The Bog Gave Me A Vision

Sketches for costumes. “Mensch und kunstfigur.” Oskar Schlemmer. Die buhne im bauhaus. 1925.

Heidelberg University

Antony Gormley

of course he’s the kid you wanted, dick thinks, he says, he yells because he is eighteen and so full of hope for life that he forgot about the chains he put on himself that drag him back to bruce’s stupid fucking cave no matter how hard he tries to break free of them. and he’s tried to run away, he’s tried and tried and tried, from the very first fight he had with bruce when he was a burnt-out cluster of stars in the shape of a nine year old boy to two weeks ago, when he realized that there are papers that turn jason peter todd into jason peter todd-wayne. jason peter todd-wayne likes going to school and helps alfred cook and actually enjoys doing weapons inventory and reads books curled up in the big armchair next to the mahogeny desk in bruce’s chamber of an office. dick did backflips on the chair for all of ten minutes before bruce’s quiet scribbling and the walls full of books felt like they were closing in on him, and he had to tumble down the steps of the batcave and throw his body around the parallel bars just to keep his soul from ballooning out of his body with the need to move. jason made bruce smile the day his parents died in the alley his parents died in. jason is quiet enough to put bruce at ease but loud enough to fill the space and bruce loves him like a son. maybe bruce loved dick, but dick made him rub his forehead in exasperation and look over dick’s prescriptions every couple of months and slump with exhaustion after they spent a day together. dick made bruce tired, but jason made him smile, so dick bent his neck in submission and let the kid wear robin on his chest with pride. 

of course he’s the kid you wanted, jason spits out bitterly, the winds whipping past him and bruce on a rooftop like riptides carrying people to their deaths. he can pinpoint the minute his rage turned to hopelessness, because this new robin ran to the edge of a cliff and jumped off without a hint of fear, flying higher and higher until he reached the moon, until he reached the stars, until he reached the outstretched hands dick motherfucking grayson held out for him. dick held his hands out for jason too, but jason’s wings melted with the heat of dick’s stupid stupid stupid perfectness, and no matter what he did, icarus always fell. jason wasn’t an idealistic little annie with stars in his eyes; he braced himself for the burn the minute bruce took him into wayne manor, because rich white men always want things and jason spent months waiting to find out what bruce wayne wanted. the answer was companionship, the answer was someone to protect and care for, the answer was a child to love as his own, which was so hopelessly pure that jason’s skin felt bleached by it. tim’s skin didn’t have to be bleached by it. tim had skin as white as porcelain and eyes like shattered diamonds and an aristocratic little accent that jason could practically see jewels and precious metals dripping off of, his wealth and privilege locking jason in place like the midas touch. jason was a kid bruce picked up off the streets, and even though he’d spent his life knowing that he was smart and strong and clever enough to earn robin, to survive the league, to be red hood, there would always be someone better, someone worth more, someone who fit the robin mold like they were melted and poured into it. so jason snarled and screamed and broke down as loud as he could, because he thought he meant the world to bruce, thought he was his son, but tim was a much better son than jason could ever be, and jason didn’t just outgrow those pixie boots, his feet grew so big they tore them to pieces, and he’d never be able to wear them again.

of course he’s the kid you wanted, tim says to himself, on the precipice of turning his entire body into an ice-cold sculpture near unbreakable with the fire of emotion and letting the tears that had bubbled up into his throat burst out with all the fury of a supernova. tim had chip, chip, chipped away at himself until he’d become the perfect partner, the perfect robin, because that’s all he ever wanted to do. he wanted to be useful, he wanted to work for something with his own two hands and have earned his victory, he wanted someone to tell him they were proud of the work he had done. but tim had fucked it up, he’d fucked it all up, because he hadn’t been able to accept nearly everyone he loved being ripped from his greedy fingers, and all of the satisfaction he got from crowing about how he was right and how bruce was alive and they brought him back because of him turned to acid in his mouth because of the things he’d done to get there. damian was broken too, damian was shattered into so many little pieces that the shards pricked dick all over and made him bleed until damian was seeped into his skin so deep that dick didn’t have any other choice but to love him. tim was just fractured. he had bold lines running across his skin, a map of his strengths and things he overcame and survived turning into a map of his failure, and splinters running across his soul. a streak for trying to clone conner, a streak for mutilating the robin costume with his own grief, a streak for letting ra’s come as close as he did to compromising tim, a streak for not being able to convince cass to stay, a streak for getting kicked out the window and letting himself fall, letting dick believe he’d known he was there and quietly wishing that dick hadn’t gotten to him in time. damian, for all his faults, had only ever tried to claw his way up with bloodstained hands to morality and kindness and good, somehow ignoring the siren call that was the league at his back. so, with a silent and motionless tantrum as violent as someone locked inside arkham, tim screamed at the unfairness of it all, at the audacity of it all, but let himself become accustomed to the r sitting on damian’s chest.

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just to remind myself of that time I somehow ended up recommending the fic op actually wrote about this in the comments to someone without realising op was, in fact, the author of that fic.

sometimes you follow someone for their skyfire/starscream comic and find out later they're the author of your fav starscream redemption fic

this hellsite is alright actually

Look my favourite 'Starscream joins the Autobots' concept involves him absolutely playing up his victimhood in a manipulative attempt to win sympathy. He's a Decepticon! He's Starscream. Of course he does! He will act however weak and vulnerable he needs to, in order to achieve his ends.

This gives him a fascinating duality. He's a Machiavellian selfish would-be-tyrant who fucking dares the Autobots to feel sorry for him; while at the same time, he's a wheedling, snivelling mess, making puppy-dog eyes as he cunningly reveals tailored scraps of his abusive relationship with Megatron to win over the 'soft-sparked' Autobots.

Everything he shares is true.

In fact, things with Megatron were probably even worse than he portrays, albeit more complex - i.e., with far more goading and violence on his side, but which in NO WAY justified the ghastly abuse he was subjected to.

This is a way for him to feel like he's in control of the shit that's been done to him. If he's using his victim status as a weapon, it feels like it's his. He's taken possession of it. He's made it into something more powerful, in his mind (even if this defence tactic kinda... prevents him from fully recognising that what happened to him was actually really really awful).

I wish more fics engaged with this aspect of his character, where he's PERFECTLY WILLING to go 'OH THE ABUSE. OH I HAVE SUFFERED' if it'll get him ahead in life, while perhaps not even fully understanding just how much trauma he's gone through.

Doc. How much would it cost for you to do a drawing of Jason with his white streak? You absolute god

“Sick puppies.. cold shower, cold shower... Bruce’s face....”

A young girl lying on a statue of a blacksmith, Bismarck National Monument, Berlin, 1961 - by Floris M. Neusüss (1937 - 2020), German

Okay hear me out. Ultimate Clone X theory

Clone X is Soup clone.

My evidence for this theory? Plenty when he talks to Crosshair about Joining them when he had the chance? He’s talking about during the food fight. This entire time he has been biding his time. And what is a river if not the soup of nature? I feel this in my bones. All other theories have been rejected as inferior Dogma? Nah! Tech boring! Cody? Ha give me a break. Slick? Derivative. It’s soup clone. The ultimate villain.

feeling called out today

credit: _ADWills