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When there's a sunrise,there's a sunset.

Birds of a feather we should stick together:3

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This is my 69,420th tumblr post

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Imagine Early Mornings with Bruce Wayne

Mornings in the Wayne Manor, you have found, are always a little disorienting.

You always wake alone, amidst sheets so soft that your bare skin tingles as you stretch against them.

There is a glass of water, drained, on his side of the bed. A bottle of painkillers, unopened.

There would be a note, short and painfully impersonal.

Left early for a meeting, it would sometimes say.

Or more rarely, it might say Library, a shorthand invitation to join him for a day of quiet reading.

More often, the note would simply say, Downstairs.

His codeword for the cave. By the time you wake, he would have been down there for hours.

In the first, few months of your relationship, you had found the notes amusing, if a little bit offensive.

“Those are not love notes,” you had complained to Bruce. “It feels like something my boss would leave me. Meeting this afternoon at three o’clock. Bring donuts.”

And while he had not laughed (indeed, he laughed so rarely that you sometimes wonder if laughter had calcified in his throat), but he had looked up from his notes and smiled.

The next morning, you had woken up to no note, but instead a mug of hot coffee and a brightly-colored box of donuts, the kind you’d see served in a business meeting.

His idea of a joke.

At least that was something you knew that the rest of Gotham didn’t: Batman actually had a sense of humor.

It is months later, when you wake to the sound of shifting cloth, and a sharp intake of breath, so soft it might as well have been silent.

He’s waking, you realize. This is the first time that you have woken up at the same time Bruce did.

Perhaps it’s the journalist in you, unable to be buried even after a year of being out of the business, or perhaps it’s simple curiosity, but you don’t move. You keep your eyes closed, struggling to keep your breathing steady. You pretend to still be asleep.

In all the time you have been together, you had never woken up the same time as him.

The first thing you realize is this: he wakes up in pain.

That should come as no surprise, you think, considering what he does. But this is the first time you’ve actually witnessed it, unchecked. Even in the Batcave, with Alfred, and later you, carefully stitching the muscle and fat and skin closed, he grits his teeth and barely makes a sound.

He does not scream.

(You often wonder if it is for your benefit. If he can read the distress on your face and decide to swallow down his pain rather than let you see it.)

But in the dawn of a new day, where there is no constant humming of his supercomputer, none of Alfred’s cutting banter, there is a nakedness to him.

Bruce lies on the bed for several minutes, so still that he might as well have been carved from stone.

It hurts him to move, you realize.

(And if you close your eyes, you can still see the injuries from last night, with startling clarity: the bruised ribs, the swollen eye, the gash that left his shoulder lay open the muscle and fat to lay bare the bone. You had swallowed down your tears the way he swallowed his screams.)

And then, Bruce does something odd.

He rolls to his side—

(A sharp intake of breath, so soft it might as well have been silent.

He is lying on his injured shoulder.)

And he holds you.

Bruce Wayne holds you.

One arm draped over your waist, squeezing once, so that you can feel the tension in the corded muscles, always so carefully hidden underneath bespoke suits and shirts that cost more than your monthly salary.

His lips find the back of your neck, the pressure so light that you could barely feel it.

The thought comes to you then, unbidden: he is afraid to wake you.

And that his lips are moving.

You wonder if he is whispering sweet nothings, like a lead in a romance film.

You wonder if he is praying.

And then, his arm tightens around you and you realize:

He is saying your name.

(And the way he says it, under his breath, against your skin, is it really so different from prayer?)

When he finally rises, it is just as quiet. The sound of skin against shifting satin.

You hear him drain the glass of water.

He picks up the unopened bottle of painkillers as if contemplating it, then sets it back down..

There’s the sound of a drawer opening, the scratch of pen or paper.

Your note for the day.

It does not take long to write a single word.

And soon, he leaves the note on top of the drawer, and he leaves.

You rise with your heart beating against your throat. You can still feel the ghost of his lips on the back of your neck.

You had never seen him like that. Felt him like that.

Not just loving, but worshipful.

He had spoken your name as if to draw strength from it.

You glance at the bottle of painkillers.

It’s unopened.

You pick up the note, on it is a single word:

Downstairs.

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it's december so time to stare at my art output for the year!!!

picked out some stuff that i'm ok with. wish i had more art to show but im trying to let it go since i was gone for 4 months this year. here's hoping for more drawing time next year

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Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!! I bring my followers a longish comic with some Damian feels, I hope you like it :)

Commission Info / Kofi (members get comics a week early)

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Occasionally as an Australian you'll be talking to someone from overseas, and you'll discover a common phrase you took for granted is, in fact, not universally known outside of our country.

Turns out casually dropping "fuck me dead" into conversation will give unsuspecting Americans an aneurism.

The more you know.

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Jason, freshly adopted from the streets. Still freaked out, wondering downstairs for breakfast.

Kid!Tim, munching on cereal: hi!

Jason: who are you?

Tim, wiping his hands clumsily on his pants and sticking it out for Jason to shake: Timothy Jackson Drake. Pleased to meet you!

Jason, shakes nervously before looking around: ah. Yeah. Jason.

Tim, seriously, eyes wide and innocent: did he steal you too?

Jason: What?

Tim: Did Batman steal you too?

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Dick is a pretty boy. Everyone knows it, except him.

There is an unwritten rule about not hitting him in the face, everyone follows it, (even from his time as Robin some people already followed this rule). His siblings when by miracle they train together. His team when they get together to practice strategies and fighting methods. Even the damned villains and evildoers know not to hit the pretty bird in the face.

Dick never finds it strange. Somehow, he thinks it's simply because people have learned that punching him in the face isn't really going to stop him, if they're looking to confuse him, hitting the back of his head is more effective.

It's not until a drug dealer accidentally hits him in the nose for the first time in years, breaking it, that he notices something strange. How could he not? The battle stops for a moment because his companions start yelling at him, telling him that his face is off limits, and the dealer apologizes.

Dick barely blinks and stops them, then goes to his apartment to clean up the blood, the pain not even bothering him at this point. That's why he doesn't understand why not only his team makes a fuss about it the next day, but they even call his siblings to tell them what happened. He's not even that hurt ??????

The only other person who doesn't make a fuss about it is Batman, who has punched Dick in the face enough times to find it odd. Nobody is happy with Batman upon discovering that fact.

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Damian and Alfred

Finally drew some batfam stuff

Hope I'll do more

Closeup + linework + ref

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okay but the delicious angst of Batman and Robin getting trapped in a collapse or some other situation where an agonized Bruce is the only thing holding up the rubble/a piece of concrete on his back above an injured Dick, playing at being Superman by holding a superhuman amount of weight on his shoulders because if he lets go, they’ll both be crushed? and Dick wakes up, instantly clocks the situation, and knows that the only thing he can do to help is talk Bruce through it. to distract him long enough for someone to find them. to keep going, B, you can do it—

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Jason is that one unemployed sibling who texts you weird shit at 3:27 pm on a Tuesday.

Like, Dick, sweating his ass off in his police uniform getting a text from Jason, which btw, extremely rare- and it's just a Twin tomato (two tomatoes grown as one ykwim) and captioned w "ur ass"

or Tim is in the middle of his board meeting and he gets an email from Red Hood and hes like stressing out chcking it only to find a pic of his apartment's kitchen's pantry asking "why dont you have salt?"

and then damian coming back from school to see his phone full of texts from Jason and it's all pics of ugly animals and every pic is captioned with "u" "u again" "wow u"

Bruce getting a morse code going "check phone" and it's a video of Jason flying away on an alien helicopter contraption with Roy yelling after him asking him to get down and jason saying he doesnt know how this shit works.

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Bruce yelled at Tim a little too much on patrol but he doesn’t really know how to say sorry cause what Tim did was super dangerous but he still shouldn’t have yelled so much

Bruce slowly and awkwardly opens Tim’s bedroom door to see the teenager (?) angrily typing away on his computer

Instead of trying to explain himself or fail a stunted apology, Bruce leaves a bowl of Tim’s favorite fruit all cut up and a steaming cup of Alfred’s tea that he made (begged) the butler make

And under the cup of tea is a sticky note with a small heart

The next day Bruce knows things are all good between them cause Tim bumps against his shoulder lightly as they pass each other in the hallway

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i just like. failed so fucking miserably at drawing a cat. like

how . how did this happen

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Loss and grief (2/2)

[Reupload bc I forgot a detail and it was nagging at me lol]

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Loss and grief (1/2)

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I was watching Look Back and listening to the Ithaca saga and got inspired to do this mini timkon comic

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can i have ak!jason and a shy reader with the prompts “Off. Take it all off.” and “Keep your legs open doll, I’m still hungry.” pls plsss

warning. gun kink

“off. take it all off.”

his voice came from the corner of the room, he sat in the arm chair watching you. he didn’t do much else other than that most days, sometimes he’d hold you but it seems he’d finally ran out of patience trying to make you comfortable around him.

your cheeks flushed as you complied, nervously peeling each layer off before you’re standing in front off him bare and open to him. he just keeps watching, his breathing static behind his helmet before you hear a hiss and see him placing his helmet to the side.

“sit,” he commands, standing from his seat to let you take his place, you waste no time following his order before he’s kneeling in front of you pretty face resting against your knee.

he sighs as if this is the only time he can relax. you watch curiously — still very naked much to your embarrassment — as he hands you his gun from his holster, its unloaded, you know that. he’d never put a load weapon in the hands of someone as sweet as you.

he chuckles when you fumble on holding the piece, adjusting your fingers so you can comfortably hold it before pressing the nozzle to his head. he lets out a shaky breath as he stares up at you, icy blue eyes give away the affection he feels for you and he seems to enjoy the thought of being at your mercy.

“that’s it, pretty girl. hold it there f’me.”

his hands move to your thighs, spreading you open. “keep your legs open doll, i’m hungry.

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the people wanted more youtube worldbuilding ^^

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