#it's a father writing to his son

[sweetbrier2908]

sometimes you look at satan and think of lucifer. of course you keep it for yourself, you're wise enough to know that even when he's not mad at you but it definitely makes him uncomfortable. but sometimes, you mean it, only a few times in the span of many years you've known him, you look at him and his face, his expression, even his nose and his smile, his action, his attitude surprise you how similar he is to his father (can you say that? you always feel like this word is such a sensitive topic). you start noticing the similarity between those two and also the difference.

like how satan chuckles often than only smile when he reads and he's usually too excited to show you whatever intrigues him from the book.

like how satan's eyes are not that sharp, unlike lucifer's. satan's eyes are always smiling. if you remember correctly. he may say that is because he's a demon and he need to deceive others but maybe he's just a kind soul.

like how satan doesn't have wrinkles on the corner of his eyes and he doesn't frown that much. always keep his best composure. always acts polite. he can't afford to let people think he's rude since he need to surpass lucifer in everything.

like how satan's expression is always more gentle...more soft...and you look at him and you know that he was raised in love. in love. in love. the way he looks at little animal, the way he looks at his brothers while they're doing something silly. the way he focuses on the books, on the lessons,...the way he treats everything with such sincerity like they all have souls. you wonder if levi's the one who taught him how to take care for little animals, if mammon's the one who taught him you need to treat everyone equally, if asmo taught him to appreciate the beauty in even the smallest thing, if beel and belphie taught him to create a special bond with people is nice.

satan and lucifer, they shares some habits too. the first thing they do when they walk through the door is organize all the jackets and coats on the hanger, then they go to the kitchen and make something for themselves (but satan likes to make a cup of latte and lucifer likes hell coffee or tea which he was gifted by his beloved)- and for beel who's already there. they're gonna complain about something, then go to the library to take a look. arrage the misplaced books, sweep a little bit then take a sit and wait for their brothers to come home and complain again about the noise (everyone knows that they love being around their family and to proud to admit that they enjoy all the problem they cause). they don't do all of that together. never. satan takes after lucifer, you're kind of sure of it after spending years and years watching them, many things. you never tell him.

sometimes you look at satan and wonder how many things he takes after his brothers, his family. how many things he takes after love.

[wilteddreamsofbaldursgate]

New dad Astarion who is about to see his newborn child for the first time.

Of course, he expects his child to be the personification of serene beauty and divine grace. Them to have their father’s silken silvern locks, his immaculately chiselled features—the artwork perfected by Tav’s wonderful watercolour eyes…

And then he actually sees the child and—well—everybody assures him that, yes, Astarion, all babies look like that barely a half hour after birth…

He kind of has to take that at face value because he hasn’t seen an awful lot of newborns in his lifetime.

But it would’ve been nice if someone had told him that newborns happen to look like shrivelled potatoes, because he’s really, really trying to not let his bewilderment show. 

Astarion swallows. 

Tav’s beautiful eyes are watching him, waiting for a reaction—an enthusiastic one, no less. 

Maybe Tav will believe that he’s overcome with emotions at seeing his firstborn child? 

“Oh my, darling, I’m…speechless,” is all he can choke out, though, being rather proud that it’s at least not a lie. 

To his luck, Tav only nods dreamily, her full attention back on the odd little bundle in her arms.

“Isn’t she perfect?”

Yes, perfectly hideous. 

Astarion only hums in a way of reply.

That—his daughter, he supposes—is with no doubt one of the ugliest things he’s ever seen, but he has a feeling that his honesty wouldn’t be appreciated after Tav laboured for hours to give birth to this…potato-baby.

“Come, hold her, Astarion,” Tav says, then, bidding him to sit next to her on the bed.

The mattress shifts under Astarion’s weight and he obediently holds his arms out so that Tav can gently place the sleeping child against his chest.

Now that Astarion can take a better look, he can confirm that his daughter’s hair is of an indefinable colour and that her features are neither his nor Tav’s, plain as can be. Surely it won’t stay like that?

He and Tav are so ridiculously beautiful, their child can only be drop-dead gorgeous, right?

Astarion’s stomach drops indeed when, suddenly, something occurs to him. 

Oh dear, what if it’s his fault? He has no recollection of his family whatsoever; it’s very much possible that he and his immaculate looks are the exception in his lineage, and that he’s passed on only those mysterious less-than-perfect genes…Tav, as per usual, can’t be the issue!

Astarion is still catastrophizing when the bundle in his arms begins to stir.

All of a sudden, gold-speckled pale green eyes are looking up at him as if to ask what the fuck this weirdo’s problem might be. 

“Oh,” the weirdo in question exclaims at once. “Darling, look, she has your eyes!”

Tav, hugging him from behind, rests her chin on his shoulder, so she can watch as Astarion’s finger tenderly strokes their baby’s chubby cheek.

Their daughter also has, as it turns out, ten fingers and toes, a cute little nose and a hungry mouth—everything that’s supposed to be there is there, and it seems to be working fine, too—which is a huge relief. 

And aren’t those the tiniest pointy ears Astarion has ever seen? Let alone the unexpectedly strong fingers grasping at his!

Astarion, worries forgotten in a heartbeat, can’t help but smile at the baby in his arms. 

She is perfect, after all. 

Tav, face hidden in the crook of his neck, begins to tremble against his back. 

For a second, Astarion thinks she’s crying but then her laughter fills the chamber. It takes her a good moment to articulate whatever it is she finds so very funny.

“She'll grow out of it, you know?” Tav giggles in between her fits of laughter. 

Astarion stiffens. “Of what?”

“The turnip look. That’s what you’ve been worrying about the whole time, haven't you?”

“I was leaning more towards potatoes—but yes, I might’ve been a little worried about that,” Astarion admits sheepishly, although a grin is already tugging at his lips.  

Regaining her composure, Tav reaches over Astarion’s shoulder, her hand joining his as they get to know their child.

“Give it a couple of days and she will look like your proper little elf��beautiful just like her father.”

A content sigh leaves Astarion’s lips, right before he presses them against Tav’s temple.

“That’s the second best news I’ve heard today, my heart, truly.”

[dootznbootz]

Thinking about how Telemachus has heard "You are just like your father" by so many people for most of his life. How different yet refreshing it is to hear said father tell him warmly "You're so much like your mother".

[bluerosefox]

Bellatrix Star

A TaliaxDanny idea that came to me.

Damian, Bruce, and the rest of the bats discover the Talia al Ghul they had been fighting against, the one that cloned her own son, had the clone kill him, plant a control device in him when he broke his spine, etc etc was actually not the real Talia al Ghul.

Turned out Ra's had cloned her and killed the original when she discovered his little plans to take over Damain's body and she confronted him about it. Ra's had to make a clone when after tossing a dead Talia into the pits but never returned (he meant to kill her as a warning, as a "you may be my blood but will not hesitate to end you Talia.") It explains so much to Damian when remembers how out of nowhere his mother changed, her training him changed from harsh to deadly, the soft motherly love she would give him when behind closed doors suddenly stopped, the tales she would spin for him about his father no longer whispered to him for bed.

How this was find out?

Well it's hard to ignore the facts that when your foolish grandfather in his quest for immortality summons an eldritch being known as the Ghost King into the Mortal Realm and uses Damian as a sacrifice while his (not) mother watches emotionless.

When the being appeared, plunging the room from green glowing flames and the glow of the Lazarus Pits into darkness before a cosmos exploded to life, its glowing green eyes snapped open in the stars and stared at them all. Making every single one of them feel small, so very small.

It took a single glance around the room before stopping on the al Ghul's. It's eyes widen before a steel and firm look entered them. Just as quick as the cosmos sprang to life, it suddenly swirled away into a ball, putting them all back into the Lazarus room,and reformed in front of them to a more humanish height and body.

When the body, around the height and build of Batman, was done forming it took a step forward and suddenly as one blinked a man stood in front of them. Or rather floated. Snow white hair that flickered and wisped towards a crown made of fire and ice, glowing green eyes that held none of the madness but all of the power the Lazarus Pits could give. His clothing were tailored made that were tastefully a mixture of black and white with some silvers and greens, clothes fit for a King one would say. The cosmos that once engulfed the room had shifted into a cloak that hanged around his body, on one side more than the other (think like how CW wears his only the hood is down).

This, this was no doubt the Ghost King, he stood tall and regal and made everyone in the room feel the need to look down, to bow ones head for even just a moment. Even Ra's had trouble disobeying the urge to do so.

"Well..." the being said, his voice deep but not as gravely as Batman's was "What an interesting way to meet my In-Laws and Step-Son..."

He has said that as he looked towards the al Ghul's. Damian flinched back with a frown of confusion and disbelief while Ra's looked panicked for a second when the words registered into his mind, meanwhile Talia... looked emotionless and barely even twitched.

"What the fu-?" Someone began only to stop when the King lifted his hand and with a snap of his fingers a green portal appeared, it looked almost like the Lazarus Pits but it felt... cleaner? Less angry?

"My Bellatrix, my warrior star. I believe I've been summoned to your home dimension. And judging by the looks of it your father created a barely functioning Mirror of you and planned on using your son as a sacrifice to me." He spoke out towards the portal before holding his hand out.

A hand appeared from the portal, a slender hand and with green and black painted nails manicure to perfection before someone walked through it as they took hold of the Ghost King's offering hand.

Standing in front of them was another Talia, only this one looked a tad older than the one in the room. She wore clothing that matched the King to a T but even then, as always, Talia looked deadly in it. Beautiful but very deadly. From the heels she wore to the crown upon her head, a crown made of not ice and fire but of stars and black jewels. Her eyes were sharp as she stared at everyone in the room, frown on her painted lips, but her eyes lit with a small soft joy when she saw Damian only for them to turn poisonous when they landed on Ra's and the other Talia nearby.

"I should had know you would had created a Mirror of me instead of admitting to my son you killed me Father." Queen Talia spat out. "The least you could had done was not make my Mirror so cheaply, it doesn't even have a proper soul attached to it."

[north-noire]

My Michael Afton throughout the years! ft. his own little doodles. I'll try to be brief about the timeline and how my Michael was without saying too much since it'll be explored in the Hidden Hands AU fic's chapters anyway so I won't say all the details. Feel free to read if you guys like! I have a lot to say about him.

1983 (FNAF 4) - Michael was 12 or 13-ish when the Bite happened. Very reckless yet adventurous kid. Didn't really hate Evan (William, as much as he had a soft spot for Evan, still loved Michael all the same), just had really bad friends and influence (his friends were mostly bullies) - and didn't really like that he's being told to parent a little brother he had no idea how to take care of. It didn't help that Evan tended to be a tattle-tail sometimes about the trouble he was getting into. Michael also, deep down, got scared of what the bullies would do to him if he dared stand up for his brother or spoke out against them, so he ends up going along with what they did for his own sake. After the Bite, Michael was still deeply guilty about what he did to Evan, and it haunts him every night, knowing he had no good excuse but irresponsibility for what he did to his brother, because after all, it wasn't like William wasn't giving him enough attention. Michael just knew that he deserved anything unfortunate coming to him, but is genuinely surprised that his father kept telling him he loved him all the same. From this point on, he becomes easily troubled, tends to stay close to his dad. Makes sure he follows the rules and doesn't do trouble. Just wants to do a complete personality shift, and is deeply ashamed of who he was before. 1985 (Charlie's death, Fredbear's Family Diner shuts down) - Michael was 15 here. Over the years, he slowly isolated himself from most of the people in his life since he gets worried about his past scars coming back to haunt him. Mostly a recluse and reserved. He's not handling things well after Charlie's death and a family divorce - not to mention the non-existent social life he had. Just prefers to be left alone, but he's nice if you get to know him. Doesn't really have a good relationship with Elizabeth, but is actually pretty close with William. Feels extremely guilty and hates himself/blames himself for Charlie's death. He gets paranoid easily, as he thinks whoever took Charlie is now after him, but his father tells him to not worry too much about it. 1987 (FNAF 2) - (17) Slowly having a good relationship with Elizabeth. Starts to get into stuff like the supernatural and becomes superstitious to a degree over the years. In public, he's mostly polite and nice, but his actual personality shows through whenever he's with his father or Elizabeth - he's sarcastic, and has quite a dark sense of humor, can be a bit of a rebel, he's just more subtle about it. A bit of an over-thinker - he gets lost in his imagination/head easily. Has a (surprisingly) good relationship with his dad, as he's not really afraid to be himself around him - sometimes gifts him funny things or something he knows his dad would love/would use (he gifts William a rabbit's foot - for good luck, he says). He also helped William build the Fun-Times with blueprints and other technicalities (He's not really aware of the questionable features they had, unfortunately). He couldn't really come with his father and Elizabeth on Circus Baby's Pizza World opening due to things he had to catch up with his home-schooling, he had been skipping classes to work on the Fun-Times, but he really wanted to graduate highschool with a bang, so he's giving everything his all, here. Then Elizabeth suddenly goes missing all of a sudden, and, well... I would say more, but my fic sort of takes a canon-divergence route around FNAF 2/SL-FNAF 1 so that would spoil half of the stuff I've been working/writing about! Reference-sheet wise, I just wanted to show how he progresses from a rebellious, happy and adventurous kid into a more reclused, anxious and soft-spoken adult. Sorry for the long post! I've just been wanting to talk about him for some time now. There's a looot more that I've left out but yeah that's because there will be more in the fic!

[ego-meliorem-esse]

July 13th, 1917

Be it from a sense of paternal concern or simply patriotic duty, Arthur made sure to leave his soldiers in the charge of an older Corporal and made his way to the quite pathetic excuse of a medical section where his son was left to rot.

Arthur had heard about the attack. He had been informed the day prior.

He had seen war and famine and sickness, but never like this. Arthur wasn't young, in any sense, and what wonders and strong political oppinions young men had, had left him a long time ago like a ship leaving the harbour in a hury to claim new land. This though, had left shock echoing within his tired, millenia old frame. He wasn't used to this.

Arthur made his way through the trenches with soldiers from every corner of the globe instantly stopping whatever they were doing prior and saluting him as if etiquette and rank mattered in hell. As if it was more importaint to greet the Higher ups than to survive long enough to even write a letter back to family. Arthur did understand that though. Routine and rules were the only thing keeping these poor and wretched souls from being consumed by thoughts of an imminent death.

The path to the section where Matthew was held was quite straightforward and quite familiar. He had marched to and from it hundreds of times and had a sort of automatic rithm in his step. Arthur made his way to the small and damp room with a fast pace indicative of familiarity, only to stop in his tracks in the shabbily built doorframe at the sight that awaited him in the corner.

Matthew sat in the corner of the sad makeshift medical section of the trenches, his back firm against the cold, damp wall.

His once-piercing blue-grey eyes were now clouded over with milky white cataracts, rendering him completely blind. The newly used gas had stolen his sight. His skin, once tanned and healthy, now bore the sickly pallor of a much older man who had endured unimaginable suffering.

Matthew's uniform, discarded in favour of his worn down undershirt, was now a tattered and stained relic of his time in the trenches. The not-white-anymore shirt clung to his emaciated frame as if decency still mattered in hell. The physical toll of the war was clear on his body. Not that Matthew would have to worry about seeing that any time soon. His hands, which had once held a rifle with resolve, now trembled even while resting on his thighs.

Despite his physical and emotional anguish, Matthew remained seated upright, his back pressed against the unforgiving, stained wall. A testament to his resilience if there was any left, a silent protest against the horrors that had taken his sight and left him broken in body and spirit.

As he sat there, his spirit reduced to a hollow shell, Matthew's face bore a mixed expression of utter defeat and complete indifference. His lips were drawn into a thin, lifeless line, and his cheeks were gaunt from the weight of his suffering. His blank, unseeing eyes stared into the abyss, as if waiting for answers and also hoping they'd never arrive.

In that moment, Matthew was not a representation of Canada; he was a young man who had been scarred and broken by the senseless brutality of war. The trenches around him buzzed with activity, but he remained isolated in his silent world of darkness and despair. The young medics job was done. He had patched Matthew up and left him to his own misery. Matthew was grateful.

Arthur stood there silently under the doorframe for what seemed like hours, but was probably only a few seconds. A strange and unfamiliar twinge of emotion plucked and pulled on his conscience. He hadn't felt guilt in quite some time. This feeling was reserved for drunken nights spent in solitude with the doors to the room he resided in firmly locked so that his sliver of self-deprecating emotion wasn't witnessed by any but himself, while he drunk himself to unconsciousness.

He preferred the emotional solitude to this.

Arthur had believed himself to be capable of most things. Especially conversation and confrontation. He was quite good at those as centuries of existence had proved. He believed himself quite skilful with words. Most of the time he knew what to say and when to say it without it resulting in unwanted and unforeseen consequences, while still making sure his opinion was heard.

Arthur had no words forming as he stood in that doorframe. If Arthur was a good man, his reasoning would be that he felt such strong empathy and sadness that words wouldn't be enough to express the sorrow he felt at that moment. If Arthur was a good man he'd run to his son, assure him that this wouldn't happen ever again and that he was safe. If Arthur was a good man he would fall on his knees in front of his oldest son and beg for forgiveness.

Arthur wasn't a good man.

He could admit to his shortcomings, but to act on them was not in his nature.

So he stood there for another 5 or 6 minutes watching his son shallowly breathe in and out, hearing the boys lungs struggle to keep up with his muscles contraction and need for air.

He must have made a noise, as Matthew's head tilted slightly to the left, almost looking at Arthur but definitely not seeing him. Arthur looked back at him.

The room was quiet, save for the desperate plea of Matthews lungs to be put out of their misery.

Sensing nothing after a few moments, Matthew turned his head back towards the blank wall ahead.

Arthur silently turned his frame around and slowly started walking the path he had taken to get here. As he took a few steps, he released the breath he didn't know he was holding.

How he longed for that whiskey bottle and that dark room where he could lock himself in and slowly drift out of consciousness instead of facing his own mistakes.

Arthur definitely was not a good man.

[cassettemoon]

Brothers and fathers and sons

[psychologicalwarclaire]

Wu trained Morro at the same time that Garmadon was training with Chen which MEANS that Misako was around to see what the pressure of wanting and training to be the Green Ninja could lead to.

So later when she had Lloyd and KNEW that he would be the legendary Green Ninja, do you think she thought of the child Wu had once trained? The kid who became so obsessed with proving himself that he put himself in danger time and time again? The little boy who ran off into the night and never came back?

After seeing that, is it any wonder why she didn't want to leave her son-- the actual Green Ninja-- to be trained by Wu at such a young age?

Maybe a boarding school for bad boys would never make him want to be a hero. Maybe it would keep him safe from the destructive power of destiny. Maybe Darkley's was the only way to save her beloved son, Lloyd Garmadon, from himself.

Maybe Misako remembered Morro. And maybe, just maybe, she knew it would be best if her son never turned into someone like that.

[letsplaythermalnuclearwar]

hey so am I the only one losing it over Ezran telling Karim that history doesn't have to be a narrative of strength if they don't want it to be, that it can be a narrative of love? in the same way King Harrow told them that the narrative of strength found in history is a great lie and that true strength is vulnerability and forgiveness and love? and then asked them to reject history as a narrative of strength and instead have faith that it can be a narrative of love?

[willowser]

noooo, because you're sitting with touya's daughter one day after school, coloring in your classroom to pass the time since he called earlier to tell you he was running a teeny bit late, and out of the blue she says,

"my dad calls you my pretty teacher."

and — you've met him a few times, enough to no longer be intimidated by the aura he wears so well, with the tattoos down his arms and up his neck, the piercings in both ears and each nostril. you learned very quickly that he's a softie, under the exterior, especially for the little girl sitting across from you.

you feel your cheeks warm, but you try not to draw attention to it. "oh, does he now?"

"yeah," she says simply, scratching at her chin before picking out another color for the box between you. "he also asked me if there was a mr. pretty teacher, but i told him i didn't think so because nobody brings you flowers ever."

and — your cheeks heat again, but now because you can't believe the little kids in your class have noticed how single you are. you're a bit stumped on what to say to that, especially when the room door swings open and touya is stepping in, a little out of breath, a red-haired boy sitting on his shoulders,

— with a very small, ribbon-tied bouquet of sunflowers in his tiny hands.

[varpusvaras]

There seem to be many curses the universe has cast upon Willis Todd.

Being always just a little too late is apparently one of them.

A little too late to give Catherine more time. A little too late to be a better dad to Jason.

A little too late to save Jason.

His side still burns in agony with every movement he makes, slowing him down, no matter how hard he tries to push through it. He is losing precious seconds. Precious seconds that he can't loose. He needs them. He needs them to be in time.

He needs them to not be too late for the second time.

Damn the Bat, damn the Joker, damn the both of them. Willis had had the shot, he had been so close, but of course, the Bat had just managed to get there in time to save the monster once again. Not that Willis is even surprised by it, anymore. Like calls to like, after all. Willis just wishes that Jason hadn't needed to get tangled into that whole mess.

He wouldn't have, if it wasn't for the Bat. Not that Willis could blame anyone else but himself for it. If he had been there, the Bat wouldn't have gotten his hands on Jason.

He should've started on the Bat. Put out the power that insists on keeping the flame burning.

It's too late for it.

Willis feels the explosion a moment before he hears it. It's a rumble through the air and then the rush of noise arrives on its tail, and then the fire and smoke is rising as a tower against the darkened sky.

He's never going to make it in time.

Still, he keeps going.

Still, he counts every second in his head, every strangled breath he takes as he pushes himself towards the end of the timeline.

When Willis arrives there, there's nothing but destruction left.

He keeps going, still.

He doesn't know why he keeps going, anymore. He's never going to be in time, after all, since he is Willis Todd, and he is always a little too late.

Still he keeps going.

He remembers the time the power had went out from the apartment. There had been a flash of a lightning, a loud bang as the powerline had been cut, and then just darkness all around.

Jason had been scared of the dark, back then, and he had woken up at the noise and found himself all alone in the darkness, and by the time Willis had made his way to the bedroom and scooped him up, he had been crying his little heart out. The only thing keeping him calm had been Willis clinging to him just as hard as he had been clinging to Willis, with his tiny fingers gripping onto the front of Willis' shirt with the strength of a giant.

He's not sure why he remembers it right now.

Perhaps to remind himself that he had once had everything.

It doesn't leave him alone. He keeps hearing Jason cry, crying out for him, crying out for his dad to save him, save him from the scary thing all around him, and he wonders who Jason had called out for during his last moments.

If he had screamed dad, had it been him he had called for anymore?

Willis looks around. There is nothing but destruction around him.

"Jason?" He calls.

He keeps hearing his son's cries.

"Jason!" He cries, he cries, he cries, right to Willis' ear and inside his head and inside his heart where Jason still lives, all this time and always will.

Cries for his dad who is never there and when he is, it's always too late.

He hears something.

Later he cannot tell if he actually did hear something then, but it had been real at that moment, and it had been enough.

Enough for Willis to run towards it, every pain in his body forgotten, and drop on to the smoldering ground and put his hands into the smoking ruins and start digging.

He doesn't know what keeps giving him the strength to continue. It is something almost primal, something that comes right from his core. He thinks it's desperation.

He thinks it's love.

The gloves on his suit keep the heat away as he pushes his hands deeper into the destruction. He would've done so even with his hands bare.

He digs and digs, deeper and deeper, like he is digging into a grave, hoping that the body in the coffin would miraculously still be breathing like in all of his dreams and nightmares.

He digs and digs, deeper and deeper into the destruction, until he finds Jason.

Jason isn't crying when Willis finds him.

He is completely silent, covered in smoke and dust blood, laying still like bodies lay in their graves.

Willis should leave him be. It is unbecoming to disturb the dead.

He can't. Jason doesn't belong here, buried amongst all the destruction. No, Jason belongs somewhere soft and beautiful, like he has always deserved to belong.

Willis is his father. It is his duty to bring him there.

Jason is no longer the newborn, the baby, the small child he had been the last time Willis had held him. He is a man now, all things considered.

None of those things matter. It is all the same, as Willis pulls Jason into his arms.

There he is.

His Jason. His boy. His little prince.

Willis would've done anything to get to hold him again, but now that he is here, he wonders if his wishes are curses, too.

There is so much dust and blood on Jason's face. Willis brushes it away. His hand leaves streaks on Jason's skin, the imprints of the texture of his glove evident in the marks. That's not right. He pulls his glove from his hand and tries again. His hand is covered in dust and blood now. That's better. Willis should be the one covered in it, after all, not Jason.

There is smoke in the air. Willis finds that he doesn't care, anymore. He removes his mask and and buries his face in Jason's hair. It smells like smoke and dust and blood. He doesn't care. He holds Jason close and he cries.

He still remembers Jason drawing his first breath. It had been a raspy little thing, followed by another, louder, stronger one.

He remembers it when Jason draws in a breath. A raspy, little thing. Then there is another, louder, stronger one.

Willis stops breathing.

Another breath. He can feel Jason shifting in his arms with it. Another one. Willis doesn't dare to move, to look, to do anything, so the spell doesn't break and plummet him back to the grim reality.

Another breath. Willis can't take it anymore. He has to see.

Jason's eyes are not open, but he is breathing. Small, raspy breaths, that all seem to be a struggle for him. There is new, fresh, crinsom blood pouring out on top of the old blood and dust.

Willis needs to-

He needs to get Jason out of here.

"C'mon." He pulls Jason even closer in order to climb to his feet and not lose his hold on him. "Let's go, Jase."

He steps over the destruction around them, hurries through the smoke still rising in the air.

There are fingers grasping onto the front of his suit.

"D-a..a." Jason is barely able to get the sound out. His fingers are only just able to hold on to Willis. "D..aa..d..."

"I'm here." He holds onto Jason hard enough for both of them. "I'm here. Let's go home."

He doesn't have a home, anymore, but it doesn't matter. He might not have a team anymore, either, but it matters even less.

He has Jason.

That's all that matters.

[salparadiselost]

I cried while writing this so you can cry too

—

Dick is frozen in the doorway with Bruce at his back. He knows that he should walk further into the room, but he can’t seem to make his feet move. It’s like all his muscles have been frozen under his skin, or maybe his brain’s signals aren’t getting through. All the wires between his head and his legs have just been cut.

“Chum,” Bruce’s voice is accompanied by a breath near his ear, but that doesn’t make any sense.

Not with the sight right in front of him.

“Dick, you need to walk forward.” Bruce’s hand is on his shoulder, heavy and warm, and Dick still can’t make himself move. He should feel happier than this. The mystery is solved now. They figured it out. He knows now… why he hadn’t been able to leave.

But instead of victory, he feels like he’s nine again as Bruce nudges him, pushing just barely past him. He’s scared because something in his body screams that there is something terribly wrong here. He wants to grab the fabric of Bruce’s shirt. He wished Bruce was wearing a cape just so he could hide behind it.

When was the last time he saw Bruce wearing a cape?

Bruce’s face is grim as he takes in the room. It’s dim, and there’s dust covering everything. Dick can’t make out any of the pictures in the frames because the glass is so thoroughly coated. Even the bedspread, which was still in disarray like its sleeper had just sprung out of it, was blanketed by dust. Whatever had happened here had happened a long time ago.

Whatever had happened had something to do with the two figures hunched into the corner of the room.

Dick didn’t need his detective training to know they were long dead.

There’s two bodies, both curled into each other, even in death. The skin is sunken and pasted into the bones, so much so that it just looks like paper mache over a skeleton. The meat of the bodies is gone. Decomposition had long ended. There’s dust peppered over bones and spiderwebs in the holes of the eye sockets. The expression of the skulls are fixed into the deathly smile of a bare mandible. These left over bones are like relics. More museum pieces than humans. There’s nothing recognizable about them except for the clothes.

The smaller skeleton is wearing a Bludhaven Whales basketball hoodie. The larger one has on a Gotham Knight t-shirt.

He remembers.

“You didn’t leave me,” he said, his eyes fixed on the larger corpse. Suddenly, it’s so Bruce. Everything about it is Bruce. The way that it’s hunched into Dick’s body, physically between him and the door. The way that Bruce is holding his hand, the thumb still rubbing over his knuckles like Bruce had always done when he was half-asleep. The way that he hadn’t let Dick go for… how long? How long had it been?

Dick… he’s having trouble remembering.

His breath is catching in his chest, but he can’t seem to get the air in. Something is wrong. He can’t breathe. He doesn’t know why.

His chest is pumping but the air is whistling through him.

And… Bruce was supposed to go.

“Why didn’t you leave?” Dick whipped around and saw his father, alive but not, still wearing the Gotham Knights t-shirt. The man was staring at the corpses, his mouth a grim line. He’s barefoot. Dick is just now noticing that he’s barefoot because…

That’s right. These are pajamas.

More pieces were filling in the blanks.

He couldn’t breathe. The air was sliding through him without any oxygen. He had been too far gone, but Bruce hadn’t been.

“You were so scared.” Bruce spoke lowly but his voice filled the entire room.

Dick is staring at his father as the man walks forward. His footsteps don’t cause any of the wood boards to creak, even on the loose one that had always whined every time Dick stepped on it. He’s silent as he comes to the other side of Dick’s body and crouches down.

It’s like a twisted mirror.

Dick is dead between two fathers. One is a corpse as much as he is. And the other is reliving it.

“Damian, Tim, and Jason had already died by the time I got to you,” whispered Bruce filling in the pieces of the story that Dick hadn’t known. All he remembered was waking up and… something was wrong… something was very wrong. “They hadn’t even left their beds. They passed in their sleep.”

Bruce’s hand reaches out, and his finger brushed over the crest of Dick’s sunken cheek. It’s where the tears would have been if they hadn’t all been turned to dust.

“But you were awake, and you were scared. You knew something was wrong, and you were panicking, but it was too late. I knew that you couldn’t… that you wouldn’t… there was too much poison in your lungs already.”

Tears are welling in his eyes, and there’s a burn in the back of his throat that he knows isn’t just from the memory.

The panic is a frantic flurry of emotion in the back of his head. The fear is a bitter taste in his mouth. He hadn’t known what was happening, but he knew he was dying.

“You… you could have gotten out, though,” he said. “You could have saved yourself.”

There were silent tears running down Bruce’s face now too. He was clutching onto Dick’s body exactly as the other corpse was. One hand was holding Dick’s. One hand was cradling his head into his shoulder. Bruce was holding him even though Dick was rooted in the middle of the room.

Dick remembers. Fingers in his hair and a hand rubbing over his knuckles. A voice had told him that it would be okay, that he wasn’t alone, don’t be scared.

I’m here.

I’m right here.

I’m not going to leave you.

“Everyone was dead, and you were dying,” said Bruce, his voice choking up in his throat. “You were so scared. You didn’t know what was happening. I couldn’t let you just die alone.”

Bruce makes a sound that Dick had never heard before. It was a dying animal whine, a long, low wail of a slow death. “You were my baby, and you were scared. I couldn’t let you die alone.”

[littlefankingdom]

Me to myself: Don't send murder threats to DC comics writers, don't send murder threats to DC comics writers, don't send murder threats to DC comics writers...

[eelclaw]

stupid fucking bastard. i am not coping with the leaks

[kacievvbbbb]

I think it’s interesting how as time goes on Zoro kind of becomes more and more like mihawk in some ways whether that’s just because if you spend time with someone for 2 years you’re bound to pick up their habits or a deliberate attempt to emulate him is a conversation for another time. And Mihawk and Zoro where already pretty similar at the start so it’s a little hard to notice now.

But yeah whether unconsciously or consciously Zoro is becoming a bit more like Mihawk and it’s interesting to think that while this means maturing in some ways (he’s swordsmanship for one but he’s also just quieter much more assured of himself) it also means deaging in some others.

Despite their significant age gap and general dispositions, when it comes down to it Zoro is just a lot more emotionally mature and developed than Mihawk is. And a big part of why is because he found something larger than himself to devote his life too, hell Mihawk himself even kind of acknowledges this when he agrees to take Zoro on as a student when Zoro begs for the sake of his captain and crew. He acknowledges that putting aside his own ego and dreams for the sake of someone else isn’t something he can do and sees it as a fault in himself and a strength in Zoro.

Mihawk may be outwardly mature and his skills defiently did not stagnant but I’d wager that Mentally Mihawk is still stuck at the same age he was when he took over the title of world’s strongest swordsman. Honestly maybe even younger. And it isn’t until training Zoro, letting Perona stay with him, for probably the first time in his life taking charge of lives outside his own did he finally unarrest his development.

If Zoro is purposely trying to emulate Hawkeyes, which it wouldn’t be a surprise if he was that’s who he’s trying to be Afterall, then it would honestly set him back emotionally because fundamentally as he is now Mihawk’s attitude doesn’t work in a crew. It’s too singular, too abrasive. And while that abrasiveness can be useful in Zoro’s role as Luffy’s first mate sometimes it makes him a little too callous a little too apathetic, like with his disregard for Luffy’s sadness over vegapunk.

But Zoro has his crew to temper that, they are honestly just too ridiculous to ever stay serious around. And try as he might to hide it Zoro is also just a silly dude who likes to be horrifically petty with his opponents. And zoro still has so much fire in him, so much he has too prove and so much he wants to protect to ever really fall into Mihawk’s apathy. Zoro has Luffy who even after they reach their dreams will probably still continue to turn the world upside down forever keeping Zoro in some kind of trouble and his life interesting.

Zoro can’t be Mihawk because even Mihawk can’t be Mihawk anymore. Being with crossguild and crossing with the Red hair pirates and the strawhats is going to change him, it has too. if Mihawk is going to live after losing his title he’s probably gonna have to become a little bit more like Zoro.

[nyx-xp]

ok look no matter what, i think ill always be obsessed with dl-6. i know, its kinda overused at this point, but the whole thing is so amazing

like,, miles obviously didn’t know he was innocent, but gregory didnt either. when they channeled him he said it was the bailiff (forgot his name srry) even though there was no proof, because he wanted to protect his son. and the result of a child convinced he is guilty for the death of his dad, who even after death tried to find a way to reassure him he was innocent??? just- the concept of this relationship is fascinating, and honestly has so much potential.

and then you add von karma, and the fact he was not only the murderer of the father but the adopter of the son??? just makes everything gets better (worse)

dl-6 will forever live in my head and in my heart bcs the overwhelming guilt at least two of the three must have felt!! (depends on your headcannons about manfred ofc, maybe he was slightly guilty or smth) the psychological impact and the aftermath of it? amazing. maybe its not perfectly written, nothing is, but its fascinating and makes me want to dissect all three’s brains to see the effects this would have caused.