|The D.C Collection | Imagines, One-Shots, Preferences, and More |

Oops | Tim Drake x Reader

Description: We all make mistakes. Sometimes our mistakes are the cause of built-up bad luck. You must have had a lot of bad luck...

Words: 780

Notes: Basically me venting about my stupid mistake. I'm in a very Timbo mood right now, so I guess he became the comforter in this situation. Happy spoopy month. I really need a Tim Drake to call me "sunshine" right now. Hopefully, I'm not the only person who needs this.

Sorry, the page says, the URL above clearly reading the one belonging to your blog, this blog doesn't exist anymore.

You settle back into your chair, the leather scrunching as your nose does. You couldn't have... no, no, that's impossible... how could you just accidentally delete months of work? You had millions of words typed down, thousands of ideas drawn out and painstakingly thought over. That all just couldn't be gone... right?

But you realize that yes, everything you've worked so hard to create is now gone, and will never be able to come back. You knew that. Not even Tim could fix this. Something brews uncomfortably in your stomach as the truth strikes you, and then your eyes begin to sting with tears and the entirety of your confidence and bliss is spilled into the dirt. You had just deleted six months of writing. Six months of your future.

Through a storm of thoughts that uproots your dreams from the place buried in your heart, tearing it apart and into the wind piece-by-ugly-piece, do you choke out a sob and collapsed into your own knees. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. No backup drive. Not even one .txt document with even a single word. Man, you could really go for some ice cream right now. Or a Tim Drake.

He's been keeping up with all of your milestones, and has his own blog that follows yours. When you reached 600 followers he got you a [favorite dessert]. All he asked for his birthday was a story written by you, and when you retold the tale of how you had first met (from your own point of view) Tim was close to tears. Surely he could help in some way, even if that meant giving really needed hugs.

It's like he can read your mind, because the moment you decide to get up and search for him he appears. Smiling, Tim holds up two coffee mugs,"Hey, so remember that weird coffee blend I was talking to you ab—" And then he takes in your miserable expression. He practically throws the mugs on the nearest surface, speedily scooping his arms under your shoulders and clutching you to him,"Sunshine, what happened? What's wrong?"

"The blog—" You choke, breath hitching and stuttering as you try to speak. The muscles of your face contort with the force of your tears. You shake your head and delve into him,"I—I deleted it, Tim, it-it's all gone." Your pain wraps its bony hands around your throat, constricting your words,"It was an accident."

"Hey, it's alright. I'm sure I can find a way to get it back..." He says, even if he's unsure himself. You shake your head, opening your mouth against the fabric of his sweatshirt. Pain tightens its grapple on your neck and you lose your thought painfully. Tim wilts with the harsh sounds and tightens your embrace, sweetly carding your hair already sticking to your teary face,"I'm so sorry, Y/N."

Tim is so warm and comforting. You whimper, too weak to beg to stay in the enveloping love of his arms when he distances himself. Tim cups your face, wiping at tears with his thumbs,"Hey, my therapist says that crying is actually really good for you. So cry as much as you need, okay? I'll take care of it, I'll remake it for you and set up the description and the theme while you take a nap. Just how you had it. I promise."

"But—but everything I wrote," You emphasize, holding his shoulders as you lean into him,"All of the stories, every three-thousand word imagine. What am—what am I gonna do?"

Tim's lips press into your temple. His voice dies to a softer tone, and he whispers,"You're gonna cuddle with me and watch Disney movies. And then I'm going to do everything I can to fix your blog and get some of your followers back. I promise."

You rub some of the tears from your face, sniffling near-violently,"Tim, you don't have to—"

"Too late." Tim smiles. He pulls his phone from his pocket, already typing fervently on his screen. Wrapping his arm around your waist, warmly kissing your cheek, he delivers you to the bed and guides you to lie down. You murmur a "thank you" between sniffles, and Tim only nods. He sweeps down once more, kissing your forehead.

The bed dips, and then he is surrounding you once more, smelling thickly of coffee and fresh paper. You hiccup against his heart and burrow into him. He strokes your face as he pulls you deeper into his sweatshirt, cooing,"Cry as much as you need to, sweetheart."