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hauledbylove · 26 days ago

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be friends (forlorn)

tim drake x fem!reader,

OR: yearning, silly assumptions and a gradual build-up. Tim might want to sugar-baby and pet-name his way into a proper courting, but alas; who would be opposed? certainly not you.

wc: 4.2k; part 1; part 2.

cw: mentions of injury; heavy (mutual) pining; partial nudity; mentions of reader's inexperience; suggestive themes at the end.

you’re moping in the kitchenette, head and arms folded on a dining table, when your friend—the one you’re on a trip with—enters. they take one look at you and click their tongue, exasperation clear in their features.

it’s early; the sun rays haven’t reached the windowpanes yet. the breakfast you cooked sits mostly untouched and you push the plate to your friend silently. you two exchange glances and sit, comfortably quiet; mentally preparing for the day ahead.

“girls can never be friends with men,” your friend says apropos of nothing, sipping from your glass. “you know, men would rather fuck or something.”

“what? ew,” you grimace, “what made you say that? and in front of my salad?”

“it’s mine now, heathen,” they tut, and you sigh heavily—mostly for show. “you’ve stayed up late. to talk to your honeybun, I assume?”

“honeybun? good lord, don’tcall him that,” you groan into your palms and hide your face, “that’s awful. I forget how weird you are in the mornings.”

“well then, high time I remind you. that omelette is glorious, by the way,” they point to their quickly emptying plate, “so, did honeybun spoil your appetite?”

“could you not?” you sigh, knowing they won’t stop torturing you with stupid questions anytime soon.

“I couldn’t, no.”

“we’re getting divorce and I’m taking back all the books you’ve borrowed. just so you know,” you huff in mock indignation.

“of course, sugarpie,” they reply, smiling sweetly, “you digress. did ‘your friend’ upset you because you’re into him but he makes no move? truthfully, I cannot see your sad-ass face without wanting to smash something.”

“fist of all? rude. second of all? preposterous. third—”

“thirdly, I must repeat myself: you can never be friends with men. that’s life. universal truth, even.”

“I wonder why we’re friends, after all.”

“why, I reality-check you, after all.”

“damn copycat,” you mumble, and they laugh at that, clapping their hands.

“well-versed in rhetoric devices, is what I am,” you roll your eyes and lean back on the chair, sighing, “tell me. you’ve got a terrible long face and I care for your sanity. even though it’s probably waning at this point.”

“ha-ha,” you dead-pan, “what a dear and irreplaceable friend you are. shocking.” you thumb at your glass distractedly and say, tone lacking confidence, “it’s just… it’s Tim we’re talking about. he’s so attentive, and witty, and lovely all the time—and I’m just… friends with him. which should be enough but isn’t, and…”

you bite your lip, eyes downcast. all this has been simmering on low heat inside your head for months now, your pining growing more pathetic with every passing day—and nothing, nothing has ever been harder to accept than you wanting more from the only man you see in your dreams.

“and?” your friend quietly prompts, nudging your foot under the table.

“and I might be in love with him,” you mumble, avoiding their gaze, “and I’m afraid to lose him to the awkwardness that will ensue if he’s not even remotely interested in me. I can’t and won’t have that. but also—” you rub your eyes aggressively, groaning. “also, I want him all. being his friend is not enough. and it makes me feel… greedy, and shameful. as if I’m… hoggish, and can’t appreciate being friends with Tim Drake-Wayne, of all people.”

you avert your eyes and stare at the ceiling, lace curtains rustling gently in the morning breeze. the silence falls for a minute or few.

“never should’ve started as friends,” your friend sighs at last, and you frown. “men are impossible to befriend.”

“I like Tim because he is my friend first,” you reply defensively, “and I don’t have other male friends because a, they don’t share my passions and b, most of them are dickheads.”

“precisely! nobody can stay friends when they’d rather go catch feelings for you,” you shake your head a no and your friend scoffs, “whatever. you prove my point. girls are friends only with the boys they like.”

“wrong!” you scowl. “it’s the societal expectation for people of opposite sexes to develop romantic feelings that is based solely on the fact that you are opposite sexes, as if you don’t stand a chance at a meaningful connection without attraction being involved—”

“lord, here we go—”

“—and it’s heavily influenced by countless media—”

“okay, get it! jesus, I forget how intense you are,” your friend laughs, pointing a finger at you, “I hope your Tim can appreciate the debates at three in the morning. else I don’t approve.”

you laugh in turn, batting their hand away.

“he’s the same, honestly,” you reply, “and there’s not really—well, not a thing. between us.”

“hey, you liar. you don’t do things halfway, there’s definitely something if you’ve thought about him like that.”

“can’t a girl nurture some hope in peace?” you grumble.

“nah, not on my watch. you feeling better?”

“if only,” you reply in a whining voice, “now it’s out in the open. I’m to suffer through a horrible crush under your watchful eye.”

your friend’s fond eye-roll at your antics (and a nudge under the table that makes you squeak) mark the end of your conversation.

they finish breakfast and you stand up to make coffee, packing a few protein bars to go. there’s a long day of forest bathing ahead and your friend makes you sandwiches—the fancy kind, you hum in amusement, and just before heading out you stop, deciding to snap a picture in the mirror.

nothing much: your whole body is covered for the hike, trousers and compression shirt in a pleasant dark green, face obscured by the hand holding up your phone. there’s a silly cat sticker on your phone case that reminds you of Tim when he’s had a bad night’s sleep (or had none, for that matter), and it makes you smile, the corners of your eyes crinkling.

you send the picture to Tim, texting ‘going for a hike!’ right away. it’s innocent enough that you don’t have to think of how to justify it: your simple need to see or feel Tim’s message ding on your phone.

you two didn’t exchange any more texts after yesterday’s flirting failure, and this pointless picture is a stupid attempt to have him text you again. or so you force yourself to believe.

what if you just want him to have your picture and think of you right this instant?

Tim replies when you’re locking up the front door of your cabin rental.

looking cute. where to?

forest, you text back, maybe a local botanical garden. gonna be a long day.

have a great time, pretty.

your breath hitches. Tim never really uses pet names—even for the laugh of it, respecting whatever principles he holds fast onto.

well then, you think, there definitely would be some hyperventilating on that forest walk.

Tim stares at his screen, biting at his finger. you didn’t reply—not even with a gif or a silly picture. did he overstep, now? or were you not flirting yesterday, however much Kon tried to convince him otherwise?

he huffs a heavy sigh and rubs at his eyelids; splendid: another thing to worry about.

(as a true gentleman, he did nothing about his hard-on the previous night, no matter how much he wanted to rut his hips raw into his bedspread to the thoughts of you.)

(the arm in a cast and a total exhaustion have also helped.)

Tim swears and switches his phone back on and scrolls to the picture you’ve sent him, studying you it: the muted colours of your background, hardly any light expect for the wall and mirror lamps. he can see the pronounced curve of your hip, a small hunter satchel tied to your waist. he huffs, smiling; you’ve always been weak for all these vintage and thrifted things.

Tim zooms in to take a closer look at your cute phone sticker and what little jewellery you have on. his eyes expectedly wander and he sucks in a short breath when his gaze falls on the outline of your breasts, clad in a skin-tight shirt, neck zipper fully up. you’re put-together well—beautiful an radiant too, even in a such a thing as hiking outfit.

there’s nothing suggestive in sight whatsoever, but Tim cannot shake off the intensity of this… love for all things you; how scarily emotional it makes him at times.

(he’s conflicted whether he wants to finger you or cradle against his chest in a tight embrace and pepper with kisses. both, preferably.)

Tim needs to make you his yesterday.

a plan forms in his head; wooing you should be easy with how much he knows about you. Tim is careful and calculating, contingency plans piling upon each other; he won’t make a single step until he knows for sure his affections would be accepted; taken seriously and sincerely. he doesn’t want to chase a broken heart.

in the meantime, Tim goes about his day and keeps you at the back of his mind; he snaps a picture of a funny street cat for you and texts a short, call me later if you’re free?

he already knows you are, and you will. same as him, you’ve never declined his calls. it must mean more than I’ve ever given it credit for, Tim thinks; or he’s falling headfirst into his delusions, now that his mind is set to court you the way he should have months ago—the way you deserve.

starting with little things: attention he so easily gives away when it comes to you.

when you happily reply to his message he relaxes a bit; it would be much better to see your face when you talk rather than a wall of emojis that could never replace your delightful expressions and scowls.

evening comes quickly; Tim decides to snap you another picture—this time, a sunset—when his screen lights up with your contact. a video call from pretty girl. he takes a steadying breath and accepts.

“hey!” you beam at him, eyes crinkling.

“hey,” he smiles, subtly looking you over, “still daylight out?”

“yeah. we’ve got some hours apart,” you hum, propping your head on your folded arms, “is it dark in Gotham already?”

Tim shuffles to his balcony to open a window; you notice how the remaining light bathes him in pinkish orange hues, and it makes your pulse stutter for a second.

“see?” he asks. “no clouds for once.”

“I’m sure they’re not clouds but light pollution most of the time,” you chuckle, looking at your screen.

Tim turned the camera for you to see the sunset he wanted to show.

“I mean, Gotham,” he hums in reply and turns the camera back on himself, padding to his writing desk, “so that checks. nature must be refreshing after this shithole.”

“oh, very. I can’t stand straight though,” you say laughingly, “not sure my legs would hold me up. we’ve got, like, 20k steps today? maybe more; I’m sore all over.”

huh. sore. Tim wishes he could be the reason behind it. he clears his throat and smiles encouragingly at you.

“seen something cool?” he asks, and then listens to you ramble about your day, random facts chaotically popping up from time to time.

it reminds him of his routine, and you seem happy too: cheeks flushed red and glistening; probably sitting outside in the sun, judging be the lighting and your background. he hums intermittently; can’t keep his eyes off you.

when you’re out of breath and done recounting your busy day, you ask Tim about his in turn; he seems to think of what to say, scratching his cast absentmindedly, and then mutters,

“aw, shit,” he tilts his head back and sighs dejectedly, “could you wait a minute?”

“sure. everything good?” you ask worriedly, staring at your screen. Tim stands up and goes to the side, humming noncommittally from outside the frame.

“yeah,” he mutters, “just have to reapply the bandages.”

“what bandages?” you ask dumbly. “don’t you have a broken arm?”

“I’ve got other injuries too.”

“only you, Tim,” you scoff at him, shaking your head. “anything severe?”

“nah, only cuts. some are stitched though.”

“anything severe? nah, I’ve just got some stitches,” you mock, arms flailing disbelievingly. “I swear…”

you hear him snort, and then he pops back into the frame, only his profile visible.

“would it be fine if I changed these now?” Tim asks, holding up a pack of wound patches. “I napped earlier,” he adds sheepishly, looking up at you through the screen, “forgot to do that in time.”

“of course,” you nod, unthinking, “you can do that with one hand?”

he laughs shortly and clicks his tongue.

“I could do that with my eyes closed, baby.”

“Tim Drake, a show-off; note that down,” you tease airily, cocking your head to the side.

he gets back into his seat, his black shirt missing. your screen is surely not big enough to appreciate the whole view, and then it clicks.

baby. he’s just called you baby.

Tim hums a tune quietly, turned slightly sideways for his lamp to illuminate the wound he needs to redress. he works on getting the patch off and cleaning the edges of the cut meticulously, eyes trained on his own skin. yours are trained there, too. paired with a faint echo of Tim’s voice—that low rumble calling you baby—you can do nothing but squeeze your thighs together.

what the fuck even; is there something wrong with you? will you get off to your friend changing bandages now, with rough stitching in sight, no less?

you shake your head in attempts to clear it, mind completely unforthcoming. the silence stretches on, mildly uncomfortable for you; Tim seems fine. he glances up at you again when there’s shuffling on your end.

“everything good?” he echoes your question.

“yeah,” you gulp, “you?”

“yeah,” he chuckles, averting his gaze.

Tim isn’t vain by any means; the body he has has been nurtured with purpose entirely unrelated to conventional attractiveness and image. he’s got a rather slim waist; shoulders wide enough to shield others in a fight; muscles to carry any of his teammate long-distance in case of an accident or emergency.

he’s never had to think twice about what this body of his entails; now, noticing your lost look and lips bitten a cherry red, he might see the advantage.

his abs flex when he straightens, some joints popping. he hears you take an audible breath.

I’m not easy, you repeat mentally. I’m not easy. he’s just beautiful and I’m in love. oh god, is it legal to look so effortlessly handsome? I would see his happy trail if he stood up. good fucking lord—

“darling? you okay?” there’s a worried edge to Tim’s voice that you can pay no mind to at the moment.

for he did, in fact, stand up.

and you did, in fact, see his happy trail.

(you won’t be able to get the image out of your head anytime soon.)

“fine,” you croak with a great delay, “just a long day. spaced out a bit.”

“yeah?” he asks, eyes narrowing. “you should go to sleep soon.”

“I’ll stay a bit longer,” you shoot instantly, not willing to part with him for the night, “if that’s fine by you.”

“more than,” he smiles softly, eyes lingering on your bashful face; Tim supposes he should’ve gone easier on you. “I’m almost finished.”

“okay,” you nod, and try to relax.

if not your feelings for Tim, then your inexperience is blatantly obvious instead. you have never been bothered by it, but now it seems to have become a stumbling block. you chew your poor lip further, mind reeling. countless naked bodies on the screen of your laptop; all the porn in the world; pictures of toned people all over social media, — and you are flustered by scarred skin and a little bit of hair showing.

this is what it means to be down bad, you think with no apparent amusement.

your eyes track all of Tim’s movements and the rippling of his muscle; his pronounced veins on the left hand, that—as much as it pains you to admit it—seems to work just as well as his right one. ambidextrous my ass.

it’s barely past ten when Tim ushers you to bed. you’re tempted to whine and stay on the phone for another half an hour, but he’s utterly resolute in his decision—made without you, might you add. he’s reclining on his chair, a hoodie zipped halfway up his naked chest. Tim’s distracting and totally ignoring all your arguments you make in your own favour.

“you can’t order me around. I am my own person—and in a different state, you dick.”

“I can probably reach you there too,” he replies lazily, smirking, “come on. you won’t notice how fast the time flies.”

“exactly. I need to spend this time productively.”

“by talking to me?” he huffs a laugh and it makes you frown.

“yes, boy trouble, by talking to you.”

your expression and exasperation are genuine, and it makes Tim recoil, gaze appraising once again. you always seem to surprise him—and it’s already been years since you’ve first met.

“up you go, bunny. it’s time to sleep and wait for the new day. don’t you have more plans for tomorrow?”

these bloody pet names are disorienting, but you don’t dare question Tim on them—not like you dislike them, honestly; each of them makes your flutter. you sigh softly and surrender.

“we do, but the weather’s not looking nice. it wasn’t on the forecast when we booked the place.”

“aw,” he pouts, head tilting to the side, “not good. I’m sure you’ll entertain yourself somehow.”

“yeah,” you nod, fidgeting; you’ve never liked to say goodbye to Tim. “good night?”

“night. text you tomorrow, yeah?”

you smile at him one last time before the call ends.

it’s finally dark outside; your friend has turned on the porch lights for you from inside. you sit a few more minutes at the little table, simply breathing and listening to the swoosh of the wind.

what a travesty you find yourself in, pining wistfully after such an unreachable man.

Tim has been right when he said the time would fly fast; you are awoken by the rattling rain hitting exterior windowsills violently. you heave a dejected sigh. it’s impossible to fall asleep now, and lazing in bed when there’s a friend for you to bother seems criminal.

you get up and come face-to-face, greeting them with a mumbled ‘morning’.

“hey, sugarpie,” your friend mocks lightheartedly, “change of plans, huh?”

“seems so,” you nod, looking out the window. no nature walk guaranteed for the foreseeable future—not in such a downpour.

“I’ve got an errand to run,” your friend says uncomfortably, lips tight, “I hate work, honestly. they sent me mail here. gotta pick it up today, the post office will be closed on our trip back.”

“what?” you exclaim. “aren’t you on the paid vacation? and who sends paper mail anymore?”

“assholes, apparently. they want me to suffer in a shit-ass weather too.”

“my condolences,” you pat them on a shoulder, “but all’s fine, if that’s got you worried. not like we would go anywhere today.”

“thanks,” they smile with relief, “I’m taking the car. want something?”

“we’ve got enough food, but maybe pick up some muesli? I’ve been craving it for a while now.”

“you got it, boss. text me if anything happens.”

“you got it, boss,” you parrot, and your friend leaves, laughing and hurrying down the hall.

you have no idea what you should do now that you’re left alone. you go answer some texts and check e-mail while pottering around tiny living room of the cabin rental. you’ve explored every corner and trinket there is, and when you’ve almost come to terms with the fact that you’ll have to start a book you’ve previously planned to read on the trip back, there comes a series of crushing knocks on your front door.

your friend forgot something, perhaps? it hasn’t been long since they’ve left.

you’re spooked a little and so pad softly, footsteps silent with the accompanying clamour of wind and rain. you look in the peephole and see a man with a bag on your porch, barely fitting under the sliver of the roof.

“hello?” you say cautiously.

“hey! food delivery!” the guy slides a bill through the mail slot and you take it, reading it over.

you then open the door in confusion.

“what is that? I didn’t order—”

“this is already paid for! by…” the guy scrolls on his phone, looking for a name, “by a Tim.”

“of course,” you mutter, smiling against your better judgement. “did he leave a good tip at least?”

“oh yeah, he tipped a hundred,” he beams, nodding, “either a keeper or insane.”

“that he is,” you laugh, accepting the paper bag carefully, shielding it from the straying raindrops. “thank you for driving all the way here. have a great day!”

“you too, miss!” the guy chirps and jogs to his car, quickly speeding away.

you step back into the house, only now noticing you’re still in your pyjamas. there’s no time for you to feel flustered or awkward—accepting food delivery in a lace cami, really now?—when your phone dings with a message that is clearly not from your friend. it reads,

up for a call?

you can’t believe him. did he ever sleep?

you trot down to the kitchenette while typing him a reply.

hey, you ninny. we’ve gotta talk about your ample generosity and stalker tendencies.

you make it easy, is Tim’s most unapologetic reply. you scoff fondly.

ring me up, you numskull.

you set your phone down on the table, leaning it on a jug of water. on the other side of the screen, Tim sits pristine and put-together, hair looking devilishly soft in the face Gotham’s abnormally bright sun rays. a smile starts to tug at your lips until you notice his unreadable facial expression, eyebrows knitting together.

“did you meet a delivery guy in that?”

you’re taken aback by this question.

“I just woke up!” you say defensively, looking down at yourself. there’s a centre slit in your cami, fabric sheer and patterned. well, shit. “I didn’t have the—and it’s pouring outside, you know. wouldn’t want the poor guy to—uh, wait. right?”

you eloquently end on a stutter. shame is back in full force and you shiver a little under Tim’s scrutiny, not sure what you’re afraid of; his reaction? his scorn? that’s laughable, you tell yourself, it’s Tim. and you did nothing bad except lounge around in your sleeping clothes. do you look stupid in these? is that the case?

the embarrassment could eat you alive.

Tim’s gaze subtly flits about your form, noticing the fading pillow creases all over your cheeks and arms. cute. you hear him chuckle and say,

“too pretty for any rando to see you like that.”

you huff in relief, Tim’s words barely—or not at all—registering in your mind.

he’s not mad and he’s ordered food for you, paying and tipping included; you can’t be upset with such turn of events, lace cami tops aside.

“well,” he snaps you back to reality, “aren’t you gonna eat?”

you nod distractedly and stand up to take a proper plate. the satin of your shorts hugs your hips loosely, fabric shining from whatever light the lamps disperse.

you can’t see Tim swallow heavily.

he’s afraid he can’t remember a thing when he sees how tightly the lace cups your chest.

“cute pjs. is this a new set or something?” he cannot help but ask, voice deeper than he’d like for you to hear.

“oh, not really. I don’t wear things like these,” you hum, opening the paper bag, “a friend let me have it. wasn’t her size and I couldn’t say no to lace.”

I would buy you all the lace you could want, Tim thinks desperately. you’re busy unloading all the smaller bags and containers, choosing what to start your breakfast with, and he’s left to watch you, propping his jaw on a clenched fist.

“never knew you liked white.”

“milky white, excuse you!” you tut, looking over the food pensively, and then exclaim excitedly, “hey! are those fig tarts?”

“yeah,” Tim smiles, “thought you’d like some pastries with your coffee.”

“I totally would. they look the same as in that little place in Gotham,” you say, “didn’t know how much I really missed them until now.”

“glad to serve,” Tim snorts, seeing your eyes positively shine through the screen.

he nurses a mug of coffee himself, face soft even in a hideous Gotham light.

“feast together?” you tilt your head enquiringly.

“why not,” he snorts, “bon appétit, mademoiselle.”

“merci beaucoup, monsieur” you say, trying to keep your expression serious.

“terrible French, I must say,” Tim drawls into his coffee, eyes crinkling in amusement.

“well,” you huff, filling your plate with fruit and pastries, “aren’t you gonna eat already?”

#dividers by uzmacchiato #tim drake x reader #red robin x reader #wreath: it's me & my secret superpower (turning everything cottagecore)#it fucking got out of hand. i started with 1k in mind for a linking chapter; but it morphed into this monster on its own. holy hell #i say tim's a gentleman > i mean he's not gonna fuck you silly until you confess. the guy's got some manners and class after all #tim drake providing delicious spank-bank material for the reader is top-notch honestly. await phone sex or something of the like next #spent 40 minutes ogling dick grayson on pinterest instead of finishing this part though. my digital footprint will be fucking awful #additionally: after that i randomly thought about jason and had a tiny breakdown. well. silly me; maybe jason or dick hcs will be next!

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