#Tim drake whump

[annoyed-at-things]

if young justice had to take over santa does that mean that tim drake had to give people presents the same day he buried his mom or did he get a pass. or did that not happen yet

[ktkat99]

Angst/whump prompt you can feel free to use

Tim dies as a child and, having never really had much of a family, haunts Wayne manor.

Over the years, Tim watches the family grow and pretends he's a part of their lives, occasionally using his ghost abilities to help them out.

They all know there's a ghost in the house and, even though they can't see him, they like to talk out loud to him, or pretend to interact with him, or sometimes leave him offerings.

He eventually becomes just another part of the general strangeness that is Wayne manor.

Until Jason dies.

Bruce, knowing ghosts exist and needing to talk to Jason, gets ahold of a spell that will let him summon ghosts.

Unfortunately, the only ghost haunting Wayne manor is Tim, who is already distraught over the loss of Jason.

Does Bruce get angry about summoning the wrong ghost?

Does he recognize Tim as the neighbors kid who he never noticed had died?

Does he chase Tim off, having always assumed that the resident ghost was just one of his parents?

Or is there some other reaction?

[swift-creates]

@chrumblr-whumblr day 3: carrying

wc: 410 | warnings: stab wound, a lot of swearing (like. A Lot), | characters: Tim Drake (pov), Jason Todd

—

“Tim. Tim, wake the fuck up, dammit.” 

Tim groaned as sounds and sensations slowly returned to his battered body. Sounds being Jason swearing at him and sensations being excruciating pain from the stab wound in his side. “Fuuuuuuck.” “Fuck is right, little brother. What were you thinking, huh?” He opened his eyes to see Jason dividing his attention between putting pressure on the wound and glaring at him. “I was thinking I’d destroy the Scarecrow’s latest supply of fear gas, but go off, I guess.” Tim decided it wasn’t worth it and closed his eyes again. “Hey.” Jason’s hand moved to tilt Tim’s face up towards him. “No sleeping. Look at me.” “Go away,” Tim mumbled. “Fuck that. Open your eyes, Replacement.” Now it was Tim’s turn to glare at him. “I’m not your fucking replacement-” “Gotcha.” Jason grinned smugly down at him, and he scowled. If he’d had the energy, he would’ve kicked him. As it was, he thought he’d black out if he did. 

Jason removed his hands after a moment, leaning back on his heels to study his handiwork. “It’ll do. Can you stand?” “I have a hole in my torso the size of Atlanta,” Tim said flatly. “D’fuck do you think?” “Just thought I’d ask. You know what a nice guy I am. Always asking permission, et cetera, et cetera.” “You murder people.” “Nicely.” “Fuck you,” Tim grumbled, gripping Jason’s outstretched hand and pulling himself up. For a milisecond he was steady on his feet. Then white-hot pain shot through his side, and his knees buckled. Jason dove to catch him, and he let out a pitiful whine at the jolt.

“I gotcha, baby bird.” “Ngh- Stop calling me that.” “No. C’mere.” Jason bent, then scooped Tim up into his arms. He was barely able to bite back a cry of agony, curling into Jason instead and burying his face in his shoulder. 

“Easy. I got you, kid.” This time, he didn’t protest. “I’ll get you back to Batsy in one piece, or my middle name isn’t Wonderful.”  “Your middle name is Peter.” “Shhhhhhh.” “Asshole.” “Darling brother.” Tim mumbled something indistinct in reply and held onto Jason tighter, wincing when he sped up. 

“Hold on, Timmers. Almost there.” He almost didn’t hear it over the Gotham-typical sounds of yelling and things breaking, but Jason pulled him closer, and he let his head loll against his brother’s chest, listening to the steady tha-thump instead.

[n1ightw1ng]

melograno

jaytim | ch. 1/3 | rated E | no warnings | only one bed, fake dating, pining, eventual smut Jason and Tim work an undercover op in Florence. Jason learns just how attractive Tim is at about the same time he learns how fucked up he is.

“You're not much of an art guy, right?” 

Tim shrugged. “Not the kind they usually put in museums.” 

“Oh, yeah? What kind of art is that?” Jason stepped around a sculpture, following the intricately carved snout of a rearing horse, the woman on its back draped, curved, incomprehensibly lifelike. Tim muttered something he didn't quite hear. “What's that?”

“Star Trek.”

“There is so a Star Trek museum.”

Tim pursed his lips. “There are a few.”

“And you've been to all of them.”

“Maybe.”

“Ha,” Jason slapped his shoulder, “take me to one sometime. I gotta see this art.” 

Tim followed him through the claustrophobic rooms, the walls strange, dark shades of red. “Don't be a dick. Up the stairs and to the left.” They entered a room which, at the center back, displayed Judith Slaying Holofernes. 

“Arterial spray. Nice.”

Tim stood a few feet away, his arms crossed. “You wouldn't really go to a Star Trek museum.”

“For you, baby bird, I'd sit through the set tour.” He meant for it to sound mostly like a joke, but it landed too squarely on honest, and the both of them went quiet. 

After a minute, Tim said, “it's only in New York. I'll hold you to that.”

[spicypotstickerbliss]

Another day another tsts chap

Tim is in so much pain :D! At least there’s background Stephcass?

Hop on if you’re looking for a finished longfic updating regularly ;)

Have a meme as a little treat

[sepia-stained-sunset]

Fandoms: DCU (Comics), Batman- All Media Types

Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Everyone

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Tags: Tim Drake-centric, Tim Drake Whump, Dick Grayson Whump, Time Loop, Temporary Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Blood & Gore, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Tim Drake is Not Okay, Dick Grayson is Not Okay, Dick Grayson Feels, Tim Drake Feels, Eventual Happy Ending, Batcest DNI

Summary:

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘶𝘯𝘢 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘴, 𝘢 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘪𝘨 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳.

𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘎𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘮 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘛𝘪𝘮’𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘥𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳.

𝘋𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘶𝘯, 𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘴 𝘥𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 then 𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘵, 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺’𝘴 𝘴𝘬𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘥𝘢𝘺’𝘴, 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴. 𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴.

Dick Grayson keeps dying and Tim Drake keeps trying to save him. Over and over again. Dick Grayson keeps dying and Tim Drake keeps failing to save him. Over and over again. Dick Grayson keeps dying.

[notfeelingthyaster]

i know it's a bit of a stretch, but has anyone else noticed the parallels between the deaths of owens and Z in the desert during red robin, leaving only tim and pru (the sole female of the group) alive, with the deaths of bart and kon, leaving only tim and cassie (also the sole female of the group) alive?

also tim lost his spleen, meaning his way of fighting infections (equally to him losing him support system) and pru lost her voice (cassie and grief)

idk it's a stretch maybe I'm crazy

[forgotten-daydreamer]

Not sure if I'm going to post another fic tonight, it's past 10.30 pm and I've had ten hours of class, and the same fate awaits for me tomorrow, I'm dead. We'll see if the gods of inspiration decide to bless me in a few minutes.

[adelfie]

Summary: With his grades slipping, Tim worries Bruce will take Robin away. So when the Red Hood breaks into his room with the intent to kill him, Tim decides it's a good idea to ask him for help on his English homework.

It works. And then it doesn't. And then Tim solves a mystery and almost dies anyway.

[taralaurel]

Febuwhump 2023 | Day #10 | Difficulty Breathing

prompts courtesy of @febuwhump

jealousy, jealousy

And then Damian is knocking a mobster back and hurling himself across the roof toward Tim, a hand outstretched and mouth wide, Tim's name on his lips. At least, Tim is pretty sure it's his own name. He can't exactly hear anything anymore.

His eyes droop.

He sways.

And then, tips over the edge.

OR

After Tim is nearly drowned, he keeps fighting because he feels fine, really - so why is it still so hard to breathe?

OR OR

Tim is saved by the two batfamily members he is pretty sure would rather see him dead.

Tim, nearly dying:

[thief-of-eggs]

first chap of my new tim drake whump fic is posted🥳 go give it a read🕺🧍🏼‍♂️

summary:

Jason growls, the sound so inhuman. Tim shrinks in on himself a bit, fear pulsing through him. Stupid toxin-

Jason’s eyes meet his. No… 

Jason’s eyes are his own, wide and terrified as he stares straight at Tim, his gaze not clouded by hallucinations or dreams. And they’re blue too, not the green of the pit. The man on top of him is entirely Jason.

A wave of horror passes over Tim. This isn’t fear toxin at all- he isn’t sure what it is, but it seems to be controlling Jason’s movements, his freaked out face such a harsh contrast to his aggressive actions.

or: a run in with a new Ivy concoction goes south when Jason is forced to hurt Tim- all while painfully aware of his actions.

[iriswords]

Febuwhump Day 12 - Can you hear me?

You can also read this on ao3 and find the rest of my febuwhump fics here

tw: blood and injuries, self-esteem issues, implied past emotional abuse

Fandom: Batman

Words:

Tim has been caught by the Riddler and is forced to play one of his games. He talks to himself as he progresses, certain the comms don't work. On the other end of the line, the Bats hear everything.

--

Tim hates the Riddler. He used to like the man, used to find him clever and funny, even, but all past appreciation for him is now gone. He pounds against the door for what must be the dozenth time, screaming at the Riddler to let him out. As if that would get him somewhere. It is a commonly known fact that villains never do what heroes ask them. There would be no villains and heroes, otherwise. 

“That’s of no use, birdie,” says the Riddler over the speakers in the room. “We’ll proceed to the next part once you’ve calmed down a bit.”

Calmed down a bit? Tim has more than enough reasons to be angry. Not only did he let himself be captured like a fool, and by the Riddler, of all people—Tim has way too many things to do to spend any amount of time trying to solve riddles—but he also sees no way out. The Riddler placed him in a box of a room, with two locked doors. One he entered through. The other has yet to open. 

Tim slumps against the wall and lets himself slide to the ground. The Riddler left him in nothing but his suit, stripped him of anything that could have been useful to his escape. He even took the cape. On his leg, a dark stain grows slowly where Tim was stabbed earlier in the night by the Riddler’s goons. It hasn’t hit anything dangerous, but the bleeding doesn’t show any sign of stopping on its own, and Tim has nothing to stop it with. Carefully, Tim prods at his ribs, which he cracked two nights ago and told no one about. They haven’t gotten worse, but they could use some rest. Unfortunately for them, it doesn’t look like they will get it any time soon.

Tim taps against his comms to activate them. Just like the times he tried before, he gets nothing but static. 

“Red Robin to Oracle,” he tries anyway. “Can you hear me?” Silence is his only answer. “The Riddler’s got me, and I’m not in the mood for playing his games.” 

“Rude,” comes in the Riddler’s voice over the speakers. Tim ignores him. 

“Oracle? Can you hear me?” Still nothing. 

At the same moment, a pastel blue gas whirls out of the airway. Tim instinctively reaches for the rebreather in his belt and remembers he does not have his belt or his rebreather anymore. 

“What is this?” he hisses at the room, hoping the Riddler is still listening and inclined to answer him. 

“I’ve paired up with Scarecrow,” says the Riddler casually, as though this was no information worth mentioning. “He’s decided to expand his horizons and test other aspects of the human mind. As a fellow intellectual, I could only agree.” 

Tim would rather he hadn’t agreed. And what does ‘expand his horizons’ even mean? Knowing Scarecrow, it cannot be anything good. Tim holds his breath until he cannot anymore, then lets the blue gas infiltrate his lungs. It doesn’t taste like anything, so far from the acrid taste of fear toxin, like terror on your tongue warning you about what is to come. 

Tim waits for the effects, tense as a wire. They do not come. The Riddler gives no indication as to whatever toxin this is functioned or not. Instead, the second door slides slowly open. 

“You may proceed to the test,” says the Riddler, and Tim figures he might as well indulge the two villains. If they are satisfied, they could even let him go. He gets up, wincing when he puts too much weight on his injured leg and walks to the door. 

Tim steps into a giant labyrinth, stretching over the whole ground floor of what looks to be two joint warehouses. That the Riddler even managed to pull this out without getting caught is a testimony of Gotham’s police failure—and the vigilante’s failure, too, because they definitely should have found out about this sooner—but what is done is done.

“Are you out of creativity?” asks Tim out loud. 

“Don’t judge my piece of art too quickly, birdie. You may be surprised. All you need to know is that there are no rules. But if you do something I don’t like, you’ll be punished. You’ll know the exit when you reach it.” 

Perfect. Just. Fucking. Perfect. Tim has not had nearly enough coffee to deal with this. It looks like he doesn’t have a choice. 

Before going into the labyrinth, he tries his comms again and receives no more answer. He decides to let them activated, in case they come back to life suddenly, and steps into the labyrinth. 

—

“Red Robin to Oracle,” says Red Robin, and Barbara’s attention shifts from Batman to Red Robin. “Can you hear me?”

“Clear as day,” answers Barbara. “Where are you and what’s going on? We lost your tracker.” 

“The Riddler’s got me and I’m not in the mood for playing his games.” 

Barbara snorts. “Who ever is? Do you have any useful information to make it easier for me to track you down?” 

Tim doesn’t answer her. “Oracle?” he calls. “Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you very well, Red Robin. Do you know where you are?” No answer. “Red?” Barbara sighs and switches to Batman’s line again. “B, we’ve got a problem.” 

— 

As was to be expected, the labyrinth is filled with traps and riddles. Moving walls and hidden goons waiting to take him out. Tim defeats them all, though not without sustaining further injuries. His left wrist is broken, and his leg is minutely getting worse. He leans on the walls of the labyrinth as he stumbles through it, panting, his mind sluggish from the pain. He fights back the strange urge to cry that has been rising in him for the better part of his journey in the labyrinth.

“I wonder if they’ll notice I’m gone,” he says to himself in a surprising bout of honesty. “Or how long it’s gonna take them.” No one answers him. The silence around him is suffocating. He keeps talking, the words tumbling out of his mouth without his consent. “Maybe they’ll assume I’ll get out myself.” He gives a strangled, bitter laugh. “Well, that’s not gonna happen anytime soon.”

Minutes have stretched out into hours, and each riddle takes Tim more and more time to solve. Every time, frustration builds up in him and tears burn his eyes. 

“Maybe they won’t care. Mom and dad wouldn’t have.”

— 

“Red Robin, can you hear me?” asks Oracle for the thousandth time in the past three hours, since Tim asked for help. And just like those past times, she receives no answer. Everyone is back in the Cave, ready to roam the city as soon as she gets a hint as to where Red Robin is kept. But the Riddler was clever this time, for not even she can find anything leading to Tim. She will, eventually, she knows she will, but the question is, how much time is it going to take? 

“I wonder if they’ll notice I’m gone,” echoes Red’s voice through the speakers in the Batcave. Everyone freezes. Apart from a few pained grunts, it is the first thing Tim has said in hours. “Or how long it’s gonna take them.” Barbara exchanges a confused look with Dick. Is he talking about the Riddler and his goons? Has he escaped them? 

“Maybe they’ll assume I’ll get out myself.” Barbara frowns as the words start to make sense. Over the speakers, Tim laughs darkly. “Well, that’s not gonna happen anytime soon.” 

“Is he—” starts Jason. 

“Talking about us?” finishes Babs. “Yeah, I think he is.” Silence falls over the Cave. Babs shares the sentiment. Why would Tim think they wouldn’t notice or come for him? 

“Maybe they won’t care. Mom and dad wouldn’t have.” 

By her side, Dick makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat. Uneasiness grows in Barbara’s chest. They are not supposed to listen to this. 

“Red, can you hear me?” she tries again. Tim doesn’t acknowledge her.

— 

Tim continues to talk to himself, in a desperate and not entirely controlled attempt at distracting himself from his impending doom. Pain shoots up from his leg every time his foot brushes the ground, and he nearly face-planted three times in the past minute. He rounds a corner and finds himself at a dead-end. Tim chokes on a sob. 

“Why are you doing this to me?” he cries to no one. “I just wanted a calm night. Just one fucking night away from assassination attempts and near-death experiences. Is that too much to ask?” 

The Riddler doesn’t answer him. Tim sobs harder, and he doesn’t understand why, all of a sudden, all his emotional control, so good usually, is so thoroughly shot. 

“Am I really that fucking insufferable that no one wants to keep me around?” The words fall from his mouth without his permission. “Maybe mom and dad were right when they said I was impossible to love.” Maybe everyone was right when they tried to leave. Maybe he should stop clinging to them like a pathetic leach and just remove himself so they won’t have to. Maybe, maybe, maybe—

The tears stop as abruptly as they came, Tim’s chest heaving from the remnants of sobs. He dries his tears with a shaky hand and pulls his mask back on. Whatever this episode was, he’s glad there was no one around to witness it. 

— 

“Am I really that fucking insufferable that no one wants to keep me around?” asks Tim, and Babs clenches her jaw. She doesn’t dare glance at Dick, still by her side. She knows what she’ll see. Eyes full of tears, cheeks red and wet, face distorted by sorrow. She knows he blames himself, and she also knows he isn’t entirely free of blame. But she cannot comfort him, not when she can barely swallow around the lump in her own throat. The Cave fell into an uneasy silence when Tim first started crying, the sound so unusual to all of them. Tim is all cynicism and calculated boredom. He does not cry. 

“Maybe mom and dad were right when they said I was impossible to love.” 

Dick lets out an audible sob and curls up on himself, a hand clasped tightly over his mouth. Babs risks a glance at the rest of the Cave. Bruce’s face, bare from the cowl, has twisted into a constipated expression, his way of conveying regret and sorrow. Cass hovers silently by his side, twitchy in a way she usually never is. Farther in the Cave, Jason is pacing, hands fisted in his hair. As his body turns toward her, she catches a glimpse of bright, unnaturally green eyes. Damian, for his part, is rooted to the spot near the Medbay, wide eyes fixed on the speaker. His expression is a careful mask, but Babs can see the way his hands shake slightly where they hang limply at his sides. 

“Red,” Barbara tries once again. She cannot help the way exhaustion sips into her voice. “Can you hear me?” 

— 

Tim misses the goon who comes out of nowhere and misses the bat swung at him. He does not dodge and does not defend himself. It hits his temple full force, a skull-shattering blow that sends him sprawling to the ground. He lands on his broken wrist and the pain rips a howl from him. His vision whitens out for a moment, and he comes to panting and sobbing, cradling his injured wrist to his chest. The goon is nowhere to be found. Tim should be glad, he guesses, that they didn’t stay around to beat him up more. 

He straightens up with difficulty, dizzy from the blow, the pain, and the blood loss. His breath itches with silent, uncontrollable sobs. Tim tries to get to his feet, but his knee gives out beneath him and he falls back to the floor. He curls up against the wall of the labyrinth, all of his resolve gone. 

“Please,” he whispers to no one. He has never felt more like a child. “Please someone, just come.” 

In his head, Jane Drake scoffs disdainfully. 

— 

“I have an address,” announces Babs. Bruce, who has been anxiously pacing the Cave ever since Tim cried out in pain, turns abruptly towards her, already putting his coal back on. 

“Where,” he growls, more order than question. The second Barbara gives him the address, Bruce is gone, closely followed by his sons. 

“They’re coming, Red,” says Barbara into the comms. No one answers her. 

@febuwhump

Part 2

[ktkat99]

While ao3 is down, I'm going to see if I can figure out how to post directly here.

Two Weeks Of Whump Challenge Day 9. Branding

Tim reached over and behind his head, grabbing his shirt by the back of his collar and pulling it off. He tossed it towards the laundry basket and flopped face down on the bed, ready to drift off to sleep.

Until something poked him.

"Your pants, too." Conner reminded.

"Mm. Nng. Leave me 'lone." Tim grunted in response.

"Tim, baby, this isn't up for debate. You've got mud, blood and… what I hope is rainwater, caked everywhere."

"Vigilante aesthetic."

"No."

Tim huffed, but pushed himself up anyway. "Fine." He stumbled to his dresser and grabbed out a pair of sweatpants to change into.

"I'm so sorry for insisting you at least change out of your uniform before getting into… bed."

Conner finished his sentence softly, and Tim turned to see what had caught his boyfriend's attention.

"What."

"Who's 'JJ'?"

Tim froze, and he could swear he felt his heart stop.

'My dear son, JJ! Now doesn't that just have a nice ring to it?'

'Sure does, Puddin'!'

Their voices echoed in his mind, accompanied by phantom pains.

The feeling of the electrical shocks.

The prick of needles.

The far-too-tight cuffs keeping him from fighting back or defending himself.

He was back there.

No!

He was here!

He'd gotten out.

He'd survived.

He'd beaten them.

They were gone.

… Right?

"... What?" He finally managed.

"Your leg. You've got a tattoo that says 'JJ'. I was just wondering, cause I've never heard you mention them. Were they an ex?" Conner got up and came over, face concerned. He must have seen Tim's reaction to his question.

Tim didn't know what to say.

How long..?

He had been rid of them.

"W-what..?" He couldn't breathe.

They were…

They were gone.

"Tim? Are you okay?"

Tim closed his eyes.

Everything was… way too much right now.

He felt sick.

Dizzy.

Sounds were too loud.

He was too close.

Tim stumbled back, falling against the dresser.

'There's a good lad. Now why don't you help your daddy with a little something?'

Hands pulled at his hair.

His own?

He didn't care.

"Tim!"

'Ah, ah, ah! That's not your name anymore, is it? Naaah. You look more like a Junior.'

"Get away from me."

He felt himself slide down to his knees, heard… someone screaming.

Who was screaming?

Him?

"I'm here. Baby, I'm right here. I've got you."

'Now that I've got you, my boy,' His voice echoed in Tim's head, 'Killing Batsy will be a piece of cake!'

He wanted to go home.

He wanted his family.

But he couldn't move.

He couldn't move!

Something was restraining him!

"Stop! Tim, baby, please! You're going to hurt yourself!"

He had to get free.

He had to.

They were going to kill him.

They were going to use him to kill Batman.

He felt a prick in his neck and redoubled his efforts to free himself.

He couldn't do this again.

He didn't want to lose himself again.

"Shh. Shh. You're going to be okay. You're going to be okay. Just give it a minute."

He felt himself relax against his will.

He…

He had to fight.

He… had to get free.

He couldn't give in…

But whatever he'd been injected with didn't give him a choice.

His mind started to clear and he found himself lying on his back, head and shoulders resting in Conner's lap.

"You're okay. You're okay, baby. I'm so sorry. Bruce is on his way. Just relax."

Conner…

He looked scared.

The room began to grow dark, but Tim reached up, shakily.

Conner looked scared, but Tim's brain was in too much of a fog to figure out why.

His fingers brushed a tear away from his boyfriend's cheek before falling limply back down, resting across his own chest.

Conner grabbed it and held it. "You're okay, sweetheart." He whispered.

Tim thought he might have said something else as well, but he couldn't make it out, already drifting off.

[swift-creates]

@chrumblr-whumblr day 1: blindfolded

wc: 134 | warnings: implied head wound | characters: Dick Grayson (pov), Tim Drake

—

Dick blinked his eyes open to see… nothing. He moved his head and felt a rough band of cloth covering his eyes. 

“'Wing?” Tim’s voice reached his ears, wavering in a way that had his heart clenching in panic. “Are you awake?”

“…Yeah. Red Robin? You okay?”

“I’m fine.” Dick wasn’t convinced. 

He attempted to sit up, but a bolt of pain blazed through his head, and he lay back down, hissing a breath out through his teeth. 

“Nightwing?” The sound of Tim shuffling around, voice sharp with concern. 

“I’m… fine.” It didn’t escape his notice that he’d just echoed Tim’s lie back to him. Now he could feel something wet soaking into the blindfold and dripping down the side of his face. From the stabbing in his head, he doubted it was water. 

[n1ightw1ng]

if there was love

jaytim + dicktim | warning: noncon | omegaverse, mpreg | 5.8k

Tim sprinted down the hall. His heat made him feel sluggish, disoriented, even though he was certain he could still run as fast as ever, it just hurt. His abdomen cramped up until he had to duck into a closet to catch his breath, hand over his mouth to muffle it.

“I can still smell you,” Jason called. The tone of his voice made Tim shudder and gush slick. He sounded like a predator. And he wanted to destroy Tim, punish him for ever taking on the Robin mantle. He was fucking terrified, and his heat-sick body was begging for a strong alpha to hold it down and—

No. He wouldn't let that happen.

The floorboards creaked outside. Tim readied a batarang. Jason threw open the doors, and Tim stabbed him between the ribs. 

“Robin!” he roared, grabbing him by his collar and throwing him into the hall. Tim was up and scrambling for the medbay in a second. Metal pierced the flesh of his thigh and he went down, hamstrung. He kept crawling, even as Jason's feet landed on either side of him. “That's cute,” he said, as he stomped a batarang out of Tim's hand. His fingers crunched under his boot. “You think you still have a chance.”

“I have to,” he gritted out, going still, trying to measure his next move. If he tried to grab anything else, Jason would break his other hand. “I’m Robin.”

He snorted, his boot coming to rest between Tim’s shoulder blades, pinning him, as if he could manage more than an army crawl. “Robin’s never been a little omega bitch.”

Of course not. Robin was always going to be a young, strong alpha, slated to bark and snarl with the best of society during the day and tangle with the worst of it at night. Tim never believed he was biologically disadvantaged, that was a crock, in his opinion, but it made people see him differently. That was what his scent blockers were for. He hadn’t been expecting a heat—his first heat—to be so brutally hormonal that it stunk through the patches. Raven had offered for him to go home before it hit, but the last thing he wanted was Bruce thinking he couldn’t fight with the Titans during a routine bodily cycle. It just…wasn’t routine for him, yet. He was new. All of it was new.

[spicypotstickerbliss]

Final chapter of tsts up!! Go read!!

featuring riddles, Whump, h/c domestic fluff, angst with a happy ending, and a caffeine fueled sixteen-year-old Tim.