#no deadass i will write this | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

Average visit duration of Tumblr.com is 10 mins and 25 secs.

#no deadass i will write this

beanie-twink · 10 months

Text

No bc you’re telling me “Anthony leaves smosh and has to work though and overcome his issues relating to smosh that stem a lot from that beautiful thing (smosh) that was supposed to be just him and Ian ended up turning into something he didn’t recognize which made him feel a lot of resentment because he felt like something had been taken from him once the company that took over bastardized him and Ian’s creation so he decided to leave but not before suggesting that Ian leave with him but Ian doesn’t want to let go of smosh *bc it’s their thing and he doesn’t want to lose that* so he wants to collab but Anthony cuts all contact bc it’s all too painful for him which makes Ian sad to the point he listens to *their song* and sends Anthony a message about it trying to cope with what perceives is the end of their relationship (in addition to him becoming bitter bc he feels abandoned by Anthony) meanwhile Anthony is experiencing the same worries because he feels like he’s lost his childhood best friend and worries they’ve grown apart too much with how strained their relationship became during smosh and they both feel like the relationship is unable to be saved and repaired and that chapter is done for good until they end up reconnecting because of Ian’s friend which leads to them hanging out and suddenly because of their individual growth that’s occurred in that time span Anthony realizes the magic is still there and it’s like it never left and so one day at a party Ian asks Anthony about buying smosh back when he’s already been contemplating it and starts going on a 30 minute tangent about his plans for smosh and so they decide to buy smosh back and return to making videos together and drop the news on their fans with no warning and Anthony interviews Ian on his channel in his longest interview yet and Anthony tears up multiple times and they seem so at ease around each other and it closes with Ian saying “If we burn it to the ground, I’m happy to do that with you” as they softly look at each other and get ready to take on this journey together” is real life and NOT a fanfiction? Because that sounds exactly like fanfiction to me

#smosh #ianthony #Ian hecox #Anthony Padilla #like how the actual fuck is this real tbh #like genuinely #this sounds like something I would write to cope with smosh breaking up and so I give them a happy ending #Ian and Anthony are deadass in their happy ending fanfic era

2K notes · View notes

hajimeseyo · 4 months

Text

“Tell me something about yourself that not many people know.”

“What's this?” he asks, voice laced with amusement.

“Just answer me, ‘tsuya.” you grumble, head lolling over the side of the bed you're currently spread out on, peering at his upside down figure. “I'm bored.”

Mitsuya hums thoughtfully, pen tapping against the table absentmindedly. Both your homeworks lay abandoned on his table, you having already given up a long time ago and pestering him to do the same, despite his best efforts to stay focused and finish them.

“I have a dragon tattoo on the side of my head.” he says casually.

“WHAT?????” you leap up from your spread-eagle position to gape at him properly. His lips curl into an impish grin at your reaction, the sight sending butterflies flying through your stomach. You swat them away in favour of focusing on the more pressing matter at hand.

“Yeah.” His hand comes up to tap at the right side of his head. “Right here.”

You scramble off the bed, nearly tripping over yourself as you rush to his side. “Whaaat the fuck. You're the last person I'd expect to ever have a tattoo.” you say as you pull up your chair next to him, plopping down on it.

He huffs in amusement. “I am in a gang, y'know.”

“I know, but you're like, more well behaved compared to them.” You pause, peering at his face suspiciously. “...right?”

A mischievous smile is all you get in response.

Rolling your eyes, you turn your attention back to the side of his head, peering closely at the short lilac hair, trying to catch a glimpse of the tattoo. You can't see anything, though, due to all the hair fully covering it.

“Can I…?” you raise your hand hesitantly. He nods, grabbing your wrist and bringing it to where the tattoo supposedly lies, the warm touch sending sparks flying through your skin.

Carefully, your fingers gently part his hair to reveal the scalp below. The slight shiver as your fingers make contact with his head doesn't go unnoticed by you, although none of you say a word.

And there, under the lilac strands, you catch glimpses of furling strands of black ink, coiling and curling into something resembling—

“A dragon?” you murmur.

Mitsuya hums. “Mhm. I designed it myself. Cool, huh?” You can hear the pride in his voice.

You snort, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. “I suppose.” Following the strands of ink, you trace down the side of his scalp, mesmerized by the intricate design. Despite your seemingly unimpressed response, you found the tattoo really beautiful, the art style unique and artistic, the way it curves along the side of Mitsuya's head so naturally you wouldn't be surprised if he said he was born with it. Lost in your concentration, you don't notice Mitsuya's slowly reddening cheeks, closing his eyes as his head subconsciously leans into your gentle touch.

The two of you stay like that for a while, in comfortable silence, him enjoying your ministrations, you too absorbed in admiring every detail of the tattoo to notice.

Until you trace the final curl of the dragon's tail, the trail ending making you snap out of whatever trance you were in, face immediately flushing a deep red as you realized you probably spent way more time touching him than you should've. Your hand instantly jolts back from his head as if it touched hot iron. At the loss of your touch, Mitsuya's eyes slowly fluttered open, gazing lazily at you, the sight once again sending some weird, hot feeling shooting through you. Damn this man and his stupidly pretty face.

You clear your throat, trying to act natural. “Why have a tattoo when you can't even see it under all that hair, though?”

That question catches him off guard, and he barks out a laugh. “There's a funny story behind it, actually.”

He goes on to tell you the story of how he got the tattoo, from meeting this boy called Draken, to playing games at the brothel, to deciding to become a delinquent and accidentally matching tattoos with Draken. Your jaw dropped more and more as the story progressed, mostly from how unexpected and wild the entire thing was.

“Damn.” you laugh when he finishes. “And here I thought you were this good, well-behaved child who got roped into the gang business by their friends. I mean, abandoning your sisters to graffiti a wall?” you shake your head in mock disapproval. “What a bad child you are.”

His lips stretch into a sly grin, something dangerous glinting in his eyes. “Oh? Really, [name], you should've known by now.”

He leans forward until his lips are right by your ear, voice coming out in a teasing whisper.

“I can get quite naughty sometimes.”

...

You're quite certain your face is in flames.

You sit there, short-circuiting, as Mitsuya leans back into his chair, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Fumbling, you glance around desperately from something that will save you, and your eyes land on the abandoned exercise books on the table, the whole reason you were at Mitsuya's house in the first place.

“Oh! Would you look at that! Our homework! That we still have to finish!” You pull your chair back to the other side of the table hurriedly and bury your face in the books, your homework suddenly being the most interesting thing in the world. You hear him chuckle, but he doesn't say anything, picking up his pen and continuing with his work. Your heart finally stops racing, and you think that you're safe until—

“[name]?”

“Hm?”

“I enjoyed that very much. Feel free to do it again if you want~”

“...”

This boy is going to be the death of you.

(part 2 here!)

#i was daydreaming in the car and this came to me and i HAD to write it down #and then it spiraled out of hand into this.#would u believe me if i said this was my first time writing fluff. like deadass.#the things mitsuya takashi does to me 😔#what a man #mitsuya takashi #mitsuya #mitsuya x reader #mitsuya takashi x reader #tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers x reader #my writing

726 notes · View notes

kazutora-kurokawa · 15 days

Note

draken with s/o who is shy and quiet but curses alot

Draken x Shy!FoulMouthed!Reader

♡ SFW, fem reader, cursing, social anxiety ♡

note: thanks for requesting anon 🩷

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

🐉 Caught off guard the first time he hears you curse because huh?

🐉 He considers you to be the most respectful person he knows, so hearing you spouting out curses is hilarious to him

🐉 He's just dying of laughter while you complain about something

"Fucking hell man, what the fuck?"

*Insert Draken on the floor, laughing so hard that he's crying*

🐉 He knows how reserved you are about meeting new people, so he eases you into meeting the gang

🐉 You get along great with them and Draken even jokes that you're a bad influence on them, especially Mikey because after you leave he's cursing nonstop (he's so damn childish lmao)

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

Taglist

@arlerts-angel @i-literally-cant-with-this @trevengersprincess @giugiette @katkusuo @happy-trenchcoated-impala @drunkcheesecake @darkstarlight82 @reiners-milkbiddies

#tokyo revengers headcanons #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers fluff #draken x reader #draken fluff #I could deadass hear his laughter while writing this 💀

187 notes · View notes

judasgot-it · 4 months

Note

i would like to request what hunting dogs would do when their s/o has insomnia, a lot of hugs and kisses please🥰

Sorry for the inactivity, I apologize everytime and I feel horrible about it :,(

I have horrible insomnia right now (I can't sleep well no matter what I try, it's hopeless) so I'm 100% using this to cope a bit. Also sorry about how messy reader is in Tecchou's part, I just love messy crying. I'm so weak for it.

Scenario: They help you fall asleep (Jouno, Tecchou)

Jouno

893 words

Jouno couldn't tell the time.

Whatever time it was, his body didn't care - it was screaming at him to go back to bed, making his bones feel sluggish with their weight.

Unfortunately, his ears kept pestering him, since no matter how quiet you tried to be, he could still hear you in the kitchen. Doing what? Jesus Christ, who knew.

Whatever it was, it was too damn loud.

It felt nearly impossible for Jouno to make his body move, but by some feat, he managed. He found his feet both on the ground, walking towards the bedroom, out the too-long hallway, and into the kitchen to see what in god's name you could think was worth losing sleep over.

By his guess, it was most probably around 2 in the morning. How horrible.

"Hi."

There was a loud clatter as he heard you drop the dishes in the sneak rather unquietly. Also, you screamed, but that was to be expected.

"Oh my god!"

Is there a God at this forsaken time of night?

Jouno sighed as he leaned against the wall, rubbing his eyes out of habit.

"Yeah. I'm right here."

He gave you a moment to collect yourself, your heartbeat still skyrocketing through the roof. He yawned, nearly deafened by the sound of his jaw pulling at his muscles.

"So."

As patient as he could, he waited. There was noise on your end - a clattering of dishes, and he was sure you threw a towel somewhere, but that was of lesser importance.

"So. Jouno."

"Yeah?"

You patted your bare thighs, popping your lips together. Nervous.

"Why are you up?"

You tried to play your words off with a giggle. He knew he probably looked the least bit pleased, but nothing was going to convince him to go easy on you right now.

"Y/n. You know why I'm up. I'm the one asking the questions here, if I recall."

"Oh, right. Because you're 'the greatest hunting dog' and all, right?"

Jouno sighed, covering his eyes. He took a deep breath in, holding it in. It was calming, feeling his lungs slowly fill with air. His head cleared, helping him realize that the headache he had was I'm part due to the tension he was keeping in his body. In that time, he heard your heart beat skyrocket, your breath slowing as you stared.

He tried not to smile as he let go of his breath slowly. If Jouno wasn't exhausted he would have teased you about it.

"'Don't do this to me. It's 2 in the morning, go to bed."

Your laughter was a nice noise to hear. Just not now. God, not now. His body was dragging him to the ground and your laughter was reminding him that he was standing, awake - as if he were in hell.

Your laughter shouldn't be in a place as torturous as this. Like the hell between staying awake and crawling back to bed, because someone thought baking at two in rhe morning was a good idea.

"Sorry princess, but I need to put these brownies in the fridge. I'm trying out this recipe I saw online and I think-"

You didn't get to finish that sentence, as you were instead kidnapped in Jouno's arms. The man didn't care to hear the end of it - he only wanted it to end.

"No." He sighed, pressing his cold nose against your neck. "You're insane, honestly."

He muffled his words into your shirt collar, still restraining you as you struggled against his hold. There was no point, as no matter what way you fought, you couldn't fight against a super-enhanced human - even a tired one.

"This is so ..."

You paused for a bit, looking for the right words. Your brain was tired, although it hadn't registered to you just yet. Your heart still beat fast enough for you to convince yourself that you were awake, even if your eyes and mind were exhausted.

"So ...fun police of you."

The words that came out of your mouth came out sloppy at best, but they got a lame chuckle out of Jouno.

With care, he took you back to the bedroom - dropping you onto the bed like a pile of unfolded laundry. You practically laid there as if you were dead anyway.

"I have no problem arresting and cuffing you to bed if it means sleep is involved."

You giggled, as much as your tired brain could push from your throat. The bed shifted as Jouno dropped himself on the mattress, pulling up the still warm blanket over the two of you.

"What if that meant something else was involved too?"

Jouno groaned, turning back towards you. He could imagine the stupid smile on your face right now.

"Y/n."

"Yeah?"

Jouno took his hand and slowly, carefully, dragged it across your face. He felt as your eyebrows pinched in confusion, and your eyelids fluttered before he finally set his fingertips on your lips.

"Shush."

He felt you nod against his hand, before finally relaxing. Tiredly, he pulled you closer, burying his face in your hair as he slowly pressed his lips against your forehead.

"Goodnight, sleepyhead."

Jouno felt a smile pull on his face at those words. Like an idiot, he let you roam your hands around his body - when really he should have smothered you to death.

Tecchou

739 words

Waking up before you were supposed to was like a coin toss - depending on the mood it's either a great early start, or the worst feeling in the world. Sometimes the body had gotten it's full rest, or it was forced awake by something talked about in horror stories.

Tecchou decided he was indeed not well rested, and that waking up at what could well be 2 in the morning was equivalent to a horror story. Why would he want to wake up to one of the worst sounds a man could hear - his own partner, crying?

Maybe if he was Jouno, but he didn't want to think about that.

He sat up, listening as he tried to decipher what you were doing.

You were rather quiet, trying your hardest to hide your cries behind your blanket (gross, but he appreciated the effort). Opening his eyes, he glanced over to see that you were enraptured by some sort of video on your phone, the blue light illuminating your face (and probably burning your retinas, from Tecchou's guess).

He shuffled closer, trying to peak at the screen while not disturbing you. Whatever you were staring at on your phone had distracted you well enough to not even notice his presence, was slightly concerning to Tecchou - you were very spatially aware.

Shaking your shoulder, he winced when you screamed - right in his ear, with snot blowing right across his face. He elected to not react to it, considering how red your eyes looked.

"Tecchou!"

"Yea. I'm here." He replied while casually wiping off his face with the blanket he was once sleeping peacefully under.

He stared at you, his amber eyes glowing from your phone screen. You looked back, trying to readjust to the sudden change in brightness.

"M'sorry, did I wake you?" You had finally shut off you phone, resting it on your chest - giving yourself a good chance to see his full face.

"Why are you crying, babe?"

His hand roamed around your stomach, softly pulling at the fabric around it. It made you shiver as you felt his legs press against yours, warming you underneath the sheets.

"Oh...um..." You tore your gaze away from his, staring straight at the ceiling. You fidgeted with your phone, trying to stop your trembling lip.

Carefully, Tecchou reached over and wiped away your spilled-over tears, thumbing your cheek as if your skin were made of glass. He pulled you closer, resting your head against his chest, trying to calm you. Adversely, this had the opposite effect, making you start to cry even more onto his naked skin.

There were muffled stupid and sorry between your sobs, although he elected to ignore them for now. Instead, he waited as your body was racked with tears, shaking and holding onto Tecchou as if he were a lifeline.

"Hey, babe?" Calmly rubbing your shoulder, Tecchou waited as you wiped your snot and tears along your sleeve, sniffing as loud as an American bullfrog.

"Can I ask what upset you so much?"

You lightly smacked his shoulder, still hiding yourself within his warmth.

"You already did, ass."

"Right."

He went back to holding you, waiting for your reply. Eventually, when he thought you would have maybe decided to fall back asleep again instead, with the room still cast in pitch-black shadows, you decided to reply -

"I failed my exam."

Silently, Tecchou nodded.

There wasn't anything he could say to make you feel better, at no words that he knew to say. It was easier to simply pull you closer, to make you feel better through his hold than to say anything more.

"It's fine, you should try and sleep. Maybe you'll feel better in the morning."

Carefully, he pulled your phone from your hand, sliding it onto the bedside table, hoping to stop you from looking at your failure once again.

You didn't need to be reminded of it anymore, not when he could distract you right now.

As gently as a man like Tecchou could, he took to scratching at the soft skin at the back of your neck, gently tapping his rough fingernails along your spine. He smiled as felt you begin to relax, breathing out a sigh as his fingertips brushed alongside your bare shoulder blades.

He watched as you relaxed into his form, waiting until you started to breathe slower so he could allow himself to fully fall asleep once again.

Sorry about the months-long break, I didn't mean to abandon Tecchou. Also btw IRLs of mine know about this account so if I start sounding even weirder on here it's because I stopped caring about my employment opportunities

#the quality is probably dogshit #ive been brainrotten cuz ive deadass be suffering from insomnia too #and also have a severe caffiene addiciton #anyway its been crazy yall #bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #tecchou x reader #bsd x y/n #tecchou bsd #jouno x reader #tecchou x y/n #tecchou suehiro x reader #tetcho x reader #jouno x you #jouno saigiku x reader #im gonna make a new end card at some point mr beast stays but i never write for mushitaro #i need tecchou's big juicy yummyness on there but idk im so lazy about everything

257 notes · View notes

lyrichi · 1 month

Text

Imagine being mc, and you're just chilling in your kitchen cause you live alone. You're in your i-woke-up-to-be-here fit, glasses off and retainers out, hair out of the way messily yet conveniently. And you're just standing in the middle of your kitchen, small pot in your left hand and a wood spoon in your right.

Eating some pasta quietly with the same utensils you used to make the pasta so you didn't have to wash more dishes by putting it in a bowl and getting a fork. Then suddenly you're teleported somewhere that isn't your bland apartment kitchen with buzzing white lights above you. It takes you a minute to realise that anything has happened, shoveling your tasty homemade pasta into your mouth with a wooden spoon.

You look up, making eye contact with some dude with his arms crossed, his hair short and black, and standing about half a foot taller than you. At least that was what you could make out through blurry vision. Pasta strands hanging from your mouth, you eat them quickly while staring directly at this man whom you find conventionally attractive despite just meeting him, if you would even call this a meeting.

Your voice somewhat hoarse from not talking for about two and a half days and from eating off of a wooden spoon, you speak in a tone that is almost sarcastic, yet is questioning. You sound neutral, being caught like a deer in headlights in your most nobody's-gonna-see-me state.

"Who the fuck're you?" You'd say, blinking a few times and having to force your eyes to adjust to the shift in lighting that you had only now noticed, and your voice slightly muffled from the pasta sauce stuck to the roof of your mouth. Your organs rolling like a rotisserie chicken in confusion, almost making your stomach hurt.

You settle your right hand, loosely placing the wooden spoon into the pot, it being about half full of hot-n-ready pasta. Your left wrist feels sore from holding up the pot, but in your delayed confusion you barely feel it, doing mental gymnastics in order to figure out where the fuck you had ended up.

You just wanted some pasta. Now where were you?

#lol I CANNOT sleep #cooking omgg #not really it's deadass 3:43 am #love insomnia sm omGG #yeah ok #here you go #oh also just cause I suck at writing inserts #mc description is loosely based on myself #lol #okay #obey me shall we date #obey me shitpost #obey me #obey me crack #obey me mc

151 notes · View notes

kenneduck · 5 months

Text

I just spent way too long writing this, but here's a HC on what I believe would happen if BOTW Link found his OWN diary from 100 years ago.

At first, the diary's pages seem rather bland. Random stories about being in training, how Link misses his parents, how he's overwhelmed with the pressures of being a knight, etc. But, as Link reads through his old self, he finds himself caught on words. Words that seem... off putting. Words that make him feel a bit of fear of what he had forgotten about himself. Sentences that made him second guess if he should have been the Hero of Hyrule.

It's not apparent, but there's little sentences here and there that show a side of Link that didn't awaken after the 100 year slumber. Anger, envy, spite. Emotions Link DID encounter once he'd awoken, but... never directed towards the Princess. Never towards his role as knight. Never towards his friends who didn't remain any more.

Link felt a pit in his stomach form as he got further into his diary. Everyone he knows now recounts Link as a hero full of heart and determination. One who stands up for what was right, one who never questioned what he was told if it was to protect another. But these thoughts Link wrote... it made him feel guilty. He wrote about how he hated being a knight. Being HER knight. Being a chosen one who couldn't run away from what was forced upon him. He even... wished he would fail, so his duties would come to an end.

It felt heartbreaking to read these words he wrote 100 years ago. He wanted to help the Link who wrote this. Almost treating this Link as if it was someone he could comfort, but this wasn't another person he could reassure. It was him.

As Link got near the end of his diary, he didn't know what to think. He... hated himself. Who he was. It wasn't who Link was now. He never felt this anger towards his role in the Calamity since he woke. Link did feel anger, but it was towards his writing. How he could have possibly had such spite towards those he loved. Towards those he put his life on the line to protect. It angered him. Made him seethe as he got to the last written words.

"There's no winning against the Calamity. Only winning against those who use me for what I provide. I must leave, for I am fighting the wrong fight. I only have one place to turn to, one place that will truly accept me. No matter if I join them now, or many of years into the future, I must join the Yiga Clan."

Link stared at the last sentence. He began to feel anger, a different one than before. As Link recounted how he came across his diary, he grew frustrated. It was found neatly placed in the damaged knights' wing of Hyrule Castle. The diary itself had no dust, yet the room was caked in it. A room... that had a familiar scent of fruit lingering...

The diary was a pathetic ploy to have Link join the Yiga Clan. To turn him against his loved ones.

And it took him until the very last page to realize it.

He also now understood why previous pages would randomly recount his love for bananas. Why there was even a recipe to make banana bread on the 14th page.

He felt like an idiot for not realizing this sooner, but as he began to calm down from the overflow of emotions he got while reading, he realized the perfect way to release the frustration. It was time to visit the Yiga Clan.

#zelda #botw #zelda headcannon #zelda headcanon #leave me alone I just thought this would be silly #some yiga memeber deadass was writing this while kicking their feet #probs giggling too and patting themself on their back #while eating a banana #and also kind of being weirdly accurate enough on link's life that it took link so long to realize it was a ploy

229 notes · View notes

thequeenoffuckoffimsleeping · 8 months

Text

The dynamic is this: Grimmjow brutally cannibalizing another hollow meanwhile Ichigo is fucking bluescreening with Zangetsu in the back of his head going CAN HE EAT PUSSY LIKE THAT??

#grimmichi #i don’t remember writing this i just found it in my notes #grimmjow: *does something super violent and fucked up*#ichigo: *thinks it’s deadass the hottest thing he’s ever seen and hates it*

186 notes · View notes

mediumgayitalian · 3 days

Note

i mean I wouldn’t hate it if you went down the song line by line and explained your reasonings 👀 <- you don’t have to of course

ASK AND YOU SHALL FUCKING RECEIVE HOLY SHIT.

#sorry it’s handwritten i need to annotate w pen #i Cannot do it digitally #anyways here are my thoughts.#i tried SO HARD to make them legible lmk if u can’t read them & i’ll type them #maybe i should write this deadass #ask #solangelo #line without a hook #songfic brainstorm

65 notes · View notes

idyllcy · 10 months

Text

portal

Word count: 7.5k

Warnings: smut, nsfw themes

Summary: For eternity past and eternity beyond, Tim would stay in your arms, even if you no longer remember him, even if you no longer care — he would chase you.

Tim doesn't necessarily remember the first time he met you.

Perhaps it had been when he first joined the tower under Dick's help to see you peering from behind his brother, arms wrapped around his arm, Dick's hand on your waist — or maybe it was when he caught you making out with Jason in an alleyway after patrol had ended. Or even, it could have been that time you sat on his father's lap without thinking twice to take over whatever he had been doing on the computer. Tim knew you as bad news. That's all he needed to know about you. He didn't want anything to do with you.

But despite all of it, Tim does remember the first time he met you.

He met you long before he had ever been Red Robin, before he had even considered taking the title of Robin, long before he had discovered Robin had been Dick Grayson. He had met you in his parents' backyard on a playdate while your families discussed business. He had met you under the comfort of the spring breeze, the sun of a splendid day, the greenest grass between your fingers and the warmth of the earth. He had met you with round cheeks and short legs, the two of you making dirt soup in the comfort of his garden. The two of you refused to taste it and watched as the water continued to sink into the grass each time.

"d'ya think we're drowning the plants." You blink, remembering something from your teacher.

"No way." He grumbles. "Not enough water to drown them."

Timothy Jackson Drake met you when he was five years old in his family's backyard.

As much as he denied the fact, he would not have traded it for anything else in the world.

You had been close, he admits. Holding hands as he showed you around the garden the next time you came over, helping you climb up into his treehouse, scribbling on the walls of your initials and his with a heart surrounding the two, mumbling hushed secrets that only five-year-olds could tell, giggling and laughing at each other in the small wooden room. But you scribbled other things. You scribbled animals and shapes and colors and designs and the whole universe on the blank canvases of white paper he would give you. Characters named after him, after his friends, after the stars. Everything you drew held a certain life to it, and Tim had been in love with it as much as a five-year-old could.

The two of you shared the kitchen counter as you raced each other to complete your math homework, years ahead of your own age group, head spinning as Tim tried to teach you long division at five, his own head spinning when you showed him how to do algebra. It's how it had been for so long, the kitchen island being the two of you's safe space away from school and the other pressures of socializing. Tim didn't have to smile at lying adults when he had you in his house.

But your friendship didn't stop there.

Children in their mother's arms, holding hands as your two families posed for a photo with the Flying Graysons. You had told Tim shyly that you found Richard Grayson attractive, flushed cheeks, as any five-year-old girl would have said. It was under your breath once away from the family. He looked back at the acrobat and then at you, striking you with a "he's too old for you" causing you to drop your jaw and smack him. It would have been a fight had your mother not stepped in immediately and had you apologize for hitting him. You did it with a pout on your lip, and Tim had blown a raspberry at you. You probably would have given him a middle finger if you knew how to do one.

The same held when the two of you watched the rope snap and the two adults fall to their deaths.

You let out a scream, trying desperately to reach at the falling acrobats, your mother holding onto you for dear life, begging you to not, chanting it over and over again like a mantra, true fear in her eyes, not from the deaths, but out of fear that you would do something. Tim's heart broke, but he didn't fail to notice the way you yelled at your mother immediately after the two families separated, arguing that the deaths were unnecessary and there was no way they would have died had you stepped in. Your mother hushed you instead, telling you to keep your mouth shut in public, and Tim wondered if there was something different about you.

Not that he would ever get to see you again.

Your mother had dropped by one afternoon, without you, three weeks after the show, a box of her cookies with her and an apology on her lips, letting his own mother know that the two of you were moving. Tim had watched from the couch, the documentary running in the back long tuned out, his face frowning. You were nowhere in sight. He'd never get to see you again. You didn't even come see him as a goodbye. Maybe you were still in a bad mood from the death. Yet, as more and more excuses conjured in his brain for you, he wondered why. It still hurt. You were his only friend. The frown was present on his face even when he went to bed.

His mother, later on, told him (one night while he was half asleep) that the two of you were running away, not moving. That it was dangerous for a mother and daughter to live alone in Gotham without spectacular wealth like him. That there was never any family fortune to begin with and that your mother nearly lost the custody battle. You didn't see him not because you didn't want to, but because you weren't able to. She had pressed a kiss to his forehead, not before letting him know that he would start boarding school soon. (He didn't want to go)

Tim never got to ask why.

Instead, the next time the two of you meet, the two of you are fourteen, and Tim's grapple has just been cut by someone. He wonders how far Batman is, and he wonders if he could just reach onto the brick wall next to him. He can't. So, he presses the button on his suit, alerting Batman. Maybe he'd be able to get him before he'd break his spine or something. He prays his line is still active. Hopefully Oracle had some way of helping him. Maybe even Nightwing would be able to swing in.

"Oracle-" His voice breaks, wind in his mic. "Where's the Bat? My grapple got cut. Criminal heading southeast on—"

"I'm on it." Another voice cuts in on the line, and he pauses as he lands on the ground gently, looking around him. He hears the sound of moving behind him, but he isn't able to see anything from the darkness. They blended in better than the bat himself. He fell from the twentieth floor and landed as if he had jumped off the first floor of an elementary school playground. The sound disappears just as quickly as if had appeared.

"We have an emergency support?"

Batman nods at him. "Portal."

"Who's Portal?"

"Not sure myself." He hands Robin a new grapple, and he nods. "Do not do that again."

"Yes, B."

So, as Tim steps back into the Batcave for the night, he finds himself clicking on the mic again. "Oracle?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you know who Portal is?"

The end of the line is silent.

"No. Sorry."

"How'd we meet them?"

"They appeared one day," Oracle hums. "Nightwing had slipped on his footing and appeared back on the roof immediately as he had opened his mouth. Then it happened once with B, then with me, and a handful of times with Jason."

Tim nods. "Can I dig into them?"

"Without their knowledge." Oracle laughs. "Though hard. They're on the line right now, right?"

A third voice joins. "Mhm."

"Are you alright with it?"

Their voice is distorted. A voice changer. "You won't find anything on me."

"Is that a challenge?"

"It can be."

"If you find anything about me, you show me your face." Tim grins.

"And if you fail within a week, you'll stop trying to figure out who I am."

"Deal."

Tim finds himself cooped up in his room for the rest of the week, searching through voice files, body cam footage, anything that might give him a lead on you. He finds nothing. Just your voice. So, he tries putting the distorted voice through a filter for your voice and matching it to someone in the files. No one. Not even in the FBI database. Tim finishes patrol a week later, sighing into the lines. He found nothing. You won.

"So? Did you find anything?"

"No."

"Oh. I was hoping you could help me figure it out." The voice on the line goes silent.

"Huh?"

You don't speak on line ever again after that.

Tim pauses when he recalls you called him by first name. Not Robin. But it's strange. Unless you were some genius, there was no way you would have been able to— ah. It seems he's forgotten something important to him. Yet the name sticks in the back of his mind, not daring to let it tumble from past his lips after so many damned years of being apart. It'll be something he holds in himself until you would appear one day. He doesn't know. Maybe he'll never see you physically again. He doesn't understand why the longing, but he supposes it's what he deserves.

So, the two of you meet at fourteen and that was it. Tim triple-checks his equipment before leaving, upgrades after upgrades being made. He fears there will never be a need to call you ever again.

Except that isn't the end.

The next time Tim sees you, he gets to see you. The two of you are eighteen, and Tim is finally getting to meet you, put a name to your face. Your hands are around Dick's arm, peering at him, mask on your face as Tim stares straight at you, eyes digging into you, neither of you breaking eye contact as Dick had just finished reintroducing Tim to the team. You blink at him slowly, lashes fluttering, and Tim curses the way his heart skips a beat as you do. Then, Dick moves on to introduce you. You still don't move. Neither of you do.

"Something wrong, sweetheart?"

Tim's heart crawls up his throat at the nickname tumble from his brother's lips.

"Have I met him before?" You blink at Dick, doe-eyed. Tim feels weird at the look.

"Not during the time that you've been with us." He hums, letting you step out. "This is Portal. Our emergency contact."

"Oh." Tim finally puts two and two together, body moving on its own, rushing over to clasp his hand on top of yours, words tumbling out before he can think. "We've met before. We grew up together."

"Oh." You blink at him owlishly, and Tim's breath catches in his throat all over again. "I... don't remember. Sorry."

"Portal was found half dead on the ground when she was nine." Dick hums. "Retrograde amnesia."

Tim lets go, staring as your eyes linger on your hand for a little longer.

"Pleased to meet you." You smile at him, lips pulled into a gentle smile. He can't see your eyes behind the mask, so how much more different you must look now is left to his imagination. Not to mention the way it was hard to register you in general. Huh. Speaking of which, he can't really see you. Strange.

"You can't see Portal without the new masks." Dick tosses him another domino mask, an exact replica of his current one, and he puts it on, your presence flashing away and then back as he does. He pauses at the sight of you. No — He can't. He doesn't deserve to.

He really wonders, for a moment, if it was even possible to rekindle the friendship you had with him so many years ago. Maybe you would have preferred to forget.

"Red Robin's in charge while I'm gone." Dick drops something in your hand, the object passing through your hand and disappearing before he presses his lips to the corner of yours. "If you need me, ask Portal."

Tim stares at you, blinking slowly.

"Slept with the whole team before, huh?"

You raise a brow at him, expression dropping. "Really?"

"Why else would my brother kiss you?"

"So that equates to the whole team? I thought you were the smart Robin." You sigh.

"Does he know you're such a bitch?"

"Gee, and I thought we were hitting it off well." You deadpan. "No. I'm sleeping with your brother."

"Did you really forget everything?" Tim takes a step toward you.

"Yes." You sigh. "It's been nine years. I gave up on remembering."

"Yeah?" another step.

"Mhm." You tilt your head to stare at him.

"Do you remember your mom?"

"Died in the mugging."

"And your dad?"

"Out of the picture."

"And me?"

You look at Tim through your lashes as he stares at you, forehead now on yours, eyes falling to your lips. God, he could kiss you right now. It wouldn't be fair to either of you. He doesn't even think his own emotions are anything far from obsession over an old friend, but he's sure you're not just a friend to him because the things he would do to you if you would just let him. He's nothing short of obsessed. Shit. He's not supposed to be like this. His lips brush yours as your breath hitches, his own mirroring you. He likes you more than he could admit.

"Robin, was it?"

"Tim, for you." and he presses his lips to yours.

Tim wonders if among the tangled sheets and fingers, you could remember him. It's selfish of him, nipping at your bottom lip and pressing his skin to yours, mumbling memories across your skin, eyes gentle and soft despite the lack of romance between the two of you. It could be one-sided. It could take forever, even if he were asked. He would have waited for that long. He would have waited however long it took. Even if it took an eternity. He would have spent said eternity in your arms, reminding you of every moment if that's what it took.

But Tim returns to Gotham in a short while after that, the taste of your lips lingering on his, staring out at the city on rare peaceful nights, fingers pressed to his lips, still remembering you. On certain nights he finds himself sitting on the roofs, wondering if he called you, maybe you would come. Just a gentle cry for help to Oracle, and then you'd appear. He'd pull you to his lap, pressing his lips to yours until you'd get for him to touch you in some way, and then he'd tease you, getting you drunk off the same feeling he had when you were around him. He'd have you beg for him the same way he begged for you.

He wonders if you feel the same as him.

The next time Tim gets to see you, you're in an alleyway, Red Hood's arms on you, mask abandoned somewhere on the ground, domino mask still on. Tim watches. He has no reason to interfere. Your fingers are tangled in Jason's hair, his own hands flush on your waist, both of your lines turned off, presumably. He can't hear the two of you make out, and he's sure that Babs and the others wouldn't want to either. Your eyes are half-lidded, mouths messy against each other, and Tim reaches up to his mask, requesting Oracle to send his voice to you two's line and stares down. He has no reason to interfere, but maybe he wanted you for himself.

"Red, isn't it a little improper to be making out with someone during patrol?" His lips curl into a smirk as he finishes.

He watches as Jason pulls away, scowling at the sound of Tim's voice, and he watches as your eyes meet his, mouth shiny with your messed up lip gloss and a broken strand of saliva fresh on your lips. You disappear as fast as you reappear, pulling Tim from the edge, pressing your lips to his, the taste of Jason's last cigarette still fresh in your mouth, catching Tim off guard as you nip at his bottom lip, tongue pressing into his mouth. Tim collects himself just as quickly, a hand finding itself on your face while the other rested on your waist, leading you to a wall.

Your back presses against the brick as Tim's hand moves to your face, tilting your head to give himself more access to your mouth, eyes half-lidded as he stares at your closed eyes and pretty lashes. He brushes over your cheek gently, again and again until you lean further into him, chest pressed to his impossibly closer, moaning quietly as he moves a hand back to your hair, fingers digging into your scalp, pulling on the strands, still tilting your head so he could completely devour you. He grasps onto you harder, lips on yours, brain spinning with lust, drunk off of your lips, desperate to savor every last piece of you, desperate to smother you until you could remember who he was to you. To kiss you until the only thing you could think of in your day-to-day life was how good his lips felt against your own.

You pull away first, lack of air getting to you, Tim chasing your lips as you hold him at an arm's length away, head hung as you try to catch your breath, eyes half-lidded, lips parted, the mess of your chapstick even more evident. Tim glances down to see what he can of you, licking his lips to try and see if your lip gloss was flavored. cherry. He'd make a mess of you each time if it meant you would look so blissed out just from making out with him. Maybe you'd look even better from below, his head between your thighs, just like—

"Red Robin, where are you?"

"I'm with Portal." He answers as you finally straighten, collecting the mess of spit and lipgloss around your mouth, staring him dead in the eye as you lick it off your fingers, giving him a show.

"I bet you were making out with her, huh?" Jason's voice rings on the line, and Tim opens his mouth for a retort as you press your palm to his lips, leaning into where his mic was, smirk on your lips.

"And if he was?" Tim notices that your mic has been turned off, and he jumps in his skin as Dick's voice registers in his ear.

It's a shriek.

The sound adjusts itself in his ear so that it doesn't blow his eardrums, and he pauses, staring at the way you stared at him at the witches' hour, lips pulled into a gentle smile, the stars in your eyes, rendering Tim breathless. He steps back at you, hand brushing your hair out of your eyes, staring down at you, breath caught in his own throat. Oh, if only he could have you the way he wanted to. The way he wanted to wake up and press his face into your bare skin under the rays of the sun — the way where he would clutch you close under the kisses of the moon after patrol, his arms wrapped around you to thank you for the morning.

But he can't have you that way. Not yet.

You tilt your head at him as he exhales, pressing his forehead to yours again, resting his eyes for a moment.

"I can take you home." You blink at him.

"Please, Portal." Your name sounds like a prayer tumbling from his lips, one begging to have all of you. His hands don't move from your face.

You open a portal underneath his feet, sending the two of you to the Batcave, and you shake yourself free from his grasp, once again disappearing from his vision. He sighs, turning on his heel, getting ready to head upstairs.

"So, Portal?" He pauses in his stripping to stare at Dick. "No judgement, of course."

"What judgement is there? You've hooked up with her before."

"Once."

"She said you were hooking up."

"Oh, no. She was far too invested in something she lost for us to actually be something under a relationship." Dick throws Tim a towel.

"And Jason?"

"She was testing something." Jason grins, emerging from the showers. "She was right. Where's my phone?"

Dick tosses it to him.

"Owe her twenty."

"What was she betting on?"

The two share a glance and then stare at Tim.

"Do you know why you couldn't find anything on her when you tried so many years ago?"

"What does this-"

It clicks all of a sudden.

The next time Tim sees you, you hop onto Batman's lap like it's nothing, taking over the computer without asking him to move. He watches as your fingers fly over the keyboard and search bar, finding the files that Batman had thought he had trashed. You had a way for everything, even if it was no longer on the computer. He could do that, but watching you do it was so much more attractive. Especially when you were bent over the desk like that, ass in the air. He glances at his dad and the fact that he looks unbothered, still staring up at the big computer as you continue to type in lines of code to try and break through the lock.

"Who does this belong to again?"

"Red needs it for Penguin."

"Double R or Red?"

"Red."

"Ah!" You grin as the password is cracked, and you lick your lips as you step off of Batman, the man ruffling your hair as he clicks into the files to find the one Jason needed. Tim frowns. It's dad. It's a sign of fatherly affection. His own father isn't into you, yet he finds himself taking deep breaths to calm himself anyway, fingers reaching for yours, pressing them to his lips. He finds himself doing things he wouldn't for anyone else for you. Only for you. For the little girl who sat in a treehouse and drew characters out of cartoons — for the young woman in his arms in the tower, lips pressed to his in the dead of the night, body between his hands like a midnight's memory, one that would be gone with the wind.

You blink at him as you always have, owlishly, doe-eyed, questioning his intent with that faux innocence you showed the vast majority of the world. He lowers it, running his thumb over the back of your hand in circles, a thoughtless smile on his lips, fingers brushing over your ring finger unconsciously. If anyone notices, they don't mention anything, letting him bask in the moment of domesticity, even if it were fake and something out of a movie that the two of you did not live in. Even if the two of you did ever get to experience a moment like that, it would be far into the future, the day Gotham would be safer.

If that day ever did come.

"What would you do if the moon collapses on us all one day?"

You stare at him.

Tim opens his mouth to explain the question, only for you to cut him off.

"I would put Gotham on the runway."

Tim meets you again many years later. He receives a letter from you detailing Paris Fashion Week, inviting "Mr. Timothy Jackson Drake Wayne", which you added in invisible ink afterward, sounded like too much of a mouthful. Tim had always known to check your letters for it, so he wasn't surprised. He tells his assistant to email you a confirmation, that yes he would join you for the event. He stares at the spot reserved for him, pulling up the official list and checking whether or not he would be sitting next to you.

He's excited.

Not that he's never seen you draw or sketch since the treehouse, but he's excited to see what kind of fashion you're bringing to this world. On the plane, he's suddenly five again, scribbling images from his memories, the characters you had named after him, the characters you had named after your friends, every single critter, shapes still familiar on his fingers and the ballpoint pen he had thoroughly spent by the end of the flight. He realizes he forgot to sleep on the plane.

As if you had known, Tim is provided with a pillow and blanket on the car ride to your studio, just a little over an hour outside of Paris, giving him plenty of time to sleep in. He wakes up as the car stops, thanking the driver in French, though unfamiliar on his tongue. He wonders if you speak fluently. He assumes you must, given how you had told him you'd cover the languages he didn't.

The first thing he hears from your mouth is Chinese, voice still the same soothing honey he's grown to know, and you're talking to one of your assistants while telling another one in French to bring something. The only way he can tell is because you point at the closet and then at him. You finish with the first one, giving the French one a thumbs up when she brings out a suit as you reach for Tim's face, pressing a gentle kiss to his jaw as you touch him.

"Hey." You smile.

"I'm here for my fitting."

"Mhm."

Tim finds that you look gorgeous no matter what you're doing. You help him into the outfit, the measurements both from his aide and from previously when you had taken his measurements before, and you exhale in relief as he fits. You click your tongue as an assistant hands you a paintbrush, and Tim's eyes widen in fear as you reach to start painting over his suit.

Your name feels foreign on his lips.

"Yeah?" You blink up at him. He's so much taller than you now that he's on the pedestal.

"Are you going to paint over the fabric?"

"That's the point, Tim," You part your lips. "Do you just want to wear white?"

"No, um."

"Do you have an idea on what you want?"

"Kind of?"

You let his aide hand you the sketches he had made on the plane, and you grin.

"Do you mind matching with me if you want these?"

"Oh, lovely." He swallows as he scans your face for a reaction. "You don't need to ask. It's always a yes."

"I'm glad you're not as bulky as Jason or Bruce." You hum, starting at his collar, the characters tumbling out of your hand like molten gold, as if you had been Rumplestiltskin, spinning straw into gold. But you wouldn't have been him, you would have been his fairy godmother, magic tumbling from your wand, granting all of his wishes without asking anything of him. He follows your face as you draw little characters all over his clothes, the little characters scattered throughout. You pull the pen off of him with a click, stepping back to look at the design. He wonders if you'll notice how he's more chiseled now, just for you.

"Have you been bodybuilding?"

"More exercise than before, yeah." He smiles at you.

You grin, lowering your voice. "You wanted me to notice. Just for me?"

"Just for you."

You blink at him in surprise. You weren't expecting him to actually affirm you. "Alright. We'll keep your suit overnight and in two days time, Christine," you motion at another aide, "will be helping you get ready with the makeup team."

"And you?" Taking your hand, he steps down from the pedestal.

"We will leave together." You press a kiss to his other jaw this time. "Hm?"

Tim lowers his voice, pulling you close to hold his lips to your ear. "and after?"

"If you're on your best behavior," You press a hand to his chest, pushing yourself back gently. "maybe I'll give you a treat."

Tim smiles. "Sounds good to me."

You wave bye at him as he returns to his hotel room, heart racing in his chest, the feeling of your hands still lingering on his face. And he was hopeless, as he always had been in the face of you. Only you could bring him to his knees to this degree, heart racing in his chest with an aching for you, desperate to have you. Any way. Have you in his arms, hands, lips on yours, skin pressed to yours — anything as long as it's you. anything. Anything as long as his fingers are entwined with yours and his skin is with you.

Two days pass in a blur, Tim lifting his face slightly as the makeup artist pats the foundation on his face, his eyes meeting your aide's as she explains (in perfect English) why he was wearing what he was, and how your designs were all channeling the true spirit of Gotham, from the deaths to the life to the children shielded constantly from nightmares that rested in their hands, including the ones left on the street to rot as a result of the corrupted justice system. There was everything in between there. Tim glances at some of the designs that you were showcasing, ready to watch the show.

He closes his eyes as the makeup artist starts drawing on his skin, the ceiling light reflecting off of his skin, the sound of your laughter as a child ringing in his ears as he stares at himself in the mirror. He looks clean and shaven, skin taken care of perfectly, almost as though he had never once scratched or hurt himself. The lack of scars on his hands and any part of skin showing was only further proof of it. Ah. So you were showing off your set, even until the end of time.

"You are the children of the elite."

He understands immediately.

That meant something else for you.

You meet him in the car, sitting on the inside, turning to glance at him. Your outfit is surprisingly clean for the children of the streets.

"We're quite the different tale, hm?" He smiles.

"You ever walked a runway?" You raise a brow at him.

"Once. I was very young back then."

"Great." You smile. "You'll be walking."

"Without a rehersal?"

"There will be a sized down one backstage as the other ones walk." You click on your tablet, showing him the formation, pressing a hand to his thigh as you lean over. "The two of us will be weaving through all the models. They all stop at a certain position."

"So it's like an art gallery."

"Almost. We're the last two to walk." You bat your lashes at him.

"Is that why you told me depending on my behavior?"

"You better break a sweat faking this, or else don't even think about getting a kiss later." You smile sweetly as the car stops. Tim steps out first, holding his hand out for you, and you follow him as the two of you walk down the carpet, waving at a couple of paparazzi, hand fit snugly on his forearm. Tim is sure to nod at the paparazzi as he passes, ignoring all of their questions. You stop him when the two of you need to take a photo, the same paparazzi smile he's seen you flash so many times as Portal on your face, and he flashes one of his own, practiced for the cameras, just like his father. He wonders if you invited anyone else.

The two of you head backstage as you change out of the outfit into another one, stepping outside to greet everyone with a bow, a word of thanks, and then tucking yourself back into the walls as the models start walking. You change back into the outfit you wore previously, three makeup artists decorating your face. Doodles straight out of the white paper left in his abandoned treehouse. Characters out of the ballpoint pen he wasted on the plane. He looks like the exact personification of the children of Gotham. Something innocent yet sinister about your entire outfit. You were the children on the street, stealing, grabbing, robbing, doing anything if it meant you could survive another day in the harsh winter and dried summers. It meant doing errands for mobsters that would lead to gold or death.

He finds it strange that you still look so pretty even with the graffiti of Gotham on your face.

He pauses at the pen in everyone's hands.

"Sharpie?"

"Eyeliner." You glance at the models as they walk out one by one, pulling your tablet out again, showing Tim how to weave through the models, pointing at the cameras as well, showing him the formation. "We meet at the end."

It's well thought out on your end. It may seem childish, but the route that boys and girls in Gotham took was still tragically different in all the worst ways, and you were desperate to show that. It was a fashion show in an art gallery, so you were going to make it an art show. Tim and you stand on both sides, hands pushing both of you out at the same time as the two of you weave through the models, and your pacing gets significantly fast, more frantic, brows furrowed, tugging at the jacket, desperate to cover more, heels clicking on the floor that you step on, eventually breaking into a full run as if something were chasing you. Tim walks, speeding up significantly less than you, gripping the knife in his hand, and the two of you eventually meet in the middle, you crashing into his chest as the two of you hold weapons to each other. You had picked up a gun along the way and he still had the knife in his hand.

The two of you stay still, pointing the weapons at each other — the crowd pausing.

You fire the gun at him.

The baggy clothes on the models all drop, revealing the rambunctious outfits only fit for nightlife for the Gotham elite, the splendid galas and parties at manors, the models all starting their walk again, Tim leading the men, you leading the women. You press your hand to his shoulder sweetly as you pass him, that smile on your face again. The show goes on, the actual outfits now on display instead of the streets of Gotham. No one bothers picking up the discarded clothes. The streets were dirty, and that would never change. You step behind the drapes as they move to wipe the makeup from you, changing you into your final outfit to step onto the stage once the models were all gone. You sit in place, Tim standing to the side, watching as the eyeliner is removed.You can feel his eyes trailed on your skin. You wonder what he's thinking.

You step up as all the models return, the show wrapping up as you show yourself at the end again, thanking everyone for joining you. Tim finds the smile on your face to be still fake, nothing like the one he's grown used to, yet he finds some sort of honesty behind it. You look dazzling under the lights. The city of Gotham is apparent all over you and the models you had hired, all of them out of the city itself. Even as none of the trashed clothes are taken care of on the runway until everyone leaves. He wonders if Bruce would have liked this show, had he been invited. He's sure you extended an invite to him. Yet it doesn't matter. Tim had been the one to be with you.

"Is there an afterparty?" He presses his hand to your lower back, backstage, getting ready to leave. The lights have dimmed by now.

"Yeah." You yawn, blinking slowly. "I'm not going."

"Really?" He tilts his head at you.

You press a kiss to his nose, hand tracing his jaw. "I said I'd reward you if you were good."

"Was I?"

"The best." You smile at him saccharinely and Tim wants nothing but to have you.

Tim finds that you haven't changed much since the last time he had his hands on you.

Your skin is still soft in his hand, the plush of your thigh familiar as he kisses you feverishly, tongue shoved so far down your throat he's sure he'd go straight to hell just for the kiss. He finds himself tugging at the zipper of your dress, hands sliding it down your waist as you whimper at the cold without the fabric, the silk pooling at your feet. He leads you out of the dress, lifting your thigh to help you out, mumbling for you to jump against your lips, your legs wrapping around his waist as he continued at your lips, sex pressing in the air.

"Pretty, pretty girl," He groans as you loosen the tie around his neck, pulling it over his head as you slide the buttons out quickly, pressing your lips to his neck and biting. Tim relaxes in your touch, letting your fingers roam his skin as you peel the dress shirt off of him, lips red on his skin, sucking and biting at it, Tim moaning as you do. He glances at the way your teeth dig into his pecs, marks visible as you pull away, glancing at your artwork on his skin.

"My turn," He mumbles against your skin, holding your head gently tilting it to get access to your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point, lips wrapping around it, sucking hickeys over your neck and collar, the red bound to turn purple sometime overnight, the thought sending blood straight to Tim's head, his lashes fluttering against your skin. You bite back your moans as Tim continues his ministrations, head spinning with all the things he could do to you at the moment. He's waited so long to have you again.

Instead, he finds himself on his knees for you, lips pressed to your cunt, nose bumping your clit as he eats you out, fingers digging into the plush of your thigh, drinking in every sound that slipped past your lips as his fingers curled into you the way he knew you liked it, your body reacting the same as so many years ago. Your fingers tug at his hair, the gel long washed off in the shower, his makeup removed as soon as the two of you had arrived back at the hotel. His name spills out of your lips like a mantra, begging him to let you cum, legs shaking with you pressed against the wall. He will admit. He might've gotten a little impatient.

"Tim, Tim," You whimper. "'m close."

He hums, tongue in your pussy, the vibrations drumming against your clit, and he moves another hand to circle at your clit, fingers and tongue speeding up, making you cum with a broken cry and tightening of your fingers in his hair, his tongue never stopping lapping at your cum, hands moving back to hold your legs apart for him to finish with you, only leaving position once he was sure there was none left, your slick messy on his nose and chin as he used his fingers to wipe it off, staring you in the eye as he licked it off of his hand.

"God," You mumble, pressing him onto the bed, pulling his belt off in a swift motion with his pants, hands reaching for the rest of your cum on his face and spitting into it, using it as lube, running your hand up and down Tim's length, eyes glued to it as you press down the slit to collect his precum, the erection angry with red, making you swallow. You lift yourself gently, bottoming him out in one swift motion, a moan and a choke breaking out past your lips as you do, digging your chin into Tim's shoulder. His hands trace gentle circles on your waist, lifting you with ease to put you underneath him, lacing his fingers with yours, thrusting slowly.

"Fuck me like you mean it, Drake." You hiss at him. He didn't have any intent to speed up.

The use of his last name as Tim irritated, hips snapping into yours, instantly much more talkative than before. "Drake? Really? After all of this time," His grip on your hand tightens, lowering his lips to your ear, his breaths against your ear, "I shouldn't be Drake to you. It's Tim," He snaps his hips again, causing you to curl forward, "and I'll make sure you know that's what you should be screaming." He leans back up, hand pressed next to you, plowing into you, mess of slick, sweat and cum staining silk sheets, your other hand gripping said sheets to the point of your knuckles turning white, toes curling. "Now scream my name, pretty girl."

You hadn't known he was capable of this, but you follow his orders, his name breaking past your lips with each thrust, mindless blabbering slipping down your tongue onto his, even when he swoops down to kiss you, tongue in your mouth, giving you a taste of what was left of yourself on his tongue. The sex in the air hangs hard as Tim continues drilling into you, both hands moved to your hips this time, helping himself control the rhythm better, eyes zeroed in on your face as your eyes threaten to flutter shut from him, eyes rolled to the back as he moves a hand down.

"'m close- 'm close!" You cry.

"Yeah? Come on, pretty girl." His thumb finds itself on your clit again, smirking at the way you clench around him. "Cum for me. Tell everyone who's making you feel so good."

You cry his name as you arch your back, tears staining your cheeks and lips bruised from the kissing, spit visible on the corner of your lips, begging for him to slow down as he chases his own orgasm, Tim zoning you out, thumb still on your clit, desperate for his own release. You claw at his hand as you feel another orgasm threatening to break past, Tim holding both hands down with the other as he feels your walls flutter around him again, squeezing him as you cum again, messier this time, squirting all over his hips as he feels his own orgasm coming. He opts to pull out, only for you to wrap your arms around his neck, begging for him to fill you. "'m yours, please, Tim." You moan into his ear.

Tim spills into you with a stutter of his hips, biting on your shoulder as he does, warmth flooding your cunt as you exhale in bliss. The sheets are ruined and you're sure the hotel is going to fine you, but it isn't an issue. Not if the workers don't rat on you. You let go of Tim as he pulls out of you, pressing gentle kisses to your skin, eyes tired.

"Not enough sleep?"

"Surprised I fucked you without accidentally passing out." He smiles against your skin.

"We need to shower again." You grimace. "We're going to be all disgusting in the morning."

Tim rests his head on your chest, eyes closing. "Love?"

"Yeah?"

"Go out with me?"

"About time."

"Yeah?"

"Of course," You press a kiss to his hair. "For you? Always."

And as the moon and stars whisper to each other of the two of you, limbs tangled together, kisses from the moonlight fresh on both of you's skins as you sit in the bathtub together, helping each other wash off, thoughtless giggles on both of your minds and mindless kisses pressed on each other's skin as you rinse each other off, you both find something back in your life you both missed. The warmth of each other's skin and arms wrapped around each other, just as you had done as kids, you do now, a reminder of the love you've both shared. Tim finds that you don't need to remember him. You just needed to love him.

And love him you do.

#red robin x reader #dc x reader #tim drake x reader #literally how do you tag for dc like deadass rn tim and drake r not like nagito n komaeda he has no discerning factors hello #timothy drake x reader #guys I hate this why is joining a new fandom n writing for it so scary #☾.nsfw #☾.fics

159 notes · View notes

all444miles · 10 months

Text

so, imagine your dancing in a club right? you lend out your hand and say "c'mon miles, dance wit' me" and he keeps denying till your song comes on and you pull him into the dance circle (not in front of everyone, he ain' a people kinda guy), grabbing him by his hand and dancing with him. but what comes to your surprise is when he starts dancing along with you. when i tell you earth42!miles can salsa, he can salsa. after all, his mom raised him right, didn't he?

js a lil thought, now one of PLS yall get to writing before i do it myself cuz PLEEAASEE.