tim drake not being robin

2

My SecretSanta-ee was @firefrightfic / @crumpeting who had requested “League of Assassins Jason and Red Robin Tim”. I really hope you like it, I enjoyed playing around with the tone on tone red : 3 Merry Christmas lovely!

Follow @jaykore for the DC goodness :) Reblogs are always appreciated -muah-

BONUS Maskless Tim (becaues his eyes are just too pretty)

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Tim’s first Father’s Day

Tim bought Bruce an expensive personalized watch for Fathers Day

Tim had been SO BUSY but he still put so much time and effort into getting Bruce a nice gift

Tim planned to make Bruce Dinner!

TIM IS SO GOOD AND THOUGHTFUL 

Tim got caught up in some trouble and hadn’t come home yet

Bruce worried about Tim!!

Bruce being a GOOD DAD

[Robin (1993) #163]

The Question

Prompt: reader daughter of Bruce being drunk for the first time, includes all the robins

Words: 1240


          Jason just stares at you, “How in the world is she this wasted?”

          Dick grunts a bit as you stumble. “Well, she doesn’t drink often. Now would you please help?”

          Jason moves forward to support your other side, before they begin slowly moving forward. Your body is not working like it should. Your feet won’t move like you tell them, everything is fuzzy, and your stomach won’t stop flipping.

          Dick and Jason are able to get you upstairs before you get sick. Throughout the night Dick and Jason take turns holding your hair and rubbing your back while you worship the porcelain god.  

          When you wake up in the morning your head is resting in someone’s lap. Pushing up with a good deal of pain, you stare up at Tim. You don’t remember him coming in during the night, but it makes sense. Jason and Dick both have jobs, and Tim was out of school for summer.

          He stirs as you sit up, “How are you?”

          You wince at the loudness, “Hurt. Loud.”

          He smiles, “I was speaking at a normal volume Y/N.”

          “How about now?”

          You watch him grin, and you resist the urge to punch him, simply because you know you’d miss him, and you don’t want to be in any more pain than you’re in now, “Now, I’m whispering.”

          “Bed.”

          He smiles. Instead of helping you stand he picks you up, and as he swings you upwards, you’re certain that if you had anything in your stomach you would have thrown it up. He places you gently on your bed, and like a worm you inch under the covers. And that’s pretty much the last thing you remember.

          You sleep for several hours, and the only reason you wake up is because you feel the bed dip. Pulling the covers back over your head, you stare at your father. He’s dressed in his work suit, and looking at you with sympathy. He whispers, “Open.”

          You look at him puzzled, before he points at his mouth. Following instruction, you open, and he puts two aspirin tablets on your tongue before handing you a bottle of water. You end up drinking the whole thing before sitting up.

          “I feel like the living dead.”

          Your dad smiles, “You look like the living dead.”

          Your brow furrows and you look behind him into the mirror hanging on the wall. You grimace. Your eyeshadow, eyeliner, and mascara have run, and smudged. You look like a raccoon. Groaning you lie back down and pull the covers over your head.

          Your dad lies down next to you, “What happened kid? You never drink.”

          “I was acting my age.”

          Bruce just smirks, “Most kids save binge drinking for their late teens, and early twenties. You, my daughter are twenty-five, and refused a drink on your twenty first birthday.”

          “You drilled the dangers of drinking into me at an early age. Shouldn’t you be proud of that?”

          “Y/N, what happened?”

          Taking a deep breath you tell him, “You remember that guy I was dating?”

          “The schmuck, who kept calling me sir?”

          You nod, “Yeah. Him. Well let’s just say I walked in on him giving his secretary an early Christmas bonus.”

          You watch your father’s face carefully for emotion. When he keeps it perfectly straight you realize just how mad he is. “And this led to my beautiful, brilliant, strong, independent daughter binge drinking why?”

          You give a not so jolly smile, “He stumbled out of his office with his pants around his ankles begging my forgiveness. When I kept walking he called me frigid, and a prude.” You watch your father’s hand grip your comforter. You can see the anger in his eyes, despite the passive look on his face.    

          “Needless to say I dumped his ass, and decided to go out for a drink. I guess I was out to prove something to myself.”

          You watch your father go stiff, “And how did you do that?”

          You grimace, “Threw back several shots, and danced on a bar.”

          “That’s it?”

          You hesitate, “I nearly exposed the secret. I was just about to tell everyone who Batman was, when someone pulled me off the bar and to the side. I was so plastered that no one took me seriously, I hope. He then kept me from doing anything else that would possibly embarrass me for life, he disappeared right before Dick came in.”

          Now that your brain is somewhat near functioning, you can’t help but find it strange. Your father stares at you, “You’re lucky he was there.”

          You nod, “I never should have gotten that drunk.”

          “For health reasons, yes.” You smile when he doesn’t give you a lecture. He knows you know that you screwed up. He also knows that it won’t happen again. You’re his daughter, he trusts you.

          You smile, “So what did the paper say this morning? No, let me guess, ‘Gotham Princess finally lets loose.’”

          Your dad smiles, “There was nothing in the paper.”

           “How did you manage that?”

          “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even know you were hungover until I saw Dick throwing away your shoes.”

          You wince. Those shoes had walked through some pretty horrible things in that bar. You’d have to thank your brother later.

          Your dad just pats your knee, “Go back to sleep. Hopefully you’ll feel better when you wake up.”

          Snuggling back into your pillows you give him a smile, “You can’t kill him you know.”

          Your dad does his best to play innocent, “Kill who?”

          “The schmuck.”

          “I assure you, killing him never crossed my mind. In fact, I promise Batman won’t even go near him.” Too tired to argue semantics, you drift back to sleep.

          Several days later finds you in the Watchtower, tracking down Jason, for his signature for some papers at work.

          That’s when you hear his voice. Forgetting about your mission, you walk down the hallway to find him trying to explain something to another hero. When said hero just turns and walks away, you can’t help but scowl.

          Pushing off the wall you walk over to him. He kind of freezes at the sight of you, but you give him credit when he doesn’t run. Stopping about a foot away you smile, “So, now that I know what you look like under the mask, do I have to swear an oath of secrecy?” When he doesn’t say anything you falter for a second, and can’t help but think you got it wrong. But you continue on anyways.

          “Thank you for taking care of me that night. I’m sorry you had to burden yourself with my stupidity.” When he still doesn’t say anything, you turn to go.

          “You’re not stupid. You were hurt, and drank a bit too much. It happens to the best of us.”

          You smile and turn back towards him, “And the pictures.”

          “Pictures?”

          You blush, “Of me dancing on the bar?”

          He shrugs, “Sometimes phones just delete stuff, or uploads are disrupted.”

          You walk a bit closer, stopping right in front of him, you raise your hand and let your fingers drift over the faceless mask, “Personally, I like you better without the mask.”

          He just shrugs, “Secret identity and all that.”

          You go up on your toes and kiss his cheek, “I’ll see you around Question.”

          He clears his throat, “You can call me Vic.”

          You smile, “See you around Vic.”

Dick saw being Robin as a thrill, it’s probably why he outgrew it. Jason saw being Robin as a game. It’s probably what got him killed. But…Tim…I have to hand it to the boy… He wants to be the world’s greatest detective. And from what I’ve seen so far…he will be someday.

–Batman on Tim Drake (Batman #617 – Hush Chapter Ten: The Grave)

2

“This is so not cool.
Being Robin is cool and this ain’t it.”

“You’re the one who told him that you wanted more practical experience with disguises.”

“Yes, but I didn’t think it involved me dressing up as a chick.”

“Master Tim, you would appear far too young to be a male medical student.”

“I could be a genius. A Doogie Howser prodigy thing.”

“That would attract too much attention.”

“These boobs attract too much attention.
I keep getting hit on. You made them too big.”

“I made them big enough that you’d get preferential treatment but not so big that you’d be remembered.”

- Batman Vol 1 #626(2004)

Sleepwalker

Rating: T
Gen
Characters: Tim Drake
Angst

AO3 Link

Sleepwalker

There is cold, wet gravel under Tim Drake’s cheek when he hits the ground and the armor that protects his ribs from the blow reminds him that he is not Tim Drake with a broken gas mask, he is Red Robin.

But the mask is broken and the tendrils of fear toxin curling around his face remind of a time when he was Robin. A time when Scarecrow wasn’t climbing inside his brain, but when he donned a mask and saved the Bat from a similar fate.

That was when he stopped being just Tim Drake.

But he’s not Robin now either.

And Red Robin is about fifteen seconds away from being nothing more than a shrieking sack of bones and guts, based on the level of toxicity he’d measured before his gas mask broke.

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Apologizing to Scott Lobdell?

It doesn’t seem that unreasonable of a request at first. I mean, people are freaking out over the Tim Drake thing and cursing at the guy. Why shouldn’t they apologize?

Scott Lobdell is not just some poor starting artist making comics on deviantart. Scott Lobdell is a professional who gets paid for what he does. His whole career is based on appeasing fans until they start harvesting their own organs for money because they can’t live without his next issue.

I don’t apologize to my transmission repair man when he hasn’t looked at my car for five weeks. I don’t apologize to my plumber when he comes over for the 2nd time and makes the sink more broken than it was before and then tells me that’s all and he’s not gonna make it any worse so I should just calm down. I don’t apologize when I pay for things, get crap in return and then get called a “puritan” for voicing my opinion.

Now many of you may say, “Well, if you don’t like it, don’t read it.” And that’s a great rule of thumb on fanfiction.net, or deviantart or any other place that produces fan works. I’d love to read something else, hell I’d love to make something else…oh wait. I can’t. Because DC has a little thing called ‘Copyright’ and if I produce anything that takes away from their sales they have the right to shut me down. Forgot about that.

Now, I’m not saying we should go to Lobdell’s house or raze his twitter with personal insults and cuss words or any of that shit. But when people on tumblr say that we should stop complaining on our own blogs or twitters and think they’re gonna “defend” him? No. No, Lobdell fans. I’m not gonna apologize for being 100% completely unhappy with his work and voicing my opinion of it and my frustration at my inability to change any of it.

Your artist isn’t a hero, or a visionary, or any of that other shit. He’s a man. A man who does an incredibly poor job at writing comics. That is all.