#writing out my feelings

[catra-writes]

grief.

grief for those ive lost, grief for the person i couldnt be and for the person i used to be, grief for those ive hurt and couldnt help grief for pain i caused myself for damage i caused for damage i couldnt fix. grief for things that never happened, for what could have been had i tried a little harder let a lone tried at all, had i said something for once. grief for the words i left unspoken and now will never know what impact they could have had, for what impact i could have had. i feel grief for so much, the people who left my life, the lives i left, the relationships i ended, the relationships i let slip through my fingers, the things that could have been more happy memories, the memories that turned sour. the pets i lost and no longer have, the things i neglected to care for.

i feel so much grief for things that were both in and out of my control, i dont want to feel more grief but i know this will never go away, i'll always have "sad for what could have and what ifs" moments, i'll always feel a pit in my stomach for choices i made or didnt make, that wont change. grief never goes away for a survivor of disasters, even if on the outside it doesnt seem all that disastrous.

2. mind control

a mind under control, something people think i've had all my life but in reality i never have nor could i gain it. not where i am right now. i have people still in my life controlling me, poisoning my mind with more doubts and fears and insecurities, more guilt and blame and things i cant change until im finally gone from here. my mind is under the control of seeds of doubt and anxieties planted by my abusers since i was a mere child, things i cant uproot when theyre still being watered on the daily.

i cant free myself of the mind control unless i have help choking the weeds out, until then im stuck under the thumb of voices and chains belonging to those who've hurt me to the point im convinced im beyond repair, to people i believe i have no choice but to rely on or else i cant function because thats what they want in my head.

3. betrayal

a feeling im all to damn familiar with. many of my relationships ended because of a backstab, a switch of sides. im all to familiar with the feeling of gut wrenching pain, my heart dropping to the pit in my stomach as the person i thought had my back turns and dives a sword through it. ive had my heart taken and smashed to bits but a betrayal too many times to count. whether its an ex partner or a friend, even a family member, i know the feeling all too well.

betrayal as someone i loved sided with an abuser, betrayal as someone leaves me for better or worse. i may not have absolutely felt it all but i have felt it enough.

4. jealousy.

jealous when even though we're both poly my partner gives or receives attention and affection from/to someone else, jealous when my siblings are clearly treated better than i am, jealous when people are chosen over me, jealous when people receive or give things to others and i once again get little to nothing.

i hate jealousy, it feels unfair and selfish but at the same time its justified. with all i have gone through, gotten and lacked through my life i have a right to be jealous. i get jealous and i need to admit it to myself, i get jealous and i need t let myself be.

5. cursed.

some could say i have been, maybe even that i brought it on myself. for many reasons, and they could be right. but ive been cursed in the other way, cursed out by the family i no longer what to associate myself with because they have it in their heads that im wrong and always doing wrong. cursed by those who believe i was born wrong and dont deserve to have or be right. cursed out because i dont fit in someones box so to them i deserve to be called slurs and become their verbal punching bag.

iv'e been cursed by the world to live in a body im uncomfortable with, to be a person i can only pretend to love.

6. unrequited love.

one sided love, often the reason for a lot of the relationships i ended myself romantic or otherwise. and it hurts both ways to realize that. the person i'd though i loved the same way having to get their heart broken when i realize i never did, or the person i though loved me back turning out to be a liar and a user.

i dont feel love or fall in love often, not because im too hurt and broken to want to anymore but just because thats the way i am, influenced by the damage or not. and when i do, a lot of times it turned out to be unrequited, ive given up on searching for and making new attachments, because i no longer see or feel the need to try.

7. forgotten.

being forgotten and forgetting, some of my greatest fears. i fear constantly of what i've forgotten, if maybe it was important or dangerous and remembering it could bring more pain or that i forgot something and in turn caused someone else pain. i fear that i'll be forgotten, my name and face and very being gone from all memory, no one knowing who i am, leaving me in the dust. i fear i'll forget myself, if i cant remember who i am, if others forget me, what do i do? what do i become? and im terrified that without memory i wont exist, im terrified to find out what that would be like if it were ever to happen and im terrified that the truth really is that thats going to be a good thing in the end.

ive forgotten so much already, names, faces, people, items, dates, events, very pieces of myself even. im so terrified of anymore being forgotten. by myself or anyone else.

8. terminal disease

i cant say i have one, but i can ay it often feels like it with the physical, emotional and mental anguish and debilitating pain i constantly carry with me. every movement, every word, every energy spent makes me feel just a little weaker. i'll have highs then i'll crash just a little lower ever time. it doesnt feel like it'll ever go away, ever fully heal, like i'll never recover, at least not to full. it'll keep going down, going backwards, no matter how many times or how far it climbs back up, like gravity it always goes back down. you cant take a leap without landing.

9. neglected.

ive been neglected by my parents growing up, things that should have been taught and given to be i either got very little of, never got at all and/or watched/heard others receive instead. i missed out on the support from a parent telling me it was okay to cry let alone feel, that it was okay to make mistakes, that it was okay for accidents to happen and that it was okay to ask for help, to be honest and admit and own up to things. i missed out on a parent being there when i needed it, i missed out on a parent trying genuinely to understand. instead i got nothing, i got yelled at or i got shamed.

if another adult dared give me any of that i cried or got angry and confused or scared. i missed out on proper help from adults growing up, only learning when it was to late that i had options i could have used to get further.

i grew up being sidelined and hardly even being given the bare minimum. so when im included, when im cared for, when im given even the bare minimum, i dont know what to do, i cry,i feel guilty, im convinced im less than deserving, im unfamiliar with it, i dont know how to process it.

10. ghost.

ive had my fair share of ghosts, still do, often times i was one, still am one. ghosts in the sense of haunting words and memories, ghosts in the sense of overwhelming bottled up guilt, ghosts in the sense that ive been conditioned to carry what i really dont deserve. a ghost in the sense that im invisible, a ghost in the sense that i get ignored and over looked or brushed off, a ghost in the sense that people see and have seen me as nothing more than a fleeting piece of the past.

im here, im rarely seen or heard, i have constant phrases said by others swimming in my head, constant pressure placed on my shoulder like a manipulative parent placing their hand on my and telling me whats expected of me and giving me false hope that i could ever be enough for them, false hope that they care when at the same time they push me to the back, shove me to the side and favour others over me.

ive been a ghost, haunted by the ghosts of others and their words and actions all my life.

[astearisms]

fionna and cake drawings before and after watching the episodes so far. it’s nostalgic and somehow cathartic and poignant and relatable and—it just started

[lauravian]

“Don’t let it get to that big head of yours, Merlin.

I just… thought you were dead.”

[zosanbrainrot]

part 2 of Zoro in WCI

01 02

I tried to write something to sum up my thoughts on this, but then it got longer and longer and tbh I'm itching to write a fic set in this AU djjdkf I think I could develop on their inner feelings more than in the comic form

Before posting the first part I didn't realize people had such strong opinions on how this would play out lmaooo

imo, of course Zoro wants to fight Sanji, not with actual intent to harm (they threaten each other on the daily, come on), but because that's how they are together, how they communicate. He respects Luffy's decisions and their goal here, which is to learn what's really going on with Sanji, but he's gonna be pissy about it all he wants. They both have so many intense and conflicted feelings about this and neither has any idea how to resolve them. So they fight.

ofc yall are free to headcanon this interaction any other way you want <333

[girlboyburger]

[rileyclaw]

is this who you believe you are?

[biquinntile]

it hurts to have a body

I told you that I didn’t think I was supposed to enjoy my body

And you asked me who made that rule

And I don’t know

But I know that I hate smiling

I hate the way it feels like opening up

I hate the way it looks like an invitation

I hate how it makes people overstay their welcome

Like I’m giving them a message

And they get to interpret it however they want 

But I’m not trying to send a message

I’m not sending a message, but it doesn’t matter

I hate looking in people’s eyes

I feel like there’s a timer going off in my head

For how long I can look before I have to look away

Before I blur my eyes so I don’t have to really look

I feel like they’re pulling me out of my body 

I feel it like it’s physical

Like they’re touching me and I have to let them

Most of all, I hate what I see

Or I hate what I’m scared of seeing

I hate that eyes feel like ponds or lakes

Like murky water

I don’t want to know what’s lurking beneath the surface

I don’t want to look because then I’ll know

I’ll see the ugliness

I’ll see the roughness and the violence

I’ll see the interest, the reaching out, the pulling

I’ll see the fantasies they attach to me without permission

I’ll see nothing

I’ve seen shark eyes before and I’ve never been so scared

It makes me feel like I’m being torn apart

I know that when they said “the eyes are the window to the soul” 

It was actually meant as a scary story

Have you ever looked into someone’s window

To see what they do when they’re alone?

I never want to ever again

Every part of me that hurts

Every part of me that tenses

Every part of me that grips and scratches and bites and hardens

It doesn’t feel good but it has a purpose

It doesn’t feel good but somehow it does

That’s how I know that these people have twisted something inside of me

That the pain of fear feels so comforting

That the strain of muscles being held at attention for too long 

Feels somehow like a sigh of relief

Every time a part of me breaks I am thankful

That I was strong enough to hold it that long

That I was strong enough to break it first

That somehow if I hold my body tight enough,

Forcing the pieces to shift into a brick wall

Big and strong and touch and impenetrable 

Then maybe no one will ever feel like vandalizing it again

If people will not treat me softly, then neither will I

People have never treated me softly

So I have learned the only way to feel good is to

hurt

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Lap Pillow

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[inkskinned]

crows use tools and like to slide down snowy hills. today we saw a goose with a hurt foot who was kept safe by his flock - before taking off, they waited for him to catch up. there are colors only butterflies see. reindeer are matriarchical. cows have best friends and 4 stomachs and like jazz music. i watched a video recently of an octopus making himself a door out of a coconut shell.

i am a little soft, okay. but sometimes i can't talk either. the world is like fractal light to me, and passes through my skin in tendrils. i feel certain small things like a catapult; i skirt around the big things and somehow arrive in crisis without ever realizing i'm in pain.

in 5th grade we read The Curious Incident of the Dog In The Night-time, which is about a young autistic boy. it is how they introduced us to empathy about neurotypes, which was well-timed: around 10 years old was when i started having my life fully ruined by symptoms. people started noticing.

i wonder if birds can tell if another bird is odd. like the phrase odd duck. i have to believe that all odd ducks are still very much loved by the other normal ducks. i have to believe that, or i will cry.

i remember my 5th grade teacher holding the curious incident up, dazzled by the language written by someone who is neurotypical. my teacher said: "sometimes i want to cut open their mind to know exactly how autistics are thinking. it's just so different! they must see the world so strangely!" later, at 22, in my education classes, we were taught to say a person with autism or a person on the spectrum or neurodivergent. i actually personally kind of like person-first language - it implies the other person is trying to protect me from myself. i know they had to teach themselves that pattern of speech, is all, and it shows they're at least trying. and i was a person first, even if i wasn't good at it.

plants learn information. they must encode data somehow, but where would they store it? when you cut open a sapling, you cannot find the how they think - if they "think" at all. they learn, but do not think. i want to paint that process - i think it would be mostly purple and blue.

the book was not about me, it was about a young boy. his life was patterned into a different set of categories. he did not cry about the tag on his shirt. i remember reading it and saying to myself: i am wrong, and broken, but it isn't in this way. something else is wrong with me instead. later, in that same person-first education class, my teacher would bring up the curious incident and mention that it is now widely panned as being inaccurate and stereotypical. she frowned and said we might not know how a person with autism thinks, but it is unlikely to be expressed in that way. this book was written with the best intentions by a special-ed teacher, but there's some debate as to if somebody who was on the spectrum would be even able to write something like this.

we might not understand it, but crows and ravens have developed their own language. this is also true of whales, dolphins, and many other species. i do not know how a crow thinks, but we do know they can problem solve. (is "thinking" equal to "problem solving"? or is "thinking" data processing? data management?) i do not know how my dog thinks, either, but we "talk" all the same - i know what he is asking for, even if he only asks once.

i am not a dolphin or reindeer or a dog in the nighttime, but i am an odd duck. in the ugly duckling, she grows up and comes home and is beautiful and finds her soulmate. all that ugliness she experienced lives in downy feathers inside of her, staining everything a muted grey. she is beautiful eventually, though, so she is loved. they do not want to cut her open to see how she thinks.

a while ago i got into an argument with a classmate about that weird sia music video about autism. my classmate said she thought it was good to raise awareness. i told her they should have just hired someone else to do it. she said it's not fair to an autistic person to expect them to be able to handle that kind of a thing.

today i saw a goose, and he was limping. i want to be loved like a flock loves a wounded creature: the phrase taken under a wing. which is to say i have always known i am not normal. desperate, mewling - i want to be loved beyond words.

loved beyond thinking.

[cracklewink]

Harmony Syndrome Part 5/5

The last chapter of my mlp infection AU! Thank you to everyone who followed along. Some final thoughts on my twitter @cracklewink if anyone's interested : )

[thedreadvampy]

Losing my shit about this article in which a transphobic Tory was so busy panicking about existing in the vicinity of a Trans that she almost certainly misheard "jeans" as "penis" and decided that not only was this a problem with the other woman, but also that the world must be informed of this pressing danger.

"a trans woman! I had to stand directly behind her....I thought, 'this is going well', I'm handling The Situation fine'..."

translated: I saw a tall woman with broad shoulders. How would I get out of this alive? I thought. she has a PENIS. PENIS PENIS PENIS. through some force of PENIS I mean will I managed to PENIS behave normally towards her. My hands were PENIS PENIS PENIS shaking as I tried to dry them. summoning up all my PENIS courage I said 'dryer's crap innit'. she turned to me and said " yeah I'm just goiPENIS PENIS PENIS"

It's been a week and I'm still shaking. This proves trans women are the problem and I'm not weird. I'm fine. It's fine. If you think about it I'm the hero hePENIS!!!!!

very this

[confessedlyfannish]

Writing Prompt #12

Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.

Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.

Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.

While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.

These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".

There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—

"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.

But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.

He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.

"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.

"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.

"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.

He doesn't look away from the man.

"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."

"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.

The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.

The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"

Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."

"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."

He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.

"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.

"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.

"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.

"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."

"Him."

"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."

"Why me?"

"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."

This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.

"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"

"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."

Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."

"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."

"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."

"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."

"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."

"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.

"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.

"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."

"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."

"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."

Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.

Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.

"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."

The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.

"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.

"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."

"I have more than one."

"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."

"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"

There is a pause.

"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."

"Resolve what?"

"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."

"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."

Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."

The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."

"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."

"They will have already muzzled him."

Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.

"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."

"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—

Clack!

"sluuuuurp!"

"Master Timothy, honestly!"

"Sorry Alfred!"

[ryllen]

and some extra unused stuff while they are in affectionate mood

[ricesinspo]

☆ 'someone finally cares about you' prompts.

by @ricesinspo, credits appreciated!

[★] they wrapped their arms around you - you can't remember the last time someone hugged you like this.

[★] getting pulled aside while everyone else is yelling at you. they get you like none of the others do; they know not to yell.

[★] patiently listening to all of your problems. like actually listening.

[★] ^ with no judgement.

[★] they notice whenever something's wrong.

[★] letting you cry into their arms. telling you it's okay, everything is okay - and you know it's true because they're with you.

[★] letting you cry at all; realizing you don't have to hide your tears in front of them.

[★] "in a world where people don't care about me, i'm lucky to have you."

[★] ^ and then they're like "who hurt you" / "where are your __ i just want to talk" lmao

[pummelingbat]

Persecution Complex, or: "Just You, Me, And The Weight Of Your Dead Girlfriend Between Us"

[randomnotebookthoughts]

I am truly a giggler. A laugher. A chuckler. Just somewhere in the background snickering.