⤷ come here and get some.
summary ⊹₊ ⋆ putting on face masks turns into a make out session
aka ›››› "You were looking at my ass" "I was appreciating art Tim." "My ass-" "Art, Timothy."
word cnt. 3.3k
suni's ᯓ★ navigation ⭑.ᐟ 𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖🎐
⤷ authors note .ᐟ.ᐟ first ever Tim fic guys I hope I didn't butcher his character..
“Stay still,” you murmur, the words barely more than a breath as a quiet huff slips from you, your expression scrunched in gentle concentration while you sweep the cool modeling mask across his cheek in slow, deliberate strokes, each one featherlight and almost affectionate.
“It’s cold,” Tim mumbles, scrunching his nose in that tiny, endearingly stubborn way he always does when he wants to complain but doesn’t actually want you to change anything. Without pausing, you tug the edge of the blanket draped over your chair and lay it across his shoulders, tucking it carefully as if he were something fragile and precious you’re determined to keep warm.
He lets out a muffled snort at the gesture—half amusement, half reluctant surrender—before resuming his valiant attempt to keep still. Tim's fingers never slow, tapping against the keyboard in relentless, intricate bursts of motion, the rhythm so rapid and so precise that your own wrists ache just watching him work.
“Well, now it’ll keep you awake,” you hum, tilting his chin gently between your fingers so you can brush the mixture a little closer beneath his tired, blue-shadowed eyes, your touch soft enough that even his restless mind can’t rationalize flinching away.
It had been about an hour since you’d first swung into the room with the kind of dramatic entrance he pretends not to notice but secretly waits for. Earlier, he had lain beside you in bed for a precious half hour—whispering those soft, half-dreaming things he only says when his guard is melted by exhaustion, his hand combing through your hair with a slow, absent tenderness that lulled you faster than any lullaby ever could. When your breathing shifted into that familiar near-sleep rhythm, he had slipped away with the practiced stealth of someone who has spent too many nights trying not to wake the person they love.
Usually you don’t mind. Truly—you were never selfish enough to demand he stay pressed against you every night, not when you understood how his brain buzzed and sparked and dragged him toward unfinished work like a tether he couldn’t sever.
But tonight… tonight you simply wanted him near.
So you used the flimsiest excuse imaginable—that you’d forgotten to do your skincare (a lie so transparent Tim recognized it instantly; you never forget)—and dragged another wheeled chair beside him. You set about mixing a modeling mask with a level of ceremony usually reserved for potion brewing, your legs folded beneath a shared blanket, your steaming cup of tea nestled beside his cup of atrocious coffee. The bitter brew was legendary between you both for being nearly undrinkable, yet Tim clung to it with the same baffling loyalty he showed to three a.m. work sessions and new, un-tested software.
Then, without warning and without a single word, Tim felt the first cool, pale-blue brushstroke glide against his cheek.
Not from you. Never from you. He only bit the inside of his cheek in a futile attempt to hide the smile that wanted to bloom there, the corner of his mouth betraying him with the tiniest twitch. And though todays workload had been mercifully light—light enough that he could have been asleep hours ago—light days made him restless, his mind crackling with excess energy like static waiting for a spark.
“What does this do?” Tim mumbled after a while, barely parting his lips, his curiosity somehow unhampered by the fact that his face was now generously slathered in a pale-blue paste.
“Cools the skin temperature,” you replied gently, brushing the final strokes along the curve of his chin with the slow, tender care of someone petting a sleepy cat who has reluctantly tolerated a bath.
“How?” he asked, eyes never leaving the glowing screens in front of him.
“I don’t know.” You shrugged innocently. “Saw some hot girl use it.”
A beat of stillness. Then, almost fearful: “…I’m going to break out after this, aren’t I?”
You hummed, a sound meant to soothe. “No, no—it was expensive.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s good, babe.” Tim chuckled softly, the warmth of it muffled beneath the drying mask. “You didn’t even read the formula sheet?”
“Who reads the formula sheet?” you blinked at him, genuinely mystified.
Tim’s shoulders tightened the tiniest bit—a subtle inward recoil, as if his moral compass were quietly ringing an alarm bell somewhere in the depths of him. Still, he stayed perfectly still beneath your touch, letting the mask dry in peaceful surrender. At the end of the day, he was willing to risk a constellation of pimples if it meant seeing you this content, this close, this focused entirely on him.
You'd still fuck him anyways so why would he care.
And perhaps—if he were honest with himself, in the privacy only you ever get to see—he found the whole ritual inexplicably comforting.
Even if he’d never admit that out loud.
It’s around ten minutes of watching him work with the mask on—ten minutes of you forcing your sleepy brain to stay alert by tossing him small, gentle questions every few minutes just to hear his voice and keep your own eyes open.
“What are you typing?” you murmur, leaning slightly toward his screen.
“Do you want any snacks?”
“Why are those numbers overlapping like that?”
And without fail, Tim explains each one to you with quiet precision, his voice low and steady and warm in the dim light of the room. He speaks quickly but never impatiently, calmly guiding you through whatever strange digital puzzle he’s untangling, and ends every answer with the same soft murmur of, “There’s more, but I won’t bore you,” as if he genuinely believes you’d ever find anything he says uninteresting.
He has four double monitors surrounding him like some sort of glowing fortress—each filled with layers of blue light and open windows—yet at the moment, he’s only using one and his laptop. So, out of boredom and perhaps a bit of mischief, you reach out and turn on one of the closer unused monitors, the screen flickering to life in a wash of white before settling. With a few lazy clicks, you open Tiktok.
“Can I log in?” you ask softly, not wanting to distract him too much but very willing to test how much of his attention you can steal.
“Hm?” It takes him a second to process your words—blinking once, twice, the gears turning—before he mumbles, “Uh… it’s going to remember your login details, if that’s fine with you then—”
“I don’t care if you have them,” you say with a small shrug, typing in your username and password without hesitation. “What would you even do with it?”
Maybe block every smug douchebag lurking in your DMs who watch those thirst traps you post, or quietly hit “not interested” on every thirst trap featuring anyone remotely attractive, or perhaps scroll through your feed just to see what makes you laugh.
But Tim only gives a faint, distracted huff, shoulders rising in a small shrug as he keeps typing.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he murmurs softly, as if the thought of invading your privacy is so absurd it barely deserves consideration.
It’s a few minutes of quiet scrolling and steady typing before Tim suddenly feels your hand rest on his thigh beneath the shared blanket — warm, casual, thoughtless, the kind of touch you give him when you’re tired and seeking closeness rather than making any particular statement.
And then you squeeze and he feels your fingers press into his thighs, your pinkie finger going underneath his shorts, tracing the waistband of his boxers.
Tim can’t help the small, startled jerk that makes him twist in his chair, hair shifting over his forehead, cheeks blooming pink like a sudden sunset against his pale skin, and he opens his mouth to protest, to stammer some hurried apology for moving so suddenly, only for his gaze to fall fully on the glowing screen and everything else to disappear in an instant.
You are completely absorbed in them.
Liking them. Favoriting them. Following the tag #RedRobinEdit while your hand is still resting warmly on his leg and tracing more dangerously up at every edit.
“B—babe—” he stammers, voice breaking slightly, embarrassed and high-pitched, faltering as he tries to keep his composure and simultaneously not stare too obviously at the shape of your hands under the blanket, while every rational part of his brain screams at him to turn away.
You blink up at him, innocently, sweetly, and entirely unbothered. “What?”
He gestures awkwardly downward, face flushed. “Your… hand.”
You glance at it without moving, not even twitching, then shrug slightly, as though he’s pointing out a funny looking cat instead of the fact that he’s utterly distracted and entirely unable to focus on anything but you.
“I know,” you reply, flatly, eyes already returning to the screen, completely calm, perfectly in control, leaving him to choke on the warmth that settles in his chest like liquid fire.
Tim is fairly certain his heart has stopped entirely.
He watches your expression shift—eyes widening just faintly as the edit slows dramatically on a clip of him sticking his tongue out mid-fight, the faint smear of blood on his mask making the whole thing look far more dramatic (and frankly ridiculous) than the original moment ever felt.
The audio swells, loud and obnoxiously enthusiastic, the lyrics of the song echoing across the cave with an almost mocking cheer: “Come here and get some!”
Tim swallows hard enough that he hears it.
You watch the edit again.
And then you — God save him — open the comment section and type:
“I mean if he's asking nicely, I guess,”
Tim stares at you like you’ve just personally struck him with a tranquilizer dart.
He is pretty sure the cooling modeling mask on his face is the only thing keeping him from completely combusting.
“I’m sorry—are you… asking to…?” Tim’s voice trails off as he darts an awkward glance between you and the screen, his ears tinted a nervous shade of pink.
You squint at him. “Are you asking if I’m in the mood? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
Tim looks at you like you’ve just solved a riddle he didn’t know he was asking. “No shit, babe.”
You let your eyes sweep him slowly from head to toe, deliberately thoughtful, deliberately teasing, and entirely too amused by how he immediately straightens in his chair like he’s bracing for impact.
“…Well,” you mumble at last, “we need our face masks to set first.”
He nods quickly, almost too quickly. “Right. Of course. Obviously. And— and then?”
“And then…” you drawl, tapping your chin, fighting back a grin, “We see if that chair of yours is as ‘ergonomically reinforced’ as you claim.”
Tim freezes. Absolutely freezes.
“Oh. Oh. Uh—cool. Cool. That’s— uh— that’s fine.”
He turns back to his keyboard, typing with the stiff, mechanical motions of someone trying very hard to look unbothered while being profoundly bothered.
“Perfect,” you hum sweetly, turning back to your phone. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to find an edit of my boyfriend’s butt—”
Tim cuts you off instantly, leaning in to kiss you with flustered urgency—only to immediately regret it when the half-set modeling mask smears between you.
You squeal at the rubbery taste and smack his shoulder.
He pulls back with a helpless laugh, face mask smudged, dignity in shambles.
“You were about to commit a crime,” he defends weakly.
“I was appreciating art,” you correct.
“You were appreciating my—”
He groans while tilting his head back, and you giggle, nudging his knee under the blanket.
The moment hangs warm and bright between you, buzzing with affection and promise—nothing more needs to be said.
By the time the mask has tightened over your skin, cooling into its soft, rubbery shell, the air around you has shifted into something quieter and heavier, something threaded with anticipation that neither of you names out loud, though it hangs there like a shared secret waiting patiently between two heartbeats.
Tim keeps typing for a few more seconds, each click slower than the last, his eyes flicking toward you more often than toward the glowing screen in front of him.
It's like he is trying to pretend he is still focused on work while every line of his posture betrays just how thoroughly you have undone him.
You feel him watching you in those fleeting glances—feel the warmth behind them, the affection that pools in his gaze even when he tries to look away—and you can’t help smiling, soft and knowing, because you understand him in a way that feels as natural as breathing, a way that makes this dimly lit room feel less like a cave and more like a sanctuary built just for the two of you.
When you finally reach up to peel the edge of the mask from your cheek, he stops typing entirely, his hands hovering above the keys as he follows the slow movement of your fingers with an attention so gentle it makes your chest ache, as though he is memorizing this small, mundane moment simply because you are the one doing it.
Your skin practically glows and it's not just the computer light. God he wants to kiss you.
He removes his own mask more clumsily, his fingers trembling just a little—not out of nerves but out of the kind of unsteady eagerness he would never admit to if he didn't want you teasing him within a inch of his life—and when he looks at you again, his face is free of that cool blue sheen, flushed instead with the warm bloom of affection that he can’t hide. Tim tosses the remains in a nearby trash can.
Yeah. You decide mentally. You're going to want him longer than what that chair can provide.
Oh and the last thing you want is Mr.Wayne walking in.
You stand, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders like a borrowed piece of comfort, and he rises too, slower, almost hesitant, as though moving too quickly might shatter whatever fragile magic has woven itself between you in this quiet hour.
He can't wait until the two of you walk all the way to his bedroom though.
Tim reaches out with the kind of touch that is careful but certain, his fingers brushing your wrist first—as if asking, silently, without words—before sliding up to cup your jaw in a gesture so gentle it feels like a confession all on its own, one made with warmth instead of sound.
“It’s off,” Tim mumbles, his voice low and husky, almost reluctant to break the quiet first.
You chuckle softly, the sound gentle and warm in the quiet room, and reach up to sweep your fingers along a small patch of mask that stubbornly clings beneath his bottom lip, following it slowly upward to brush across the smooth line of his brow and then the corner of his eye, your touch deliberate, lingering just long enough to leave a small trail of warmth that makes him still, sharp in his awareness of every brush of your skin against his.
Tim leans slightly into your hands, savoring the sensation, the softness of your touch somehow grounding him, reminding him that this moment is entirely yours, entirely safe, and entirely intimate in a way that words could never capture. “Now it is,” you whisper, the words soft, certain, and tethered to the little warmth of your palm against his temple.
“You know there’s still some on your lip,” he murmurs after a pause, voice low and almost shy, though there’s a teasing lilt beneath it.
You glance at him, lips curved in a small, secretive smile, knowing perfectly well there isn’t, having already checked your reflection in the glow of your phone screen while removing your own mask, but you let the statement linger because it’s a perfect excuse to remain close a moment longer.
Your forehead presses against his softly, and the world seems to pause in the steady, electric quiet, each inhale and exhale stretching out longer than it should, each heartbeat echoing faintly as the two of you stay perfectly still, suspended in a delicate balance of trust, warmth, and a quiet devotion that needs no spoken declaration because it is already felt in every brush of skin, every small motion, every shared glance.
“Yeah?” you murmur, voice thick with intimacy and teasing softness. “Wanna help me get it off?”
Tim exhales your name like it’s a whispered vow, reverent and fragile, and your response comes not through words but through a slow, soft smile that tugs at something tender and carefully guarded deep within him. The part of him that only ever emerges when he’s near you and no one else, the part that is quietly unafraid to simply exist in the presence of your warmth.
The pale glow of his monitors spills across the room, bathing the two of you in soft light that seems almost protective, and his fingers weave themselves through your hair with a careful steadiness that grounds him even as it sends shivers of quiet delight through you. He's holding you close without pressure, without need, just pure want.
He leans in then, slowly, thoughtfully, with a kind of care that feels almost old-fashioned in its sincerity, and when your lips meet his, the kiss is unhurried and warm, stretching into a long, gentle moment that deepens not in passion but in closeness, in that intimate familiarity that comes from choosing each other again and again.
And then he feels your hand rest at his waist and he raises a brow, kissing you all the same still but watching the way your eyes flutter close and how the skin of your cheek becomes hotter.
When his tongue brushes the corner of your mouth he feels you grope his ass.
Tim pulls back suddenly, sputtering a laugh that shakes his shoulders and makes his chest rise and fall in quick, uneven bursts, “Babe!” he manages, voice half-shouted, half-laughing, entirely helpless against the ridiculousness of the moment.
“I’m sorry!” you protest breathlessly, cheeks warming in sync with his laughter, “It was the heat of the moment!”—your words tumbling out faster than you can catch them, as if the urgency of explaining yourself could somehow make everything feel less ridiculous, less exposing, less… completely perfect.
“You’re a horrible—absolutely horrible—fucking liar!” Tim cackles, the sound rolling out of him like sunlight spilling into a dim room, a laugh so unrestrained and warm that it seems to push all the shadows in the Batcave back into their corners, filling the space instead with its heat and vitality, and pulling you along with it whether you want it or not.
And somehow, without even thinking about it, his laughter lifts you too, every molecule of your being responding to it as he half-drags, half-tugs you out of the cave, fingers warm against your wrist, voice still shaking with delight, heart still bouncing in that ridiculous, giddy rhythm that only he can create.
Tim sleeps good that night, well into the afternoon as well. And when he opens his eyes, you're still in bed next to him.
With a hand still holding onto his ass.
ᵈⁱᵛⁱᵈᵉʳ ᵇʸ ᶜᵘʳˢᵉᵈ⁻ᶜᵃʳᵐⁱⁿᵉ
authors note! okay they didn't actually make out because I'm still not confident but uh this is good enough for me lol, first Tim fic lmk what you think!!
I hope you enjoy and if you want to be put on a tag list for ALL my works comment and I will add you! ദ്ദി˶ｰ̀֊ｰ́ ) my asks are always open just to talk or ask questions please please please let me know what you think it gives me so much motivation to write and you will be getting a new work sooner if you do ; (◞‸◟)
suni's ᯓ★ navigation ⭑.ᐟ 𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖🎐
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