@saintnoctis - Tumblr Blog

May 30

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

‘𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄, 𝐘𝐎𝐔’𝐑𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊

tim drake x m!reader

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.

Tim’s expression changes immediately. “Hey—Stop doing that.”

“Get the hell away from me.”

He ignores that completely.

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.

“I am not.”

To be continued…

a/n: i wanna say sorry for being very slow with updates and posting, finals are going on so i’ve been desperately focusing on those things! this is also, as you can tell, not completed as i didn’t write the smut + ending yet. i decided to post just this in the meantime so you guys aren’t left with nothing. i’ll post the continuation of this separately probably in a week🥹. but hey, 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):

p.s. should m!reader have a big dick?

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