flwr ♡

i post silly prompts based on my favorite characters !! hopefully longer writings to come soon <3

facts about me/my blog <3

• my masterlist !!

• second masterlist !!

they/them

english isn't my first language (eng+esp)

most of my posts are based around tim drake and dead tired

i take suggestions for any ship+prompts you want to see!

my dms are always open for anyone!

feel free to use my posts as inspirations for your own posts or stories and please credit me if you do!

tim has always hated the idea of destiny.

it’s not just the lack of free will. it’s the implication that his choices don’t matter. that no matter what turns he takes, the road was always going to bend back toward the same ending.

and tim—tim is someone who chooses. who chose.

he wasn’t dragged into the mask kicking and screaming. he wasn’t born into the cape like a birthright. he wasn’t orphaned into tragedy that pressed him into the mold of vigilante and called it purpose.

tim wanted it. tim asked for it. tim put himself on the altar and said, yes. carve me into what you need. use me until i can’t be used anymore. make me into robin.

so what does destiny mean, then? that he was always going to end up here, even if he hadn’t begged for it? that all his choices were just an illusion, variables that never actually changed the outcome?

tim hates that idea. he rejects it like a curse. because if it was destiny, then what he did wasn’t an act of will, but inevitability. and he can’t stand that.

he needs it to be his decision. he needs every bruise, every scar, every sleepless night to mean he chose this. that it wasn’t written into his bones before he could fight it.

because if fate is real, then everything becomes fate.

jason's attack at titans tower. dick trying to admit him to arkham asylum. damian cutting his grappling line.

destiny would call that inevitable. tim calls it a choices people made.

tim doesn’t believe in fate because fate is a story where he’s nothing but a character, a pawn, a boy marching toward an ending someone else designed.

tim drake isn’t a pawn. he isn’t a soldier.

he’s a strategist. a tactician. a kid who watched a broken city bleed under the weight of batman and decided—on his own—that it couldn’t survive without robin.

if he breaks in the process, that’s not destiny. if he falls, it won’t be fate’s hand on his back.

no—tim drake will choose the cliff. he’ll choose the fall. and whether or not he gets up again will be his decision, not anyone else’s.

because if there’s one thing tim drake has always fought for— under the mask, behind the name, beneath the weight of legacy—

They say Gotham is haunted.

Not just by the usual things—regret, poverty, old blood in alleyways—but by something else. Something stranger.

They say the shadows twitch wrong on certain nights. That if you walk the Narrows during a thunderstorm, your reflection in puddles might smile before you do. That if you laugh too loud after midnight, something laughs back—higher pitched, younger, aching with glee.

And if you ask the wrong people, in the wrong bars, beneath the flickering neon where the rogues drink and the bats won’t tread, you’ll hear about him.

They call him Joker Junior in the files. JJ in the headlines. The Painted Prince in the streets.

But his name was once Tim.

The lost Drake boy. The one they didn’t recover. The one who didn’t die—but didn’t escape, either.

He laughs like he’s trying to drown something. He smiles with too many teeth and talks to himself in riddles no one else can follow. And behind the greasepaint and the scars and the violet shadow of someone else’s madness… there was once a boy who loved maps and logic and riddles that had real answers.

He’s the one Gotham forgot how to mourn.

People say he changed the city. That when he came back wrong, Gotham did too. That he left it cracked down the middle, laughing and bleeding, and no one dared to glue it back together.

But he’s not the only ghost in town.

Because they say another came for him.

Not one of Gotham’s own. Not Crime Alley born, or Arkham-bound. A boy, if you could still call him that. This one came with wind in his lungs and frost at his heels. With a laugh that froze the river and eyes that could see every version of the city stacked on top of itself like broken teeth. Glowing blue and ancient-eyed, like someone who knew too much about love and death and the cruel ways they blur.

The ghost didn’t belong to Gotham. But he stayed for him.

They say Joker Junior didn’t run when the ghost found him. Didn’t scream. Didn’t hide. Just looked at the boy glowing in the sky like a neon omen and said: “God, you’re late. I was beginning to think I made you up.”

And Danny—because that’s what the children call him now, just Danny—grinned like a god who’d waited lifetimes and said: “I thought I was supposed to stop you.”

Now they move through Gotham like a storm and its shadow. One trailing riddles, chaos, and grinning violence. The other bending light and chill, and humming softly to the bones of the dead.

They don’t save people. Not the way the capes do.

But the monsters scatter when they’re near. The haunted buildings go quiet. And the kids who get lost in the dark come back changed—smiling like they know a secret.

Some say Danny pulls Tim back from the edge every night. Others say Tim is the only thing keeping Danny from becoming something godlike and cold.

Others still say they’re both already long gone—and what walks Gotham now are just what love leaves behind when it starts to rot beautifully.

But here’s the part they all agree on:

They’re in love.

Twisted, terrifying love. The kind that warps magic and makes death look romantic. The kind that turns ghost stories into gospel. The kind you want to stay away from—but can’t help watching when it passes.

And sometimes, on Gotham’s highest rooftops—clocktower, cathedral, the burned-out pier of the old amusement park—they’ll dance.

Tim in blood-slicked purple. Danny in frostbitten black. Laughing like the world’s about to end.

And maybe it already did.

Maybe they're all that was left.

They don’t say his name the way they used to.

Red Robin.

It used to ring through Gotham like a flare—shouted mid-rescue, whispered in awe after another impossible save. It was a name children clung to, etched in the corners of homework and daydreams. A name made of armor and fire escapes, something alive.

But after the fall, it became something else.

Now, they speak it like a prayer.

Like a charm sewn into sleeves. Like a sigil scratched into chalk along alley walls and rusted fences.

Red Robin died. That part no one argues with.

The story goes like this: A mission gone sideways. A miscalculation, they say. Not his fault, never his fault. Too many variables, not enough time. A group of school kids caught in the crossfire, and Red Robin threw himself into the fire first.

No one doubts that story. It feels true.

The city mourned as Gotham always does—quietly, fiercely. In the way candles were lit along rooftops. In bird-shaped graffiti blooming across train stations. In the fact that no one tried to replace him.

And then… Gotham changed.

Not loudly. Not in any way you could measure. But gradually—like water that starts running cold when it used to run warm.

A mugger's gun jams. A predator slips on ice that wasn’t there a moment ago. A lost child finds their way home without remembering the route.

Coincidences. Until they weren't.

Until people started to notice. Started to tell stories. Started to speak of Red Robin again—not as a boy who died, but as a presence.

A protective rune.

Some think it’s a ghost story. Some say it’s Gotham’s guilt made real. But the kids know better.

They leave red feathers chalked onto alley walls. Draw domino masks in the fog on bus windows. Tuck bird pins into their coats like talismans. And they tell the tale—not to scare, but to shield.

They say Red Robin walks the rooftops still. That he never left. That his soul didn’t pass on—it rooted. Twined into the bones of Gotham like ivy. Watching, protecting, still.

They say if you speak his name before walking home, the night won't touch you. That he guards the stairwells, the fire escapes, the schoolyards after dusk.

That the monsters learned to step quieter.

And they say—he’s not alone.

Because sometimes, if you glance toward the skyline just late enough, if you catch the moon in its palest sliver, you might see two figures.

One in the shape of a memory. Broad-shouldered. Still. A silhouette made from the pieces left behind—a cape and silence and something holy.

And beside him— something other.

Glowing soft and blue, not like a flame, but like the breath between one heartbeat and the next. Like moonlight that remembers how to love.

No one’s sure who he is.

But they say he’s not of this world.

They say he wears a crown made of thunder. That frost follows in his wake. They say he came for the boy Gotham lost—and chose to stay because love doesn’t leave the way people do.

No one speaks his name. But everyone feels it.

And though the Bats don’t speak of Red Robin anymore—don’t say his name over comms, don’t mark the date—Gotham watches the way they move. The way they pause, sometimes, in doorways and rooftops that used to hold another shadow. The way they never correct the stories.

The way, when children draw red feathers on sidewalks, no one ever scrubs them away.

And so the story moves like a coat passed hand to hand in winter, or a bedtime story with too much truth. Whispers behind lockers, between stairwells, under bed sheets.

LMAO? listen! i swear i haven’t abandoned this blog. i’m just on my tim drake arc—mysteriously disappearing for weeks, emotionally unavailable, and surviving solely on caffeine and spite.

but just like tim’s parents, i will return... eventually. except when i come back, it'll be with content and not a half-hearted postcard from the other side of the world.

hello!! I do have an ao3 account, but I haven’t actually posted anything yet 🫣

lately I’ve been super tempted to write a Tim and Danny f1 story—partly inspired by all the f1 content my nephew's been feeding me (it’s honestly been giving me so many ideas). it would be loosely based around the vibe of the last post I made, though that one didn’t come out exactly how I wanted.

Tim learns about Kon’s retirement like everyone else: through a press release.

The headline drops before dawn, tucked between articles about new power unit regulations and early rumors of lineup shifts for the 2024 season. Conner Kent Retires from Formula 1 After Historic Championship Win.

Tim blinks at the screen. Reads the title once. Then again. Then doesn't read the article at all.

He doesn’t need to. The announcement photo says enough—Kon in Ferrari red, gold confetti still tangled in his curls, holding up the number one. His first title. His last season.

And Tim wasn’t told.

Not the night of the win. Not in the weeks after. Not when they toasted to a Ferrari 1–2 finish in Monaco. Not when they kissed behind the motorhome in Austin, tired and drunk and stupidly hopeful. Not even when Tim stood next to him on the Yas Marina podium, clapping him on the back, pretending it didn’t hurt.

He should’ve known.

There was something in Kon’s eyes that night. Some finality in the way he looked at the crowd, at the car, at Tim.

Still—Tim had hoped.

He doesn't know what he expected. Maybe a conversation. A text. Something.

Instead, the article goes live. And the world celebrates.

—

Kon calls two hours later.

Tim doesn’t pick up.

He doesn’t pick up the second time, either. Or the third.

When he finally answers, his voice is flat. “Congratulations.”

Kon exhales. “I should’ve told you.”

“Yeah,” Tim says, and leaves it there.

“I wasn’t sure until I was. And then I couldn’t say it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I knew you wouldn’t come with me.”

Silence.

And then: “I was going to ask you,” Kon says. “To leave it all behind. Come with me. Get that place in Lugano you always talked about. Grow tomatoes. Sleep in. Do nothing.”

It’s not even cruel. Just quiet. Honest. Hopeful in a way that Tim wishes he could hate.

But all he can do is close his eyes and say, “I can’t.”

He hears Kon’s breath hitch. Just once.

And still, Tim doesn’t say what he’s really thinking: losing the title to you didn’t feel like a shared victory. Not to me. Even when Ferrari called it one. Even when the media plastered both their faces across every headline like a fairytale ending.

But it wasn’t.

Not for Tim.

Kon leaves before pre-season testing. Slips away from the paddock like a ghost. No media circus. No long farewell tour. Just a soft, private goodbye to the team, a few lines in a press conference, and then he’s gone.

Tim stays.

—

The 2024 season begins under floodlights.

Ferrari unveils the new car with all the usual fanfare. Tim stands in front of it, smiling for photos he won’t remember being in, eyes scanning the paddock for someone who’s not there.

Next to him stands the new recruit. Danny Fenton.

He’s young. Sharp. Fast in a way that feels dangerous.

He’s already pushing the car past its limits in free practice. Discussing with the engineers when the setup isn’t perfect. Quick in the debrief. Calculated on track. Hungry.

Tim sees it instantly: the need to win. The thing Ferrari loves to chew on.

It reminds him of himself. Reminds him of Kon, too—before the victory, before the fatigue.

Danny doesn’t ask Tim how he’s feeling.

He doesn’t ask about Kon.

He just shows up to the track like it’s a battlefield. Slides into the car before qualifying, visor down, smile sharp.

Glances at Tim and says, “You ready to burn for it?”

Tim doesn’t answer.

Just slides in beside him, heart pounding like it did when it all began.

Because Ferrari asks you to give.

And give.

And give.

And in return, they feed you gold. They take everything and give you nothing but the win. The podium. The silence at the top.

The family name was never meant to last.

Before they were the Drakes, they had other names. Dozens. Hundreds. Too many to remember in the same tongue. Some were carved into stone, now weathered down to nothing. Others were whispered across deserts by dying mouths. Most were burned away when the cities fell.

Tim’s bloodline is old—older than history is willing to believe. The kind of old that slips through the cracks of time. The kind that remembers.

Before they were the Drakes, they were a thousand other things. They have been wanderers, kings, cartographers, executioners. They were the last to leave Atlantis, their backs turned to the rising sea, feet dry even as the waves swallowed everything behind them. They watched Babylon fall with silent eyes, felt the weight of Rome collapse and did not flinch. They walked among the library of Alexandria and kept their silence as the flames bloomed. They stood in cities that no longer exist on maps, speaking languages the earth forgot.

They don’t tell these stories.

And every few decades, they shed the skin they’ve worn too long.

They change their faces. Their accents. Their truths. Sometimes they are scholars. Sometimes soldiers. They learn every language that dares call itself new. They become whomever the century demands.

For a time, they were the Drakes. Americans. Philanthropists. Archaeologists. Respectable. Unremarkable. Temporary.

---

People think Jack and Janet Drake died in a plane crash.

They didn’t.

They vanished the way they always do once the masks wear thin. When neighbors start to notice. When cameras see too clearly. When signatures begin to look too familiar across the years. So they burn the archives and vanish. Then they resurface somewhere else—different name, same blood.

They killed the Drakes like they’ve killed every name before it—with precision and ceremony. They staged the fall, lit the match, walked away as the papers printed the obituary and the world nodded in polite grief.

They always intended for Tim to do the same.

And he will.

Just… not yet.

---

Gotham is too loud. Too full of people who love too recklessly, who hope too hard. It’s a city that refuses to look away from the dark and keeps trying to save what should’ve already turned to ash.

He stayed for the mission. Then for the man behind it. Then for the people who saw him—really saw him—for the first time in centuries.

But permanence was never in his bones.

He was born, once. A long time ago. Not in Gotham. Not in this century. But he’s seventeen now. He has always been seventeen. That’s the age that sticks. The one the world believes. The one he buries.

It’s the age people are allowed to mourn. Young enough to be a tragedy, old enough to be a soldier. That age has become his truth—immortal not in power, but in perception. Time brushes past him like wind through gauze. It never settles. It never stays.

He knows how this ends.

Not in a blaze of glory. Not with a heroic last stand. But quiet. Surgical. Just enough blood to look convincing.

He speaks eight languages, three of which haven’t been uttered aloud in millennia. He’s read books that no longer exist. He dreams in timelines that folded in on themselves before modern calendars were born. He can still recite the hymns sung at Atlantis’ shore. His memories are palimpsests—layer upon layer of lives lived and left behind.

There are moments, walking through Gotham, when he sees the skyline shift—when the present peels back, and he remembers the bones of this place before it had a name.

He watches Dick smile like hope can fix anything. Watches Bruce build a kingdom out of grief. He lets them believe in permanence.

But Tim knows better.

Nothing stays. Not names. Not cities. Not lives.

---

He knows how to leave. How to vanish. How to make the world mourn someone who never truly existed.

He’s begun already.

The files are backing up to hard drives no one knows exist. His fingerprints are being erased, one database at a time. The death will be quiet. A fall, perhaps. An accident. A body that won’t be found—because there won’t be one to find.

He hasn’t chosen the name yet. That part always comes last.

But he’s chosen the exit. He’s been tracing it for months in the quiet hours. Pulling away from the life like thread from fabric, bit by bit. They haven’t noticed yet. They never do—not until he’s already gone.

He looks at Dick sometimes and thinks, I watched a man like you burn in Carthage. He listens to Bruce and remembers other kings, other war rooms. He walks the alleyways and hears the echoes of cities older than this continent, all crumbling just the same.

He stays up at night cataloging the weight of every goodbye he hasn’t said yet.

Not because he doesn’t care.

But because he does.

And it’s easier to leave when no one’s looking.

There is no tragedy in the leaving. No heartbreak. No epiphany. Just the rhythm of it—this old, old rhythm he was born into. Blood older than borders. A legacy of disappearance.

Tim Drake is a name made to be buried.

hello anon!! AND—happy birthday !!! I hope today is full of love, sweets, and the exact level of chaos you prefer !! I made sure to get this ask done in time to post today so hopefully you like it !! <3

Tim doesn’t expect much from birthdays anymore.

Or maybe that’s the lie he tells himself to keep the ache manageable. He doesn’t need cake. Doesn’t need gifts—just… a text, maybe. Someone remembering. A vague, “Hey, isn’t today…?” would’ve been enough.

But the morning passes in silence. Then the afternoon. Night falls, and still—nothing.

He's in Red Robin gear by the time it finally hits him. It’s been a full 24 hours, and no one in the family has said a word. Not Bruce, not Dick, not even Alfred. Damian certainly hasn’t—though that’s a little less surprising. Jason? Quiet. Cass? She’d probably just forgotten in the shuffle of patrol schedules and training runs.

It’s not malicious. It’s never malicious. That somehow makes it worse.

He keeps busy. Patrols. Reports. Maintenance. Anything to fill the space.

But loneliness is patient. It settles in the spaces between heartbeat—in the static of his comms, in the stretch of rooftops with no voices on the other end.

And then.

There’s a cup of hot coffee waiting for him at one of his usual stakeout spots, lid marked in bright red sharpie: “Hope today doesn’t suck. – H.Q.”

He looks around. She’s long gone, obviously.

At first, he thinks it’s a coincidence. Just Harley being… Harley. But the night keeps going.

In an alley between two abandoned tenements, tucked behind a rusted dumpster and wrapped in a soft green ribbon, he finds a cloth bundle.

It’s a cloak—dark, heavy, almost leathery to the touch. Lined with deep green ivy that seems to pulse ever so faintly, breathing with the night. The vines curl and uncurl gently, like it’s alive but sleeping.

Inside, there’s a note written in neat, looping script on recycled paper: “Don’t act like you don’t need comfort. Let it wrap around you when no one else will. – P.I.”

He doesn’t know how she got it to him. Doesn’t ask.

Just presses the cloak to his chest for a second before tucking it away.

On the roof above the GCPD, he finds a small box. Inside: a limited-edition puzzle he mentioned once—once—in passing, during a sting operation where he and the Riddler were forced to work together. There’s a tag. “Happy Birthday, Boy Genius. Don’t insult me by pretending you’re surprised I remembered. – E.N.”

It’s starting to feel like a bit.

Tim stashes the puzzle. Patrols another hour.

Then Selina drops in.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks beside him on the rooftops, silent and unbothered, like it’s a shared habit. After a while, she passes him a wrapped package and says, “I remembered the hoodie you lost. The one with the thumb holes. Happy birthday, kid.”

Then she’s gone.

He stops.

Looks at the package in his hands.

For a long time, he doesn’t move.

It’s not the gift that gets him. It’s not even what it is—it’s that it is. That someone noticed. Remembered. Cared enough to do something.

Tim sinks down onto the edge of the clocktower, the package resting in his lap. Below him, Gotham hums with life—sirens in the distance, headlights flashing, a city that never pauses for anything, least of all birthdays.

The lights blur a little.

They look like candles, maybe. Ones no one lit.

He thought he’d stopped hoping for this. Thought he’d built enough layers around it, packed it away under the rest of the things he’s used to not getting. But hope’s a quiet thing. It waits. It lingers in the background, stubborn and unreasonable.

And maybe he did hope someone would remember.

Not like this. Not them.

But maybe it’s fitting, in some backwards way, that it was them. Harley, Ivy, Nygma, Selina. Gotham’s worst, depending on who you ask. But tonight… they remembered something the rest of his world forgot.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

And better.

Tim presses the heel of his hand to one eye and laughs once, soft and tired.

It’s not everything. It’s not what he wanted.

But it’s not nothing.

my dearest penelope (you)! you will not believe the news I have for you today—Odysseus has returned (I posted. what the FLIP!!)

yes, it is I, salt-stained and blog-drenched, emerging from the stormy seas of Real Life, clinging to the last shreds of my sanity and a single half-finished draft. I’ve fought monsters (deadlines), I’ve resisted temptations (new hyperfixations), and I’ve outwitted gods (wifi outages) just to make it back to your dashboard.

you, my dearest penelope, weaving hope by day and unraveling despair by night (while checking my blog), you have kept this blog alive in your heart. and now—NOW!—I bring offerings: a post. may it be chaotic. may it be unedited. may it be enough to silence the suitors for a little while longer.

I have returned, beloved. for now. until the sea calls me once more

(here’s a small offering, but I did actually post something completely different!) ---

Tim Drake is many things: a genius, a detective, a vigilante, a caffeine-dependent insomniac with abandonment issues and seventeen backup plans for every imaginable outcome.

What he is not, however, is delusional.

Which is why when he finds a kiss mark—an actual lipstick kiss mark—pressed to the inside of his favorite hoodie, he does not panic. He calmly, rationally, pulls the hoodie off, examines the fabric, and blames Steph. Probably Steph.

Except… it’s neon green. Not Steph’s color. Not Cass’s style either. Babs doesn’t do lipstick. Kon doesn’t own lipstick. And the only people who’ve been in his apartment recently are Bruce (definitely not), Damian (God, no), and Alfred (crime).

He throws the hoodie in the wash. Industrial cycle. Hot water. It should come out.

It doesn’t.

It doesn’t even fade.

It glows slightly under UV.

Okay. Fine. One hoodie. Maybe it’s old. Maybe he forgot something. Maybe he bought it that way.

But it happens again.

And again.

And again.

Old hoodies. New hoodies. Hoodies buried at the back of his closet that he hasn’t worn since he was sixteen. A hoodie still in the packaging, tags attached—he opens the bag and there’s a green kiss mark on the inside sleeve, like it’s been waiting for him.

They’re always placed differently. Sometimes hidden in the seam of a cuff. Sometimes pressed on the back hem. One tucked into the folds of a sleeve. One directly on the chest, over his heart.

He checks for tracking devices. Hidden ink. Sensors. Spoilers. Anything.

Nothing.

And it doesn’t stop with the hoodies.

One day, after a long patrol, he peels off his Red Robin gear and catches a glimpse of green near the collar of his suit. He freezes.

Another kiss mark. Same color. Right on the inside lining.

There’s one on his glove. One hidden under the fold of his utility belt pouch. One on the lining of his cape.

What’s worse? The Batcave scanners pick them up. There’s residual ectoplasm. Babs runs the data three times before looking at him like he’s either cursed or dating something from the beyond.

(He’s not. He’s pretty sure.)

Every attempt to investigate it fails. The cameras glitch. Video footage loops or scrambles. Laser grids are bypassed by something moving through walls. Magical wards short-circuit. Even Constantine shrugs when Tim reaches out.

“Strong liminal energy,” Constantine says, puffing a cigarette. “Someone’s got their spectral claws in you. Not a curse though. Feels like... courtship.”

“Courtship,” Tim repeats.

“Yeah. Spectral wooing. Ghost smooches. Congrats on your engagement, mate.”

Tim hangs up.

He doesn’t sleep that night.

Meanwhile, Gotham is experiencing what can only be described as “mild haunting.” But by Gotham standards, it’s barely a blip.

There are no mass possessions. No destructive battles. Just… ghosts. Hovering. Watching. Whispering things when Tim walks by. They show up at patrol spots. Float past his apartment. Some even drop cryptic notes: “May your union be fruitful,” and “Blessings upon the Chosen.” Occasionally they throw gifts at him. One leaves him a glowing thermos full of ghost flowers. Another—a floating knight in spectral armor—bows low while handing over a box of what Tim can only imagine is their version of chocolate, before vanishing with the words “For the chosen consort.”

Tim’s furious.

He’s not dating a ghost. He doesn’t know any ghosts. He doesn’t want to be courted by one.

...Probably.

Except.

Except sometimes, when he’s alone, he swears he feels someone there. Not threatening. Just present. A warmth in the air. A flicker in the corner of his eye. A soft sigh on the back of his neck. A whisper:

“Mine.”

And Danny Phantom—Protector of the Ghost Zone, King of the Infinite Realms, 100% a disaster bisexual—floats outside his window every other night with his face pressed against the glass like a cat trying to figure out if the human inside likes him.

Because Danny’s not trying to scare him! He’s just following tradition!

See, ghosts mark their chosen with energy. They ward off rivals. They court with gifts and blessings and acts of devotion. And yeah, maybe leaving lipstick marks on someone's battle gear is a little extreme, but Danny’s working with ghost etiquette, okay? And from where he's standing, no one's stopped him.

(Though Jason did try to stab him once. Danny considered it a bonding experience.)

Now Danny just needs Tim to say yes so the full wedding rite can be completed. The lipstick marks? Those are just... engagement placeholders.

The problem? Tim doesn’t know he’s essentially dating a ghost.

The bigger problem? Gotham’s ghosts do.

And they’re ready to throw hands with anyone who thinks they’re a better match for Tim Drake than the literal Ghost King himself.

Tim? He just wants one hoodie without magic lipstick on it. He’s not even asking for peace anymore. He just wants answers.

AHHH thank you so much !!! <3 that’s seriously one of the nicest things you could say—i’m honored you’d want to experience it all fresh again T^T

thank you for the ask !! and yes — i’m totally open to omegaverse content. i know it’s not everyone’s thing (which is totally valid!), but it is something i’m comfortable exploring and writing about.