Everyone assumes that Jason and Damian are the feral and insane ones of Bruce's boys while Tim and Dick are the normal sane nice ones.
Bruce knows better.
Sure Jason and Damian will threaten to chop off fingers and heads and won't hesitate to see that threat through.
Sure Bruce would prefer less blood stains to be washed off their uniforms but at least it's not theirs. Plus they can act insane and walk in guns blazing, katana ready because they know they can handle it. They are better at it than anyone else.
Bruce doesn't have to worry much about their personal safety, they're not really harming themselves.
But Tim and Dick? They're insane.
There's absolutely batshit (ha) crazy. Have no sense of self preservation and they will walk in guns blazing, grenade ready with weapons they discovered 2 minutes ago.
Dick and Tim can't patrol together. It's forbidden for everyone's sake.
Dick once licked a drug from poison ivy's plants and Tim let him. And then did the same.
Tim wanted to study the effects of Gotham bay water and Dick volunteered. They both ended up hospitalized.
They decided to break into area 51 and were severely disappointed so they left a bunch of fake signals on their radar and a cardboard alien cut out.
They've made villains cry using bad puns and access to their search history.
Dick and Tim were called on a mission and grouped together by the other heroes since Batman wasn't around to stop them.
The mission was a success. Dick learned how to differentiate between hallucinations and real people in a fight, and exactly why alien narcotics are not for the weak, Tim learned all of the heroes secrets, and a new way to break a bone.
These two are menaces. They have nothing protecting them, and despite Bruce's many tries, nothing stopping them.
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Tim : Bruce has put me in charge of training today. I've prepared detailed training sheets and I expect you all at 2 pm sharp. So don't be late or I'll slice your throat! *Laugh*
Jason : You don't have to fake laugh. We know you mean it.
Jason and Damian are playing a game where they test each others resistance to poisons while the others make bets.
Dick: So we're all in agreement about Damian winning?
Jason: No loyalty.
Duke: I bet on you Jason
Jason: Then you're gonna lose lol.
While they're talking Bruce just... mixes all of them together and downs the concoction.
Bruce: I've had vodka stronger than this.
Everyone is horrified except Alfred, who watched Bruce do this a hundred times when he first finished his training as a 'party trick' and already placed his bet on Bruce.
I have a headcanon that whenever Tim has a devious, manic, absolutely bad shit insane plan, he introduced the plan with a laugh, a glint in his eyes and a wide ass smile as he says, "I've got a plan"
Everyone knows what it means, and they know that when it happens, they will have committed a few warcrimes by the end of the day.
They live in fear.
Except Jason, though, he thinks the plans are great. He sees Tim's smile and fucking celebrates because fucking finally he'll allow me to use my rocket-launcher.
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REQUESTS OPEN YIPPEEEE!!! can I please ask for some dark stalker/kidnapper tim drake? maybe m! reader is a vigilante in gotham, but not like the bats - he uses methods they dont approve of, and because tim befriended him (hes also more then a little obsessed) he tries to give the reader more chances, tries to believe he'll change – but he doesnt, so tim has to kidnap him and reform reader himself. feel free to play around with this idea as much as you want, all I request is some filthy, nasty smut if thats okay <3
𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄𝐒 ! ── male reader who’s a gotham vigilante that kills criminals and operates outside the batfam’s moral code. tim “befriends” you and becomes increasingly obsessive, trying to convince him to change, leading to a toxic relationship that ends with tim kidnapping you.
Tim starts noticing the pattern before anyone else could.
Not the bodies that continue to line up every night. Gotham is always like that.
It’s the consistent precision that catches his attention.
Every victim is connected somehow–drug runners, traffickers, men with sealed records and missing witnesses. People who should have gone to prison years ago but walked free because somebody bought the judge, threatened a witness, or buried the evidence so deep that even Batman couldn’t reach it.
Then they’d end up dead anyway.
That’s what led him to you.
No theatrics. No creepy messages written with blood from your victims. Just proficient scenes and terrified rumors spreading through the Narrows about a vigilante who doesn’t leave unnecessary survivors behind.
The others call you reckless.
Jason even slightly admires you.
Bruce calls you dangerous and a threat.
Meanwhile, Tim calls you at three in the morning while you’re stitching a knife wound closed in your apartment bathroom.
“You killed Falcone’s accountant?”
You pause, thread hanging from your fingers. “You don’t sound very upset.”
“I should be.”
“But?”
Silence hums through the phone speaker.
You can almost picture him sitting at his computer in his bedroom, eyes shadowed by monitor light, fingers moving relentlessly against the keyboard while he tries to decide whether he’s interrogating you or checking if you’re still alive.
Finally, he sighs. “But he sold out witnesses to Blackgate inmates.”
“Mhm. Sounds like a motive, huh?”
“That sounds like murder.”
You tie the stitch off with your teeth. “You called me instead of your dad.”
Another silence.
“I just… wanted to hear your side first.”
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
Tim starts covering for you before he even realizes what he’s doing.
He reroutes their usual patrol routes. Deletes camera footage before Bruce can review it. “Accidentally,” misfiles reports involving your sightings.
At first, he tells himself he’s buying time.
You’re violent, probably unstable—but not beyond saving. That’s exactly what he believes. That’s what he needs to believe.
Because when the two of you meet face-to-face, you never truly act like the monster Gotham paints you as.
You sit on rooftops beside him with your knees pulled up and your mask halfway off while rain drips from the edge of the building. You steal tea from gas stations and complain about how bitter it tastes—then give the rest to him. Sometimes you even laugh at his stupid jokes so hard you nearly fall backward off ledges.
Tim memorizes every expression you make.
The squinting of your eyes. The crinkle of your nose. The twitch of your lips. Every scar across your skin like jagged splotches of paint.
It gets bad when he starts wanting your attention all the time.
A text from you can ruin his concentration for hours.
A complement sticks in his head for days.
One night, you show up bruised and stumbling into his room through the window without warning.
Tim nearly drops the mug in his hand.
“You look awful,” he blurts.
You grin tiredly. “Missed you too.”
The city lights blur gold behind you. Blood darkens your sleeve steadily, dripping onto the ground like the rain outside.
Tim moves forward and grabs your wrist and drags you further inside.
“You need stitches.”
“Hey, no, I’ve had worse.”
‘That’s not comforting at all.”
You laugh under your breath while he shoves supplies onto the bed with more force than necessary.
“You always this bossy?”
“With you? Yeah.”
You sit still while he cleans the wound. That alone feels strange. You usually fight everyone tooth and nail whenever they try to help. But not him.
Tim’s fingers brush your ribs while wrapping the bandage, and something sharp twists low in his stomach when you don’t pull away like expected.
“You know Bruce is getting closer to finding your safehouses," he says quietly.
“Mhhh, I know.”
“You should leave Gotham for a while.”
Your eyes lift up to his. “You want me gone?”
“No—god no.”
His face heats up immediately after.
The corners of your mouth pulls upward slightly and Tim suddenly hates how easy it is for you to affect him.
“You.. kill people,” he says, harsher now, trying to regain control. “You can’t keep doing this forever.”
“Yet you keep protecting me anyway.”
His hands stop moving.
“You noticed that,” he mutters, as if it was supposed to be a secret for himself.
“It’a not hard to notice these things about you, Tim.”
That should scare someone as private as him.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
Bruce eventually finds out and confronts him.
“You’re compromised.”
Tim clenches his jaw. “I’m handling it.”
“You’re emotionally involved with him.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Tim snaps.
Silence for a few moments.
Then Bruce’s expression hardens and it makes him feel fifteen again.
“He’s manipulating you.”
Tim looks away first.
Because maybe Bruce is right..
Maybe he is compromised.
He knows you’re dangerous. Knows you’ve crossed lines the rest of them never would. Knows there’s constantly blood under your fingernails that will never wash out. But every time Tim tries imagining Gotham without you in it, the thought feels wrong enough to make his chest ache. So, so wrong.
He keeps making excuses to protect you. He can't stop it. Even if you should be locked up in prison.
But a few days later? You don’t give him an opportunity to even try covering it up.
Not publicly at least.
To the others, he sounds like he’s snapping back into reality when your name comes up—logical and detached.
Like before you happened.
“He’s escalating.”
“He’s unstable.”
“He doesn’t listen to reason.”
All.. technically true.
But privately, something colder settles into his chest because he finally understands that you were listening the entire time, since the beginning.
You just never cared.
So the church sat abandoned in Crime Alley for almost a decade.
Everybody knew gangs used it for meetings. Weapon trades. Drug storage. Trafficking safehouse. The kind of place cops ignored because stepping inside meant getting shot before backup arrived.
Bruce—well, as Batman—had been building a case against everyone in there for months.
Now here we are.
You burnt the entire building down with everyone still inside.
Tim arrives with the others just in time to watch fire claw through the collapsed roof and burst into even larger flames.
Smoke pours into the night sky in thick black waves.
Law enforcement scream at civilians to stay back.
Jason looks particularly grim as he grew up Catholic. This, despite being turned into a place of crime, feels like an insult to something that once guided his life.
Dick is simply horrified and Bruce doesn’t say anything.
Damian scoffs, even glances at Tim as if this was his fault.
Tim stares at the heat shimmering off the ruins and already knows it couldn’t have been anyone else but you because this is exactly the kind of message you send.
His comms crackle suddenly.
“Red Robin,” Barbara says sharply. “I found him on traffic cams three blocks east.”
“Don’t engage alone,” Bruce orders immediately.
“Understood.” Tim lies without hesitation.
—
He finds you on a rooftop overlooking the burning church.
You’re sitting on the ledge with one knee raised, watching the flames grow taller and the smoke curling like hands in the cold. Like it was simply background noise. Like corpses weren’t burning in there.
Your gloves are blackened with soot and there’s blood on your jaw that doesn’t belong to you.
“You killed all of them!”
You glance over calmly, and with no shame, “Yeah.”
For some reason, that makes the anger burn hotter in his chest. “There were fourteen people inside.”
“And?”
Tim steps closer. “There could’ve been hostages.”
“There weren’t.”
“You didn’t know that!”
“I checked.”
“You promised me! You promised that you’d stop doing this..”
“I promised to try.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“You knew that when I said it.”
Your words hit harder than they should because he did know. Deep down, he always knew.
Every conversation. Every rooftop argument. Every moment you let him patch your wounds while nodding silently through his lectures about mercy and restraint.
You were just humoring him, weren’t you?
Below, part of the church roof collapses inward with a shower of sparks.
You barely glance at it.
“They trafficked children, Tim. You expect me to feel bad?”
“I expect you to act human!”
Your eyes snap toward him with a sharp glare. “And what exactly counts as human in Gotham anymore?”
You slowly stand from the ledge and Tim instinctively shifts his stance.
“That’s new,” you murmur.
“What is?”
“You’re preparing for me to attack you.”
The observation embarrasses him immediately because it’s true.
A month ago, he wouldn’t have thought twice about standing within an arm’s reach of you. Now he’s measuring distance automatically. Watching your hands too.
Not that he thinks you’ll hurt him but because he’s finally accepting you absolutely could.
Then you laugh under your breath, almost… disappointed.
“That look doesn’t suit you, Tim.”
“You killed fourteen people.”
“And they deserved worse.”
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s usually true.”
“That doesn’t make you judge, jury, or executioner!” His voice echoes across the rooftop.
And for the first time all night—or maybe, ever—you look genuinely annoyed with him.
“And what does your way accomplish, huh? They go to Arkham? Blackgate? Then they bribe someone and walk free six months later?” You step closer. “How many victims get hurt while you people wait for the system to magically start working?”
Tim hates that Gotham proves your arguments right often enough to rot beneath his skin. But there’s still a line. There has to be.
“You think this fixes things? You think burning people alive makes the city safer?”
“If it’s necessary, yes.”
The immediate certainty in your voice chills him more than if you’d shouted. No hesitation or conflict at all.
You believe in this completely.
And suddenly Tim understands something awful.
You are never going to stop.
Not for Batman, Gotham, or the police when they eventually catch you. And not for him.
The realization hollows him out completely.
You must notice something change in his expression because your irritation fades.
“Tim?”
He looks away and—
“You should go,” he says flatly.
“You’re just upset, huh?”
“No kidding.”
“You know why I do this.”
“I know you enjoy it.”
Your face hardens again, “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
You step toward him slowly. “You think I’m a monster now.”
Tim wants to say no immediately. He almost does say it, but the word reaches the back of his throat and dies there.
Your eyes search his face carefully, and whatever you find there makes your shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly.
“You were different with me,” Tim says finally, quieter now. “I thought.. maybe there was still a line you wouldn’t cross.”
“There is.”
“Oh, really?”
“They were traffickers! What don’t you get?”
“You keep changing the rules each time.”
“No. You keep expecting me to become somebody else.”
It’s true.
Tim spent months trying to carve softer edges into someone built like a weapon. And some part of him resents you for failing at becoming the person he wanted.
You exhale slowly and glance toward the large flames consuming the fallen church one last time.
“I’m not one of you.”
The worst part is that he doesn’t want you to be. Not completely. Even now, standing here covered in smoke and blood and gasoline, there’s still something in him desperately trying to separate you from the monsters he hunts every night.
But he can’t anymore.
“You should leave before Batman gets here,” he finally manages to say.
“You plan on turning me in?”
Tim closes his eyes briefly.
God.
A month ago, that question would’ve been impossible.
Now he doesn’t even know the answer.
“...I don’t know.”
You look uncertain but end up saying, “Okay.”
You move past him toward the edge of the rooftop and he doesn’t stop you.
Right before jumping, you glance back once–rain beads against your lashes and cheeks.
“You’re still going to cover for me tonight.”
It wasn’t a question. It was certainty.
And it hurts Tim’s heart even more because he knows you’re right.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
The next few weeks feel hollow.
Empty in a way Tim can’t explain without sounding insane.
You stop contacting him completely after the church rooftop.
No surprise visits bleeding onto his furniture. No sarcastic texts through burner phones at two in the morning.
Nothing.
Tim tells himself that’s a good thing, which it should be a good thing. But the problem is that Gotham starts feeling unbearably dull without you in it directly.
And Tim hates how quickly he notices the absence.
So he still tracks your activity.
It becomes routine after patrol.
Sit at the Batcomputer. Pull up police scanners. Search crime reports. Cross-reference explosions, disappearances, and gang executions with areas your informants usually frequent.
Every few nights, something pops up.
A drug house found abandoned with six dead inside.
“GCPD officers responding to anonymous tips discovered six deceased individuals inside an abandoned apartment building in The Narrows late Tuesday night. Authorities believe the location was being used as a distribution hub for illegal narcotics. Investigators have not released a cause of death, and no suspects have been identified at this time.”
An illegal weapons shipment intercepted and destroyed.
“A large shipment of illegal firearms was destroyed early Friday morning after an explosion rocked an industrial warehouse in Gotham’s East End. According to police sources, the weapons were believed to be part of a trafficking operation linked to organized crime. No arrests have been made, though authorities continue to investigate the circumstances surrounding the blast.”
Two traffickers pulled from Gotham Harbor with broken necks.
“The bodies of two men were recovered from Gotham Harbor Wednesday morning after dock workers alerted authorities. Medical examiners confirmed both victims suffered fatal neck injuries prior to entering the water. Police have not publicly identified the deceased but stated both men were subjects of multiple ongoing criminal investigations.”
A Falcone safehouse burned to the ground.
“A four-story property allegedly connected to the Falcone crime organization was reduced to rubble following a late-night fire in Bristol Township. Fire crews battled the blaze for nearly three hours before bringing it under control. Officials have not determined the cause, though investigators have described the circumstances as ‘highly suspicious.’”
Tim watches security footage frame by frame whenever he can get it.
Most clips only catch shadows of you. A hood disappearing over rooftops. A blurred silhouette moving through smoke.
Once, there’s a still image clear enough to see your jawline beneath your mask for half a second.
Tim stares at it for almost ten minutes.
He doesn’t even realize Jason walked into the cave until a hand smacks the back of his chair.
“You’re doing it again.”
Tim closes the image immediately. “Doing what?”
“Getting weird.” Jason leans over the console, unimpressed. “You’ve been staring at that screen for hours this week.”
“I’m working.”
“No, you’re brooding.” Jason squints at him. “Which is Bruce’s thing. You’re usually more annoying.”
Tim flips him off without heat.
Jason snorts, but the amusement fades after a second.
“Seriously, though. What’s up with you lately?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
Tim ignores him and pulls another file onto the screen.
Three dead gang members with chemical burns.
“GCPD is investigating the deaths of three suspected gang affiliates discovered inside a warehouse in Burnham District early Sunday morning. According to preliminary reports, all three victims suffered severe chemical burns, though officials have not disclosed the substance involved. Authorities have yet to identify any suspects and are examining possible links to recent organized crime activity throughout the city.”
It's obviously your work. Yet his stomach twists unpleasantly anyways.
Jason notices the report.
“Oh.” Understanding flashes across his face. “It’s about him.”
He watches him carefully now, expression sharpening in a way that makes Tim instantly defensive. “You’re still hung up on that guy?”
“He’s.. a problem.”
“That’s not what I asked. But for what it’s worth, I kinda get it.”
Tim blinks once. That wasn’t the response he expected.
“People like him make sense at first.” His gaze drifts toward the cave floor. “You think they’re saying what everyone else is too afraid to admit.”
“And then?”
“And then they keep going.”
Quiet settles between them. The cave hums softly with computer noise and distant dripping water.
Tim rubs tiredly at his eyes.
Jason glances sideways at him.
“You look awful, y’know that?”
“Thanks.”
“No, seriously. You’re slower too.”
Tim immediately stiffens. “I’m not.”
“You missed three attacks during training yesterday.”
He knows exactly what Jason means.
Sparring with Cass.
A rare opening in her defense.
A hit Tim normally could’ve countered.
Except his mind had drifted for half a second toward a news report Barbara mentioned earlier—an entire gun operation dismantled somewhere in the East End.
Tim had wondered if it was you.
That single distraction cost him getting slammed flat onto the mat.
Jason watches realization cross his face and grimaces slightly.
“…Damn,” he mutters. “You got it bad.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re losing sleep over a homicidal vigilante.”
Tim pushes back from the computer abruptly. “I said shut up.”
Jason raises both hands immediately.
But he still looks concerned as Tim walks off.
—
Dick emotionally corners him four nights later.
“You skipped family dinner again.”
Tim keeps typing without looking up. “Busy.”
“You’ve been busy every night for two weeks.”
“I patrol Gotham, Dick. That tends to happen.”
Dick leans against the console beside him anyway.
“You miss him.”
Tim’s fingers stop over the keyboard.
Dick sighs softly at the reaction. “Tim…”
“He’s killing people.”
“Obviously.”
Tim finally looks at him then, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “Then why is everyone acting like I’m insane for being affected by it?”
Dick’s expression shifts slightly. Not exactly judgmental--just tired. “Because you’re grieving someone who’s still alive.”
Dick sits beside him quietly. “You wanted him to choose differently,” he says after a moment.
“I thought he would.”
“And now?”
Tim stares at the surveillance footage playing silently across the monitor. A warehouse explosion downtown. Two survivors crawling from debris.
“…Now I think I just wanted to matter enough for him to try.”
Dick goes quiet after that.
There’s nothing comforting to say.
—
The worst moments happen late at night.
Usually around three or four in the morning.
The cave empties out by then. Bruce upstairs. Alfred asleep. Gotham temporarily quieter between disasters.
Tim stays alone at the Batcomputer with cold coffee beside his elbow and police chatter murmuring through speakers.
That’s when he starts checking your old messages. Not intentionally at first, just absentmindedly. Then it's a habit.
Tiny things stick under his skin now.
A blurry photo you once sent of a stray cat.
A voice message where you laughed after he got hit in the face during patrol.
Tim rereads them enough that he nearly memorizes timestamps.
It feels pathetic.
Worse, it feels obsessive in a way he recognizes immediately because he’s spent years profiling dangerous people. He knows unhealthy attachment when he sees it.
The problem is that understanding it doesn’t make it stop.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
One night, Barbara walks into the cave quietly while he’s replaying security footage from your latest crime scene. “You’re monitoring him again.”
“He blew up a weapons convoy.”
Barbara crosses her arms. “That’s not what I meant. Even better, that's not what anyone is asking of you.”
Tim exhales sharply through his nose. “I’m keeping track of a violent vigilante. That’s literally our job.”
“Tim. You haven’t been acting like yourself lately,” she says carefully. “You zone out during patrols. You’re exhausted all the time. Bruce said you nearly fell asleep during surveillance yesterday.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” She sighed, “Did he mean that much to you?”
Tim wants to deny it but the truth sits too heavy in his chest now. So instead, after several long seconds, he just says:
“I liked who I was when he was around.”
Barbara’s expression changes immediately into something sadder because she understands exactly what he means.
Around you, everything felt more alive.
And now every night feels gray by comparison.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
Tim plans it three days in advance.
That alone should probably tell him this is a terrible idea.
He tracks your movement patterns carefully, pretending it’s tactical analysis instead of fixation.
Safehouses. Informants. Patrol routes. The areas you still seem protective over despite everything else.
You’ve gotten harder to follow lately. Like you finally realized they know too much about you.
Tim wonders if that’s because of him.
The thought leaves something sour in his stomach.
—
“Red Robin, status?” Bruce’s voice crackles through the comm.
Tim crouches on a rooftop overlooking Robinson Park, eyes fixed on the distant street below where a familiar figure moves between alley shadows. You.
His chest tightens so fast it almost hurts.
“Perimeter clear,” he answers.
Beside him, Dick grapples toward the next building. “We’re heading east. You coming?”
Tim’s gaze never leaves you. “Need to check something first.”
Bruce responds immediately. “Negative. Stick with—”
Static cuts through the comm suddenly.
Tim muted the channel himself.
For a second, guilt punches through him hard enough to make him hesitate. Then you glance upward briefly, hood shadowing your face, and the hesitation dies instantly.
Tim moves.
—
By the time Tim lands across from you in the alley, you’re already turning slightly, posture alert beneath your jacket.
Your eyes narrow. “Thought you were avoiding me.”
Rainwater drips from fire escapes overhead, tapping softly against concrete between you both.
There’s a healing cut crossing your mouth. Bruises along your throat. A slight stiffness in your left arm that suggests another injury you haven’t treated properly.
“You’ve been killing people.”
You shrug lightly. “Gotham’s still standing.”
The familiar frustration flickers through him, but he crushes it down quickly. Tonight can’t become another argument. You’ll leave.
And Tim can’t handle you leaving again.
He steps closer slowly. “I’m not here to fight.”
That gets your attention. Your expression shifts carefully, suspicion threading through it now. “No?”
Tim shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have said you enjoy it.”
He continues before he can rethink any of this.
“That rooftop… I was angry.” His throat feels tight suddenly. “And I know I pushed you harder than I should’ve.”
You stare at him in silence.
Lower your guard. Just enough.
“I know why you do what you do,” he says quietly. “I still don’t agree with it, but…” He exhales shakily.
“I miss talking to you.”
He sees the slight change around your eyes.
God, you missed him too.
The realization nearly ruins his focus.
Your shoulders ease. “That’s probably the most honest thing you’ve said in weeks,” you murmur.
Tim steps closer again—close enough to touch. And it hurts because even after everything, you still trust him a little.
“You really scared me that night,” he admits softly.
“I know.”
Another step closer.
Your guard lowers further.
Tim sees the exact moment you decide he isn’t a threat.
And then—
One hand violently yanks your jacket forward while the other drives a taser hard against the side of your neck.
Electricity cracks sharply through the alley.
Your body jerks in shock, but you’re stronger than most people. Faster too. You react almost instantly despite the hit, grabbing his wrist hard enough to bruise.
Your eyes snap wide with betrayal.
Tim nearly falters right there.
Then you start reaching for the knife hidden beneath your jacket. Panic slams through him so he swings before thinking.
The metal handle of the taser slams hard against your temple. A sickening sound echoes against the alley walls and you stagger immediately.
Tim’s stomach drops.
Too hard.
Way too hard.
Your grip loosens from his wrist as your balance gives out completely. For one awful second, you look confused more than angry. Then your knees buckle.
Tim catches you before your head slams against the pavement.
Silence floods the alley afterward except for his breathing.
“Oh.. oh my god,” he whispers.
Blood runs slowly down the side of your face. Your body hangs limp in his arms. Tim stares at you in horror.
He didn’t mean—
No, no, that’s a lie.
He did mean to knock you out.
Just not like that.
Not hard enough to leave you unconscious this fast. Not hard enough that blood is already slipping between his fingers.
His pulse pounds violently.
You’re breathing.
Tim checks three times, even as his hands shake.
Some distant part of his brain screams that this is insane. That Bruce would lose his mind if he saw this. That Dick was right. Barbara too.
You trusted him for one second and he used it against you.
The guilt should stop him here.
Instead, Tim carefully adjusts your unconscious weight against his chest and activates the grapple line with his free hand.
Because beneath the horror, beneath the panic and shame and nausea—
There’s still overwhelming relief.
He found you again.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
Consciousness returns slowly.
Your head throbs immediately. The second you start waking up, a deep, nauseating ache pulsing behind your eyes and through the entirety of your skull hard enough to make your stomach twist. For a few seconds, you stay still, breathing shallowly against the soft surface beneath you.
Dim lighting somewhere nearby.
Then memory falls back into place.
Your eyes snap open.
Pain flashes instantly through the side of your head as you jerk upright on instinct—the movement sending pain flashing across your shoulders. You stop short when something tight pulls sharply against your arms and torso.
Rope.
A lot of it.
For a second, you just stay there, disoriented, pulse pounding heavily in your ears while your vision adjusts to the room.
Safehouse.
The furniture’s too expensive not to be the bats.
You’re sitting against the corner of a large couch, arms pinned behind your back, bound tightly from wrists to upper torso in intricate patterns that press firmly across your chest and ribs before knotting down your spine. Another length winds securely around your thighs and calves, all the way to your ankles, forcing your legs together against the couch cushions.
These weren't sloppy restraints.
These were careful. Completely deliberate.
Recognition slowly settles in.
Shibari.
You flex experimentally against the restraints once and nothing budges.
The rope has enough give to avoid cutting circulation, but not enough to create leverage.
"...fuck," you rasp.
Movement comes from a nearby corner.
Tim looks up from the armchair so fast it's almost jarring. Relief morphs across his face. "You're awake."
You try pushing yourself off the couch—as if you're in any position to—only for dizziness to burn into you hard enough that you suck in a sharp breath, causing Tim to stand immediately.
"Easy.."
"Easy? You hit me with a crowbar."
"It wasn't a crowbar."
"Oh, wow. That makes it so much better."
Despite yourself, your gaze flicks around the room automatically.
Minimal furniture. Reinforced windows. Medical supplies scattered across the kitchen counter beside empty mugs and glass. Two laptops open nearby with surveillance footage frozen across the screens.
One camera points directly toward you from the corner ceiling.
Tim notices where you're looking. "It's not recording constantly."
You stare at him flatly. "That's your defense?"
His lips purse tightly.
You notice now, how awful he looks. Wrinkled, probably dirty clothes. Messy hair. Eyes bloodshot. Bruising dark beneath them like he genuinely hasn't rested since dragging you here.
"You.. were out for almost two days," he says quietly.
“You hit me that hard?”
“I didn’t mean to. You had a concussion," he swallows nervously.
"So you tied me up."
"You kept trying to move and.. well, fight me while unconscious."
"Hm."
Your skull still aches every time you move too quickly. There’s probably a nasty bruise hidden in your hair judging by the tenderness alone.
Tim seems to notice and he immediately moves towards the kitchen counter before returning with water and painkillers.
You eye him suspiciously when he kneels Infront of the couch.
"They're not drugged."
"You tased me, cracked my skull open, then kidnapped me. Forgive me if trust feels difficult right now."
He suddenly looks ashamed.
Good. He should be!
Still, after a moment, you open your mouth enough for him to give you the pills carefully.
The intimacy of it feels strange. Humiliating, almost. Especially restrained like this.
Tim's fingers brush your jaw accidentally while passing the glass, and both of you go still for half a second. Then he pulls away quickly.
Silence stretches for a long moment.
“You’re not getting out.”
You look back at him flatly. “You say that like I haven’t escaped worse.”
Tim leans forward slightly, hands resting on his knees now. “Look. You scared the hell out of me and.. I needed you somewhere I could watch easily.”
"And this somehow counts as helping?" You laugh once under your breath despite yourself.
His jaw tightens. "You're clearly not stable. You've been killing more people than usual."
"Well, the last guys were selling guns to Black Mask."
"That doesn't matter!" The sudden sharpness in his voice echoes through the room and you blink.
"You don't get it. Every time I tracked you lately, it got worse." His eyes lift towards yours again. "You stopped caring about collateral. You stopped covering your tracks. Half the crimes looked borderline suicidal."
Tim laughs under his breath, exhausted and humorless.
"You know what the worst part is?" he mutters. "I still checked if you were alive every night."
Something uncomfortable twists low in your chest so you look away.
The ropes shift softly against your skin as you settle back against the couch cushions.
“…Untie me,” you say eventually.
“No. I told you, you’re not leaving.”
You look back at him sharply. “You hit me hard enough to hospitalize someone.”
“I know.”
“You can’t keep me here forever.”
His eyes hold yours and silence is infinitely more unsettling than words would’ve been.
You shift again against the ropes, testing the give one more time even though you already know the answer. The bindings stay firm around your chest and wrists, holding you tightly against the couch cushions.
“I’m serious, Tim. Take this shit off.”
His eyes flick briefly toward the ropes before returning to your face carefully, like he’s gauging your mood.
“No.” He sighs.
You stare at him. “No?”
“We’ve already been over the fact you’re unstable.”
“That doesn’t justify you kidnapping me.”
“Neither do your excuses for killing people.”
“That doesn’t answer the question, Tim.”
“No, but it answers why you’re staying restrained.”
Frustration flashes hot through your chest instantly. “You have serious issues.”
You yank harder against the bindings without thinking. Rope tightens across your ribs sharply enough to force a hiss from between your teeth.
The couch dips beside you as he sits down carefully, close enough that warmth presses against your side.
His hand settles instinctively against your thigh before he seems fully aware he’s doing it, fingers rubbing slowly over the muscle like he’s trying to calm a startled animal.
The touch sends immediate alarm through your system. You jerk sharply against the ropes again. “Don’t touch me.”
Tim pulls his hand back instantly.
Something guilty flickers across his face, but it disappears just as quickly beneath stubbornness. “You’re shaking.”
“No kidding.”
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
“That’s already been disproven.”
“You need to relax.”
“Relax?” Your voice rises slightly. “You lied to me. Pretended to apologize. Then knocked me unconscious and tied me up like some psycho—”
“I said I was sorry.”
“And I said untie me!”
“No!”
Tim’s exhausted, yes. Guilty too. But he genuinely believes keeping you restrained is the correct choice. It sparks something nervous and ugly beneath your ribs so you cover it immediately with anger.
“What, you think this fixes things? You think tying me up makes you different from the people we fight?”
“That’s not fair..”
“No? Then what is this?” You pull against the rope crossing your torso. “Because it sure as hell isn’t concern anymore.”
“You planned this,” you say quietly now.
He doesn’t answer.
Your pulse starts climbing harder. “You tracked me for weeks.”
Tim exhales sharply through his nose. “You make it sound really insane when you say it like that.”
“It is insane.”
“I know this is insane.” His voice lowers immediately afterward. “But I couldn’t just.. keep waiting for a phone call from you. I needed you back!”
“You don’t own me nor are we anything. So stop acting like it.”
“You disappear for weeks at a time. You nearly die constantly. Half the city wants your head.” His eyes lock onto yours intensely. “What exactly was I supposed to do?”
“Not this!”
The answer comes instantly and Tim goes quiet again after that. Neither of you do or say anything for several moments. Then Tim’s gaze drops briefly toward the ropes around your torso.
“…I tied them carefully,” he says quietly.
You blink once, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “What?”
“They aren’t cutting circulation.” His voice stays low, oddly focused. “I checked every few hours while you were unconscious.”
“You watched me sleep tied up on a couch for two days,” you say flatly.
Tim winces slightly.
You sigh. “So, was all that missing me bullshit fake?”
His expression changes into hurt immediately. “No, no—“
“Right.”
“I meant it.”
“Sure you did.”
“You think this was easy for me?”
You stare at him incredulously.
Instead of at your face and answering like a normal man, his eyes slowly—almost hesitant—flick up and down. To the bindings. The rope crossing your chest and waist. Your wrists restrained behind your back. Your legs secured tightly enough that moving is awkward and unbalanced.
“You like this,” you accuse suddenly.
Tim freezes, letting out a bewildered squeak.
“You think tying me up fixes whatever’s wrong in your head, huh?” you continue, voice rising slightly now that nerves are fully bleeding into anger. “You couldn’t control me before, so now you’re restraining me in some fucked up safehouse—”
“That’s not what this is!”
“Yes it is. You’re obsessed with me!”
“You—you think I don’t know that!?” Tim’s hand is gone from your thigh now, but the warmth of it still lingers through the fabric of your pants in a way that’s deeply unhelpful.
You shift against the couch again, trying to sit differently, trying to relieve some of the pressure from the rope binding your hips and thighs together.
The movement drags the ropes tighter across your waist and between your legs. A sharp breath catches in your throat before you can stop it.
Tim notices instantly.
His eyes flick downward again.
You try shifting again, this time more to hide yourself than escape, but the bindings make every movement controlled and limited. Your knees stay partially bent from the rope securing your calves, leaving you frustratingly aware of every point of contact against the couch cushions.
“Don’t,” you bark immediately.
Tim’s gaze lifts back to your face and heat flashes up your neck instantly. Oh, this is humiliating.
You turn more sharply against the couch armrest, trying to angle yourself away from him. The rope circling your hips prevents most of it.
“…You’re kidding,” he says quietly.
“Shut up.”
Your answer was too quick. Too defensive.
Tim stares at you openly now, disbelief slowly mixing with something far more complicated. “You’re seriously—”
“I said shut up.”
Panic is beginning to creep underneath your ribs.
This is bad.
Very bad.
You’ve spent months chasing each other across rooftops. Fighting. Arguing. Bleeding beside each other. And now you’re tied up in shibari by the same guy who kidnapped you after fake-apologizing—
And your body decided this was somehow exciting.
Something is clearly wrong with you.
Tim runs a hand slowly over his face. “You were yelling at me thirty seconds ago.”
“I’m still mad at you.”
“Not just mad apparently.”
“Stop looking at me.”
“I’m trying to process this.”
“There’s nothing to process.” You shift instinctively against the ropes again out of sheer frustration. The bindings press irritatingly against sensitive nerves, causing you to let out a small, very accidental gasp.
Tim hears it and his eyes widen slightly.
Yours narrow in immediate warning.
"And you said I enjoyed this." His gaze drifts briefly again before he catches himself and looks toward the wall which makes everything worse because now you know he’s actively trying not to ogle.
“You tied me up like this,” you accuse immediately, desperate to redirect the situation. “What did you think was gonna happen?”
“I wasn’t thinking about—that.”
“Bullshit.”
“I wasn’t!” Tim’s face is visibly warm now, ears slightly red beneath the dark hair falling across his forehead. “This was supposed to keep you restrained. Not— not whatever this is.”
“You researched bondage!"
“I used effective knots!”
“Okay, well—joke’s over! Let me out of this bullshit!”
The second the words leave your mouth, Tim’s mouth twitches. Barely restrained amusement. “…I’m trying really hard not to laugh.”
“There is nothing funny about this.”
“You’re tied to a couch while trying not to get hard…er.”
“Timothy.”
“Sorry,” he says immediately.
Then, after a beat—
“…No, I’m not actually sorry.”
You glare at him, but it lacks any real bite now. Mostly because your pulse is pounding too hard to maintain the same level of hostility.
Tim shifts closer.
“What are you doing?” you ask immediately.
Tim’s eyes flick to your mouth.
Then back up.
“Is this one of your psychoanalysis things?”
Tim studies you for another long second before lifting one hand slowly toward your face. His fingers brush lightly along your jaw near the bruise he left there.
“No, it’s not. I really am sorry,” he murmurs.
Your shoulders tense slightly when his thumb brushes your cheek. “You’re making this weird. Untie me before you do something stupid,” you mutter.
“Before I do something stupid?”
“Yes.”
“Little late for that.” Tim shifts even closer.
“Hey—”
He doesn’t answer, just pauses before finally leaning in. The kiss starts softer than you expect. Tentative. Like he’s still half-convinced you’ll run away (even if you’re in no position to).
Instead, your breath catches embarrassingly against his mouth. And that tiny reaction seems to snap the last thread of restraint in him.
Tim kisses you harder, one hand sliding against your jaw while the other braces beside your hip against the couch cushion.
Your stomach flips violently.
You make a quiet sound against his mouth—half protest, half something else entirely—and Tim exhales sharply like the noise nearly wrecked him. “You’re impossible,” he mutters softly against your lips
“And you’re a kidnapper,” you whisper back immediately.
“Still got you hard.” Tim kisses you again, more confident now, more controlling.
Your hands being restrained only makes the whole thing worse.
Or better, unfortunately.
A soft, frustrated whine slips from your throat when he tilts your head slightly to deepen the kiss, and the second the sound reaches him, Tim freezes briefly.
“No,” you mumble against his mouth, trying to turn your face away out of pure embarrassment. “Don’t say anything.”
“You’re shy right now,” he says quietly, sounding genuinely stunned.
a/n: you have to admit the song i linked to the title lowk fits m!reader perfectly + Catholic Jason, how i love you. you may also be wondering how you’re tied up, which if you can imagine, is these 3 combined (but obviously on a more masculine body):
꒰ 🦇 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 tim’s finally happy. that might be the first warning sign.
YOU WERE A DREAM.
no, really, you were. everything about you carried that impossible sheen, the kind that only appears in sleep or wishful thinking. you were the partner tim drake never believed he’d get to have, someone who didn’t just understand him, but fit him, like you’d been created for him. when he spiraled, you steadied him without asking questions. when he forgot how to breathe between responsibilities, you somehow created space around him, coaxing the air back into his lungs without ever making him feel needy.
tim could never fathom how he’d gotten this lucky to have met you. sometimes he’d just watch you with this overwhelmed, disbelieving softness, like he was waiting for someone to tap him on the shoulder and tell him this wasn’t actually happening. you were too warm, too patient, too willing to stay.
he curated his entire world around you without hesitation, adjusting his routines, his patrol schedules, even his coffee order, because loving you came so naturally it felt like breathing. nothing about his loyalty to you ever felt like effort. it was simply the gravity of his existence tipping in your direction, again and again, until it felt impossible to imagine any version of himself that didn’t orbit you.
everything between you moved with that same strange ease, effortless, fluid, like the two of you had been matched long before you ever met. you balanced him in ways he didn’t even know he needed. where he was all angles and overthinking, you were warmth and instinct. where he ran himself ragged chasing answers, you reminded him to pause, to rest, to live. you didn’t push him; you guided him. gently, consistently, with this certainty that made the world feel safer just by existing within arm’s reach.
tim had always been the one who overcompensated, who tried too hard, who poured his entire soul into people who didn’t know what to do with that kind of devotion, but with you, there was no strain, no stretching himself thin. he didn’t have to perform to keep you. he didn’t have to be brilliant or prepared or perfect. it was so perfect—how well you understood him, how easily you loved him, how flawlessly you existed with him—that tim sometimes wondered how he’d ever lived before you.
and tim held onto you , because when something feels this easy, this aligned, this impossibly perfect, you don’t question it. you just let yourself fall.
he was falling still when saturday arrived, because saturdays meant you. they always had. ever since you’d once offhandedly mentioned that you liked routines he’d carved your preferences into his weekly schedule.
so now it was saturday, late afternoon, that honey-warm hour where shadows stretched long and the city softened, and tim was already making his way across the narrow stone bridge that led into the botanical conservatory you loved. you told your friend it “smelled like real oxygen,” which made him laugh the first time he’d heard it, but secretly he agreed. it was peaceful here, filled with curated greenery that never fought back, never ambushed him, never demanded more than observation.
tim knew, without needing a reminder, without ever having to ask, that you’d be inside, sitting on the same worn wooden bench tucked behind the orchids. your bench. the one you’d picked during your second saturday visit. the one where sunlight always hit your face in that soft, almost glowing way. you liked patterns. he liked you. he’d learned all your habits with a kind of devotion that would have embarrassed him if he ever slowed down long enough to question it.
you always got there before him. not because you were early, though you usually were, but because he lingered on purpose, watching from afar. he told himself it was to make sure you were safe. or that he was giving you a breath of solitude before he arrived. or that he was just… appreciating you. what he never admitted, even to himself, was that he liked the way you looked when you didn’t know he was there.
so he stayed where the pathway curved, half-hidden behind a column of broad-leafed palms, cap pulled low over his eyes, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket like he had something to hide. he didn’t think he looked suspicious—well, maybe a little—but this was a botanical garden, not a crime scene. people lurked. that was normal. probably.
besides, he wasn’t lurking. he was… observing. protecting. gathering a moment of quiet before stepping into the warmth of your orbit.
you had one earbud in—left side, always the left—and he wondered what you were listening to today. a playlist? a podcast? something soft and warm and fitting? he leaned closer, hood shadowing his eyes. totally normal. totally not weird. he could’ve approached already—should’ve approached—but there was something addictive about watching you exist.
his heartbeat steadied just watching you adjust the strap of your bag, or tilt your head toward the flowers he knew were your favorite, or swipe your thumb across your phone like you were reading a text from him. he knew your posture cues by now, your micro-expressions, the tiny tells that said you were comfortable, restless, amused. what was wrong with that? couples noticed things. couples paid attention. couples memorized each other without even trying. he wasn’t doing anything strange. he wasn’t crossing any lines. he was just waiting. watching. loving you from a few steps back.
his fingers itched. he glanced around once, no one close enough to pay attention. no one angled toward him. no cameras in this corner—he’d checked months ago. slowly, he slipped his phone out of his pocket. couples took pictures of each other all the time. candid ones, even. he’d seen it—people saving small moments, collecting pieces of their partner like treasures. that was normal. that was affectionate. that was love.
so when he lifted the phone, angled it just right, and captured a picture of you in the garden light… it wasn’t strange. it wasn’t crossing anything. it was preservation. a way to remember the softness of this moment later, when he couldn’t sleep and needed something to look at. a way to hold onto you.
he took another—your fingers brushing a petal, your profile haloed by sunlight filtering through the glass dome. another—your lips parting slightly as you exhaled. another—your shoulders relaxing. he lowered the phone, breathing out slowly, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. he studied you for another long beat, letting the air settle, letting the moment imprint itself on him.
you shifted again, glancing toward the entrance, and his chest tightened with something warm and electric. anticipation. belonging. inevitability. he straightened, brushed invisible dust off his jacket, adjusted the brim of his cap. he didn’t want to keep you waiting. you hated waiting. he knew that. he remembered everything. besides, he’d watched long enough. savored enough. collected enough to get him through the rest of the day. time to step into the scene.
he crosses the distance with the certainty of someone who believes he belongs there. every step feels inevitable, like he’s walking a path the two of you paved together. the nervous buzzing under his skin doesn’t make sense, but he tells himself it’s good. it means he cares. it means this matters.
you’re crouched, focused on a tiny insect resting on the rim of a planter, the kind of small, fleeting detail you’ve always stopped for. he’s watched you do this a hundred times. he steps up beside you, close enough that it should be normal. it is normal, he insists to himself.
“careful with that one,” he says, like he’s picking up a thread of conversation you two set down only minutes ago. “it’s a syrphid fly. most people think they’re bees, but they’re harmless. really good for gardens, actually. they eat aphids.”
it comes out soft, the way he always talks to you when you’re focused on something small. he tells himself you like that, his facts, his random knowledge, the way he can take whatever has your attention and make it feel connected to him. he doesn’t think about how he knows that. he just does. he doesn’t consider the possibility that maybe it’s projection. longing.
you look up at him with polite interest. “really?” you ask, fascination coloring your voice.
he nods, a little too quickly. “yeah. they can’t sting. they hover because they’re assessing movement patterns.” he hears the softness in his own voice and doesn’t question it. doesn’t wonder why he’s so exposed. of course he is. he’s talking to you. you’ve always been the exception to the locked-down, tightly controlled version of himself he shows everyone else.
your smile grows a little. “that’s interesting.”
he shifts, hands sliding into his pockets. why is he nervous? he’s never nervous with you. he made sure of that. he’s curated every part of his world around your comfort, adjusted patrol shifts so he’d be awake when you were, picked coffee shops you prefer, memorized the way you walk so he can match your pace without thinking. this is supposed to be effortless.
“so… what are you doing here?” you ask, casual, friendly, easy. the tone is harmless. it should be harmless. something about it hits him strangely, the question lands too lightly, like you don’t realize that of course you know what he’s doing here. of course you know. saturdays are yours. this block is yours. everything predictable about you is something he’s memorized. still, the question makes his brain stutter.
his mouth opens slightly, but nothing comes out. he’s suddenly aware of how warm it is beneath his cap, how fast his pulse is tapping against the inside of his wrist. why are you asking? is this a joke? a bit? some playful test between the two of you? you do that sometimes. you pretend you don’t know something just to see how he’ll respond. you like teasing him. you always have.
he realizes he still hasn’t answered. your expression has shifted, just slightly. “i mean, are you here with someone?” you ask next.
“yeah,” he says quietly, almost conspiratorial. “i’m meeting someone.”
your brows lift just enough to play along. just enough curiosity, just enough amusement. “oh?” you ask. “do i know them?”
he huffs a soft laugh, eyes flicking over your face like he’s memorizing you all over again. “i would hope so.”
you laugh, light, warm, like the sound was crafted specifically for him, and something in his chest melts. the tension dissolves completely. this is how it always is with you. easy. you take a step closer. “and let me guess,” you say, teasing, “they’re chronically late and terrible at communication?”
he shakes his head, lips curving. “no. they’re perfect. i was the one running behind.”
you roll your eyes affectionately, nudging his shoulder with yours. “i was waiting for you, tim.”
the words hit him like sunlight. you were waiting for him. of course you were. of course. his hand finds your waist like it’s already been there a thousand times. yours slip up to his chest. everything fits, clicks, aligns—the way it’s supposed to.
you’re smiling up at him, and he can’t help it. he leans in. you lean in too. the kiss is gentle at first, the kind you give each other when you’ve been apart for even a few hours. your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket. the world narrows to the press of your mouth, the way your breath catches softly, the way your lips curve into a barely-there smile against his.
he pulls back just slightly, just enough to see you breathe, to watch your lashes lift, to watch the softness settle on your face like morning light. “missed you,” he murmurs. it’s simple. it’s soft. it’s exactly what he would say after any week, any day, any hour without you.
“i missed you too.”
he threads his fingers through yours, the gesture effortless, instinctive, practiced. your hands fit together easily and he begins walking with you through the greenhouse path. the air is thick with humidity, soft floral sweetness brushing your skin. the sound of your steps, your breaths, the rustle of leaves—everything folds into a rhythm he knows too well. one he’s convinced is yours together.
you glance at a cluster of pale lilac orchids, brushing your thumb gently along the edge of a petal. “these bloomed early this year,” you say.
“you noticed that?” he asks, delighted.
you turn and grin. “i always notice.”
he squeezes your hand, heart swelling with something so warm and fierce it feels like devotion layered over devotion. “that’s why i love you,” he says before he even thinks to soften it.
you don’t flinch. you never do in his world. you just lean your shoulder into his. “you love everything.”
“only when it’s you.”
you laugh, tilting your head to study another plant, some trailing vine with tiny white blossoms. he watches your expression like it’s a private meteor shower, the way your fingers hover above the leaves, the way your mouth pulls into a thoughtful little shape, the way you hum under your breath when something fascinates you. every detail is a dream.
“hey,” he tugs you softly, brushing his thumb across the back of your hand. “come with me. i want to show you something.”
you look up at him, curious, a bit amused. “another plant?”
“better,” he says, with that small, dry half-smile he only ever aims at you. “unless you count gotham as a plant. which i don’t recommend. it’s dying in several places.”
you giggle, and he feels the sound like a warm spark in his ribs. you let him lead you out of the greenhouse, your fingers laced with his, your shoulder brushing his with each step. the air outside is cooler, touched by the late afternoon breeze. sunlight slants low between buildings as he guides you down the path, weaving through the quiet corner of the botanical gardens toward the hill that overlooks the park. you glance around, recognition warming your voice. “oh—this way. you really like this spot.”
“i really like being here with you.” he corrects.
you bump his shoulder with yours. “smooth.”
“i’ve had practice.”
“mm. you still overthink it.”
“only when you’re looking at me,” he says, which is true.
you laugh again and he swears the sound rearranges every molecule of his body into something better. when you reach the top of the hill, the city stretches out below you: rooftops glowing, traffic softened by distance, the shimmer of the river catching the last sunlight. tiny, scattered figures dot the pathways belo, families, couples, dog-walkers, all part of a life he only ever feels connected to when you’re beside him. you exhale, slow and content. “i forget how pretty this view is.”
“you said that the first time i brought you here,” he points out, stepping behind you, his hands finding your waist with natural precision.
you lean back into him without hesitation. “did i?”
“yeah. you said it looked like the city was finally taking a breath.”
“that sounds like something i’d say.”
“it is,” he promises. “i remember.”
you tilt your head, resting it against his shoulder. “you always remember.”
“of course i do.” he presses a slow kiss into your hair. “you matter to me more than anything.”
you go quiet for a moment, just breathing, letting the wind brush past you both. he feels your weight against him, your warmth, your presence, and it settles him in a way nothing else can. “tim?” you say finally.
“yeah?”
“thank you for bringing me here.”
he lets out a soft breath of relief. “i’d bring you anywhere.”
you turn in his arms then, looping your arms around his neck, pulling him close without needing to ask. he fits against you perfectly, like your silhouette was drawn to match his. the shy curve of your smile makes his chest tighten, like something unbearably good is unfolding inside him. “you’re being cheesy,” you tease lightly.
“i’m allowed,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours. “i’m in love.”
you roll your eyes, pretending to fight a smile, but he sees the way your fingers curl in the fabric of his jacket, the way you lean closer. “i know.”
“you’re supposed to say it back,” he adds dryly.
“you say it too much.”
“isn’t that the goal?”
you huff a laugh, and then you kiss him, your hands sliding into his hair, the wind brushing past the two of you like it knows this moment belongs only to you. he kisses you back like breath, like instinct, like truth—because to him, it is truth.
when you pull away, you whisper, “i love you too.”
he closes his eyes.
everything is perfect.
everything is perfect.
you’re the one who suggests leaving, some half-muttered joke about how weird the two of you must look just standing there. he laughs and agrees before you even finish speaking. the walk to the park feels unreal in its softness. the streets are quiet, the lights dimmed. he keeps catching himself looking at you, looking too long, looking like he can’t believe you’re real.
the park is completely empty. the swings squeak when the wind touches them like they’ve been waiting. you sit first, and he sits second, and the chains rattle under your hands. he pushes off the ground, just enough to sway, and you laugh at how stiff he is. he laughs too, because you’re laughing, because you make it easy to feel like he’s allowed to be this gentle.
he watches you pump your legs just to rise a little higher, hair brushing your face, shoes cutting small crescents into the dirt. you tell him he should go higher too, that he looks like he’s scared the swing might break. he looks at you and something greedy in him stirs, something that whispers that he was right, he’s always been right, that this is what it’s supposed to be. this closeness. you bring something out of him that the rest of the world never touches, something he’s buried, something he thought he had to kill off to survive, but you breathe life back into it without noticing, without trying.
then you jump. just—suddenly, your feet leave the swing and you’re airborne for a split second, landing in the mulch with a soft thud and a breathless laugh. he startles, because the empty swing keeps moving without you, swaying back and forth as if you’re still sitting in it. he watches it for a beat too long. it keeps swinging, but he forces himself to tear his eyes away because you’re calling his name, telling him to come on, to follow you.
he jumps too. his landing is clumsy, graceless, but you smile at him like he did something impressive. he feels his chest warm at that. you take off across the playground, weaving between the slide and the low climbing wall, laughing under your breath like the two of you are kids again. he follows, always a step behind.
the playground is mostly dark, the lamplight broken into patches—circles of gold, then strips of shadow, then light again. he thinks, again, again, stay with me, stay close, don’t disappear. you climb the ladder to the small platform above the slide, and he climbs right after you. he shouldn’t be this breathless, but he is. you sit at the top, legs dangling over the edge. he sits beside you, knees touching.
you nudge him with your shoulder and tell him you feel like you’re too old for this, that the whole playground feels… strange in the dark. that it looks different than it should. he agrees. he says it feels different, yes. like the two of you are the only real things here. he says it lightly, like a joke, and you laugh because you think he’s joking. he laughs too, because you’re laughing.
you decide to go down the slide, scooting forward. he watches you descend, the metal squeaking under you. you reach the bottom and look up at him, calling for him to follow. telling him to hurry. telling him he’s too slow.
he slides down after you, feet hitting the ground just as you’re backing away, daring him to chase you again. and he does—of course he does—he chases you around the empty playground until his lungs burn and his legs ache and he feels like he’s shedding every hard, armored part of himself just by being near you. you bring out a version of him he barely recognizes. he should be terrified of that, but he isn’t. or maybe he is, somewhere deep down. maybe that’s why the night keeps holding its breath around you. but it doesn’t matter. you laugh and he laughs. you run and he runs. you look back and he looks only at you.
he keeps chasing you, even when he knows he should’ve given up two laps ago. your laughter rings out again, he doesn’t realize he’s smiling until you glance back and catch it, and then you grin wider, teasing him for being slow, for being predictable, for always letting you win.
he mutters something under his breath, something about how you shouldn’t get cocky, how he’s holding back, but he’s already slowing down when you disappear behind the jungle gym and climb up the metal ladder with quick, sure steps. he follows you again—of course he does—but you’re already scrambling up into the branches of the tree behind the slide.
he stops at the base of it, staring up at you, hands on his hips, trying not to look like he’s already winded. “you know i’m not doing that,” he says, deadpan. offended, even.
you hang from a branch by one hand and raise an eyebrow at him. “why not?”
“i’m not grayson.” he says it like it should be obvious, like you should’ve remembered. “i don’t just… bound into trees like a circus animal.”
“come on,” you coax, shifting so your foot dangles. “it’s not even tall.”
“that’s what grayson said before spraining his wrist in a fig tree in thailand.”
“a fig tree?”
“a fig tree,” he repeats, perfectly straight-faced.
you keep laughing. the branches around you sway lightly though the air is perfectly still. he watches the movement a little too long. something twists in his chest, some flicker of recognition that doesn’t quite reach the surface. something that says this isn’t—
but then you look down at him and smile again, and everything smooths out.
you hop down from the first branch, straight into his space. he catches you without thinking, hands settling on your waist as your feet find the ground. it fits too easily. he holds you a second longer than he needs to, and you don’t pull away. you poke his chest. “you’re no fun.”
“i chase you around like an idiot for twenty minutes and that’s not fun?”
“barely,” you tease.
he rolls his eyes, but he’s still holding you. your hands slide up into his collar, fingers curling there like they always belong. something inside him stutters, something in him wants to close the distance without giving himself time to think. so he does. you rise onto your toes to meet him and he tilts his head just slightly, just enough for your lips to fit perfectly, like you’d practiced this a hundred times, like this moment already existed before either of you reached it. the swings creak even though neither of you touched them. he doesn’t notice. he doesn’t care. he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath mingling, eyes half-lidded.
“tag,” you whisper.
and you tap his chest lightly before darting away again, laughing as you run. he stands there for a moment, dizzy with you, drunk on you, ready to follow you wherever you go.
“hey—” he calls out, breathless and grinning, “you can’t just tag and run—”
he curves around the back of the jungle gym, expecting you to be perched on top of it or crouched behind it or leaning against a post with that smug little smile —- but you’re not there. you’re not anywhere.
he stops so abruptly the world seems to keep moving without him. the mulch shifts under his shoes, his breath catches, and the air around him… changes. he turns in a slow circle, scanning the empty playground. “okay,” he murmurs, voice strangely thin. “very funny. where’d you go?”
nothing answers.
nothing
answ rs
n thing answ s.
no th ng an wers
everything is
perfect
your laugh
the swings
your hand gripping his
the heat of your mouth against his
the world bending around you
you you you you
“excuse me?”
his eyes snap open. the greenhouse snaps back into focus, bright, humid, alive with color. the flowers are still. the lights steady. the path clear. you’re standing in front of him, hands clasped around the strap of your bag.
“are you… okay?” you ask carefully, like he might topple if you raise your voice even a little.
“sorry,” he says—because that’s all he can manage, that’s all he has. “i… spaced out.”
you nod slowly, still studying him. “yeah. i noticed. i was just asking if you came here with anyone.”
he swallows hard and forces a smile, because that’s what he’s supposed to do. because everything is fine.
