Damian Wayne decided—within precisely thirty-four seconds of meeting Timothy Drake—that he despised him.
It happened on a Monday, which was already bad as it is, but it was even worse.
It was a doomed day: Kory Anders was late because of a Milan red-eye, Donna Troy was muttering about bad lighting, and the Titans Magazine creative floor smelled like coffee and crushed dreams. Damian had only been the lead junior designer for three months, and he had no patience for incompetence, especially when it arrived dressed in soft sweaters and a messy camera strap.
Timothy Drake walked in, head down, flipping through a contact sheet.
And then proceeded to spill an entire iced Americano across Damian’s sketchbook.
“Well,” Tim said, blinking at the spreading stain. “That was… gravity’s fault.”
Damian stared at the brown lake soaking into his croquis. “You—”
“I can buy you a new notebook,” Tim offered, already dabbing uselessly with a napkin that dissolved on contact.
“I do not need your charity,” Damian snapped. “I need you to look where you’re going.”
Donna snorted behind her camera. Kory mouthed be nice. Dick Grayson gave Damian That Look. The one that said play nice with the new photographer or HR will email us again.
Tim just pushed his glasses up and said, “Oh, so you’re Damian Wayne. I’ve heard about you.”
Damian bristled. “What, exactly?”
“That you’re intense,” Tim said simply, like it wasn’t an insult. “And kind of brilliant.”
It would have been flattering if it wasn’t infuriating.
-
Damian told himself for weeks that Timothy Drake was an irritation. Annoyingly competent. Distractingly quiet. He worked with this maddening, focused calm that made everyone else on the floor gather around his laptop, making interested little hums at his shots.
Damian pretended not to watch.
He pretended not to notice the way Tim adjusted Cass’s angle during a ballet-themed spread—gentle, respectful, nothing like the arrogant pretension he’d expected from a photographer recruited out of some award-winning independent exhibit in New York.
He pretended not to hear the way Barbara bragged about how Tim had doubled their online engagement in a month.
He pretended not to see the fake rhinestone Steph had glued to Tim’s camera as a joke, glittering like it belonged there.
Most of all, he pretended he didn’t have a problem.
The problem was this: Every time Damian sketched, the proportions drifted into Tim’s silhouette.
Not exactly—but enough. A sloped shoulder here. A narrower waist. Long fingers. A subtle set of the spine he only ever saw when Tim leaned over Luke Fox’s monitors to check lighting profiles.
He told himself it was coincidence.
Dick saw one of the drafts and raised an eyebrow. “You’re designing for a specific guy.”
Damian burned the page in the trash bin before lunch.
-
The turning point—though Damian would rather eat nails than admit it—came during the Spring Preview Run-Through.
Bruce Wayne himself was doing a rare walk-through of Titans Subsidiary, trailed by Lucius Fox, several assistants, and Jason Todd, who had strong opinions about leather sourcing and was definitely not here because Donna kept roping him into lighting tests.
Wally West and Duke Thomas, actual lighting crew, were arguing over whose diffuser sheet was missing (It was Bart Allen's fault).
In the chaos, one of Damian’s garment racks toppled.
Specifically, the one with his newest capsule line—structured but fluid, dark palettes with subtle jewel tones, sharp silhouettes softened by understated draping. Hours of work. Weeks of revisions.
And Tim—infuriating, oblivious Tim—was the one who caught a falling hanger before it hit the floor.
“Oh,” Tim said softly, holding up the jacket. “This is new.”
Damian swallowed. “Put that back.”
But Tim didn’t. He held it up to the light, brow furrowed in concentration. He traced the line of the lapel with his thumb.
“This is gorgeous,” Tim murmured.
Damian’s pulse tripped.
“It would look great on someone with narrower shoulders,” Tim added.
“Like you?” Damian demanded before he could stop himself.
Tim blinked at him.
Oh no, Damian thought.
Damian did not like this. No, of course not. He refused. He said absolutely not. Over his dead, fashionably dressed body.
Then Kory saw Tim holding the jacket.
“Anders,” Damian warned.
“Oh my stars,” she said.
“No.”
“Yes,” she declared. “Tim, try it on.”
Tim looked between them. “I don’t model.”
“You’re photogenic,” Donna said, snapping a picture before he could object.
“I’m behind the lens,” Tim protested.
Dick leaned in, grinning. “Dude. It fits your color profile.”
Damian choked. “His what?”
“His vibe,” Dick clarified, like that helped. “Also, Jason will pay me twenty dollars if you try it on.”
Jason, leaning against a lighting rig, lifted a hand. “What? It’s good content.”
Tim sighed.
Damian said, “Do not put that—”
Tim slid the jacket on.
It was over.
Damian felt something molten and humiliating tighten in his chest. Because it fit. Perfectly. The lines sat against Tim’s frame like they’d been drawn with him in mind.
Because they had been, some horrible honest part of him whispered.
Tim tugged the hem, looking almost shy. “How does it look?”
“Awful,” Damian said instantly.
Donna snorted so loudly she had to pretend it was a cough. Kory beamed. Barbara was already posting a teaser shot to the social media draft folder. Cass made a small approving sign with her hands. Even Conner muttered, “Dude. That’s runway-ready.”
Tim just smiled, small and crooked.
So weak, Damian thought, horrified. I’m so pathetically weak—
“Do you want pictures?” Tim asked.
Damian blinked. “Of you wearing my design?”
Tim shrugged, cheeks flushed but steady. “If it helps your portfolio.”
And that was how Damian Wayne, who hated Tim Drake, ended up standing on set while Tim modeled for him.
Only for test shots, Tim insisted.
Only so Damian could see the garment in motion.
Only because Donna kept directing him and Cass kept fixing the collar and Steph kept yelling “work it, sweetie!” from across the studio.
Damian barely breathed the entire time.
Tim was good in front of the camera. Surprisingly good. Natural. Unposed. The kind of good that made Donna hum under her breath with that I-found-a-new-muse tone Damian hated because he liked it too much.
Afterward, Tim helped him fold the jacket. Careful. Gentle.
“You know,” Tim said, quiet, “you’re not as scary as everyone says.”
Damian’s heart executed a complicated series of aerial maneuvers. “I am very scary.”
Tim smiled. “If you say so.”
They stood too close.
Someone—Dick, probably—wolf-whistled in the distance. Wally yelled that someone had unplugged the overheads. Jason claimed innocence. Garth blamed Garfield. Roy blamed Vic. Rachel sighed like she’d rather be anywhere else.
Tim glanced at the chaos and laughed under his breath.
Damian looked at him like an idiot.
And thought: I’m in trouble.
-
They didn’t talk about it after.
Tim went back behind the camera.
Damian went back to sketching.
But the next collection turned out… different.
Lighter fabrics. Softer lines. Colors he’d never used before. Things that made Tim look like he belonged in the margins of every page.
Donna caught him staring at Tim during a shoot and raised an eyebrow. “Subtle,” she said.
“I do not know what you mean.”
“Sure,” she said, unimpressed. “And Dick and Jason aren’t making heart eyes at each other when they think no one’s looking.”
Damian froze. “They’re what?”
“Mm,” Donna said, snapping another photo. “You’ll figure your thing out. Eventually.”
Damian doubted it.
He wasn’t even sure what Tim thought of him.
Annoyed? Tolerant? Bemused?
Interested?
Impossible.
Unthinkable.
…Not entirely unthinkable.
Sometimes—only sometimes—Tim would look at him across the studio, camera in hand, that small almost-smile tugging at his mouth.
And Damian would pretend he didn’t feel it like a shot of color blooming through grayscale.
-
One evening, long after everyone else had left, Damian stayed late sketching. The office was quiet, except for the hum of the city below.
He didn’t hear Tim approach until a cup of tea appeared at his elbow.
Damian glanced up. “…Why?”
“You forget to drink water,” Tim said simply. “Thought I’d intervene.”
Damian stared at him. “You don’t even like me.”
Tim tilted his head. “What makes you think that?”
“You spilled coffee on me.”
“That was a greeting,” Tim said, deadpan.
“An idiotic one.”
“Mm,” Tim agreed, sipping his own tea.
Silence stretched—comfortable, strangely enough.
Tim finally asked, “You’re designing something new?”
Damian hesitated.
Then he slid the page toward him.
A coat. Long, sleek, structured. Damian's usual green, but softened in edges. Subtle silver threading.
Tim blinked. “This is… really nice.”
“It’s not finished,” Damian muttered.
“Still,” Tim said, tracing the collar lightly. “It is.”
Damian’s breath caught.
Tim looked up.
For a moment, the world was soft and suspended.
Then Tim said, voice gentle, “I’d wear it.”
Damian’s heart did something catastrophic.
He looked away, pretending to fuss with a pen. “We’ll see.”
Tim’s smile warmed. “Yeah. We will.”
-
Tim Drake had never planned on standing in front of a camera.
Behind it, yes. Always behind it. That had been the dream since he was sixteen and bored and rich in the most useless way—money without purpose, privilege without direction. His parents had wanted finance. Law. Something “stable.” Tim had wanted light and composition and the precise moment where something honest slipped through a person’s face.
So he’d become a photographer.
And he was good at it.
Which was why it was deeply, cosmically unfair that everyone at Titans Magazine had decided his face was the real asset.
“Seriously, Tim,” Bart said, flopping backward onto a styling couch. “You look illegal under studio lighting.”
“I’m old,” Tim replied flatly, adjusting his camera settings.
“That makes it worse.”
Cassie Sandsmark leaned against a rack of Steph Brown’s latest rhinestone disasterpieces, arms crossed. “He’s right, Tim. You have cheekbones people would commit crimes for.”
Tim sighed. “I’m not modeling.”
Conner Kent—shirtless for no reason other than Conner Kent’s commitment to chaos—grinned. “You already did. For Damian Wayne.”
“That was one time.”
“That was a moment,” Bart corrected.
Tim pretended to focus very hard on his lens.
They’d been at this for weeks now. Ever since that jacket. Ever since Donna had taken those test shots that were never meant to leave the folder and absolutely did. Ever since Barbara had posted a cropped teaser on the Titans socials with the caption sometimes talent wears talent and the internet had lost its mind.
Steph had texted him: rude of u to be hot in a way that sells menswear btw
Which had been… weird.
Steph and Tim were fine. Truly. They’d dated in that soft, early-twenties way where everything felt intense until it didn’t. No bitterness, no mess. Just a mutual understanding that glitter and jewel maximalism did not align with Tim.
She was still one of his favorite designers.
She was also one of the loudest voices telling him to get on the runway.
Everyone was.
Everyone except Damian Wayne.
Which was suspicious.
Damian Wayne, who had once looked at him like Tim was a personal affront to fashion, now simply… didn’t comment. He didn’t ask. Didn’t push.
He just sent clothes.
They started showing up after the Spring Preview.
A garment bag left on Tim’s chair with a sharp little note: spare prototype. fabric test. do not ruin.
A neatly folded shirt draped over his camera case: miscalculated sizing. dispose of it if you must.
A coat—a coat—delivered by the Wayne family butler personally. Master Damian asked that you have this. He insisted it was an error.
They were never errors.
Tim knew that. He wasn’t a designer, but he had eyes. The tailoring was precise. The colors worked with his skin tone in a way that felt intentional, intimate. Blues and charcoals and the occasional green and silver that caught light like a secret.
They fit like Damian had memorized him.
Tim wore them anyway.
Because what was he supposed to do—send them back?
“Tim,” Cassie said gently, pulling him back to the present. “You don’t have to model if you don’t want to.”
“I know,” Tim said. And he meant it.
He really did.
But later that evening, alone in his apartment, he stood in front of the mirror wearing one of Damian’s shirts—soft, structured, absurdly expensive—and wondered when exactly wanting had started to blur.
-
Damian never said anything outright.
That was the worst part.
If Damian had flirted, Tim could’ve deflected. If he’d teased, Tim could’ve joked back. If he’d pushed, Tim could’ve refused.
But Damian did none of that.
He’d simply look at Tim sometimes, eyes sharp and unreadable, and say things like, “That color suits you,” in the same tone he used to critique hems.
Or, “Stand still,” while adjusting a sleeve with infuriating care.
Once—only once—he’d muttered, “You move well,” like it was a complaint.
Tim didn’t know what to do with that.
He did know what to do with the rest, because that at least was familiar.
Dick Grayson and Jason Todd were imploding in slow motion.
Tim wasn’t sure when it had started. They’d always orbited each other—sniping, flirting, pretending not to care. But lately, the tension had shifted. Sharper. Quieter.
Dick stayed late more often. Jason argued with Donna about lighting setups he had no authority over. Sometimes they left together, sometimes separately, sometimes with the air of people mid-fight.
Tim caught fragments.
“I’m not doing this again,” Jason hissed near the elevators once.
Dick had his back to Tim, but he sounded exhausted “You don’t get to decide that alone.”
Donna pretended not to hear. Kory looked sad.
It was dramatic. It was messy.
Tim, for once, was grateful his own situation was… subtler.
Probably.
-
The breaking point came during a shoot Tim was supposed to be running.
Steph’s new collection. Cass modeling. Conner assisting because he insisted his presence was “morale support.” Damian overseeing from the sidelines, arms crossed, expression carved from marble.
The model scheduled for one of the looks didn’t show.
Donna cursed. Steph swore. Barbara was already typing a crisis management draft.
Then someone—Bart, obviously—said, “Tim could do it.”
Tim laughed. “No.”
“He’s literally right there,” Bart said. “Already dressed in Damian’s stuff.”
Tim froze.
Damian’s head snapped up.
“No,” Damian said immediately.
Everyone stared at him.
Tim did too.
Damian’s jaw tightened. “He is working.”
“So would the model,” Donna said mildly.
Tim waited.
Damian looked at him—really looked at him—with something like conflict flickering behind his eyes.
Then he said, flatly, “He does not want to.”
Tim swallowed.
“I didn’t say that,” Tim said quietly.
Damian turned, surprised.
Tim met his gaze. Heart steady. Camera set down.
“I said I didn’t plan to,” Tim continued. “There’s a difference.”
The room went very still.
Damian searched his face like he was trying to solve a puzzle without enough pieces.
“…If you are uncomfortable,” Damian said, controlled, “we will stop.”
Tim considered that.
Then he said, “Okay.”
And stepped onto the mark.
-
It was different when Tim chose it.
He felt it immediately—the shift in energy, the way Donna’s voice softened, the way Damian’s attention sharpened into something almost reverent.
Tim didn’t pose like a professional model.
He didn’t need to.
He just stood. Moved when asked. Let the clothes exist on him.
Damian watched like he was witnessing something dangerous.
When it was over, Tim handed the jacket back.
Damian didn’t take it.
“…Keep it,” he said.
Tim smiled, small. “It’s not a spare.”
Damian’s ears went red.
“That is not relevant.”
Tim laughed under his breath.
-
Later, after the studio emptied and the city pressed in through the windows, Tim found Damian alone by the racks.
“You know,” Tim said, easy, “you’re very bad at pretending.”
Damian stiffened. “At what.”
“At not wanting me to model.”
Silence.
Then Damian said, carefully, “I do not wish to coerce you.”
“I know,” Tim said.
That was the thing. He really did.
Tim stepped closer. Not too close.
“But,” Tim added, “you’ve been convincing me anyway.”
Damian looked at him, startled.
“With the clothes,” Tim continued. “With the colors. With the way you design like you already decided I belong there.”
Tim realizes something is wrong when Damian Wayne introduces himself as Red Robin.
Not a Red Robin. Not a legacy name. Not with a scowl that says temporary indignity. No—this Damian wears the mantle like it was forged for him, cape dark and sharp as a blade, movements precise in a way that speaks of years, not months.
“You’re staring,” Damian says coolly, adjusting the cowl. “If you’re going to attack, do it. If not, explain yourself.”
Tim swallows.
In his world, Damian is Robin. In his world—
“You’re… different,” Tim says carefully.
Damian scoffs. “You’re disappointing. I expected more tactical awareness from another me.”
That’s the second thing that’s wrong.
“Another… you?” Tim repeats.
Damian gestures to Tim’s costume.
Tim exhales and carefully removes his cowl.
Damian tilts his head and doesn't say anything for a long time. When he finally does, “You’re not from here.”
“Okay. Good. At least you understand that part.”
They retreat to a rooftop overlooking Gotham—a Gotham. The skyline is sharper, more brutal, as if the city itself grew up under Damian’s watch. Tim perches on the ledge, legs dangling, brain racing through possibilities.
Dimension travel, not time travel. That explains the age difference not being as wide. Explains why Bruce is—
“Dead,” Damian confirms flatly when Tim asks.
Tim winces. “In my world, too.”
That earns him a look—something raw flashes across Damian’s face before the mask snaps back into place.
They sit in silence for a moment.
Then Tim does something stupid.
“In my world,” he says, “we’re together.”
Damian goes very still.
“…Together,” he repeats slowly.
“Yeah.”
A beat. “Define.”
Tim turns his head, meeting Damian’s sharp green eyes. He forces himself not to look away.
“Dating.”
The word hangs between them like a live wire.
Damian blinks. Once.
“That is,” he says carefully, “statistically improbable.”
Tim shrugs. “Happens anyway.”
“You expect me to believe that in your universe, I would choose you.”
Ouch. Fair. But still ouch.
Tim smiles faintly. Lies. “You did.”
Silence stretches. Gotham hums beneath them.
Damian studies him with the intensity of a predator deciding whether something is prey or threat—or opportunity.
“…Explain,” Damian says.
So Tim does. Sort of.
He talks about partnership. About trust earned the hard way. About fights that end with patched wounds and quiet conversations at 3 a.m. He talks about how Damian grew into himself, how the anger softened into something fierce but controlled. He leaves out the fights. The fear. The way loving Damian feels like standing too close to the sun.
He definitely leaves out the part where he’s saying this because he needs Damian on his side.
When he finishes, Damian looks… unsettled.
“You speak as though you know me intimately,” Damian says.
“I do,” Tim says, and this time it’s not a lie.
Another pause.
“And you told me this,” Damian says slowly, “because…?”
Tim hesitates.
Because I’m trapped in a hostile dimension with no allies.
Because you’re dangerous and brilliant and I need you to hesitate before turning me in.
Because maybe if I say it out loud, it’ll still be true somewhere.
“…Because I trust you,” Tim says instead.
Damian snorts. “You expect me to believe that, too?”
“No,” Tim admits. “I expect you to check the facts.”
That makes Damian smile—a sharp, interested curve of his mouth.
“Very well,” he says. “Assuming you are lying to manipulate me—”
“Reasonable assumption.”
“—you chose an inefficient method. Emotional leverage is volatile.”
Tim shrugs again. “It worked, though.”
Damian’s gaze flicks to him. Lingers.
“…Perhaps,” Damian concedes.
They stand to leave.
As Damian turns away, he pauses. “In your world,” he says, not looking back, “who initiated?”
Tim blinks. “What?”
“The relationship.”
Oh.
“…You did,” Tim says quietly.
“This world has a Timothy, too.” Damian hums, thoughtful. His cape flares as he steps into the shadows, “I should determine whether what you said is true.”
Tim watches him disappear, heart pounding, guilt curling in his chest.
Got the final grail from the Las Vegas event hehe.
And now, they're all purrfecto!!
Now I just need to wait 'till 2023 to get Cú Alter. This madlad is story-locked and apparently I stand absolutely no fucking chance whenever I try to pull him so.. Cú Alter, since you've been such a jerk to me (and all of the quartzes I've spent on you), my second future ssr ticket is for you.
Ascended her to level 96, currently lacking 2 more grails and some fou to make her perfect. Sorry I grailed too many servants haha...
My beloved muses hehe. My pride and joy in FGO.
Also I just got Arjuna Alter aka Junao from the latest Lostbelt 4 banner. And so, with him arriving at my Chaldea, my full ssr support lineup dream is now completed! Just need some more damn shells and eggs (I'm broke so eggless and Arjuna needs a fucking lot eggs and Final Honnoji won't give me even one) in order to have a 10/10/10 sp lineup!
Hope I can ascend Bride to lv100 and achieve this as well by the end of 2021. Please wish me luck!
Also if you're interested in having more friends you can use the friend code in the picture above to add me as I'm lacking friends right now... being off for around 3 months so many old friends had deleted me before I returned to the game. Having Zhuge Liang equipped with Teatime will be much appreciated. Thanks!
turnnoffyourmind
areudirty
gracieabrams
pixelskylines
jimmyeatworldofficial
2087
