imagine you are a 10 year old raised to kill in a ritualistically abusive cult and then you get sent to live with your fuckass dad in new jersey usa and he says literally everything you were ever taught to believe by the authority figures in your life is not true and is in fact morally reprehensible and unacceptable and to top it off literally nobody in his family likes you even a little bit and they feel very comfortable with you knowing this. And through a series of unfortunate events you get sent BACK to the cult after getting a little blown up and your father doesn’t look for you at all. and then you have to seek him and his family out because your withered husk of a grandpa is trying to bodysnatch you and his chud son you didn’t even try THAT hard to kill attacks you and has to be dragged off by the butler. so they work with your mom to keep you from getting bodysnatched and then you decide it’s time to go live with papa and bond with him or whatever and then he bites it. so then you’re stuck with his OTHER chud son as batman but you get attached over time while you’re working together as batman and robin but THEN your dad comes back from being fake dead in the timestream and the brother you got attached to fucks back off to the most cursed city maybe in the world. then your clone kills you and you go to real biblical hell. and this is like. All in the span of a year, maybe. damian is much stronger than me i would have walled bruce into his own wine cellar cask of amontillado style and left him to die a miserable death
Honestly, fuck unnecesary DC retcons. Hal is deeply troubled and complex queer character , not a Top Gun:Maverick anologue. John is a skilled architect with strong opinions and rightful anger, not a bland military man. Guy has two PHDs and used to work as a teacher for special ed kids, he's not an ex-cop.
Most of all, Green Lanterns Corps are political mediators, rescue teams, military troops, marshals and guardians of their sectors, explorers, knights, non-proffit intergalatic support organization and occasionaly detective agency and police force, NOT just space cops.
Ives like "can" drive but he doesn't have a car and there is no universe where Tim lets him drive his so Tim has to drive Ives to Gotham U every day because the Gotham transit system is the worst you have ever seen. Tim will be sitting outside of Ives' lecture hall on his phone playing brick breaker and sometimes Ives gets caught up in long discussions with the profs or in heated arguments with his peers and Tim will just go in after everyone else has left and sit there and listen in and most everyone in Ives' year is pretty convinced Tim is Ives' boyfriend but they know literally nothing about him and also spent the first semester of first year half convinced Ives was homophobic so no one is quite sure he's gay and there is a growing theory that Tim is Ives' cool (wrong) gay roommate that has been in love with him for years and Ives is completely oblivious (correct). And eventually one of the profs suggests Ives should invite his boyfriend to one of the film department's events and Ives is like. My what? But through a miraculous miscommunication he becomes convinced he's only allowed to bring a +1 if he's dating them and he doesn't want to be the only one without a +1, especially since he isn't super close with anyone in his year so he convinces Tim to pretend to date him, but they're really bad at it which only fuels the rumours.
It's spring now which means the kids in my city have started drawing hopscotches on the sidewalk and as a rule I do every hopscotch I see because 1. Use it or lose it (ability to scotch) and 2. If a child got down on the hardscrabble streets of Boston Massachusetts to draw a scotch the least I can do is use it, but in doing the hopscotches, I've learned that about 50% of them are the typical 8-10 step scotch and the other 50% are. Somewhat avant-garde. And of course I'm not vetting the entire scotch before I start it so sometimes it's like haha 8 steps woo! Childlike whimsy! And sometimes they're 20 steps or 30 or they've got a section with three squares instead of two where you have to do a little Charleston to step on all three, or, memorably, FORTY one foot squares. A full BLOCK of jumping on one foot but I'm no quitter so once I've started Jigsaw Junior's fuckin hopscotch gauntlet I'm there til the end just a daily pot smoker in her thirties jumping kasa-obake style through an affluent suburb while some little proto-kennedy watches from his bedroom window rubbing his sadistic little third grade hands together and cackling. It's amazing. I love spring.
I know damian is overinvolved with dick’s gym job i know he’s emailing dick’s manager like hello. This is damian wayne. You are severely underpaying my older brother richard grayson. He is an Olympic level athlete teaching at your gym for (real actual numbers that hes researched) less than he could be making at a gym more suited to his skill level. Rectify this immediately.
What damian wants is for dick to have a nicer apartment and a new car mostly a new car. However dick likes his shitty apartment and the honda is 100% paid off and he Loves that thing he’ll be buried with it. Dick is picking damian up from his high school graduation in that thing. It’s already a decade old. He spray painted it blue when he got it (it was kind of a taupe color) and he’s not willing to physically or emotionally or monetarily go through the process of purchasing a car and then spray paint again. Damian Hates it he prays for the downfall of the honda he’s tried to figure out if he has matilda mind powers in that thing trying to total it with his mind. Dick keeps putting bumper stickers on it that say like MY CHILD IS A GOTHAM ELEMENTARY SCHOOL GRADUATE! Damian tries to like convince him to remove them and starts sharing factoids about why you shouldnt personalize childrens items or have bumper stickers stating facts about your kids because predators can read it and use the knowledge to convince kids to get in a car with them and dick says “if you get into a car with a stranger both you and the stranger deserve whatever you do to each other” c tier parenting moment. He wakes up in the middle of the night later in a cold sweat and barges into Damian’s room and is like NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS IF A STRANGER HURTS YOU IN ANY WAY I WILL NOT BLAME YOU OKAY. YOU WONT DESERVE IT. NOBODY DESERVES TO BE HURT. and damian (woke up from a dead sleep) is like get out of my room before i KILL YOU. C tier day all around.
Bernard gets a PT job as a nude figure model for art classes at the local college, and Tim is super, super normal about it. He proceeds to spend unhinged and insane completely reasonable amounts of time and money finding and purchasing the work of every student he sits for, and hangs them all in his closet as a normal and not all all creepy or obsessive shrine to his own long-term boyfriend's beauty.
The first time Bernard mentioned it, Tim’s reaction was a masterpiece of studied nonchalance. “Oh, cool,” he’d said, nodding slowly as he stirred his pasta. “That’s… artistic. Very cool. But like, I’m rich. What do you need the extra money for?”
"I do it for the plot, bro." Bernard, who had braced for teasing or concern, just blinked. “You don’t think it’s weird?”
“Don’t call me bro, I just had your tongue down my throat. And it’s not weird. The human form is a classical subject. It’s respectable.” Tim took a bite, chewing with a thoughtful expression. “Which building is the class in? The Fine Arts Center? Room 214B, the one with the north-facing windows?”
Bernard should have recognized the glint in Tim’s eye for what it was: not acceptance, but the spark of a singular, all-consuming mission.
It began subtly. A week after Bernard’s first session, Tim came home with a small, smudged charcoal drawing on textured paper. “Look what I found at the student art sale,” he said, beaming with a pride utterly disproportionate to the purchase of a $10 sketch. The figure was recognizably Bernard, captured in a quick gesture drawing, all long lines and relaxed shoulders.
“Wow, that’s… me,” Bernard said, touched. “That’s really sweet, Tim.”
“It’s good composition,” Tim stated, with the authority of someone who had last taken an art class in the seventh grade. He hung it on the fridge.
That was the gateway drug.
The next week, Tim didn’t come home with one drawing. He came home with three. One was a watercolor where Bernard’s skin tone was a fascinating shade of lavender. Another was an abstract piece that primarily consisted of geometric shapes, with only a single, perfectly rendered eye to suggest a person. The third was a hyper-realistic pencil drawing of Bernard’s left foot.
“The foot artist, Maya, she’s a prodigy,” Tim explained. “She really captured the nail on your big toe. The cuticle detail is breathtaking.”
Bernard peered at the drawing. “I have a scar on my ankle from when I was a kid. She missed that.”
“…right, I’ll go commission her to fix this."
“Tim, no."
The fridge was quickly overwhelmed. The living room walls were deemed “too public.” And so, the shrine migrated to their walk-in closet.
It started with a single bulletin board. Then two. Then Tim had installed custom track lighting to properly illuminate the ever-growing gallery. He curated the collection with the obsessive diligence of a museum archivist. Drawings were grouped by medium: charcoal here, conté crayon there. Paintings were arranged by style: realist, impressionist, cubist (a particularly challenging period for Bernard’s self-image).
He spent what had to be hundreds of dollars. He haunted student galleries, end-of-semester sales, and even, on one occasion, directly accosted a nervous-looking freshman in the cafeteria to inquire if the “lyrical figure studies from Professor Davies’ Tuesday/Thursday class” were for sale.
He became an expert. He could discourse on the varying line weights used to suggest mass. He knew which students used too much fixative and which didn’t use enough. He developed strong, inexplicable opinions about undergraduate artists.
“Jamal? Overrated. His work is all technical skill, no soul,” Tim would declare, pointing a dismissive finger at a perfectly competent ink wash. “But Chloe? We like Chloe. Look at the way she rendered the light on your clavicle. It’s transcendent.”
Bernard would stand in the doorway of the closet, arms crossed, watching his boyfriend lovingly adjust the tilt of a pastel drawing he’d bought from a girl named Zoe for fifty bucks.
“You know I come home and put my pants on in this room, right?” Bernard said one evening. “It’s a little weird to be stared at by twenty-seven different versions of my naked self while I’m looking for a matching sock.”
Tim paused, his hand hovering near a small acrylic painting. He turned, his expression one of pure, unadulterated sincerity. “But don’t you see? It’s not narcissism. It’s the opposite.”
“It is?”
“Yes! It’s about… collective witness. It’s about how your beauty, your essence, is perceived and translated through all these different lenses. Each one is a testament. This…” He gestured grandly at the walls, the lighting, the carefully labeled index cards next to each piece. “…this is a catalog of awe.”
Bernard looked at the myriad of his own faces, his own poses, his own (apparently transcendent) clavicles. He looked at Tim, whose face was shining with a love so vast and so utterly deranged that it was impossible to be creeped out. It was just… Tim.
“Okay,” Bernard said. “I think you just made a lot of that up but I’ll humor you. But if you start trying to buy the clay sculptures, we’re going to need a bigger closet.”
Tim’s eyes lit up. “Do they let the students keep the sculptures? I should ask.”
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