[Image shows the Batkids on a couch. Dick is asleep with both Jason and Damian, who are also asleep, leaning against him. Cass is sitting on top of the back rest. She’s holding a bowl of popcorn and bouncing kernels off Dick’s head. Tim is holding a remote and reaching up behind him to grab popcorn from his sister.
End description.]
I’m not supposed to editorialize in image descriptions, so I have waited until now to mention that everything I have described is Awesome.
As much as Dick and his siblings have argued, Bruce has never budged on his “Keeping Secrets Policy”. There’s not a person alive outside of the family that knows the secret identity of any of the Bats. Not even Dick’s boyfriend. Dick understands the need for some secrets, knows that keeping their identities safe keeps them and their loved ones safe, but when he takes up the cowl, team dynamics aren’t the only things that begin to change.
Chapter One: Beginnings
Dick Grayson and Wally West meet on a Thursday, when Wally runs directly into Dick and spills Dick’s scalding hot coffee all over his very expensive shirt. Wally stops dead in his tracks, and stares in horror as Dick winces and pulls the ruined fabric away from his chest.
There’s a tense moment of silence where Wally thinks that he might have to bury himself in a hole and never come up for air, because he’s just spilled hot coffee all over Mr. Wayne’s son in the middle of a Wayne Enterprises lobby, on his first day of work.
Dear god, he’s so fired already and he hasn’t even really started yet, oh no, what has he done.
Wally’s expression is sitting somewhere between stunned and horrified when Mr. Grayson finally looks up at him. He’s expecting some sort of retribution and a blunt dismissal. Mr Grayson asking for his name and department so he can have Wally fired immediately. Some good all those super reflexes are doing him now.
But instead, what he gets is a blinding smile that is frighteningly similar to Nightwing’s, and a soft look in his eyes as they meet Wally’s.
Wally cannot stop himself from spewing words as soon as he locks eyes with him. “Mr. Grayson, I am so, so sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going, I should have been paying more attention, I can… oh god, I don’t think I can afford to replace that shirt, but I can at least buy you a new coffee? Oh, shit, I’m so late, I’m so sorry, I really have to go, I can’t–”
Wally realizes only when Mr. Grayson cuts him off, that he’s been talking just a touch too fast.
“What’s your name?”
Oh god. Here it comes. He’s going to get fired right here, right now and then he’ll have moved all the way to Gotham for this job for nothing and it’s going to be a huge mess, shit. “Uh. Wally. Wally West. I’m supposed to be starting in the R and D lab today,” he says quietly.
Mr. Grayson’s smile doesn’t fade.
Wally winces.
“Hey, Wally, nice to meet you, I’m Richard Grayson. Most people call me Dick.”
Wally doesn’t stifle his laugh in time, and all of the color abruptly leaves his face. He is absolutely getting fired now.
“Of course I want a team, why wouldn’t I want a team?” Ellana asks as she watches him tune one of the bikes that got trashed in a fight with the Blades of Hessarian a few nights back. The Blades are an alright gang when they don’t have it in their heads that a drastic purge is needed. Otherwise they mostly just pray and sit around and take care of dogs.
Bull hates it whenever someone new takes over and sends them all on some self-righteous rampage before Ellana has to knock them back down again and they start the process over.
“Because you’d have made one for yourself by now if you did,” Bull says.
“Boss,” Krem’s voice says through the intercom, “Dalish and Stitches may have accidentally set your rose garden on fire.”
“Nice, light that shit up,” Ellana says, “Oh, wait, that’s probably not the right response. I mean, that’s terrible and awful?”
“How else were we supposed to get rid of that rose infestation?” Dalish says, “Shut up, Krem, I know what I’m doing. Mind your own business and stay in your lane. You’re a security guard not a gardener.”
“You’re also not a gardener, you’re part of the same security squad.”
“I’d love a team but you didn’t let me have a team,” Ellana says as the two bicker over the intercom. “You said that the Chargers weren’t a team. I think they’re still mad at you about that, by the way.”
“It’s bad enough you’ve got me running around at night in costume, you’re not dragging the rest of them in either. Do you know how stupidly obvious that would be?” Bull says. “Imagine if the Raven’s accomplices suspiciously matched billionaire philanthropist Ellana Lavellan’s security team. It’s not that far of a leap to go straight to Ellana Lavellan is the Raven of Skyhold and Haven.”
“My name and face are all over the place and not a single person has ever linked my suspicious absences to the Raven’s fortuitous appearances,” Ellana points out.
“It’s only a matter of time if you start making it easy,” Bull says. “No, the Chargers are not going to be your superhero team. That said, I can’t believe you want that super hero team to be with the Hawke’s. Hawke’s Kirkwall team is right, it’s insane.”
“No, what’s insane is that I didn’t think of reaching out to other superheroes and vigilantes sooner,” Ellana says. “If I can’t use the obviously talented people I employ on a daily to assist me in fighting crime I could just go to other cities. Duh. How obvious.”
Bull sighs, “You’re going to join this team.”
“I’m going to join this team, I’m going to help lead it, and I’m going to kick international ass while I’m doing it.”
–
“It’s bunk that I can’t you know, officially help you,” Krem says as he adjusts his suit tie. Ellana bats his hands away and does it for him.
“You do officially help me,” Ellana says. “You’re my favorite body guard and security officer.”
“Thanks Boss. But I meant like. At your other job.”
“Then you’re right, that is bunk and you should take it up with the Iron Bull because I’m not getting into it with him again. Tonight.”
“Is that the reason why he’s not the one going with you tonight?” Krem asks.
Because when he checked the Chief was already suited up and half-way to Haven’s industrial district, and sounding pretty pissed off when Krem asked him why he wasn’t back at Skyhold and getting ready to go to tonight’s charity function.
Ellana humphs and adjusts Krem’s lapels.
“Say no more,” Krem says, “You look very nice tonight, ma’am.”
Ellana’s dressed herself up mighty fine in a velvet blue suit and silk blouse half-way unbuttoned to reveal a black cris-cross of straps on her bralette.
“Thank you,” Ellana beams. “I think Fen’Harel is going to be at tonight’s gala, or maybe one of his agents, and I want to make him mad.”
“Only you would actively piss your rogues gallery off.”
“Not only me. I think the Hawke’s thrive on pissing theirs off. It might be what fuels their super powers.”
Krem shakes his head, “An ancient undying and immortal rich genocidal cult leader runs around researching ways to end life as we know it and you just want to piss them off with your suit and color choices.”
Ellana laughs and kisses his cheek, patting his face, “It’s not fun otherwise.”
“Is that why you antagonize the chief? Because it’s fun?”
“Because he looks super cute when he pouts,” Ellana says. “Who knew a man that big and surly can look like such a puppy?”
Krem, personally, doesn’t see it, but who is he to tell Ellana Lavellan otherwise?
“Sure,” Kremlin says, “Shall we, Boss?”
“Yes, we shall,” Ellana says as Grim opens the door for them. Skinner’s already pulled the car around and she’s leaning against the passenger side door in her own suit, idly blowing a neon green piece of bubble gum. She pops it as they step out of the castle front doors, slowly clapping.
“You clean up nice, Aclassi. Who knew that there wasn’t a really confused monkey underneath all that men’s body spray?” Skinner says as she opens the car’s back door for Ellana. “Boss, nice suit. Sharp.”
“Thank you, Skinner. I like your choice of accessories.”
There is a very small enamel pin on Skinner’s lapel shaped like a bloody knife dripping a drop of blood.
“Thanks,” Skinner says as she closes the door behind Ellana, “It matches my bra.”
Krem, instantly, doesn’t want to know.
“Alright, let’s get this going,” Krem says as he shoves Skinner out of the way and towards the front of the car. He gets into the front passenger seat as Ellana and Skinner laugh. “Don’t want to be late. What would all those old, old, rich, sheltered people do without you, Boss? Party can’t start until you get there.”
Hearts writes the best AUs and the best snark. I feel everyone needs to be reminded of this.
there’s a meme on twitter where you make an OC based off some of your fave charas and honestly, I came for my life with this one
This looked too fun to not do!
My OC is in a black bodysuit, with a loose teal and gold crop top and skirt over top. The skirt is held up by a thick gold belt. A dark teal trench coat completes their ensemble. They have giant boots similar to Impulse’s, a gold logo on their top similar to Nightwing’s, and a pointy teal v-shaped mask that looks similar to Tim Drake’s Unternet costume. They have long black hair and a squinty smile. Their trench coat, of course, has the finger-stripes thing going on in gold.
I’ve decided that they’re probably super hyperactive, but also really sneaky. They don’t speak, but if you understand sign, their hands never stop talking. Too smart, too awkward, and too cute. I really wish that the Stevonnie and Jubilee influence won out, and they preferred to avoid fights, but I’m pretty sure anyone with Rachel, Cass, and Dick’s DNA is a punch first sort of person.
I must emphasize here, they are very short and VERY cute. Probably drop out of high places on top of you and giggle at your look of terror. Bad fashion sense.
Second image shows a square grid of my nine favourite characters: Dick Grayson, Jubilee, Bart Allen, Stevonnie, Tim Drake, Rachel Grey, Roy Harper, Black Bat, and Kon-El. Most of the costumes they are wearing have some similarities to my OC’s.
no offense but if your writing is so dense and pretentious and superfluously flowery and confusing in its wording that more effort is spent in literally understanding what you’re trying to say than analyzing what you mean, it’s bad writing. half of academia is just bad writing
True.
But also half of poetry is just putting words together fancy with meaning as a secondary thing. And both poetry and poetic prose are often AWESOME.
Sometimes, when the point is to spend all that time deciphering the words, dense flowery writing can be transcendent.
If you’re writing a research paper, though, its infuriating and dumb.
Bruce Wayne: [to the bat family] Since you won’t be able to contact me for a month, I’ve left a complementary bowl of written advice.
Tim Drake: For example, this one says “Dick, go stop Jason”.
Have you ever been to Baden-Baden or Walla Walla? Have you worn a tutu or a lava-lava? Have you eaten a bonbon or suffered from (let’s hope not!) beriberi? All of these words display reduplication, the repetition of a smaller element to form a word. Reduplication can be found in languages from around the world; the examples above come from French, German, Sahaptin, Samoan, and Sinhalese, though all of them have been naturalized as English words. And in English too, reduplication is a productive process, responsible for giving us the nouns boo-boo,ha-ha,dum-dum, and no-no, the verb pooh-pooh, and the adjective rah-rah, among others.
But exact reduplication, in which a single element is repeated in its entirety, isn’t the most common form of reduplication in English. More often, the element is repeated with variation. For instance, in “rhyme reduplication,” the two elements are the same except for their initial consonant sound (or lack thereof). The popular 1959 song “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polkadot Bikini” contains not one but two such rhyme reduplications; other examples include fuddy-duddy, hurdy-gurdy, hoity-toity, lovey-dovey, okey-dokey, razzle-dazzle, roly-poly, super-duper, and tussie-mussie.
In other cases the reduplicated elements are identical except for their vowel sounds. This kind of reduplication, sometimes called “ablaut reduplication” by linguists, is especially common in English; it occurs in chitchat, crisscross, dilly-dally, ding-dong, fiddle-faddle, flimflam, flipflop, hee-haw, hip-hop, jimjams, knickknack, mishmash, ping-pong, riffraff, riprap, seesaw, shilly-shally, sing-song, teeter-totter, tick-tock, ticky-tacky, tittle-tattle, wishy-washy, and zigzag. Do you notice a pattern in this list? In nearly every instance, the first element has the (ĭ) vowel of pit. The exceptions (hee-haw, see-saw, and teeter-totter) all have the (ē) vowel of be. Both (ĭ) and (ē) are formed with the tongue relatively far forward and raised in the mouth. By contrast, the second element in each case has (ă) as in pat, (ä) as in father, (ŏ) as in pot, or (ô) as in paw—a group of closely related vowels that are all produced with the tongue further back or lower in the mouth. In linguistic terms, we would say that each of these reduplications involves a shift from a generally close front vowel to a more open or more back vowel. Why should this be? Nobody really knows, although the phenomenon is probably related to other patterns of vowel shift in English, such as the rule that irregular verbs tend to have more close or front vowels for their present tense (e.g. bring, give, see, think) and more open or back vowels for their past tense forms (e.g. brought, gave, saw, thought).
Bye-bye—or, if you prefer, ta-ta!
Thank you for visiting the American Heritage Dictionary at ahdictionary.com!
An SR-71 Blackbird once flew from LA to Washington DC in 64 minutes. Average speed of the flight: 2145mph.
“There were a lot of things we couldn’t do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.
It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.
I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn’t match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury.
Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.
We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed. Center replied: “November Charlie 175, I’m showing you at ninety knots on the ground.”
Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the “ Houston Center voice.” I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country’s space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that, and that they basically did. And it didn’t matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.
Just moments after the Cessna’s inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed. “I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed.” Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren. Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. “Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check”. Before Center could reply, I’m thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it, ol’ Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He’s the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: “Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground.”
And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done – in mere seconds we’ll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.
Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: “Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?” There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request. “Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground.”
I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: “Ah, Center, much thanks, we’re showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money.”
For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A. came back with, “Roger that Aspen, Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one.”
It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day’s work.
We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast.”
-Brian Schul, Sled Driver: Flying The World’s Fastest Jet
A concept: ADHD nine-year old Dickie driving Bruce up the wall with his antics one day when Alfred is out of town and Bruce is tired and he just wants to /sleep/ but then he realises he can channel Dick’s extra energy into making Dick do work for him??
Where is my 5k long fic of Bruce using baby dickie to spring-clean the shit out of the batcave everytime Dick eats too much sugar or something??
Nvm I wrote one myself:
“Hey, Bruce?” Dick asked cheerily, practically bobbing with leftover adrenaline from patrol.
“Mm.” Bruce said, trying to not to move his head too much. The concussion he had sustained during patrol was making his mind feel like mush, and it hurt like all hell when he moved. He was lying face-down on the stretcher in the batcave’s medical room. He hadn’t taken off his cowl yet. Some days, life just hit you like that.
Dick put a warm, small hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “You feelin’ okay, B?” He asked.
Bruce cracked an eye open and looked at the nine year old. He too, was still in costume.
“Where’s Alfred?” He said.
Dick frowned, looking concerned. “You sure you’re okay? Cause it’s Thursday. Thursday is Alfred’s–”
“Alfred’s day off. Right.” Bruce said. He closed his eyes again. Shit. “I remember.”
Dick hopped up next to Bruce, and sat next to him on the stretcher. “So do you wanna play video games before bed?” He asked, swinging his legs, carefree. “Cause there’s this really tough part on Super Smash Bros and I need your help.”
Bruce grimaced. He was still lying facedown on the stretcher. He didn’t think he’d be able to get off of it till the next morning.
“Dick,” he started, “I’m not really feeling so–’
“Are you sick?” Dick said, worriedly. “You look kinda sick. Do you want chicken soup? I can’t make chicken soup, B. Alfred would know how. I guess I can try, though, cause–”
“No.” Bruce said. “You’re not making anything that involves knives and gas stoves.”
Dick pouted. “Do you think I’m bad at cooking? But you said you really liked that toast I made for you last week.”
“You’re great at making toast.” Bruce said, reassuring him. “But let’s think of chicken soup as a long term goal, okay? It’s baby steps for now.”
Dick jumped off the stretcher. “Cool. Baby steps. I can do baby steps.”
“Great.” Bruce said again. “Look, if you can just let me rest for five minutes I’ll tuck you into bed, okay?”
“Okay!” Dick said, all excited again. The boy always looked forward to bedtimes. It was when Bruce read him storybooks from the little shelf in his bedroom.
“Okay.” Bruce said, closing his eyes.
There was a silence.
Dick tapped his feet against the stone floors. He hummed. He tried not to fidget. He hummed some more.
Bruce sighed, and cracked an eye open again. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” Dick said.
Another silence.
The sound of a boy trying very hard to indicate that he was doing his best to be silent, i.e, more humming. An occasional sound of mock punches thrown in the air.
“Pow,” Dick whispered, very softly. “Bang. Pow.”
Bruce sighed. What was he expecting, asking Dick to be quiet. The boy couldn’t stop moving to save his life. He felt a twinge of guilt for being annoyed. It was no fault of Dick’s.
The pain in his head became particularly sharp for a second; he winced.
“Dick,” he said slowly, his eyes closed. “Could you get me some Tylenol?”
“Sure thing, B,” Dick said, running off.
He was back five minutes later, with a blister pack and a glass of water.
“Anything else?” He said cheerily.
Bruce blinked. An idea had occurred to him.
“Actually,” Bruce said, “yes. Go change into your pajamas. Quick. And then come back.”
“Sure!” Dick grinned, running off again.
When he came back, Bruce already had a task for him. “Go feed Ace his dinner,” Bruce said. “And play fetch with him in the grounds for a bit. You know how agitated he gets in the evenings.”
“Cool!” Dick said, and ran off.
Bruce sighed, relieved, and sank back into his exhausted sleep/coma. It was to be noted that he was still lying facedown on a stretcher.
Fifteen minutes later, Dick was back, tugging on his cape. “I fed Ace. And I walked him. I even brushed him, and then I tucked him into his doggie bed.”
“That was fast,” Bruce said, weakly.
“Yep! Can you tell me a story now?”
“After you uh, go and clean up the filing cabinet in the console room.”
Dick narrowed his eyes, putting his hands on his hips. “Wait a minute,” he said, with exaggerated outrage, “are you trying to make me do work?”
“Uh,” Bruce said, trying to come up with a good lie. He couldn’t. His head hurt too much, and he had never been very good at lying to Dick anyway. “No?”
“Oh,” Dick said, “okay then.” And then he ran off to the console room.
Twenty minutes later he was back. There was dust on his clothes, (the filing cabinet hadn’t been organised in years) and happiness in his eyes.
“Now I get my story?” He asked hopefully.
Bruce sighed. “Sure. Okay.” He sat up slowly. His head throbbed and pulsed in pain. “Get a book from your shelf, Dick.”
Dick ran off.
A minute, a storybook was deposited in his hands. Dick hopped back onto the stretcher, practically giddy with anticipation.
“I brought the scary one,” Dick explained. “With the ghosts.”
Bruce frowned, squinting at the book. His vision was hazy. He really should have gone to see Dr. Thompkins.
“The scary one with the ghosts gives you nightmares, Dick.” He said.
Dick shook his head. “That was only once, and I was a total baby, Bruce. I’m older now.”
That happened six months ago, Bruce wanted to point out, but refrained from commenting.
“Alright,” Bruce said, and squinted at the pages again. No luck. He still couldn’t make out what they said clearly. He looked at Dick, who was looking at him expectantly. Bruce cleared his throat. “Dick,” he said slowly.
“Uh-huh?”
“Can you do one last favour for me?”
“Sure.”
“What if I just – lie here, on this stretcher, and you can read out loud. And I’ll listen. How does that sound? In a way, I am tucking you into bed.
Dick blinked. “I guess.” He said, and picked up the book. He started reading, in a high, clear voice. “Chapter one: How Nobody came to the graveyard.” A dramatic pause.
“Go on,” Bruce said, his voice muffled into the stretcher.
“There was a hand in the darkness, and it held a knife. The knife had a handle of polished black bone, and a blade finer and sharper than any razor. If it sliced you…”
But Bruce wasn’t listening anymore. He was already asleep.
kiragecko 