queerbatboy

[queerbatboy]

your superhero/villain mantle is now your tumblr username. all of it. what is your story + powers/abilities and what comic would you be in, reblog with your answers in the tag

[queerbatboy]

[queerbatboy]

Guilty by Marina

[queerbatboy]

Great idea: A nature documentary about the most scientifically accurate, realistic, and lovingly rendered dinosaurs, but it's narrated by just some guy who knows nothing about dinosaurs and is also really fucking high. Like just going

"Holy shit look at this guy. Fuck look at that fella. It's like a parrot with fingers. It could probably open a coke can. Look at him go."

Dinosaur: KAAA! :V

[moved to tears] "Holy shit you're so right little dude. No idea what you're saying but you're so right."

[queerbatboy]

anyone else wish they would get roped into a freaky friday body swap situation just for the hope that the other person will go "oh jesus fuck how do you live like this" and instantly validate your feelings of being Strange and Built Wrong.

[queerbatboy]

Jason being immortal but it’s kinda like Klaus from the umbrella academy in the sense that he doesn’t fucking realise that he’s immortal. Damian is the only one who knows and it’s been pissing him off for YEARS that Jason won’t get with the fucking program.

the thing is, Jason never questioned what exactly woke him up back in that coffin. he was slightly distracted by dealing with the wood and dirt attempting to suffocate him back beyond the grave, and once he’d gotten free and was wandering around Gotham, he didn’t have the presence of mind to do much but zombie-walk around until the league found him. after that? well he was too busy with training, annoying Ra’s, helping raise Damian, and just overall getting used to life without being Robin to think about the fact that he’d come back to life at one point.

Damian, on the other hand, clocked that Jason was immortal as a toddler when he watched his new older brother accidentally fall off a cliff during a ‘nature hike’ that was actually endurance training that Damian had been allowed to attend from a chest harness that, luckily, he hadn’t been inside of during the fall. he peered off the edge of the stomach clenching drop, sharp spikes littering the bottom, to see Jason un-skewer his shoulder from a rock and stand up to crack his neck, before casually calling up that he was fine and it was ‘just a little fall’. little Damian called bullshit.

things continued like that the entire time Jason spent at the league, and it pissed Damian off to no end that Jason kept just walking off fatal injuries and absolutely REFUSE to believe that they were fatal. ‘i just have a high pain tolerance.’ ‘you got shot in the neck, ahki.’ ‘it skimmed me.’ ‘YOU DIED.’ ‘stop making up stories, demon brat.’ it’s driving the kid insane. the worst thing is he can’t even tell anyone else for fear that Ra’s gets a hold of the realisation and decides to use Jason in his research for finding better ways to prolong his lifespan.

Jason, bursting into Damian’s room in the early morning, spurting blood from an arrow wound to the chest: Dami- Dami- u- argk-

Damian, half asleep, watching blankly from bed as his brother bleeds out on his floor:

Damian:

Damian: *deep sigh*

-twenty minutes later, Jason wakes up on Damian’s floor completely healed-

Jason: …

Damian:

Jason: wow, sorry Dames, guess i drank too much last night and blacked out. didn’t mean to crash here.

Damian, unimpressed and holding a bloody arrow: grandfather says you stopped an assasination attempt on my mother.

Jason: haha yeah, craaaazy night

Damian: get out.

Jason: -getting out.

eventually Damian heads to Gotham and, of course, his overprotective immortal brother follows soon after with the mission of building a crime empire, killing a clown, pissing of the fourth Robin at any opportunity, and infuriating the fuck out of Bruce Wayne. after a while the Red Hood gets his identity reveal, and gradual tentative truce, and Damian gets both of his families to be more or less on ok terms for once.

the issue is Jason is still really bad at staying alive. and the rest of the family is kind of sensitive to that specific thing. and Damian’s apathy is not appreciated. it takes them a while to figure everything out.

~

*all four batboys are captured by a rogue, Bruce on his way but they need to stall*

Rogue: and now, you will have to pick amongst yourselves who will DIE!

Jason and Dick, instantly: ME!

Damian, dryly: Red Hood.

Dick: ITS GOTTA BE M- Robin what the fuck

Damian: *shrugs*

Jason, so used to Damian being weirdly ok with his more dangerous activities he’s not even offended: YEAH SHOOT ME. I CAN TAKE IT!

Tim: no he can’t, don’t shoot him!

Damian: no, shoot him.

Tim and Dick: ROBIN!

Jason: bite me non-believers, i’m getting shot today-!

Damian: please do it quickly so he shuts up.

Rogue:

Rogue:

Rogue: the others told me the new Robin was fucked up but like i didn’t realise exactly how much-

~

Tim: me and Damian didn’t really get off on the right foot, on account of he kept trying to kill me.

Jason: ? so? that’s just what he does when you piss him off. he tries to kill me all the time.

Tim: ?

Jason: i called him a wanker last week so he shoved me off a building with no grapple. luckily the garbage can broke my fall and saved me haha!

Tim: ???

Damian, fully never wanted Tim dead and was instead so used to never having to worry about hurting Jason that he forgot that murder was actually fatal to his other brothers: yeah that’s my bad, Drake. it was instinct.

~

*Bruce walks into the batcave to see Jason, gunshot in his forehead, laying obviously deceased on the ground with Damian stood over him, nudging him with his foot and holding a gun.*

Bruce: oh my- oh my god, Jaylad no please-!

Damian: in my defence he told me the safety was on.

Bruce, crying: JASON PLEASE NOT AGAIN-

Damian: just give him like ten minutes

Bruce: WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT- OH MY GOD HIS BRAIN’S ON THE BATCOMPUTER

Damian: again, not my fault.

Dick walking in: hey whats all the noi- LITTLEWING?!?!!

-

*ten minutes later, the family is sobbing and Damian is tapping his foot impatiently*

Jason: wooaaaaah, headache. …is everything ok?

Everyone else, devastatingly shocked:

Damian: i shot you in the head and you died again. they panicked.

Jason: ha-ha, funny as always brat. what’d you do, hit me with the butt of the gun or something?

Damian, turning to the others: it is a miracle he ever managed to get his GED.

[queerbatboy]

Bruce Wayne’s favourite hobby

[queerbatboy]

What is Bruce’s love language?

Dick thinks its words of affirmation, because when he first arrived Bruce still worked like that, he knew the balance between critical and kind. He could still speak and not be petrified it would be the wrong words, that it’d drive him away. He doesn't know that ever since a little circus boy tumbled into his life, it’s been touch. Because Bruce couldn’t not hug this little boy, couldn’t not lift him into his arms when he asked, couldn’t not let himself be used as a springboard for all his circus tricks. 

Jason thinks its gifts. Because that was how they first connected, how they first met. Bruce gave Jason his first ever unconditional food, unconditional toys, unconditional love. He doesn't know that ever since a little street rat tumbled into his life it’s been quality time, just being around Jason was enough for him. He didn't need money, or Batman, or things. He just wants his son’s time. 

Tim thinks its work. Because that was what he knew, that was what they knew, working in compatible silence, day by day, passing tools and equipment and cases back and forth like little assembly line workers. He doesn't know that ever since a too small for his age little stalker tumbled into his life its been acts of service. Because Bruce could never find the words to tell Tim he was permanent, that he chose him, that he loved him, so he replaced the words with actions, because actions have always spoken louder than words, and he bought him his skateboard, and cameras, and built gadgets for him, and hoped it was enough. 

Steph thinks its touch. Not because he ever touched her. But because she was always observant like that, and noticed how he had always touched the others. Tim. She doesn't know that ever since a loud rebellious little girl tumbled into his life it’s been gifts, because he couldn't speak. But he could make her a Robin suit that fit her, and he could slip tiny trinkets into her pockets, and leave case files for her to complete on her own when she left him. 

Damian thinks its quality time, because Bruce tries to be there for his son, even if he’s not good enough. Even if he’s a lousy conversationalist. He still wants to be around his boy. He doesn't know that ever since a bloody assassin baby tumbled into his life it’s been words of affirmation, because Damian needed a father, for once one of his children needed him, and he needed to learn how to live, how to know when he was doing things right, and not just wrong. 

They all think his love language is something else, but Bruce doesn't mind. Not so long as they believe he loves them. Not so long as they know.

[queerbatboy]

Not Just Ill: Redefining My Chronic Condition

Dealing with an invisible chronic illness isn’t easy. Beyond the fatigue, physical pain, and brain fog, there’s another layer of struggle: people don’t see how unwell you are. They see the outside—maybe a sun-kissed face, some makeup, a well-put-together outfit, a warm greeting—and they draw their own conclusions.

They see you show up at a birthday party and think, “She must be doing better.” They don’t know that you had to sleep for two hours beforehand and will now be in bed—or glued to the couch—for the next three to five days because you went. They ask how you're doing, and you say, “I'm fine.” Not because it’s true, but because sometimes you're simply tired of talking about being sick.

In my case, I really do get sick of talking about being sick.

So yes, people sometimes assume I’m better than I am. Some may even think I exaggerate my illness. After all, lots of people are tired—and they still get up and go to work. Why can’t I?

It’s okay. I understand how society copes with things it can’t see or make sense of: it labels, defines, reduces. It filters experience through its own lens so the unfamiliar becomes manageable. Living with an invisible illness for the past five years has taught me to tune out those voices. I’ve learned to define myself based on my own sense of worth, not the value placed on me by others.

When ‘Illness” becomes “Disability”

Still, that definition of self took a jolt last week. While doing research for my book on invisible illnesses, I came across something unexpected: several major health organizations now classify my condition as an invisible disability. That word stopped me cold.

According to the World Health Organization’s World Report on Disability (2011), disability is defined using the International Classification of Functioning, Disability and Health (ICF), which breaks down functioning into three interconnected categories:

Impairments: problems with body function or structure

Activity limitations: difficulties in executing tasks or actions

Participation restrictions: challenges with involvement in life situations

Disability, then, isn’t about one diagnosis—it’s about how health conditions interact with personal and environmental barriers to limit engagement in life. The ICF uses neutral language and doesn’t distinguish between physical or mental origins. If your condition affects your ability to function and participate fully, it qualifies.

Suddenly, I found myself staring at the screen thinking: Wait. You mean I’m disabled?

The word “disability” has always carried a specific image in my mind—something concrete, visible, undeniable. I never thought to put my illness, or any chronic illness, in that category. Illness felt like a challenge, something to fight, to manage, to overcome. Disability felt... definitive. Permanent.

But that’s the thing: having a chronic illness is a disability. It impacts my ability to participate in society. It limits what I can do. It interferes with basic functioning. And it’s real, whether people see it or not.

Seeing the Unseen

According to Hidden Disabilities Sunflower, one in six people globally live with a disability. Of those, an estimated 80% are non-visible. That’s over a billion people, most of them unseen—and undervalued. Yet every one of them has something meaningful to offer. We want to engage. We want to be included. We deserve the space to contribute.

Maybe “disability” is a better word after all. “Illness” often implies recovery is coming, or should be. There’s an unspoken apology in it, a pressure to heal. “Disability,” on the other hand, demands society’s acceptance. It calls for accessibility, empathy, and policy that affirms our worth.

So here I am: a woman with an invisible disability. And an awful lot to give—to those who acknowledge my boundaries, honor my integrity, and respect my value. 

Maybe it’s time we all reconsider what disability really looks like—and who we assume doesn’t carry it.

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Source: Not Just Ill: Redefining My Chronic Condition

[queerbatboy]

A boy and his cow🌾

[queerbatboy]

It's come to my attention that many people may not know of the being I've dubbed chadwing. Aka, a nightwing figure with the exact face sculpt of John Cena. The prior may have something to do with his expert camouflaged techniques, but I digress.

Chad-wing. For your viewing displeasure

[queerbatboy]

Superman says fuck ICE. Be like Superman

[queerbatboy]

HOT

[queerbatboy]

I think I may never be sad ever again. There is a statue entitled "Farewell to Orpheus" on my college campus. It's been there since 1968, created by a Prof. Frederic Littman that use to work at the university. It sits in the middle of a fountain, and the fountain is often full of litter. I have taken it upon myself to clean the litter out when I see it (the skimmers only come by once a week at max). But because of my style of dress, this means that bystanders see a twenty-something on their hands and knees at the edge of the fountain, sleeves rolled up, trying not to splash dirty water on their slacks while their briefcase and suit coat sit nearby. This is fine, usually. But today was Saturday Market, which means the twenty or so people in the area suddenly became hundreds. So, obviously, somebody stopped to ask what I was doing. "This," I gestured at the statue, "is Eurydice. She was the wife of Orpheus, the greatest storyteller in Greece. And this litter is disrespectful." Then, on a whim, I squinted up at them. "Do you know the story of Orpheus and Eurydice?" "No," they replied, shifting slightly to sit.

"Would you like to?"

"Sure!"

So I told them. I told them the story as I know it- and I've had a bit of practice. Orpheus, child of a wishing star, favorite of the messenger god, who had a hard-working, wonderful wife, Eurydice; his harp that could lull beasts to passivity, coax song from nymphs, and move mountains before him; and the men who, while he dreamed and composed, came to steal Eurydice away. I told of how she ran, and the water splashed up on my clothes. But I didn't care. I told of how the adder in the field bit her heel, and she died. I told of the Underworld- how Orpheus charmed the riverman, pacified Cerberus with a lullaby, and melted the hearts of the wise judges. I laughed as I remarked how lucky he was that it was winter- for Persephone was moved by his song where Hades was not. She convinced Hades to let Orpheus prove he was worthy of taking Eurydice. I tugged my coat back on, and said how Orpheus had to play and sing all the way out of the Underworld, without ever looking back to see if his beloved wife followed. And I told how, when he stopped for breath, he thought he heard her stumble and fall, and turned to help her up- but it was too late. I told the story four times after that, to four different groups, each larger than the last. And I must have cast a glance at the statue, something that said "I'm sorry, I miss you--" because when I finished my second to last retelling, a young boy piped up, perhaps seven or eight, and asked me a question that has made my day, and potentially my life: "Are you Orpheus?" I told the tale of the grieving bard so well, so convincingly, that in the eyes of a child I was telling not a story, but a memory. And while I laughed in the moment, with everyone else, I wept with gratitude and joy when I came home. This is more than I deserve, and I think I may never be sad again.

Here is the aforementioned statue, by the way.

[queerbatboy]

stop being silly in front of me

[queerbatboy]

[queerbatboy]

Was scrolling through AO3 and found this gem

Enemy to parent is a trope we have to popularise lmao