❤️ anything Dick Grayson/Nightwing and Jason Todd/Red Hood related!!! 25, Welsh-Canadian, Bachelor's double major degree in Psychology and Linguistics, minor in French. Bipolar and anxiety to boot!
43 posts
Jasonwing - AnxietyRules(myLife) - Tumblr Blog
This blog is a safe place. Abuse is abuse no matter gender identity or relationship status
Just an experiment. Reblog if you actually give a fuck about male victims of domestic violence and rape.
Of fucking course
What sick bastard doesn’t
One word: Despicable
Cool situation we’re getting into here
There’s not even any reason to fire an employee over wearing a facemask. This is purely just making an ideological position that’s gonna get people killed
If only 100% of the workers decided not to return to work. Business can’t run w/out employees. Sadly, since a 1x payment of 1200 really doesn’t help anyone, ppl are forced to put themselves and their loved ones in danger to put food on the table. Wonderful country we live in.
Poor Baby
I’m sensing some hostility here..you guys got enough fiber in your diet?
Dick Grayson: Nuns+ katanas. They would be called Nunjas
❤️❤️❤️❤️
Dick Grayson & Jason Todd
Relationship Aesthetic
And not questioning it!
Did you all know that Jason Todd is immortal
Can't say this enough! Vaccinate.
Mind blown 🤯
Something just occured to me.
Jason's full name is Jason Todd. Jason is a Greek name, coming from Iason which means "to heal". Todd is German, from Tod, which means "death".
His name literally means "to heal death".
Ma jayboy
and it’s my whole heart - though tried and tested, it’s mine. and it’s my whole heart - trying to reach it out. and it’s my whole heart - burned, but not buried this time.
[ twitter / instagram ]
Jay with freckles ❤️♥️
You’re the most special star on this planet, you never knew that. (N.Flying-Rooftop)
Rocket science!
aint this the fucken truth
What a wonderful moment!
Story Time: Get a load of what happened to me at Starbucks today.
There’s a running joke among people who know me personally that I unwittingly go out in public with a sign on my forehead stating “I Am Non-Threatening. Come Talk To Me.” Because if there’s a chance a bizarre conversation with a total stranger is going to happen, I’m typically the person it happens to.
Some context: I have been pretty darn sick this week. (It’s not Coronavirus, don’t worry.) Since the work in my queue for my day job is comprised entirely of audio narration right now, and I currently sound like a waterlogged Demi Moore, I haven’t been able to work these last couple of days. As a result, I’ve been using my down time to knock out as much of Manu’s redesign as possible. Today, to ensure I didn’t spend the day languishing in sinus misery, I medicated the crap out of myself and took Manu to the Starbucks down the block from my son’s day care.
I hit the bathroom, then picked an empty table, but as soon as I sat down with my venti Comfort Tea and started tweaking the inks on my iPad, I felt the eyes of the man next to me looking over my shoulder.
When I looked up, he had his phone out. “I’m sorry,” he said (in a thick accent I couldn’t place geographically), “I don’t want to disturb. I notice you art. You are artist!”
I tried to smile. “Yes, I’m... Well, I’m trying to be,” I croaked.
He leaned in, like he was sharing a secret.
“I am artist, too.”
He stuck out his hand.
I gently took it, grateful for the bathroom trip I just took in which I washed the scourge off of my fingers.
“Can I?” he asked, holding his phone up.
“Take a picture? Uh... sure,” I said. It’s not like he would be able to steal Manu out from under me or anything, I figured. The panel I was tweaking was magnified out to Guam.
“I am artist. Architect and Designer,” he clarified while he steadied his phone over my iPad. “I am Ilker. What is your name?”
“I’m Venessa” I said, trying to be polite. This, I thought warily, is precisely how I get myself into trouble. I’m too damn nice.
“You know, I come to America twenty years ago from Turkey...”
I put down my stylus. This was going to be a while.
“I like Turkey,” he explained. “I like the country and I like the people. But I am artist. I am not... religious man.”
I nodded.
“I told my wife I was going to go to America and she said, “what are you going to do? You don’t have job! You don’t have money! No Visa!” And I said, “I am artist and architect. I will paint and sell my paintings.
“So I come to America alone. To New York City. I sit outside, and I paint. And people, they liked my paintings. They bought them. This one for $30, that one for $50.
“One day, a man comes over to me and he say, “I like your painting. I see you are also architect.” And he gives me his number and asks me to go to meeting at his office. Because he wants to offer me a job. He starts to talk about a building contract.
“I tell him I don’t know anything about contracts. I have no Visa. I am not American citizen. But he says, “That’s okay. I will take care of everything. You will have nothing to worry about.” And this man, he gave me a job. $173,000 a year. And my wife, he gave her a job too. She was project assistant. I bring her and my two daughters over from Turkey.”
“Wow,” I said, not fully believing the veracity of what sounded like a full-on immigration fairy tale.
“Here,” said Ilker, unlocking his phone and opening up his Facebook app. “I show you my work.” He paused and looked up at me. “I am interrupting. You don’t mind?”
At this point, I was invested. I had to see. Because whatever he was about to show me would either prove or disprove this yarn he was spinning. “Please,” I said, gesturing for him to go ahead.
He opened his photos and my jaw dropped. His work... was UNREAL.
“This is building I designed on Madison Ave.... And this one in Chelsea...”
Holy crap. I had just been to Chelsea with my sister last month on a trip to see a broadway show. I had crossed the intersection of the building he was, at this moment, telling me he designed.
He flipped through more buildings. These, he’d designed in Washington, DC. In Bethesda. In Arlington. All beautiful, streamlined, modern structures I had visited and parked my car in front of. He told me he did much of his concept work freehand. That he worked exclusively in natural media. His preferred media was pen, ink, watercolors, and chalks.
Between photos of his wife and daughters, he went on to show me photos from the RUSSIAN EXHIBITION OF HIS ARCHITECTURE ARTWORK.
Y’all, I was stunned. I couldn’t believe the talent I was sitting next to. Scattered among these gloriously rendered images of some of the most beautiful building concepts I’d ever seen were paintings of scenes in Central Park, the National Mall, and nudes from a life-drawing session he attends from time to time.
When he was done flipping through his phone, he looked at me and smiled. “I hope you don’t mind that I interrupt you. I show you all this because what you are doing is very good. And you should be encouraged. To draw is to make beauty.”
I nodded, a lump in my throat. “Thank you,” I managed. “Your work is astonishing. I don’t even know what to say. What is your name again?”
He held out his hand once more. “Ilker Kocahan,” he said. “I am getting more coffee. Can I get you one?”
I looked at my still-full venti cup. “No thank you. But here, please take my card.”
He held my dinky business card like I’d handed him a treasure and thanked me.
Then Ilker got his coffee, and left the coffee shop.
At some point in his ramblings he talked about America as a place of dreams. How he credits this country with helping him rise to the top of his field where he is now able to sell his paintings for $800-$1000 a piece now that he’s retired. My heart ached to hear him talk about that, knowing how our leadership’s positions on immigrants have taken such a dark and horrifying turn.
Imagine the buildings and museums and public places that would never have been if a business man in the park hadn’t lifted up a Turkish painter who spoke little English.
And now that painter was paying it forward on me.
I still feel pretty darn sick. I’ve still got body aches and a nose that has taken the rest of my face hostage.
But today was a really good day. And I just wanted to share it with you in case you are looking for reasons to keep drawing/painting/dancing/writing. It all counts and it is all good.
If you would like to see Ilker Kocohan’s work, please click here.
What a powerful commentary and discussion!
i didnt realise ao3 was started in response to lj deleting account relating to p//edophi|ia and they explicitly support the posting of such works yikes
I'll just reblog and share this for those in the back who didn't hear! ❤️
honestly? the one that really gets me is that bruce just kinda assumes that dick will drop everything to take care of the family when things happen to him. and because of that, he’s never grateful when he does.
like in 2009 when batman got himself fuckin nerfed, and dick dropped EVERYTHING. his mantle, his city, his teams, everything he cared about, and moved back to gotham to keep bruce’s life going. took in his feral kid that murdered and spent all his time disrespecting him, dealt with jason going off the richter, actually improved batman’s relationship with the gcpd (with multiple officers saying they preferred the new, kinder batman), and just kept the family together in general, as best he could. all while it destroyed him. he wasnt sleeping, he wasnt in contact w any of his friends, he was injured CONSTANTLY, and his team mates were furious with him. and he just sat there and bore it all. he did his best and he fucking succeeded. then batman came back and told him none of it was good enough. tim should still be robin, even tho it was a) dicks mantle to pass on and b) the only way to integrate damian healthily into the family and society. that he was too soft even tho he put a REAL dent in crime and was congratulated for it by commissioner gordon. he lead the jla, kept the business going, and the only person that was harmed here was himself. and the first thing he did was yell at dick that he didnt have what it takes and didnt do a good enough job, and that was exactly what he had expected to happen. because he knew he was flimsy and weak, even tho dick had proven himself the exact opposite.
like. can we talk about how dick is always willing to throw everything away for bruce or the family. that the second he doesnt come through the love is withdrawn (a lá nightwing year one and like. a bunch of other arcs) and hes terrified of that. like he would go to the ends of the earth for bruce and he doesnt care. he just expects that of dick. and so do the kids, i cant count the number of times tim has just assumed that dick will be there, and called him sloppy when he isnt. the number of times jason has derided his devotion as bootlicking. ive just. ive had enough
No words. Just 💓!
Cass: What is the hardest thing to say?
Tim: I was wrong
Jason: I need help
Damian: I love you
Bruce: I’m sorry
Barbara: No
Stephanie: It was my fault
Dick: Worcestershire sauce
No words. Pure gold
Concept : Malcolm in the middle, but with Bruce and the bat kids.
I’m So Much More
It wasn’t weird to randomly find Jason around Gotham. For all the troubles the city had given him, Gotham was the only home Jason had ever known. He was born in the depths of its dirtiest streets and buried at 15 in its cemetery. He spent some time away in Nanda Parbat with Talia al Ghul as his caretaker while he was catatonic. He spent some years wandering the globe, learning from different teachers. He’d even spent a decent amount of time in the Chamber of All with Ducra and the All-Caste. Even still, Gotham was where he’d always return to. Despite all the pain, it always called to him, and he always answered.
Usually he’d stick to Crime Alley, but he liked to wander. He stayed clear of the busier areas like the Diamond District or the general downtown area, but places like Crime Alley and the Narrows just a little further down were where he thrived. They were what he was used to. Even after years away, he knew those streets like the back of his hand. He remembered the rundown apartment he was raised in, could clearly picture all the places he’d camped out in after his mother died, and could recall where all the beatings he got from early failed attempts at pickpocketing had occurred.
It also wasn’t strange to find him in the cemetery, sitting in front of the grave he spent six months in. It wasn’t a mystery to anyone in the family, and no one tried to bother him while he sat there. Time would pass quickly for him as he sat there. No one questions what he thought about while he was there, and if asked, Jason wasn’t sure he could give a clear answer. Sometimes he wondered what it would’ve been like had he just stayed dead like was was supposed to. Other times he wondered if he should just crawl back in and save the other the constant headaches.
Most times, he just regretted ever managing to claw his way out. Wouldn’t it have been so funny had his survival instincts hadn’t kicked in and he’d used the belt buckle. He thinks about having just let his fingers break and bleed while he suffocated and died, stayed dead in the nice coffin they’d taken the time to place him in.
Very few times, the family would find him in the manor. He didn’t like frequenting the place he’d once called a home. Sometimes he likes to pretend those three years he’d spent there were just a fever dream induced from the malnutrition and cold, harsh nights in the Alley. The few times he was seen in the manor, it was either because he had absolutely no other choice, or because he was there for Alfred. He’d do anything for Alfred.
He would sometimes go to the cave. Usually only if he were seriously wounded or happened to be working a case with them. It’d been a long time since he’d killed anyone, and because he’d been following the rules, it was easier to talk to the rest of the family, Bruce in particular. It wasn’t too weird to find Jason in the cave these days because of that.
Some days though, like on the days he’d go to the cemetery, Jason would have off days. His family figured there were some things the pit just couldn’t erase, and trauma was one of those things. If there was anyone in the family with trauma, it was Jason. He could probably count on one hand his best memories growing up, and though he treasured them all, they also tended to just amplify the seemingly never ending hardships that surrounded them.
Going to the circus with his father was nice. It didn’t erase all those nights huddled under the kitchen table hiding away from the man. Listening to his mother hum her favorite tunes was soothing, but sometimes those tunes came to her while she laid unmoving on the floor, too drugged to so much as lift a finger as her 7 year old son sat by her side and watched her pulse.
Living in the manor had been fun. He could go to school, cook with Alfred, go to baseball games with Bruce; he could have the childhood he’d been denied. But that came with being Robin, and though being Robin had been the greatest thing to ever happen to him, it had also been the cause of his untimely death.
The memory of his death never left him. Every night when he went to sleep, he’d hear the demented laughter. If he was lucky, he’d wake up before the explosion occurred. Sometimes Sheila was there, either tied up as she’d been or joining the Joker in his torture. In some dreams she lived, and in others she died before he even had the chance to untie her. The weapon never changed, a crowbar would always be what tore through his skin and shattered his bones. Some nights, he imagined what it would’ve been like had he had the chance to fight back. Even in those, he never stood a chance though. He died back then, and he dies in his dreams every night since.
The cave wasn’t a strange place to find him, but it didn’t mean being in the cave was easy for him. Not with the glass case displaying his broken uniform for all to see. It wasn’t the only uniform on display. Dick’s original Robin outfit was in a case, beside Bruce’s first Batman suit, and all the suits that followed. Even the eyesore of Dick’s Discowing Nightwing suit was out, and dare he say that it would’ve been better had Dick just stuck to the bright green panties than worn that monstrosity.
His suit though, the one he died in, was in its own glass case, separate from the others. It was a reminder of his death, of the Robin who failed. The fallen soldier. A Good Soldier my ass, he thought. Good soldiers followed orders. They didn’t let their emotions get the best of them.
Today, he felt it was one of those days. He couldn’t remember waking up that morning, nor could he remember when or how he got to the cave. But he’s here, sitting in front of that damned glass case and it’s stupid plaque with a crowbar of all things resting against his knee and his replacement calling him name.
“Jason, what are you doing here?” Tim asks him. He makes no move to get much closer, and Jason thinks it’s probably for the best. He feels numb, and he doesn’t know how he might react to even the slightest touch. “Why... why do you have that with you?”
He looks down at the crowbar by his side and hums. It’s not a real response, but he’s not sure how to answer any of those questions, so he doesn’t. He just looks back up at the suit he died in and stares once more.
Footsteps move away, up the stairs he vaguely acknowledges, and a few minutes later, there are two sets coming back down, sounding rushed. A new voice is calling him now, and he knows it’s Dick, but he can’t bring himself to give him any real attention.
The crowbar on his knee feels too heavy now, so he picks it up. It feels heavy in his hand too. He taps it against the glass, just small taps, and it makes the weapon look like any other tool. Just a tool like any other in a tool box, but with so much more significance.
“Jason,” Dick says softly. A hand brushes his shoulder as light as a feather, and he pauses in his tapping. “Jason, let go of the crowbar.”
“A good soldier, my ass,” he replies.
“Jason,” Dick tries again.
He cackles as he looks down at the plaque. “Good soldiers follow orders.”
“You were more than that, Jason. You know that,” Dick says. He knows it’s supposed to be reassuring, but nothing really feels like much right now.
“Do you know how it happened? Wanna know how I got stuck in there with the clown? It’s a funny story.”
Dick is holding his shoulder a bit more firmly now, trying to get his attention, trying to get him to stop.
“You went to take on the Joker on your own to save your mother,” Tim says, like it’s a well known fact. Jason laughs again, but it sounds hollow even to him.
“I didn’t know he was in there. I did wait for B like he told me to. And then she came out of the warehouse. And here’s the funny part. You ready? I went to convince her to come with me, that I could get her somewhere safe, and she tells me that she needs to show me something in the warehouse. Must be important, right? She said the Joker was long gone and that it would be safe. Next thing I know, I’m staring down the barrel of her gun,” he says. He turns to meet Tim’s eyes, an empty smile on his lips as he looks him dead in the eyes. “Isn’t it hilarious? A little kid trusting a mother he desperately wanted and getting beat for it.”
He can see the horror in Tim’s eyes when he realizes the implications. He can imagine Dick’s expression too. Not even Bruce has been there to know that bit of information that previously only three people knew of. One was a psychotic clown and the other two were his dead victims.
He’d listened. He’d done as he was told to do. And still he ends up a horror story to those that follow him. A tragic tale of what happens when you don’t follow the rules, kiddos. Don’t listen to the big bad bad and you die.
“Didn’t know what I expected, really. First mom was a druggie; should’ve figured the original wouldn’t be much better. You know she smoked a cigarette while I got beat? And you should’ve seen the look on her face when Joker decided to tie her up too. She was horrified.”
“God, Jason, I...”
“Didn’t know that version of the story, huh? ‘Course not. I’m the bad example. I’m everything to avoid becoming like. Follow the rules like a good boy and you survive.”
“You didn’t, though.”
He looks back at the memorial case. A Good Soldier taunts him. A good soldier is one who doesn’t die tragically. He was never a good soldier. “Should’ve expected it.”
Dick wraps his arm around his soldiers, and it reminds Jason that Dick was never there. Not even for his funeral. He was up in Tameran and had no idea any of it even happened. “There was no way you could’ve expected something like that. You should’ve never had to expect something like that.”
Despite himself, he leans back against his brother’s arms. Their relationship was never perfect. Back then, Dick could barely stand him. The times they actually got along were few and far between since Dick at the time couldn’t stand being around Bruce, and Jason by association. When he returned, the damage had already been done. They didn’t hate each other, and Jason understood where Dick had been coming from, but it was hard to suddenly build a relationship that was already so broken.
“Nothing ever went well before,” he finally says back. Dick’s arms tighten around his shoulders. “It was about time the magic went away too. Nothing good ever lasts too long.”
Tim sinks down beside him. He feels the weight of the other’s head on the shoulder that Dick isn’t occupying. He lifts the crowbar again, hitting a bit harder against the glass but lacking any real force.
“A damn good soldier,” he repeats.
He doesn’t tell them that the only thing he remembers after his death, before waking up in the pit, is clawing out of his grave, calling out for Bruce. He doesn’t tell them that before he blacked out on the side of the road, the only person he could think to call out for was Bruce. Not Willis Todd, not Batman, but for his dad. He wanted Bruce.
He got Talia al Ghul instead.
He supposes she wasn’t all that bad. She kept him alive against her father’s wishes, even if sometimes Jason wishes she would’ve left him for dead. She wasn’t exactly a mother to him, nor was she ever winning a mother of the year award, but he thinks the daughter of the Demon was a hell of a lot better than the two that had previously failed him.
He doesn’t tell them that he forgave Sheila. That he knows it was his own fault he died that day. He’d rushed in, not wanting to risk her getting hurt by the Joker and saw an opportunity while he was supposedly away. He went in alone, and he died because of it.
He doesn’t tell them that he never blamed Bruce for it, because he knows the blame is his own, and the clown’s.
———————
Jason leaves with Dick later on that night, the eldest not trusting to leave him on his own. Jason doesn’t say anything to either of them, but Tim knows he appreciates the company. He knows better than anyone else how it feels to be constantly alone. It’s not a feeling he’d wish upon anyone else.
That night, before patrol, he finds Bruce standing in front of the same glass Jason spent hours sitting by. Tim wonders briefly if it’s a coincidence.
He tells Bruce of everything Jason told them. He speaks quietly, as softly as he can, because he knows that the topic of Jason’s death will never be easy for him.
Tim thinks that the saddest part isn’t Jason’s death. It’s the fact that Bruce and Jason are playing a constant blame game, and neither realize that they both only blame themselves. Jason will never really see how badly his death hurt Bruce and still does, and Bruce will never see that Jason just wants Bruce to see him as the same son he once lost. They both desperately want to be the family they once were and have no idea how to be.
He can see Bruce’s shoulders slump as he processes everything.
“All these years,” Tim starts, “I thought of Jason as the bad Robin. The failure. He was the warning of what the future could be like if I acted rashly, when in reality he was the Robin who trusted too much. He was the Robin who wanted to see the good, and got the worst from it. He wasn’t a bad Robin. He was just given a bad hand.”
“Her last words to me were that she didn’t deserve him. That, in the last moment, he covered her and took the brunt of the explosion. At the time, I had assumed that Jason had gone in and tried to take on the Joker on his own. Never would I have guessed that she’d purposely led him to a trap and gotten caught in it as well.”
“He blew up all the evidence of him being there,” Tim replies. “There was no way we could’ve known the truth when of the three who did, two were dead and one was the killer.”
He looks toward the plaque, Jason’s constant repetition of the words engraved on there swirling in his head. Every time he repeated the words, his voice sounded more broken, until all he could do was hit the glass that refused to break.
“You should talk to him,” he says. Bruce sighs beside him and Tim knows it’s a defeated sound. Too many failed attempts. “You can start by getting rid of this.”
“I need it.”
“No, you don’t. You need your son, not a good soldier. That’s the problem here, B. You’ve categorized him as another Robin because it’s easier for you to lose Robin, but Jason was never just Robin to you. And that’s my mistake too. I thought you needed Robin, a good one that wouldn’t make the same mistakes as the last. What you needed was the son you lost that day.
“You needed the boy under the mask, and that’s something we all failed to realize. And you have him. He’s different, sure, but you can’t tell me you’re the same now as you were at 19. You also can’t say you’ve gone through half the things he has. Jason lost years he’ll never get back, but that doesn’t mean he has to lose the dad he got. If there’s one thing you can give him, it’s a father figure. Not a deadbeat like Willis. A real dad.”
Bruce is silent for a moment, before he murmurs something Tim can’t quite catch. He asks Bruce to repeat it, a bit louder, and he does.
“It was today.”
“What?”
“April 27th. Today is the day he died. And I cradled his broken body in my arms when he found him under the rubble. It’s been 6 years today. In August he would’ve been 16. He would’ve gone to his sophomore year of high school. He would’ve talked to the girl he didn’t know that I knew he had a crush on.”
“This August, he’ll turn 21. He’s already given himself his own identity back. Media thinks he was kidnapped and lost his memories and was recently brought back. He’s got his GED. As far as I know, he really likes an Amazon named Artemis and I’m convinced everyone in this family has a thing for girls who can kick their ass. How about not thinking about what he would’ve been, think about who he is now, and appreciate the fact that he’s alive again, even if we don’t know how. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”
Bruce chuckles a bit and turns away from the glass case. Tim reaches up and removes the cowl from his head. “Go see him. He needs his dad right now. And when you get back, you’re taking down this stupid memorial. Your son is alive and mildly well. You don’t need it. Dick, Damian, and I can handle patrol tonight.”
Bruce makes a sound like he’s going to complain and Tim throws the cowl away from the both of them. He’ll find it and pick it up later, but right now he’s not taking no for an answer.
“Go to your son, B. This isn’t up for debate. Lord knows we all owe him years worth of apologies for all the shit we’ve made him feel. Don't keep putting this off.”
When Bruce nods and walks up the steps and out of the cave, Tim feels a bit lighter. This won’t be a fix-it. The whole family has a ton of work to do if they want to look even slightly functional. But they have to start somewhere. Maybe not tonight, but one day Bruce and Jason will realize how much they care about each other.
They aren’t going to be perfect right away. The past will never go away, and they’ll never be able to forget the mistakes they’ve made throughout the years, but they’re learning.
They’ve survived the worst. They’ll make it through the rest. Only this time, they won’t do it alone.
Source: https://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/cartographer-gotham-city-180951594/
This site is not only full of deliberate disinformation and hoaxes, it’s rife with anti-intellectualism.
I encourage people to research anything that sounds fantastic and totally different than what they were taught - even in my posts.
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ao3 is now asking for donations in the middle of a pandemic. i came back just to watch you look like a clown as you defend them again
cool, have fun
Against thy pestilence Coronavirus of the year of our lord 2019
