#drake fan fiction

[ashleybelmont]

It is Christmas day in Toronto. The Graham residence is primarily peaceful except for a few bustling bodies making preparations for tonight’s merrymaking — a specially curated dinner for friends and family. Halls are fully decked, flooded by the sweet, piney scent of a Douglas Fir standing tall and garnished on the main floor.

The certified bachelor is re-charged by the present state of calm afforded him. Not to be disturbed behind bedroom doors he takes a restful gaze toward high ceilings. “Fuck,” he mutters to himself as thoughts soon drift to very particular members of the guest list. Nonetheless, a certain confidence in his servitors allays any threat of stress for what promises to be an enjoyable evening for all.

Indeed, the night progresses with great care, attention and effort to the ease of the gentleman appearing of robust mind and spirit. Glasses are kept filled, a warm and lively chatter swells the air. 

Later, he is summoned by the faint chime of the doors bell, of which, he answers himself.

“Are you going to invite me in, stupid?”

Aubrey, completely unsuspecting of the visitor, excitably pulls his estranged step-sister inside with a grizzly bear of a welcome.

“Sis? Is that you?” He jokes. 

Her pageant queen appeal under a blue New York baseball cap with minimal make-up. Smooth, chestnut skin and the most striking eyebrows. Her dark hair is cut short into a bob pushed behind pixie-like ears to frame a square jawline. A thin, pouty mouth with only a smattering of clear gloss. Pretty brown eyes reflect hazel under the glittering light of the foyer. 

“I didn’t know you were in town.”

“Are you surprised?”

A mercurial type of woman. Intensely alive as if her life depended on it. From the moment he laid eyes on her that day at the wedding, Aubrey regarded qualities in her he’d only hope to one day find in a marriageable mate. A fact he’d never allow himself to share out loud. Least of all to her. She’d laugh, amused. Voted most likely to tease him into hardness. 

“I missed you, brother.” Her words emphasized like honey. 

“You look good,” she follows up, removing her coat and draping it across her petite arm. 

The girl wore all black. No stranger to tantalizing fashion moments. A full body, form fitting catsuit that hugged her slender curves.  

“Can I get that for you?” The man of the house asks politely.

Reluctant, “Thats ok — I’ll hold onto it. You know how I get cold.”

The two exchange a set of barely legal glances as she steps out in front of him. A soft perfume trails behind to affect the playboy suppressing a growing tightness in the cashmere of his pants. He uses the opportunity to separate from the intoxicating beauty that is his older step-sister now making her way across the room to Aubrey's mother. The guests now spread intimately throughout the homey manor. A satisfying blend of spices, florals, tobacco and booze wrapped around them. 

When he is ready to brave her again he finds her alone on the balcony of his library. Her long, wool coat once again blanketing her body against the wintry temperatures. First, observing her from afar, his hands cozy in the pockets of his slacks before making himself known.

“Aye — It’s bloody cold out there.”

She is startled a little by the intrusion (as were his intentions) though attempts to mask it.

“Aye.” She calls back, rolling her eyes hard. 

“What are you doing out there?” He pokes.

“I’m chillin’.”

“Girl—” As if to reiterate the chilled weather.

“Guy.” She smirks, looking over her shoulder at him before averting her focus.

A Carby Musk approaches slow on her neck prompting the preoccupied seductress into new awareness.

He stands not too far behind. A heavy silence meets a starry night sky.

“It’s good to see you.” His voice husky in tone. 

“You too.” Whipping her body around to face him.

“I really like what you did to the place, Santa.” 

“Oh — This?” He is trained in modesty.

“I just — you know…” He hesitates to describe the true sense of joy he feels around this time of year.

“They really seem to get along, don’t they?” She continues.

“Yeah. I’m happy they found each other.” 

“Me too.”

“Listen…” He starts.

The two appear raw in front of the other anticipating what isn’t being said, but, may just be about to. 

“Keep me warm,” she says, drawing an inch closer to his warm body. In the same motion flicking her cap and disrobing the protective covering to fall elegantly at her feet. 

“I wondered when I would see this outfit again.” His face beams with that wide, toothy smile.

“Why? So you can ask me where I got it and gift it to one of your little girlfriends?”

This time he doesn’t hesitate to grab her firmly by the throat with a thick, kind hand.

“Don’t be such a bitch.”

The sudden gesture forces her to brace herself.

"I'll be yours," she whispers, smokily.

His eye contact unflinching, intensifying the squeeze of his grip on every side of that pretty little neck.

“Show me,” he challenges. In the heat of the moment, lips meet in a kiss of wet, hungry passion. 

“Make love to me,” she cries into the deep of his mouth now gentle and sweet. A sudden tear drops from her winged eye, wetting a flushed cheek. He pauses briefly to study the magnitude of her needs. 

“You missed me?” 

Butterflies begin to fill her stomach explosively.

“I want to feel you inside me—” is the gracious response of his receptive step-sibling, unzips the front of her attire past a pierced belly button. 

The refined man watches the woman undress as she puts herself on display for his eyes only. 

“I need to be punished.” She says. "Badly."

Her words make him want to own her. 

Mindful of the bitterly cold, Aubrey, lifts her from her thighs up to his waist, legs wrap around and she is carried inside with him kicking velvet loafers off one by one. With prioritizing strength guides them both near the back of the room. Her nude body placed deliberate and safe atop the furniture, legs guided further apart with a nudge of his own body.

Together, they work to undo his trousers. She assists in raising his shirt over his head. A violent steam emitting from their bodies. For the first time, nothing held back.

He pushes into her hot and heavy, sliding snug into her wetness. His beard prickly on her face while she breathes in a soft rhythm to deep, filling strokes. A low, throaty moan escapes her quivering lips, swollen with desire. He is the lover she imagined he would be — attentive and effective, rough and tender.

***This is a work of fiction. Events are a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events is purely coincidental or an exaggeration of public knowledge***

[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

[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

[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

[promptcorner]

Made some more memes for another fic!

(The prompt and fic)

[quotidian-oblivion]

Guys, I found this EMOTIONAL ASS line from one of my wip documents:

"I wanna go back, Tim. Back to the days when I was just a kid with a tire iron and you were just a kid with a camera." "I know, Jason. I know."

AND NOW I AM EMOTIONAL

[splosh-crime]

Tim Drake has Dissociative Identity Disorder AU

His alters’ purposes are Socialite, Assassin, & Robin.

- Tim has been dissociating since his parents started abandoning him. At some point, trauma-induced dissociation becomes so common that an alter develops to be present and help the body survive while the oldest alter (or “original”) cannot.

- Oddly enough, the Assassin (he/they) was the first alter to develop; though, originally they were nicknamed ‘Good Son’ because “Good sons aren’t seen or heard unless they’re needed, Timothy.” Tim’s mind was not equipped to handle feeling so abandoned even as his parents stood right in front of him. Tim would dissociate rather than cry or process; if he wasn’t to exist when unneeded, then he wouldn’t. Good Son trained in stealth to ensure the Drakes never saw him unless they had need of him. They’re the alter that perfected the system’s stealth to the point that not even the Dynamic Duo noticed their presence. Good Son developed into Assassin after training with Lady Shiva.

- Socialite (he/they) was next to develop. Where Good Son went unseen and unheard to please their parents, Socialite was created to do the exact opposite for the same result. Socialite was to recount evidence of his intellect like a show pony doing tricks but he “-musn’t boast, Timothy, it’s unbecoming!” Socialite was to allow any and all cheek-pinching regardless of consent because “She’s just an old lady, Timothy! I’m really so sorry madame-” Socialite was to learn every last rule of high society (spoken or unspoken), gather useful gossip for his mother, network and play nice with the snobby rich kids, and avoid the “riff-raff” whose differences outweighed their usefulness.

- Robin (he/she/they) was the last to develop, keeping the system’s body tethered to a consciousness when the others would dissociate from the horror of Gotham’s many atrocities. Robin handles the worst of the detective work for the same reason. They’re who Ra’s al Ghul would dub the Detective.

- P.S. if anyone writes this, please give the altars better names; from what I’ve seen, alters practically always have names beyond their title/category. Also please send me a link and/or tag me in your work because I’d love to see it!

[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.”

[bernard-is-tired]

What are they going to do with the robins in the absolute universe? What if they were all kids at the neighbor YMCA that Bruce volunteers at?

Dick used to go all the time, but now he’s grown and moved to Bloodhaven. Bruce helped him get scholarships for college, plus he fostered Dick for the last few years of high school after his folks died.

Bruce actually knew Jason’s parents back in highschool, he’s just a kid. He couldn’t hold it against him when he caught the kid stealing his tires, but he did make him put them back on. Bruce is well aware of the people his parents are and he wasn’t going to let Jason die in the streets. Now he works at Bruce’s gym and trade school just like Bruce.

Tim Drake quickly realized that the kinda scary boxing coach at the YMCA was the Batman after someone live-streamed a Batman fight. Bruce didn’t know what to do when this kid trapped him in his office demanding to be his sidekick or less he’d leave him in there.

[pinkiemachine]

The Great Camera Caper PART 12

[sunsoaked-living-blog]

Does anyone remember the name of the fic where Tim is from Crime Alley and wasn’t born a Drake, but squatted in Drake manor and when he got busted by the bats he just stole the identity of Timothy Drake???

And JASON was the one to figure out he was born and bred crime alley bc of the death via toaster prediction a back alley psychic gave Tim???

Edit:

FOUND HER

Truly peak unhinged Tim Drake behavior

So glad I found it. Man is about as off balanced as a regular ole Gotham rouge. He just happened to hyper-fixate on the Bats

[ao3sbatfamily]

Hey do you have any recs for fics where the batfamily does something that absolutely should not be possible and everyone is like wtf?

I feel like in most of the JLA meet batfam fics, the JLA focuses more on batman have kids and less on the fact that they usually did some terrifying shit. I went with cryptid batfam.

This was made into a series, so make sure to check out the sequels.

'Growling in the Shadows' by GayBatBoi

It was Martian Manhunter who interrupted his thoughts this time. “I have not met many humans who have met this Batman, but the ones I have talked to did not broadcast fear when thinking of him. In fact they seemed to feel more hopeful and safe when talking about The Batman.

“I don’t know, this just seems like a bad idea. Isn’t there anyone else we could try first?” Clark whined. He couldn’t exactly just say ‘I don’t want to go because I’m scared’. The others would never let him live it down.

“We all know that there are precious few heroes we can ask to join us, Clark. We must ensure that the hero we ask is as strong as possible to make up for our small amount of warriors.” Diana chimed in again, always the voice of reason. “A few strong teammates is far superior to many weak ones.”

“I’m still not convinced this Batman character is a good guy at all.“ He pouted, arms crossed like a child throwing a tantrum. He didn’t care. If Clark had to Gotham he could at least sulk about it a bit first.

“We could always offer him the position as a trial run. If he’s a good guy then we recruit him full time. If he’s a villain then at least we can keep a close eye on him and take care of it if we need to” Green Arrow took Flash and Diana’s side.

“I think it’s worth a shot. It is not as if there are many heroes to choose from and this Batman may surprise us yet.” Wonder Woman smiled.

[emperorsfoot]

Don't know anything about your ship but... How about the prompt: find a kitten?

This is a perfect prompt!

(and Tim Drake is the 3rd Robin, of Batman and Robin; and Kon-El is a hybrid Kryptonian made from the combined DNA of Superman and Lex Luthor. In canon they're best friends. In my heart, they're soulmates.)

"Tim stop looking at your phone." Kon pleaded.

"Hn." Was the only response he received.

"Checking your phone every five minutes isn't going to change the results." Kon reminded him.

"But it will keep me informed." Tim argued. The first full sentence he'd spoken in fifteen minutes.

Kon sighed. This was supposed to be a date. Kon thought going out and doing something fun, or hanging out and just spending time together would be a good way to distract each other from certain current events going on.

But it didn't.

While they were at Tim's condo, all Tim did sit on his laptop and constantly refresh the same window. After Kon dragged him out for some fresh air ('fresh' being relative in Gotham) and sunlight, Tim switched to doom scrolling on his phone instead.

Kon sighed. Getting Red Robin to stop obsessing over something was near impossible.

And then Kon heard something.

"This is important, Kon. The fate of democracy-"

"Shh!" The Kryptonian hissed. "Do you hear that."

Tim paused for a moment, trying to listen for whatever it was Kon was hearing. When he heard nothing he huffed. "Kon, you know I can't."

Sometimes, a boyfriend with superhearing could be annoying.

Kon turned his eyes down, x-raying the sidewalk and the sewer channels bellow.

"You stay up here and keep enjoying your low-grade panic attack." Kon said. He lifted the nearest man-hole cover and jumped down into the filthy-filthy Gotham sewers.

"Wait, Kon! What do you hear?" Within moments, Tim had stowed his phone away and followed his boyfriend into the sewers. "My costume's back at the condo." He whispered softly in the enclosed space. "What do you hear?"

Kon's eyes were closed, listening for how the sound he w3as hearing echoes off the sewer channel's curved walls.

"This way." Kon took Tim's hand and led him in the direction he thought the sound was coming from.

They trudged through sewage that came up to their ankles. It soaked their pant legs and seeped into their shoes. Tim was going to have Kon incinerate their socks with his heat vision once they got back to the condo.

As they drew closer, Tim finally started to hear the same sound Kon was following.

The shrill and desperate, but very very tiny sounding, meow.

A kitten.

Kon was looking for a kitten in this sewer.

They found the kitten tangled in a plastic six-pack ring that nobody ever cut up.

Kon picked up the kitten, and disentangled it from the six-pack holder.

Tim pulled off his hoodie to wrap the kitten in.

The kitten needed a bath and tomorrow Tim would take it to the vet to get it checked out.

Kon would want to keep it.

They weren't even out of the sewer yet, but Tim knew his boyfriend. If Tim didn't want to keep the cat at his condo, then it would end up at the Kent farm. But either way, it was Kon's cat now.

Their cat.