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watchtower-feed · 4 years

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Living with Tim Drake

Notes: I got request for Damian and SO moving in together (which I will get to some day). But then I kept thinking about Tim and how I haven’t shown him much love lately. So I wanted to do a little character study of him. Words: 1,818

You didn’t expect a message so quickly. After all, you just posted the ad for a roommate an hour ago. You texted back saying you’re free to talk and your phone buzzes in your hand. You quickly answer, bracing yourself for what kind of freak is in need of a place to stay so urgently.

“Hello. This is Tim. I’m a college graduate and currently doing an internship at Wayne. Your place is really close by so it’s perfect for my commute.”

Wayne is a little more than 5 kilometers away from your place. Definitely a length you wouldn’t like to walk on a daily basis. Especially since your neighborhood isn’t the best. But hey, it still beats Crime Alley and Arkham, right?

“Hi, Tim. This is Y/N. But you obviously already know that. So I’m going to do a quick background check before I send you my address. I mean, you understand, right?”

“Oh, definitely,” he answers right away but you could almost hear his nerves. He goes quiet for a bit and then you hear a notification that someone just sent you a message. “I don’t really have any social media accounts or anything--” You’re suspicious already. “But I am in the Gotham Gazette a lot.”

“What?” you instinctively say. Not thinking. Ignoring the image of the screenshot he sent you. “What did you say your last name was?” You’re already flipping open your laptop and opening the Gazette website.

“Drake. Wayne. I’m Timothy Drake-Wayne.”

When he shows up at your door with a single duffle bag that wouldn’t even fit all of your pants, you greet him with a raised brow. “You know, I really thought this was going to be some sort of practical joke but you are him.”

He laughs nervously, “Yeah… Living with that nightmare every day.”

You stare him from inside your apartment before you laugh and let him in. You lounge over the kitchen counter and offer him some coffee. His eyes instantly brighten up at the caffeine rush.

“This is really good.”

“Yeah? I work at a cafe nearby and it turns out I like making coffee.”

He looks at your set up behind him, a small commercial espresso machine with an extract bar with two spouts and a steam nozzle to warm up the milk, and a coffee grinder filled to the brim with whole coffee beans.

He looks back at you quickly. “Please let me live here,” he blurts out with full conviction. It stuns you and then you laugh. “I’ll pay double your asking price.”

You stop laughing then. “Deal.”

Tim settles in quickly in your apartment since he doesn’t have too many things. A week’s worth of clothes, his laptop, two pairs of shoes, and some toiletries.

You had a roommate before him but she just disappeared half a year ago. You called her family and it turns out that she ran off with a lover. You thought she would be back in a month’s time but 6 months have gone by and her advance payments are about to run out.

Needless to say, Timothy Drake-Wayne is now sleeping in a pastel purple bedroom littered with motivation posters and 30-Day challenge workouts.

“You can take them down, you know.”

Tim shrugs, “I kind of like them. They help me get up in the morning.”

You roll your eyes.“Yeah sure.” Tim is not a morning person. He only thinks he is. He’ll wake up past noon. Then when you get home, he’ll greet you good morning even when it’s dark outside.

“Is that a cut?”

Without thinking about it, your hand reaches out to brush back his bangs and look at what is actually a gash on his forehead. “Tim, it’s still bleeding. Wash it!!”

Before he could reply, you go to the bathroom to retrieve the first aid kit. You start fussing over the antiseptic, cotton, and gauze while he’s just staring at you. “Tim, wash it under the sink,” you repeat.

A little dazed, Tim finally gets up and goes to the sink. You wait for him to finish, with a towel ready to dry his face. As soon as he’s done, you start dabbing the antiseptic on his forehead.

“Hey. That doesn’t hurt.”

You make a grim face, a look of disgust really. “Is that why you didn’t treat it? Because you’re afraid it’ll hurt.”

He laughs, “No no. It’s just-- Usually when Alfred does this, it stings.”

There are so many things you want to say to that. Who’s Alfred? Why don’t you tend to your own wounds? What happened? But instead, you say, “Do you often get into fights at Wayne or something? I always thought the people there are either frail-bodied nerds or millionaires too afraid to mess up their cuticles.”

Tim laughs a little louder, “Why does it have to be at Wayne? I could have gotten this while saving children from a human trafficking ring down by the docks.” He raises an eyebrow at you.

You narrow your eyes, unamused, “What a coincidence. After work, I just put the Joker back in Arkham Asylum.”

He shakes his laughter, making it harder for you to put the gauze on. So you grab his chin to keep him steady and then expertly placed it on his gash with one hand. His eyes follow your hands, making him appear cross-eyed and you almost laugh. Then his eyes widen.

“Wait a minute. Did you just get off work? It’s almost 6? PM?”

You roll your eyes but you don’t really meddle with his sleeping schedule. He usually leaves the apartment when the sun is coming down and you never hear him come in. But you just assume his internship at Wayne is at night.

You wonder if he gets paid for it because he comes in 7 days a week, every night and sometimes even in the afternoon (or god forbid in the morning). But he doesn’t really need the money so maybe it’s a family obligation thing?

Sometimes though, like once or twice a month, he gets a day off. He’ll sit with you on the couch while you drink the mochas you made and binge-watch NCIS.

“You know…” you say one day, hugging your mug to yourself. “You never did tell me why you chose to live here.”

“I did, didn’t I? It’s close to Wayne--”

“Bullshit,” you call out. “I get that you bike to work so it’s an easy commute but you own part of Wayne. I know you can get a driver to get you there or work from home or not work at all if you wanted to.”

Tim looks at you for a moment before he goes quiet. He’s staring into his mug and lightly shaking it to watch the liquid move around inside.

You suddenly want to slap yourself, “I’m sorry. It’s not my place to know--”

“No, it’s okay,” he says, smiling. He places the mug on the coffee table. He grabs the remote to lower the volume down and then hunches with his elbows resting on his knees as he stares at the screen.

“It was just good timing when I saw your post. It was getting a little crowded at the manor.”

You keep looking at him and wonder if you should stop him. This almost looks painful for him but Tim keeps going.

“When I first got there, I was the only one there. Dick has his own place. Jason was--” he shrugs, “It was just me, Bruce, and Alfred.” Alfred, you now know, was actually their butler, but Tim talks about him more like a parent, to both him and Bruce Wayne.

“It was great. Mostly quiet. Peaceful. And then like a hurricane, all of them just came, one by one. Dick, Jason, and then Damian. It was a nightmare. We were at each other’s throat. Literally!” he’s staring wide-eyed at you, half-hoping you’ll know he’s telling you the truth. “And I couldn’t get a single good night’s sleep. I just-- I needed my own place. Away from them.”

Tim releases this long sigh, one that feels like he’s been keeping for a while. “When it was just me, Bruce, and Alfred, I never noticed it because I was too self-absorbed-- about the adoption and the--” he looks at you like a deer caught in the headlights then coughs and continues, “I didn’t notice that they weren’t as happy as I was. That they were in silent mourning.”

“So when my brothers were at the manor, Bruce and Alfred-- They were shocked but I’ve never seen them look happier. It was so small, almost barely a hint of a smile. And I just--” He sighs again, this time leaning back to rest his head against the couch. “So I feel a little guilty about leaving.”

You wait in case Tim had more things to get off his chest. This is the first you’ve heard him talk in broken sentences. He’s usually a lot more composed that his sentences are always grammatically correct, full-structured, and well-phrased. Like listening to an essay.

When he doesn’t say anything more, you ask, “Do you regret leaving?”

Tim Drake stares at the ceiling. He visits the manor every now and then but not much has changed. They’re still fighting a lot, with less intent to kill, but still enough to seriously maim. But really he misses seeing Alfred every day, helping him in the garden and eating his home cooking.

And Bruce. He wonders if Bruce is doing fine. If he’s happy Jason is back or proud to finally have his own son fighting side by side with him. He hopes Bruce’s is a little upset he left. He wishes he’d mourn for him a little like he did with Dick and Jason.

But is he happy? Tim was feeling overwhelmed by the past that his brothers brought back with them. So much pain, regrets, and hatred. He never knew families could be so complicated. One minute they wanted to murder each other and the next they’re risking their own lives to save you. ‘Do I regret it?’ he wonders. ‘Do I regret doing what Dick and Jason have done, leaving the nest-- the cave and the Titans-- to find my own way of life? My own path?’

‘Not one bit.‘

Then he turns to you with every intention of saying just that. He looks at you while you hold your white Superman mug in your hand, your lips hovering over the rim and the steam rises up to your face. He watches the light smoke dance as your breath goes in and out.

Your eyes are staring at him with your hair hanging down, framing your face. He watches your cheeks slowly go red and your eyes widen. You look away, missing the same shade of red covering Tim’s cheeks.

“Crap.”

✧ Watchtower Masterlist ✧

#DC fanfiction #DC imagines #DC reader insert #Tim Drake #Tim Drake fanfiction #Tim Drake imagine #Tim Drake x reader #Timothy Drake #Timothy Drake fanfiction #Timothy Drake imagine #Timothy Drake x reader #watchtower-feed #acropen #lexyartem

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theflutterbyliterature-blog · 5 years

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Smash Cake: Chapter 2

“Is it open yet, daddy?” My four-year-old daughter leaned forward in her booster seat, impatiently tugging at the safety straps. “Why are they taking so long? The little hand is on the eight! You said that’s when they would open.” As she spoke, she pointed vigorously at the analog clock I wore on my wrist. She never allowed me to leave the house without it.

“But the big hand isn’t on the twelve so it’s not exactly eight o’clock yet, see?” I reached into the back seat so she could better check the time. “Unfortunately, you’ll have to wait a little longer.”

I could see her pouting through the rearview mirror. She even had her little arms crossed against her chest. Thankfully, she wasn’t kicking the back of my seat. She reserved that tactic for extreme tantrums which usually involved a missed ice cream opportunity. God forbid we drive by a Friendly’s…

“What did I tell you?” I said in my ‘dad voice.’

“That I have to be…” She paused and ran her tongue along her front teeth, something she did when she had a hard time pronouncing a word. “Pay… cent!” She articulated very carefully.

“Patient.” I agreed. “Because the cupcake faeries —”

“Ooo! Cupcake faeries!” She giggled excitedly. “Are they still working?”

I nodded. “Yes. They are working very, very hard to make all the yummy cupcakes. Which means if we go in there too early they’ll get scared and run away.”

“And then no more cupcakes?” She asked in horror. To a four-year-old, a world without cupcakes was as apocalyptic as you could get.

“Exactly. No more cupcakes.” I answered with a tone appropriate only for a funeral.

“Daddy! Daddy! Look! There’s someone inside! They are going to scare away the faeries and then no more cupcakes!” She wailed. This time she did kick the back of my seat in a desperate attempt to get me to do something about this horrific turn of events.

“Emma.” The firmness of my voice curbed her outburst.

She stopped. “B-But… D-Daddy… The lady is going to scare them away!”

“No, she won’t. That’s the baker.” I said noting the flour on her apron and what looked like frosting on her face. “The faeries are her friends.”

“Does that mean I can be friends with them too?”

“You’ll have to ask the baker,” I answered, voice trailing as I focused my gaze on the woman standing behind the glass door.

Wow.

She was gorgeous.

And, trust me, I’m not exaggerating here.

Even through the thick pane, her warm brown eyes locked with mine. Electricity shot through the air like a lightning bolt, raising goosebumps along my arms.

Could she feel it too?

All too soon, however, she broke the spell by looking away.

“Can we go in yet?” Emma asked, growing impatient.

Right on cue, the woman flipped the door sign.

A horde of people emerged from their cars and headed for the bakery. Quickly, I scrambled out of my seat and retrieved Emma from the back. Screw the cupcakes. I wanted the sweetest thing on the menu — her.

Emma clung to my hand as she skipped beside me, humming a happy little tune.

Once inside, she stopped, eyes nearly bugging out of her head in amazement. Suddenly, she wrenched free from my grasp and dashed up to the display case, cheek smashed against the glass. If I had to guess, she was probably drooling.

I was about to pry her away when I heard a chuckle. I looked up. It was her.

God, she was even more beautiful up close.

“Which one would you like, sweetheart?”

And a voice like honey too.

Emma contemplated her choices like it was the biggest decision of her life. Meanwhile, I couldn’t keep myself from staring. Usually, I’m not this rude and typically I know what’s socially acceptable and what’s not. But excuse my behavior just this once. It’s not everyday you find a girl who’s this damn pretty.

Long, caramel-colored hair that flowed down her back in a well-kept ponytail. Wispy curls framed her soft, round face, heightening her look of innocence. Large, hazel eyes that were round and full of compassion. Flawless skin save for some redness around her cheeks and a splattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose. But they were hardly flaws. In fact, I rather liked her imperfections.

Hands down, this was the most beautiful girl I had ever laid eyes on.

Okay, now, all I had to do was summon the courage to talk to her…

Deep breath… okay… go!

But to my dismay, she was already busy with another customer. I watched as she danced behind the counter like a moth around a flame.

I hadn’t felt this drawn to something — to someone — in a very long time. Not since…

“I want that one!” Emma exclaimed so abruptly that the whole bakery came to a halting standstill. “That one.” She said again as she pointed to the specific cupcake that she wanted, decorating the glass display with her fingertips.

Before she could repeat her demand, I scooped her into my arms. As she squealed, I flipped her around and dangled her upside down for a moment before suddenly tossing her over my shoulder.

Like the little monkey she was, she quickly settled herself into a seated position, fingers tangled into my hair and tugging on it like one would the reins of a horse.

Suddenly, she leaned forward.

Instantly, my dad instincts kicked in. I grabbed her legs and held them tight so she wouldn’t fall.

“Thank you.” She cooed, snatching her desired cupcake from the beautiful baker.

“You’re welcome.” She answered with a smile. “Polite.” She commented now looking my way. “Yours?”

I nodded. “My pride and joy right here. Wouldn’t trade her for the world.”

“That’s sweet. How old is she?”

“I’m this many!” Emma interjected by shoving four of her fingers in the baker’s face.

“Four? Wow! That’s a lot!”

“Yeah…” Again, she swept her tongue along her teeth. “For…ah!”

“Four.” I corrected.

“That’s exciting.” The baker turned in my direction. “It certainly beats the terrible twos.”

“You can say that again.” I chuckled. “She starts school in the fall. I’m just trying to cherish the last few weeks of summer. I feel like one day I’m just going to blink and she’ll be all grown up.”

“Well, there’s an easy solution to that.”

“Which is?”

“Don’t blink.” She laughed at her own advice before motioning to an open stool. “Why don’t you take a seat? I’ll get you something to drink.” She paused to give me a second to think. “So, what’ll it be?”

“What do you have?”

“Coffee, tea, cider…”

“Coffee. Two sugars. Splash of milk.”

“Got it.” She said with a nod before walking away. As she did, all I could do was stare as her wide hips swayed from side to side. Damn. I wouldn’t mind getting a slice of that.

What? I’m a guy, okay? Our minds are always in the gutter whether you like it or not. And is it really that horrible to admire a beautiful woman?

“She’s pretty.” Emma took the words right out of my mouth.

“Very.” I agreed before finally sitting down at the counter. Carefully, I pulled Emma off my shoulders and sat her beside me. By the time I had finished cleaning the frosting from her face, the baker had returned with my coffee. Our eyes locked. Time seemed to stop.

Suddenly, Emma jabbed me with her elbow. “Daddy!”

I jumped, looking at her with concern. “What is it? Did something happen?”

“You didn’t say thank you!” She chided.

“Smart lady.” The baker grinned. “Where are your manners, mister?” She said as she wagged her finger at me.

“Yeah! Where are your manners, daddy?”

I raised my hands in defeat. “Alright, alright.” I turned toward the baker. “Thank you for the coffee.”

“That’s better.” She responded, grin deepening.

“So, with the fear of getting my manners reprimanded once more, let me introduce myself. I’m Dean and this is my daughter, Emma.” I said, patting her head.

She nodded vigorously. “Yup! I’m Emma!”

“Nice to meet you, Emma. I’m Ruby.”

“Like Dorothy’s slippers?” Emma asked with a cock of her head.

“Exactly like Dorothy’s slippers.”

“Does that mean you know the Wizard of Oz? Dorothy? The Scarecrow? Toto?” With each mention of a character, she grew more and more excited, eyes wide and bright.

“Sorry. Wizard of Oz is her favorite movie. The downfall is that I’ve watched it about a thousand times. The upside is that it makes buying a Halloween costume really easy.”

“I’m going to be Dorothy this year! I already have my ruby slippers! Daddy’s going to be the cowardly lion!”

Ruby giggled. “Is that so?” She asked, one eyebrow raised in question. “I might pay to see that.”

“Only for the night. Otherwise, I’m perfectly brave.” I countered with a wink.

Jeez, if there was an award for flirting, I’d be in dead last.

#romancenovel #romantic #lovefirstsight #love #romance #loveexpressed #romancebooks #romantics #contemporaryromance #amwriting #book #romanceauthor #writingcommunity #booksbooksbooks #hearttouching

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smartcookie727 · 7 years

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Saturday Mornings

Thanks @spikerr for the drabble request after my scary game. Not exactly a drabble, but I liked the idea a lot. Sorry it took a while, but yesterday was quite busy. I just imagined Levy not having the best diet and Gajeel vowing to change it. Let the fluff rain down!

Pairing: Gajevy

Prompt: Kitchen

Length: 1k

Saturday Mornings

"Come on Lev, it isn't difficult. Just move back and forth slowly."

Levy huffed, irritated. "It keeps sticking. Gajeel, please, could you do it for me?"

He wrapped his arms around her and shook his head. "Nope. You gotta learn. Push a little harder and let things cool down a bit. It's too hot."

It was a mystery to Gajeel how Levy had made it this far in life without learning to make a decent plate of scrambled eggs. She could speak over twelve languages, but god forbid you ask her to do more than boil a pot of water. Levy would fret over every single detail: how much salt or milk to add, how long to mix, and the exact number of minutes to cook at each temperature. Yet every time she would still end up with a watery mess. Gajeel, on the other hand, could feel his way around a dish. He didn't need exact measurements, he added enough seasoning he thought it needed, gave a quick taste and added some more. He’d Just mix the eggs and milk until he couldn't see any white, no specific time, and cooked the curds until they were fluffy and soft. It was as easy as—scrambled eggs. But his poor girlfriend was lost without specific measurements or time. This was her fourth attempt this morning, and they were down to their last two eggs.

Gajeel held her hands, cradled around the spatula and handle, and together they moved the egg around pan. His hips swayed as he danced behind her. He'd do anything he could to make her relax and just feel the process, not think about it. She leaned against his bare chest; it felt like home and happiness, everything he wanted on a Saturday morning—cooking breakfast with his love, barely covered in one of his shirts—until he noticed she'd let him take over. Gajeel nudged her forward and let go of Levy's hand.

"Can't just let me do it, Shrimp. I know how to cook eggs. Yer the one who's gotta learn," he purred in her ear, "but that trick nearly worked." Levy smirked before turning her attention back to the stove.

"I still don't see why I have to learn when you make them so well."

"Cause what if I'm on a job? What will you do then? I'm not letting ya go through life not knowing how to cook basic things. You, my love, deserve better than yer own overcooked eggs." Levy moved to interrupt, but he knew what she'd say and quickly kissed her cheek. "And ya can't rely on Mira and the guild forever."

Levy pouted. She didn't like when people acknowledged her problems, especially with something that was supposed to be easy. "I can make pasta."

"Noodles cooked in unsalted water with a canned sauce do not a meal make," Gajeel countered. She wrinkled her nose at him. It was a meal in her book. He took her hand again, gently helping her fold the eggs over. "Think of it like a story. Let the characters develop together but learn to stand on their own. Take them on a journey until they change for the better. Delicious eggy better." Levy snickered. Gajeel came up with some of the most terrible jokes, and she loved him for it. Swiping the eggs one more time around the pan, he took them off the burner.

"What are you doing? Some of it's still raw." Levy reached for the skillet, but Gajeel held it high above her head.

"Ya gotta pull them a little earlier than you'd think. They'll overcook in a minute. I'd rather have runny eggs in the pan and perfect eggs on the plate than perfect eggs in the pan and overcooked eggs on my fork." Levy glared at him. According to Gajeel she'd overcooked every batch she'd made. They'd tasted fine to her, normal in fact. He handed her a plate, sprinkling on just a little extra salt, and thought for a long moment. "It's like ruining something that could have been great. You'd be pissed if I gave you a crap cup of coffee." Levy would be more than pissed if Gajeel couldn't make a decent cup of coffee after as long as they'd been dating. It ran like blood through her veins. "Think of it, Lev. Like a cup made from old coffee grounds that have been sitting in the pantry for over a year brewed with lukewarm water."

Levy shuddered. She didn't even want to think about such a terrible drink. "Ok. I get it. Overcooked eggs are equivalent to a cup of coffee so horrible it should never be spoken of nor imagined again."

Gajeel laughed. If there was one quality culinary thing his little girlfriend understood it was coffee. "Exactly. And you'll never have to worry about that again, cause yer man just showed you how to make perfect scrambled eggs." Levy looked down at the plate in front of her. They seemed different from what she normally had but apparently that was a good thing. "See, they’re soft, fluffy, and delicious; not the rubbery mess ya were eating before."

Scooping up a bite, Levy sighed and licked her lips. "This is really good, but the others weren't that bad."

Gajeel laughed. It was tough to get Levy to set aside her ego, but her effort touched him. "They should be good. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day after all."

"Yeah, but I still miss my chocolate stuff, " Levy said, scooping up another forkful.

"Put it in yer coffee. I'm not letting ya eat those toaster things anymore. Yer sweet enough as is." Gajeel pulled her chair out from under the table and spun it around. "In fact," he straddled her lap, lowering down to kiss her deeply, "Your lips are sweeter than any pastry." She kissed him back, pulling him down onto her.

"And you're cheesy enough to make fondue."

"Oh, so ya know how to make fondue, now?" Gajeel teased. Levy launched them both out of the chair, giggling as they hit the floor and rolled. He kissed her hard at first, then slow, peppering his lips across her skin. It really was a perfect Saturday morning.

#gajevy #gajevy fanfiction #Gajeel Redfox #Levy McGarden #ftfanfics #small request #cookie writes #i almost added another part but it fit kinda awkwardly #i think levy would love baking though #let gajeel do all the cooking #hehehe yall can guess what they do next ;)

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