Bruce, making a coffee run for his kids- And the last drink is for my teenage son. I'm sorry it's a bit long.
Bruce, reading off the text message Tim sent detailing the order- A thirty two ounce mocha with seven extra espresso-
Barista, interrupting him and already starting the drink- One Tim Drake special, you mean? Yeah. We all know it. It's part of our training for new employees at this point.
Bruce-...
Bruce-..?
Bruce- I've... I've been meaning to talk to him about his caffeine intake-
Barista- Yeah, you probably should. I mean WE would, but he's also our best tipper
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Hi, I followed you for your fic and I saw you had some posts about having ADHD.
I'm also ADHD, could you tell me about your writing process? I get stuck with things staying in the notes app and they don't really get past that stage.
I'm not sure if it's an interest thing, if the notes fulfill the want so there's no need to put it together. If you have anything thoughts about how to keep up the consistency for fic that'd be appreciated.
Hopefully this isn't too serious of a question, I just have some trouble with wanting to write but not having a purpose for it and I was wondering if that was a brain thing/relatable.
Thank you in advance for any response ☺️ also good luck with your uni stuff~
thank you anon! and dw this isn't too serious at all. i think it's interesting that you ask about keeping consistency bc ironically the biggest tell of my adhd in my writing is my INCONSISTENCY, as you can see with the way updates happen. i wrote 200k words of taob in one year and now i update twice a year on average. i wrote 60k words of tams within a few weeks and now it hasn't been updated since july. and these are just my public projects where i at least have the added pressure of knowing people are waiting for an update, you should see the state of some of my original wips! basically my point here is that my adhd is VERY apparent with my writing habits, but these days i work with it instead of trying to fight it. even before i knew i had adhd, i was aware that my writing came in periods. id go a few weeks churning out insane amounts daily and then dry up for months on end, and each time id enter the 'have i lost it??? will i ever write again???' spiral until low and behold, something would inspire me again and id be back to typing like a madman. i used to seriously fight my dry periods bc of that fear of 'losing' my writing, but that never helped and honestly turning writing into a need instead of a want probably made it worse.
it's one reason - aside the fact it is rude and annoying, i dont want to pretend it isn't or put the blame on me bc that's not what im saying here - that constant demands for fic updates bother me so much, bc people dont realise that the writing style i have now where yes we unfortunately go long times without updates is actually how my writing comes out at its best standard. so yeah! it can be incredibly frustrating and even scary to feel physically unable to write, but if it's something you like and want to do i do truly believe it'll always come back sooner or later, or at least that's my experience :)
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the magic hour is now (you cannot slow it down)
THIS POST JUST--- I have so many feelings *sobs*
@annoyed-at-things please have his little drabble of mine. I didn’t use your whole prompt because I focused mostly on Tim (the magic hit only him), ehe~
***
Tim felt like he was floating, as if he was sinking slowly under water, drowning. He couldn’t breathe, his vision was blurry, and all sounds around him were muffled.
His limbs felt too heavy, felt too hot and cold at the same time as he reached up for--- something. someone.
He thinks he’s calling for... Damian? Is Damian around here?
Damian, are you here? Where are you? Damian?
Warmth. There is warmth covering the hand he reached with. He could feel pressure, feel it being squeezed. It felt nice. Comforting. If this is how warm Damian’s hands were, Damian should hold hands with people more often.
He closes his eyes. The muffled sounds around him grew louder, but Tim couldn’t bring himself to open them anymore. He felt comforted and safe. He felt warm and sleepy.
Soon, Tim felt nothing.
***
Damian had attended many funerals in his life. However, he was used to bodies being cremated and stored in urns before being buried in the dirt. It was interesting looking at a coffin. The last time he’s seen one was when his father was temporarily dead.
However, compared to that experience where he felt only a small sense of remorse and indifference, seeing Timothy in a coffin had hit different.
Timothy is usually pale, even as he goes out to spend time with Conner or his love Bernard. Now, where Timothy lay, he looked paler. The make-up fails to hide the bluish tint of his lips and around his cheeks.
Damian looks away from the smile that never left Timothy’s face as he... passed. He already knew what it looks like, even if his memory of his smile had blood coating Timothy’s face as he squeezed Damian’s hand back, whispering about how Damian was... warm.
He couldn’t believe Timothy thought he was, because Damian felt ice-cold as he held his hand and demanded that he stayed awake. His whole body felt frozen stiff as he watched Jon keep pressure on Timothy’s wounds. But Timothy had--
He had too many deep scars. Scars that Damian didn’t know existed.
The scar on Timothy’s neck hadn’t really healed, covered by plaster. Even as Timothy laid in his coffin, there was plaster covering his neck. There were more on his body, but deeper on his abdomen. Blood was gushing from two vital places, and Damian and Jon tried their best to staunch the bleeding while waiting for help, for Batman, to arrive.
The magician that casted the spell
Timothy wasn’t even calling for Batman. He sent a signal, yes. But he wasn’t calling for Batman.
Dami’n, ‘re you... ‘ere?
Someone was hugging Damian now, but Damian didn’t care. His body still felt cold despite the arm tugging him close to someone’s chest. There was a deep scent of sweat, hay and lavender - Richard. Timothy had always said that he never stopped smelling like a circus, trying to cover it up with some cologne that Barbara got him.
He was brought to sit down, far away from where he could see Timothy’s face. Not that he could see him anymore, Jason was now standing where Damian was, peering over Timothy with a blank face and a white-knuckle grip on his coffin.
He wondered what Jason might be thinking, if he was remembering the moments before he died. Timothy said that Jason died trying to call for Batman, trying to escape only to accept that he wouldn’t be making it out alive.
Timothy didn’t call for Batman. He didn’t even look like he knew he was dying.
Wh’re ‘re you?
“Are you okay, Damian?”
Was he okay? Richard’s soft voice called for him once again, but Damian couldn’t bare to look up to his eldest brother, his father figure and mentor. Damian found it slightly hilarious that Richard was comforting him right now when he knew that out of all the brothers, Richard must be feeling the most guilt. He was not there when Jason died, and he was not there when Timothy died.
Damian only relaxed into Richard’s chest, burying his face into his clothes.
...Damian?
“I was there,” he whispered. He felt a hand stop rubbing his back. He didn’t even know when that started, but the hand stayed paused in the middle.
“I... Jon and I... we tried stopping the bleeding...”
Damian’s whole body was back to being cold, and the warm hand felt scorching where it laid. “But Timothy was calling for me and...”
He looked at his hands. They were no longer red. They were cleaned of blood, but the warm and wet feeling still felt fresh in his mind.
“He said I was warm.” Warm like his blood-soaked fingers, like the blood pooling out of Timothy’s body nonstop. “I held his hand and he said I was warm.”
He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t.
But he knew Richard was, from the way he seemed to be heaving and clutching Damian tighter.
“Did he call for anyone?” Richard asked.
Damian nodded, breath hitching and finally acknowledging that maybe, just maybe, he was crying.
“He called for me,” he said.
Richard kissed his head. “And you were there.”
Damian nodded. “I was there.”
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