this gif is perfectly timed because it gives you enough time to read it, comprehend it, and still have this too-long-for-comfort moment of suspense before being punched square in the solar plexus
You are born with the power of incredible stealth, able to hide from anyones gaze. After years of miraculously avoiding demise, you come to realize that you are invisible to death itself.
All I can see now is death trying to remain all ominous and cool, meanwhile secretly he's freaking out internally and blowing up his search history with "can you haunt death itself?" And "how to perform exorcism without nerfing yourself"
ppl are so annoying “you can’t paint ur bedroom pink you’re an adult” i did not spend my entire life waiting to grow up and control my life to paint my bedroom beige
when I first bought my house, I announced my decision to paint my bedroom purple. I had wanted a purple bedroom for thirty damn years, you fucking bet I was gonna have one now. My friends decided, for some reason, that I meant what one of them referred to as “14 year old girl purple” (through what’s wrong with the colors a 14 year old girl chooses, I don’t know, even if they’re not what I want as an adult). They didn’t believe me until they saw the color on the actual wall, even thought they helped me pick out paints. My mother, meanwhile, decided to get worried that if I painted my bedroom a “dark purple”, it would be “depressing”. As if, with an entire house to live in, I would spend all my time in the bedroom, which I wanted to be dark because I would be sleeping in there. In the damn dark.
I had like one, maybe two friends who were all like FUCK YEAH YOU PAINT IT WHATEVER COLOR YOU WANT, PURPLE BEDROOMS ARE AWESOME.
But when they actualy saw the finished bedroom, every single one of them was like, “Oh yeah, that’s really pretty.” (Well, the ones who supported me from the beginning were more like WOOHOO.)
And the moral of the story is: Fuck ‘em, please yourself. Either they’ll come around, or you can safely ignore every question of taste they opine about for the rest of time.
This applies to other adulting activities, too. When I was a kid, I decided that I wanted to have a wedding cake made of doughnuts. When I got older, I figured that I would be “mature” about it and get a traditional cake, which the older adults approved of. Now that I’m 25 and facing the possibility of actual marriage in the near future, I’m just like “marriage is a social construct but it comes with tax & insurance benefits, so just give me that goddamn doughnut cake.” If they don’t like it then they don’t have to come to my wedding.
I’m thirty and my first big furniture purchase was a custom coffin shaped coffee table that opens up and is lined with purple crushed velvet. I would have loved it at 13 and I love it now. Growing up doesn’t mean you have to abandon what makes you happy.
I have told this story before, and I will tell it again, because I am An Old now and repeating stories forever is our prerogative:
When I bought my house, the kitchen was multiple shades of dingy white. It was dismal, but it was now mine! So went to the hardware store for paint (well, several trips, painted swatches on panel, etc — I’m very picky. But this was the final, ‘real’ trip). It was a busy day in the paint section. There were at least five people behind me in line.
Now, remember, latex paint is slightly lighter and brighter when wet than it is when dry. And I’d decided to paint my kitchen candy-apple red. The hardware store employee took my gallon off the Paint Jiggler and cracked it open to put a dab on the top, revealing the most incredibly deep pink, and behind me I hear the entire line of people say,
“Oh my god.”
…in perfect chorus.
I did not realize up until that moment that shocking a crowd of strangers with my paint color choices was a life goal, but at that moment I felt an absolutely overwhelming sense of achievement.
When I first moved into my place, I painted the spare room, that eventually became my office, lime green, the kind of lime green that glows down the corridor when I open the door - The colour was only available as an “accent colour” in the section of paints intended for children’s playrooms, and in the shop I got a lot of “Oh your son will love this!” And from people I knew I got a lot of “Oh well, you’re 21 now, you’re basically a teenager, this is a terrible idea, you’ll hate it and need to pull out all the furniture to repaint it.” And I have to report that I am now in my forties and my office still looks like this, and it makes me smile every time I see it.
not decorating trends; those have always existed. but the idea that color and decoration is inherently childish
this is the dining room at the Eustis Estate in Milton, Massachusetts, from 1878 (where I used to work, briefly). the walls are TEXTURED MICA SHIMMER on a green background. Adult Space For Adults!
A jewelry shop in Paris c. 1901. kids can’t buy jewelry!
who can forget the classic 1950s colorful bathroom? I’m not a huge fan, but still! adult space! bright colors; decorative designs!
meanwhile “you’re immature if you like Art Nouveau” is a hot take I’ve really, seriously seen on this webbed site (only once, thank the gods). I don’t know who started this, but I’m going to kill them
I think a lot of it stems from the ubiquitous Waterhouse prints that were sold on college campuses for 20 years. like why would I get a free pass if it were Monet instead Western culture is stupid. The entire point of being an adult is breakfast for dinner and cake for breakfast and dying with the most toys.
The examples of decorated homes above are both either modern or upper class, which makes it easy to dismiss because “sure the rich people have beautiful homes” and “sure, modern middle-class people have lots of color in their homes.”
So here’s two examples of traditional Norwegian farmhouse interiors. You know. The kinds of places peasants live in.
This type of painting is called “rosemaling” and today you usually find it on, like, carved wooden bowls and such that are only used for decoration. But back two centuries ago, it was very common to find the interiors of homes covered in it, in projects that were painted little by little over the decades. Because it’s beautiful to look at, paint is the cheapest way of decorating your house, and what else are you going to do on the long winter nights when it’s too dark and cold to work outdoors?
But mostly, they did it because it made them happy, and it was beautiful.
My dream kitchen is butcher block counter tops, powder blue cabinets, yellow walls and terracotta hexagon tile floors. something bright, airy, cozy and looks like a place people live and cook meals in, not a piece in hardware store show floor.
The first thing I did when I bought my tiny crappy house to escape from my shitty ex-husband was ask my kids what colors they want their rooms painted, because their father refused to let us even hang things on the walls in fear of ruining the resale value of the house we finally bought together(which he conveniently kept in his name only, he’s a monster).
My twelve year old wanted a black room. I also wanted a black room as a kid and was told no because ‘it’s too hard to paint over’ and ‘it’ll make the room look too small’. Fuck that. We bought Sherwin-Williams paint in stricken Blacl and did the entire room, ceiling included, put in a four-poster gold bed and hung gothic mirrors on the walls. My ten-year old wanted the most vivid cyan I’ve ever seen and now going into their room feels like walking into the sky itself, it’s amazing. And I finally got the deep green living room of my dreams. Homes are meant to be lived in, not preserved in plastic wrap. Don’t haunt your home like a ghost, make it somewhere you want to be.
the purpose of friends is to have people who unconditionally hate your shitty exes & relatives. like maybe YOU have a complex relationship with your father but i sure don't. i'm outside his house with a gun. he's not the unforgivable asshole who raised me he's just an unforgivable asshole
It’s a universally known fact that you don’t fuck with our crab cakes here in Maryland.
Unfortunately, that second billboard is a photoshopped fake. BUT the real billboards that went up are just as fun!
So PETA put up that top billboard in 2018 in Baltimore, and the restaurant across the street, Jimmy’s Famous Seafood, put up a response. They also debuted a beer called, appropriately, PETA Tears, but I digress.
The ME was a subtle call out, a warning shot if you will.
But earlier this year (2023) right in time for Lent in very catholic Baltimore, PETA decided to try again.
To which Jimmy’s decided fuck that, let’s get two billboards this time. (WaPo)
No lie, ‘savor the sacrifice’ is my new favorite tag line.
im begging you to write a part 2 of vigilante reader because the way you write??? the dynamic between reader and jason??? the sex tension???are chef kiss!!!
thanks very much! part 2 and I couldn't put off the reveal bc I'm just too impatient lol 🫶 but I might write another part post-reveal? maybe? cuz I'm growing attached to these two <3
jason todd x gn!vigilante!reader (nocturne). tw explosions, smoke inhalation, reader passes out, canon typical violence, identity reveal, asshole bruce. jason is in love? jason is in love.
read pt 1 here! | all fics are reblogged to @sanguinelibrary
****
"Go home."
"Bruce, I—"
Bruce looks at you, eyes sharp with fury and... something else. Something older.
The others know how to talk back. You still haven't gained the courage to sass The Batman.
"Go. Home. If you need an escort, I can call Superman."
You take a step back at his coldness.
"Bruce, I know I messed up, letting Hood escape but—"
"Yes, you did. You deliberately disobeyed an order. I told everybody to stand down. He could've killed you."
But he didn't, you don't say. He could've, but he chose not to.
He'd felt safe.
"I had it under control, honestly. He wasn't—it wasn't like the other encounters you've had with him. He wouldn't have hurt me."
That is the wrong thing to say. You realize that after the words leave your mouth and the muscles in Bruce's jaw jump.
"You can't be this naive. I know I wouldn't have chosen someone who's this naive," he says savagely. "You know Hood can't be trusted, and you're defending him to me. We've seen time and again he's rogue. He doesn't make sense and that's exactly why he's dangerous."
"But if you would just listen—"
"Enough," he snaps. "Enough. Go home. I'm suspending you for three weeks."
"Three w—I'm not even injured!" you cry.
"No, but you need the time. You're not thinking clearly. Go. I don't want to see you until next month."
You press your lips together before you say something truly foul. Something about Batman's habit of pushing people away. Something about dead Robins.
You don't let the tears fall until you leave the Cave. This is all Hood's fault. You know it would've been a different conversation if you'd managed to successfully capture him.
You'll take down the Red Hood if it's the last thing you do.
****
It takes you approximately two days to break your suspension.
In your defense, you meant to follow Bruce's orders. You would've stayed put and helped Barbara with research instead.
But not at the expense of civilian lives.
"All units to Canal and Riverview, 10-80. Standby. Do not enter the factory until given clearance from the Bomb Squad."
You turn off the police scanner and stuff it in your drawer. In Gotham, explosions usually come in multiples. If there's one, there's bound to be another. The police are generally inept when it comes to evacuating civilians. You know one of the other Bats are on their way, but you're the closest to the docks.
You glance at your suit. No. If you go as Nocturne, Batman might suspend you indefinitely.
You grab your gas mask and put on a black hoodie and a domino mask. You'll just have to make do.
The marina is blanketed in thick smoke. It makes your eyes water. But in the commotion it causes, you're able to slip past the barriers and help workers out of the factory. It's difficult because without the suit, people don't give you the same trust and respect. But you're anonymous, and that's all that matters.
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
You ignore the voice and keep hauling two elderly workers towards the exit. They're barely outside before you turn around, determined to clear every level of the factory.
You're yanked backward by a hand on your hoodie. You nearly lose your footing, but the hand is firm, dragging you towards the pier.
You're spun around and put face to face with a red helmet.
Oh, of all the fucking—
"Let go of me!" you shout, smacking his arm. Hood's grip tightens.
"I will as soon as you stop doing stupid shit. What were you thinking, coming here?"
You pause. Whoops. This isn't how a plain civilian would react to being apprehended by the Red Hood.
And that's definitely not how the Red Hood would react to getting swatted by a random civilian. Shit.
"I was, um, I was thinking I could help," you say haltingly. "P-please don't hurt me, Mr. Hood, I was—"
Hood sighs and lets you go, then tucks his gun into his holster.
"Cut the shit. I know you're Nocturne. I also know that you need some acting lessons because what the hell was that? Mr. Hood?"
A chill washes over you. "I don't know what you mean. Nocturne?"
Hood shakes his head. "I don't have time for this. The building's gonna collapse any second. Stay. Put."
He goes back toward the smoking entrance. Your eye twitches as you follow him.
"Last time I checked, you don't have that kind of authority, Hood."
He turns around and looms over you. "Don't I?"
Anyone else would back down. You might've a week ago. You should, after the tongue lashing Bruce gave you.
But there's no soot on Hood's helmet or vest. He doesn't smell sweet like gasoline or pungent like motor oil.
He was in the factory to help.
Something shifts. Batman is wrong. Batman is more wrong than he's ever been.
Because Hood's not the enemy here. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.
You push past Hood. "It'll be faster if we work together."
"Oh, absolutely not. You're not even in your suit."
"As per your request," you say, flashing a plastic smile. "You're welcome."
"Don't get cute with me, you—hey!"
You dart past him and go straight into the factory. Hood shouts your name, which makes you pause, just for a moment.
But revealed identity or not, you need to clear the building. So you pull on your mask and run faster.
Your worst fear is confirmed when you check the upper level: someone was missed in the evacuation. It's a worker, and she's unconscious.
You don't think about how explosions come in pairs in Gotham. Don't think about how long it'll take to get to the exit.
You take off your mask and slide it onto her face. The smoke burns your throat immediately, but you ignore it and lift her in a fireman carry, just as you were taught all those years ago by Robin. He's the one who taught you how to save people without relying on brute strength or height.
You hope he's alright, wherever he is. You hope he's not too upset seeing you rush into a burning building.
That's your last thought when you see the entrance. Your face is covered in sweat and grime. The heat from the fires is exhausting. You can feel your eyes beginning to close.
"There's something seriously wrong with you," a decoded voice says in your ear, and then the woman's weight is lifted from your shoulders.
Hood grabs your hand, the woman over his opposite shoulder, and you make it out just as the second explosion goes off. It knocks you forward.
Hood puts the woman down just in time to catch you. His arm is around your waist, the other hand cradling your head. His gloved thumb touches your mouth, and you feel his dawning realization as he finally sees your mask on the woman.
"Don't tell Ba'man," you slur.
"Jesus fuck—" Hood starts to drag you. You feel lightheaded. He's moving, and you wish he'd stop. "You don't take off your mask. You never take off your mask. We taught you that!"
"She was unconscious, J'y..."
Arms tighten around you. Everything goes dark.
****
You wake up to the smell of scrambling eggs.
For a moment, you just bask in the smell. It smells like Alfred's breakfast scramble. Bacon. Butter. Golden potatoes.
Then you wake up further and realize that you're not in the Manor. You're in your apartment.
So who's cooking?
You get up quietly, slipping out of your room. You pause in front of the full-length mirror.
Honestly, you've looked worse. Your hair needs a wash, and you're in the same clothes you went into the building with, which are now a little charred. But your face is clean of soot, and your throat hurts only a little.
The kitchen sink runs. You slowly creep out into the living room, keeping your breathing even and silent.
The mess of black hair, you recognize. Sort of. You might've mistaken him for Bruce if you didn't know that Bruce has a lifetime ban from kitchens all over the world.
He's too tall to be Dick. Too skilled in the kitchen to be Bruce. Too nice to be Bruce, too—you can't imagine Bruce Wayne making you eggs. Especially when you disobeyed his orders. Again.
The red helmet on the kitchen stool turns your blood to ice.
You grab the letter opener from a drawer and wait a few seconds to see if Hood's heard you. Then you throw the letter opener with near perfect aim at his exposed shoulder.
He catches it without turning.
Your heart skips a beat. Every time you think you might get the drop on him, Hood reminds you just how competent he really is.
A mix of fear, aggravation, and something you don't want to examine too closely swirls in your gut.
"Impressive," he says. "Dami been training you? Mama Al-Ghul spent a lot of time on his knife lessons."
"Why are you in my apartment?"
Hood sets the letter opener down on the counter and turns off the stove. Then he serves the breakfast scramble on two plates, then sprinkles chives over them.
This is the weirdest kidnapping ever.
He sighs, back still facing you.
"You can't tell anyone it's me," he says.
"You make a lot of demands for a guy who just used the last of my eggs."
Hood laughs. It sounds wet. It sounds like grief.
"God, I've missed ya, honeylove."
Your heart pounds. You try to find another weapon, anything. Hood doesn't give you the chance.
He turns around.
The first thing you see is the stark white streak of hair and the curls you once loved. The curls that were near unrecognizable in the casket.
Being loved is NOT a reward for being beneficial or useful in any way. You don't become less deserving of being loved if you aren't productive for a day or if you have a bad day and can't get out of bed.
I promise. Being loved has nothing to do with how you "help" the world or those around you.
