#red robin fluff

[invincibledc]

Y/N: My ex is crazy, y'all. I've had him blocked on everything for weeks and yet he still manages to find ways to contact me.

Y/N: *turns camera to microwave* Bro this what i'm talking about look. He’s calling me on my microwave how was that even…. I didn't know microwaves could do- How is he doing that?

Y/N: That actually impressive you go girl.

[jellyfishsthings]

Endless Conversations at 3 A.M.

navigation , dc navigation

Summary: Tim yearning for a nerdy girl who constantly talks about her new books or new science inventions and they constantly talk for hours about stuff while snacking in the kitchen, falling asleep at 5 in the morning 

The story takes place in a boarding school

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune 

Tim Drake didn’t need anyone to tell him he was smart. He knew it. It was in the way he could analyze the most obscure pieces of data in a split second, how he could solve crimes before anyone had a chance to even start thinking about them. His mind was like a finely tuned machine, a network of connections firing off constantly. It was something he’d grown up with—his mind working faster than anyone could keep up with. He wasn’t used to distractions, not of the kind that made his chest ache like this. He had his routine. Work. Training. Late-night study sessions. A mind like his, sharp and constantly processing, didn’t have the time for anything that could derail it.

And then there was you.

Something different about you.

It started innocently enough, as most things did. You were the quiet girl who sat in the corner of the library, your nose buried in books Tim had never heard of, your fingers scribbling through the margins like you were finding answers nobody else could. You’d walk past him in the halls, brief glances exchanged. Nothing special. But then one afternoon, it happened. He’d found himself in the middle of one of those impossibly late-night snack sessions in the kitchen, eyes barely open as he rummaged for something to keep him awake long enough to finish his latest round of equations.

He was in the kitchen. Late night. Gotham asleep, with only the faintest hum of the city stretching into the silence of the manor. Tim had a habit of coming down to the kitchen late, especially when his mind was racing with some unsolved puzzle, some unsent email, some unanswered question. He often wandered into the kitchen without thinking, grabbed a snack, and stared into the night—letting the dark and quiet cool his thoughts.

You’d walked in, all energy and calm, with a pile of half-open notebooks tucked under your arm. A girl who, to Tim, was an enigma wrapped in thoughts too complicated for anyone but herself to understand. You looked at him, that half-smile you always wore curling your lips.

"Is it just me, or does the kitchen at 2 A.M. always feel like a secret club?"

Tim had almost dropped the spoon he’d been holding, unsure if he was supposed to feel embarrassed or if he should have said something cooler in response. "Guess we’re the only ones left awake," was all he could muster, his words just a little too casual, as if he hadn’t noticed how breathtakingly out of place you were in the middle of his late-night routine.

You didn’t seem to mind. You sat across from him, dropping your notebooks on the table like they were nothing. And in the next few hours, he learned more about you than he could have ever expected.

“Tim?” You’d looked up, catching him mid-step. “Can you help me with this?”

Tim blinked. You were the smart girl at school—one who was always absorbed in a book, always two steps ahead. But this? This wasn’t something he could solve in a blink. He knew that much.

“What is it?” he asked, leaning over, his curiosity piqued.

You pointed to an equation, half-finished, a series of symbols and numbers that had Tim doing a double-take. He’d never seen anything quite like it before.

“That’s—” he started, feeling the familiar rush of his brain kicking into overdrive. The puzzle was fascinating, but it was also wildly complex. Not even Tim Drake, with his natural intelligence and years of experience solving some of Gotham’s most dangerous riddles, could immediately decipher it.

“What are you working on?” he asked, his voice careful.

You didn’t seem to notice the way his mind was already trying to dissect it. Instead, you simply launched into an explanation, as casual as if you were talking about the weather.

“Just a little something on applied mathematics for motion systems. The kind of calculations for things like weather balloons, or even drones. It's about optimization—how to minimize error in the systems under the influence of wind currents.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “You lost me at drones.”

You laughed. “I tend to do that. I’ll break it down for you—it's about minimizing trajectory error when accounting for random variables. A lot of variables, really. Wind, angle of release, external disturbances.”

Tim was smart enough to keep up with you. He was more than capable of handling advanced physics, calculus, and cryptography. But hearing it from you, seeing the way you lit up when you talked about it, made him feel like he was stepping into a world he hadn’t yet explored. It was almost like watching someone conjure magic from thin air, weaving a spell with nothing but numbers and formulas.

“So…” Tim said slowly, trying to catch up, “It’s like predicting the movement of a batarang?”

Your smile was so wide it lit up the kitchen, and Tim’s heart beat just a little faster than usual. He hated how it was so easy for you to distract him, even when his brain was running at full speed.

“Exactly,” you said, leaning closer, eyes sparkling. “But with drones, the error margins are a lot more unpredictable. It’s fascinating because if you tweak the variables just slightly, you can make it so the drone compensates for the wind before it even feels it.”

Tim let that sink in for a moment, then nodded, impressed. He had a sharp mind, no doubt about it, but hearing you talk about these things—he felt like an amateur again. Like there were so many layers of the world that he hadn’t even begun to peel back. And yet, you made it sound so... easy. It was that which made his chest tighten.

You were in a world of your own, and somehow, it felt like he wasn’t invited. Like he wasn’t quite smart enough for you. And that thought gnawed at him, because, if there was one thing Tim Drake hated, it was feeling like he wasn’t enough.

The next hour passed in a blur. You’d pulled out books Tim could barely pronounce the names of, showing him your newest discoveries. Some were about math, others about biology, and a few were a mix of historical facts and theories Tim couldn’t even wrap his brain around.

By the time dawn was breaking, the kitchen light flickering in time with your laughs and animated explanations, Tim felt a gnawing ache in his chest that he couldn’t shake. He’d lost track of time. You’d lost track of time. Your eyes sparkled as you spoke, your hand absently playing with your pencil, and Tim found himself simply... listening.

When the clock struck 5 A.M., and you stood up to leave, exhausted yet satisfied, it hit him—this wasn’t just an intellectual curiosity. This wasn’t about math equations or theories that defied logic. It was about you. And him. And the way you made him feel like the world was full of wonder again.

The weeks that followed felt like an endless cycle of late-night sessions in the kitchen, your voice filling the silence like some endless tide. You would talk about everything—science, history, psychology—your brain a repository of fascinating facts that made Tim’s own mental library feel incomplete.

He tried his best to keep up, but more often than not, he’d be left staring at you, trying to catch his breath while your words rushed past him, faster than his mind could follow.

One night, you’d been talking for hours about string theory, gesturing wildly with your hands as if the entire universe were contained in those movements. Tim couldn’t help but stare at the way your fingers moved, the way you became so engrossed in the theories, as if they were pieces of a puzzle only you could see.

“…and what’s even crazier,” you said, dropping another scientific bombshell, “is that if string theory is true, then theoretically, every fundamental particle in the universe is just a manifestation of these tiny vibrating strings. It’s mind-blowing, don’t you think?”

Tim swallowed hard, realizing he had absolutely no idea what you were talking about. He smiled awkwardly, trying to mask his confusion. “Yeah, totally. Just... uh, yeah. That’s... mind-blowing.”

You grinned at him. “You look lost. Want me to explain it again?”

And that’s when it hit him. He wasn’t just out of his depth intellectually—he was out of his depth emotionally, too. He liked you. No, he really liked you. But it wasn’t just your intelligence. It was how you made the world feel like a bigger place than it actually was. You weren’t just talking to him—you were showing him a whole new universe, and Tim couldn’t help but be entranced by that.

You never asked for him to be there. You never seemed to expect him to show up with his tired eyes and his quiet smile. But you didn’t mind when he did, and that’s what made it feel like some unspoken bond.

"Did you ever wonder," you asked one night, halfway through a book about quantum mechanics, "if the universe could actually be a series of dimensions stacked on top of each other, like a never-ending accordion? Like... time could be folded in on itself, and we wouldn’t even know?"

Tim paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth. “Yeah. Sometimes. But... the whole idea of alternate realities always trips me up. Like, how would we ever even know they exist?”

"Exactly!" You waved your hands as if the answer was just around the corner. "It’s this weird thing about perception and reality. What if, in another reality, we're having this exact conversation, but everything’s slightly different? Like, you’re left-handed, or I’m talking about the different types of black holes instead of quantum stuff?"

Tim tried to keep up, but the words you were saying were floating just beyond his reach. He didn’t care. He just wanted to listen.

“I think,” he said, finding his voice again after a beat, “that it’s kind of beautiful. The idea that everything’s connected, but also... so separate. So, so separate, in a way that makes everything more precious.”

Your eyes met his, sharp and knowing, and for a moment, it felt like the universe had paused.

"Yeah," you whispered. "I think so too."

The next few weeks passed in a haze of equations, theories, and late-night talks. Tim found himself looking forward to those kitchen sessions more than he cared to admit. It wasn’t just that you challenged him mentally—it was that you made him feel something he wasn’t used to feeling: a longing for something more.

You would talk about books, or inventions you were working on, or your plans for the future. Tim would listen, sometimes offering his own insights, sometimes just letting the sound of your voice fill the empty space between them. And, more often than not, he found himself staring at you, trying to memorize the way your eyes would sparkle when you were passionate, how you made even the most abstract concepts sound like something real, something worth fighting for.

But it wasn’t until one particularly late night—around 4 A.M., with the two of you sitting in the kitchen, surrounded by the remnants of half-empty mugs and snack wrappers—that Tim realized just how deep his feelings for you had grown.

“You’re not tired yet?” he asked, watching as you scribbled another complicated equation on the back of a napkin.

“Not yet. I’m on a roll,” you said, your voice bright, the familiar fire in your eyes still burning strong. “Do you ever get like that? Like you’re so focused on something, you don’t even notice how much time passes?”

Tim paused for a moment, his eyes lingering on you, not just because of how brilliant you were, but because there was something about you that made him feel seen. "Yeah. I think I do," he said softly.

The silence stretched out between you two, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a quiet understanding, a space where you both were just… there. Tim realized, in that moment, that he didn’t need to keep up with you all the time. He didn’t need to understand everything you said. He just needed to be in the same room as you, listening. Just listening.

And maybe, that was enough.

But the truth was: Tim was falling for you. Hard.

It wasn’t just about the way you made complicated things sound simple or how you made the most mundane theories seem like pieces of art. It wasn’t just your kindness or your intelligence or the way you always made him feel like there was no one else more important in the world than him.

It was the way you talked. The way your eyes lit up with excitement, your hands gesturing wildly, your mind constantly racing with thoughts too big for the world around you to keep up with. Tim realized that, in those moments, he didn’t feel like he was just keeping pace with your words—he was trying to keep up with your soul.

One night, as you debated whether or not time travel was theoretically possible through a wormhole, Tim’s heart nearly cracked under the weight of his emotions. His breath caught, and he almost blurted out something reckless. Something about how he loved the way your mind worked, how it felt like he was watching a comet streak across the sky every time you spoke.

But all he said was, “You’re incredible, you know that?”

You blinked, surprised by the sincerity in his voice, but then smiled softly. “Yeah. I get that sometimes. Just... never thought I’d hear it from you.”

Tim felt his pulse spike. His voice was tight. “Why?”

You leaned back, tucking your legs under yourself. “Because you’re always so... distant. You’re quiet, Tim. You think in silence. I thought that’s how you wanted the world to stay.”

He couldn’t think of a way to respond that didn’t sound like an admission of how much he cared. So he just settled for a small smile, one that tugged at his lips but didn’t quite make it to his eyes.

The truth was, he had never been good at showing affection. But with you? With you, it didn’t matter. You already understood the language of his silences.

It was a month later, during another conversation that stretched far past 3 A.M., when you finally asked him, “Tim, do you ever just get tired of all the noise in your head? The pressure, the constant thinking?”

Tim stared at the empty coffee cup in front of him, his chest heavy. It was one of those moments where he wished he could express what he was feeling. He wished he could make you understand just how much it meant that he could sit here, in this moment, in this quiet space with you, and just... breathe. No pressure. No questions. No expectations. Just... you.

But he didn’t say any of that. Instead, he simply answered, “Yeah. I do. But sometimes... it’s nice to be with someone who makes the world quieter.”

So Tim found himself opening up in ways he hadn’t expected. He no longer felt the need to pretend that he could keep up with you every step of the way. Instead, he let himself just be present in the moment, just enjoying your company and letting your words guide him through this strange, fascinating world you had built.

One night, as you sat there, deep in conversation about the possibility of life on other planets, Tim realized that maybe it wasn’t the equations that fascinated him. Maybe it was you. Your mind, your passion, your voice. You had this way of making everything seem possible, of opening doors to worlds Tim hadn’t even dreamed of.

And in that moment, it felt like you understood, even without the words. You smiled, a soft, knowing smile. And for the first time, Tim felt like maybe, just maybe, he didn’t need to understand everything to know how he felt.

And in that moment, Tim realized something else: he wasn’t just falling for you. He was already in love with you.

[miwsolovely]

—can you love me (like i love you?)

𝜗𝜚 — in which, red robin likes to shows up at your apartment for an irenic moment from the harsh lines of Gotham. he meets you and you meet him, all of him.

TIM DRAKE x CIVILIAN! GN!READER mild angst. reader pining over tim, vice versa if you squint. 3.8k. — this was so fun — requested

The night air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of rain-soaked asphalt and blooming jasmine from the park nearby. You always found it comforting—an odd juxtaposition of Gotham’s grit and its rare moments of beauty. Tonight, however, it wasn’t the air that brought you solace. It was the quiet creak of boots landing on your fire escape.

You smiled before even turning to look. “You’re late,” You teased, peering over your shoulder at the figure perched outside your window.

“Got caught up,” Red Robin replied, his voice light but tinged with fatigue. He stepped into the room with a practiced ease, his cape swaying slightly as he entered. The mask didn’t hide much—the sharp lines of his jaw, the way his shoulders tensed from the weight of the night’s patrol.

“You okay?” You asked, setting down the tea you’d been preparing next to an additional mug, turning around to face him in the living room, ignoring the pressure of your island on your lower back.

It had become routine by now. After weeks of these impromptu visits, you’d learned his habits: the subtle signs of exhaustion, the occasional wince from a barely hidden injury.

“I’m fine,” He said, though the way he sank into your worn-out armchair betrayed him.

You sighed and let the warmth seep into your palms as you spun around and took a mug from the counter and handed it to him. He took it without argument, the warmth seeming to settle him as he leaned back. “Liar,” You quipped. His nose tensed when he lied.

It had started months ago, the first time he appeared outside your window like some wayward bird. You’d been startled, of course—who wouldn’t be? But he hadn’t come for trouble, just a quiet moment away from the chaos. And somehow, without ever planning to, you became part of his nightly routine.

The first few visits had been awkward. After all, how often does Gotham’s very own Red Robin show up uninvited? But over time, the strangeness faded. He was careful never to overstep, never to ask too many personal questions or reveal too much about himself. Instead, your conversations meandered—books, movies, music, even the weird quirks of Gotham’s neighborhoods.

It wasn’t just him who needed the company. You found yourself looking forward to his visits more than you cared to admit. He was steady, like the ticking of a clock in the background of your life, even if you only ever saw him at night.

Tonight felt different, though. He wasn’t as talkative as usual, his responses short and clipped. You watched him over the rim of your own mug, debating whether to press.

“Long night?” You ventured.

“Something like that,” He replied, staring out the window at the city below. “Some nights are harder than others.”

You hesitated. You didn’t want to pry, but there was a vulnerability in his voice that tugged at you. “Want to talk about it?”

He shook his head, the barest hint of a smile playing on his lips. “You’d make a good therapist.”

“I’m just nosy,” You said lightly, hoping to draw out more of that smile.

And for a moment, it worked. He chuckled softly, the sound like a warm ember in the cold.

“Thanks,” He said after a beat. “For this. For letting me . . . just be here.”

“You say that like you’re intruding.”

“Aren’t I?”

“No,” You said firmly. “You’re not.”

The silence that followed was comfortable, the kind that didn’t need filling. You’d grown used to these quiet stretches, knowing that sometimes words weren’t enough to smooth over the rough edges of the night.

After a while, he stood, setting the empty mug on the counter. “I should get going,” He said, his voice softer now.

“Be safe out there,” You say, facing him on your place on your chair, the words automatic but heartfelt.

He nodded, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than usual. Then he was gone, disappearing into the shadows as seamlessly as he’d arrived.

A foggy evening, after his patrol, he arrived later than usual. His uniform was damp, and he looked more worn than you’d ever seen him.

When his eyes met yours, you let out an amused huff, walking to the closet in the hallway to your room, grabbing a beige towel and making your way back to him. “Take a dip in the lake Red?” You teased, handing him the towel as he stepped closer to you.

“Something like that,” He said, echoing the same vague answer he always gave. Even with the mask, you could feel the dam that wanted to implode.

Your brows furrowed.

“You don’t have to do this alone, you know.”

He looked at you sharply, as if the words had hit a nerve. “I’m used to it,” He said after a pause, his voice low and guarded.

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t be.”

The room fell silent again, the tension thick enough to cut.

“I don’t… I can’t risk that,” He said finally. “Letting people in. It’s complicated.”

“Life’s complicated,” Your countered. “But you don’t have to keep everyone at arm’s length. At least not me.”

He stared at you, something unspoken flickering in his eyes. Then, as if breaking under the weight of his own defenses, he said, “I wish it were that simple.”

You didn’t bring it up again, sensing it was a line he wasn’t ready to cross. But the moment lingered, coloring every interaction that followed.

You’d open up to him. Though it wasn’t as reciprocated, you didn’t mind because he listened. Sometimes, when the night was soft, you two would talk about the random things that reminded you of each other, it was your favorite part of when he’d come to your apartment, relaxing in each others presence; it left a sapid taste in your mouth.

You’d talk to him about your life in Gotham University, talked to him about the enigma your heart palpitated for. How his voice made your smile bright and cheeks warm, how it rang though your mind constantly throughout the day, echoing off the walls and finding it’s way back to your heart, the devil that wouldn’t calm down.

You hadn’t realized that underneath the mask, he looked at you with a smile lining his eyes, his own devil pounding in his chest.

When asked if he knew of your feelings, your smiled turned bashful.

“He doesn’t even know my name, Red. I’m just a random with a crush.”

You’re not random, you’re mine. Is what he wanted to say, he wanted you to know who he is. Not the man with the mask — rather the man behind it.

He distanced himself from you at school because he thought that if he didn’t, you’d figure out he’s ‘Boy Wonder’ a bit too easy for his taste. He scares himself every night thinking about what would happen if you find out.

And then one night, he laughed.

Not just the quiet chuckle you’d heard before, but a full, unrestrained laugh that lit up his face. It was over something stupid—a poorly told joke you’d heard from a coworker. But the sound warmed you to your core, and for a moment, it reminded you of your enigma, Tim Drake.

How could someone do that? Look so familiar but unknown at the same time? Your eyes seeing one person, Red Robin: Gotham’s hero. But your heart seeing, hearing, feeling��

“Tim.”

The name left your lips in a whisper, your heart hammering in your chest. You hadn’t meant to say it. You weren’t even sure how you knew, but it was there—like a puzzle piece falling into place.

He froze, his entire body going rigid. “What did you say?”

“Tim,” Quieter this time, you repeated it. “That’s—”

He didn’t answer, but the look in his eyes confirmed it.

“I . . . I didn’t mean to—” You started, but he cut you off.

“How?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“I don’t know,” You admitted. “I just . . . knew.”

The silence stretched between you, heavy with the weight of what you’d just revealed.

Red Robin—Tim—he stepped back slightly, his eyes scanning your face as if trying to read the truth there. You could feel the tension in the room, thick and unyielding, and for a moment you thought he might leave. But instead, he sighed, his shoulders slumping as though a great weight had finally pressed him down.

“I’ve been careful,” he said softly. “I’ve spent so long making sure you — no one could ever connect me to . . . to this.”

You didn’t know what to say, the gravity of his words grounding you to the spot. Finally, you managed, “I didn’t mean to—to figure it out! It’s not like I was trying. It just . . .”

He ran a hand through his hair, the motion uncharacteristically unguarded. “I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have let this go on for so long.”

“Don’t say that,” You pleaded, stepping closer. “I know you think you’re protecting yourself, or me, but you don’t have to do this alone, Tim.”

Hearing his name in your voice seemed to shake something loose in him. He looked at you, really looked at you, and the mask of Red Robin slipped away for just a moment. Beneath it was someone young, someone tired, someone who wanted to believe you. The enigma who became more familiar.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he admitted, his voice breaking slightly. “I don’t know how to turn it off, how to let someone in without putting them in danger.”

You reached out, your hand hovering just above his arm. “You already let me in,” You said quietly. “That’s why you kept—” You stop yourself. “—that’s why you keep coming back.” Your hand connects with the rough material of his suit and you wish you could feel his skin on yours.

He didn’t pull away. For a long moment, the two of you stood there, the sound of rain against the window the only noise in the room.

Finally, he spoke. “You deserve better than this. Better than me.”

You shook your head, your throat tight. “Don’t decide that for me.”

The words seemed to hit him like a blow. He opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out. Instead, he turned his head, staring at the rain running down the window as though it could give him the answers he sought.

“I’ve thought about it,” You continued, your voice soft but steady. “I’ve thought about what it would mean. What it would mean to care about you —really care about you. Even though it was for Tim at first, there’s more to you and I want to care for you and everything that comes with it. And I’m still here. I’ll always be here Tim.”

That seemed to break him. He sank down onto the edge of the couch behind him, his head in his hands. “You don’t understand what you’re saying. What my life is like. The people I go up against—they wouldn’t hesitate to hurt you to get to me.”

“And you don’t understand what you could mean to me,” You countered. You sit on the floor, right at his feet so you can lock eyes with him even though his domino mask hides them, you can still see the blue of his eyes you admire so much.

“I see the risks, Tim. I see them every night when you walk out that window, not knowing if you’ll come back. But I’m still here because I care about you. And you need to stop deciding what I can handle.”

He looked up at you then, the walls he’d so carefully constructed were crumbling, and you saw the man behind the vigilante.

“I care about you too,” He said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “More than I should, and — and it scares the hell out of me.”

You rose from sitting criss-cross to your knees, resting your arms on his, you wanted to get impossibly closer, closing the gap between the two of you. “Then let’s be scared together.”

The confession hung in the air, raw and real, and for the first time, neither of you looked away. You didn’t know what the future held, didn’t know if this thing between you could survive the dangers and secrets of his world. But in that moment, none of it mattered.

He reached for your hand, his touch tentative but warm. “This won’t be easy,” He warned you gently.

“I know,” You said, squeezing his hand. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in a long time, he smiled—not the practiced smile of Red Robin, but something softer, something real.

“I don’t deserve you,” He murmured.

“Maybe not,” You teased, a small smile tugging at your lips. “But you’ve got me anyway.”

The two of you stayed like that for a while, the storm outside mirroring the quiet storm of emotions between you. And when he finally left that night, it wasn’t with the usual heaviness of his patrols.

This time, he carried a piece of you with him—and left a piece of himself behind.

©miwsolovely do not plagiarize, copy, or repost my works to other platforms . likes, comments, and reblogs are very appreciated <3

[thenyoumightaswellwrestleangels]

There is a weight in this heart of mine (and it leaves space for nothing else)

and I will do the best I can, with the little that I know - series masterlist here

pairing: tim drake x reader (gn) x conner kent (no use of y/n)

length: 1.5k

genre: fluff, comfort

warnings: plot lol, intrigue suspense, not a lot don't get too excited, anyway sometimes there are things in the past that you don't want to drag up, and the people you love just get it

a/n: yippie a fic sdfghjkl;

"Is he asleep?" Kon's voice, quiet in a hushed sort of way, still feels a bit too loud in the apartment. The movie on the television is turned down so low that it's almost silent, and there's only the constant, dull rumble of the city outside to really fill the space.

"Yea," you respond in your own whisper, eyeing the way that Tim sits slumped over against the arm of the couch, his shoulders rising and falling in gentle breaths. 

"Should we wake him up? That can't be comfortable," Kon prompts, concern tugging at his features as you glance at him fondly. 

"No, let him sleep - god knows he doesn't get enough. If he's still out by the time the movie's over, we can wake him," you say softly, reaching to tug the blanket ever so gently across Tim's lap. You think that's it - that's the end of this, and you wait for a hushed silence to wrap back around you as you focus your attention back on the television. But Kon's staring at you still, and it makes you glance at him with fond confusion.

"What?"

"I'm just wondering, is all," he muses quietly. You cock your head to the side.

"Anything you want to share with the class?"

"…I don't think I'm the one who has something to share," he says cautiously, and you narrow your eyes at him.

"Who does, then?" you counter, and Kon trails his fingers up and down your arm where he has his own slung across the back of the couch in a soothing sort of way.

"I'm just saying," he begins carefully, like he knows that he's stepping into something unsure - like he knows that this is something different. "That… if something was bothering you, you could tell us. And maybe we could help you."

"There's nothing I need help with," you say with a frown, a bit caught off guard by it all - caught unawares by the feeling of being backed into a corner in the comfort of your own home.

"I know you don't need help, babe," Kon snorts, earns a gentle shush from you as Tim mumbles in his sleep and buries himself further under the blanket. "But you can still… You can want things you don't need. You can say yes to things you don't need."

"No, I - I know that," you say with a sigh, squeezing Kon's thigh gently in what you hope is a comforting sort of gesture, although you're not sure which one of you it's really supposed to be for. "I mean, I don't… there's nothing going on. There's nothing right now to help with. I don't know what you think's happening."

"I don't think anything," he insists, raising his hands up in surrender. "You just… I dunno, you seem like something's been on your mind lately."

"I've just been busy," you counter.

"Right, with S.T.A.R. Labs," he says dryly. You sigh.

"Kon…"

"I know, I know," he begins. "I just… I don't like the idea of them poking and prodding at you like that."

"There's really not a lot of either. It's just scans and tests and… it's just science," you explain, a tired subject that the two of you have circled time and time again. "That's what S.T.A.R. Labs does. They figure out metas like me - and you. It's all voluntary."

"I just… don't want anything bad to happen to you," Kon says, a gentleness in his voice that makes you soften.

"Bad things are always going to happen. But not there - and not here. Ok?" He hums at your words, a reluctant sort of agreement as the credits of whatever film you'd had on begin to roll across the television screen. You blink at the sight, glance over toward Tim's still-sleeping figure.

"We should take him to bed," you murmur, and Kon pats your thigh reassuringly before standing up. 

"I got him," he says. It's incredible, you think, how much gentleness he's able to put into those hands of his. It's a wonder, you believe, that he has it in him despite the anger that he was grown with.

You go ahead," you offer quietly. "I'll… I'm gonna clean up out here first. I'll come to bed later." He sort of doesn't believe you - you know he doesn't, you can see it in the hesitant turn of his body. But Tim murmurs something in his sleep, tilting his head further into Kon's shoulder, and the weight he's currently carrying wins out against the weight that he's trying to make space for. 

You suppose, in the silence of your home after the two of them disappear down the hallway, that that's the way it always goes.

It's several hours later that Tim slides open the balcony door quietly and narrows his eyes at the way you sit lazily on the bench out there.

"You never came to bed," he says pointedly, a gentle sort of accusation in his tone. You stiffen as if it were much more hateful than it really is.

"I'm just not tired, Timmy. You should still be asleep."

"Well, I fell asleep on the couch like an 80-year-old, so I'm kinda wired now," he points out, sitting next to you and settling in. 

"And Kon?" you ask.

"Snoring," he offers. You can't help but roll your eyes at that, affection making its home in your ribcage at the thought. Somewhere beneath the two of you, a couple wanders down the sidewalk and their laughter floats up in the breeze toward your balcony. Tim's watching you, you know, eyeing you in a way that makes you want ot shift and hide away. But you stay steady - sturdy under the weight of it, under the decision not to buckle.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he offers finally, an olive branch of sorts. You fix him with a look.

"About what?"

"Whatever it is you've been so worried about lately." There's nothing firm in his voice, no push or demand. It's just love, soft and constant and steady. You sniff indignantly.

"I don't know why you two think there's something going on. I'm not keeping any secrets," you insist, digging your heels in. Tim's eyes narrow just a bit.

"I didn't say you were," he says, and it feels a bit like getting caught in a web. "But if you are… You don't have to." You look away from him, then, as if you could run away from it all somehow - as if you could untangle yourself from the love that you now call home. Tim sits patiently through it all, his arm slung over the back of the bench as he stares out at the sprawling streets of Metropolis below.

"Do you think, um…" you trail off, biting the inside of your cheek as you stumble over it all.

"Sometimes, yea," he offers. Your scathing look does nothing but make him laugh.

"Do you think people can change?" you blurt out, and his laughter dies down as he glances at you, concern flitting over his features. 

"Sometimes," he says hesitantly.

"You're lying," you call out instantly. He stays quiet for a minute, his lips pressed together as he looks up toward the empty sky, the stars blocked out by the shining lights of the city.

"Not really," he admits. "I sort of think we're stuck with whatever we came into this world as. A lot of us try to run away from it, I guess. But you can't… I don't know," Tim trails off, and the hardened look that passes over his face reminds you, in a guilty sort of way, of the face that Batman always wears when he feels the weight of the world.

"Yea," you agree in a murmur, something dull and weighty settling in your chest, taking root in your heart. "I guess none of us really get away from it in the end." Tim looks at you, then - a startled sort of guilt making itself known in his expression. 

"Love, I -"

"It's ok -"

No," he says firmly. "I just… whatever this is that you're dragging around, I - you've gotta tell someone. I hope it's us… I want it to be us. But if it's no one, then -" he cuts himself off, then, so painfully aware of when he's pushing too much. Your shoulders bunch as you look away from him, staring out toward the endless sky, instead.

"There's nothing going on that I can't handle," you say firmly.

"Ok," he says gently, a kindness in his voice that you're not sure belongs there. "But when you realize you're wrong… let me know."

"And until then?" you ask quietly. He just shrugs, squeezing his arm around your shoulders.

"Just this," he offers. "Always this." There's a patience in him, you think, that you don't deserve - a love in both of them that feels out of place. But it's constant, steady and reliable as Tim runs his fingers up and down your arm, and you think that maybe, for now, you can believe in promises like always.

[fluffy-anna]

Tim Drake aka Red Robin wallpaper

I relate to tim in ways I have not related to religion

As the poll results asked, here we go

My favorite cynic and bi disaster and the epitome of sleep deprived middle child

@arrowheadedbitch

Here you go 🩷🩷🩷

Visit for more wallpaper

[ni3k19]

— ‘ how could by day be bad when i’m with you? ‘

| random texts between you and Tim Drake if he was your roommate. . . (possibly out of character,,,if so i’m srry this is my first time doing this ever</3)

— — —

— — —

(err that’s all :D if you enjoyed likes and reblogs are appreciated ᥫ᭡) — feedback in the comments as well !

other things made by me (coming soon,,maybe)

[youlightmeupriorson]

How They Kiss | Bat Boys

The hottest question on the radar right now is how do these men kiss?

↪ Likes, reblogs, and comments are always welcome! ⭐️

↪ My Masterlist

BRUCE WAYNE 🖤

The kisses that the crime-fighting playboy billionaire may potentially deliver are all based on his mood. If he's getting home late from saving Gotham, they're quick pecks on the mouth because typically you're in bed asleep. He'll glide his lips across your forehead, breathe in your scent that somehow is melatonin in human form, and he'll start getting ready for bed.

If he's out at events for Wayne Enterprises, such as the annual charity gala hosted in his late parent's name, he kisses you with passion. Deep strokes of his tongue when nobody is looking, a hand pressed to your waist. He kisses you like you're his most prized possession and he can't get enough of his lips on yours.

When sex is involved? Bruce is carnal. His tongue lavishes yours. Worships your mouth with his. Loves to tease your bottom lip and kiss you so deeply, that you can feel him on your mouth even when the night is over. Bruce is thorough with his kissing just like he is with everything else in his life.

DICK GRAYSON 💙

Dick loves a good smooch. He kisses gently in the mornings when you first wake up. He'll show up randomly at your work with flowers in hand and steal a couple of kisses, maybe even end up in the supply closet where the heat really cranks up.

Before he leaves for patrol, Dick doesn't believe in a goodbye kiss. He likes to call them 'see you later' kisses and those linger for longer than either of you anticipated. He strokes your cheek as his lips mold to yours. He tastes every inch of your mouth and licks away the hunger inch by inch as his tongue explores your mouth. You palm his perfect butt (that he's so eager for you to touch. He knows he's got a great set of glutes) and he caresses your hips.

Dick kisses deeply when he gets home from patrol. Albeit tired, his nerves skyrocket with serotonin when he arrives home and finds you waiting up for him. Once he's stripped of his suit and he's colliding with you in between the sheets, he bruises your mouth from how hard he kisses, his teeth teasing your bottom lip while he explores your body with his hands.

JASON TODD ❤️

Jason loves deep, languid strokes of his tongue across yours. When he has a light stubble on his chin, he loves the way you scratch his cheeks with your nails as you two kiss. His favorite kissing position is hands down you straddling his lap.

He kisses with precision. It's like every inch of your mouth that he touches, he sparks something new inside of you. Jason loves to battle for dominance with his tongue, where ultimately he wins. Says if your kiss was alcohol, he'd get drunk off you every single night.

Jason can't go to sleep without kissing you. He wants his hands on your body while his lips mold to every shape of you. Starts at your ankles, kisses up your calves, he'll kiss your belly and chest. Travels up your throat, light pecks to your face. He'll end with his mouth on yours where his entire weight will sink down on top of you and he's left making out with you until both of you are undressed and panting.

TIM DRAKE ☕️

He is the softest kisser of them all. Tim Drake never leaves without some form of lip balm in his pocket. Loves to have them soft and ready for when he can get a kiss from you. Tim loves to hold your face in his hands while he kisses you, stroking your tongue slowly with his. Needs you as close as humanly possible when his lips are on yours.

Tim needs to be kissed by you before every patrol. He can't function without some form of lip lock whether it's a peck or a full-on makeout session. It gives him a boost that even the strongest caffeine can't provide him with. You're his form of therapy and a drug he likes to say.

Kissing you involves a lot of hands-on movement. Tim loves to grip your hips in his hands and pull you flush to his chest. Loves to slant his mouth over yours and really gets off on feeling your breath on his lips just before you two seal your mouths together.

[blog-moved-lol]

[catastrophicalcat]

Batkids sleepover

Wayne Family Adventures

[thinkmarkthink]

Alfred finds out about the spreadsheet not through Bruce—heaven forbid—or even Master Richard, who has, historically, been the canary in the Batcave coal mine.

No, Alfred finds out because Wonder Woman calls him.

“Is it true Damian purchased a warhorse on patrol?” she asks, warm but curious. “The line item says, ‘Live horse, unauthorized—refused to name it anything but “Vengeance.”’”

Alfred exhales. Deeply. The kettle screams in the background.

“That depends, Your Highness,” he says, “on your definition of purchased.”

—

By the time Alfred reviews the spreadsheet himself, it’s clear to him that Bruce has, once again, attempted to manage grief, children, and domestic infrastructure by applying the principles of a Fortune 500 CEO to a family that was never supposed to exist.

Line items include:

• “Cass: ballet shoe fund (annual),” next to “Cass: glider fuel fund (quarterly).”

• “Duke: emergency stipend for spontaneous dramatic lighting needs.”

• “Dick: trapeze rigging expenses (do not let him do it indoors again).”

• “Tim: coffee. No questions.”

• “Jason: reparations to the Gotham Historical Society. Again.”

There is an entire tab titled “Kryptonian Damage Control (Clark-Specific),” with columns like:

• “Reinforced cutlery (snapped during brunch).”

• “Ceiling repairs (emotional egress).”

• “Sofa replacements (unconfirmed eye-laser mishap?).”

And yet, tucked between “ventilation system repairs” and “cape replenishment inventory,” there is a quiet, unformatted cell with a single note:

“Alfred - annual birthday fund (nonnegotiable).”

He stares at it for a long time.

Then he closes the spreadsheet. Updates his will. Makes Bruce’s favorite tea.

And orders six more bulletproof teapots.

Because in this household, love is measured in line items—and survived in spreadsheets.

[dhazefawn]

꣑ৎ COMFORT BICEP PROTOCOL ╱ #sendbicep w/ the BAT-BOYS via text ꩜ smau .ᐟ ⠀⠀ ────⠀⠀⠀ est. relationship. suggestive.

‧˚꒰ৎ୭ 🗒️: do not ask me how long this took. something as simple as a #sendbicep smau should not be this complicated. i put so much effort in finding suitable pictures !!! send help.

‧₊˚🖇️✩ : masterlist; more bat-boys smau posts.

˖ `· . 𓏵 © DHAZEFAWN don’t use my work without my consent. ... ⏤ㅤ Ⳋ ⊹

[jellyfishsthings]

Debugging My Heart

navigation , dc navigation

WARNINGS: Tim's and reader's awkwardness

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

The hum of the server room was a constant lullaby, a white noise symphony that usually soothed me. But tonight, it was grating. Thirty-eight hours. Thirty-eight hours since Tim had last closed his eyes, a feat of endurance that bordered on the superhuman, even for him. He was hunched over his monitors, a battlefield of code illuminated on his face, battling a WayneTech database breach like a digital knight errant.

Your mission was simple: caffeine delivery. You approached cautiously, two steaming mugs in hand, the aroma of dark roast cutting through the sterile air. He didn't acknowledge me, his focus so laser-sharp it felt tangible. You placed one mug within his reach, the ceramic clinking softly against the metal desk.

"Here," You murmured, settling into the chair beside him. "You look like you could use a jumpstart."

He grunted, eyes still glued to the screen. Without looking, he reached out, his fingers brushing yours as he took the mug. Then, still engrossed in his work, he extended a flash drive towards me. "Be careful with that." His voice was raspy, edged with exhaustion.

"Got it, baby genius," You replied absentmindedly, already turning to plug the drive into your own laptop.

The world seemed to stop.

Tim froze. Every line of his posture, usually a study in controlled tension, became rigid. He turned, agonizingly slowly, his head pivoting as if it weighed a ton. The glow of the monitor painted his face in stark relief, highlighting the dark circles under his eyes and the sudden, almost comical, bewilderment etched on his features.

"Did you just call me—?" The question hung in the air, thick with a mixture of disbelief and, dare you say, hope?

Your internal monologue screeched to a halt. Your brain, usually a whirring engine of witty comebacks and strategic planning, stalled. Panic bloomed in your chest, a sudden, unwelcome flower. You were doomed.

"I—uh—" Your tongue felt thick and clumsy. Think, you stupid girl, think! "I was talking to the driver."

The lie was pathetic. So transparent, it was practically see-through. You winced inwardly. You imagined the flash drive, a humble repository of data, suddenly imbued with sentience and demanding to be addressed with terms of endearment. It was ridiculous.

He stared. Just stared. Those intense blue eyes, usually so focused and sharp, were wide with incredulity, bordering on amusement. You could practically hear the gears turning in his brilliant mind, dissecting your utterly unconvincing excuse.

Then, the corner of his mouth twitched. A faint blush crept up his neck, staining his pale skin a delicate pink. It was a beautiful, unexpected, and utterly disarming sight.

"You're the worst liar I've ever met," he finally said, his voice a low murmur, laced with something You couldn't quite decipher. Was that… fondness?

Your cheeks burned. You wanted the earth to open up and swallow you whole. You wanted to rewind time and censor the offending words before they ever escaped your lips. But it was too late. The damage was done.

"Sorry," You mumbled, avoiding his gaze.

He didn't reply, turning back to his monitors. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. You busied myself with the task at hand, transferring the data from the flash drive, your fingers clumsy and uncoordinated. Every now and then, You risked a glance at Tim. He remained absorbed in his work, but the blush lingered, a subtle testament to the awkward, adorable moment we had just shared.

The next week was… interesting. You tried to act normal, to pretend that the "baby genius" incident had never happened. But the memory lingered, a persistent hum in the back of your mind, a constant reminder of your verbal slip-up and Tim's unexpected reaction.

He, surprisingly, didn't bring it up. He was polite, professional, and infuriatingly normal. You started to wonder if you had imagined the blush, the flicker of surprise in his eyes. Maybe you had simply projected your own… feelings… onto the situation. The thought was both disappointing and relieving.

Then, one day, you arrived at your desk to find a new addition to your workspace. A ceramic mug. Standard issue WayneTech, except for one crucial detail. Scrawled across the front, in Tim's unmistakable handwriting, were two words: "Baby Genius's Assistant."

Your heart skipped a beat. He remembered. He hadn't forgotten. He had, in his own quiet, awkward way, acknowledged the moment, embraced the absurdity.

You picked up the mug, tracing the letters with your fingertip. A smile bloomed on your face, involuntary and genuine.

"Cute," You murmured, turning to find him hovering nearby, a stack of files in his arms.

He avoided eye contact, his ears turning a telltale shade of pink. "Just… thought you might want a designated mug."

"Oh, I do," You replied, your voice laced with amusement. "Thank you… baby genius."

He froze, just like before. The blush returned, even more vibrant this time. He opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it. He just shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips, and hurried away.

That was it. The beginning of our inside joke. A shared secret, born from an accidental endearment and a moment of pure, unadulterated awkwardness.

And every time you said it, every time you saw that blush creep up his neck, you knew. This was more than just a shared joke. This was the slow, hesitant blossoming of something more. Something soft, something sweet, something… us. And you couldn't wait to see where it would lead. Even if it meant enduring a few more awkward silences and stolen glances along the way. After all, the best things are worth waiting for, right? Especially when they involve a baby genius with a penchant for blushing.

[rottingpink]

little house in the woods | jason todd

cw: shy! reader, threats, angry jason, fingering, cum eating, smut, unprotected sex, corruption kink, pussy eating, feral jason, not beta'd MDNI

synopsis: You're a sweet recluse who allows her home to be Jason's safe house. What happens when he starts to get too close to her?

masterlist

The screen door creaks open late one evening. Jason Todd steps inside your little kitchen like it's a habit, almost as though he's lived here all his life. In truth, you'd only known Jason for about two months now since he came stumbling to your doorstep one stormy evening. Things seemed to pass in a blur since then.

Jason's shoulders are tense beneath the fabric of his jacket, bruised from the constant fights he participates in. His jaw is sore and his knuckles are split from punching again. He's already in one of his moods.

He kicks off his boots by the door without looking, the way he always does, listening to the familiar sound of dirty soles thunking against the wood floor. Then, he heads straight to the sink like he's on autopilot, having memorized the layout of your house like it's his own. He doesn't even need to look down to where the fluffy hand towels are as he dries his hands.

There's a plate of dinner waiting on the table that's still hot and steaming, and you're standing near the counter, looking at him like he didn't just come home covered in bruises and blood. You're smiling in the cutesy, innocent way you always do. The way that boils Jason's blood in both a bad, and really good way.

"Hi, Jay," you say, your voice smooth like honey as you look up at him with big, sparkly eyes, like he's just your husband coming home late from work.

Jason swears under his breath and marches through the kitchen, hovering around you for a moment, before muttering a gruff "Hello." in return, slumping down into his usual seat at the dinner table, looking down at tonight's meal.

The plate's got roast chicken, buttery mashed potatoes, and a pile of vegetables on the side. It's very balanced. It looks like food you'd see in a magazine with a recipe underneath. You cooked. Again. Like you do every night.

"Thought you might be hungry," you say, cheeks all pink from the stove's heat, or maybe just from looking at him. You get so bashful when he stares. "You want me to get you a knife or anything else?"

"No. S' fine." he grumbles, picking up a fork to start stabbing at his vegetables. You nod, still smiling all cute as you take out a jug of lemonade for him and pour him a class without asking, setting it down beside his plate, right before leaning down to press the softest, most innocent kiss to his cheek. Right near the cut on his jaw, his sweet spot. "Glad you're home safe."

Jason goes still at the feeling, a little grunt leaving him involuntarily. The second your lips brush over him, it's as though every muscle in his body tenses. His eyes flick to you, but you're already walking away, humming to yourself like you didn't screw him over with that little gesture.

What the hell are you doing, letting a guy like him into your house? Letting him sleep in the extra bedroom you cleaned just for him and eat off your table without asking for compensation? What kind of sweet, naive girl lets a man with knives and guns in his duffel bag and scars up his back and shoulders stay in her house like he's not dangerous?

"You shouldn't do that," he grumbles as you have your back turned to him, a deep scowl on his face. You blink, turning back toward him, confusion soft in your eyes. "Do what?"

"You know what I mean. The kissin'. The..." his voice gets tight, jaw ticking, "...the 'Jay' with your little giggle. Don't."

"Don't act like we're friends?' you ask, so innocently, head tilted in a way that makes him want to pounce on you. "We are friends."

Jason clenches his jaw. His fingers curl around the fork, knuckles white. "You should be more wary, is all" he mutters, frowning as you respond with a little huff and a playful eye roll, going over to check on the pies you made for dessert that are cooling on a rack.

He stares at the curves of your body, gaze panning from your hips, down to your thighs, and back up to your ass, plump in the cute little nightgown you're wearing, with the hem riding up your thighs enough to show your panties if you bent over. He can't take his eyes off of you, not for a second. He's looking at you to figure out how someone like you could possibly be real, let alone a part of his life. You feed him. You made him a safe house with gingham curtains and a soft bed and dinner waiting on the table every night without fail.

He's coiled so tight it feels like his skin doesn't fit right, seeing you flutter around the kitchen like everything's fine, apron tied snugly around your waist. You turn and meet his gaze again as he continues.

"Why aren't you scared of me?" Jason mutters all gruff, pushing back his chair and standing. His eyes are all dark and stormy. "You let a guy like me in your house. You give me food, a bed, clothes. You let me walk around your kitchen like I belong here." He steps forward slowly. "You don't even lock your fucking door."

Your throat bobs as you swallow, but your expression doesn't change. That soft, quiet sweetness still on your face like you've never even heard a threat before.

"I don't have to lock it because the only person who comes around here is you, and I know you."

Jason's frown deepens, and he crowds your space, hissing at you coldly. "You don't know shit about me." He stares down at you, jaw clenched, breathing through his nose. He keeps coming closer and closer to you, all while you don't even realize what you're doing to him, standing there in your cozy little kitchen, smelling like a dessert.

His body pushes you back into the counter, his jaw is clenched and lips twisted in a snarl. You open your mouth, but he cuts you off, his voice rising. "You let me in here. You open your house up to someone like me and think I'm not gonna hurt you? You think I'm just gonna be your lil' prince charming?"

He shoves his hand against the counter beside you, trapping you in place. His face is inches from yours, but this time, you don't see the same tired, frustrated guy you've been taking care of. This time, all you see is the threat, the dangerous man who doesn't think you should have trusted him at all.

"I could strangle you, you know," he says all soft. His hand shoots out, quick and brutal, grabbing your neck just below your chin. "You think I wouldn't do it? You think I wouldn't snap your neck like a twig if I wanted to?"

Your pulse spikes. His grip isn't tight enough to suffocate you, just enough to make your heart pound harder. "Or what if I wanted to cut you?" His thumb presses into the side of your neck. he's learned you can make someone pass out if you push there hard and long enough. wouldn't take long if he did it to you, though. another reminder of how fragile you really are. "What if I wanted to steal everything in your house and leave you with nothing?"

You look up at him, whimpering softly at the feeling of his huge hand wrapping around your throat. Your smaller one grabs at his wrist, staring up at him with big, glassy eyes. "J-jason..."

"What if I wanted to tear off one of those flimsy lil' dresses you wear around me and fuck you?" He lets out a low mumble, tipping your head up and rubbing his thumb over your lower lip. "You think they're cute, huh? You think I don't notice the way you dress like 'm not gonna want to tear you apart?"

Your breath hitches, and for a second, you can't find your words. He's crowding you now, pinning you to the counter so you have no way out. His thumb pushes harder on your lower lip.

You stare at him, your face flushed. Your chest is rising fast now, like you're trying to keep calm, like your body's betraying you even if your voice hasn't cracked yet. You're not saying anything, but your fear's loud enough without words.

Jason's still holding onto your throat, the heel of his hand digging into your pressure point while his thumb smushes against your soft lips. His chest heaves with each breath, his face twisted up even though deep down, he's thoroughly enjoying himself. He relishes in the slight tremble your body gives and the way you look up at him like you're starting to realize he's not savable.

He leans down to your level. "You scared now, sweetheart?" he mutters. You try to speak, but it catches in your throat. He can feel it under his hand, that flutter in your pulse. "Yeah," he breathes. "That's what I thought."

He tilts his head, leaning down to slot his mouth over your cheek, mocking the little kisses you always give him when he's home. He moans against your skin, starting to press sloppy kisses down to your jaw. He's done holding back, finally indulging in the terrible, heinous thoughts he's had about you since you let him into your home.

His hands roam under your dress, hiking it up to squeeze the plush globes of your ass, all while you moan softly, eyes fluttering shut.

He kisses up the side of your throat and up to your ear, huffing low so you hear every bit of how hot he is for you. "Lemme show you what bad men do to pretty girls who play house with 'em."

his hands move again. they don't stay in place for long. he's very unpredictable. one moves back to grip on your throat, while the other hand drags up the back of your thigh, slipping beneath the hem of your nightgown until his rough fingers find bare skin. his breathing is ragged now, lips pressed to the curve of your neck like he's trying to inhale you.

"You smell s'sweet," he growls, nose brushing the soft skin beneath your jaw. "Always smell so fuckin' sweet."

He's spreading you apart before your brain can comprehend it, lifting you up with his free hand to guide you up onto the counter, manhandling you like you weigh nothing. Slotting his body between your legs, he looks down at your pretty cotton panties. Just as adorable as you, all lacy and pastel like you didn't have a clue what they'd do to him.

Jason huffs a breath through his nose, low and unsteady, staring at the soaked little patch in the middle. "Fuck," he mutters, dragging his thumb over the wet spot slowly and teasingly. "Look at this. You want me like this." His hand grips your thigh to keep you open, his gaze locked on your panties as he takes two fingers and pushes them up against your panties so he can trace your plump little pussy through the fabric, firm enough to make you twitch.

You jolt, grabbing onto his shoulder while your tummy flips. "Mmh... i-its good... b-but 'm sensitive..." you warn softly, trying to fight against his grip ever so slightly, but he keeps you spread for him with his firm hand. Your breath catches when he starts tugging your panties to the side, baring the warm air of the kitchen onto your even warmer hole.

His hand grips your hip, anchoring you in place while he teases your entrance with the pads of his fingers, just barely pressing in. You let out a strangled little sound, back arching as he slowly presses a finger inside you with a low groan. Your body clenches around him and it makes him twitch, a guttural sound leaving his chest. "Fuck, you're tight," he mutters, nose nuzzling yours. "So fuckin' warm. This pussy's been waiting for me, hasn't she?" You nod helplessly, eyes wide, lips parted as he pumps his finger inside you slow and filthy. He watches you fall apart for him, cheeks flushed and pretty little moans leaving your mouth with every curl of his finger.

His thick digit curls just right inside you, slow and deep, while his thumb rubs circles around your clit, not too quick, just firm and steady like he's testing how fast he can get you to fall apart. You whimper again, your hips rolling into his hand without thinking.

He watches the little faces you make while you're in heat like this, as well as the way your body reacts to his touch. His eyes are locked on the place where his finger disappears inside you with that delicious squelch, and once you're relaxed, he slides in a second to fill you up even more. You jerk, nightgown bunching up more at your waist as he shoves his fingers deep inside you, wanting to see how tight you can squeeze around them.

"Damn," he mumbles, "You're squeezin' the fuck outta me." His free hand grabs your thigh harder when you flinch back, nails digging just a little into your flesh to keep you still and wide open for him. He leans in, breathing heavy against your cheek as he grinds the heel of his palm against your clit while his fingers keep stroking inside you, that slow, steady rhythm that's driving you crazy because it's just enough to have you trembling, but not enough to tip you over.

You whine out a soft "Jay," all desperate and teary eyed, your grip on his shoulders tightening as your legs start to shake. You don't even realize you're grinding down onto his hand until he growls, "Yeah… that's it. Use your words. You need it that bad, don't you?"

He keeps his face close to yours, eyes flicking between your mouth and your eyes, watching how dazed you look already, lips all swollen and wet from how much you've been panting. "Feels 's good! M-more..." You whine, your body starting to move on its own, hips rolling into his hand, trying to chase the pressure that's curling in your gut.

Jason doesn't let up. He just keeps fucking you with his fingers, deep and slow, his thumb pressed firm to your clit, working you in tight little circles until your legs are twitching and your mouth is open like you're gasping for air.

"You're already gonna cum, huh?" he murmurs, voice low and thick. "Already cryin' on my fingers like a needy little thing." You nod, head falling back against the cabinet behind you, your breath coming in short, desperate little bursts. " 'M gonna...Jay, I...I'm gonna..."

"Come, then," he orders, eyes locked on yours. "Cum on my fingers like a good girl. Show me how sweet this fuckin' pussy is."

You shatter around him body locking up tight before it all melts down at once, your orgasm crashing over you so hard you can't even stay upright without holding onto him. Your whole body trembles and he watches it all, jaw clenched, eyes dark and blown wide with how fucked he is for you.

He keeps his fingers inside you even after, not pulling out until you're twitching too much to take it, and even then, he pulls back slow, glancing down at the mess he made of you. He brings his fingers to his mouth without even thinking, licking them clean while he keeps his eyes on your face.

Then he leans in, mumbling in your ear. "You made a mess on my hand,"

Jason's gaze drops down to the tent in his jeans, thick and straining against the zipper, and he lets out a breath that sounds more like a growl.

"Take my cock out," he says roughly, eyes never leaving yours. Your fingers tremble a little as they reach for his belt, heart hammering in your chest while you work it loose, the clink of the buckle loud in the quiet kitchen. Jason's eyes are burning into your face the whole time, watching the way you fumble a little, the way your lips part and your breathing gets uneven while you tug his belt free, then pop open the button on his jeans.

You slide the zipper down slow, hands shaking just the tiniest bit, but you don't stop.

He helps you just enough to shove his jeans down his hips, groaning softly when you reach into his briefs and wrap your fingers around him. He's thick and hot and already leaking against your palm, and the second you touch him, his whole body stiffens.

"Jesus," he mumbles, chest rising and falling hard. You glance up at him through your lashes, a little dazed and shy, but your hand stays wrapped around him as you stroke him once, then twice, making his head fall forward, forehead bumping into yours while he groans.

He looks into your eyes, his voice all rough and shaking with how close he is to snapping. "You're gonna do it, alright? Not me." he says, jaw clenched. "You're gonna show me how dirty you are, and take me in your hand, and you're gonna line me up with that sweet little pussy like this was your fuckin' idea."

You nod even though you're buzzing and feel your body burning, and he watches you slowly wrap your hand snugly around his cock, his face close to yours as you guide him between your legs.

"Yeah," he mumbles, watching your face. "Just like that." You whimper when the head of his cock bumps against your entrance, slick and warm, and Jason moans low in his throat at the feel of you, the head of him just barely pushing inside.

Your fingers tremble as you line the head of him up with your entrance, glancing up at him as you press him against your folds. "It's so hard," you whisper, all breathless. "Your cock..."

"I know," He responds, watching you continue to guide him, soaked folds parting around the flushed head, barely nudging it in just enough for both of you to feel that first slide. " 's... fuck... c-cause I want you s'bad." He hunches over you a little, mouth hanging open as you finally line him up just right. His tip catches on your soaked entrance and he groans deeply, forehead pressing to yours again like he's trying to stay tethered to something.

He pants, grinding the head against you, not pushing in all the way yet, smearing your wetness all over the flared head of his cock while your thighs twitch around his hips. You make a tiny noise, all high and breathy, and he grins against your cheek. His nose brushes your temple while he shifts his hips just enough for his tip to nudge inside, slow and heavy. "Fuck... there we go, sweetness. 'S suckin me in now."

He grabs your thigh with his free hand, pushing it up until your knee's hooked over his forearm, giving him more room, more access, more of you. He doesn't push all the way in yet, just slides in a few inches, slow and aching, just enough to make your mouth drop open and your nails bite into his shoulders.

"Keep lookin' at me," he hisses. "Don't you dare look away. You let me in, shit... now you're gonna watch what I do to you."

Your eyes flutter open again, all teary and glassy and overwhelmed, and he groans and thrusts in deeper, hips jerking forward like he can't help it anymore, burying himself with a low, breathless curse. Both hands grab your thighs to hold you wide open while his cock sinks alllll the way inside, thick and throbbing inside you.

He sinks in all the way, slow but deliberate, forcing your body to stretch and take every thick inch, and the second he bottoms out, he stays there, buried deep inside you, breathing hard through his nose like he's trying to stay composed, but he's not even close. His hands grip your thighs so tight it makes your skin dimple, holding you still like he's afraid you'll run, like he knows you're not ready for how far he's about to take this.

"Fuck, it's good," he mutters, voice wrecked as he stares down at where you're joined. "Look at that. Fuckin' swallowed me whole, didn't you?" He gives a rough roll of his hips, just enough to make you jerk and gasp under him. "Tight little pussy- already squeezin' like she wants to keep me."

Your head tips back as a choked little moan slips out, your hands clinging to his shoulders now, nails dragging across his back without thinking. He groans, fucking into you harder now, faster. Your body jerks with the impact of his rough thrust, and he moans, loud and low against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin before he bites down like an animal.

He keeps fucking into you with rapid, punishing thrusts, his body bracketed over yours, your legs forced wide apart so he can get deeper. You moan loudly, not bothering to hold back on being responsive. You're slicing into his back with your nails, mewling and panting his name harshly.

He growls at the pleasure pain you give him, rutting into you harder, like the sound of his name like that flipped some switch in him. "Say it again," he pants. "Say my fuckin' name."

You do, a little louder this time, all breathless and shaking. "Jason, mmh! please!"

"Fuck," he bites, his whole body shuddering as he pounds into you now, hips snapping forward again and again. "You're gonna let me ruin you, huh? That what you want, sweet girl? Gonna let me fuck the good right outta you?" You nod, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes, not even sure if it's from how good it feels or how deep he's inside you, but it makes him groan, deep and ragged, like he's never seen anything more perfect.

His voice is nothing but a harsh whisper now. "I ever catch you lettin' another man in this house, I swear to god-"

You cut him off with a soft little moan, too blissed out to process the threat, and Jason grunts, cock pulsing inside of you as he scrapes against your gummy inner walls. You let out a loud, high whine, clenching tight around him, and he curses under his breath, leaning forward to kiss you rough and messy, dragging his tongue across your bottom lip.

The taste of you is too much for him, and he groans loudly, grabbing onto the back of your head so he can fully suck your tongue into his mouth and buck into you faster, like a dog in a rut. "Gonna cum f'you, sweetness." He grunts, tearing out of you suddenly.

You whine at the loss of the full feeling inside your belly. and he grabs onto your plush thighs again, squeezing his throbbing, flushed cock and pumping it a few times before splurting all over your pussy. You pant, heart pounding in your chest.

He cums load after load on you, before dropping onto his knees and stuffing his face into your cunt, needing you to cum for him too. He doesn't want to wait for your sensitivity or that coil to fade away, and so he thrusts his tongue deep inside your sopping hole, eating out your cunt like it's the only dessert he needs.

You scream, ecstasy washing over you so suddenly that you can't even warn him when you cum into his hot mouth, watching him eagerly drink it all up and tongue fucking you through your orgasm.

He groans at your taste once again, unable to get over how sweet you taste. He stands and scoops some of the cum off his thighs and pushes his fingers lightly to your mouth. "Open f'me, sweetness." He mutters, watching you oblige with a dazed look in your eyes. He feels his cock twitch to life once more at the sight of you tasting him and looking into his eyes like he's just ruined you, which he has. Your hair is a mess and your lips are swollen, and your lower half is soaked with his cum.

"That's my sweet girl."

[thenyoumightaswellwrestleangels]

Is there a point to those teeth of yours? (do they bite for me, still?)

Bloody nose and a crooked tongue (I always wanted to be someone) - series masterlist here

pairing: tim drake x reader (gender neutral, no use of y/n)

length: 1.6k

genre: hurt/comfort

warnings: talk of uuuh your purpose in life, what's the point of it all what are we doing here, reader is probably depressed, also they're both really in love in this one

a/n: this one is self indulgent bc I've been on the struggle bus so long they're letting me drive it now. I kind of think this is really bad but maybe I'm going bonkers ? guys I don't know how to write anymore or smth

"I thought I told you to stay home." Red Robin's voice is crisp as it cuts through the night, stillness rippling away in the wake of his arrival. You glance at him over your shoulder, shifting where you sit on the edge of the rooftop that you've been staked out on as he prowls behind you.

"I did stay home… for a while," you respond flatly. He stomps over to you to plant himself on the concrete next to you, and if it were any other night,  you'd laugh at his childish tantrum.

But it's not any other night. And you're not any other person.

"I told you to stay home for the whole night," he stresses, crouching down next to you and scrutinizing you through his mask. These days, you find, it's so much easier to see what he's feeling beyond it - so much simpler to notice the soul etched into the whites of his hidden eyes.

"When did you get so bossy?" is your murmured response, and Red Robin cocks his head to the side in confusion - like a guard dog trying to understand why it's been chastised for snapping its jaws.

"When I got worried about you," he offers in response, something kind rippling through him that feels as if it shouldn't belong there. He shifts, sitting down fully next to you so that his leg is pressed against yours, your knee resting on his thigh where you sit cross-legged. "Why didn't you stay home?"

"Why did you want me to?" you retort, but the lack of bite in your voice has him smoothing a hand through your hair in a way that feels a bit too holy for a place like this - for people like you and him.

"You really are worn out," Red Robin murmurs. "That's all, baby. You just need a break. I don't… I don't know why you'd think there'd be any other reason." There's a way that he says it, you find, that tugs at something between you. You think that, maybe, if a worshipper got to his knees and asked his god why it abandoned him, it would sound about the same.

"I… I don't," you say quietly, and you hope that the hand you place on his knee soothes something. "I know it's just that you care."

"Then why are you fighting it like this?" Red Robin pushes, and you exhale heavily, pulling your hand back toward your chest. His leg twitches as you leave it behind, an involuntary urge to chase you that he stopped fighting long ago.

"I'm not fighting you," you say simply, and Red Robin stares at you like he's waiting for you to keep talking - to split open your ribcage and show him something sacred. The air around you presses down, the sticky humidity of the heat making the night feel endless, and he sits next to you like a fixed point - waiting, waiting, watching. 

It's not often, these days, that you feel observed by him. But you suppose neither of you can really shake what you are.

"What are you fighting, then?" he asks - a plea, a hand outstretched. You tip your head back to look at the murky, cloud-covered sky, faint starts blinking in and out beyond the pollution. 

"I just can't shake this feeling, Red," you offer, your voice a bit hysterical - a touch desperate and wavering in a way that has him perking up, shifting and adjusting, tensing to snap at someone - something, anything that's making you feel this way.

"What feeling?"

"Like the whole world's leaving me behind." Your voice, in the endless night, falls onto the city in a hollow sort of way. Your words, swallowed by the ever constant sounds of cars and people and life down below.

"Tell me what you mean," Red Robin says earnestly - a plea to know which direction he should face, an expectation for you to point somewhere and tell him to bite. 

"I don't know," is all you offer, and he makes a desperate, frustrated noise in the back of his throat, reaching to grip onto your hand in his. "It's like the world's just… passing me by. Like the earth's spinning and I'm just not turning with it. It's like… I don't know. Every time I slow down -  every time I stop, it's like I'm losing my footing."

"Is that why you're covering a stake out that I promised to cover on a night that you promised to take off?"

"Don't be a bitch about it, Red," you sigh, and he squeezes your hand in his.

"You're not being left behind," he offers - like it's simple, like it's easy.

"That's not for you to decide," you respond - like it's obvious, like he should know.

"No," Red Robin muses, his voice stiff as he admits it. "I suppose this isn't mine to fix."

"I'm just tired," you offer as a wave of guilt washes over you, weighing down in the hot summer air.

"That's why I told you to stay home," he responds, and you wonder how he hides his teeth so well - how he becomes so kind when he needs to be. 

"I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"I'm running out of time."

"To do what?" he presses. You find yourself a bit lost, and he tugs on your hand as if to find you somewhere out there.

"I don't know. Live, I guess."

"…Oh," Red Robin says haltingly, his voice catching in that way that you know it does when he's putting together a solve. It's almost dizzying, you think, how well you can see him these days. It's almost terrifying, you think, to remember how naked you feel under the weight of his own knowing.

"I get it," he continues, and you shift in your seat, staring down at the winding, endless streets below - wishing for your target to show, for a fight to break out, for some unholy act of violence to save you from his worship. 

"Do you?" you ask briskly. He squeezes your hand again.

"You're doing it right," Red Robin says simply, and you can't help but scoff at his words. "You're living right."

"You don't get to decide that," you repeat, and he hums in agreement.

"No, but you do."

"Then why are you telling me?"

"Because all I can do is remind you," he says earnestly, something honest straining at his voice. When you look at him with wide eyes, dampness pooling in them, he instinctively reaches up to peel off his mask. When your hand shoots out to stop him, though, he remembers himself, and he chooses to grit his teeth, instead. 

"All I can do," he continues, letting go of your hand to take your face in both of his palms, "is remind you that you have nothing to atone for. You have nothing to make up for. You have nothing… you have nothing to earn."

"I just want… to tip the scales," you say haltingly, your eyes searching his through the mask sort of desperately, and he squeezes your cheeks in his palms reassuringly. "I just want to get to the end of all this and say that I did something. That it  - that it was worth something."

"Is that what this life is about? Just… getting through to the end?"

"Sometimes," you admit. "Most… most of the time."

"But isn't this the point?" he stresses, and your brows furrow between his hands.

"What?"

Before Red Robin can respond, a gust of wind blows in from the harbour, and it sweeps the ever-present clouds away just enough that the stars shine through for a moment, winking down at the two of you.

"Oh," you breathe, breaking away from his hold to tip your head back and stare at them. "You can almost never see the stars here."

"Isn't that what it's about?" he continues on, an edge of desperation colouring his own voice.

"It's not about getting to the end - it's about getting here."

"Hm," you agree absently, staring up at the sky. "It doesn't feel like enough most of the time."

"Baby, it'll never feel like enough if you keep going on like this," he responds softly, and the words weigh heavily between you - the truth of them wrapping around you. The wind settles and the clouds pass over the sky again and you look down toward the ground as the stars disappear.

"I don't know what the point of looking up at them is," you muse, "when they disappear so quickly."

"Because it's nice when they're here."

"Until they're gone."

"They'll come back," Red Robin promises, and you hum in discontent.

"Is that what I'm supposed to do? Just sit here and wait for the stars to come back out?" you ask, and you can't help the edge of panic that slices through your voice, just as he can't help the way that he presses closer to you.

"No," he says pointedly. "You're supposed to rest."

"What if the stars come back out and I miss it?" you ask, and the hand that smooths over your cheek feels a bit like a promise.

"I'll come get you," he says quietly, his voice something sturdy to lean on. "I won't let you miss it."

"I just want to catch up," you stress.

"You're right on time," he promises. You're not sure you believe him, your hands still balled into fists and your jaw still clenched. And he knows, you can see that he knows - can see the way his muscles strain and his teeth grind with his need to fix it. But he's on his way, you think - and you hope that it's enough. You're on your way, you think, and as you tip your head back to look at the starless sky, you think that that has to be enough.

[fluffy-anna]

Made a playlist for my favorite Cynic, who's stuck at 17, born with middle child syndrome, and is a bi disaster, my gift for pride month (lore accurate dare I say) (not clickbait fr)

[shortnsweetsposts]

Jason: Cooking together is NOT romantic, MOVE the fuck out of my way.

Reader: I'm tempted to stand in your way while you cook now.

Jason: I'll boil you next.

Reader: When he's a cannibal 😍🥰💖