Sure I Could Ship That

I recently had the idea that Jason could see ghosts, and I thought it would be fun if he could see Martha and Thomas.

”fun” bro that would be heartbreaking. I’m sold

What if after Jason's death, Alfred still found himself making food for that empty seat at the table

do you know. The stages of grief I went through after reading that. Hell, I INVENTED NEW STAGES. THIS IS NOT OKAY. WHAT KIND OF PERSON—

If there was one thing in Alfred’s life that he viewed as concrete, it was food. The smells of the kitchen in the early morning, before anyone but himself had woken, filled with sausage and toast. The sound of the oven’s timer going off, alerting him to the fact that he would soon be joined by the other occupants of the house. The slight breeze wafting through the only window he’d cared to open, allowing clear—or at least, as clear as could be found in Gotham—air through, into the house. 

   There was something . . . special about these moments. The time before anyone else had woken, when Alfred could be sure of his charges’ locations, sound asleep in their beds, and the fact that all would soon be sitting in front of him. Eating what he’d cooked, talking, acting as a family in ways it had taken them years to even attempt. 

   It was akin in feeling to the moment at dusk when the fires throughout the manor were low and Bruce could be found in his study, bent over a book. Where Jason, forever his father’s shadow—

   Well, he would—

   Alfred supposed that Bruce would be reading alone, now. Or perhaps not reading at all. None could blame the man if that were the case. The library, in recent years, had become Jason’s much in the way that the kitchen was Alfred’s. An unofficial rule, but a rule nonetheless. A silent promise that the space was theirs to maintain, to hide in, to control and enjoy as they saw fit. It was a unanimous understanding that, were you to enter, you were entering Jason’s space. 

   Alfred would not be surprised if the doors to the library didn’t open again. 

   It brought him pain unparalleled to think of that. To picture Jason’s favorite books, still lying on the table, covered in dust brought not by forgetfulness but by remembrance too strong to bear. To imagine Jason’s chair, pulled across the room to stand next to Bruce’s—though Jason would have denied—gone unused, left in the shadows of the curtains no one had drawn back in months. 

   Jason had always hated the dark. When entering the library, his first action would be ensuring that the fireplace was bright and the curtains held back, allowing for whatever light the day produced to stream into the room. 

   The easy explanation for this could have been Jason’s personality—bright and clear as the sunlight, and as warm as the fireplace. 

   Alfred Pennyworth had never been one to reach for the easy explanations. No, he’d worked hard to never be blind to the truth—and the truth, in this situation, was that Jason Todd was afraid of the dark. Afraid in a way that could only ever have been a result of past experiences. In a way that spoke of alleyways during the night and electricity bills gone unpaid. 

   It had been a week into Jason’s living with them that the elderly butler had deduced this, and less than a day after that, Jason’s room had possessed no less than three new light sources, two of which were nightlights. Jason had never mentioned it, but Alfred had read the boy’s gratefulness in the way he’d smiled as he’d helped prepare breakfast the very next morning.

   Preparing meals with Jason at his side had been an honor Alfred would not find the likes of again. To watch the boy go from a silent, timid thing to the grinning, confident teen he—that he’d been later in life. 

   Earning that boy’s trust had been and would forever be one of the greatest achievements of Alfred’s life. He would never be able to think of his kitchen the same, after it had been graced with Jason’s presence. He saw the boy’s touch in the labels, scrawled in a young hand, placed upon the unmarked spices. In the smaller apron that hung beside his own, colors the familiar red, yellow, and green of the Robin uniform. In the boxed macaroni and cheese that occupied the pantry, waiting to be doused in barbecue sauce for . . . 

   It was a comfort food of Jason’s, barbecue pasta. Something Alfred would never have thought to make until that boy had shyly suggested it one of those very first months. Now it was one of the most commonly-made dishes in the manor, if only because Alfred enjoyed the smile it had put on Jason’s face. 

   Another one of the young master’s comfort foods was—had been—orange juice. 

   Alfred knew logically that the reason for this was his previous poverty. That he’d seldom had orange juice as a child, resulting in a love for it later on in life when it was easily available. That was the logical conclusion.

   The one he found himself holding closer to his chest, though, was that orange juice was one of the very first things he’d ever given the boy—accompanied with a large breakfast, yes, but Jason had taken only the juice. 

   What was it about him that made Alfred so illogical? So willing to turn to emotion rather than truth? Was it that, when faced with a boy who’s emotions had so obviously been both the last rope holding him together and the knife ripping him apart, to fight fire with fire had been the only option? To meet Jason’s anger with kindness and his fear with comfort? Or was it that, after years of watching Dick become distant and Bruce forsake emotion for the mission, Alfred had become tired with such apathy?

   Was it, perhaps, that Alfred had taken one look at a scared, lonely boy and decided, I will not allow the same fate to befall him as has the previous two?

   It didn’t work, did it, a cruel part of his mind pointed out. In the end, you changed nothing—because it was always going to end this way.

   Hugging Jason more often than he had Dick, while wonderful, hadn’t changed anything in the end, had it?

   Alfred had done everything he could to stray Jason from the path set before him, and yet he had ended up in the ditch anyway. Bloody, broken, gone.

   Gone from the family. Gone from life. Gone from the mansion. Gone from his library . . . and gone from Alfred’s kitchen. 

   Alfred wondered how many more losses he could take before the kitchen started to feel more like a shrine to the dead rather than a refuge for the living. 

   It had already started to show, that transition. He could see it now, as he returned from setting the table to find the eldest of his charges standing in the doorway—watching. Silent, still, and dead in all but heartbeat.

   Hesitation should never have been the emotion a Wayne was met with when entering the kitchen, especially Bruce Wayne. And yet Alfred could read it all over the man’s face. 

   He, one who so often hid his face behind masks of indifference or stupidity or cruelty, was saying so openly Alfred found it in every line of his eyes, Am I allowed here?

   Alfred almost sighed. He didn’t, though, because giving a sound to the feeling coursing through his chest would have given it a tangibility he was not ready to allow. “Have a seat, Master Bruce.”

   Bruce was silent as he walked forward, pulled out a chair and did as he was told. Not a moment later, the middle—youngest—of Alfred’s charges appeared and, glancing at Bruce, did the same.

   “Did you sleep well, Master Dick?” The words felt mechanical in Alfred’s mouth, though no one would tell from the sound of them. 

   “I . . .” Dick trailed off, voice cracking halfway through, and Alfred didn’t turn. If something were truly wrong, he trusted that Bruce would handle it. 

   Instead, he plated the last of the blueberry scones, gathered the jams and brought them to the table. 

   Silence was awash through the room. Alfred could have sworn that neither Bruce nor Dick were breathing. 

   “I was unsure of your schedules today,” he said idly as he worked to place the scones within reach of both men. “So I prepared both heavy and light options for you to choose from.”

   “Alfred.”

   Alfred paused, abandoning the butter knife he had been situating in the jam, and looked at Bruce. 

   Bruce’s face was pale, his eyes dark with a pain Alfred would recognize anywhere. He’d learned to recognize it over two decades before and had not forgotten it since then. 

   “Master Bruce, what—”

   “You set—there are one too many plates, Alfred.”

  Alfred frowned, slightly insulted at the insinuation. He had been making breakfast for the occupants of the manor for years, and he had placed more table settings in his life than he could count. 

   “You made a plate for Jason, Alfie.” Dick’s voice was hoarse with pain. 

   Alfred’s breath hitched. Straightening, he re-examined the table—but he already knew what he would find.

   “It seems I have.”

   Bruce’s eyes were everywhere but the plate. They seemed glued to Alfred’s cheek, unable to reach his gaze. What was it, Alfred wondered, that he so feared finding there? Anger? Blame? Grief? Pain? “You . . . It’s fine, Alfred. Don’t . . . Just leave it.”

   Did he mean to ‘just leave it’, or ‘don’t just leave it’, Alfred wondered distantly as he stared at the plate. It was unused, of course—clean, and placed next to a fork, a butter crock, and . . . a cup of orange juice. 

   It was such an unassuming thing.

  No one would look at it and think, perhaps it shouldn’t exist.

   “I . . .” Alfred Pennyworth, former special forces, capable of crimes beyond the comprehension of even the Batman, found that his voice would no longer work. Because his throat had closed up or because he had no words to speak, he was unsure. All he knew was that his voice, usually the pillar with which he displayed his conviction, his strength, was gone. In the face of a mere plate.

   “Alfie?” Dick sounded young. Younger than he had in years, and so unsure for it.

   For once, Alfred could not bring himself to care.

   “I need a moment,” the butler said abruptly. “Excuse me, sirs.”

   And before either Bat could protest, he had fled the room.

   When he came back hours later, heart calmed not with peaceful breathing but with a chest so hollow that the beats were nothing but echoes, he found the orange juice gone. 

   It was a painful sort of relief that revelation brought, because he wasn’t sure he would have had the heart to pour it out himself.

Danny has found out that he tends to stay awake for weeks, if not months, at a time. However, when he does sleep, he needs to sleep for a way longer time than people sleep. Usually about one or three thousand years.

Clockwork and he figure it has to do with his body starting to absorb the Time Amulet that he shoved into his chest; his core, still growing, started to think that this foreign power source was supposed to be taken in, and has started to do so.

Danny's core is still ice, but it's also adapting the power of the Time Amulet to that; basically, Danny is mostly immune to time shenanigans naturally, and the other side effect is a huge influx of power to his core.

Problem; that is a lot of power, and Danny's body needs a lot of time to rest in ghost form to handle it without destabilizing.

So because he doesn't want to miss living his life with his family, he and Clockwork figure something out.

When he gets sleepy, and it's time for him to Sleep frfr instead of just an 8 hour catnap, Clockwork sends him to a different dimension that works on a different timeframe.

He gets a room especially made, hidden from the denizens of that world, full of never-rotting timeless comforts like pillows and blankets, and he gets to sleep.

They repurpose some of the Skeleton Army he won from Pariah Dark to serve him while he rests; they make sure he's clean, that the sheets and pillows are clean, and that snacks and drinks are available for his brief moments of wakefulness.

In this particular world, however, his sleeping chambers have been found, and he's being worshipped as the god of a cult.

They've carved a hole above his chambers, and for the most part haven't been too obtrusive, so the Skeleton Army lets them keep that hole. The cult has been sending food and treasure down, and since the Skeleton Army's primary purpose is to ensure Danny is well-fed whenever he wakes up and comfortable, they allow this.

Then the cult drops Bart Allen in the sleeping chambers, deliberately angling him so that he lands on Danny's pillow-bed, fully intending to use him to both wake up their sleeping god and be a sacrifice.

By the time Wally gets down there, ready to save Bart and defend him, the Skeleton Army is gently trying to pry the sleeping gods arms off of Bart, who has apparently become a living teddy bear for this thing.

"Uh..."

"I think they're trying to save me? This god likes to cuddle, I guess."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I think he's just super tired. He might let go if you find a good enough replacement."

"Why can't you just phase out?"

"What if I wake him up and he starts searching for me? We gotta find something else he can cuddle with."

So Wally leaves on a quest, darting all over the world and bringing back huge stuffed animals in an attempt to find one that the god will accept as a substitute for Bart.

Bart, meanwhile, is living it up.

The Skeleton Army makes sure he's fed, there's like, a lot of video games that the cult threw down here, and while he is antsy cuz he can't move, at least this is actually the most comfortable bed he's ever been on.

But he is getting kinda bored, and none of the stuffed animals Wally is bringing in are working.

So he texts the Young Justice group chat.

JL finding out bat secrets, but it's in the most simple ways.

Barry: how old do you think Robin is?

Oliver: you met him last week, he's like 12

Barry: yeah but like, he was 14-ish when we started the justice league

Hal: maybe he's an immortal vampire like batman

Nightwing: that's ridiculous

Hal: we have aliens and gods on this team. Why not vampires?!

Wally: can't be immortal if he was 14 then but 12 now

Barry: I've cracked it, there's more than one

Oliver: Your genius amazes and astounds

Barry: So the first Robin should be like 30 by now

Dick: WHAT

Dick: 30! IM 26

Dick now in crisis: I AM NOT THAT OLD YET

Barry: Hold on, wha-

*Wally silently laughing at Dick despite them being almost the same age*

Oliver: Were you Robin?!?!?!

Dick: I can't believe this betrayal! It's called mid 20's and you're no longer invited to Christmas Ollie!

Oliver: I was invited to your Christmas!?!

Wally: Well, not anymore you're not

Hal: Can I come?

Dick: that's up to Batman

Hal:...

Dick: Coward, this is why you aren't invited to family Christmas

Barry: YOURE RELATED TO BATMAN?!

Oliver: I WAS INVITED TO BATMANS FAMILY CHRISTMAS?!?!?!

Mootie more trans!tim timber pls it’s my birthday 

(My bday was actually yesterday)

HAPPY LATE ANNIVERSARY OF BEING BIRTHED!!!! I hope for you to go out someday the same way you came into the world. ❤💛💚💙💜🎂🎂🎂🎂🎂🎂🎂🎂☕☕☕☕☕☕☕

And, of course :3

Stephanie, unaware of Tim's identity and that he's trans, referring to him as "birdboy" and "boy wonder" every two seconds:

Tim, vibrating with the happies:

Stephanie: Are you okay . . ?

Tim: Never been better.

—

Tim, after transitioning: DAD!!! I NEED PADS!

Jack: ??? Like a notepad?

Tim: . . . For my period.

Jack, thinking this is a school thing: Which one?

Tim, groaning loudly and climbing back up the stairs: I MISS MOM!

Jack: ???

Dana: Did you forget Tim was trans, again?

Jack: . . . F-#$—

—

Bruce: I saw you sneaking those pain killers, what injury are you hiding this time?

Tim: My period???

—

Bernard: I don't get what's so funny?

Tim: I asked for pads with wings...

Bernard, holding up a box of pads in one hand and barbecue chicken wings in the other: I made you wings and got pads though? :(

Tim: I love you.

Bernard: I love you too?

Tim: I love you so much.

Bernard: I love you more?

—

Tim, stumbling inside his houseboat after a twelve hour long workday at W.E., instantly ripping his suit off an tossing his binder to the ground, groaning as he falls face first into bed: I shouldn't have worn that all day. Ow. All the ow. I need oxygen...

Cass, who stopped by to snack on the leftovers Bernard made: No patrol for you tonight >:/

Tim: Nooooooo...

—

Tim, snickering as he holds his binder up: Hey, hey, hey, Bern.

Bernard: Oh no... Yes, Timboo?

Tim, grinning: De-boob-inator.

Bernard, bursting into laughter:

Tim, laughing harder:

—

Tim, sipping chamomile tea:

Bruce: Are you... Drinking tea? No soda? Was zesti recalled again? I can call the company —

Tim: No, no, Alfred made it for me! Helps with nausea and cramps and anxiety, good for periods.

Bruce: Oh. Alfred, how'd you know?

Alfred: It was an old trick your Mother taught me, actually. She'd have three cups a day when she had her menstrual cycle. I find it quite poetic, actually, in a way she's caring for her grandchildren even from the grave...

Bruce: . . . That's to many emotions for me to handle at this hour.

Tim: That's to may emotions for you to handle at any hour.

—

Tim, hiding in a dark, dark closet: Gender dysphoria can't touch me here.

Tim, crying while eating a spoonful of half melted ice cream:

—

Just to make a point, every time I finished a panel of this I would export it as a PNG on the perceptual setting and use it as a color reference for the next panel

IT'S BAD

PLEASE CHECK YOUR COLOR SETTINGS

EDIT: If you're still having problems, it might help to switch from "Save/Save as" to "Export (as a) Single Layer". Just. Make SURE the box labeled "Expression Color" is set to RGB. I've been messing with this all day, and it looks like this combination of settings will allow exported PNGs to maintain their colors perfectly. To you. So far both Discord and Toyhouse still only display desaturated images and I cannot for the life of me figure out why

Oh thank god I need this as reference

Writing Tips

Punctuating Dialogue

✧

➸ “This is a sentence.”

➸ “This is a sentence with a dialogue tag at the end,” she said.

➸ “This,” he said, “is a sentence split by a dialogue tag.”

➸ “This is a sentence,” she said. “This is a new sentence. New sentences are capitalized.”

➸ “This is a sentence followed by an action.” He stood. “They are separate sentences because he did not speak by standing.”

➸ She said, “Use a comma to introduce dialogue. The quote is capitalized when the dialogue tag is at the beginning.”

➸ “Use a comma when a dialogue tag follows a quote,” he said.

“Unless there is a question mark?” she asked.

“Or an exclamation point!” he answered. “The dialogue tag still remains uncapitalized because it’s not truly the end of the sentence.”

➸ “Periods and commas should be inside closing quotations.”

➸ “Hey!” she shouted, “Sometimes exclamation points are inside quotations.”

However, if it’s not dialogue exclamation points can also be “outside”!

➸ “Does this apply to question marks too?” he asked.

If it’s not dialogue, can question marks be “outside”? (Yes, they can.)

➸ “This applies to dashes too. Inside quotations dashes typically express—“

“Interruption” — but there are situations dashes may be outside.

➸ “You’ll notice that exclamation marks, question marks, and dashes do not have a comma after them. Ellipses don’t have a comma after them either…” she said.

➸ “My teacher said, ‘Use single quotation marks when quoting within dialogue.’”

➸ “Use paragraph breaks to indicate a new speaker,” he said.

“The readers will know it’s someone else speaking.”

➸ “If it’s the same speaker but different paragraph, keep the closing quotation off.

“This shows it’s the same character continuing to speak.”

So as of today I have been writing fanfic for 6 weeks. I think it’s going pretty well!

I have published 67000 words and written over 80000.

5 fics published, one completed.

Several spam messages about people wanting to adapt my story into a comic (which, why? Also how much money do you think I have, I do this for free) but no major flames yet.

All in all, I’m having fun! Pretty sure I’ll keep going.