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#timothy drake wayne

The Violations of Scent


 Having things that weren’t his or at least not meant to be his was something Tim was rather used to, it was but a second nature. For instance, the title of robin, or the seat as Wayne enterprise’s CEO. So, why did the mere fabric feel so entirely different from all the rest?


It’d been a little over a year since Kon’s tragic perish, and only 98 cloning attempts in did Tim finally break.


His knuckles bled, arms covered in micro shards of glass from constant punching, pounding and cracking of the thick glass tube that contained Superboy’s infamous shirt.


It was the last thing that smelt like him, of sweat, leather and maybe a hint some sort of spice?


Tim hugged the shirt for a long time, and he laid in the pile of glass for what felt like an enternity, though was only but a half hour.


When he finally arose, the pricks in his skin intensified with pain, so he clutched the shirt on his way to the shower.

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Someone to Lose


“Blood son my ass” Tim hissed as the door opened with a click. The manor was quiet, it was delicate and unloved, and for those reasons he knew for a fact nothing had changed. Maybe he was dreaming, maybe Janet and Jack were just on another expedition.


No, this time they weren’t coming back, instead long gone, forgotten and already starting to deteriorate in their oh so lovely tombs.


The manor would be out of the drake name by the end of the month. He’d allow it to be sold fully furnished and he’d take only his parents belongings with him. Tim decided he’d donate prizes they’ve brought home from expeditions to museums, the clothes would be mostly donated, jewelry pawned, and the rest? Maybe a nice storage container.


Believe it or not, but time apart from the toxic duo was relieving. Tim couldn’t see the abuse till their passing, but now he felt like he could breath. It felt almost similar to the rush he first got as robin.


Right…robin. A lost title. Dead, just like the many other special things and people in his life. All dead and buried in the back of his mind, people and things he once cherished, unlike Janet and Jack.


No more isolation, no more punches or slaps, no more mind controls and manipulation. He was free, free of parental harm and supervision, maybe he’d throw a party? He didn’t know who he’d invite. The only ones he’d care to party with were long gone, his choices in people seemed to be instead dwindling.


“That’s why we make more friends, Timothy,” he mocked his mother’s voice. Only, in the ways she meant it, it wasn’t to make friends, just slaves and people to do ones bidding, mere pawns. It was tempting, too, maybe manipulation and abuse were somehow in his DNA, maybe he was more like them than he thought.


The boy plopped down on the sofa in the sitting room, stiff, barely used just like the rest of the house. He glanced around, noticing the way the doorways arched and the carpet caved in under the legs of the opposite sofa and the million dollar coffee table in front of him. There was a bar in the corner, still fully stocked with his mother’s champagne and his father’s brandy, when was the last time it had been touched? Silence settled in then. It was cold and brutal, yet comforting in a nostalgic way of his adolescence.


Tim felt a sudden sense of pride then. He’d survived. He was on his own, all alone, no longer a puppet to dead Janet, no longer a punching bag to Jack. “I won,” he stated to the house, running a hand through his overgrown hair, a smile curving at the corners of his lips. It was victory at last, he could almost taste it on his lips, cracked and brittled. It was the sour type of victory, the kind felt after revenge. They were dead after all, and the part of him that did love them, felt guilty for not doing more, but out of all the loss he’d faced lately, maybe these deaths he could alter into a slight win, rather than a typical lose.


“I won,” he restated, this time standing up and strutting over to the bar. He pulled out a bottle of champagne from the mini fridge along with a long glass. He’s done so all the many times before, pouring his mother a flute of champagne and his father a shot of brandy, only this time it wasn’t for them, and the alcohol wouldn’t be accompanied with loud fights and more often than not Jack taking it out on his son. He took his glass, champagne poured nearly to the brim.


“To the drakes!” The teen exclaimed with a grin, the liquid sloshing around as he raised the glass to no one. Tim took a glance around the room, giving each piece of furniture, wall, and conversation piece a lively and proud look before he allowed himself to continue, “may we all burn in hell.”

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Tim: Hey, help me with-

Jason: No.

Tim: Yo Dick, do that for me-

Dick: Sorry, busy.

Tim: WOW, rude. I’ll remember all of that.

Damian: Do you want me to help you?

Tim: A b s o l u t e l y n o t

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Tim: Why are people so obsessed with “top or bottom”?

Damian: Honestly, I’m just excited to have a bunk bed.

Jason: Umm, I’m pretty sure Timbo was talkin bout sex. What are you, 12 or somethin?

Damian: What the fuck is sex?

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Commissioner Gordan: You’re under arrest for trying to carry five people on a single motorcycle.

Jason: Damn it!

Dick: Told you this was a bad idea.

Tim: Wait, five?

Commissioner Gordan: Yes, five.

Cassandra: Oh my god

Stephanie: DAMIAN FELL OFF

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Woke up at 6AM with the concept of Tim Drake signing off everything he writes with “I am tired & pale & I have thought of everything.”

End of a paper for a teacher who loves to nitpick pointlessly? “I am tired & pale & I have thought of everything.”

Detailing a plan for Batman on how to capture seven A-list supervillains in a single operation, really not in the mood today to argue about each detail? “I am tired & pale & I have thought of everything.”

Recording an ominous message for the temporarily-evil Justice League, warning them not to attempt escape? “I am tired & pale & I have thought of everything.”

Grocery list? “I am tired & pale & I have thought of everything.”

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