this tim

anonymous asked:

But seriously making Damian cry should be illegal! I can't!


Like, why would you ever be the cause of this:

(No Damian, I was not talking to you and that’s not a good reason anyway.)

Or this:

(^ this is technically an hallucination. Tim’s hallucination after Damian’s death, to be precise. Just to add 10% more contest and 200% more pain to your feelings.)

I honestly don’t know how Bruce is still alive after being on the receiving end of that look. I would’ve crumbled down to pieces and never be okay again. That’s why I can’t be Batman, I suppose.

THIS CAN NOT BE RIGHT OKAY? (No, srsly, first time I saw this I had to put down the book because nope. NOPETY NOPE.)

And I’m sure I’m missing at least another panel of the apparently ever-growing collection of Damian-ripping-my-heart-out-with-a-tear-or-two pictures, but I think I’ve made my point. Yes, this is illegal and I’m calling the police.

anonymous asked:

Any prompt you want + Damian & Tim bc you write them so well!!!!

I went with drugged because I didn’t want to sleep and inspiration hit me. It’s also one of my hc bingo squares so two birds with one stone…

I know I said these would be drabbles but this got so much longer than I thought it would be when I sat down to write. So enjoy 1,421 words of Tim trying to be a good big brother.

Damian is looking at him with glazed over eyes and an expression of hazy confusion. It’s abnormally unguarded for the usually prickly child, especially directed at Tim. Even on days when they’re not literally at each other’s throats with whatever weapon was at hand, the best he gets is cold indifference. Anger, disgust and spite are all common, but they’re shielding emotions, protecting, no matter how genuine they may be. This childlike openness is unusual. It makes a chill go down Tim’s spine, immediately washed away by a hot wave of rage. If Jason doesn’t get to the bastards who kidnapped their brother and chained him up in a basement first, Tim might just kill them. (Bruce might even forgive him for it.)

“You’re not right,” the kid slurs and Tim’s chest tightens for a second because it’s so much like the words he’d spit at Tim on a normal day but the tone is all wrong. Muddled, confused, hurt. Painfully young. “I prayed for Grayson. He was s’posed to come. S’posed t’ save me.”

Tim is stuck by the sudden thought that, for once in their lives, he and Damian are in agreement: he too wishes it was Dick who’d come to the rescue. But Dick isn’t even in the field, is still benched because of a moderate concussion he sustained two nights ago. Which Damian should be aware of. He knows Dick was injured, had been there to witness it himself, and he knows Alfred’s policy on injuries. But he’d been scared, drugged up to his eyeballs with some insane concoction that miraculously hasn’t killed him, and he’d called for Dick because he believed his big brother would always come to his rescue.

Tim feels suddenly, overwhelmingly, inadequate. He and Damian don’t get along. He doesn’t know the rights words or action for comfort. He is so far from cut out for dealing with situation. So he does what he thinks Dick would do; he forces a smile and says, “Sorry, kiddo, I’m all you’ve got.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. He realises this seconds too late when Damian’s lower lip wobbles and tears begin sliding down his cheeks. It’s silent and Tim hates himself for not even noticing, focused on unpicking the lock on the chains as he is, until a salty drop lands on his hand. Then his head snaps up and his eyes widen because if he couldn’t deal with the situation when Damon was confused and wanting his big brother, then he definitely can’t deal with it when he’s crying.

He wants to slap himself. If there’s any proof he’s not good with kids, it’s telling the one pumped full of drugs and with abandonment issues that outrank his own that Tim is all he’s got. He hadn’t even said at the moment. Stupid. May as well have said Dick isn’t here because he didn’t want to come. (That Damian would know how wrong that is, that Dick is stuck at home going out of his mind with worry, if he was in his right mind is irrelevant because he isn’t. He’s drugged and scared and confused and Tim is officially an arsehole.)

“Please don’t cry,” Tim says desperately. His instincts, honed by years of exposure to Dick Grayson, say reach out and hug the kid. The instincts honed by Batman’s training say get him out of the chains and out of danger then deal with any other problems. He goes with the latter (shakes away the image of Dick’s bright blue, disappointed eyes) and by the time the shackles and chains are undone, Damian is hiccuping between stifled sobs.

Tim tosses the last restraint away and straightens up from being bent over. He’s still crouched on the ground, though, so when Damian launches himself at his chest it sends them both toppling back onto the dusty concrete. It’s mostly the surprise; Tim was expecting to have to fight to get through the kid’s barriers to touch him in his awkward attempts to offer comfort. Instead, Damian’s arms are wrapped tightly around his neck and his legs are squeezing Tim’s torso and his breathing is much too rapid beside Tim’s ear.

It’s a hug, Tim realises. A desperate, clingy, baby koala like hug. Tentatively, he lifts his arms and wraps them around the kid.

“You’re okay,” he says. He closes his eyes and thinks of skittish animals and frightened children who Red Robin helps on patrol all the time. It’s a category he would not usually lump Damian Wayne, the fierce Robin, in with. But right now it’s easier to detach himself from the situation, to remove names and family and treat this like any other superhero job. “I’ve got you,” he whispers. “You’re safe.”

Like with any other child, the soft words work, and eventually Damian’s breathing slows and Tim feels the flutter of lashes against his neck when the kid turns his head to find a more comfortable position. He makes no move to let go, though, even when Tim gets them up off the floor. It feels a little surreal to shift an arm under Damian’s thighs to hoist him into a more comfortable position on his hip, the action automatic, like Tim has carried his brother hundreds of times before when he hasn’t even done it once.

The kid is probably only a foot or so shorter than him, small but muscular, so the weight against his front takes several seconds to adjust to. Unlike usual, though, Damian doesn’t rush him. He just curls a first into the cape near Tim’s shoulder and mumbles something against his collar. It’s not even an insult, just a nonsensical comment about burgers - and not even that Tim has been eating too many of them. Just weird, drugged ramblings.

The stairs out of the basement prove difficult but not unconquerable. Tim is definitely breathing heavily by the time they get out of the house, though. Maybe he should add more weight lifting to his training. Or maybe he should just practice lugging Damian around more often.

He rolls his eyes at the thought; as though that would ever actually happen when the kid isn’t drugged and out of it. And why would his mind even make such a suggestion, even sarcastically? Contact with Damian usually provokes a red flags, hyper awareness, danger zone mindset. He should be thinking of battle plans and exit strategies not… hugs.

Damian stirs when Tim reaches his bike and tries to sit him on the seat. He clings tighter and Tim is sure it’s the product of some drug-fueled imagining that his rescue is Dick - maybe even Bruce - until he says, “Drake?”

Tim freezes, hardly daring to breath. Has some lucidity returned to the kid? Is he about to realise the very out of character position they’re in? Is Tim about to get stabbed?

Miraculously, his voice is calm and steady when he replies. “Yeah?”

“Feel… funny,” Damian says, his syllables are still mashed together and there’s still a worryingly floaty quality to his voice, but it’s the most self-aware he’s sounded since Tim got to him. Progress.

Tim isn’t quite sure how to respond (a running theme tonight it seems). He stalls for time to come up with the best, most reassuring response he can by trying again to get them on the bike. This time, Damian lets himself be maneuvered onto the front off Red Robin’s Ducati, leaning back against Tim with an arm wrapped snugly around his chest to keep him there. It’s not exactly safe, but nothing about their lives as caped vigilantes really is. Tim just hopes whatever’s in the kid’s system doesn’t make him puke on Tim on the way.

“We’ll be home soon,” he says, “You’ll feel better then.” With Alfred to doctor him and Dick to coddle him and Bruce doing his hovering worried-papa-bear routine. And Tim can slink off to his apartment and scrub away his memories of this night because it would honestly be better for both of them if they forgot it ever happened (and better for his health if Damian doesn’t remember at all).

When they get back to the Cave, Tim stumbling just a little as he gets them off the bike, it should be a relief to hand the kid over to an eagerly waiting Dick. It’s what he’s been wanting the whole time. So why does his chest ache just a little bit at the suddenly light feeling of having nothing in his arms?


White Collar | Greek Gods and Goddesses

  • [Tim Drake and Stephanie Brown are exchanging their wedding vows]
  • Tim Drake: Stephanie, we are made of particles that have existed since the universe began. I like to think those atoms have travelled 14 billion years through time and space to create us so that we could be together and make each other whole.
  • Stephanie Brown: Wow.
  • Minister: Stephanie.
  • Stephanie Brown: Right... Um... Okay. Tim, you're not only the love of my life. You're my best friend. You've got a friend in me. You got troubles, I got them, too. There isn't anything I wouldn't do for you. We stick together, and we can see it through... Cause you got a friend in me.
  • Minister: Isn't that the song from "Toy Story"?
  • Stephanie Brown: He loves that movie.
  • Tim Drake: I do.

All the little birdies on Jaybird Street
Love to hear the robin go tweet tweet tweet

Mornings at the Manor…

Bruce: *e-mailing the Justice League while discussing Wayne Tech plans with Lucius on the phone*

Dick: *stealthily picking blueberries off the pancakes on the serving tray while dangling upside down from the ceiling*

Alfred: *slapping Dick’s hand away while preparing Tim’s morning espresso shots*

Jason: *holding up a bag of catfood so it’s out of Damian’s reach*

Damian: *on his tippy toes trying to reach it while muttering censor-worthy threats to Jason*

Tim: *eyelids drooping and eyes red, wiping dried-up slobber off his face* How long was I out? Is Napster still a thing?

Who’s gonna tell him?

wearetakingthehobbitstogallifrey  asked:

For the angst/fluff prompt: "Do you hate me?" Dick and one of his brothers, either one can say it! <3

Ha. Fluff. That’s a good one. Enjoy the angst.

“Do you hate me?” Dick asks, his chin on top of his knees. His eyes never leave Tim.

Tim closes his eyes and leans back into the couch, inhaling and exhaling deeply.

It’s the first time since Dick came back permanently from his undercover assignment that the two of them could just—sit here and talk. And, when Dick had said talk, Tim hadn’t really thought they were actually going to talk talk. He’d just thought it was a ploy to get back on Tim’s good side. Maybe a bribe or two, a few hugs and smiles.

Instead, Tim gets a big brother who looks so lost. A lump grows in his throat the longer the words linger in the air between them.

Do you hate me?

“No,” Tim says honestly, and he opens his eyes to meet Dick’s on the other side of the couch.

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anonymous asked:

May I request an imagine for Dick where he is a god who fell in love with a mortal s/o and he decided to become human to be with them, but he forgets about his s/o since he has to be reborn with a clean slate? Their s/o remembers of course and tries their best to get him to remember again. The ending is up to you~

y’all, when you say “the ending is up to you” 99%of the time it’s gonna be angst I am not a joyful person

anyways I’m back 

title: colder weather

theme: “I was born for leaving.”

warning: angst angst angst also like God!AU

Stories; that’s all you had believed about the myth of Nightwing, a bedtime story everyone heard in their childhood to give them peace so the Joker wouldn’t invade their dreams. It was a fairytale, an absolute myth of godlike proportions.

Dick stood protectively in front of you, eskrima sticks that had materialized out of thin air crackling with powerful electricity. You withdrew your hand as the nice button up and slack he was wearing dissolved and disintegrated, leaving him in an outfit you had only seen in children’s books.

You had a hard time finding words. “You…you’re…oh god…”

Dick turned his head to look at you, calm reassurance emanating from him despite the defensive stance he took. “(Y/N), I promise I will explain, but you need to stay behind me, okay? Someone is coming.”

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