i’m cleaning up my computer and apparently i tried to draw timsteph before
untitled tim/steph mackin’ drabble;
Kissing Tim was — an adrenaline rush, every time, like they were running down a hill without looking where they were going, not caring where they might end up.
The thing about kissing Tim was, it was nothing like how anyone might guess. It’s always the quiet ones, you know. For a boy who kept his hands above the waist, Tim was a filthy kisser, focused and intent and a bit of a biter, and she loved it, gave as good as she got, and they sent each other home with hickeys under their kevlar collars like the careless teenagers that they were.
She always liked that, how it felt like she knew something about him that no one else did.
Late nights and the solid weight of Tim’s shoulders beneath her gloved hands, the give as she pushed him into hard-brick walls, the way his hands steadied at her waist, fingers digging into kevlar — it felt like nothing else but this could ever be right — like they could never go wrong, like it could last forever.
If there was one thing about Princess Stephanie that didn’t surprise Prince Tim, it would be the fact that every night, without fail, she would appear on nine o’clock every night at his window.
"How do you even climb up here?" he had once whispered quietly, helping Princess Stephanie into his room.
"I have amazing skills, obviously," replied Princess Stephanie, voice full of sarcasm and wit before kissing Prince Tim on the cheek. "C’mon, Prince Charming. Tell me a story."
Okay so these two literally kill me
who gave you the right to be so cute?
Tim is patching up all of Steph’s injuries dsfgdsfghsdhs
but in my dreams we’re still runnin’ through the yard, Tim Drake/Stephanie Brown, ~3200 k.
She’s got her share of sharp edges now too. Just when she thought she had enough already, just when she thought that the world was done carving them out of her for once.
What a pair they make.
The uniform doesn’t help, for all that it wasn’t hers, wasn’t his, not the one she knows like the back of her hand — the shoulders that she’d gripped the first time they kissed, the green-clad thigh nudged between her knees. No green in this one; Tim’s own private funeral garb. All it is is a reminder. Things lost, things gained, things torn apart.
Who’s planning on sitting in a pumpkin patch tonight
Reposting other people’s graphics is rude and not cool. Please don’t do it.