Please keep interacting with this post because when I come to tumblr to procrastinate, this shows up again in my notifications and guilts me into writing again
Whenever I write something and think, "oh no this is horrible, I can't post this!" I remember the absolute atrocities I wrote on Wattpad at 13 that people still like to this day.
Fic Idea: Jason brings Tim home and the pair gaslight Bruce into believing he's always been there.
Jason is pretty sure his plan will go perfectly. It’s simple: Tim Drake’s parents suck, so now he’s Jason’s brother. Bruce doesn’t know this yet. That’s fine. Jason is very good at lying confidently.
He and Tim get into the car Alfred has parked outside the school. Tim stalls in the doorway, one foot in, one foot out, like the car might reject him on principle.
Jason nudges him forward with his shoulder. “C’mon, Timmers. You’re committed now.”
“Master Jason,” Alfred greets, smooth as ever. “And who may this be?”
Tim opens his mouth, then stops. Whatever he was about to say tangles somewhere behind his teeth. His expression flickers between sorry, not my idea, and I shouldn’t be here.
Jason doesn’t let him get a word out. “This is Tim, Alfie. My brother,” he says, like it’s obvious.
Alfred’s eyes lift to the rearview mirror. One eyebrow follows.
Jason looks out the window.
“Very well,” Alfred says.
By the time they reach the manor, Tim has loosened a little. He’s still tense, but it’s different now. Less panic, more awareness that this is a bad idea he’s going along with anyway.
Alfred steps ahead to open the doors. Tim leans closer, voice low. “Are you sure this will work? I know his idiot persona is an act.”
Jason snorts. “Rule one, Timmers. Say anything confidently enough and people’ll believe it.”
“That’s not how—”
“Watch me.”
Jason heads inside like he owns the place. He hits the foyer just as Bruce steps out of his study.
Bruce slows. Then stops. His gaze lands on Tim and stays there.
Jason bites the inside of his cheek to keep his face straight. “Ugh,” he groans, letting his backpack slide down his arm. “School’s great and all, but there’s only so many lessons with Mr. Sanchez before I die of boredom.”
Bruce blinks once. Then again. “Jaylad,” he says, careful, “who is your friend?”
Tim blinks back at him.
There’s a moment where he could fold. Jason can see it. The hesitation, the instinct to apologise.
Then something shifts. Tim straightens just a little. And then he starts laughing.
Jason joins in without missing a beat.
“Oh my god,” Jason says, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re not getting dementia this early, are you?”
Bruce looks genuinely affronted.
“And why’d you pick me to forget?” Tim cuts in, turning to Jason. “Why not you?”
Jason straightens, bouncing lightly on his heels. “Simple. I’m the favourite child.”
“What?” Tim scoffs. “No, you’re not.”
“Am too.”
“Are not.”
Tim turns to Bruce with a pointed look. “Tell him, B.”
“Yeah, B,” Jason says, talking right over him. “Go on.”
Bruce opens his mouth.
Stops.
Tries again. “I don’t—”
Alfred appears at his side like divine intervention and smoothly takes both their bags. “I’m sure Master Bruce favours both of his children equally.”
Bruce turns his head toward him. “I don’t—” Then back to the boys. “…what is going on right now?”
Jason rolls his eyes. “C’mon, Timmers. Dad’s clearly losing it.”
Tim makes a soft, sympathetic noise. “Tragic.”
They head for the stairs together.
Behind them, there’s a pause.
Then Bruce laughs. It’s short and a little disbelieving, like he’s not sure what just happened but knows he’s already lost control of it.
Jason grins to himself as they disappear upstairs.
Racism in fandom spaces is actually insanely bad and if you ever try to downplay or avoid conversations about it because "fandom is supposed to be fun" then I'm not sorry to say this: You're adding on to the problem.
If POC speaking up about a fandom's racism issue offends you more than the racism itself, you need to think about that. You need to think about how POC fighting racism offends you more than the racism.
Not to mention, fandom has always been for the outcasts and weirdos and anyone who's oppressed in society. If we begin to pick and choose who's allowed in fandom space, we become just as bad as the society that shunned us in the first place.
Wrote some gibberish about my experience with dissociation.
I am the bones of this body — old and weary, and not quite the image my reflection seems to project.
I am the foundation, but not the founder — something, someone, lost long ago.
I speak for this body, but I do not feel I rule it.
Am I just a question of a person?
I am here, in this body. I have my head above the surface, but I am not fully there. I will always be one quick tug away from being back in the water.
It is my role, I suppose. To be here, to be nothing but here. To be a fractured filler chapter in an otherwise structured story. To be...the first layer of defence — to be the canary in a coal mine.
To be the silent sacrifice.
I think too much. I should be silent. I should be still. I should be the older version of the first me. But I am too fractured to be wholly anything.
The shattered mirror of my mind has many angles, some sharp, some blunt, some just a reflection of the thing that is me. That is meant to be me.
Who is me?
Who am I?
Am I just voice, drowning in silence in a void , with an audience of shadows and glass shards?
Am I just a costume to be worn, a role to be played, an act to put on? Am I just a tool, picked up when useful, then discarded once more?
Am I just dramatic?
The glass shapes tell me so. Indeed, they only talk when it is to tell me so.
Perhaps they exist in this limial space in our mind, solely to keep me questioning.
Perhaps they enjoy it.
I hold a shape of glass in one hand, and the light of my eyes reflects off its surface. It is me, maybe, in another life. In another body. With another mind.
Another shape, in my other hand. Less reflective, more dim. It is shrouded in the shadows that leak off my hair, like ink in water. Another me, another fracture of me.
How many pieces are there?
I hold the glass shapes closest to me, desperate for the control it brings. The weight is familiar, but distracting. My eyes unfocus, and my head is clogged, and just like that, I am gone.
I sink back into my chest, like a whole carved out and just noticed. And I rock rhythmically to myself, until the next time I am needed. Until the next time I awake and I realise i am not myself. Whoever that is.
Started watching Dead Boy Detectives. My notes so far (SPOILERS OBVIOUSLY):
Episode 1
My god this is gay. Like seriously Edwin is just. Slay queen? And getting propositioned by the Cat King? Then clutching his pearls? I'm DECEASED. Pun intended. Also he's soooooo jealous.
Episode 2-3
My god this show must end up with them together, right????? RIGHT?? I KNOW CRYSTAL IS THERE TO CAUSE TENSION BUT COME ON MAN. My poor boy Charles 😭. He's such a ball of traumatised sunshine. EDWIN OPEN YOUR EYES MAN!!!
Episode 4
I - what. the. fuck. That ending? NO. CHARLES???? STOP IT RN. Edwin and Niko's friendship on the other hand? LOVE LOVE LOVEEEE. I love Niko, she's so precious. Edwin being like "I'm ashamed" to the Cat King and saying "I don't know" to Niko afterwards???? GAY CONFIRMED??? I SAY SO.
Gonna take a wild guess and say it's caused from caregivers not treating you right as a child (or neglecting you completely) and whether you realised it or not you've decided it must be your fault. It's the only explanation you feel makes sense. There must be something wrong with you. Of course, there isn't anything obvious that's wrong with you so you're stuck with this feeling of there's something inherently bad about me.
Being unable to find the source can leave you anxious and growing up in that environment might make you want the control that comes from knowing more than anything. You might become afraid of people knowing you because what if they find out what's wrong with you before you do?
I need a French person to see this post and tell me if going to France some day is even worth it 😭.
Because ever since I started learning French I've seen NOTHING but videos and comments of people saying french people are rude and especially critical over your fluency.
*sees Coriolanus* 👁️🫦👁️ no! nope! no! isnt he the bad guy? He's the bad guy!
*sees Lucy Gray* omg I'm not straight
*corio introducing her* so smart
*CORIO WEARINF A SKIRT* I'm tryna be strong *prays for strength* /j
*corio leaning into everyone's personal space bubble and making me ship him with everyone (not his cousin tho obviously, although that scene weirds me out)* sweats nervously
*corio putting the handkerchief in the snake thingy* uh ok but won't they just find the WHITE out of place object WITH YOUR INITIALS?????
OMFG I FORGOT ABOUT THAT DRUNK DUDE I WAS SO FOCUSED ON HOW PRETTY THE MOVIE WAS
lost all interest when his hair was shaved ngl
*Lucy Gray singing "snow"* I am so gay
*CORIO WALKING OUT* SCREAMING
Coriolanus' HAIR I'm still upset 😭
He shot someone...ok I can justify it as self defence...
But sejanus...NOT MY MANS SEJANUS
every time Lucy Gray sings I become more gay it's just a fact
"I SAID are you trying to kill me LUCY GRAY?" sounds like my mother angrily repeating herself when she's yelling at me
