#so that's my experience

[sinkingwmyships]

my musings on touch-starved Dick Grayson and Jason Todd (which got out of hand fast). enjoy :) cw: injuries (mild/minor & non-graphic); physical touch (obviously). they also complete a mission tgt. sprinkles of batdad bc i can.

consider: touch-starved Dick Grayson and Jason Todd (but if you're seeing this post i bet you've considered that before *bombastic side-eye*)

neither of them think that about themselves, that is if they even believe in the concept at all—until Dick claps Jason on the shoulder once and Jason jolts, not from surprise or pain or anything, but from the foreignness of the touch, so friendly and easy, something neither he nor his body remembers the last time they've felt. but he must have looked at Dick weird (read: annoyed or angry or something), because Dick swiftly retreats with a mumbled apology and hands held up and out, his gesture of surrender.

after that, Dick doesn't really want to risk crossing his brother's boundaries again—but when he opens his door to Jason halting mid-step, alarm on his face as if he's thirteen again and Dick has caught him sneaking out to patrol even though his homework isn't done, again... well, Dick's got to say something.

"what's up?" he asks cautiously.

turns out Jason needs help with taping his fingers because "don't wanna bother Alfred" and "the old man would probably be overjoyed now that i can't shoot properly" ("that's not true, Jason, an injury's an injury," Dick sighs), so Dick is his last resort. last, final, forget about it because it's never going to happen again. but, he sits down patient and calm while Dick scours his room for some tape (you'd think an athlete would be more prepared)—and again, while Dick winds thin, sticky strips around his fingers. Jason's hands resemble Bruce's, in their stockiness and warmth, with their countless scars and calluses, ghastly pale from being encased in their gloves all the time. his fingers twitch against Dick's, involuntary; there is something comforting about a solid sensation within his touch. Dick checks the tape two, three times over; Jason's fingers are still outstretched by the time he's finished putting the tape away and turned back around.

then Dick makes the blunder of asking "anything else?", and Jason huffs in lieu of reminding him he's not thirteen anymore, before withdrawing and vacating his room in all of two seconds.

Jason's fingers make a swift recovery. the next time they meet, it's gunfire that has drawn Nightwing to his location.

"d'i miss something?" he greets, swooping in grandly then landing by Red Hood's side upon the warehouse catwalk so soundlessly, it's as if he's nothing more than a passing shadow. he can't perceive the eye roll under the, well, red hood.

"only three factories' worth of child labor and the goons manning them." Hood discards his empty magazine then reloads. "don't worry; i didn't miss. c'mon." he starts walking away before Nightwing can comment on what he's said; still, he can feel the bat's gaze nearly puncturing the back of his helmet.

"where're we going?" Nightwing calls after him. "looks to me like you and your people got it under control."

Red Hood shakes his head. "some of the supervisors scurried in here before we could get 'em." he cocks his gun sharply. "i closed all the ground exits. what say we do a little hunting?"

"Hood...."

"figure of speech, man." he easily brushes his brother's scowl off, before gesturing for him to follow. a flick of the chin and Nightwing understands they're down there.

they venture away from Nightwing's entry point into the darkness. the building's creaks and heaves mask their footsteps, while shadows fall around them like folds of a heavy cape. cutting the lights means his opponents won't be able to see, but with how deep the night is, Red Hood can't make out jack shit, either. the only reason he knows his gun's still in his hands is because he can feel its weight and shape—the same reason he knows his brother is still beside him, from the press of Nightwing's back against his, steady, reassuring, almost warm even through their armor. Red Hood shouldn't get used to it, shouldn't stop watching his back just because it's available this one time; but already the figurative weight on his shoulders has lessened by half.

and then, the touch vanishes.

"'Wing?" he calls fast as a reflex. fuck; Red Hood doesn't know what bothers him worse, that he reacted so immediately, or that his brother is nowhere to be felt (god, that sounds weird). but his split-second of alarm subsides when a foot bumps against his firmly.

"here." Nightwing leans on him again. is that the rhythm of his breath, or Hood's own? "i thought i saw—"

something knocks Red Hood's head back, as jarring as a brother's flick to his forehead. he shoves Nightwing down before returning fire, picturing viscerally the bullet-sized dent on his helmet. if that had been Nightwing—

he feels a lithe form slide by his legs through the railings and down.

fuck! he should have grabbed him—if only he can see! fuck! Red Hood's eyes sweep frantically over the murky shadows below. a flash of blue, a spray of yellow— there! the yellow dies after he takes his shot. fucking Dickwing—he's a good marksman, but this is pushing it!

"DON'T!" and the idiot still has the compassion to plead for his opponents' lives. god, Red Hood should've just told him to piss off the moment he showed up.

still, he yells, "NON-LETHAL!" before scrambling down the catwalk as a dozen bullets zip through the space he was occupying just a moment prior. compromising his position over something so trivial... unbelievable. Red Hood channels all his frustration into his next shot—hears the thud of body hitting floor, before many others of fist hitting body, knees hitting body, escrima hitting body (maybe there are worse fates than just plain getting killed, though they'd never take him seriously)... until a final crak of face hitting floor (what did he say?) sounds out, and then all falls quiet for a moment, the sound of his own breathing within the helmet all Red Hood can hear.

"that was good!" Nightwing sounds like he's praising a three-year-old's arts and crafts project. "nobody had to get lethally injured!" Red Hood groans and drops down on the catwalk heavily. "and didn't we make a good—"

the catwalk breaks apart where it was shot at, and Red Hood can only hang on as god-knows-how-many-pounds of metal plus himself comes swinging down right at his brother.

...

Dick doesn't dare open his eyes for a moment, for fear of finding himself nothing more than a pulp on the floor.

what were the chances? didn't get shot, didn't get hit, didn't even trip once. hell, he trusts Jason, but he's pretty damn sure the chances of being hit by one of his non-lethal rounds were way higher than... whatever the hell just happened!

he's still conscious, at least, but he fears what physical state he's going to discover himself in. he can wiggle his toes fine— wait, he's not in his boots. already got medical attention? he can't be at the batcave—Jason knows its location but Dick highly doubts he'd willingly go there, especially accompanied by Dick in this condition; same with reaching out to anyone that might've been in the area. but this place doesn't smell or sound like a hospital. if Dick breathes deeply, he can make out a homey rather than industrial scent of detergent; and the occasional footsteps and conversations outside are much too clear-sounding for him to be behind the doors of a hospital room.

he cracks his eyes open. thank goodness it's dim; his head is beginning to hurt already, probably a concussion (he'd still consider himself lucky if he got away with just that). he's tucked snugly into a couch, a cozy, almost cramped fit, with a pillow wedged into the gap between his shoulder blades and the seat, a blanket or two on top of him, and his legs extending across Jason's lap to dangle over the couch's edge on the opposite side. Jason himself looks fast asleep, head lolled back onto the cushions, lax arms draped across Dick's legs where a book is also lying, open and face-down. he seems quite comfortable given... everything (well, to be fair, it wasn't him whose brother tried to squish like a bug). this must be one of Jason's safehouses, then? and for some reason, probably that they are still pretty much in their full, dirtied gear, he's put them into this arrangement on the couch?

his head throbs again, so Dick just gives up and closes his eyes. this beats the floor of some random warehouse for sure—it's warm, it's soft, and it feels surprisingly pleasant to have his legs across Jason's lap and the weight of his brother's arms upon them somehow. it's soothing, like the way sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with his siblings or teammates is. it's reassuring, like the way Bruce would pat his arm or (rarer now) his head is. it's safe, like the way his and Jason's backs against each other's in the warehouse is, the calmness of his fingers in Dick's hands is, the impulse that got Dick to clap his brother on the shoulder is. he's missed it. he's needed this.

after this night... i imagine they're a lot less awkward about, and a lot more open to, physical contact. leaning against each other; using the other as a head/arm/leg-rest; huddling for warmth; physically pushing/smacking/moving the other away instead of just saying "fuck off;" evolution from shoulder/back clap to fist bump/high five/handshake to hug when celebrating/congratulating; actual long, substantial, gratifying hugs.... this can also definitely branch off into fighting with their feet under the table until Alfred has to raise his voice at them. but goodness, just- casual physical contact, man. and slowly doing away with their own and each other's touch starvation. eventually they aren't drawn to physical touch out of need anymore, but at that point it's just become habit—and it's a darn comfy, calming, convenient habit, what's not to like? w.

(also- Bruce would like to pat his children's heads more but they're all rapidly outgrowing him-)

[princesskuragina]

My last post was being snarky but here's my genuine pronoun etiquette opinion in case you actually want to know: it's pretty much never a good idea to directly ask someone their pronouns in front of a group of people, especially if you're in a position of authority, i.e. a teacher. The stakes of this question are very high for some people and you are putting them on the spot to decide what they want to share and what is safe to share. If you have decided you want to ask for pronouns at all, you can introduce yourself with your own to remind people that they can share theirs if they want to. And for the love of god whatever you do please do not just single out the most gender non-conforming or "trans looking" (to you) person and ask only them and no one else

[moomoorare]

I love nautical and seaside town horror stories. Tell me more about the fog and water that eats people

[acrowseye]

i'm conducting an experiment. everyone who's from an english speaking country state your country, regional area and what you call the following images. i need to see something

[nouverx]

"I want to eat you" is their love language and you can't change my mind

[liones-s]

one of the biggest things I can advocate for (in academia, but also just in life) is to build credibility with yourself. It’s easy to fall into the habit of thinking of yourself as someone who does things last minute or who struggles to start tasks. people will tell you that you just need to build different habits, but I know for me at least the idea of ‘habit’ is sort of abstract and dehumanizing. Credibility is more like ‘I’ve done this before, so I know I can do it, and more importantly I trust myself to do it’. you set an assignment goal for the day and you meet it, and then you feel stronger setting one the next day. You establish a relationship with yourself that’s built on confidence and trust. That in turn starts to erode the barrier of insecurity and perfectionism and makes it easier to start and finish tasks. reframing the narrative as a process of building credibility makes it easier to celebrate each step and recognize how strong your relationship with yourself can become

[chalkrub]

autumnal chill....featuring the girl

[symphonyofsilence]

Let the poor man rest.

[miwkchii]

Finally debuting my telemachus design 🙏

Little Wolf basically :

[wanderingibon]

anya deserved so much better

[cryptocism]

"just as I did, in 1983."

you'd never know my favourite parts of the show are the fucked up insane bits when my first instinct is to draw the cheesiest thing imaginable

[mynnthia]

was talking with a friend about how some of dunmeshi fаndom misunderstands kabru's initial feelings towards laios.

to sum up kabru's situation via a self-contained modernized metaphor:

kabru is like a guy who lost his entire family in a highly traumatic car accident. years later he joins a discord server and takes note of laios, another server member who seems interesting, so they start chatting. then laios reveals his special interest and favorite movie of all time is David Cronenberg's Crash (1996), and invites kabru to go watch a demolition derby with him

[verflares]

just how long is forever? // not long enough, with you

pssst. check this out on inprnt :]

[fawnave]

happy pride to clare devlin, the wee lesbian 🫶

[hinamie]

I don't want to regret the way I lived

[verified-villain-fxcker]

This might be the last time we see Tom Hardy Venom on screen so I just wanna say, from the bottom of my monster fucker heart, it has been an absolute pleasure to go through this series with you all these last 6 years.