Ready, Aim, Fire!

I mostly write Batboys.Prompts CLOSED.

Sep 23


Gosh, isn’t incogneat-oh great?


Damian Wayne will not, under any circumstances, drink Gotham’s tap water. 

Sep 21

Manufactured in a Facility That Also Processes Food [Drabble]


heartslogos said: tim and/or jason and cheese puffs bc u r a cheesepuff and ilu

“Are you serious right now,” says Jason, not a question. He’s standing in the doorway to Tim’s apartment, half-out of his jacket. He kicks the door shut behind him, tosses his jacket over the end of the couch. Takes his gun from his waistband and drops it to the kitchen counter.

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Sep 20

Manufactured in a Facility That Also Processes Food [Drabble]

heartslogos said: tim and/or jason and cheese puffs bc u r a cheesepuff and ilu

“Are you serious right now,” says Jason, not a question. He’s standing in the doorway to Tim’s apartment, half-out of his jacket. He kicks the door shut behind him, tosses his jacket over the end of the couch. Takes his gun from his waistband and drops it to the kitchen counter.

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Sep 19

The Batboys spread ridiculous propaganda to the GCPD about Batman when he’s not around.

Sep 17



Tim and Jason both get migraines. 

… ‘Cause I Don’t Think that They’d Understand

So … Red Robin gets debilitating migraines.  The kid is sensitive to light, sound, scent, and touch—because why not?

Why should anything ever work in the favor of a Bat in their time of need—up to and including their own body?

Jason feels for the kid; he really does.  He just can’t particularly help it at the moment with the whole TRAP situation that they’ve walked into, so Jason picks the teen up anyway and suffers the indignity of vomit stoically.

Jason is in the running for Big Brother of the Year on principle alone.

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Oh gosh these beautiful loser boys, trying to take care of each other because no one else will. And they understand each other’s pain. This is wonderful! <3 *v*

Sep 15

Bruce complimenting Tim’s hair one time, like. “I like your hair like that. It looks good.”

And so Tim literally doesn’t change his hair for months and months (because Bruce approval, wow). Getting his barber to trim like, half a centimetre every few weeks so it always looks the same, until eventually Conner notices, and is all “Hey… hey Tim? How come your hair never changes? What is with that?”

And Tim would automatically be like “SHUT UP no one asked you, your hair never changes, I mean. What.”

Sep 14


seeing a neatoh post on your dash more like ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡° )

Sep 11

Time Stops Breathing [drabble]

lionhearthell said: jason todd and bruce wayne- nightmares

Jason presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, waits until he sees the colour-bursts of blue-red-yellow-pink. He breathes in again, counts to seven.


He wants a cigarette. 

He’s barefoot in his apartment’s functional, but undeniably shitty kitchen. Pacing. The floor was cold, when he’d first come out here, but now it feels warm under his feet. Jason wonders if the warmth is from him. He feels too hot, but can’t stop shivering. Feverish in too-tight skin.

He tries again to count to seven on an inhale, but loses his place. Thinks, fuck it, and gives up on the meditative breathing. It’s not like it helps.

He hasn’t slept– not properly, not solidly, for days. But every time he closes his eyes… 

He presses his forehead into the cool steel of the refrigerator door. Lets his shoulders drop, slowly. He wants to cry and smoke and trash the place, smash every piece of crockery, break all the furniture, tear apart his books and put his foot through the TV. 

But he’s running low on cash and he’s trying to quit smoking again, and there’s this part inside of him that is reaching out desperately for something, but he doesn’t know what it is. Doesn’t know what will help. 

He’s already ruled out patrolling. 

He stands up again, pushing off the refrigerator door. And he stands in the middle of his kitchen in the middle of the night; his life is a goddamn punchline.


“I have a door,” is what he says, instead of get the fuck out

The pool of shadows in the corner by the window resolves into the shape of the Batman, and he says, “Batman doesn’t use doors.”

Third person. Not a strong start. “Isn’t it a little late for patrol,” says Jason. Too tired to be sharp or cruel. Too tired to be anything but honest. “Didn’t think anything big was going down tonight.”

“It’s not,” B says, stepping further into the light. In spite of the suit, he’s walking like Bruce, like Jason’s dad. “I’m headed home now, but I was close by. Thought I’d catch up with you. It’s been awhile.”

And Jason lets him have the lie. His patrol is nowhere close to this part of town, which means he came here specifically for Jason. And the man’s gauntleted hand is hovering, indecisively at the cowl.

“How have you been?” B says, after a moment. 

But Jason knows he looks like hell, red-rimmed eyes and wild-tangled hair, three day scruff on his cheeks and jaw. He doesn’t answer, just drops his arms to his sides and leans against the cabinet.

It’s kindness or maybe pity when Bruce says, “… you headed to bed?” like he doesn’t know, like he wasn’t watching Jason from outside for the last half hour, trying to decide if he should intervene, and Jason says, 

“One of those weeks,” which isn’t even close to an answer.

But B nods. Another moment of indecision and he takes off the cowl, runs a hand through his sweat-stiff, cowl-flat hair and offers Jason a tight-lipped, tiny smile. 

Something about his gaze, without the lenses, makes Jason feel acutely uncomfortable. And he looks away, says, “If you’re really in a parenting mood, I’m sure Dickie-bird’s game–” but his voice is flat and not at all as biting as he’d like. 


Bruce crosses the kitchen in two strides, takes Jason’s wrist in his hand. Rubs at the skin there gently. The gauntlet feels cold, and he says, “Jay.”

It’s not a hug, but it’s as close as Jason would allow just now. And he hates how easily Bruce can still read him, hates the apology in his voice when he says,

“I can stay, if you want.”

He hates it more that he wants to say yes. Wants to close the short distance between him and Bruce, press his face into Bruce’s shoulder. Wants Bruce to put his arms around him and tell him he’s safe and pet his hair, the same as when he was 13 and afraid. And. He knows Bruce would let him, would do it in a heartbeat. If Jason wanted. 

“Don’t bother,” he says, instead, pulling out of B’s grip. Walking past him, their shoulders brush, and he goes straight into his shoe-box bedroom, pushing the door but not closing it completely. Dark rooms and all.

He lies down on his mussed covers, curling up small on his side. As small as he can make himself. He closes his eyes.

He doesn’t hear footsteps, but he still knows Bruce is outside the door. Surprising. Jason had expected him to go; already, tonight had gone better than most of their interactions. He figured B would quit while he was ahead.

The man doesn’t open the door, doesn’t even knock. But he says, “I split my knuckle before, and my gauntlet’s feeling. Tacky. You mind if I fix it here?”

“Go crazy,” Jason says, not sitting up. “You know where everything is.”

Bruce makes an affirmative sound and goes, and Jason lays still for a minute, two, until guilt and his Alfred-upbringing intervene. He sits up, calls “… You need help?”

“I’m good,” Bruce replies, from the kitchen. 

Jason lies back down, eyes half-closed. He hears, after a moment, the sound of his radio, the one he keeps plugged in at the kitchen bench, crackle to life. Settle, after a minute, on… the oldies? Elvis. Jason feels his lips pull up fractionally, a reluctant, tired smile.

“Can you turn it down,” Jason says. And Bruce doesn’t respond, but the radio drops in volume. Still audible, but faintly. Comfortably, drifting in through his open bedroom door.

He hears the kitchen faucet start up. Run for a minute, longer. Long enough for the hot water to kick in. 

The sink shuts off, and Jason tracks the shadow of movement beneath the door. 

He can track Bruce’s progress through the kitchen with sound– hears the cupboard over the refrigerator, where he keeps his first-aid kit. The sound of the cape, the distinct and entirely familiar non-sound of the heavy boots on the linoleum floor. The creak of Jason’s kitchen chair. 

And. It’s probably a trick of his imagination, but he thinks he can smell Bruce’s aftershave from here. Not a lot, just very faintly, mingled with kevlar, and for a moment Jason is thirteen again, listening to that gramophone Bruce had set up in the Cave, that was “totally vintage, B”, Bruce making a show of rolling his eyes, but his hand is warm and heavy on Jason’s neck. But it only lasts a moment.

Jason half-sits, to draw the covers over himself.

His eyes are heavy. He lets his lids fall closed, still listening to B in the kitchen. The faint rustle of plastic-and-paper on bandages. The cli-ick of his child-resistant antiseptic. 

And Jason rolls onto his other side, pressing his face into the sheets. Listens. 

And drops, at last, into a dreamless sleep.


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