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ga-lily-o · 2 months ago

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⚹ fem reader - because the person I took inspiration from and dedicate this to is fem ⚹

Tags/Warnings: Friends to lovers // falling in love // corny jokes // laughing yourself into loving // I have never written for Dick Grayson before uh oh! // kissing // on my Dick is a yearner shit // uhhhh like 3 swears Idk // over 2k words! Yay!

Summary: Sometimes, inside jokes stay inside jokes. Sometimes, they’re just jokes. Not with you apparently. Not when it’s you— not when it’s Dick. Or: Dick can’t help himself but fall in love with light and laughter.

Dedicated to my friend, who made this joke and made everyone laugh over and over.

(Author’s note at the bottom!)

Dick thinks you’re so lovely. It’s not an uncommon thought for him to have, especially when you’re with him in some late-closing diner at the edge of Bludhaven; but it’s a poignant one nonetheless. Recurring. Stuck on loop every time you make one of your lameass jokes and corny comments before hiding your face in your hands in embarrassment. Laughing like you still can’t help but find yourself funny in a way that makes it feel like being around you is having a light shone on the dark underbelly of the world. He’d take you with him off-world if only to show the universe what star-cores look like. Not molten magma, not melting iron and heavy gravity; but you.

Giggling, silly you; still giggling, gearing up for your next joke, and he feels it before he sees it. His cheeks hurt from grinning but his heart feels so damn light.

“Could I try my hand at a marshmallow?” You’re pinching at the air above his plate with the world’s dumbest little grin, and he’s in love.

Dick stares at you, no brow raised, just staring, and lets out a huff of breath through his nose that sounds close to a laugh. He gestures to his plate with a lame wave, fist up to his lips to hide his aching grin. “All yours.”

But you’re not done. Your face pinches in stifled laughter when you awkwardly hum and haw, “You have to close your eyes first.”

Dick eases his milkshake to the table, lips pursed in confusion and amusement, but ultimately he closes his eyes, one hand to cover them for emphasis with his elbow propped up on the table. He’s laughing already, and he can hear the shuffle of your clothes and your uneven breaths as you laugh— settle yourself quickly, and laugh again so hard it comes out kettle-like. You’re taking so long though, that he peeks between his fingers, feeling awfully lightheaded and equally silly because you’re making him laugh so hard his chest hurts with it. And he shuts his eyes quickly closed when he sees your hand pinch a marshmallow off his plate. Dick can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of him when he hears you start wheezing again after.

“You done?” He asks, clearing his throat with a faux firmness that makes you giggle through a mouthful of marshmallow. It makes him open his eyes to catch yours as you chew, and your entire face warms from the way you start wheezing, doubling over the table in laughter as you try to blink your eyes open through your own fit.

When you catch your breath, you can barely speak without wheezing the words out.

“Can I—“ a wheeze. It takes you a good second to recover. “Can I try my hand at another marshmallow?”

You’re so so lovely, and so so beautiful, and Dick buries a laugh into his hand, half in disbelief at how stupid this is, and how much he loves it— but it’s not dumb, at all. Not when you’re laughing so hard your face is pinched and you’re pressing your forehead to the table. Not when he’s barely able to help himself as he squeezes himself into the cushion of the booth behind him, quiet laughter shaking him whole.

“This is so stupid,” he manages to choke out, and you look up from where you’re doubled over the table looking seconds away from crying, just to shrivel up like a prune again, wheezing at him like somehow he made the dumb joke.

You steal 3 of his marshmallows, that night. At one point tricking him into turning around (by telling him someone was in the window, of all tricks) and having him come face to face with your marshmallow padded cheeks. He fell in love with you hard, and fell in love with you stupid, with tears prickling his eyes at your dumb jokes and corny tricks and fuck he loves you.

Oh, he loves you.

———

The realization doesn’t change anything. You go about your lives meeting up and splitting apart, and Dick... Dick doesn’t remember when he started falling for you, but it had to be before the whole marshmallow thing that he can’t keep from bringing up now. It’s become something of a staple for him, actually. Stolen right from your dumb roster of inside jokes and absentmindedly applied to every aspect of his life. He’s accidentally said it to the crooks and goons he’s fought in the alleys, like somehow you’ve slipped even into his persona in the mask, haunting Nightwing as much as you haunt Dick Grayson.

Dick doesn’t realize how bad it’s gotten until someone points out that he doesn’t flirt as enthusiastically anymore, even as a joke. Like something in him feels the betrayal of doing so even when he’s not quite yet yours in the way he wants to be.

You’re spitting something in the world’s fakest maritime accent you have when he comes to terms with wanting you, by the way. Stopping to laugh at yourself with full guffaws that have your face scrunched as you belt out laughter like you’re singing. Which— you do end up doing here or there. Just breaking out into one-note songs before you’re back to giggling, and Dick is so in love with you. He feels like a kid with you around, laughing like you’re both always at a sleepover, and his whole heart aches with the want to be yours as you narrowly avoid choking on a spoonful of soft-serve.

He just— he has to interrupt the world’s silliest spiel to ask you. “Can I try my hand at some soft serve?”

Your giggles bubble up first, smile widening enough to show your teeth as you nod your head; giggles bubbling into full blown laughter when his shoulders start shaking too. He nearly drops the spoon trying to get it into his mouth, and you’ve turned your head away to wheeze into your hand, and he feels like he’s soaring.

“Mmm,” he hums, and your face screws into a deeper laugh.

“Why the hell are you just— ‘mm’,” you mimic, but it makes you start laughing so hard you cough on it, your face so warm. The way your eyes crinkle is permanently embedded into his brain, along with the very sound of your laughter. Carried through fist-fights in spandex and missions across the stars, like mental images of sunlight and diner-dinners so late at night it’s early. The kind of things he remembers when he’s at his most low.

Dick waits for your laughter to settle, his own breath stuttering as he swallows down a fit of it. “Can I—“

He doesn’t even manage through the sentence before you’re laughing again, and god does his heart do flips. A quadruple somersault— or no, quintuple. You’d make fun of him for that one, but he really does mean it, cause the extra spin is from the way you give him whiplash from laughing so hard neither of you could breathe.

He asks, “Can I try my hand at some more soft serve?” When really he wants to ask if he could try his hand at kissing you.

None the wiser, you nod— eyes crinkled so deeply you can barely see, and Dick feels like he’s floating when he loves you like an untethered astronaut gazing at the sun.

———

It becomes something that loops in his head, like completing a quote you never knew was only ever half finished. You’re so lovely, could he try his hand at kissing you?

He doesn’t even know how you’d react to that. Doesn’t know if you’d laugh or cringe… or just awkwardly cough at his sincerity, but that last one might just be him catastrophizing. But, he reasons with himself, it shouldn’t be this scary. Shouldn’t make his palms sweaty like he’s about to defuse a series of bombs Riddler’s put annoyingly complex codes on and he’s running out of time.

But you’re lounging there on the couch— in his apartment— with your eyes following the eye candy of the edit on your screen and suddenly it is scary. He’d call them a nameless character, but you’ve mentioned this one once or twice. Or a lot. Point is, you’re watching eye candy, and he wants to be dumb and stupid for once with you and that’s horrifying. Wants to let himself be dumb and stupid and just ask you—

“Can I try my hand at a kiss?”

He snaps his mouth shut and his heart immediately drops. And the way you turn over to him, eyebrow raised and lips pursed tight? Yeah, he’s giving himself amnesia again.

“What—“

“Wait,” Dick interrupts, hearing the laughter bubbling up your throat and his face falls in embarrassment.

“No, I’m—“ you start wheezing, putting your phone down just as he hears the beat drop. The timing’s perfect actually, because he’s pretty sure every beat of his heart right now is a beat drop in the world’s scariest horror-romance flick. If he even gets to the romance part. “I’m not— Sorry this is so mean but that was just so out of the blue.”

Dick’s stammering wordlessly, and for all his easy confidence Dick can’t seem to catch his footing. Caught between admiring the way you laugh, correcting himself, or doubling down; though the last two act as essentially the same thing because he won’t lie his way out of this one now. You’re in no easier a state, caught in a giggle fit as you catch your breath, shuffling closer to where he is on the other end of the couch and having to take pitstops and rest your entire weight on the cushions in deep, laugh-stuttered breaths.

“Dick,” you say weakly, and your laughter immediately picks back up and he wants to cry now. Both because he’s started laughing as hard as you and because he’s so awfully confused by the way you cradle his hands in yours. “Sorry your name is so stupid.”

You’re awful, you’re horrible, and you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life, topping supernovas and hard-won sunrises as you tip your head back to look at him through grin-crinkled eyes. You’re awful.

“It’s my name,” he wheezes, half a confused whine, and you laugh so hard you tip forward into him. Your head pushes against his chest catching at the beat of his heart, and Dick feels laughter bubbling out of him like it was always meant to be there. Like he’s a kid again on the trapeze and you’re catching him. Like no matter what you say next he knows you’ll catch him regardless.

“Get a—“

“I did get a new one, and you and I both hated it,” he cuts you off, and you grin. You grin like you don’t know you’re starlight-made and stardust covered; like you think this doesn’t mean anything to him as you give his hands a squeeze. He’d go by ‘Ric’ again, if it made you happy for the rest of his life. Shave his whole head bald too, just to commit to it.

When you catch your breath, pulling back and leaning your head against the couch and breathing heavily, you finally manage to ask with a rasp to your voice, “Did you— actually mean it?”

Or at least he thinks that’s what you asked. Your words slurred a little together as you failed to stifle your laughter by the last few words and he kind of lost it, but he caught it, he thinks.

“Yeah,” he laughs quietly, so hard he nearly sobs, “I did mean it.”

And god he hopes you never stop laughing at your stupid inside jokes and taunts. Hopes you never stop smiling; hopes your old age comes with crows feet at your eyes and smile lines etched into your face. Hopes he gets to see it and bask in it for as long as he can keep himself light enough to stay alive.

“Can I—“ you start, looking drunk on laughter and exhausted from wheezing, but still lightly smiling, “Can I try my hand at— at that kiss you offered?”

And god he has to laugh first, has to get it all out as you both tip towards each other, forehead on forehead, because he loves you, and he’s so light, and he’s pretty sure he’s about to bust a fucking lung. When he kisses you, through slowing giggles and deep, grounding breaths, he finds his heart soaring and landing all at once. Finds that the sun, for all its warmth, doesn’t burn when you hold it. Finds that you’re lovely, and he wants to know if he can try his hand at being yours forever.

A/N: I hung out with my friends recently, went around for a drive to nowhere, and my friend, Anna, just kept making this same joke over and over again and making us laugh. Like, super hard. It made me think of how someone like her would fall in love with a superhero, any superhero, and Dick was the first one that came to mind.

I don’t pretend to know how to write him, much less how to write him well, but I hope he’s written alright here 😭 I just thought that of all of the batfamily, he and Duke were probably most likely to have that almost-normal romance. I’ve not yet even read much about Duke yet though so I’ll have to see about reading his lore and character analysis before I write for him!

Anyways, this is dedicated to Anna, hope she likes it <3

#lee’s writing #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson x you #nightwing x reader #nightwing x you #dick grayson x reader fluff #fem reader

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ga-lily-o · 2 months ago

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Invincible:

Love, Actually

Summary: It’s just another shift at Burger Mart. Bad lighting, long hours, and an embarrassingly cute coworker who lights up your whole world. (Mark Grayson x (gn) Reader)

They Don’t Kiss (but They Really Should)

Summary: You and Eve are friends, first and foremost. However, Eve also wants you more than she has the guts to say. Not that you know… or maybe you do, because none of this is casual. (Eve Wilkins x gn reader)

The Big Reveal

Summary: Mark Grayson is many, many things. A hero, a Viltrumite, his mother’s son, Oliver’s brother, but god does he love being yours. (Mark Grayson x (gn) Reader)

This Time They Do (Kiss, That is)

Summary: In the best worst decision ever, you offer to braid Eve’s hair— not long after you did her makeup, no less. You’re sure you want to die because friends shouldn’t be wanting friends this bad. Doesn’t seem like Eve cares about titles anymore though, with the way she’s staring at you now. (Eve Wilkins x gn reader)

Dc:

I’d Want Nothing More (Than You)

Summary: It’s fun to plan your wedding, even hypothetically, with the right person in your life. And he might not have the time to have that wedding with you right now, but Tim would find it in a heartbeat. Would have, if he’d found you sooner. (Tim Drake x gn reader)

Can I Try My Hand (at Loving You?)

Sometimes, inside jokes stay inside jokes. Sometimes, they’re just jokes. Not with you apparently. Not when it’s you— not when it’s Dick. Or: Dick can’t help himself but fall in love with light and laughter. (Dick Grayson x fem reader)

Other fandoms (No longer actively a part of):

Lies of P

Meet-cute Through a Window (Though it Shouldn’t be Possible)

Gardener/Botanist Reader Headcanons

When the Sun Comes Up

Cooking with a Special Puppet Headcanons

Every Rainfall

Lockwood and Co

See my old account @writtenontheport

⋆˙⟡ ✿˖° I reserve the right to refuse any and all requests as well as the right to ask you not to plagiarize my work, thank you!

⋆˙⟡ ✿˖° I do requests when I get to them or when the inspiration strikes! If that’s not until a month or two later, then I apologize, but I’m not going to publish something I didn’t enjoy writing

⋆˙⟡ ✿˖° I am always trying to write as inclusively as I can. Meaning unless I’m writing an oc x character fic, or like… a general characteristic reader fic (for example: long distance! reader, poc! reader, mother/father reader) I’m not going to be writing specific characteristics or any of a reader-insert’s physically defining traits. I do take requests for gn, fem, and male readers though

⋆˙⟡ ✿˖° I write SFW/mildly suggestive/suggestive works. I do not write super dark romance, dead dove, or fully NSFW content. I write angst/fluff to varying levels, so heed the tags please! Grief is still my favourite narrative tool after all hehehe

⋆˙⟡ ✿˖° If you’re not sure if a topic is gonna make me uncomfy— please ask! :> I’d be more than happy to clarify ❤️

⋆˙⟡ ✿˖° I write for the following fandoms and people, currently:

Date Everything (Like… almost all characters, since I’ve met and befriended/romanced basically all of them! I will not write for Dishy though. No. Or Lux, or Jean Loo. Or Rebel. Scandalabra is funny enough that I would consider it. I just don’t think I’m the person to ask about Doug 😭 )

Invincible (Mark Grayson, certain Mark variants, Eve Wilkins)

DC (Tim Drake, Cassandra Cain, Dick Grayson, Barbara Gordon, Kori’andr, Jason Todd, Duke Thomas, Kon-el Kent (maybe even John Constantine, Wally West, Damian Wayne, or Bart Allen if I’m feeling up to it))

I’m considering Arcane as well but whether or not I do is completely up to chance— you can still request! Just… we’ll see if I write it

I also do AUs, because I like putting characters in situations and figuring out how they’d act 😛🥰

#lee’s writing

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ga-lily-o · 2 months ago

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Watched the HTTYD Live Action movie today and younger me falling in love with Hiccup makes sense again 😭 Besides that though, the movie was SO good and the casting was amazing 😭 I ADORED the experience and it was so so fun 😭❤️❤️❤️ It makes me want to write for the older Hiccup now… But I’ll probs write like 1 or 2 fics I still have to wring Tim by the neck (lovingly)

Edit: Just thought of Tim in Berk and a fic from that and FUCK if I didn’t have work today 💔💔💔💔💔 I would write so much if I just had the day off omg 😭

#lee’s ramblings

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ga-lily-o · 2 months ago

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⚹ gn!reader, but the reader is mentioned walking down the aisle and Tim is mentioned to be the one proposing for personal headcanon reasons ⚹

Tags/Warnings: Soft domesticity // established relationship // mentions of a bomb and violence (but none depicted outright) // Major Character Death! :> // Grief // Loss // Wedding talk // Funeral talk // I’m just silly like dat // intended civillian reader but could be read either way // like… a couple swear words // mentioned injuries // please tell me if I missed a tag // Angst // Fluff until the first cutaway then it’s not fluffy at all

(A/N at the bottom!)

It’s hard to tell what Tim thinks of marriage. More than just heading to the courthouse and signing some paperwork— something he’d be more than glad to do, mind you— but planning it. Attending it. Doing all the cheesy, silly things couples do when they have all the time in the world to be in love, because you’re sure Tim doesn’t have that time.

And it’s fine, you’re not complaining. You’d be happy to be his in any capacity as long as it’s the one closest to forever, but a part of you wonders if he’d indulge you if you asked. If he’d play along with all the silly little things you’d want to do for your wedding; listen to the songs you’d want to play for each dance, try all the flavours of cake you’d both like for however many tiers of it you decide on. Deciding the catering, the theme, the centrepieces. All the things a man like Tim would hardly have enough time to do, but you can’t help but ask, sometimes.

Can’t help but wistfully look over at wedding-wear boutiques with dreams clouding your eyes as you window shopped; can’t help but think of just how handsome he is in a suit when he has to be in one and wonder if he’d dress up for it. You’d let him wear a hoodie if he wanted. Laugh about it walking down the aisle as both your parents and Bruce have a conniption over it.

Because you’d marry that man with all the brains in the world and a snarky mouth to boot, even if he didn’t cry as you walked down the aisle. Because he’s here with you, hand ever so gently resting on your side as you huddled together in the kitchen like there was no space to separate; the morning sprinkling in.

You’re laughing when you say his name, little lilts of it that match the way your eyes crinkle in delight, caught in the lowlight of the range hood in all your sleepy glory like you’re meant to be captured in a polaroid and kept in a wallet. His hands itch to whip out his phone just to take a photo of you for that reason, eyes boring into yours when they meet; the warm light washing you in gold. Still too dark out to turn it off, even as the sky gets lighter.

He hums lowly in response. Flat, even. Not for one second betraying the way his heart’s beating hard against his ribs like the drummer at a punk show. Like loving you will break more bones and blood vessels than a roundhouse kick to the chest.

“If… if we got married—“

“When,” Tim corrects, because he can hear the hope in your voice like a light wash of paint, and your smile turns dopey. “When we get married.”

There’s a pause there, not loaded but light, as you try to collect yourself. Try not to combust at the way he’s unapologetically looking at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world, and you lean in to rest your head on his shoulder.

“When we get married,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper, “What would you want in it?”

His answer is easy, quick, like a beat of his heart. “You.”

You playfully press your hand to his other shoulder in the world’s lamest half-shove, and his hand comes up to lace through yours while your heart beats in your throat.

“Try again, cause that’s a given,” you scowl, but it’s undercut by the way your face feels warm and you’re barely able to fight the smile creeping in.

Tim hums for a second, the hand on your side coming up to bracket your upper back, tracing your shoulder blades with a reverent touch. “That one restaurant a couple blocks down from the Clock Tower—“

“The one I like?” You interrupt gently, soft smile turning giddy as he tilts his cheek until it hits your head.

“They do catering for weddings.” Because of course he’d know that. Of course he would. He’s saying it like it simply doesn’t matter, but Tim doesn’t remember things he doesn’t need to. Doesn’t remember what isn’t important, but you are, important. Beyond belief.

“When’d you find that one out?” You pried, because he’d let you, shuffling closer until you can wrap your arms around his waist and he lets you slide against him like a lock clicking into place. His lips slide against your forehead as you tuck your face into his shoulder, his lips dry and sharp with bitten skin.

“A while back,” he says simply, like there was nothing else to knowing about whether your favourite restaurant did catering for weddings or not. Like it was nothing, when it was everything.

“Whipped,” you tease, grinning impossibly wide into his shirt, and a second later you’re squealing as he lightly pinches your side.

———

It’s the memory you cling to as you’re watching death come closer; as the seconds tick down on the timer, your whole body in pain. You think… your wedding would have been good.

You think of Tim in a suit by the archway; of soft lights and intimate crowds and secretive laughter. Of laughing and crying at once because you’re talking to him about stupid things like how you met and what it was like to fall for him, and you’re saying your vows to the camera your tormentor’s set up absentmindedly now. Tim must be watching on the other side, must be agonizing over it like you had been, but as the seconds come down, you can’t help but just feel light.

“Thank you,” you whisper, hoping somewhere that he can hear you, or read your lips, “For loving me.”

———

There’s a ring in a compartment Tim built into the nightstand on his side of the bed. He thinks of that when he’s cradling you— or, really, what’s left of you. There’s wedding vows he’s said to mirrors before he’ll ever get to say them to you; flowers he’ll first see at your funeral before he’d ever get the chance to marry you, surrounded by them.

He thinks your vows will be etched into his brain with the same blood colouring the rubble he’d found you in. With the same image of your tear-stained cheeks covered in soot. With your face still and your heart unbeating.

2 minutes too late to find you, and now he’ll pay for it with the rest of his life.

“Tim,” someone says firmly behind him, their voice finally cutting through the haze of his grief like the dust in the air coming out of focus. He’s still staring down at you, hand under your head where it’s in his lap, hand laced through yours, ignoring the way your broken fingers don’t curl into his hand.

Something in his mind— the alert, always ready part of him that’s kept him alive thus far— wants to scold them for using real names in the mask, but he can barely move his mouth. Barely breathe beyond the clog of emotions pouring into his every breath. Your hair is a mess. You’re hurt. You’re not hurting.

“Tim,” someone says again, closer this time, still firm. It’s the opposite of grounding. It’s grating, it’s painful. Everyone needs to shut the hell up. When he says it out loud it comes in a sharp hiss, like it’s hurting him to even speak. He curls further around you, what remains of you. Lets your blood wash him in the hopes he can keep as much of you as he possibly can. There’s a million and one solutions in his head, because realistically he can bring you back, but all of them leave you fundamentally altered. All of them ruin you.

But he could bring you back, even if he shouldn’t. He could, he knows, if he acted fast enough—

“Tim,” someone says again, and this time he recognizes it as Dick, hovering so close to him he can feel the heat radiate off his brother in the cool air of the night. And Tim remembers why he shouldn’t; won’t. Remembers why he won’t.

So he takes a shaky breath and curls down to press his forehead against yours, unable to help the way he draws you closer, impossibly close. “I ran out of time.”

To save you, to tell you he loved you, to marry you. To watch you walk down the aisle because he’s absolutely not the one picking who’s going to give him away; to laugh with you about it while you plan; to make sure you knew his vows like he’ll know yours. And it’s so fucking unfair, cause he gets your vows, spoken in your dying breath like that was the denouement of your life. Like you’re happy you got it out; you’re happy with him knowing and without knowing in return. It’s unfair that it comforts him, unfair that he’s living long enough for it to comfort him.

“I ran out of time,” he rasps again, disbelieving. Because in every version of this— of grief, of loss— he hoped it was never you. And now all he has is what you left of him.

———

In another world, a kinder one, he asks you to marry him at home on a day you made him book off to do nothing but lounge around with you. You’re both in wrinkled sleepwear and there’s takeout in your laps as you lean your weights against each other.

He’ll ask you to marry him with a movie running in the back because he can’t help but love you so deeply while it’s playing. And you wouldn’t have asked him first because you wanted it to be on his terms, even if you’d thought about it here or there. It’s one of the many things that make it easy to love you.

It’s one of the things he’ll miss when he musters up the courage to come back to… where home was. Where you both used to live, where that damn ring is still in the nightstand, where your indoor shoes still wait by the door and your coats rot in the closet. Everything feels like it’s rotting, actually. Like the light preserving the world has died and there’s nothing but the way the world rots and rots to nothing.

Every picture by the doorway you’d hung up— the candids of your lives. The one that ended with you. They hang like the paintings in the Louvre. Like the echoes of something grand, of someone else’s heart and soul. Like he’s no longer the same person now that you’re gone.

And still his heart beats, ‘I love you’ in every breath, banging against his ribs with them still intact. They should be broken, he thinks distantly, if even just under the weight of this grief, and Tim slumps against the bedroom door, keeping it closed and keeping the illusion that you’re still just behind it. Like for a second he could walk in and ask you to marry him then.

He stays there for a while, compiling every detail you planned with him of what you would call ‘the best wedding ever’. Dreaming wide awake of you, of every moment he’d been robbed of seeing.

“I do,” he says to the open air, like some delusional freak, gripping himself hard enough to bruise as he rasps a breath. And he thinks of you in the kitchen, washed in the golden light of the range hood, captured in the early dregs of the morning. Thinks of what it’s like to be back home to you.

A/N: Writing this fic hurt me actually but in an addicting way. I just! Loveeee explorations of grief, of loss, and Tim is my favourite. I hold him to my chest and I kiss him hard as I punch him! Yippee! On a side note, I wrote this almost frantically because the idea was sticking to my skin like an itch.

Anyways, sorry if Tim is ooc, I let my heart decide how I’m depicting him today. This fic nearly broke my less than 2k words curse

This one is dedicated to my friend Anna, because I sent her the fic and she cried because I didn’t forewarn her that it’s angst sorry ❤️😭

#tim drake x reader #tim drake x you #tim drake x reader fluff #tim drake x reader angst #red robin x reader #red robin x you #lee’s writing #gn reader

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