#as long as the rest of this arc is as impactful as the rest of the series has been I’ll forgive it

[sskk-manifesto]

Ep 10!

[mitternacht]

Mixed feelings about todays chapter but at least we got some cute panels of Rip and Latla (under cut for 231 spoilers)

Rip tearing up when Remember was used….. I need him and Latla to have a really heartfelt reunion with Leila later I’m demanding it genuinely.

I’M ALSO THE BIGGEST FAN OF RIP CONSTANTLY BODILY SHIELDING LATLA. Like. Her whole thing is having a nearly impenetrable barrier and Rip’s first instinct is still always to throw himself between her and danger like he loves his wife so much. So much.

Also the family being reunited…… they are so cute…… I’ve said it before but if they don’t officially adopt Bunny by the end of the series my vengeance will be swift

[tragedykery]

the thing about hira is that her airbending is a gift but her avatarhood is a curse

[tigergendermoved2tigergender]

I kind of wish warrior cats ended after arc 1 and it was remembered as a classic children's series that got cut short and had a small but nicely filtered fandom in the year 2023. I would miss very specifically Leafpool and Squirrelflight and the dozens of amazing MAPs based on the later arcs but at this rate I think we need to just stop

[serpentarius]

I wonder how many of Armand's victims have actively fought back during his "easeful death" speech the way Daniel did.

Daniel's interruptions may be small — not loud or flailing or aggressive — but they're impactful. And while Armand remains composed throughout and continues his practiced monologue without wavering, I'd say for the first three quarters of it he's talking at Daniel. He talks over him, but not really to him. Not until the very end.

Daniel rebuts with:

"I don't want to rest."

"I like my life."

"I have a thing happening in the city."

"I'm a bright young reporter with a point of view."

He's trying so hard to cling onto life. He doesn't want death, even if it is an easeful one. Armand cuts that last interjection off with a "ssh-ssh-ssh," which makes me think this might be a point where Armand's patience is tested. Because things aren't going the way they perhaps normally go when he gives this speech! Daniel isn't begging for death! He's resisting!

And so then, Armand says "rest" a lot near the end of the speech, which we know by this point is an indicator of him controlling bodies. He says, "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay. It'll feel like a bath. Rest. Like honey on your tongue," etc, and maybe this is Armand struggling and fighting harder to get Daniel into the state of obeisance that he wants in his victims. The speech hasn't been working as intended, so he has to rely more on his methods of control and hypnosis.

And finally, after all this, you can see the moment when Daniel finally falls into the trance. It's after a lot of effort on Armand's part, and after he's resorted to his cheaper tricks.

So, if we do get a past Devil's Minion arc, I can see Armand fixating on the fact that Daniel was able to resist the pull and performance of Gentleman Death for an impressive amount of time. That despite all the words Armand said to him, he still longed for life.

Maybe this is what makes him fascinating.

[sunderwight]

SV Mary Poppins-ish AU.

So lots of protagonists and antagonists and etc have tragic backstories. Turns out that this can present something of a logistical nightmare for systems in cases where the stories become "real", because there are many instances where an author overestimated how survivable certain angst-ridden circumstances actually were, and without some kind of intervention, a lot of characters actually don't make it anywhere near their intended power-up and revenge/villain/hero/etc arcs.

In cases where this is happening, the System deploys a special agent to go make sure that plot-crucial characters actually survive to the plot.

Enter Shen Yuan, case worker for tragic backstories. His job, basically, is to sweep in during the points of the backstory where the story isn't paying attention and provide actual care. Most of the time, the system ensures that his clients forget about him when he's no longer present, so he can't impact the plot or their character development. But that also means he gets to be as nice and supportive as he wants to be while he is there.

He hates it, though -- knowing that he has to leave his little charges behind to suffer, and that they'll all forget him, and that some of them will grow up and meet bad ends (because they're villains, or tragic heroes, or doomed mentors, or fridged love interests, or so on). However, he can't beat the system, so he just tries to compartmentalize it. Focus on the here-and-now, steadily accrue points, and get to where he can afford to buy a proper reincarnation.

He works in this fashion for a long time, although it's difficult to keep track of it when the System is constantly bouncing him from relevant backstory moments to pending non-canon catastrophes. Sometimes it's stories he knows, sometimes it's stories he doesn't, or is only peripherally aware of. The first time he arrives in PIDW, he doesn't even figure it out. Partly because it's not backstory info that actually made it into the novel, partly because he has by that point kind of stopped trying to figure out where he's going, and whether or not the cute little kid he's helping is going to get their limbs all chopped off someday.

He likes Xiao Jiu and Yue Qi, but given the sheer number of times he has to go save them from dying and try to comfort them in their misery, he doesn't foresee them meeting good ends.

And then there's Luo Binghe. Treating a baby for hypothermia, helping a lost little orphan reach a faraway mountain on his own, bringing him food and treating his wounds in the woodshed, whisking him away to brief (always so brief) magical escapes to just give his brain a chance to rest and recover from all the grief and struggle, even if he won't actually remember the reprieve. Shen Yuan can't pretend he doesn't know that Luo Binghe's story is going to take him to some rough places, can only console himself with the idea that he'll be able to intervene at the worst of times, and that in the end at least, Binghe will live.

At least, until Shen Yuan realizes who Binghe's scum shizun is after he accidentally crosses paths with Shen Qingqiu, and Xiao Jiu recognizes him. Remembers him.

Then he figures out just what exactly is going to happen, and who it is going to happen to, and suddenly all that compartmentalization fails him.

Nanny Shen goes rogue.

[yannawayne]

vii. what's up danger?

SYNOPSIS: "Alright, let's do this one last time. My name is Y/N Kyle. I was bitten by a radioactive spider, And I've been the one and only Spidey in Gotham. I’m pretty sure you know the rest." PAIRING: Older! Damian Wayne/Fem! Reader TAGS: Established relationship, Wounds, Violence, Surgical procedures, Panic Attacks, Mentions of overdosing, Pills, Non-sexual intimacy, Mentions of death AO3: yenwayne SERIES LINK: gotham's only spidey

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 ༻⊰───⋅

The blood drained from Damian’s face, leaving him ashen and hollow. The horrifying truth sank in—you thought he was going to kill you. And he had nearly done it.

“No... no, no, no...” The words tumbled from Damian in a panicked whisper.

He dropped to his knees beside you, reaching out with trembling hands, but hesitating, afraid to touch you and cause more harm.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, guilt choking his voice. His fingers hovered near your skin, close enough to feel your warmth but hesitant to make contact.

“My sweet girl, you’re safe with me.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

DANGER. 

Instinct screamed louder than thought, flooding your veins with raw, primal fear—a visceral, choking terror that clawed at your chest.

Panic clawed its way up your spine, gripping your heart in a vice, as if every nerve in your body had been doused in ice. The sound that followed, the sickening lurch in your stomach, and suddenly, you couldn’t breathe— 

The blade pressed closer, its cold edge grazing your skin. White slits, the only features visible on Robin’s shadowed face, stared down at you from behind the blur of your vision. The edge of a rain-soaked cape trailed down, droplets mingling with the blood pooling on the floor. 

You couldn’t breathe. You were staring up at your own death, and you couldn’t breathe. 

“Don’t—” 

With a breath that felt like a desperate gasp for air, you crawled away from the blade, pleading for your life in ragged, broken whispers. 

Each inch you moved felt like wading through water, the crushing weight of fear dragging you down. Your helmet had long since uncloaked, and the remnants of your damaged suit clung to you, cracked and broken. Some pieces of the shattered armor lay scattered around. 

That white gaze slithered over the spider emblem on your chest piece, coiled around it, heavy with unspoken realization, before slowly unwinding to meet yours.

“Habibti?” 

For a moment, everything seemed to stop.

“It was you?” Damian’s voice was barely a whisper, laced with horror and disbelief. 

But then his expression shifted, confusion and hurt twisting into something darker. His brows furrowed, and his mouth set into a hard line.

"Why did you hide this from me?" Damian growled, voice rough as if dragged over gravel. His teeth ground together with a harsh, grating sound. As he advanced toward you, his hands shook, the katana gripped tightly in his trembling fingers. His knuckles were white with the strain.

“Why didn’t you trust me?!”  

Your head spun, confusion and fear intertwining—what was he talking about? You couldn’t—didn’t—understand. 

Damian’s boot came down on your chest, the impact forcing a violent flinch from you.

“Stop—” you croaked, your fingers digging desperately into the worn leather and scuffed rubber of his shoes.  “What—what’s this about? I—I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but don’t—don’t you dare lay a hand on me!”

Damian hesitated for a fraction of a second, but his anger remained tightly coiled, ready to snap.

With a choked, anguished apology, you swung with all your remaining strength. The punch connected with Damian's jaw, making him stumble back, momentarily stunned.

Seizing the moment, you scrambled to get away, but Damian was faster. He surged forward, his katana slicing through the air in a swift diagonal arc. The blade narrowly missed your shoulder as you ducked, its sharp edge whistling past.

“Ngh!” you grunted, hitting the ground hard on your chest. Your breath caught in your throat as you looked up, seeing Damian's sword raised again. Panic surged through you, and you curled into yourself, bracing for the next strike.

DANGER!

Heaving, Damian held the sword up, his breath coming in ragged bursts. Anger consumed him, his entire being trembling with the force of it. But amid the storm of rage, flashes of clarity began to pierce through the haze. He saw the fear in your eyes, the way you shrank away from him.

The katana slipped from his grip and clattered to the floor with a cold, final sound.

CLANK.

The fury that had burned so fiercely began to crack, replaced by dawning horror. Damian stumbled back, eyes wide, chest heaving. What was he doing?

“Fuck,” he rasped, his voice cracking as he knelt before you, reaching out with trembling hands. But you recoiled, pressing yourself against the floor, the fear too fresh, too consuming.

“Please, don’t,” you gasped, voice shaking. “I’m not—please, just don’t... I’m begging you—”

The blood drained from Damian’s face, leaving him ashen and hollow. The horrifying truth sank in—you thought he was going to kill you. And he had nearly done it.

“No... no, no, no...” The words tumbled from Damian in a panicked whisper.

He dropped to his knees beside you, reaching out with trembling hands, but hesitating, afraid to touch you and cause more harm.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, guilt choking his voice. His fingers hovered near your skin, close enough to feel your warmth but hesitant to make contact.

“My sweet girl, you’re safe with me,” Damian whispered, his voice trembling. He pressed the emergency button on his watch, and an urgent alert blared out, sending a distress signal to the nearest Bat-vigilante.

You wanted to respond, to reach out, to say something. But the panic had you in a vice grip, squeezing your throat and chest, rendering you mute.

“Habibti, you need to breathe,” Damian urged gently.

You shook your head, the motion making the pain flare up again. 

“I—” you choked, “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” he insisted.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the pain, but it only seemed to make it worse. The fear clawed at your chest, leaving you gasping.

“It hurts,” you whimpered, every breath a battle.

“I know it does, but you have to breathe. Breathe with me.” 

Damian’s hands numbed as he started to assess your injuries, pushing down his rising panic to focus on the task at hand. 

He gently tilted your head, inspecting the gash on your brow. Blood smeared across your face, and the cut was deep—likely requiring stitches. He checked your pupils by shining a small flashlight from his utility belt into your eyes to assess for a concussion. Thankfully, none. 

When you shifted and winced in pain, Damian’s attention fell on your leg. He carefully palpated around your ankle, noting the swelling and deformity. 

“Broken,” he murmured.

The tense moment shattered with a metallic clang and the sharp sound of a grappling hook. Damian looked up to see Nightwing’s silhouette framed by the window. Dick’s face turned grim as he took in the scene, his eyes locking onto Damian’s with a look of horror.

“No time for explanations,” Damian said, lifting you from the ground. “We need to get her to the Cave—now.”

“No...” you murmured weakly, your voice barely more than a whisper. Both men turned to you, concern etched deeply into their brows as you struggled to keep your eyes open. Your head lolled back, and the darkness around you seemed to thicken, fueled by the poison coursing through your veins. “The Batcave... it’s too far...”

“Then we’ll bring the supplies here,” Damian grit out. He tightened his grip on you, trying to make you as comfortable as possible. “I’m not letting you go. Not now.”

The conversation between Nightwing and Damian became a muted blur. You felt yourself being carefully lowered onto the couch, strong arms guiding you down. A hand threaded into yours with a reassuring grip.

You took a few deep breaths, trying to muster the strength to reach for the comm link in your ear. Your hand trembled as you raised it, fingers just closing around the device when the door burst open. Morgan stumbled in, breathless and disheveled, clutching a bag tightly in her hand.

Your eyes locked onto hers, and she let out a sigh of relief. “Y/N.”

The moment she spoke your name, Damian paused.

The warmth in his eyes slowly hardened, replaced by a chilling coldness. 

In a heartbeat, he was across the room, moving with terrifying speed. He grabbed Morgan and slammed her against the wall with such force that the impact stole the breath from her lungs.

“Damian! Wait—” you winced, trying to lift yourself off the couch, but Dick was quicker, gently but firmly pushing you back down.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Damian snarled. The words dripped from his lips like venom as he rammed his forearm against Morgan’s ribs. “You shouldn’t be—”

“Holy shit,” Morgan sputtered, cutting him off with a heave. “Did—Did she just say Damian? You’re Robin?”

Damian’s arm pushed harder, his anger unabated.

“Answer me,” Damian snapped. The white slits in his mask glared at her like twin spots of ice. “You’ll explain what you’re doing here before I ensure you regret ever stepping foot in this place.”

“What the hell, dude?” Morgan shot back, pushing against his arm. “What’s your problem? I’m here trying to help!”

Damian’s grip tightened, suspicion deepening. “Help? How did you even find us?”

Morgan met his gaze without flinching. “I followed the signal from her comm link. I’m not here to mess with you, Batboy. And I sure as hell don’t have time for this bullshit! She’s seconds away from dying from poisoning!”

The word struck Damian like a physical blow. His shoulders stiffened, then faltered slightly, revealing a flicker of genuine panic. “Poison?”

Morgan rolled her eyes, exasperation lacing her voice. “Yes, genius. That’s what I said. Now, unless you want her to die on your watch, you need to get the hell out of my way and let me work.”

Damian staggered back, momentarily off-balance as Morgan forcefully shoved him aside. Without missing a beat, she moved to your side, setting her bag on the floor and beginning to unpack multiple bottles and syringes. 

“Hey,” she said, glancing at you with a frown. “How’s it going so far?”

“Trying not to die,” you croaked. 

“Well, try to hold on a bit longer. I haven't even started saving your ass yet.”

Damian and Dick hovered nearby, their eyes following every movement as Morgan set to work.

Her fingers moved quickly as she wiped down your arm with a sterile antiseptic, the scent of alcohol wafting up your nose.

“This is a batch I made following the journal I found,” Morgan explained. She drew a syringe filled with the antidote, the liquid swirling inside. As she gently pierced the needle into your arm, you felt a brief, sharp sting followed by a wave of coldness spreading from the injection site.

Gradually, the haze of disorientation and the crushing weight of nausea began to lift. The world around you came into sharper focus, and a soothing numbness slowly spread through your limbs.

“Stay with me,” Morgan said, tapping your cheek. “Need some painkillers?”

You nodded weakly, struggling to grasp the sudden clarity returning to you. The pain was still present but had dulled.

“Please,” you said, holding out a hand. “I think... I think the toxin’s affecting my healing.”

Morgan reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of fentanyl, dropping it into your hand. Clutching it tightly, you fumbled with the bottle of pills, your hands trembling. 

Twisting the cap off, you quickly poured a handful of tablets into your mouth. The sharp, bitter taste assaulted your tongue, making you grimace as it spread across the inside of your cheeks.

Both Dick and Damian reacted with strangled shouts.

“Stop!” Damian snapped. He lunged forward, his hands clamping onto your wrists in a desperate, vice-like grip. The pill bottle slipped from your grasp as Damian hurled it away, sending the remaining pills scattering across the floors. “What the hell are you doing?!”

You tried to speak, but the words were lost in a hacking cough that wracked your body. Dick’s face turned ghostly pale as he scrambled to pull some of the pills from your mouth, his hands shaking as he dropped them to the floor.

“How many did she take?” Dick demanded, his voice trembling as he grabbed the pill bottle and frantically scanned the label. His eyes widened as he read the text, shifting from confusion to horror. “Holy shit! I think I counted ten! That’s way over the safe dose!”

You and Morgan shared a glance, disbelief written all over your faces.

“That’s far from her limit!” Morgan spoke up. “She needs more, not less! The dosage for her is higher.”

Damian’s face flushed an alarming shade of red, his anger boiling over. A rapid stream of Arabic curses burst from him before he switched back to English with a snarl. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing? Just pumping her full of drugs and hoping for the best?!” 

Damian swatted the syringe Morgan tried to bring closer, snapping, “Your incompetence makes it a miracle she’s still alive!”

“Don’t lecture me, you oversized Boy Scout! She’s not a regular patient. You don’t get the dosage she needs. She’s not like you—” Morgan cut herself off, and shakes her head with a frustrated groan. “Look! Either you help or you get out of my way!”

Damian’s hands twitched at his sides, his fingers trailing dangerously close to the blade strapped to his utility belt. 

Cursing under your breath, you reached out, your hand grasping his wrist. 

“Dames, it’s fine,” you whispered, your fingers resting on his pulse point, feeling the rapid thrum beneath your touch. “Let Morgan do her job.”

“Beloved,” he glowered. “I will not allow this—”

“I’m a meta,” you cut him off.

A meta. You’d never said it out loud before—not like this, not even with Selina or Morgan. The word felt alien, a part of yourself you couldn’t quite embrace or accept, even within your own mind. It was as if naming it made it all too real, too undeniable.

The argument that had just moments ago filled the space with heated voices and frantic movement came to a halt. 

The apologetic look Morgan sent your way stung, intensifying the ache in your chest. She had known, of course—known what you were and had still stuck by your side.

That meant something, didn’t it? That maybe not everyone would see you as a threat. But Morgan wasn’t Batman. She wasn’t the one who held the city’s safety in his hands, who made decisions that could alter lives in the blink of an eye. 

"Fuck." Dick heaved a sigh and began to pace the room, a tense set in his shoulders. Damian’s face twisted into something unreadable as he stared at you. 

Meta. The word bounced around in his head.

Raised in a world of absolutes—right and wrong, justice and vengeance, friend and foe—Damian had little experience with gray areas. 

Metas had always been... complicated. Potential threats, variables that couldn’t be controlled. And now you, the person he cared for most, were one of them.

'What would Father say?' Damian thought as he edged closer, his movements hesitant, as he extended the pill bottle to you. His fingers trembled over the label as you took it, swallowing the remaining pills.

Batman’s code was clear—protect the city, maintain control, and apprehend threats. If Batman found out—no, when Batman found out—what would Damian do? If Batman decided you were dangerous…

Damian knelt beside you, his breath shaky. Without a word, he tipped his head against your side, his forehead brushing your ribcage.

With the human barrier out of the way, Morgan resumed her work, administering the dose. The sting of the syringe was a distant sensation, barely registering through the fog in your mind.

“So...” Morgan murmured, the words heavy like syrup and lathered with forced lightness as she finished administering the tenth and final dose. “You guys into birds or something?”

You managed a small, tired smile and nudged her shoulder.

Damian lifted his head, meeting Morgan's gaze with a blank, white stare.

“What?" Morgan frowned. “You two show up with bird costumes and expect me not to ask questions? I need to know if this is some sort of family tradition."

The tension in the room began to ease, the atmosphere shifting from the intense panic of moments ago to something almost resembling normalcy—as normal as two vigilantes and one spider person could get.

You took a deep breath and slowly sat up, despite the weariness pulling at your limbs. Damian immediately moved to stop you, but you waved him off with a tired sigh.

“I’m fine,” you insisted. “Fast healing.”

Your eyes scanned the wreckage of the room, taking in the damage. The shattered window was a jagged lattice of sharp edges, with fragments scattered across the floor like deadly confetti.

“Mom’s gonna kill me,” you muttered, the weight of it all finally hitting you.

“Let’s focus on getting you back on your feet first,” Morgan said, shrugging. “The window can wait. Plus, I’m pretty sure we can come up with a good excuse. Maybe blame it on a freak bird accident?”

You glanced at the two men in the room. 

“Oh, it’s definitely a bird accident,” you quipped, the double meaning not lost on them.

Morgan rolled her eyes playfully, though her gaze softened with genuine concern. She moved toward a nearby closet, retrieving a broom and dustpan. “I’ll, uh... start cleaning up.”

The room fell into a quiet, contemplative silence. Dick stood there for a long moment, his eyes lost in thought. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with an emotion that was hard to pinpoint, his gaze flicking between you and Damian.

“So...” he began, the word hanging in the air. “What happened?”

Damian seemed to collapse inward, his shoulders curling as guilt bubbled up within him. He grumbled softly, moving to slip off his domino mask. As it came away, vibrant forests met your gaze with smudged black eye paint still clinging to his lids. 

Turning away, you sighed and ruffled your tangled hair, finding the motion oddly comforting. The persistent itching in your ankle and ribs was a constant reminder that your healing factor was still at work, not yet finished mending the damage from your earlier crashes.

"A lot," you replied, biting your lip as you addressed Damian. "Why did you...? I... I thought you were coming after me because of, uh, what I’ve been doing at Ivy's, but... I just don’t understand. Why? Why did you—"

Damian's head whips up, his jade eyes blazing. "What? I—You never told me you were a vigilante."

You blink at him, stupefied. "I did! I told you the night of the dinner!"

Damian’s eyes widen in disbelief. 

“No, you didn’t. You mentioned—” He stumbles over his words. “You only said you were—” His voice trails off as his expression turns grave. His lips press into a thin line, realization washing over him.

“Oh.” The single word is barely audible.

“You—” he stammers, his mouth opening and closing as if he’s trying to find the right words but failing. “I— I can’t believe this.”

Beet-red, he shakes his head vigorously, trying to dislodge the weight of his own mistake. 

“It’s my fault. I misunderstood. I didn’t realize...” As he trails off, his face flushes a deeper shade of red, blotchy patches spreading across his cheeks and forehead. He’s clearly mortified, his eyes cast downward as if he could sink into the floor to escape this. 

“What?” you sputter, completely bewildered.

Damian groans, burying his face into his knees. “I thought you were being hunted down...”

You jump in surprise and let out a soft scoff, placing a soothing hand on the back of his head and gently running your fingers through the scrape of his undercut. “Damian, seriously? You thought I was being hunted by my own... what, my secret identity?”

He nods against the kevlar of his suit, voice muffled and strained. “I thought... you were in danger. I didn’t realize— I didn’t make the connection.”

Dick, watching this whole exchange, finally lets out a huff and nods. “We all thought you were in danger. Guess we jumped the gun a bit. We were convinced you were being targeted by some rogue vigilante. Not exactly our finest hour.”

You turn to Dick with a weak, unintelligible croak. “And what, you didn’t think to double-check?”

“I am aware of how ridiculous we look right now.”

You wince as you lift your fingers to your temple, massaging it gently. Peering down at Damian through your lashes, you glare. “Ugh. You know... you threw me against the floor pretty hard...”

“I did not mean to hurt you,” Damian seethes, mouth dry and throat tight with regret. “But please, help me understand. What’s really going on?”

“You didn’t exactly make it easy to talk when you slammed me into the ground,” you mumble, tone edging toward petulant. “Hard to spill your guts when you’re worried about them actually spilling out, you know?”

You know you’re being a bit petty, but after everything, it feels justified. The pain throbbing in your temple only fuels your irritation, so you rub it harder, hoping you can massage away the ache.

Damian’s eyes flash with hurt, and you instantly taste bitterness in your mouth, regret gnawing at your conscience.

“Sorry,” you mumble, trying to soften the blow. “Okay, let’s go over everything, yeah?”

You start to strip off whatever was left of your armor, the pieces clattering to the floor with a dull thud. Rolling up the sleeves of your undershirt, you extend your arms, revealing the small dots on your wrists.

“I got bitten by a radioactive spider,” you begin. “Trained for a while. Months, actually. Been Spidey ever since. Lately, the media’s been calling me Nightcrawler. I’ve been stopping muggings, robberies, saving Morgan—twice, by the way. She saved me after I got shot. Then blackmailed me into letting her be my ‘guy in the chair. Then I infiltrated a shipment tied to Black Mask. Morgan built me this new suit. I got interviewed while lifting a helicopter with one hand, and... yeah, I ended up getting velocity edits on TikTok. Then, we hit up Poison Ivy’s old warehouse tonight, and Damian tried to hunt me down. And... here we are.”

Damian stares at you, his expression unreadable. Dick remains frozen, caught off guard. Morgan shifts awkwardly, reaching into her pocket and slowly pulling out her phone, waving it in the air.

“Do you guys want to see the edits?”

You shoot her a withering look.

“Shut up,” you groan, throwing a piece of your armor at her.

Morgan ducks, her phone clattering to the floor. Pouting, she picks it up with a scoff. “Alright, alright. I get it.”

She shoves the phone back into her pocket with a huff. “No more distractions.”

“So…” Dick crosses his arms. “You’ve been doing this alone? All this time?” 

“Not alone,” you clarify, glancing at Morgan. “Morgan’s been helping me. Keeping me sane. And... I’ve had Selina’s guidance.”

“And good thing too,” Morgan adds, her voice taking on a more serious note. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small, sleek device—a handheld scanner designed to detect injuries.

You straighten up, already familiar with the drill. Morgan’s device emits a soft, rhythmic beep as she runs it over your body, her eyes flicking to the screen.

PEPPER’s voice begins to speak, calm and clinical. “Regenerative healing is in progress. The antidote is fully effective, expected to take effect in about 30 minutes. Current injuries: broken ribs, fractured ankle, head gash, deep abrasions, and internal bruising. Estimated healing time: 7 hours. A bath is recommended for disinfection.”

Morgan, visibly relieved by the update, lets out a sigh of relief. She ruffles her hair, shutting off the device with a satisfying click. Her gaze sweeps over the room, trying to gauge the mood.

“Well,” Morgan says, trying to sound upbeat despite the circumstances, “you heard her.”

You shuffle across the room, your movements slow and deliberate. The bloodstains have been cleaned up, and the glass shards are gone, but the broken window still stands open, letting in a draft that makes you shiver. You can't help but think about how you'll explain this mess to Selina later—if she doesn’t kill you first.

"You guys should head out," you murmur, glancing back at them. "Mom will be back soon."

“You guys should head out,” you murmur, glancing back at them. “Mom will be back soon.”

Damian snaps to his feet, his voice firm. “I’m not leaving.”

Morgan huffs, crossing her arms. “Yeah. No way. I’m staying put.”

You blink slowly at the two of them, a mix of affection and resignation in your eyes. “Okay. Kinda expected that.”

Turning to Dick, who’s been standing off to the side, you raise an eyebrow, silently pleading for some backup.

“I’ll… go,” Dick finally says, holding up his hands in surrender. “It makes more sense if both of them are here, but not exactly me.”

You nod appreciatively, a flicker of relief crossing your face. 

Dick moves toward a non-broken window but pauses, casting one last glance over his shoulder.

“I won’t tell B.”

“I know,” you murmur, offering him a faint, forced smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“But… he’ll know eventually.”

“… I know.”

Dick’s nod carries the weight of the unspoken, a silent agreement between you. He steps onto the sill, the night air brushing past him, and the curtains flutter gently in his wake. The soft rustling of the fabric is the only sound as he disappears into the darkness.

You take a step towards the window to close it, but Damian strides over, cutting you off as he shuts it for you. 

You blink up at him.

“You’re still injured,” he says simply.

Oh boy. You can already feel the arguments bubbling up, ready to spill out—reasons to defend your choices, to insist that you’re fine, that you can handle it. But the fight drains out of you before it begins. You’re too tired, too worn down from everything that’s happened.

“Alright,” you murmur. Your eyes drift to the remnants of your suit, lying crumpled on the floor, torn and battered. “Hey, Morgz. Can you handle… that?”

Morgan follows your gaze to the suit, then nods. 

“Sure thing,” she replies, already moving toward it in fix-it mode, likely running through a mental checklist of what she needs to do to patch it up.

Turning back to Damian, you step closer, slipping your hands over his shoulders. His muscles are coiled tight beneath your touch, like springs wound too tightly. 

You give his shoulders a gentle squeeze, your fingers pressing into the solid muscle, trying to ease some of the tension, even if just a little.

“As for you… we really need to get changed,” you whisper. “We’re soaking the floors here.”

Damian nods silently, following you into the apartment’s bathroom. The door clicks shut behind you, sealing off the rest of the world.

With gentle hands, Damian reaches for your undershirt, his fingers brushing against your skin as he helps you peel the damp fabric away. The material clings stubbornly, but he works patiently, careful not to rush or cause you any discomfort. Finally, the shirt comes free, and he lets it fall to the floor.

He kneels down, his hands steady as he slips your pants down your legs, his touch light and deliberate, as if he’s handling something fragile. Once the clothes are off, he lets them drop with a soft thud, his eyes flicking back up to meet yours.

Without a word, he turns to the shower, twisting the knob until water rushes out in a steady stream. Warmth seeps into the air, the foggy mirror reflecting the both of you in a hazy outline. 

Damian wastes no time unclasping his cape, letting it fall to the floor in a dark, heavy pool. He then quickly strips out of his tunic, the fabric clinging stubbornly to his skin before he pulls it off with a yank. 

The tunic lands in a crumpled heap beside the cape, and your gaze is drawn to the red "R" emblazoned on his uniform. Your eyes lift to find Damian’s bare chest revealed—bronze skin etched with hard-earned muscle and a long, faded scar that traces a path across his ribcage. 

Tugging his hands up, you began to slip off his gloves, the dark stain of blood transferring to your own skin. The crimson smear seeped down your fingers, dripping onto the bathroom floor and forming dark, splotchy patterns on the tiles. 

When the blood was gone from his hands, you didn’t let go. Instead, you held onto his hands, feeling the slight tremor in them. 

You stayed like that, holding his hands until the shaking subsided, until the tremors ceased and the strength you knew he had began to return to his grip. 

Damian tightens his grip on your hand and pulls you under the shower with him, the warm water cascading over your bodies in a soothing wave. It’s a relief, the heat working its way into your sore muscles, washing away the grime, blood, and sweat from your skin. 

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Silently, you trace a nail along a scar on his collarbone. The only sound is the steady patter of water against tile.

"I'm going to start patrolling with you."

You feel a muscle twitch in your jaw as Damian says that.

"Damian, you're not patrolling with me."

"Yes, I am."

"Damian, no."

"Damian, yes," he insists. “I'm coming with you. I've seen Gotham, and I've been doing this much longer than you have."

“Rub it in. Okay,” you scoff. 

“Beloved, I’m trained for this.”

“I’m perfectly capable of handling this on my own.”

“That’s not the point. You can’t predict every danger.”

He’s not backing down. And you know, deep down, that this isn’t a battle you’re going to win.

With a strangled groan that rumbles up your throat, you lean into his chest, the warm, solid presence of him offering a small comfort. 

“Ugh. Fine, but I’m the one who gets to pick out the patrol routes.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

Saturday, 3:02 AM - Crime Alley, Gotham City.

A whip drags across the crumbling floor of the rooftop, its leather coiling and uncoiling with each step, like a serpent following its master. The sharp clicks of heels against the roof echo through the stillness of the night.

A bag, stuffed with Selina’s latest haul, is slung casually over her shoulder, the weight barely slowing her down. The contents shift with each step, the muted clink of stolen treasures singing to her. 

She hums a low, sultry tune, the sound barely more than a whisper against the backdrop of the city’s quiet. Her gaze sweeps across the rooftop and lands on her apartment building. Her eyes narrow at the sight of a broken window. 

The playful melody dies on her lips, her steps slowing to a halt. Seems a stray found its way in.

With a quick flick of her tongue against her teeth, she leaps down to the fire escape.

The faint creak of metal under her heels is the only sound as she crouches. The sight that greets her sends alarms ringing in her head—the door to her apartment is kicked open, the metal railing bent and dented, signs of a struggle or a forceful entry.

Selina creeps closer, moving silently as she readies herself. But suddenly, she freezes. The sound of voices drifts through the walls, muffled yet unmistakably clear.

"—f we like... cut off your hand, do you think it'll grow back?"

"I dunno. Wanna try cutting my hand off, Morgz?"

"What?! Habibti. No. Absolutely not."

"But think about the science! What if her arm grows back, like, full-on lizard style?"

"Yeah, but what if it grows back all freaky? Like, what if I end up with two thumbs or something?"

"Or better—what if you grow back a tentacle?"

"Oh my God. I could totally kick ass as a walking calamari."

"Are you two out of your damn minds? I forbid it. We're not amputating anything."

"Killjoy."

Selina walks in, her eyes narrowing as she takes in the scene. The three of you are curled up on the sofa, with a ridiculous TV show playing in the background that no one is actually watching.

Her gaze locks on Morgan, and she quickly realizes she needs to keep her presence discreet. With a swift glance around, she silently slips into her bedroom.

Moments later, she reemerges in civilian clothes. She steps back out of the apartment, pretends to head down the hallway, then doubles back and quietly slips inside once more.

Damian is the first to notice her, and he immediately tenses, like a kid caught doing something he shouldn't.

"Do I even want to know what's going on here?" Selina asks, one eyebrow arching as she looks at the three of you.

Damian straightens up, attempting to look composed.

Morgan smiles sheepishly, "Hello, Miss Selina."

You shift uncomfortably, letting out a sigh. 

“Hey, Mom.” You nod towards the broken window, and Selina’s gaze follows. “So… um, things got a little out of hand tonight.”

Selina's eyes flick between the broken window and the three of you. "You think?

She tries to shut the door behind her, but it barely clings to the frame, tilting awkwardly on its splintered hinges. The wood creaks in protest, a low groan that echoes through the room as she shoves it into place.

Damian flushes, his shoulders hunching as if trying to make himself smaller, knowing full well he’s the one responsible for the damage. You place a reassuring hand on his thigh, tapping gently, hoping to ease his embarrassment. 

The knowing look Selina sends him suggests she’s already pieced together what happened.

She moves toward you, her expression softening as she gently cradles your face in her hands. Her fingers trace lightly over your injuries, each caress a soothing balm that feels like gentle rain easing the parched earth.

“Hey, ma,” you murmur, leaning into her touch, savoring the soothing sensation. You close your eyes for a moment, letting her warmth envelop you, grounding you.

You lean into her touch, feeling the exhaustion of the night seep away as her warmth envelopes you. She meets your gaze with a tender, concerned look, her eyes brimming with both worry and motherly affection.

"What happened to your face?" Selina starts. Her eyes flick from the bruises on your arms to the bandaged cut on your forehead, then to the dark circles under your eyes. "And what the hell did you do to my apartment?"

You wince but try to shrug it off nonchalantly. “Oh, this? Yeah. Yeah, I was… uh, fixing the window.”

“Fixing the window?” she repeats. “Why? You do know we have repairs scheduled monthly?”

“Whaaat?” you gasp, playing up your confusion. “I mean, I’m sure it needed it. Maybe.”

“It wasn’t even broken before I left. Did you break it on purpose just to fix it?”

You blink, looking baffled. “Seemed like a good idea at the time?”

“Um! Mrs. Selina,” Morgan chimes in, her tone awkward. “Actually, you see, we’ve got this event at Stark Industries coming up. We were, uh, testing some new tech, and it didn’t go exactly as planned.”

You jump in, nodding vigorously. Morgan discreetly hands you a small gadget, which you hold up for Selina to see. “Right. I didn’t expect it to work as well as it did. We were hoping for a few tweaks, but it kind of... overperformed.”

Selina eyes the gadget and shakes her head. “Overperformed? Is that what you’re calling it now?”

Morgan hums. "Yep, pretty much. The tech’s still in beta, so it’s got some quirks.”

Selina just nods, clearly unimpressed. "Still. Did you have to experiment in my apartment? I still remember that time you overcharged a set of batteries for a project and nearly blew up the kitchen."

You cringe, rubbing the back of your neck. “That was in fourth grade.”

“Ten-year-olds don’t typically run experiments on household electronics and nearly blow up the kitchen. That’s when I knew something was wrong with you,” Selina says, her gaze drifting to Damian, confusion gradually clouding her features. “And why is he here?”

“I’m helping with the project and the funding,” Damian quips, the lie slipping off his tongue like silk as he glances at you for confirmation. “Isn’t that right, beloved?”

You nod, playing along. “Yeah, that’s right.”

Selina’s eyes narrow as she processes this. “Isn’t Stark Tech rich enough to cover all of this?”

Morgan shrugs casually. “Oh, sure, Stark’s handling the main tech stuff. But Damian’s covering the extra costs—like her decorations and outfits for the semi-formal event.”

Damian steps in, his tone polite but firm. "Precisely why we came to your apartment, Miss Kyle. I was hoping to ask for your permission to take her out tomorrow. We’ll be shopping for her gown. And if you’d like, you could join us."

You blink, caught off guard. "Uh..."

Selina considers Damian’s question for a moment, then shakes her head with a sigh. "No can do. I have a... job arranged tomorrow. And I need to get that—" she points to the broken window with a frown—"looked at."

Ruffling her hair in frustration, she turns back toward her bedroom. "You have my permission, though. Just please—don’t turn my apartment into a lab next time."

"Thanks," you rush out, your voice a bit too eager. "Love you, Mom!"

Selina pauses at the doorway, humming in acknowledgment. She casts one last, assessing glance at the mess, her eyes narrowing slightly, before slipping into her room and muttering about needing to call a repair service again. 

As the door swings shut behind her, you let out a quiet sigh of relief, feeling the tension slowly ease from your shoulders.

Morgan turns to you. "That was close."

“Too close,” you agree, then turn to Damian with a scowl. “What the hell? You realize we actually have to go shopping tomorrow, right?”

Damian hums, his gaze settling on you with that infuriatingly charming smolder—dark, intense, and undeniably attractive. “Yes, I do.”

You groan, rolling your eyes. “Are you doing this to try and make up?”

Damian’s expression shifts, a flicker of something dark crossing his face. It boiled his blood to think about this, but he had a habit of torturing himself over mistakes.

“It’s the least I could do,” he murmurs. “I almost…”

He trails off, lost in thought. His gaze turns distant, haunted. “I thought, if I could at least do something—anything—to make up for it, maybe it would help... even a little.”

You reach out, placing a hand gently on his arm. 

“Nope. None of that,” you hush him softly. “We’re moving forward. We both are.”

Damian nods slowly, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. You rub his arm soothingly, then turn to Morgan with a raised brow. Morgan shrugs and holds up her hands in a mock surrender.

“The tech event is a real thing,” Morgan says, her tone matter-of-fact. “You didn’t think the internship was just a cover-up for all of this, did you?”

“Seriously? You guys actually have an event planned?” you ask, disbelief creeping into your voice.

“Yep. It’s the real deal and going to be a big deal. The whole fancy gown and decorations? Totally legit. We just had a few... detours so I couldn’t tell you.”

“What?” you groan, frustration mounting. “You didn’t tell me about this. I don’t even have a project ready to show!”

Morgan waves a dismissive hand, her grin widening. "Don’t worry, I’ll help with that. You still got a week and you’re a genius. The event’s about showcasing potential, not just completed projects. We can work something up, no sweat."

You roll your eyes. "Great, so we’re officially winging a multimillion-dollar internship offer that every single press outlet in Gotham is covering. No pressure, right?"

“Right.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

Saturday, 4:13 AM - Stark Tower, Gotham City.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft whoosh, revealing the dimly lit tech area of Stark Tower. You and Morgan step out, with Damian trailing behind, his arm wrapped firmly around your waist. 

Despite your protests about your healing ankle, he supported you the entire way here. The pain was mostly gone, but Damian’s insistence on playing nurse seems stronger than your actual injury.

The three of you step out of the elevator and begin walking down the corridor. The air is crisp and slightly cool, carrying the faint scent of metal and polished surfaces. 

“Dad wants you to give the opening speech, by the way,” Morgan says, threading her fingers through her hair as she leads you both around a turn in the hallway. 

“Seriously? I’m not really a speech person,” you reply, knocking your shoe into hers. “Why don’t you do it instead?”

Morgan flashes a knowing smirk as she turns to walk backwards, facing you. “I’d love to, but Dad’s adamant about it. He’s all about that ‘new face of Stark Tech’ thing.”

A shudder of disgust visibly ripples through Damian.

“A marketing ploy,” he sneers. “Stark’s fully aware the media will devour the drama between our rival companies and turn it into a spectacle. Of course, Wayne Tech never needed such gimmicks to maintain its edge.”

Morgan chuckles, shaking her head. “Nah, I think he just wants to adopt her.”

The three of you turn a corner and enter a grand space where the hallway opens up into a wide, two-story room. Despite the hour, the floor-to-ceiling windows flood the area with a soft, muted glow from the city lights outside. 

At the center of the room, Tony lounges casually on one of the plush sofas. Gadgets and tools are strewn about him, and he’s engrossed in tinkering with a small device. He looks up as you approach, adjusting his glasses.

“Hey, kids. Didn’t expect you back so soon.”

“Hey, Mr. Stark. Fancy meeting you here,” you murmur, trying to keep the mood light despite your exhaustion.

“I live here.” Tony wipes his hands on a rag, tossing the gadget onto the coffee table in front of him. Crossing his arms, he leans back against the couch. “Who’s your little boy toy? You cheating on Morgan now?”

Damian’s face flushes with irritation, his jaw tightening. You can’t help but snort and rest your cheek against Damian’s shoulder, your grin widening at his discomfort.

“This is the famous Daryll,” you snark, giving Tony a sidelong glance.

Tony’s gaze bores into Damian, taking in the dark, brooding aura that seems to cling to him like a second skin. The kid looks like he’s stepped straight out of a Twilight movie, with those piercing green eyes smoldering beneath furrowed brows, carrying a weight far beyond his years.

It didn’t help that Damian was also the son of a billionaire. Tony remembers him from his younger years—back then, he was a pipsqueak, a sharp-tongued brat who acted like he owned the world.

Now, he’s taller, lean, and strong, with a coiled tension in his frame. That same intense, self-assured vibe still lingers, but it’s darker now, more honed like he’s seen too much and come out the other side more dangerous for it.

 “Nice to meet you, Twilight Reject,” Tony says, pushing himself up and extending his hand to Damian. "Put 'em up."

Damian’s eyes flick to Tony’s hand with a look of absolute revulsion, as if it were some particularly vile insect. He hesitates for a moment, then grudgingly extends his own hand. His grip is firm, almost painfully so, as if he’s trying to crush the perceived insult out of Tony’s hand.

“It’s Damian. Damian Wayne,” he says, drawing out and emphasizing his last name, the irritation barely masked.

"Yeah. I know who you are," Tony scoffs, turning to you with a raised brow. “What’s the deal? Did you lose a bet or something? You're dating someone with all the personality of a damp towel."

“It’s called having standards, something you might not be familiar with,” Damian snaps back, his tone biting.

You sigh, sliding Damian's arm off of you and wincing slightly as you put weight on your uninjured foot. Stepping between the two of them, you raise a hand in a placating gesture. “Alright, alright! Let’s not turn this into a pissing contest.”

“It’s been a rough night, and we all need some rest,” Morgan interjects, her tone weary as she empties her jacket pockets, gadgets clattering onto the table. She tosses her backpack across the room, where it lands with a heavy thud.

Gesturing toward the sleeping quarters, she adds, “Can we save the bickering for later? They’ve got somewhere important to be tomorrow.”

Tony squints. “And where exactly are you two going?”

“Tt…” Damian tilts his head towards the man. “We have a dress appointment scheduled for tomorrow. Naturally, I’m covering all the expenses.”

“A dress appointment, huh?” Tony steps closer, his hand resting on your shoulder. “Well, someone’s got to make sure Sneakers here doesn’t end up in a ditch, so I’m coming along, Daniel.”

“It’s Damian,” he corrects. “And no, that won’t be necessary. We can handle it on our own.”

“Zip it, Dylan. I’m the one organizing this shindig, so I’d like to ensure my top intern doesn’t end up looking like a rag doll.”

Damian’s lip curls slightly. “If you insist on being there, then I’ll have to bring my father along as well. As her top donor, he should oversee it too, don’t you think?”

You blink, caught off guard. That’s a stretch. Bruce Wayne’s never actually thrown cash at your extracurriculars—though he’s tried, insisting on it more than once. Even tried to sneak you and Selina money through some probably illegal wire transfer, but you never took it.

“Oh, please. Anyone can throw money around,” Tony retorts. “He’s not special.”

“Well. If you have a problem with that,” Damian murmurs coldly, “you’re welcome to voice it to him. Tomorrow.”

Tony coughs, barely stifling his laugh. “Oh, I’m sure I can handle some prissy playboy,” he says, clapping his hands together. “Can’t wait to see how that goes.”

Your brow creases in concern.

Oh, you really don’t want to see how that goes.

 ༻⊰───⋅

IM SO SORRY ITS LATE! HAD TO REWRITE A SCENE BC THE DRAFT GOT LOST :(

Next chap out soon </3 It's the weekends so it'll be quicker

Also I'm gonna rework some of the earlier chapters :P (Just tweaking writing a little no plot changes at all)

[cy-cyborg]

How your disabled character's allies react to their disability can make or break the representation in your story: Writing Disability Quick Tips

[ID: An image with “Writing Disability quick tips: How your character's allies react to their disability matters” written in chalk the colour of the disability pride flag, from left to right, red, yellow, white, blue and green. Beside the text are 2 poorly drawn people icons in green, one is standing with their hand up to the face of the other, who is in a wheelchair. /End ID]

Something I brought up in my big post about Toph Beifong was how the other characters reacted to Toph pointing out that things were not accessible to her and setting boundaries regarding her disability, which were ignored. I had more to say about it than I thought I did, as it turns out (when isn't that the case lol) but I feel like this is an important aspect of disability representation that is all too often over looked.

You can write the best, most accurate portrayal of a specific disability ever put to screen or page, but it won't mean much if all the other characters, specifically those we're supposed to like and empathise with, treat your character terribly for being disabled and having needs relating to said disability, especially if the story justifies their behaviour.

You see this most often with autistic characters and especially autistic-coded characters. The character in question will be given a bunch of autistic traits, most often traits relating to not understanding certain social dynamics or sarcasm, and when they get it wrong, the other characters we are supposed to like jump down their throat, tease them or outright abandon them. Autism isn't the only disability that gets treated this way, but it is one of the more common ones that get this treatment. It doesn't matter if you do everything else right when creating an autistic character if the other "good guys" constantly call them annoying, get angry at them or laugh at them for the very traits that make them autistic, or for advocating for their needs.

Likewise, if you have a leg amputee character who is otherwise done well, but is constantly being criticised by their allies for needing to rest their legs or taking too long to get their prosthetics on, it undermines a lot of the other work you've done. Same goes for having a wheelchair user who is accused of being a bore or a stick in the mud because they point out the places their friends want to go to on a group holiday have no wheelchair access, or a deaf character who is accused of being entitled for wanting their family to learn to sign, or anything else.

This isn't to say you can never have moments like these in your stories, but its important to remember that a) people with the same disability as your character will be in your audience. If you spend a whole season of your TV show shaming your autistic character for real traits that real autistic people have, they're not exactly going to feel welcome and may not want to hang around. b) it's going to very, very heavily impact people's perceptions of your "heros" who do this, especially in they eyes of your audience members who share the character's disability or who have had similar experiences. This isn't like calling someone a mean name or being a bit of a dick when you're sleepy, it's going to take a lot to regain audience appeal for the offending character, and depending on exactly what they do and how frequently they do it, they may not even be able to come back from it at all. And finally, c) there should be a point to it outside of just shaming this character and saying the other guy is an asshole. Like I said before, you're character is criticising real people's real disabilities and the traits or problems that come with them, things that they often have no control over, it shouldn't be used as a cheap, quick way to establish a quirky enemies to lovers dynamic or show that one guy is kind of an ass before his redemption arc. If you really must have your characters do this, be mindful of when and how you use it.

[capquinn]

Hey I love your Dad!Quinn writings so much! They’re so cute and fluffy! Maybe you can do one about mom’s bump popping up one morning and Quinn is like mesmerized, realizes that a baby is coming and his life is going to change. But he’s so happy. Only if you want to write this. Have fun in NYC!

The hoodie slipped from his hands, forgotten, as Quinn froze in the doorway, caught in the quiet spell of the moment. His breath stilled, his gaze fixed on you — on the reflection of you in the mirror, framed by the soft morning light that filtered through the curtains. You were standing there, one hand resting on the curve of your belly, your fingers brushing over it in a way that was both casual and deliberate.

But it wasn’t the same curve he’d kissed goodnight the evening before. This was new, different.

His eyes traced the line of your profile, lingering on the now unmistakable swell of your stomach. It wasn’t just a gentle hint anymore, not the subtle softness he’d grown accustomed to seeing. It was undeniable, defined. A bump.

His bump. His baby.

Quinn’s arms hung at his sides, his hoodie now pooled in the chair behind him as his brain worked to catch up with his eyes. For a long beat, he just stared, unmoving, as the weight of it hit him all at once. His chest tightened, his heart thrumming in a rhythm he couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t panic, not fear, but bigger — something that was overwhelming in its tenderness. Awe, maybe. Or reverence. A sense of this is real that felt too massive for his chest to hold.

He tilted his head slightly, as if looking from a different angle might somehow soften the impact, but it didn’t. If anything, it deepened it.

His gaze dropped to your hand, the way your palm smoothed over the firm swell like it was second nature now. He hadn’t realised how much he’d been holding his breath until he let it out, slow and shaky, his hands flexing at his sides. There was no mistaking it anymore — this was real. Tangible. The tiny life that had been nothing but whispers and plans and grainy black-and-white ultrasound images was suddenly here, making its presence known.

You glanced up in the mirror, your eyes catching his reflection, and Quinn’s heart twisted. You looked at him like you always did — a soft affection that grounded him — but now there was something else. Something unspoken, something shared. Something that said, can you believe this?

He stepped closer without even realising, the movement automatic, like gravity was pulling him to you. His hand reached out instinctively, tentative at first, brushing against the curve of your belly before settling there fully. His palm was warm, steady, fingers spreading slightly as if to take it all in. The bump was firm, more defined than he’d expected, and the simple touch made everything feel sharper, clearer.

“This is new,” he murmured, his voice low and rough with emotion, almost as if speaking louder might shatter the fragile intimacy of the moment.

“It wasn’t like this yesterday,” you replied softly, your voice carrying the same quiet awe that was written all over your face.

“No,” he agreed, his thumb sweeping in a slow arc along the edge of your belly. “It wasn’t.”

For the first time, it wasn’t just an abstract thought in the back of his mind. It wasn’t just appointments or plans or future names whispered in the dark. It was right here, under his hand. The tiny, growing life you’d made together, tucked safely between the two of you.

His gaze flicked back up to yours, his eyes soft and bright with something unspoken. Pride, maybe, and then his lips curved into a faint, almost shy smile.

“That’s… really our baby,” he said, the words tumbling out like a confession, as though saying them aloud might help him fully believe it.

“Really our baby,” you echoed, and the way you said it, so soft but so certain, nearly unraveled him.

Quinn’s thumb brushed over your skin again, slower this time, more deliberate, as if tethering himself in the moment. He didn’t let go, didn’t even think about moving. His fingers flexed gently against you, holding on as though the world might tip if he didn’t anchor himself to this — to you.

He exhaled quietly, his voice dropping even lower as his gaze flicked back to your bump.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it,” he murmurs. “To you. To seeing you like this.” His voice caught slightly, and his eyes softened even further as they roamed the swell of your stomach, his hands cradling it like it was the most precious thing in the world.

He couldn’t take his eyes off you — off the way your body had changed, the way it was carrying something that was a part of both of you. It hit him all at once, an overwhelming wave of awe that nearly stole his breath. The guys had joked about this, their faces lighting up in a way that always seemed a little exaggerated when they said there was nothing more attractive than seeing your partner pregnant with your child. He’d brushed it off at the time, but standing here now, he finally understood. You were stunning, and it wasn’t just how you looked — it was what it meant. What you were doing.

He kept those thoughts to himself, too raw and vulnerable to say aloud, but they lingered, stirring in the quiet space between you.

“You’re just so beautiful,” he said instead, the words escaping before he could stop them. He didn’t need to elaborate — everything he felt was in the way he looked at you, his eyes soft, his expression completely open.

The sincerity in his words made your throat tighten, a warmth rising in your chest that had nothing to do with hormones. He saw it immediately — the way your eyes glossed just slightly, your lips pressing together as if to hold back an overflow of emotion. You stared down at the curve of your belly, your hand resting over his, grounding yourself in the moment.

Quinn’s heart clenched at the sight. He hadn’t meant to make you cry, but the way your reaction softened your entire expression made his chest ache in the best way. His fingers flexed gently against your stomach again, his thumb brushing over your skin in a slow, steady rhythm, his way of silently telling you that he was right here.

Your lips parted slightly, like you wanted to say something but weren’t quite ready, and he stayed quiet, giving you the space to find the words.

“It doesn’t feel real, does it?” you whispered finally, your voice carrying a quiet awe that made his breath catch.

He paused for just a moment, watching the way your gaze lingered on your belly, before answering.

“It’s real,” he said, almost to himself, as if to convince the last part of him that still couldn’t quite believe it. His fingers pressed a little more firmly, cradling the swell of your stomach with the same care he might handle something sacred. “It’s us. Right here.”

He could see the ripple of emotion in your expression, the way your chest rose in a deep, steadying breath. The way your hand tightened over his for just a second, like you needed him to hold you in the moment.

When your eyes finally met his, the look you gave him stopped him in his tracks. It was full of wonder, gratitude, and a love so profound it stole the breath from his lungs. For a moment, he couldn’t find the words, couldn’t do anything but hope that you saw everything reflected back in his gaze: the wonder, the love, the quiet, unshakable resolve that whatever came next, he’d be there — every step, every breath. For you. For the tiny life between you. For all of it.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

requests are open - let’s daydream!

[neversetyoufree]

Since we'll hopefully be getting out of the VnC hiatus soon, and this new arc seems to finally be turning the spotlight back to Noé and calling out some of his more troubling traits for the first time, I've been thinking a lot about him recently.

I've talked before on this blog about Noé's inability to recognize or process bad things when they happen to him alone. He bounces back from and idealizes almost any experience as soon as it's over, even when he absolutely shouldn't. It's one of my favorite traits of his, and it's been lampshaded a couple of times in-manga. Louis calls out how weird his attitude toward his kidnapping is during the mémoire 9 flashback, and the "be a little bothered" from Vanitas and co in mémoire 57 has the same effect.

We also recently got a whole extended sequence of Vanitas and Domi complaining about how Noé also never anticipates harm before it might come to him. He waltzes into dangerous situations like it's nothing, almost as if he thinks he's unkillable. Combined with the above, this is just more of his strange brand of optimistic denial. Everything is fine in Noéland! It can't possibly not be fine! He always trusts and thinks the best of people and situations by default, never wanting to expect they may do wrong, and so long as a given event doesn't involve harm to external innocents and/or Noé's loved ones that he can't rationalize away, he compartmentalizes and denies harm once it's done. Thus he carries on in blissful ignorance, his past suffering having no effect on the blithe trust with which he treats the world.

But in addition to all that, Noé is also very notably divorced from the consequences of his own actions. It's not that he's *incapable* of considering his own effect on people, and he certainly tries to be kind and decent, but much of the time, it just doesn't seem to occur to him that people will have reactions to the things he does. He does as he sees fit, and when his deeds impact the people around him, especially if they produce a reaction that could upset him, it bounces off his mind in the same way that potential traumas do.

On the more lighthearted end of the spectrum, this leads to things like Noé never noticing when people are attracted to him. It may also have something to do with his airheaded messiness—the way he's always thoughtlessly making a mess of the hotel room and incurring Vanitas's wrath in bonus materials. On the heavier end of the spectrum, this causes a lot of genuine problems for the people around him. He's largely oblivious to the depth of Dominique's mental health problems until she's pushed to her breaking point at the amusement park, despite the fact that he's inextricably entangled in the cause of them. He also completely loses sight of Vanitas's reactions to him when he gets caught up in his protective rage at the start of the vanoé fight, and it takes an outside reminder from Jeanne and a literal mirror to make him realize that his own actions are part of why Vanitas has devolved to such a state.

This lack of self-perception on Noé's part feeds back into the other problems I laid out at the top of this post, his obliviousness toward his interactions with the rest of the world helping to facilitate his denial. It's part of the happy little insulating bubble that he interacts with the world through. And as the other side of that coin, his automatic, unthinking denial of things that could hurt him is part of what enables him to ignore his own impacts on the people around him. You can't reckon with or worry about harming other people when you live in Noéland where everything must be fine. I think the fact that he wants to be a good person that doesn't harm others actually makes it harder for him to confront the truth of how he impacts the world, because him hurting others is a Bad Thing that would cause him mental harm.

We've seen Noé mess up, understand his mistake, and apologize for it before. He apologizes to Vanitas for making assumptions about him after the bal masqué, he apologizes to Vanitas again at the end of the amusement park fight, and he apologizes to Riche for speaking with ignorance about dhampirs. However, I think the bigger a mistake of his is, the more harm it causes other people (and the more understanding would hurt him as a result), the harder it is for Noé to comprehend his wrongs. He's clearly trying to make things right with Domi, and he's told her that he values her, but I don't know if it's yet occurred to him to conceive of their mess as a situation where he's done her active wrong. He also literally passes out on her mid-conversation, leaving Domi and Vanitas to carry him back to bed when he was supposed to be comforting her.

But I think the most fascinating example, the moment where all this comes together into Noé's most feeble and blatant act of denial yet, is the first time he sees Misha after clawing up his face. The anime actually changes this detail, which is its own can of worms to get into, but in the manga, when Noé sees Misha's injuries in the light of day after attacking him, he immediately fucking turns around.

At the end of his wits at the amusement park, Noé claws a child across the face in a fit of anger and protectiveness. I'm not interested in condemning Noé for this, especially given that the child in question was actively trying to stab Vanitas at the time, but I will say that his actions are quite extreme. Given Vanitas's response and the way Misha's injuries are portrayed, I think it's clear that the manga wants us to see how Noé hurts Mikhail as something troubling and extreme. He gives that kid a pretty horrible injury, and Misha will likely have scars on his face for the rest of his life.

And regardless of how justified he may or may not have been in hurting Misha in defense of Vanitas, it's clear that Noé himself is upset by the true extent of what he does to Mikhail's face. When he looks at him in the light of day, when he sees a numb-looking child with his face wrapped in still-bloody bandages, though we only get to see a small segment of his face in that moment, he looks sick. He knows that he's done something troubling, and I'm sure he feels all kinds of heavy and unpleasant emotions.

This is one genuinely bad thing he's done that Noé cannot deny. He can't rationalize this one away and make it all copacetic. He can't conveniently forget the emotional reality of suffering and harm, because that reality is standing ten yards away from him. And he can't just apologize for things either, because apologies cannot undo physical harm, and frankly, I'm not sure he'd be able to give an honest apology for his one. Sickness at the results of his actions doesn't mean he fully regrets hurting Misha, at least not at this moment when emotions are still raw.

But Noé, confronted with this undeniable source of guilt and pain, is still ultimately unable to look the pain he's caused in the eye. A problem piercing through the happy veil of Noéland and forcing him to acknowledge it doesn't mean he's capable of reckoning with that problem. Instead he just. turns away from it.

Noé, forced to acknowledge a harm he's done and unable to employ all the many layers of automatic insulation that usually protect him, physically turns around because he cannot bear to look at the person, the child, that he's hurt. He employs the very last possible form of avoidance available to him, even though it's useless in the ways that matter. Not looking at Misha doesn't mean he gets to un-know the fact that he maimed him, but he simply cannot bring himself to look.

Noé is extremely good at playing "I do not see it" with things that hurt him. He's good enough that I think he has genuinely no idea he's doing it a vast majority of the time. Whatever mental shield he has that's protecting him is automatic enough that the badness that could hurt him doesn't ever even seem to cross his conscious mind. But no matter how automatic and subconscious, this tendency of his is still, and the end of the day, nothing more than an unhealthy coping mechanism, and this moment helps to put that to our attention.

What's the difference, really, between him cheerfully acting like Jean-Jacques and Chloé's assaults never upset him and him turning around so he doesn't have to look at the wounds he gave Mikhail? Noé can't look at pain, can't acknowledge the things he finds upsetting (at least not things that cause him alone pain, as others' pain often triggers his savior complex and spurs action). This scene with Misha throws that into the light, forcing Noé to desperately cling to his avoidance in an obvious and physical way.

Even when there's no way to deny the harsh reality of having done something he finds horrific, Noé Archiviste cannot make himself look directly at a painful truth, be it others wronging him or his own wrongdoing. It takes an external hand to step in and force him to turn his head and acknowledge/reckon with a problem. And even then, who knows if intervention can always be successful.

The start of the dham arc so far has drawn a lot of attention to this pattern of behavior, with Vanitas having to sit Noé down and explain to him in detail why his words said in well-meaning ignorance make Dante so upset. This is Noé being forced to look at a harm he caused because he couldn't or wouldn't look at and comprehend the problem (his fellow vampires' racism) in the situation he was in. But upsetting Dante is ultimately a low stakes problem for Noé. He put his foot in his mouth and offended a peer; he didn't shred Vanitas's little brother. He's able to accept his wrongs and feel his discomfort without resorting to physically turning around and avoiding the issue.

I want to know what Noé will do if/when this arc forces him to confront a source of pain he can't handle in a context that's more high stakes than a social faux pas. I want to see what he'll do when something really forces him beyond his ability to believe that everything is fine. How badly would he have to be hurt to lose his ability to filter an event/events through rose colored glasses? How badly would he have to hurt someone else? Or is his instinctive shield good enough that he'll never get out of it on his own? And if so, who else might step in to make Noé own up to reality?

Teacher and the Archivistes are becoming plot-relevant now, and our attention is being drawn to Noé's issues. I think there might be something coming soon that even Noé can't turn away from and cheerfully pretend isn't hurting him. Teacher even ends his appearance at the amusement park with a little speech about having to "wake and face reality," which makes me even more certain that a wake-up call for Noé is imminent.

Either that, or Noé's going to mess up and hurt somebody even worse than he hurt Misha later this arc, and in that case, we might get to see a feat of denial even worse than him literally turning around to avoid looking at the wounds he caused.

[ineylesian]

Adler taking care of a drunk/and or high reader😭😭 THERES NOT ENOUGH ADLER FICS IM GONNA CRY I LOVR HIM

AO3 | NAV

wc — 1k

author’s note — hii sorry this took so long!! arqhms we’re-so-back arc took a little longer than expected, but here a little drabble for you. still learning how to write for adler, he’s a little tricky, but i’ll cook when BO6 comes out 🫡

Your head is pounding. 

The world around you is shrouded in a dark shear. Blurred sit the lights that shine down on shaking hands, gently tapping against the ring of a nearly emptied glass. Ice swirls and clashes as you slide the drink back and forth, in and out, steady as the breaths that pool from your mouth. 

In. Out. You’re convinced that you’re fine. You just need another drink– something bitter to wind you down and help you forget. That’s all it does, anyway. All you can do is forget, and drink it all down once you remember. 

You raise your hand, silently waving to the woman who served your last four, five shots to you. Her head falls into half of a nod, eyes moving from yours as she stills, cloth in hand slowing on the rim of the glass she cleans. 

“That’ll be enough for tonight, thanks.”

Your eyebrows narrow as her nod changes to acknowledgment toward the voice behind you, sending a look of sympathy your way as she turns. Sighing, you quickly down the last watered down drops in your glass, swiveling sideways to glare at a pair of tan aviators looking your way.

“You can’t tell me-”

“You reek of whiskey, can smell it all over you.” He’s quick to cut you off, ice clinking together as he pulls the glass from you, sliding it out of reach. “It doesn’t take a genius to tell you’ve had enough.”

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, your gaze wanders down to his jeans. Your features contort into a resemblance of a sneer, finger jutting out to point at the outline of a pack of cigarettes in his pocket.

“And who says what’s enough for you?” 

A few moments of silence pass; you don’t miss the quick roll of his tongue over his lips. The aviators can’t hide the vision of him briefly closing his eyes, searching for what he’ll say next. It’s something you know he always does when he’s trying to pick his next words carefully. 

Drunk or sober, Adler is always logical with the way he talks to you. You believe it stems from the desire to never give the sense of a false promise. They sit reserved for nights of uncertainty, unsure of whether tomorrow is a guarantee. Whispers of his desires only seem to visit you in your dreams.

“Smoking doesn’t impact my ability to think.” You sense his gaze flick between your face and legs. “I could go through an entire pack and still be able to carry myself out of here. Half a bottle of Jack Daniels prevents you from getting up and walking out of here.”

Adler doesn’t miss the look of defiance that crosses your face after he’s done speaking. Following the clearance of your tab, he leans back, arms settling over one another. 

“Go on, then. If you can get yourself out of here, you can tell me when to stop for the rest of my life.”

Antagonizing, snide. It’s the tactic you’ve seen more times than you can count, saccharine tongue used to taunt and beckon failure. However, the amount of alcohol in your stomach lets his provocation slither into your brain like honey, liquid courage screaming at you to shut him up. 

You barely lift your shoes off of the barstool’s bottom level when your vision goes blurry, large spots of black making the floor seem akin to the wall 10 feet away. The rush of fear that you’re falling is swiftly diminished as a pair of hands pull you forward, and you’re met with the brush of cashmere on your cheek.

You’re too drunk to notice the action. He’s quick, the way that his fingers gently card through your hair, the feeling gone as a summer breeze washes over your skin. However, the warmth lingers, and you lift your head to look at him, eyes brimming with tears due to the gradual worsening of the pounding in your head.

“Take me home.” You drawl, arms blindly reaching around his torso, locking together. “Please, Russ.”

You hear his scoff, lightly chiding, but you can barely make out the amused quirk of his lips as he stands up, slowly situating your feet onto the floor.

“Walk with me.”

You do as you’re told, whining incoherently at him as he loops your arm around his neck. Adler calls a thanks to the bartender, and you stumble over your feet two or three times before you reach the door. The cool rush of night is quick to dust your face as you move outside, a harsh contrast to the contents of your stomach that causes you to mindlessly shiver.

“Adler...”

Your complaint is met with a soft click of the tongue, yet, the sensation of warmed leather falls over your shoulders within seconds. A lopsided smile graces your face, and you allow your eyes to roam from chestnut strands that fall over his aviators to the polished black leather on his feet.

“And the next layer?”

A gentle push follows your remark, and you scoff dramatically, arms looping around Adler’s neck as he spins you back toward him. You grin as he tilts your head up against his chest, silently celebrating the empty streets that allow him to hold you as he does. 

“Does the princess require any more care?” 

Still heavily whiskey blooded, you hum, neck craning up to meet his gaze. 

“Just your bed.”

You don’t expect a response, and he doesn’t give one. Satisfied, you lean back into the soft fabric of his turtleneck, knowing the soft strokes of his hands along your back won't leave you alone tonight.

[ai-manre]

Reread Sansa's sample TWOW chapter today after very long, and I enjoyed it so much! I had totally forgotten how much I like book!Sansa. Especially her Alayne chapters are so good, where she is teasing knights, gossiping with Lady Myranda, and having fun in general.

I see fans often claiming that Sansa is going to be Queen eventually because she has a leadership/ruler arc. This is flat-out wrong. She does not have a ruler arc, in the Vale, Sansa is learning two things:

Being a Lady of the House. She is doing all the household management, organization, image politicking, handling the guests and house members in the appropriate manners etc. She is also playing at being the proper Westerosi maiden, flirting with Harry and other knights, and acting the scared damsel in distress when needed. And what's more, she is good at it and loving it.

Scheming. That's what she is learning from Littlefinger. To be a political schemer, playing the game of thrones and manipulating things behind the scenes. Littlefinger is no leader by himself, he's a player.

In other words, she is following in Catelyn's footsteps of being a lady with political acumen. Fitting the mold of the society but also exceeding it. Only, Sansa has the advantage of a teacher like Littlefinger (I'm only talking about his scheming skill which he is teaching), so eventually she will get to succeed where Catelyn had failed.

This is why I don't see any chance of her being a ruler in her own name, because till now, Sansa's arc has never been about ruling. In the Eyrie, her role and thoughts are myopically focused on the household, the guests they must entertain, coaxing Sweetrobin, the schemes to play, the right image to project, which servants are suited to which task and such. It's never about how winter impact will impact the kingdom how much food is in their granaries, how the smallfolk are faring, how well she thinks the existing governing systems are functioning, how well justice is being done, how to benefit the kingdom as a whole.

This is big picture stuff, elements of ruling a kingdom or an institution, not just a household. These are all elements very strongly present from the beginning in the arcs of the leaders: Dany, Cersei, Jon, Tyrion. The difference is noticeable especially in the case of the main budding leaders of the story: Dany and Jon, where such qualities had existed in them even before actually becoming leaders. For example, Jon spends AGOT gaining a leadership position among the new recruits of the Night's Watch inspiring them, he assesses the existing institution and framework of the Night's Watch and finds it lacking when someone like Sam is not utilized, negotiates with Maester Aemon based on his argument that every tool has its place, gets himself into a position where he's groomed for leadership. Dany spends AGOT learning to command, first by rightly assessing Viserys and ordering him punished, then proactively taking the Lhazareen women under her protection against Drogo's wish, then inspiring the rest of her khalasar and Ser Jorah to become hers, her men. Those traits had to be planted very early for both Dany and Jon to become such competent leaders at their young age. In each book, they encountered leadership challenges, they led people, negotiated deals, showed military prowess, administrative actions, had clear visions of what they wanted to change.

[carlyraejepsans]

UTY!Flowey, "lore" and how to criticize a fan prequel without being an insufferable pedantic, a guide by Biscia.

(for my muskless fellows, here's a transcript of my thread on Undertale Yellow that I posted on Twitter. enjoy!)

There's this really frustrating attitude in fan spaces i like to call "lorepilling" where people are substantially more concerned with encyclopedic knowledge of details & minutiae (so called "lore") in place of full-text thematic/narrative analysis as if the two are mutually interchangeable.

It's especially common in large franchises and story heavy videogames, and it's like... Are You Treating This Piece Of Art Like A Trivia Battle Or Are You Treating It Like A Story

This is coming from a person who is also deeply autistic about UTDR trivia btw, I'm just saying that when it comes to transformative *stories*, depending on the impact it has on character, themes, and narrative structure... lore is expendable.

Ultimately this is why most of the UTY criticism i see (on twitter specifically) falls flat. What does it matter if "lore" means Flowey couldn't chronologically be there when the justice human fell, as long as the game narratively justified his presence in the story in a compelling way?

The real criticism, in the end, is that it didn't.

He's a plot central, main cast character from the canon returning in a cast of mostly OCs and what does he have to show for it? An admittedly sick boss battle in 1/3 endings, sure but... not much else. He has no significant "presence" in the story, no tie, interaction, or even just... an opinion on the rest of the cast. Which is a huge miss when Flowey's meta role is to be Thee completionist player mirror. He's the OG lorepilled UT fan! He's an opinionated little shit!

This isn't to say that UTY *didn't* engage w/ his metanarrative. When me and @a-town-called-hometown first started playing the game (we were both skeptical of Flowey's inclusion), he immediately said "It would be really cool if they made it so this has been going on for a while and Clover has no idea". Which is precisely what the game did in the neutral ending, and what I will openly say was the most well written & well executed part of this game's story...

...a part we almost didn't see, because the pacifist ending disappointed us so much we lost all will to replay.

To put it in the words of my friend Mel @clowwwnbytes, there's a deafening hollowness to UTY Flowey's motivations & core principles where his guilt towards Chara—and resulting black and white thinking—should be. You're telling me Mr Kill-or-be-killed, "sacrificing yourself to do the right thing is stupid", would stand there after 1000s of failed attempts to make Clover survive, look on as they make the same mistake Asriel he did, and fondly call them friend? Cue the guitar, roll the credits?

He would lose it. Oh my god he would lose his goddamn mind, he would throw the nastiest temper tantrum in the world. Are you serious? How dare you. How DARE you. All this effort, all my patience, and you just let yourself DIE for a few worthless idiots? I should've let you ROT!

*clears throat* sorry got a bit too into character. as i was saying.

I can understand a UT prequel wanting to distance itself from the canon Chara storyline in order to form its own identity, but then turning around and choosing Insane About Chara The Character™ for a sidekick is... far from optimal. In the end, Flowey comes across as underutilized and inconsistent, with a whole lot of wasted potential.

This is an issue I have with UTY's character writing (original AND returning) and story structure as a whole. Lots of inconsistent character arcs, tonal dissonance, overuse of situational sadness... it's an amateurish work, after all, and you can feel it. There's no shame in that.

(Though, there ARE some issues that i take more seriously with its writing, especially when it comes to its two main female characters—Ceroba's lack of narrative agency and depth borders on misogynistic writing imo. But that's a topic for another day)

Over all, UTY was an incredible piece of collaborative transformative work, with gorgeous art and a genuinely incredible OST, which... would have benefited from more experienced writers. But hey, you can only ever learn by trying!

For all it could've been a better story, it certainly did not fail to entertain: both when my friend was playing it, and after in our many discussions of its writing, its faults and how it could've been improved (royal scientist!ceroba character fix you will always be famous. to ME!)

I'm sure this project served as an incredible source of experience for the developers: as individual creators AND as a team. I look forward to their future projects!

but also if i have to see another person say UTY is better than Undertale i might turn into The Jonker.

end of the essay! really couldn't stand any of the pedantic ""criticism"" I'd seen of this fangame so far, so i had to say my piece as someone more versed in analysis. happy to elaborate on anything in the replies or in my inbox!

[thr0wnawayy]

Imo the League of Villains should have never existed from the main story of MHA. They were utterly unbalanced and were so flawed that no attempt of fixing could fix them.

I get where your coming from. I

I honestly believe the LOV really needed was time to grow away from the spotlight.

Think of the LOV as leftover pizza (I know, just stick with me for a minute)

Too long in the microwave/oven/pan and it tastes like hardback, too little and it becomes soggy muddled. There's a very specific way you need to do things and that's by not overthinking it.

Hori kept the microwave on too long and the LOV's potential evaporated.

From what I can tell, MHA worked best when it had a 'Villain of the week's type of thing going on.

This was most prominent and best set up with Stain, Stain's character/arc not only expanded the world of MHA but also brought up deeper questions about Hero society

What's most important here is that Stain didn't overstay his welcome. He rolled in, made every panel count and then went out like a champ. Affecting the protagonist and those around him.

He had an impact that's felt throughout the rest of the series (There is no Internship Arc in Ba Sing Se) not inspite of his short lived presence but because of it.

At some point, Hori lost this concept and the plot went with it.

I think the main problem with the LOV started after Kamino. Before this, every member has solid, or at least tangible ideals.

The Vanguard Action Squad was the LOV at it's most raw, not perfect but functional. They felt like people, when Spinner stops Magne from pursuing Midoriya, it feels real for the world.

Simply put the LOV (much like 1A) worked best as individuals, differing worldviews and all.

So when Hori robbed the LOV of their autonomy by practically wrangling them to Shigaraki, it in turn killed the LOV, because now nothing was individual about them.

If you want an example, how about Magne's death. Her last words are the very last time anyone in the LOV asserts any belief besides Shigaraki's own.

After this the LOV barely give any resistance to Shigaraki's plans no matter how short sighted or convoluted.

Kurogiri is outright sacrificed by the narrative so that Shigaraki finally has to step up.

Shigaraki's reaction to Toga's rage and grief follwing Magne's death can be amounted to: "Trust me bro, we're doing this for us bro, please believe me bro."

It's absurd.

As for being flawed, I'll assume you mean their motives.

What needs to be understood is that the LOV (Pre Kamino) and the PLF (Post Kamino) are not the same characters

Flanderisation is the phenomenon of a characters worst traits being exacerbated over a period of time until said character is unrecognizable from their original self.

This is what Hori did the LOV and he did this intentionally.

At some point he realized that the Villains actually had more of a point than the heroes, this likely occured after the MVA arc when fans began rooting for the LOV.

To counter this Hori sabotaged multiple characters and plots in a desperate attempt to justify his woolies and unfortunately for everyone who's isn't an abuser-stan (Enji and Bakuo). The rest of the cast and world suffered greatly.

What you ended up with are characters so detached from their origins that they might as well not even be the same characters at all.

There's an image somewhere that encapsulates this perfectly, it's a 4 panel comic with two stick figures (one black and one blue). If I ever find it or someone links it I'll be sure to upload it here

[carlos-in-glasses]

There's something I need to get off my smutty chest about Tarlos having kids and the true reason I wasn't into the idea at first (and have since come around).

(Before and during season 4) I was uncertain about Tarlos having kids because – in all honesty – they are the Hot Sex couple. How are they supposed to have Hot Sex whenever and wherever, while there are kids in the house? Surely they aren’t. They can’t. And, selfishly, how would that impact how I want to write them in my canon-compliant/very canon-adjacent fics?

However. As time passed, the idea of them becoming dads overwhelmed me with not just how adorable it is (and it IS! That little 'room' they've made for Jonah that looks like it has a race car bed?? Come onnn!!!! My heart!!!) but how radical, when for so long same-sex couples not having kids was the default because they were not allowed to do it. But now they can, and I am so moved and excited for them to permanently adopt a child and represent that particular progress. I think it's important to remember that what we are seeing on screen with Tarlos is radical already, and I know it might not seem like it because the sexy times moment in 5x05 was so brief, but it really is. Same-sex marriage was legalised five minutes ago. Seeing same-sex couples in media raising a family is still massive and frankly in this current age, essential. With Tarlos we’ve been so lucky to have both: a storyline about how one part of a couple isn’t ready for kids, which I feel like we never see and was very interesting, and we have a storyline where they both become ready (unfortunately rushed and we’re only going to see three seconds of it, but still. Still!). I’m sure if the show were continuing, they wouldn’t have done a kids storyline for them yet anyway, or they would have told one with room to breathe. So, there is also an allowance to make for completing their arc as a couple under unfortunate circumstances. It might be a speed-run, but it was always how their story would end, and we are lucky we get a proper ending at all. We get to see them make choices, make mistakes, and change, which allows them to be even richer as characters imo.

All this is to say – if you, like me, are dubious about them having kids because of the sex thing and are trying to reason it out – it's okay to say it. Or I've decided it's okay to admit it anyway lol. Personally, I have come to the conclusion that they are still going to be the Hot Sex couple. Because they are still them. They are Tarlos. And they are OURS. They are going to have Hot Hot Hot Sex because they are going to really want it. And isn’t that delicious? Whenever the kids aren’t around, they are going to be all over each other. They are going to bonk in every corner of their suburban home. And in the yard. The back porch swing. The roof. They are going to need to do house repairs often, because of this. Their neighbours will hate them. And as it should be. They are per-canon obsessed with having sex with each other. Also! Having said all this: They can be written by fic writers as childless. That's completely fine. Or, any and all fics can be set pre. 5x08 if that's what people want to do. I might want to do that for the most part if it's easier to tell a specific story. I don't know yet! In any case:

Tarlos is going to be happy. Afterglow is their resting state.

In the words of Ghost Gwyn, it is all going to be okay.

[alexa-fika]

Hello again I thought of a request

How about the scene in the Baratie Arc

So mihawk attacked Don Krieg because he kidnapped winged reader (wr)

But wr managed to escape and steals a small boat

he's starving and finds the Baratie but he doesn't have money and we see his interaction with Sanji

And at the end he goes with his dad

This going to be a long one 😂

🐼💕~

Escape, Friend, Return ( Zoro,x male!child!reader x Sanji)

A/N: You were not wrong this was long 😳, at least compared to what im used to. When I was writing I was like this wont be so long, and then I was oh…

Dividers by @/saradika

Reader squeaks, avoiding another cannonball heading his way as he flies away

Finally, he managed to reach his destination, an emergency boat intended for use if the main ship sank.

Reader, however, had a much different intention for said boat, intending to escape his captivity at the hands of Captain Krieg.

Don Krieg's face drops as he watches the ship take off.

"Shoot the little rat down!"

Another shriek escapes him as he raises the sails, giving the small boat speed and creating distance from Krieg and the incoming cannonballs

'Shoot for the sails!'.

Don-Kreich and the rest of his crew frantically fire their remaining cannons.

He flinches as one of the cannonballs lands dangerously close, the small boat shaken by the force of the waves created in turn

He sighs with relief as he makes enough distance from the main boat to be out of range of the canon

“I did it…” he mutters, the reality of what just happened to him hitting the young boy as they slowly sink down, rogue tears gradually increasing until a river of tears fell from his eyes, sobbing for his father and the safety on his embrace, exhaustion catching up to him as sleep enveloped him.

Reader was woken up by the ship impacting with a much bigger boat

“Ow,” he whines, rubbing his head, looking up and awing; he had stumbled upon a giant ship if one could call it that, a fish making the underside with a building in the middle.

“B..?” he squints at the words in front of the weird shape, unable to make out what the collection of letters read; he flutters up and into the vast ship.

He sneaks all the way towards where he sees bustling of people, hiding behind a pillar and peeking out, spotting a blond man smoking on the railings of the ship

He squeaks as the man turns his head his way, and he quickly dart back behind the pillar

“Hmm?” Sanji watches the strange sight, tilting his head

Reader peeks his head out again, taking a glimpse at the man, darting back once they see the man staring at him

Sanji watches the child curiously before heading over to the person of interest

He squeals as he peeks out again, only to see the man right before him, slowly backing away, tears welling in his eyes

Sanji looks at the child, his expression softening

“Hey, what are you doing out here all alone?”

“I-I I “

Sanji kneels down in front of the boy.

“Are you alright?” he asks

“I -I want my daddy.”

Sanji looks concerned. “Do you know where he is?” he asks

He shakes their head

“Oh…how about you just come with me to my kitchen then…we can get something to eat at least,” Sanji says

He stares at his hand hesitantly

“Hey, I won’t hurt you, alright? You look like you could use a nice meal. C’mon,” he says, offering his hand

He slowly puts his hands over his

Sanji gently takes the little hand as he starts walking, headed to the kitchen

“What’s your name, kid?” he asks

“Reader”

“And where are you from, Reader?”

“Ummm, im from Papa’s island!”

“Hmm…and how did you end up all alone out here?”

“A bad guy took me,” he said, stretching his wings out

“I see…let’s see if we can find you some food then, ok?” Sanji takes the boy to the kitchen

“Okay!”

Sanji puts the little one on a chair before making them some food

“Here…” Sanji gives him a warm bowl of soup

“Thank you, Mister!”

“You’re welcome…” Sanji says kindly

“That was really yummy, Mister.” he smiles, kicking his feet and lightly flapping his wings in content

“Umm, what's your name, Mister?”

“My name is Sanji…nice to meet you, Reader.”

“Hi, Hi, Sanji!”

“Oi Assitant Headchef Sanji! We need you on the floor! We don’t have any waiters! They ran off yesterday!”

Sanji looks up from his workstation and then turns back to the child; he sighs

“I gotta help these idiots out there. Could you wait for me on the platform? You have a nice view from there; once im done, I‘ll help you find your father; does that sound good?”

“Okay! But you have to promise to come back and help me find Daddy!”

Sanji smiles.

“Do not worry, im a man of my word. Go on now and wait for me there; I’ll be there shortly.”

"Okay." he smiles flying toward the upper balcony

The next hour was a blur to the small child, from meeting the future King of the pirates on the balcony to seeing him comedically try to convince Sanji to join his crew to laughing joyously as Luffy and Zoro quarrel to a feeling of fear and dread enveloped him as the familiar gold armored man came barging in, carried by the hungry man, asking for food and pummeling Sanji to the ground and shooting all the chefs when he received the food but did received refusal to his demand of handing the restaurant To him.

He now found themselves crying in the hands of the blond cook as he soothed down his loud sobs and cries.

Sanji sighs softly as he takes a handkerchief and gently wipes his tears

"Hey, Hey, it's okay; he's not gonna touch you again, darling."

"H-H-he came back, he came back, and Mister Sanji and the others got hurt!"

"Hey now, I will never let anyone hurt you, alright?" Sanji pulls the child close to him

He grunts as Don Krieg starts demanding food for his crew; needing food to feed a hundred people, he gently passes over the kid over to Zoro, who happens to be the closest to him; once they had managed to calm down the child, their sobs now simply reduced to heavy breathing.

"Stay here, Darling, i'll be right back

"Where are you going?" a chef questions

"Im going to the kitchen to prepare enough food for a hundred people," he mutters, taking a drag from his cigarette as chaos erupted in the restaurant once again, punches being delivered until Zeff walked out and handed a bag full of food for Krieg's crew

Zoro rolls his eyes, glancing down at the child. In his arms

"Oi, where are your parents?" he questions

"I don't know where Daddy is."

"Who is your dad?"

"Umm, Daddy!

"Of course," He grunts

"....That hawk-eyed man whose glare is sharp enough to kill a man," the hungry man mutters as they both tune in back to the conversation

"That's Daddy!"

"What?!" he said, ruffling through his pockets and pulling out a wrinkled old paper with a familiar face on it

"Is this your father?"

"That's Daddy!"

"You're the child of H-

His discovery Is cut short as a tremendous force cuts the huge galleon in half, making the baratie sway violently.

"Look out!" He growls, moving reader out of the way as the swaying throws the chairs and tables around, almost taking with it Reader.

He squeals at the sudden collision and movement; they look up a Zoro

"Are you okay?"

He, however, does not respond, eyes glued in front of him, staring at the ship that was slowly sinking to the sea, and in front of it floated a raft with a familiar man sitting on it.

"DADDY!" he cheers, wriggling out of Zoro's grasp to fly towards their father, barreling right into him

Mihawk catches the young child, gently holding him in one arm.

"There, there..."

"You're here," he mutters

Mihawk nods, gently running his fingers through his hair

"I am," he says, looking down at him

"Are you unharmed? Did they hurt you?" he said, gesturing to Zoro and their aquentainces.

He shakes his head

"They helped me, they gave me food, and they took care of me."

He hums at their answer

"Damn you, what did we do to you?! Why the hell did you have to follow us all the way out here!" a crewmate of Krieg sneered, pulling out two guns and shooing the swordsman

"Why? What impertinence to ask such a question; I came because you had the nerve to take something from me," he said, deflecting the bullets from him and his child with ease.

"You really are the strongest... I set sail to meet you," Zoro says, slowly stepping closer

Mihawk glances at him and then down at Reader.

"Stay here; I will return shortly," he said, placing him down in the raft and stepping into what remained of Krieg's ship towards the ex-pirate hunter

They engaged in a few words and then engaged in the one-way battle, Mihawk not moving from his spot as he easily bested the green head with his tiny dagger; impressed with his ambition, ferocity, and conviction, he asked for his name, and gave him his respect and honor of bringing him down with all of his force, using Yoru.

"Stand Strong, Roronoa; I will wait for you at the top. No matter how many months or years pass, I will wait for you to surpass my sword."

He smiles as he watches as Zoro raises his sword and promises Luffy never to lose again

"You make a good team; I'd like to see you in the future. You have my thanks and respect for taking care of Reader while I was gone," He says, walking away to his raft and scooping said child, smiling again as they giggle and nuzzle into them.

"Farewell

Okay, y’all im not used to something this long especially for it to be following canon so closedly so idk I feel like its a flop, I don’t feel that usual 🥰 vibe, ya know? I did have to start skipping and resuming some parts, cause well I don’t want ya to read a manuscript of the manga…

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@imaginarydreams

@amethystviolin