Ryunight

He/him  Tal vez suba dibujos o pequeñas historias 20+

[ryudenzu]

Hice un Au:D

en resumen es Bruce siendo un androide pero nace años después de los que deberia así que hice estos dibujos y quería hacer uno de diferentes cosas que haga pero en eso me tardaria más

La historia la tendré en ao3, se llama Our starry-eyed little one(We are so sorry for leaving you alone), los papás casi no saldrán y pues eso es todo, solo hay un capitulo

[ryudenzu]

What do you mean by irreversible?!

The mansion was in a state of near chaos; everyone was somewhat shaken by the words of the woman in front of them.

"That can't be true!" That's what came out of the youngest person present in the room.

"I'm sorry, but there's no way to reverse this," the mage in question said, looking at everyone with something akin to pity.

The oldest of them all hadn't said anything else yet, focused on the little ball tangled in blankets that was asleep in his arms.

"Isn't there any other way to reverse this?" The blonde girl asked, also somewhat worried, more because they wouldn't have the person they all loved so much, even if he was present with them.

And the oldest...or the oldest was just as hurt as the others, but he didn't know what else to say; everyone had already said what he thought.

All he could see was the baby in his arms, so small and so light that if he wasn't looking at him he might forget he was holding him, but he didn't know what else to do.

They would have to raise their father after all, all because of someone who was using magic that wasn't his and didn't know how to use it properly.

It was such a strange thought, raising their father who had always been the strongest man and the one they could always count on, but now he was nothing more than a baby.

A baby...who was sleeping peacefully in his arms

They could do this, or that's what he was telling himself in his head; maybe if he lied to himself enough times he would finally believe it.

Technically, they could get everything they need to take care of him quickly.

It wouldn't be easy, but they could still find some other way to get things back to normal while trying to take care of little baby Bruce.

They could take turns looking after him, maybe therapy for the younger one; after all, he technically just lost his father, even if he's still alive.

He sincerely hopes everything turns out alright, and if they can't find a way to make him an adult again, then he'll try to be a very good father figure to Bruce.

He really hopes, no... he wants everything to go well for all of them

Honestly how hard could It be to take care of Baby Bruce? He doesnt think It will be that bad

He had everyone else to help too so maybe It was gonna be easy...maybe he's just lying to himself but oh well, what can he do about that?

[ryudenzu]

What do you mean by irreversible?!

The mansion was in a state of near chaos; everyone was somewhat shaken by the words of the woman in front of them.

"That can't be true!" That's what came out of the youngest person present in the room.

"I'm sorry, but there's no way to reverse this," the mage in question said, looking at everyone with something akin to pity.

The oldest of them all hadn't said anything else yet, focused on the little ball tangled in blankets that was asleep in his arms.

"Isn't there any other way to reverse this?" The blonde girl asked, also somewhat worried, more because they wouldn't have the person they all loved so much, even if he was present with them.

And the oldest...or the oldest was just as hurt as the others, but he didn't know what else to say; everyone had already said what he thought.

All he could see was the baby in his arms, so small and so light that if he wasn't looking at him he might forget he was holding him, but he didn't know what else to do.

They would have to raise their father after all, all because of someone who was using magic that wasn't his and didn't know how to use it properly.

It was such a strange thought, raising their father who had always been the strongest man and the one they could always count on, but now he was nothing more than a baby.

A baby...who was sleeping peacefully in his arms

They could do this, or that's what he was telling himself in his head; maybe if he lied to himself enough times he would finally believe it.

Technically, they could get everything they need to take care of him quickly.

It wouldn't be easy, but they could still find some other way to get things back to normal while trying to take care of little baby Bruce.

They could take turns looking after him, maybe therapy for the younger one; after all, he technically just lost his father, even if he's still alive.

He sincerely hopes everything turns out alright, and if they can't find a way to make him an adult again, then he'll try to be a very good father figure to Bruce.

He really hopes, no... he wants everything to go well for all of them

Honestly how hard could It be to take care of Baby Bruce? He doesnt think It will be that bad

He had everyone else to help too so maybe It was gonna be easy...maybe he's just lying to himself but oh well, what can he do about that?

[lettersunderthecrypt]

so my idea, super cool, super neat, uhh male!reader being a dick, pretty much a meanie all the time, for no reason, bESIDES not taking his medication because that’s scary and they make him “numb” and maybe hmm dick or jason or leon or anyone helping him take them, and sorta becoming a caretakee so they check in on him, yea hope that’s alright to request

I Don't Wanna

Pairing: Dick Grayson x Male!Civilian!Reader

Rating: PG-13

Words: 3.5k

Content Warning: None, maybe mental health??

A/N: Long time overdue, sorry!

Enjoy, Reader

The pill bottle sat on the bathroom counter like it had grown teeth overnight, squat and orange and too bright under the vanity lights, its white label blurred where your thumb had worried over the ink so many times that the pharmacy warnings had begun to look like static. 

Take once daily. Same time every day. Do not stop suddenly. SSRIs, in your case. 

You knew the words by heart even when you forgot other things, stupid things, humiliating things, like why you had walked into the kitchen or whether you had already texted Dick back or what movie you had watched together two nights ago when he laughed at a joke. You smiled because smiling was easier than admitting the scene was gone from you, swallowed by fog. 

Maybe the diagnosis had made it all sound real, official, more than just tiredness or nerves. The nausea was already there before you even opened the cap, a phantom twist low in your stomach, sour and anticipatory, because your body had learned the shape of dread. 

You stood in Dick’s apartment wearing one of his old Gotham Knights shirts, the hem soft against your thighs, your reflection pale and sleep-creased, and you thought, with a tired anger that had nowhere clean to go, I don’t want to be good today. I don’t want to be responsible. I don’t want to take something that makes me feel less like me.

Behind you, the bedroom was still warm with tangled sheets and early morning gray. Rain tapped at the windows in restless little fingers, dragging the city into a wet blur beyond the glass.

Dick had been awake before you, because of course he had, because he had the impossible habit of sleeping like a dead man and waking like someone had pressed a launch button. You had heard him moving around the kitchen, quiet but not quiet enough, cabinet hinges, the soft clink of a mug, the scrape of a chair leg he immediately lifted instead of dragging. He always tried to make less noise for you in the mornings now, ever since you told him the first hour after waking felt like being assembled wrong, screws in the wrong places, cotton packed behind your eyes. It was sweet. It made you want to bite something.

You picked up the bottle, shook one pill into your palm, and stared at it.

Small. Almost insulting. All that power packed into something so tiny, chalky and harmless-looking, like a chip of the moon. It did not look like it could sand you down until laughter came late, anger showed up muffled, and joy felt distant, waving from behind thick glass. It did not look like it could make you lose your keys three times before noon, or make you stare at Dick while he talked and realize, with heat crawling up your neck, that his words had slipped right through you. It did not look like it could turn breakfast into a fight with your own throat.

You closed your fingers over it.

The doorframe creaked softly, not from weight but from the old building settling. Dick didn’t step in right away. He had learned that too, the careful geography of your bad mornings, how close was too close, how concern could feel like surveillance if it came at the wrong angle. In the mirror, you saw him leaning against the bathroom doorway in sweatpants and a faded blue hoodie, hair damp from the shower and falling over his forehead, eyes soft but awake enough to notice everything. He held a mug in one hand and a plate with toast in the other.

“Hey,” he said.

You looked down at your fist. “Hey.”

“Ginger tea,” he said, lifting the mug slightly. “And toast. Very glamorous. Michelin star breakfast for the man who once ate cereal out of a saucepan because all my bowls were dirty.”

“That was one time.”

“It was majestic.”

“It was depression.”

His smile flickered, not gone, just gentled. “Yeah. I know.”

Your throat tightened, worse than the pill ever could. You hated when he did that, caught the joke and the bruise underneath in the same breath. Dick Grayson could make care feel like nothing until it was everything, until his hand was under your elbow before you even noticed your knees had started to give.

You turned from the mirror and leaned your hip against the sink. “I’m not hungry.”

“You don’t have to eat the whole thing.” He came in slowly and set the plate on the counter, careful not to crowd the pill bottle, careful not to look at your closed fist too long. “Just a few bites so your stomach doesn’t declare war on the entire eastern seaboard.”

“My stomach has a right to protest.”

“Sure. We respect organized labor in this household.”

You almost smiled, despite yourself. Almost. It slipped away before it could settle. Your fist clenched until the pill left a mark in your palm. "I hate it."

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” The words came out sharper than you meant. You saw him absorb them, saw the tiny shift in his shoulders, the way he stayed loose on purpose. Acrobat’s body. Big brother’s patience. Boyfriend’s hurt tucked neatly out of sight because he knew this wasn’t really about him. That made you feel worse. “Sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“You don’t have to clean it up that fast.” Dick’s voice stayed low. “You’re allowed to be mad.”

“At what? My brain? The bottle? The fact that everyone keeps telling me stability is worth it like I’m not the one paying for it?”

His eyes moved over your face, and you hated how naked it made you feel. Not exposed cruelly, exposed to being loved by someone who had memorized the weather of you. “Yeah,” he said. “All of that sounds worth being mad at.”

You let out a laugh, dry and empty. "It makes me numb, Dick. I know I need it. I know what happens when I skip it. I’m not trying to be stupid. But sometimes it feels like I have to pick between being sick and being erased."

The rain thickened against the window. Somewhere outside, a siren rose and fell, Gotham singing through its broken teeth. Dick glanced toward the sound by instinct, then back to you, choosing you again in that small, quiet way that always undid you more than grand gestures ever could.

“You’re not stupid,” he said. “And you’re not erased.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” he admitted. “I don’t know what it feels like from inside your head. I’m not going to pretend I do.”

Your eyes burned. You looked down quickly. The pill was still in your fist, damp now from your skin. “Sometimes I forget things you tell me. Important things. And you get that look.”

“What look?”

“The look where you’re pretending it’s fine.”

Dick’s mouth parted, then closed. He leaned back against the opposite wall, giving the words room to land. “I’m not upset because you forget. I get scared because I know you hate yourself for it before I can even remind you it’s okay.”

That was worse. Kindness always made it worse. You set the pill on the counter, the click sharp in the quiet. "Maybe I don’t want to take it today."

The bathroom went still.

Dick didn’t lunge for the bottle. He didn’t scold you. He didn’t do the thing some people did: the immediate panic dressed as authority, as if your diagnosis made you a locked door they had permission to force open. He only looked at the pill, then at you.

“Okay,” he said carefully. “Tell me what today means.”

You frowned. “What?”

“Not forever. Not the big scary future version. Just today. What happens if you don’t take it today?”

You hated that question because it was real. He was asking you to look past the first rush of relief, past the small rebellion of leaving the pill alone, into the long stretch after. You scrubbed your hands over your face. "I don’t know. Maybe nothing."

“Maybe.”

“Maybe I feel better.”

“Maybe,” he said again.

“Maybe I feel worse,” you snapped.

“Maybe.”

You glared at him. “Stop being reasonable. It’s annoying.”

His lips twitched. “I’ve been called worse by scarier men.”

“I’m very scary.”

“You are. Terrifying. My knees are doing jazz hands.”

Another almost-smile, this one sharp enough to sting. You looked away before he could catch it. "I just want one morning where I don’t have to swallow proof that I’m broken."

Dick’s expression changed then. Not pity. You could not have survived pity. It was something steadier, something with steel beams under it. He stepped closer, not all the way, just enough that the warmth of him entered your space like a light left on.

“You’re not taking proof that you’re broken,” he said. “You’re taking something because your brain chemistry likes to play chicken with traffic. That doesn’t make you broken. It makes you someone managing a hard thing every day, which is exhausting and unfair and not a moral failure.”

You stared at the sink drain. “You sound like a pamphlet with nice shoulders.”

“Thank you. I’ve worked hard to become Gotham’s most emotionally literate pamphlet.”

You let out a breath, almost a laugh, almost a sob. Dick’s eyes softened, but he did not move in. He just reached for the plate, broke the toast in half, and held out a piece.

“Tiny bite,” he said. “Not because I’m ordering you. Because nausea is a goblin and we can bribe it.”

You hesitated, then took the toast. Butter, honey at the edge, because he remembered you liked it that way when mornings were bad. The first bite was cardboard until the honey found your tongue, small and gold. Your stomach twisted, grumbled, then went quiet, waiting.

Dick offered the mug next. “Tea?”

You took it in both hands. The mug was hot enough to sting your fingers, almost nice. Steam curled up, ginger and lemon, sharp and clean. You sipped, careful. The heat slid down your throat, and for a moment you could focus on that instead of the pill, the bottle, the shame crouched in the corner with its claws tucked in.

“I don’t want you to have to do this,” you said, your voice rough.

“Make toast?”

“Dick.”

“I know.” He leaned against the counter beside you now, close enough that your shoulder nearly brushed his. “But I’m your boyfriend. Checking in on you is not a prison sentence.”

“It turns you into my caretaker.”

“Sometimes,” he said. “And sometimes you take care of me when I come home with bruises I pretend are not that bad.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

You opened your mouth, then shut it. He had you there, the bastard.

Dick tilted his head, studying you with that blue-eyed gentleness that made lying feel both possible and pointless. “Taking care of each other doesn’t mean you become a burden. It means we build systems for the parts of life that keep trying to trip us in dark alleys.”

“Systems,” you repeated flatly.

“Yes. Very romantic. Calendars. Pill organizers. Check-ins. The erotic thrill of hydration.”

“Please never say that again.”

“Noted.”

You rubbed your thumb over the mug. “And what, you just… ask me every day if I took them?”

“I can,” he said. “Or I can not. We can make it less weird. I can text you a bat emoji at nine.”

“That’s worse.”

“A pill emoji?”

“Threatening.”

“A little circus tent?”

“Because you’re a clown?”

“Because I’m delightful.”

“You’re something.”

His grin warmed the room for half a second, then faded into something quieter. “We can make it your choice. Maybe I check in without asking directly. Maybe I bring breakfast when I’m here. Maybe we make a note on the fridge. Maybe you tell me, ‘I’m having a bad med day,’ and I know that means I stay nearby but don’t hover. And we call your doctor about the numbness and nausea, because suffering through side effects in silence is not actually a personality trait, even though both of us have tried to make it one."

He paused, considering. “And you’ve got other things too. That playlist you made for the mornings that start rough. The notebook by your bed where you write down what you actually remember. Therapy appointments on Thursdays, your group texts with Steph and Cass for days when you need to talk about anything but meds. Steph, who sends you bad puns and memes until you roll your eyes so hard it resets your brain, and Cass, who somehow knows when just to send a single heart or remind you to look out the window, no pressure, just presence. The reminders stuck to your laptop: drink water, breathe, make coffee before decisions. We’ll use whatever helps. You never have to figure it out alone.”

Your grip tightened around the mug. “I don’t want them to change everything and make it worse.”

“I know.” His voice dropped. “But you don’t have to decide that this morning. This morning is just tea, toast, pill, and me standing here looking devastatingly handsome.”

You snorted softly. “You ruined it.”

“I saved it.”

“You really didn’t.”

“I’m choosing to remember this differently.”

The word remember clipped something tender inside you. Dick noticed. Of course, he noticed. His teasing softened into an apology without him needing to say it. He reached out, slow enough for you to refuse, and touched two fingers to your wrist.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Come back here.”

“I’m here.”

“More here.”

You swallowed. The pill waited by the sink, patient and awful. You hated that you would take it. You hated that some part of you wanted Dick to make you, so the choice would not be yours, so that you could be angry at him instead of afraid of yourself. You hated that he knew you too well to do that.

“I need help,” you said, barely audible.

Dick’s fingers curled around your wrist, gentle pressure, an anchor without a chain. “Okay.”

“I hate needing help.”

“Yeah.”

“I might hate you for helping.”

“That’s okay.”

Your eyes snapped to his. “No, it’s not.”

He shrugged with one shoulder, but his face was serious. “You can feel whatever you feel. I’m not made of sugar glass. I can handle you being angry because something hurts.”

You looked at him for a long moment. His hair was still a mess. A bruise lingered on his jaw from patrol, yellow at the edges. He made you tea. He did not yell. He did not turn your fear into a lesson. He just stood there and made the world small enough to fit inside one breath.

“I’m scared I’ll stop feeling things,” you said.

Dick’s thumb moved once over your pulse. “Then I’ll remind you what you feel like.”

“That sounds impossible.”

“I do impossible before breakfast all the time.”

“You’re such a show-off.”

“Guilty.”

Your hand shook as you set the mug down. Dick said nothing. He picked up the pill, set it in your palm, then closed your fingers around it with both his hands, like he was giving you something precious instead of something you hated.

“One step,” he said.

You stared at your joined hands. “One step.”

“Toast first?”

You took another bite because you could not find a reason not to. You chewed, swallowed. Your stomach twisted but stayed quiet. Dick handed you the mug. You took the pill, let it sit on your tongue, bitterness blooming at once, your whole body tensing with the old urge to spit it out, to refuse the deal. Dick’s eyes stayed on yours, not the pill, not your throat. Just you.

“You’ve got it,” he said softly.

You swallowed.

For a second, nothing happened. Of course, nothing happened. The world stayed whole. The bathroom stayed ordinary. You were still in Dick Grayson’s apartment, rain on the windows, honey on your tongue, dread under your ribs. The pill was gone. The choice was made. Your knees went weak in the aftermath of a fight no one else would notice.

Dick took the mug before your shaking hands could spill it. Then he opened his arms, slow again, always asking even when he did not use words.

You stepped into him.

He wrapped around you with careful strength that made your chest ache. One hand between your shoulder blades, the other at the back of your head. You pressed your face into his hoodie, breathing in soap, rain, the faint metallic ghost of Gotham rooftops. For a minute, you hated him a little. For being kind. For being here. For making it harder to vanish into your own worst instincts. For knowing how to hold you without making you feel trapped.

Then the hate thinned, flimsy as wet paper, and underneath it was just fear.

“I don’t want to do this every day,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“What if I can’t?”

“Then we don’t solve every day at once.” His chin rested lightly against your hair. “We solve today. Tomorrow can take a number and sit down.”

Your laugh broke against his chest, small and wrecked. “That’s stupid.”

“Very. Did it help?”

“A little.”

“I’ll take it.”

You stayed there until the nausea passed from a wave to a low tide. Dick didn’t rush you. His hand moved slowly over your back, tracing a rhythm steadier than your thoughts. When you finally pulled away, your eyes felt swollen, but his face didn’t do anything horrible with that information. No pity. No triumph. Just love, quiet, and a little tired, standing barefoot on the tile.

He reached past you for the pill bottle and turned it in his hand. “Can I set up the organizer for the week?”

You grimaced. “That makes me feel ninety.”

“I’ll get you a cool one.”

“There are no cool pill organizers.”

“There are if I put stickers on it.”

“Please don’t.”

“I’m hearing ‘maybe.’”

“You’re hearing wrong.”

He kissed your forehead, smiling against your skin. “Then no stickers. Unless they’re tasteful.”

“Dick.”

“Fine. No stickers.” He paused. “What about a tiny Nightwing logo?”

You stared at him.

He lifted both hands in surrender. “Cruel but fair.”

Something in you loosened. Not fixed, not cured, not rewritten, just loose enough to let air in. You leaned against the counter and watched him rinse your mug, watched the easy way his hands moved through the kitchen, setting your bottle by a glass of water, putting toast on a plate, scribbling a note on a napkin because he knew reminders on your phone made you feel hunted. 

You tried to remember the last time a morning felt this gentle. Still, your mind was already circling future hurdles: the way sunlight hit your desk too hard at noon, that hollow pressure in your chest during meetings, the sticky-fingered anxiety that came clawing at you on the subway home. 

The pill was only one part of the fight; sometimes the struggle felt like a relay baton passed through every hour, carried in the little stutters of your daily life, pushing against every ordinary thing until bedtime. Dick knew this, too. He did not try to solve it all at once. Just today. Just this ritual, small and temporary, in the middle of the bigger, messier days. 

Still, something in you wondered if repeating these small efforts- tea, toast, pill, another morning survived, could shape the edges of tomorrow into something softer. Maybe not easier, but possible. Maybe, in time, the days would stack into something that felt like hope.

Today only, the note said. Tea. Toast. Pill. You. Me.

You picked it up when he wasn’t looking and folded it once, then again, small enough to fit into your pocket.

Dick glanced over his shoulder. “You stealing my very official medical documentation?”

“It’s evidence.”

“Against me?”

“Maybe.”

His smile softened. “Good. Keep it.”

So you did. And later, when the day blurred at the edges, and your stomach complained, and your mind tried to convince you that needing help made you less of a man, less of a boyfriend, less of a person, Dick sent you one text from across the room because he was ridiculous and because sometimes ridiculous things worked.

Just a circus tent emoji.

Then another message.

Dick: Still here.

[ryudenzu]

My child Ame

[ryudenzu]

NEW CHAPTER:D

https://archiveofourown.org/works/72519191/chapters/223178201

[ryudenzu]

The English translation is now available.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/82302406/chapters/216612191

[daniimz]

I only put these clips together because I was watching these two povs at the same time and it was an experience

[selemina]

More doodles for My Chemical Crowmance because they killed it last round! :D

[daniimz]

Crow fact #1 ☝️: Aldo was the one who started the "CA CAW" thing

[Do you want to know something? At first Aldo was afraid of his teammates not liking him, so on day one he barely spoke to them, but now? The last few days he was willing to spend hours on the server fighting to be able to play with his team one more day, before, he used to make fun of Roier for spending so much time on the QSMP [jokingly] and now the same thing happened to him in Purgatory, and at the very end my boi won!!!!, anyway CAW CAW crows 🐦‍⬛←is this thing a crow? Pretty sure it is]

[purgatory 2 day 1: team crow]

[daniimz]

Yeah, I don't know what to say for this one so, yeah

[abiexis]

Dick: B ¿me compras algo?

Bruce: si ¿que vendes?

[acim-ed-ortsac]

I've been lurking around the discord between Batman fans and Batfam fans, NOT ALL, but seemingly a good number of them, making the kids disrespect or be cruel to Bruce as a joke. Then I see posts on how the other is taking stuff from a certain character and putting it on their favorite (Jason as protector of women and children when it's Selina, the Gotham Prince title debate, etc). There were even a few with making parental Dick or Jason towards the batkids and making Bruce the villain, whether it's intentional or not. And like, I get that most of these posts are supposed to be jokes or batfam shenanigans, but I noticed that it was at the expense of Bruce, and the underlying reason would be like 'He deserves it' or '(Favorite) is better' etc. And while I sort of see where the Batkid fans are coming from, see not understand, I'm not sure if they considered that if we remove Batman or Bruce from the equation of their lives, from start to now, then they wouldn't be who they are now.

Dick would've never become Robin if Bruce hadn't taken him and held him; he would've been somewhere else doing something else. There was even a DC movie where the Batman in that movie didn't adopt Dick and sent him to the Central City Foster Care with Barry's help, because he thought that involving kids in a hero's life is irresponsible. There might have beena possibility of him becoming a hero, a little possibility of Robin, but not the Nightwing we know now.

Jason as well, if Bruce hadn't taken him in and adopted him, the boy would still be in the streets and would've become one of the goons of his Rogue gallery or worse, dead. There might be a chance he would've been taken in by a lovely family, but he wouldn't become Red Hood at all. I believe if he had been taken in by someone else, then he would've lived a normal life.

Tim would still be Drake's son, but I'm not sure he would've become the genius detective Robin he is today. If there were no Batman or Robin to inspire him, then he would've continued his family's business and legacy and not become a hero.

Damian is a 50% of not existing at all or being born to another man and Talia. And his path might be very different, not the kind Robin who loves animals as we know, but someone entirely different, depending on the father.

Cass might still be on the run from Cain, always running and never able to settle. And I want her to have a chance, but I know very few would look at a scared girl and try to help her. And very few would've succeeded.

I could go on, but I guess what I'm trying to say is that Bruce, Batman, is the turning point and the reason why they are who they are today. He is why Dick became Robin, not only in lore-wise but in comic history, Batman is the first superhero to have a costumed sidekick, being Dick.

He is the one who took one look at Jason, who was stealing his tires, laughed, and said: "This one's mine now." He gave Jason the basic necessities, yes, but he also loved the boy like he loved Dick. And Jason's death, a thing fans have talked about and said it's 'one of the things that made Bruce a bad person', is a slippery slope because it depended on the poll that was set up at the time. The "Save Jason Todd" poll in the comic, where callers at the time would choose to save the boy or not. If they chose to save him, then the writers would've written Batman to have succeeded in saving him.

But they didn't.

Jason died because comic readers at the time voted to kill him off.

And without Jason's death, we would've never gotten Tim as Robin. Tim was made to be a sort of copy of Bruce, to fill in the void of Robin after Jason's death. If Jason never died, then Tim wasn't needed. And so on.

So I don't get the disrespect batfam fans have against Bruce. Yes, he has his flaws, but the batkids also have them. If we go through every comic, even the ones considered badly written, because some claim it's part of canon, then Dick cheated on Starfire with Barbara, Jason, when he first came back from the dead, was a terrorist in order to claim Gotham and get Batman's attention, Tim cheated on Steph, etc. All of them have flaws, so why give Bruce major shit on his flaws?

Also, for the Batfam fans who complain about Batman fans glazing or loving Bruce too much, the reason why Batman fans argue and defend Bruce so much to the point that other fans call us hypocrites is that...we see him as a cat or a dog. We knows he has flaws, we know he's not perfect, but we also know he's hurting, we also know he tries, and we also know that he has issues that need to be resolved, and we love him and all of that. He acknowledged his flaws and did not disregard them to make himself perfect. Like a stray cat, we see the claws, the trauma hidden behind those eyes, but we also see how sweet it is, how much of a companion it can become, and we decide to love it.

We just don't like it when others deny the flaws of their favorites and pin it on Bruce only, because that's hypocrisy.

And, considering how, in canon, how loyal and not normal the batkids are in canon, I'm not sure they wouldn't stand by and watch their fans drag the man they see as a mentor, father, and guardian through the mud. They would probably argue with you online on why he's great and why you're wrong (Tim, Jason, Dick) or insult your bloodline (Damian). And if they're even more unhinged about the Bat, they would probably track you down and make you disappear from the internet, considering how scary and capable they can be.

Some glaze them to the point of no return, and those who love them with their canon lore and flaws and are not afraid to point it out.

But that's just my analysis of Batman and the Batfam's treatment in the fandom. You can argue in my comment if you like, you can call me names, but I would probably laugh or be indifferent since this is just me giving my take.

[ryudenzu]

i remember reading this fic were Grayson was like born before his Time and was an adult when Bruce lost his parents so he takes gordons place or i think they both help Bruce I dont remember and I read all about that au

But then omg in the autora note the autor saying idk if I should make It Dick/Bruce when Bruce gets older I havent unfollow a story so fast before

[ryudenzu]

whats the fanfics name?

Its a batfam one with de aged Bruce and Jason I think being one that takes care More of him? Or idk but all I remember was this one chapter where he takes Bruce to eat sandwich's on his bike and another that some guys tried to rob them? And Jason falls to the water and Bruce tries to get him out so in the end Jason takes them both ton a bathroom so he could be away from the cold air

And that all i remember:D

[ryudenzu]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Its two chapters long

i Made a fanfic about the au I have for Batman of him being a child and being born a lot later than he should

Its in spanish i want It to be in english soon but im having a heard time trying to think how the batfam is goin to interact with Bruce like i have how the fanfic goes but not really how It could work so if someone could help me with It

I really REALLY would love It and I am goin to say that i have help with it

[qiralyn]

LeoRai shippers in a nutshell