— Tim Drake ୨ৎ

Tim swears this is blackmail. That’s the only explanation.

Because there’s no way he—Tim Drake, former Robin, current Red Robin, certified overthinker of the Batfamily—would willingly agree to give his own teammate a tongue piercing.

And yet..Here you are.

And here he is.

It started with you cornering him in the common room after patrol. Still in partial gear, mask pushed up into his hair, gloves half-peeled off. You’d plopped down beside him on the couch, holding up a tiny silver barbell between your fingers like it was priceless treasure.

“Tim,” you’d said sweetly.

“No.”

“I didn’t even ask yet.”

“You’re holding metal and smiling like that. I already know it’s a bad idea.”

You scooted closer. “It’s not a bad idea. It’s a cool idea. And you’re the most precise person I know. You literally do field surgery. You’ve stitched me up before.”

“That is not the same as voluntarily stabbing you through the tongue.”

You pouted. Then you pulled out your phone and showed him the research you’d already done. Sterile tools. Proper placement guides. Aftercare instructions bookmarked.

“I trust you,” you said, softer now. “I don’t trust some random shop in Gotham City. But I trust you.”

That did it.

Tim Drake has many weaknesses.

One of them is when someone says they trust him.

He sighed. “Are you going to beg now?”

“yup,” you said immediately. “Im going to literally beg.”

And you did.

You clasped your hands dramatically. Promised to do his patrol reports for a week. Promised to stop stealing his coffee. Promised to never mention the time he tripped over his own grappling line.

“Please, Dr. Drake,” you added, batting your lashes obnoxiously. “You’re my only hope.”

He stared at you for a long moment. Then sighed. “…Fine. But we’re doing this correctly.”

Now the coffee table looks like a miniature operating station.

Sterile gloves. Individually packaged hollow needle. Disinfectant. Clamp. Saline rinse. He even marked a tiny dot on your tongue earlier to ensure proper placement away from veins. And he is in front of you, ready for the procedure but still nervous.

“You move, I stop,” he says quietly. “And if I think this is unsafe, we abort.”

You nod eagerly.

“Open.”

As you stuck your tongue out, Tim’s brain momentarily disconnects from his body. He was prepared for blood. For technique. For precision but he was not prepared for how close your face would be. How warm your breath feels. How your eyes stay locked on his while your tongue rests obediently between your lips.

He clears his throat and gently takes your tongue with sterile gauze to keep a firm grip. His touch is careful—steady but surprisingly gentle. He positions the clamp over the marked spot, hands barely trembling.

He double-checks alignment. Triple-checks. “Last chance to back out,” he murmurs.

You shake your head, tongue still out.

He steadies one hand under your chin to keep you from pulling back. With the other, he positions the hollow needle against the marked point. He inhales slowly, centering himself the way he does before disarming something delicate.

Then, in one smooth, controlled motion, he pushes the needle straight through. Clean. Quick.

Before you even have time to process it, he guides the barbell through the channel the needle created, sliding it carefully into place and removing the needle in the same fluid sequence. His fingers work fast, screwing the small metal ball securely on top.

He removes the clamp. “And… done,” he breathes.

There’s a tiny bead of blood—minimal. Exactly as expected. You carefully pull your tongue back into your mouth, testing it. Then you stick it out again to look down at the shiny silver bar.

Your grin spreads slowly. “Tim!” you try to say, though it comes out slightly thick. You grab his wrist and lean closer. “Look! It looks so good!”

He looks.

You’re inches from him now. Mouth open, tongue out, silver glint catching the light. You’re smiling like he just handed you the world. His face burns.

“I— Yes. Symmetry is correct,” he manages, voice slightly strained. “Minimal swelling so far. Textbook placement.”

You lean even closer, squinting at his phone screen reflection. Your shoulder presses against his chest.

He pulls off his gloves with more force than necessary, tossing them aside. Suddenly he’s hyper-aware of how close you are. Of how your hand is still loosely holding his wrist. Of how the new piercing makes your smile look… distracting.

“You have to rinse with saline after meals,” he says rapidly. “No spicy food. No alcohol. No— no unnecessary mouth activity.”

The second it leaves his mouth, he freezes. You raise an eyebrow. His entire face goes crimson.

“I meant talking,” he backtracks immediately. “Excessive talking.”

You laugh and stick your tongue out at him again just to show it off.

Tim has faced assassins, metahumans, and cosmic threats. But this?

You smiling at him from inches away, clearly thrilled, clearly proud, clearly looking at him like he hung the moon?

That might be the most dangerous thing of all. “…It suits you,” he mutters quietly, finally meeting your eyes.

And he absolutely refuses to acknowledge how fast his heart is beating.