Dan Mora’s Dick Grayson

interrupting Jason's saturday afternoon book binge is one way to make him pissy

spot as many easter eggs as you can :>

Tumblr usernames are so funny, "the ghost of jason todd started following you" okay well can he stop

I have no idea how I’m gonna make this part of one of my fics but by god I’m gonna find a way

Spellcasters hate this fact but if you just stick your fingers in their mouth while they're casting a spell with a verbal component it's literally more effective than a counter spell.

Oh no my heart 💔💔💔

Magic is a fickle thing, so when the things go down the hill for the Batfamily, and they accidentally (temporarily) regain a copy of little Jason in his Robin era, they both delighted and confused.

Naturally, no one really minds getting Jaybin for a day - Bruce, Alfred, Dick and Barbara all circle around the lost child, talking, offering anything and everything, hugging and kissing his freckled cheeks. Those family members who didn't know him before are no less enamoured. He is polite, nothing like a brash boy they always imagined him to be. He listens to Tim curiously, legs tucked under his chin, happily calls Cass and Steph his big sisters, helps Damian with taking care of animals, and endlessly giggles at Duke's jokes.

Everything is so... nice. What they are worried about, is their Jason's reaction. For the most of it, they expect him to be mad. Offended. Maybe frustrated.

When Jason stumbles inside the Batcave, freezing on the doorstep at the sight of himself, much younger and bubblier, everyone is silent. Dick coughs awkwardly, almost imagining what could happen, and tries to soften a blow:

"Little Wing--"

But there is no need for that. Not really.

Because their Jason stares at little Robin with delight. In awe, even. His whole face softens, and he slowly steps closer, reaching out for a kid.

"Hey, kiddo."

The sheer vulnerability in his voice, confuses others even more.

Jason stares at a kid as if he sees something so dear and lost, and it is strangely baffling. His smiles grow wider when the Second Robin shyly waves at him.

"Come here," Jason encourages him. Once the kid climbs in his arms, he whispers in the crown of his head: "Welcome home, little hero."

And suddenly, it all makes sense.

Because, of course, Jason loves and loved this child.

After all, it is the same one, who he spent protecting from the evil tongues of his own family for years.

All our times have come, here but now they're gone

Don't mind me, I'll just be here, screaming incoherently about how beautiful this is

Wax Wings and Gotham Skies

Everyone always talks about how Icarus fell. Not enough people talk about how he flew.

About the boy who looked the sun in the eye and smiled. Who laughed as the heat blistered wax and feather, as gravity remembered his name.

They call him arrogant. Reckless. Say he should’ve known better. But maybe he did. Maybe he just wanted to see how close a mortal could get to divinity before the world pulled him back down.

Because there’s something sacred in the reaching. Something holy in the trying. And even if the fall is inevitable— there is still meaning in the flight.

And far from the sun, beneath a sky choked in smog and sirens, in the bones of a city that never sleeps, another boy is born to that same story.

No prophecy named him. No legacy claimed him. Not shaped in fire, nor vengeance, nor divine right. He was not forged like a weapon, or claimed like an heir. Instead, he saw the shape of a myth stitched into Gotham’s skyline—a shadow stretching across rooftops and ruins— and stepped toward it with empty hands and open eyes.

He was not called. But he came anyway.

Like Icarus, he didn’t wait for permission to reach. Tim Drake was a boy built from questions, sleepless nights, and the aching need to know. He was a boy carved from questions, sharpened by silence. The kind of boy who watched too long and listened too well. The kind of boy who stared too long into shadows and found himself staring back.

He pieced together wings from scraps— late-night stakeouts, news clippings and coffee-stained theories. A thousand tiny truths stitched together from silence. He studied the dark like scripture, read between bruises and newsprint until a pattern emerged.

No one gave him a path. So he drew one in ink and breath and quiet resolve.

Not for glory. Not to be seen. But because the pull of the sky was louder than fear. Because some part of him—deep and unrelenting—refused to stay grounded.

And maybe that was the beginning of the end. Perhaps chasing what was already breaking was always meant to end in ash. Maybe he was never meant to carry the weight of a symbol sewn in grief. Maybe no boy can hold the sun and not burn.

But when the cracks came, he didn’t look away.

He climbed. He reached. He flew.

And when the wax burned and the feathers tore loose, he didn’t scream.

He smiled.

Because like Icarus, he had touched something divine. And he knew— that to fall is to have once reached the sky and kissed the sun.

I'm just imagining the Batfam doing this with Cass for shits and giggles

Lighter than a butterfly...

I dont understand how people think “but they killed people!” Is everrrr going to convince me to hate a fictional character. I actually like them more because they killed people. In fact, its the main thing I like about them. I would cheer with pom-poms at the mere implication of them killing again.

You need to draw and make art or else all the images will stay in your head and you'll get sick

best friends)