Chacarron

| 17 | aquarius | intp |

[voidsetup1]

and out of the darkness - you you you you you

[chacarro]

Clark first saw Bruce in a backyard concert

[brucedefender4eva]

I think when Bruce dies, his face should be obliterated or smth, like, completely obscured.

Just like in life, he wears a mask in death. This time it’s blood, tho. Lived to prevent violence, died by violence. In the end, he'll be left to wonder if anything he ever did made an impact on his cursed city as his life quickly slips away.

He should die before Alfred gets too. Alfred is so broken-hearted that it only takes a few days for him to pass away, guilt-ridden over how three Waynes he had known his entire life passed away too young under his care.

Plus, his children should forget what his face looks like. There are a bunch of videos and magazines with Brucie, and there’s minimal coverage on Batman, but no one has Bruce. Just Bruce.

I think they should all be haunted and hallucinate faceless Bruce, tormenting them for not saving him. Why couldn’t they love him? Why can’t they remember his face?

When they find his murderer, it should be a kid who was messing around with their parents’ gun, and it was a complete accident. The kid barely understood what was happening; all they knew was that there was a loud sound, so they ran away. They want revenge, but how could they ever take it?

[brucedefender4eva]

Female Bruce (whom I will just be calling Bruce) should have big boobs and a killer body, and she should be lovingly exasperated by her family’s overprotectiveness.

It would be a crime if she weren’t seen as the sexiest woman to ever grace planet earth. I need an elegant back dress with a deep V-neck and two slits up the side, all the way up her thighs, for galas. I need her adorned and dripping in beautiful silver jewelry with hints of blue that bring out the striking blue in her eyes.

I need her boys and girls to be ready to throw down at the drop of a hat. One wrong look and Bruce is having to grab Tim by his collar and escort him out of the room while he’s already plotting the downfall of that person’s business. He's barely holding back from straight-up snarling at people for trying to touch his mom.

I need Steph to wield a butter knife at a guy who dared to even glance at Bruce’s ass, and to only be stopped from gouging his eyes out with a single look from Bruce. Steph is circling around Bruce like a shark if she ever decides to wear skin-tight gym clothes or anything else skin-tight.

I need Damian, who understands that his Ummi is a strong woman who can handle herself and deserves to wear whatever the fuck she wants, to start tweaking when he sees her in tight-fitting clothing and wants to go everywhere with his mom to protect her. No, he doesn't care if it's just a haircut or a walk around the park; he's going.

I need little Jason, who still didn’t trust Bruce fully, to immediately throw all of his fears and doubts out the window when they’re walking down the street and someone has the gall to catcall his new Mama. Bruce has to run after him once he starts chasing a man who got way too close. This does not change once he's older. It only gets worse.

I need Harley to make sure she has Bud and Lou stand guard around Brucie whenever she decides to go to the club and have the time of her life, just as she had when they were in college. Definitely to Turn Me On (Extended) by David Guetta. Now, she can’t blame them for looking (lord knows she was staring to- how does her body move like that??), but she will make sure they don’t touch a hair on Bruce’s body.

I need Bruce to sigh for the millionth time as she walks into the principal’s office to see little Dickie, in trouble once again from defending his Mami’s honor from the older kids. Bruce is trying to give him a lecture, but he looks so cute with his bruised fists, and he did win the fight against a group of kids three years older. Maybe just a little ice cream… Encouraging him only made him worse in the future.

I need for the next time a woman says ‘she needs to be crushed by Brucie’s biceps,’ Cass has a crash out of epic proportions. She hates senseless violence, but she’s not afraid to brawl when they objectify her mom. Yes, her mom has awesome muscles and is very strong; no, you are not allowed to look. Advert your gaze before she fucking makes you.

I need Duke to plunge the room into darkness when they’re getting followed around by paparazzi, and Bruce has a wardrobe malfunction. Bruce has had plenty of unsavory pictures taken of her when she was younger, but now that she has him around, Duke won’t let anyone take advantage of her. If all of the cameras get smashed somehow, well, that's just the consequences of their own actions.

I need Alfred to be at the grocery store and punch someone in the face because they commented on Bruce’s looks in a degrading way. That’s his daughter, and if he has to fight the entire multiverse for badmouthing her, he will.

It’s already in my mind that both male and female Bruce do plenty of underwear and lingerie photoshoots. That shit is on billboards for months and months because no one can bear taking such a beauty down. The muscles, the curves, the hourglass figure, the grace… It’s too much.

Yes, I believe that Bruce should be the most beautiful person ever, no matter the gender. No one surpasses his beauty in my mind. Please, argue with a wall.

[sourkreem]

a quick dink doodle to be used as future reference because i cant keep eyeballing the way he looks forever lolz.

[renviary]

love him down

[tubeon-deactivated20260110]

16 yr old Damian

[tubeon-deactivated20260110]

[chacarro]

hiii I just want to let you know i jsut read your Clark and Bruce fanfic (?) with dick and i LOVED it and would adore more! :D keep it up

THANK YOU💞 I'll make more for sure!

[panelsdump]

‘I HAVE NO INTEREST IN NOT CARING ABOUT PEOPLE’ IS SUCH A GREAT BRUCE LINE DAMN IT

[qcomicsy]

Now let’s bring this Bruce back too 😭

[chacarro]

It was supposed to be a routine visit.

Clark Kent had stopped by Wayne Manor under the pretense of an interview, but really, it was just an excuse to check on Bruce—make sure he was still, you know, eating food and not brooding himself into oblivion. But when Alfred opened the door with a warm, “Master Kent, how good to see you,” Clark sensed something was… different.

There were giggles echoing down the hall. Not the sarcastic kind Alfred sometimes offered. Actual, high-pitched giggles.

“Bruce have company?” Clark asked, already raising a brow.

Alfred smiled in that unreadable way that meant he was holding secrets. “You could say that.”

And then it happened—tiny footfalls, pattering closer and closer, followed by a flash of movement—

“Alfred! Alfred, look! I did it! I—!”

The boy skidded to a halt. Wide blue eyes blinked up at Clark. A blur of dark hair. Grinning, breathless. Maybe eight years old. Definitely chaotic.

“Oh,” he said, tilting his head. “You’re huge.”

Clark blinked. “Uh—”

“Dick!” Bruce’s voice rang from behind, laced with the kind of exasperation that’s more fond than annoyed. He stepped into the hallway, still in a black turtleneck, but for once not frowning. “What did I say about leaping off the banisters?”

“You said don’t,” the kid said with a grin. “But you weren’t looking, so I figured I could impress Alfred.”

Bruce sighed. “This is Clark. He’s a friend.”

Dick looked up again, eyes squinting in appraisal. “He’s got more muscles than you! Are you sure he’s not a villain?”

“I’m not a villain,” Clark said, amused now.

"You probably eat children."

“I don’t eat children.”

“That’s what a kid-eater would say.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Dick.”

“I’m just being careful! You said always be aware of your surroundings. You said—”

“I know what I said.” Bruce rubbed a hand over his face. “Clark, this is Dick Grayson. My… ward.”

Clark’s brows rose. “Ward?”

Dick put his hands on his hips. “That’s what he calls it so he doesn’t have to say ‘son’ out loud.”

Bruce winced. “Dick.”

The kid only beamed. “It’s okay. He doesn’t say it, but he acts like it. He made me a room and everything. And he tucks me in. It's okay to have more than one dad, you know.” He leaned conspiratorially toward Clark. “Sometimes, when he thinks I’m asleep, he reads aloud. He’s really bad at the voices.”

Clark was delighted.

“I like him,” he said softly to Bruce.

Bruce scowled. “He’s exhausting.”

“I bet you’re not boring though,” Clark said to Dick, crouching down to the boy’s level. “What else do you do around here?”

Dick lit up. “I do flips! Wanna see? I can do five in a row, but Bruce says I can’t do them over the piano anymore ‘cause I broke a vase. It was ugly anyway.”

“Don’t—” Bruce started, but Dick had already sprinted down the hallway and launched himself into a tumble series that would’ve made a circus proud.

Clark’s eyes tracked the motion easily, a grin blooming on his face. “He’s incredible.”

Bruce watched too, trying not to look proud. Failing.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “He really is.”

Dick landed in a dramatic pose. “Ta-da!”

Clark clapped. “Five flips. That’s a lot more than I could do at your age.”

Dick beamed. “Wanna see my room?”

Before Clark could answer, Dick had grabbed his hand—so small in his own—and was pulling him down the hallway.

Bruce didn’t stop them. He just stood there, watching, an unreadable look softening his usual edges.

Alfred stepped beside him with a smile. “He likes him.”

“Clark’s good with kids,” Bruce said gruffly.

“Yes,” Alfred said mildly. “And Dick’s good for you.”

Bruce didn’t reply.

But in the hallway, a small boy was explaining, in vivid detail, the science behind his circus-themed lava lamp and if he could help him prank Bruce later. (Clark, of course, agreed.)

It was the beginning of something warm, chaotic, and undeniably family.

[abedallahs-world]

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Hello friends, I am Abdullah Salem Abdullah, 26 years old, a graduate of the University College with a degree in Information Technology - Mu

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[chacarro]

It started with a limp.

Subtle. Barely there. The kind Bruce would’ve hidden with ease from any civilian—or even the Justice League. But unfortunately for him, his children were not ordinary by any means. They were trained vigilantes. They were spies. They were nosy. And worst of all: they were his kids.

“Did you see that?” Dick said, squinting over his coffee at Bruce across the manor’s kitchen.

“See what?” Jason asked. He was leaning against the fridge, slouched.

“Bruce limped.”

Jason rolled his eyes, biting into an apple. “Old man’s been limping since B.C.”

“No, this was different,” Tim said, not looking up from his tablet. “Favoring the left. Probably a deep contusion. His weight shifted when he stepped over Al-cat.”

Duke looked up from his cereal bowl, spoon paused midair. “Okay, wait. Are we seriously starting the morning with medical surveillance?” Damina nods sharply.

“He’s hiding an injury?” Damian’s voice sliced through like a blade. “I’ll kill him.”

“No one’s killing Dad,” Cassandra sighed, eyebrows furrowed.

“Yet,” Steph added cheerfully, grabbing a banana. “We’re just maiming him into accepting help first.”

Bruce re-entered the kitchen at that moment, wearing that damn neutral expression that said I’m fine, don’t worry, and do not speak to me about anything concerning my mortality all at once.

He reached for his coffee.

Dick snatched it away.

Bruce blinked. “Dick.”

“You’re not allowed caffeine until you tell us what’s wrong with your leg.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my leg.”

Jason gave him that look.

Duke frowned, upset.

Bruce’s jaw twitched. “A criminal landed one lucky hit.”

“One hit does not make your entire gait shift,” Tim said, pushing his tablet toward Bruce. “I made a slideshow. Here’s you on Tuesday—normal stride. Here’s you this morning—hip drop, left side drag. Classic signs of pelvic bruising.”

Bruce glanced at the slideshow. Blinked. “You made a slideshow about my limp?”

“PowerPoint is the language of intervention,” Steph said wisely.

“I am going to call Leslie,” Damian said, already pulling out his phone.

“No,” Bruce said.

“Yes,” Damian ducked out of his reach.

“I’m fine,” Bruce tried again, but now he was cornered. Literally. Cass was standing in front of the door, Tim had blocked the hallway, and Jason crossed his arms in front of the counter.

“You always say that,” Dick said, voice gentler now. “But you’re not invincible, Bruce.”

“You’re allowed to rest,” Cassandra added. “You’re not a god.”

“You’re our dad,” Tim said quietly. “You don’t have to be alone in this.”

Bruce opened his mouth. Closed it.

Steph plopped into the seat beside him, peeled her banana, and nudged his arm. “Take the pain meds. Let someone else patrol tonight. You’ve got, what, five of us? Six if you count Duke, and you should. He’s very shiny.”

Duke preens.

Jason finally moved, opened the cabinet, and dropped a bottle of painkillers on the table. “Take the damn meds, old man.”

Bruce exhaled through his nose, looked at each of them—their concerned, exasperated faces—and took the pill bottle.

Silence.

He unscrewed it. Took two. Washed them down with the coffee Dick returned to him with a victorious smile.

“…Happy?” Bruce muttered.

“Ecstatic,” said Tim.

“Radiant,” said Steph.

“I’ll allow it,” said Damian.

Cass just smiled and signed: We love you.

And for the first time all morning, Bruce smiled back.

[chacarro]

Jason was halfway through cleaning his guns when he heard it—the unmistakable, heavy, overexaggerated sigh of a man who'd made it his mission to be the worst.

"Are you seriously doing this again?" Dick asked from the doorway, leaning against the frame like he’d lived there his whole damn life. He was wearing joggers, a sleeveless hoodie, and the most judgmental raised eyebrow Jason had ever seen.

Jason didn’t even look up. "Doing what, Dickie?"

“That thing where you pretend you're a lone wolf vigilante cleaning your arsenal like you're not one MCR album away from having a breakdown.”

Jason set down his rifle with a deliberate clink. “You're in my apartment. Uninvited.”

“And yet,” Dick said, grinning, “here I am. That’s how you know I care.”

Jason exhaled through his nose. "If I shoot you, it’s not personal. Just pest control."

Dick stepped closer, casually grabbing one of Jason’s pistols and spinning it with infuriating ease. “You’ve got the safety on wrong. You’re slipping.”

“I just cleaned that.”

“Yeah. Badly.”

Jason lunged for the pistol, but Dick jumped back, cackling as he tossed it to his other hand. “You ever consider organizing these alphabetically? You know—Glock, Heckler & Koch."

“That’s not how letters work, Dick.”

Dick winked. “Says the guy named Todd.”

Jason’s eye twitched. "That doesn't make sense."

"You make no sense."

But it wasn’t over.

Dick sat on the edge of the table, swinging his legs like an overgrown child, and then picked up one of Jason’s helmets. “You know, Red Hood branding used to be cool, but this one looks like it came out of a gas station vending machine. What is this? Matte sadness?”

Jason snatched it out of his hands. “Why are you even here?”

Dick leaned forward with a smug grin. “Alfred said you missed family dinner last night. Damian got into a spat with Bruce. Classic bonding.”

“I was working.”

“Right. Brooding. Classic. Very ‘early 2000s brothel noir.’”

Jason stared at him. “Get out.”

Dick stood, stretched dramatically, then started walking toward the door… but paused. Turned. Grinned maliciously and left.

Jason was paranoid the rest to the week.

[haveihitanerve]

Try Again Tomorrow

My fic inspired by this tumblr post- @chacarro

[chacarro]

♡♡♡

[chacarro]

Bruce Wayne prided himself on control. Discipline was a fundamental part of him, stitched deeply into his character. But every so often, when the city’s rooftops were quiet and Gotham’s terrors seemed distant, a gentler, hidden side emerged. A side that reveled quietly in harmless mischief, subtle enough to avoid suspicion but potent enough to turn the manor into a scene of amused chaos.

It started simply enough—a missing spoon from Tim’s favorite coffee mug. Tim had shuffled around the kitchen like an irritable zombie, eyes bloodshot from last night's patrol, muttering accusations at Damian under his breath. Bruce hid behind the Gotham Gazette, sipping coffee and pretending to be deeply engrossed in the business section, a faint smile threatening the corners of his lips.

The next day, Jason’s beloved leather jacket vanished. He stormed through the halls of Wayne Manor, frustration radiating off him as he barked at Dick for borrowing things without permission. Dick, arms raised defensively, swore he had nothing to do with it, and Bruce merely offered sympathetic murmurs from behind his laptop, discreetly typing out a memo to Alfred, the jacket hidden safely in the butler’s immaculate pantry.

Dick wasn’t safe from Bruce’s secret torment either. The eldest son found his prized cereal—the overly sugary, marshmallow-infested abomination—replaced entirely by unsweetened bran flakes. Dick’s exasperated wail echoed dramatically through the kitchen, blaming Tim for attempting to "improve" his dietary choices. Tim’s blank stare, heavy-lidded, did nothing to prove innocence. Bruce simply sipped his morning juice, nodding sagely at their bickering, face carefully neutral.

Damian was the most suspicious, his narrowed eyes trailing after everyone in the manor. So Bruce had to be subtle, methodical. He hid Damian’s katana—replacing it with a training bokken from the dojo. When Damian found it, he stood in the training room, sword aloft and expression frozen somewhere between shock, indignation, and rage. He accused Jason immediately, launching into a scathing lecture about respecting personal weaponry. Jason returned fire with equal heat, grumbling about Damian’s paranoid streak and his constant complaints. Bruce, standing innocently by the doorway, raised an eyebrow as if mystified by the uproar, suggesting perhaps a less aggressive approach might be wise. Damian’s murderous glare silenced him swiftly, but Bruce managed to keep his composure, mouth twitching slightly behind a stoic facade.

The boys finally convened, assembling dramatically in the library. Voices rose as accusations flew, playful aggression veiled behind genuine irritation. Dick gestured passionately about the sanctity of cereal, Jason clutched the recovered jacket possessively, Tim grumbled into a newly acquired coffee mug, and Damian observed his katana meticulously, turning to glare daggers at each of his brothers. Bruce lingered just outside the doorway, leaning casually against the frame, feigning interest in an old case file.

“Why would I even want your jacket, Todd?” Damian demanded, voice dripping with disdain. “It's oversized, tasteless, and older than my father.”

Jason scoffed loudly, arms crossed defensively. “Oh, I'm sorry my jacket offends your delicate assassin sensibilities, gremlin. Did your training sword offend your ninja honor?”

“Dick, no offense, but your cereal is a health hazard,” Tim interrupted drily. “I’d be doing you a favor if I had replaced it.”

Dick gasped dramatically, clutching at his chest. “Timmy, what?”

Bruce coughed quietly, the smallest noise to gain their attention. They fell silent, eyes swiveling towards him, suspicious and wary. “Something wrong?” he asked mildly, his voice even and controlled, betraying nothing of the quiet laughter bubbling beneath his facade.

“Someone keeps touching my shit,” Jason growled, pointing accusingly around the room. “And no one's fessing up.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow slightly, adopting a look of mild concern. “Odd.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, analyzing Bruce with all the scrutiny he definitely inherited from both Talia and Bruce himself. “Father, you wouldn’t happen to have any idea who’s behind this madness, would you?”

Bruce let a thoughtful silence stretch just long enough to be convincing, before slowly shaking his head. “I'm afraid I have no idea, Damian. Ask Alfred, maybe he was the one to touch your things?”

He turned smoothly, leaving them in silent suspicion, a twinkle of uncharacteristic delight glinting in his eyes as he walked away. He paused briefly, just around the corner, to listen as the arguing resumed, softer this time but no less spirited, each brother accusing and teasing the other, unaware that their famously grim father wore a satisfied smile, proud of his subtle sabotage.

After all, even Bruce deserved a little harmless fun from time to time.

[angelgemy]

My babies

[livsoulsecrets]

Detective Comics #1062

When you try to convince your dad to retire and he gives no fucks

[thesulkycroissant]

Actually I'm obsessed with this. Bruce smirking and calling Dick "Grayson", and Dickie saying, "I'd kick your butt, old man." Endlessly precious.