#jesus fucking christ tim

[cosmicpoutine]

im reading robin 1993... not tim being stuck in a truck with cluesmaster and limited air supply and his first instinct being "kill him and double your air supply"

[spitblaze]

I guess Chilchuck has brought us right back to 'adults who are short are child-coded and if you like them you're a pedophile' discourse huh

[cabinette]

I don't even care about them. i don't care about them at ALL.

[my-turn-with-the-batdad]

imagine being 17, right at that pivotal age where everything feels like it’s finally starting to make sense, but also falling apart all at once. you’re just beginning to grasp who you are and what you want out of life. it’s that strange in-between stage where you’re technically capable of doing adult things—getting a license, figuring out uni, maybe even facing your first real heartbreak—but there’s still a part of you that desperately wants your dad to be there.

now, imagine waking up and realizing that all of that has been stolen from you. Jason didn’t just lose his life—he lost the chance to go through those messy years. those moments where you feel both too big for your skin and too small for the world, where one minute you’re ready to take on everything and the next you’re drowning in self-doubt.

the right to choose his path— that was taken from him in the most brutal way possible.

and that’s what makes the story so tragic. it’s not just about the physical violence or the trauma of resurrection. it’s about missing that crucial time in life when you’re supposed to be figuring out who you are. he never got to experience that liminal space between adolescence and adulthood, where you’re allowed to falter and find your footing.

No, instead, he got the anger, confusion, and betrayal all amplified because he's been thrust into an adulthood that was never really his choice. he was robbed of that transition, and that loss is profound.

Jason Todd’s tragedy isn’t just that he died so young—it’s that he lost the opportunity to live. It’s the haunting realization that he was denied the right to become his own person, and that’s something you can't ever get back.

What Bruce and Jason both mourned, was not who he used to be but who he could have been.

[itsraining-honey]

helena, I don’t mean to alarm you but there are a bunch of bitches next to you that people think you’re family with!!!! DONT LOOK!!!!!!!! GET AWAY FROM THEM!!!!!

(excluding tim ofc y’all who get it, get it)

[milkshakeworm]

i think we should give jimenez the credit he deserves for drawing the funniest tinny little panels out there

[fiona-fififi]

Actually, you know, that post about Hen and Karen got me thinking about why something about this last episode bothered me so much. Because I've been on a high with it, but also a lot of things felt very off, and I was focused on the lack of development for the madney storyline.

But actually, the lack of Hen in this last episode was. not a good look. Putting this big focus on how queer people did less than noble things to protect themselves, and how Tommy’s not actually a bad guy for it and making it about fucking Abby Clark, while ignoring Tommy’s behavior toward Hen, who was an out, black lesbian during that same time. AND THEN having Buck put Tommy on a fucking pedestal as if he was the one out there fighting for queer rights instead of making Hen's life hell to apparently protect himself.

All while giving Hen absolutely zero role in this storyline??

What the actual FUCK, 911??

I don't actually think I've ever been this angry at this show before, but this is fucking disgusting.

[cheriekos]

“my self-sufficiency will be the death of me” [timkon ficlet]

goooooood afternoon timkonners. Really wanted to get into the habit of writing a little bit everyday again, so I’m filling out some whumptober-adjacent prompts (courtesy of scealaiscoite). This may be eventually cross-posted to my ao3, who knows, this is mostly just to keep my writing skills in check after a really rough few months of work + to get me out of my writing slump on my larger fic projects. This has been very lightly edited, and is extremely unbeta’d. Anyways, enjoy! Prompt: blood swirling down a shower drain. Content warnings for light descriptions of a knife injury & medical treatment related to that.

The ceiling is that awful popcorn texture. It's yellowed over time. There's a spreading stain over corner, likely some water damage from the unit above. There's some rust at the corner of the shower curtain rod and some odd looking spots at the bottom of the flimsy plastic curtain that has him groaning because he's going to have to look into this, he lives here, other people live here, and clearly the landlord spruced up his apartment but not the others and this needs to be taken care of but it's another thing to take care of -

His breath catches in his throat, a barely held gasp just eeking out past his lips. Every time he tries to breathe low into his belly, his chest spasms. Bruised ribs, he catalogues. Another thing to take care of.

Tim's fingers shake over the left side of his chest, right above the torn parts of his uniform, right where his emergency beacon was slashed through. He lost the one on his wrist sometime between Falcone's latest hidden warehouse and the apartment building. If he reaches down to his boot, he can press the one still intact. He can press it, and someone will come and get him.

He can't move his hand.

Well - It's not that he can't. He's still got some feeling left, which is good. But he can't stop staring at the ceiling. The thought of even moving his head makes him feel so - so tired. It feels as if someone has scooped out his bones and filled him with dense liquid. He tries to will himself to move, to slam down on the emergency beacon and suffer through the indignity of having to be saved by Robin and sit through a thorough dissection of everything he did wrong tonight. He doesn't mind it so much anymore, really - but he's just - he's too tired. He's too tired.

When he closes his eyes, it feels good - the rest that calls to him feels like the kind after a particularly long day of running around as a kid. When you've probably spent too much time in the sun and your chest hurts, the phantom pain of deep laughter following you to your bed. He believes it, for a moment. That he's really just closing his eyes after playing too much and too long and his mom will be there in just a moment to brush his hair out of his eyes and tell him don't let the bed bugs -

He presses down on the knife wound along his abdomen to keep himself awake.

Only an inch deep, but three inches long - they got messy trying to pull it out, he thinks. Another wound. Another thing to take care of. Which he won't be able to take care of if he passes out in this dingy bathroom that's probably going to give him an infection.

His fingers feel cold. He can't tell if he's going into shock or if he's been sitting under the spray of the shower so long that the hot waters run out.

He can't die like this. Not like this. Lying in a mold covered bathroom, shredded to pieces. Not like this.

It's painful, it makes him flush with a deeply buried shame that he tried hard not to face - but he chokes out his name anyway.

"Superboy," he says. "Kon."

There's a moment - one painful, awful moment - where there is nothing but the sound of the shower and his own, ragged breathing. Then, somewhere further inside there's the sound of a window opening, the stumbling of leather boots against hardwood floor - and then Kon's there, right there next to him, and Tim has never felt so relieved and so ashamed at the same time.

"Shit," Kon says, holding Tim's face. He looks down at Tim's hands, shaking against the wound in his side, and follows the blood going down the shower drain. "Shit."

"Good t'see y'too." Tim mumbles.

Kon's staring - or at least, Tim thinks he is. He thinks time is slowing down, maybe. Between one blink and the next, Kon's face morphs from wide-eyed worry to a grim sort of determination. The grip on Tim's face tightens - not unkindly.

"Not funny, Tim," Kon says, lowly.

Tim just swallows, barely wincing at the acrid taste of copper on his tongue. He tilts his chin with what little energy he has, indicating his stomach.

"Knife wound," he says. "Bruised ribs. Gotta check for - for concussion -"

"Stop talking -"

"Need - stitches -"

"Stop talking."

Tim's mouth clicks shut. He feels something burn at his chest - not pain, but something more akin to anger flaring beneath his skin. The urge to crawl out of the tub, to rip away from Kon and get his own goddamn medical kit was making his stomach roll. But God, his bones were like lead and his head was so heavy - the overwhelming relief of being gathered up into Kon's arms was almost enough to distract him. Almost.

"I'm taking you back to your house -"

"Can't."

"Why?"

"Got - my own - my own place -"

Kon freezes as he leaves the old bathroom, pausing briefly to scrunch his eyes tight and mutter a small Jesus Christ before readjusting Tim in his hold, gently.

"You need help, Tim, and you've lost a lot of blood -"

"Not too much -"

"Tim -"

"Kon," Tim says, strained. "The longer we stand here arguing, the more blood I lose. Take me - take me back to my apartment."

Time really slows down then. Kon's bright, bright eyes bore into his, a completely open book. Tim can see the way he swallows down his words, the way his jaw twitches as he grinds his teeth - the way his eyes shine with worry. Tim holds his gaze, focusing on the pain blooming across his ribs in order to avoid thinking about just how much Kin's gaze unsettled something within him.

"You're gonna be the death of me," Kon mutters.

"Not if I die first," Tim says, softly. Kon doesn't laugh - doesn't so much as smirk. Then, he's bounding out the door faster than Tim could blink.

Tim feels a wave of vertigo and he does everything he can to stop the bile rising in his throat. He digs his nails into the worn leather of Kon's sleeve, groaning with his lips shut tight. Kon's thumb rubs a soft circle where he holds him - a gesture so gentle that it takes Tim by surprise. He doesn't get to relish in it for long before Kon's laying him against his new dining table; Tim mourns the clean wood. He'll be scraping out blood from the grooves for the next few months.

"My medkit -" Tim's hand reaches out, weakly. "Get me - needle -"

"Are you out of your mind?" Kon damn near shouts. "You're not sewing yourself up."

"I can and - I will -"

"No," Kon says firmly, hand wrapped around Tim's wrist. "Can you - can you just let someone help you for once?"

No - it's the reply right on the tip of his tongue. Help. There was a time when people surrounded Tim, when he could reach out a hand and find another reaching out to him. But the longer he does this, the more he loses, the more people start to disappear - the more that he finds that the only hands he has are his own. The hands that will stitch him up and prop him up straight, the ones that get things done.

But another, tiny part of him sighs. A little part of him sags with relief, maybe with exhaustion- because yes, he would like some help. His fingers are cold and cannot stop shaking and Kon is steady.

"Fine," Tim finally says. "Help me."

Kon smiles. That irritating, crooked grin lights up his face and Tim chest constricts at the familiarity of it.

“Was that so hard?” Kon says, a teasing lilt to his voice.

“Yes,” Tim groans.

Kon moves swiftly - more assured, more practiced than he had been months ago when he first had to deal with some bad scrapes while out on a mission with the team. His hands don’t flit about wildly, searching for something to make it better. He takes off his own gloves and washes his hands before cutting through the tightly woven Kevlar of Tim’s suit, gently washing the cut, and letting Tim dig crescent shaped divets into his bicep while he threaded Tim’s skin back together.

“You’ve gotta breathe, Tim - “

“I’m trying, asshole - “

“Don’t call the guy with the needle and thread an asshole, asshole - “

Tim barely notices that Kon has already snipped the medical thread and has started placing bandages across his side. Tim watches as he moves, quick, tearing medical tape and snipping bandages with determination, and then carefully placing them where Tim still bleeds. Tim’s mouth goes dry - he looks up at the ceiling instead.

“How’s your hearing? Seeing double?” Kon asks, flashing the little emergency flashlight in Tim’s eyes. Tim resists the urge to bat him away.

“Just fine,” Tim blinks. “God help me if I - if I ever have to deal with - two of you.”

“Twice the fun,” Kon remarks.

“Twice the headache,” Tim says, with little heat. “Kon - painkillers - “

Kon rattles a small bottle, labeled meticulously in Alfred’s familiar handwriting. “These ones?”

“Yes,” Tim says, breathlessly. He tries to put one hand under him, arm shaking with the effort to try and pull his own body weight up.

“Hold on - “

“I can - get up by myself - “

“Tim,” Kon says, warm hands curling around Tim’s arm. “Let me help you. Please.”

There’s an earnestness to Kon that is so disarming that it peels away the remaining resistance in Tim. He uses his last bits of energy to wrap an arm around Kon’s neck, a flush traveling across his cheeks as he mutters okay and lets himself be held again. This time, he lets himself melt a little further into Kon, pointedly ignoring the unfurling, winding feelings in his gut - he neatly packs that feeling away for later in the corner of his brain. He focuses on breathing, on the steady rhythm of Kon’s heartbeat, and the soothing hands that hold him.

He blinks rapidly, realizing that he’s been placed on his couch and that Kon has managed to rummage up the eye-sore of a blanket that Dick had given him as house-warming gift a while back. Kon’s in the kitchen, then suddenly by his side, waving a small glass of water and the painkillers in front of Tim.

“Drink up, Timmy,”

“Don’t call me Timmy,” Tim grumbles, and downs the pills and water in one swift movement.

When he sits back, it’s like every bit of adrenaline keeping him awake has left him. The last dredges of it disappear and all he can do is curl against the headrest, the scratchy, awful blanket giving him an odd sense of comfort. He blinks, slow, trying to get a good word out before sleep could take him. To tell Kon he’s got it handled, that he needs to report back to Dick about the stake-out going wrong - but he can’t. He just looks up at Kon, illuminated by the bright lights of Gotham from the window behind, and he feels a deep, deep ache in his sternum. A sudden urgency fills him - a worry. That when he wakes up, Kon will be gone and something about that makes Tim feel sick.

He moves his fingers slightly, flushing with embarrassment as he croaks out “Stay?”

Kon doesn’t hesitate. There’s barely enough time for a thought before Kon’s hand tangles with Tim’s, the rough pads of his thumbs, slowly becoming calloused from farm work, begins to rub against Tim’s knuckles. Tim’s breath catches in his throat.

“Of course,” Kon whispers. “You don’t even have to ask.”

Tim breathes out. “Oh.”

There’s a smile on Kon’s face - a little knowing, a little sad. Something childish blooms in Tim; he wants to reach out and hold his face, wants to pull at the edges of his cheeks until the sadness went away. But rest tugs at him, the exhaustion in his bones pulling him down, down, down until the feeling of Kon’s hand in his was a distant sensation, his last words something like out of a dream.

“I’ve got you, Tim. I’ve got you.”

[timothyslucy]

JUST LOOK HOW WORRIED MY BABYGIRL IS WTH 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[frogaroundandfindout]

Dick makes his way through Blockbusters ranks, threatening his past hires to get out of the game and not work for him anymore. Dick then finds out why blockbuster is making his life hell: he blames dick for his mothers death (Nightwing vol 2 #90)

[mamawasatesttube]

just looked at the tim//kon tag on incognito to see who posted that shit take abt bart and JESUS it is fucking NOXIOUS in there with all the people i have blocked. i need to bleach my computer and my fucking brain.

[killthefuhkinglights]

NEW RIOTFEST IMAGES POSTED HERE TO THE LS DUNES IG PAGE

[todayisafridaynight]

reasons number A Million why not every rgg character needs to be +6ft he looks so fuckin stretched out. actually got put in the willy wonka taffy puller

[squarebracketsmileyface]

I don't know how to explain it, but The View Between Villages by Noah Kahan is just making me cry so much because I'm thinking about it from like, the perspective of Tim in the Crossroads fic I have planned for ages in the future. Like, Tim looking at the burned out shell of his old house and just, feeling so many things. He's gone back there one last time before he's moving away for good and he's got Birdie in her baby carrier in the back seat and Tim's just so angry at everything that happened to him. He lost Jay, he killed Alex, he lost Brian and he's just so fucking angry because none of this should have happened and it's all his fault.

All he's got left is Birdie, his baby girl who he constantly feels guilty over because he didn't even know he was pregnant while the final confrontation with Alex happened. He could have lost her too, before he even knew he had her and he's so glad that didn't happen, but he's still ridiculously guilty over the fact that it could have happened. He wasn't careful enough. He explained away any symptoms of pregnancy he might have had, because why wouldn't he?

Mood swings and hormones going crazy? Well he'd been coming off T because he just couldn't fucking get it, like the rest of his meds by the end, and the Operator sickness caused all kinds of crazy emotional swings and stuff like that anyway.

Feeling ill? Very easily caused by the Operator.

Everything could be explained away because god knows he didn't want to be pregnant, he and Jay were nowhere near in the right place to be parents. And they'd been pretty damn careful about using protection and all that so why would he even worry? Sure the thought crossed his mind, but it was just an intrusive thought and he knew how to not let those control him.

But now he's got a one month old in a baby seat in the back of his car and he's looking at the house he could have raised her in, the house he could have raised her in with Jay and he's so fucking angry. There's nothing he can do except hold it together when he goes to meet up with Jessica one last time, to say goodbye to this part of his life one last time before he drives out of the state to the new, tiny apartment he got for himself so he has somewhere he can actually raise his kid.

He lost everything here, and he loves Birdie, he loves his kid, but right now he'd trade anything to have Jay back, to have another chance at all of this, a chance to get through it all with Jay still alive and Brian still alive, and even Alex still alive, including her. Because yes he loves her, she's all he really has left of Jay, but currently the grief is fucking immense and one second he's fine and the next he can barely look at her because got she looks so much like Jay, even as tiny as she is.

He loves her, he adores her, but her being born five months after he lost everyone, lost Jay, just set him so far back in his grief and he didn't have a clue how to cope with it. Sure, he chose to keep her, he made that decision for himself, but that didn't make it any easier when he actually had to go through with it.

He's just so fucking angry. He feels like he'll never stop being angry. He's angry at himself and at Jay and at Brian and at Alex and at Birdie. He's angry at the entire fucking world and he doesn't know how to get that to stop.

So he lies to Jessica when he sees her, tells her Jay moved, wanted to put all of this behind him, and while he lies to her he tries to lie to himself too, to pretend for a moment that it's true, that Jay just left rather than fucking dying. He says goodbye to Jessica and to this part of his life, and he gets on the road. And he comes to that crossroads. He looks in the centre mirror and sees Birdie's baby seat and one of her little hands reaching out of it, trying to grab the sleeve of one of Jay's old jumpers that somehow ended up in Tim's bag, and he just kinda breaks.

It's a good 'breaks' but he still breaks. He decides then and there that he fucking loves this baby of his, he loves her, he adores her, he's in love with having a child, she is everything to him.

He can't bring Jay back, or Brian or Alex, but he can pour all the love he had for them into this baby and he can make sure she has the best life possible. He makes his turn at that crossroad and pulls his car off the road as soon as he can after, getting out and picking her up, bundling her up in Jay's hoodie like he has so many times before and just holding her. He doesn't stop himself from crying, just holds her and rocks her and calls her "My baby, my baby" over and over again, kissing her forehead and just letting himself feel everything he's been trying to hide from for the last six months.

He's gonna give this baby everything. He'd trade his fucking life for hers. She's everything to him and that's fucking terrifying, but he's gonna make it work.

She's gonna have the best childhood he can possibly give her, they're gonna be a family and Tim will look after her because she's the last living part of Jay and she's another living part of Tim, and he has to prove to himself that he can keep her alive and safe and happy.

I don't even know if any of this makes sense I can't really see what I'm trying very well because I'm crying over this stupid fucking series/fic/characters/what the fuck ever. This song is fucking evil and I love it.

Just "It's all washing over me, I'm angry again" is just Tim every time he thinks about Jay and MH and Brian and MH and Alex and MH throughout the rest of his life. He'll never stop getting angry over everything that happened, but he'll stop being angry over it constantly. It'll be something he lets himself feel when he needs to, rather than it just consuming him constantly.

And telling Birdie about it will help him handle it. Telling Birdie about the guy he met in highschool (brian), about the friends he made and lost in and after uni (Alex, jay, Brian, seth, sarah), and the guy who found him again years later, the guy who was Birdie's other dad (Jay). He talks to her about why Jay's not in her life, talks to her about the loss and explains to her that "I'm still sad over it, I'm sad over it a lot, but I have you now and that makes it a lot easier, because I love you so much and if I still had him I don't know if I'd have had you and i could never trade you for him, even if I had the chance"

christ I need to stop writing or I'm gonna fucking dehydrate lol, fucking hell. If I'm crying this much just listening to this song and writing this, god knows how I'll survive writing the actual fic 💀

[my-turn-with-the-batdad]

My headcanon being; With Tim sent to France so many times he gets caught up in the chocolatine vs pain au chocolat debate.

Him and Bruce entering a café for a breakfast run and he looks at the pastry label at the counter in horror. What follows is a 30min argument in very very passionate French with the owner that results in several unfortunate casualties including a waiting line of costumers and spilled tip jar.

Tim: the chocolatine insurgents are a fucking minority and live in the southwestern regions like barbarians! people only tolerate their existence, one tiny fucking provocation away from ethnic cleansing!!!

Angry elderly baker: Aux armes citoyens!

Bruce: *Stares in a combination of horror and..pride? He didn't even know Tim could speak French. Let alone argue in it for half an hour. And with the looks of it he might he winning..?*

[sleepytownez]

MH and EMH having just one guy who acts so much better than everyone else is seriously going to be the end of me!!

You knew I was going to fall in love with these two characters!!!! STOPIT!!!! (Please don’t actually)