So I Watched This Short On Youtube And I Just Can't With These Comments 😂

DP x DC

Of which Vlad IS related to Bruce

Their Bat-ness must have came from a common ancestor. And that adoption thing.

But anyways.

Imagine Vlad contacting Bruce with his fam out of the blue, asking BRUCIE, HI NICE TO TALK TO YOU AFTER LONG PERIODS OF ABSENCE BUT IVE A QUESTION THAT NEEDS TO BE ANSWERED FOR MY KWN SAKE- how do you get your children to be civil with you???

Bruce: ... I am not aware you adopted kids Vladdie?

Batfam, listening to the conversation: it's cute that Masters tot we're civil to Bruce at all times lol

Vlad: Currently I have my godson with me and he's acting a lot like a combination of your sons in gala disasters.

Bruce: which gala disasters you're talking about? Coz you know we have the Rogues attacking galas aaaaallll the time-

Vlad: you know what I mean, cousin. Richard in the chandeliers, little Damian stabbing the handsy ones, Timothy making people cry left and right between his blackmails and "conspiracy theories"-

Bruce: (tries to imagine all that Feral in one body and failing)

Batfam: (omg new cousin sounds lit)

Vlad: so yes Brucie, I need some advice, please and thank you.

(Unseen: Danny gnawing his leg)

"YOU HAVE THREE WISHES," the genie says grandly. "Oh no, that's fine I don't need all three. I just wanted one." The genie raises an eyebrow. "So what is your 'one' wish?" "I wish for time to stop every time I pick up and read a book—and start again when I put it down, so I always have time to read."

fanfic writers are so fucking awesome man. they write novel length fics that are sometimes even better than some published bestselling books written by professional writers. like fanfic writers are professional writers to me and they gift us their masterpieces for free. they give us something we can look forward to after a long day. something from which we can seek comfort when life is hard. something that can be our own little getaway. in a world of capitalism, despite everything, they give us all of these for free. like holy fuck. shout out to every fanfic writer. I wish all fanfic writers a very ‘I love you with all my heart and soul. I thank you from the bottom of my heart’

Danny in a trench coat and sunglasses: Psshhh, hey, kid Damian: Yes? Danny: Do you want to buy some candy? Damian, gripping a knife behind his back: Sure Danny opening trench coat: Okay, I have chocolate clusters, gummy bears covered in candy rocks, and spicy taffy. Damian: Oh, you meant real candy. Danny: Of course. Why else would you be standing in an alley with a trench coat? Damian: Are you not hearing yourself right now? Danny: I actually heard it. But I have to do it this way. See, I'm hiding from- Jason: THERE YOU ARE! Danny: Leave me alone! I told you I ran out of mini-donuts! Jason: YOU LIE Damian watching his brother chase a street vendor down the road: This is a good mental simulation for him. He needs this.

Ghost of a Chance

Gotham was not a city known for its kindness. Rain slicked the alleyways like a second skin, and shadows crept where sunlight dared not linger. Alfred Pennyworth had seen a great many things in this city. Muggers, monsters, and masked madmen were just part of the nightly routine. What he hadn't expected, however, was to be saved by a ghost.

Or something very much like one.

It was supposed to be a quick errand—a quiet evening walk to clear his head. But halfway down Burnside, three desperate men with more bravado than brains cornered him. Alfred had been ready to disarm the first and disable the second, but he never got the chance. A blur of white and black swooped in, accompanied by the distant, bone-deep hum of unnatural power. The muggers were down in seconds—one frozen to the wall, another knocked out cold, and the third suspended midair by a glowing hand that flickered green.

The boy was there and gone just as fast. Alfred barely had time to register the tattered hoodie, the hollow cheeks, the white hair and green eyes that didn’t seem quite human.

"Wait—!" Alfred had called, but the boy was already gone, melting into the shadows like smoke.

The encounter would’ve ended there—just another strange chapter in Gotham’s nightbook—if it hadn’t kept happening.

Twice more, the mysterious young man appeared. Once to stop a purse snatcher near the theater. Another time to drag a lost child out of a crumbling building during a fire. Always fast, always silent. Always gone before Alfred could properly speak to him.

And always too thin.

It was the kind of thin that spoke of long nights without food. Hollow cheeks, knobby elbows, a belt cinched too tight around jeans that barely stayed up. It reminded Alfred of the early days—of Dick, of Jason, of Tim, of Damian. Of boys who had learned to survive instead of live.

Alfred Pennyworth had a rule: no one went hungry on his watch.

And so began his campaign.

At first, it was subtle. A wrapped sandwich left behind after one of the ghost-boy’s heroic appearances. A thermos of hot tea left conveniently near a rooftop perch. A backpack, clean and durable, filled with protein bars and fresh socks. Most of it vanished, though Alfred never saw it happen.

Then came the note, scrawled in messy, tired handwriting:

“Thanks. You didn’t have to. I’m not sticking around though. It’s safer for you if I don’t.”

The next day, Alfred left a response tucked in the same spot:

“You are not a danger, young man. I’ve seen far worse, and fed far worse. If you insist on continuing your streak of rooftop chivalry, I insist you do so on a full stomach.”

He added a slice of quiche. It was gone by morning.

Bruce raised an eyebrow the first time he caught Alfred baking two loaves of banana bread instead of one. Tim said nothing when the supply order mysteriously included a half dozen extra protein shakes and thermal gloves in medium size. Damian made a snide comment—something about stray ghosts haunting the pantry—but Alfred didn’t dignify it with a reply.

Then came the night it changed.

A patrol gone wrong. Batman caught in a collapsing parking garage. The comms went dead. Nightwing was too far. Red Hood was tracking Penguin. The only one nearby—untraceable, unregistered, and undeniably powerful—was the boy Alfred had been feeding for weeks.

He left the beacon on the rooftop.

“Help him. Please. –A.P.”

Within minutes, Bruce stumbled through the Batcave entrance, soot-smudged and breathing, but alive. Behind him, almost hidden in the shadows, was the boy. White hair. Green eyes. Shivering slightly, but still on his feet.

“I didn’t do it for favors,” the boy said. His voice was hoarse, too young for his haunted face. “I just... couldn’t let him die.”

“I know,” Alfred said gently. “Which is precisely why the offer of dinner still stands.”

“…I shouldn’t.” But his eyes drifted toward the warm lights of the manor beyond the cave, toward the smell of fresh bread and something sweet baking in the oven.

“No one escapes me forever, dear boy,” Alfred said with a small smile. “Not even slippery ghosts.”

The boy stared at him for a long moment. Then finally, like a candle burning out, he sagged.

“…Okay. Just for tonight.”

“Of course,” Alfred said, already turning toward the kitchen. “We’ll start with soup.”

Behind him, the boy whispered a name like an afterthought—like something long buried finally being said aloud.

“Danny. My name’s Danny.”

“Well then, Master Danny,” Alfred said, with the same fondness he reserved for all his wayward sons, “welcome home.”

i feel like nobody has NOTPs anymore. like if you hate a ship now it has to be for some deep moral reason and you have to justify it to everyone what happened to just not liking stuff that isnt inherently bad but just because you personally think it sucks

Bruce, grumbling: Just because you’re right doesn’t mean you have to say it out loud…

i think the rest of the bats probably forget that Tim actually has a full time job. like an important one. they probably text him all the time like ‘wanna help me with this case’ and Tim’s like ‘can’t sorry I’m in Germany for the next 3 days’ and then all the kids are talking for the next week like ‘wow Tim’s probably in some deep shit with this international case he’s working. can’t imagine what he’s dealing with rn’ and then the week after Tim’s at the manor for dinner and Dick’s like ‘so tell us all the gory details of the case in Germany!’ and Tim just looks at him lost.

‘what case’

‘the reason you had to go undercover in Germany and couldn’t join me and Jason’s stakeout!’

‘i never said i was undercover’

‘why the fuck else would you go to Germany?’

‘business convention’

‘…’

‘…i had to give a seminar- you guys know im a CEO right?’

‘well BRUCE never had to travel when HE ran the company-‘

‘BECAUSE BRUCE WAS SHIT AT HIS JOB THATS WHY A SEVENTEEN YEAR OLD HAD TO TAKE OVER’

and Bruce is sat at the end of the table just slightly offended.

God they’re so cute 🥰

Imagine for whatever reason Danny gets turned into a cat (black with white boots and white with black boots when changing to ghost form, I imagine him as a fluffy long hair cat) and he’s in Gotham just running around and doing whatever. Only he’s not alone, no no, Cujo is here with him.

So imagine cat Danny, walking through an alley, followed by little Cujo happily wagging his tail. Just this black cat that looks high maintenance and a glowing green puppy following it.

They look like they have places to be, important places.

I will read the same trope 20x and more again and again and again, bc I like the trope. I don’t care if it’s been done a 100 times before, it’s still fun to read.

ok, because i just saw a terrible take, i feel compelled to say that there is no "fic market" to "oversaturate" in fandom. good gravy.

Ridiculous Dead Serious idea:

Danny is in some kinda competition that Damian is also in, and they’ve been sniping at each other back and forth throughout the whole thing.

Until one day Danny goes, “You want me so bad it makes you look stupid!”

And Damian stops. Considers. Interrogates himself and his motivations like a good detective. Has a facial journey as he goes through the five stages of grief.

Danny was expecting a snide comeback and now he is legitimately worried he’s somehow triggered the snooty rich kid. Trying to decide if he wants to apologize or awkwardly make his way out of the room to give him time to recover.

Damian sorta hates himself because… yeah, yeah he does. He is attracted to the bratty little fucker and has been… pulling pigtails? Antagonizing to remain in his thoughts and field of vision, to watch his face get red and his breath quicken, to make him lean aggressively into his space and growl at him???

Damian is horrified. How did he misjudge himself so badly? Is this how mother felt when she discovered that Father was a complete mess and only fell more in love?

“Uh, dude? Are you… okay?” Danny reaches hesitantly towards him but doesn’t quite touch.

“No,” Damian says, schooling his face into a bland mask. “In fact, I may need you to support me.”

Panic flits across his companion’s face. He rushes to his aid, ducking against his side. His arm wraps around Damian’s back and a hand settles on his waist. Too gullible.

Damian mourns his own good sense.