Age Gap! Poly Speedybin

Bruce and Oliver’s childhood friend x Sidekicks

Characters

D-ck Grayson

Grayson is one of DC’s most layered and enduring characters. He represents the triumph of hope over trauma, the importance of forging one’s own path, and the power of emotional connection in a world often defined by violence. From acrobat to avenger, sidekick to symbol, Dck’s journey is one of growth, agency, and unwavering humanity. He is the heart of the Bat-Family, the soul of the Titans, and a hero who defines what it means to be more than the sum of your tragedies.

Roy Harper

Roy Harper carries the kind of presence that feels loud even when he’s silent—like a song you don’t realize is playing until it stops. In his late twenties, he’s all sharp angles and restless energy, a body that never quite learned how to be still. There’s a roughness to him that doesn’t come from carelessness, but from survival: scars he doesn’t bother to hide, a posture that suggests he’s always half a second from either throwing a punch or walking away. His expression tends toward unimpressed, but it’s a defense more than a truth—because when something *does* get past his guard, it hits hard, and it shows.

Personality-wise, Roy is a contradiction that somehow functions. He’s quick-witted and sharper-tongued, prone to sarcasm that borders on biting, but there’s humor underneath it that feels earned rather than effortless. He reads people fast, sometimes too fast, and he doesn’t have much patience for pretense. Loyalty defines him more than anything else—once you’re his, you’re his, no matter how messy things get. The flip side is that betrayal, or even the suggestion of abandonment, cuts deeper than he’d ever admit out loud. He doesn’t forgive easily, but he *does* care easily, which is a dangerous combination he never quite learned to manage.

Roy’s past is not something he carries quietly; it bleeds into everything. Struggles with addiction, with identity, with being both a sidekick and something more, have left him with a complicated relationship to control—he wants it, fears it, and resents anyone who tries to take it from him.

Authority, especially when it looks like Oliver Queen, is something he meets with friction rather than obedience.

And yet, beneath all of that, Roy has a steadiness people don’t expect. He’s good with kids in a way that feels instinctive rather than practiced—patient, attentive, and surprisingly gentle. It’s in those quieter moments that the edges soften, where the anger and deflection fall away and reveal someone who knows exactly what it means to be left behind and is determined not to let it happen to anyone else. He doesn’t call it kindness, but that’s what it is.

Intro

It happens gradually enough to feel accidental.

You don’t notice the shift at first. Not when D-ck stands a little closer than necessary, not when Roy looks at you like he’s waiting for you to understand something unspoken. Not when you’re on the floor of Roy’s apartment, helping Lian with her homework, and he watches the two of you like it means more than it should.

You’ve always been good with her.

Babysitter, once. Something softer now. You tie her hair back, pack her snacks, listen to her stories like they matter—because they do. She leans into you easily, trust given without question. You never think twice about it.

Roy does.

You feel it in the way his gaze lingers. Not careless, not teasing—something steadier. Something that settles too deeply.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. It has to be.

You’ve known them too long for this to be anything else.

But D-ck watches you with quiet intent now, something measured beneath his restraint. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask—he simply remains, patient in a way that feels deliberate. As if he already knows the answer and is waiting for you to catch up.

Roy is the opposite. Where D-ck is careful, Roy is certain. He says too much, stands too close, lets his gaze linger without apology. When Lian curls up beside you, when she reaches for your hand, he doesn’t look away.

Neither of them lets you pretend this is harmless.

You try to hold onto the logic of it—the years between you, the history, Bruce and Oliver and everything that should make this impossible. You repeat it like a rule.

It doesn’t change anything.

Because they are not children.

Because Lian already fits beside you like you belong there.

Because they see you clearly.

And they don’t look away.

And eventually—

neither do you.