any tim

anonymous asked:

hi! do you have any fic recs for arkham verse jason?

sure!! not as many as i would like but here have some

I will bet you all of the fifty-two cents in my pocket that Bruce has to resort to picking up his Robins by the cape when they’re misbehaving on patrol. Like you see Batman and Robin after they finish tying up the Joker and Batman clearly wants to leave, but Robin is busy trash talking Joker about how the purple suit was never in fashion and he’s seen cats who could rob a bank better than he can. And then you just see Batman sigh heavily before walking over, grabbing the kid’s cape, and dragging him away muttering something about being home in time for dinner or else Alfie will be pissed.         

Jaytim week Day 5: Love Notes

Highschool au where Jason leaves romantic book quotes in Tim’s locker almost every day, hoping that Tim’s smart enough to figure it out. Tragically, Tim is a clueless loser and thinks someone’s leaving love notes to their girlfriend in the wrong locker. 

Rent-a-Boyfriend™

Words: 12k

Genre: Extreme fluff for all you bitter people out there (me being included)

Read more at Service Series 

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Rules for Alfred’s kitchen

- Master Bruce you are not allowed to cook under any circumstance.

- If I have not cleared you to use the kitchen please go straight to the take out menus in the left hand drawer.

- Science experiments are not to be done here. The Batcave is there for a reason. Please use it instead.

- I don’t want to find any of your weapons in here. If I do you will be on dish duty for a week per weapon.

- Jason may have full reign of the kitchen as I trust him to not blow it up

- Banned members from the kitchen now include Roy

- If you would like to learn to cook please just ask me. I promise it will be better then me finding my kitchen in a mess.

- If I catch you drinking straight out of any container you are on dish duty.

- Chemicals, especially those known to have poisons are not to come across the kitchen.

- If there is a food fight, I will check the cameras and all parties involved will be in trouble.

- I do not care if you are not a member of this household, I can still put you on dish duty for breaking my rules.

- Master Tim is now banned from the kitchen along with Master Dick.

-Vodka Luck Spell-

From my personal Grimoire, because who doesn’t love a good luck booze for your night out…or night in alone with pizza!


You will need:
A shot of vodka (Or any alcohol of choice, Tim prefers whiskey)
A drop or two of mint extract
A rose petal
A shot glass

Mix the mint extract and vodka in the shot glass and add the rose to top.
Say something similiar to this:

“I drink to you, oh Lady Luck!
Make those around me be awestruck!”

And down the shot!



(Please drink responsibly, seriously)

Batman headcanon that when Dick and Jay were Robin they were very vocal about Batman not being their dad. Dick because he had his own parents he missed and Jason out of anger and insecurities. While everyone could see that Batman clearly thought of his Robins as his children, they most likely weren’t his biologically.

Then Tim comes along and Tim is very quiet and practical. He doesn’t know that the previous Robins have loudly proclaimed to the entire GCPD/Rogues gallery that they are not related to Batman at all. So whenever the question comes up, Tim dodges and redirects so he won’t give away anything important. So basically, everyone thinks after a while that Tim is the Bat’s actual kid since he’s the only one not denying it. He does make the claim once he’s more established and Nightwing, with tears of laughter in his eyes, tells Tim that it’s okay to tell but it’s too late, no one believes him now. Riddler will make snide comments about offing the Bat’s “real kid” and Tim is just there with a silently screaming face while Bruce just gives him an odd look. Tim is so embarrassed but nothing he does can convince people he’s not actually related to Batman.

So when Damian comes along, he learns pretty quickly that Gotham thinks Tim is Bruce’s actual child and is, of course, very offended by the very thought. Because he is so extra, he then spends all his time on patrol gripping Batman’s cape and calling him ‘Father’ really loudly and Bruce just kind of wants to die but Damian won’t let up. So now Gotham thinks Tim and Dami are his two blood children and that’s why they fight so much “just like any other siblings” and Tim has worked for years to dispel this myth please let him live the embarrassment alone will kill him if Damian’s possessiveness doesn’t first.

  • Jason: Tim.
  • Jason: Timothy.
  • Jason: Timbo.
  • Jason: Timmy.
  • Jason: Timtam.
  • Jason: Tympole.
  • Jason: Tim-tack-toe.
  • Jason: Tim-ber.
  • Jason: Tim-bucktu.
  • Jason: Tim-belina.
  • Jason: Tim-Jim.
  • Jason: Tim-celot.
  • Jason: Tim's-a-snot.
  • Jason: Tim-ora Pierce.
  • Jason: ...
  • Jason: Come on, Bread Robin, don't ignore me.
  • Tim: I'm sorry what?
  • Tim: Bread Robin?
  • Jason: Is that the only thing you paid any attention to?
  • Tim: Bread Robin. What the heck, Jason?

anonymous asked:

What about how each of the boys handles having to patch up the other boys after a patrol goes wrong?

This I can do!

Dick: he’s totally a mother hen and will relentlessly check and fuss to make sure that even the smallest little scratch is taken care of, even if the injured patient is ready to sock him in the jaw. He’s very soothing and is really good at getting people to rest without arguing

Jason: he’s calm and collected and has surprisingly gentle bedside manner. He will talk softly to whoever he’s tending to so they’re distracted (especially when stitching someone up or doing more painful procedures) and makes sure to tell them what he’s doing so there aren’t any surprises

Tim: he’s a bit more chaotic but is still relatively under control; he often talks to himself while patching someone up and then gets startled when they respond to him. He sometimes distracts his patient with stories or facts that kind of lull them to sleep or just draws their focus away from the pain

Duke: at first he wasn’t too sure what to do since he didn’t have to deal with people getting routinely beat to a pulp every night, but he asked the injured person to guide him and eventually he figured it all out (with some help from Google) and he makes sure to check in with his patient to see that he’s doing everything right

Damian: he tends to scold his patient for getting injured and tells them what they could have done to avoid being injured in the first place, but he will adamantly insist that he needs to patch them up so they can rest, no if ands or buts about it so they know he does want them to be safe

anonymous asked:

oh my goooooooosh can you pls make a top 5 locations sidney crosby can kick my ass because i feel that shit on a personal level everyday and your geno one was just too good like i needmorebitch

top 5 locations for sidney crosby to beat my ass

5. on his little dock - cole harbour, nova scotia. reason: probably has several fishing poles with which to beat me, could easily push me off the dock and into the water, no witnesses.

4. live on TSN sportscentre - toronto, ontario. reason: can be broadcast to his many adoring fans in canada, also he would probably be able to get an “accidental” punch or two on don cherry, which is always a plus.

3. on gary bettman’s front lawn - saddle river, new jersey. reason: it sends a great message to bettman that sid will kick anyone’s ass. also proximity to bettman will surely put sid’s anger levels through the roof, ensuring a good ass-whooping.

2. the parking lot of any tim horton’s in canada. reason: sid’s powers are at their highest when he is in within 100 ft of a timmy’s. also nathan mackinnon would probably pop up at some point to help him.

1. at center ice in the middle of the Sidney Crosby Hockey School - cole harbour, nova scotia. reason: home ice advantage, lots of friends to help him, a bunch of small hockey kids cheering him on.

You is a Dad - Tim Drake x Reader

Here’s a fluffy happy times fic. Because I can do those, too. Look at this post first, because it helps things make more sense

Tagging: @speedypan @memento-scribet @cait-writes-stuff @batfamily-imagines

Words: 787


“Can somebody please tell me why we’re watching Titanic? Again?” Jason asks as he plops himself down on the couch.

“Because it’s a beautiful work of cinematography, and it’s my turn to pick the movie.” Dick sits in front of the TV and inserts the movie into the DVD player.

“You do know that Rose and Jack weren’t really people on the Titanic, don’t you?” Tim sits down and leaves space for you to sit next to him.

“I don’t care! It’s a beautiful story!” Dick rolls on the floor until he’s sitting in front of the couch. Apparently furniture is too good for him tonight.

Bruce walks in holding Damian by the scruff of his shirt and plants the younger boy in a chair before finding a seat himself. Damian sulks in his seat, bitter about the fact that he can’t escape another movie night.

You walk into the living room with a plastic shopping bag just before Dick hits play on the movie.

“Hey, Timmy, we found a card while shopping today that I think you might like!” You sit down next to him and pull out the card that Jason had pointed out earlier. Now is as great of a time as any to tell Tim your big news.

You’d accidentally let it slip to Jason that you were pregnant, and you needed a way to tell Tim that he would be a father. So when you read the pale blue card with the words “What is a Dad?” printed on the front, you knew it would be perfect. The words “You. You is a Dad” on the inside only solidified the card’s perfection, and you bought it without a second thought.

Tim looks at you with a raised eyebrow as he takes the envelope from your hand. “Why did you buy it? It’s just a card. You could have taken a picture or something.”

“Just open the damn card, Timothy.” You huff.

“I’d do what she says, Timberly. Before she accidentally kills you.” Jason leans forward and speaks in a stage whisper. You shoot Jason flaming daggers with your eyes, and he falls back into the couch, trying to avoid upsetting the hormonal pregnant lady.

Tim opens the envelope and reads the card.

But instead of getting excited like you thought he would, he just stares at it with confusion.

“How did this card get past any editors? It isn’t grammatically correct.”

“Oh my god, Tim, that is not the point of the card.”

“But the point of the card isn’t even relevant because I’m not a dad.”

“Just give it a few months.” You roll your eyes and lean into the couch, completely done trying to explain the situation to your boyfriend in a fun and creative way.

“Y/N, what are you talking abou—Oh, shit.” Tim’s eyes double in size as soon as he realizes what you’ve been trying to tell him. “You don’t mean that you’re…?” He points to you.

You simply nod your head.

“So that means I’m…?” He points to himself, and you nod again, this time with a faint smile.

“I’m going to be a dad?” He asks more to himself than anyone else. He stares at the carpet for a few seconds, letting that fact sink in. When he looks up his eyes are wide and full of life, and he’s radiating a new, warm energy that completely melts your heart. “Bruce! I’m going to be a dad! Y/N! I’m going to be a dad!” He leans closer to you and gently places a hand over your stomach. When he talks, his voice is full of wonder. “And you’re going to be a mom.”

“I’m proud of you, Timbo. I didn’t know you had it in you.” Jason speaks up from his place on the couch. “Or rather, I didn’t know you had it in Y/N.”

Your smiling face instantly falls into the did-you-really-just-say-what-I-think-you-just-said-I’m-going-to-kill-you expression that Jason has been causing so much lately. Without breaking eye contact with Jason, you hurl a pillow at his face, which he easily catches and holds to his chest.

Tim either didn’t hear what Jason said or is choosing to ignore it. He is completely enamored with you and your growing child, and he looks up at you with eyes that are full of love and tears.

“Y/N. We’re going to be parents.” He kisses you before resting his forehead against yours. He’s crying happy tears now, and you brush one from his cheek with the pad of your thumb. “I can’t believe it. We’re going to be parents.”

“So,” Jason speaks up from behind his pillow. “How long until we find out if it’s a Timothy or a Timberly?”

Stabilized

This should go up on AO3 soon and I’ll add the link. I’m still on official hiatus from fic prompts and chapter updates, but I’m writing other things as I have time and inspiration strikes. This was spawned out of a brief conversation about a specific line of dialogue and it was fun to write. It got sappy and I do not apologize.

Stabilized
Gen/Family Bonding
Tim Drake + Bruce Wayne
Rated T for Language
~2500 words

The Batmobile roared into the Cave and the engine cut-off, plunging the bay into silence. Only voices from the medical unit carried over when Batman leapt out of the car.

“How is he?” he called, pulling back his cowl as he hurried up the steps.

“Dazed and a little incoherent,” came Alfred’s reply. “I’m still assessing him now.”

Bruce had been on patrol with Damian when Oracle had informed him over the comm that Tim had been taken back to the cave with a head injury of unspecified severity. Cassandra had found him and then had fallen silent on the comms after letting Oracle know.

He climbed the steps to see Tim perched on the edge of the gurney, a bucket in his hands. It looked freshly rinsed. Cass was sitting on the countertop with her arms wrapped around her folded legs. Alfred was prepping a CT scanner they’d invested in after an earlier nasty head wound.

“Is Robin with you?” Alfred asked, glancing over as Bruce took in the scene.

“He’s with Batgirl,” Bruce said, not taking his eyes off Tim.

“Miss Cassandra might appreciate your help in engaging Master Timothy’s attention.”

“Listen,” Cass said, when Bruce took a step closer to them. Tim had still not noticed his arrival, or if he had, he had given no indication of it. “Tim. Tell me again. Becoming Robin.”

“So,” Tim said, his word slurred. He leaned forward over the bucket and nearly toppled off the gurney. Cass slid forward, a tangle of limbs unfurling and stretching toward him in the same instant Bruce put a hand on Tim’s shoulder and gently pushed him upright again.

“So,” Tim repeated, “you know, you know the first part.”

“Green. Girls. Fast cars,” Cass supplied, weight braced on her hands on the countertop. She held her body aloft, an inch above the surface, by her splayed palms.

Bruce’s heartbeat stuttered, knowing and hating this origin story. He loved Tim but he tried not to think often of why Tim was there.

“Exaaaactly,” Tim said. “Gone. So, B, you know B, he’s a fucking disaster. Like Cass you don’t even know how bad. He was erratic and violent and reclusive like a baby kangaroo. Cass, don’t laugh at me, I’m serious,” Tim’s voice took on a pleading tone and Cass was in fact, giggling behind her hands. She’d dropped back to the counter to cover her face. “Baby kangaroos are dangerous, Cass. They have really strong legs but they hide, too,” Tim sounded near tears.

“Okay,” she said, consoling. Bruce felt like he wasn’t doing much to help other than ensuring Tim wouldn’t topple over, but he was also reluctant to miss the rest of the story from Tim’s perspective.

“He was hiding and I knew where to find him,” Tim said. “I snuck in. Who gives a fuck about rules, not me. I never have. Anyway I found him, and he was all like, ‘What are you doing here, punk? Aren’t you Jack Drake’s kid?’”

Bruce had half-anticipated this part of the story, but he has not anticipated that Tim’s voice would rise to a falsetto while imitating Bruce’s lines instead of dropping to a lower octave. He had to stifle a sudden laugh.

Cass’ eyes were shining and Bruce realized belatedly she’d said “again” earlier. She had wanted him to hear this.

“Then what,” Cass prompted when Tim’s attention began to drift.

“Oh,” Tim said. “Oh yeah. So. So, I found him. And he was angry. But I just told him the truth. I said, ‘bitch, you need some kid to stabilize you, and I guess I have to be it.’”

Bruce, despite his twinges of guilt and amusement, could not actually argue with the truth of this summation.

“I seem to remember more pleading on your end, Master Timothy,” Alfred interjected a bit defensively.

“No, that’s pretty much it,” Bruce said with a wry grin. Cass beamed at him unabashedly.

Tim turned as if surprised and looked up at Bruce standing next to him.

“Hey, bitch,” he said in a sluggish tone. “I mean, Bruce,” he amended without apology.

“Hey, kid,” Bruce said. “They told me you hit your head.”

“That’s stupid,” Tim spit out bitterly. “Something else hit my head, not me. I’m not an idiot.”

“Brick wall,” Cass said.

“That,” Tim said forcefully, pointing a finger at her. “What Rainbow Daughter said.”

“True name,” Cass clarified for Bruce. “Secret.”

“The scanner is ready,” Alfred said. “Master Timothy, if you might lie back?”

“Try and make me,” Tim said. “I can go back out there. I’m fine!”

“Tim,” Bruce said, a little sternly, and Tim sighed and reclined on the bed, still clutching the bucket. “Has he been nauseous?” Bruce asked Alfred.

“No,” Tim answered. “I just like this bucket.”

“Ask him questions,” Alfred said. “Keep him awake, if you might.”

“Favorite dinosaur?” Cass asked before Bruce could think of anything.

“Velociraptor,” Tim answered with a scoffing noise. “What kind of question is that.”

“Movie?” Bruce asked and Cass gave him an alarmed expression. From inside the portable scanner Tim sniffled hard and bit back a sob.

“Dumbo,” he whispered a second later.

“Favorite happy film,” Alfred amended, giving Bruce a severe look. “One must specify.”

Cass added a reproving frown to this, and a nod, as if it was common sense.

Inside the machine, Tim sniffed again and answered in a steadier tone, “No such thing. Is Bruce still there?”

“Yes,” Bruce answered.

“Tell them. There are no happy films,” Tim insisted.

“I’m sure there are some happy films,” Bruce countered slowly, looking to see Alfred’s still disapproving reaction to this concession.

“But you haven’t seen any,” Tim said sourly. “You can’t think of any. Art is misery.”

Bruce, who had been feeling slightly bewildered by his apparently massive misjudgment moments before, knew immediately that this was something he could salvage.

“That isn’t true,” he argued, ignoring the absurdity of disagreeing with a stubborn teenager who had a probably massive concussion. “What about the photo essay on abandoned research labs in Gotham?”

“The one I did for Wired?” Tim asked hesitantly. “Yeah, that was fun.”

In the corner of Bruce’s line of sight, Cass bit her lip to hold back a pleased smile.

“Nikon or Canon?” Bruce asked next, dragging a wheeled stool over to the gurney and sitting down.

“Digital or traditional?” Tim asked, his whole body now otherwise still.

“Both,” Cass said. “I guessed.”

“Canon for digital, Nikon for traditional,” Tim said. “Were you right?”

“Yes,” Cass said quietly, despite having no proof of this. Bruce didn’t doubt her. He himself had been fairly certain.

“Hell yes,” Tim said triumphantly. “Sibs know shit.”

“Sibs know shit,” Cass repeated solemnly, like it was a vow of some kind. For all the weight they gave it, Bruce supposed it might have been.

“I’m gonna sleep,” Tim announced with a yawn. “It’s so cold in here.”

“Tim,” Bruce said, instead of trying to persuade him otherwise. “Which USSR camera model did you prefer?”

“You don’t remember that,” Tim said as if it were obvious fact. “No way.”

“Of course I do,” Bruce said, because he did.

“Zorki-6,” Tim said with a fond sigh.

“Why?” Bruce asked, because he wanted to keep him talking and because he’d always been curious about the antique camera Tim had spent a long spring season taking everywhere. He’d come to Bruce’s office after school most afternoons to sit on the couch and do homework and fiddle with the settings. He’d take pictures from the window, or traipse around the building with the camera, and develop them in the darkroom at the manor afterward instead of going home. But Bruce has never asked– Tim had been skittish about his art then, likely to tuck it away if anyone paid attention.

“Because no one else that I knew had one,” Tim said. “And it smelled like your old briefcase.”

Bruce was so acutely aware of Cass sitting nearby and Alfred beside him overseeing the machine as it powered down that it didn’t take much effort to retain his face’s composure, but there was a moment where it nearly broke in surprise and sentimental warmth.

“Good smell,” Cass said.

“Hell yes,” Tim said again. “One of the best. Like vanilla extract.”

Bruce was frozen on the stool while they discussed this and he exchanged a look with Alfred that told him, without words, that his semblance of facial control was likely a myth.

“Ew,” Cass said. “Bitter.”

“I told you, you can’t taste it,” Tim said. “Extract is gross to taste.”

The machine rolled back and Tim was prone on the bed, still, the small bin wrapped in his arms.

“This is just a cursory glance,” Alfred said, “but I don’t see anything concerning. His heart rate is still a tad elevated.”

A suspicion bloomed in Bruce’s mind and his frozen limbs moved again. He slid the stool down toward Tim’s head and leaned over the bed, looking into the boy’s face.

“Tim. How many shots of espresso did you get in your red eye tonight?”

“Oh,” Tim said, thinking. “Before I fought with the wall.”

“Yes,” Bruce said, a smile quirking one side of his mouth.

“Uh,” Tim said, meeting Bruce’s gaze and then looking down at the bin. “You’re going to be pissed.”

“I won’t be,” Bruce said, promising to himself as much as Tim. “If you tell me, you might get to sleep soon.”

“I’m so tired,” Tim allowed. “Really. Like, it’s been days. Fudge. I’m so tired.”

“C’mon,” Bruce said, and he felt Cass move behind him before he saw her at his elbow.

Cass bent forward and kissed Tim’s forehead.

“You tell,” she said. “Or else.”

“Seven,” Tim whined with a hand over his eyes. “Seven, okay? And maaaaybe a Red Bull. I’m a robin. It gives me wings.”

“Well, that solves that mystery,” Bruce said, sitting up. “Al, mark this one down as a minor concussion and an excess of caffeine consumption.”

“Master Timothy,” Alfred said, aghast. “You ought to know better.”

“I said don’t be mad!” Tim protested.

“Master Bruce made such a promise,” Alfred replied sharply, with worry in his voice. “You will be staying here for a few days, is that understood?”

Tim nodded sullenly and stuck both arms in the air, suddenly, the bin clattering on the floor when it fell.

“Carry me,” he ordered. “I can’t feel my legs.”

Cass reached over and prodded his knee; Tim’s leg jerked away.

“Liar,” she said simply.

“I’m compromised.” Tim jiggled his arms, held out in a zombie-like fashion. “Somebody. I don’t want to sleep in the cave.”

Bruce stood up and slid an arm under Tim’s shoulders and another under his knees. Tim slumped against him, unresisting, as he straightened.

“Night, Timmy,” Cass called from her reclaimed perch on the counter while Alfred muttered under his breath. When Bruce glanced back, she’d scooted down to hug the older man around the neck and Alfred patted her hands.

“How bad is your headache?” Bruce asked as he climbed the steps in the cave.

“Middling,” Tim mumbled against the batsuit Bruce was still wearing.

“And anxiety?” Bruce prompted next, knowing from experience the side effects of that much caffeine. He’d gotten a few stern lectures from Alfred when he hadn’t been much older than Tim.

“Um,” Tim said, “pretty shitty. How’d you know?”

“When was the last time you asked me to carry you?” Bruce questioned in reply. “I think the answer is probably never.”

“I was serious about my legs. They fell asleep,” Tim said, his head still turned against Bruce’s chest as Bruce side-stepped through the narrow door. The boy sounded almost asleep already, but more lucid than earlier. “I didn’t want to fall in front of you guys.”

“Hm,” Bruce said. He rounded the corner and began climbing the second set of stairs. Tim had never, even with muscle, been very heavy.

“I miss you,” Tim mumbled when they reached the top. “I try really hard not to be bitter about Damian, but I miss how things were before. When it was us.”

“Me, too,” Bruce said, knowing he meant it and that no one else was around to hear. He knew Damian would take it the wrong way and was glad he was still out, but he felt the same way about each of them as Robin. He did miss the days when he was out on the rooftops with Tim.

“I know it wouldn’t be the same,” Tim said, as if consoling himself.

“Handle,” Bruce prompted, stopping at the door.

Tim flopped his hand over and swung it wildly around, reaching without looking. When his fingers landed on the knob, he turned and his grip slipped off.

“It’s locked,” he complained. “I don’t know where I left the key.”

“I can kick it open,” Bruce said, considering. “But Alfred might be upset. I could pick the lock. Or we can go down the hall and you can steal my bed for the night.”

“Where would you sleep?” Tim demanded groggily, and Bruce took that as his cue and headed further down the hall.

“The couch in my office,” Bruce said. “Or a guest room.”

“Your bed has good pillows,” Tim mumbled when Bruce worked the knob with his knee and pushed the door open. He carried Tim across the room to the bed and stood there for a moment, then dropped him abruptly onto the comforter.

“Bruce,” Tim complained, laughing. He crawled under the covers until all but the top of his head had disappeared and from under the thick blankets, he sighed.

Bruce sat on the edge of the side table and reached over and ruffled Tim’s hair.

“You did stabilize me, you know,” he said quietly.

“I know,” Tim said in a drifting tone.

“You can’t keep doing this, Tim,” Bruce said when Tim rolled over and pressed his hand against Bruce’s outstretched hand. “Come by my office. Or we can patrol. But you need sleep. And less caffeine.”

Tim nodded and yawned.

“Okay,” he said. “Sorry.”

“You’re a good kid, Tim,” Bruce added. He wished he said it more often.

“You too, bitch,” Tim said, and then he giggled. It sounded young and childish coming from him. “Sorry. Sorry. I mean, thanks. My heart is still going crazy.”

It was Bruce’s turn to yawn.

“You okay?” he asked. “I need to get out of this suit.”

“Mhm,” Tim said. “M’good. Night, Bruce.”

“Goodnight, Tim,” Bruce answered, standing. “Shout if you need something.”

The answer was a soft snore. Bruce closed the door behind him and stopped to pick the lock to Tim’s door on the way down the hall.

It was unlocked.

Bruce grinned.