the good tim

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Proud dads

  • [at the shoot for the Wayne family calendar]
  • Bruce: That's it. Everyone look like you're gardening.
  • Bruce: Jason, grab that little hoe.
  • Jason: [grabs Tim]
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🎃 🎃  (Even more) Quintessential  Halloween movies and chill? Because once again, it’s just about that time of the year. Les get spooky. 🎃 🎃 

anonymous asked:

Batfamily and what their laughs would be like?

Bruce: his is a bit more clipped, more of a chuckle than a laugh. It takes a lot to make him really laugh but if he does it’s very deep and rich and genuine

Dick: you can’t hear his laugh and not smile or laugh in return. It sounds like the embodiment of sunshine and it’s incredibly warm and inviting

Jason: He has a bit more of a raspy laugh, it’s kind of rough but is paradoxically smooth at the same time

Tim: he has a kind of weak laugh, it’s quiet but pleasing to the ear in that it’s lilting and gentle but sincere

Steph: she’s got one of those uncontrollable laughs that ends up in just silence as Steph has to catch her breath

Damian: if he’s comfortable around someone he will genuinely laugh and it’s adorable even though he adamantly says that he isn’t adorable

Cass: hers is very soft and barely noticeable but is almost like the wind and is very calm

Babs: she has a very cool, suave laugh that’s appealing and almost addictive to listen to

Duke: he has a very warm, friendly laugh that makes you feel happy when you hear it

For @stephanieebrown in celebration of her beautiful new hair and my 200 followers.  Prompt was ‘timkon’


The Gotham air is cool on his face and Tim Drake feels like he’s dreaming.

Bruce is yelling something in his ear (stop please don’t do it) and he distractedly reaches up and tugs the comm out, lets it fall to the rooftop beneath his feet.

Tim can hear the whine of the drones as they rocket towards him, and it bothers him a lot less than it should.  They’ll be on him in a minute.  Maybe a minute, maybe less.

It doesn’t matter.

The thought strikes him so suddenly that he frowns, pauses.  

Of course it matters.  This is a sacrifice.  He’s seventeen for God’s sake.  He’s seventeen and he has college and Steph and the Titans and-

And it still doesn’t matter.  None of this is right, it all feels so wrong, and it’s only now that he’s about to die that he really notices.  It feels like a dream, it feels like it doesn’t matter because…

Because it’s not real?  

No, that’s not quite right.

Because he’s not real.

That doesn’t make any sense, and yet instinct tells him it’s the correct answer.  

But how can Tim not be real?  He’s Timothy Jackson Drake (real name buried, forgotten as best as possible) and he was Batman’s partner for a little less than a year as Red Robin.  He’s a genius, a hacker, a prodigy, and he’s going to take a break from being a hero to go to college.  He exists, just ask Steph or Jason or Cassie.  

And yet, there’s a small, cynical voice in him that just thinks, Wrong, wrong wrong.

Only now it really doesn’t matter because the drones are on him.  

Tim twirls his bo staff.  He hopes that he can maybe take some of them out before they get him, before it all ends.

(He doesn’t really bother to think about the ending.  It doesn’t matter it it hurts or if it’s quick or if there’s a bright white light or absolutely nothing.)

Everything seems to slow down.

Something’s hurtling towards him, past the drones.  Some of the drones are exploding, but not all of them, and the ones that are still active shoot.  Every single shot carefully aimed to take Tim down.  

The blur that’s made it past the drones crashes into Tim, arms are wrapping around him, there’s a familiar scent of leather and hay and home, someone is yelling, “Robin!”

Instinct takes over, like this is something he’s done a hundred times before.  He pulls his arms and legs in, making himself as small as possible.  Somehow he knows that he doesn’t have to worry about the body wrapped around him, he doesn’t have to be afraid that all the drones are firing on this person instead.  It will be okay.

The warm blast from a chain of explosions hits his face, and Tim knows it’s okay to look up.

The boy who’s holding him is achingly familiar, even though Tim’s never seen him before in his life.  He looks kind of like Superboy, but his hair is shorter, his face less angular.  His eyes aren’t as angry.

Besides, Superboy is gone.

The wreckage of the drones burns around them, and this beautiful boy lets out an agonized sigh, even as he smiles. “You stupid self-sacrificing bastard.”

And the words make Tim’s heart pound, make him realize there’s a warm happy glow in his stomach.

This is real.  This matters.

“I don’t remember you,” Tim says.  Because he knows this boy, somehow, some way.  Of that he’s sure.   

There’s a flicker of hurt in the boy’s eyes, and something in Tim flinches at the idea that he has hurt him.  But the look is gone in an instant, replaced by relief and a wild, uncontainable joy.

“That’s okay,” the boy says.  He smiles at Tim and it’s like the world has dropped out from under his feet.  “I’m Kon.”

“Clone boy,” Tim says.  He has no idea what the words mean or why they come out of his mouth so easily.  All he knows is that it feels like something has come loose in his chest, that he can breathe again, and it feels like he hasn’t been breathing in a very long time.

Kon’s hands are still on Tim’s shoulders and he looks like the sun has come out after years and years of rain.  “I’ve been looking for you a long time.”

This is real.

This matters.