you might be able to tell but i’ve been scrolling through your prompt lists and sending a few requests lmao so heres another one: “I’ll give you fifty bucks if I can take you to Christmas dinner and tell my family we’re together. They always ask if I’m dating and I can’t have that conversation again.” with Tim Drake and his long suffering bestie lol thanks babe! you’re quite possibly my favourite DC/batboys writer

aspiratinganxiety:

I have been so excited to write this prompt! It took me a couple of days to get it just right, but I’m finally pleased. This is only Part I. The actual Christmas party will be published later in Part II.

So, I don’t know if you’ve all noticed, but I tend to flesh out any of my reader characters as OCs. I have a very distinct image of them in my mind, and I like to do my best to portray that image in a neutral, easily overlooked or converted way. At least insomuch as the physical appearance of the character…

I say that because this one is a little more specific. Basically, I point out in this fic that she’s small-breasted. I tend to avoid eye and hair color, skin color, sometimes length of hair, and (for the most part) weight. This time I just felt like being more descriptive of the physicality I attached to this reader-character in my mind.

I do not mean to be exclusive or to put off any people reading this by alienating their body from the reader-character. Sometimes though, I imagine, it’s nice for the girls who are less than a handful to get some representation as having an attractive chest.       

I hope you like it, sweetheart. Let me know. 

The essay in front of you has already eaten up four hours of your day, and the MLA citations are still worlds away from acceptable. Cutting your teeth on seventh edition through your AP classes in private school, it was just your fucking luck that Gotham University chose the second semester of your freshman year to require the whole English department to transition into the eighth edition. Of course, the English chairman enforcing this strict new standard to the additional classwork you were doing as an intern over winter break is a disheartening kick to the lady-balls all on its own…

However, you thrive on onerous academic requirements, and so willingly sacrifice your first true day of winter vacation (two weeks after the rest of the student body) in order to promptly submit a research account of the trial adolescent literature course that you sped through in exchange for a of couple credit hours on the sly. 

Electronica and indie-pop beat through your headset at an ear-splitting decibel, and so you do not hear the twenty or so odd texts that set your phone pinging. Neither do you hear when Tim buzzes incessantly at your apartment’s call box until, finally, some merciful mother with an arm full of groceries and three rosy-cheeked kids crammed into a double stroller allows him to enter the building in order to escape the bitter Gotham cold. He doesn’t bother to knock at your door, having deduced that you are either in the shower or obliterating your eardrums. 

After discretely picking your lock, he meanders through your place and back into your bedroom. That’s where your desktop is set up. Cringing, he realizes that he can hear the ghost of music spilling out of your headphones all the way in the hall.

Tim leans against the door jamb when he sees you, averting his eyes as an embarrassing rush of warmth runs through him. In spite of the stupidly low temperature on your thermostat, you sit in a pair of thin pajama shorts and a cotton tank top that matches the color of the snowflakes dotting your bottoms. Your legs are curled up into the plush office chair, feet tucked beneath your knees as your hips and shoulders roll subtly to the upbeat music. Your head bobs along with the tempo, and your lips silently shape the lyrics. 

It is a particularly mighty effort to look away from your lips.  

Tim’s disappointed in himself for the reaction, especially considering the trust that you extend to him as a platonic confidant and companion. He’s also shocked by it. His attraction to you very rarely overwhelms him, as the two of you had contextualized your friendship based upon the fact that both of you were in long-term relationships when you’d starting hanging out. 

In the beginning though, even while he was with Steph, every other word or look you sent his way made his pulse scramble. Your intelligence and humor were sources of delight, your smiles were easy and kind, and Tim had found that the bulkiest jackets or frumpiest pajamas didn’t keep him from eyeing whatever he could make out of your frame.

These subconscious responses to your company were viciously quashed in order to safely pursue your friendship while being respectful of his commitment to Stephanie. And they had remained largely dormant for the five glorious years of your friendship. 

He successfully did not outwardly express any sense of attraction, and you certainly didn’t. 

Tim glances over the messy stacks of desecrated paperbacks littering the surface of your desk and pouring onto the floor beside you, gathering his thoughts. He needs to pluck up the courage to pursue the agenda of his visit. It takes longer than it should, and he quietly admits to himself that the context of his coming request as well as your shared status of being newly single has perhaps dredged up his baser inclinations toward you.

Your pale shirt, ice cold home, and pert little breasts don’t exactly help the situation either. 

Once sufficiently curtailed, he attempts to gently alert you to his presence by swiping the book you have tented over the arm of your chair. You jump, swearing loudly and ripping your headset off as though prepared to use it as a weapon. He grins down at you, shamefully amused by the utter betrayal on your face. 

“Oh my God, Tim! What is wrong with you? Are you trying to kill me?” 

“What’s wrong with me?” He tosses the novel down on your desk and flicks the earloop of your bulky, noise-cancelling setup. “What’s wrong with you? At this rate, you’ll need cochlear implants by thirty.”

“Dude, so not the point,” you say, huffing. “We talked about picking my lock. Namely: stop freakin’ doing it.” 

Immediately self-conscious, you cross your arms over your chest and glare up at him like a cat in a bathtub. You curse yourself for not taking the time to change out of your PJs before delving into your hefty schoolwork. 

He scoffs at you, a playful sound. “Oh, settle down. I’ve been trying to text you all morning. I waited outside in the freezing cold buzzing your apartment for like, five whole minutes before some lady took pity on me and I stooped to picking the lock.” 

“Oh, five whole minutes,” you mock him, still a bit grumpy and angling past him on wobbly legs to get into your closet.  

He gives another satisfied, dismissive sound; clearly quite tickled to have given you such a startle. “I would have waited for you to respond,” he calls through the closed door. “But I have a super important favor to ask you.”

Your knee-jerk irritation fizzles as a swell of happiness accompanies the realization that one of your best friends has come to pay you a visit, and you acknowledge the likelihood that he had tried to politely gain entrance to your home multiple ways before disregarding your request. While you’re at it, you dismantle the initial embarrassment you felt, remembering the handful of times that Tim had seen you in similar sets of clothing as well as the utter lack of notice he paid to your body during those encounters. 

You dress quickly and messily, tugging up some jeans and throwing a sweatshirt over your tank top without bothering to add or exchange any undergarments. Emerging from your closet, you find that Tim has flopped onto your bed, not bothering to fix the sheets or comforter before settling in. 

“I’m just gonna’ cut to the chase,” he says, looking bleak. 

You nod, sitting back down in your computer chair and swiveling to face him. “Go for it.”

“I’ll give you fifty bucks if I can take you to Christmas dinner and tell my family we’re together. Since Steph and I broke up, they’re always asking if I’m dating again yet, and I just can’t have that conversation over Christmas dinner. I can’t.” 

You rock back in your chair until you press against the cushioned panel behind you. There are a few beats of silence. Tim is squirming, red-faced, and progressively more uncomfortable as your wordless stare continues. 

“Fifty bucks?” you ask, feigning offense. “You think you can buy an evening of my company for fifty American dollars?”

“Uh,” he fumbles, glancing around your bedroom and avoiding your ornery eye contact. “I was honestly hoping that you’d go with me and lie to my family for free because you are a good and benevolent friend?” 

“Ha!” You slam yourself forward and slap your knee. “Timmy-boy, you’re lying to me and to yourself with that one.” If he could hold your stare for more than a nanosecond, you’re sure he’d see that you’re playing. “There’s no way I’m going anywhere with you for less than $2500.” 

He finally looks you in the eye long enough to appear genuinely heartbroken, and it pulls the rug right out from under your fun. You go breathless at the sight of his hurt, and fill your lungs to recant all of the teasing. 

Before you get the chance, he ups the ante. His face goes determined, and he lifts his pelvis to snag the wallet out of his back pocket. The movement and subsequent rearrangement of his clothing distract you from clearing the air. He peeled off his coat while you were putting on some pants. The hem of his long-sleeved t-shirt creeps up when he arches his back and reaches beneath himself. You zero in on the wildly pale strip of skin that spreads over the crests of his hips and lower tummy. It’s taught over his intense, wiry musculature with a sparse stripe of dark hair, loosely gathered in a trail that leads steadily down beneath his fly.

You don’t know what to do with yourself. It’s been years, literally years, since you found yourself thinking such direct thoughts about Tim’s physicality. Mostly, you’d resented his ludicrous level of fitness and the irritating way that your hormonal Chernobyl of a teenage body had obsessed over it. Learning that he was Robin had mostly cleared it up for you. He wasn’t some closet ‘roid case sniffing around for compliments to his masculinity. His body served a brutal purpose, and you did your very best to no longer begrudge or objectify him. 

Though, God help you, he’s just so pretty it’s sometimes impossible to contain all of the thirst.    

A sleek black card is waving in front of your face and Tim is sitting upright when you blink back into the conversation. 

You stare at his irritated expression. “Huh?” 

“I said that you can take my credit card and pick out everything that you want to wear that evening. You can keep it, and I’ll pay for it. The dress, the shoes, the jewelry. If you want to get your hair professionally done or hire somebody to do your makeup, I’ll pay for that too. Deal?” 

You glance between the plastic he’s offering you and the hardened look on his face. “Tim,” you say with consolation in your tone. “You don’t have to pay for anything. I’ll go with you to Christmas dinner and lie to your family for free. I was joking. I swear.”

You push the hand holding the credit card down against your mattress, effectively removing it from the conversation.

“You’ve gotta’ admit,” you say, grinning. “The way you propositioned me made it sound like you were haggling down the price of a shady Craigslist ad.”  

He seems appeased, though lost in thought. You leave your hand on top of his, and you wonder, somewhat ashamed, if you missed anything else that he said while you were drooling.

“I appreciate the sentiment,” he offers you a shy smile, and your heart flutters. “But you should really take me up on this one. There’s a gala we’ll have to attend afterward. It’s been tradition for a few years now. We have an early Christmas dinner in event attire. Then, as a family, we attend the charity gala that the Wayne Foundation puts on to raise money for making sure families all over Gotham have their utilities, a good dinner, and some presents on actual Christmas.”

“I know, Tim. I’ve been to your family’s Christmas party twice.” 

“Yeah, but not as a member of the family. If you go with me, we’re going to be plastered all over gossip sites and crappy magazines for weeks. Not to mention, I need you to convince a room full of incredibly intelligent detectives that have known both of us for years that we are there romantically, not platonically. Anything else, and my torment at the hands of Dick and Jason will never end.”

You pull some air through your teeth, retracting your hand and lounging in your chair again. “Well…” you shoot your friend a smirk. “I do love a good challenge.”