wayne-manor:

Better yet, when did I draw the shortest one that got me pulling mandatory overtime to train the new batch of holiday help?

If it helps.

You could always pretend they’re all Robins and you’re Batman.

I think its sexy.

wayne-manor:

Read More

In another life, Bruce Wayne would be the rich owner of an aviary.

In this other life, and he’s quite sure it’s out there somewhere between a world where Robins dismantle words and another where Nightwing had a little wing feathering his side, there would be a small collection of birds and bats.

Odd, yes.

But this Bruce discovers that he can keep a balance between them.

The bats are helpful and silent. He leaves them be.

But the birds.

The birds are different.

He sits on a bench inside the wrought-iron dome and reads.

Waits for the gorgeous blue fluff of wings and melodious chirps to flutter on his hand. Feels the beak nuzzle affectionately and pick off some leftover bird seed from Bruce’s fingers. The bird is confident—almost arrogant—in nesting right into the curving palm of his hand, popping his head out between fingers to claim the man’s attention from the rather boring looking squiggly things.

And then another flutter of wings.

Oh his head, this time.

It’s the slightly ragged green-feathered bird lightly clawing on his scalp. Sitting on his now mussed hair and pecking occasionally. The second bird’s chirps are hoarse and seldom, but very loud and kind of hilarious.

Bruce’s eyes twitch at a particularly painful peck but reads on. It’s something he’s quite fond of. And perhaps, as insane as it seems, its the reason why he always accidentally dusts his shoulders and hair with breadcrumbs every now and then.

Bread because its the only thing the little robin would eat. His shoulders and head, because its the only places he would land. It’s as if there was a wariness to land.

There’s a soft chirp beside him.

Red.

Deep and full and perfectly preened.

Gorgeous.

Perched on his shoulder and sitting dignified as ever is the Third.

Bruce smiles slightly, shifting to raise his book higher. This one likes to read, he hums thoughtfully.

It cocks its head to the side demurely, hopping closer hesintantly before settling nearer to the crook of his neck—

and is suddenly knocked off into the air by a blur of yellow.

Bruce is startled, Blue perching on the edge of the book to see while Green chirps as if to laugh at what had just happened.

Red is in the air, darting to and fro with a small, fluffy yellow ball of spite snaking after him.

Bruce sighs and motions to whistle but Blue launches into the air, knocking Yellow down into a nearby birdbath and proceeding to nuzzle and preen the hatchling in the water.

Another amused chirp from the top of his head as Red wearily lands back on his shoulder.

It’s a bit of a madhouse.

And Bruce feels as though he should be Mother Hen.

But that’s in another life.

chifuyu:

Where the fuck are you?!

Maybe he’s getting some pie.