#drake fan fiction

[gothamite-rambler]

Jason (crossing his arms with attitude): What are you going to do? I refuse to apologize.

Bruce stared at Jason in shock, and in his anger, he made a decision that every parent dreads.

Bruce (stern tone): You are grounded!

Jason (this is a whole adult, defiant): You can't ground me!

Bruce (firmly): Grounded!

Jason (shouting, confused): But I don't even live here!

Bruce turned Jason around and pointed to the stairs leading to his old room. Jason was too stunned to respond.

Bruce (stern, but calm): Tonight. Your room. Grounded!

Jason (stammering): I- I- Wait- This isn't fair!

Bruce (scolding parent voice): I'm very disappointed in you. Now go to your room. I'm only doing this because I care for you. Grounded.

Jason (face turning red with anger and sadness): This is some bullshit!

Jason stomped upstairs and slammed the door to his old room. The sound of random items being tossed around echoed through the house.

Bruce (indifferent): He'll work it out of his system. I'm going to bed.

Dick (looking at Tim, then Bruce as he heads upstairs): Did you just ground a 23-year-old?

Tim (surprised): And did it work?

Bruce: You forget I'm Batman.

[sleepy-cone]

Pssst...hey... Alfred can't be "good" if Bruce is "bad"

If Bruce is written as abusive and obsessed with "the mission," then logistically, ya gotta write Alfred as an enabler/accessory to the abuse.

It is impossible for Alfred to be there throughout all Robins, be first witness for multiple years with multiple children "suffering" and still have the kids be like: "Oh well, Alfred is still an angel, though." They would've known he hadn't helped them.

Imagine a building is on fire, and someone just stands there and watches it. They didn't start it, but they also don't try to put it out. They don't help anyone get out. They don't even bother calling for help. Yet, they still get a medal for their bravery??

There would only be 2 ways that Alfred could be seen as a "loving grandfather" if he

1. Outright stops Bruce by confronting him directly or getting the kids out from the first sign of abuse.

2. If Bruce is at least a somewhat decent father. Sure, he can make mistakes, and he can fumble sometimes. But Bruce can not be actively harmful to the kids for years without Alfred being aware and choosing to leave the kids to fend for themselves.

Alfred would have to be written as a non questions asked, 100% dedicated to only a "True Wanye" kind of butler. He would have to see the kids as not real Wayne's to allow an abusive Bruce to continuously harm them. The kids would know this and hate BOTH of them.

[todelve-intomy-monthlyfixations]

Ever read a fic that's fanon but SO OUT OF CHARACTER that you gotta pause and remind yourself that this shit ISN'T REAL. Don't get me wrong, some fanon fics are good and honestly a super fun read and very well-written while still staying somewhat true to the character. But I'm talking about those fics that there is nothing that stays true to the actual character except for their name. When I joined the batman fandom and read a fic on Tim Drake, the image I had of him vs what he's actually like in the comics is SO DIFFERENT.

[pinkiemachine]

The Great Camera Caper (formerly known as Babysitting Adventures with Jason and Damian) PART 9

[jasonsthighholsters]

all comic fans know how to do is: develop superiority complexes based on their personal perceptions of a character, eat hot chip, and lie

[fallsndreamsalone]

My favorite thing to do instead of sleeping is read the most heart wrenching sad and angsty fanfiction where someone dies,it’s at least a minimum of 6k words and leaves me with red puffy eyes and snot dripping down my nose at like 3 in the morning

[azrail-has-a-vendetta]

Okay okay, Black Sheep Jason Todd and sacrificial lamb Tim Drake. OR Black Sheep Tim Drake, sacrificial lamb Jason Todd?

I need to know for a fic.

hmm mayhaps I make this a poll?

thank you for your input

[emperorsfoot]

TimKon is not a rare pair. But most of them are Tim Drake centric, and Kon is just there to be Tim's sexy lamp. What is a rare pair are stories that place focus on Kon instead, or, even more rare, balance focus on each of them equally

[dcoraclestan]

Oops. I wrote a sad fan fic where the batfam are in a squid games-esc game playing dodgeball and it comes down to Jason and Tim as the last players on each side but Tim is too scared to say anything so it’s up to Jason to decide whether his team lives or dies and I gave the surviving Robin crippling survivors guilt as they refuse to open their eyes and witness their brother dead on the floor.

[the-barista-district]

I have no idea where I was going with, I wrote it over a decade ago, all I know it was JayTim, undercover and in Bludhaven. If anyone want to run with it, be my guest~

StripClub AU

“Someone please remind me to kill Dick after all of this.” Tim spoke under his breath so only the com in his ear could pick it up as he forced smiles and coy waves.

“Someone remind me to thank Dick after all of this is over.” Jason joked, catching Tim’s subtle glare while he peeked out from the curtain he was standing behind. All Tim got for his troubles was a wide grin and wink, forcing himself to turn away lest they blow any cover.

“Hey, hey, how is this my fault? This wasn’t where I expected things to end up.” Dick defended, hopping around on one leg as he struggled with wrestling on a thigh high boot.

“Your town, your fault.” Tim muttered as he moved through a crowd of bodies, trying to avoid any contact despite his cover. He really was going to make Dick pay for this…maybe get Jason to mess up his pretty face.

“Don’t fret, princess, I’ll defend your honor.” Jason teased over the coms, his grin loud in his voice.

“This is so not cool guys.” Dick complained, finally slipping into the boot. “Now is not the time, we got a job to do, Jay, so start focusing.”

“On it Dickie bird~”

[timblrdrake]

sorry for thinking this was a safe space @candy-penrose

[gothamite-rambler]

Karen (holding a purse with a broken strap): Hey! Hey! You owe me my five hundred bucks!

Red Robin (sighing): No.

Karen: No?! You little brat!

Red Robin (dryly): I'm in my twneties.

Karen: Don't care, Batman, arrest him! Or like, punish him!

Batman stood on the side, eating a sandwich, looking around confused, then continued eating his sandwich pretty much checked out for the night. He had a different mission and it was slow for the night.

Red Robin: I got your purse back. Why are you mad at me?

Karen (shouting): The strap is broken!

Red Robin: Because I had to fight the snatcher for it! Then I returned it back to you! I'm not asking for a thanks, but you have to understand mistakes happen!

Karen: This is a Marc Jacobs bag, okay? Mistakes don't excuse that! This is worth so much money!

Batman walked over to the group and examined the purse.

Batman: This is a knock-off. The straps aren't that thin and don’t break easily. The stitch work is off and Marc Jacobs doesn't sell purple versions of this.

Red Robin: I didn’t want to point that out, but yeah, you have a counterfeit purse. Which is fine.

Batman (rich man opinion): It’s really not.

Red Robin (upper middle class opinion): Not everyone can afford the expensive name brand.

Batman: Saving money is a thing.

Red Robin: Would you take a walk!

Batman walked off, indifferent to the situation while continuing to eat his sandwich.

Karen (in denial): It’s not a knock-off or counterfeit! I’ll have you know my cousin knows a guy who sells these, and he said they are a hundred percent authentic.

Red Robin: Looks real, obviously fake, don’t care. Can I just pay you back and then you leave?

Karen: You— Wait, really?

Red Robin sighed, pulling out a large stack of paper money and handed the woman double what she was demanding. Karen took the money, surprised.

Karen: Oh… Well, I’m not thanking you. Here, you keep the damaged one! I took out all my valuables!

Karen stormed off, eager to score a thousand dollars. Red Robin held onto the purse and sighed, exhausted.

Red Robin (regretting some of his life choices at the moment): The purse sells for two hundred dollars, and I gave her a thousand… I better get some good karma from this.

Spoiler walked over, humming a song from Epic the Musical. Upon seeing the purse, she perked up.

Spoiler (taking the purse and looking it over): This is nice! I've never seen one of these up close! My ma's cousin Michelle has one and she's always rubbing it in our faces that she can afford one. The lady who lost this bling is lucky.

Red Robin: Nope, she pitched a fit because the strap broke when I yanked it from the thief. She didn't have to curse me out. Also, it's a knock-off.

Spoiler (not caring as she put her arm through the shorter straps): Knock-off, smock-off, this is nice. Purple too, now I can have my tumbler match my bag! Oh wait, can I keep it?

Red Robin: The strap is broken.

Spoiler (checking the broken strap): Boy, please! My ma has a sewing machine. But to be fair, the short straps are still intact. It's so spacious too. Please let me keep it, or I'll buy it off you.

Red Robin (shrugging): It's yours. Happy birthday or whatever.

Spoiler grinned happily and then hugged Red Robin.

Spoiler: And my ma said you can't be friends with your exes.

Red Robin: To be fair, her ex is Cluemaster.

Spoiler shrugged, walking off with her new purse while Red Robin followed her, smiling at her energy.

[promptcorner]

Made some more memes for another fic!

(The prompt and fic)

[lena-thinks-too-much]

Just finished writing Chapter 9 of Best Laid Plans and I am using every cell in my body to resist posting it immediately. But for the time being, have some Dick and Tim content:

Dick reaches up to grab the spare escrima stick stashed above his door frame and silently slips into his apartment, muscles tense and ready for a fight. But the tension drains out of him the moment he steps into the living room and sees Tim sprawled across his ratty green couch, face buried in the cushions. A sitcom plays on Dick's tiny flat screen. He lets out a long-suffering sigh. “How long have you been here?” Tim lifts his head just enough to flash a smug yet tired grin. “Long enough to know your security sucks. I hacked the window alarm in seconds.” He props himself up on one elbow, clearly enjoying himself. “Also, marbles and jacks? Really? I thought you’d learned your lesson after the glue trap.” Dick groans, setting the escrima stick aside. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, baby genius,” he mutters, rolling his eyes fondly as he heads to the kitchen. “What are you craving for dinner?” “Nothing, if you’re cooking,” Tim fires back without hesitation. “Hey! I cooked when Alfred was out of the country, remember?” “And it was terrible.” “I distinctly remember you giving me very enthusiastic compliments,” Dick counters, grabbing a glass of water. “I was lying.” Dick gasps and clutches his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. “You’d lie? To me? Your big brother?” Tim’s grin widens. “I lie to Batman.” Dick stumbles back in mock horror, one hand dramatically draped over his forehead as he pretends to faint. Tim snorts, shaking his head as laughter spills out.

Chapter 9 will be out next week stay tuned <3

[pinkiemachine]

The Great Camera Caper PART 12

[rewrittenwrongs]

It’s the first of October in my timezone, which means it’s time to post my first Whumptober fill! I chose the prompt Panic Attack.

Heavily inspired by the lovely @brucewaynehater101’s Wingless Wing AU

Read on Ao3 (registered users only) | Whumptober masterpost | part 1 | part 2 coming soon

TW: past wing removal, mentions of anti-hybrid sentiments, mentions of trafficking/selling body parts, panic attack, accidental self harm (biting lip until it bleeds to ground himself), and a very very non detailed instance of vomiting

Dragons were the rarest hybrids out there.

They were some of the most well known, too. Everyone’s heard of dragon hybrids. They’re like the role models of the hybrid world, the knights and princesses children look up to, or the monsters under your bed if you’re not a hybrid. Usually, they’re treated much the same as true dragons: fictional. Mythical. Imaginary.

Now, if you were especially interested in them, or studied genetics or hybrid physiology, you’d know they were real. You’d know they often had huge wingspans comparable to the largest of seabird hybrids, and airborne agility almost on par with hummingbirds. You’d know they were rumoured to command the wind itself when they flew. You’d know their scales were tough and beautiful and practically immune to fire. You’d know lead was one of the only things capable of burning them while they lived. You’d know full blooded dragon hybrids could have long, magnificent tails and dramatic horns, claws instead of fingers or toes, slitted pupils that could see in the dark and scales tougher than wood.

You’d also know that, while they did exist once, they were hunted for their wings and scales and horns. They haven’t been officially pronounced extinct but neither has any other long-gone hybrid species. Anyone with passing knowledge of them knew they weren’t around anymore, outside the odd museum exhibit or old photo. Any rumour of still living dragon hybrids today was just that: a rumour. Though, the general populace—just the hybrids, really—loved to spread stories of them going into hiding. Using magic to cloak themselves until the day they could walk safely among humans.

Jason knows a lot about dragon hybrids. Much more than your average hybrid, and probably more than even a hybrid physiologist. He had a hyperfixation on them for a time, even before that pair of dragon wings started being passed around Gotham’s underworld.

He knows all the myths and folklore about dragon hybrids being born with an affinity for magic, about them using their skills to hide themselves from poachers and traffickers, building enchanted necklaces or broaches that disguised them as regular humans. He’s heard the legends of them being born of fire itself, being immune to temperatures that would render metal liquid, even being able to summon or control it. About burning their dead ones to return them to the ashes and embers they were once created from, as heat only blackened their scales after death. He’s heard the tales of dragons being kidnapped as children for their wings, because of a very special property of theirs: even after their wings were cut off they stayed magically connected to the hybrid, and grew along with them. It was much easier to kidnap and mutilate children than it was adults, and then they could use the hybrids as slaves, since they had to stay alive anyway for the wings to grow.

A lot of the myths—folklore, children’s tales, nursery rhymes—were about a dragon losing their wings and getting them back. A common theme among legends was the tie between wings and hybrid: a tie that, if the wings weren’t skinned or carved away for trophies, allowed the hybrid to reconnect them.

Jason tried not to get his hopes up, but he had to admit, once he finally tracked down those wings the other crime lords kept playing hot potato with… it would be nice if he could track down their owner and return them. Even if all there was to be done was bury or burn the things and give the hybrid a proper funeral.

Now, with the childhood hyperfixation and the elusive pair of trafficked wings that have been evading him for as long as he’s been Red Hood, he has a lot of respect for dragon hybrids. Combine that with all the hybrid trafficking rings he’s taken down, both as Red Hood and as Robin, you can see why he’s pissed about Tim’s new gliders.

Ever since Damian became Robin, since Tim swapped suits and changed title, he’d altered his glider to look like dragon wings. Dragon. Wings.

Now, it’s been almost five months since Tim came back and handed over all the info about Bruce’s whereabouts and proved he was alive, about four since they actually got Bruce back. There’s still some tension between everyone, but things have settled down a lot. But. Quite a bit of the tension could be blamed on those damn. Gliders.

Jason was actually glad when he saw them get set on fire a few nights ago; huge holes burning into the material and making Tim abandon it before the engine caught fire too. He tried a little to convince Tim to swap back to a design more feather-like but he was adamant. Jason could understand wanting to imitate the others, it must be tough being one of the only non-hybrids in the family, but WHY did he have to imitate dragon hybrids of all things? Because they’re cool? It’s insensitive and in bad taste!

That said, Jason had been biting his tongue about the issue. But tonight, when he swung by the cave, he came across Tim in the workshop, tinkering around and probably trying to improve his newest glider model. It’s the first time Jason’s seen the prototype. He can’t keep quiet anymore.

“You’re seriously sticking with dragon wings?”

Tim didn’t look up, didn’t turn to face him. “Yes. I’ve told you, I’m not changing my mind.”

Right. Jason’s definition of ‘biting his tongue’ was a little different than most’s. “You do know they’re real hybrids, right?”

“Yes, you’ve infodumped to me about them before.” He kept serenely fitting the scale-patterned material in place, connecting panels and hiding wire mesh and metal supports. “It’s no more cultural appropriation than my previous gliders were.”

Jason bristled. Tim has had some form of glider since he first debuted as Robin, and they were all styled after bird wings, designed to look like feathers. Like the Robins before him. Not the most feared, segregated, hunted, and literally extinct hybrid species in existence!

Jason had to take several deep breaths to stop himself from shooting the things then and there. Tim had already put together most of the emergency engine, the jetpack or ‘batpack’ as it was jokingly called: shooting it would just cause a huge explosion and an even huger mess. Not to mention Tim was in the way, he didn’t want to resort to physical injury just yet. “Clearly you weren’t listening when I told you about how often they were trafficked and poached for their wings.”

Tim huffed, still refusing to even turn his head. “I heard you. I just don’t see a problem with this.”

“So you don’t have a problem with the severed pair of dragon wing currently being traded through Gotham’s underworld?”

Tim froze.

There’s the reaction he’s been looking for. A bit of Jason’s vindictive glee seeped into his voice. “You didn’t know? There have been rumours about them since I was putting heads in duffel bags. Even the Joker knows about them. The hybrid is almost certainly dead by now. And still, their wings are being toted from warehouse to warehouse, crate to crate, one hand to someone else’s. It’s only a matter of time before someone keeps them for good and turns them into a pair of cloaks and an interesting taxidermy.”

“What do they look like?”

Jason blinked. Then his rage swelled so fiercely he could barely see or breathe. He wanted to know what they looked like!? WHY!? So he could take notes? Make his glider more realistic? WHAT THE FUCK.

Jason very nearly exploded about it, but then he caught sight of something that made him pause for a split second: Tim’s hands, curled into fists against his work, shaking slightly. Then as he paused he caught sight of something else: the slope of his shoulders, hunched, defensive, quivering. He was leaning forward like his knees would collapse any second.

Jason hesitated. Well, maybe... maybe if he answered he would learn why Tim reacted like that, or at least learn enough to infer. If it was so he could make his glider more realistic he could just shoot him.

He’s only seen them once, for a few seconds, but they were beautiful—and heartbreaking—enough he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget them. “They’re red. Crimson. Big, but built like they’re kind of small. Curved, streamline, built for speed and agility. They’re almost iridescent, the right lighting makes them shine gold.”

Tim shuddered, violently, then collapsed, vomiting onto the stone floor.

“Woah—Tim—“ Jason darted forward, dropping into a kneel beside Tim with a flair of his wings. He reached for his shoulders automatically but Tim jerked away like he’d stabbed him, letting out a choked exclamation. Jason pulled back and let his wings settle over him instead, shielding but not touching. “Tim?”

He hesitated as Tim scrambled to his feet, shoulders hunched and arms jerky like his back was on fire. His breathing was loud and uneven and there was a tear on his cheek. His eyes were red and wild, darting around like he was searching desperately for an escape, like he didn’t know where he was. Jason got back up on his knees in preparation for following. He kept a wing hovering over Tim’s back. “Tim? What—“

Tim stumbled into an uneven run, arms more jerking than swinging, footfalls uneven like he was accounting for weight that wasn’t there. Jason hoped he was putting things together wrong.

Jason followed a few steps behind as Tim ran for the exit, and caught him when he stumbled and collapsed in the doorway. He was muttering over and over, “Please don’t please stop please stop stop stop,” between horrible, gut deep sobs. He fought against Jason for a moment but stopped quickly, leaning as far away as he could get, but not putting up a physical fight. He was hyperventilating.

Jason kept his hold secure, thinking back to the last—and until now, only—time he’d seen Tim having a panic attack: the sight of his hands in his hair and on his shoulders and blood running through his fingers and down his chin. Right now his arms were mostly pinned at his sides, hands struggling to curl around Jason’s arms, still protected by his jacket and armour. Jason kept his grip away from his shoulders and upper back in case his hunch was right. He curled one wing around Tim’s front, gently, just enough to brush against his face and legs. “Hey, hey hey, it’s okay, no one’s hurting you.”

Tim whined and tossed his head, fingers scrabbling against Jason’s forearms. Tears dripped from his chin. Blood was beading on his lip.

Jason bit off a swear. He’d forgotten he was still wearing his mask, the voice modulator always bothered Tim when he was already on edge. He adjusted his grip so he had one arm around Tim’s waist, still pinning an arm, and one wing caving him in, and used his spare hand to remove his metal mask.

Tim’s struggle renewed when he sensed apparent weakness, shoving and kicking, but he was off balance and uncoordinated and all he achieved was making Jason’s wing curl tighter around him. The sensation seemed to throw him off. Confusion bled into the features that weren’t twisted with pain and fear.

“Tim, can you try to breathe for me?” Jason said. He placed his mask on the ground and used his other wing to slide it away quietly.

Tim sobbed, chest heaving, shoulders quivering. “Stop. It hurts.”

Jason’s heart ached. “I know, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Tim’s entire frame jerked with the force of his next sob. Tears splashed to the ground like little shards of shattering glass. They were joined by a droplet of blood.

Jason made a cooing noise low in his throat, humming in a way that never came quite as naturally as it did before his death. He tried to imitate Dick’s comforting calls. Tim pressed his face into the feathers of Jason’s wing, hands like iron bands around his arm.

Jason repeated the noise, tentatively reaching out and stroking a hand through his hair. It got longer while he was searching for Bruce, and he hasn’t cut it yet.

Tim stayed tense as a taut wire, but didn’t curl into or away from the feeling. Jason couldn’t tell if his breathing was getting faster or slower. “It hurts,” he sobbed, “it hurts it hurts it hurts make it stop, please make it stop.”

Jason scrambled for what to do. He kept stroking through Tim’s hair. Maybe—his mother used to…

Jason cleared his throat and quietly began to sing.

His voice has never been quite as smooth and full as it was before his death. It’s not rough or unpleasant, necessarily, but he became unnervingly aware of the difference as he began singing the same song Catherine sang when he was too scared to sleep. There was a faint shakiness, a fragility that caused pain if he tried to yell, not to mention he couldn’t hit half the notes. He kept it quiet, low, a poor rendition of a dead woman’s lullaby.

Tim kept muttering, kept begging and sobbing, but the faintest hints of awareness were gradually starting to fill his eyes.

His arms squeezed Jason’s forearm around his middle.

His feet shifted against the ground like he was searching for purchase.

He pressed his head, lightly, into Jason’s feathers with a whine.

A shudder wracked through him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” His voice was slurred and uneven.

Finally, he stopped speaking to a threat that wasn’t there.

With another violent shiver, he began looking around a little. Staring at the wrist of Jason’s wing. At the arm pinning him in place, then at the body he was half slumped onto.

Tim whined loudly, longingly, so eerily similar to calls for safety-protection-flock that it made Jason’s hindbrain go crazy. Tim began shifting against his brother’s hold, in a different way than before. Jason kept an arm and wing around him but let him move, a little wary. Tim twisted around until he and Jason were front to front, at which point he collapsed onto him with a low mournful sound, head beneath his chin and arms curling loosely around him.

Jason wrapped both arms tighter around him, keeping them on his lower back, and shifted them both until Jason was lying on his back with Tim half on top of him, tented beneath his wings. He kept singing the entire time, now on his third rendition of the lullaby. Tim had stopped mumbling. He hadn’t stopped shaking or crying. His breaths were better but still shaky and erratic.

Jason continued carding through his hair. He seemed to like that. And the singing, Jason kept that up too, even though his throat was beginning to tickle.

After a few minutes he noticed the tears had stopped and his breath had evened out. Tim was asleep. Jason didn’t blame him, panic attacks were exhausting. He carried him through the elevator and up the stairs to his room, set Tim in his bed and himself in a beanbag, despite all his instincts screaming about flock and physical contact and protection and perceived abandonment. He distracted himself with Tim’s copy of The Little Prince. In the original French, nice.

Tim awoke seventy minutes later. Not that Jason was counting. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, sporting an impressive bedhead. He licked his lips. His eyes landed on Jason and shifted rapidly from confusion to understanding to fear. He curled the blanket into his fist.

“You have some explaining to do.”

Tim huffed as if he thought this really was all blown out of proportion. As if. “Not here. My Nest.”

Ah, the Nest, Tim’s seperate base of operations and regular hang-out spot for Young Justice, not to be confused with the nest, an elevated platform of ropes and mattresses and blankets inside the Batcave. Not confusing at all.

Jason actually felt proud for a split second upon realising he was welcome in Tim’s safe space, an honour none of the other bats held, before remembering no, actually, this wasn’t trust this was fear. Fear caused by him, however accidental.

“Let’s go, then.”