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October 24 2017

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rockpapercynic:

I’ve been posting weekly photo-fiction to my new tumblr, The Shortest Story, and I thought I’d share some of my favorites so far. If you enjoy this, consider reblogging or following on Tumblr, FacebookTapas or Instagram!

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nightwing-ing:

i’m not crying u are

aphrodites-bloody-rose:

apracticalgirl:

apracticalgirl:

I would love a full-movie-cast audiobook of Lord of the Rings just because all of the dialogue is so awful and clunky that it would be really entertaining to hear the actors try to read it in a way that’s even remotely compelling

Imagine Orlando Bloom trying to say the words “Ah! the green smell! It is better than much sleep. Let us run!” out loud as if it’s not an absolutely insane use of language.

Also please consider the fact we would be treated to Orlando Bloom spending half of Fellowship of the Ring screaming like a five year old from Moria to Lothlórien because balrogs and distant kinsmen are equally terrifying.

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billiesimone:

shoot-the-groom:

abstrackafricana:

foxwin:

When I walk into a church, I only see paintings of white angels. Why?“ - Eartha Kitt 

probably for the same reasons i lost 6 followers after posting a steady stream of classically beautiful women…

I’ve never seen a black angel depicted with brown wings. It’s beautiful

wasn’t this like an axe commercial?

October 23 2017

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jakeperaltas:

three fake proposals and a real one

oh-mother-of-darkness:

Total honesty? Christmas was hard, and it wasn’t like the rest of the year had been easy. It was the ceremony of the thing, as far as Duke could tell— there was a way he was used to doing Christmas, and it just wasn’t going to happen anymore. Mostly because his parents…

Well, you know. Duke missed his parents. 

At the very least, he was surrounded by people that seemed to get it when he explained that he just wasn’t that excited for the holidays. Most of them had first hand experience with the whole no-parents thing, after all. 

“Yeah, I hid in the laundry room for most of Christmas Eve.” Dick passed a plate of bacon across the breakfast table. “I didn’t want to look at the lights anymore, you know?”

“Why the laundry room?”

“Because I’m pretty sure that to this day, Bruce doesn’t know where it is. Ask him when he gets here.”

Duke nodded. That was probably fair. 

“Listen the point is, we get it, and we know it’s hard. Christmas is usually a family thing, right? It was for me. And if you don’t think of us as your family yet, that’s fine… but we’re here if it’s what you want.”

To Duke’s left, Jason pulled his face out of his mug of coffee long enough to mutter, “That’s not what you want.” Dick shot him a look, then turned back to Duke. 

Anyway. Don’t worry about it. You’re welcome here as long as you want to be, and if something changes with your parents, you can always opt out. You can leave whenever you want.”

Jason laughed. “If only.”

“I’m not talking to you.”

“Again, if only.”

“What about our relationship makes you think I won’t punch you right now?”

Jason fished a gun out of the inside of his jacket and winked while the rest of the table erupted in outrage. Tim and Cass both lunged out of the line of fire, Tim yelling angrily. Dick pulled a knife out of a pile of silverware like he really did intend to fight Jason then and there— Duke had seen it before, and it wouldn’t have surprised him. He wasn’t particularly keen on being caught in the middle of that again.

Luckily for him, Bruce choose that moment to make his entrance, Damian trailing in behind him. The gun immediately vanished back into Jason’s jacket, and the rest of the table relaxed, apparently united under the unspoken agreement that Bruce didn’t need to know about what had just happened. 

They did that a lot, Duke was noticing. Damian slid into the open space on his right without any kind of ‘good morning’ (not that Duke expected one), while Bruce set a stack of newspapers on the table. Tim grabbed for the one on top.

“Anything interesting?” They were expecting a storm. Holidays were dangerous, according to the others, and Christmas hardly ever passed without an incident. Breakfast on Christmas Eve was technically a strategy session, or at least that’s what they were all pretending. Duke wasn’t sure. 

Keep reading

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ohmyamysantiago:

It’s heist time!

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rayfisher:

I’m so confused I don’t know what’s happening right now.

oh-mother-of-darkness:

Jason always stopped to listen. On most days, silence was a relief— nobody home, no one to run into. No questions. Get in and get out. He didn’t come to the manor if he could avoid it, and he never wanted to talk. Silence meant he wouldn’t have to.
Today, it was suffocating. Jason stood on the doorstep for a few seconds, listening for footsteps, voices, any movement at all, but there was nothing. No violin from upstairs either, but then there wouldn’t be. Not anymore.
He started towards the living room, yelling as he went.
“Hello? Anybody?” More silence. “Look, I know you’re in here. Your bike is parked outside.” Jason poked his head down the path to the kitchen, but that was empty too— dim and abandoned. Maybe Alfred was out.
He pulled his phone from his sweatshirt and called, hoping he could follow a ringtone. Nothing. He hit the voicemail he’d been getting for days.
“This is Tim Drake. I’m not going to make a statement. I want to be left alone.”
Fine. Jason could search the house if he had to.
“You know you can’t hide from me in here, right?” Jason knew the manor, better than he wanted to admit most days. “You might as well tell me where you are.” Tim’s backpack was lying on one of the couches, half-open with paper spilling onto the cushions. Jason could see the light of his phone inside. His own name faded out as the screen went dark.
“Tim, come on, I’m just—”
Worried. He was worried about the last kid left standing in the empty house, after everybody else was gone. Three days since Dick’s death, and Jason knew how he felt— like he was six feet under again, banging bloody knuckles on a lid that wouldn’t open— but that was him. He wasn’t part of the family anymore. He and Dick weren’t close.
Tim was different.
He wouldn’t pick up his phone. Jason had only seen him on the news, forcing his way up the Wayne Enterprises steps through a crowd of reporters, stony-faced and silent. He hadn’t seen Red Robin either. Radio silence. No location, until today.
So yeah, Jason was worried. And he didn’t know if he could help (he didn’t even know if Tim liked him, really), but he figured he would try. In his experience, pretty much anything was better than being left alone.
Of course, he would have to find him first.
“Tim!” Jason turned the living room corner and almost tripped over him— he was lying on the hallway floor, staring blankly at the ceiling. Even when Jason came in, he didn’t blink at all. His chest was moving up and down, but that was it.
“Tim?”
“Hey.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m lying on the floor.”
“Right.” Jason leaned back against the wall, certain that Tim would explain when he felt like it. After a few seconds of silence, he did.
“I almost died here once.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“Yeah. I tried to make it to the cave, you know, but I was bleeding pretty badly, and…” Tim closed his eyes for a few deep breaths, then opened them.
“Dick found me.”
And there it was. Jason sat down next to Tim, back against the wall, and drew his knees up to his chest. He could imagine the scene easily enough— that was one of the downsides to living with a whole clan of vigilantes. It happened. He’d run that drill from both sides himself.
“Tim,” he asked, as gently as he could. “Why are you on the floor?”
Tim didn’t answer at first— just bit at his lip, still staring at the ceiling above them. “How honest do I need to be right now?”
“What if, just this once, we said a hundred percent?” Jason ran a hand through his hair. “It would be a nice change, wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Tim closed his eyes again, hesitating. “I just— I was scared. When I was lying here the first time. I didn’t think I was going to make it, until Dick—” He trailed off again.
“I really didn’t want to die,” he finished. “I was kind of hoping if I laid here long enough, I would remember what that felt like.”
When Tim opened his eyes, tears ran down the sides of his face.
“I’m so tired,” he whispered.
“Tim…”
“And I know I’m not supposed to question if— if all of this is worth it, but I—” His voice was shaking. “I just wanted to save people. That’s all I wanted.”
“I know.”
“So why can’t I ever—” Tim turned his face away from Jason, towards the empty wall. “Why couldn’t I—”
Christ. Jason sat quietly for a few seconds, desperately searching for something to say, but he came up empty. There wasn’t much you could say.
“Tim—”
“I know I’m being stupid.”
“You’re not.” Jason was sure of that, anyway. He wrapped his arms around his knees. “But just so you know? Being dead isn’t any better.”
“That figures.”
“Yeah.”
Silence.
“And just for the record,” said Tim, “I’m not going to… do anything stupid.”
“That would also be a nice change.”
“Ha.”
Jason lay down next to him, looking up at the ceiling. “You know I do this too sometimes.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, except I—” Jason let his knees fall flat on the floor and extended an arm, leaning sideways. “Just like that. And I’m dead.”
Tim looked over curiously. “How do you know?”
“I shouldn’t,” Jason admitted, “but you know he records everything.” And he never deleted a second, no matter how gruesome it was. It was like he was punishing himself, Jason figured, or maybe punishing Jason. Bruce must have realized he would find it eventually.
“You didn’t.”
“I did.” Jason still didn’t know if he regretted it. “Sometimes you get low, you know? And it was right there.” He pulled his knees up again. “It’s not important. Where is he?”
“I don’t know.” Tim went back to staring at the ceiling. “He’s not talking to me right now.”
Of course he wasn’t. “Well I was thinking you could ride with me for a few days. We can go get dinner.”
“I don’t know if I—”
“And you can help me with this cool drug bust. I was going to shoot everybody involved, but if somebody was there to stop me…”
“That’s kind of a low blow.”
“I’m comfortable with that.” Jason stood up slowly, stretching. “Come on. I can help you up.”

oh-mother-of-darkness:

You know it’s bad when even caffeine backfires. Honestly, he’d meant to stay awake— he really had. It was just that his mug, sitting on the desk beside him, was so warm, and he’d just had lunch, and everything was so quiet.
Also he hadn’t slept in twenty-one hours— that helped too. Anyway, by the time the steam stopped rising from his coffee, Tim Drake was asleep, slumped across his keyboard.
He woke up when voices started echoing through the cave.
“I told you, I’m not answering that question.”
“Why not? It’s easy enough.”
“I’m not choosing between my kids.”
“That’s not what I asked! I said your favorite partner.”
“My partners are my kids, Clark.”
Tim cracked one eye open. All of a sudden, even the cave lights were too bright. Ugh.
“You know you have a favorite.”
“I don’t.”
“Just tell me.”
“No.”
“You’ve got to admit, some of them are easier to handle than others.”
“Are you kidding me?” asked Bruce’s voice. “None of mine are easy. Have you met them?”
“Well yeah—”
“I name my migraines after those children. There is literally not a single one that doesn’t drive me up the—”
“Well awkward,” said Tim. He spun his chair around. “Hey, Bruce.”
“Oh…” Bruce ran a hand through his hair, awkwardly smoothing away the lines from his cowl. “Hi, Tim. What are you doing here?”
“Working.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow, and Tim glanced back at the monitor’s blank screen.
“I was taking a break.”
“You’ve got keyboard lines,” said Clark, pointing at his own forehead. “Just so you know.”
“Thanks.” Tim sank back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes. “And it’s Dick.”
“Wait, what?”
“Dick is his favorite.”
“I’m not—” Bruce threw his hands in the air. “I don’t have a favorite child. Parents don’t pick favorites from their—”
“Don’t you think you were your parents’ favorite, Bruce?”
“I don’t have siblings!”
“Well hey, funny thing— that’s exactly what Damian said to me yesterday.” Tim smirked up at his father. “So I guess next migraine’s on him.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” muttered Bruce.
“Yeah, well.” Tim spun back towards his screens. “He also snuck out again. Just so you know. Dick went to go find him, but it’s been a couple of hours since I heard back, so…”
“Seriously?”
“Mmhm.” Tim went back to typing in his case notes. “No idea where either of them are right now. Jason, on the other hand, is in Spain. On a completely unrelated note, several important buildings in Madrid burned down today. Coincidence, I’m sure.”
“Right,” Bruce sighed. “Okay. You guys really nailed that ‘please behave while I’m gone’ thing.”
“We try.” Tim clicked off his screen. “Anyway, I should get going.” Maybe it was time to find a real bed. He pulled his bag onto his knees and stuffed away his files. Downed his mug of cold coffee. Grabbed his cape from the rack. He was halfway to the door when his phone started ringing— Conner Kent.
Tim glanced back at Superman, who was propped against a wall, chatting with Bruce. It was probably fine. “Hello?”
“Tim! Oh thank God. Okay, I need a favor.”
“Um, Conner—”
“No, listen, I can’t really explain because it’s a long story, and like, I didn’t think this would happen? I don’t know, I didn’t think it through. I just kind of— not important. Help?”
“Kon—”
“I might have, and I stress, accidentally because it really was an accident—”
“Wait, don’t—” Tim pressed his phone against his chest, hoping that might muffle the sound enough to keep it private, but it didn’t work. Across the cave, Clark’s swung around, hands on his hips. Tim grimaced and lifted the phone back to his ear.
“—and now I gotta fix it before Superman gets back. He left this morning, and I don’t know where he went, but I think he’ll be home soon, and I—” Conner trailed off. “Are you still listening?”
“…”
“Superman’s in Gotham, isn’t he?”
“Yep.”
“Great,” Conner sighed. “Maybe he didn’t—”
“Yeah, he’s got super-hearing,” Tim reminded him. “He heard.” Clark was storming across the cave, actually, looking outraged.
“Young man—!”
“Oh damn.” Conner whispered. “Nice knowing you.” And he clicked off the line faster than a speeding bullet.
“I’m gonna kill that kid!” Clark swept through the door, pausing only long enough to address a very confused Bruce. “And you think yours are bad.”


For anon, who wanted Tim + Clark vs Bruce. I hope you like it!

-Amy

oh-mother-of-darkness:

If you asked the guys, they’d say they hated the parties. They had a point, she guessed, because really— if Steph had to pose for the cameras like they did, she’d probably hate it too. It was bad enough that she had to explain over and over again that she and Tim weren’t dating anymore, (“We’re actually just friends now… good friends. Please get the microphone out of my face.”) but they had to put up with a lot more than that. 

Anyway, Steph liked Wayne parties. They had nice food. She’d be the first to admit though, they could get a little crazy, which is how this one was turning out.

It all went downhill while she was helping herself to a slice of cake—her phone rang: Dick calling from across the room. So that was suspicious.

“Um, hello?”

“Hey! Listen, I need a favor.”

Steph glanced around the foyer until she saw him by the front door, clutching onto Damian’s shoulders for dear life. It didn’t look good. “Okay, shoot.”

“One of the board members had too much champagne. He’s been saying some, uh, kind of impolite things about Damian and his mom, so…”

“Oh lord. Any casualties?”

“Yeah, not yet, but that’s kind of what I’m worried about. I was wondering if maybe you could take him home? Probably better if— yes you are— he leaves before— child, no— somebody gets hurt— stop struggling I told you NO— or worse. Oh, for the love of— Damian!”

“I can do that, I guess,” Steph told him, regarding her cake regretfully. She supposed she could steal some from the kitchen later. “Yo, Tim, I’m leaving.”

He nodded at her, so she swept through the dance floor. Damn, though, she looked good. That was another nice thing about Wayne parties— they usually came with really sweet dresses. Oh man, she was totally going to… focus. She was going to focus now, before Damian shanked a WASP with half a cake platter. 

Stephanie brushed past a few party goers on her way to the door. She was almost there when she heard him. “I’m just saying, the little bastard doesn’t belong in a boardroom at all, and I— Well hey there, honey, where are you going in such a hurry?”

Seriously? Did that really just happen? Wow, that was so not gonna fly. Steph swung around.

“I was just… you know, maybe I don’t have to leave just yet.” She smiled at him. “What’s your name?”

“Anthony,” he told her. She didn’t like the way he was looking her over. Gross. 

“Prescott, isn’t it? You’re on the board?”

“That I am.”

“Listen, Anthony, can I ask you a favor? My phone just died, and I need to send a couple of texts. Would you mind…?”

“Oh, not at all.” He dug into his pocket and fished out an iPhone, which he unlocked and handed to her. Oh hell yes this was about to get awesome. Stephanie grinned. 

“Thanks! Now let’s see… I want… contacts! There we are. Now what have we got to work with here…?” 

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m just trying to decide who to call about your manners. Let’s see we’ve got… Dad… Mom… Ooh! Grandma. Now how what would your grandma think about the way you’ve been behaving?”

“Oh my god, please don’t—”

“Well now I just have to find out, don’t I? Let’s give her a call!” Stephanie pushed the button. “Ringing, ringing— oh sir, you do not want to do that.” He’d lunged for the phone.

“Give me back my phone you little—”

“Honey, that isn’t helping your case. Hey! Is this Anthony’s grandmother?”

Anthony panicked. He grabbed her arm, so she flipped him— he fell on the floor, and she planted one of her wonderfully glittery heels on his chest and kept right on talking. “Fantastic! It’s great to meet you. My name is Stephanie, and I just met your grandson at a party. Yes, he is very good looking.” She rolled her eyes so Anthony knew he wasn’t. 

“Listen, I’m calling because he’s been very rude to me. Yeah, Mrs. Prescott, you know how they are. I really don’t appreciate it. I should probably mention that I’m a teenager. Yes ma’am. Eighteen. He’s what, at least forty? It made me uncomfortable.”

Stephanie was really liking Mrs. Prescott. “There’s actually one other thing. I have this friend, and your grandson called him a little bastard. I mean, if we’re being completely fair, that’s what he is, but it’s the tone, you know? My friend is ten years old, and he’s very upset. Thank you so much, Mrs. Prescott! I was hoping you would say that.” Stephanie leaned down so Anthony could hear her. 

“Your grandmother wants to talk to you.” She handed him back his phone. “You know, I was just thinking— it’s a pity you’re so old because she probably can’t cut your allowance anymore. Then I remembered that they—” she pointed to the Waynes— “control your salary. So great job, dumbass. You absolutely just insulted the wrong ten year old. Have fun with grandma.” 

And she waltzed away like the badass she knew she was. People were staring at her, but hey, she had caused a scene. And she was gorgeous. She really couldn’t blame them. Even Dick and Tim were gawking at her with their mouths hanging open. Damian actually looked impressed. 

“Good enough?” she asked him.

“Good enough.”

“Awesome. Let’s hit the road. We both have better things we could be doing.”

Damn, she loved Wayne parties.

oh-mother-of-darkness:

Tim didn’t wake up when his alarm went off, but that was because he had never gone to sleep. He’d been listening to the ceiling fan clicking as it turned. It was a small sound, but he couldn’t tune it out, so he stared into space instead: click, click, click, until the buzzing from his phone jolted the rhythm away. He let it vibrate for five deep breaths, then fumbled underneath his pillow.

6:30— Get out of bed

Tim rolled upright, shoving away the twisted pile of blankets. Five breaths. Feet on the floor. Stand up. Alarm off. His arm didn’t hurt as much as he expected, all things considered. It could take most of his weight while he leaned against the wall. He held still, forehead pressed against the paint, until the phone in his hand began to buzz again.

6:35— Brush your teeth

Right. Eight steps to the bathroom door. Toothbrush. Faucet on. Alarm off. It took time to find his toothpaste; he had thrown it at the mirror sometime the night before. That was fine. The cap had been on. He could replace the broken glass, and it hadn’t fallen out of the frame, just cracked in a silver bullseye around the impact point.
That was interesting. He stared at the lines for as long as he was allowed.

6:40— Brush your hair

Yeah, he needed to do that. The back half had dried funny, but at least it wasn’t stiff with blood anymore.

6:45— Get dressed

He was glad one suit had survived the weekend. The rest were scattered in pieces on the dresser top and floor. It was the kind of thing that Alfred would have taken care of if Tim hadn’t taken to locking his doors, but he had. And Alfred hadn’t forced his way in yet.

6:50— Eat

Half-pack of peanut butter crackers. Abandoned cup of coffee. That was close enough, right? It was close enough.

6:55— Go to work

Tim had heard Dick come in hours ago, not long enough to be awake yet. Alfred would be in his room. Cass hadn’t resurfaced since she left. The house should be empty, and if it wasn’t, if there was anyone else wandering around it, then—

He would cross that bridge when he got to it. Angry felt good, Tim thought, because at least anger was something. He had a right to be angry, didn’t he? If Damian thought he was any different than the rest of them just because Bruce… because Bruce was his father…

Bruce was Tim’s father.

Bruce…

Anger was something. It made Tim feel like ripping apart his room, like destroying his possessions, like kicking his desk and breaking his mirrors, but at least it made him feel. When it was gone, he stared at walls. The words left his brain. He couldn’t think.

At 7:02, Tim noticed that his phone was still buzzing on his dresser. Go to work. He was supposed to go to work. Backpack. Open window. Alarm off. 

Dick didn’t believe him. Why didn’t Dick believe him?

Bruce…

Bruce was alive. Tim was sure, but Dick didn’t believe him. There should be emotion behind that train of thought, but it had worn away days ago, back when Tim was throwing things and yelling. It wasn’t that he didn’t care anymore, because he did. It was just that doing anything was hard while he was empty.

Keep reading

oh-mother-of-darkness:

An hour ago, if somebody had told Jason that his night would get worse, he probably wouldn’t have believed them— it was bad enough already. He was back in Gotham (the second time since he’d crawled out of his own tomb), and he’d immediately run into one of the people he’d really, really been hoping to avoid.

“Oh,” the kid had said, “It’s you.”

That was all. He’d held his staff out warily too, which was reasonable, considering everything that had happened the last time the two of them had met. Honestly, Jason would have expected a stronger reaction. New kid was very calm.

Not so much anymore. 

Fear toxin. Jason knew the feeling. He was fine, of course— safe underneath his helmet— but Drake didn’t have that kind of cover, and he’d gone down quickly. He was lying in the alleyway, twitching quietly, and Jason didn’t really know what to do about it. 

It wasn’t his concern, was it? He didn’t ask Drake to show up. They weren’t working together— they’d met up completely by accident, chasing the same lead. This kind of thing happened sometimes; Lord knew Jason had been through enough of Crane’s fearscapes in his time. 

Which was making it really hard to leave, even though that was absolutely what he should be doing. Running. Before Batman showed up. 

“Dammit,” Jason muttered, bending over the other kid’s body. “Hey, listen— you gotta get back to the cave. I don’t have an antidote for this stuff. Can you walk?” Drake didn’t respond, so Jason reached out a hand, intending to shake him awake.

That did the trick— before Jason could make contact, the other kid pushed himself upright and dragged himself backwards, away from Jason and against the wall. He pulled his knees up to his chest.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Fine.” Jason could respect that. “Whatever. Go home. Can you make it by yourself?”

Drake’s eyes closed again— his hands, clasped around his legs, were shaking. Jason could hear him hyperventilating. He had about thirty seconds, Jason figured, before the hallucinations started, and that meant no, he couldn’t get home by himself. He wouldn’t be going anywhere. 

“Alright,” he decided. “I’ve got a bike a few streets over. I can carry you to the—”

“I said no.” Drake was struggling to breathe now, shuddering with the effort of it. His eyes were wide behind his mask. He scooped up his staff from the asphalt and leveled it at Jason, forcing him a few steps back down the street. 

“Get away from me.”

“Kid—”

“I said get away!” He stared at Jason, past Jason, blankly. The nightmares had started— who knew what he was seeing now? It could be anything. In a hellpit like Gotham, there were infinite options. 

But Jason needed to get him home, so he took a step forward and grabbed the end of the staff, trying to wrench it away. Drake didn’t take that well. 

“No!” He yanked back his staff and then jabbed it at Jason’s chest. “I’m sorry, okay! I didn’t mean to— I didn’t—” He was still gasping for air. “I was just trying to help. You were dead! How was I supposed to know you would—?”

Oh, Jason though, he’s still talking to me. I’m in his fearscape. Great.

“I thought he needed—”

Jason pulled the staff away and threw it behind him, back towards the mouth of the alley. “Yeah yeah, you thought he needed you. I get it.”

“He needed you. Next best thing.” Drake threw his arms in front of his head, trying to shield his face. “Please don’t…”

Christ. “I’m not going to hurt you, okay? Just… stay there for a bit. I’m backing away now. See?” Jason retreated up the alley with his hands held out in front of him. Maybe that would make Drake feel better.

What was he supposed to do? He wouldn’t be able to take Drake home himself, not if he was going to fight like that the entire way. He didn’t have many options. He could leave— he probably should leave. The toxin would wear off eventually. With all of the confusion, the other kid might not even remember that Jason was actually there— he would be another hallucination. 

Or. Jason pulled out his phone and stared at the empty screen. He could—
Dammit. Dammit. Fine. He chose the lesser of two evils and dialed. 

Keep reading

oh-mother-of-darkness:

Grave robbers. It must have been grave robbers because that was the only thing that made sense. Bruce had a theory by the time he hit the cemetery, and by the time he finished digging, he was almost sure. Someone stole Jason’s body. It must have happened.

It was the knife that clued him in— a replica of Ra’s al Ghul’s, clearly denoting League involvement. The odds that Ra’s would allow someone else to use his Lazarus Pit were low, but it was still the most likely option. What else had the power to bring a person back to life? The image made Bruce sick.

Until he saw the coffin, he was almost sure. 

There hadn’t been any grave robbers. Bruce could see that, looking down at the splintered wood— why would robbers splinter the wood? The pattern was wrong, the top broken up instead of down, and when he opened the lid…

Empty. He’d expected that. He hadn’t expected the inside to be torn open, buckled, spattered with blood. Corpses didn’t bleed. Bruce stepped away from the hole in the ground, frantically trying to pull away from the one fact every bit of evidence was telling him.

There hadn’t been a break-in. Jason had broken out. Jason had been alive, clearly desperate, inside that coffin, fighting to escape. 

That wasn’t…. that wasn’t right. For a few seconds, Bruce grappled with the logistics of the thing, because a body didn’t come back to life inside a tomb, it didn’t, it couldn’t. Maybe— no that wasn’t possible— Jason had been alive the entire time, but he hadn’t, Bruce knew that, he remembered. He stumbled back against the headstone, feeling the familiar weight of guilt pressing into his chest. Jason died. Bruce couldn’t figure the rest, but that didn’t matter.

The breaks in the wood were years old. Jason was alive. Jason had been alive, maybe the entire time, and Bruce hadn’t known. How could he not have known? How could he not have seen a disturbance that would have been obvious weeks, maybe months after the fact? If he had visited more often—

Bruce stood motionless in the upturned earth, breathing sharp, shallow breaths. Jason. Jason Jason Jason Jason Jason Jason— Jason scared and screaming and alone. He imagined the first scene of every horror movie: a graveyard in the rain, a hand reaching out of the ground, but Jason’s hand— scarred knuckles and bitten-off nails. Bruce pushed the image away. 

He’d been visiting an empty grave. He’d been standing on a splintered coffin, thinking about a martyred child. Bruce remembered the years of it, coming to punish himself, to stand there and feel it the way he deserved to feel, and then… and then less. It never stopped hurting, but the last few years…

He’d left Jason behind. Before God and His throne, he hadn’t meant to, but he had. He’d let himself move on. He wasn’t happy exactly, but happier, and that was a betrayal. 

The older, angry Jason on the rooftops was hard to reconcile with Bruce’s tiny, smiling son, but looking at the empty coffin, Bruce understood. He hadn’t just let Jason die. He’d abandoned him to living, to crawling out of the dirt and into whatever hell had taken him afterwards. That was unforgivable. No wonder Jason hated him. He hated himself. 

If he had known… if he had known Jason was alive, he would have moved mountains to find him. Surely Jason knew that? It didn’t matter. He hadn’t. 

The Red Hood was Jason Todd. Jason Todd was the Red Hood. Bruce had come to view Jason’s grave as a holy place— a shrine to the child that he had been.

He felt it fall out from underneath him. Jason had been gone a long time. 

Bruce turned back to the city, away from the empty grave.


For @dapandabanda, because she had me arrested one time, and dammit, if I’m going to angst jail, I’m gonna deserve it.

oh-mother-of-darkness:

(caution: the tiniest of Jasons)

Even though he hadn’t been living at Wayne Manor long, Jason figured he knew the house pretty well. There was a hidden stairwell on the south side, for instance, and an extra pantry three doors from the garage. He knew about the cave system, the abandoned lift, and the passage to the east tower— but most importantly, he knew that there was only one room in the entire building that Alfred didn’t clean every month.
So if you had something to hide, the fifth guest room on the third floor was the place to go. Unfortunately, as Jason learned one Saturday afternoon, he wasn’t the only one who knew the secret.
When he walked in, there was a man lying on the bed— very still but clearly awake, eyes shut too tightly to be asleep. Oh ho, Jason thought, this was about to get interesting. He smiled, sat down at the foot of the bed, and leaned over the mess of covers.
“You know I can see you, right?”
“Yeah,” sighed Nightwing, sitting up. “But I was kinda hoping you were a dream. Hello. What are you doing here?”
“I live here,” Jason reminded him. The question wasn’t some kind of jab, was it? Was Grayson implying that he didn’t deserve to be in the manor? No— that was stupid. Definitely not what he meant. “Yep,” he repeated. “I live here. But you don’t, so…?”
Grayson reached under the bed and pulled out an empty laundry basket. “The washing machine at Titans Tower broke, and I don’t have a lot of spare cash just now.” He yawned, stretching his arms above his head. “We were in town, and Bruce is gone for the afternoon, so I figured why not? It’s free.” He threw a sideways look in Jason’s direction. “And nobody was supposed to find out.”
“Sorry.”
Okay, he wasn’t actually sorry. It was kind of cool that he’d ruined Grayson’s plan. He didn’t have anything against Nightwing himself— not really, anyway— but the pressure to perform better than him was kind of intense. Sure, Batman never actually said, “the first Robin could have done this better,” but when you read between the lines? It was there. And he didn’t like it. So foiling Grayson’s laundry plot (even if it was completely accidental): awesome. Point one to Team Replacement Robin. Jason watched Grayson roll out of the bed and smooth down the covers.
“And then you just decided to take a nap?”
“I got thirty minutes of sleep last night. You know how it is.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Mmhm.” Grayson finished readjusting the pillows. “Listen, how about you and I do this really fun training exercise? It’s called ‘Don’t Tell Bruce About the Thing.’ Believe me when I say that you will learn valuable skills that you can use many, many times in your future.”
“Haha.”
“No, seriously. Please don’t tell him.” He stepped back to examine his handiwork. “He’s already mad enough, and I don’t need that kind of stress in my life.”
“No promises.”
“I’ll take it, I guess. Hey, since you’re up here, what are the chances that you would run down to the kitchen and sneak me some food?”
“Less than zero.”
“You’re not very helpful, are you?”
“Footsteps,” Jason told him, pointing to the hallway. “How’s that?”
“Oh damn.” Grayson shoved aside the bedskirt and dove underneath the bed— “I’m not here, okay? Act casual.”
How the hell was he supposed to act casual in an empty guest bedroom? Jason scooted into the center of the comforter and propped his feet across the railing, trying his best to look innocent. The footsteps were getting closer— then Alfred walked in the door, holding a stack of folded clothing.
“Is Master Richard in here?”
“Master who?”
Alfred raised an eyebrow and dropped his stack of laundry into the empty basket. “I’m going to assume he is. Tell him he can stay for dinner if he wishes.” He turned back into the hallway.
“Thanks, Alfie,” came Grayson’s muffled voice from underneath the bed.
“You’re very welcome.” Alfred’s footsteps faded down the stairwell.
Nightwing scooted out from underneath the skirt. “Hey, kid.” He held aloft a packet of cigarettes. “What are these doing underneath the bed?”
“Um…” Yeah, those were his. Bruce was trying to break the smoking habit Jason had picked up in Crime Alley. He was fine with that— lung cancer sounded sort of inconvenient— but sometimes he got antsy, and well…
“What if we agreed that Batman doesn’t need to know you were here,” he told Grayson “or that I have those.”
“You know these things will kill you, right?”
“Not before Bruce does, if he finds out.”
“You could be…” Grayson trailed off as underneath them, they heard a car door slam. “What time is it?”
“Four thirty.”
“Holy— I was supposed to be out before he came back. Must have overslept again.” He rubbed at his eyes. “Well, I’m toast. Nice knowing you.”
“You could just climb out the back?”
“My motorcycle’s parked out front. I stuck it behind a tree, but you know he’s going to notice.” Grayson rolled his eyes. “He’s Batman. I might as well go get it over with. Does this look say ‘apathetic’ to you? It gets on his nerves when he thinks I don’t actually care.”
Jason folded his arms and stared at Grayson, trying to make a decision.
“What… are you doing?”
“Fine.” Jason snatched his box of smokes from Grayson’s hand and pulled a lighter from the dresser drawer. “Get your damn laundry.”
“I’m confused.”
“Often, I’d assume.” Jason wandered out on to the balcony, overlooking Bruce and the car he was climbing out of. He lit one of his cigarettes and puffed at it contentedly— three, two, one…
“Jason Peter Todd!” Bruce’s scandalized voice easily cut through three floors of space. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
Creating a distraction, actually, but Bruce didn’t need to know about that. Jason waved at him cheerily. “You’re home!”
“Get down here this second!” Bruce slammed through the front door without pausing to look at his yard, his trees, or the motorcycle shoved behind them. Another point to Team Replacement Robin— job well done.
“Window,” he told Grayson. “Now. You’ve got twenty seconds.” He pulled three of his cigarettes out of their box and stashed them underneath the carpet— he wasn’t about to lose them all.
“Um, thanks?”
“Yeah. You owe me.” Jason watched Grayson disappear beneath the window sill, dangling his basket beneath him. “Big time.”
“Fair enough. I guess I’ll see you later.”


For mayhw  (Robin!Jason + Dick + Bruce)

little–feather:

i want a reality show about the gods of olympus. like every week, there’s yet ANOTHER thing that zeus does and hera gets angry but cries in the talking part that i never know what to call. 

the camera people follow hades around and are expecting to be turned away, but he gets really excited and loves talking about his work. persephone, however, likes to play tricks on the camera people to get them to leave her alone. these often involve fake sacrifices. (hecate loves to help)

ares always shows up e x h a u s t e d and can barely stay awake while he talks about whatevers happening.

athena is often found in the library and the camera people cant talk to her there. (she’s always in the library and the camera people are trying to figure out what she’s studying so intensely) ((she’s not studying anything, she’s avoiding them))

and they can never find time with zeus to talk to him or ask him questions, but he’s almsot always seen in the background doing weird things??? and anytime one of the camera people yells “ZEUS!!!” to get his attention, he turns around and then disappears???? (but you can always find a white animal on set in various scenes) “WHERE IN THE HELL DID YOU GET A WHITE PHOENIX, JOAN?! WHY IS THAT EVEN HERE?!?!”

hermes is always talking over his shoulder because he’s always moving. being the messenger boy isn’t easy, especially with the traffic in the city. “gods, don’t even get me started on trying to fly. ONE TIME i was late and all of the sudden im this guy called superman and everyone wants me to save the city. ONE TIME!”

hestia works in a foster system and helps find homes for kids. she’s really good at it. but she a l w a y s talks about her kids when she’s at home and hera looks at the camera like “oh my gods kill me”

so every few months there’s this dinner they have, with all the 13 gods of olympus and they are FUN. this is really the only time you can see zeus not doing weird things in the background, but he loves to make jokes.

hades always brings persephone, which gets under everyones skin because “she’s not one of the thirteen” and hades always tells them “well the underworld chose her, yall chose me, so we’re both here.”

“FOURTEEN IS A WEIRD NUMBER HADES, IT HAS NO MYSTICAL MEANING!”

“athena no one gives a fuck, we don’t have power over the world anymore.”

“ares, be nice to your sister.”

“w h a t e v e r, mom”


( @shanastoryteller i thought you’d enjoy this)

oh-mother-of-darkness:

Dick didn’t mean to get nostalgic, but sometimes it happened— the Manor was like that. It was hard to walk through a decade of memories without feeling them, especially when everything looked the same. Of course it did. Bruce didn’t like it when things changed on him. 

Dick ran a hand over the kitchen counters as he passed, up onto the wall and across the room. Yeah, exactly the way he remembered, minus Alfred at the stove. He was out today, probably at the grocery store or waiting in a middle school parking lot somewhere. It was about that time. 

His circled the kitchen until his fingers hit the doorframe and stuck on the tape measure glued alongside the wood– right on top of his own name written in Bruce’s handwriting, accompanied by a date six years old. He’d been awfully small back then, hadn’t he? Dick bent down to read the very bottom of the chart, smiling a little bit at the memory. He would have been eight back then. He made Bruce mark his own height on the wall the first time, even though Bruce had protested that he already knew how tall he was. But that wasn’t the point, and he’d given in eventually.

That mark was still there: the highest one on the wall. Dick remembered staring at it every time he got measured, pleased by the way the gap closed as he grew taller, wondering if it would ever close entirely. It didn’t. Dick had stopped growing four inches beneath Bruce’s 6’2. 

He was trying not to take that metaphorically.

Measure up, he thought. Funny. He paused over the only thing about the kitchen that had changed— the two marks on the height wall that said Jason (half an inch and three months apart) and wondered if Jason stared at Bruce’s mark too. Or maybe even Dick’s.

Good luck, Dick thought, and left.


Tim understood why Bruce was angry, although “angry” might have been the wrong word. He was upset really, but on Bruce upset and angry looked the same— like slamming doors and punches that were just a little bit too hard. Like not looking Tim in the eye, but staring at him when he thought he wouldn’t notice.

He noticed. Hard not to. 

You didn’t do anything wrong, he reminded himself, and Bruce knows that. He’ll get over it in a few days. He always does.

Until then, Tim figured it was best to stay out of the way. He was hiding out in the kitchen, well away from Bruce, staring at the cause of this month’s episode: the growth chart in by the door, specifically two marks labeled Tim and Jason.
Tim’s mark was higher. That made it official— he was taller than Jason had ever been. 

Bruce must have seen that coming, but maybe plain seeing it was harder. Tim didn’t blame him for being upset or angry or whatever he was— maybe feeling upset made him angry?— especially when he felt guilty himself. He didn’t mean to outgrow Jason, by any definition. He was just… growing. By himself. 

Shouldn’t that be a good thing?

Yes. But that didn’t mean it was good for Bruce. 

Tim tapped aimlessly on the kitchen table, searching for the source of the guilt he could feel eating through his chest. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He was doing his best to minimize the problem. What else was there?

It was perfectly reasonable for Bruce to be upset. Jason was his son— a more important person than Tim, who was not— and death was hard to handle. Tim knew that. More important. Jason was more important. 

Tim wished he wasn’t. He hated himself for wishing that. 


Keep reading

0194 8f14 500

imnotafan:

buckysl3ftarm:

lanternwisp:

blacksirencry:

i have never empathised with kyle rayner’s melodramatic ass as much as i do right now (x)

For those who are curious, the context is that this is a Gotham alley and the reason Kyle is sad is that he embarrassed himself in front of Batman

KYLE SAME

KYLE

rainy-day-daydreamer:

hiccop:

hiccop:

hiccop:

You fools. You absolute idiots

a welcome mat only invites a vampire in if the word welcome is facing away from the door

If you face the word welcome towards the door then the implied invitation is removed you dingles

You can have a welcome mat without letting blood thirsty sanguivores into ur fucking place of residence

Common sense, people!

Wrong. Incorrect. Opens your home to potential unwanted supernatural insurgents.

Correct, much safer. Human guests will not care about the discrepancy and it still gives them a place to wipe their feet

“But wait! What if I’m expecting my vampire boyfriend over later, and I won’t be able to open the door”

Leave an invitation under the doormat like a reasonable person u idiot

…..??????????????

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