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xoxo-ives · 4 months

Text

turning saints into the sea

earrings, jealousy, and hot cocoa

or, tim doesn't like how well reader gets on with his brother

wc: 2119

(title from 'mr brightside' by the killers)

You glance down at your phone as it buzzes, a laugh bubbling up in your throat at the text. You type a response quickly, watching as the little bubble that indicates the other person is typing appears on the screen. When the message comes through, you grin down at your phone. Tim glances at you from across the table, spoon of cereal halfway to his mouth.

“Thought the rule was no phones when we’re eating,” he says drily, not wanting to make it an issue but a little annoyed that you aren’t following the rule you proposed. “I distinctly remember you saying something about ‘quality time’ or whatever.”

“Sorry,” you mumble, typing something and putting your phone down. It buzzes again, and your eyes flick to it, but you leave it on the table and return to your own bowl of cereal.

“So, who’s got you smiling like that at six in the morning?” Tim asks, words tinged with a shade of bitterness, though you barely notice.

“Uh…just a friend,” you say cagily. Tim gives you a deadpan look, and you sigh. “Fine. Your brother.”

“What?” he says, eyes wide. “You’re texting my brother at six in the morning? Instead of talking to me?”

“In my defense, you’re kind of a bitch in the morning,” you mutter.

“Oh my God, you hate me,” he says, pouting and feigning hurt. “You hate me so much.”

“You’re such a baby,” you laugh. “I’m allowed to have other friends.”

“Yeah. Friends who aren’t Dick Grayson,” he says, sticking his tongue out. “You can’t be friends with him. You’re already my best friend, he can’t have you. Tell him he has to find a new friend.”

“I’m not doing that,” you laugh. “You tell him, if you care that much.”

“Fine, maybe I will.”

Your phone buzzes again when you’re walking home from class, and you glance down at it and smile.

Tell me why I just got a text from Tim yelling at me for stealing you away from him?

Of course he’d actually done it. You thought it was just a joke, but Tim was actually upset that you’re friends with Dick. He’s nothing if not dramatic, and he’s a sucker for attention.

He’s being stupid. Ignore him.

I would, except he threatened to break my nose.

He’s like five foot six. You could totally kick his ass. I’ll talk to him.

When you get back to your apartment, you find Tim on the couch, working on his laptop. You stand in front of him, pushing it closed when he doesn’t look up at you. He closes his eyes, sighs deeply, and glances up.

“You’d better hope my laptop doesn’t disconnect from the internet, because I’ve been working on that document for two hours and nothing is saved,” he says, annoyed.

“First of all, use the save button. It’s on your computer for a reason. Second, why did you tell Dick you’d break his nose if he didn’t stop talking to me?” Tim has the decency to look sheepish, averting his eyes.

“Oh, he told you about that? You, uh…you weren’t supposed to know.”

“I have a life outside of this apartment, you know. I have other friends. And it’s not fair for you to tell me I can’t.” Tim sighs.

“Yeah, but…come on. Dick? Really?”

“What, are you jealous?” you ask. He says nothing, looking away again. “You are, aren’t you? You’re jealous that I have other friends. You’re still my favorite Robin, don’t worry.”

“You promise?” he says, voice small. He almost seems vulnerable now, as if this means a lot more to him than he’s letting on.

“Timothy. We live together. You’ve been my best friend since the sixth grade. I’ve been more than friendly with you. You’re definitely my favorite,” you say, kissing his cheek. “Besides, you’re the only one who buys me that ice cream I really like, so you have to be my favorite.”

“Really?” he laughs. “That’s how I won you over? Ice cream? Not the fact that I’ve been your best friend for eight years? Not the fact that I protect the city? Not the fact that I always come to walk you home from your evening classes so that you’re not out alone after the sunset? I didn’t realize you were so shallow.”

“Shallow and I mother you and I’m clingy,” you add, nudging him with a grin.

“Mmhmm. You try too hard to take care of me.”

“And you like it, even though you’re a liar and you won’t admit it.”

“Hey,” Dick says, poking your shoulder. “Pay attention to me.”

“I’m working on something,” you mumble, not looking up from what you’re writing. “Give me five minutes.”

“That’s what you said a half hour ago,” he groans. “You’re not giving me adequate attention.”

“You’re so needy,” you laugh. “Tim isn’t like this.” You set your pen down, pushing the paper aside and taking a sip of your coffee. The cafe you’re sitting in is quiet, and it’s a nice change of pace from hiding in a chair in the corner of the student union. “What do you want?”

“Do you want to come with me to a charity event Bruce is having on Friday night?”

You pause. You hadn’t known there was an event this week. You usually go with Tim, who hasn’t mentioned anything yet. What’s the harm, you think. Just this once. Tim will survive.

“Sure,” you say. “Should I wear a specific color? So that we match? Tim likes to color-coordinate, so…”

“Blue is good. You know, you talk about Tim an awful lot,” he says, smiling knowingly.

“I mean, he’s my roommate. I see him a lot. of course I talk about him.”

“Uh-huh,” Dick says. It’s clear he doesn’t believe you, but he isn’t going to call you out on it. “I’ll pick you up around six?”

“Six is fine. Now, seriously, I’ve gotta get this work done.”

Quarter to six on Friday afternoon rolls around, and suddenly, you’re rushing around the apartment, trying very hard not to trip in your heels and dress, looking for a pair of earrings. Tim comes in the door and stops halfway across the living room.

“Um…hi. You good?” he asks, frowning.

“Yeah, just looking for my earrings. You know the silver ones with the butterflies?” You don’t look up, still rifling through drawers.

“Your gala earrings? What do you need those for? I’m not going to the event tonight.”

“Oh. Um. I assumed you were going.”

“No, I told Bruce I wouldn’t be there. I wanted to spend the evening with you. Since we’ve both been so busy.”

And without meaning to or realizing it, Tim has made you feel like the worst person in the world. Of course the one time you agree to go without him is the one time he’s canceled to spend time with you. But you can’t bail on Dick, not at the last minute. And so you find yourself facing Tim, tongue between your teeth, face burning.

“I actually…have plans tonight?” you say hesitantly.

“Plans that you need your fancy earrings for?”

“Well, see…I initially thought you’d be at the gala, and I kind of…am going?”

“You’re going. Without me. Alone? If you’re going alone, just cancel. Bruce won’t care,” Tim says easily.

“That’s kind of the problem. I’m not…going alone,” you mumble. The situation is already awkward, and is only going to get worse if Tim asks, as he inevitably will, who you’re going with.

“You have a date. Who’s your date?”

At the moment he asks, like some parody of being saved by the bell, there’s a knock on the door. Tim gives you a look and opens it, jaw twitching when he sees who it is. He steps back, opening the door all the way.

“She’s over there,” he grits out, gesturing to you standing in the living room. Dick steps inside, beaming at you, and you smile back weakly. You finally find your earrings, putting them on, and you check your reflection in the microwave quickly. Tim is glaring at you, but you’re ignoring him.

“I’ll be back…some time tonight,” you say. “Whenever the gala’s over. You don’t have to wait up.”

You don’t get an answer, but you weren’t expecting one. You slip your arm into Dick’s, walking with him down to his car. You see the car, and you sigh, looking over at him.

“You know Tim is watching us from the window. You knew he’d do that. And this is the car you brought?”

It’s a car you’ve seen at many a gala, a car you’ve seen around the manor. It’s a dark gray, flashy, and, like most of what Dick Grayson owns, expensive. He grins, clearly knowing exactly what he’s doing.

“I can’t say I know what you mean. This is just my car.”

“Richard,” you say flatly. “You’re not stupid. You know how this is going to look to Tim. You really want to tell me you’re innocent in this?”

“Okay, fine, maybe I’m trying to rile him up a little. But I have a plan, just trust me.”

“Care to enlighten me? I don’t like you messing with my life.” Dick rolls his eyes, putting an arm around your shoulders and walking you to the passenger side of the car. He looks up at the window, making eye contact with Tim and winking at him. When he gets into the car, he looks over at you with a smug expression.

“Trust me,” he repeats. “I have a plan.”

The event itself is predictable. It’s the same as every other charity event that you’ve been to, except people keep looking at you. You suppose it’s a side effect of being there with Gotham’s favorite bachelor, but it’s off putting. You’re used to sitting with Tim, drinking sparkling grape juice because Bruce won’t let you anywhere near the champagne, laughing at the stuffy rich people.

Now all of a sudden, you’re expected to be one of the stuffy rich people, following around after Dick and charming people whose closets are the size of your bedroom. By the time the event is over, you’re exhausted and frustrated, eager to go home. You get in the car and tilt your face up to the roof, sighing heavily.

“That was awful,” you say. “How do you do that every time?” Dick just laughs, still looking completely put together and awake. He shrugs.

“It’s not that bad. I guess you get used to it when everyone wants to talk to you at these kinds of things.”

“I have so much more respect for you now. Like, actual respect.”

“You saying you didn't respect me before?” he teases.

“That is absolutely what I’m saying, yes. Can you take me home please?”

He drives you back to your apartment, offering to walk you up. You decline, knowing Tim is likely sitting in the kitchen, brooding, and bringing Dick in will only stir the pot. You climb the stairs slowly, wanting to buy yourself some time. You put the key in the lock, and the door swings open from the inside. Tim is standing there, blue eyes sharp, a question on his lips. Did you enjoy it more than you would have with me?

“Hi,” you say quietly. “Have a good night?”

“No,” Tim answers bluntly. “I had nothing to do.”

“If it’s any consolation, my night was also shit. I never realized how many people want to talk to Dick at those events. I think I met more people tonight than I have in the entire rest of my life.”

“Yeah, Gotham’s most eligible bachelor,” Tim says bitterly. “Pretty face and more money than he knows what to do with.”

“Yeah. Um…you know it wasn’t, like, a date, right? Like, Dick and I just went as friends?” you say. “He’s not stealing your best friend or anything. And I’d never do that to you. Family is off-limits. And he’s like my older brother, honestly.”

Tim doesn’t say anything, but the harsh lines of his face seem to soften a bit. He makes a small sound that borders suspiciously on a harrumph and turns away. You sigh and head to your room, changing out of the stuffy formal clothes and into your pajamas, which are actually an old hoodie and a pair of Tim’s shorts that you stole.

“I really didn’t mean to upset you,” you say softly. “I’m sorry that I did. Do you want hot chocolate?”

Tim still says nothing, but he moves to the kitchen and gets out two mugs, setting them down on the counter. You sigh and smile fondly. He’s stubborn and difficult, but he’s yours.

#tim drake x reader #tim drake #red robin x reader #red robin #roommates au #tim is a jealous little shit #dick grayson is here too #dunno if he'll be back but he's here #fem reader #female reader

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xoxo-ives · 5 months

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finals are over and i'm finally writing again...don't even remember where i was going with half of my wips

google docs after i've spent the past three weeks in microsoft 365 for school

#having to reread my own writing to continue it remains one of the most frustrating things #because i get to the end of it #and ask 'what happens next?'#and i have to fucking figure it out

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xoxo-ives · 6 months

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i totally dropped off the face of the earth, busy with school stuff. working on the next part of the roommates!verse, though, and some jaysteph if that's anyone's jam.

#might not post anything for a couple weeks still #but i have been working on stuff

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xoxo-ives · 7 months

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masterlist

tim drake x reader

the way you weigh your head on mine

we are sunflowers begging for light

honey, come put your lips on mine

turning saints into the sea

#masterlist

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xoxo-ives · 7 months

Text

honey, come put your lips on mine

glitter, awkward moments, and works of art

or, reader does tim's makeup

wc: 1572

(title from 'talk too much' by coin)

[A/N] this one is a little tiny bit spicier than the last two. nothing really happens, there's just tension

You aren’t sure how you ended up in this position. One minute, you were doing Tim’s makeup, and then suddenly he’s whining into your mouth. An hour ago, you were doing your makeup to practice for the next fancy event you were inevitably dragged to. Tim, ever the nosy detective, came knocking on the bathroom door to demand your attention.

“Whatcha doing?” he asked, leaning his head around the doorframe.

“Makeup,” you answered distractedly, brushing on eyeshadow.

“It’s, like, eleven at night. Why are you doing your makeup now?”

“Practice. I don’t know. I was bored.” You continued doing your makeup, ignoring the fact that he was hovering behind you. Eventually, when he didn’t move, you spun around. “Do you need something?”

He was silent for a long minute, swallowing thickly before blinking wide eyes at you. “Uh…could you…put makeup on me?” he mumbled, looking away. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine. I totally get it, it’s probably a weird thing for me to ask.”

“Tim. You’re rambling. I’ll do your makeup.” You shot him a grin and told him to go sit on the couch or wherever he was comfortable and that you’d be there in a second. You grabbed your makeup bag and found him in the living room, running his hands nervously over his legs. “You ready?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure,” he said quietly.

“It’s just me, you can relax,” you laughed quietly. “I’m not gonna bite. Sit down.”

He swallowed hard again and sat on the couch, watching you carefully. You put the makeup bag on the cushions next to him and balanced on your knees, legs bracketing his. His breath caught in his throat, almost imperceptibly. You noticed but decided to spare him the indignity of being questioned. You unzipped the bag and pulled out a fluffy brush and several shades of blush, holding them up one at a time to compare them.

“I don’t have a foundation that’s your shade,” you mumbled, busy trying to decide which blush matched his skin best. “So we’re skipping that. Which blush do you think would look best?”

“I don’t know. Why would I know?”

“Just figured you would have opinions on this, seeing as you have opinions on literally everything else,” you teased. When he didn’t laugh along with you, you knew he was definitely tense, and you put your hands on his shoulders. Another sharp intake of breath that you graciously ignored. “Relax, Tim,” you repeated. “We’ll just go with this orangey one. It’ll look nice with your eyes.”

He just nodded along and let you brush the pigment onto his face. You slid one hand onto his jaw, tilting his head to the side, and he let his eyes flutter closed. By the time you were moving onto eyeshadow, your thighs were tired from holding yourself up, and so you let yourself sit in his lap instead. That was the first in a series of poor choices. (Or maybe excellent ones, depending on how it all ends.)

“Do you care if I put glitter on your skin? Can take a bit of work to get it off.”

“That’s fine,” he whispered. “I don’t mind.”

“Wonderful. You’ll love it, I’m sure.” You leaned to the side, digging through the bag for some glitter. In doing so, you accidentally leaned forward, hips bumping with Tim’s. He nearly jumped out of his skin, eyes flying open, and you froze. “Shit, sorry. That was accidental.”

“S’alright,” he muttered. “You can…continue.”

You grabbed the glitter and returned to the task at hand. “Close your eyes again?” He did, and you dipped the brush into the glitter and carefully laid it on his eyelids. “There. All done. You want to do eyeliner and mascara? If not, that’s cool. Those can be kind of daunting if you’ve never done your makeup before.”

He nodded, and you found a liquid black eyeliner. You carefully drew it across his lash line, using small brush strokes. When you’d finished both eyes, you grabbed a pencil liner, running it along his lower waterline. You carefully instructed him to blink for the mascara, and then sat back to admire your work.

“All you need now is lipstick. I’m thinking…red. Can’t go wrong with a classic red lip. Part your lips just a little?” You outlined his lips with a dark liner and filled in the center with a bright liquid lipstick. You finished it with a clear gloss and then grinned. “Damn. Look at you, Timmy. All dolled up.”

His cheeks colored lightly under the blush, and he looked away. You offered a mirror, and he took it, glancing at himself and then doing a double take. “Whoa. I don’t even…look like myself.”

“In a good way?”

“In the best way. I look…I don’t even know.”

“You look delicious, Tim, that’s what you look like,” you laughed. “Downright edible.”

“Shut up,” he mumbled, turning even pinker. “You don’t mean that.”

“Uh, I absolutely do. You look…pretty. You look really good. You should let me do your makeup more often.”

“Pretty? I don’t look pretty. What do you even mean? Pretty like a girl?”

“Pretty like a work of art, baby,” you said, pet name rolling off your tongue like honey. Poor choice number two.

He made a small sound of surprise, something between a squeak and a gulp. His face burned, eyes going round. It was cute, you thought, that someone like him could still be so surprised by compliments. Maybe it was that it was genuine, or maybe it was that it was you saying it, but it made him want to smile until his face split apart. He was silent for a long time, and you lifted a hand to tap on his temple.

“What’s going on in that brain of yours?” you asked softly. He just shook his head and smiled, eyes downcast. “Tim. Say something. Are you upset? Did I overstep?”

“No. I’m just…you really think I’m pretty?” He sounded almost breathless, as if the thought was completely baffling to him. You smiled, leaning forward to kiss the end of his nose.

“Yeah. Absolutely.” Your hands were resting on his shoulders, and had somehow found their way into his hair without your permission (the third and final choice in your series of mistakes). You were playing with it, scratching against his scalp lightly, and all of a sudden he was kissing you. So here you find yourself, sitting in his lap, tongue in his mouth.

You nip at his mouth, twisting your fingers into his hair with a little more bite, and he makes a sound you didn’t know was possible from workaholic golden child Tim Drake. He whines. His hands wind up to the collar of your shirt, pulling you closer, and you slide your body closer to his, pressing chest to chest with him. You pull back for a second to breathe, watching him watch you.

Your lips are sticky with his lipgloss, which is smudged at the edges. His cheeks are pink under the orange blush, and he bats his eyelashes. You know that it’s almost certainly unintentional, which just makes it more attractive. The tip of his tongue dips out to run along his bottom lip. He shifts slightly under you, and you tilt closer to him.

“You gonna kiss me again?” you whisper. He gives you a sharp grin, meeting your lips with passion. He lets his hands float from your collar to your ribcage, not daring to reach any lower. You grab his wrists, not breaking the kiss, and slide his grip down to your waist. His hands are warm and solid, grounding you to him in this moment.

The world seems to shrink to a little bubble that only includes the two of you and the air you’re sharing, everything else forgotten. Tim eases back after a few minutes, breathing heavily. You stare at him, and he stares back. It’s awkward but somehow not uncomfortable. You take a deep breath and then mumble,

“We should probably get to bed. It’s getting kind of late, we have an early morning.”

Which is true. You have class and he has a meeting. But you still hate to say it, and you have to force the words out. You reluctantly peel yourself away from him, standing and offering him a hand. He takes it and stands, giving you a little smile.

“Maybe just one more kiss?” he says softly. “To remember you by?” You laugh, pressing a chaste kiss against his mouth.

“You live with me, you’re not going to forget me.”

“Fine. Maybe I just wanted another kiss,” he says sheepishly. “Is that such a crime?”

“Never,” you laugh again, kissing his cheek. “You’re gonna want to wash that makeup off, or else you’ll wake up with your eyes burning. I have some makeup remover in the bathroom that you can use.”

He nods, following you down the hall. When you pass the bathroom, he stops and picks up a bottle off the counter. He holds it up in question, and you nod.

“Just use a washcloth and some warm water, should come off pretty easily. The glitter is the only thing that might give you some trouble.”

You continue down the hall into your room, laying on your bed and shoving your face into your pillow, making a sound that was half-scream, half-squeal.

What just happened? What happens now?

#tim drake x reader #tim drake #fem reader #female reader #red robin x reader #roommates au #i just think tim drake deserves to wear makeup more often #is that such a crime?

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xoxo-ives · 8 months

Text

we are sunflowers begging for light

cold, dark streets and apartments full of familiar warmth

or, tim can't keep his mind on patrol

wc: 1188

(tim-centric rewrite of 'the way you weigh your head on mine')

(title from 'heaven sent is a coffee cup' by bears in trees)

Crack! A fist collides with Tim’s cheekbone, snapping his head to the right. He blinks twice, reeling from the impact. Another blow lands on his mouth, and he feels his bottom lip split. The metallic tang of blood fills his mouth, and he spits onto the ground. He shouldn’t have let himself get so distracted. His opponent faces him, chest heaving after the several minutes of cat-and-mouse they’d been playing.

Tim had been distracted, letting his mind wander, only going through the motions of combat. His head wasn’t in it, and it was increasingly obvious the longer it went on. Eventually, the mugger was able to land two hits, one of which he’s sure will bruise. He sighs, ending the fight quickly. He leaves the guy on the corner in front of a police station, unconscious with his hands zip tied behind his back.

He starts to make his way home, returning to his thoughts. Thoughts he isn’t sure he could put into words even if he wanted to. Thoughts that made his heart beat faster and his face feel warm. Thoughts of you, at home. Likely asleep, because you have class tomorrow morning. He wonders about what you might have done while he was out. Maybe you’d read a book on the couch, or watched your favorite show, or done nothing at all in particular.

He thinks about calling you, telling you he’ll be home soon. Just talking to you so he can hear your voice. If you’re already asleep, which you should be, he won’t see you until tomorrow afternoon. You have class early in the morning, and he has work. He’ll come home for about two hours, and you’ll both be so tired it’ll hardly be a conversation at all, and then he’ll be patrolling again and the whole thing will start over again.

As selfish as it is, he hopes you're not asleep. He wants to see you, if only for a moment. He climbs the fire escape, slipping in through the window to his bedroom. His boots hit the floor a little louder than he intended, and he winces. He opens the door of his room, intending to have some water and maybe some food before trying to get whatever sleep he can. When he swings the door open, you’re standing there, warm and soft and familiar.

“Hey. You’re home.” Your voice is quiet, but it’s the most wonderful sound in the world right now.

“I am,” he says. “You’re still awake.” He doesn’t say it aloud, but you both know what he’s thinking. It’s late. You should be asleep right now.

“Yeah. Probably should have gone to sleep a while ago, but I…” You trail off, and he wonders for a split second if he needs to be worried. “...can’t sleep when you’re not here. Feels wrong.”

“What? What does that even mean?” He’s touched, but he’d be lying if he said that didn’t confuse him a little.

“It’s too quiet when you’re out. The apartment feels too…empty. I don’t like it. It makes me uneasy, and I can’t sleep. Maybe it’s dumb, I don’t know,” you say, shaking your head.

“It doesn’t sound dumb to me.” It sounds like exactly what he needs to hear. “It sounds nice. Sounds like you want me around, you know?”

“Of course I want you around,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re my best friend, idiot. C’mere.” You put your hands out, motioning for him to come closer. He does, and you cradle his face gently, hand on his jaw. You move his head to the side, fingertips ghosting over his cheekbone. He feels his skin burn where you touch him, and he prays to every god he doesn’t believe in that he isn’t blushing.

“You got a bruise here.” He hums, not trusting himself to say anything other than how close you’re standing to him. “What happened?”

“Just some mugger. Caught me off guard.” Because he was thinking about you.

“Caught you off guard?” Your voice is playful, and it makes him feel like he’s flying. “You losing your touch, boy wonder?” He rolls his eyes and pushes your shoulder gently. He hasn’t been Robin for years, and yet you insist on calling him by that silly little nickname. He asked you once why you do it. You’ll always be my Robin, you had said fondly, grinning at him. He feels his heart twist at the memory, knowing you didn’t mean it in the way he wished you would.

“I was just distracted,” he says. He tries to use the Red Robin voice, the voice he knows you listen to. He can see in your eyes that you want to push, though.

“Distracted? By what?” And there it is. You’re not going to drop it easily.

“Doesn’t matter.” He’s trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice, knowing he’s not quite succeeding. He hopes against hope that this will be the end of it.

“Clearly it does, if you were so off your game you got punched that hard.”

“Just leave it, okay?” he finally snaps. “I was thinking about something else, and I wasn’t paying attention. It. Doesn’t. Matter.”

“Fine, keep your secrets.” He can tell from the way you mutter it that you’re upset, both annoyed and hurt in equal measure. “You really should clean that lip, too. Don’t want it to get infected.”

“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes again, not even sure what he’s annoyed about now. “You don’t need to mother me.” He refuses to admit that he appreciates it every time you fuss over his injuries or insist on making him food. He feels loved, cared for, wanted when you remind him to come home safe. Even if you don’t say it with words, he hears it each time you leave leftovers out for him, each time you wash the grit out of his palms, each time you leave a water bottle next to his work bag.

“Okay. Sorry.” Your voice is just a whisper now, and he can’t help but feel guilty. “You want tea or anything?” He sighs. Even now, after he’s snapped at you, you’re trying to take care of him.

“Tea sounds nice actually. Chamomile, please.” He hears you move to the kitchen, and he unties his boots and takes off his mask, setting them in his room. He finds you on the counter next to the stove, looking at something on your phone. He stands as close to you as he can get, pushing your legs out of the way before wrapping his arms around you and leaning against your chest. Your chin settles on the top of his head, and he can feel you playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. He hears the kettle boil and pours the water quickly, not wanting you to go anywhere. He returns to his place against you, breathing deeply.

“You alright? Long night?” He can feel the words vibrate through your chest against his cheek, and he finds it soothing.

“Yeah. You have no idea.”

#tim drake x reader #tim drake #fem reader #female reader #red robin x reader #fluff #domestic fluff #roommates au

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xoxo-ives · 8 months

Text

the way you weigh your head on mine

empty apartments and quiet moments.

or, reader can't sleep when tim isn't home.

wc: 983

(title from 'heaven sent is a coffee cup' by bears in trees)

The apartment is quiet, and you hate it. It’s always quiet when Tim is gone, though. When he’s Red Robin, when he’s working, when he’s on dates. It’s the kind of quiet that sits uncomfortably in your throat, pressing into your lungs and almost choking you. You’d never say it out loud, and you aren’t sure you could even articulate it properly, but some part of your heart, a deep and secret part, aches when he is gone. You hadn’t noticed until he was gone more frequently, but you’d become so accustomed to having him around that his absence felt like a personal affront.

Right now, he’s patrolling the city. It’s late, two or three in the morning. You have class in the morning, and you know you should be asleep, but something about knowing Tim isn’t home yet keeps you awake. You aren’t worried, necessarily. You know he can take care of himself, and he isn’t alone out there. But knowing that he's out in the crisp autumn air, cheeks and nose and ears likely pink with the wind chill, keeps you waiting up for him.

You want to call him and ask when he’ll be home. Say you can’t sleep until he gets back, and you’re tired. You know he’d be disappointed in you for it, would tell you that you’re supposed to be asleep. That you have to be in class in only six hours. That you have better things to be doing than waiting for him to come home. But then he’d get home and see you, cozy and snug in your hoodie, face soft with tiredness, and he’d just smile at you.

You’re so tired you’re barely awake when you finally hear a window creak open, followed by the sound of boots hitting the floor. There are footsteps across the room, and then the door to Tim’s bedroom is open and he’s there in front of you. He looks tired, worn down by the endless weight of justice and duty on his shoulders. He’s got a split lip, and the beginnings of a bruise are forming on his left cheek. Despite it all, his face lights up when he sees you. There’s something so domestic, so warm about coming home to someone waiting up for him.

“Hey,” you say softly. “You’re home.”

“I am,” he replies, equally as soft. “You’re still awake.”

“Yeah. Probably should have gone to sleep a while ago, but I…can’t sleep when you’re not here. Feels wrong.” The words come easily, coaxed out of you in a way only sleep deprivation can achieve. You wouldn’t normally say that, and you’ve somehow avoided saying it in the several months you’ve been living with him so far.

“What?” he asks, frowning. “What does that even mean?”

“It’s too quiet when you’re out. The apartment feels too…empty. I don’t like it. It makes me uneasy, and I can’t sleep.” You shake your head. “Maybe it’s dumb, I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t sound dumb to me. It sounds nice. Sounds like you want me around, you know?”

“Of course I want you around. You’re my best friend, idiot,” you mumble fondly. “C’mere.”

You reach out your hands, beckoning him to get closer. When he does, you put your left hand on his jaw, tilting his head slightly as the fingers of your right hand ghost over his cheek. He’s watching you watch him, and his eyes are somewhere between exhausted and fond.

“You got a bruise here,” you observe, and he hums out a noise of vague acknowledgement. “What happened?”

“Just some mugger,” he mumbles. “Caught me off guard.”

“Caught you off guard? You losing your touch, boy wonder?” He rolls his eyes at your teasing, pushing your shoulder lightly.

“I was just distracted,” he says dismissively. You know better than to ask when he uses that tone of voice. The one that leaves no room for curiosity or concern. The one that almost forces you to drop whatever question or quip you have building at the back of your throat. The one that makes your head spin, though you’d never tell him that.

“Distracted? By what?” you ask (against your better judgment).

“Doesn’t matter.” He’s just this side of annoyed, and he’s clearly had a long night, and you really should drop it.

“Clearly it does, if you were so off your game you got punched that hard.” You don’t.

“Just leave it, okay?” he snaps. “I was thinking about something else, and I wasn’t paying attention. It. Doesn’t. Matter.”

“Fine, keep your secrets,” you mutter. “You really should clean that lip, too. Don’t want it to get infected.”

“Whatever,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You don’t need to mother me.” You bite your tongue, wanting to yell at him. Wanting to scream that you’re not trying to mother him, that you just want to make sure he comes home safe to you every night. That you want to know that he’s alright. That you want to know that someone’s taking care of him, because most of the time, it sure as hell isn’t him that’ll do it. But you don’t yell. You just nod.

“Okay. Sorry,” you whisper. “Do you want tea or anything?” He sighs heavily.

“Tea sounds nice, actually. Chamomile, please.” You move to the kitchen, putting the kettle on to boil and setting two mugs out. You drop two tea bags into them and perch yourself on the counter, scrolling through your phone absentmindedly. You barely notice when Tim comes into the kitchen, squeezing his way in between your knees and wrapping his arms around your torso. His head rests just under your chin, and you twist little sections of his hair around your fingers. When the water boils, he pours it and immediately returns to leaning against you.

“You alright?” you ask softly. “Long night?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You have no idea.”

#tim drake x reader #tim drake #red robin x reader #fluff #domestic fluff #fem reader #female reader #roommates au

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