#gooddad
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my stepson, terry jr., told me that i should not get a tumbler, but like a good father i decided to ignore it in order to be present in his life 👍🏼
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Happy Fathers! . . Here’s to all the amazing men who consistently provide emotionally, physically, psychologically and financially for their families and communities. . You men are the real MVPs! . #begoodtoyourself . . . #goodnaturedmen #goodnaturedskincare #naturalskincare #blackfathers #gooddad #familysupport #alwaysthere #fathersday (at London, United Kingdom) https://www.instagram.com/p/Ce_d_1Bo9r2/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
#begoodtoyourself#goodnaturedmen#goodnaturedskincare#naturalskincare#blackfathers#gooddad#familysupport#alwaysthere#fathersday
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Whumptober prompts 8 (everything hurts and I'm dying), 17 (breaking point), 22 (pick your poison), 27 (stumbling), alt3 (dazed and confused), alt12 (carried to safety), alt15 (tears)
Bruce fumbled for his phone, only partially awake but more so by the moment. It was still dark in his room, the only light coming from the screen.
Dick, his heart stuttered. Tragedy out in Bludhaven. Or the League, some threat that couldn’t wait until morning.
Bruce’s grasping hand missed, knocked the phone to the rug where it landed face up with a muffled clatter. He noticed the time first, a mere hour after he had gone to bed. He noticed the caller second, the name in white across his default ocean coast background: T.
Tim?
Tim was supposed to be home, asleep—Bruce squinted one-eyed again at the time even as he snatched up the phone—yes, definitely home asleep. Jack had come home yesterday, so Robin was off-call for the weekend.
Bruce tapped open the call and lifted the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
Silence.
No, not silence. Faintly, Bruce could make out the sound of someone crying.
“Hello?” he asked again, still half-stretched out of bed, one hand braced against the floor.
A wet, hiccuping noise, louder this time, closer to the phone. It still took Bruce a moment to recognize Tim’s voice. Gooseflesh rose up his arms. He had never heard Tim cry before.
“Tim?” Bruce pushed himself fully upright but sat frozen in bed.
He saw death. He saw blood. He saw Joker with a knife to Tim’s throat, Riddler with a bomb duct-tapped to Tim’s chest. He saw more heartbreak than he could survive.
“Bruce?” It was definitely Tim, even with his voice warped by tears.
Bruce, not Batman, some detached corner of Bruce’s brain noticed. This was Tim talking, not Robin. Tim, calling Bruce, in tears.
At least he’s still breathing.
“What’s wrong?” It was a fight not to dip into Batman’s register, low and with bands of steel to bind back his emotions.
Bruce was on his feet now, reaching for clothes, for shoes, phone pinched between his cheek and shoulder.
“Uh’need he-elp.” Tim wasn’t just crying. He was sobbing. Sobbing so quietly that Bruce hadn’t noticed until he spoke, words slurred and hiccuping with each breath.
“Where are you?” It could be anything. An accident at home, a tragedy in the city. What if Tim had gone patrolling on his own? What if he and Jack had been out somewhere? He needed more information, but Tim was crying too hard.
Bruce put the phone on speaker so he could pull on sweatpants and scoop the fob from the end table into his other hand. Tim’s wheezing echoed tinnily, and Bruce found his own chest catching.
He stopped, hand splayed against the dresser, knuckles white, and forced himself to take a breath before picking up the phone. “Tim, listen to me. I need you to breathe with me, can you do that?”
Tim mumbled something indistinct. It could have been an agreement or not meant for Bruce at all. Was he drugged? Fear-gassed? In some kind of medical crisis?
“Tim.” Bruce let a little of Batman’s command thread into his voice. “Take a deep breath right now. With me, ready?”
In.
Out.
He could hear the exhalation from Tim, sooner than Bruce’s own, and still too shaky and shallow, but he was doing it.
“Good. Again.” Bruce breathed again as he yanked open his bedroom door and sprinted for the stairs. “Again.”
Bruce took the stairs three at a time, thundering down in a way he hadn’t since his youth. He needed to get to the Cave. There was no time to wake Alfred, and Bruce worried that shouting for him would distract Tim. They repeated the process as Bruce tore through the back hallways. Tim was still crying, but he wasn’t gasping for air any longer. That was good.
Or is it because he’s dying? He’s not breathing at all, that’s why you can’t hear it.
No. No, Bruce could hear breathing, voiced exhalations like teary moans.
“You’re doing great,” Bruce lied. “I need to know what’s going on. Are you hurt?”
“Hurt,” Tim echoed in little more than a croak. “Hurt.”
“Okay. Okay, tell me what hurts.”
“Heeeeeaaaaad,” Tim groaned. “M’st’m’ch.” As if to underline his point, the sound of retching echoed over the line. Poison?
There was a garbled noise like a stumble or a fall, and a cry from Tim.
“Tim?”
No answer. The silence made Bruce’s skin crawl.
“Tim, talk to me,” Bruce ordered. “What happened? Are you bleeding?”
“Bleeding?” Tim’s voice was high with panic, nearly a squeak. “‘m I bleeding??”
Okay, bad question, though not having the answer made Bruce want to curl up and have a little panic attack of his own. He was in the Cave now, sprinting full-tilt to the computer, praying to anyone who would listen that Tim had the GPS on his phone turned on.
“Where are you?” he tried again.
“Dunno. Don’t know,” Tim wailed, and he sounded more like a lost little boy than Bruce had ever heard him be before.
Please, he’s just a kid. He’s not even mine, but he’s just a boy.
“Okay, sweetheart, okay, just breathe,” Bruce soothed. “I’ll find you. Stay right where you are and I’ll find you.”
There was the sound of retching again and quiet weeping. Bruce could have drowned in it, but he tried to listen beyond to background noises, any clue to where Tim was being held.
“What do you see?”
The BatComputer was waking up. He just needed a minute more.
“Dark.” Tim’s voice was muffled. “Trees.”
Trees?
“Tim, are you outside?” Trees in Gotham? A park? Or was he not in Gotham at all?
“Nn-hnn.”
Outside with trees, but dark. It was a waxing moon that night, not full but nearly so, and even at this hour, there still should be some light to see by.
“Can you see the moon?”
“No-o. Just trees. Hurt, hurt my leg, I—” Tim coughed, then groaned.
Woods? Bruce knew every block of Gotham, every patch of scraggly brown grass and crooked branch, but his mind was blank with panic. All he could picture was cracked asphalt and crumbling brick. Nowhere with enough trees to block out the moon.
“What’s wrong with your leg?” he asked, desperate to keep a coherent line of dialogue flowing and to have some picture of what was happening.
“Fell off,” Tim said, blunt in a way that made Bruce’s brain stutter. “Can’t—m’stuck. Bruce, m’stuck, help me. Help me.”
Tim had his GPS on. Bruce stared at the screen, disbelieving, but only for a moment. In the next heartbeat, he was gone, sprinting back upstairs.
“I’m coming,” he promised, putting every drop of conviction into his voice, as if he could reach through the phone and clasp Tim’s hand through force of will alone. “I’m coming, Tim, just keep talking to me.”
Nothing made sense. Not the blinking red light on the map Bruce had thrown to his phone. Not the mumbled, weeping replies from Tim. Not the way Bruce felt like he couldn’t breathe, broken from the inside out at the thought of anything happening to this child.
It took too long to reach the thick patch of trees that delineated the property line between the Waynes and the Drakes. Bruce had Tim on speaker again, looking from the screen to the dark and silent wood in front of him. He didn’t pause at the edge, instead plunging in even as he flicked on the flashlight function. He wanted searchlights, floodlights, but had to content himself with sweeping the narrow beam in enough of an arc to see by.
“Tim!” Bruce bellowed into the open air. “Tim, can you hear me? Timothy!”
The return cry was more echo than noise, but Bruce heard it. He crashed through the bushes, leaping over scrub and fallen branches, until he reached the ditch where a black-haired boy lay sprawled half in, half out, limbs tangled among the thick shrubs.
“Tim.” Bruce knelt and lifted his phone to get a better view.
“Bru-usssse.” Tim’s face was smeared with tears, snot, and dirt, a red scratch across his cheek, likely from stumbling through the woods. He tried to reach for Bruce, but the sleeve of his t-shirt had snagged on the bush he had fallen through.
“Hold still,” Bruce ordered, checking quickly for broken bones, impalement, or any other danger that would prevent Tim from moving.
When he found nothing, he looked back to the still-weeping boy in the ditch. With Bruce in sight, Tim had stifled his own hiccuping sobs and subsided back into near-silent tears. He looked miserable, which Bruce tried to keep in mind as his cresting panic warred against the reek of alcohol that wafted off Tim like smog.
“Timothy,” Bruce began, relief and crashing adrenaline quickly shifting into growing anger, but Tim had flinched back from the light and was cringing with his face buried in his own shoulder. He looked pathetic. Pathetic and so very young.
“Hurts,” Tim croaked again. Bruce sighed, relented.
“Okay, he murmured. “Okay, hold still, I’ll get you out.”
Bruce began the painstaking process of disentangling boy from debris. Tim’s stumbling path through the woods was clear enough, even by flashlight. Just out of sight would be piles of vomit where alcohol and fear had forced their way up. Bruce could see where Tim had tripped and fallen into the ditch. A better examination later would likely show a twisted ankle.
Tim was still crying as Bruce lifted him out of the ditch and into his arms.
He should cry, Bruce thought bitterly, then regretted the bitterness and the approval alike. He never wanted to hear a child cry, no matter the reason. Especially not this child.
“Okay,” Bruce mumbled and shifted Tim to hold the boy a little closer. “Okay. It’s alright.”
The journey was a slow one, hindered by the lack of light on the return and Bruce’s need to be careful with his back. It was silent except for the crunch of Bruce’s carefully placed steps in the dirt and the distant chirping of crickets. Tim’s tears soaked Bruce’s shirt but didn’t make a sound. Bruce was careful to think only about what would happen next and not about what could have been, nor about the disorienting muscle memory of cradling a half-grown boy he had never held before.
Alfred was waiting at the side door when they arrived. They exchanged looks over Tim’s head—Alfred’s concerned, Bruce’s dour and bewildered all at once. As they passed by, Alfred caught whiff of Tim and his expression changed. Bruce’s stayed the same.
He didn’t understand. This was Tim. Quiet, responsible, meticulous Tim. Tim, who bullied Bruce into going to bed and eating dinners outside of the Cave. Tim who had never once shown any signs of addiction or even interest—who had, in fact, ratted Bruce out a time or two to Alfred or Dick.
Tim, who didn’t ask for help.
Tim, who didn’t cry.
Bruce carried Tim into the kitchen and poured the boy into a chair. In the light, Tim managed to look even worse than he had outside. Though less hauntingly pale, he was still several shades below his normal color, a difference only heightened by the high pink in his cheeks and nose. Bruce kept him braced upright with one hand as the other pulled a second chair close. As he sat, Alfred placed a damp washcloth on the table with a cup of water and then disappeared after a nod of thanks from Bruce.
“Tim,” Bruce began, then stopped, not sure how to proceed.
Dick had gotten drunk once that Bruce knew of. He had been given a bottle of wine by a grateful citizen who had ignored the teen in Teen Titans, and he and Wally had made short work of it. As far as Bruce knew, Wally had been fine, but Dick had staggered home, peed in a vase, and then woken the next morning with a hangover powerful enough to make Bruce almost pity him. Almost.
Bruce had been at a loss then, too, not sure how to navigate the already unsteady ground of brother-father figure that was further in flux as Dick became more independent. The illegality of underage drinking he could deal with, though he knew it was hypocritical of him. The rest… He had fumbled through it, as he often did, with one eye to Alfred’s example. Their relationship had survived, and as far as Bruce knew, Dick had waited until 21 to drink again.
But Tim… This was different. Tim was different, but so was Bruce’s role in his life. Right?
Anger, a white-hot flareup from a fire never fully extinguished, roared in Bruce’s chest before being banked again. Where was Jack Drake? Why didn’t he care that his son was wandering through the woods, drunk, upset, and alone? Or maybe Jack was also drunk, passed out safely in the shelter of his own home.
Bruce couldn’t think about that right now without wanting to break something, and Tim already looked like he was on the far side of fragile. Instead, Bruce pressed the water into Tim’s hand and forced him to drink as he did another inspection under the sconced kitchen lights. Only when Bruce was sure that there was no damage other than some scrapes, bruises, and a mildly twisted ankle did he let himself breathe more fully.
Tim had stopped crying for the moment, his attention and concentration fixated on lifting the cup of water to his lips. Bruce took advantage of the moment to pick up the washcloth and begin to wipe away the dirt, snot, and tears that caked Tim’s face.
“Tim,” he began again, and swallowed a grunt as Tim’s head jerked toward his voice. “Do you know where you are?”
Tim blinked, then looked around slowly as if realizing he was somewhere new for the first time. “Inside.”
Bruce made sure his sigh wasn’t vocalized. “Yes. Do you know inside where?”
Tim hummed. “Th’ Manor.” As soon as he said it, his already slouched body relaxed further, as if some tensely strung cord inside of him had been released.
“That’s right,” Bruce agreed. “You’re in Wayne Manor with me and Alfred.”
He dragged the washcloth across Tim’s cheek and was both bemused and amused when Tim physically leaned into the sensation. Bruce was struck again by how very young this Robin was. He wanted to strangle Jack Drake. The man was only in town for the weekend after three weeks abroad. The least he could do was be aware that his underage son was drunk in the woods in the dead of night.
Bruce cleared his throat and made sure his tone was neutral before asking, “Tim, where’s Jack?”
Tim burst into tears. Bruce froze, washcloth still lifted. He stayed completely still as Tim—sobbing, nearly incoherent, and still very drunk—confessed that Jack Drake had not come home after all. Instead of arriving the night before, he had texted, saying he would see Tim next week instead. Tim, hurt, angry, and bewildered, had helped himself to Jack’s fully stocked bar. Because it was there, and Jack was not.
“Why didn’t you just come here?”
Alfred would have been thrilled to have company, and Bruce had thought Tim knew by now that he was welcome any time. But Tim shook his head and tearily refused to answer, and Bruce understood. No child should have to protect their parents the way Tim did.
Bruce relented. “Okay,” he murmured as he wiped the fresh tears from Tim’s face. “Okay. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”
“M’sorry,” Tim mumbled. “M’sorry.”
Bruce bent down, ducking his head until he could catch Tim’s gaze. “Tim. I’m glad you knew it was safe to come here. Next time…” He hoped there was never a next time. “Call me. I’ll come get you. And don’t ever drink alone.”
Tomorrow, they would address the legal concerns, the danger Tim had put himself in, the what-ifs, and the consequences. But not tonight.
If Tim were Dick or… If Tim were his child, Bruce would have kissed his forehead and pulled him into a hug. Tim was not. Instead, he squeezed Tim’s narrow shoulder and then straightened with a pop of his spine.
He could hear Alfred setting up an IV pole in the living room. They would need to check Tim’s BAC and monitor him for the night, so Bruce mentally bid farewell to his bed. Knowing Alfred, there was likely a toothbrush and spit bowl waiting as well, so no need to detour. Rather than lifting Tim back into his arms, he helped the boy to his feet and guided him into the waiting gloom.
“Baseball or talk shows?” he asked as they sat on the couch.
Tim wrinkled his nose. “Ugh.”
Bruce grunted, as close as he would get to a laugh tonight. They would get Tim cleaned up and settled. Alfred would return to bed. Tim would get to doze lightly, letting rest burn away the alcohol and sharpen the edge of his first hangover. And Bruce would stay awake, blinking gritty eyes at a bright screen, another man’s son heavy against his shoulder.
———
The phone vibrated by his elbow, the accompanying flash pulling Bruce’s focus away from the paperwork spread across the desktop in front of him. It was still relatively early in the night, at least for his family, and as he pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and lifted the phone to see the caller, he mentally calculated the odds of whose name would appear.
TIMOTHY DRAKE WAYNE the screen read. Tim’s face looked back at him, a nervous little half-smile captured at Bruce’s request a few months after his adoption. He had looked so young even then, but younger now, several years onward.
It was Dick and Damian’s week at the Manor, a routine that continued to chafe but also eased many of the tensions still bubbling after Bruce’s presumed death and return. Tim would be at his own apartment, most likely, or maybe at one of Jason’s safehouses. Bruce didn’t know the full shape of their relationship and he was reluctant to take its measure without invitation. Whatever peace they had brokered in his absence, he was glad of it.
Bruce set down his pen and leaned back in his chair before answering. “Hello?”
He expected a question, perhaps a tricky case Tim was fiddling with in his spare time, or a random thought Tim would then use to segue into a casual chat to help fill the time until it was his week at the Manor. Bruce enjoyed both of these, when they happened. Tim was more inclined to text, but Bruce liked to hear his voice.
Instead, there was no greeting, just the sound of breathing.
Bruce sat up a little straighter. “Tim?”
“Broke my promise.” That was Tim’s voice, but not the Tim Bruce knew. This Tim was flat, as dead-toned as a hostage reading from a script.
Bruce had to remind himself to keep breathing. “What promise did you break?” he asked, careful to keep his tone light and open.
Tim hadn’t made many promises to Bruce. He had a way of going quiet when pressed, implying agreement without actually agreeing, then slipping off to do whatever he had planned in the first place, conscience clear and mind set. The few Bruce could recollect pinning him down on all had to do with his own well-being.
There was a noise like the gurgle of water and a clink.
“Tim?” Bruce asked again. “Everything alright?”
He braced, waiting for the family code, the signal that Tim wasn’t alone, that he was under duress, that he needed Batman to crash through his window.
Instead, Tim asked, “Can you come?”
Bruce was already pushing away from his desk. “Yes. Where am I going?”
“My place.” Another sloshing sound, which Bruce finally recognized as a glass bottle being tipped up.
“I’m coming,” Bruce promised. “Stay on the phone with me.”
Tim left the phone on but didn’t speak again. Any attempt at conversation was met with a grunt or silence. Bruce drove with an iron grip on the steering wheel, keeping track of each audible sip.
He knew Tim’s address but had never been before. He had asked, more than once, and Tim had demurred, citing conflicting schedules, messy bedrooms, or later times that would be better. And it was true, the current shape of their lives meant it was difficult to make schedules align. If it was Tim’s week at the Manor, he didn’t want to be at his apartment, and if it wasn’t, then Bruce was expected to spend his time with Dick and Damian. Bruce had always expected to find a way, someday, or just wait out the clock until Tim was able to move back permanently. This was not how he expected to visit.
Bruce took the stairs, phone off speaker and held to his ear now as he hiked up narrow stairs to Tim’s apartment. He had a key. Tim’s emancipation was still a touchy subject, but after his collapse earlier that year, Bruce had required a backup set. So Bruce didn’t have to wait to be let in, but instead gave a perfunctory knock and then stepped inside.
Tim was not in the living room. At least, Bruce thought this was the living room. The front door opened onto a small room, carpeted, with a couch, beanbag chair, and end table. A small television sat on the floor against one wall, a gaming console with two controllers in a pile next to it. The walls were white. The carpet was vaguely beige. A Mario poster taped to one wall was the only thing with color. It was all so un-Tim that Bruce could only stare.
The kitchenette was a narrow strip of linoleum and one half-wall of cabinets with a small square of laminate countertop. There, at least, was some sign of life—a sink full of dishes, a roll of paper towels without a holder, a wilting geranium in a plastic pot. But still no Tim.
“Tim?” Bruce called.
He heard his own voice echo from a hall just off the living room. Cautiously, Bruce followed it down, until he was standing in the doorway of the bedroom. The room had no overhead light, just a small bedside lamp. Tim was caught in the edge of its glow, profile limned in gold as he sat slumped on the bed, back against the wall, a bottle resting against his leg.
The lighting obscured most details. Bruce tried to look for injuries but saw none. Then again, his children were far, far too good at hiding all but the worst. He was afraid, studying Tim’s profile in silhouette, that this was one of those times.
“Tim?” Bruce said again, low and gentle.
Tim twitched, not quite turning to look at Bruce, but jerking his chin enough to acknowledge the sound. “Hey. I…” He licked his lips, pausing to chew on the top one a moment. “Sorry. Broke m’promise.”
“Promise?” Bruce echoed, aware of the reverberating deja vu from earlier. “What promise is that?”
Tim made to lift the bottle, but only managed to waggle it a few inches off the bed before letting it fall again. There was a good portion gone. “Not t’drink alone. Sorry.”
Bruce hadn’t thought about that horrible night in ages. There had been other horrible nights since—with Tim, with Dick or Jason or Cass or Damian, or with Bruce himself—and new traumas took precedence over old. And Tim, as far as Bruce knew, had stayed away from alcohol since, the combination of his resulting hangover and Bruce and Alfred’s joint disappointment a powerful enough deterrent.
But Bruce had been gone a long time, and there was no accounting for what else he might have missed.
Bruce edged into the room, careful to keep his posture loose and nonthreatening. All of his children were sensitive to his disapproval, his perceived anger, and Tim was no exception.
“Where’d you get that?” he asked, not sure where to start but knowing he must. A full bottle of alcohol supplied to his still very underage son was at least a place to begin, if not the best.
“Don’ worry ‘bout it,” was Tim’s slurred reply. As Bruce watched, he brought the bottle to his lips and took another drink, grimacing at the bite. He looked no less miserable as he lowered the bottle to the mattress again.
“Jack,” Tim began, and Bruce went still. Tim rarely brought up either of his parents freely. “Jack always said a good negroni was the mark of a ‘proper Drake man.’”
Tim’s voice deepened in mocking approximation of his dead father. He snorted, rolling his eyes at his own air quotes. “Only, only he never taught me.” Tim sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his wrist. “Thought I c’ld figure it out. YouTube.”
He shook his head. “Nope. So I…” He lifted the bottle again, wordlessly displaying the result of his failure.
Bruce didn’t know what to say. He never did, when it came to Jack. The man was dead. There was no healing to come from excoriating him, no matter how badly Bruce wished he could. Nor did the story explain why Bruce’s straightlaced son felt the need to get drunk in the first place.
“Rough day?” Bruce asked.
Tim shrugged, shoulders rising and falling the way a marionette’s might, all string and no muscle. Even as he brushed away the question, his expression rippled, collapsing into something nearing tears before righting itself again. He closed his eyes and let his head rest back against the wall.
It had taken Bruce too long to notice how skilled Tim was at hiding his own hurts. At how quick he was to bury the first sign of need or want. And too often Bruce had let him. They were both trying to be better now, but some patterns were hard to break. But Bruce knew, for Tim’s sake, he had to be better. And it turned out he knew where to start after all.
Instead of waiting for an invitation, Bruce took the two steps needed to reach the bed and sat next to his son.
“C’mere,” he murmured and caught Tim as he collapsed into his side.
It was a unique kind of pain, listening to his children cry. If Bruce could snap his fingers and change the world for them, he would. But there was nothing to fix here, not really. All he could do was listen and wait.
Bruce pressed his lips to Tim’s scalp and held him close as Tim sobbed, then decided that an arm around him wasn’t close enough and pulled Tim onto his lap instead. Tim, small though he was, was too big. Bruce didn’t care. He had allowed Tim his space early on, assuming that Tim didn’t want or need physical affection, that he was too independent, that he didn’t look to Bruce for that sort of thing. It had taken dying to find out he was wrong.
Tim clung to him, face pressed into his shirt, body shaking with sobs.
“Talk to me,” Bruce encouraged gently, one hand rubbing circles between his son’s shoulder blades.
“Hurts,” Tim gasped. “Hurts.”
“What does?”
“Ev’rything.” Tim pressed a hand to his own chest, over his heart, and pushed as if he could rub the pain out of himself.
Bruce caught that hand and brought the knuckles to his lips. “I’m sorry, love. I wish… I could fix it for you.” He would have moved earth itself, crossed universes, thrown himself back into the clutches of time, if it meant his children never needing to cry again.
Tim made a noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh, and Bruce rested his cheek atop Tim’s head. There would be time later to find out what, if anything had happened. It could have been an event, a memory, a trigger. Or it could have been nothing at all. They all bore their own scars, and some ran deep enough to be lifelong. They could talk about medication, about a change to Tim’s therapy, about consequences for underage drinking. But all of that could wait for the new day.
Bruce rocked his son until the shaking sobs subsided into sniffles. The combination of booze and tears had left Tim boneless and nauseated, so Bruce lifted his boy as if he were fourteen again and carried him into the living room.
There was no Alfred this time, so Bruce had to fetch the water and the washcloth himself, but the rest was an echo, reverberating and distorting. The face he cleaned now was leaner, older, its nose crookedly reset after a break, but it was his boy’s face. Bruce was getting better at leaning into impulse, so he did now, pressing his lips to the spot on Tim’s cheek that the cloth had just cleaned.
Tim gave a wet little snort. It was a nicer sound than tears.
“I’m glad you called,” Bruce murmured. “Thank you.”
Tim hummed, and Bruce pressed the glass of water into his hands as they settled back on the couch.
“Baseball or talk shows?” Bruce asked as he reached for the remote.
“Only got subscriptions,” Tim said, this side shy of smug, though his voice still wobbled. “Cartoons or cooking shows.” He gave a little urp, then amended, “Cartoons.”
Bruce chuckled and reached for his phone.
At Tim’s, he pecked out with one thumb. Done for night.
A pause, and then a thumbs up on the other end.
Bruce turned off his phone.
#whumptober2022#no.8#no.17#no.22#no.27#alt3#alt12#alt15#batfic#fanfic#my fic#Tim Drake#bruce wayne#BatFam#whump#hurt/comfort#knuckle kisses#GoodDad!Bruce
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I actually really really like this one @domaystic. It's some good solid parenting (IMO)
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draco malfoy legit top tier father
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thing is, whether or not GoodDad!Bruce is canon doesn’t matter anymore. the people [me] yearn for it. what is brave about giving your heroes the fatal flaw of child abuse? what is brave about making them needlessly violent against the same characters they’re created to protect?
bravery is looking at the world’s expectation that even heroic men can have child abuse as a treat, and saying, f-that.
bravery is writing fatal flaws that harm your character without oppressing others. give Bruce self-doubt, sure. give Batman bad habits that stem from his trauma, okay. but quit giving him children only to pass on generational curses that will traumatize them way more than the Joker ever could.
you’re no longer writing Batman when you do that. you’re writing Odin and Zeus and God and all the other shitty fathers myths gave us because Patriarchy™️.
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I Want To Actually Write Some Fics
So, I'm finally moving to a dorm away from "home" in a few months, and I want to take the opportunity to finally start writing some of the fanfics that have been calibrating in the back of my mind.
Warnings in advance:
I will only be writing fanfic, not original works.
I have never shared or published fics before (Unless you count reading the occasional snippet in Creating Writing Club).
As of right now, I have no beta(s).
Don't know my college schedule/workload yet, so no ideas about how often I could post/update at the moment.
I likely won't be able to post anything until I have access to a computer at the college (presumably in August, sorry about that), because the closest thing I have to an unmonitored/unrestricted device at "home" is my outdated Kindle Fire tablet (where the secondary browser I downloaded to hide reading fics sometimes likes to crash every few minutes).
If you've read past all of that and are still interested in my possible future writings, here are the possible options for what I could actually post:
Azure Fingerprints: Title of a possible series based off of this idea (batman and megamind crossover). > (Time travelers have realized that Bruce Wayne will always, without exception, base his crimefighting persona on the first thing... – @grandpuppyalpaca on Tumblr)
Featuring (so far): a delayed start to "Batman's" career, SuperBat friendship, Bruce's poor social skills, the not-yet-"Batcave" getting turned into a babyproofed nursery, and lots of fluff and crack and FEELINGS. Not sure if other parts of the series would be other longfics in that world, or just little snippets of stuff.
2. Anna Elizabeth Wayne (Actual Title TBD): My take on an Annabeth is Bruce Wayne's daughter fic.
Featuring (so far): Show!Annabeth (Leah Jeffries is phenomenal), Reverse Batkids AU (with a twist or so), an Athena characterization based on Circe by Madeline Miller, GoodDad!Bruce, multiverse stuff (only a little at the moment), Siblings Bonding Over Weird Childhoods, and So Much ANGST. This one is reallllly complicated, so it might be a series just so I can include one of those "explanation of the writer's AU" pages. Not as much of a plot as it is ANGST, small ideas for individual scenes, and general vibes right now.
3. The Adventures Of Lulu And Hatchling: probably the title of first fic (probably backstory stuff) in what would likely be a series. Crossover between ACOTAR universe and PJO/HOO (I am NOT ACTUALLY merging the two worlds). Basic background is that Annabeth's mortal family are the descendants of an illegitimate child from a kept mistress of Tamlin's father, and Annabeth is the first person to have powers from their bloodline. Baby Annabeth gets sent to grow up with Tamlin (Watsonian reasons would be explained in-story), but Lucien unofficially becomes her main caretaker. She spends seven years in the Spring court (pre-Amarantha even coming to Prythian), then is returned home in time for all PJO relevant events to occur. This would NOT be a Complete Re-Write Of PJO Canon.
Featuring (so far): Multiverse stuff, Annabeth w/fae powers, Book!Annabeth description so she can look like Tamlin (Leah Jeffries is still phenomenal, fight me), Lucien's gradually increasing blood pressure, Found Family Fluff, Lucien being a good father/uncle/older brother figure, Tamlin not being a complete alphahole in the beginning, Eventual Tamlin Bashing anyway, Ianthe Bashing (once she joins the story).
Definite intentions for later parts of the story: Powerful!Annabeth High Lady!Annabeth, Consort!Percy (he refuses to become High Lord, especially when he can just vibe and technically hold the official title of Least Politically Important Person At This Meeting), Tamlin's manor getting abandoned and Annabeth employing people to help build a new one that she designs, Inter-Court Meetings between all the courts becoming a Regular Thing (bc I want to put all the little dudes in a jar, shake them up, and study the results under a microscope), Inter-Court politics, gradually undermining the patriarchy, Inter-Court friendships, Beron taking psychic damage from the sheer audacity of---, Everyone Bonding Over Hating Beron, Positive Social Change, and Me Adding My Own Additional Lore To The World Of Prythian.
Optional fun fact! The base story could take multiple paths after TTC, so it would be the most likely fic to eventually make me write one or more AUs of itself, so here's later random details of the story that may or may not be added depending on which timeline I write: Tamlin dies, Tamlin gets locked up in his own house and told that Annabeth is willing to talk to him once he's "being more rational". Beron has a brain aneurysm in the middle of an Inter-Court Meeting and dies, Percy and Annabeth somehow creating a plan to get away with sending Beron off for the Hunters and Amazons to hunt him for sport, Amarantha kills Tamlin and is shortly killed by Annabeth before ACOTAR would have happened, Rhysand and Annabeth become Very Fast Friends and make fun of people together, and Doreen Green (Squirrel Girl) becomes Annabeth's spymaster bc that would just have so much comedic potential, fight me (she's honest about that being her job [if not explaining the details of how she does it] and she's just so open and friendly and polite that it has to be a hoax, right? there's no way she's actually in charge of collecting real intelligence. she has a network of squirrels who pass info to her across the entire continent? oh right, because of the tail, very funny. some of us are actually taking this seriously, Tarquin).
4. Lightning Rod, Grounding Wire: Approximate title for a crossover AU where Agatha Heterodyne (Girl Genius) and Hunter (The Owl House) end up swapping places right before Barry would have gotten Agatha (exact explanations undecided, maybe Belos let the Collector get too bored?) and about the same time Hunter was created (with Hunter being a couple years older than her biologically). Longfic? Series? Who knows, not me(yet).
In the Boiling Isles: Agatha is initially raised by Belos in something a bit similar to the get in loser we're assassinating the emperor - elliptical - The Owl House (Cartoon) [Archive of Our Own] AU, but it's Agatha (Spark, Heterodyne, etc.) so she gets on the wrong side of the empire way quicker. I'm thinking that she wouldn't make it more than a couple years after her breakthrough (w/o Uncle Barry to build her locket) before she starts spouting Extremely Logical Treason in meetings. Mostly, Canon occurs but minus Hunter (I'm going off the theory that Belos had to reuse the same galderstone for each grimwalker, so in this he's permanently down one(1) clone child soldier) and with way more explosions.
Meanwhile, over in Europa: Barry quickly deduces that this Very Small Child isn't Bill and Lucrezia's, is definitely some kind of construct, and is likely part of some kind of plot by Lucrezia (the man's stressed, and 2ish out of 3 ain't bad). Barry's not the kind of spark who'll try to vivisect or euthanize the kid just to stop Lucrezia, so his best bet is hiding him away from the world. Hunter grows up considering himself a construct, in time gets left with the "Clays", and lives a somewhat less stressful life than Agatha would have pre-canon. Everything goes passably well for him until the first events of "The Beetleburg Clank".
Featuring (so far): The rapidly increasing blood pressure of Every Adult in this situation, young Agatha being a feral gremlin, Hunter actually having a childhood, if Eda had a a nickel for every time a semi-feral teenage girl built an interdimensional portal in her back yard she'd have two nickels, SO MANY mistaken identity shenanigans after Agatha and Hunter actually meet, eventual Huntlow and Agatha/Gil/Tarvek OT3, and Eda menacing All The Sparks.
Now that I'm thinking about it, the only one of these that wouldn't need an explanation page is number one.
I do have more ideas on all four of these (as well as other vague ideas still calibrating), but this post is pretty long so I'd need a request from someone before I give more info.
Please comment/reblog/@ me with your thoughts!
For future reference, my Ao3 account is:
Update: Okay guys, I tried to edit one of the words in the title of the poll and it wouldn't let me do that so I just remade the poll but forgot to set the length to one week. If you're still interested in voting, there's another poll pinned on my blog, or you can just comment what you're interested. Even after the polls end, I will be officially taking thoughts/questions/feedback up until August.
#percy jackson#pjo tv show#pjo#percy jackon and the olympians#batman#pjo series#batfam#annabeth chase#bruce wayne#percy jackson and the olympians#girl genius#batman crossover#girl genius crossover#pjo/hoo crossover#the owl house crossover#acotar crossover#the owl house#acotar#lucien vanserra#agatha heterodyne#hunter toh#baby megamind#megamind crossover#megamind fanfiction#megamind au#please give me feedback
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What are the Diasomnia boys like on Magicam?
Malleus Draconia
I don't think he has it
If he has it, probably was because Lilia asked him to downloaded it or just because he wanted to make some friends (how he is bad to make friends in real life he decided to make friends online).
He was very smart not to put his real name, so no one would fear him when chatting to him.
He doesn't even know how to use the basic things of the cellphone so he didn't know how to do an appropriate profile, that's why Lilia had to help him.
Not many know about his account, not even Diasomnia students, so the only ones who follow him are Lilia, Sebek and Silver.
His username? Lilia chose it, trying to keep it incognito... @/babydragon_ yes, for Lilia, Malleus is still a baby.
Lilia also decided Malleus' profile picture and bio.
The profile photo would be a dragon egg... according to Lilia it's to have good memories of when Malleus was just an egg.
Lilia tried to help him with the bio, but it was unsuccessful, so he was left without a bio.
Malleus met ten people who became friends, he is very happy about it! (Look Sebek's part)
Lilia Vanrouge
His user is @/general_badass
He uses it a lot, to upload posts of his video games as favorite characters, also photos of him with his clubmates and he also tried to upload photos of Silver as a baby, but Silver insisted he to not upload them.
He has posted too many but too many photos and stories.
He has followers from all over, he has traveled and has met a lot of people! Let's call him "something famous".
His profile photo always changes, a photo of him with his friends, with the members of Diasomnia, photos of bats, video game characters, etc.
His bio has all his possible information, except height and his age.
His search is something like this:
#videogames
#bats
#gooddad
@/Draculara (joke)
@/silver_knight
Silver
His user is @/silver_knight
He has it thanks to his father and Kalim.
The only things he looked were:
#knights
#animals
#birds
#swords
#insomnia
He doesn't use it much, only sometimes when he can't sleep at night because of his insomnia. Not always, since he thinks that the cell phone will make him more awake.
Some people follow him, Diasomnia students, Kalim, Riddle and some Scarabia students (Kalim asked them to follow him).
His profile picture is a bird he saw resting on his window.
He doesn't have a bio, it didn't seem like it was something important.
He have uploaded only one post, which is the same photo as his profile picture.
He follows the ones who follows him.
Sebek Zigvolt
His user is @/wakasamasloyalknight
He downloaded it when he found out that Malleus had downloaded it.
Sebek has more than one account, he already created ten more to make Malleus have more followers and friends. (He never told Malleus it was him) He even made up different names and different nationalities to make Malleus believe he was really talking to someone else, Sebek is happy to make Malleus happy.
Speaking of his main account, he has Malleus as his profile picture, clearly, and his bio just talks about how great Malleus is.
His research is like this:
#MalleusDraconia
#Malleus
#Draconia
#Briarvalley
#Thepeinceofbriarvalley
#Diasomnia
He wanted to upload photos of Malleus, but Malleus asked him not to.
He only follows Malleus and Lilia.
List
#twst headcanons#twisted wonderland#disney twst#twst#diasomnia#malleus draconia#malleus hcs#malleus headcanons#lilia vanrouge#twst lilia#twst silver#sebek headcanons#sebek zigvolt
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OK. we talk about the kids a LOT (of course, they're all amazing) but I can't help but wonder if Carlos Ponce knows the impact that he's had on the JatP fandom as GoodDad!RayMolina?
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More gooddad!Bruce raising his gaggle of robins
#dc comics#dc robin#robin#batman#batfamily#tim drake#dc comix#fan art#dick grayson#jason todd#damian wayne#batfam#bruce wayne#good dad bruce wayne#pride and prejudice#slice of life
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Day 30: Gear
I was torn between this and Obi in his mando armor (like an actual gear vs gear you wear) but goodDad!Anakin won out in the end
#inktober#star wars#anakin skywalker#leia organa#luke skywalker#star wars fanart#inktober2022#fanart#art#something about this is off but I can’t tell what#it just feels like it could be better…oh well!#he’s fixing lola and keeping the twins busy while padme catches up on senatorial duties#his small pod of droid lovers 🥹🖤
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Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love 💗
Oh you are the coolest for asking this. And also---this is HARD. I love all my stories!!! xD
With the caveat that I love them all for numerous reasons, I shall pick five in no particular order.
Mirjahaal. Big story, big cast, but deeply satisfying to write. I think it's the most I've ever included the Organas, which was a nice angle to have. And of course I loved letting Piett adopt Matthew.
Rebellions Are Built On Hope. Well we all know I have Leia unofficially adopted by the Admiral. Why not an au where it's official? :D Loved doing this. Also the Veers and Piett angle of enemies to besties will never NOT get old for me.
Showdown At Alliance Ranch. It's really niche and not everyone's cup of tea. Star Wars Western? But it was one that absolutely flowed from my brain and I could SEE the gorgeous place in Wyoming so it is dear to me for all the details that painted such a clear picture in my mind.
Brothers In Arms. Letting Veers and Piett meet as young men for the first time was a great angle. I ADORED bringing in Myra and all the details of this set against the backdrop of eventually entering canon events.
The Dragon Speaker. My first foray into true fantasy. I LOVED making the Lady a dragon and letting Piett fly on her back. And I had a great deal of fun illustrating it as well. I also like writing gooddad!Anakin and this one was an example of that.
Thank you for this!
#star wars#star wars original trilogy#star wars au#my own fic recs#fic recs#star wars fanfic#firmus piett#admiral piett#general veers#leia organa#star wars fandom
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I don't know what it is about gooddad!batman headcanons man, they put crack cocaine in it or smth
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WFA WAS SO MUCH
SO MUCH!!!!!!!!!
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At the Asgardian court... (some more GoodDad!Odin for @haeva )
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Okay. I'm over here squealing like a fangirl. I hope I don't creep you out.
Your regency Silco fic is seriously one of the best fics I've ever read. Its not just cuz its Jane Eyre or historical romance I like but that you made Arcane fit into the regency period effortlessly. I can totally see Silco playing this role in Piltover.
Now the chefs kiss is the push/pull of Silco and the governess. You follow parts of the Bronte plot but make it your own. I love every single interaction that you slow burned the shit out of it.
Now, Jinx is so damn precious, I love her so much. DadSilco is awesome in this.
I like the Vanderish ruse/subplot (I don't want to spoil for new readers).
I love Jane Eyre and I think I can see where you might be going with it but again, its going to thrilling to read. I've been waiting for a new chapter a while (no pressure) so its super cool to see you on Tumblr.
I just want you to know this is an brilliant story and I hope you finish it.
Oh wow. I don't know where to start.
First off, THANK YOU. I'm so humbled. I know I probably say that a lot but I am.
I was on Tumblr before but I had a bad period and really needed to take time out for my mental health. That, unfortunately, included me not writing for months.
I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to a group of very lovely people here in the Silco fandom. I think you know who you are and my state of mind at the time. I'm profoundly sorry.
I'm in a good place now and back to writing. I do have this story mapped out to the very last scene and its a rollercoaster of emotions and drama.
I wasn't sure I would be able to meld Arcane with Regency Era but it feels like it worked for the most part. I wanted to keep certain elements of Jane Eyre-like plot points and the Ingrams but twist it to work for Arcane.
I won't talk about Vander but I like what's going on there.
Oh, my sweet little Jinx. What's not to adore?
One of my favourite things is GoodDad!Silco. He loves that kid.
I definitely wanted a slow burn for the romance. Even after the latest chapter, which I'm slightly considering rewriting a couple of things I might want to change *don't hold me to that just yet* . I'll post that if I do change it.
However, it's not all roses and romance. The shit is about to hit the fan. Silco *thinks* he's in control. He's about to get a slap in the face.
I'm currently writing a one-shot request and I'm outlining the next chapter of Bend. So, it definitely will be continued.
Thank you again SO MUCH for reading and leaving this amazing comment. I can't tell you how it feels to know someone liked something you created. I know that goes for any writer out there as well as the artists. We all appreciate any and all feedback. You guys keep us creating
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