#sugarbatsy

[the-nado-hunter]

Go to bed

Never

[dented-nado]

67 for aNgsT

[[ Ya got yourself some Angst Rach. I made myself very sad witlh this so fkjsalkfjlaksj Im going to need some hardcore fluff injections]]67: “This is where I belong”Small warning for self-destructive talk/behaviorSome people liked to say Batman was never unprepared, he’d always pull through, figure it out. He had a contingency plan for every member of the Justice League, even his own family, if any of them were to go rogue or fall under mind control.

He’d figure it out.

Because he’s Batman.

Simple as that.

Some were sure Batman’s only weakness was being human, and even then, the most powerful members of the League knew perfectly well Batman had a damn good chance of taking them down if he really wanted to.

Only a few knew how wrong that was. Only a few knew Batman’s true, ultimate weakness… the thing that would guarantee bring him to his knees, subdue him beyond all recovery, stop him from fighting another day…

...was Batman himself.

Because Batman was able to torture Bruce better and more frequently than anyone else. Batman could starve him, keep him up all night, have him end up bruised, battered, bleeding, and still never feel like what he did was good enough.

Always had to be better, had to get up, had to keep going.

Keep trying keep trying, don’t stop even for a second or you’ll let them down. How could you fight the thing that also kept you safe? Fight what was keeping you alive while also locking you off from being close to anyone else? How could you fight something that felt like it was a driving force towards a greater good?

Even if that meant destroying yourself in the process.Because deep down, he felt like he didn’t deserve to have a life. That was why Batman could destroy him.

Because Batman was always ready and willing to tear himself apart, become nothing more than ash in the wind.

Alone, in the dark, unloved, feared.

“This is where I belong.” He told himself as he lurked in the shadows.

Prepared to take another bullet, break another bone, go home cold, tired, and hungry if he came home at all. “Do it for them… do it for them… don’t fail.”

All for the greater good…. right? That’s why Batman was his own worst enemy, because he alone can torture himself and bar himself off from the connection to others he desperately needed and wanted… and still justify it at the end of the day.

Even if it meant hurting himself and those around him who love him.

[nadohunter]

Nado my love if you're still taking requests I would die if you drew Clark in 2E

Rach, I would conquer the world for you so you may absolutely have a Clark Kent in 2E.

[hawkgirlsmash]

Oh wise and talented lyds can I get some diana and Clark comforting Bruce (who maybe was separated from a Robin during patrol and Bruce is just really scared??)

>>  trinity friendship. dick grayson is robin. 💛

Clark is still at the Planet when Bruce calls his cell. It’s midnight. Everybody else had left the building hours ago, but Clark had been caught up in a fire in Dubai all afternoon, and he still has a deadline to meet first thing in the morning.

It’s the sight of the screen lighting up with Bruce’s name—not the loud trill of the ringtone in the empty bullpen—that jolts Clark out of his reverie.

Bruce rarely calls at all.

Bruce never calls this late.

“Hey,” Clark says, concerned. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

Clark can hear Bruce’s breath catch in his throat, a sharp, wordless inhale. Something has him rattled.

“Bruce? What’s—”

“It’s Dick.”

Geez. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know.” Bruce’s voice is fraught with barely-concealed panic. “We were supposed to meet back at the docks forty-five minutes ago. He’s lost his communicator. You can conduct a more efficient search than I can. Help me find him.”

“Of course,” Clark says, already standing up and divesting himself of his jacket. “How do you know he lost his comm?”

Bruce’s answering silence is evasive. Clark can guess what it means.

“You put a tracker on your sidekick?”

“He’s fifteen,” Bruce says tersely.

“I’m not disagreeing with you.” Clark climbs the stairs to the roof. “I’m not all that surprised, actually. And I don’t object to your motives, either. I just—you know, we’ll talk about this some other time. Are you still at the docks?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve checked the warehouses there, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“Okay. I’ll be there in a minute. Have you called Diana?”

“Not yet.”

“I will.”

“Thank you,” Bruce says quietly, and hangs up.

Clark sets his phone down at the top of the stairwell and steps out onto the rooftop. “Diana.”

She meets him in the street.

“Bruce?” she asks, with concern.

“Dick is missing.”

Diana nods. “You will search from the skies?”

“Yes. But Gotham’s walls are stuffed with lead.”

“I will look where you cannot,” Diana says, understanding. “We will find him.”

—

It takes ten minutes of their combined efforts to locate Dick Grayson in a grimy factory basement and another five to deliver Penguin’s henchmen to the GCPD.

—

Bruce is as still as the gargoyles that populate the city he defends, hunched on the couch with his hands clasped between his knees. He doesn’t look up when Diana and Clark sit down on either side of him.

“Dick is asleep?” Diana asks gently.

Bruce stares into the teacup Clark had placed in front of him on the coffee table and makes no attempt to answer.

Diana has never needed an answer from him. She covers his hands with her own.

“He is very strong,” she says, “for one so young.”

Bruce closes his eyes and breathes deeply.

“And he was unhurt,” Clark adds. “He’ll bounce back in no time.”

“I know,” Bruce says. His voice is like gravel. “I know he is, and he will, because he’s done it before. He’s been through worse. But how often can I—how many times can I expect…” He trails off, and his fingers tense even more beneath Diana’s hands.

He isn’t expecting an answer, either. There is no correct reply or absolute truth that be compelled, here.

“You will speak with him tomorrow,” Diana says. “For now, he is resting—as you should be, too.”

“No,” Bruce says, his eyes following the steam that rises from his teacup. “No. Not right now.”

Neither Clark nor Diana argues. They remain by his side, silent, shoulder-to-shoulder, until exhaustion takes him.

[renecdote]

two steps forward (how many back?)

@sugarbatsy wanted Tim and Bruce for the prompt “I wasn’t a good kid. Don’t you dare use me as an example.” Enjoy the angst my dear <3

[Read on AO3]

***

It takes Bruce two hours to realise that Tim has disappeared. He checks the cave first, thinking the newest Robin must have finished his homework and snuck down there to practice the kick Bruce critiqued him on after their short patrol last night. Tim is good like that, dedicated, always throwing himself into perfecting his training.

But not this evening apparently. He’s not on the mats in the Cave or using any of the gym equipment. He’s not working on a case or studying in the library or… anywhere, it seems. Bruce even checks a few of the spare bedrooms on the second floor, thinking that maybe Tim looked a little tired today and he might have finished homework and training then gone to have a nap so he’s fresh for patrol.

No luck there either.

Bruce makes his way to the kitchen to ask Alfred. He’s not worried, not exactly, just… curious. Tim’s whereabouts are a puzzle and he wants to solve it, that’s all. Alfred smiles a little into the dough he’s kneading when Bruce asks if he knows where Tim is, though, like he’s pleased that Bruce is taking an interest.

(It has been made abundantly clear to Bruce in the last few months that taking an interest in the latest Robin is something he should be doing more of.)

“Timothy has gone home,” Alfred informs him. The look he casts out the window at the dark grey sky is almost worried. “I invited him to join us for tea, but he said he couldn’t tonight. I’m sure he’ll be back in time for patrol.”

Tim has gone home? Bruce frowns. That possibility hadn’t even occurred to him.

“His parents are in Egypt,” he says. Tim didn’t tell him that. It seems clear now that Tim didn’t tell anyone that. If Alfred knew Tim was going home to an empty house, he would never have let him leave the manor.

Bruce turns on his heel and heads toward the front door. “Where is my coat?” he asks over his shoulder. Then, before Alfred can reply, “Never mind, I’ll find it.”

“Master Bruce—Master Bruce, where on earth are you going?”

“Make enough pizza for three!” Bruce yells back. He grabs the first coat he finds in the cloakroom and lets the heavy front door slam behind him.

***

“You really didn’t need to come over,” Tim says. “Really, Bruce, I’m fine on my own. You don’t have to—to feel responsible for me or anything.”

Bruce ignores it, just as he has the last five or six times some variation of those words have come out of Tim’s mouth. He keeps his hand firm on one skinny shoulder and steers Tim up the front steps to the manor, glossy from the rain that is coming down in a steady drizzle now.

“I’m sure Alfred already has the pizzas in the oven, dinner won’t be long. Go wash up then join us in the dining room.”

Instructions—he’s good at instructions.

“I could have ordered pizza for dinner myself,” Tim mutters.

Bruce ignores that too.

Tim goes to wash up.

Alfred looks as straight-faced as ever when Bruce enters the kitchen, but he thinks it’s an approving sort of straight-faced. Something in the crinkles around his eyes, maybe, or the cant of his head.

“I take it your mission was successful?” he asks lightly.

There weren’t even any lights on, Bruce wants to say. What kind of parents leave their child in a big house, any house, all alone? What kind of child thinks it’s okay to be left home alone for weeks or months or—

I didn’t even notice him leave, he can’t bring himself to say.

“Yes,” he says. “And I told him he can stay over tonight—any night.”

Alfred nods. Definitely approving. “I’ll see to it that a bed is made up.”

He pats Bruce’s arm on the way to the oven and Bruce knows that he’s done something right.

***

Dinner is quiet. Uneventful. When it’s over, Alfred whisks Tim away to show him which guest room has been made up, chatter about homework floating back through the halls until even that fades away. Bruce sits at the empty dining table for a long moment before retreating to his study.

He thinks about calling Dick. Thinks so hard about it that Dick must get some kind of telepathic message because Bruce’s phone rings not fifteen minutes later and Dick’s cheery voice sounds back at him. It’s mostly the kind of meaningless chatter that Bruce can keep up with without much conscious thought, but when Dick gets through asking about him and Alfred and asks “how’s Tim?” Bruce’s mouth stops working halfway through his automatic reply of “good”.

“Bruce?” And now Dick sounds concerned.

Bruce sighs. “He’s not not good,” he says, wincing at the clumsiness before he’s even finished.

At this point it’s not really a surprise that Dick’s voice drops into a sharp question of, “What did you do?”

Nothing. But he finds himself tripping over the answer before it leaves his mouse because… well, because that’s the problem, isn’t it?

“This was so much easier with you,” Bruce admits. “You were such a good kid. I always… I always knew what to do with you.”

It’s not strictly speaking true. It is, in fact, dangerously close to being a bald-faced lie. But it had felt like that, by the end.

“I wasn’t always a good kid,” Dick says. There’s a pause and Bruce feels the silence the way he used to, when he would work in the study and Dick would sit there quietly doing homework on one corner of the desk. There would be a question sometimes, about mathematical formulas or geographical formations or one historical figure or another, and eventually Dick would get bored and the peace would be broken, but it was never unpleasant.

“You want some advice? Don’t… don’t use me as some kind of unattainable example. I promise you Tim is putting too much pressure on himself, he doesn’t need you to do it too.”

Bruce grunts. He wants to argue that he doesn’t, that if he is putting pressure on Tim, it’s just the right amount. Robin isn’t an easy job. It takes discipline, skill, training. All the things Tim Drake didn’t have before he threw on the closest costume and set out to rescue Batman and Nightwing from Scarecrow all those months ago.

Okay, so maybe he does put pressure on the kid. But no more than he put on Dick or… or Jason.

Right?

“He’s just a kid, B. Just… maybe try treating him like one every now and then, yeah?”

It sounds so simple when Dick says it.

***

Jason had the most awful nightmares when he first moved into the manor. Not awful the way Dick’s were awful—bloody and real, waking him up screaming and sobbing—but awful for Bruce because they were so quiet. He thrashed sometimes, whimpered, but mostly he was still, tears silent if they came. He never woke Bruce up. For the longest time, Bruce never even realised he had such bad dreams.

Maybe that’s why he finds himself pausing outside Tim’s door long after they’ve returned from patrol and fallen into bed. Bruce had gone to bed himself, had even closed his eyes, got right to the edge of sleep before something pulled him back. An indefinable kind of something that threatens to choke him if he thinks about it too much.

He doesn’t know how long he stands in the hallway with the door cracked before the mountain of blankets on the bed gives a huge sigh and Tim sits up. “You know that’s creepy, right?” he says. “Watching people sleep.”

The bolt of feeling that wriggles through Bruce’s chest at being caught is close to but not quite guilt. “Sorry,” he offers, letting the door fall open wider. Wide enough that he could step inside, but he doesn’t.

Tim pulls his knees up to his chest, playing with the edge of a soft red blanket. “’S fine. Wasn’t really sleeping anyway.”

Bruce hesitates. If it were Dick, that would be an invitation to come in, but dark hair and blue eyes aside, this boy is nothing like Dick. Bruce is abundantly, terrifyingly, aware of that.

“You have school tomorrow,” he says, which is the stupidest non sequitur ever, somewhere between parenting and chastising and—hell, Bruce doesn’t even know, but it’s out there now, he can’t take it back, so he may as well see where it takes him. “You should get some rest; wouldn’t want to be tired in class.”

“Right.”

Tim’s voice is neutral. Bruce tries to read it as disappointment, irritation, resignation—anything—but stumbles against how much he doesn’t know about this kid. He’s better at blocking than dodging, he still falters when kicking with his non-dominant leg, he relies too much on sight for situational awareness, he has a natural affinity for picking out patterns. All stuff that is good to know about a partner, but can only amount to a thin shell of who Tim Drake really is. He likes mysteries; novels and films and those point-and-click puzzle games that always have the most annoyingly catchy music—but even that is something that makes him useful as Robin. All these little pieces of Tim that Bruce has collected fuse and sink into his stomach like cold lead.

“Bruce?” Tim questions, hesitant now.

Bruce shakes his head, not really denying anything, just needing to make some kind of movement. “It’s nothing. I was just checking on you, I didn’t mean to wake you up. Go back to sleep.”

“Oh.” Is he smiling? Maybe? Trying to squash it down, but the warmth sneaking through anyway? “You should go to bed too. Alfred won’t be happy if he finds out you didn’t sleep.”

The ball of Tim in Bruce’s stomachs aches sharply. This kid. Jesus. Woken up in the middle of the night and this kid is still trying too hard to look out for Bruce when Bruce is supposed to be looking out for him.

Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe it’s not that Bruce needs to treat him more like a kid—not just that anyway—but that Tim has been looking out for himself so long he’s forgotten that he is one.

Really, Bruce, I’m fine on my own. You don’t have to—to feel responsible for me or anything.

But he does. Someone has to. And Bruce is suddenly, painfully, heart-wrenchingly aware that there isn’t anyone else who is going to do it. Alfred, sure, there’s always Alfred, but he’s done enough stepping up to fix Bruce’s mistakes. Mistakes that there will no doubt be plenty more of. Alfred needs to be there for when Bruce inevitably fucks up, a second shoulder to lean on, the way he was for Dick and Jay.

Instinct had driven Bruce to seek Tim and out bring him back to the manor tonight, but he knows better than to think that he’s going to be able to muddle through this on instinct alone. It’s late though. Tim has school tomorrow and Bruce—Bruce still needs to figure out what the hell he’s doing. Not raising another kid, not really, but—something. Something like that.

In the morning, he promises himself, there will be plenty of time to figure it out in the morning. He might even call Clark; he was always so good at listening when Bruce didn’t know how to talk about problems with Dick or Jason, no reason he wouldn’t be just as good at it when it’s Tim.

Tim yawns, trying to hide it. It makes Bruce yawn himself and he huffs an amused breath. It’s late. They should both be sleeping.

“Goodnight, Tim,” he says quietly, lacing it with everything he isn't sure how to say yet, isn't sure whether he even should say. “Sleep well.”

Tim lies back down, bedcovers muffling his voice when he replies. “Night, Bruce.”

Bruce closes the door and steps away, but he lingers there for another long moment before he can bring himself to really leave.

[causeimanartist]

A fancy Diana for @sugarbatsy and that one dude I blocked on Instagram who said I draw Wonder Woman like a man 😘

[ponydanza-in-a-canza]

sugarbatsy==> missriverwitch

[laquilasse]

Hi, sorry for bothering you! I just wanted to ask if you happen to have any Nightwing/DIck Grayson fic recs? I'm good with just about any type of fic, recovery/healing, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff. We just went on break for school and I've been wanting to read, but even when filtering the tag it's hard to find stuff.

yeah I know how that be :/ I actually haven’t been in the batfam tag on ao3 in a hot minute, and it’s honestly because I’m now friends with SO MANY AMAZING FIC WRITERS. I’ll list them all here because I highly recommend checking out all their stuff!!@jerseydevious@audreycritter@preciousthingsareprecious@chimaerakitten@cerusee@camsthisky@lemonadegarden@lurkinglurkerwholurks@renecdote@sugarbatsy@clearbluewaters

[chronicangel]

Running Up That Hill

Link to this fic on AO3. Words: 1608 Date posted: November 28, 2018

Summary:  "We should go back to the party," she murmurs, hardly pulling away. Thomas doesn't look convinced at all.

(This was written for @sugarbatsy.)

"Thomas Wayne, where are you taking me?" She laughs, her breaths puffing into the chilly air in front of her. He does not answer her, simply continues to half-lead and half-drag her up one of the many hills on the Wayne estate. They have only been away from the party his parents are hosting for perhaps five minutes and she is already anxious that they should turn around to go back. "This is very hard to do in heels, you know," she huffs, but there is still a smile in her voice.

"What, running?"

"Yes." He stops suddenly and has to catch her as she nearly falls, tripping over her own feet and the muddy, grassy ground of the hill as she tries to stop behind him.

She stares up at him, her eyes wide. Their breaths mix together in a warm little cloud between them, highlighting how close their faces are, and she is very aware of his arms wrapped around her lower back. "Are you alright? You didn't twist your ankle or anything, did you?" He asks, and if he were any other 19-year-old boy she would suspect he was using concern as an excuse to run his eyes up and down her body. As it is, she feels something warm in her chest as she nods that she is fine, moving one of her cold hands to his cheek and turning his face to look at her again. He seems to take the hint, pulling her up straight again so her chest is pressed up against his and then meeting her in the middle as she leans up to kiss him.

Thomas is strangely warm and she's always thought so. Even with her long-sleeved, ankle-length dress and his coat draped over her shoulders, she is still shivering in the face of the late December weather, just waiting for it to start snowing. Thomas, in contrast, only shivers when she rests her cold hands on his chest to warm them up despite the fact that he is wearing only a white button-up shirt and deep blue slacks. Where previously she thought her lips must have been turning blue with the chill beneath her lipstick, kissing Thomas makes her feel as though she has her face only inches from a fire.

"You're sure you don't need me to carry you the rest of the way or anything?" He asks when they part a moment later.

She fights not to roll her eyes at him. "I don't even know how far the rest of the way is, Thomas," she answers. "But no. I don't need you to carry me." His shoulders relax somewhat, almost mistakable for slouching. His mother would kill him if she ever thought such a thing, she thinks. My mother would hate him even more, she adds, trying not to wince. "That doesn't mean I wouldn't like you to, though," she teases, grinning at him.

He rolls his own eyes and grabs her hand again, leading her slightly more slowly up the hill once more. She still feels as though she is running, though she supposes anything faster than slowdancing feels like running to her in six inch heels even as she has been wearing them to events since she was fifteen.

They reach the crest of the hill and she squints down at a large building at the foot of the other side that looks surprisingly well-managed considering how far from the mansion proper it is. "Alright, Thomas, where are we? What am I looking at?" He shakes his head, refusing to answer, and pulls her, this time to take her down the hill. She has to use the hand that is not holding his to bunch up her skirt in her fist so she doesn't trip over it, and she still nearly tumbles down twice.

"I want to introduce you to someone," he says, holding out an arm to gesture at the entrance of the building once they've reached it. It looks like there should be a murderer hiding in there, she thinks, trying not to wrinkle her nose in distaste. She slowly opens the door, and nearly gags at how strong it smells in there. Whatever it is, it's distinctly animal. She looks back at Thomas over her shoulder and only takes another step inside when he nods, trying to reassure her.

Around her, there are four horses, all huge. She has never seen a horse in person before, as her father was never fond of them and her mother is allergic to hay, but the ones in the Waynes' stable are all nearly twice her size, or so it feels. "We used to have a lot more, but as Gotham continues to grow, it's been a lot harder for them. The Wayne estate is certainly big, but it's not big enough for a dozen horses to properly roam the yards anymore. My father made the decision to sell the older ones." Perhaps you'd have room for them if your parents weren't constantly building more unattached buildings. It's no wonder they're stuck all the way out here.

"We couldn't get rid of these four, though. They're just too special to us," he says, moving over to one of the steeds and resting his hand on its snout. She stares in horror at his feet, the shoelaces of his nice shoes getting bits of hay stuck to them.

He gestures at her to walk over and she thinks he must be insane. She thinks she must be, too, as she does it anyway. "This one's Brioche." She raises an eyebrow at him and his ears actually turn red. "Aggie and I named him when she was 6 and I was 4," he defends. She laughs and he scowls at her, taking her hand and leading her to the next horse. Unlike the last one, which was a giant black stallion, this one is almost pure white, with small flecks of grey on his forehead. "This is Jericho. He's my mother's horse, though she hasn't ridden him since Aggie got sick." Agatha Wayne, Thomas' sister, has been sickly and frail since she was fourteen. Seven years, she thinks, her heart throbbing for the horse. "The mare in the corner," he says, gesturing without moving. "Is Hestia. She's easily spooked, so we don't really bring people outside of the family close to her."

Then he pulls her to the final horse, a large chestnut male who looks strikingly similar to Hestia. As though sensing her thoughts, Thomas chimes, "This is Apollo. He's Hestia and Brioche's son. He was born when I was 12." Immediately, she can see that this is really Thomas' horse. All of the others were technically horses that Thomas owned, horses that Thomas was fond of, but the way he immediately presses his forehead to Apollo's nose and scratches his neck tells her that this is his horse.

"He's beautiful," she breathes, taking a hesitant step toward the gelding. For some reason, she expects him to spook. He does not, blinking slowly as he turns his head to look from Thomas to her. He dips his head forward in time with her lifting her hand to scratch his snout, and in her heels she can reach to scratch between his ears. It seems to be a good spot, as he snorts and then nudges her arm with his nose like a cat bumping their head into your hand.

"Isn't he?" Thomas asks, sounding excited. As though he was worried they might not like each other. "Mom used to say that he could win shows, if I wanted to take him to that sort of thing. She always said he was almost as handsome as Jericho." He leans in to whisper to her. "I think he's more handsome. Don't tell Jericho. He has a temper."

She laughs a little at how enthusiastic he is, feeling her cheeks warm up. "I love you," she says, without even meaning to. Thomas' eyes snap immediately from Apollo to her, then back again as though consulting the horse to make sure he just heard her correctly. Apollo snorts in what she presumes to be disinterest, flicking his tail and taking a small step back from the both of them. Thomas treats this like an answer, staring at her in astonishment, and then he crashes forward into her with a hug and she stumbles back, but it is okay because it is only a moment before he has lifted her completely off the ground and spins her around.

She yelps and then laughs again, throwing her arms around his neck to secure herself and curling her toes to secure her shoes from flying off. Her skirt puffs up with the air and finally she gently smacks her palm against his back, demanding that he put her down because her legs are going to freeze off. When he puts her back down on the ground, she is dizzy and has to steady herself with her hands on his shoulders for a minute. "I love you too, Martha Kane," he says, and she can't stop the grin that breaks her face. This time it is him resting his hands on her cheeks, pulling her in for a kiss.

They don't pull apart until Apollo whinnies, and she hears it as a loud Get a room. "We should go back to the party," she murmurs, hardly pulling away. Thomas doesn't look convinced at all. "We can come back another time. Maybe you can teach me to ride?" He hums and then nods, taking her hand again.

[lumikinetic]

@sugarbatsy

Uh oh.

[the-nado-hunter]

Tagged by @sugarbatsy (Thank you!)

Nickname(s): Nado, Funky Little Wind Spiral

Zodiac: Gemini!

Height: 5′10 or 5′11, I’m still not entirely sure and I’m too lazy to ask at this point.

Last Movie I Watched: Batman/Superman: Public Enemies (I had heard but I was not prepared for Lex Luthor kissing Amanda Waller like that, I really liked this movie, I love my faves working together, basically Superbat:The Movie)

Last Thing I Googled: Simpsons food goes in here gif

Favorite Artists: Dance with the Dead, R.E.M (recently at least), TheFatRat

Song Stuck In My Head: Show Stopping Number from TGWDLM

Other Blogs: @nadohunter

Followers: 302

Sleep: Anywhere from 3-10 depending on how early I have to get up

Lucky Number: 42 (It’s the answer to everything)

Dream Job: Drawing comics and/or little animations for a solid living would be cool AF

What I’m Wearing: Black pants, Zip down black half sleeved shirt with a rose pattern (it’s my favorite and probably the nicest shirt I own - which I say despite slumped on the couch atm)

Favorite Food: Chicken Paparika

Language(s): English - I used to take Japanese and German but def don’t remember really any of either anymore.

Can I Play An Instrument: Violin when I was a small bean, Piano for a bit at least

Favorite Song: Uhhhhhhhh... I think my favorite one atm is Familiar from SU or Broken Wings by Mr. Mister - vastly different choices lol, but I can’t pick this stuff easilly

Random Fact: I once had a horse stand on my foot when I was little, (I had boots on, but I was trying and failing to learn how to clean its hoof because it didn’t want to lift its leg up) and I was in pain and scared and starting to tear up - but I was so scared about interrupting the teacher talking to a student, or making a scene - I stubbornly clenched my mouth and waited patiently until the teacher wandered over and was horrified to see me standing there with a horse standing on my foot. That was when I timidly said “It won’t get off”. No bones were broken, it didn’t stamp on me or anything - but this is one of many examples of me being in pain but being too scared to ask for help XD.

Describe Yourself Aesthetically: Late nights, city skylines, neon lights. Disaster weather.

Book I’m Currently Reading: I’ve been trying to read Dune for the past 2 years does that count?

Series I’m trying to Finish: A lot of Batman series, Superman TAS... I’m good at starting shows but finishing them...

Tagging: Oh gosh... I guess.... anyone who wants to do it? <3

[nadohunter]

Thank you

This is going to be really cheesy and sentimental, but dammit that’s how I’m feeling right now.

I just wanted to take a second to thank everyone who came through yesterday when I admitted I needed help. Whether it was through a like, a reblog, or physical financial support/commissions, I appreciated every little bit, and I appreciate every single one of you.

Kitties, puppo, and myself are fed, and will be fed through the week, and I’ve started to put away some money to save to help me move out down the line.

It was really hard for me to ask for help, and it was harder for me to even think I matter really at all because the message I was given growing up was always that I’m not deserving of it... or if I don’t figure it all out by myself, I’m a burden or a pain to be around.

But the response blew me away, and really made me optimistic and hope for the future, and made me really feel like I could one day get out of here, live independently and get the mental/physical health help I need. It made me realize that the world can’t be all that bad if there are people like that wanting to support each other like that out there.

So from the bottom of my heart, sincerely : Thank you. Big shout out to @causeimanartist , @rockygetsrolling @renecdote @second-hand-heaven @calciferous-kelpie , @pigexns , @androbeaurepaire , @shellygurumi and @sugarbatsy  for being really kind, sweet, amazing people. You’ve all helped me way more than I can put into words, and I’m incredibly grateful for all of you <3

[renecdote]

Bruce + protect for @sugarbatsy

Everything looks right, except for the way that it’s all wrong. The Jason framed on the mantlepiece is older than the picture should be. Seventeen, eighteen maybe, sitting in front of an open toolbox, Bruce’s favourite Ferrari behind him, his bright grin smudged with grease.

“That’s the one you couldn’t save.”

Bruce doesn’t jump. He turns slowly, not sure he wants to see what he knows is going to be there. Red and green and yellow wrapped like linen around a mummy, perfectly preserved the way he was when Bruce last saw him whole. There are no broken bones though, no blood, no bruised or burning flesh. It’s just Jason. Bruce’s Jason.

“That’s you,” Bruce says. It comes out raspy, painful, choked out past everything he doesn’t know how to say.

Jason—floppy haired and too damn young for the sadness in his eyes—shakes his head. “I can’t be him,” he says. “I can’t be anything anymore.”

The pain in Bruce’s chest is sharp, growing sharper. His body is a bruise and this hallucination—dream? afterlife?—is the child who keeps poking it, just to see if it really does hurt as much as it looks like it will. After it happened, Bruce would have given everything to see Jason again, to numb the ache he carried around with him. But seeing his son now just makes the ache wore.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce chokes out. “God, Jaylad, I’m so—”

“Yes,” Jason interrupts. “You’re sorry. I know.” The words are bitter but his smile is sweet enough to make Bruce’s teeth ache. “It’s okay, Bruce, I forgive you.”

Bruce shakes his head. No. No, it’s not supposed to be that easy. It’s not supposed to—

“I promised to take care of you. I promised to protect/ you.” It’s easier to let the words come with the swell of anger he feels toward himself. Burning through his veins, clouding his thoughts, painting everything in a blood-red haze. He should have done things different. He should have done things better. “All I did was get you killed.”

Jason is angry now. He’s right in Bruce’s face, hands grabbing fistfuls of Bruce’s sweater and shaking, clinging, holding on like he’s solid and real and alive.

“No,” he snarls. “No. You loved me.”

His voice cracks and his eyes spill tears and Bruce decides this can’t be some torturous afterlife, he can’t be dead already, because this, what he’s feeling right now, this must be what dying feels like. His heart has cracked right down the middle, blood cut off from all his vital organs, pain spreading through his cheat and squeezing until he can’t breathe.

“It wasn’t enough,” Bruce hears himself whisper, as if a ventriloquist far away is putting the words in his mouth.

Jason doesn’t have anything to say to that. He wraps his arms around Bruce’s chest, presses his face against the same scratchy wool he always complained about when he was alive (“Bruce, noo, take if off and then I’ll hug you. No, Bruce, no, no it’s itchy. Bruuuuce.”). Bruce hugs him back, tight enough to hurt, feeling the wracking tears that don’t wet his sweater. As much as Jason is here, he’s not really here at all. Wherever here may be.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says again. He could say it for the rest of his life and it would never be enough, no matter what Jason says.

“Shut up, old man,” Jason says through sniffling tears. “Just let me hug you in peace.”

Bruce laughs, little more than a choked breath, strangled before he even realises that it’s not at all funny. It’s just so Jason that if he doesn’t laugh he’s going to cry as well. He thought he spent all his tears after Jason died, but every time he turns around there is a new reason for them to spring up. He cups the back of Jason’s head, curls as soft and unruly as they always were. It isn’t real. It can’t be real.

But God it feels real.

“I miss you so much, Jay,” Bruce murmurs.

“I miss you too, B.”

Bruce closes his eyes and tells himself that it doesn’t matter if it’s not real. It doesn’t matter if Jason is really here or not. If he doesn’t think about it, if he just keeps his eyes closed and hugs his son, it can be good enough for a little while.

[lumikinetic]

@sugarbatsy tearing through Jane Eyre

I watched Tom read for a bit, and it was a journey.

[causeimanartist]

@sugarbatsy more Diana is always appreciated

[ponydanza-in-a-canza]

Sugarbatsy===> missriverwitch