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Everyone shut up and look at this carving of a whale from the 1200-600 CE Chumash culture

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so it turns out that climbing onto a rooftop in the middle of the night does solve all your problems, but i failed to consider that it would create a brand new one

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This blog is one several-year-long conversation with myself and you are all just along for the ride

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Can we please stop associating being a good person with how much you’re willing to suffer in silence for other people? You can be a kind person and still say “no, I don’t have the time/energy to help you with that.” You can be a kind person and still say “this makes me uncomfortable, please stop.” You can be a kind person and still say “I disagree and here’s why.” You can be kind and still say “I’m not okay with this.” Being kind is about treating people with kindness and respect, not about being the human equivalent of a doormat!

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the shimp got too much attention and now there are transphobes in my notes, this is a transgender blog run by a transgender dyke. fuckers.

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The thing is—Bruce never really learned how to be a son. Not for long, anyway.

His parents were perfect in that distant, golden-hour kind of way. He remembers soft piano music in the evenings and the way his mother’s perfume smelled like lilacs and wealth. He remembers Thomas’s big hands and loud laugh and the way he called Bruce champ.

But he doesn’t remember what they’d say when he was sad. Or what they did when he failed a test or had a nightmare. He doesn’t know how they would’ve handled teenage Bruce slamming a door or breaking something in anger. He never got to find out.

They died before he got complicated.

So now, standing in the kitchen at 3:12 AM, Bruce is staring at the cracked mug on the floor, and he’s trying to remember how a father is supposed to handle this.

He doesn’t even know who broke it.

Doesn’t matter.

What matters is that it was Alfred’s favorite. The one with the skyline of Gotham printed in gold, worn from decades of tea and careful hands.

He could fix it. He probably will. But he just stands there for a long time, barefoot, still in the suit, staring at the broken pieces.

The kids are all asleep. Or pretending to be. He’s not sure.

He hasn’t talked to any of them properly in a week.

Not since Jason called him a hypocrite and left. Not since Dick rolled his eyes and said, “You're exhausting.” Not since Damian stormed off after Bruce forgot a fencing match—again. And Tim... well, Tim always says he’s fine. That’s how Bruce knows he’s not.

Bruce lowers himself to the floor. Slowly. Knees aching. He starts gathering the shards with his gloved hands. One by one.

He doesn’t put them in the trash.

He places them gently on a paper towel. Like it matters. Like it changes anything.

He doesn’t know how to fix people. Not really. Just rooftops and gear and plans for how to stop the world from ending. He’s good at that.

But when his son says, “I don’t want to talk to you,” Bruce doesn’t know what to do except nod and leave the door open just in case.

And when Alfred died—really died this time—Bruce swore he’d try harder. Be more present. Show up.

But he keeps messing it up.

They don’t tell him what they need until it’s too late. And he doesn’t ask, because he’s scared the answer is nothing. We don’t need you.

So he gives them space. Offers them silence, thinking it might be mercy.

It never is.

-

That night, no one comes home for dinner.

Still, Bruce sits at the head of the long, empty table, eating alone in silence. The food’s gone cold. He doesn’t notice.

His phone buzzes against the polished wood. For a moment, he doesn’t move. Just stares at it like it might disappear.

Then he picks it up.

It’s a post from Dick. A photo.

All of them are there—his kids. Crowded around some booth at a diner Bruce doesn’t recognize. They’re smiling. Mouths open mid-laugh. Tim’s reaching for someone’s fries. Damian’s scowling but not really. Jasons got an arm slung over the back of Cass’s chair. Duke is grinning with a mouth full of food. Stephanie’s taking the photo, her face reflected in the window behind them, bright and golden.

They look happy.

Bruce runs his thumb over the screen, tracing each of their faces like a prayer.

He smiles, soft and small and aching.

-

His chest feels tight, but he tells himself it’s just the silence. Just the loneliness curling inward, like smoke inside his ribs. It happens sometimes—especially on days like this, when he lets himself remember how long it’s been since he laughed with them. Since they really looked at him without exhaustion or distance or disappointment in their eyes.

He tries to stand, but has to pause—a strange weight pressing against his sternum. Dull. Not sharp. Not urgent.

He rubs at the spot absently and breathes through his nose.

He’ll try harder tomorrow. Maybe send a message. Maybe ask if they want to come home for dinner again. Maybe—

There’s a tingling in his left arm. Barely there. Almost nothing. His jaw feels tight, too, but he writes it off. He hasn't slept. He hasn't eaten properly. It's nothing.

Just tired. That’s all.

He climbs the stairs slower than usual.

Halfway up, he stops to rest his hand against the banister. Just for a moment. Just to breathe.

Then he keeps going.

-

He lies in bed, eyes on the ceiling. The photo is still open on his phone, resting on the pillow beside him. The brightness fades as the screen goes dark.

He doesn’t bother to charge it.

He tells himself, again, he’ll try harder. He’ll get it right next time. He’ll be enough.

He closes his eyes.

And in the quiet, something low and cold settles in his chest. Not pain. Not fear. Just a sinking.

Like something important is slipping out of reach.

And by the time he notices it—

He’s already asleep.

-

Next Part

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So you’re telling me this in the guy who strikes fear into the hearts of Gotham’s most dangerous criminals? right…….

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unhealthy codependency is really a top tier dynamic. like they need each other to survive but god. should they.

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I wouldn't say 13 has "golden retriever" energy. If anything, she's a Strange Orange Cat. Observe:

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I think venus flytraps should be intelligent and ambulatory. I think they should get into the cupboards. I think they should purr when you pet them.

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saw an elderly woman walking around with a tote bag whose design were the four AO3 fic category squares and she very excitedly asked if i was a reader or a writer bcs nobody else at the con had recognized it, and after telling her that i've been writing fic since fanfic.net, she solemnly nodded and explained that she'd been reading fic since "the days of personal websites" but that she only started writing fanfic when she was 47 and oh my god when i tell you that i genuinely teared up on the spot!!!!! like!!! HELL YEAH???? LITERALLY NEVER TOO OLD TO START WRITING. NEVER TOO OLD TO WRITE AND SHARE YOUR FIC.

her enthusiastic "i'm a very nice and bubbly person, i swear! but i love writing angst and major character death :)" nearly took me the fuck out.

icon. legend. diva. i wish her nothing but a kajillion million comments and kudos. i hope her fic updates crash AO3. i hope she knows i'm promoting her to my personal patron saint of AO3.

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some delphiniums i went to visit ⋆.˚ ʚїɞ ⋆.

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welcome welcome 😊

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The Cygnus Loop

Credits: ASU, NASA