Ready, Aim, Fire!

I mostly write Batboys.Prompts CLOSED.

Oct 21

Saltwater [Drabble]

incogneat-oh:

  1. @ticticinstance said: Batkids and Bubble Baths (I’m just picturing cutie-baby!Dick and grumpy-baby!Damian tbh. It’s adorable)

Bruce, Alfred and Dick. Descriptions of minor injuries.

Bruce can hear splashing and running water from the hallway. Dick’s laughing, too, Alfred speaking over it all, but he can’t make out any words.

Read More


Saltwater [Drabble]

  1. @ticticinstance said: Batkids and Bubble Baths (I’m just picturing cutie-baby!Dick and grumpy-baby!Damian tbh. It’s adorable)

Bruce, Alfred and Dick. Descriptions of minor injuries.

Bruce can hear splashing and running water from the hallway. Dick’s laughing, too, Alfred speaking over it all, but he can’t make out any words.

Read More


Oct 20

Anonymous said: Okay but red-riding-hood is the best jaytim ship name ever.

Anon, can u not?

…I’m on mobile so I can’t add tags, but nsfw/generally inappropriate asks are not appreciated. I’m ace and make no secret of it, plus this is quite clearly a gen blog. I’m really uncomfortable having stuff like this sent to my ask.

Oct 19

Jason Todd eats whole chillies with a stupid smug grin on his face while his brothers watch in horror.


Oct 16

incogneat-oh:

Hey guys!
I’m not going to be around much over the next few weeks, because I’m going on an overseas trip.
As always, though, my personal posts can be blacklisted, because they’re all tagged ‘no one cares neatoh’. I’ve queued up, like, three bat-related posts though haha.
Peace!


Oct 15

Hey guys!
I’m not going to be around much over the next few weeks, because I’m going on an overseas trip.
As always, though, my personal posts can be blacklisted, because they’re all tagged ‘no one cares neatoh’. I’ve queued up, like, three bat-related posts though haha.
Peace!


Oct 8

Young Volcanoes [drabble]

mokuuton requested: Tim and Damian, “He did it!”

Minor injury warning.

“He ptharted it,” says Damian, all bloody-lipped and thunder-browed. Around Alfred’s gloved fingers in his mouth.

“Master Damian,” Alfred says, dabbing the bloody cloth. “What did I tell you about speaking? –don’t answer that, my boy, it was rhetorical.”

As response, Damian pulls away, batting Alfred’s hands aside and scootching back on the cot, out of the old man’s reach. The picture of a fed-up ten year old (essentially accurate).

Alfred sighs, then, taking off his rubber gloves and slinging them expertly into the wastebasket. “At least use the gauze until the bleeding has stopped, young sir. And don’t swallow any blood.”

Damian glowers, shoving a small wad of gauze into his cheek and crossing his arms.

“Whatever he told you, Alfred,” Red Robin, back to the Cave at last, storming over to the medical bay, “You can be sure he’s lying.” He yanks off his cowl, shooting Damian a filthy look, tells Alfred “He’s half-feral, I am stunned Bruce lets him out of the house.”

“Master Tim–”

“Honestly, Damian, you’re lucky Conner let down his TTK so you didn’t break your damn hand.”

Alfred’s eyebrows fly straight up, and he says, “Connor Kent hit you?”

“No, it’s–” 

“He thtarted it!” shouts Damian, flying off the cot and upright.

“You punched him unprovoked, Damian!” Tim shouts back. Turns to Alfred again, says, “Literally out of nowhere, he just flew at Kon and hit him in the face– twice, until I could yank him off. I tossed him and he hit his face on the doorjamb, his own damn fault. Now how different’s that to the story he told you?”

“We hadn’t got to the how just yet,” Alfred says. Brow faintly furrowed in mild concern. 

“It doesn’t matter that you’re Robin,” and Tim’s red-faced now, practically standing over Damian, “You’re not welcome at the Tower if you’re just going to attack my friends without cause– do you know how embarrassing this is? For me, and for Bruce, not to mention Dick, who you’re representing– you can’t just punch people for no reason–”

“He called me a demon!”

Damian’s small voice rings throughout the Cave, echoing and bouncing back to them, demon, demon. His hands are curled into fists at his sides, one side of his face puffy with swelling and gauze.

Tim, stopped partway through his tirade, wrinkles his brow in honest confusion. “We all call you that,” he says. 

“Not him,” Damian says, fiercely, voice sounding thick. Eyes wet and unwavering. “Not–” and he swallows, looks away. Says, bitterly, “None of them even know me.”

Tim puts his hand up, rubs the bridge of his nose for a minute. Says, “Alfred?”

“Ahh yes, an urgent task awaits me upstairs,” says Alfred. Giving Tim a bracing pat on the shoulder and making his retreat.

They stand in an uncomfortable silence until he’s gone.

Tim sighs, then, walking closer to the cot. Says tiredly, “Sit.”

“Don’t tell me–” the boy starts, hotly, before seeing that Tim is already sitting. So he lifts himself back onto the cot, but won’t meet Tim’s gaze. Busies himself, instead, with carefully strapping his faintly-bruised knuckles. 

“He didn’t,” Tim starts, hesitant. Short. “He wasn’t trying to be offensive, it’s just.” He puts a hand over his eyes again, tries, “You know how it’s different, when it’s one of us? Like Dick, or Steph, or even Jason? How we call each other names and stuff, but you just laugh or– or I guess in your case, roll your eyes or scowl and move on?”

Reluctant, glancing at Tim from the corner of his eye, he nods. 

“Well,” Tim says, eyes on the Cave’s ceiling now. “The Titans are a sort of family. We do that, too.” And then, turning to Damian, “But you still know that it’s not okay to punch someone.”

Damian doesn’t say anything to that, so Tim pushes, “Come on, all you do it talk about how smart you are, I know you can use your words and have a successful interaction with someone.”

Damian spits out his bloodied gauze into his palm.

And Tim offers, quietly, “I’ll tell them not to call you that from now on, on the condition that you don’t punch teammates anymore.

There’s a long pause, in which Damian does not say anything like ‘thank you’ or ‘i’m sorry’. Instead, eventually, “Did I hurt him?”

“You gave him a bloody nose,” Tim says. “Which kind of freaks him out, as a guy who bleeds very rarely. He heals fast though.”

There is another stretch of silence.

And Damian’s brow furrows again, blood still dribbling sluggishly down his chin. Says eventually, ponderously, “… Is this why I’m the only one not allowed to carry kryptonite in my belt?”

“This is exactly why,” Tim says, standing from the cot. “Ya lil nutjob.”

END.


Oct 4

Gratitude [drabble]

twoteas said: bruce wayne, thanking batfam

——

“Alright,” Dick says, rolls his shoulders. Stretches out his arms and gives a full-body shake. “Let’s dothis, I’m ready.” 

“It’s a movie, genius,” says Jason, knocking shoulders with his elder brother. “It doesn’t require a warm-up.”

“Well if I don’t stretch now, I’m going to get antsy and stiff. But not necessarily in that order,” Dick says, gives him a… somewhat friendly shove, in return. Says, “Ooh, that reminds me. Dibs Dad!”

“I am a person, Dick,” Bruce says, from behind his boys. Dick jumps but Jason doesn’t, just laughs, while he continues; “You can’t call dibs on people.”

“Dibs sitting next to you, obviously,” Dick says, long-sufferingly. Like Bruce is being stupid. “Are the boys on their way down?”

“I gave them the two minute warning,” Bruce confirms, and Damian enters the parlour with stomping feet–

“I’ve called dibs on sitting next to Dad,” Dick tells the boy, grinning widely. He bounds forward to grab Damian’s tiny wrist and drag him, reluctant, into the room. Says, “You’re gonna love Ghostbusters. Probably.”

“Where will I sit?” Damian says, instead. He eyes Jason with a frown.

“I’ll sit in the middle of the couch,” Bruce offers. “You can sit on my other side.” And then, feeling a flash of familiar guilt, he glances at Jason, slouch-shouldered and raised-eyebrowed in the middle of the room. Says, “That’s okay, right?”

“No worries,” says Jason, and then, under his breath but in a voice clearly intended to carry; “Psychologists do say that it’s the middle children who are most often ignored or neglected.”

Bruce opens his mouth to… something. Apologise, even though he’s almost sure it was a joke, or possibly just say “Jay”, in that tone of all-too-familiar exasperation. Maybe offer to spend much, much more time together, just to give him an opportunity to roll his eyes and pretend to gag, but–

“You hear that, Babybird?” Jason says, loudly, when Tim walks through the doorway. “You and me are relegated to the floor.”

Tim just nods, like he didn’t expect anything else. 

“Come sit,” Dick calls, from the couch. There’s a deliberate space left between him and Damian, a Bruce-sized gap. Dick pats it invitingly and waggles his eyebrows, and Bruce mutters “Well there’s no way this is going to go well,” just loud enough for Jason and Tim to hear.

Tim snorts, and Jason gives a laugh, shoves him forward. Toward the couch.

“It’s a big couch,” Bruce says, when he sits bracketed between his boys. “There’s plenty of room for all of us.”

“And sit next to Dickie or the demon kid?” Jason scoffs. “No thank you.” 

And Bruce didn’t know it was possible to flop pointedly, but Jason has always managed to surprise him. 

“Well,” Damian sneers, “You’re stuck sitting with Drake, now.”

“Infinitely preferable,” Jason says, without pause. 

And Tim, beside him on the carpet, says, “Hell yeah,” and they high-five, without turning to face one another, Tim huffing his laugh.

“I’m a delightful seating companion,” Dick says, tossing down cushions nonetheless. And elbowing into Bruce’s side, but he’s not really sure if that’s deliberate or not. “Come on, let’s roll, guys. Who’s got the remote?”

———

It’s some time later when Bruce starts to stir. Unsure what’s woken him, he opens his eyes slowly, not moving otherwise.

The movie’s still playing, softly, in the background. Almost over. The screen is throwing the dark room into a pale blue glow, a familiar head of hair silhouetted in front of it. 

And Jason says, low, “You’re quite the trend-setter, you know?”

Is he talking to–?

“I mean,” the boy continues, still facing the television, “You fall asleep one time, and suddenly everybody’s doing it.” 

And Bruce lifts his head then, as something violent and non-sensical happens onscreen. Someone had, at one point, tucked a blanket around him. It’s one of the soft fleecy bedroom ones, not the scratchy, fancy throws Alfred keeps in the sitting rooms. Damian is smushed into his side, pressed tight against him. His arm is loosely around the boy, who’s making tiny, soft-snoring sounds. His face is pinched up in its usual scowl, but for Damian, he seems happy enough.

On his other side, Dick’s head is lolled against the back of the couch, Bruce’s hand pressed heavily against his knee. One of Dick’s arms is wrapped around himself, the other hand resting loosely on Bruce’s arm. 

And if he shifts his head just slightly, careful not to disturb his sleeping kids, he can see Tim curled up on the carpet, wrapped around a single cushion. Someone had tossed a jacket over his scrunched-up form. 

Jason’s still upright, arms wrapped around his shins, chin resting on his knees. Still watching the movie, for all that he isn’t. Sitting peaceably in a room with his sleeping brothers, empty snack containers and dishes sprawled around like collateral damage. A family movie night.

It’s then that Bruce is stuck with one of those rare, blinding moments of clarity. Of gratitude, and warmth, and a kind of wonderment that this is his family. He says, voice hoarse and quiet, “Thank you.” 

Jason half-turns, then, question on what little of his face Bruce can make out in the dark. Offers, “It was Tim that got the blanket.” 

“That too,” Bruce murmurs. Because he means it for everything.

And Jason looks as though he’s about to speak, face clouded with… indecision, realisation, when Tim, entirely asleep, mumbles “That wasn’ the plan,” and rolls onto his other side, stretching out his legs fully. And incidentally kicking into Jason.

Bruce can see the spot where Tim’s heels must be digging into Jason’s thigh, hears the half-laugh, half-sigh, the murmured, “You little shit,” and, “You’re lucky you’re asleep, kid.”

He sees Jason shift, reach out. Sure he’s about to wake the sleep-deprived Tim. But instead, Jason just. Rests his open palm on Tim’s ankle. Eyes on the TV again.

Bruce feels himself smiling, closes his eyes. Lets his head fall back against the couch. 

And it’s less than a minute later when he hears the ending credits, Jason saying, “Time to rouse the troops?”

He opens his eyes. “I think,” Bruce says, slow. “We’re all pretty settled, for the moment.” 

Jason eyes him from the floor, something like a smile on his face. Says, “You are getting, just, so sappy in your old age.” He stretches then, gently shifting Tim’s feet so he can stand, says, “I’ll stick in the sequel.”

“Jay, you don’t–” Bruce starts.

“It’s okay,” he says, changing around the DVD. “Tim’s in and out a bit. I’m sure he’ll wake up in a few and quote along to the damn movie.”

He blinks his eyes open to see that Jason’s looking at him. “Go back to sleep, old man,” he says, fondness heavy in the timbre of his of his voice. 

“I can still kick your butt,” Bruce says. Closes his eyes again anyway.

He falls asleep to Jason’s laughter.

END.


Anonymous said: I want more coffee puns! c:

I don’t give a crappuccino 


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