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arayentee · 2 months ago

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𐔌 ⋮ “Do I Look Like Him?”

Damian Wayne vs. the ghost of Bruce.

(Inspired by Like Him — Tyler, the Creator)

© fromrory — All rights reserved. Reposting, translation, or modification of these works is strictly prohibited, regardless of whether credit is given. Featuring: Nightwing, Red Robin, Red Hood (brief mention) Batman & reader.

It’s 2:41 a.m. in the Batcave.

Damian’s staring at the reinforced glass display that holds his father’s first cape and cowl.

It’s not the one Bruce wears now—sleeker, newer, fitted for tech and terror. No, this one’s older. Heavier. The color is faded at the shoulders, threadbare along the seams. It’s the one from the early years. The one his father bled in.

The one Damian has never seen him wear in person.

He doesn’t know why he came down here.

He’s supposed to be asleep. Or meditating. Or sparring with his girlfriend. Something productive. Something he can control.

Instead—

He’s staring at a cape behind glass like it might blink back at him.

A phantom. A fossil. A symbol.

Behind him, the elevator door hisses open. He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t flinch.

Of course it’s Grayson.

Damian can tell by the way the silence softens. Dick has this way of entering a room like a song you forgot you loved. No boots slamming like Jason. No awkward throat-clearing like Tim. Just presence. Quiet, whole, warm.

“You okay?” Dick asks, stepping close but not too close.

Damian’s arms are crossed. Rigid.

“I am simply… observing.”

Dick follows his gaze to the case. He doesn’t say anything. Not right away.

Then—

“You’re doing that thing again,” he says.

Damian’s jaw tightens. “What thing?”

“The… ‘I’m not thinking about my father but I am very clearly thinking about my father’ thing.”

Damian scowls. “Tt. I am not—”

“—Making that face he makes when he’s brooding?” Dick finishes, smiling gently. “You are.”

That stops him.

Because he knows it’s true.

He’s heard it before.

“Your eyes do that narrowing thing like him.” “You cross your arms the exact same way.” “God, even your silence sounds like him sometimes.”

His beloved had said it once, not unkindly, just surprised:

“You furrow your brow like Bruce. I didn’t notice before,it's cute.”

He hadn’t answered.

Because what was there to say?

The words are crawling up his throat now. Ugly. Undignified.

He doesn’t look at Dick. Just keeps his eyes on the cowl. The ghost in the glass.

“Do I look like him?”

Dick pauses.

“Sometimes,” he says softly.

Damian’s voice is low. Tight. “Do I sound like him?”

“No.”

He turns, frowning.

Dick shrugs. “You sound like you. You’re just… him-adjacent.”

Damian shakes his head. “She said I make expressions like him. That I brood. That I vanish. That I don’t say what I mean until it’s too late.”

He hears it now—his own voice.

Low. Cold. Clinical.

Like Bruce.

He looks at his own hands. Gloved. Scarred.

“Am I him?” he asks, quieter. “Am I turning into him?”

Dick doesn’t laugh.

Doesn’t tease.

He just sits on the edge of the platform, letting his legs dangle like he used to do when he was Robin. He leans back on his palms, eyes searching the cave ceiling like he’s reading something etched there.

Then, simply—

“I used to want to be him. When I was your age.”

Damian blinks.

“You did?”

“Oh, yeah. Black cape, gravel voice, tragic backstory? It was the blueprint, man.” He grins. “But then… I realized something.”

Damian waits.

“He’s not the goal, Dames. He’s just… a man. A very messed up, emotionally constipated man who tried his best with what he had.”

Dick turns toward him now.

“And you’re not him. You’re better. You’re you. You’re loud where he’s quiet. Bright where he’s shadow. You get angry out loud. You smile for real. You even kiss your girlfriend in public.” He winks.

Damian blushes.

“I saw the hand kiss,” Dick adds.

“Stop observing my relationship,” Damian mutters, ears pink.

“I can’t, it’s like watching a scowly baby deer fall in love.”

They sit in silence a moment.

Then:

“I don’t… miss him,” Damian says. “Not in the way people mean. I didn’t grow up wishing for him.”

Dick nods. He knows what this is. He’s been this.

“I had my mother. I had trainers. A mission. Purpose. I didn’t need him.” Damian’s voice wavers. “But now… now I’m in a world where I’m supposed to.”

“Supposed to what?”

“Supposed to care. About a man who shows up at 2 a.m. to patch bullet wounds and disappears before dawn. Who trains me like a soldier but sometimes forgets my birthday. Who says he’s proud with his eyes but never his mouth.”

His fists clench.

“I don’t even know what I want from him.”

Dick is quiet for a long time.

Then—

“You don’t have to want anything,” he says. “You don’t have to chase him. You don’t owe him the shape of your heart.”

Damian breathes, unsteady.

“…But what if I’m him anyway?” he asks. “What if he’s in me? The way I stand. The way I love. The way I hurt people without meaning to.”

Dick smiles, sad and soft.

“Then forgive yourself like you would forgive him.”

Behind them, the elevator dings again.

She appears. Barefoot. Hoodie too big. Her curls frizzed with sleep.

She rubs her eyes. “You weren’t in your room,” she mumbles. “Thought maybe the League kidnapped you again.”

Damian doesn’t speak. Just walks over. Lets her tug his sleeve. Rest her head against his shoulder.

He leans into it.

Slow. Quiet.

Like a boy, not a legacy.

Later, when everyone else is asleep, he scribbles something in a notebook.

Not a report. Not a list.

A question.

“𝐼𝑓 𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑚𝑦 𝑓𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟’𝑠 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑤… 𝑊ℎ𝑦 𝑑𝑜 𝐼 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝐼’𝑚 𝑖𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡?”

He doesn’t sleep that night.

But he breathes easier.

Even if the ghost in the glass never leaves.

He knows now—

He can walk past it.

And build something of his own.

Taglist🏷️: @simpingmyassoff , @shootingstargirl2001 , @dreamerwhofell , @gothamwing (if you want to be added,comment down below!)

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arayentee · 2 months ago

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greta thunberg, liam cunningham, rima hassan, and everyone else on that ship, thank you, and i hope you succeed. i really hope you succeed. you know what you are risking, and i wish for you to come back safely, having done what you set out to do.

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arayentee · 2 months ago

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All Colonized People

See Themselves

In Palestine.

They See Same Aspect Of What Was Done To Them In Palestine.

All Colonizers

See Themselves

In Israel.

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arayentee · 2 months ago

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THE BABYSITTER’S CLUB pt. 1 || Ghoap x Single Mom || 18+ MDNI

Words: 1k not proofread

Summary: A slow-burn tale of two angels blessing a single mother with love, acceptance, and family she never knew. A feel good mini-series; what else is fanfiction for?

Warnings: 18+ MDNI. Read at your own risk. Language, eventual smut, polyamory/taboo themes.

Another night behind the register, multitasking as if you were the one bringing home the managerial big bucks. Scanning items with one hand, sorting the day’s cash into envelopes with the other. Hair up, name tag lopsided on your shirt, in a flow state as you moved.

There are a few stragglers remaining. Behind the old woman you’re handing a receipt are two of the most enormous men you’d ever seen. Tall and broad in the way that takes up an entire doorframe, carrying -

“Didn’t think anyone else liked these,” You said, holding up a bag of jalapeño crisps before scanning them. Your eyes found his: blue like the deepest ocean. “You the guy who cleaned us out last month?”

He raised a hand to his chest. You watched the fabric crease along his chiseled muscles beneath. “Guilty. Though I might be willin’ ta share. Name’s Johnny, by the way.”

You give a short nod, putting the crisps in a bag. “Are you always this friendly with your cashiers?”

“Well ye’ve got good aim wi’ the barcode scanner.”

You snort, a little huff of a laugh out your nose. The other man, taller, broader, and significantly quieter (in some dirty creepy skull mask no less), sets down a carton of milk and Corn Flakes. Your eyes scan over him cautiously.

“You his handler?”

His eyes crinkled just slightly beneath the mask. “Somethin’ like that.”

Well if this hasn’t been the most pleasant bit of customer interaction you’d had all day… your fingernails - short but well-maintained - tap on the card reader in front of them. As if reminding them why they were there. “Thirty-three even.”

The one in the mask reached past Johnny to tap his card against the reader while Johnny gathered up the bags easily. No struggling to get the groceries in for these two.

He opened his mouth to say something, probably another charming line in his Glaswegian lilt, when he suddenly flinched, hard. “Och!”

You blink at them as the taller one kept his large hand on the back of the other man’s neck. “What was that?”

”Discipline.” Came his low gruff tone, not even bothering to turn, still guiding them both towards the door.

But Johnny wasn’t relenting. He called out over his shoulder. “Dunnae mind him, Guppy. He gets cranky if ye flirt too much in public.”

You smirk, give on last rib right back, speaking just loud enough for them to hear as they exited. “Guess you better pace yourself, then.”

\\\

When they were out of sight, Simon finally released his hold on Johnny, who instantly rubbed at the spot with his free hand. “Fuckin’ hell. Was that necessary? Was jus’ talkin’. Bet she’s got a man at home, anyway.”

”No ring.”

Johnny stopped walking. He smirked at Simon’s back as it continued. “You noticed?”

\\\

It had only been a few days. If he’d gone through all those Corn Flakes and milk he just bought, you’d be a bit concerned. Your eyebrow raises when he finds your register again, this time alone - no Johnny - and puts the milk and cereal on the belt.

“The masked man returns for more of the world’s blandest cereal.” You joke, smirking up at him. You were already learning to watch for signs of lift in the corners of his eyes - your only indication he was enjoying the conversation.

“Growin’ on me.” He murmured.

You bit the inside of your lip to keep from smiling too much, because that felt like a line. Too hard to tell. You were about to let the moment pass when he kept it going - what a nice surprise.

”Always work the late shift?”

You shake your head, putting the items in a bag. “Not always, but not a lot of people volunteer to work late every weekday when the paycheck’s the same. I don’t mind; I like the quiet.”

He nodded. You liked quiet. That was good. “Was wonderin’ if I could text ya sometime. Grab coffee. S’that alright?”

Your head tilts, lips lifting in a bashful smile you can’t help. Your fingers are already working the receipt machine, pulling out some excess to scribble your number on. “Was wonderin’ when you were gonna get around to that.”

His hand fished his phone out, opening it to texts from Johnny that made him fight to keep a straight face, even behind the mask.

JOHNNY: YER AT THE SHOP YE CEREAL-EATIN SHITEBAG

JOHNNY: I KNEW YE LIKED HER

\\\

Simon is sitting on the floor of the flat he shares with Johnny, back against the couch. It’s quiet for a change - Johnny out with Gaz again.

The problem with quiet is, it starts to crawl under Simon’s skin. It starts off with the neck-cracking, the shoulder rolls, then moved to hastily shoving the sleeves of his hoodie up, down, up again. Then finally -

Your name on his phone, an empty text box waiting to be filled. Not that he knew what to say, he didn’t do this. He didn’t text women first. Or at all. He barely texted Johnny and they lived together.

But he tried anyway, because there was something about you, wasn’t there? The way you met his eyes, even when you were clearly a little unnerved by the mask - who wasn’t when they first met him? -, the way you smiled when he asked for your number like you didn’t think you deserved the world and then some. Yeah… he could make an effort for this one.

SIMON: Hey, its Simon. Corn Flake guy. Thought I’d see if you were free sometime.

You’re at home when you receive the text. It’s late enough that you’ve showered and gotten yourself ready for bed, are tucked under your covers, just about dozing off. But the unknown number coupled with his message zaps your energy right back. Heart hammering, you sit up and start typing a reply. Should you wait? Don’t want to seem too eager… so you wait. A whole two minutes.

YOU: I’m free Thursday night when I get off work. Ok if I wear my name tag?

His reply makes you grin.

SIMON: Long as it’s ok I wear the mask.

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arayentee · 3 months ago

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The Neurodivergent Writer’s Guide to Fun and Productivity

(Even when life beats you down)

Look, I’m a mom, I have ADHD, I’m a spoonie. To say that I don’t have heaps of energy to spare and I struggle with consistency is an understatement. For years, I tried to write consistently, but I couldn’t manage to keep up with habits I built and deadlines I set.

So fuck neurodivergent guides on building habits, fuck “eat the frog first”, fuck “it’s all in the grind”, and fuck “you just need time management”—here is how I manage to write often and a lot.

Focus on having fun, not on the outcome

This was the groundwork I had to lay before I could even start my streak. At an online writing conference, someone said: “If you push yourself and meet your goals, and you publish your book, but you haven’t enjoyed the process… What’s the point?” and hoo boy, that question hit me like a truck.

I was so caught up in the narrative of “You’ve got to show up for what’s important” and “Push through if you really want to get it done”. For a few years, I used to read all these productivity books about grinding your way to success, and along the way I started using the same language as they did. And I notice a lot of you do so, too.

But your brain doesn’t like to grind. No-one’s brain does, and especially no neurodivergent brain. If having to write gives you stress or if you put pressure on yourself for not writing (enough), your brain’s going to say: “Huh. Writing gives us stress, we’re going to try to avoid it in the future.”

So before I could even try to write regularly, I needed to teach my brain once again that writing is fun. I switched from countable goals like words or time to non-countable goals like “fun” and “flow”.

Rewire my brain: writing is fun and I’m good at it

I used everything I knew about neuroscience, psychology, and social sciences. These are some of the things I did before and during a writing session. Usually not all at once, and after a while I didn’t need these strategies anymore, although I sometimes go back to them when necessary.

I journalled all the negative thoughts I had around writing and try to reason them away, using arguments I knew in my heart were true. (The last part is the crux.) Imagine being supportive to a writer friend with crippling insecurities, only the friend is you.

Not setting any goals didn’t work for me—I still nurtured unwanted expectations. So I did set goals, but made them non-countable, like “have fun”, “get in the flow”, or “write”. Did I write? Yes. Success! Your brain doesn’t actually care about how high the goal is, it cares about meeting whatever goal you set.

I didn’t even track how many words I wrote. Not relevant.

I set an alarm for a short time (like 10 minutes) and forbade myself to exceed that time. The idea was that if I write until I run out of mojo, my brain learns that writing drains the mojo. If I write for 10 minutes and have fun, my brain learns that writing is fun and wants to do it again.

Reinforce the fact that writing makes you happy by rewarding your brain immediately afterwards. You know what works best for you: a walk, a golden sticker, chocolate, cuddle your dog, whatever makes you happy.

I conditioned myself to associate writing with specific stimuli: that album, that smell, that tea, that place. Any stimulus can work, so pick one you like. I consciously chose several stimuli so I could switch them up, and the conditioning stays active as long as I don’t muddle it with other associations.

Use a ritual to signal to your brain that Writing Time is about to begin to get into the zone easier and faster. I guess this is a kind of conditioning as well? Meditation, music, lighting a candle… Pick your stimulus and stick with it.

Specifically for rewiring my brain, I started a new WIP that had no emotional connotations attached to it, nor any pressure to get finished or, heaven forbid, meet quality norms. I don’t think these techniques above would have worked as well if I had applied them on writing my novel.

It wasn’t until I could confidently say I enjoyed writing again, that I could start building up a consistent habit. No more pushing myself.

I lowered my definition for success

When I say that nowadays I write every day, that’s literally it. I don’t set out to write 1,000 or 500 or 10 words every day (tried it, failed to keep up with it every time)—the only marker for success when it comes to my streak is to write at least one word, even on the days when my brain goes “naaahhh”. On those days, it suffices to send myself a text with a few keywords or a snippet. It’s not “success on a technicality (derogatory)”, because most of those snippets and ideas get used in actual stories later. And if they don’t, they don’t. It’s still writing. No writing is ever wasted.

A side note on high expectations, imposter syndrome, and perfectionism

Obviously, “Setting a ridiculously low goal” isn’t something I invented. I actually got it from those productivity books, only I never got it to work. I used to tell myself: “It’s okay if I don’t write for an hour, because my goal is to write for 20 minutes and if I happen to keep going for, say, an hour, that’s a bonus.” Right? So I set the goal for 20 minutes, wrote for 35 minutes, and instead of feeling like I exceeded my goal, I felt disappointed because apparently I was still hoping for the bonus scenario to happen. I didn’t know how to set a goal so low and believe it.

I think the trick to making it work this time lies more in the groundwork of training my brain to enjoy writing again than in the fact that my daily goal is ridiculously low. I believe I’m a writer, because I prove it to myself every day. Every success I hit reinforces the idea that I’m a writer. It’s an extra ward against imposter syndrome.

Knowing that I can still come up with a few lines of dialogue on the Really Bad Days—days when I struggle to brush my teeth, the day when I had a panic attack in the supermarket, or the day my kid got hit by a car—teaches me that I can write on the mere Bad-ish Days.

The more I do it, the more I do it

The irony is that setting a ridiculously low goal almost immediately led to writing more and more often. The most difficult step is to start a new habit. After just a few weeks, I noticed that I needed less time and energy to get into the zone. I no longer needed all the strategies I listed above.

Another perk I noticed, was an increased writing speed. After just a few months of writing every day, my average speed went from 600 words per hour to 1,500 wph, regularly exceeding 2,000 wph without any loss of quality.

Talking about quality: I could see myself becoming a better writer with every passing month. Writing better dialogue, interiority, chemistry, humour, descriptions, whatever: they all improved noticeably, and I wasn’t a bad writer to begin with.

The increased speed means I get more done with the same amount of energy spent. I used to write around 2,000-5,000 words per month, some months none at all. Nowadays I effortlessly write 30,000 words per month. I didn’t set out to write more, it’s just a nice perk.

Look, I’m not saying you should write every day if it doesn’t work for you. My point is: the more often you write, the easier it will be.

No pressure

Yes, I’m still working on my novel, but I’m not racing through it. I produce two or three chapters per month, and the rest of my time goes to short stories my brain keeps projecting on the inside of my eyelids when I’m trying to sleep. I might as well write them down, right?

These short stories started out as self-indulgence, and even now that I take them more seriously, they are still just for me. I don’t intend to ever publish them, no-one will ever read them, they can suck if they suck. The unintended consequence was that my short stories are some of my best writing, because there’s no pressure, it’s pure fun.

Does it make sense to spend, say, 90% of my output on stories no-one else will ever read? Wouldn’t it be better to spend all that creative energy and time on my novel? Well, yes. If you find the magic trick, let me know, because I haven’t found it yet. The short stories don’t cannibalize on the novel, because they require different mindsets. If I stopped writing the short stories, I wouldn’t produce more chapters. (I tried. Maybe in the future? Fingers crossed.)

Don’t wait for inspiration to hit

There’s a quote by Picasso: “Inspiration hits, but it has to find you working.” I strongly agree. Writing is not some mystical, muse-y gift, it’s a skill and inspiration does exist, but usually it’s brought on by doing the work. So just get started and inspiration will come to you.

Accountability and community

Having social factors in your toolbox is invaluable. I have an offline writing friend I take long walks with, I host a monthly writing club on Discord, and I have another group on Discord that holds me accountable every day. They all motivate me in different ways and it’s such a nice thing to share my successes with people who truly understand how hard it can be.

The productivity books taught me that if you want to make a big change in your life or attitude, surrounding yourself with people who already embody your ideal or your goal huuuugely helps. The fact that I have these productive people around me who also prioritize writing, makes it easier for me to stick to my own priorities.

Your toolbox

The idea is to have several techniques at your disposal to help you stay consistent. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket by focussing on just one technique. Keep all of them close, and if one stops working or doesn’t inspire you today, pivot and pick another one.

After a while, most “tools” run in the background once they are established. Things like surrounding myself with my writing friends, keeping up with my daily streak, and listening to the album I conditioned myself with don’t require any energy, and they still remain hugely beneficial.

Do you have any other techniques? I’d love to hear about them!

I hope this was useful. Happy writing!

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