's so simple)

summary: Tim Drake is pretending to be the poster boy of composure. You'd very much like to make him lose said composure.

tags: tim drake x reader, fem!reader, no use of y/n, nsfw

link to ao3: here

masterlist

You arrived before him.

Not by much, but enough that you are half a glass of champagne in when he enters. You are standing by the musicians, your trail of your gown artfully pooled behind you, scanning the crowd almost restlessly when you catch Tim's eye.

He sees you, you know he sees you—there's a fraction of a pause in his step that you wouldn't notice if you hadn't spent so much time getting to know every inch of him.

He smiles tersely, gives you a once-over, and moves on.

No second take, no smirk, no move towards you, nothing.

The audacity.

You’d picked this dress for him. Chosen the colour he once muttered made him lose track of what he was saying. Picked the fabric with a slit high enough to make the fitting assistant raise her eyebrows. You’d even pinned your hair the way he liked—off your neck, darling—which wasn't an easy feat, by the way.

And now he's talking to some rich shareholder effortlessly, like he couldn't have cared less if you'd worn a plastic bag to this gala.

You take another sip of champagne, let it fizz against your tongue while you stare daggers into the back of his immaculately tailored head. The nerve. The unmitigated gall.

It's not that you want the world to know. When Tim had suggested keeping your budding relationship under wraps, you'd agreed quickly—not eager to get ripped apart by Gotham's journalists while you both were still finding your feet. You don't want a grand gesture. You don't want Tim to throw himself at your feet in front of the Gotham elite (though you do amuse yourself by imagining that for a few moments). You just want a look, a proper, real look. A flicker of heat in his eyes, a shift in his posture, something that tells you that he wants you, wants to touch you, wants to show everyone of the rich assholes here that you're his.

But no. Tim Drake, poster boy of composure, is being cool and collected and utterly boring about the whole thing.

Fine.

Fine.

If he's so insistent on being composed, then you'll just have to see how long it takes for that composure to break.

You set your empty glass down and step into the crowd.

No plan, not really. Just the itch under your skin that demands satisfaction. You won’t be overt—you’re not reckless, not stupid. But you don’t need to be obvious to get under Tim’s skin. You just need to be you.

The crowd is thick with Gotham’s glittering elite—shimmering gowns, tailored tuxedos, far too much cologne. You know how to move in this world. You’ve done it before. Charity reps are meant to be gracious, approachable, a little naive but very charming. Which is convenient, because right now? You’re feeling particularly charming.

You spot your first opportunity quickly—an older woman with a crisp blonde bob and too much jewellery, mid-conversation with someone who looks even younger than you. She's standing right behind Tim, close enough that he'll hear you, far enough for plausible deniability.

You sweep in with an apologetic smile and a hand on her arm. "Oh! I'm so sorry to interrupt, I just wanted to say how much I adored your panel last spring. That bit about micro-grants for community gardens? Absolutely wonderful."

The kid she was talking to thanks you quietly as he leaves, even as the lady herself beams at you. "Oh, how lovely—what a memory you’ve got!"

"Oh, it stuck with me," you say warmly, like you aren’t hyper-aware of the man standing with his back to you not five steps away. "I’ve quoted you at least three times since. Once to our board, and once to a very snooty hedge fund manager. That one was especially satisfying."

The woman laughs, delighted. Tim hasn’t moved. Hasn’t turned. But you can tell—you can tell—that his head has tilted just slightly. Listening.

It's a start.

You keep your conversation with the lady brief, and as you make your excuses, she tells you to contact her office as soon as you can, she can tell you're a 'bright young lady'. Happy tidings all around.

You drift off with a smile and a quiet thank you, already scanning for your next move.

This time, you don’t approach. You pass by—elegantly, slowly, just enough to make it seem like coincidence. Tim is still standing in profile, speaking with a man you think once tried to buy the building your charity operates out of. You don’t acknowledge him. You walk behind him, close enough that your shoulder brushes the back of his jacket sleeve.

You don’t look back, but you feel the shift in the air like static. A hiccup in his posture. A half-second stall in the perfectly pleasant conversation he’s having about renewable infrastructure tax incentives. You try not to feel too smug about it.

Good.

You keep moving.

Another circuit of the room—charming, sociable, engaging. You catch him glancing your way when you compliment an older man’s cuff links. His eyes flick over briefly from across the room, then return to his conversation. But his hand flexes at his side.

You bite back a smirk.

Now that you’ve got his attention—really got it—you set the final stage.

You’ve primed him like a match: a little heat, a little friction, and just waiting for the spark.

The spark being, of course, the smug guy holding court in the corner who hasn't been able to keep his eyes off you for longer than a minute since he saw you. You catch his pointedly, before heading to the drinks table, already knowing he'll find you there in a couple seconds at best. You try to remember his name—Mark, you think, or maybe Matt?

He’s already approaching, drink in hand, eyes locked on you like a dog on a steak. And you’re happy to be the steak. Just for a little while.

"Didn’t expect to see someone under forty here tonight," Mitch says, offering you a drink. "Much less someone who looks like you."

You tilt your head and smile, accept the drink without sipping. "That’s funny," you say lightly, "I was just thinking the same about you."

Max laughs. It's a bit too loud, but you don't mind. He’s leaning in already, standing just a bit too close, projecting confidence like a cologne that doesn’t quite cover the notes of entitlement underneath. And sure, maybe under normal circumstances, you’d have peeled away by now—offered a polite smile, found a convenient board member to corner—but you’re not here for Mason.

You're here for Tim. And even without looking at him, you can feel his gaze at you, hair raising on the back of your neck.

Holding back that smirk is getting harder and harder.

You let the conversation stretch—nothing too interesting, just enough to give the illusion of engagement. Martin is talking about his father's company now, and your smile is all teeth and patience. You’re angled just enough to give Tim the perfect view—of your profile, the way your hand drapes casually against the table, the way that Marcus is standing a little too close to be polite.

Mike is halfway through describing his mansion when you feel a familiar presence at your elbow, butting in rather rudely.

Tim, posture stiff and far too close to you, says, "Excuse me."

His voice is pleasant. Polite. Murderously neutral.

It shouldn’t be hot.

It is.

You turn with an arched brow, eyes wide with mock-innocence. "Do you need me for something, Drake?"

Tim turns to look at you, effortlessly cutting poor Micah out of the conversation. His jaw tightens ever so slightly, but there’s something else there—a flicker of heat beneath the practised calm. Like a dam about to break. His eyes rake over you—slow, deliberate, a touch possessive—and then flick briefly toward Maxwell, who is still hovering awkwardly with his drink like he hasn’t yet realised he’s already lost.

Tim doesn't even do him the courtesy of a proper excuse, just puts a hand on your elbow and politely but firmly drags you off.

You let him.

Of course you let him.

You go without protest, casting poor Morgan one last apologetic smile over your shoulder—though it’s a little hard to sell, what with the way your eyes are practically glittering. You don’t even try to suppress your grin once Tim’s hand curls more securely around your arm, guiding you through the crowd like a man walking a tightrope: very carefully, very precisely, and one sharp gust away from disaster.

He drags you out of the ball room and into a dark closet you're not sure guests are allowed in. You can barely get a witty comment out before his lips are on yours, harsh and unforgiving, and he's pressing you into the wall.

His hands are on your waist—no, your hips—no, everywhere, all at once. Hot and firm and just shy of bruising. Like he’s catching up for every minute he spent pretending you weren’t the only thing in the room worth looking at.

"You did that on purpose," he mutters against your mouth, low and hoarse and wrecked already. His teeth catch on your lower lip, and you gasp, which only makes him smile—sharp and hungry. "You think I don't know that?"

"I would never—" You break off when he bites his way down your throat, and have to figure out how words work for a moment. "—insult your detective prowess that way."

His laugh is soft and breathless against your skin. "You’re a menace."

"I’m a delight," you correct, eyes fluttering shut as his hands skim your thighs, pushing your dress higher—greedier now, less composed, more his. "I just didn't want you pretending you were unaffected."

"You think I was unaffected?" he huffs, incredulous, like the very idea offends him. His mouth grazes your jaw. "You think I didn’t see that dress and forget my own name for a full five seconds?"

You smile, slow and wicked. "You didn’t act like it."

"I couldn’t." His breath stutters against your collarbone, the words torn from him like a confession. "You walk in looking like that and expect me to what? Abandon a conversation with the guy holding a third of the Foundation’s portfolio?"

"That would've been flattering, sure."

He huffs a laugh, but it’s not amusement—it’s disbelief. Like he can’t fathom you don’t already know exactly what you do to him.

"Flattering?" he repeats, voice low and strained. "It would've started a scandal."

"Mhm," you hum, letting your head tip back against the wall. "Would’ve been a hell of a statement though."

His hands dig into your thighs as he lifts you up with infuriating ease, like he's finally decided composure is for boardrooms and not closets with you in them. Your breath catches as your back hits the wall again, harder this time. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and you can feel the exact moment he stops pretending he's not shaking with restraint.

"You’re not getting out of this without consequences," he murmurs, one hand sliding up the inside of your thigh, fingers teasing at the edge of your underwear like a threat. "You probably traumatized poor Marvin for life."

"Is that what his name was?"

Tim groans—an honest-to-god groan, torn from somewhere deep in his chest like it pains him to find you this funny right now. His forehead drops to your shoulder, laughter muffled in the curve of your neck, breath warm and unsteady against your skin.

"You are infuriating," he says, but it’s hoarse and fond and dangerously close to a moan as his fingers rub your slit over the fabric, still driving you half-mad without even properly touching you.

"That’s rich," you whisper, breath hitching as you try to rock into his fingers and he tightens his hand on your hip in a warning. Someone's feeling controlling tonight, you think but do not say, because frankly, it probably won't improve your position here. Instead, you say, "I’m infuriating? You stonewalled me in front of two hundred people after I spent forty minutes figuring out which shade of lipstick would make you lose your mind—"

"You picked the right one," he cuts in, sounding more strangled than smug. "Congratulations."

You don’t get the satisfaction of gloating, because that’s the moment he yanks your underwear to the side and slides two fingers in deep—no warning, no build-up, just a filthy, perfect pressure that knocks all the air out of your lungs. You let out a sound that might be a curse or a prayer; whatever it is, it makes Tim smirk.

"Well, I hope I've proven—" he whispers, mouth grazing your ear. "—just how affected I was. I’ve been gritting my teeth since I saw you."

You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders, legs tightening around his waist as your head falls back. "Fuck, Tim—"

"Keep your voice down," he says, a smug whisper against your collarbone, even as he curls his fingers inside you just the way you like, the way he knows makes your legs boneless. You shudder against him, grip tightening like your body's trying to anchor itself to reality. His fingers work you open in slow, precise motions—infuriatingly in control, even now, even here—but you can feel the tension coiled in his arms. Barely leashed.

"You know," he says, out-of-breath as if he's the one being undone by masterful fingers, "I have half a mind to leave you like this. See how you like having to control yourself in public."

You bite your lip hard enough to hurt, dragging your teeth across it until you can taste the sharp copper tang of restraint. Control. You could match him, if you wanted to. You’ve done it before—kept your legs closed and your smile tight and your voice steady while he whispered absolute filth in your ear at a fundraiser luncheon.

But right now?

Right now you want to win.

Your laugh is breathless and wrecked, more air than sound. "You wouldn’t."

"I absolutely would." But his voice is shaky now, words strained by proximity and the damp heat of you clenching around his fingers. "You think I don’t know how this game works? You start it, you deal with the fallout."

"Tim," you gasp, hips bucking against his hand, "I swear to God—"

"Careful." His lips brush your cheek, soft contrast to the hand gripping your leg tight enough to bruise, and the fingers deftly getting you closer to the edge. "You’ve already been blasphemous once tonight."

You want to fire back something clever, something wicked and smug—but his thumb presses against your clit and all you can manage is a bitten-off whimper that leaves your lips slack and your pride in shambles.

Tim groans at the sound, chest against yours, no distance left. "You’re gonna be the death of me."

"You’re the one—" you gasp, "—manhandling me into a broom closet, Drake."

"Yeah, well," he mutters, voice rough against your throat as he fucks his fingers into you, precise and punishing, "you asked for it."

You try making some witty remark but your breath keeps catching on gasps instead of words. Every muscle in your thighs is trembling, nails digging into whatever part of Tim's body you can hold on to. You’re right on the edge now—hips rolling into his hand, head thrown back, mouth parted as you try to hold yourself together through sheer force of will. You feel like you're burning alive.

And right when you think he’s going to push you over—when your toes curl and your thighs twitch and you gasp his name like a half-moan, half-warning—

He pulls his fingers out.

The whine that escapes you as your body chases the touch would have been humiliating if you were capable of feeling anything but arousal.

He grins against your neck, the smug little bastard. "You look so pretty like this, all flushed and righteous."

"Don't you dare—" you breathe, voice hoarse and legs trembling, barely standing straight as Tim pulls away.

He doesn’t go far.

You barely have time to glare—barely have time to remember what glaring even is—before he sinks to his knees in one smooth motion.

You make a sound, a half-startled, half-wrecked inhale that punches out of your chest before you can swallow it down, and his hands are already back on you, firm and unapologetic, spreading your thighs apart like a man who’s already made up his mind.

"Tim," you manage, unsteady. Not a protest. Just his name, again.

He glances up, mouth hovering just shy of where you want him, blue eyes dark and fevered. "Yes?"

The word’s a mockery. Polite, like he’s about to offer you another canapé instead of—

Then he leans in, and your knees buckle.

You don’t fall—his hands are locked tight on your thighs, anchoring you to the wall like you’re something sacred. But the jolt that rolls through you is visceral, molten, and immediate. His tongue is hot, sure, greedy. He doesn’t tease now. Doesn’t ease in slow. No soft kisses, no idle licks.

He’s intent. Devout.

Your head tips back against the wall with a thud as you bite down on the back of your hand, desperate to keep the sound in. It’s obscene, the way he moves—like this is some long-overdue penance for the hours of polite detachment, for every second he pretended your dress wasn’t the most dangerous thing in the room. The composure from earlier is gone, abandoned somewhere with his suit jacket. You'll have to remember to feel arrogant about how little effort it took to have this—Tim Drake, on his knees in a supply closet with your dress hiked up to your hips, eating you out like he needs it to survive—later.

Your hand is still in your mouth, teeth sunk into the soft flesh of your knuckle, but it’s not enough. Not nearly. The noise building in your chest wants out, and Tim isn’t helping—he’s groaning against you now, deep and low, fully enjoying this, the way you shake for him.

You try to hold back the sounds—really, you do—but your body has never cared much for decorum when he’s between your legs. You hear a breathy, half-broken whimper echo off the closet walls and it takes you a second to realise it’s yours.

Tim hums against you, wickedly pleased.

The vibration punches through your hips like a live wire. Your hand slides off your mouth as you brace yourself against the wall, grip trembling.

You barely gasp out, "Tim—" when your orgasm hits like a goddamn freight train—blinding, full-body, ripping through you so fast and sharp that your head knocks back against the wall again and the sound you make is entirely out of your control.

Tim doesn't stop until you're trembling, twitching, practically sinking down the wall—and only then does he pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and breathing like he just ran a marathon.

You’re still panting, legs jelly, trying and failing to catch your breath. Tim smooths down your dress as he stand back up, and you hope it's not too obvious that you've just been ravished in a supply closet. You still do, unfortunately, have to put in an hour of face-time at least.

Tim doesn't exactly look better—his hair is a mess, and his pants and shirt are crinkled beyond measure. You press a closed-mouth kiss to his lips, and say, "I'd offer to reciprocate, but frankly, I don't think I'd be getting back up if I went on my knees right now."

Tim exhales a soft laugh, and you feel it against your lips—warm, dizzy, pleased. "Gotta save some things for home."

He presses one last kiss to your cheek, then glances toward the door, jaw clenched like he’s trying to rebuild all that composure you spent the last half hour tearing apart. Oh, you're never letting him live this down. All that composure, and all it takes to undo it is one conversation with some trust fund guy named Marty.

"Give me a two-minute head start," he murmurs, brushing your hair gently back into place like the act of tenderness will make up for the fact that your knees are still shaking. "Then come out like nothing happened. Smile. Mingle."

"Oh, you'll have more than two minutes," you say. "I need to hide the evidence of you turning into a vampire on my neck, once I can remember how my legs work."

Tim glances down at your neck, then smirks. "Didn’t hear you complain."

"Big talk for someone who’s still catching his breath," you murmur. "Where's your jacket, Mr. Drake?"

He huffs a soft laugh and kisses you one more time. "You started it," he mutters, backing toward the door, before pausing. "Where is my jacket?"

taglist: open!

[dickdevotionals]

3am dinner

[speedpaint]

[dickdevotionals]

And when I break it's in a million pieces this song fits dick grayson so well its not even funny

[dickdevotionals]

❆ HOME

PAIRING : dick grayson x fem!reader

ONESHOT : you and dick are best friends, just with a shared home and no boundaries, and everyone thinks your dating... its perfectly normal

masterlist

     The sound of the door creaking open at exactly six p.m. wasn’t surprising. What was surprising, maybe, was how you never invited your best friend over for dinner, and yet— somehow— he still showed up like clockwork. Like some kind of well-dressed stray who knew there’d always be food and zero resistance.

     You didn’t even bother looking up as you heard the familiar thump of shoes being kicked off, followed by the exaggerated groan of someone throwing themselves dramatically onto your couch like it personally betrayed them.

     “Hey,” he called, already making himself too comfortable. “Feels good to be home.”

      Home. Right.

      You peaked out to him, noting how he already scrolls on his phone in front of him. Paying no mind to the smell of food leaking from the pan sizzling on the stove. “Call this home one more time and I might just start asking for rent.”

      He dropped his phone like you’d insulted his honor. Both hands went up in surrender, a smirk blooming so big it reached his eyes. The smug little thing.

      “You wouldn’t,” he said, already up and strolling into the kitchen like he owned a timeshare in your apartment. To be fair, he kind of did.

      “I absolutely would,” you replied, even though you both knew you wouldn’t.

      “You like having me here too much.” And just like that, your mouth betrayed you, twitching upward in a smile you didn’t authorize.

      “Don’t flatter yourself,” you muttered, because pretending to be annoyed was easier than admitting he was right.

      He leaned beside you, shoulder brushing yours like he was trying to remind you he still knew how to be charming in close quarters. That same cologne he always wore— warm, woodsy, and annoyingly comforting— wrapped around you like a second hoodie.

      “You made stir fry,” he observed, clearly pretending this wasn’t the third Tuesday in a row he’d crashed your dinner plans.

      “I did.”

      “With mushrooms?”

      Your eyebrow twitched. “You don’t like mushrooms?”

      He sighed like you'd personally betrayed him. “I tolerate mushrooms. For you.”

      “Oh, the humanity. What a sacrifice.”

      “You’re worth the suffering.”

      The words landed with more weight than either of you intended, hanging in the air like an emotional pause neither of you felt brave enough to break. So, naturally, you stirred the pan like it was a distraction instead of a lifeline.

      “You staying after patrol tonight?” you asked, like your heart wasn’t tap dancing somewhere behind your ribs.

      He shrugged, already pulling two bowls from your cabinet like the well-trained intruder he was. “Unless you’re kicking me out.”

      “You say that like you don’t still have socks in my drawer.”

      You found him exactly where you left him: halfway upside down on your couch, head hanging off the cushion like gravity was a personal challenge, one sock missing, popcorn bowl resting dangerously on his stomach.

      “I think I can see the ceiling’s soul,” he announced.

      “That’s probably mold,” you replied, stepping over his legs like he was a poorly placed rug.

      “I’ve stared into the abyss,” he said solemnly, shifting so his face could peek at you from beneath the coffee table. “And the abyss definitely needs better lighting.”

      You dropped a blanket on his face. He just squirmed, peaking his eyes out once again.

      “Stop existential-crisis-ing on my furniture,” you said, heading into the kitchen. “You’ve been upside down so long your brain’s gonna leak out your ears.”

      “Bold of you to assume I have any left.” He sat up with the grace of a soggy noodle and promptly spilled half the popcorn.

      “You’re a menace.”

      “I’m your menace.”

      “Unfortunately”.

      You returned with two mugs of cocoa, because of course he’d emotionally blackmailed you into making it, and handed him one without ceremony. He took it like you were offering him treasure, cradling it with both hands and sighing like a grandma in a cardigan commercial.

      “Thanks,” he said, blowing on the steam. “I mean it. You're, like, the coziest person I know. You’re like if a weighted blanket became sentient and made sarcastic comments.”

      You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. My heart. So touched.”

      “Don’t get so emotional on me,” his cocky smirk annoyed you, just like the pang it caused in your heart.

      You threw a mini marshmallow at him. He caught it in his mouth like a trained dolphin, which was both deeply annoying and a little impressive.

      And then time passed. Not much, just enough for the cocoa to cool and the night to feel quieter than it had before. Outside, it had started raining, a lazy, drizzle-type rain that didn’t seem like it planned on stopping. It tapped against the windows like an old friend, and neither of you moved to break the quiet.

      Finally, as you both stared at the movie you’d barely been watching, you said it.

      “You could just stay.”

      It wasn’t a dramatic moment. Just... there. Casual. Like offering a second slice of pizza or calling dibs on the good blanket.

      He only blinked, looking over at you.

      “Like— stay the night? Or stay forever and inherit your apartment when you mysteriously disappear under suspicious circumstances?”

      “You sleep here so often, I’m pretty sure the building owners thinks we’re co-tenants.”

      “They’re not wrong.”

      “Exactly. Just crash here. It’s gross out. And your socks are probably wet. And you used my good blanket, so you kind of owe me.”

      He made a long, thoughtful humming sound. “Well, I am a very considerate guest. Wouldn’t want to bring wet socks into my own apartment.”

      You didn’t even flinch. “I will launch you out the window.”

      He held up his hands. “Okay, okay! Staying. I’m staying. Consider me officially horizontal and not moving.”

      “Good.”

      “Also, I call the couch.”

      You stared at him. “You are on the couch.”

      “I called it. There’s a system.”

      You rolled your eyes and got up to grab another blanket— mostly for yourself, but also because you knew he’d steal it in the night if you didn’t establish dominance now.

      As you tossed it over your shoulders and sank into the armchair, he settled deeper into the cushions like a content cat, cocoa mug balanced on his chest.

      And just before you hit play on the movie again, he murmured, eyes half-closed, “You’re the best, you know.”

      You didn’t answer right away. Just smirked and threw another marshmallow at his forehead.

      “Yeah, yeah. Go to sleep before I change my mind.”

     Jason arched an eyebrow as he dug into the container of noodles with the grace of a raccoon raiding a trash can. “So,” he started, mouth half-full, “how’s your girlfriend?”

      Dick didn’t look up from where he was flicking a stray grain of rice off his lap. “Which one?”

      Jason gave him a flat look. “Don’t be cute. You know who.”

      “She’s not my girlfriend.”

      “Oh, right. My bad. Your roommate with benefits minus the benefits but with shared custody of a couch and emotional codependency.”

      Dick sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Why does everyone assume we’re dating?”

      Jason snorted. “Because you live at her place and keep her coffee stocked?”

      “I do not live at her place.”

      Jason counted off on his fingers. “Your toothbrush is in her bathroom, your shoes are by her door, you’ve been wearing that hoodie for three days and I’m ninety percent sure it’s hers, and when I called your phone last night, she answered.”

      “I was in the shower,” Dick argued weakly.

      Jason pointed his chopsticks at him like a sword of truth. “And she said— and I quote— ‘Nightwing’s busy using all my hot water, try again in ten.’”

      Dick muttered something under his breath and reached for the takeout box Jason had clearly claimed but was too tired to defend. “It’s not like that.”

      Jason raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Then what is it like?”

      Dick opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “We’re just close.”

      “You sleep on her couch.”

      “It’s a nice couch.”

      “You replaced her shower head.”

      “It had terrible water pressure.”

      “You refill her snacks before she even notices they’re gone.”

      “I eat most of them,” Dick said, like that helped.

      Jason laughed, low and smug. “You are so far in denial, man, you’re practically leasing property in Egypt.”

      Dick didn’t respond right away. Just chewed slowly and stared at the skyline like it owed him answers.

      “She doesn’t look at me like that,” he mumbled eventually.

      Jason gave him a long, unreadable look. “And you’ve never looked at her like that?”

      Dick’s silence said enough.

      A gust of wind rattled the fire escape beside them. Somewhere below, a car alarm wailed into the night and got ignored like all good Gotham car alarms.

      After a moment, Jason leaned back, arms stretched behind his head. “You know, I’m not saying you have to date her.”

      “Thanks.”

      “I’m just saying,” Jason continued, ignoring him, “you already do everything but date her. Might as well make it official and start paying joint taxes.”

      “Shut up,” Dick muttered, chucking a balled napkin at his head.

      Jason caught it one-handed and grinned. “Just saying. You’re one good ‘accidental forehead kiss’ away from a rom-com ending.”

      Dick blinked. “That’s not a real thing.”

      Cause if it was a real thing, he would have already tried it.

[dickdevotionals]

you eclipsed me completely

summary: You finally meet Nightwing. He's more annoying (and less scary) than you thought he would be.

tags: dick grayson x vigilante!reader, gender-neutral, no use of y/n, secret identity shenanigans, sprinkle of angst

link to ao3: here

sequel to the ghost of you in my palms

masterlist

Nightwing drops in when the fight's already halfway done. Typical.

You don't pay him any attention, because there's three guys on you and one of them has a gun he's very eager to use. You duck under the barrel as it swings wide, hook your arm under his, and wrench it up until you hear something pop. He screams. The gun clatters to the concrete, and you kick it under a dumpster just in time for one of the others to land a punch against your ribs. It’s a solid hit—he’s wearing brass knuckles, what a dick—but you’ve taken worse.

You pivot, sweep his legs out from under him, and slam your elbow into his throat before he can rise. He gasps, then chokes. You don’t wait to see if he’s down for good. The third guy bolts.

Nightwing has the guy on the floor before you've made half a step in his direction. You're reluctantly impressed.

"You are one hard person to catch," he says, not even winded.

"That's by design," you say, kneeling down next to one of the guys you just took down and checking his pockets. You aren't sure whether you're hoping to find something or hoping not to.

"What are you looking for?" Nightwing asks, kneeling right next to you now, and the only reason you don't screech like a startled child is through years of practice of not feeling your emotions in the suit. How did he get so close without making a sound?

"Nothing," you reply, promptly standing up and moving three steps away. Your heart is damn near jumping out of your chest; Nightwing's notice is exactly what you've been hoping to avoid for however long you're staying here. You still have to check the other two dealers and the van before the cops get here, but you can't exactly progress as normal with Nightwing staring at you with those creepy whited-out domino eyes.

"You’re jumpy," Nightwing says, like he’s not the one who just stealth-ninja’d up behind you with zero warning.

"I’m thorough," you reply, deciding fuck it and kneeling next to the second guy and ruffling through his pockets rather aggressively.

He hums, like he's filing that away for later. "You’re also avoiding me."

"I'm not avoiding you," you lie. "I barely even know who you are."

"And that's the issue, no?" He asks, finally standing up. "Two months you've been patrolling my city, and yet you somehow turn into smoke before I can talk to you. If not for some very gossipy teenagers, I wouldn't even know you exist."

"Your city?" you ask, and immediately bite your tongue. Snarking at him isn't going to make this conversation end any quicker. The third guy, thankfully, decided not to wear a jacket or anything with pockets, saving you a lot of trouble. Thanks, third guy.

You straighten, dust your gloves off, and turn back toward the van. You can feel Nightwing watching you, probably cataloguing your height and gait and bone structure to run through his Bat-database later. You adjust your posture just enough to throw him off. Slightly more slouch. You’re not above theatrics, especially when they are so very necessary.

The van is locked, which you expected. You fish a set of tools from your belt, crouch, and get to work on the back doors. It’s almost meditative, this part—click, twist, listen, breathe. Except Nightwing doesn’t leave.

He lingers just behind your left shoulder, arms crossed, breathing evenly like he’s trying to be patient, which somehow makes it worse.

"Don’t suppose you’re going to tell me your name?" he says finally.

You consider not telling him, but it's not as if your identity in the suit is a secret—basically everyone who's being helped by a vigilante wants to know their name. The old lady whose groceries you carried four blocks knows it. No harm in offering a little to Nightwing to get him to back off. "Eclipse."

He hums, repeats the name out loud as if testing it. "Not a very hero name, is it?"

"I don't recall asking," you say, almost subconsciously, rifling through a file stuffed under the driver's seat.

He snorts, unabashed. "Touché."

There's absolutely nothing in the file that would connect this to—to your dear old mentor. You should feel relieved, but you only feel weirdly sick.

"You okay?" Nightwing asks, tone casual, but there's a thread of real concern under it. You're surprised you can recognise it, when you haven't talked to each other before tonight. It is very possible that you're hearing concern where there isn't any.

"Peachy," you mutter, tucking the file back exactly where you found it for the cops and slamming the door shut. You turn, intending to leave—van’s clean, job’s done, Nightwing thoroughly annoyed—and find him still right there, damn near shoulder to shoulder. You take a sharp step back, reflex more than choice, and Nightwing, to his credit, actually raises his hands slightly, like he’s the one startled.

"Easy," he says. "Not trying to get in your way."

"Then stop standing in it," you reply, stifling the urge to rub your ribs. The bruises are blooming in earnest now, and you really don't need him noticing.

He gives you a look you can't quite decipher through the domino mask. "You sure you’re alright?"

"Are we doing this again?"

He doesn’t rise to the bait this time. Instead, he tilts his head, considering you like you're a particularly twitchy puzzle box.

"Something happen last night?" he asks.

You freeze.

You absolutely, categorically, do not freeze often. The instinct was trained out of you so long ago that it's unfamiliar now. It takes you a second to unfreeze, to inject casualness in your posture, but you highly doubt the hesitation went unnoticed. "What are you talking about?"

"You've been patrolling every night the past month," Nightwing says, sounding rather confused. "You didn't come out last night. I assumed you'd gotten injured or something, but you seem fine now."

You shrug, noncommittal. "Took a night off. That’s allowed, right?"

Nightwing squints at you. Not suspicious, exactly—just sharp. Like he’s fitting puzzle pieces together, and you really, really don’t want him to finish the picture. Logically, you know it's impossible for Nightwing to figure out you weren't patrolling last night because you were at home, feeling stupidly upset about a date that you never should've said yes to, but there's an irrational fear that settles in your bones regardless.

"That right?" he says. "Weird timing, is all. Lot of movement in the docks. Thought you’d be the first on it."

"I thought I'd let you have it. I have a life outside this, you know," you say, straightening, clicking the last latch on your belt back into place. "Shockingly."

"Didn’t peg you for the clubbing type."

"I’m not. Maybe I stayed home and made soup."

Nightwing smiles, quick and crooked, the kind that could almost be charming if you weren’t still vaguely contemplating shoving him into the now-unlocked van and slamming the doors. "You don’t strike me as the soup-making type either."

"And I suppose you would know," you drawl, "from all the many times we've talked to each other."

Nightwing just grins again, like you're funny, which is annoying because you are, obviously, but not for him. Not for caped Boy Wonders who drop into your business halfway through and act like you're the one intruding. You're funny for charming detectives who are more persistent than they seem and also will probably never talk to you again after you turned them down last night.

You step past him before you can fall into that particular line of thought. "If you’re done profiling my soup habits, I’ve got somewhere to be."

"Yeah? Got a hot date or something?"

It’s said too lightly. Offhand. Like a joke tossed into the wind.

You shouldn’t flinch.

You do.

Nightwing notices. His eyebrows inch up, subtle but there. "No way."

"Shut up," you say, no, warn, because you're this close to grappling away, manners and not making enemies be damned.

"You have a date tonight?" Nightwing asks, and small mercies that he's got the timeline wrong.

"I'm leaving," you say, far too loud for a quiet night but Nightwing doesn't seem to care.

"Okay, okay," Nightwing says, putting his hands up again like he’s talking to a skittish alley cat instead of a trained vigilante who definitely knows seventeen ways to drop him where he stands. "Didn’t mean to poke."

You don’t answer him. You just shoot a grappling line and vanish over the nearest rooftop.

The wind's sharp up here. Cleaner. You hit the ledge on a roll, shake out your shoulders, and start heading for your usual exit route—half out of habit, half to work the fury from your blood. You shouldn’t have flinched. Shouldn’t have let him see anything at all. You’re usually better than this.

You make it three rooftops before the soft sound of boot soles hits the gravel behind you.

Goddamn it.

"You got a reason for following me?" you ask without turning.

"I thought we were talking."

"We weren’t," you say, stopping just short of the next ledge. You turn enough to catch him in your periphery, backlit by a rooftop antenna and Blüdhaven’s bruised skyline. "You were asking annoying questions. I was being polite."

"I don’t think that’s what that was."

You sigh and swing around to face him properly, arms crossing tight over your chest. "Okay, fine. You want a conversation? Here’s one. I’m not trying to take over your turf, I’m not trying to make your job harder, and I’m not going to be here forever. I’ve got my own problems. I clean up what I can, I get out of your way, and that should be enough."

"That's less of a conversation and more of a monologue, if I'm honest," he says, after a brief pause.

"You say you aren’t staying," Nightwing adds, softer now. "But two months is a long pit stop."

You roll your jaw, weighing the urge to just disappear again. But you’re tired of disappearing. Tonight is already fucked sideways, and something about the way he says it—like he’s not judging, just asking—keeps your feet glued to the rooftop.

"I’ve got a situation," you say finally. "Can’t leave. Not yet."

"Is it a bad situation?" he asks, arms still crossed, but less defensive now. "Because if you’re in trouble—"

"I’m not." You catch the flicker of his expression and add, with more force than needed: "And even if I was, I wouldn’t go to a Bat for help."

That gets a reaction, finally, but not the one you expect. Not surprise that you know of his connection to Batman, but rather a stiffening of his spine, like he's… offended. "Lucky for you that I'm not a Bat, then," he says.

"Sure, well, if you're done interrogating me, I have bruises I need to bandage and…" you sigh, then decide misdirection can't hurt, "a very hot date to get to."

Nightwing seems surprised you'd bring that up of your own volition after grappling away when he mentioned it, but he doesn't grin teasingly this time.

"Not that it’s my business," he says, shifting his weight, "but dating’s a bad idea in our line of work."

The words are simple. Not cruel. Not even condescending. Just quiet. Matter-of-fact.

"I know," you tell him. "Trust me, I know."

Monday morning comes far too soon.

Your side is still sore from the stupid brass knuckles last night, and you got far too little sleep. Still, your ambiguous job at the precinct waits for no one. So you keep a hot water bottle pressed to your side throughout your morning routine and call it good enough.

You bring in your own coffee, because, well. It's not like there's anyone else trying to woo you by guessing your coffee order. You get to your desk. Boot up your computer. Open your inbox. All very normal. All very not-thinking-about-Dick-Grayson, thank you.

You feel him before you see him, instincts somehow tuned to recognise his presence in two weeks. Don’t look up, you tell yourself. If you don’t look up, maybe he’ll go away. Maybe he’s here for someone else.

"Hey."

Fuck.

You look. Idiot. You always look. And there he is. Dick Grayson, leaning against the edge of your desk, that usual grin plastered on his face like nothing had happened, like Saturday evening was just a lovely shared hallucination. Two coffee cups in his hands, one held out to you like it's an offer he expects you to accept.

He looks entirely too casual about this. About you. About everything.

"Morning," he says, his voice warm but not quite casual enough to hide the thing underneath. The awkwardness that you know is there, even if he’s trying to pretend it isn’t.

You stare at the offered coffee like it might bite you.

"Morning," you say eventually, because the only thing worse than pretending everything’s fine is acknowledging it’s not. You take the cup. It’s the right order. Of course it is.

Dick doesn’t sit. He just hovers there, half-perched on the corner of your desk like he belongs there, like this is perfectly fine.

You busy yourself with your keyboard. Nothing you’re doing requires immediate attention, but you make a show of typing anyway. The coffee cup is warm in your hand. His fingers were just there.

"You seem tired," you venture, finally, unsure of where exactly you both stand with each other.

"Didn't get enough sleep last night," Dick says.

"Clubbing on a Sunday night?" you ask, lilting your voice just so to sound teasing. If he wants to pretend you're both coworkers again, that's fine by you.

"Working on a Sunday night," he corrects. "Do you know how many cases I have open right now?"

Yes, you do. Zero. He had two open last week, and closed them both before Friday. He has yet to be assigned a new case.

Still, you go along with the attempt at a conversation. "Oh, I don't know, fifty?"

"Give or take a few," Dick says, grinning, and for a moment this is last week again, and you haven't ruined a perfectly fine friendship because you wanted to pretend you could have a normal life.

You try to smile. It lands a little crooked, a little late.

He watches you for a second too long. Not in that overtly flirtatious way he sometimes gets when he’s teasing, but in the quiet, assessing way that makes your skin crawl—not because it’s threatening, but because it isn’t. Because it’s gentle. And worse, familiar.

"Well," you say, gesturing vaguely at your screen, "some of us are trying to clear the paperwork backlog, so."

"Mmh." He doesn't move. Just sips his own coffee and nods, like he agrees, and then stays right there.

You look at each other for a moment in silence. Even before Saturday, Dick didn't stick around this long at your desk. He does have an actual job to do, and by the way the others are looking at him, you're certain he'll be hearing about 'flirting with the temp' in his performance review. You should probably send him away.

But apparently your emotions now control your brain instead of the other way round because instead of telling him to leave and let you work, your eyes fall to the coffee cup in his hand, follow that cup to his mouth and then linger on his lips for a moment before you snap out of it and turn to your monitor. You can see him smile self-satisfied, as if he'd proven a point, in your periphery.

"So," he says, "Saturday was fun."

You hadn't expected him to bring it up. You'd thought you were both pretending Saturday didn't happen. You look at him from the corner of your eye and ask, "Was it?"

Dick shrugs, the motion deliberately casual, but you’re watching too closely not to notice the way his fingers tighten just slightly around the coffee cup. "As far as completely platonic dinners go, yeah, I thought it was."

He doesn’t meet your eye when he says it, which is somehow worse. It makes the air between you heavy, uncertain, as if it might break if either of you pushes too hard in any direction.

So you say, "What, do you have a lot of experience with those?" and Dick smiles tightly at you and you both go on pretending nothing at all happened.

taglist: @adorabluesposts @makimakimi

thank you to everyone who read the first part of this, the support and love has been absolutely mind-blowing!

[dickdevotionals]

hey i don’t know if you’re open to requests so if you’re not just ignore this! your “ghost of you in my palms” fic was SO GOOD and i was wondering if you’re open to doing a part 2? ik some writers don’t like extending fics and writing part 2s so if that’s the case then again, ignore this! but either way i just wanted to let you know i loved the fic and the way you write is so good!

Hi!! Thank you, first of all, for being so nice! I'm glad you liked it!

I am open to requests, yes, and the second part to 'the ghost of you' is already in the works! It was always intended to be a work in a series, so there will be more parts in the future!

(There's already a title for the work in my 'currently working on' list! I got distracted writing a nsfw drabble for Tim but rest assured, I will be back on Grayson duty once I finish that!)

[dickdevotionals]

AU where jason Todd actually has pit madness, but it’s because his shitty crime alley apartment is directly above one of the natural pits. it’s in his tap water.

[dickdevotionals]

Still his miniscule snotty annoying tiny baby brother even after all these years

[dickdevotionals]

you know I had a long night

summary: there's a bleeding vigilante outside your window. this is, apparently, the new normal.

tags: dick grayson x medic!reader, gender-neutral, no use of y/n, pre-relationship fluff

link to ao3: here

You are halfway to the door, still rubbing the sleep out of your eyes when you realise the knock is coming from the balcony, not the door.

You freeze. Then sigh.

There are only three reasons someone might knock on the door of a third-storey balcony window at—you glance at the clock—two in the morning. One, your high school boyfriend that you never quite broke up with has found your address and also turned into a stalker. Two, the gangs from the block over are getting very creative. Or three—

You pull aside the curtain and stare at the hesitantly waving vigilante on the other side of the window.

"If I'd known getting saved by you once meant having to provide a lifetime of free medical services," you begin dryly as you open the window, "I think I would've let those muggers steal the ten dollars I had on me that night."

Nightwing has to duck to get into your bedroom, one arm clutched tight on his left side, probably meaning that he got stabbed. Again. "In my defense, this is definitely more sanitary than wherever I would've ended up patching myself up."

"Maybe I should start billing your insurance," you say, pulling out the chair from your desk for him. "This is the second time you've availed yourself to my first-aid kit."

"Sure," he replies, grimacing as he sits and pulls up his suit to expose a gnarly looking stab wound. "Send the invoice to Nightwing, Blüdhaven. I'm sure it'll find me."

You shoot him a flat look as you grab your med kit from under the bed. This med-kit used to be stored in the kitchen, the way normal people did, before your apartment became a halfway house for one specific vigilante and necessity demanded you keep it in your bedroom. "If I were you, I'd try being a little nicer to the very kind doctor patching me up at 2am."

"You're not a doctor," Nightwing replies, annoying even as you kneel in front of him to clean his wound. The asshole doesn't even hiss when you apply the antiseptic just a touch too harshly in response. Stupid vigilantes with stupid pain thresholds.

"And this is not a hospital, yet here you are."

He grins at that—wobbly, a little hesitant around the edges, but it’s a grin nonetheless. "Touché."

You glance up at him from under your lashes as you unwrap the suture kit. "Seriously, though. You can’t keep doing this. I mean, how many times have you gotten stabbed this month alone?"

"I decline to answer—" and here a wince, finally, as you continue cleaning the wound, "—pursuant to my Fifth Amendment rights."

"So you're a law student?" you ask. "Or maybe a lawyer?"

"Or I work as a clerk at some firm. Or someone in my family is a lawyer. Or I watched Suits." Nightwing grins at you, even as you roll your eyes at him. "You need to stop guessing who I am; you're never figuring it out."

You thread the needle, tilt your head, and say sweetly, "If I really wanted to figure it out, I would’ve DNA-tested the blood you left on my carpet two visits ago."

"…But you didn't because you respect my privacy?" Nightwing asks, hopefully.

"I didn't because frankly, who's got the time for that?" You fall silent as you tighten the first stitch, before continuing, "And anyway, I don't want to get killed or thrown into a prison or whatever it is you do with people who know your secret identity."

Nightwing's eyes crinkle at the corners. "That's not what I do with people who know. I mean, usually."

"Reassuring," you mutter, tying off the first stitch with a neat tug. "Just for that, you’re getting the ugly gauze wrap tonight. No butterfly closures for you."

Nightwing hums. "The ugly gauze, this definitely un-ergonomic chair… Is it just me or are you getting more frugal by the day?"

You don’t look up from the needle. "The economy’s in shambles, Nightwing. Med school costs money. And so do disinfectants, gauze, and suture kits for a certain stab-happy vigilante."

"Stab-happy implies I'm the one doing the stabbing," he says, and here a pause that might've been an aborted wince. "The correct term would be stab prone. Which I don't refute, by the way."

You finish the last stitch with precise fingers, snip the thread, and finally sit back. "Congratulations."

"On being self-aware?"

"On probably not having internal bleeding," you correct.

He glances down at his stitched-up side like it's a science experiment he only vaguely remembers volunteering for. "I don't think that's something I ought to receive congrats for. You might want to talk to the guy who did the stabbing and tell him he fucked up."

"I'm hoping positive affirmations will lead to less stabbing incidents," you say, standing up and wincing at the definitely not normal sound your knees make.

"Not no stabbing incidents?"

"I have realistic expectations of both you and Blüdhaven's streets," you say dryly. You pack up your kit and toss the bloodied gauze into trash bin by your desk, and then jot down a reminder to throw the bag out before your brother wakes and gets a heart attack. And then you glance at the rug you forgot to pull out from under Nightwing's chair.

"You’re gonna ruin all my furniture one day," you sigh.

"Is that what happened to the couch from last time?" Nightwing asks, finally done poking at his stitches like a child. He pulls his shirt down, and you will never admit this out loud, but you almost miss the view.

"No, I just can't risk taking you out on the couch while my brother sleeps in the next room over. I don't want to have to explain myself if he wakes up for water in the middle of the night." Speaking of, you grab the glass you keep by your bedside, fill it up with water and hand it to him. Beating up criminals is a tiring and thankless job, in his own words.

Nightwing takes the glass with a low, sincere, “Thanks,” and drinks like he’s just run a marathon in kevlar—which, knowing him, might not be far off. You watch his throat work as he drains half the water, then adds, between gulps, “Also, for the record, I checked the next room from the window, your brother's boyfriend is basically lying on top of him. I don't think he's going to get out any time soon."

A pause.

"Boyfriend?" you repeat flatly, because maybe you misheard. It's 2am, you're pretty tired, it could happen—

"Yeah, tall buff dude, red hair? I'm surprised your brother can breathe, frankly."

"He's not—" you start, then pause. Frown. "My brother doesn't have a boyfriend."

For the first time since you've known him, Nightwing looks just the tiniest bit abashed. Figures that it's not the half-nudity in front of a stranger or hissing like a child from some antiseptic that embarrasses him, but accidentally ratting out your brother does. "Oh."

You stare at him for a long moment.

"Nightwing," you say, in a tone usually reserved for your professors when they announce a surprise exam, "are you telling me my brother has a secret boyfriend?"

"Maybe I peeked in the neighbour's window instead," he offers.

"My only neighbour is a kindly old lady who's off visiting family for the week."

"Well then," Nightwing says, turning his attention to the water in his glass like it's just become the most fascinating thing in the room. "Guess your brother’s getting very creative with his sleepovers."

"I'm going to go scream at him," you say, in a very calm voice. "I suggest you disappear before he notices that I'm also hiding a man in my room."

a bit of a short one to tide all you lovely people over while i work on the sequel for the ghost of you. the response to that has absolutely blown me over, you're all amazing, thank you!!

[dickdevotionals]

bassist jason + jaybin heheh

[dickdevotionals]

young dick grayson who asks bruce if bruce will remember him tomorrow and bruce is like ofc i will?? so then the next day, dick says “knock knock” to which bruce replies “who’s there?” and dick is all like “YOU FORGOT ME!!”

[dickdevotionals]

navigation ⋆˙⟡

masterlist

recent works: - when i get you alone (it's so simple) (Tim Drake x Reader) - you eclipsed me completely (Dick Grayson x Reader) - you know I had a long night (Dick Grayson x Reader)

currently working on:

[dickdevotionals]

masterlist ⋆˙⟡

SERIES:

what could've been (what will not be) (Dick Grayson) vigilante!reader series

-> the ghost of you in my palms

Dick Grayson is annoyingly persistent, but you don't seem very eager to say no either.

-> you eclipsed me completely

You finally meet Nightwing. He's more annoying (and less scary) than you thought he would be.

ONE-SHOTS:

you know I had a long night (Dick Grayson)

there's a bleeding vigilante outside your window. this is, apparently, the new normal.

when i get you alone (it's so simple) (Tim Drake) (nsfw)

Tim Drake is pretending to be the poster boy of composure. You'd very much like to make him lose said composure.

[dickdevotionals]

you know I had a long night

summary: there's a bleeding vigilante outside your window. this is, apparently, the new normal.

tags: dick grayson x medic!reader, gender-neutral, no use of y/n, pre-relationship fluff

link to ao3: here

masterlist

You are halfway to the door, still rubbing the sleep out of your eyes when you realise the knock is coming from the balcony, not the door.

You freeze. Then sigh.

There are only three reasons someone might knock on the door of a third-storey balcony window at—you glance at the clock—two in the morning. One, your high school boyfriend that you never quite broke up with has found your address and also turned into a stalker. Two, the gangs from the block over are getting very creative. Or three—

You pull aside the curtain and stare at the hesitantly waving vigilante on the other side of the window.

"If I'd known getting saved by you once meant having to provide a lifetime of free medical services," you begin dryly as you open the window, "I think I would've let those muggers steal the ten dollars I had on me that night."

Nightwing has to duck to get into your bedroom, one arm clutched tight on his left side, probably meaning that he got stabbed. Again. "In my defense, this is definitely more sanitary than wherever I would've ended up patching myself up."

"Maybe I should start billing your insurance," you say, pulling out the chair from your desk for him. "This is the second time you've availed yourself to my first-aid kit."

"Sure," he replies, grimacing as he sits and pulls up his suit to expose a gnarly looking stab wound. "Send the invoice to Nightwing, Blüdhaven. I'm sure it'll find me."

You shoot him a flat look as you grab your med kit from under the bed. This med-kit used to be stored in the kitchen, the way normal people did, before your apartment became a halfway house for one specific vigilante and necessity demanded you keep it in your bedroom. "If I were you, I'd try being a little nicer to the very kind doctor patching me up at 2am."

"You're not a doctor," Nightwing replies, annoying even as you kneel in front of him to clean his wound. The asshole doesn't even hiss when you apply the antiseptic just a touch too harshly in response. Stupid vigilantes with stupid pain thresholds.

"And this is not a hospital, yet here you are."

He grins at that—wobbly, a little hesitant around the edges, but it’s a grin nonetheless. "Touché."

You glance up at him from under your lashes as you unwrap the suture kit. "Seriously, though. You can’t keep doing this. I mean, how many times have you gotten stabbed this month alone?"

"I decline to answer—" and here a wince, finally, as you continue cleaning the wound, "—pursuant to my Fifth Amendment rights."

"So you're a law student?" you ask. "Or maybe a lawyer?"

"Or I work as a clerk at some firm. Or someone in my family is a lawyer. Or I watched Suits." Nightwing grins at you, even as you roll your eyes at him. "You need to stop guessing who I am; you're never figuring it out."

You thread the needle, tilt your head, and say sweetly, "If I really wanted to figure it out, I would’ve DNA-tested the blood you left on my carpet two visits ago."

"…But you didn't because you respect my privacy?" Nightwing asks, hopefully.

"I didn't because frankly, who's got the time for that?" You fall silent as you tighten the first stitch, before continuing, "And anyway, I don't want to get killed or thrown into a prison or whatever it is you do with people who know your secret identity."

Nightwing's eyes crinkle at the corners. "That's not what I do with people who know. I mean, usually."

"Reassuring," you mutter, tying off the first stitch with a neat tug. "Just for that, you’re getting the ugly gauze wrap tonight. No butterfly closures for you."

Nightwing hums. "The ugly gauze, this definitely un-ergonomic chair… Is it just me or are you getting more frugal by the day?"

You don’t look up from the needle. "The economy’s in shambles, Nightwing. Med school costs money. And so do disinfectants, gauze, and suture kits for a certain stab-happy vigilante."

"Stab-happy implies I'm the one doing the stabbing," he says, and here a pause that might've been an aborted wince. "The correct term would be stab prone. Which I don't refute, by the way."

You finish the last stitch with precise fingers, snip the thread, and finally sit back. "Congratulations."

"On being self-aware?"

"On probably not having internal bleeding," you correct.

He glances down at his stitched-up side like it's a science experiment he only vaguely remembers volunteering for. "I don't think that's something I ought to receive congrats for. You might want to talk to the guy who did the stabbing and tell him he fucked up."

"I'm hoping positive affirmations will lead to less stabbing incidents," you say, standing up and wincing at the definitely not normal sound your knees make.

"Not no stabbing incidents?"

"I have realistic expectations of both you and Blüdhaven's streets," you say dryly. You pack up your kit and toss the bloodied gauze into trash bin by your desk, and then jot down a reminder to throw the bag out before your brother wakes and gets a heart attack. And then you glance at the rug you forgot to pull out from under Nightwing's chair.

"You’re gonna ruin all my furniture one day," you sigh.

"Is that what happened to the couch from last time?" Nightwing asks, finally done poking at his stitches like a child. He pulls his shirt down, and you will never admit this out loud, but you almost miss the view.

"No, I just can't risk taking you out on the couch while my brother sleeps in the next room over. I don't want to have to explain myself if he wakes up for water in the middle of the night." Speaking of, you grab the glass you keep by your bedside, fill it up with water and hand it to him. Beating up criminals is a tiring and thankless job, in his own words.

Nightwing takes the glass with a low, sincere, “Thanks,” and drinks like he’s just run a marathon in kevlar—which, knowing him, might not be far off. You watch his throat work as he drains half the water, then adds, between gulps, “Also, for the record, I checked the next room from the window, your brother's boyfriend is basically lying on top of him. I don't think he's going to get out any time soon."

A pause.

"Boyfriend?" you repeat flatly, because maybe you misheard. It's 2am, you're pretty tired, it could happen—

"Yeah, tall buff dude, red hair? I'm surprised your brother can breathe, frankly."

"He's not—" you start, then pause. Frown. "My brother doesn't have a boyfriend."

For the first time since you've known him, Nightwing looks just the tiniest bit abashed. Figures that it's not the half-nudity in front of a stranger or hissing like a child from some antiseptic that embarrasses him, but accidentally ratting out your brother does. "Oh."

You stare at him for a long moment.

"Nightwing," you say, in a tone usually reserved for your professors when they announce a surprise exam, "are you telling me my brother has a secret boyfriend?"

"Maybe I peeked in the neighbour's window instead," he offers.

"My only neighbour is a kindly old lady who's off visiting family for the week."

"Well then," Nightwing says, turning his attention to the water in his glass like it's just become the most fascinating thing in the room. "Guess your brother’s getting very creative with his sleepovers."

"I'm going to go scream at him," you say, in a very calm voice. "I suggest you disappear before he notices that I'm also hiding a man in my room."

a bit of a short one to tide all you lovely people over while i work on the sequel for the ghost of you. the response to that has absolutely blown me over, you're all amazing, thank you!!