Guess I'm The Burgler For 13 Dwarfs Off To The Lonely Mountain I Go

Headcanon that Jason’s white hairstreak is so inconsistent in the comics because he keeps desperately trying to get rid of it and it just comes back. 

Maybe it makes more sense for it to be a stress thing, but I think it’s funnier if it’s just a weird magical side effect of the Lazarus pits.

So he dies it black, and the magic goes No. It’s white again within a week. He tries colouring it in with sharpie. No luck. He literally cuts that bit off and then he wakes up with more white hair than before.

He eventually has to call Talia like How Do I Get Rid Of It. 

She gives him the mystical speech equivalent of a vague shrug.

What do you mean the latest villain in Nightwing’s solo was in the audience the night Dick’s parents died? Is there anyone in the DC’s universe that was NOT at this show?

batfamily twitter but it’s tim drake being a rapscallion

Gala season at Wayne Manor

At first Jason couldn’t tell what was so wrong about what was happening, Bruce had brought him, Dick and Tim back to living in the manor, for a few weeks he said, a new villain he said.

Then all the boys got their measurements updated, the uniforms need updating he said, “Oh dear boys, still growing I see.” Alfred said.

Then a weirdly big number of workers started frequenting the manor.

Alfred: Oh master Jason don’t be so paranoid, we only need to spruce up these dusty old halls.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tim: So what you guys think got B so worried all of the sudden, can’t find anything on the database, seems pretty secretive…even for him.

Jason: I don’t know, but isn’t it weird how we haven’t heard of this new villain yet? You’d think the asshole would make a grand entrance.

Dick: Don’t be so paranoid Jason, you know dad wouldn’t dance around the issue….

In horror all pieces fell into place, wings of the manor being open, things being “spruced up” and the new tuxedos all the boys got.

Jason: We need to leave NOW.

*Bruce slow clapping in the background*

Bruce: So you’ve finally figured it out, it is gala season and we are going to be a happy family. Also don’t bother trying to escape, Damian had to learn the hard way…

Alfred enters the room with Damian trapped Hannibal style in a tux.

Damian: DON’T SAVE YOURSELVES TAKE ME WITH YOU.

Damian, to himself as he paces around his room, trying to put his feelings into words: Marinette is a work of art. Specifically, a stained glass work of art. Because when the sun hits her she lights up a room in all of her beauty and I fall in love all over again.

Dick, Jason, and Tim eavesdropping on him: Holy. Shit.

Jango: I mean, if I went around sayin’ I was Mand’alor just because some aruetii had lobbed a beskad at me they’d put me away!

Satine: Shut up! Will you shut up!

Jango: Ah, now we see the violence inherent in the system.

Satine: Shut up!

Jango: Oh! Come and see the violence inherent in the system! HELP! HELP! I’m being repressed!

Several years later…

Jango: -and that was how I lost my Mandalorian citizenship. 

Boba: wtf dad.

Do you think Tim holds things over his brothers' heads whenever he wants something?

Dick- Aw, there's only one piece of pizza left

Tim- Mine

Dick- Or, we could split it

Tim- Or, it's mine

Dick- You know, sharing is caring, Tim

Tim- You know what else is caring?

Dick- Hm?

Tim- Not gaslighting your sibling into thinking he's insane

Dick- ...

Tim- Not taking Robin from him

Dick- O-okay

Tim- Trusting that he's been right about enough things in the past that maybe, just maybe, he's right about your father being alive-,

Dick- You can have the pizza, dude. Jeez

Yyyyy

Jason, seeing Tim laying across the entire sofa he wanted to read on- You can either move or be sat on, little man

Tim, not even looking up- Today is not the day. I fucking dare you to try me

Jason- Tim, move. I am bigger than you. I am stronger than you. I will crush you

Tim- Bigger, maybe.

Jason- Tim-,

Tim, locking eyes with Jason- How long did you last with Joker? Half hour?

Jason- Excuse me?

Tim, holding up three fingers- I dealt with Joker AND Harley. For three WEEKS. And survived

Jason- o.o???

Tim, getting cozy again- Get on my level, bitch

Yyyyy

Damian- You're delusional if you think you can beat me, Drake. I was trained by the best of the best!

Tim- The best of the best?

Damian- That's right!

Tim- When's the last time you checked on those 'best of the best' teachers of yours?

Damian- What are you talking about?

Tim- I'm talking about the fact that you might have been trained by them

Tim, leaning down to Damian's level- But I took them out

Damian- Wh-what??

Tim- Still want to spar?

Harmonies of the Multiverse

THEME

When Jupiter collides with autumn, a single moment is born between two entities. Equal harmonies with balance, dancing along a fine line of too far and too near, of brightest and dimmest, of perfect alignment. People say that on an equinox, the sky divides into two parts, golden light and silver darkness.

For Damian Wayne, it meant heading to the rooftop instead of sleeping peacefully in his bed, staring at the sky, but not seeing anything. His eyes would remain blank as they stared up at the twinkling stars almost covered by the rancid smog. He learned at too young of an age that life was not about myths and fairytales, but of monsters in the form of flesh and bone which held their smiles on their face and their daggers in your back.

The equinox meant facing the demons of his past.

He always knew he was never the best person. He wouldn't ever be as selfless as Dick, he wouldn't be as level-headed as Tim, or even as passionate as Jason. He wouldn't have his father's ingrained need to help the dying cesspool they lived in, and he would never have Alfred's heaven-bound level of patience. There would always be that selfish, rash, cold-hearted, narcissistic, impatient prince lying inside of him, waiting to rear its foul head. It surfaced every second he held a blade in his hand, at every mob member terrorizing innocents and criminals alike, every abuser, every villain. A voice inside him purred to rid the world of their filth, of their moral grime. And every single time, it grew louder and louder and louder and louder.

Each time a criminal escaped through his grasp was another chip in his fortitude.

Each time an innocent civilian broke a smile at him, only to die minutes later from an explosion was a stab in the wall between morally good and vengeance.

For every stabbing heart, for every gutless cry of a mother who lost their child.

Wouldn't it be so much easier to erase them before they could commit such barbarisms?

The cold kissed his cheeks, so much like a viper's poison, and he shook his head, banishing the thought from his mind. Ah, she's still inside my head.

Maybe symphonies are built on a beautiful melody. However, the melody would never work if they worked on different concepts. The one his father blasted into his mind was a righteous march, darker in tone than most melodies, but an overarching victory for Good reigned. It taught him patience, morals, ethics, light against darkness.

But, his mother taught him the cellist's devil nature. The darker tones, the echoing, vibrating puppet master giving the audience the illusion that the melody is in control, but in reality, all the melody can do is fall victim to the villainous, tragic whirlpool of misery, murder, and fascist brutality. She placed the blade in his hand, had him earn her love through feats of glorious atrocities, built him up from the ground up into the perfect weapon, too jagged and unpredictable to be used for Good, but whittled down, rusted and corrupted for far too long to be remolded into something useful.

Now, he didn't know where he belonged. Did his melody rise above the dark cello nurtured in him? Or will the melody drown under the alluring, tempest bass driven through his heart, buried deeper than the center of the Earth?

The wind, maybe sensing his demise, could do nothing but blow harder to calm his feverish head filled with questions he could not answer. The somber cold stung the sweet chapped lips all too used to the desert's ice and fire of his childhood, but it stung more bitterly as the North Atlantic ocean blew in the new change in season. Gotham was an outlier. A ghost town of improbabilities and plausibility all clashed together to create a cesspool of madness, hate, and impossibilities.

He wondered why his father, or his ancestors before him, would ever want to stay in a city like this for the rest of their rich, detached lives. Why they would ever choose to spend their lives in this miserable landfill, giving what they have to make the ever-draining city a better place. Why they gaze at the buildings and streets with fond gazes. Why they find it so easy to smile at a Gotham native without feeling like they will get a knife's edge poking their sternum the moment they show their backs.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he cursed God that he was not given this ingrained sense of belonging and mercy to Gotham like all of his family before him.

Pages rustled on in the breeze, and, by miraculous luck, the cover tipped open. Blue light shone through the darkness beyond his closed eyelids, but he did not notice beyond the salty river squeezing through the crevice.

"S'il te plaît, ne me dis pas que tu pleures." Please, don't tell me you're crying. Soft French carried over the quiet din. "I never know what to do when you are crying."

He pried his eyes open, and a vision filled his eyes. A girl, no older than he was, but with a more youthful smile cracked in sorrow, dressed in a midnight blue evening gown glowing in the darkness, blowing in the wind to its own rhythm as it reflected the stars ten times brighter than Gotham Fair's lights. She floated over the torn book of ancient Tibetan magic he brought with him that night, just like he did every solstice, her legs crossed underneath her in an informal squat. Cheeks blossomed like dusky luminescent wisteria, and constellations made of stars brighter than Rigel lost across the bridge of her nose. Her blue crown of hair burned a halo around her, framing bluebell eyes that looked older than a thousand of his lifetimes staring deep into his own green eyes.

The only word he could say was, "Marinette."

Her grin made his heart's symphony subito pianissimo. "Hi, Damian. Happy Autumn Solstice."

================

not me wanting to make this a full fic ;v; (hence the chapter title "theme")

for @jumpingjoy82 for the maribat gift exchange 2022 (i posted on time on archive, just not on tumblr ;v;)

I know that its basically canon that Jason's not afraid of death and thus acts the most reckless possible because he's already been there done that, right? And its not like theres anything worse than death, so he might as well go all in at all times, but what if he was instead terribly afraid of dying? Not because of death itself but because there is something worse that death, and it's coming back from it.

Jason knows death is not that bad really, because at least the pain stops, then. But coming back? That's what truly terrifies him, and it's only possible if he dies.

He has a thousand contingencies in place to make sure that if he does die again (and theres a half thought there of going out to find a way to never die, because no matter what he suffers after, it's never going to be worse than coming back), nothing is able to bring him back.

One night, a freak explosion leaves him seriously injured, a stray metal shard digging itself deep in his stomach. As the bats rush him back to the cave, delirious from the pain and blood loss, Jason begs Bruce to please, please, get rid of my body, dad, I dont wanna come back again, please swear to me you won't bury me again.

And Bruce, poor Bruce, has to look his son in the eyes and tell him that yes, he'll make sure he doesn't come back again (and oh, how does it hurt, knowing that the best thing that happened to you is the worst pain you son will ever feel).

Jason steps into fights only when he knows every single detail of it, and it's what makes him ten times more efficient and just as much scarier to criminals. He is swift when dealing out justice, and as precise as a surgeon. No one really escapes him, be it petty criminals or mob bosses.

He still gets hurt a great deal, because his pain tolerance is definitely fucked up, and he knows his limits, so he can tell when a wound is nothing to get worried about.

Writing Prompt - MLB x DC

This was an idea I had wanted to put in my current work, but couldn't fit in:

Marinette wanting to make a website that is protected (old one could have been damaged by Lila), but doesn't have the experience or time to figure it out on her own, so

a) she asks Penny if she knows anyone who could help her out.

or

b) she posts an ad on a forum

The first response she gets ends up being from Barbara, and the two of them become good friends fast. Marinette designs something for Barbara as a thank you, and the bat boys are trying to figure out how she managed to get a custom MDC.

(this could also be either daminette or platonic maribat).

idk if i'll write this, but if someone wants to, please tag me?