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[magnoliasandarson]

april 27th

In Wayne Manor there is a room unlike any of the other. It is not the Batcave, with all of its wonderful and physics-defying technology. It is not the study with its auspicious clock. It is not the library with its hundred of rare and mysterious tomes. It is a room in the family wing, two doors down from the master bedroom.

This room is so special because it exists outside of time. In that room, it is always the morning of April 27th, just before dawn.

A small pile of dirty clothes is haphazardly tossed in a hamper next to the armoire. Drafts of half-written essays are scattered over the desk. A long-dead iPod is tucked between the pages of a lovingly annotated copy of Pride and Prejudice. A red hoodie is draped over the back of the desk chair, its pocket still holding a Batarang, a learner's permit, and a pencil.

In the center of the room, on the dusty floor, is a shattered picture frame.

If you were to look past the broken glass and the smallest blood stain, you would see a torn picture of a teenage boy standing between two men in suits. The boy was grinning like he'd won the lottery- crooked teeth on full display and blue eyes sparkling. The man on the right looks proud, also beaming at the camera with his hand clasping the boy's shoulder. The man on the left has his hands behind his back, the smallest smile pulling wrinkles into life on his face. The three looked like their lives had never been better; stood on the steps in front of a courthouse with the boy holding a freshly notarized certificate.

Perhaps that is why the frame was shattered.

Perhaps, on April 27th, in the early hours of the morning, Bruce Wayne knocked on the heavy mahogany door, regretful and wanting to make amends. But when he heard no response, he pushed the door open. Maybe when he saw the picture tossed to the ground, he panicked and dropped to his knees, slicing his fingers open on the glass in his haste to read the note that had been tossed onto the wreckage. The note crumbled in his hands as he raced out, slamming the door behind him.

The room remains untouched from that moment on, except on the 27th of April. Every year, a nightmare will rip Bruce Wayne from his fragile slumber, and he will tear through the manor in a blind panic, throwing the door open with the name Jason on his tongue.

Every year, he is greeted with the room that time forgot, and he falls apart.

[magnoliasandarson]

shivers

Peter Parker was used to feeling cold.

In the days after the spider bite, once the sickness left him, he researched anything and everything about arachnids. There was an article about spiders not being able to thermoregulate that made him genuinely afraid that he was going to spend his winters hibernating, but once he got over that fear, he realized that there was a chill that hadn't left his bones the entire time.

It took a while, but he got used to the feeling. He bought fingerless gloves at Goodwill (explaining his new fashion sense to Aunt May took a while) and wore layers even during the peak of heatwaves.

But that was only the normal cold. His spider-sense felt like being dunked in ice water.

He never got used to it.

It was helpful on patrol. He could be swinging to Brooklyn, and his internal ice-bucket challenge would redirect him back to Queens. At school, it stopped him from losing his lunch or notebooks to Flash. When he was walking down the street, it saved him from being punched in the face by some random dude for no reason.

On nights when he didn't patrol.... it was unbearable.

He would wake up feeling like he'd been submerged in liquid nitrogen, sensing danger all around him. Sometimes, he'd throw the suit on in a blind panic and patrol until the sun rose, searching fruitlessly for the threat. Other times, he sat in the shower with the water blistering hot- only getting out when the steam set off the fire alarm.

A small mountain of blankets began to form on his twin bed. At night, he burrowed under the pile and relished in the total absence of light and the dulling of the ever-present noise that never let him be.

It didn't stop him from waking up just an hour later, teeth chattering and skin crawling.

[magnoliasandarson]

million dollar smile

By all accounts, Richard John Grayson was a bubbly child. Lively, ever-smiling, he talked a mile a minute at anyone who would give him a second. He fluttered about under the big top at Haly's with all the joy and energy of a storybook child. He took to the sky with his Daj and Dat, eyes looking out to the crowd—performing as only he could. Then his parents fell.

Suddenly, the smiles never quite reached his eyes; his energy was still there, but it wasn't the same. He didn't soar; hands stretched to the sky, he leaped- eyes fixed on the ground. His jokes weren't cheeky- they were acidic. Now the story didn't end happily ever after; now it ended with Dick Grayson making things right. No matter the cost.

But Bruce tried. He stared into darkened blue eyes that once reflected the happiest summer days and offered a new chance. He took the boy's darkness into his own shadows and handed him a suit made of the sun and everything good. The smiles were real again, painfully so, but there was an awful curl on his lips that made it look more like a snarl. Even so, it worked for a while, but a bandage on a bullet wound never holds.

The darkness crept into his periphery again. Blurred his vision. He kept trying to fly- kept trying to be worthy of his vibrant armor. But Bruce was done trying. He snatched away his salvation- and tossed it to another kid with starry eyes. Dick tried to hate the boy- Jason- the imposter that stole his birthright and legacy in one fell swoop, but his chip-toothed grin stole away into his shadows, and the world wasn't so dark anymore. 

Now, when Robin went flying into the dark, he had a companion in the darkness. More likely to snap than the younger, more ready to make the hard calls. It was his purpose; Nightwing wasn’t meant to be a beacon of light. 

They only ever caught glimpses of him from the shadows.

Just a flash of shiny white teeth before the darkness.

[magnoliasandarson]

earning it

The lab was barely alive. There was no loud music, no sparks flying, and the bots had returned to their respective rooms for the night. Tony fucking despised the silence.

But he couldn't find it in himself to move from the floor.

A handmade cardstock birthday card was half crumpled in his grip. Twenty little messy names were signed below a well wish and an (objectively shitty) drawing of Iron Man. They were all children from a field trip to the MET he had saved a few months back when some disgruntled lunatic decided he was going to build a death ray.

"You're our hero!" in glittery red gel pen.

It made him physically nauseous.

He hadn't saved them. Half had received severe burns, and the other half were so severely traumatized that they would spend the next several years in therapy, at minimum. He had reached out to the parents, the hospitals, and several children's psychiatry clinics. The Maria Stark Foundation would foot the bill for any costs incurred. Tony Stark- ever tossing money at Iron Man's mistakes.

He wasn't a hero. If he had been better, if he had been faster, he could've gotten those kids out without a scratch. He could've better contained the explosions. He could've stopped whatever-the-fuck his name was before there were any explosions.

Happy Birthday!

Another year alive. What did he have to show for it? New aches, new nightmares, new guilt... His skin crawled with the desire to do something anything. He chanced a glance over at the liquor cabinet, eyes catching the empty bottles he'd poured down the drain months ago...

No. He was alive, he was a genius, he was an inventor, he was Tony Goddamn Stark, and he could would make things better. He could deserve the stupid card. His fist uncurled around the crayon drawing of Iron Man, smoothing the crumpled paper gently.

All at once, he pushed himself to his feet, staggering to one of the drafting tables, "Battle stations kids," he clapped his hands, grinning when JARVIS raised the house lights and DUM-E and U rolled back out, "it's time SI got into the skin graft game."

[magnoliasandarson]

100

Guess what, my lovelies- it's been 100 days of MagnoliasandArson!

Writing has always been something I have loved, but reading your comments, tags, and asks has been one of the greatest joys imaginable. That's why I have decided to offer you- my beloved readers- a little opportunity. I will continue to make Batfam content, but I will also start posting for one additional fandom.

The poll closes in one week, and the first new fandom post will be published in eight days. It's a brave new world, my friends.

[magnoliasandarson]

did you miss me?

new chapter of Red Icarian has been posted (at long last) and we've had a ~breakthrough~ be excited.

[magnoliasandarson]

the first gala

Jason was uncomfortable. His skin chafed against his stupid silk suit, his dumb tie was strangling him, and his shoes pinched his heels with every step. Worst of all- he was staring down at a crowd of Gotham's wealthiest- decked out in all their resplendent jewelry and finest clothes. It made him vaguely nauseous.

Bruce patted him on the shoulder, fingers clasping firmly for just a moment before swanning down the stairs, smiling broadly at his adoring army of socialites. It was a sickening sight. Just an hour prior, Bruce had sat with him, tied his tie, and told him what to expect. That he wouldn't be the same person at the Gala that he was when they read together. It made Jason's chest clench.

He carefully followed down the stairs, eyes locked firmly ahead, jaw clenched. Dick warned him that the snooty bastards would not be kind, that they wouldn't accept him. They hadn't accepted Dick at first, but his stupid smile and stupid charm eventually won the hearts of most of the stupid crowd. Jason exhaled deeply through his nose, he needed to stay calm.

Once he reached the main floor, his eyes strayed from their laser focus to find Bruce Brucie. The billionaire was playing his part remarkably well, an arm wrapped around a stunning blonde woman- the other gesturing with a half-empty champagne glass. The sight of Bruce downing the rest made Jason's stomach roll.

A withered hand gripped his shoulder and made him freeze in place. He followed the hand up and found the hooded eyes of one of the many rich old ladies that had popped up on Dick's PowerPoint. He distantly remembered a giant red circle and big black letters that said AVOID AT ALL COSTS.

"And what dumpster did Wayne pull you from, boy," a little bit of saliva passed her red painted lips, splattering onto Jason's face.

Jason felt a dark blush bloom across his face, turning his tan skin the color of a tomato. He shook the arm off and opened his mouth to respond, when another idiot materialized, "Leave the wretched thing alone, mother," the idiot smiled a stupid smile and Jason found himself wanting to punch those dumb perfect teeth in, "you know how sensitive Wayne gets about his charity cases."

Jason's upper lip curled up into a violent version of a grin; his ears were red, and his fists clenched. Venom pooled on his tongue but he curbed the desire to shout and curse, "I'll be goin' then."

The 'son' laughed that stupid rich fake laugh, his stupid gelled hair not moving a millimeter when he tossed his head back, "No no no, the other one did these delightful tricks," he swirled his glass of champagne, "why don't you do something amusing for us. Show us why Wayne rescued you from whatever hovel he pulled you from."

Jason felt more than saw the presence at his back, and all of a sudden, the gelled-haired idiot was on the floor, clutching his jaw with his champagne glass shattered next to him. Bruce smiled like he'd just read an article taking down Lex Luthor, "My apologies, Preston, Veronica," he shifted to partially obscure Jason, "my hand must have slipped."

And in that moment, watching an aristocrat spit blood onto the polished floor (those perfect teeth covered in red), Bruce's fine tailored suit protecting him like a shield, in a stunned silent room- Jason smiled a real smile for the first time that night.

[magnoliasandarson]

live for something or die for nothing

Jason Todd was going to find the idiot who spray-painted those words in violent red on one of his warehouses. It was total bullshit, even worse than the stupid cat poster one of his lieutenants hung up in the kitchen. You could live for something and die for nothing, no one knew that better than Jason.

He had lived for something; every breath he took for years was dedicated to Bruce's stupid mission. All it took was the whims of a madman for his life to end. Did it mean anything? No.

Live for something or die for nothing.

Jason didn't look away from the stupid paint 'till the wall behind it crumbled in flame.

[magnoliasandarson]

stick

Tim: I can't crack this case. My skull is about to implode. Stephanie: Bit dramatic, Timberlina. Tim: I just want my brain to give me good thoughts, please, fuck. Stephanie: Smack it with a stick. Tim: My brain? Stephanie: Did I stutter? Tim: I think you just described a lobotomy.

[magnoliasandarson]

ignorance is most definitely not bliss

Dick: why didn't you come home? Jason: this was never my home. Dick: don't be stupid, jay, this was always your home. Jason: was it? maybe you don't remember, but you never wanted me here. Dick: and i've hated myself for years because of it, little wing. you were- are my baby brother. Jason: too little too late, dickhead. Dick: don't you think i know that? don't you think that just maybe it's not everyone against you- Jason: none of you cared when the joker killed me. i read the paper, you weren't even there for my funeral- Dick: i didn't even know you ran away! i was off world!

Jason: always the hero, huh, golden boy? Dick: you don't get to give me that shit, i killed the joker! Jason: you fucking what? Dick: i beat him to death, just like he did to you! Jason: then why, exactly, is the fucker still killin people? Dick: bat- bruce resuscitated him. but he was dead. i swear. Jason: you mean to tell me that that fuckin hypocrite left me to bleed out when i tried to kill the joker and nothing happened to you? Dick: what do you mean he left you to bleed out? Jason: don't act like you didn't know that batfuck tried to send me back to hell the hard way. bet you all laughed when he told you, just stickin' the zombie back where he goes. Dick: jay, listen to me, i swear on my parent's graves i didn't know- Jason: bullshit. just cuz 'm not a bat doesn't mean i don't know 'bout oracle. Dick: jason, please i swear, we didn't know! Jason: doesn't matter. 's like i said. too little too fuckin late.

[magnoliasandarson]

It isn't like I thought it would be. Compromise and sacrifice- that was the deal. That was what I was raised to know; that was what I learned; that was what I accepted. I wasn't happy with it- but I understood it.

How rude, how utterly unkind of you to accept without condition. To listen and understand. How villainous, how cruel of you to smile like that. To look at me like that.

This is not what I wanted. This is not what I planned for.

This is the end of something and the beginning of something else.

[magnoliasandarson]

capes (Bruce Wayne)

He wasn’t sure when it happened when the brightly colored material clutched in his hands went from fluttery golden fabric to bulletproof armor.

Maybe it was when Dick got shot- when they had that final argument that turned the rift between them into an unbridgeable chasm. 

Maybe it was when Jason was killed- when he pushed his child too far and never got to fix things. 

Maybe it was when Tim- usually bright-eyed told him the Joker swore to clip his wings, leaving him standing in the cave staring at a bloody and burned suit. 

He remembered when Dick demanded that the Robin suit had a cape, “Don’t be silly, B, it can’t be boring black.” 

He remembered late patrols when Jason would wrap the cape around himself like a blanket, “ ‘course ‘m not cold.”

He remembered Tim’s reverent hands smoothing the cape when he got his own suit, “I won’t let you down.”

He couldn’t remember when the cape stopped being a symbol of hope and became a symbol of his failures when it stopped being about his children’s joy and belief and became about his inability to protect them. 

Unconsciously, he raised the reinforced fabric to his chin, burying his face in the material. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

[magnoliasandarson]

writing

It is an act of hysterical desperation Ink is shed, like tears at a gravesite Words are written and scratched through with feverish fervor Behold all that I am Prose is sculpted and slashed away with every breath Behold all that I could be Creation and destruction do battle between pale blue lines Behold all that I wish to be Take my words Look at my wretched soul, scrawled carelessly onto paper Take my soul Look at my beaten heart, sketched in monstrous prose Take all of me Look at my very being, staining what was once pristine Just don’t look away

[magnoliasandarson]

two people stop BULLYING ME

Sometimes, a solemn responsibility, nay a higher calling, forces us to act. We become not just people but soldiers in a war that none of us can understand. It is a purpose that mere mortals do not have the capacity to comprehend. It is with this awareness, with this compulsion to obey the whims of the universe, that I say now, directly to @im-an-anthusiast, what's it like, getting buckled into the booster seat every morning?

[magnoliasandarson]

My ask box is open- please send me prompts! (...nothing icky plz and thank you)

[magnoliasandarson]

hoax

Tim was doing his absolute damnedest to project calmness, but he was losing his mind. Two feet away, munching on some cheesy fries, was the Red Hood—the prodigal son, the dead golden boy, his childhood hero, his Robin. The insane man who once beat him half to death, now the guy who occasionally dropped by the cave with a frankly worrying number of bullet holes. 

He’d been patrolling for an hour or so when he noticed the lack of gunshots, screams, explosions, etc., and tracked Hood to the gargoyle Dick took him to once when he was feeling sentimental. It was strange finding him without his signature explosive bucket on, with a bag of Batburger in his lap.

Tim didn’t know what to say, but he knew he needed to say something. Jason apologized for his actions weeks ago and explained that the pit had taken no dead Robins and turned it into all Robins must die, but there was still a weight between them. A clear line that said do not cross; luckily enough, Tim lived to cross those lines, “Takin’ a day off from murder and mayhem?”

Jason twisted his head to look over, his scowl somehow threatening, even with a fry hanging out of his mouth. He finished chewing, looking menacing the whole time, “Fucks it to ya, bird boy?”

Tim plopped down on the ledge; if Jason was going to shoot him, he would’ve already. He stared out at Gotham, at the empty streets and windows glowing with warmth and light. For once, the city was quiet, “Just making conversation, Hood.”

“What made you think I wanted to talk?” Jason’s tone was harsh, but it was about a five on the Jason-rage-meter, and Tim didn’t get fidgety till a seven. 

Tim kicked his feet out, idly drumming his fingers on the cement ledge, “Maybe I wanted to talk.” And in a weird way, it was true. This was Jason freakin’ Todd; the boy wonder that made Batman laugh. He oddly wanted to know everything. 

Jason sighed like he was accosted by young, costumed teens all the time, and, to be fair, he was. Stephanie had taken to showing up at his apartment at odd hours with waffles, and she had only been shot at twice, “Fine, traffic light. Whatcha wanna talk about.”

“Y’know, you wore the suit, too. ‘Least mine has pants.” Tim spoke, then immediately hunched away. Robin was a sore spot for Jason- Tim was stupid to bring it up. 

For some reason, Jason didn’t immediately pull a gun; he just cocked his head and laughed quietly. Tim straightened back up and tried to muster up a glare, but that just made Jason’s little laughs louder, “Ooh- baby bird’s got jokes,” he rolled his shoulders and offered a thing of fries from the bag, “want some fries, Tiny?”

Tim groaned; why did everyone make short jokes about him? He snatched the fries sharply in protest, “You were short too-”

“Yeah, then I took a dip in poison snot,” Jason cut him off, “Ya wanna do that too, short stack?”

Tim immediately jammed some fries in his mouth- he was incurably dumb. He’d managed to bring up Robin and the Lazarus Pit with Jason. He should hang up the cape, “You got any advice? As a former short king?” Honestly, he wished Jason would just shoot him now. There was something wrong with his brain on a fundamental level. He’d been hanging out with Bart and Kon way too much.

Jason tilted his head like he was buffering and inhaled deeply through his nose like he was trying to calm himself through sheer force of will, “Whatcha wanna know?”

Tim chewed his mouthful of potato slowly; he hadn’t thought this far ahead. What did he want to know from Jason? He could ask about crime-lording, but Jason would probably snitch to Dick, and then Bruce would lecture him for at least an hour. Oddly enough, there was only one safe topic he could ask about, and it would still likely result in him leaving with lead in his body that was not there before, “You got any, uhm, Robin-ly advice?” Lightning should strike him down.

Jason didn’t kill him, which was a plus; just lit up a cigarette and took a long drag, which was objectively hilarious, but Tim would die if he laughed, so he just ate another fry, “Robin was a different kid,” he blew out smoke rings like the cool guys in movies, and if Tim wasn’t acutely afraid of lung cancer, he’d be tempted to try, “Dickwing use’ta say, “Robin is magic, you have to be brave for the magic to work.” I used to believe that shit.”

“You don’t anymore?”

Another cool ring of cigarette smoke floated out through the sky, “I stopped believin’ when I dug my way outta my grave.”

Noted. Tim cleared his throat; this was not a conversation he was equipped for, “Oh.”

Jason snorted, “Yeah- oh,” he took another deep drag of his cigarette, making Tim’s chest twinge, “The thing is- Robin will make you believe you can be- make you think you can be a better person.”

“Then why aren’t you better?” The words left his mouth without Tim’s consent, and his whole body tensed to jump, his fingers finding his grapple gun at his waist. 

Jason gave a wry smile and stubbed his spent cigarette on the gargoyle to his right, “Because Robin isn’t magic.”

[magnoliasandarson]

the bestest buddies there ever was

and the kid @im-an-anthusiast

Ah yes, a fallen angel and her angry duck

@magnoliasandarson