#timothy drake x reader

[idyllcy]

this is a drama. i am the drama.

word count: 10.4k

WARNINGS: mentions of SA, mentions of sex trafficking, mild violence (all r kinda glossed over but still warning), Nonexplicit smut

summary: your soul drowns Tim, but he finds comfort in it.

The city of Gotham is not phased by much.

From the drug trafficking in the docks to the human trafficking happening under everyone's nose, the average citizen doesn't really care. Though, arguably, they do mind when their sleep is disturbed by the sound of racing cars— something else that isn't necessarily new in Gotham. However, there had been news that the racers were steering off into the city at night, so Tim finds himself in civilian clothes, holding up a pass to access the venue that the racers were using, stepping in past the loud noises and people screaming. Ah, he made it in time.

He's surprised to find actual racing cars— cars that look like they could be in a grand prix.

From the seats, he meets eyes with a racer. He can't tell anything, but from posture and body frame, a woman. Now that he looks at it, all the racers seem to be female-presenting. He turns down the drink offered by one of the men, striking up a conversation instead, batting his lashes at the man, hoping to seduce him in some way. He wore too much clothing to be able to do so with his body, but it was still worth a shot. He hates dressing up like this anyway.

"So, what's a goody two shoes like you doing here?" The man smiles, sliding an arm around his shoulder.

"A friend gave me his pass because I said I'd never watched a Gotham street race." He bats his lashes. (Hopefully the fake lashes Stephanie glued don't fall off. God, did he hate dressing as Caroline)

"Really? Usually we place our bets on a racer." He hums, waving a guy over, dropping a twenty in a box. "I'd recommend you vote for Spitfire, she's an oldie and usually wins."

"Who are the others?" Tim slips a twenty from the back of his phone, blinking at the other names.

The man chuckles. "Lightwing is another good contender. She's been around forever. But also, her vision is spotty from an accident last time, so she's not as popular as before."

Tim nods slowly, staring at the other two names. "Who's Moonknight and Aquastar?"

"Moonknight is making her debut tonight, but her test run streaks were pretty bad because she doesn't have as big of a team as the rest of them." The man waves his hand. "You don't need to bet on her, pretty girl." He grins toothily. "Oh, and Aquastar is a visiting racer from a nearby city. We usually have more racers, but Cardinal got suspended for going off the race tracks and breaking into Gotham two weeks ago."

Now that he thinks about it, all of the names were practically knockoffs of the vigilantes and heroes who protected the cities. Although, he's surprised the street racing had ended up this big without any of the bats shutting it down. Someone must have a hand somewhere. He just wonders if it's Hood or B. It could be neither for all he knows.

"How does one race?" Tim blinks at one car in particular. It looks too much like a batmobile for comfort.

"You'd have to talk to the racers for that."

"Ey, Chris, are you hitting on newbies again?" A woman walks up the stairs, shoving him to the side playfully, tilting her head at Tim.

"Oh, come on, Spitty. You know I only do that so I can collect profits when you win."

"Arguably," She tilts her head at Tim, pausing. "You should bet on Moonknight."

"A-ah?"

"If she wins," Spitfire smiles, "then you collect all the profits. It's only a twenty, after all."

Tim frowns.

"But there's also a tradition for newbies to bet on newbies." She laughs. "You never know. That girl's got more speed in her than Cardinal. She just refuses to tell people."

"What's the cash prize?" Tim raises a brow.

"Driver gets ten percent of the bet money on top of the two million that WE pours into the track." She pauses.

"WE pours money into this?"

"We're not sure why, but they have been for a while now. The whole race track was from them." Spitfire sighs. "It's an old story, so it's not that surprising anymore."

Tim glances at the car again, pausing. Ah. This was where Bruce tested out his batmobile by using other people. No wonder he didn't push anyone to check the driving out. If Bruce was testing out all of his vehicles here, then there was no way he'd want it to be shut down. It would explain why he handed him an access card without having him get one. Tim glances around to look for seating, and Spitfire notices.

"You wanna sit in the grandstands?" She smiles. "My treat."

"Really?" Tim puts the money into Moonknight's box. The woman was right. It's only a twenty. Worst case, he loses the money. Though, he wonders what kind of a racer would have a leading champion telling him to vote for her. "Oh, is there a reason all the racers are girl?"

"We tried co-ed racing for a while." Spitfire holds her hand out for Tim, and he takes it. "But the men would get too aggressive and lead to unnecessary accidents on the track. Our goal is to test out cars for our sponsors before they're taken onto the field."

"Is that why there's a pass to get in?"

"Yeah." She hums, pulling the door open. "Come on in."

"Spitfire, favoring a newbie?!"

"Spitfire, who do you think is going to win!"

The woman turns her head, smile on her lips. "Me, obviously."

But it proves wrong when Tim meets eyes with the same woman from the first time.

You stare into his eyes, white racing suit snug on your body, a look in your eyes he recognizes. Though, the longer you look at him, the more you seem to read him— as if his entire past were exposed in front of you at a table. There is a sort of darkness to both your eyes and hair, the stare of a thousand souls. He breaks eye contact first, waving goodbye to Spitfire as she hops back to her position, final checkups of the cars in progress as Chris asks him if he wants a drink. Tim waves him down, but he mentions a can of Zesti would be fine. Chris barely makes it back in time for the announcements.

Tim catalogs the majority of the announcements in, checking for their voice on his phone, blinking when he finds a lack of match for it. He'd ask Chris, but the man is practically leaning over on the stand, eyes glittering as the cars prepare to race. He stands up, cracking open his soda, blinking when the four racers seem to fly off, and his eyes glance at the big screen, camera flying after the cars.

Moonknight goes from second to third, and Spitfire goes from third to first. He doesn't have much faith in his twenty bucks, but he wonders if the batmobile would really be helpful in a race like this. It didn't—

Moonknight goes from third to first at the final moment, boosting past Spitfire and racing to first place as she makes it into the second lap. Tim pauses while recalling the batmobile, and he remembers the change he had made just a week ago on the car, letting it accelerate faster than the other cars. Seeing his own creation in action hits something in him, blinking as she swerves.

"Oh, I might actually lose my money today." Chris laughs. "I didn't think she'd be able to do it."

"Who is Moonknight?"

"She's a completely new racer. She's called Moonknight because he sponsor gave her a car that looks eerily like a batmobile every time. Though, her car is in light grey." Chris points. "I'll hand you the pamphlet later."

"Thank you." Tim mumbles, watching as Spitfire races neck to neck with Moonknight. Tim wonders if it's going to be a tie. Though, he did add something else to the car. Maybe Bruce told you, maybe not. If she manages to find it, she could win. Though, he's more curious to know if rocket boosters were technically allowed in a race like this. Who knows.

You grimace in the car, pressing a couple of buttons as your fingers brush over something new. You wonder if it's the self-destruction button that Batman had told you not to touch. Yet, you shrug it off, clicking it anyway, slamming back into your seat as you speed past Spitfire, breaking past the finish line, steering with one hand as you try and stop the rockets on your car, clicking on the screen, grimacing. You'd rather not call Oracle. Last time you did, she tried pulling your social security number on you, only to find a lack of one.

Your heart races in your chest as you press the button again, the rockets only growing stronger, and you groan as you type in a code you had memorized from the Batcave, successfully shutting down the systems on the car, turning it back into a regular vehicle. You don't know who invented that line of code, but god were you thankful that you memorized it. The car eventually slows, and you drift next to the other racers, parking successfully. You step out of the car, leaning on the door as it closes, the blood in your body flushing your skin.

"Moon, are you alright?" Spitfire rushes next to you, hand on your bicep.

"I'm fine." You pull the helmet from your head, meeting eyes with Tim's again. You raise a brow, and you lower your voice to Spitfire. "That girl isn't a girl."

"Drag maybe?"

"No." You mumble, turning to shield your mouth from his eyes. "Undercover cop. Either that or they're a vigilante. They used Batman's card to get in."

"Ah." She frowns. "Are we safe?"

"I'll deal with it if he throws a fit." You stretch your neck, placing your helmet onto the top of your car. "Gotta submit a report later."

"I'm not looking forward to that." Lightwing groans. "Our next race is supposed to be motorbikes."

"Ewwww." Spitfire shudders. "I hate racing those."

"I hope they don't have rocket boosters like on my car today." You shudder.

"Alright, go get your cash prize, girlie." Spitfire smacks your back to send you walking to the podium.

You step over to the makeshift stage, taking the cheque from the announcer, blowing a kiss at the phones as you stare at the blank cheque. Two million was the max, but you were told you'd get to cash out five if you could win the race. You pause, though, when the girl you were staring at earlier makes her way out of the stands and walks over. Spitfire tries stopping her, but she seems to say something that has her quiet as she steps up the podium to meet you. You tilt your head at her.

Tim opens his mouth to speak before you cut him off.

"You know." You pause to wave the announcer off, hooking your arms under her knees to rest your chin on her chest. "You're real hot as a woman, but I'm sure you'd look better as a man."

Tim flushes as you press a kiss to the crown of his head, and you set him on the podium, lips pulled into a pretty smile. Your voice lowers as you rest your chin in the valley of his tits, blinking up at him. You jut out your bottom lip as Tim swallows thickly. Your fingers lace into his hair, nails digging into his scalp gently, blinking slowly, reading his emotions, his expressions, his everything. You look entranced, and Tim almost feels bad that he's here undercover and you're staring starry-eyed over someone who doesn't exist.

"What's your name, pretty girl?" You raise a brow at her, grinning.

"Caroline." He swallows again, heart racing in his chest. You're too attractive for your own good. Maybe you were using that against him. "Caroline Hill."

"Well, Carrie," You hum, tucking his hair behind his ear. "I think you're gorgeous. Care for a drink sometime?"

"A-as much as I would like to, I'm not into w-women." He stumbles. (A bold lie. He's never had a worse panic over a woman in his life.)

"Quite a shame." You mumble. "You're so pretty too..."

You step down the stage, holding the cheque up as the girls cheer with you.

Tim should really talk to Bruce about what the batmobile was doing in a street racing event.

Though, as Tim tries to run a background check on you, he finds nothing come up. Even in the private files of the batcomputer. Even on the card that gave him access, all the fingerprints were wiped clean. He finds practically nothing, not that it gets to him, he just looks harder. He practically lives in the cave now. He doesn't remember the last day he got regular sleep. He has nothing on you.

So, he shows up at the next race as himself this time. He enters with the same card, and this time, you find him first.

"So? You related to B?" You hand him a can of unopened zesti, and he raises a brow at you. You raise a brow back at him, pointing at his card. "Card. That's a B exclusive card."

"How so?"

"Sponsor card." You smile. "Since it's light grey, that means it's my sponsor. My sponsor is B."

Tim frowns. "Who are you?"

"My question first."

"He's an aquaintance. Now my question." He opens his can, pressing the drink to his lips.

"I'm a racer." You smile.

"I meant as a person." He clicks his tongue.

"Why don't you find out?" You bat your lashes at him prettily, hand pressed to his abdomen, leaning in to blink at him devilishly. "Or are you not into women too?"

Tim's heart races in his ears, swallowing as he tries his best to match your pace. "What does the media say?"

"Lots" You grin, pressing yourself closer to him, arms wrapped around his neck, your air mixed with his, lips pulled into a dangerous smirk. "But all I hear these days is how someone keeps trying to hack my personal information."

"Yeah?" He tilts his head, placing the can to the side.

"Mhm." You hum.

Tim smiles at you, dangerously, all while his mind is a jumbled mess. You had an effect on him that he dared not to pry further into, but god were you intoxicating — bad for his brain even. He finds himself leaning closer to you, all systems going off about how this was bad for him, but he doesn't care. Not when your perfume smells tantalizing and the only thing he wants to do is kiss you sick— make out with you until you're whimpering against his lips, knees giving out under you, and brain fuzzy with only him. His eyes darken with the thoughts, a smile on his face.

You remove your arms from him, tapping his shoulder twice with an innocent smile. "Thanks for giving me the last piece."

Tim raises a brow as you peel yourself from him, his mask in your fingers, smile not so pure anymore.

There was no way.

Tim grabs it back from you as you back up, both hands in the air, and as he shoves it into somewhere you can't touch, you hop over the stands, landing on the dirt with a thud. Tim frowns in frustration as you send a wink his way, starting final check-ups for the race. It's bikes today, and Tim recognizes all of the models. A copy of his own bike is in Spitfire's hand right now. Maybe this was how Bruce figured out whether or not his bike was safe to ride after his own customizations. Jason's bike is in another rider's hands, red helmet with black— presumably Cardinal, and Dick's bike is in Lightwing's hands. You have Bruce's bike still. It checks out now.

This was the testing ground for the vigilante vehicles in Gotham.

The fact that you had figured him out so quickly only meant that you had realized faster than everyone else.

But there had to be a reason that no one part of the team saw the similarities between their vehicles and the ones that the Gotham vigilantes used. There had to be a reason that only you would be crazy enough to figure it out just based on vehicle models. Maybe he could use the status card to talk to you all for a little. Too bad you were already checking the vehicle. He should have asked earlier— strange. It's not like him to be this disoriented.

You win the race.

It's obvious. B's bike was designed with the fastest engine possible, and in a race of pure speed, it would win. No matter how much Tim tinkered with his bike, he wasn't allowed to go faster than Bruce. The man had said it was too dangerous, and Tim could see why. The Batbike was a nightmare to steer at such high speeds. Though, he does wonder where everyone on the track gets their practice. There's never a peak of sound during the day on the track, and neither was there much noise at night when you weren't racing.

Tim does not dig the idea that he has to pull his money card out, but the more competitive part of him does wonder what it would look like to have you fold for him.

"A drink?" He leans over the railing, card held up, raising a brow at you.

You wave him off, handing your helmet to someone else, clicking your tongue.

"That's not the way to ask a pretty woman out on a date, boy." You raise a brow, lips pulled upwards in a grin. "Maybe ask better next time. Some of us have black cards too."

So Tim watches as you leave with the rest of the racers, his heart racing in his chest.

It takes ten more tries for Tim to trace from someone else to you.

He blinks at the woman on the screen, and he pauses to ponder. Perhaps.

However, all of his thoughts are thrown off when a command is called from behind him by Bruce with a new case. A file is handed to him, a file with a rather unoriginal name, and it makes Tim raise a brow. Surely it was a jest.

"I assure you, they are very much real." Bruce rolls his eyes, cowl peeled off, humming with a drink pressed to his lips.

"Is this related to the serial murder of rapists going around in Gotham?" He opens the file.

"Not just Gotham." Bruce hums. "Clark did a report on the serial murder of both registered and unregistered sex offenders in Metropolis as well. It has been a trend. Despite the vigilantism, it is still very much illegal to kill someone."

"I don't see too much of a problem with killing a rapist." Tim presses his coffee to his lips, scanning through the files Bruce hands him. The target seems rather clear. The killer does not regard anyone in the way, knocking everyone out and always only killing the rapist. A maneater. The name given to the murderer was maneater, as if it were some ploy. In some cases, the victims were found with their pants unzipped and an anti-rape condom stuck on them, writhing in pain as they were almost always found dead with poison in their system.

Those who suffered more gruesome deaths... either found castrated with their genitals lying not too far away, or a hole where their heart was supposed to be, the organ missing. It reminds him almost of Heartless, but... that is not the case. This is a vigilante no different from them... just less sparing and guaranteed murder. Now, does Tim solve the case or let the vigilante free...

He does not know what possesses him to ask you of all people, but your response does not help much.

"Moonknight." Tim hums, adjusting his glasses as he puts them on. "May I pick at your brain?"

"Is this about the serial murders?" You wipe the helmet in your hand, cheque tucked safely into your wallet.

Tim nods. "Thoughts?"

"I feel like the murderer's doing us ladies a favor." You shrug. "Think about it."

"I know, but murder is a little..."

"Little hypocritical of you, you know?" You raise a brow. "Must I name your war crimes?"

"No." Tim hums. "Perhaps I should do some digging anyway."

"Wouldn't hurt to have it on file in case you do need it one day." You eye one of the newer men on the track, grinning at Spitfire as she greets him. "Hm?"

Tim's eyes trail up to Spitfire.

Similar build. His glasses indicate the same.

"It's not any of my girls." You crack open the can of soder. "I promise they're clean. B runs background checks on all of us."

Tim mulls over your words.

Scary.

Yet, he visits you anyway, money piling in his back pocket as you win round after round, small talk rolling off your lips in a sort of practiced way, smile inviting as you turn down his request to grab a drink again, humming quietly as Tim's eyes trail down to the small of your back, brow raised as he notices your shorts peeking out past your pants.

"What does it take for a date with you?"

"Maybe not being part of law enforcement." You hum. "Legal or not."

"Why? Worried I'll turn you in?"

"No..." You trail off, chewing your top lip as you turn your head at Lightwing. "Well, if you save Lightwing from some trouble, I'll consider."

"What's wrong?"

"You see the man talking to her?"

Tim raises a brow and spots another group of men not too far off. "Bingo."

You wink in her direction, and Tim hums.

"Hey big fella. Having fun so far?"

You watch as Tim tears the man apart, Lightwing leaving at one point to stand next to you.

"Really, I don't know what you see in that man."

"Not much." You purse your lips, smiling. "Something tells me he's the one."

"I'm willing to bet that he is not." She mumbles.

Yet, as Tim barely lifts a finger to piss the man off, you grin.

"Oh, he's definitely the one."

Tim runs the information, stalking down the final member of your racing team, matching the majority of information to the final member, brow raised when he realizes that Cardinal was not part of B's files either, hunting the woman down as he searches for her current location, and it makes Tim's stomach churn uncomfortably when he realizes how eerily similar the racer is to the described criminal. The person who was dubbed Cardinal had been face-matched to someone who had entered Metropolis just a little bit before the serial murders. It made Tim nauseous.

"Got any leads?"

"Might be one of the previous racers." Tim grimaces. "Of the race tracks."

"Cardinal? I assure you it is not her."

"Really? There had been rumors—"

"It is not." Bruce mumbles. "You know who Cardinal is. It is not her. They may have similar builds, but it is not her."

"Who is Cardinal?"

"You'll figure it out soon enough."

Bruce's evasion of his question does not help the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach.

You end up with Tim on the date, hair ruffled as he picks you up in his bike, hand held out to you as you take it, humming. It's supposed to be simple. Though, you suppose simple for a Wayne is impossible to determine. You never know what to expect from him. Though, when he pulls you to the local diner, you find it impossible to not know he's the one. It's really too simple.

"Would you tell me about Cardinal?" Tim finally asks you proper questions once the two of you finish ordering.

"Do you think she's the one?" You raise a brow.

"You said your girls are innocent."

"The ones I currently race with." You hum, reaching for the bread on the table.

"And Cardinal?"

"I don't know much about her. She didn't talk much."

"But she was aggressive, no?"

"No." You hum. "She drove into Gotham because she saw something. She also raced her own bike. No one knows who she is."

Tim connects something in his mind, and it sends him back to step one.

"Would you be able to help if I gave you the file?"

"Isn't it just what's available online?"

"One final thing. The killer in Metropolis might be the same person." Tim mumbles. "Thank you."

The food is presented before the two of you, and you stab into your pasta. "I don't think so. Did you track anyone else that entered and exited Metropolis that was a Gothamite?"

Tim shakes his head. "I find it strange."

"Perhaps magic?"

"Not impossible." Tim mumbles. "What do you do in your free time?"

"Tinker." You hum.

"With your bike?"

"No. That's B's property. I tend to tinker with smaller things. It's always fun to build a PC from scratch."

"Ah, you're quite handy with tech." Tim hums, blowing on his pasta. "Anything else?"

"I like watching detective shows." You pause to think. "And racing. I think that's about it. How 'bout you, boy wonder?"

"That's my brother." He laughs dryly.

Tim finds that it's intriguing to talk to you. You know everything that he does, and it seems you know much more than what you let him in on. Dare he say it, perhaps he's met his match.

Tim sends you home and starts patrol. Gotham had become eerily quiet since the murderer had been on the loose.

Though, he has a knack for saying things too early.

A man dies the same day, and B finds his way there with Tim, the two of them sweeping down and kicking the man down, a woman shaking as Tim shields her, holding his cape out, making sure to not look at the way her clothes are ripped up and she's shaking with an intensity unknown to him. He can feel the vibrations of her skin through his cape. The fear is easily contagious had he not known.

"B?"

"Dead. The poison spread too fast."

The woman doesn't look like she was aware.

"Did you buy the product?" Tim raises a brow, eyes scanning her face for any changes in emotion, and she shakes her head.

"I... a-a friend got me o-one on because—" She gasps, shoulders trembling still. "I-it saved her life."

"Do you know where she bought it?"

The woman shakes her head. "Th-they were giving them out on the streets a while back. It's been m-months."

"May we take one back?"

B shakes his head. "Gordon is coming. We will decide then. Oracle?"

Oracle has no intel either, and Tim wonders just how far this murderer is willing to go. If he just let them kill all the rapists in Gotham, then it would result in a number of the population as gone. If he checked them, perhaps the offenders in Gotham would assume they are protected by B — which truly could not be further from the truth.

"Where are you living? I will take you back." Tim catches a figure in the corner of his eye.

"B."

The man shakes his head.

"I-I'll be fine." She mumbles. "May I borrow a... clothes?"

B nods, and Tim hands the woman to him as he takes a good look at the man on the ground.

Familiar. He looks familiar.

The scan from his mask indicates the same. The man who had been talking to Spitfire at the tracks. It was the man who had been talking to her. Some clicks in the back of Tim's mind, his fingers pressing to the silicone, pressing the dirt and grime to the back of his glove to check for DNA.

Just the shaking woman.

"B, I need one of them." He speaks firmer this time. "There has to be some unidentified DNA on one of them."

"There are in one of the files on our computer. It was sent this afternoon." B hums. "The police are arriving. Come on."

Tim doesn't need to be told twice, yet he lingers, eyes trailing on the woman as he waits.

One of the policemen is an unregistered sex offender.

He clicks on his mask as he zooms in, a dark figure flying out of the alleyway at the man, and Tim watches as a claw digs into the man's genitals, ripping off with a sound that shakes the walls, followed by a guttural scream. The policemen shoot at the figure, but they don't react, only retreating back into the walls, seemingly unhurt by the bullets.

"Oracle, did you catch that?"

"No face was detected."

"How about figure?"

"Non-human." Oracle mumbles. "I can't identify anything."

"Tsk." Tim clicks his tongue.

"Though, it has to be a shadow ability. Perhaps something adjacent to it. They're gone, right?"

Tim hums into the mic. "Affirmative."

Tim ignores the way the shadow shapes weirdly underneath his feet.

"You can come out." He taps the corner of his mask for reinforcements, taking a step back into the moon as the shadow forms, a smile of white forming into a human.

"Can you—"

"Neither. All indications of sex are missing."

"Oh..."

Their voice is nothing short of horrifying to him.

"I caught a bird." It grins, and as Tim takes a step back, he finds that his other foot has a shadow warping around his ankle.

"Who are you?"

"We are the night." It sings. "We are the darkness..."

Tim knows what's next.

"We are... vengeance."

"That's rather cringe, don't ya think?" Tim raises a brow.

A batarang flies from behind him, and the shadows only create a hole for the weapon to fly through. The shadow splits into two people, and Tim smiles.

"Gotcha."

"Ah ah," The one on the left shakes its hand. "We were promised... freedom."

"Only where you belong." Batman shines a flashlight at the creature, and Tim watches as it retreats back into the shadows, his ankle free. "And you. Next time, just shine the flashlight."

"Are they weak?" Tim raises a brow. "Just to light?"

"It stuns." Batman nods.

"Go track the leftovers on your ankle back in the cave."

"Will do." Tim pauses before he goes. "Is it an alien?"

"No. Something worse."

Tim does NOT know what could be worse than an alien. (He lies. He does.)

The DNA tracks too many women to count. One shows up and then the next, and eventually, Tim has at least twenty women pulled up on his screen, all pronounced dead after being found used and discarded. It is horrifying. Tim may not understand just how terrifying it is to be a woman, but as he finds children, he seems to understand just how disgusting this is. Girl after girl, woman after woman, every last one of them were used and discarded bare for the world to see, photographed and made a case study out of — all who met their unfortunate end and their rapists never see the end of their life the same way they did.

It is disgusting, but something else is discovered.

He does not remember if it is something new, but it seems strange. It is not a shadow, but rather a composition of human souls forced to merge into an unrecognizable shape. It is science, not an alien, and Tim understands why it is worse. It is an unfortunate victim and not an alien. It is someone who had been forced to change into something unloveable. He wonders if the souls of the unfortunate make up the shadows.

Ah. If they are shadows...

Tim turns around as the shadows form a human again, shorter than he is, apple of its cheeks soft and gentle. A girl. It is a girl this time; not a woman.

"Are you a victim?"

It does not answer him.

"Tim? Tim, do you hear me? Red!"

"It has not attacked yet." Tim answers. "How many of you are there?"

The child does not respond, holding up one finger, and then two, and three, and eventually there are too many fingers sticking out of the hand that Tim had lost count.

"Many."

"What's the deal?"

"I matched the DNA." Tim swallows. "I won't hurt you, but please—"

The shadow dissolves, and Tim lets out a breath, staring at the faces plastered across the screen of the Batcave.

"Tim?"

"Oracle." His voice goes quiet. "They are all victims of... The computer just keeps going."

Eventually, B returns, staring at the wall of faces Tim left, finding the man in his room, glasses on as he stares at his PC, case file after case file being read, news article after news article. There is more than one soul occupying the shadows, and Tim reads one after the other of how they were murdered. Stabbed, strangled, shot, mangled, burned. None of the souls were able to escape death at the hands of their rapist. It was sickening.

"It is not a human." Tim speaks, staring at Bruce at the door. "We can not arrest it."

"Is it humanoid?"

"No. It is a shadow of vengeance."

"There has to be a way to stop it from collecting more souls."

Tim closes his eyes, brows furrowed as he sighs.

"And if I do not want to?"

"Tim."

"I know." He mumbles, exhaustion written all over his face. "How will we destroy the remaining souls?"

"How many women were identified?"

"There are currently twenty seven." Tim mumbles. "There may be even less if more of the men die."

"The vengeance of a ghost." Bruce mumbles. "Just find a way to stop the addition of souls. Surely, someone is collecting souls and adding them."

Tim finally closes his eyes when the sun starts peeking over the horizon.

"Sorry." Tim shows up to your meetup place, eyebags extra bad, and you raise a brow at him.

"Something up?"

"What would you do if someone was collecting the souls of the victims of rape and kill and turning them into a shadow of some sort to let them have vengeance on their rapist?"

"Wow, what a loaded question." You mumble.

"Thoughts?" Tim closes his eyes to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Feel free to ignore it if not—"

"I mean... it makes sense." You hum. "Is it scientifically immoral? Yes. Is it in some way morally correct? Perhaps. Their lives were taken and their souls haunt the earth because they are still held down by things they could not resolve while they were alive. Perhaps to the living, they are a monster, but to the dead? to the dead, they are a savior."

Tim pauses to think. "Should the person be punished?"

"Under the law? Sure."

"How about according to yourself?"

"No." You mumble. "If I was raped like that, I would love to ruin the life of the man who ruined mine. I heard a police officer got his dick ripped off. Is he still alive?"

"Alive." Tim nods. "Vitals are stable, but he can no longer procreate... obviously."

"Deserved, maybe. I heard he got off with only two months of jail time after the initial trial."

Tim does not answer, pausing to mull over the case.

"I'm sure you'll figure it out." You stand up, stretching your legs. "Shall we get something to eat?"

"You have food by here?"

"No, but since you brought your bike, I can take us somewhere."

"It better not be the diner from last time."

It is NOT the diner from last time

Instead, Tim finds himself seated outside of a Batburger place, thanking you as you hand him his order, clear view of the alleyway.

"This place is a little..."

"It's where a lot of drug trades happen." You hum, staring at the alleyway behind him. "Also where a lot of sex trafficking occurs."

"Ah, right." He mumbles. "Red Hood manages that, no?"

"Not as much." You bite into the burger, humming happily. "Sorry if this wasn't what you were expecting."

"I think the burgers and shake could fix me."

You raise a brow.

"As much as it can try, of course."

"Nah, I have those days too." You hum. "Did you find much on the souls?"

"I just wonder if they are decreasing after extracting revenge on their former rapist." Tim mumbles.

"I heard somewhere they started off in the fifties." You hum, continuing with your burger.

"...fifties? Where did you even hear that?"

"Rumor gets around quickest at the racetrack." You mumble. "Cardinal kept closely with the news. Apparently the figure was as large as a human at one point."

"Is twenty souls not enough to form a full grown woman?"

"Perhaps it picks a child for other reasons." You reach for a fry. "Am I being of much help, mister detective?"

"Somewhat." Tim pauses when he hears rustling behind him. "...May I?"

"Careful, they carry stun guns."

Tim nods, leaving you alone, and you click on your phone as you watch Red Robin swing in, kicking and freeing the poor girl, handing her off to the police as you stare at the two men knocked out. Tim had overestimated just one thing.

From behind, a spike of darkness pieces through the men's hearts, killing them on the spot as Tim holds a hand over the eyes of the woman.

Dead. The two men are dead.

The shadow forms behind them, three young women who look no older than the one that Tim is covering the eyes of.

"How many of you are left?"

This time, the shadow forms a 24.

The number is going down.

So, Tim reports the findings to Bruce, changing out of his suit to get back to you, nodding as he sits down and sighs.

"Sorry, stomach died."

"Nah, don't worry about it." You sip on your shake, humming. "Duty calls."

"Are you racing sometime soon?"

"I think B's trying to have us race less lately." You hum. "I won't be racing for some time. The only reason we raced so often a while back was because there were so many upgrades being implemented."

"So you have more free time?"

"Yeah." You hum. "I was thinking of traveling."

"Where to?"

Tim knows something you don't. The gentle taps of your painted nails omit some eerie sense of death, and it seems that no matter how much Tim likes you and feels fine around you, it is impossible to ignore that eerie sense of death. It reminds him of the first time he met you, stare of a thousand souls. Yet, it seems that...

"Staring?"

"You're rather pretty." He hums, pressing his napkin to his cheeks. "Is it not normal to stare a little?"

"Oh, look at you and your smooth words." You hum.

"I mean them." Tim stares at you.

You only give him a weak look.

You don't seem to believe Tim when he says you're everything.

And maybe at some point in time, Tim had realized that your words swayed him harder than they need to. He does not know when he had ended up so deep with his fingers and hands stained with a passion for you, but as it drags him under, he finds that it's fine. Maybe you were just destined for him in some way. If he would be dragged under, then he would simply find a way to clear it out. He enjoys the sensation of drowning in you. Maybe he is just weak for you.

"Do you love me?" You tilt your head, milkshake straw on your lips as Tim sorts through his files.

Tim stares at you, pushing his glasses up. "Why?"

"Curious." You hum. "You've brought me to your place, after all. Isn't this the nice little boat you got with your boyfriend? I remember the media going insane."

"Perhaps." Tim mumbles. "I brought you here to help me with the case, though. I don't think love is the right word for what we feel towards each other right now."

"Mm." You nod slowly, picking up some papers. "The number went down?"

"Yes. The two men who were killed resulted in three less entities in the shadow." Tim mumbles. "I just wonder if the number is going to increase."

"You wouldn't want it to, huh?" You hum.

"Prefferably no." Tim pauses. "Though, I suppose if the entity is acting on its own, then I can not do much to stop it. Someone is letting the souls merge into the shadows."

"If it's just cells, shouldn't it be the act of a human? That must mean they have some sort of way of accessing the victims' bodies."

"That would be the case, but a further search indicated that they were not picking up the cells, but rather just souls. I don't know when we got an upgrade to be able to locate souls, but—"

"It was probably when you tried cloning your best friend." You don't bother letting him finish the sentence.

Your statement freaks Tim out.

"H-how the hell do you know?!"

"B." You puff out your cheeks, continuing with reading the file.

B does NOT have that information open to just anyone to access.

Yet, Tim shuts his mouth, continuing with the file, taking the chance to seal your fingerprint. He runs the match while you continue checking, and he ends up in a dead end again. You do not exist in the database. Your fingerprint is not a real person. Surely there was a chance that you were not quite human either.

"Just how cautious are you?"

"Very." You hum. "My fingerprint won't show up."

"What gives you the boldness to say that?"

"A gamble." You hum. "I race for B. Surely, he would not do something as cruel as that."

"He is consistently paranoid."

"That does not matter." You click your tongue. "He could not hold me down if he tried."

Tim senses that there is a certain level of untruth to your words, but he can not say just what it is.

Three days later, four more men are found dead by the docks. Tim checks them with the police, Oracle's voice in his ear as he observes them. All three have had their hearts pierced through, a gaping hole left behind. Tim looks to the side at the shadows brewing beneath the water, and he observes that the number shown is four less than before.

"These men have to be part of an organization."

"They are." Oracle notes. "Human trafficking. These are the men who are part of a human trafficking specifically for sex workers."

"So... rapists."

"Yes."

"Did we ever get a number on them?"

"No."

Tim nods at the police as they arrive, grappling away.

Maybe he's committing a sin by letting the shadow get away with the murders. It would be impossible to hold them down, but he wonders if he should ever shine a light on them when they kill.

Back at the cave, the young girl emerges again, smiling at Tim as he raises a brow.

"What?"

"Twenty." The voice speaks, much younger this time.

"Are you all children?"

The widening of the smile indicates a yes.

"How old were you?" He holds his hand out for the shadow.

His question goes ignored, the shadow disappearing as B returns to the cave.

"The number of shadows decreased again." Tim stares at B as he undresses.

"How do you know the shadows aren't lying?"

"Here." Tim shows B the newest scan of the souls, and the number has shrunk.

"How did you scan it?"

"I do not know. We hadn't been able to scan based on soul previously."

Bruce clicks on the computer, eyes focusing on the application, taking over as Tim sits to the side. He looks further, digging into the code as he pauses and points at a line.

"Moonknight."

"The racer?"

Bruce reads the code, and Tim follows, pausing.

"She's a computer system?"

"No, but you probably scanned some system in when you ran her through the system the first time."

"Just what is she?"

"I don't ask questions, and neither does she. Just a worker."

"Alright." Tim mumbles. But the issue was you do ask questions. You ask plenty of questions and each one brings you closer than the last. He had already lost his identity to you because of your charm. Perhaps Bruce was not far off. Though, if Tim could not find you, then Bruce probably could not either.

The next time he meets up with you, you finally let him into your apartment.

"Oh, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you love me." Tim hums. "What brings you to invite me here?"

"No, I didn't feel like going out today." You shut the door behind him. "Pizza's on the counter."

"Where are the others?"

"Racing." You hum.

"I thought you said there weren't any races?"

Tim finds that you're a liar.

Somewhere down in the place he's been pulled to, he finds that there is endless amounts of darkness, something brooding behind your soul as you talk to him, smile on your face. You called him the one, but if you were the one, he wouldn't feel so turbulent. Shaking waters. The water he's been pulled under is unmoving and serene, only in the middle of the sea, making the peace eerie rather than soothing. Rather than the liquid moving, he finds that he's spinning further and further down.

"I'm not racing for the time being." You hum. "The others are racing with their own bikes."

"Do you not own one?"

You shake your head. "I prefer other forms of transportation."

Tim raises a brow but doesn't question it.

Even when the two of you are tangled under your sheets and he listens to your heartbeat, the sense of uneasiness doesn't leave. You are too perfect. Even if you were to drag him down with you, he would only know how to hold onto you and not swim. Maybe this is his end. Unless you free him, he fears he will be stuck with you forever. Drawn to the beating of your heart, Tim is stuck being in love with you for the rest of his life. If you would drag him into the depths of your world and ruin his life, then so be it. As long as neither of you cross the line, neither of you would be hurt.

"Would you like to race?"

You raise a brow at Tim.

"Once in a lifetime." He offers.

"On the track?"

"We can race during the day." He hums.

"Not a day person."

"Then at sunrise."

You pause to think about it.

"If that's what you want."

"You make it sound like it's something I want to do." Tim whispers, chin resting on your chest as it rises and falls.

"Is it not?" You run your fingers through his hair, vibrations of your voice making him purr.

When Tim wakes in the morning, Oracle sends him a news article. Ten men found dead at the docks. Ten men were killed, and Tim can only wonder how many of the shadows found peace from their deaths. Though, as your fingers scratch at his scalp again, he could worry about it later. He'd rather not stir up deep waters.

"Ten died?"

"Mhm." Tim closes his eyes, mumbling. "Ten men."

"From the same organization?"

Tim is too tired to consider how you would know all the men are from the same organization when it has not been disclosed to the public.

"You seem to know much more than you let on."

"Of course I do." You hum. "But I won't race you until you find out."

"Then give me a month." He mumbles, eyes closing as he drifts back to sleep. You're warm, and for the first time in a while, he gets some rest.

The next race Tim goes to, he notices Spitfire and Lightwing are missing.

You tilt your head at Tim from the track, waving as he waves back, lips curled upwards in a gentle smile.

He refuses to meet the truth.

There is some sense of security that lies in playing stupid, eyes closed and fingers reaching out into a void of nothingness, knowing that as long as he did not know, he would be safe. Yet, there is always the nagging in the back of his mind, uncertain about his future, uncertain about what would happen if he continued to play dumb. He knows he'll get called out for it by Steph soon, but it really... he was only a fool in love. He can not do something so terrible to his heart.

Even as you bring back the trophy and greet Tim with a thrashing kiss against his lips, breath hot against his as he tries to ignore the truth of the world beneath his feet embedded into the shadows, he knows that he can only play stupid for so long. Soon, this racetrack will become empty, and one day, you too will leave him for the world that he refuses to uncover for his own safety. He loves you, but he can only do so much when he's young and stupid.

"Can I take you back to mine?" Tim whispers, eyes begging quietly as you lick your lips, helmet in your hand as you confirm with a kiss.

The gentle rocking of Tim's place is peaceful in the Gotham waters, port comfortable as he pushes back all of his knowledge. It is a curse to be wise, yet Tim finds that there is nothing he can do when he just refuses to. He would choose you even if it meant laying what he had known before down. It pains him to know that he should not, and you would not let him, but he is foolish and young, eyes gentle as he drinks up the way you lay beneath him, the moon coating you in a lovely white as he furrows his brows to forget about it all.

Your skin is soft against Tim's hands, plush of your waist filling the spaces between his fingers as you stretch your arms above your head, eyes half-lidded as he pleases you — himself. It makes no difference. Turbulent waters have long become the place where he finds his rest, eyes half-lidded as he listens to the way you breathe, both beneath him and in the dead of the night. Life becomes slightly more bearable with you around, exhaustion no longer as suffocating as he's used to. Perhaps he loves you or such. Perhaps he does not. Most certainly, he knows he cares.

In the afterglow of sweat and skin, Tim finds that you are no different from him.

"How many of them are left?"

Tim stares outside the window, recalling the last murder in Gotham.

"They're almost gone."

"That's good."

You close your eyes, lashes brushing Tim's neck as you rest your neck over his arm.

"When will we race?"

"I told you. When you find out."

"Find what, exactly?"

You do not answer, closing your eyes and succumbing to exhaustion instead.

Ultimately, Tim knows.

He knows what he's to look for, and he knows just what you might be. It scares him that you might have lied to him for so long, the shadows and souls lurking beneath the surface of the water finally snaking around his ankle and pulling. The big screen in the Batcave is of no help either, only a single person with an obscured soul, and Tim knows deep down that it is yours. You are a victim of the same organization, an amalgamation of vengeful souls all combined together for the sole purpose of seeking vengeance.

Tim stares at the shadow forming behind him, digits dropping by the day as he reports to Bruce about just what was happening in Gotham. The moral code to prevent murder is strong, but the understanding that a few lives of a few criminals for the cost of a safer Gotham was not a world-ending trade-off. Tim understands that much, at the very least. He knows Bruce does too. In a world where neither of them have to work against human trafficking as hard as previously, Tim finds that the waters are both comforting and vicious. He can not be touched in the warmth of your skin, but others will die from the toxin that he is immune to.

So, as Tim crosses off the final ones in the list of souls, he texts to let you know that the organization has been wiped, asking you which sunrise would work best for you.

You refuse to pick a time during the day because you are afraid of being burnt.

You do not exist in the database because you are not quite human.

You exist because you are someone's hatred and memories, manifesting in the form of the shadows and risking a life you do not have in order to see what is worth living for, vehicles meaning nothing to you as you speed through the racetrack at night, only Aquastar left next to you as she too disappears into the shadows after all the guests leave. There are barely any guests now that Tim looks. Perhaps more than half of them had been tired souls, begging for some sort of help, seeking refuge in the way you would risk your life for some sort of power above the law.

You are home to the souls, regardless of whether they are alive or dead. If someone seeks death, they reach for your arms, holding their hands around your shoulders as you stare past their skin, into the depths of the darkness beyond — something Tim is terrified of touching, Yet, with the feeling of your skin memorized between his fingers, he knows why people go to you to look for something.

You are so living yet so dead.

There is comfort only you can provide.

You meet Tim at the racetrack, sitting on your bike as Tim drives in past the gates. The darkness in your soul has grown lighter. Something has changed from when he first met you. You are still so lovely in his eyes, yet it seems that you can not be together in a case like this. It is a shame. At least he gets to race you, popping off his helmet as he notices how empty the stands are compared to when you used to race. The end of your need in Gotham has arrived, and the end of your services to WE has ended as well. There will be no more of you one day in the future, and Tim knows that one day, he too will be cursed to forget everything about you.

The people are gone.

The racers are gone.

And perhaps after this race, you will be too.

You enable the speaker, fingers clicking on the screen at the podium, giving the two of you a twenty-minute warmup.

Tim wonders just how fast he can go. He watches you from the side as you warm up your bike and drive, speeding around the track with practice that can only come from muscle memory. Yet, he drives around the track and gradually speeds up, trying to get a hand on how to race around. Tim finds that he's a little rusty, making several more rounds around the track as you sit on the side, clicking on your phone and scrolling through. Tim does not know how to bring it up.

"What does the winner get?" You look up from your phone, hopping on your bike as you wait for the countdown.

"Whatever the winner wishes."

"That's quite the bet." You hum, staring up at the light as Tim gets ready.

"Of course."

You start your bike, speeding past Tim as the light shows green, Tim tight behind you as he catches up to you. You wonder and think, leaning to the side as the bike follows, letting Tim pass you as you trail behind him. Tim finishes the first lap relatively quickly, and he realizes that you've fallen back a significant amount. He's unsure whether or not to speed up, but as he finishes his second lap, he finds that you're still far behind.

You cut him from the left, successfully stopping Tim from hitting a wall.

Tim speeds up to chase after you, wondering when you had the time to cut him off.

Yet, the end is evident, your bike parked at the end after your third lap, a grin on your face as he stares at you.

The souls are gone, and you look so, so lonely.

The lights shut as the two of you sit by the podium, tablet in your hand as you kick your legs, and you finally speak up.

"I know you found out."

Tim grimaces. "...why?"

You stare at Tim, peeling back your jacket, throwing it at him as he stares at you, watching as your eyes turn pitch black, shadows forming underneath your skin and turning the entire podium dark, some sort of ancient power creeping up your hands to your forearms, darkness evident in every blink at him, lips curled up into an apologetic smile, and Tim feels the water surrounding him drain all at once. If he would not leave you, then you would leave him. You would force him out of the comfort of your waters, knowing that it would drown him one day.

"The shadow moves with you." Tim stares at you, swallowing thickly. "There is only one victim left. We both know who it is."

You stare at Tim, lips curling upwards as he remembers why your smile started looking so familiar at one point.

"You are the last." Tim picks his words carefully. "Are you a shadow?"

"No. Just a medium. I am very much alive." You smile.

"Who are you waiting to kill?"

"No one." You hum. "I am alive because I must hold onto the shadows for the next ones seeking vengeance."

"You are the source."

You ignore him.

"Are you human?"

You blink at him again, ignoring him once more. "Luckily, it seems the victims have lessened lately."

"Why had there been so many at once?"

"There was an organization." You rock on your heels, lips curled upwards. "Everyone in the organization has been wiped. No fret. They alone resulted in over fifty deaths of women after they reached the age threshold."

"The youngest was ten."

"Yes."

"And the oldest?"

"Most of them were killed once they turned 21." You hum. "Occasionally, if someone looked young enough, they would be killed later, but the majority of them were killed at 21."

"How many souls were there initially?"

"Well over a thousand." You hum.

"And only you are left."

"Yes."

"Why play savior?"

"Why not?" You grin. "I have done nothing but host the poor souls. That does not warrant for my arrest."

Tim knows there is an argument against it, but he does not think too hard.

"Next time a soul finds you, notify me. Send me an invite to your race."

"You know, Tim." You hum. "B no longer needs me."

Ah.

"Will you be gone?"

"Very much so."

"To where?"

You do not tell him.

"Write to me." He speaks again.

You shake your head.

"I can not."

"Why not?"

"Send me some flowers when you see me on the news. That is my wish."

Tim tries to not think too much about your final words to him. You left the next morning, morphed shadows in the city leaving with you, and Tim finds that soon, almost everyone forgets you had ever existed. You had come and gone, shadow of death leaving with you, but he finds that occasionally on the news, he hears word about a new racer, gender unidentifiable, face consistently hidden, only known by their speed. You have become a criminal under the law, racing between the crevices of cities, fake trophy after fake trophy taken home, death following wherever you went, sex trafficking decreasing whenever you rested at night.

Tim tries not to follow you all that much, but when you show up on camera on accident, your home is raided and you are killed on sight by the same men who had killed so many others.

It hurts Tim in the head, eyes closed as he tries his best to not think too much about your death and how you had known all this time, but it would forever haunt him. He still remembers the way the waves would rock gently underneath the moonlight when he was engulfed by you, eyes always tired but comfort always found, knowing that you would be his rest when he needed it. So, for him to see you dead on the news, he finds that perhaps he was just cursed to not be able to hold onto you — that he was destined to be stuck in place and watch as you died because you had made a minor mistake. A mistake that would not have cost his life, but cost yours instead.

Yet, he honors your promise, white chrysanthemums placed at your grave as he holds onto the umbrella, humming quietly. The rain splatters gently against the plastic, quiet drumming calming him as he stares at the carving on the grave. The media had reported this was your place of burial, though Tim did not know if it really was you. He could have only assumed off of the information given, matching your age slightly, and he wonders if there is some sort of universe out there where he would be able to just stay with you.

"Here to see her too?" A masked woman steps next to Tim.

"Yes. I promised I would send flowers once she showed up on the news."

"How lovely of you." The woman hums, placing down a blue lotus.

"Did... you know her?"

"I knew her quite well."

Tim stares down at his flowers, finally looking up at the woman.

"It's such a shame, huh? That she would die to the very organization that she had been working to take care of."

"Well, perhaps she had just understood what it meant to live when she died." You turn to Tim, pulling down your mask as you wait for it to register in his head. "What do you think, Ca—"

You don't get to finish your words before Tim wraps his arms around you with closed eyes.

"I love you too, boy wonder."

#good morning tim drake tag did you miss me? no? GOOD. #tim drake x reader #tim drake imagine #timothy drake x reader #tim x reader #☾.fics #☾.suggestive #contemplated not posting this but like. 10k words r NOT about to go to waste when my queue is empty

[hana-no-seiiki]

THE BETTER DAMIAN

“Beloved…”

Damian stared at you and then your new pet.

“Hm?”

You looked at him innocently. Eyes wide in anticipation of his following words.

“I enjoy your competitive spirit. I truly do.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

How did you even get this thing? He had been keeping track of all your heists recently but never heard of you going to the zoo or anything.

Sometimes he wishes he agreed on Tim’s offer of 24/7 surveillance. Damn it. If only that didn’t mean his older brother got to see you in your bed/bathroom too.

“Get to the point, Wayne.”

“Maybe a panther is a bit too much?”

“You’re just jealous cause I’m spending more time with the better Damian.”

“That’s besides the point.”

“So you are jelly!”

“Yes. Yes I am.”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagine #yandere fic #yandere core #damian wayne #damian wayne x reader #yandere damian wayne x reader #cat villain reader #yandere damian wayne #robin #robin x reader #yandere robin x reader #yandere robin #tim drake #tim drake x reader #timothy drake x reader #yandere tim drake #yandere red robin x reader #robin dc x reader #dc robin x reader #yandere scenario #yandere imagines #yandere x y/n

[mischieveousmayhem]

Mom, what do I do?

Pairing: Dick Grayson x Batmom!Reader

Genre: Angst

Warnings: Mention of death

Synopsis: Dickie is your eldest son. He has endured a lot of pain during his life time. But with you gone and his family falling apart, he feels hopeless.

THE MASTERLIST

—

Dick Grayson, your eldest son. The second mother of the family .

He's absolutely a wreck but he won't show it for the fact he wants to be strong for his dearest siblings. He cares and worries about them each, however he can't comfort him like you did.

Maybe it is just the fact that he couldn't comfort himself. But his gut tells him it was just you.

He's also worried about Bruce, his father. He hasn't seen that man in days.

Damian sits at the bench in the garden most days, Tim is tweaking off caffeine, and Jason spends most of his time at your grave.

It feels like the world has ended since you were gone. Crime has been awfully quiet and when there is a crime, Dick usually goes out and takes care of it by himself because it's just a small robbery or a small prison break.

Even that wasn't a distraction for your eldest though. He still carried the heavy weight in chest no matter where or what he was doing. It was a continuous struggle.

During his alone time Dick stays in your personal room , which you would sleep in when Bruce upset you, or you would go to get peace quiet.

But the quietness in your room was too silent.

Dick sits on your bed , which still had the scent of your lingering on it. He likes to reminisce how it has changed from when he was a kid to how it is now, as an adult.

All these years of love and comfort you gave him.

His biological mom is still in his heart, but you raised Dick to be the gentleman he is today. The way a kid is raised is very important, and Dick was raised by the best mom anyone could ask for.

So deep in his thoughts, he breaks down. He misses you! He needs you! Not only that his family is absolutely destroyed without you and he needs to put his family back together.

He looks up to the ceiling, "Mom," he croaks, "What do I do?"

#fanfic #dc comics #dc universe #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson #dick grayson x batmom #batmom #richard grayson #richard grayson x reader #tim drake x reader #bruce wayne x reader #bruce x reader #bruce #bruce wayne #tim drake x batmom #timothy drake x reader #tim drake #jason todd x batmom #jason todd x reader #jason todd #damian wayne x batmom #damian x reader #damian wayne

[thesuperiorrobin]

“Is that my shirt”

❥Pairing: Damian Wayne x Fem!Reader

❥word count: 1.2k

❥ft: Titus. Mentions of Selina Kyle

❥Summary: playing with Titus a fun but sometimes he gets a little to competitive

❥warning: fluff,mild-cursing

Gotham had its unusual weather all wear long from being gloomy, cold and dark to being hot, sunny and bright. And you enjoy these Unusual days. That’s because you get to spend your time with Titus. Damian's Great Dane. Damian doesn’t mind of course cause that just means he gets to spend time with you but there’s just a small hint of jealousy when he spends more time with his dog then him. Which makes you laugh a little if you really think about it.

The weather today was over eighty degrees out. And you two were sweating up a storm out in his backyard as you, him and Titus played catch with a frisbee. You and Titus against Damian. Fair game honestly since Damian is counted as more than one person. I mean have you seen his stigma. Boys fast.

You watched carefully as Damian threw the frisbee in your direction. You pay Titus head before saying:

“Go get it boy!”

The Great Dane barks before making a run for it, towards the flying toy. He leaps—catching the plastic toy in his mouth before landing on his paws. You clap happily as Damian huffs. Titus makes his way back to you. Almost as if the dog was skipping happily too.

“Oh you’re such a good boy Titus!” You scratch his head taking the plastic circle out of his mouth “oh yes you are!”

Titus lets out a loud bark. His tongue sticking out and his tail wagging back and forth quickly.

“Ok get ready It’s my turn”

You wipe his flober off the frisbee with your shirt so that it won’t slip from your trap when you throw it.

And you threw it, flying above in a somewhat straight line. Damian of course caught it without struggling to do so, making him yell out in victory. You roll your eyes.

Having a dog on your team has its pros and cons. They can do whatever you have them to do perfectly or not so perfectly. Maybe you should have called out saying you ‘got it’ or something because once Damian threw it, the frisbee was coming at you, and you obviously could have caught it—if you didn’t count the times it almost slipped past your fingers. Titus was running right to you at full speed—waiting for him to catch it.

Next thing the air is being knocked out of you literally and you're falling and holding your breath is you called into Damians huge pool.

“Shit!” Damian yells out as he makes his way to you with Titus following right behind. Damian called out your name one last time before jumping into the pool without hesitation.

He pulls you back up as you let out a couple of small coughs. Your small coughs turn into a fit of giggles.

“Are you alright, beloved?” With Worried concern in his voice you nod letting out a small laugh. Damian brushes your wet hair out of your face.

“I’m alright Dame’s” you say “I’m just surprised is all”

Titus lets out a bark then a small whine. You could tell he feels bad by the way he lowers his face to the ground.

“Aw it’s alright Titus. I know you didn’t mean it, plus I’m alright”

Titus' head quickly goes back up as he barks twice, which means he’s back to being happy. Something you learned a while ago about the big dog. He leaps forward.

“Titus no!”

You and Damian both yelled out in sync as he jumped into the pool, Damian pulled out closer to him out of habit of his protectiveness.

“Oh dear”

You glance up at the well known British accent. With a nervous laugh you waved at the butler. Who waved back slowly as he watched the scene unfold in front of him.

“Hi Alfred. How are you doing?”

“I’m doing quite well Miss.L/n thank you for asking. Mhm what about you and master Damian? how are you two holding up in the pool in this weather?”

Damian pulled himself off from the pool before kneeling down and extending his own arms to help you out.

“Pennyworth, go fetch us some dry towels” Damian says eyeing you as you squeeze and twist your hair to get rid of any water

“Please?” You glance back at Damian.

“Very well master Damian. Although it would be nice to hear just a mere please from you. Maybe start taking lessons from your well mannered girlfriend beside you” Alfred sassed out as Damian grumbled something under his breath and you hit his shoulder gently.

Titus, who was already out of the pool and standing right beside you started to shake himself drying, leaving you and Damian to cry out to him to stop.

You two were soaking wet again.

~~~~

With a towel wrapped around your hair to dry it. With your still wet clothes on you glance around Damian's closet. Surely he won’t mind right? Damians been gone for almost thirty minute to find you some spare clothes from his now step-mother Selene Kyle. If you waited any longer you're sure you would be catching a cold the next day. Grabbing a shirt that looked liked out of his taste and spare shorts you quickly changed. You shivered as the cold air hit you leaving you with goosebumps. You let out a small sigh feeling warm in his clothes. Felling a small nudge to your leg you look down a smile.

“Hello Titus” you notice a towel in his mouth and watch as he drops it near your foot. “Aw you want me to dry you too?”

Titus sits. So that’s a yes. You let out a small laugh, grappling the towel off from the floor you walk over to Damians bed and sit down. You Pat your lap gently singling the Great Dane to walk over to you and he sits in between your legs as you pat him dry.

“Geez Titus you’re still wet”

“Is that my shirt?”

Knowing who it was, you hum. “Yes. Sorry you took too long and I was getting cold. Hope you don’t mind”

Damian shakes his head as he walks over to you and sits down on his bed next to you “I don’t mind beloved. Sorry about the trouble Titus caused you”

“It’s alright I needed to cool off anyway. Titus just happened to have a great idea. Isn’t that right Titus” He barks loudly, tail wagging as he still sits on the ground. “See?”

Damian's hair was still wet. Noticing the small water droplets falling from the strands of his hair you take your towels from your head and place it on his. Catching his attention.

“Your hair is still wet, your going to catch a cold”

“I don’t catch colds beloved I’m—“

“ a trained assassin with a great immune system yeah I know” you roll your eyes, gently dabbing his hair dry.

Leaning done you place a small kiss on his lips, smiling as you lean back “there all done”

“Thank you beloved”

Apparently Titus was feeling a little jealous as he got up and barked once and started to shake the remaining water droplets on his hairs.

“Titus!”

#batfamily #batman x fem!reader #damian al ghul #damian wayne #damian wayne x reader #jason todd x reader #robin x reader #batfamily x reader #bruce wayne x reader #dick grayson #tim drake x reader #timothy drake x reader #damian x reader

[hearts4robs]

✿ 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐲 𝐓𝐢𝐦 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐞 ✿

🍊➛ Idiotic shenanigans at its best🫂【Tim Drake x platonic!reader】

#Timothy Drake x reader #Tim Drake x reader #dc x reader #dc

[the-djarin-clan]

All the pretty boys in matching suits.

(The colors of the ties are in accordance with the color of each one's vigilante attire.)

*DickBabs wedding.

Bonus: As always, Dad Bruce Wayne looks gorgeous in the black suit.

Red Hood: Outlaws Ep 56 - Something New (Series Finale)

(W) Patrick R. Young and (A) Nico Bascuñán

#dick grayson #jason todd #jason peter todd #richard john grayson #richard grayson #duke thomas #tim drake #damian al ghul #damian wayne #timothy drake #timothy jackson drake #batfam #batman #batkids #the batman #batman and robin #batman wayne family adventures #wayne family adventures #jason todd x reader #dick grayson x reader #tim drake x reader #duke thomas x reader #damian wayne x reader #bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader

[igotanidea]

Home : bat!family x bat!sister

Summary: no one gets to offend my siblings and father. No one but me. I'll make sure of it.

***

Maybe it was a bad idea to apply for that Erasmus program and leave her brothers and adoptive father alone for whole three months. Sure, studying abroad, expanding knowledge, learning language and customs was an amazing experience, but it came with the cost. The price of being in fear that her family would get themselves in trouble, pain, fight they could not recover from.

The first two weeks of her adventure was the worst, since she was waking up at most random night hours, ready to jump into fight, those vigilantes instincts and habits kicking in.

Those were the nights when she was turning and tossing in her bed unable to close an eye and in result sneaking out her dorm room and walk around the campus like the ghost. The quietness and peacefulness of her surroundings at the academy were so different from those she knew in Gotham, it was almost disturbing.

There was no denying that Y/N was the smartest in the family, even Tim admitted it once (obviously not while talking to her, but she overheard his conversation with Bernard) but at times like this she was second-guessing her choices.

Due to her specific upbringing and family background she also never managed to form any deep connection with her fellow students, preferring to stay by herself, focus on the task and putting a lot of work into expanding her knowledge and skills in technology. She never complained, but from other people’s perspective she was an eremite. Kind, polite with perfect manners when someone asked her for something or while working in group, but still highly reserved. Just like her adoptive father, whose relation to she was trying to keep a secret. And it worked up to the day when one of the lecturers accidentally called her  “Miss  Wayne” in front of the whole class. The second he did it the air in the auditorium froze. She might have been in different country, but for God’s sake she was studying technology, of course everyone heard about the Wayne Enterprises and the  Bruce Wayne.

“You’re his daughter?” one of the boys in the lower row turned around and eyed her suspiciously

“Yes. Adoptive one.”

“Of course. He’s well known for taking kids in, right? Seems like some sort of complex or maybe even a disease” he smirked and it made the girl clench her fist. Her relationship with Bruce might have been rocky, but no one except her and her brothers were allowed to judge and offend him.”

“Care to elaborate on that?” she hissed, eyeing the guy with ice cold gaze

“Miss Y/L/N! Mister Olsen! Please calm down and sit down!” the teacher tried to make up for his mistake but it was far too late for that.

“You misspelled my name once, might as well keep calling me Wayne now.”  the tone of her voice matched the gaze. She was not going to let the guy easily, but getting in trouble with the dean was not a part of her plan. “Now, can we continue with the lecture? I don’t know about anyone else in her, but speaking for myself I would love to actually learn something useful.”

***

Y/N was the middle child. Younger than Dick and Jason, older than Tim and Damian which placed her literally halfway  in the family. Because of that she was a mix of responsibility and carelessness, doing her own thing, not always the right way, but still capable of getting away with a lot more than the others. Not as family oriented as Dick, feeling a bit overshadowed by Jason, highly competitive with Tim and more independent and individualistic than Damian. Still, even despite her “boss bitch” attitude, she was sandwiched between her brothers which made her the best negotiator and mediator in the family. Y/N also had a strong sense of fairness and morality and would always try her best to do the right things. Objectively, not subjectively. And making fun of her family was not one the things she could forget. However, before taking any action she had to gather intel, figure out what the guy knew and then come right at him.

***

Waiting till the end of the class was probably the greatest torture she ever had to endure, every minute stretching into infinity and when it was over the sense of relief almost made her drop the plan. Almost.

“I’m not done with you, Olsen.” she was faster to the door, stopping her potential victim from getting away.

“You want more, Wayne?”

“Please. Hit me with your best shot. What is your problem with my family, exactly?”

“Let me think” he tapped his chin. “There are so many. Like for instance, your oldest brother. What was his name again? Oh, right! Dick. Suits him quite well, doesn’t it. A prick, if you ask me. Definitely a show-off with no skills.” He scoffed “Shall I continue?”

“ Please. You got like three more people to gossip about.”

“The second in line, Jason, right? Oh, the unhinged  one. Violent, mocking, thinking he is better than anyone else around, when in reality he’s just a lost, scared child. Probably a dumbass too.”

“Pretty sure he would agree with that. Now what about Tim and Damian?”

At this point Olsen was getting a bit surprised that the girl in front of him was still unfazed. Her calmness, a sign of silent inside fury making him slightly uncomfortable.   Not enough to stop however.

“Drake…..” the name rolled of his tongue while the boy was wondering what words to choose “oh, he’s the gay one, right? Such a shame that the renowned Wayne family has someone like that as a member. Bet your father would never take him in, if he knew. A fairy becoming the next CEO of his renowned company. How ironic!”

“Hm.” Oh, Y/N was so much like Bruce at times and it showed in the least expected moments.

Damn that girl! How could it not make her angry?

“And …… Damian, the only biological child. Absolutely maladjusted and unaware of social norms and boundaries. Tell me, how was it like to have your youngest brother violate your boundaries and personal space?”

“It was. ….educatory. Just like it was with everything you just said. You presented yourself as someone with some serious psychological issues and possibly an unhealthy interest in my family’s life. So thank you, it truly was illuminating.”

***

“What the hell did you do Y/N?” a very alerted Dick appeared  on the other side of the screen

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” The girl sighted and fell onto the cushions bringing the computer onto her lap to see her brother better

“Don’t lie to me now, sis.”

“I wouldn’t even dream of it.”

“Bruce has been on the phone for the last fifteen minutes and from what I figured it’s about something that happened on the campus.”

“The only thing happening on the campus are students who skip classes.” She mumbled “maybe except that one time when one of the boys lost some stupid bet and blew up the fountain as some sort of punishment. That was funny.”

A little grunt was heard on Dick’s side and for a second he disappeared from the screen.

“Dick?”

“Sorry, I had a little interruption.” He rubbed his forehead “Now, back onto what you did…..”

“Did you say that someone blew the fountain?” third face appeared on the screen in the corner, taking over the conversation.

“Hello, Jason.”

“Hi sis. Maybe I should have joined you in your academic career. Seems like you have a lot of fun there. Besides, I never really finished school, since you know…. I died.”

“We know.” Y/N and Dick said in unison

“Always a good opportunity to remind you, right?” he grinned “Now, sis, tell me, how was it going full rogue on fellow student? I gotta admit I’m proud of you here.”

“So that’s what this is about?” Dick’s eyes grew wider than ever “I;m gonna ask you once again, Y/N. what did you do?”

“Nothing permanent.”

“What…..?”

“Cut her some slack, Grayson.”

“Look who decided to join us.” Y/N smirked “improved your computer skills much, Damian?”

“I got tired of being left out.”

“Since when do you care about the group?”

“Leverage, sis. Knowledge is power, I thought you knew that.”

“Ok, that is enough!” Dick finally lost his patience “I’m trying to have a conversation with my little sis here. Both of you, get out of the line!”

“Mhm, keep dreamin’ Dickhead.”

“For once I agree with Todd.”

“You have no right to…..”

“Guys…..” Y/N tried to mitigate them, but deep inside she enjoyed their bantering. It was a while since she experienced it and only now realized how familiar it was.

“I was here first!” Dick yelled “And I’m the oldest”

“No one cares Grayson! You are a Bludhaven resident now.  Just because you visit the manor does not mean you can keep Y/N busy using the wayne’s devices!”

“Don’t you have someone to kill in the crime alley, Jay?”

“Unlike you, I succeeded in all my latest missions.”

“Is that what you call coming back to your safe house bloodied and injured. You were on the verge of death!” Damian smirked “you were absolutely inept, that’s not a success.”

“You were what, now?!” Y/N shrieked. Her second oldest brother was sometimes too careless.

“It was not that bad, Y/N, I swear. And how the fuck do you know about it, demon?”

“I have my ways.”

“I would suspect Drake of spying on me, but you?”

“Speaking of the devil, I’m surprised Tim hasn’t already join us.” Dick muttered

“Oh, he did.” Y/N pointed out

“WHAT?” her brothers cried. Now there was another one fighting for her attention and it was not a secret that Tim was her favorite making the situation harder.

“I did.” Tim chuckled  “Well, to tell the truth Y/N let me in the channel. We have our ways with technology. Something none of you could ever fully understand. “

“Of course not….”

“Cheer up, Dami. You can’t monopolize all the areas.”

“I would beg to differ.”

“Ok, everyone hold up here. I think we lost the point of the conversation. The thing was that Bruce was on the phone, probably taking to the dean about….”

“Y/N played a little prank on her classmate, is that right?” of course Tim was the one who everything best.

 “He deserved it.”

“Y/n…..”

“Stop using the big brother voice on me! It’s not going to work!”

“How about we use Damian’s youngest one?” Dick teased

“I refuse to be used in this….”

“SHUT UP DAMIAN!” Dick and Jason shouted together and shared a murderous look between one another. Now they were both desperate to find out what happened since Tim would rather die than spill the bean. It was infuriating. They were the older brothers! This had to mean something.

“Ok, that’s it.” Damian stood up and the view of the empty chair in the place where his face should be was highly disturbing.

“That is not good.” Y/N said out loud something that all of them already knew. Her presumptions turned out to be right a second later when the shouting and yelling reverberated through the speakers and a blur of black and green rushed into Dick’s room.

“hey, I want to join the fight too!” Jason started up and with a speed, Wally West could be jealous of involved in the mix of limbs and screams.

“Wait! I though Dick was in Bludhaven! Tim?”

“Not today. We’re all in the manor.”

“And you idiots were talking to me through four different computers?”

“Are you actually surprised?”

“On second thought, not at all.” She sighed. It’s a good thing you are the reasonable one here…..”

“There you are, Timmy” now the situation has turned as it was Dick who appeared in the door of Tim’s bedroom “you are not  getting out of this. If you want Y/n to yourself you have to fight me.”

“And me!” Jason tackled Dick to the ground with a loud thump

“Losers!” Damian jumped over their bodies and came right at Tim

Because of their actions, Y/N was the only one who noticed two men stepping from the shadows and exchanging some words. Apparently Bruce wasn’t capable of putting the boys in their places and asked Alfred to try this instead. And a single grunt from the butler did a miracle as all of them stood up and started explaining and apologizing. Funny as it was, Y/N knew that with Bruce’s arrival she was heading straight towards preaching from her father.

“Y/N.”

“Hello Bruce.”

“Did you break his arm?”

“You broke his arm?” Dick was halfway out but turned back immediately

“No.” Y/n shook her head “I broke his arm and hurt his legs.”

“Don’t forget that you also demolished his dorm room.”

“That wasn’t me. That was….”

“Did you go at him as a vigilante? Wow! Way to go, sis. Now I truly am proud of you.”

“Ok, both of you, out!” Bruce lost the rest of his patience pushing Dick and Jay away. “Now that we are alone…….” he sighed deeply closing the door tight  

“I;m not sorry.”

“Oh, I know. And I’m not mad, because I’m sure you had a reason to do it. So tell me, why?”

“you…. you want to know ?”

“Of course. Look Y/n, I’m aware I won’t get  a father of the year cup from you, but I care all right? Did that boy hurt you and you took retaliation? Just tell me….”

“He was talking shit about our family.”

“And you felt the urge to protect the Wayne’s honor?” Bruce smirked “this is so not like you.”

“Honor, my ass. We’ve lost that ages ago, Bruce. The only thing I was protecting was my sole privilege of mocking you. No one else is allowed to do it.”

“I’ll be sure not to tell your brothers that you miss them. “

“That would be most welcome.”

“And you have to know that we don’t miss you either, y/n.” father and daughter’s gazes met and they both nodded in silent agreement, right corners of their mouths lifting almost unnoticeable. “You coming to visit next week?”

***

Something was wrong.

Something was terribly wrong and that tingling sensation became unbearable the second she climbed the manor’s stairs and reach for the doorknob with a heartrate so fast it would send anyone else straight into cardiac arrest. Y/N however kept her cold blood, focusing on what may happened inside and considering her options and strategies for a potential fight.

She could not expect  that the moment she opened the door four figures would jump out from the shadows making the noise that would bring the dead from behind the grave. It startled her and as a result she stumbled back, hitting the wardrobe and making it shake. She could not expect that on said wardrobe there would be packets and packets of paint and that those would fall down straight on her making her look like some abstractionism painting.

“I hate you all.” She muttered while her brothers run away in four different directions.

“Welcome home, miss Y/N” Alfred approached her with a tissue so she could at least wipe the paint from her eyes.

“Home.” She whispered “Yes, it definitely feels like it.”

It was good to be back.

But she was still going after them. .....

Later. When they would least expect it.

#batboys x reader #batboys x batsis #batfamily x reader #batsis #batfam x batsis #batfam x reader #dick grayson #nightwing #jason todd #red hood #timothy drake #red robin #damian wayne #robin dc #batboys x y/n #batboys x you #batfam x you #batfam #batfamily #batman #bruce wayne #dc imagine #dc x reader #batboys

[thenyoumightaswellwrestleangels]

These hands may be bloody (but they're still mine and I'm still yours)

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

pairing: tim drake x reader (gender neutral)

length: 1.3k

genre: fluff, sort of hurt/comfort

warnings: there's some talk of timmy being able to hurt reader, but the point is that he doesn't

a/n: hmmmmm actually this is a really good one enjoy <3

"You know, my front door works very well," you point out without looking up, your eyes still trained on the case file in your lap as you sit on your couch, listening to your balcony door click shut and heavy boots walk across your living room.

"Aw, but where's the fun in that?" Red Robin drawls as he settles on the arm of your couch, leaning over to try to look at your file before you snap it shut and throw it onto your coffee table.

"There are a lot of apartments to break into around here, Red. You should start branching out." You quip. 

"Those other apartments don't give me what I need."

"Which is…?" You prompt. He extends his hand, dropping a flash memory drive into your lap. You look at him witheringly. "I should start charging you."

"I don't have the time to keep eyes on all the leads I need to. Help me out a little." Red Robin smiles, a sharp grin that seems to glint in the darkness of your apartment.

"I did," you emphasize. "I've helped you out for weeks. When are you gonna have enough of me, Red?"

"You watch the news, I'm sure." He ignores your question. "The intel you're helping me get is doing real damage to the drops trade. You're making Gotham a better place. You're doing something good here."

"Should I pull out the pompoms or are you done with the cheerleading speech?" You shoot back dryly. 

"C'mon, please. Just… give me a little something. Help me out here," Red Robin slides off the arm of your couch so that he can kneel in front of you, propping his chin on his hand and looking at you imploringly through his mask.

"Don't grovel. It freaks me out," you say. He laughs. Your heart thumps at the sound in a way you hate. 

"Please…?"

"Fine. Just - get up, will you?" You snap as he pulls himself up to his feet. The way he stands in front of you, towering over your sitting form with his arms crossed menacingly, you faintly remember in the back of your head that you should be afraid of him. The moonlight from your windows lights his silhouette like a halo, his face hidden from you as you stare up at him. He could hurt me, you think. Why hasn't he, yet?

"I'm not going to hurt you," he says plainly.

"Excuse me?" You shift, wishing you had a mask of your own.

"You can say no to me. Give me back the drive and I'll leave. You'll never see me again." Your eyes flit over Red Robin's face at his words, wishing desperately that you could see his face so that maybe you could begin to guess what's going on in his mind. But he stays standing, shrouded in the darkness of night as he looks down on you, his posture straight and his muscles taut. He's… offended, you think maybe. Huh. 

"If I thought you were going to hurt me, I wouldn't be so apt to keep letting you into my home," you say softly. The muscles of his forearms tighten where his arms are crossed and you wince internally at the words you chose. Wrong answer, you think. Somewhere fuzzy in the back of your mind, you consider the possibility that you might make him angry enough that he does hurt you.

"Are you letting me in? Really? Could you find a way to keep me out if you wanted to?" Red Robin points out. You freeze, your mind spinning at the insinuation of his words - at the reminder that the two of you are inherently on uneven footing. No matter how much he tries to hide his teeth behind a wolfish grin, you are still a lamb led to slaughter every time he slips through your balcony door.

"Yes," you say stubbornly. "I would ask you to leave… and you would. That's all I ever need to keep you out." Your fingers tangle in the blanket that's thrown haphazardly over your couch as you wait for his response. Tell me I'm right, you think pleadingly. Tell me you'll listen when I tell you to stay or go. 

Red Robin's shoulders slouch, his posture deflating as he sags, bending to sit perched on the edge of your coffee table and look at you. He reaches forward with a slowness that has to be deliberate, using gentle fingers to brush a stray strand of hair from your face before he pulls back quickly.

"Yes," he says, and his voice rings with a conviction that you haven't heard from him before. "That's all you'll ever need. Say the word and I leave. Or… or say the word and I… stay." You release a breath at his words, leaning back to sag against your couch and look him up and down.

There's a silence that hangs between the two of you, bated breath held by Tim as he waits for your response. Please tell me to stay, he wants to beg. Please tell me you believe me. Please let me keep you safe. He watches as your eyes flit over him, mulling over his words as you make your decision. I'm a dog with a bloody muzzle, I know, but it will never be your blood on my teeth.

"Leave the drive with me," your words snap him out of his inner spiralling and Red Robin straightens, the wood of your coffee table legs shifting slightly under his weight. "I'll let you know when - if I find something."

He nods stiffly and stands, stepping over your legs easily to make his way back to your door. Your hand shooting out to grab onto his stops him in his tracks, though, and when he looks down at you, you pull back, opening your mouth to utter an apology. Before you can, though, he crouches in front of you again, reaching to take your hand back into his, his brow furrowed in sudden worry.

"Next time you come around…" you begin, and his heart thumps at the over-confident, teasing tone that's made its way back into your voice. "Don't sit on my coffee table like that. You'll break it. The couch arms, too. I have real chairs for a reason." Red Robin laughs and squeezes your hand before letting it go and standing, moving back towards your balcony door.

"I'll keep that in mind… for next time," he says, sliding the door open. Before he slips through it and into the darkness, though, he stops to look at you one last time.

"It's your fault, you know," he says plainly.

"What?"

"You never told me what your rate is."

"What are you talking about?" You sigh.

"I can't pay you… I don't know how much I owe you. You haven't told me what you're charging," he points out. You stare back at him, and although the shadows obscure his masked face once again, you find it doesn't bother you so much.

"...you don't owe me anything, Red. You never will," you say gently. He doesn't smile this time - instead, an emotional little noise gets punched out of his lungs before he nods his head, slipping out into the night and closing your door silently behind him. As you sit on the couch, turning the memory drive over in your hands, you hear the faint click of the door being locked again somehow from the outside and you smile to yourself. It doesn't seem too bad to have a wolf at your door some nights.

#tim drake #tim drake x reader #tim drake x you #tim drake imagine #tim drake fanfiction #tim drake fic #tim drake x y/n #red robin #red robin x reader #red robin x you #red robin x y/n #red robin imagine #red robin dc #timothy drake #smsn.writes

[strangeshoepatrolbandit]

LMFAOO

THIS IS SO FUNNY TO ME

My mother came across someone on tik tok who likes Batman.

UPDATE: He seen this.

#x reader #batman #batboys #batbros #jason todd x reader #batsiblings #bruce wayne #batfam x batsis #damian al ghul #damian wayne x reader #dick grayson #dick grayson x reader #tim drake x reader #tim drake #timothy drake #jason todd

[idyllcy]

sincerely, never yours

word count: 4.8k

warnings: Inspired by TBOSAS, non explicit smut, master/pet theme

summary: in a room full of birds, there is something visibly off about you.

In the beginning of your life, if you were told that you'd get your life ripped to shreds by a boy from the richest area in the country, you would have laughed in their face. If someone told Tim that he would get his heart marred by some insignificant girl in the world, he would have sent them to the catacombs.

There is no such thing as fate.

You spend your days weaving your friends' hair, fingers working as you weave intricate patterns, voice soothing to their ears as you hum the folk songs passed on to you by your family, performers through and through. You keep your voice quiet as you sing, and you lower it further as a guard from the capitol strolls by, eyes narrowing at you as you avoid his eyes. He stares harder, brows furrowing, and eventually, you are grabbed by the chin as he laughs.

There is no one in the world who does not know the voice of a songbird.

Your family is known for their voices, yet no one lives past their youth. Fate plays the cruel trick of selection for the capitol to be sold as an entertainer, and fate plays the cruel trick of never protecting them from the diseases presented at every moment. You are not lucky. You will never be lucky. In this world, you will never be able to break the bonds of fate no matter how you try. The strings on your body will be pulled and you will be forced to perform for the rest of your days.

You are bound by the strings of fate.

And just by opening your mouth to sing, you will be tied up until there is no way out.

"The daughter of the songbird himself." He sneers. "What are you doing in the slums singing to the poor? You should be in a cage performing for the capitol just like your daddy."

"I don't know what you're talking about, sir. I'm an orphan." You flinch as he throws your head to the side, delivering a slap on your face. You can not let him take you. For if he does, you will never know the illusion of peace ever again.

"Hah. Lies." He sneers. "I'd recognize that poisonous voice at any point in time. Be thankful I didn't just take you like they did with your father. You can make this easy for you, or I can take you forcibly just like they did with your daddy."

"Sir. I really do not—"

He spits on your face. "Hard way it is."

You are yanked by the arm as a chain is clasped to your neck, and you are tazed, electricity shooting down your spine as your jaw drops in shock, the veins in your neck becoming prominent as you hold back a yell. You land on the ground as he holds you down by the head, and you grimace as the dust fills your lungs and grime digs into your hair, and you feel yourself get pulled back up, with another chain around your wrists, and you grimace as he shoves you with the tip of his gun into the car he arrived in, and you watch as your friend yells for you as you leave.

You mouth at her to stop, and you watch as she stays standing in place, even as the car rolls away, and you keep staring at her, even as her figure becomes nothing more than a spec of dust in your vision. You can not stop staring back at the past.

You arrive at the train station, and your chains are unlocked, stripped, washed, dolled up and dressed up. The maids ask you how you want to be dressed, and you ask if you are able to dress yourself. You do as they watch you, eyes on every movement of yours, and you watch as they rush over to help you lace up the corset to support your back. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and your lips are curled into a wretched grin.

An idea strikes your mind as you take notice of the treatment you are receiving.

They take you to the stage, and you cough twice as the judges step in, and you meet eyes with him.

Timothy Jackson Drake.

Ocean blue eyes and pitch-black hair, Tim is the embodiment of the elites in the capitol. Born of money, born of status, Tim Drake has everything the children on the street desire. You wonder if you could take advantage of him in some way. After all, it does make you excited to see if you could do what your father failed to do. Well, no point in crying over spoiled milk. It was only you now. It didn't matter if you had to seduce him with your body. You would pick a youngster over an old man any day of the year. Anything is better than the men in their seventies who bring home songbirds for the sole purpose of sexual release. Maybe Tim is naive enough to even love you. Though, it doesn't have to be him.

The thought of it alone makes your lips curl into a sweet smile, flashing it at him before you listen to their words.

You are to sing, and not stop singing until you are told that you can stop.

So you open your mouth, voice warm as honey, sweet to the ears, and you watch as your listeners descend into that same mania that everyone who listens to your voice does, and you stare into Tim's eyes as you sing, watching as that same sick of obsession that twisted onto the face of guard when he heard his voice mirror on Tim's face, and your lips curl into a sickening smile as you catch his attention. Your voice pulls your listeners underwater as they feel free, bubbling in the blue with their happiness, your voice there for their service.

There is no such thing as fate.

Yet, as fate pulls on you and drags you down to hell, you can try and fight it all you want.

You finally stop after one of the judges break free from your voice, and something is clasped around your neck as you land on the ground with a thud. You don't struggle, holding your head down as you listen to the judges whisper amongst themselves to see who should take you home, and you wonder if Tim likes you enough to fight against the elders. You wonder if he would win against those grimy old men who had seen your chest and decided that you would be a great bedwarmer. Well, if that were to happen, you would just have to sing a little harder. It isn't too hard to b—

Tim walks up to you when the judges leave him to take you home, and you blink up at him, doe-eyed, innocence leaking out every single pore of yours just so he can buy the act. You pray he trusts you. He brushes the hair from your face, cupping your cheek, eyes oddly gentle, and you recognize the psychotic glint in his eyes as one that used to rest in the eyes of your mother while growing up. So, you lean into his palm, eyes closing, pretending to enjoy his touch while it disgusts you to no end. You suppose he works.

The way Tim's thumb brushes your cheek convinces you that he's fallen for it.

"You'll be my songbird from now on." He explains, lips curling into a smile. "I'll treat you well as long as you obey, hm?"

You blink at him, lashes full, eyes convincing. "Alright."

Even your voice sounds like sin when you speak.

"My first order... do not speak unless permitted to." He smiles, showing all his teeth.

You nod.

Oh, such power

Tim adores it.

"Then," He whispers, pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth, "when I am receiving guests in twos or threes, you are never to sing to your full potential."

You bat your lashes at him in understanding.

"Finally, you have to keep the chain around your ankle at all times, hm?"

On the first night he brings you back, he has you in his bed at his mercy, listening to your voice as you mewl his name and chant it like a prayer, breathless whimpers and moans slipping past your lips as he uses you. His touches are gentle, and the words he whispers into your ear almost make you sure that he loves you, but he does not. It is painfully obvious he does not when you wake in an empty bed, but it makes no difference to you. You are his pet— to be abused, used, discarded. You are nothing but an object he holds temporary possession over, an object he will inevitably grow tired of one day, and the reminder is carved into your skin, a remembrance of your father who was used by your mother.

You are a lowlife half-blood.

That is all you ever will be.

But, you don't complain about Tim's treatment of you. Your fingers stay still as the maids apply a new set of press-ons to your nails, and you tilt your head for the maid to powder your face, and you sit on a silk-wrapped couch in Tim's study room, locked inside a human-sized glass cage as you sketch and sketch and sing and sing. You are not permitted to consume books out of a fear that you would learn rebellion, so you dabble in the arts, oil paint on your face, watercolors spilled all over the couch you sit on, fingers always busy with something. The chain on your ankle is barely noticeable.

You paint portraits of the servants that go in and out of Tim's study.

You paint portraits of your friends out of a fear that you will forget what they look like.

You paint portraits of the mysterious figure known as your father out of a wretched longing.

Your paintings are hung up around the mansion, pictures of people staring lifelessly staining the walls, but Tim pays no mind, asking if you would ever paint him one day. You do not answer him, blinking innocently instead. Tim finds it bothers him slightly, but not as much as he believes it does, and not as little as you think it does. You do not have much of an effect on him, and Tim believes that you never quite will. After all, the two of you are simply master-servant, servant-master.

However, you do find it strange that Tim never has you sing.

When he does, it is only when guests are over, and you are offered dinner in exchange. You almost fool yourself into believing he might have even taken a liking to you. You know that's not true, of course, and you find it funny that you would even entertain the thought. Though, that is not your problem— especially not when Tim has you dolled up for the first time since your arrival, telling you to sing nice and pretty for the elites of the capitol at Bruce Wayne's mansion. You have to prove that he has the best bird. It was simple.

You're paraded around to the rich of the capitol, and you perform in Bruce Wayne's manor as Tim's songbird, lips curled into a teasing smile as you play the act of a bird, voice ringing in everyone's ears as you smile sinfully at them. The song sends everyone to the waves, floating on the sea on a sunny day, the sand between their toes, the salt in their hair. The world spins in your palm slowly as your voice dances in the air, and you watch as Tim brags about you like one would about their pet, and you snicker. He is no idiot.

He knows you're acting, and you know he is.

It's really just a matter of who breaks first.

Tim tucks the loose strands of hair behind your ear as you bat your lashes prettily at him, lips pulled into a sweet smile. Even when you thank him and he tells you to save your voice for singing, the two of you are separated by a thinly clean web made of lies, two spiders on the string, waiting for the other to attack first for a reason to betray the other. The two of you dance on the strings, two, four, six, eight. And on the web of lies, the two of you hunt prey separately.

Tim is more than aware as to why you beg him to bring guests over, lips pulled into a gorgeous smile, and he brushes the hair from your face, pulling the feathers of decoration in your hair, agreeing happily— you are a symbol of his accomplishments, why wouldn't he show you off to all those men who can't have you? After all, even if they were to put their pretty hands on you like he does, their hands would only find themselves cut off. No one in the capitol has the time to arrest Tim. Not when his family was so powerful. Ah, what a symbol of status in such a corrupt world.

You stay next to his side the whole night, giggling and smiling as the men vie for your attention, kissing your hand and asking you for a dance as Tim keeps you securely by his side. You're sure he's just bubbling over with happiness over this display of power. Well, not that Tim particularly cares that you're the one attached to him. You suppose he's simply territorial over what belongs to him. You find no reason to answer any of the noblemen, especially not when Tim's first and only command for you was to not speak unless ordered to, and he had made no indication, so there was no reason for you to do so. Well, it didn't matter that much to you anyway.

You would prefer not to talk to them anyway.

At the end of the night, Tim whisks you away in the night, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your hand, to the palm of your hand, and then up your arm to your neck, down your chest to your legs, and the rest of the night is spent much like the first night you returned to his mansion. You wonder if having you all vulnerable before him gets him off. You wonder if he is so desperate for recognition that he will do anything for it. Maybe he is. Maybe he isn't. You most certainly don't know. Neither do you care. You are simply waiting for something to happen to you. Maybe that will give you the freedom you so desperately crave. Besides, what point is there in escaping now? You have everything in the mansion, and neither are you beat up like you were in the street.

No.

You should escape first and then figure it out.

You listen to everything Tim says, and eventually, the lock on your cage doesn't get locked, and you are no longer watched by every servant in the house, and you breathe a little better. But those are all simple things. You need to prove that you would be loyal to Tim for the rest of your days. You didn't know how to, but you were sure the occasion would arise.

After all, Tim had plenty of enemies.

The season changes as you spend more time in Tim's mansion, and you are extremely docile, staying still and listening to everything he says, obeying his every word. You sing when commanded, and you stay quiet at all other times. Even when Tim has the servants test you for your loyalty, you do not open your mouth or speak. That earns you the unlocking of the chain around your ankle in the cage on top of the open entrance. You suppose it's great that he is giving you so much more freedom now— even if it wasn't really true freedom. It's a start, you surmise.

Tim takes you to one final gala before you hear what you want to hear.

You are dressed simply, silk hugging your skin, lips curled upward in a gentle smile as Tim helps you onto the stage. He insists on helping you do everything. The room is slightly empty save for the few noblemen who have arrived, and Tim had scheduled you early purposefully to avoid singing in front of larger crowds. You were his diamond in the rough.

So, you open your mouth and sing, eyes stuck on Tim's as your voice swims in the air.

Then, in a twist of classic capitol fashion, someone rushes toward Tim, and you yell, voice ringing in the air as Tim catches your warning, stepping to the side as they are sent to eat shit. Your voice returns to normal as soon as Tim is safe, lips curled into a stunning smile as you wrap up the song with a bow. It was so simple. It was so easy.

Tim thanks you by telling you it was alright to sing as prettily as you can in front of his guests now.

You suppose he's proud to have you as a bird now.

You listen to Tim from your cage as he talks to the ministers in the room, sketching with the pencil and paper, eavesdropping on their conversation. Your cage door is wide open, and you stay on the divan lazily, smudging the graphite on your paper as your wrist brushes over it, and you frown. In the background, Tim discusses classic politics with his companions, and you do not pay too much attention to it. After all, it was not what you wanted to hear. You were waiting for one specific point of information.

"The seventh competition is being hosted soon." One of the men speaks up. "Will you have your bird participate?"

You turn your head at the word bird.

January is approaching, and the yearly bird competition is coming up. You wonder if Tim is too protective of you to let you join. Maybe if you ask him, he will let you. You are illiterate to him, so you will have to find another way to convince him. But you stare at Tim anyway, blinking, eyes wide, almost as if asking whether or not he was talking about you. You wonder if Tim would ever think about letting you join the competition. It would be too much, but it could also be not enough. It didn't matter. You wanted to join. If you won, you would be displayed as a trophy for Tim, and you're sure Tim is just dying to have that kind of title to his name.

"Not you, pretty bird." Tim smiles. "Songbirds in general."

You nod, going back to your sketch, the graphite staining your skin as you stare at Tim, eyes darting to his face and then the paper, tilting your head as you both listen and sketch. His brows are furrowed, you assume because you've been selected for competition, and you blink at Tim as he stares at you, his lips curled into a gentle smile. You wonder if he'll give in to the greed and send you on the stage. Maybe he will. He's always been the type to give you up in the bigger picture.

"Pretty bird." He calls, and you pause in sketching, looking up.

You tilt your head to have him continue.

"What are you sketching?"

You flip the paper up, showing Tim, and he throws his head back in laughter, manic, almost.

"M-mister Drake?"

Tim steps off of his seat, holding his hand out as you hand him the drawing, and he takes your lead-stained hand, pressing his lips to the back. "Thank you, pretty bird. I look dashing."

You smile, lips curled upward gently.

"Whistle for me, birdie." Tim hums.

You oblige, notes teasing as you do, and Tim observes the looks on the men's faces.

"My bird will be participating." He smiles.

Diamonds and rubies, emeralds and sapphires, you are adorned from head to toe with the prettiest of colors and finest of silks. You wear the prettiest of colors and the softest of clothes, and thorough check-ups on your body day and night. Your tongue is shoved out as they check the condition of your throat, and you are fed warm soups and liquids all day, making sure your hydration is proper, and you stare at yourself as you wince at the way the corset is tightened. Not too tight. Your instructor tells you. She's not a songbird.

The lights backstage make you dizzy, and you exhale in your dress, the corset a little too tight yet too loose. You despise the way you are dressed like some doll, lips curled into a genuine smile as the door opens behind you. It didn't matter. You were going to win this stupid competition and break out of this hell. You would be the first to break character, but you would drag Tim into hell with you before you'd let him have the last laugh. After all, you spent so long building up a relationship with him.

"Pretty bird." Tim hums, bringing you lunch. "How are you feeling?"

"Well, I'm a little anxious..." You bat your lashes slowly. "But I think I will do well."

"Of course you will." He smiles, holding the spoon to your mouth. "You always do. Just remember to come home, alright? You don't need to emerge victorious."

You offer him a smile in return.

He doesn't even care if you speak now.

Then, Tim says goodbye to you as you are sent to the backstage with the rest of the birds. It's really simple. You make small talk with some of them, and some of them don't even look healthy enough to perform, but you suppose it isn't something you should concern yourself with. There's something else that is going to come out as an issue. You can only hope no one notices it as quickly as you had.

In a room of birds, it becomes painfully obvious that there is something off about you.

The songbirds sing and spin in the air, voices dancing with the breeze in a field of grass, mouths open as they sing to the sky, hands thrown up with their body. The sky opens up as the sun shines on them, and you watch from backstage as everyone sounds the same. The songbirds are a dime in a dozen, the same sort of singing everyone has, their voices worshipping the sky as their wings are clipped by their masters, looking up into the light as they sing towards it. Their voices are the wind in the field and the breeze in the grass. Their voices are the farmer's companion, and Midas' secret that the barber had tried to hide in the wheat. Their voices are everywhere at all times.

When you sing, everyone is pulled downward, floating in a vast expanse of blue, clouds nowhere to be seen, your voice grounding them into the depths of the world, animals soaring above and below their vision. The moisture sticks to their skin, their hearts racing as they sink further and further into your voice, something so sickeningly sweet, something so saccharinely sinful. Your voice becomes very apparent when put against the other songbirds, and you wonder if anyone could catch you. Though, it wasn't as if the predator could be hunted by the prey in their natural habitat. You were used to singing like this. It was what made you stand out to begin with. It was what helped you seduce Tim from the start. It was painfully obvious.

When you emerge victorious, you glance at Tim, and you seem to understand something.

He had received the wrong script for the play.

Then, you're presented on a stage with the rest of the winning songbirds at a gala at the beginning of the year, the crows betting more and more money on who would out-sing the others, and you blink at Tim innocently, feigning confusion as you watch as he is told that you were selected for freedom, stuck with the rest of the contestants, a confused smile on your lips as you are dragged off and dressed in rags again, promptly tossed into a puzzle room with the other winning songbirds.

"Fellow birds! Welcome to your only chance at survival! Seven of you are selected, and only one of you will emerge victorious and leave your masters' homes as a free man! You know you want it, songbirds. Will you live in a cage forever?"

You suppose your cage is less of a cage and more... glass.

Right. Not that it matters anymore.

You are placed in a room with the rest of the winning songbirds, and you blink at the screen as notes are played and the birds sing. No one can mess this up. It was a fundamental of being a songbird, so there would have been no result. However, no one in the capitol really cares if their bird dies. So, when a false chord is displayed on the screen and the bird selected sings, the sound of a gun renders everyone stupid.

You watch as the first songbird is killed when they are unable to sing a note on command.

Their body drops to the floor lifelessly, and the other songbirds scream. Instead, you step closer to the body, craning your neck as you squat down to take a look at the wound. Then, you stare at the cameras in the corner of the room, get up, and lean into some random songbird, lips curled into a teasing smile.

"How trusting of me are you right now?" Your voice is but a whisper.

The songbird tells you nothing.

Then, you stare at the camera, smiling.

You hide your mouth. "The second door at the second trial of the game leads to a bottomless pit."

Tim watches you from the cameras, eyes sharp as he tries to read what you are mouthing— but it is to no avail. he is stuck sitting back in his seat instead, quietly praying that the trust you had placed in him was not for no reason. He had slipped you the correct answer for each trial, so there was no reason for you to pick the wrong answer in any of them if you valued your life. Though, it's not like he told you that both doors were the correct answer in the last trial. People often fought in order to enter the slide marked as the correct answer, and nine times out of ten, someone was killed in the last trial at the hands of a songbird. That was what made an elite in the capitol— the blood on your hands.

You lean away, and surely enough, when the second door emerges and everyone rushes into it, only you and the other songbird remain. You open the first door and then step through it, inviting them to follow you once you make sure it is safe, and the two of you are left with picking a slide. You nudge him to the wrong slide, and you step in front of the slide, turning to stare at him. There's a silence that hangs in the air, and for a second, the songbird thinks that you only let them survive because they were selected by you.

Which isn't true, obviously.

Since when have you chosen someone anyway?

Tim watches you from the screen, fingers relaxing, lips curled into a gentle smile.

See? He has no reason to worry.

You stare at the two doors before you, lips curled into a menacing smile, and you tell your partner to take the safe slide out of the game to take the crown of victor. You step to the wrong answer instead, and the elites in the room murmur amongst themselves at your act of disobedience. You stand behind the other songbird in the room as he sits in the seat at the only seat on the slide, checking to see if there are any mechanisms that could kill him. It was an act of compassion to one, but it was an act of betrayal to another. Tim supposes that he was the one who was fooled the whole time.

Tim's voice rings in the command room, his comrades holding him from the mic on the desk as you send your partner down the safe slide, watching as the latch closes for the safe door and you step before the wrong one, blinking slowly, lips curled into a cruel smile, turning your head for the camera, baring all your teeth.

And suddenly, Tim is reminded of the first time he met you.

"I had never picked you."

And you disappear.

It's a shame though. You never said you were a songbird.

#tim drake x reader #tim drake imagine #timothy drake x reader #tim x reader #☾.fics #surprise you thought my ass wasn't gonna post dc anymore huh?? u THOUGHT /j

[hana-no-seiiki]

THE BETTER DAMIAN (vv short prequel)

[the better damian fic]

There was only one man, and one man alone that could help you hide the fact that you raided an entire zoo from the rest of your fanatics / significant others in Gotham.

“And why are we robbing a zoo exactly?”

“They abuse animals. Duh.” You swiftly took down a guard, an eager smile on your features.

Tim stared at you and deadpanned “. . .This is about Alfred the Cat isn’t it?”

And there was only one sure fire way of keeping him on a leash…. literally.

“Drake, if you want to bottom the next time I come to your room, you better shut the fuck up.”

Tim went completely silent the whole night. So much so that you thought he got caught or even died.

inspired by that one line in @on-leatheredwings ‘s recent tim fic!! go follow her!!

#cat villain reader #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagine #yandere fic #yandere core #tim drake #tim drake x reader #timothy drake #timothy drake x reader #yandere tim drake #yandere tim drake x reader #yandere red robin #yandere red robin x reader #yandere robin #robin x reader #red robin x reader

[mischieveousmayhem]

Oh, Mom..

Pairing: Tim Drake x Batmom!Reader

Genre: Angst

Warnings: Mentions of death

Synopsis: Tim typically snaps back from rough situations. But how is he when he just lost another parent?

THE MASTERLIST

—

He was a mess.

Twitching from the amount of caffeine in his system. He was trying to feel awake, it was hard to sleep.

He knew if his dearest mother was here she would scold the boy for having so much caffeine in his system. Honestly, he might be close to death himself with how much he has drink.

But he didn't care. All he wanted was Y/N. Ever since Bruce brought him home, all she ever did was try to comfort him. He wasn't that young but he was young. He lost both his parents and he had no one, but Y/N, Bruce and his brothers.

Y/N made him cookies along with the rest of his brothers, obviously. But Y/N and Tim had a special relationship. Mind you he isn't that big of a mama's boy like the rest of his brothers. They still loved Bruce but oh lord, she was more favorable than Bruce.

He sat at his laptop watching videos trying to distract himself or maybe trying to make himself fall asleep to them. But it was no use. It was about 5am, obviously he was done with patrol, if he even went. But he needed rest.

He had wounds that were treated by Alfred but not how his mom would take care of them. Batmom would treat them with the proper care, like Alfred, but then she would kiss all his booboos.

She was his world. He wishes she would come back like Jason or Damian did.

On his desk , in his room, he has a jar of her ashes. She was really in there. Gone. Forever.

Oh the poor boy broke down in tears. It was unfair, so unfair. Why did this happen to her? Out of everyone in damned Gotham. Why HIS mom?

Looking at the vase of ashes, "Oh mom..are you actually gone?"

#fanfic #dc comics #dcu #timothy drake #jason todd x batmom #tim drake #tim drake x reader #timothy drake x reader #bruce wayne x reader #bruce x reader #bruce wayne #damian wayne x batmom #tim drake x batmom #batmom

[ravenna-reid]

Admirer from the past...

TW: blood, mention of dead bodies and stalking/obsessive behaviour

An expert crime fighter. One of the youngest CEOs. A skilled detective. As good as the Bat. Maybe even better than him.

Tim often found himself conversing with police officers and other detectives that were actually qualified unlike him. Discussing the crime scene, the criminal, the victim, and the next course of action. They all respected Tim and were willing to work together.

One night Tim found himself standing amongst the chaos of the press, the solemn faces of detectives and officers and a name written in blood covering the footpath along with other gory things... The crimson letters painting the cement were a confronting display.

It was the works of a new villain, one that had only just started doing such things two weeks ago. He was one of the most psychotic men Tim had ever dealt with. And it seemed he had a nasty obsession with some poor girl, given he was constantly leaving dead bodies and flowers strewn across Gotham City dedicated to her.

Honestly, the situation twisted Tim's stomach, making him all the more adamant on finding this fucked up guy in hopes of sparing his target the fear and trauma.

Tim kept to himself as he tried to analyse the scene, picking up clues and taking his own samples. That was until the screech of tires on the road caught his attention. Turning to look over his shoulder, he saw another well known detective pull up beside the crime scene and hastily get out of his car. And with him a woman. Tim quickly let his eyes glance over you. You wore a fitted suit, golden hoops and your hair thrown up into a french twist. Throwing your trench coat over your shoulders, you hurriedly followed the detective with an unimpressed look on your face.

"If you haven't even caught the assailant yet, why am I here Harry?" You asked before you fell into step with your co-worker and friend. He was almost like an older brother to you.

"Because, I need your input. Your analysis. This guy is a fucking nut and we have no idea how to predict what he's gonna do next."

Intelligence and class seemed to drip off of you, and Tim was immediately smitten interested in you. He even found himself wondering if you were seeing the man you had arrived with.

Surely not, he was old enough to be your father.

You and Harry ducked under the police tape, your hands in your pockets and eyes trained on the gruesome scene. Black roses coated in thick blood decorated the ground around your boots. You instantly grimaced.

Harry made his way over to the group and greeted Tim first.

"Red Robin." He said with a nod.

"Detective." Tim said back, eyes still trained on you.

You turned in a circle to take it all in before nearing the group. "So, do we have anything on this guy?"

"Red Robin managed to hack into one of the shops security systems. The one across the street. With the footage he retrieved, we can see this sick bastard commit the crime, but his face is obscured."

You were watching Red Robin as the officer spoke, a little taken aback to see a vigilante standing in front of you. Let alone one of the bats.

"Can I see the footage?" You asked, eyes gazing back at his.

Tim swallowed hard. Your eye contact was unwavering, and he could feel a blush begin to creep onto his face.

"Miss, are you even a detective or-"

"Of course." Tim cut the officer off, handing you the tablet that sat atop a police car.

"It's fine," Harry said with the wave of his hand, "She's with me. She knows what she's doing."

Tim watched you analyse the footage. The man was wearing a cap, and some sort of odd make-up was smeared across his face. It might have even be blood you thought. You attentively watched the criminals behaviour. His mannerisms. The odd tick in his left shoulder. The limp in his right leg.

"Anything?" Tim asked.

His voice was like wine and you couldn't help but breathe in his cologne. You might come along to see these crime scenes more often.

"There's something." You admit with the furrow of your brows. "The way he moves. I can't put my finger on it though..."

Tim observed the badge clipped to the collar of your shirt. Although he could read what your occupation was, your coat was covering your name.

"Forensic psychologist?"

What a stupid moment to be making small talk. He began to chastise himself and his lack of charisma, but you didn't seem to mind, much to his relief.

"Mhm. Know what that is?" You teased, anticipating the Red Robin's response.

Tim smirked. "No actually, never heard of it."

You gave a light laugh and Tim felt he had to keep the conversation going.

"Are you new at this?" He asked. "I haven't seen you before."

"Not really," you replied with a soft smile. "It's my second year."

"Yeah, and she beats everyone in the game." Harry called out with a chuckle. You tried to hide your blush, but your humility mixed with your attempt to hide your reaction made Tim like you even more.

But the longer you watched the footage it suddenly dawned on you. The puzzles snapped together in your head and left you a little shocked. Tim immediately took note of the change in your demeanour.

"What is it?"

You held onto the tablet tightly. "I think I know who this is. The twitch. The limp. The hunched form and what he's doing..."

"Holy shit..." Harry said as the others all gawked at the writing on the ground.

Tim ignored them, focusing his full attention onto you.

"Back when I was just a psychologist. This guy came to me, I'm sure of it." You looked back up at Tim now, but before either of you could say anything, Harry called your name.

"You better get over here."

You and Red Robin joined the group, and as you looked down at the name on the footpath, your soul immediately dropped down to your feet.

"What's wrong?" Tim asked, looking up at Harry then at you. But now that you had moved, the name on your badge was revealed to Tim.

Everyone suddenly turned to look at you. And all you could do was stare down at the red letters before you.

"That's my name."

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[serafilms]

song 99! up all night (stray kids) + tim drake (spotify wrapped event)

i don't want to go to sleep now, i’ll be making a masterpiece now, i look for caffeine without even realizing, start with a cup

If there was one thing you loved about your job, it was the all the attractive people who came in for their daily dose of coffee. Not that everyone who drinks coffee is attractive, but you worked at a coffee shop near the local university. A pretty nice, aesthetic but not overly themed coffee shop, with actually good coffee.

Which meant all the students from the university and some other cooler looking adults often populated it. There was always a new beautiful face every day for you to admire. And you loved it.

“Hi, what can I get for you?” You heard your coworker say. You looked up and did a double take. Not because the customer in front of the counter was super hot, or anything (but he probably was, when he didn’t look like total shit). The circles under his eyes weren’t dark, because that implies that they could have been darker, but there was absolutely no way they could’ve been. This guy literally looked like the undead.

“Biggest iced americano you’ve got, no water and eight extra shots.”

Your coworker’s jaw dropped alongside yours, and you watched her splutter for a moment before gathering her composure. Props to her, because your jaw was still on the floor.

“Are you sure? That’s like 600 milligrams of caffeine.”

“More, actually,” you interjected, feeling both eyes turn to you instantly. You tried not to shrink under the customer’s pseudo-vampire-zombie stare. “Our espresso shots have like 75 milligrams each.”

Your coworker nodded fervently and turned to the customer again.

He seemed to ponder this for a moment, and you started feeling hopeful that he would cancel the order and go with a simple iced caramel macchiato until he said, “Actually, make it two. But no ice in the second one. I’ll save it for later.”

You both deflated and your coworker rang up the order as you grabbed two large cups and a pen. “Name?”

“Tim.”

“Alright, ‘Tim.’” You wrote the name on the cups and then went to make his drinks. You sick freak.

‘Tim’ plopped himself over at a table in the corner of the store by the window, and took out a very large laptop.

He looked so focused on his work that it scared you a little bit, so you took your time making the drinks to delay the inevitable handover.

“Why are you going so slow?” The voice of your coworker startled you as she appeared at your side.

“I’m really scared of him,” you whispered.

She surveyed the guy. “Yeah, he might not even hear if you call his name. I think you’re gonna have to go up and give them to him.”

“What?”

“Sorry, babes.”

“You’re the worst.”

She responded by shoving you out from behind the counter.

You felt yourself shaking a little as you walked up to the scary, workaholic, caffeinated man, but you managed to steel yourself enough to place the two cups in front of him, and stammer out a, “Here are your drinks.”

He glanced up at you and managed a polite smile that looked surprisingly human, which made something flurry up in your stomach. Wow, my standards must have really dropped, you thought. Still, if you ignored how terrible he looked, you supposed he wasn’t bad looking at all. His hair only looked slightly unwashed, but it was nicely cut and dark, and his eyes were a nice shade of blue.

“Thanks, uh,” Tim squinted at your name badge and you wondered if his vision was blurry from sleep deprivation, “Y/N.”

You kind of liked the way he said your name, you couldn’t lie, but you had dignity to uphold, and crushing on a walking health hazard didn’t seem like the way to do that. So instead, you nodded and made your way back to the counter.

Tim stayed all throughout the rest of the morning rush, then finished his first coffee around midday and immediately dug into his second. He stayed until your coworker clocked out, giving you an incredulous look as she left, and your next coworker clocked in. Then around the afternoon, he stood up suddenly and went to the counter.

You rushed to be the one to greet him (having failed to explain his story to your other coworker for fear of Tim hearing).

“Hi,” you said, feeling a little silly as the words left your mouth, “what can I get you?”

He looked a little amused and a little more awake (thanks to the establishment’s primo coffee beans, not paid promotion), and you felt the tips of your ears heat up as he took some time to look you up and down. You felt a little self conscious under his gaze as he scanned over your face, and you tucked a bit of loose hair behind your ear. You were seriously into this guy now, oh my god.

That was one downside of working in this job, you got flustered very easily by the attractive people.

“I’m running a little low on coffee,” Tim said, and your eyes flicked towards his table to see two empty cups, “and I was hoping to order another.”

“Another 10 shot death drink?” You felt a little panicky as you soon as you said the words, wondering if you’d overstepped a line and the strangely attractive caffeine addict might attack you. You weren’t supposed to judge customer’s drinks.

Thankfully, he grinned. “Death drink?”

“I mean, it’s almost double the recommended intake of caffeine. And you’ve drank two.”

“Point taken. What do you drink?”

“Oh,” your face turned warm again, “I don’t drink coffee.”

Tim blinked. “You’re a barista.”

“Yeah. I like hot chocolate,” you offered helpfully.

He let out a surprised laugh, then said, “How about this? I’ll order a hot chocolate to go instead, if you write your number on the cup.”

Your eyes widened. The tips of your ears felt hot again and your stomach did another little flutter. He was flirting with you. Oh goodness.

“Okay,” you squeaked. “Deal.”

Tim grinned at you. “Thanks Y/N.”

You rang him up, blushing furiously and hoping he couldn’t tell and rushed to make the drink. It was pretty quick this time around, but you took extra care to add a little extra chocolate powder the way you liked it, and when you were done, you wrote your number on the cup and added a little heart for good measure.

Tim was all packed up and ready to go when you were finished, waiting for you at the pickup area.

“Thanks,” he said again when you handed the cup over, and for once he looked a little bashful. You liked that. “I’ll call you. Or text you.”

“Either is good,” you smiled, face still impossibly hot.

He gave you one last smile as he exited the shop, and you immediately collapsed against the counter when he was gone.

“What was that all about?” Your coworker asked.

You waved him off. “Nothing.”

Oh my god.

some of y’all have got third eyes or something bc there’s no way this song + character match up happened

#tim drake x reader #tim drake #red robin #batboys x reader #batboys imagines #batboys imagine #batfam x reader #batfam imagine #batfam imagines #batboys #batfam #red robin x reader #timothy drake #timothy jackson drake #dc #dc imagine #dc comics #dc universe #dc x reader #written works ! #2023 spotify wrapped event !

[pookiebeary]

‧₊˚.Shutterbug Drabbles𓇢𓆸

Tim Drake x Reader

No gender is mentioned for reader

"Isn't the view amazing?" You turn around to face Tim and smile when you meet his eyes; your eyes bending to crescent shapes as you spot the camera he's holding.

He pauses, a red hue spreads on his cheeks as his eyes widen with a look of awestruck before you hear a soft shutter.

You see Tim's mouth move to speak but the sudden gust of wind blows strongly and you struggle to hear as it howls against your ears.

When the wind finally dies, you ask, "What did you say?"

"Nothing." He replies quickly and ducks his head down to stare at his camera.

"You're beautiful."

#tim drake x you #tim drake fanart #tim drake robin #tim drake x reader #tim drake #timothy drake #batfam x reader #tim drake wayne #dc red robin #red robin fanart #red robin x reader #red robin x you #red robin x y/n #tim drake x y/n #drabble

[nylpad]

CAFFEINE, CODE, AND COUCH CONFESSIONS

Warnings: coffee addiction

Tim Drake, the resident tech genius of Wayne Manor, had a mission: to teach you the intricacies of coding. Armed with a whiteboard, a stack of textbooks, and a steely determination, he embarked on this noble quest. Little did he know that unraveling the mysteries of Python and JavaScript would be the least challenging part.

Tim sat you down in the cozy corner of the Batcave, the glow of the Batcomputer casting shadows on his face. He explained loops, variables, and functions with the fervor of a preacher. But your brain? It was like a stubborn old laptop running Windows 95—slow, glitchy, and prone to crashing.

"Okay, so if you have a nested loop," Tim said, pointing at the whiteboard, "you'll need to—"

You interrupted. Again. "Wait, wait. What's a nested loop? Is it like a Russian doll situation?"

Tim sighed, rubbing his temples. "No, it's not—"

"But what if the Russian doll is an array?" you asked, eyes wide.

Tim's patience wavered. "It's not—"

"But what if the array contains Batman's utility belt gadgets?" you persisted.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's not—"

Coding fatigue set in. Tim's eyes glazed over as you continued your relentless questioning. He needed a distraction—a break from the syntax and semicolons. So, he proposed a truce: "How about we take a snack break?"

You perked up. "Snacks? Now you're speaking my language."

Soon, the Batcave echoed with the rustling of chip bags and the clinking of coffee mugs. Tim brewed a fresh pot of coffee—the fifth one that day—and you raised an eyebrow.

"Tim, you're going to turn into a jittery metahuman," you warned.

He grinned, sipping from his mug. "Nah, I've built up a tolerance."

The couch beckoned, its cushions inviting. Tim abandoned the whiteboard, and you both sank into its plush embrace. Laptops forgotten, you fired up the gaming console. The Batcave's massive screen displayed the latest multiplayer shooter.

"Ready to kick some virtual butt?" you asked, controller in hand.

Tim hesitated. "Actually, can we watch movies instead?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Movies? Since when do you—"

"—binge-watch romantic comedies?" Tim finished, cheeks flushing. "I may or may not have a soft spot for cheesy love stories."

And so, you traded code for rom-coms, coffee for popcorn. Tim's head found its way to your lap, and you stroked his hair absentmindedly.

"Promise me," you said, "no more coffee. Your heart rate is rivaling the Bat-Signal."

He grumbled but complied. "Fine. But only because you're the best code-cracking partner."

As the credits rolled on the screen, Tim whispered, "Maybe I'll write an algorithm to predict our next movie choice."

You chuckled. "Or we could just flip a coin."

And there, in the dim glow of the Batcave, you realized that maybe—just maybe—love was the most complex code of all.

#yn #spotify #x reader #viralpost #batfam #x yn #tim drake #timothy drake #red robin #batboy #tim drake x reader #tim drake x y/n