#red robin (tim drake)

[luliadraws]

“that’s a stupid outfit!” says the stupid outfit guy

[chocor0se]

when tim is working as the ceo of WE in public half of the time he’s the perfect figure, looking fancy and being respectful while also being intimidating when he needs to be. the other half he’s so tired he just starts cussing at annoying people and flipping them off.

[tarta-de-limon]

Someone stop him...

I'm not a big Tim fan, and I haven't drawn him enough to know too much about how he looks, if that makes sense. I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm doing all the batboys, kind of. So here's Tim so I can 'complete' my collection.

Here's the SpeedPaint too, for that one person who said wanted to see the SpeedPaints! I'll post every single one now, you cannot stop me 🗣️

⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️: Uhhh, idk but, uh, for those who kind of have to watch out for flashing stuff, I recommend to skip the end because it's kind of...flashy, with all the effects. Just in case.

.

.

He looks like a malnourishment pigeon at first, but I genuinely picture him like that and I don't know why. Maybe is the hair.

I'm not good with lightning from that perspective, and I did not look for references. I never look for references because I'm lazy. Don't be like me, look for references because they help a lot 😭✋

[rube-too-many-fandoms]

Tim ‘the-world’s-greatest-detective’ Drake, 30 seconds after arriving on scene:

“The murder weapon was a golf club, the victim’s brother did it, and it has no connections to any of the Gotham rogues. Anyone have a pen?”

Tim ‘hasn’t-slept-in-80-hours’ Drake, trying to figure out why his frog shaped coffee mug Looks Like A Frog:

“what the ffukc are you” *blinks one eye at a time*

[priv-heree]

Just a reminder to y'all that Tim is actually THIS BUFF

I understand that as Robin he was a twink... But guys, he as Red Robin is just... just... 🫦🫦

Idk why in Fanfics people describe him as being so skinny

[spider-jaysart]

This is what comes into my head everytime with these nicknames

[jayson10traplo]

Tim angst 😞 sorry

[kristiliqua]

i’ve had this shit in my canvas for too long . idk dawg maybe i’ll color it eventually

[the-autistic-spider]

apparantly Tim Drake has burn scars

apparently in some comic he gained burn scars and over time the writers forgot

if this is real please show me

cause that sounds intresting

[thenyoumightaswellwrestleangels]

I've let this wolf into my home (I feed it even when it bites)

Blood nose and a crooked tongue (I always wanted to be someone) - series masterlist here

pairing: tim drake x reader (gender neutral)

length: 1.5k

genre: fluff ??

warnings: you don't know red robin and timmy are the same person but he sure knows you, he's also so so awkward but he can't help it

a/n: alright alright alright here we go <3

The jingle of the coffee shop door opening startles you, your head snapping up from where you're sitting, slouched over in the corner. It's a 24-hour shop, yes, but who else would really be here at 3am? The barista behind the counter looks just as surprised, blinking rapidly and looking at the person who came in.

You, on the other hand, opt not to, sighing and looking back down at your table, instead. The coffee in your to-go cup is still hot, burning your fingers as you shift them over the label. It's bright, a cartoonish sort of thing that grins up at you like an old friend you should be happier to see. You've been getting this coffee for years. You're never quite as happy as you should be.

The chair opposite you makes a horrible sort of sound as it's pulled out and you look up to see who's sitting across from you. You purse your lips in annoyance while he just looks at you.

"All the other tables have just been cleaned. They're wet," he points out. You let your eyes flit around the cafe, the tabletops shining wetly in the dull glow of the lights, the disinfectant bottle still sitting abandoned on one of them.

"Lucky me," you bite back, taking a sip of your coffee. It's sweet - too sweet, but not enough to cover the bitterness of the burnt grounds. You always think that if you pile enough sugar into it, it'll mask what's wrong. You're never right.

The man sitting opposite you takes a sip of his own - he left it black, you notice. He grimaces slightly at the taste, but keeps drinking anyway. There's no effort there to pretend it's anything other than what it is - burnt, cheap coffee sold to him in a cafe full of ghosts, in a city that should be sleeping but never really does. It's interesting, you think, as you look out the window and into the dark street. You'd almost managed to convince yourself that you were really alone - that there was no one else in this world except you, until he walked in and broke the reverie of your 3am silence.

For what it's worth, Tim regretted it as soon as he'd walked in. He hadn't meant to stay, really - ending up in a part of Gotham he didn't often find himself in, in his civvies and in desperate need of a hot cup of coffee and a long sleep, he'd stumbled across the flickering, neon sign of a 24-hour coffee shop.

What good luck, he'd thought. Now, sitting across from you, there's a desperate little part of him that thinks maybe it wasn't just that - maybe it was intuition that drew him here. You don't know who he is, of course, all your previous meetings happening in the shadows of your home with his face hidden from you. Tim shifts in his seat, suddenly aware of how naked he feels, exposed to your wandering eyes. 

And you do let your eyes wander, narrowing them suspiciously as you take him in. Tim feels a pang of guilt that surprises him when he thinks that this is probably how you've always felt with him - like a lamb with a wolf at your door. As you lean back in your chair, swirling your coffee and letting your gaze trail away from him and towards the window, he feels his shoulders drop in relief. He's not the only wolf in your living room late at night, he realizes. You've got teeth of your own that he'd just never noticed.

You're good at this, Tim thinks with a start - you've got a foot propped up on the window sill next to you, your head resting in your hand as you watch the street outside idly. Or, at least, it's supposed to look like that. He thinks that if he were anyone normal, he would believe it. But Tim has spent enough time as prey to know when someone's pretending to let their guard down.

He looks away from you almost forcefully, staring down at his cup and running his tongue over his teeth as he thinks of the burnt taste of it. He wonders if you were smart enough to put sugar in yours - wise enough to bury the bitterness with something nicer. It's something he always thinks he should do. He can never quite make himself. 

"I'm sure those other tables are dry now." Your voice makes him flinch, a hard, forceful thing that cuts through the silence of the night that's blanketed the two of you. Tim looks around at the dull, streaky tabletops and shrugs. 

"I'm already comfortable here," he offers. You cock your head to the side and look at him, but make no move to fight him on it. He thinks it's probably stupid of him, inviting a lion into his home like this. He wonders if you feel the same way every time he slides in through your balcony door.

There's a silence that, once more, overtakes the two of you as he shifts in his seat. Tim wonders if he should drink faster, if he should pretend to be finished so that he can leave. It's funny, he thinks, how he finally felt like he'd stopped running away when he started running into you. It's funny that, now, he's itching for it, his hands gripping his cup in an attempt to still his heart - his need to escape.

You look back at him just in time to see him squeeze a little too hard, the cheap plastic lid popping off and hot coffee sloshing a bit over his hands. A mild, bemused sort of look crosses your face as you watch him curse and splutter as the coffee burns his hands and spills onto the table. Then, without a word, you stand up and begin to walk away.

Tim, in the meantime, is rubbing his hands against his jeans, his eyes squeezed shut in mortification as he wonders how he ruined it all so quickly. Not for the first time, he wishes he was in the mask - thinks maybe the only way to hold onto you is to make sure that's all you ever see. But then your cup scrapes across the table and he opens his eyes to see you sitting opposite him again, sipping idly and watching. There's a stack of napkins that he swore wasn't there before and - oh.

"Thanks," is all he can make himself say as he grabs them, cleaning up the mess he's made. As he goes to pop the lid back onto his cup, he looks at the dark liquid inside and grimaces, deciding that maybe it's not worth it.

"It's shit coffee," you say, and he slams his hand against the table, crushing the plastic lid in the process. Truly, he's not sure if he's ever acted this nervous before. You pay it no mind. He thinks maybe he could take off his mask, just this once, and reaches up to his face in time to remember that he's already exposed to you. "You're better off finding something else… or just going somewhere else." Tim smiles, then, a charming sort of thing that has you narrowing your eyes.

"I dunno,' he says. "There's something I like about right here." You glance down at your own cup, at the label that you've picked and peeled off until it's unrecognizable, the colours torn and cracked.

"There's nothing good about right here. And things like that don't change." Tim looks at you for a long moment after you speak, letting the words tumble around his head before he stands, taking his cup and squished lid and pile of wet napkins with him. 

"Well, I've never been big on change, anyway," is all he says as he walks away, dumping everything in the bin and letting the bell on the door jingle as he walks out. Looking back down to the table, you notice the card he's left behind - the Wayne Ent. logo flashing behind his name. Flipping it over, his number's been written in a hasty scrawl.

As you thumb a corner of the card, you wonder when he'd slipped it onto the table - when he'd written on it. Mostly, you wonder what kind of person he'd have to be to do it without you noticing. You trace the numbers with your finger and think that something, far in the back of your mind, is telling you that there's a familiarity about it all. 

But what's familiar about seeing someone in a place where you never should? What's normal about that man, appearing like a ghost in the night and disappearing just as fast? As you pull out your phone to add his number to your contacts, there's a part of you that thinks maybe you should run away - that maybe you're not the only thing stalking the streets of Gotham this late.

[luliadraws]

The implementation of Tim’s cowl

[chocor0se]

tim drake can either have a perfect lie that’s either planned or improvised or he just freezes up and doesn’t know what to say. there is no in between.

[tarta-de-limon]

Sketch

[dae-15]

ok so I just finished reading "I’m Pretty Sure Tim Steals Clothes: An Elaboration In The Form Of A Long Fic by PrinceJakeFireCake" and in here Tim like counts the amount of hugs he's ever received in his life right? Now last week I also read "Moon Jellyfish by xApricityx" which has Damian doing the exact thing...

So now I'm here begging someone to pls write a fic where they both do this like this stuff is what they bond over...

Just imagine the batfam and the justice league and whoever y'all want there just watching horrified as they talk about it... Like...

Damian: I have been hugged a total of 78 times 35 of which was before I came to Gotham

Tim: Huh, that's higher than mine I've only been hugged 74 times, and only 5 of those were from my parents

Damian: Talia indulges me very often

LIKE PLS?! IT WOULD BE SO GOOD!!!

[fangedbats]

Tim is Janet Drake’s son.

Oh, Jack is there — in the shape of his nose, the color of his hair — but Tim is hers in every way that matters. In the sharpness of his mind, the precision of his words, and the way he commands a room without needing to raise his voice. He is her reflection. People who knew Janet see her every time they look at him. They don’t just see the physical resemblance; they see her sharpness in the way Tim speaks, the way he moves, the way he narrows his eyes when he’s putting the pieces together. He’s a carbon copy, they’ll say, Janet’s boy through and through.

Without even realizing it, Tim mirrors her. The way she carried herself in a room — upright, composed, like nothing could touch her — he does the same, whether he’s at a gala or on a rooftop. He thinks the way she thought, always several steps ahead, with an ease that’s unsettling to those who don’t know him. And sometimes, Alfred will catch Tim tracing the rim of his glass with his fingers, a habit Janet had when she was lost in thought. When Alfred points it out, Tim will freeze for a moment, startled, before returning to his work.

Janet was ambitious, a master of strategy who thrived in high society, but she didn’t always show warmth or vulnerability. Tim inherited that same brilliance, that ability to adapt and survive, but he also inherited her flaws. Her distance, her tendency to shut people out when emotions became too complicated — he repeats these patterns, even when he doesn’t mean to. He’ll push people away and tell himself it’s for the best.

It’s not just strangers who see Janet in him. Tim feels it, too. In the way he approaches problems with an unrelenting drive, in the ruthlessness he tries to keep buried, in the moments he knows he’s more like her than he’d like to admit. And yet, there’s pride in that, too. He’s taken her sharp mind, her ambition, her adaptability, and turned it into something more. Her brilliance lives on in his detective work, in his ability to think his way out of impossible situations. Her poise serves him well when he walks into rooms full of powerful people, speaking with the same measured precision that made her so formidable.

But there’s a weight to being Janet Drake’s son. Tim didn’t know her long enough to truly understand her, and yet her influence looms over him in every way that matters. He wonders if he’s doomed to repeat her mistakes, if he’s inherited more of her flaws than her strengths. He keeps small mementos of her — a locket, a photograph — but he doesn’t look at them often. It’s too much, the reminder of what he lost and what he fears becoming.

Jack’s influence lingers in subtler ways, but it’s there. The warmth and humor Tim tries to show others? That’s Jack. The vow to never fade into the background, to never let life happen to him? That’s Jack, too, even if Tim would never admit it. But at the end of the day, the parts of him that matter most — the ones that made him who he is — are all Janet.

Tim may struggle with her legacy, with being her son, but he doesn’t deny it. He takes everything she gave him — the good, the bad, and the complicated — and chooses to make something better out of it. He doesn’t just carry Janet with him; he honors her, in his own way.

Because no matter what anyone else says, Tim Drake is her boy.

[msfcatlover]

Tim, how has this happened to you twice?