Holy Shit, The Official Sonic Social Media Posted This

You know, I'll never disappear Now get us out of here

my piece for the TOA zine ^__^ !!

one of my favorite shows ever, and so happy to be able to contribute to a project celebrating the series !! <3

Happy 5th Anniversary to Age of Resistance, my beloved 💚

I drew this Deet last year and then promptly forgot about it. Don't ask what's going on with the streamers on her arm wraps, I had no idea what I was doing :')

the woman who holds the moon

prints available here. my cover for this month's issue of baffling magazine.

sometimes you're forced to confront the fact that your father will always die for you and you have a very public mental breakdown about it

Tim stared at the projector, biting his lip nervously as he watched an alternate version of Diana and Hal hold down a howling, begging alternate version of Dick as their Bruce vanished through the door, infected blood dripping onto the bomb strapped to his side.

"How many?" his version of Dick asks quietly beside him, the kind of quiet that reminded Tim of the hiss just before a kettle really started screaming.

"Well, it's hard to say, I cannibalized the tech off Evil-Alternate-Superman-42 and it's good but not good enough to scan the entire multiverse so any data is collects isn't really-"

"How many, Tim."

"-conclusive..."He sighs, but doesn't keep fighting. "....98%."

Dick's eyes widen behind his mask. Tim keeps going, pushing it all out as a single blow.

"Counting all the times Bruce dies 98% of the time it's for one of us."

Because it really wasn't just the first Robin, Tim had had an illuminating 36 minutes watching a version of Bruce slip the only intact gas mask over his Tim's unconscious face, whisper that he loved him, and then asphyxiate. Tim is... Tim is just not going to think about it, is what Tim is going to do.

Unfortunately that doesn't actually help. Which he supposes is fair because they did just watch 22 different Bruce's sacrifice themselves for 22 different Richard Grayson's- they had both silently chosen not to talk about the couple of times it had been Richard Wayne.

He vaguely remembers a universe where Bruce was a cat, maybe that would cheer- aaaaaaand Dick was turning on his heel and sprinting down the watchtowers hallways.

Tim thinks of giving Bruce a warning, thinks of a whispered I love you to an unconscious body that would never hear it, and keeps his silence.

.

His eldest, for all his theatrics and love of drama, isn't one to interrupt a meeting for no reason, so when Dick storms into one Bruce is ready for a catastrophe, a natural disaster, one of the family to be in critical condition. What he gets instead is this.

They all startle when the doors open and Dick's steps, usually so quiet, slam against the floor.

"Nightwing is there something-"

"Dude, we're in a meeting-"

"Are you-"

Bruce says nothing, watching the furious set of his son's shoulders as he rounds the table, eyes locked on Bruce's like a raptor diving for it's target. Dick's always been a creature of focus once he has a goal, has always used that focus to ignore his own agony. So he stands, setting his shoulders, becomes the stubborn wall he's known as.

"Everyone out," he barks, to immediate protest.

"Excuse you?" Hal raises his eyebrows, "for one you don't dismiss us and for another-"

"Tell me you wouldn't die for me."

Everyone swerves to look at Dick, jaws dropping.

"Well of course he wouldn't," Ollie chuckles after a moment of stunned silence, so quick to diffuse the tension with a joke, something Dick usually goes along with, "he'd have to love anything other than-"

"Shut the fuck up," Dick snarls, voice as guttural as when he plays Batman, furious in a way he never is with the other heroes. The tension ratchets further, and Bruce is grateful when Superman ushers everyone out, shooting worried looks at the both of them.

"What is this about?" Bruce stalls. He can guess. Tim's been making noise about the multi-verse watches since that alternate Nightwing had let him keep the broken extra one that he'd had on him, refusing to explain why the one of his own wrist didn't quite fit him, just like he'd refused to explain his utter, consuming hatred of his world's Superman. It wouldn't surprise him if it had begun to eat at Dick, if he'd felt compelled to go looking. He's just surprised Dick didn't already know that Bruce would die for him, would chose his son's life over his own every time, without thought, without question, without regret.

A small sketch. I love them

and Stucky

Bruce had spent years abroad, stuffing lifetimes of experience and training and knowledge into a fraction of time. There is an endless number of memories to dwell on, thousands of people, of smiles, of hands outstretched in welcome and of fingers wrapped around weapons. There is an endless number of memories to dwell on. But often since his robins he thinks of the six months of a Russian winter he spent learning what it meant to be cold, learning what it meant to survive alone.

Four months training, one month tracking caribou across the northern mountains with his trainer, and then a month to get back on his own. 

It might have gone well if not for the wolf that dogged their steps. His trainer had beaten him bloody and taken his jacket when he’d found Bruce leaving scraps in the snow for it. 

“You do not have enough to be giving what you have to a dog,” the man had spat. “If you want to throw your life away I will end you now and save myself a month of carrying you.”

Bruce had argued back, they could pull down another caribou, the meat would keep in the cold and he could carry it with him until they reached somewhere the wolf could find a pack of it’s own. His trainer had only looked at him in pity.

“I knew you had too much heart when I took you on, I do not enjoy training boys who will only go on to die, sobachka. You as you are now can only carry enough vital resources for yourself, any more and you will collapse before you reach safety, or you will give up too much food and find yourself starving and you will be it’s next meal” 

That night on watch the wolf had slunk up to his side, eyes gleaming like stars in the firelight and ribs showing clean through it’s fur. It had taken the last of his beef jerky gingerly right from his hands. He knew the wolf would continue to follow them, knew his trainer would kill it if he saw it the next day so he had gripped his hunting rifle in his hands and taken aim just to the left of it’s body. As if it knew exactly what the sight of gun meant it shot off, disappearing into the night before he’d gotten the sight up to his face. 

In a way the man had been wrong. Making his way back alone Bruce had made a fatal mistake, falling through a crevice in the ice and into water just above freezing he’d passed out moments after dragging himself out. He would have, should have, died. But the wolf had found him, had dug a den out of the snow and dragged him in out of the wind, curled up around him until Bruce could feel his fingers again and get out of his wet clothes.

In a way the man had been right. Bruce didn’t have enough for the two of them, hunting was hard and it wasn’t made much better with his companion. By the time they’d made it back to his trainers hut both of them were more bone than skin but Bruce had been so proud. He should have known, by the look on his trainers face, should have been better, faster, thought smarter. But he hadn’t, wasn’t, and the man had shot the wolf before Bruce could throw himself in front of the bullet.

Sometimes, on the worst of night in Gotham, he wonders, between him and Robin, who is the wolf, and who is the boy.

wagon wheels and dirt roads - exploration on the worst of the training instilled in Bruce and how he tries not to pass it on to his robins

🔪🪡🖤✨