#bruce wayne is trying

[gothamite-rambler]

He's asking the real question because Tim was a wild card when he first wanted to become a Robin

Dick: You ever think that if you had said no to Tim being the next Robin he would've become a villain instead?

Bruce spat his drink out in shock.

Bruce (between coughs): I thought I was jumping to conclusions!

Dick: Yeah, nah I love Tim, he's my brother, but... Jesus Christ this could've been an 'Incredibles' situation. So I'm glad you put aside how you usually are and let him work with you.

Bruce (confused): Thank you... Wait what do you mean how I usually am?

Dick stood up and walked off.

Bruce: The silence speaks volumes!

Dick: Don't care.

[razzledazzle0]

caterpillar

Tim: I want to be a caterpillar

Bruce: explain?

Tim: well, they eat a lot, sleep for a while and wake up beautiful

Dick: Ooo that sounds nice

Damian: Drake, you do realize that caterpillars have a lifespan of like 2 weeks right?

Tim: yeah I know its a perk

Bruce: TiM NO-

[nopxxx]

I just adore the idea of Batman completely concealing his kids under his cape. Like I literally love it sm, so here’s how I think a few of them would have done it :)

Dick: hugging Bruce’s leg(when he was tinier) or his waist. I also like to think that outside of combat he would have stood on Bruce’s feet as he walked, yk?

Jason: holding onto Bruce’s arm usually, occasionally hugging him like Dick if he felt threatened. I like to think that when they were idle late at night he would fall asleep while hugging Bruce’s arm

Tim: Tim would be a bit nervous at first, but eventually ended up just huddling himself close to Bruce. He would often be peeking out from under the cape too

Damian: It took him a few months to agree to being protected in the cape, but one late night after detaining a rough arkham escapee he’s just so tired, and he’s nodding off and Bruce just gently lifts him up and holds him, and it’s so surprisingly warm and comfortable that he can’t help falling asleep. After that he went under the cape more often, huddling close like Tim used to(haha), and occasionally allowing himself to be held in his father’s arms.

Take this song and be sad with me

[insonniacaotica]

Tim is smart but dumb

Dick: My adoption was slow but happy. Bruce did his best

Jason: Bruce adopted me after a week of meeting but hey, I'm also dead

Tim: I found Batman in the garbage because he's a trash so I forced him to let me stay with him

Bruce: Tim adopted me?

[arkangelo-7]

Okay, but Bruce Wayne plays chess. And you can pry this hc out of my cold dead hands.

Remember that Bruce Wayne is the tactical genius behind the Justice League’s success. Strategical maneuvering is his thing. And on top of that, he’s excellent at reading people. (He didn’t earn the title of the World’s Greatest Detective just because he’s pretty—he earned it because he’s so fucking good at figuring out how people think).

Chess is the hellchild of both tactical strategy and extreme observation. Any chess master worth his rooks utilizes both of these disciplines—because chess, at its heart, is a game about using complicated moves to outsmart another person.

So naturally Bruce fucking loves it.

It’s, like, the only board game he’ll actually play. Yes, he’ll sit through a round of Bananagrams with Steph or Scrabble with Jason or (one time) Bop It with Dick, but he mostly does that for the kids and doesn’t put much of his brainpower into it. But chess? Bruce won’t half-ass it. He will eviscerate you.

No. Mercy.

Because other than the Riddler’s occasional break outs from Arkham, chess is the closest thing to a brain teaser that Bruce can feasible get. (His brain works way too fast for those ones you can find online and solving murder cases a little too depressing to be any fun, even if they’re particularly hard to crack.) For him, chess is fun in a way a lot of games just aren’t.

He’s forced all the Batkids to learn it. It’s like unofficial hazing in Wayne Manor—once you know chess, you’re basically a part of the family. But most of the kids don’t like it all that much; Dick can’t sit through it, Jason got too frustrated, Damian was taught by Ra’s and now hates chess by extension, and Steph, Duke, and Cass don’t see the point if they know they’ll never actually be able to beat Bruce.

So they all hate it—except for Barbra and Tim.

Barbra is the only one to have beaten Bruce while he was at the top of his game. Her mind moves like a computer and she counter-attached his strategy before Bruce could even compute what was happening. Now they play every other Wednesday.

Tim got his ass handed to him the first few times he played Bruce, but took that as a challenge. He ended up going on an entire side-quest with Young Justice to uncover some hidden chess manual just so he could have a leg up on Bruce—but Bruce is still just a little bit better. Now, whenever they play, the matches last up to 20+ hours and neither of them will say a word the entire time.

So, yeah. Bruce plays chess.

[ravenclawshermione]

Chapter Update - Bat Fam Pool Party

“A family party?” Phoebe asked, looking down at me incredulously, “What kind of party?”

We were in an old garage I had out near the docks. I’d had some long overdue maintenance planned for my car that I wanted to get done before Roy and Lian came down to visit, and when a last minute shift swap had left Phoebe with nothing else to do, she’d asked to join me. She was perched on the edge of a workbench, all dressed up and distracting as hell in that tight little pencil skirt, her dark green button shirt untucked and unbuttoned to reveal a red tank top. 

“A pool party. I wouldn’t be going if I didn’t owe Dami, I usually try to avoid these things when I can.”

“What’s it for?”

“Just a birthday thing,” I said, rolling back under the car, “I’ll probably be able to ditch pretty early and come over after, if you’d rather not go.”

The sound of her throat clearing came from too close and I realized my mistake. I twisted my head to see her sensible black heels and tights, standing close enough that I had to be careful rolling back out to avoid seeing more than I should. She was glaring down at me, hands on her hips.

“Jason Todd, were you seriously not going to tell me that it’s your birthday party?”

“It’s not just mine,” I said, flustered, “It’s mostly for Damian and Steph and Duke.”

“So this party, who all will be there? And how much am I supposed to know?”

“The whole family, everyone’s partners, and at least a few friends. It’s an ‘in the know’ party,” I explained, “But Steph said that she only told Cass and Barbie about your ability, so in theory the only other people that will know would be Dick and Calla. The rest of them will probably just assume I told you.”

She bit her lip, considering, and I carefully slid the rest of the way out and stood, grabbing a rag to try and wipe some of the grime off my hands. 

“There’s something else…” I had to fight not to look away, “Bruce already knows that you know. I don’t know how, and I don’t think he knows that you’re a meta, but he knows that you know, and he wants to meet you. It’s why he asked me to invite you. He said that he’d behave, but I don’t trust him half as far as I can throw him.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” she said fiercely, and for a moment I had to hold back a laugh. Then her expression shifted to something less certain as she looked away, “I don’t want you to feel like you have to invite me just because of him. If you don’t want me-”

“I do,” I cut in, “That is, I mean, it’s not that I don’t want you there. I just… He doesn’t have the best track record when it comes to people knowing any of our secret identities. Especially civilians. And he’s got some very weird hang ups when it comes to metas in Gotham, especially ones who don’t answer to him. And even without that, the rest of my family… They mean well, they do, but they’re a lot. I don’t want to drag you into all that.”

“You’re not dragging me anywhere,” she said, amused, “But I will need a ride. I’m pretty sure there’s no bus stops near Wayne manor, or wherever it is you’re going to have this thing.”

“Are you sure you-”

She reached up and put one finger on my lips, silencing me, “I’m sure, Jason. Now, when is this thing? I need to get a new swimsuit.”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/59228794/chapters/160874614

[beware-of-pity]

Sins of the father(s) IV

Masterlist

Previous chapter - Next

Bruce Wayne (Battinson) x Reader

Crossposted on Ao3

Summary:

When the silver spoon feeds well, it is hard to accept that we cannot have what does not want to be taken… unless the person is unaware of it. Sometimes, it’s better to come forward with what is left unsaid, instead of watching others slip from one’s fingers. 

. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦇་༘࿐

Chapter IV: Super rich kids with nothing but loose ends (Super rich kids with nothing but fake friends)

Bruce felt guilty, as he often did. He carried the guilt of not being able to save his parents on that night in that dark alley, of being the sole survivor. People who knew him, close ones, like Alfred, Dory and you, knew that despite having his life spared, Bruce had not exactly survived that fate twilight. A changed man, he had come out of that crime scene, the ghost of a boy everyone knew he would never be again.

So much anger and guilt he internalised over his own existence that he can only let out when he fights the criminals he sees the face of the man who pointed that gun at him and his parents' faces.

But this, this was a new kind of guilt. Knowing that he had disappointed you, angered you because of the pain he was causing you, created a sting in his chest that he thought he would never feel.

He wanted, he truly did, to try to reach out during these past few days. When he had heard that you would host a luncheon with the members of the charity you managed in your father’s memory, he had wanted to go. Support you, be there for you, but to his dismay, he had to, of course, get hurt the night before on his patrol, ending with his entire torso bandaged and bedridden for two days. Alfred’s orders. He had wanted to send something, flowers, perhaps attached with a note filled with encouraging words, but in the limbo between sleep, which he had the opportunity to catch up on after so long, and those few moments he was awake, he had totally forgotten to ask Alfred to run this commission for him.

He wanted to beat himself up, his hands on the steering wheel of the Batmobile tightening around the leather as he gritted his teeth.

Idiot, what an absolute idiot he was. Could he ever do something right? In his entire life, was there something he was good at other than beating up criminals when blinded by his rage?

Cohesive arguments evaded him, his lack of emotional regulation truly getting to him. He prided himself on the idea that he had been able to control his emotions. But, there was something about you, something that drove him to believe he had not grown at all from when he was a young boy.

It’s like he returned to the boy he used to be, emotional and driven by his thoughts in all the wrong ways. Memories of a time he would rather forget in order to forge this new path forced him back right at the beginning. He could only imagine how hurt and angry you would truly be if you found out in just how much danger he was truly putting himself up to every night. What he could imagine, was the true disappointment you would then face him with. With other people, he could do as he pleased, be everything he wanted to be when you were not around, hiding behind someone he was not, but with you?

With you, he felt a sense of vulnerability; he could confide in you, and you would listen, try to comfort him, help him, and reassure him with sweet, shooting sweet nothings. You were like a rock, a pillar that he felt the need to rest upon, and it pained him just as much as it did you to push you away to keep you safe. The fear he felt at the thought of losing you to his foolishness was one he only felt once when he had lost his parents.

Women, he hated to admit, were kind of a mystery for him. He wasn’t well-versed in the art of love or such. The only time he thought himself somewhat in love was with a thrill-chasing street racer named Dorothy, better called Dex, which he had befriended during one of his summers back home from the boarding school you two attended. If he considered himself reckless now, he must have been a wild animal at seventeen when he would sneak out of the Wayne Tower with the first prototype of the bat mobile, racing strangers in the middle of the night, getting stopped by the cops as they pried upon young and reckless teenagers by hiding on a side road or in an alley, waiting for late-night joyriders breaking the speed limit….like him.

It was the first time he had come in such serious and close contact with a woman his age who wasn’t you.

Dex felt like a new adventure he was embarking on, especially during a time when he had begun to question himself about what he truly wanted in life, growing restless about his own reclusive behaviour. She was like a breath of fresh air, exactly like those fast and rushing drives he took about town. A summer he would remember well, even years down the line. A summer that he spent being the wild young man men his age would be, while you went on a leisure vacation about the Amalfi Coast with some other classmates you shared in common.

Dex was everything you were not, and you were everything Dex wasn’t, but he couldn’t lie and say he had not often tried to find you in Dex.

She was wild and reckless, just like he had been, and yet he tried at times to find your strictness and rationality in her. Dex brought out in him the thrill he had been seeking, the one he supposed every seventeen-year-old boy sought in the opposite sex, but his mind told him when to stop and not venture into those bad situations Dex eventually found herself, his mind doing so because you were not there to do so.

He spent his days on the phone with you, which were your nights because of the time difference, and his nights with Dex and their escapades with the group of people, mostly Dex’s friends, planned out for the night.

When you returned in September, practically glowing from the days spent under the warm sun of the Italian coast and asked about how he had spent his summer, he didn’t tell you about Dex or his newfound addiction to racing. Of course, minus those details, you told him he would have had more fun if he had just come with you all, to which he said he would next time….which he didn’t, but he had come to the Christmas party that was thrown that winter to compensate for knowing he would have to decline your offer again when you would later ask. Had it not been for you, he would have spent the entirety of it all standing awkwardly in an abandoned corner of the room.

He had felt foolish, embarrassed, with cheeks flushing a deep crimson, as you danced with him, a red Santa hat on his head, and you dressed as one of Santa’s helpers, just….a slightly more provocative helper. He averted the sight before him many times that night, usually by craning his head to the side or letting his eyes fall anywhere but your more than revealing cleavage…which he hated to admit he had thought about too many times the following days. Could he be blamed? He was a teenager engulfed in the flesh of youth. It wasn’t his fault you were practically all over him, and the fact that he had to carry you back to your room when you had gotten tipsy, complaining that your feet hurt because of the heels you wore, had not helped. He remembered the feel of your soft and warm skin against his shirt all too well, your soft snores that fanned his face as you slept the night away as he carried you, only after he had taken those darn heels off your feet. The Polaroid, taken by a girl he didn’t know, but he supposed you did, commemorated the night with its overall existence, immortalising the night into living memorabilia, instead of just his memory.

He thought he liked Dex, she made him feel speechless in her presence, like he didn’t know what to say, all his thoughts just vanishing, but you….everything he thought he felt for Dex just went with the wind when he first set his eyes on you again after so long.

He did not need this. He didn’t need old wounds and resurfacing emotions that would not help his vigilante work to resurface in the cold and passive man he had turned himself into.

Perhaps Vengeance didn’t….but as for Bruce, well….Bruce was another story.

Women liked him, and he liked them too, but over his early twenties, he never stayed too long to not form any attachments. The only constant one in his life had become you…

He didn’t want to admit it, but a part of him yearned for the comfort of your gentleness, which contrasted his cold and unwavering vigilante persona. It brought out in him a vulnerability he didn’t know he still possessed, one he hated feeling. He couldn’t allow himself any weakness, and you….you made him weak. He couldn’t afford to be weak, not when the worst time of the year was now upon him. In two days, it would be Halloween, and even though the news had predicted heavy rain, Bruce knew that a few drops of water would not stop the criminals from acting out or the streets from not being filled with people celebrating.

The nature of the city could not be stopped by anything, especially rain, which was why he needed to be out there, to fight against it and keep the innocent citizens wanting to only celebrate a fun and jolly holiday from getting in between the criminals’ plans and their own. 

He had thought about how to approach a possible reconciliation throughout the day after, though his mind shut everything down when he saw you on the TV beside Reál as you two walked out of the studio where the last debate between her and Mitchell had taken place in light of next week’s elections.

You smiled and waved at the cameras, who clamoured around you two to ask questions, to vulture deeper into the future that awaited this newfound coalition between the possible new Mayor of Gotham and the newest member of the City Council. Eloquently answering the questions as you went, you were able to evade them until you arrived at the car awaiting you before speeding off.

He had gone on his nightly patrol that night with an unusual sense of irrationality to him.

Robbery, theft, and assault were commonplace in the dark alleys of Gotham, yet that night, Bruce almost looked like he was seeking those things he hated most.

The next morning, the haze of the night had faded, but not the emotions he had carried from it. Tonight, more than ever, he needed ultimate concentration, and yet he almost found himself unable to do so. Frustrated by this, he spent most of the afternoon preparing for his patrol. Training, putting all he felt in the punches he delivered to the punching bag hanging in the Batcave. He had reduced his knuckles raw, almost frail to draw blood if he wanted, which he had to cover with bandages so as to not feel the discomfort of the sensitive skin rubbing against the leather of the gloves of his suit.

When he dipped his fingers in the black makeup he used to fill in the gaps that his mask could not, the coolness of the paste soothed his irritated skin, even as it stained him. As per routine, he went out first in incognito among the crowd dressed as the ‘Drifter’. The old, baggy and well-worn second-hand clothes he had thrifted came in hand when he wanted to blend among crowds, asserting the night, eyeing and studying his possible opponents. The clothes also hid the first layers of the bat suit he wore, the second layers, cape and mask, hiding in the backpack he carried on his back. He swerved the streets with his old bike, he obviously couldn’t go out and about with the Batmobile if he didn’t want to be recognised. He only ever took the car out when he truly needed it, for big cases, which had yet to come and had given him much time to work on it and its potency.

He had just turned one of the streets near Wayne Tower, speeding through the traffic, wanting to get out of the rich and industrial neighbour to head towards Dowton Island, the part of Gotham where criminals ran rampant since it included places like the Iceberg Lounge, under the watchful eyes of the Penguin and his associates, when he approached a sidewalk littered with cars and people hanging around the door of one those central stylised townhouses, surely a get together for the holiday.

He stopped on the side, watching the scene unfold before him, hiding behind a car on the opposite side of the road where the people were making their way inside the house. Fancy dresses, well-pressed suits, gelled and combed hair, shimmering jewels, polished shoes, masks of all kinds. Animals, doll-like ones, some painted and patterned like that Venetian carnival one you once brought him back to your trip there —it all screamed opulence.

Or shamelessness thought Bruce. They care not but for themselves, selfish people who have too much money to their name that they can count on or know what to do with. He watched from behind his full-face visor as another car came through the corner to stop just in front of the steps of the house. A man nearby brightened up at the sight and rushed towards the door of the vintage vehicle to help whoever was inside out of it. A feminine, manicured and well-cared-for hand, adorned by rings and bracelets, reaches out to grab into the one the man has just offered, closing its fingers around it.

Bruce’s eyes track the woman who steps out of the car; her back turned to him, but even with the fancy dress and all, he could still recognise you from anywhere.

Just like the others, it seems like you, too, had taken to dressing to what appeared to be the theme for this party. A black, trimmed, velvet dress, covered with a medieval cape, adorned with a shining, feathered, high collar. The mask, feathered and well-adorned, hid a good part of your face and gave away the animal you were dressed as. A raven, he supposed you fit the part, looking sumptuous and imperial like the bird, the train of your dress, feathered like the bird's tail, created a perfect illusion as you walked. In your gothic costume, you fit right into the art deco modernized stylization of the city. He wondered if the dress was part of some high-brand old collection, perhaps from the 1920s, they had lent you for the occasion. 

Like a doll, he mused, unconsciously, a sense of admiration in his thought

You always had an affinity for such social events, despite how you often complain about how many you were invited to. You were the social butterfly, even when you too were younger, the one frequently pulling him alongside you to wherever you went and looking at you, all dolled up. It’s not that you enjoyed being around people, but you had been conditioned since an early age into understanding that being part of an inner circle befitting your station would do you more good than bad. Your mother was a known socialite back in her younger days,just as his mother had been to a degree, and your father took more good from it than anyone expected, especially during his political campaigns.

Your mother had been a much-needed asset in gaining much of his popularity, reaching places of interest for your father’s cause, which, despite his intellect, he found himself a stranger to. She rouped people with her charms and wit, endearing them to her friendliness, especially other politicians and regimental wives. It seemed that for you, the apple had not fallen far from the tree. You implemented the best traits of both your parents on occasions like these, but even Bruce knew that you possessed both of their bad ones, too, just like he did. He sometimes asked himself where he got his temper, not remembering either of his parents’ possessing one themselves. Or maybe he had just been too young to take notice.

As if sensing being looked at, you turned to look in the direction you felt those eyes glaring holes at the back of your head, unknowingly meeting his, hidden away by the visor of his helmet.

He watched your brows furrow in confusion at who he could possibly be and for a man of his appearance to hang around such a neighbourhood when he did not seem to belong in it. Unknowingly to him, Bruce’s grip on the grips rubber of his bike’s handlebars. Your eyes narrow, slating as if to get a better look at him, for the stranger he presented himself as, to understand if you knew him, almost intrusively analysing him with your eyes as if you could look beyond and under his disguise. But before you could do more than that, the hand of the man who had helped you out of your vehicle, slithering on the small of your back, startled you out of your contemplative state.

Good, old Johnny, your date for tonight. Your friendship went back to your days in boarding school, and though for you he was just a friend, you always knew he wanted something more from you. He wasn’t exactly subtle in that regard, with his long glances and touchy hands. Too touchy and intrusive for your tastes. Bruce had noticed too how you didn’t seem all that reciprocant to his touch, the skin under your dress almost flinching out of reflex from the contact of his hand.

Your attention turned back to Johhny, leaving Bruce, not that you knew it was him, behind your forgotten thoughts. You had a dinner to attend, after all.

You smile politely to Johnny, who, in turn, beams down at you as you two begin to walk to the door of the house, his hand almost leading you there.

The display before him left Bruce completely blank, his insides churning, a burning ache filling his chest. When had he begun to wish to be the one at your side, the one whose hand was the one guiding you around as it rested around your waist? Was this mere jealousy? And, even so, he was confused about what he was jealous of. Was it just his protectiveness? He had often taken a sort of watchful eye over you; maybe it was his worry pulling at him to shove Johnny out of the way like he used to when they were young boys. He did know the man, after all, as he often drolled over you and trailed like a lost puppy whenever you two went, back in the days. Johnny knew very well to keep his act when Bruce was around, relegating to watching from afar rather than approaching.  Perhaps it was an understanding between men; they did seem to understand each other better than others after all, but Johnny had come to understand very well what Bruce’s eyes were implying most times. His dislike, his distaste, his lack of composure and demeanour were truly frightening in his eyes. Which was why he did not want you anywhere near him, wanting to protect you from men like Johnny as much as he could.

And now, busier than ever before, with his mind and thoughts divided between his personal and private life, it seemed that Johnny thought that with his noticeable absence, he could finally rise to the challenge.

Craven vermin.

Not being able to bear the sight any longer and what it fueled in him, Bruce lifts his feet off the ground and speeds off in the night. Going to dispel his emotions in the only way he knew.

Beating criminals.

He had found his perfect scapegoat in a gang that had seemed to round a lone stranger who had gotten off on the deserted platform of the train station. Eight skull-faced gang members against a defenceless man, and for what? The thrill of the chase? The want of fear in their opponent? Or was it because he had been an easy target? After all, how could one defend himself against eight men, clearly stronger than him in physics?

He had stopped them just before they could have caused more than necessary damage, for it seemed that whatever they were doing was a sort of initiation ritual for the newest and youngest entry of their group, who, in all fairness, did not seem too thrilled to be there or be part of what was going down, as he fled the scene after he had put the other seven down.

His movements had been fast and brutal, leaving no room for counterattacks or opposition from his opponents. He had snapped the arm of one, who presented himself as the leader of this organised fiasco and tased the neck of another, a scene he would revisit once he returned to the cave and pulled his recording contact lenses out of his eyes. The scene, he was sure, would be haunting as he watched the man fall and convulse on the ground. He had taken hits, too, but through his rage, he had bounced back every time. His terrifying skill kept the impacts of them from landing as if almost on auto-pilot, he proceeded to break off the others surrounding him like a machine.

Only when the station fell into the silence of the night once more, broken only by the gentle pitter patter of the rain, had his eye noticed the reflection on the wet ground. The bat signal, shining bright, in the sky.

Bruce looked up, wondering just how long it's been there, having lost all composure and awareness of his surroundings.

He could truly get in a rage when he wanted, couldn’t he? He just didn’t want to admit what it was that caused it.

He had met with Gordon, in the abandoned and unfinished skyscraper they utilised as their secret hideout, where he had been told the unimaginable.

Mitchell was dead.

He had been let in in the study where the body was found only because Gordon had made it so after he faced opposition from Officer Martinez. Were it for the line of cops filling the hall of the now gone Mayor’s manor, he surely would not have gotten that far within the first step of his boots near the property.

It had been a gruesome sight. Mitchell’s head was wrapped in grey duct tape, with red, angry letters spelling out ‘NO MORE LIES’. The sight entirely reminded him of what you had told him in your last conversation about them. His head had been mashed, but most of the blood he had lost had come from his severed thumb, cut when he was still alive, seeing the ecchymosis that had formed around the wound. Whoever the Killer was, they had made quite the showcase in sending the message they wanted.

Corruption and lies, corruption that had yet to be revealed as to what kind. No one believed Mitchell to be an innocent man, after all, no one had such a rise to power ethically and conventionally. There was something about Mitchell that both you and Bruce had suspected not to be genuine. It always rubbed you the wrong way how he had seemingly just been able to take over the city in such an easy way after your father was killed. Perhaps it was the bitterness in you, not yet over how your father could just be replaced by such an incompetent man, which you were right about, seeing as to how he had driven Gotham into becoming a cesspool in less than twenty years and three mandates as Mayor of the city. Bruce did often wonder just why he kept on being elected, again, and again, and again.

But to be deserving of such death? It made Bruce wonder as to what the killer was aware of that others were not.

Perhaps, he’ll get to find out soon.

AN: Finally entering the film's territory. We'll be following the events of the movie from now on, just prolonging them slightly to tell more of the story, but the storyline will remain the same. A week of pure chaos to write, yeppi. Also, I recently read the novella called 'Before the Batman: An Original Movie Novel' which is kind of supposed to be a companion prequel novel to the movie. It is not canon, Matt Reeves has not written or said that what's written in the story is canon to his universe, and even though, I, myself did not find it to be a particularly compelling read, I wanted to incorporate certain aspects I liked about it in this story. If you're not familiar with the events of the novel, the Batman Wiki has pages for every character and event in it, so be sure to check it out if you want to know more about what I talk about in the first half of the chapter.

[logicaldelta]

Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: DCU, DCU (Comics), Batman - All Media Types Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Wally West Characters: Tim Drake (DCU), Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Alfred Pennyworth, Wally West Additional Tags: Tim Drake Needs a Hug (DCU), Trans Tim Drake (DCU), Trans Male Tim Drake, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Good Sibling Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne Tries to Be a Good Parent, Trans Wally West, Trans Male Character, Dick Grayson & Wally West Friendship, Minor Dick Grayson/Wally West, Tim Drake-centric (DCU), Young Tim Drake Summary:

Tim Drake had grown up with parents that liked to act like good people, but when he'd tried to come out to them, they'd rejected and shunned him. Hurt by their reactions, he doesn't know what to expect when he begins working with Batman as Robin - a mantle previously held by the two cis male children of Bruce Wayne - but it certainly isn't this

[erzthewitchblackwood]

Guys! Do you remember the Robins WIP? Well, the illustration complementary to the stickers it is finished!!!

It might look a little bit OoC because Jaybird is cuddling Bats…but what is cannon anyway? This version of the batfam has been to therapy. Thou, there is something that I am very pleased with at the cannon is the improvement on the Robins relationship, specially between Damian, Jayson and Tim. It is so beautiful seeing them support each other, or hug -even if then Dams procedes to electrocute Jason-.

Jason has grown so much too. From trying to kill Tim to be an active member of the family that cares and worries for his siblings ( Q ^Q), or even Bruce…. And after Alfie…I’m sorry, I just enjoy this boys stories so much.

You will be able to find the stickers in my Etsy shop! As soon as I have it finished. I am also working on stickers of the batbros insignias as solo vigilantes, those will also be at the Etsy shop.

[jinslittledreamer]

Fic Title: You don’t get to leave me

Pairing: None

When Dick finally slumped against him, Jason didn't let go. He held his big brother's limp frame, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. He pressed a hand to Dick's chest, feeling the faint rise and fall.

Jason's breath was shaky, his face pale but resolute. "I'I never forgive you if you die on me,' Jason murmured, his voice barely audible. You hear me, Dickhead? I don't care how bad it gets. You don't do this."

Jason's trembling hands gripped Dick's shirt tightly, his knuckles white. "You're not leaving me, Wing. You got that? You don't get to leave me."

....

Chapter 2 now posted!

Link to full fic on ao3

[gothamite-rambler]

"Are you dealing drugs?"

Bruce Wayne: You're not a drug dealer, are you?

Jason Todd spits his drink dramatically.

Jason: Whaaaaat... Noooooo. Oh my God—how could you even... Why would you accuse me of something so awful?!

Jason proceeds to fake cry, covering his eyes.

Jason: This hurts me so much... that you would accuse me of that.

Jason continued fake crying as Dick, Tim, and Damian looked on. Bruce's eyes widened in shock.

Bruce (panicked): Oh dear, I take it back!

Jason: You take it back? How can I go on after this betrayal?

Jason rested his head on Dick's shoulder continuing the facade. Dick could only shake his head with a smile.

Bruce: Oh God, um, I can send you an extra thousand. Stay there!

Bruce ran out of the room. Jason looked up to see if he's gone, then resumed drinking from his soda bottle.

Damian clapped, impressed.

Dick (sighing): You know that was wrong... But I can't blame you.

Tim (angry): He lied though!

Jason: I'm not a drug lord anymore.

Jason looked behind him.

Jason: I'm was one of the lower CEOs; I stepped down due to too much drama.

Damian (sincerely): Smart move.

Jason: Thank you.

Tim (chuckling angrily): He gave you an extra thousand... I'm actually pissed off, fucking bullshit!

Tim stormed off.

Tim (O.S.): I can't believe that didn't fucking work!

Dick: Bruce said he wouldn't give him an allowance because of the whole embezzling thing.

Damian: He has a trust fund and he gets paid by working at father's company yet he complains.

Jason: He was the one who told Bruce?

Damian (nodding): Yep.

Jason: All right, there's only one way to handle this and get two thousand.

Damian (earnestly): Make sure to sell it. Don't make the crying look forced.

Jason: Good advice.

Jason walked out of the living room.

Jason (fake sadness): Bruce, why would Tim lie like that?!

Damian: Grayson, that's why I favor him at times.

Dick (smiling): Fair enough.

[razzledazzle0]

Who?

Bruce totally does the old man and dad thing when he kids are yapping about one of their friends and he just goes "who?"

----

Dick talking about Wally: yeah so me and wally are gonna hang out tomorrow

Bruce taking off his reading glasses: Who?

Dick:..Wally dad

Bruce: oh, is that the one with Jason hangs out with?

Dick: no that's Roy dad, Im talking about Wally

Bruce: hm..oh Barry's nephew?

Dick: yes! finally..

[wondertwinsenthusiast]

Dick Grayson and Bruce Wayne are each other's reasons for white hairs and wrinkles.

When Dick Grayson swore to Bruce wayne in that cave all those years ago, they shared a knowing feeling- prehaps they were born to die. They'll go out in a blaze of glory. A good death, as Bruce calls it.

But in Dick's head, Bruce is eternal. Forever stoic, towering and serious. Jet black hair, the lines on his face are ones only brought by injury.

(Later, Dick says so himself when he loses his second father for the first time. He cries for a future that was never theirs.)

Dick heard that watching your parents age with you is devastating. You realise they're not a god, not actually eternal. You stop "believing".

He never got to have that type of pain with Mary and John Grayson, and won't with Bruce. He has known that for years. He never "believed".

There's no feeling like an eldest's urge to hold and protect their parents, switch the roles. Take care of them. Dick knows greater things await while his own father is busy pushing him away. The urge won't be fulfilled. He leaves. He's mostly happy.

What's the word when you're homesick but for people? ...Dick comes back. It's not the same, more people are involved.

After a few years, Bruce is gone.

Dick Grayson always knew one day he'll have to bury another father. One day, when Bruce's fire is extinguished and Alfred is much too old to place a strong hand on his shoulder and say wise things in his ear, he'll have four graves to visit and no one to teach him about life.

Evetually, Bruce is back. All that grief was for nothing, but Dick is still oh so "prepared" to lose him.

The years pass. The day he notices the white hairs on Bruce's head and the wrinkles across his face, he has to excuse himself from dinner. He ugly cries for an hour or so, touch starved but too overwhelmed to ask for a hug. Those are happy tears, do not be mistaken.

Watching a parent age is devastating.

Dick Grayson never thought he'd get to.

Bruce Wayne is not a fool, he knows Gotham's earth will embrace him soon. He can feel it in his bad knees and shoulder when it rains, his body is much too young but feels oh so old with this cursed soul of his possesing it. He's ready.

Bruce heared that to watch your child age is somewhat devastating. A bittersweet feeling.

Bruce has made peace with the fact he'll never get to... he thinks it's worse.

Bruce knew, he felt it in his soul; the moment he let Dick Grayson pick out a name for himself, he doomed the bright light that is his son.

Bruce yearns for his son to be safe, to age and move as far away from him as possible. He knows he won't stay under his cape for long.

When the child that swore to him all those years ago leaves the manor, Bruce knows Dick grayson was born for more than he could ever give him.

Eventualy, his eldest is back. Bruce has missed his son's smile like the waves miss the shore. He keeps promising himself that "the next time" he'll tell his son just that.

Bruce never got to hold Dick as a baby, he fears he won't get to hold him as he inevitably dies either. Will his child be in pain? He hopes not. He hopes it's peaceful.

Dick is just telling Bruce about his day when Bruce notices the a few strands of white in his son's hair and the crinckles by his eyes. He's shocked. Maybe he won't get to hold his son when he dies... atleast he got to see him age.

Maybe that's okay, maybe that's enough.

Knowing your child will age is somewhat devastating.

Bruce Wayne never thought he'd get to.

There's nothing like the relationship of a young parent and their eldest. The two grow up together. They save each other, give each other hope. The feelings between them are sometimes incomprehensible by others. They're each other's reasons for white hairs and wrinkles.

[insonniacaotica]

Normal Person: *sees Death Note* I like this anime, I will recommend it to a friend

Tim Drake: This anime is genius. I will recreate the exploding drawer to hide my secret files

Bruce: I feel like I should be concerned but I'm just glad you decided to recreate the drawer and not the diary.

[aburdthatdraws]

Batober Day 13:

Conceal

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[soulvtude]

Bruce Wayne wakes up one morning and decides he’s going to fake his own death.

Not for a mission, not for justice, and certainly not because Gotham needs him to. No, this is purely because Damian finished the last of the coffee, Jason broke the microwave trying to reheat a Pop-Tart, and Dick spilled syrup all over the cave computers.

It wasn’t even 8 a.m.

“I’ll leave a note,” Bruce muttered to himself as he meticulously cleaned the syrup from the Batcomputer's keys. “Something vague. Brooding. Just enough to make them think I’ve gone off to fight my demons or meditate in the Himalayas.”

Alfred, carrying a tray of tea, raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He’d seen worse.

By noon, Bruce was seriously considering it. He tested the waters by dramatically staring out the window, hands clasped behind his back. He even sighed deeply for effect.

“Father, what are you doing?” Damian asked, munching on a sandwich like Bruce’s existential crisis wasn’t unfolding two feet away.

“Reflecting,” Bruce said gravely, turning to the child who once stabbed a man for mispronouncing his name.

Damian squinted. “On what?”

Bruce opened his mouth, but before he could answer, there was a loud crash from upstairs.

“JASON, STOP THROWING FURNITURE!” Dick’s voice rang out.

“I’LL STOP WHEN YOU STOP BREATHING!” Jason shouted back.

Bruce turned back to the window. “The note should be in Latin,” he muttered.

By evening, he’d written half a draft:

"My dearest family, I have gone to find peace—"

“Master Bruce,” Alfred interrupted, placing a hand on his shoulder, “perhaps you should just lock yourself in the library for a few hours instead?”

Bruce sighed, crumpling the note. He could already hear Tim yelling at Jason, Dick laughing, and Damian threatening to poison them all for dinner.

“You’re right, Alfred,” Bruce said. “I’ll start tomorrow.”