#wayneserved

[occultsleutha]

wayneserved replied to your post: when will dc make alfred and john meet

he’d be so happy to meet him tbh

please feed him, he is very tired and maybe needs a shower

[thanagrian]

alfred: respect your elders shay:  shay: you know i’m older than you, right?

[stickaneedle]

we stan piri here

wE STAN JADE HERE TOO BINCH I LOVE U!!!!!!!!

[earnedstripes]

£

munday questions !

£ - random fact about the muse?

he fucked an lmd of diamondback once. 

[dlunae]

*⊹࿔ REDIRECTED ASK, SPARKLIN' WITH @wayneserved !

MORE THAN A SIMPLE RECCURENT, LOYAL GUEST AT THE INFAMOUS MANOR. Donna Troy was no strange to the massive corridors or even larger rooms that could accomodate more than seven families in one ground. There was a somber element about it, sort of depressing if you payed enough attention 𝄖 but this feeling rather died down as she grew older, realizing how she and Dick had paved the way for some light to barge inside those walls with their constand bonding and companionship as young children that extended further into their adolescence and now adulthood despite the eventual turbulent fallout between father and son for a while.

Alfred Pennyworth was resposable for handling the entire place since she could remember, and to have that house without the british man keeping it neat and functioning would mean it wouldn't even be standing. He was an welcoming figure to Donna, the only experience of a grandfather she ever posessed and a great partner at eventual mischief 𝄖 that when he wasn't pretending to not steal several glances at her current hand. She supposed one ought to survive that way among that many bats, but she wouldn't let it pass. ❝ Alfred, ... do you take me as fool? I've been menaging boys around since I was twelve, as you may remember. ❞ Similar at that role, Donna couldn't help but hit the remark. ❝ I saw it, there's no fooling me. ❞

[infiniitefrequency-a]

wayneserved started following you

“Alfred, I can hear you glaring at me from across the room. It’s honestly not that bad.”

[gothamdetected-a]

𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘽𝙊𝙒 𝙏𝙄𝙀 𝙄𝙎 𝙏𝙊𝙊 𝙏𝙄𝙂𝙃𝙏 ;  its 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 him, choking him with the pressure of expectation. these nights are the hardest, when kevlar is traded for cashmere, armour plating for tuxedo jackets, batarangs for champagne flutes. watchful eyes peer down at him, wise and kind, immortalised in oil paints, canvas, and bruce is still a lost little child, playing at dress up. falling short of the wayne legacy, time and again.

he looks so much like his father these days.  

a steadying breath drawn into ragged lungs  ——  overwhelmed, drowning, he can’t do this, he can’t go out there, not tonight            (      they wouldn’t be proud of you bruce. they wouldn’t be happy at what you’ve become. a MONSTER haunting the streets of their city. they wanted better for you.     )           bruce wayne can save the city in ways that batman never will, and yet here his eyes shut tightly, here the  p a n i c  rises, unbidden, here his hands shake uncontrollably. white knuckles. BREATHE. paste on a smile, crack a few jokes, throw enough money around that people see, but don’t look.

years of training, honing his senses, pushing them to the limits of human capabilities, and still he never hears him coming.           (       it’s his superpower, laughs the voice bitterly.       )            he knows the expression of TERROR sweeping over his face like thunderous, dark clouds, the pleading look in his eyes, don’t make me do this, i can’t do this. alfred always knows when he’s caught up in the maelstrom, head versus heart, always finds him, lays a kind hand on his shoulder and squeezes. tonight is no different.

there’s grey flecking his temples. he’s older now than his father ever was.                                                  BREATHE. 

𝐇𝐄'𝐒 𝟔 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐋𝐃 and the same trepidation sits heavy in his chest. the school play. he has to go on stage, and his parents will be there, in the front row, all expectant smiles and encouraging waves. he can’t do it, he’s going to mess it up. everyone will laugh. and then there’s alfred, kneeling before him, straightening out his costume, a reassuring hand on his shoulder. chin up, master bruce.

𝐇𝐄'𝐒 𝟗 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐋𝐃 and his parent’s faces are serene inside the coffins. he refuses to look. somewhere a flash bulb goes off, and panicked tears well at the corners of his eyes, sliding along his lashes. he wants to run, anywhere, out into the rain until it soaks him through, pound at the sodden earth with tiny fists and scream at the world. alfred stands behind him, hand on his shoulder, anchoring him.  

𝐇𝐄'𝐒 𝟏𝟓 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐋𝐃 and sitting in the nurse’s office with tissue stuffed up his nose and an angry, purpling bruise staining the thin skin of his left eye. his hands are still balled, furious, and it’s always like this, no matter which school the board pack him off to. look at poor, snivelling wayne, isn’t daddy going to come and save you- oh wait you don’t have a daddy, do you, wayne, do y- alfred appears in the doorway, and he grits his teeth, waits for the disappointment. another fight, master bruce? it doesn’t come. alfred sets a comforting hand on his shoulder and offers to buy him ice cream on the drive home.

𝐇𝐄'𝐒 𝟐𝟏 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐋𝐃 and his heart is heavy in his chest as he stands on the airfield tarmac. alfred knows this isn’t a simple holiday. alfred knows what he’s going to do. alfred knows the man he watches ascend the plane steps is not the man who will return. maybe he won’t come back at all. and a reassuring hand comes up to his shoulder and squeezes anyway. his face is kind, always so kind, even though bruce can see his heart breaking. he didn’t ask for this life.

❛   alfred, i-  ❜           i’m sorry. i’ve failed you. i’ve failed them. i’m not the son anyone wanted.      

                                                 BREATHE.

            @wayneserved​ said  ❛  i'm proud of you, my boy. ❜

the painting looms behind them. perhaps it should feel like a 𝙳𝙴𝚂𝙴𝙲𝚁𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽, vandalism of something sacred  ——  to do this here, of all places, his father’s study. their eyes are still just as expectant, still just as kind. his hands shake.

my boy. 

it isn’t a mockery, no violation, no sacrilege on hallowed grounds. they would, he thinks, be glad he is not alone. they would be glad it is alfred. the storm parts for the beam of the lighthouse. 

                                                BREATHE. package it up, push it down. he can’t afford to do this tonight. not now, not ever.          ❛   i’d better get out there. can’t keep them waiting on their host much longer.   ❜           the smile is tight, strained. but it’s there, at least.  h e s i t a t i o n , a pause, and then he reaches out, bridges the interminable chasm of inches between them. places a hand on alfred’s shoulder. 𝘚𝘘𝘜𝘌𝘌𝘡𝘌𝘚. it doesn’t tremble any more. alfred will understand.            ❛   thank you.   ❜          

[gothamdetected-a]

:/