Sometimes it’s hard to explain to people how I simultaneously love girls so freaking much but also have internalized lesbophobia that makes it harder for me to view myself in a loving and committed relationships with a woman because of society’s fetishization of lesbians and wlw to the point where being with a girl just feels like I’m part of some kink to get straight men off
@arabian-batboy said: Can you write something where Bruce comes across Jason in an alley after his resurrection but before Talia took him in & since he couldn’t talk at that time (& because he’s supposed to be dead) Bruce thinks it’s just a hallucination and just leaves him?
It had been a long time since Bruce was afraid of ghosts, mostly because they never left him alone. If this one seemed more real than usual, hey, it had been a rough day.
Always was, this time of year.
April 27th. Bruce liked to think he was getting better— maybe some year he wouldn’t find himself lurking in Crime Alley on today, the anniversary of Jason’s death— but he wasn’t there yet.
It made sense. How was he supposed to forget Jason? That was what it would take, Bruce knew, to leave the guilt behind. Every time Jason crossed his mind, it all came crashing back: the grief and shame and pain in his chest.
Flashbacks, sometimes. Hallucinations.
He wasn’t particularly surprised to see his dead son lying on the cobblestones. It was bound to happen today.
Bruce took a deep breath. It was time for another hell ride through his own subconsciousness. What would it be this time?
Older, he thought— this Jason looked older, the age he would be if he had lived. That was normal; Bruce spent a lot of time imagining Jason alive and growing up. This Jason looked like he had been on the street for a long time, and Bruce could explain that too; they’d met on this spot when Jason was young and homeless. Of course he was remembering that day.
Bruce blinked away the image of Jason, small and defiant, sprinting towards the mouth of the alley with his tire iron. Who hit the Batman with a tire iron? Jason did. Jason was…
Well, Jason was dead. Jason had been extraordinary— brave, bright, explosive, kind— but he was gone, and the illusion on the pavement was just that: an illusion. A memory. Bruce’s mind playing tricks.
The punishment he deserved. He could feel it beginning like it always did, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, his fingertips, his chest, rooting him to the stone underneath him until he couldn’t run— not that he should run. He hadn’t saved Jason. The least he could do was feel it.
Harry frowned when he looked down at the counter and was faced with his own biography, Harry Potter, The Incredibly Heroic Boy Who Lived (Twice!). When he accepted the job at Flourish and Blotts he never considered that he might have to sell books that were written about himself. Harry’s frown turned into a grimace when he realized that the customer buying this book would probably be starstruck when they realized that the one and only Harry Potter was standing on the other side of the counter.
But when Harry looked up to see the customer, he was the one who was starstruck. Because standing in front of him was Draco Malfoy. Unbearably attractive, adorably flustered Draco Malfoy.
“Potter,” Draco said, shocked.
Harry was too busy staring at the blond, memorizing every perfect detail of his face, to respond. He hadn’t seen Draco since his trial two years ago, and the last he heard Draco was in France studying to be a Healer. France has been good for Draco, Harry thought as he admired Draco’s no longer skinny, but fit body. Draco was also silently appreciating Harry’s appearance, but the blond had been taught that it was impolite to stare, so he broke the silence by clearing his throat. Harry’s eyes immediately flew to Draco’s face.
“Malfoy,” Harry said, his voice hoarse. “How have you been?”
“Spectacular as always,” Draco answered dryly. “And you?”
“I’ve been…” Harry searched for a casual way to say completely lost. “Fine.”
Draco nodded. Both boys seemed at a loss for words and Harry looked back down at the book on the counter. The book about him. That Draco was buying, for some reason.
There are no evil spirits, there is light and dark in them all.
About a year ago, I tried referencing a cap from “The Southern Lights” episode and came up with this. Since then, I’ve always had an urge to try it again - so last night I decided to do just that as a bit of a cool-down from all the drawing studies I’ve done this week. It took some time, but it was very fun to do! (and the results weren’t too shabby!) :P
ETA: I’ve had a few people contact me today asking if this was available as a print, so I’ve set up one over at society6!
It’s Shiro’s birthday so I wanted to write something short and nice for him as my writing warm-up today and this happened instead. Well, it’s definitely birthday-themed at least.
Have I ever told you about my headcanon that Galra naturally have longer lifespans than humans? Happy Birthday, Shiro.
Keith sits on the edge of the bed, eyes cast downwards, mouth drawn up into a straight, tight line. His hands are resting at the drop-off of the sheets on either side of him, fingers curled in towards the mattress, gripped loosely at its corner. His shoulders curve forwards.
Shiro waits a moment or two, wondering if he’ll come out and say what’s bothering him or let it stew silently. Sometimes it’s one, sometimes it’s the other, depending on the matter, and he doesn’t want to push him if Keith’s going to offer it up himself. But after Shiro has finished changing into his sleep pants and Keith still hasn’t looked up at him, he wants to check in.
“Everything okay?” Shiro asks, coming to stand in front of Keith.
Keith’s eyes flicker up to Shiro, then to the Earth calendar drawn up on the wall, then to the clock that reads 11:58, before he says, “Yeah, it’s fine.”