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Always the writer, never the reader.

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They make me cry uncontrollably

Ily baby Dami and LOA Jason Todd

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Sailor moon but make it this adorable 1968 evening gown i saw on twitter

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people on my dash are annoying again and i'm tired of being a bitch about it so let me just say - if you read my fics and don't leave a comment, you're fine. it's fine. I'm not mad, I don't think you ungrateful, or an asshole, or whatever other guilt-trippy bullshit people spout here day in and day out. I post my stuff in the hopes of it bringing others joy, too, and yes of course comments bring me joy in return, but I don't think anyone owes them to me. if it brings you joy and i never know, if you "only" leave kudos, if you only lurk, if you literally never interact with me for literally whatever reason, it's fine. i promise. i love you. i hope the words bring you joy without there being any hang-ups about it <3

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I genuinely can’t draw anything right now if it’s not Tim Drake

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happy (belated) second birthday to this au of mine.

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A really fun one, the second year that the same book club has commissioned a print of their reads!

Links

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"Do I look like him?"

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been playing around with some sticker designs

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Posting on AO3 is like, I'm doing this for myself, but also immediately refreshing the page every 5 seconds to see if you get any hits comments or kudos. But totally only writing for me.

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my fav idiots

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Nightwing by Gleb Melnikov

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hmmmm okay prompt: how about jason and tim working on something together and both of them realizing the other has been hiding a significant injury the whole time :chinhands:

happy weekend babs!!

I'm so sorry this has been languishing in my inbox since August. Whoops! Hope you like this :)

“What the fuck.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve got a bullet hole in you, you dumb bitch,” Jason said. Tim groaned and shifted when Jason clamped a hand over the bloody bandage. “When did you get this?”

“Three days ago,” Tim said, “it’s just a graze.”

“The fuck it is,” Jason muttered. “Can you get up?” He looked around the edge of the shipping container, then ducked back behind it as bullets immediately pinged above his head.

“Do I want to get up?” Tim huffed, then levered himself off the ground.

“I count eight, minimum,” Jason said.

“Ten,” Tim corrected. “Go up or stay on the ground?”

“Birds are supposed to fly,” Jason said with a grin.

Tim rolled his eyes. “Give me a boost.”

Jason braced himself against the crate, and Tim used him as a springboard, jumping into his hands as Jason pushed him upward, transferring his momentum. Tim leaned down over the edge, arm outstretched, and Jason sprinted for the crate and jumped, kicking off the crate and up to grab Tim’s outstretched hand. Tim heaved him up, Jason’s ribs groaning in complaint as he collapsed on top of the crate.

“What’s wrong with you?” Tim asked, sounding alarmed. Jason blinked back white spots from his vision.

“Nothing,” he wheezed, trying to catch his breath.

“Oh, sure, that’s believable,” Tim said, and prodded him in the side. Jason wheezed harder, biting back a yelp.

“I might have a few bruised ribs,” he admitted, grimacing as he hauled himself upright. “Potentially lightly broken.”

“Lightly broken?”

Shouting and more gunshots.

“We’ve been spotted,” Jason said, ducking. “Time to run.”

“You do not get to lecture me about being injured when you’re injured,” Tim hissed, following him as they leapt from crate to crate.

“Later, birdie,” Jason wheezed as he landed, jarring his ribs painfully. “The lectures can be saved for later when we’re not being shot at.”