#they're just one of the metrics for how we feel in ourselves/our bodies as it pertains to the concept of gender

[variousqueerthings]

cisgender dysphoria/euphoria examples include amanda byrnes experiencing the former while doing she's the man because she didn't feel herself when she saw herself in the mirror as "a boy," and ryan gosling going all-in on how much fun it clearly was for him to play ken as deconstructing the kind of masculine pigeonhole he's usually stuck in

[lurkinglurkerwholurks]

Breathing

First posted: May 28, 2018

Focuses on: Jason (and his family)

My favorite bookmark: "Jason Todd is sassy monster and Bruce has PTSD from this asshole dying. 🥺🤣"

My second favorite bookmark: "I CANT STOP CRYIIINNNG WTFFFU"

Tier: Pretty middle of the road in terms of metrics, but one of my personal favorites.

This is my "behind the scenes" series where I indulge myself frightfully by annotating my fics. Link to the fic itself above. Thoughts below the cut.

This fic was dedicated to @starknjarvis27 because she came up with the idea on one of our many BatFam discussions, and being a Megan Whalen Turner superfan, I couldn't not take on the idea.

For those unaware, this fic lifts the bones of an absolutely wonderful scene in The King of Attolia, the third (and best) book in the Queen's Thief series. I made sure you didn't need to know the series at all to enjoy "Breathing," but the girlies who know shriek more.

Jason was still breathing when Bruce found him.

Most of my fics, I may not totally know where they're going, but I know my first line. No exception here.

The voice of this one doesn't feel fully Bruce to me, which makes sense because it's so early on in my written works. Also I'm telling myself that's just young Bruce not sounding quite like his more mature self. Ah, the tales we tell ourselves sometimes. 💀

Jason’s chest, or what was left of it, rose again, the cavity of smashed ribs deepening as his lungs fought to work.

I don't know enough medical things to comfortably get too detailed on Jason's injuries (and I wasn't friends yet with Audrey to ask), but since this was Bruce's POV, I worked to make it adequately gruesome.

If those panicked, roving blue eyes with their black-blown pupils could see anything beyond his own fear.

And sometimes I make up words for fun.

He wanted to hold him. Wanted to scoop that broken body into his arms and shelter it with his own until the miracle he was praying for arrived. Bruce wanted to hold his boy. But his stupid, awful, useless brain hissed warnings of spinal injuries and paralysis, of the harm he could cause by giving into sentiment at just the wrong time.

Apparently I also knew how I wanted this section to end because I was deliberately writing toward

And, at last, Bruce held his son.

This.

Trying to figure out the setting of the second half was tough because I didn't care about where they were coming from. I wanted it to be vaguely comic cliche and hopefully not racist or otherwise offensive but that's all.

Also, ugh, staging. Staging. I hate staging. Trying to mark where everyone is and why and keep them all straight as they start to move. Bah.

Of course, now, looking back, hewing more closely to the original scenario where the main figure (Attolis, Jason) turns and smiles at the narrator just before disaster, that sure would have been something, wouldn't it.

But Jason. The odd man out. The wild card, for good or ill. The unpredictable ace up their sleeve. Their magnet for trouble, collector of odd experiences. Too cynical to be Dick, too rash to be Tim, too undisciplined to be Damian. Raised on the streets. Trained by a Bat and a Flying Grayson. Raised again by assassins. Comrade of drug dealers, mercenaries, and thieves. Their family stories always seemed to twist on a “but Jason.”

I like this bit a lot, personally.

He had never seen Jason kill like this. It was the blinding flash of blades, the blur of a tan leather jacket and dark curls, the splatter of red blood on grey stone. And then it was done.

BAMF JASON TODD!!!

At the weight of three sets of eyes landing on him, Jason turned only his head and met Dick’s gaze. His face was pale, almost green, and splattered with a fine mist of blood. It took Dick a moment to piece his coloring together with the slant of his jaw and the blaze in his eyes. He was angry. No, he was furious. But when his eyes met Dick’s, he smiled. All teeth. “Let’s not keep Daddy Dearest waiting, boys.”

Jason is scary and I love him. I think if I could pick an audio narrator for him, especially the way I wrote him in the beginning, I'd pick the guy who does the Raven Boys audiobook, specifically in the voice he uses for Ronan.

“I could use a hand on this next part,” Jason admitted, voice steady and cool. 

And my brain recites, oh gods, stairs.

“I’m dying, Dickie. My insides are on my outsides."

Direct. Hecking. Quote.

“I probably won’t even make it to the Batplane,” Jason moaned. “You’ll have to leave me here. They’ll make me a trail marker. Reach the skeleton with the sweet jacket and you’re halfway to the temple of doom.”

A nice little trail marker. So like a thief in a ditch, one might say.

Jason lay still on the narrow cot, conscious but boneless. Even the furious greenish tint of his skin had faded away into a bloodless pale. Alfred had pulled up his shirt to reveal the truth. Jason’s grip down the mountain hadn’t been only to stanch the bleeding, but to hold himself together. At some point in the blurred fight, a blade had snuck under his defenses and slit open his abdomen, nearly from hip to hip. The blood that had trickled through his shirt and over his hand had been nothing compared to the steady flow that had soaked unseen into his pants. Over Alfred’s shoulder, Jason opened his eyes and met Dick’s.

This is full-scale lifting, my obscene apologies to Megan Whalen Turner, I love your work.

Alfred’s back blocked most of Jason’s body from view. Dick could see Jason’s face and upper torso. Bruce, being taller, could probably see a little more. Damian and Tim, being shorter, could probably see a little less. Both boys stood further back as well, Tim just behind Bruce and Damian behind Dick.

friggin blocking, my foe. Just lining up the stupid little dominoes so they fall right in a minute.

Six people breathing. Five people breathing.

I'm a genius. Good job, me.

Jason erupted like a tiger caught in a snare. He clawed at the cot, trying to push himself up. Alfred cried out, warning of wounds and fresh blood and popped stitches as he tried to force Jason back down. Dick sprang forward and tried to grab his brother, but got a fist to the face for his troubles. He staggered back.

Againnnnnnnnnn I'm so sorry Megan Whalen Turner

Dick slowly unclenched his fingers, first releasing Jason’s hair, then his wrist. Violent red streaks branded Jason’s skin like a cuff

I am a clever little clog with my symbolism and because these fics are for me, I can be smug about it

At least a couple people have said this fic have pushed them to read Megan Whalen Turner which is all I could ever want or hope for.