-> synopsis: tim drake wants nothing more than his little shea butter and vanilla scented baby when he comes home from patrol.
-> pairing: tim drake x blk!gn!reader
-> from: dc’s batman universe
-> contains: descriptions of canon typical violence, a few curse words, little to no use of [y/n], black!reader but can be read by anyone, primarily in tim’s perspective, second person terminology (you, your, yours)
-> a/n: had a convo with the lovely @timbits-drake and we came to the conclusion that timothy drake is a guy who loves warm vanilla scents, and so it gave me the incentive to run with it LMAO. love you boo, i just had to give tim a vanilla baddie to snuggle with
When the amber rays of the rising sun begin to trickle in through the windows of his apartment, Tim knows he’s been up too long. He can ignore the stinging in his eyes and the ache in his knees from his sitting position in front of his monitor screen. Even the several alarms that he has on his phone that, somehow, he manages to disarm before they even sound. He’s lost count of how many times his hands have been through his hair, the mop of dark locks sticking out in various directions across his head. The blaring bluelight from the screen highlighting the exhausted features on his face was slowly being drowned out with the morning sun rising over the horizon, thawing the cold of crime that glazed over Gotham in the night and bathing the city in its redemptive glow, welcoming the city and its residents into a new day.
For the umpteenth time, his elbows meet the cool surface of his desk, and his hands cup his face for a moment in respite, the darkness providing a soothing ache to his strained eyes, before the digits rake through his tousled hair once more. A sigh leaves his throat, deep and tired. The only other testament to his evasion of sleep being the number of Juneberry Red Bull cans that sit on his desk. Another restless night, leading to yet another dead end.
While momentarily deterred from his screen, Tim faintly hears the distinct sound of music playing; a low hum that’s warm and resonating. Then, the sweet scent that he’s come to be so familiar and fond with follows after. It is in this split second when his mind is at rest that he thinks ‘at least there’s one good thing about staying up ‘til this early’.
Footsteps are heard soon after he registers that he is not the only one awake now, and he slowly begins to anticipate the best part of his restless all-nighters.
“Another late night?”
The closer the footsteps sound, the stronger the soothing scent becomes. It tickles his nose when you breach the threshold of the study room, and starts to creep over his senses when you place a comforting hand on his back. Feeling your thumb sooth the tension between his shoulder blades, Tim sits up slowly, leaning into your touch without thinking. It is like clockwork, this little routine of yours. One that, while he feels a little guilty of every now and then - he hates worrying you, and tries everything he can to avoid doing so, even though he knows it is wishful thinking - he is so very thankful that you engage in it with him.
Your hand trails the expanse of his back, creeping up the nape of his neck, gently coaxing for him to meet your gaze. His neck cranes slightly upwards, and he feels your fingers curling with the arch of it as he does so. Pretty blue eyes, dark and weary, meet yours, and for the first time since he’s gotten home that night, he breathes.
“Yeah…” Tim hums in response, leaning further into the warmth that’s radiating from your body. A wandering hand traces the curve of your leg, flattening against the fat of your thigh, cupping the supple flesh as if to pull you closer.
“No luck with recon either, huh?” You prod a little, leaning a little more towards him and letting his head meet your clothed tummy, allowing for Tim to take a sharp inhale of your scent, and suddenly, he’s almost too painfully aware of just how exhausted he is.
“No…” He murmurs against your clothed skin, the sweet, warm fragrance invading his senses all at once, making it hard for him to fight the drowsiness that begins to settle in his eyelids.
Tim has half a nerve to groan when he feels the low rumble of a hum resonate though your body, because he knows what you’re about to say next, and by god, he does not want to hear it, but he doesn’t have it in him to fight your light scolding.
“Y’know what you’d have better luck in?”
“Don’t-”
“-some sleep; now come on,” and then you’re tugging at him, pulling at the baggy forest green pullover he’d lazily tossed on after getting home last night, and he starts groaning up a storm. A few pops echo throughout the room from his joints finally getting movement after hours of being stagnant, “at least get in the bed, please?”
His stance is wobbly, but he stands, but unwilling to be parted from the fragrance he’d come to love about you, he leans a little further onto you, craning his neck to nudge against the juncture of your neck and shoulder, and breathes in. Warm vanilla and brown sugar waft through his nose, sifts through his bloodstream, and his tense shoulders relax a little, as if satiated for the time being. It is only while he’s momentarily distracted by the compelling notes of your daily fragrance and lotion layering, you are able to guide him from the study and into the bedroom. There, too, it smells of you, and it’s warmer here than in the study, which his body takes as more than a welcoming.
With a gentle hand, you guide him into the bed, and he almost sinks into the plush pillows, cozy comforter, and foam mattress. Without thinking, Tim buries his head deep into the pillows. God, did you spray the bed with your fragrance, too? He thinks, though he doesn’t ask. He’s already half-way asleep when hits the bed.
The faint sound of your laughter - soft, light, sweet, just like your scent - makes its way to his ears, and Tim can’t even stifle the rush of heat that begins to creep up his neck.
Gosh, the things you do to him.
The last thing Tim remembers, before the gentle grasp of sleep welcomes him into its hold, is the feeling of your hand coming through his hair and your lips pressed against his temple, and your voice sending him off to sleep for a couple of hours.
Before he completely succumbs, though, he manages to whisper a small, airy, dainty little I love you; and while he does not care for the late nights that trickle into the morning hours, he cherishes that sliver of time the most, as it is when he gets to be lulled off to sleep with the warmth of your love and the alluring scent of brown sugar and warm vanilla.
