Tim still couldn’t fully figure Viltrumites out.
He could memorize Kryptonian biological structures, Tamaranean cultural patterns—he even had folders organized by color and subcategory. That was his thing. Order. Logic. Clear answers.
But Viltrumites…
They were something else.
You, especially.
Because every time he tried to understand something—anything—it turned into an interrogation that somehow gave him less clarity than when he started.
—"Okay, let’s start simple," Tim said, resting his chin on his hand as he watched you closely. "How does your biology actually work? Metabolism, aging, hormonal variation—baseline stuff."
—"It depends."
—"…On what?"
—"A lot of things."
—"Such as?" his tone stayed controlled, but there was already a sharper edge to it.
—"The individual. The environment. Genetics. It’s—"
—"That’s not a concrete answer," he cut in, frowning as he typed something that clearly wasn’t helpful. "I need parameters. Something measurable."
That was usually when you looked at him for a second…
And then exhaled.
Long.
Heavy.
Like he was the problem.
Which… didn’t help at all.
That afternoon, though, was completely normal.
Tim was stretched out on his bed, his laptop resting on his legs as he switched between news articles, reports, and bits of code. The glow of the screen lit up his focused expression, his fingers moving quickly and precisely over the keyboard.
The apartment was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of calm Tim never fully trusted—but took advantage of anyway.
He reached for his coffee without looking, bringing it to his lips—
BANG.
A sharp knock.
His body reacted before his mind did. He stiffened, setting the cup aside as his eyes snapped toward the door.
Another knock.
More urgent.
Tim shut his laptop immediately and got up, moving quickly but silently, already preparing for the worst.
He opened the door.
And froze.
It was you.
But… not like usual.
Your face was flushed, your breathing uneven, your chest rising and falling too fast. There was a sheen of sweat on your skin, and something about your expression was off—too intense, too… unsteady.
—"What the h—"
He didn’t finish.
Because you were on him in a second.
Your hands grabbed his arms firmly, fingers digging in, the grip urgent—almost desperate. Too strong, even for your usual control.
—"Tim!" your voice came out strained, breath catching between words "I know this is gonna sound… ugh… weird, but—"
You stopped, letting out a heavy breath, your head dropping slightly like the words themselves weighed too much.
—"…I’m in heat and—"
Silence. Complete.
Tim’s eyebrows lifted slowly.
His brain finally reacted—not with logic, not with analysis… but with a single, chaotic conclusion:
DO VILTRUMITES GO INTO HEAT!?
And more importantly—
How was he supposed to NOT KNOW THAT!?