Present and accounted for
Pairing: Tim Drake x f!reader
Summary: Tim likes...monitoring and failsafe measures in a relationship. But he's also down bad. Warnings: Tim's stalker tendencies?
You learned very quickly that the public perception of Tim Drake was a lie.
Or not a lie, exactly. Just a half-truth, like most things about him.
To the world, Tim Drake was the polite one. The reasonable one. The Robin who grew up into Red Robin without breaking too loudly. He was the kid genius, the awkward genius, the one who spoke too fast when he got excited.
Tim Drake loved quietly in public.
He loved like a complete menace in private.
From the beginning, you had beenâŠremarkably unbothered by the vigilante thing. That alone seemed to short-circuit something in his brain.
You didnât flinch when he disappeared out of your window at midnight. You didnât panic when he came back bruised. You didnât ask him to stop. You asked if he wanted soup or silence.
That, more than anything, convinced him you were dangerous to his sanity.
He introduced you to his family carefully, like he was afraid you might spook. Bruce, who watched you like he watched everything. Alfred, who decided he liked you immediately and made sure you were never without tea. Dick, who clocked the intensity in Timâs eyes within minutes and raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Jason, who smirked and muttered something about âfinally.â Cass, who studied you, then leaned against you like a cat choosing a favorite chair.
So Tim did what Tim always did when something mattered.
It started small enough that you didnât question it.
A package waiting for you at the end of the week. A scarf, absurdly soft. A book youâd mentioned once in passing, a specific edition you hadnât even realized existed. A pair of boots that fit perfectly, like heâd measured you while you slept.
âYou didnât have to,â you told him the third time it happened.
âI wanted to,â he said easily, eyes bright behind his glasses. âYou survived another week. That deserves a reward.â
You laughed, assuming it was a joke.
By the time you realized the gifts had become routine, it was already normal. Expected. End-of-week offerings like a ritual he refused to skip. If you protested, he only smiled and kissed your knuckles and said, âLet me take care of you.â
You let him do a lot of things.
Your phone buzzed constantly with check-ins, not demanding, never accusatory. Just Tim being Tim. Home safe? Did you eat? Text me when you leave. Your location was shared automatically, a quiet little icon that pulsed on his screen wherever he was.
Once, you forgot your phone on the kitchen counter.
By the time you realized and went back for it, Tim was already there.
Not waiting in the doorway. Pacing inside.
âYou didnât answer,â he said, voice too level.
âI left it inside,â you said, holding it up. âIt was on mute.â
His hands came up to your face like he needed to anchor himself. He breathed you in, slow and shaky, then kissed your forehead too hard.
âI donât like not knowing where you are,â he said softly.
You threaded your fingers through his hair. âIâm right here.â
The locket came a week later.
It was beautiful, antique gold, delicate engraving. Inside was a photo of the two of you, taken candidly, your head tipped back in laughter, Tim looking at you like you were the moon.
You wore it without hesitation.
You didnât notice the tiny tracker tucked beneath the photo.
The teddy bear came after that.
It was ridiculous, oversized, soft, clearly expensive. Tim pretended it was a joke, shrugged when you raised an eyebrow.
âSomething to keep you company when Iâm not around,â he said.
You hugged it. It smelled like him, he had sprayed his cologne on it. You slept with it tucked under your chin, fingers curled into its fur.
Tim watched from a camera hidden behind one of its eyes.
Not like a stranger would. Not like something cruel.
He watched the way you breathed when you slept, the way you murmured when you rolled over, the way you clutched the bear tighter when your dreams grew restless. He watched because you were beautiful when you forgot to guard yourself. Because knowing you were safe made his chest settle.
Sometimes, your sleepy sounds pulled something darker from him. Something needy and sharp and wanting. His hand would slip under his pants.
He never told you that part.
What he did tell you, he told you shamelessly.
âI think about you constantly,â he said one night, sprawled on your bed, bo staff leaning against the wall. âLike, clinically. If I brought it up to a therapist theyâd prescribe something.â
âYou already have a therapist.â
âSheâs very proud of my coping mechanisms.â
You rolled your eyes. He caught your wrist, tugged you closer, grin crooked and dangerous.
âYou know,â he murmured, lips brushing your ear, âsometimes I wish I could just crawl inside you and sleep there. No noise. No distractions. Just you.â
You stared at him. âTim.â
âI know,â he said cheerfully. âUnhinged. Iâve accepted it.â
Teasing. Patient. A menace with a smile.
He praised you like it was his job and ruined you with it anyway, voice low and intent, eyes never leaving your face. Every sound you made felt like it belonged to him.
When you tried to hide your reactions, he only tilted his head, amused.
âLouder,â he told you, thumb warm where it rested on your clit. âMake it pretty for me. I know I taught you better than that.â
The way he said it, half pride, half mockery, made heat curl low in your stomach.
He let you handle his gear, his weapons, his staff. He watched the way your hands wrapped around the smooth length of it, the focus in your eyes.
Possession, with Tim, was never about control for its own sake. It was about certainty. About knowing. About making sure nothing, no one, could take you from him without going through hell first.
When you curled around that ridiculous teddy bear at night, Tim Drake smiled into the dark, utterly undone, already planning what heâd give you next.
Despite him enjoying being a menace, he'd melt at praise.
The first time you caught it, youâd been standing in your kitchen, surrounded by groceries you hadnât remembered asking for. He was unpacking them with brisk efficiency, already organizing your pantry like he lived there.
âYou didnât have to do all this,â youâd said, gentle, automatic.
He froze. Just for a fraction of a second. Something tight passed behind his eyes.
So you tried again, without thinking too hard about it.
âThank you, babe,â you said instead. âThat was really sweet. Youâre so thoughtful.â
The effect was immediate and catastrophic.
Tim went still like heâd been struck by lightning, shoulders slowly creeping up toward his ears. His mouth opened, then closed. His ears went pink. Then red.
âOh,â he said, faintly.
You tilted your head. âYou okay?â
He nodded too fast. âYeah. Yeah. Totally. Fine.â
But his hands shook for the rest of the evening, and when you kissed him goodbye, he clung to you like you were oxygen.
You tested the theory the next week.
Another end-of-week gift, this time a necklace that matched the locket perfectly, understated and elegant, exactly your taste. You didnât protest. You stepped into his space instead, cupped his face, and smiled.
âThank you,â you said softly. âYouâre so good to me.â
Tim made a sound. A small, helpless one.
From that moment on, it was over for him.
You learned quickly how easy it was to undo him. A little praise, warm and sincere, and he was gone. Eyes bright, smile soft and stunned, devotion written so clearly across his face it almost hurt to look at.
If heâd had a tail, it would have been wagging.
He fetched things for you without hesitation. A glass of water. Your sweater. The charger youâd left in another room. All you had to do was sigh or mutter about inconvenience, and he was already moving.
And when you thanked him he went pliant.
Physical affection turned him into something boneless. Youâd learned that too.
Youâd pull him down onto the couch, straddle his lap, and kiss him slowly. His hands would hover at your waist like he didnât trust himself to touch. Youâd pepper his face with soft kisses, cheek, temple, jaw, until he melted, nuzzling into you like he needed to be held together.
Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath hitch.
He whined. A small, needy sound he didnât even try to hide.
âYouâre so cute when you help me,â you murmured once, smiling against his mouth.
Tim buried his face in your neck and breathed you in like he might cry from it.
He needed reassurance the way some people needed sleep.
Sometimes it slipped out of him late at night, when you were tangled together in hoodies and sheets, the city quiet beyond the windows.
âYou wonât leave me, right?â he asked once, voice carefully casual in a way that fooled no one. âI alreadyâŠI already have everything planned.â
âWeâll live in a big house,â he continued, words tumbling faster now. âNot like my parentsâ place. It wonât be miserable. Itâll be warm. Lived-in. You can have whatever room you want. Iâll buy you all the pretty clothes and jewelry you like, but inside weâll just wear old hoodies because thatâs better. And...and if you donât want biological kids, thatâs fine, Iâll get a vasectomy, itâs not a big deal...â
âTim,â you said gently, lifting your head.
He stopped instantly, eyes wide, searching your face for alarm.
You cupped his cheek. âHey. Pause.â
His shoulders slumped, shame flickering across his features. âSorry. I just...â
âI know,â you said, kissing his nose. âI love that youâre serious. I do. I just need you to breathe with me, okay?â
He nodded, pressing his forehead to yours. âOkay.â
You meant it when you said you had nothing to hide from him.
So when he asked tentatively if he could borrow your phone sometime, you handed it over without hesitation.
That trust wrecked him more thoroughly than anything else.
He lay beside you on the bed, scrolling quietly while you read. He went through your notes app first, heart pounding, expecting lists. Plans. Fantasies. Proof that you were already building a future in your head the way he was.
No timelines. No secret hopes. No meticulously outlined dreams.
Pinterest was next. Boards upon boards of things you liked: colors, textures, aesthetics. Then, finally, two boards that made his breath catch.
Nothing else. No venues. No themes. No saved vows.
Just silhouettes. Cuts. Metals. Stones.
His disappointment lasted maybe five seconds.
Then his brain kicked into gear.
That was enough. He could work with that.
He gave your phone back without comment, curled into you, kissing lazily along your jaw like nothing monumental had just happened inside his head.
It wasnât until two nights later, when you were half-asleep and tucked under his chin, that he said it.
âClear your schedule in two weeks,â he murmured, kissing your temple.
You hummed. âFor what?â
âIâm proposing that weekend,â he said calmly, like he was reminding you to pick up milk. âIâll give you options.â
You blinked. Once. Twice.
Then you laughed softly, pressed a kiss to his throat, and said, âOkay.â
Tim exhaled like the world had finally clicked into place.
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