Dick: "I Want A Refund"

Dick: "I want a refund"

Dick: *gets a refund*

Dick: no no wait not like that

I'm golden-child!Jason and not-even-a-silver-egg!Dick truther for life, and that's so funny.

Bruce is used to the chaos he calls his son, so when Jason actually behave, Bruce is soooo confused.

Like, what do you mean Bruce can tell him to not do something and Jason will??? Obey??? The order??? Dick would never.

Bruce, fully prepared for scandal: You are not allowed to jump from one wardrobe to another, it's dangerous for you.

Little Jason, who has no idea why he should: Ok? I wasn't planning to anyway.

Confused Bruce: You wasn't?

Little Jason who are scared to touch anything here, because it probably costs more than his life: I don't want to ruin the mansion...

More Confused Bruce: You don't?!

Or 

Bruce: so, you are saying that if I tell you to sit in your room and read books, you will really sit in your room and read books?

Little Jason, who has no idea why he shouldn't: Yeah?

Bruce, whispering to Alfred: I didn't know they could do that.

It is the blood moon party! On the rare instances they manage to work together because something is trying to murder them!!! Cahira is the one hissing

Alright whose bingo sheet had "Riz hisses at someone"

~ Batman (2016)

Oh, they're so brothers.

There are spiderweb cracks running through my skull

And if you jammed your fingers in

You could pull and tear at the hull

Dig with your nails and break the skin;

But you just let sleeping dogs lie

You’re scared of that grey rotting meat

But me I want to bark and cry

I’m tired of lying at your feet

So I will bash my head against the cold hard tile

And I’ll bite off your hand before you even shout

And maybe I will die but I’ll go down in style

Chew until one of us can spit the other out.

One must imagine Sisyphus happy, the voice says as I walk down to the well. It echoes against the walls, empty and wet in that peculiar way in which voices only echo in a cave, this deep, dark loneliness that chills you to the bone. One must imagine Sisyphus happy, it whimpers from very far away; my knuckles are rubbed red as they tie the bucket to the rope, and send it down below, and fill it with water. But I know Sisyphus. Who cares if he's happy? He was a bad man, but first he was a child, but first he was a man. What does it matter know, when the boulder rolls up and when it all falls down? I pull the bucket up, and fill my amphora ; watch the blood where I ripped my finger nails drip through and taint the water red. Something about eternity, I suppose. One must imagine Sisyphus happy, is the rule, but I hear him scream out every day, and he deserves it so much I am glad, and I pity him so much I could cry. And no one really cares if you are able to convince yourself that he could learn to love this endless, aimless task, and I could scream all my despair to the well and the well will never answer me; nothing changes around here, only the mind of those that are trapped, and that empty, violent freedom to imagine your neighbour is happy. Maybe one day it will be too much; perhaps, one day, it will be enough. For now I carry my amphora and feel it emptying and look for my sister. One must remember I'm a murderer. Plic, ploc. The water drips through.