Read The Full Fic Here: Https://archiveofourown.org/works/57571189

Alfred: So you have twelve apples and your child asks for six. What do you have?

Bruce, tearing up: A child.

Whoever told me learning to draw was a good idea lied. I never wanna draw again.

One thing I’ve learned as a writer who struggles to finish her projects is that it’s infinitely better to just write something than it is to not write anything at all. Every time I try to circle back to an old story and start worrying about the end result not being perfect, I remind myself that even finishing it poorly will always be better than leaving it uncompleted forever. Besides, I always end up surprising myself with what I create when I just put a little more faith into my abilities.

we need to be weirder & so so earnest now more than ever

Is the boyyyssssas I love them a healthy amount I swearrrr

I saw someone’s Damian design with earrings and I really liked it so I drew inspiration from them on that.

I also used a different brush cause it was funky and I liked how it looked

Read the full fic here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58143571

Damian’s feet move forward without much thought. He internally curses his child-like legs for moving so slow in such a dire moment, but despite the urge to slot himself in front of his brother and demand the wretch retract her touch, he cannot risk sprinting into action and making a scene.

He gets there in due time, stepping between the two just before the woman can lean in to ghost her cherry lipstick against Drake’s ear. His brother is entirely frozen, no trace of the sharp, well-spoken gentlemen that defends Damian from crude remarks anywhere in sight.

“Mrs. Barlowe,” Daman says pointedly, causing the woman to flinch. Good. She should be afraid. “My brother is not an object of pleasure for you to satisfy yourself with.”

im so normal abt sibling relationships in media i swear

Read the full fic here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57571189

Tim lets out a harsh breath, fiddling with the cord of his earbuds as the announcer proclaims their flight delayed by another three hours.

Damian looks up from his sketchbook, eyebags carved into olive skin as he shares a long-suffering look with Tim.

“This is ridiculous,” he says, none of the usual haughtiness in his tone. The kid is clearly exhausted—three flights from New York to San Francisco wearing away at his patience and leaving the bare-bones of his pride in its wake. Tim would poke fun if he wasn’t so dead on his feet himself.

“We can go get fries at one of the food courts?” He offers, because in the last thirty-six hours they’ve been traveling he swears he hasn’t seen the brat eat a single thing.

Damian ducks his head, sleep tugging at the corner of his expression as he sets down the graphite pencil in his hands. He’s drawing a sketch of Dick, smile lines and all. “I’m not hungry.”

:D THE BOY!🗣️🗣️🗣️

I love him a healthy amount I swear.

Read the full fic here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54525688

Charlie eyes him like she’s trying to pick him apart with her gaze, scanning his body all the way down to his dress shoes before settling back on his face again.

“Where…” she swallows roughly, throat bobbing. It’s clear she doesn’t know where she wants to take her sentence. “Where were you, Al?”

Alastor stills, the obvious note of concern in her voice catching him off-guard. When he stays silent for a beat too long, Charlie plows onward, hands gesturing frantically as she tries to convey her point.

“It’s just—the shield just went down really suddenly, and none of us knew what to do because we never thought that would happen, and then Pentious—” she shakes her head once, blinking back traitorous tears, “Pentious sacrificed himself, and I wanted to check up on you because I know you’d never leave unless something really bad had happened, but then my dad came to fight Adam and I just…”

Her voice tapers off, a fat tear dripping off the crest of her chin and smattering onto the hardwood floor below. Charlie sniffles, trying to wipe the streak away with the back of her hand.

“I was worried,” she finishes finally, staring at him with such earnestness that it makes Alastor’s stomach churn. “You were—you were just gone.”