#redemption struggles

[nay-lon]

fancy boys!

[flwrkid14]

Tim and Jason: Caught Between Healing and Fear

note: completely inspired by this amazing post! tysm to @timdrakewhump for letting me use it as inspo!! <33

Tim doesn’t flinch around Jason. Not exactly. It’s more of a stiffening, a tightening of his shoulders, a flicker in his eyes that he knows Jason catches. He hates it. Everyone else has moved on. Dick forgave. Bruce rebuilt. Even Damian, with all his sharp edges, has softened into something survivable. But Tim? He still expects a hit that doesn’t come, still hears the echo of fists in the dark.

And that? That’s on him, right? It has to be. Because if everyone else can move on, why can’t he?

They don’t talk about it. Not directly. The bats have always been good at side-stepping, at smoothing over the cracks with enough shared history to pretend the damage never happened. They act like everything’s fixed, like Jason is something fragile they have to keep close, hold together. They ignore the way Tim’s shoulders tense when Jason’s voice gets too loud, the way his hands shake when shadows fall just right. They brush off his excuses to leave the room or, worse, look at him like he’s the problem.

“Jason’s trying, Tim.” “He’s better now.” “Don’t hold onto the past.”

But Tim isn’t holding on. He’s bracing.

Every patrol with Jason is a test. Every sparring match, a gamble. Jason keeps it light—punches pulled, jabs softened with crooked smiles—but Tim knows what Jason’s hands are capable of. He remembers the brutality, the raw fury that doesn’t vanish just because it’s been filed down to something more manageable. He knows Jason’s trying. He knows Jason’s better. But there’s a thin line between better and safe, and Tim’s still learning how to balance on it.

When Jason starts spending more time at the manor, no one questions it. They welcome him with open arms, eager to fill the empty spaces his absence left. He’s part of the family, they say. He needs support, they insist. So Jason sits at the dinner table, helps out on patrol, lounges on the couch like he’s always belonged there. And Tim... Tim watches from the corner of the room, a shadow on the periphery, pretending he doesn’t notice the way everyone else orbits around Jason like he’s the sun.

They send Tim on solo missions now—so Jason can have space. They say it like it’s a good thing, like they’re doing Tim a favor. More responsibility, more autonomy. He should be grateful. And he is. Or he would be, if it didn’t feel like being exiled. The irony isn’t lost on him. They don’t want Jason to be alone, so Tim has to be.

The apartment is quieter than the manor, the kind of quiet that presses in too close. No hum of the Cave, no distant footsteps of someone always nearby. It’s fine. He’s used to it. He tells himself that every night, like a mantra. He likes the solitude. It’s familiar, comforting in a way that makes his chest ache. But sometimes, when the silence stretches too thin, he thinks about calling. Jason always picks up now. He’d probably offer to come over, bridge the gap that Tim never asked to be there.

But what would Tim say? Sorry I still see the blood on your knuckles? Sorry I can’t forget how it felt to be the replacement? Sorry you came back, and I thought it would fix things, but it didn’t?

He doesn’t call.

They’re terrified of losing Jason again. They hold him close, desperate, like he might slip through their fingers if they let go for even a second. Tim understands that. He really does. He remembers the hollow ache that filled the manor after Jason died, the way grief settled into the walls like a permanent stain. No one wants to go through that again. They’d do anything to keep Jason safe, to keep him here.

But no one asks what Tim gave up. What he’s still giving up.

Jason is here, but Tim feels like he’s the ghost.

Sometimes, when they’re all gathered together—Bruce at the head of the table, Dick and Steph cracking jokes, Duke helping himself to another slice of pie—Tim looks around and wonders if anyone would notice if he slipped away. Just stood up, walked out, and didn’t come back. Would they miss him? Or would they be too busy watching Jason, making sure he doesn’t disappear again?

He catches Jason watching him sometimes, eyes sharp and knowing. Jason’s not stupid. He sees the cracks. Tim wonders if he feels guilty, or if he’s just waiting for Tim to say something, to break the silence that’s grown too thick between them. But Tim won’t. He can’t. The words stick in his throat, heavy and bitter.

So he stays quiet. He goes on solo missions, patrols alone, comes back to an empty apartment that feels less like home every day. And he tells himself it’s enough.

Because it has to be.

[meeks-just-wants-to-scroll]

🤠🎵🎼🎶🎩

[michsmeesh]

I'M ALIVE!!! i'm struggling a lot with my health recently so i havent had the energy to draw but... heres a little arthur for compensation

[arthursfuckinghat]

My favourite journal entry 🫶💔

"My lord, I'm a fool. Went fishing with Charles today and somehow caught feelings instead of fish. I don't know why a man like him would ever want a man like me, but I always appreciate his company. Hope I won't throw this away too."

[shelleysmary]

sauron is so *sighing facepalm* frustrating. he crawled, walked, sailed across middle-earth, made up the halbrand identity, did a boomer in-person job application tour around númenor, didn't lie to galadriel and he has the mental gymnastics to prove it, sailed back to middle earth with an army, fought a whole ass battle, faced his murderer with a mostly straight face, got impaled... somehow, risked sepsis on a six-day ride to eregion, brainstormed magic rings with celebrimbor, wielded tools and operated heavy machinery after said mysterious injury, clocked that his would-be girlfriend was starting to get the ick around him, took radical action, asked her to be his non-platonic business partner (the business being mass-brainwashing and dictatoring), took the L, regrouped, rode back to the southlands (now mordor) to enact plan b wherein he faces his murderer again, gets beat up, goes on a hunger strike (rage and self-pity are his fuel), relives his murder trauma for The Master Plan, back on a horse, rides from mordor to eregion, sadface emoji because he's not allowed to go in, stands in the square, gets rained on, risks regency-era pneumonia, flatters celebrimbor, comes up with plan b part 2 wherein he is now a representative of the valar with a great haircare routine and possibly a stylist, begins his campaign to gaslight gatekeep manipulate everyone in eregion, balancing a full-time job with psychological warfare...

my guy. you could've lived on a nice farm somewhere. gone on vacation. adopted an elven dog. being "good" is too much effort for you??? what do you call THIS?

[aventurineswife]

The weight of the sky seemed endless as the two of you sat in silence, the gentle hum of the Astral Express vibrating beneath your feet. Sunday’s gaze was cast toward the swirling cosmos outside the window, his eyes softened by the vastness before him. His wings fluttered ever so slightly, a subtle sign of something unspoken, something held close within his heart. His halo hovered faintly above him, the eyes etched within it flickering in time with the distant stars.

Beside him, you, a fallen angel, watched as the space between the two of you expanded and contracted, as if the universe itself was breathing in sync with your hesitant connection. Once, you had both been celestial beings, bathed in light and purpose. But now, the wings that had once been a symbol of grace hung heavier, tarnished by the fall, by the choices that had been made. Your shared past was no longer a dream of peace, but an echo of something more complicated—something fractured.

It was the stillness between you that felt the loudest. Sunday’s usual calm demeanor, always so composed, now seemed like a fragile facade, as if his very presence was too delicate to bear the weight of both his idealism and his doubts. And you—your once-vibrant wings were now a muted reflection of their former glory, the loss of innocence still fresh on your soul. You had fallen, yes, but in your heart, you both knew it wasn’t just the fall that kept you grounded. It was the constant struggle to rise again, together or apart.

You had loved him once, and perhaps still did, despite the years of separation, despite the wounds that had never fully healed. His soft gaze met yours briefly, and for a moment, the distance between the two of you seemed to vanish. But only for a moment. The coldness of his self-imposed solitude crept back in, shrouding him in the same protective shell that had kept him isolated for so long.

He, the protector of dreams, the idealist who wished to escape suffering, now seemed caught between worlds—the one that was real and the one he so desperately wanted to create. You understood that pain; it resonated within you, reverberating through every fiber of your being. The loss of your wings had not been a simple fall; it had been a choice, a fracture of ideals, a departure from a reality too painful to face.

Yet in that fleeting look, you saw him—the Sunday you had known before everything had fallen apart. The one who still clung to hope, however fragile, despite the weight of his guilt. The one who believed in redemption, in healing, even when the path forward was cloaked in shadows. He was still searching, still yearning for something better, but it was unclear whether he was doing it for the world or for himself.

Your wings, though broken, still yearned to reach him. To soothe the turmoil that clouded his thoughts, to whisper the truth that you both were more than the sum of your pasts. You had fallen, yes, but you had also risen, over and over. And so had he, in his own way, struggling with his own fall.

But it was the fall that had changed you both. The quiet way you drifted into each other's orbit, two souls bound by the same celestial ache, yet bound by the knowledge that redemption wasn’t a place—it was a journey. Together, but apart, your connection remained fragile, and yet undeniable, like the stars that burned dimly yet persistently in the void.

As the train drifted further into the unknown, you sat beside him, not speaking, but knowing. Knowing that no matter how far the distance stretched between your hearts, there would always be something that tethered you both together—a shared past, a shared longing, a shared, quiet hope.

Originally was requested by someone on Wattpad but I wanted to post here too because I can and I will 🧍‍♀️🫶

[kayomin]

to the reblog tag “can they kiss” from the original post with their dumb tshirts, yeah sure i made them kith :3

[chipper-smol]

So...... Loop and Odile huh?

v THE OTHER RESPONSE I DOODLED v

yeagh

[river-of-wine]

Rip Sadie Adler you would’ve loved The Wedding List by Kate Bush

[architectureandmorality]

Today’s 30 min sketch in my sketchbook of faces before I have to go back to regular work 🥹

[oakenrootss]

sooo i found this picture of all-dolled-up mr marston and was asked to draw him <3 so i did

[bakedcrossaintt]

i honestly love it when people say "nobody gets (insert character) like i do" because yeah! everyone experiences media and relates to characters in a different, personal way and i think that's beautiful :3

[pinep-ne]

More of a drabble (deepest apologies) and a little Jovier doodle cause u deserve it (to make up for it) ^_^

AHH!!! First time drawing them...

Anywho. (Lifting the cloche) Your fic, @officialbugdrink...

Placed in Blackwater, pre-canon, where instead of acquaintances, Charles and Arthur's relationship is semi-established.

(i have this fic and more posted on ao3!)

----------

"Charles."

The voice behind him is out of breath. Charles had already known who it was before a word was uttered. Arthur tends to stumble about a lot, not necessarily stomping unless he's particularly angry, but there's an off-kilter sway to it, and it holds an odd little rhythm Charles can recognize yards away.

He turns behind him and sure enough, the man stands before him, clouds of soft white billowing from his nose and mouth, chin tilted down, unconsciously searching for the warmth of his fleece-lined collar. Looking a lot like he has no clue how he got there in the first place.

Charles turns to him fully. The lantern sitting at his feet— its amber light shifting, casting different in angles upon Arthur's unsure expression. He has his hands behind his back, very obviously putting a wall between Charles himself and the culprit of his own bashfulness.

Charles finds it so endearing in this moment he feels he's forgotten how to breathe. He sets his rifle against the tree he's been leaning on.

"Arthur," he says, like a soft sigh. "Why're you up so late?"

Arthur shifts again, turning his head to behind him, very inconspicuously, then back to Charles.

His voice stays hushed like the entire world is listening. "I know you ain't like a whole lotta attention, figured you was guarding tonight, woulda made it a little more... well..." Arthur trails off, averting his gaze again, shoulders dropping. Then, he starts up as he usually does, as if he's been shocked. Opens his mouth, and shuts it; another telling quirk of his.

"I made you somethin'," he settles on.

Before Charles can even process it, Arthur's slowly revealed the item in his hands, unable to hold back a smile. A small, whittled figure. Charles stares blankly at the thing, then back to Arthur, before he recognizes its shape.

It's... a horse. Not much bigger than his palm, carved and smoothened by deft yet obviously intermediate hands. Arthur's steps forward, offering for Charles to take it, like they're exchanging some divine, precious object.

Precious, certainly. "It's Taima," Arthur exclaims, a little less quiet than before.

"Arthur, I've never..."

"I know!" He huffs, "I just wanted to give you somethin' anyway. An' the gangs doing the whole gift thing come morning. Lord knows I'd get shit for the next week, if I'd shown you this then. Save us both the trouble."

Charles runs his thumb along the detail, still fixated on it, feeling like his heart's caught in his throat. It certainly looks like her, now. Stylized slightly, but the head especially, her character portrayed to an impressive extent. He's known about Arthur's sketches. Seeing it translated to a tangible, sentimental thing, and a craft born from love specifically, is a whole other experience he's found himself unprepared for.

It was the smallest detail he'd shared over a few beers; only the vast prairie and Arthur having the ears to hear it. A simple admission, that he's never really had the opportunity to celebrate anything close to Christmas. As a child, it simply wasn't a part of his culture. Now it's merely on account of his lack of community, of permanence, and by that matter, any relation to anyone.

Arthur, still, rambles on all matter-of-factly. As if the gesture isn't completely shattering Charles where he stands, unable to yet say anything. Soon though, he notices, and immediately begins to wind down. Takes it as distaste, maybe. He starts spewing out empty apologies, under the guise of reassurances, doused greatly in insecurity, as he usually does when he can't really make sense of a reaction.

Charles doesn't take the time to decipher it, only grabs Arthur by his collar before the man can tear away anymore pages, catching him in a fleeting kiss. Embodying the desperate need to express something back; so rushed that it's painful. He snakes a hand, occupied with the little figure, beneath Arthur's arm, covering the expanse of his back— embracing.

"Thank you," he manages, muffled somewhere in the fleece of Arthur's coat. The figure is warm in his hand, as are the arms wrapped around him, and the body that sways them both.

[javierduffy]

scrapbook practice with keeran

[arthursfuckinghat]

One chance, two endings, pick your honour.