Ready, Aim, Fire!

I mostly write Batboys.Prompts CLOSED.

Apr 24

i’m going away for a couple days and i will probably be without internet access, just a heads up


jason todd makes grilled cheeses for his friends and family when they are sad


Apr 23

ghostwingss asked: hi neatoh thanks for doing some prompts <3 number 7 with tim and kon bff's please ? :)

incogneat-oh:

7: for warmth

Conner Kent is squinting down at the expanse of white below. The sleet is seriously messing with his view, and it’s not nearly so fun to fly in the freezing temperature.

But something, he knows, isn’t right. 

Which is why, when he sees the tiny figure below, he drops like a stone. Zeroing in. The figure is dark against the white of the snow, casting too-long shadows and visibly struggling in the knee-deep, powdery snowfield. But even from here, Conner knows.

It’s him.

Read More


ghostwingss asked: hi neatoh thanks for doing some prompts <3 number 7 with tim and kon bff's please ? :)

7: for warmth

Conner Kent is squinting down at the expanse of white below. The sleet is seriously messing with his view, and it’s not nearly so fun to fly in the freezing temperature.

But something, he knows, isn’t right. 

Which is why, when he sees the tiny figure below, he drops like a stone. Zeroing in. The figure is dark against the white of the snow, casting too-long shadows and visibly struggling in the knee-deep, powdery snowfield. But even from here, Conner knows.

It’s him.

Read More


Apr 20
got-sass:

Early-morning Tim.

got-sass:

Early-morning Tim.


Apr 19

Anonymous asked: 14- Brotherly Tim and Dick (while Tim is still Robin maybe?)

14: clinging

Ahh, I deviated from the prompt. So this is actually set after the events of Red Robin.

Dick is cold and shivery, standing stiffly in the hallway. He’s in a pair of boxers and a shirt of Bruce’s that was mixed in with his laundry two–? no, three years ago that he hasn’t got around to returning. At this point, it is probably more his than it is B’s.

It’s that weird, grey, non-time of the day in that space between night and early morning, where everything feels fuzzy and dissociative. It’s a non-hour, where sounds are sharp and everything else is soft. Dick’s eyes feel gritty and sandy and sore.

It had been one of those nights on patrol, where nothing especially bad had happened, but everything had been inexplicably harder, rougher. More unpleasant. One of those nights where he’d helped, but not enough. 

And he’s standing there in the middling dark, eyes closed, fist raised to knock. It’s not too late to go back to bed. His own bed. But he already knows, if he goes back now, it’ll be another restless, upset few hours. He’ll toss and he’ll turn and he’ll eventually get back up and find himself back here. And then the situation will repeat, but he’ll be more anxious, more sleep-deprived. More on-edge.

So he exhales something like a sigh, raising his knuckles to drag, more than knock, on Tim’s door. And the kid doesn’t answer, like he expected, so he opens the door as quietly as he can, stepping inside the dark bedroom.

It smells like warmth and sleep and clean laundry, because Alfred had washed the sheets today. Aired out Tim’s room.

And Tim himself is curled on his side, face half-hidden in his pillow. Pressed into the mattress and breathing softly. 

Dick… Dick knows every inch of this house, probably even better than Bruce does, so he knows exactly where to walk to avoid the creaking floorboards, the tired old floors. His feet don’t make a sound, but still, Tim is awake by the time he reaches the bed.

Not noticeably; nothing about him has changed. Not his breathing, his posture. His eyes are still closed. But Dick knows he’s awake, the same way he knows Tim will stay silent for as long as it takes for Dick to get comfortable.

He takes his time about it, slipping very gently under the covers, easing into place beside his little brother. Curls up at his back, cautiously laying an arm over Tim’s chest. And the kid still doesn’t move.

Dick breathes in, out. Measured. Manual. Acutely aware of every sensation, from the lingering warmth of the sheets to the smell of Tim’s shampoo-and-skin. The feel of a logo on Tim’s shirt, rough on the skin of Dick’s arm. 

And then Tim breaks the silence, half-glancing over his shoulder to murmur, “Pop-culture has taught me that you’re supposed to seek out your parent in the middle of the night. Not your sibling.” 

“Pop-culture isn’t a perfect teacher, Timmy,” Dick says, more sad than wry. The words are heavy on his tongue.

And they lie there in silence for a while before Tim asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Dick closes his eyes, seeing again the image he hasn’t been able to shake since he woke up. Tim, bloodied. Glassy eyes, visibly broken bones. Sprawled dead and alone and forgotten on the sidewalk, like a discarded toy. 

The nightmares are always so much more vivid on nights like these.

And Dick shakes his head, wordless, pressing his face carefully against the back of Tim’s neck. Feels the tickle of too-long hair against his nose, the heat of warm skin. And he’s so, so glad that the kid stayed over tonight.

It takes a minute, but eventually, Tim’s hand comes up to squeeze at his forearm. 

They lie that way for a long time, Dick pressed close against Tim, until– “You know how much I love you, right?”

And, “Yeah, Dick.” Squeeze. “I know.” And there’s something in Tim’s voice that’s tired beyond his years. Something indefinably sad. 

Dick exhales. He is proud and aching, and only just starting to relax. Tim is more limp than relaxed, hand still steady on his arm. Gentle, inconsistent pressure, thumb rubbing absently over the bone. 

Eventually, tone lighter, Tim says; “Did you need me to check your closet for monsters?”

There’s a breath like laughter that rumbles through his chest, that he knows Tim can feel. And he murmurs, “If that was all, I’d’ve gone to Damian. Kid’s room is full of swords.” And when Tim stays silent, Dick says, “A little monster killing could only mellow him out, probably.”

And Tim murmurs something like agreement, quiet and still, and Dick thinks screw it, says, “I’m so glad you’re here, Timbo.” 

Here at the Manor. Here in Gotham. Alive

All of the above.

“Yeah,” Tim says, again, pressing his face further into the pillow. 

And Dick squeezes Tim, says, “It’s okay if I stay, right?”

Tim half-shrugs out of his grip, rolling over in the bed. Then, shifting a little closer, letting Dick wrap his arms tightly again, he smiles a little, settling back into the sheets. “Of course, Dick,” he says lightly. “We’re brothers.”

And Dick closes his eyes; the afterimage of his nightmare is still too-bright on the backs of his eyelids, but the press of Tim’s cheek against his chest is helping. He feels his lips tilt up at the corners, involuntarily, and now, he thinks, he can sleep.

END.


Apr 18

protagonistically:

In the beginning of Tim’s Robin career, the first time Dick stopped by and Bruce actually smiled, Dick decreed, ‘All hail Timmy!  Fixer of Batmen!’


Apr 17

back when Tim was a 13yo brand-new Robin, Dick wanted his attention for a training exercise, so he said, ‘hey Tim, d’you have a sec?’

and Tim said ‘i have lots of secs!’ and is probably still not over it tbh


Apr 16
you don’t have to tell me my dog is the cutest, because i already know

you don’t have to tell me my dog is the cutest, because i already know


Apr 15

Anonymous asked: I think that you are a truly spectacular writer. I have been going through things that are testing my limits (but then again, who isn't?) and each time I feel low, I always read something you've written. Whether it's the headcanons, or fics, or anything--they always make me feel better. Like they give me a moment to catch my breath, ya know? Anyways, I hope everything is going well for you and I appreciate you and all that you do! Praying for you :) (even if you're not religious) take care

Thank you so much for your kind words.

I am sorry that you’re struggling, and I can’t tell you how humbled I am that my blog can help you even a little. I really hope things ease up for you soon <3


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