12 Works by PUTTYMAW
Listing Works
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Summary
Tim walks the fine line between obsession, worship, love, and hate.
Or:
Tim Drake loves Robin, and cannot love Jason Todd. The boy's existence alone twists him into knots. He's scared to even come too close to Robin, for fear of realizing Robin is human just like Tim, that Robin and Jason are one in the same.
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Going on in the face of by PUTTYMAW
Fandoms: Batman: Under the Red Hood (2010), Batman - All Media Types
24 Jan 2026
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Jason Todd crushes (I)ce
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For some reason, the best years of every old white man's life? by PUTTYMAW
Fandoms: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
21 Jan 2026
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Dick Grayson is not living it up at uni, and, is in fact, probably not living it down, either.
I.E.:
Dick has a panic attack for no(?) reason, and decides to drop the fuck out.
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A love-hate letter to every enemy-to-caretaker attack on titans tower fic. Usually, the plot goes that Jason's resolve breaks once he finally humanizes Tim as a child to himself.
This is my 300 word argument against the trope.
Or:
Can Tim actually suffer enough to be innocent? Can anyone?
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And the memory of our sacred so and so's by PUTTYMAW
Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types, The Punisher (TV 2017)
22 Apr 2025
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Tim knew, sitting there on a cold wooden stool that creaked with each of his movements even if he barely shifted his weight, that this was stupid. He had things to do back at the manor, back in the cave, and people counting on him besides. He wouldn't, no, didn’t think about who exactly those people were, because then he’d never get up off this damn stool again. Just like Jason, he scolded himself, You’re throwing a hissy fit just like Jason.
But he couldn’t quite convince himself of it.
This didn’t feel like all the times Jason ran off in a fit of temper, no, this is a different beast that Tim was contending with. Exhaustion on top of exasperation absolutely layered in disappointment.
It was in how he found himself sitting in a grimy Gotham bar less than an hour from its set closing, having a midlife crisis, without anybody to call. If he had called anybody, any one of his contacts, they’d likely tell him that he’s too young for a midlife crisis. But they, as people who clearly knew nothing much about Tim’s life, thanks, could fuck right off.
If they called, that’s what he’d say: go fuck yourself.
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Fan art for podfic of "someone's dread and darling boy" by the_ragnarok.
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"It hiked toward the cabin, feeling clumsy and brash in its acquired flesh. Jimmy Novack’s feet were sucked into the mud, his hair thrashed about by underbrush, his beloved trench coat stained brown and a suspicious red. It did not chance bringing Dean straight to the door. Who knew how the Prophet might react? What if he had a gun and shot at Castiel? Of course, it wouldn’t be affected, but Dean’s… mass, might explode into a myriad more pieces. What a hassle, it grimaced. "
OR:
The Michael Sword was resurrected, and earth is hideous.
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he’s Dean-fucking-Winchester, and there’s no way he’s age-regressing, involuntary or otherwise.
Except when has life ever just given him a goddamn break? Apparently, where there's a will there's a fucking way because he’s given up on fighting this. Among other things, his research revealed that if he didn’t regress on his own after particularly stressful events, it was more than likely that his beaten-down mind would just unpredictably give way to that of a toddler.
like he needed any more reminders of why he and Cas could never be together.
Basically what the title says, except we're about to delve into even more problems when a very interesting curse is placed on Castiel during a hunt. //p.s. the age play tag is for filtering purposes only, Dean's regression is a coping mechanism not a kink.
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Hey so basically this is just if Dean was in a Jack and the Beanstalk situation.
Anyways excerpt time:
Dean cast a sad glance at his family’s sole milk cow, lovingly dubbed Baby. She stood in her small pasture, hair dull and eyes glassy. There was a time when her black hide had shone in the midday sun, and her eyes had sparkled with intelligence that had him half-convinced she understood what he was saying when he rambled to her. But those days were long past now, and even after an hour's work Dean could only coax a few drops from her teat, which dripped pathetically down into a bucket meant to hold a gallon’s worth.
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About two weeks ago Dean started hearing voices. Or, well, one voice. He didn’t tell Dad, didn’t even tell Sammy, because he knows what Dad would do if he found out. There’d be no amount of convincing he or even Sammy could do that would change John’s mind once he’d decided his oldest son was possessed, or at the very least being influenced by a demon. As useful as a soldier is, he’s no good if he’s a spy for the other side, even unwillingly. So, Dean figures he’s worm food walking at the moment.
I swear this is not as bad as the tags make it sound :3
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Yea I wrote this for creative writing. It was supposed to be a story about the color grey, but I accidentally made a metaphor for how it feels to be trans. Give it a try if you like.
excerpt:
Castiel stares down at the earth below and feels at peace. He sits precariously, perched on the cloud’s light gathering of water molecules. His wings dip down into that tuft of suspended water, flicking about calmly as he idly bathes them. His long flight feathers slice clean through the fluff to open sky, due to his wings’ large size. They must be quite large in order to accommodate what at least appears to be a full-grown human man.