#truly a tragedy if I ever saw one

[aq2003]

cush saying macbeth is her shakespeare blorbo now that she's played opposite david in their production but she doesn't care about the other macbeths she's seen . she's so real for that

[nebuvoid]

well. at least as a hyuna fan I can say yippee saw my girl again. haha 🥲 and she'll definitely be ok in the special round, surely vivinos wont hurt me. surely

[vintageunknown]

The tragedy of Claudia and Madeleine is that they would have perfected the idea of a vampire companionship. Maybe I am delusional, but truly they would have been the most healthy relationship any vampires could ever have so far.

Madeleine was not tied to her humanity like Louis nor was she searching for meaning. She knew what she is capable of and had perfect knowledge of what vampirism entailed before she got turned. Claudia spent so much time in the shadow of others, she finally met someone with whom she could shine. Someone who literally saw her shining! There was no manipulation or power imbalance; Claudia was older but physically would always look younger. They were both women. Not perfect but wayyyyy better than all the relationships we've seen so far.

And the main point is that they both SEE one another. They are not empty mirrors reflecting nothing, nor are they two people mismatched in their understanding of the world. They both knew themselves and each other.

It's so fucking tragic that we got a taste and it was snatched away so quickly. Nothing gold ever stays.

[velvet4510]

We all knew Rio was Nicky’s other parent but it’s glorious to see it firmly confirmed and so no hater is able to deny it anymore.

And now we can really bask in just how deep and unique the writing is for that final episode.

From conception, Nicky was half-life, half-death.

Death isn’t supposed to create life. It’s a total paradox that explains why Nicky was meant to be stillborn. How could the child of Death live? Agatha becoming pregnant must’ve turned Rio’s world upside down.

Also Rio doesn’t see death as a tragedy. How could she when it’s her job? When it’s the natural order of things? Before meeting Agatha, it never crossed her mind that death could be seen as bad.

But it’s when she fell for a living human, a mortal, that she finally saw what death means for humans. How much pain and fear and grief it brings.

And suddenly here’s Agatha pleading and pleading for her to NOT do her job, to NOT take their child with her. If she does this, she’ll break Agatha’s heart - the antithesis of her understanding of death. Rio suddenly comprehends that as long as Agatha lives on, there’s no way for the three of them to ever be together as a family. No wonder she chokes back tears.

As for Agatha, she only has the living person’s perspective. How could Rio want THEIR child to die? It’s the antithesis of parental instincts to want or allow your child to die. Death or no Death, surely Rio can see why this would be wrong?

Agatha and Rio are looking at the situation through totally different and incompatible lenses.

So out of love for Agatha alone, Rio lets Nicky’s “life” half take over not just for a few hours or days, but SIX WHOLE YEARS.

Then when Rio can’t stretch the rules any longer and she comes for him, Nicky knows her. He does not fear her, or where they are going. How can he, when she is his mother, when she needs him home?

Then Rio pays the price, as Agatha cuts ties with her and wants nothing to do with her anymore.

I also think this explains why Rio is so determined to kill Agatha herself or to let the Salem Seven do it, during the rest of the show. Again, as Death, she doesn’t see death as bad, or a harm, or a pain. If Agatha dies, then Rio can take her to Nicky and they can finally be a family. But Agatha doesn’t want them to be a family together. She still sees what happened as a loss and betrayal that Nicky would never forgive her for - the opposite of how Rio views it.

Ultimately, Agatha makes herself into a ghost who can’t cross over to where Nicky is, and Rio’s dream of her family being together is shattered.

Truly one of the greatest and most profound tragedies in television history, let alone MCU history.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Would you be willing to write a Miguel x Spider!Reader oneshot where they’re arguing over something the reader did on a mission. And in the heat of an argument, Miguel yells “Because I love you!” at the perfectly wrong time, revealing why he cares about the reader’s safety.

‘What the hell was that back there. You could’ve jeopardised the whole mission with that reckless stunt you pulled back there!’ Miguel barked, ripping off mask the first moment moment he could; Hellfire were setting ablaze to his beautiful scarlet eyes that were zeroed in on you as the anger, the frustration upon his face became prominent the more he closed the distance between you.

‘When will you let this go, Miguel. When we became Spider-Man we knew the risks that we were running with-‘ ‘so you thought it’d be better to take a running head start by taking the leap and then diving headfirst into them?!’ Miguel cuts you off and with an indignant huff he adds, ‘you don’t get extra points for being reckless, this isn’t some little game that you can just come back to when you feel like it. No, what we do is a full time commitment with no room for last minute deviations just because you were feeling more heroic.’

You grit your teeth. You respected Miguel, you truly did and at one point in time you wanted to do right by his little rule book of how to be a great hero. However you soon learned that it’s better to play by your own rules rather then it was to play by those made by others and slowly but surly found a method that worked for you. For no two methods were the same when it came to protecting and saving people but if they both end in the same conclusion, then no one should be able to raise an issue with it. At the end of the day you and Miguel saved people from a much bigger problem if left unchecked; so why was it that all of a sudden he had an issue with your methods?

It never upset him this much before, so why now. Did he think you as incapable? As unreliable? As untrustworthy to fully let you handle a situation on your own? Whatever it was it only proved in pissing you off despite your semi-injured state; you didn’t care that you’ve gotten hurt, you’ve gotten hurt plenty of times before and he never once batted an eye or exemplified his emotions as he did as of right now. You could barely get a read on the guy as he stood mere feet away, chest heaving even though he wasn’t out of breath, eyes wide and his hair slightly disheveled from the way he had torn off his mask earlier.

And yet you couldn’t help but find him beautiful in his anger, for it was like witnessing the makings of a Greek tragedy; beautifully written, yet so heartbreakingly tragic.

‘Why does it matter?’ You spat, getting up, despite your injured leg’s desire to buckle beneath the weight of not only you but the situation at hand. You saw the briefest movements of Miguel’s arms almost stretch out to instinctively catch you but stopping midway through the motion before going slack at his sides once more; as though remembering why he was mad at you in the first place. ‘It never mattered before, so why does it matter now? You don’t hound the others for doing it so why is it me that’s getting shit on for doing the same when I ain’t the first to do so!’

‘Because I love you!’ Miguel exclaimed.

The silence afterwards was almost deafening. Miguel’s outburst quieted you quickly as a thousand and one thoughts raced in your head; how long? why now? Was this merely a ruse to silence you so he could badger on at you for your supposed mistake? You didn’t know what to make of anything anymore now that he said that. You didn’t want to believe it for starters on the basis that not once had he ever shown interest in you, if anything he made it apparent to push you away or avoid you entirely from any and all interaction, and even when he did it was comprised of short responses that left the attempts at conversation to die as an overwhelming awkwardness forced you into leaving him be.

‘What?’

‘I love you.’ Miguel repeated, softer this time.

‘I get that but why-‘ ‘haven’t I shown it until now? As stupid as it sounds but I didn’t want you to get hurt because of me and look where you are,’ he gestured to your injured state, ‘hurt because of me.’ He adds defeatedly. You were about to open your mouth when Miguel raised a hand, indicating that he wasn’t finished, ‘I know I haven’t given you any reason to believe me when I say that I love you. I avoid you like the plague and I push you away whenever I see you starting to get too close and respond in a clipped tone of voice so that you’d loose interest and move on to talk to someone else.’

He stopped talking to move in closer to you, grasping you by arms with a firm grip as all the anger in his face seemingly having been melted away. The raging hellfire that once consumed his scarlet eyes in their entirety had been diminished to that of dying ambers, unveiling his admiration, his worry, his guilt and most importantly, his love; the sneer now long gone was replaced by a softer more tender expression that didn’t hide away the worry lines that were deeply etched into his skin. ‘I don’t deserve you, I’m not worth having you because sooner or later you’ll see me the way I’ve always seen myself and I’d rather you be as far away as possible when that happens.’ Miguel said, making sure he was maintaining eye contact with you the entire time to prove that he was being wholeheartedly genuine, not wanting to lie to you about something as personal as his feelings; He’s done that for long enough, Miguel knew his breaking point was upon the incline and seeing you act the way you did during the mission only fast forward it.

‘Yet for some inexplicable reason I can’t stop myself for wanting to protect you, to make sure you’re safe, to make sure that you never come to harm. At first I thought it was because I was looking out for a teammate, making sure you didn’t slip up and cause more potential problems for the rest of us, making sure that you didn’t let a single perpetrator slip but soon I learnt it was far more then just simply looking after a teammate...’ Miguel paused to blink away the images regarding of the nightmares he’d get concerning you, which were few and far between but those times were enough to suffocate him with fear. ‘It was something more and I grew scared, I grew scared because I know what it’s like to loose it all but for some reason I also knew that loosing you would just be the nail in the coffin for me.’

Miguel admits as he presses his forehead against your own, his hands trailing from up your arms until they’re caressing the skin of either side of your neck between calloused thumbs. He closing his eyes and allows himself to breath you in, reminding himself that you were here and that he managed to get to you before anything else could, that he kept you safe, not from all harm but at least from some of it and that was good enough but he knew deep down that he needed the do better. ‘Don’t make me imagine a life without you,’ he whispers, pressing his forehead against yours just that tiny bit harder as his fingertips found their home where your pulse points were to remind him that you weren’t gone completely from his grasp, ‘for I don’t think I’m strong enough to withstand that reality.’

‘You don’t have to.’ You told him softly, lifting your hands to caresses the skin of his cheeks and feeling him effectively melt within your hold. ‘Not anymore.’

[prettybugsinbandages]

Blot!reader pt. 7

Part 7 to this

This is a darker story. I suggest you refrain from reading it if you're in a fragile mental state or unable to handle darker themes.

The entire cabin sat in suffocating silence, the air thick with grief, pressing down on everyone like a heavy blanket. Though each person reclined in the lounge with eyes closed and limbs still, it was only a performance—none of them could sleep. Not really. The loss was too sharp, too fresh. Everyone processed it differently, but one truth echoes in their hearts: the tragedy hadn't begun the night you died. It had taken root long before. By the time they truly knew you—truly loved you—you were already gone.

Yuuka took it especially hard. She had always seen you as family, someone irreplaceable, and yet, she hadn't been able to do anything to save you. She sat, hollow-eyed, looping over every memory in painful detail, desperately searching for a moment she'd missed—a sign. Was there a day you came home different? Later than usual? Quieter, colder? She tore herself apart wondering if she had ignored the moment your light began to dim.

Ace wrestled with a different torment. His guilt ran deep. He had known you from the very beginning, or at least, that's what he'd convinced himself. In truth, he saw you—passed by you—but never really looking until it was already too late. You were forgotten the moment you weren't in the room. The thought haunted him. He should have known you better. Should have seen the signs. Should have asked more questions. Lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, he kept repeating that same aching mantra: I should've done something. I knew them. I should've known.

You never spoke about the neglect you endured, not directly. But in the aftermath, the pieces fell into place. It became clear to those who mourned you that something had been very wrong. Whatever deal you'd made to rise so suddenly in the eyes of the world—whatever force had pulled you from the shadows into the spotlight—must have come with a price. And so they wondered, each in their own quiet despair: What final blow pushed you over the edge? Who, in their carelessness or cruelty, handed down your death sentence that night?

When you told them about the Blot—about everything you knew and everything you felt they needed to know—their responses were varied as they were heartfelt.

Kalim, Ace, and Yuuka held onto you with unwavering faith. They clung to the belief that you were still you, that the Blot didn't change who you truly were. They hoped, desperately, that it might fade, or be cured. That things could somehow return to normal.

But others—Vil, Leona—responded with wariness. They had seen what the Blot could do, had felt the darkness clawing at the edges of control. To them you were walking a dangerous line. They didn't say it outright, but the fear was there, unspoken but heavy: Had you been building this Blot inside you for months unnoticed? Were you already a ticking time bomb?

And the unthinkable loomed in their thoughts: If you were to overblot... if the darkness overtook you completely... would they even be able to stop it?

None of them could say it aloud, but the truth lingered in every glance exchanged, every tense silence.

None of them were sure if they could raise their pens against you.

Not if it came to that.

When the talk turned to the possibility of breaking the contract, of severing the tie that bound you to the Blot, the group was split even. They knew, perhaps more clearly than you did, that the Blot wasn't just a threat—it was also your lifeline. Whatever bargain had been struck, however dark, it was keeping you here. Keeping you alive.

Leona, ever pragmatic, offered to try. He mentioned his Unique Magic—how he'd broken so-called unbreakable deals before, even Azul's ironclad contracts. Nothing was truly unbreakable, he said.

And so, with quiet determination, he reached out and took your lifeless hand in his. The moment his fingers brushed the ring, the temperature plummeted. The metal, already ice-cold, turned searching. It burned your skin with such intensity that you cried out, jerking away. A small yelp—but it was enough. Enough to freeze everyone in place.

A warning.

That was the last attempt. They decided then and there—spoken or not—that they wouldn't try again.

Especially not if removing it meant risking your life.

It was unmistakable now; the Blot did not intend to be cast off. it had clung to you with possessive desperation, punishing even the suggestion of separation. It lashed out—not with fury, but with something: quieter. Sharper. Intentional.

Even in sleep, where you should have found escape, peace eluded you. Your dreams were restless landscapes of whispered arguments and echoing what-ifs, and always, always, you felt watched. The Blot's presence lingered like static in the air, wrapping around you—and them—with a warmth that was oppressive now. it pulsed with something old, something aware.

They felt it too. All of them.

This thing, this force that had given you life again, now seemed to loom like a second shadow. To you, it hummed softly—a low thrum that followed you into sleep. A presence. A heartbeat.

The ring itself pulsed faintly now, like something alive. At first, it was steady, a subtle rhythm you barely noticed. But tonight—tonight it was faster.

Uneven. Anxious.

Almost... afraid.

The world you found yourself in was a place that refused to stay still, a kaleidoscope of shifting shapes and colors, constantly rearranging itself. It couldn't decide what it wanted to be, but there were a few constants—persistent patterns, repeated hues and forms, that twisted in ways you couldn't make sense of.

Then, you hear it. A voice. Ortho? Malleus? Someone else?

The syllables stretch unnaturally long, each word mangling into the next. The rhythm of their speech is off, warped, the tone repeats your name—but something's wrong. Too many echoes. Too many wrong echoes. You blink, and the voices morph into your own, distorting, mocking, mourning. They plead with you in voices that sound like they belong to someone else, but their sharp edges make you flinch, as if they're cutting into you from within.

Are you dreaming? You can't tell. You're not sure of anything here.

You're not sure of yourself.

As you move through the space, you catch glimpses of your reflection—though it's never whole. Shattered glass splinters at your feet, distorting the image in jagged pieces. In broken fragments, you're not what you remember. You're something else. Your flesh is gone in places, hanging from exposed bone, rotting, decaying. Your neck is bent at an angle recognized as impossible and inside you, insects crawl—skittering through the hollow where your heart should be, where your life should still pulse.

The sight is too much. It's suffocating.

You can't bear to look any longer, but the reflection clings to you, mocking you with every step. You stumble backward, heart pounding, your body aching as if each moment is strenuous. Your legs are unsteady, as if the ground beneath you is not quite solid, and you twist around, turning on your heel.

You run.

But it's difficult.

Breathing is a struggle. The hollow ache in your lungs is a cruel reminder there is no air to pull in.

When you look down, the fragments of your reflection remain—clothing torn, tattered, beyond recognition, and the sight of your chest, cracked open like a broken shell, takes the last of your strength.

The world is wrong. Everything is wrong.

No wonder you can't breathe; you don't have lungs anymore.

The gravity of the place feels distorted, pulling in strange directions that you can't describe, warping the space around you. The world is devoid of color, but your eyes are assaulted by a dizzying array of hues—too many, too fast, too intense to comprehend. It's as if the colors exist beyond the spectrum you know, beyond the limits of your perception.

The Blot's voice—its presence—flooded your ears, your mind, seeping into every corner of your thoughts. It shuddered around you, writhing, as though the dream world itself couldn't hold its form any longer. It was a reflection of the Blot's own stress, its instability. Just as it's form trembled and shifted when thrown off, so too was the fabric of this space.

You could only assume that by being so deeply entangled with the Blot, you had somehow slipped into its mind—or maybe its world. It wasn't clear.

Words collided in the air—some soft, others shrill—whispers, shouts, incoherent fragments. It was like it was speaking from everywhere at once. But amidst the chaos, one voice pierced through the noise, Its tone raw and desperate. It screamed in your head.

"Why? Why are you doing this?" The Blot's voice cried.

Its panic was visceral—almost childlike, trembling between frustration and pleading.

It didn't understand.

"Why are you telling them? We were fine! We were together! You... you were so kind to me this morning before the hike..." It stuttered, its words stumbling in confusion, the longing sharp as it clung to your closeness from that morning.

It didn't understand.

You ran—but you didn't know for how long.

How long had you been hiding from the Blot? From the reflections that mocked you? From the rotting body that you could feel but not escape?

Every step felt like a step toward something other, something incomprehensible. You were a ghost, running from the dark surrounding you.

The collision—the crash—was deafening, shocking you back into clarity. The monolith before you splintered at your touch, shuddering and shifting. It was an immense crystal statue—though it was never still. It shifted, reformed, nearly a living creature in constant flux, impossible to make sense of. Was it a figure? A being? Or something that had once been but had long since lost its meaning?

The statue hummed, a deep, resonant sound like the tuning of a cosmic fork, vibrating through the air, through you. Its surface was smooth, glasslike, but etched with thousands of names, faces, forms—rewriting itself over and over again. It was as if the statue was an archive, trying desperately to preserve its own history, its purpose.

You wanted to reach out, to understand, but before you could touch it, the ground beneath you buckled. The wailing grew louder, sound warping and twisting until it seemed to come from every direction at once. The Blot's presence flared, its grip on you—on everything—shattering.

And then... it was gone.

And darkness swallowed you whole.

Static crackles across your tongue—acidic and sharp, like chewing electricity. You blink rapidly, over and over, your eyes straining against the suffocating nothingness that surrounds you. There's no darkness, no light. Just everything and nothing, layered over each other in a space that doesn't obey rules. A contradiction you can't comprehend.

Then—clarity.

A voice begins, soft and distant, like a recording warped by time. It's not speaking to you, not exactly. It's narrating. Telling a story that feels familiar in your bones, though your memory protests.

Long before time's tapestry unraveled into the mortal world, there existed the Angel of Faces, a being crafted by the divine will to be a mirror of mortal perception. The Creator designed them without a fixed form, a blank slate destined to reflect the countless faces imagined by mortalkind—a bridge. They were the Messenger of Truths, delivering divine revelations in guises familiar and comforting, ensuring mortals could bear the weight of celestial messages.

Images crack open before you—like shattered glass, jagged and glinting, tumbling one after another into focus. They don't move like real things—more like illustrations torn from pages of a storybook.

You see them—a being of indescribable beauty, ever shifting. Their form changes like water caught in starlight, their features never still. They descend from the sky, trailing light behind them, wearing faces borrowed from dreams and fantasies. As they meet mortals, they speak in soft tones and gentle smiles, becoming what people expect to see.

The scene carries the nostalgic warmth of fable, but something about it gnaws at the edges.

Mortals, however, are imperfect storytellers. Each encounter reshaped the Angel of Faces, adding new features, quirks, and expressions. Some saw them as a serene guardian; others envisioned a stern judge or a deceiving trickster. These conflicting descriptions layered upon the angel like masks, making their true self indistinguishable, even to themselves.

You watch the whispers spread—around campfires, across market stalls, through grand halls. People speak of the messenger, the celestial, the angel. You see them again, curled up in a fetal position with their wings cocooning them, their form folding and reshaping themselves as mortals impose identities upon them.

A healer. A warrior. A muse.

Each expectation a mold. Each opinion a new mask.

And though the angel's face remains serene, poised—graceful even—you notice it now. The flicker. The micro-twitch. A wince that doesn't belong. Pain—subtle but unmistakable—buried beneath the surface as they fracture to match fantasies of others.

Over the ages, this shifting identity became a curse. They could recall every face ever worn, every lie spoken to soothe mortal fears, yet no memory of an original self remained. In despair, they sought reassurance from the Creator, pleading for a singular, immutable form. But the Creator remained silent, bound by cosmic law to let mortals shape the angel's existence. They were the bridge between the divine and the flesh—the only way divinity could properly understand mortal and vice-versa.

Then, a throne.

Massive. Towering. Its presence dominates the space. The angel kneels before it, wings unfurled behind them—crushed and colorless, like a butterfly pinned beneath glass. Their head is bowed. You can't hear the words exchanged, but the feeling crashes over you like a wave.

Agony. Sorrow. Desperation. Pleading.

And beyond it all: silence.

A cold, heavy silence that presses into your ribs. The kind that follows disappointment from someone who once loved you. Or worse—pity.

You can feel the weight of the Creator's silence. Not anger. Not wrath. Just... regret. And it's so much heavier than anything else.

Resentment festered. If mortals could define them, why should they not seize control of that power? They abandoned truth, embracing deception. In time, they learned to wield their ever-changing faces as weapons: impersonating kings, prophets, and lovers, sowing discord with whispers of false promises. Their once-pure voice became a chorus of lies, harmonizing with the ambitions and fears of those they encountered.

Scenes follow in rapid succession, kaleidoscopic in nature and fragmented, but you know the angel is there—though their wings are gone, though their face is someone else's.

A king laughs on a golden throne, his kingdom shining. A secret lover slips out of a bed in darkness. An assassin vanishes into a crowd. A prophet raises trembling hands before a weeping congregation.

Then, ruin.

The king's palace, turned to rubble. The lover, now a wife—yet the old wife is miraculously absent. The assassin's victims, nameless in a list. The prophet's followers, bloodied and broken in their belief.

None of them ever saw the angel beneath the face they wore. They never looked long enough, painfully unperceptive—or perhaps unaware.

If no one knew what the angel truly was, then stories couldn't cage them. Rumors couldn't wound them—shape them. And so, they wore more faces. Hid deeper. Buried themselves beneath perception. And when they were wronged—betrayed—they sought retribution. Over and over again.

But the revenge never tasted sweet.

Only hollow.

Thus, the Angel of Faces fell—not through rebellion, but through erosion of identity. Cast from the heavens, they now wander the mortal and infernal realms, a living mask who changes with every glance. They are feared as a master manipulator, a thief of faces and fates, cursed never to be remembered as themselves.

Legends say if you meet someone whose face you forget the moment they turn away, you've crossed paths with the Angel of Faces or their vassals. Pray they haven't taken an interest in wearing your face next.

More faces, more identities flash by, countless and unclear. You can't see them distinctly, but the truth sinks in. You know now. You know who they are.

The Angel of Faces. A creature lost in masks, wandering through mortalkind, trying to feel whole.

A being warped and corrupted by their own nature.

No matter what name they claimed, no matter what role they played—no one ever saw them. Only what they were supposed to be. What others wanted.

A crown. A smile. A blade.

But never themselves.

The images fracture and collapse around you—but not into darkness. This time, they pull you in. Like pages of a book folding shut around you, dragging you into its chapters.

The sun is high, warm and golden, filtering through thick branches overhead. Shadows dapple your skin—real, textured, soft. The breeze smells of pine and something faintly sweet. It feels safe here. Familiar in a way that aches.

But you aren't alone.

Ahead of you, moving slowly through the trees, is a figure. They look like a hunter—simple clothes, dirt on their boots, a bow strapped across their back. It's a quiet disguise, inconspicuous. Something they've worn before, probably in times of mischief or survival.

You follow, but your steps make no sound. You don't rustle the leaves. You leave no footprints. It becomes quickly apparent you aren't really here. Just a silent observer.

The hunter reaches a clearing—a wide expanse of green, peaceful and untouched. At its center stands a single oak tree, massive and ancient, its roots twisting deep into the hill it rests upon. The sunlight catches on its leaves like gold.

You've never been here. Not in memory.

And yet—your chest hurts with recognition.

The ache isn't sudden. It's long, settled. Like a name you forgot but still miss. Like a song you can't hum, but remember how it made you feel.

You miss this place.

But you miss it the way a house misses laughter. The way empty arms remember who they used to hold.

You follow the hunter in silence as he steps into the embrace of the oak's shade, the heavy stillness of the clearing wrapping around him like a familiar blanket. He lowers himself onto the earth with a tired sort of grace, his limbs moving like someone who has worn exhaustion too long to notice it anymore.

You rest just opposite him, your back finding the warm bark. The sun flickers gently through the leaves above, dappling the ground in gold, and for a moment there's peace.

But then it begins crashing over you; a torrent of emotions strong enough to nearly sweep you away.

Regret.

Longing.

Fear.

And grief so ancient it's fossilized into the soul—grief that has learned how to survive by becoming quiet.

It coils in your gut like smoke, pressing against your ribs, too heavy, too consuming. It isn't yours—you know that—but it moves through your body like it belongs there.

It makes you want to rip yourself open just to see if the feelings bleed out. To see if they're real. To see something—anything—clear for once.

You try to drown it out—to focus on the soft hush of wind through leaves, the warmth of soil beneath you, the steady breathing of the man sitting across from you, against the other side of the tree. The quiet hum of the world moving around you. But then—

Footsteps.

Soft, but sure. Grass shifts. A twig snaps.

You tense. Your body doesn't move, but your mind begins to brace itself. You squeeze your eyes tighter, silently begging: Leave. Just walk on by.

But they don't.

They stop—right on the other side of the tree. A beat of silence.

And then—they sit.

Like they belong here.

Like they were always going to.

The bark dug into my spine. My shoulders stiffened, and I pressed harder against the tree, jaw tightening. Whoever they are, they've broken the rhythm of the moment, shattered the fragile stillness I've carved out for myself in this place.

I didn't want to look.

But I had to, didn't I?

Not out of curiosity, not out of fear, but because I felt myself compelled to know who would dare come here, to the one place I'm allowed to not be anyone.

I recall turning my head slowly, angling to peer through the crooked gap in the oak's wide trunk, through what now seemed like a portal to the heavens.

And you sat there quietly, knees drawn up to your chest, head resting in your arms and eyes closed like you belonged there. A mortal, nothing important, nothing special.

I remember shifting to my knees, the bark rough against my palms as I leaned forward, peering through oak's crooked hollow. The memory is soft around the edges, worn thin by time—but you were there, seated as though you belonged.

You must have known the whispers by then—the carefully cultivated reputation, the layers of distance I'd wrapped myself in like a cloak. I'd made myself a shadow, a storm behind furrowed brows and quick footsteps. The kind of presence no one dared to interrupt.

I rose slowly and deliberately, brushing the dirt from my knees with practiced indifference. I took a short walk around the tree, boots pressing quietly into the grass until I stood directly before you. Still, you didn't move. Didn't even glance up. As if my presence meant nothing.

Strange little thing.

Even without knowing the truth buried beneath this face—this shape—I'd made sure the mask was fearsome enough to ward off the curious.

Yet you sat there like you'd missed the message.

I braced my arm against the tree, leaning over you, letting my shadow stretch across your form like a storm rolling in. I remember thinking it would be enough. Surely, this would send you away.

Perhaps I'd grown a little too confident in the image I wore.

And yet, still—nothing.

You didn't move. You didn't cower. You looked at me, eventually, and blinked as though bored by the drama of my entrance. The sky behind you was warm with late summer light, and I remember hating how it caught the edges of your face, like a portrait too breathtaking to forget.

"This is my spot," I said—sharper than I meant to be. The words came out brittle, my tone edged with irritation I hadn't yet admitted was born from something deeper. "Are you a fool? Everyone in town knows not to bother me."

I'd come from a fruitless hunt that day. Old faces Old temples. A bad memory scraped raw by ruins once gilded in my name. And yet you met my bitterness not with fear, but with a half-lidded stare of quiet disbelief—as though I'd just asked something absurd.

Then, you asked me if I had put my name on the tree. On the hill. On the grass beneath our feet.

I had not.

Of course I hadn't.

"You don't seem all that intimidating," you said, head tilted, voice a touch too amused. There was a challenge in your eyes I hadn't seen in ages—cocky and warm like sunlit water that dares you to relax and step deeper.

"We can share."

I argued, of course. Drew lines in the dirt with stubborn words, even threatened you with a bow I never truly meant to raise. I told myself it was principle. Territory. A matter of pride.

But it wasn't.

And still—you stayed.

So I stayed, too.

And it became a game of attrition. A quiet war beneath that old oak tree. Day after day, seeing which of us would yield first. Who would grow tired of the silence. Who would falter.

And yet—

Somehow you slipped into the rhythm of my days. I never meant for it to happen. I never invited you into the quiet rituals I built to keep the world at bay. But time has a way of folding itself around people like you.

Before I realized it, my hours bent at the knee, reshaped by your presence beneath that oak. The days grew long with half-conversations spoken through the gap in the trunk, voices low, laughter occasionally catching on the wind like birdsong.

The mischief faded first—those little pranks, the constant games of pushing and posturing. They dissolved, quietly, as if they had never belonged between us. And in their place: stillness. Companionable silences. Glanced exchanged through the bark. A strange sort of truce that no one decaled.

Summer vanished. Slipped through the cracks like water. The tree grew bare and brittle, its crown stripped of leaves and clothed in frost. Snow came in thick, crystalline blankets, and for a while, I thought that would be the end of us.

Without the tree to claim—without a battleground—I thought you might forget. That I would forget.

So I returned to what this guise knew. I buried myself in the role of a hunter—sharp-eyed and silent. A ghost that moved through the forests and frozen paths. You vanished. Life moved on.

But gods, the winter had teeth that year.

It sunk into me in ways no season ever had before.

I missed you.

You, a mortal—one of the very creatures who had carved me hollow with stories and lies. And yet the ache of your absence bloomed in my chest, slow and unrelenting.

One day—without thinking, without deciding—I found myself beneath the tree again. My feet knew the way better than my heart did.

The air was cold enough to bite, frost curling at the edges of my sleeves, and I stood there like a fool in the snow—ready to accept the silence I'd earned.

But then—you were there.

Waiting.

Lashes kissed white with frost, hair tucked beneath your hood, the pale winter sky behind you like the canvas of a masterwork. You looked like something out of myth—something I might've made up just to keep the loneliness at bay.

"Why are you still here?" I asked. My voice was rough, choked with breath that bloomed white into the cold. The question burned in my throat, but I had to ask it anyway.

You looked up at me with that ridiculous smile—soft, knowing, a little smug—and it tore a laugh from me before I could stop it.

"I won. It's my spot now." you said, brushing snow from your clothes with exaggerated nonchalance.

And every instinct I'd once held sacred—against every philosophy I'd sworn by—I followed you.

I told myself it was curiosity—that I needed to understand. That a mortal like you, warm-eyed and strange, couldn't possibly be real. That something so unspoiled had to be a trick. A lie—like faerie food.

"Where are we going?" I asked, hands clasped neatly behind my back, trying to sound disinterested—detached.

You hummed, tugging your hood a little tighter against the wind.

"Your home," you said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "I looked all over town when the cold came, but I couldn't find you.

Your voice wavered just slightly at the edges—the way it always did when something mattered more than you wanted to admit.

"You like to disappear," you added, gaze turned toward the path ahead. "But you can't hide from me."

Hiding?

Had I truly been doing that?

Avoiding the truth nestled deep in my chest—that I'd grown fond of you in ways I never intended? That I was no longer as indifferent as I'd have liked?

"Perhaps I had been." I murmured, more to myself than to you. My head dipped in a quiet concession, and I stepped ahead, reluctant but resolved, guiding you toward the place I called home.

Or rather... the place I'd borrowed.

The home had once belonged to a huntsman who drank himself to death, his loneliness thick enough to choke on. I'd slipped into the shape of him, claimed his bed, his hearth, his name. Mortals rarely question a presence that mimics familiarity well enough.

I've lived in countless homes—shacks, palaces, temples of crystal, and cities carved in marble. Each built around the face I wore at the time. But none of them ever fit right. Every roof felt too low, every bed too soft or stiff. They had pressed against me like ill-fitted skins. none could hold me—not the real me.

And yet... this one somehow, felt different.

You filled the space in a way I never could. Your voice, your laughter, even the way you sulked when the wind crept in under the door—it made the walls feel less like cages.

There were nights when I forgot what I was. Where I wasn't an angel buried under names and masks and vengeance—I was just something warm, watching you speak beside the crackling fire.

And then, as if we had blinked, winter was gone.

Melted into memory.

It struck me quietly one day beneath the old oak—that was the longest I'd kept an identity. The longest I'd stayed still without splintering a town or vanishing into the fog, without punishing someone for the weight of their perception.

That evening, you met me beneath the tree again, a satchel in hand and a grin tucked at the corners of your mouth. You'd saved for weeks, you said, pinched coin where you could, though I knew most of that money had come from me. Quiet gifts slipped into your pouch when you weren't looking. What use did I have for currency? I did not eat. I did not burn fuel. I had no need for comfort.

But you—you used it to buy a book.

And when you opened it, when your fingers brushed the yellowed pages, something shifted.

Because I recognized the words. I remembered them.

My stories. My tragedies. My sins—etched into ink by mouths that had never known me, retold by voices who feared and worshipped in equal measure.

And you were reading them. You knew.

My breath caught in my throat, unfamiliar and painful. That age-old instinct reared its head—run. Disappear. Start again.

I always ran when I was seen too clearly.

My hands trembled. My stomach churned with something not quite shame, not quite terror—a horrible ache. Familiar. Like home.

I stared at you, bracing for betrayal, or disgust, or fear—for the look that always followed.

But instead—

"I—I'm sorry." I heard myself say.

The words tumbled from my lips without permission, jagged and strange, like something living had crawled out from deep inside me.

A part of me recoiled in disgust. Apologizing? To a mortal? I'd never done that—not sincerely.

And still, I searched your face. Desperate. Panicked. Waiting for you to shatter the fragile world I'd built. To call me monster. To finally see me.

The sky spun above us. The forest pressed in. And I—

I felt stuck in my skin. I wanted to tear it off—to leave the hunter behind and vanish into mist, into shadow, into myth.

Because that's all I've ever known how to do.

Flee. Run. Hide.

It's all I've ever done.

But you only shook your head, quiet and steady, and gently pulled me down to sit beside you beneath the tree.

And then—like it was the simplest thing in the world—you spoke words I never imagined I'd be allowed to hear. Words I thought were forbidden to something like me.

"You have no name, no face, no anchor to the world... Do you want one? Should I give you one?"

Your hands were warm—foolishly so, impossibly so—and when they rose to cup my cheek, I leaned into them without protest. Without thought. Just instinct. Bone-deep exhaustion seeped from my limbs, and I slumped into your waiting shape like a story trying to remember how it was first told.

Centuries folded in on themselves inside me: Regret, violence, tenderness, exile, desperation. I carried them all, and suddenly, I was too tired to bear the weight alone.

"That is impossible, my dear," I murmured with the heavy certainty of someone who had begged one, long ago, and learned never to ask again. "Not even the Creator could grant me that."

But you simply hummed, a sound as light as wind through leaves, unburdened by the rules I'd spent lifetimes bound to.

"The Creator is governed by cosmic law, sure. But mortals...mortals were given free will. And they were given dominion over you, weren't they? So I ask again—what do you say?"

Those words hit something ancient and aching inside me—something that had never been named but always lingered, humming under my skin like a prayer I couldn't remember anymore. My lips parted before I could stop them.

"Yes," I breathed. "Yes, please."

And so it began.

We spent four months and eight days fashioning me like a myth retold by firelight.

You scratched categories into the dirt with a stick, had me toss pebbles with my eyes shut to choose hair, height, voice, eyes. We ran through fields and libraries and markets so I could feel what drew me, what felt like mine. We spoke for hours—about food, about stars, about what kind of kindness I might carry. We peeled back the layers and decided who I wanted to be when I wasn't forced to be anything at all.

And slowly, I became.

A name began to rise in me like spring after a cruel winter. A shape. A soul. A self.

And in that self, I found something terrifying:

I had fallen in love with you. And love—what a cruel thing. What a luminous, sickening thing. It turns every other feeling into a shadow. It renders contentment into longing. It corrodes reason and whispers delusion in a voice sweeter than truth. Love is the death of logic, the ruin of kingdoms, the doom of angels. And I needed it. I needed it with an ache that made me stupid. Desperate. Mortal.

So I wrote you little poems under moonlight, clumsy with feeling, desperate to condense eternity into twelve words. I slipped them into your books, between the recipes you collected and the strange ideas you left half-finished in the margins.

I loved you the only way I knew how: endlessly. I would have loved you until our veins braided like roots in the earth and our hearts beat the same rhythm beneath our ribs.

Because you were my Creator. You were the one who saw me not as myth or threat or shapeless horror, but as someone who could be.

You made me real.

And without you, I had no reason to be anyone at all.

I never should have let you give me everything.

Never should have placed you in the path of what I was—what I've always been.

Because while the Creator could not command mortals, could not lace them with cosmic law or shape their choices—it could still ensure. It could correct. It could balance the scale.

And it did.

Because you crossed the line that wasn't meant to be drawn, let alone stepped over. And I stood at your side and let you.

A defiance. A devotion. A crime.

A mortal, after all, was never meant to rewrite the purpose of one of its creations.

To grant meaning where none was given— To name what should have remained nameless— That was a violation. A defiance of divine structure. An offense that demanded retribution.

I remember the night it happened as though it were carved into me. The details seared into the marrow of my being, relentless in their clarity. No matter how much time passes, that memory remains untouched by erosion.

We walked in silence, your hand cradled in mine. I had planned to tell you everything—about what I had done, what I had been, and what you'd done to my heart. I was ready to surrender the whole truth. But your hand was warm, your thumb brushing the backing of mine in small, thoughtless circles, and I found myself stalling to make the moment last just a bit longer.

My divine heart beat with a violence I'd never known—no battle or vengeance or miracle had ever stirred it like this. With you beside me, all of it—every war, every mark, every century—faded into background noise and it no longer seemed as loud in my head. You were more than grounding. You were anchoring.

You made me real.

You chattered about something that had happened earlier that day—some nonsense about a goat loose in town with two children clinging to its back like miniature bandits. The scene meant nothing to me, but your laughter rang like a melody I hadn't known I needed until I heard it. That sound—pure and unburdened—was rest. A kind of rest I'd never been allowed.

And the moonlight? It loved you as much as I did.

It bathed your skin like a blessing, caught in your hair, made your eyes gleam with mischief and warmth. I remember thinking the entire world looked like a backdrop created to cradle your beauty alone—just a stage where you moved freely and unknowingly beautiful.

You looked up at me, your expression full of unbearable joy you always managed to carry, even over the smallest things. It unsettled me, in a way. How could you be so happy in such a broken world? How could you carry such softness without it cutting you open?

And perhaps... perhaps that tiny shard of judgement—of not understanding you fully—is what made it worse. Perhaps that is what made it all the more tragic.

Because I hesitated.

I let the night go on too long.

I let myself fall too deeply into the illusion that maybe, just maybe, I could have all of this.

You. Peace. A name. A future.

And in that hesitation I doomed you.

They moved through time because they existed outside of it.

And your lips—those soft, precious things that said the most wondrous things—had just begun to part with a question or a laugh or a breath, I'll never know. It was lost in the moment your eyes widened, a flash of something ancient behind them—recognition. A silent understanding that something had happened, something final, even if you didn't yet know what it was.

Then came the executioner. A blade plunged cleanly through your back—swift, silent, a perfect strike. It didn't bleed you. No, the blade wasn't meant to be tainted with blood. It was meant for undoing.

It pierced you like a key, not a weapon—unlocking soul from flesh, unthreading the stitches that kept you in this world. You crumpled, so softly, like a page torn from sacred text. And oh, how I wanted—how I needed—to have moved faster. To have noticed sooner. To have thrown myself behind you and taken it all.

The executioner was beautiful. All things from the divine realm are. Beautiful in the way holy things are: absolute, motionless, terrifying. They never opened their mouth. Never broke their gaze. But their presence split the sky inside me. They were not cruel—not even angry. That would have been easier.

Instead, they were perfect. Silent. Unmovable.

And it was that stillness that shattered me.

I felt the weight of every sin, even the ones I hadn't known I'd committed—especially the one I'd inflicted on you. They pressed down on me until I couldn't breathe, couldn't move, as you sank to the forest floor like a puppet whose strings had been snipped with precision.

I looked in fury at them, searching for a sign of injustice I could fight back against, but there was nothing. Nothing but a slight nod—a movement so small it could have been the wind, and yet I felt it. A gesture I couldn't understand then, but now, maybe it was pity. Maybe it was a quiet apology. Because they are only summoned when a divine law has been broken so utterly that even the gods and angels must look away.

It wasn't your fault.

It was mine.

And yet they punished you all the same.

I collapsed beside your body, the earth rushing to meet me. The forest dulled around me, sounds folding into a high-pitched ring, like reality itself was recoiling at the sheer grief of the scene. I gathered you in my arms with trembling hands, and I knew it the moment I touched you—you were gone.

Not sleeping. Not wounded. Just... absent.

Your body was still whole. Still beautiful. The vessel I had admired, adored. But the soul within—that spark that laughed and argued and made me—it was nowhere to be found.

And I didn't know how to react. There was no emotion strong enough, no shape of grief that could express what tore through me.

My form betrayed me—unraveled into the divine shape you had never seen. The one I hated. Wings too large, body too incomprehensible, face too beautiful. My voice broke apart when I tried to speak, to demand why the Creator had taken you and not me. To beg for your return.

But no words came, and when I looked up, the executioner was already gone.

Just like you.

I was alone.

The woods—once warm, once soft—were suddenly hollow. The moonlight, once silver and loving, burned like acid on my skin. The whole world had turned against me.

And then I sensed it. Not just your absence, but your removal.

You weren't in this world. Not in the heavens. Not in the underworld. You had been taken—cast out into another realm entirely, one far beyond my reach. A place even somebody of my caliber couldn't go.

The Creator didn't just correct the error.

It hid the evidence.

You.

Gone.

Perhaps it was the carnal desire to be gone, to undo myself, to become nothing. My form began to break. That beautiful, temporary self you'd helped my build—it cracked and splintered until it was dust. Until there was nothing left but darkness.

I lost my face. My shape. My center.

What remained was a shifting blot of ink and shadow. A void. An echo. And without you, even that felt too much.

I don't remember what I did that night. Or the nights after. Or the years that followed.

Maybe decades. Maybe more.

But eventually, I started to hear whispers—of a shadow that moved like smoke. A shapeless thing that fed on grief and misery. A monster that haunted the edges of villages, stealing warmth and magic from the air.

And I understood.

Without you, without your name on my lips and your laugh in my chest, I had let myself be shaped by mortal fear and legend.

I was forced into a mold again.

I spent years searching for you—my heart, my breath, the axis upon which my very being once turned. I scoured every corner of the living realm, dared disturb the divine with my rotting body of misery, even descended into the underworlds where no light reaches. Always hoping—aching—that the feeling was wrong. That hollow emptiness where your presence should have been was a lie. That maybe I was only panicking.

But it was never a lie. You were gone.

And in that time... I don't know what I became.

Without you—my reason, my tether—I was a thing adrift. Disgusting in nature, I hid and only lashed out. I lived in echoes and shadows, unanchored and shapeless. A being wearing old regrets like skin. I can't remember the faces I wore, or the deeds I committed while searching. There are blank places in my memory, stained only with the knowledge that I must have hurt many in my desperation. I must have destroyed things, twisted fates, left ruin in my wake.

And may the divine forgive me—I would do it all again if it meant finding you.

But you are not here to forgive me.

Not yet.

So I wait.

I wait like a prayer made in flesh. I wait like an abandoned altar beneath a sky that no longer answers.

I wait for my creator to return—not the One in the heavens, but you. You, who named me. You, who gave me a face. You, who made me someone.

I wait for you to salvage me from this endless dark, to craft me again with warm hands and soft laughter. To call me into being like you did before.

Because I believe now, with all the fragile, fractured pieces of what remains of me, that the Creator—the Creator—was hasty. Rash in its punishment. Cruel in its corrections. It shattered us and called it balance, but it made a single, fateful mistake.

It forgot to scratch your name from the ledges buried deep within the grand library of all things that are, and were, and will be.

And all unnatural things, in time, return to how they belong. Like a tide pulling the wayward back to shore. Like a thread—cut too early—still tugging at the loom.

So I hoped. Oh, I hoped with the kind of hope that burns and scalds. With the kind of hope that only something eternal can endure.

It took a long, long time. Longer than most stars get. And in that time I did everything. Begging. Bartering. Lying. Challenging.

The Weaver of Fates hated me, hated the way I slipped between threads, rearranged destinies like pages in a book, like a god with a pen too eager. But like all living things, even the divine, they grew curious. Even they hungered for something new—an unexpected turn in the story. And so, for each fate I promised to rewrite in their name, I was granted one meager decade within their library.

And there—

Amid endless shelves, beneath eternity's whirring lanterns, swathed in dust and starlight and silence—

I found you.

Your thread.

Out of nowhere. Woven anew. Subtle, but unmistakable.

You.

I remember how I staggered. How the breath left me like a struck bell. How my trembling hands reached for the book that held your name like it was the only thing in the universe worth touching.

Because to me, it was—It is.

You were still out there. Alive again. Somewhen.

And the only thing left in me—after centuries of ruin, centuries of silence—was the desperate, carnal need to find you again.

My Savior.

You returned to the world through the smallest crack—a school and a fluke of magic, they called it. But I knew it was fate, twisting itself in impossible ways just to give me a second chance.

The world, however, is as cruel as it is careless. Your fate was once again marred by suffering—cut open by hands that saw you not as a soul, not as the brilliant, unshakable light I remembered, but as a vessel.

A means to an end. A thing to use.

The book said they'd grow to love you. That time would soften their edges, that eventually they'd see the truth of you and come to adore you. but now, my star—how could they not immediately fall to their knees before your purity? How could they ever lay a hand on your gentle spirit and think it anything less than sacred?

I couldn't allow it. Not again. Not after all you'd already endured because of me.

Please. Please rest, my beloved. Let me carry the weight for a while.

Come back to me, curl close to my side. Lay your head against my chest, feel my heart beating for you and you alone. Let it remind you that you're not alone anymore. That you're home, you're safe.

I felt it in the moment you stepped through again—the second your soul returned to this realm. The wind shifted. The light changed. The world, once fueled by my grief, suddenly shimmered with warmth and color.

And there you were. So breathtaking, it almost hurt.

A different form, yes, but still you. Your soul radiated through, unmissable, unmistakable. That light of yours—impossibly bright. Unyielding. Unchanged.

In that moment, I nearly ran to you, fell to my knees before you like a worshipper before their altar. I would have offered every piece of me right then—my hands, my heart, my every divine and ruined piece.

I wanted to pray to you, not the Creator.

Because only you had ever given me peace. Only you made me real.

And so, driven by that desperate ache, knowing what trials were written for you in the pages of fate, I made a choice.

A hasty, selfish, loving choice.

Please forgive me.

I became your guardian.

Not by divine assignment—no, the heavens had long since turned from me. I was no longer an Angel, no longer anything at all in their eyes. A fallen thing. A memory.

Shelter. Protection. A little more time.

Until I could earn back your love, until we could escape this wretched cycle together—somewhere quiet, somewhere safe. Somewhere the stars forgot. Hidden even from the Creator's gaze.

I passed my gift to you—the same one that had once forced me to slip through the cracks of perception, to disappear and be ignored by even the divine. I made you forgettable. Your name, your face, your presence—reduced to a whisper in the minds of those around you.

No one could hold you long enough to break you again.

But I was wrong. I was so wrong.

The night I found you in the snow, body broken and spirit dimmed, something inside of me that had been subtly blooming again tore.

My treasure—my heart, my only—shattered again, and I hadn't even seen it coming. You had become so invisible, so perfectly cloaked in my protection that even I could no longer feel the ache of your suffering until it was too late.

And still, even mangled, you begged to be seen.

To be known.

And perhaps—perhaps I had been cruel in my reverence. So intent on protecting you that I denied you the very thing you longed for: connection.

So I lifted it.

The concealment, the cloak, the silence. I peeled it back and let the world see you again.

And I watched you drown beneath the affection you so rightly deserved—both soft and overwhelming, subtle and blinding. Some of it pure. Some of it not.

And I remained in the shadow, unseen. As always. Just your guardian. Just the broken remnant of what you once loved. Waiting.

Always waiting.

For the day you remember me.

And love me again.

Hi?

Sorry this one took so long.

While writing it I kinda got a little worried I was messing up. This is technically a twst fic but this entire 8k word chapter is almost only about the Blot. Which is my own character and I realized some of you might just want twst content?

btw the religious themes have no intentional connection to any real religions. It's my own thoughts, my own story. I hope it doesn't offend.

Did this cook?? I'm so anxious because I really got to write about what I really like and my own OC!

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[junkdrawerfan]

Hey so actually I might be a little obsessed with how Tim is Dick’s only clearly defined brother.

Like let me explain. HEAR ME OUT!

Damian is Dick’s BABY! That is his firstborn! Dick might have had some adoption tendencies pre-crisis with Jason but they realized that shit with Dick’s (Second? Third?) time in the cowl. Dick saw this small murderous child and was like “I can do it better than Bruce” and did. And yes they might be settling into a brotherly role with Bruce stepping the fuck up.* But I promise you having witnessed siblings with a 10 year age gap — even when the parents are perfect and emotionally available — that older sibling quickly becomes a third parent. With Dick, he was the first second and third parent. No way Damian and Dick could ever just be brothers and I love that for them.

Dick’s relationship with Jason is full of regret and guilt. They might be building something now but their past is full of inflicting rotting wounds (metaphorical and often literal) on each other. Dick started the pattern first when he rejected Jason as Robin. And later Jason raging against Dick after his return. Jason’s semi-valid villain crash out ending with Dick putting him in Arkham because Jason was a straight villain pre-rebirth. And even then it takes rebirth remixed canon to allow Jason some family bonding time. I say they have a handful of months — and even then how often did Dick visit! He didn’t start reconnecting with the BatFam until after the Killing Joke and Death in the Family — they got along before shit got worse.

So that leaves Tim! The little baby brother Dick started calling little brother YEARS before Bruce ever adopted Tim.** Timmy, the freak who broke into his apartment to track him down and drag him back to Gotham. Who subsequently spends years breaking into Dick’s apartment to hang out. Because why not continue as you begin lol.

He spent his early 20s with Tim! He comes into his own as Nightwing while Tim is Robin. Hell! The first time Dick was Batman, Tim was his Robin! He literally grows into his adult self with Tim as his witness.

How many lows has Tim helped him pick up after? How many falls has Dick caught Tim after (metaphorically and literally)?

But that’s the sweet sappy shit.

Tim is the one brother Dick doesn’t have to be the responsible adult with. He eats shitty pizza with Tim. He has movie nights and hang outs and poor-tasting inside jokes with Tim. They race each other across rooftops! They play fight in the streets. Dick booby traps his apartment so Tim can have fun breaking in.*** Dick complains about his messy love life to Tim while Tim mocks him!

THEY ARE BROTHERS YOUR HONOR!

There is a reason Dick calls Tim his equal. Dick loves his brothers, he’ll always be there for them. But Tim is the one Dick doesn’t have to watch or monitor or hover over. Tim is his brother, not his regret or his child.

20 years in real time and 4 years of comic time put Tim and Dick through the ringer. No Man’s Land. Knightfall. The nuking of Bloodhaven. Contagion. Try to name a tragedy Tim and Dick haven’t witnessed and weathered side by side! But no matter how they fight or have to disappear for the mission, they always find each other and trust each other and believe in each other. Because they are truly brothers!

(So context… I’m very much reading the 90s and 2000s run. I’m like chronologically in 98. I’ve seen/heard modern comics have dropped this FOR SOME FUCKING REASON (they forget Tim exists, I guess). But I refuse to believe that rebirth got rid of their brotherly bond. Just as Tim’s “friendship” with Kon-El transcends timelines so does Dick and Tim’s brotherly bond! They are family bonded through the fires of time and comic book bullshit!)

TLDR: Dick’s brotherly relationships with Jason and Damian are complicated and the roles they play in each other’s lives aren’t always clear. Dick’s relationship with Tim has had its ups and downs but there has never been any confusion about their roles with each other. They called each other brothers and held on tight and that’s special ❤️🩵

—

* How much this is true take with a grain of salt. I’m not reading modern yet. I’ve read some cause Damian just slaps and I love him. But there’s so much!

** Tim was adopted for like a year before being emancipated. WILD! What fatherless behavior!

*** What feral menaces! I love them!!! I just need to scream. Not important. Carry on. ^>^

[sunandflame]

Ma’am would you please write a hopelessly in love vampire Mihawk x fem reader?

Drink water and sleep plenty🩷

The Taste of Dawn

Warnings: fluff

Word Count: 870

Pairing: Vampire!Mihawk x Reader

crossposted on AO3

The sun had not yet risen. The world was hushed and silver-blue with moonlight, the hour so quiet it barely felt real — the kind of hour only creatures of the night and their most beloved ever truly knew. And Mihawk… Mihawk was in the kitchen.

A ridiculous thought, really. But there he was — half-draped in his black robe, shirt undone at the chest, hair mussed from where your fingers had wandered last night. He moved with his usual unnerving grace, slicing fruit with a paring knife like it was a blade meant for battle. He was humming something. You couldn't place it.

You leaned against the doorframe in his oversized shirt, watching him in sleepy silence. He didn’t glance up, but you knew he had sensed you the moment you entered the room — probably even before that.

“You’re awake early,” he murmured, voice smooth and low as ever. The faintest flicker of amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Couldn’t stay away from me even for a moment, hm?”

You scoffed, but your smile betrayed you. “Says the vampire who doesn’t sleep,” you muttered, padding closer until you could wrap your arms around him from behind. His bare skin was cool beneath your cheek, but it never once felt unwelcoming.

Mihawk tilted his head slightly to allow your embrace, one of his hands resting easily over yours. “I rest. I simply don’t dream.”

You hummed. “Then I’ll just dream for both of us.”

His chest vibrated with a low sound — not quite a laugh, but something close. That rare sound he gave only to you. “You already do.”

The plate of neatly arranged fruit was set aside — you saw he’d taken care to choose only the ripest pieces you liked — and he turned in your arms, looking down at you with those eyes that always felt centuries deep. Golden. Quiet. Unreadable. But when they were on you, they softened. Just barely — but enough. Enough that you knew.

You reached up and brushed a thumb just under his eye, where faint purple shadows clung to skin that never aged. “When’s the last time you ate?” you asked, voice featherlight.

Mihawk’s gaze didn’t waver. “Not since before you insisted I try your attempt at coffee two days ago.”

You gasped in mock offense. “It wasn’t that bad!”

“It tasted like punishment.”

You swatted at him, laughing, and he caught your wrist easily, bringing your hand up to his lips. He kissed your palm, the gesture slow and careful, as if he were tasting sunlight for the first time.

“I’ll make you something,” you offered.

“You are something.” There was no smirk. No teasing lilt. He said it plainly. As a fact. You are something I could live off of forever. It never stopped making your heart stutter.

You pulled away to start at the counter, reaching for bread and cheese, pretending not to notice the way Mihawk watched you — the way he always did. With reverence he would never admit aloud.

“…You’re doing it again,” you murmured, glancing at him.

“Doing what?”

You met his gaze. “Looking at me like I’ll disappear.”

His expression didn’t change. But after a pause, he said softly, “In my lifetime, many things have.”

You swallowed. There was no tragedy in his voice — only truth. But it still ached to hear. “…I won’t,” you whispered, walking back toward him. “Not unless you send me away.”

Mihawk reached for you again, cupping your face this time, his thumb brushing just beneath your eye. His touch was cool, but familiar. Trusted. “I would rather face the sun itself.”

You smiled, blinking back the sting behind your lashes. You tilted up and kissed him — not urgent or deep, just true. And when you pulled away, he chased your lips just a second longer before letting you go. You poured two cups of tea, placing one beside him — even though he wouldn’t drink it. Still, you made it every morning. Mihawk never complained. The two of you stood there in the soft light of early morning, quiet settling around you like a second skin.

Eventually, you broke the silence. “…Can I ask something weird?”

Mihawk raised a brow. “You usually do.”

You smiled and glanced toward the balcony. “What does the sunrise look like… to someone like you? Someone who’s lived so long?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he picked up a slice of pear from the plate, pressed it to your lips, and watched you take a bite. Then, softly: “It looks like you.”

Your breath hitched.

He leaned in, voice low and unwavering: “Warm. Distant. Terrifying in what it could take from me. And yet I crave it—every single day.”

Your lips parted, and Mihawk’s hand slipped behind your head, holding you still as he kissed you with something deeper than desire — something heavy and silent and eternal. When he finally pulled back, his gaze lingered on your mouth. “The taste of dawn… is much sweeter now.”

And you knew — For all the centuries he’d lived, and all the blood he’d spilled, and all the night he’d wandered… He had never been more hopelessly in love than he was right here, right now.

With you.

[iheartmira]

Hi there! I noticed your shadow milk fics and I must say, I quite enjoy them! They show his characteristics and how downright sadistic and masochistic he can be. (When he wants to be, that is.)

But I have one request of my own for all the plus sized readers. Do you think you can do a shadow milk x plus size fem reader who had recently got her heart broken by her ex, and shadow milk uses this as an opportunity to court her in a sense? While also making sure the jerk doesn’t come back into her life again? :]

It’s okay if you don’t want to do it! :D

"his gift to you" - shadow milk cookie x reader

‪‪✧︎‬‪‪ ‪‪✧︎‬ ‪‪✧

shadow milk cookie was many things: a trickster, a villain, a nightmare draped in jester’s silk. but patient was not one of them.

and yet, for you, he waited.

he watched as you sat at the edge of the spire’s illusory balcony, shoulders slumped, eyes cast downward. the weight of heartbreak clung to you, dragging you down like shackles, and oh, how it infuriated him. why should someone as divine as you be reduced to this? over a cookie so utterly unworthy?

unacceptable.

so he made himself known.

"tsk, tsk, what a tragedy!" his voice lilted through the air, smooth as silk, curling around you like a phantom embrace. he strolled toward you, his long coattails billowing behind him, his staff tapping theatrically against the floor.

"a love story cut so cruelly short… woe! despair!" he clutched his chest dramatically, letting out a mock sigh. "why, i may just shed a tear-"

you shot him a look, unimpressed.

he smirked. ah, good. you still had some fight in you.

he seated himself beside you, but not before conjuring a velvet throne from the shadows. he had a flair for the dramatic, after all. his many eyes gleamed in the dim light as he studied you, drinking in every curve, every dip, every perfect imperfection that made you you.

"tell me, my dear," he purred, propping his chin on his hand. "what exactly did this pitiful excuse of a cookie do to you?"

you hesitated, and for a moment, he thought you wouldn’t answer. but then, in that voice he adored, soft, weary, tinged with the remnants of something fragile, you told him.

and oh. oh, how furious he was.

he didn’t show it, of course. no, he kept his smirk, his playful lilt, his air of nonchalance. but his fingers twitched, his jaw clenched, and deep within the shadows of his cascading hair, his hidden eyes burned.

"well, that simply won’t do," he tutted, shaking his head. "what a blundering fool! to let go of you? phah!" he chuckled, tapping his staff against the ground.

"no worries, doll. i'll make certain they don’t come back like a stray gnat. consider it my gift to you."

your brows furrowed. "shadow milk cookie-"

"ah, ah, ah!" he pressed a finger to your lips, grinning. "no need to thank me." he spread his arms theatrically. "and you, my sweet, deserve only the grandest of affections!"

his gaze dropped, lingering, appreciating.

"they never truly saw you, did they?" his voice dropped, losing its usual teasing lilt. it was softer now, silkier, curling around you like a whispered secret. "not the way i do."

you stiffened, but he only smiled. he leaned in, impossibly close, his many eyes gleaming with something dangerous.

"no matter," he murmured, reaching to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering for just a second too long. "you’ll see soon enough, my dear…"

his smirk stretched into something sly, knowing, utterly possessive.

"…i’m so much better at this game than they ever were."

✧︎‬‪‪ ‪‪✧︎‬ ‪‪✧

‹𝟹 ‎ ⠀⠀ˑ˚₊ ·⠀interested in requesting? check out my pinned!

© 2025, iheartmira

[odileeclipse]

https://www.tumblr.com/odileeclipse/775702721549516800/httpswwwtumblrcomodileeclipse775661126176391?source=share

hii idk if you'll take this rq but what if there was another ending where we meet shadow milk cookie and we start falling for him and our feelings for pure vanilla vanished and shadow milk cookie genuinely likes us back so they basically got together and what do you think will pure vanilla's reaction lol

do you think pv will try fight for reader's love once again and if so I feel like reader just now sees him as a friend and nothing more since now they found someone who actually sees them as a person which is smc

this is a random rq but I hope you'll be able to do this ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶

The One Who Sees You

You should have known better. From the very beginning, you had stood on the sidelines, watching Pure Vanilla Cookie with the same quiet hope that perhaps, if you waited long enough, he’d turn toward you. But he never did. He only ever had eyes for White Lily. Even when you pleaded with him, selfishly asking him not to skip class, he never truly heard you. His heart was already elsewhere, tied to someone who had never once waited in the shadows. And now, standing in the grand halls of the kingdom he built, you watched as that hope shattered completely. "White Lily Cookie, I selfishly ask you to be mine, for now and for as long as forever lasts." You knew it was coming. You had felt it coming for years. And yet, the words still hit like a blade. You smiled through the pain, congratulated them, and clapped along with the rest of the crowd. Even as your heart crumbled, you stood tall. Because that was who you were, patient, kind, always supporting. Always waiting. But not anymore. So, when no one was looking, you slipped away.

The night after the ceremony, you wandered through the moonlit streets alone. The kingdom was alive with celebration, but you had no place in it. That was when you saw him. A figure perched atop a ledge, watching the festivities below with a smirk on his lips. Powder blue dough, dual-colored eyes that gleamed like gemstones, and a harlequin’s shadow twisting around his form. "Now, now, what’s this? A lost little star wandering all alone?"

Shadow Milk Cookie. You had heard whispers of him. A trickster, a deceiver, a performer who turned reality into a spectacle. He was trouble, a being of chaos and lies. But at that moment, you didn’t care. "What do you want?" you asked tiredly. He tilted his head, leaping down gracefully to land beside you. "You tell me. You’re the one with sorrow dripping from your eyes. Poor thing," he cooed mockingly. "To be so devoted, only to be cast aside. How tragic." You bristled at his words. "I wasn’t cast aside. I was never there to begin with." He chuckled, a low and knowing sound. "And yet, you waited. Hoping. Ah, how familiar this tale is." He leaned closer, his unreadable eyes locking onto yours. "I wonder… if you were given the chance, would you still wait?" You hesitated. Because despite everything, a part of you still wanted to say yes.

Shadow Milk Cookie grinned, as if he had already known your answer. "Well, I do love a good tragedy… but even I have my limits." He tapped his staff against the ground, shadows curling at his feet. "How about a change of script, little star? Let’s play a different game." You stared at him. "What kind of game?" His smile widened, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "One where you’re not just a spectator." At that moment, you didn’t realize what he meant. You didn’t know that this was the beginning of something new. That while he saw you as a momentary distraction, something to toy with, the game would soon become something much more. You didn’t realize that, for the first time, someone truly saw you. At first, Shadow Milk Cookie’s presence was nothing more than a curiosity. He would find you at odd hours, teasing you with his riddles and illusions, playing with your emotions like a puppeteer. "You’re far too patient for your own good, little star. Why not take what you want instead of waiting for it?" "Because I don’t believe love is something to be stolen." "How dull. But I suppose that’s what makes you you." For a while, you thought he only kept you around out of amusement. And you weren’t wrong. He enjoyed watching you waver, testing the limits of your devotion. But then, something changed. One night, when you spoke of your past of the kingdom you built, of the years you spent waiting his usual smirk faltered. "You built your walls high," he mused. "To protect myself," you admitted. "And yet, I slipped through the cracks." You laughed softly. "I suppose you did." It wasn’t immediate, but little by little, the way he looked at you shifted. The teasing softened. The smirks were accompanied by something else, something real. And before you knew it, he was no longer playing a game.

Pure Vanilla Cookie was the one to find you. It had been a long time since you last spoke, and when your paths finally crossed again, his eyes softened with something you couldn’t quite place. "(Y/N) Cookie..."  His voice was laced with something unreadable. Hesitation? Regret? He took a hesitant step forward, his expression unreadable.. Shadow Milk Cookie stood beside you, one arm lazily draped over your shoulders. Unlike before, when you had stood alone in the background, now you were seen. A presence, not a shadow. You smiled, but it was different now. There was no waiting in your eyes, no lingering hope. "I heard news that you were coming to my Kingdom, I hope you had safe travels getting here" you said politely. His gaze flickered to Shadow Milk Cookie, whose smirk only grew. "Missed your chance, Virtuous One," he drawled mockingly. "This one’s with me now."

Pure Vanilla frowned. "Are you truly happy?" Shadow Milk Cookie stiffened slightly, but you didn’t hesitate. "I am."  You realized how easy it was to say those words, maybe once months ago you would have faltered. Pure Vanilla’s expression almost gave you second thoughts, his usual serenity breaking ever so slightly. Perhaps, deep down, he had always assumed you would still be there, waiting. That your patience was endless. But time had passed. You had changed. And now, you were standing beside someone who saw you for who you truly were. Pure Vanilla opened his mouth, as if wanting to say more, but no words came out. He knew, just as you did, that it was too late. With a soft smile, you excused yourself, turning away, stepping forward with Shadow Milk Cookie at your side. This time it wasn't you, watching from the sidelines. You were finally walking forward. And you weren’t looking back.

A/N Hopefully this fulfills your request <3

[cognitiveleague]

Something I really enjoy about the Dressrosa arc is the narrative comparison and contrast presented between Law and Doflamingo.

Oda, especially post-timeskip, devotes a lot of storytelling to looking closely at protagonists and villains alike, asking the audience to join him in exploring questions of “what made them like this?” and “does it matter what drove them, at the end of the day?”

And Dressrosa is one of the places where those questions hit the hardest for me, because one after the other, he shows us two children — both having experienced a fall from (different degrees of) privilege and into incredibly traumatic situations at a young age, both victimized for things they had no means of controlling as children. Law and Doflamingo are both shown as being radicalized by that trauma and loss of control, rejecting the gentler values their parents tried to instill in them because they reached a point of not being able to see a point in compassion, or hope for any justice but revenge.

In the present, Doflamingo hasn’t really known for a very long time who Law truly is, but in a sense, he wasn’t wrong when he saw himself in the way a younger Law reacted to the loss of his former life by wanting to lash out at the world. In that moment, there was something in Law that DID reflect his own wounded inner child’s rage, and in a strange way, he clung to the connection he felt with that worst possible version of Law long after Law had discarded it and moved on.

The question implied there is “what made them different in the end? What redeemed Law, and what (if anything) pushed Doflamingo past the point of redemption?”

While the second question (as is often the case) is up to a lot of interpretation, the answer (as with Big Mom in the following arc) seems to me to lean toward “while his choices were his own and he ultimately has responsibility for them, it’s also true that when he was young and vulnerable and poised to go down a path of destruction for himself and everyone around him, the adults in his life used his brokenness to their own selfish advantage, encouraging him along that path instead of teaching him better; whether or not it absolves him of ANYTHING at this point (and it certainly doesn’t absolve him of EVERYTHING), there is a tragedy in the fact that we will never see who he might have been if he wasn’t encouraged and enabled to embrace his worst impulses.”

That tragedy is a core part of Corazón’s story — Corazón’s big brother who never grew past fear and rage and clinging to the selfish comfort of the memory of how easy their past life of privilege had been, who thought he loved him on some level, and who on another level probably knew he never developed the capacity to truly love anyone but himself. I think it’s probably why Corazón didn’t pull the trigger fast enough, when it came down to it — even after seeing what a monster his brother had become, even after dedicating his whole adult life to stopping him from hurting even more people, part of him still remembered the wounded, frightened child in his big brother, and the times he’d tried in his selfish way to protect him. Something in him still had sympathy for that child, and wanted, if not to believe, then at least to hope (even against all evidence) that enough of him was still in there that HE wouldn’t pull the trigger without hesitation, either.

We know how that story ended. It was far too late for his kindness to save Doffy by then, if it had ever been possible — there might have been something left in him that could feel something akin to regret over killing Corazón after the fact, or at least greedily resent the loss of him, but if there was, it wasn’t able to stop him.

But in the end, Corazón’s kindness — his compassion, his determination to believe that even a deeply wounded, deeply flawed world was worth placing his hope in and fighting for, his unrelenting love — was worth it, because it saved Law. It was enough to save the bitter, broken child Doffy saw so much of himself in.

Corazón took Law away from the adults who would have enabled him the way Doffy was enabled at his age, and put in the hard work of showing him, day after day, that while his pain was worth acknowledging and sympathizing with, he was worth more than just revenge — he was worth love, and healing, and the fight for a world better than the one that had hurt him so badly. He taught him not a naïve hope like the one the adults in Flevance had tried to give him, but a stubborn, bitter hope, one that laughed and spat a bloody declaration of victory right in the face of the enemy even when their backs were to the wall, hope with its teeth bared in defiance of a world that Law already knew to be unjust and pitiless.

That is what made Law’s story end differently than Doflamingo’s, and how we ended up with the version of Law that we and the Strawhats get to know - a man determined to trudge on, in spite of his own pain and disillusionment, as the bearer of lights that would otherwise be lost, those left in his hands by people he saw (still sees) as having been kinder, gentler, more deserving than he was of survival. A man who covered his body with reminders of the love that dragged him kicking and screaming into the light when he’d given his own heart up for lost, who named his crew in honor of that love, who devoted the rest of his life to making sure that love and that sacrifice mattered. A man all too familiar with his own worst impulses, who struggles to see or to trust in his own kindness, but who has chosen to be a defender like Corazón was to him, to be a healer like his birth parents were to those around them, to be not a tyrant like his former mentor, but a leader who loves and respects the people who follow him, and who is genuinely cared for by them in return.

And, despite his own misgivings, despite not being someone who reads to strangers as warm or caring, he is kind. He has chosen, through the love that was shown to him, to be a genuinely good man — faithful and just to his friends and allies and those he’s seen wronged in front of him, unwilling to demand sacrifices of others that he wouldn’t give of himself, determined to fight back against the ugliness and apathy and cruelty of the world, to wrest every bit of hard-fought justice he can from life not only for himself, but for others who have been crushed down by life.

It’s thematically fitting that he specializes in surgery, even completely aside from how suited his power is for it. As a character, his narrative is fundamentally about having chosen to become someone who can offer the world a surgeon’s sort of kindness —not warmth or softness, usually, but the mercy of a sharp, careful blade, a steady hand, and a clear understanding that sometimes, you have to roll up your sleeves and do the ugly, messy work of cutting away what’s too damaged to save before the healing can begin.

[edgarallennope]

I absolutely cannot stop thinking about the version of Crowley we get to see from before the Fall. He smiles differently, he speaks differently. There's so much oppenness in his expression. He loves what he does! Is genuinly mournful when he learns it will be destroyed.

Compared to the Crowley we see after years of solitude, abuse and treading on eggshells around his bosses. Closed off, furious, suspicious. I do truly believe that after he was called back to Hell in the graveyard that the next time Aziraphale saw him was in 1862, when he asked, in that feeble, broken down voice, for Holy Water. He has spent so much of his existence in survival mode, is desperate to cling to the peace he's found.

Nina describes him as the "hard bitten one" who can't trust anyone ever again, and it sort of gobsmacked me that she could see that!!! that Neil Gaiman would have someone say that!!!!! But, of course, she is in many ways the same.

Whatever happened to Crowley after the Laudanum incident certainly wasn't a one-off. He was certainly punished again and again for deeds seen as too good. Enough so that when he is called kind, when he is called good, when he is thanked, his response is violent panic.

It's easy for us to believe that maybe he's always been like that. But no. Gaiman gave us incontestable proof that there was a time where Crowley smiled freely, where he looked with wide and joyful eyes at the parts of the world he created. The difference from that, to the numb and deeply lonely Crowley that we see with Job, the anxious, repressed and angry Crowley that we see in the present day, is one of the biggest tragedies of all.

[theerurishipper]

I feel like people really underestimate the importance of Dick being the first Robin. Like, reverse Robin AUs are interesting and such, but I just hope people realize that in the context of canon, they would never work. The reason Batman and Robin ever works is because the first Robin was Dick Grayson specifically. Because Bruce would never have taken in any child if Dick's tragedy hadn't specifically happened to mirror his own experience. Dick Grayson was the only one Bruce truly saw himself in first, because the fundamental event that defines them is the same. And he sees the opportunity to help someone the way he was never helped, to make sure that Dick didn't go down the dark path he did. So, my point here is that the only one Bruce actually made the choice to take in, the only one who could kickstart it all, is Dick Grayson, because he is the only one with whom Bruce could immediately empathize and connect with.

This never happened with any other Robin. He took in Jason because he missed Dick, he took in Tim because Tim forced himself into the role, he took in Steph because he was trying to make Tim come back to being Robin, and Dick made Damian Robin. Of course, he loved all of them, and they all have their unique relationships with Bruce that are very important and inform their characters, and he does need them too. But he specifically formed this connection with Dick that made Dick the only person he ever considered taking in. It took a very specific set of circumstances in Dick's backstory that made Bruce commit an impulse adoption that just isn't really present in any other Robin's story. And the reason Jason or Tim or Steph or Damian or anyone else whom Bruce has taken under his wing even got that chance is because of the work Dick Grayson put into Bruce Wayne.

Before Dick, Bruce was reckless and didn't care at all about himself, to the point of almost being borderline suicidal. He was more brutal, more violent, etc. The reason all this changed, is because of Dick Grayson specifically. He was the one with whom Bruce opened up, with whom Bruce was forced to grow up, to take responsibility and learn to take care of both Dick and himself. Dick, to Bruce was the one who brought "color to their [his and Alfred's] monochrome lives." Dick Grayson's specific brand of happiness and joy changed Bruce for the better. Dick gave Bruce hope. This is true for other Robins too, but only because they followed the precedent that Dick Grayson set, only because they slid into his role (they have their own interesting relationships with Bruce, but this specifically is from Dick that other Robins carried on. A legacy, if you will). Dick Grayson turned Bruce into the kind of man who would become a serial adopter.

Without his influence, without his precedent, there would be no Batfamily, because Bruce would never have gotten to the point where he would be able or willing to take in someone else and care for them properly (It took living through his trauma again to get him to take Dick in lmao). Hell, there would be no Batman because Bruce would have gotten himself killed a long time ago if Dick hadn't helped him learn self-care. Dick knows Bruce best, because he understands him on a fundamentally deeper level than anyone else in the world. And he's the only one who can make Bruce open up at his rawest, most downtrodden state. He is the only one who can give Bruce at his lowest that kind of hope. There is no Robin without Dick Grayson. It's literally a tribute to his parents, using their colors and the name his mother called him. He created that identity as a symbol of hope. He helped Bruce become the kind of man who could and would let other people that he had to care for into his life. Without Dick Grayson, you can simply forget about any other Robin or the Batfamily as a concept even existing.

[wolf-of-hearts]

HEARTHS FAVE SONIC SHIPS THIS TOOK SO LONG

Saw this trend & decided to do it as a drawing challenge instead of just listing them.

Explanations and Honorable Mentions (HM) under the cut c:

Firstly! i purposely made it that there was no character overlap, however i am a lite multi shipper so i will mention other ships that could of been there if i didnt avoid overlaps you'll also notice that

Silvaze will be an HM for a lot of them. what can i say, i love em c: Ship i loved at first sight (HM:Kunxouge / Silvaze)

Vectilla is just a nice ship, unconventional because you got this headphone wearing detective croc & a sweet stay at home mum rabbit, yet they get along & i feel if we saw more of em, they would have a deep trust for one another

Ship i initially disliked.

I fully credit punkinspice5 / punkinspicier on Twt for this, i originally didnt like shadouge but their art and stories convinced me and ive been sold ever since. another ship based on pure trust and have been through tragedies together for me to hoard

Comfort Ship (HM: Shadamy / Silvaze)

Sonamy is a ship that is just so pleasant to look at. especially their interactions in frontiers. its a feel-good ship for me, if i want to feel happy, its the one for me c:

Fave Popular Ship (HM: Shadamy / Sonamy / Sonadow)

Whispangle is a solid ship, lots of existing material to jump from with a really nice dynamic, i love opposites attract, the extroverted vs introverted vibe good. and as an angst fan, this page makes me very very happy & evil

Fav Rare pair

Surgolin is an uncommon ship, i dont see a lot of love for it but i truely think Lanolin is the only one who can out-bitch Surge in a way that actually gets her to listen. and i love two boss ass bitches in love what can i say

Controversial ship

I love mephinite /cause/ of how unhealthy & fucked up it would be.Inifinite who has lost everything & has a desire to prove himself, gets picked up by an entity who promises everything he wants, if he is willing to follow his word. also vengeance against shadow

First OTP

When i was a kid on the internet for the first time, watching Sonic X before school. Tailsmo is the ship i was always looking up. I liked the complementary vibe of Engineer with machines vs Literal plant with planets. Industry vs Nature, but happy and cute (mostly)

Current OTP

where do i start? Silvaze is only the ship i have been non stop drawing for the past few months. I love the deep trust, the wordless communication, the uncanny familiarity & the thematic strength. narratively it is one of the most facinating relationships.

they truly inspire me to create. Silver and Blaze being separated by ACTUAL time & space yet Fate itself seems to bend over backwards to keep putting them together. Cosmically bonded through thick and thin.

Thematically so interesting. to the point where i wanted to do a series of drawings based on their themes. Sun vs Moon, Time vs Space, Offense vs Defense, Gold vs Silver, Day vs Night, Emotion vs Logic, Song vs Dance (a hc one but im count it)

I could go on forever so i stop here

[night-night-stories-before-bed]

Drowning his sorrow until he forget

Warning ⚠️; Alcohol abuse, grief, Shanks getting drunk Spoiler for Red

Pairing; Shanks/Male!Reader

Summary; After such tragedy, Shank came to your island, to your bar in the hope of forgetting. You can only watch him lose himself in your bottles as he denies the reality. You can do nothing, but watch and listen.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The rain fell heavily against the window and the wind howled outside. As you dried your glasses, you watched the trees bend with each blow from the wind, wondering if they would break. Sometimes, lightning would strike, illuminating the sky before thunder would follow and you'd feel its rumble deep in your chest.

For a moment, you wondered if the sky was crying, grieving someone.

But it was ridiculous. The sky was just the sky, it had no feeling and no one would be important enough for it to cry. Yet, you felt a heaviness on your shoulders. Something had happened and you just didn't know what yet.

Your eyes fell on the Den Den Mushi and your mind turned to Shanks. It had been a while since you had seen him. Your lover, your boyfriend… he was something more, something that had no word. Yes, it had been a while since the last time he had come to see you.

Maybe you should give him a call, make sure everything was alright?

You didn't had to. The door to your pub opened abruptly even if it was locked. You turned your head, ready to curse and throw the intruder out only to be met with Shanks. The man stood tall, soaked to the bone. For the first time, you felt fear looking at him. His eyes were dead, empty and you knew, you just knew something bad had happened.

- “Shanks?” Your voice shook as you stepped from behind the counter and walked up to him. “What…”

- “I need a drink. The strongest you got.” He replied, walking pass you as if he didn't truly see you.

You blinked and turned to watch him sat at the counter, head low. You looked outside, expecting the rest of the crew, but there was no one else. You closed the door and went to serve Shanks.

Drink after drink, Shanks emptied your bottles with no sign of the alcohol affecting him. You tried to talk, make him tell you what happened, but the red-haired man stayed quiet. At some point, you took his wrist in your hand and squeezed it. Shanks’ empty eyes looked at you, through you.

- “Shanks, what happened?” You asked slowly, thumb drawing circles on his skin. “Talk to me, you worry me right now.”

- “Nothing. Nothing happened.” Shanks told you, but there was sadness in the emptiness of his voice.

- “Clearly, something did happen. Is the crew alright?”

- “They are all fine.”

You grew frustrated but said nothing. Whatever happened, it impacted Shanks like nothing else before, but if it wasn't the crew who was it? Luffy? No, if something had happened to him you would know, every papers, everyone would be talking about.

It wasn't Ace or White Beard, the anniversary of their death wasn't close.

Besides you and Luffy, Shanks didn't had anyone else…

His daughter.

Uta.

You felt your blood turn to ice at the thought of something happening to his daughter. She was his treasure and he did and sacrificed so much for her. You couldn't imagine a world were she wasn't there even if she must be angry at him.

Your eyes met Shanks’ and he looked down on his drink before he drank it all in one gulp.

Yes. Something had happened to Uta.

- “Uta… its Uta isn't it?”

Under your fingers, you felt him tensing up. It wasn't flesh under your touch, but stone. Shanks’ eyes turned dark, darker than you ever saw, even if it only lasted for a second before sadness replaced it, then emptiness again. He shook his head and freed his wrist from your grip as he took the bottle and drank from it.

- “Uta is fine. She is fine… she’s always going to be fine.” Shanks mumbled like a broken disk.

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, resting your chin against his head and closed your eyes. You had no words, not knowing what to say anymore. His reaction was all you needed to know you were right, but his made it impossible to know just how bad the situation was.

Was Uta alive?

Was she... dead?

In your embrace, you felt Shanks relax, melt even as he rested his head against your chest. You passed your fingers through his hair, gently scratching his scalp. And for hours you stayed like that, Shanks drinking in your arms and you just cuddling him, trying to make him feel better.

As he got drunker Shanks began reminiscing about the past. Like the day he found Uta, the same way Roger had found him. His first meeting with Luffy and the day he introduced Uta to him. The first time she sang, the day she ate her devil fruit and all the little things he was proud of her.

You felt his shoulders shake before you realized he was crying. You held him tighter, nuzzling your nose in his hair and closed your eyes, just letting him talk. Shanks let go of the bottle he was drinking, his hand finding your arm and he squeezed it, hard. Hard enough that you knew he would leave a mark.

- “It's my fault. Always my fault. I just fuck up all the time and hurt her when I just want to protect her.” Shanks whispered, voice breaking through his sobs.

You held him tighter, hands clenching at his clothes. He buried his face in the crook of your shoulder, now crying silently and you knew. You just knew.

Uta was no longer alive and, somehow, Shanks was part of the reason.

You didn't had to ask how or what happened to her, Shanks told you himself. He explained about what she did, what she wanted to do and how she ate that damned mushroom that prevented her from sleeping. She had refused the antidote and broke the bottle.

A shiver ran down your spine at the thought of sweet Uta doing all that, plunging people in a deep sleep and controlling them with her singing. It was horrifying and so much unlike her. But it had been years since you last saw your stepdaughter after all. People change as they grow up.

But Uta?

You looked down, taking in the poor state in which Shanks was. Empty bottles surrounded the both of you and your reserve was now almost completely empty, but you didn't care. You brushed your fingers in his hair and Shanks looked up at you, eyes as red as his hair and puffy.

- “It wasn't your fault, Shanks. Uta was a grown woman, she knew better. She was old enough to make her choices.” You said, trying to keep your voice soft. Shanks tried to speak, but you put a finger on his lips to keep him quiet. “You made your choices and they had consequences, yes, but they didn't put her in danger. You kept her safe, safe away from the Gorosei and the World Government, but also from your enemies. Should you have told her the truth? Maybe, but she was a small child Shanks. She would have taken it like she was a monster.”

Your fingers brushed his lips and cheek and Shanks nuzzled his face in your hand. You stroke his cheek with your thumb, resting your forehead against his as he closed his eyes.

- “I am sorry. So, so sorry my love for what happened to her, but you did your best. You are a good dad.” You said, lips brushing against his. “At last, in the end, she forgave you. She loved you as much as you loved her.”

Tears rolled down his cheeks and you dried them. Seeing Shanks so sad, so broken, you hated it. You wanted to wrap him in a warm blanket and keep him in your arms forever. But you couldn't shield him from the pain of losing his child. You could only offer him support.

You cupped his face in your hands and kissed him. Shanks wrapped his arm around you, hand squeezing your hip.

- “C’mon. Enough drinking for now, because I don't have much left for you. Let's get you a warm bath, you are in need of it.”

Shanks nodded and didn't resist when you led him upstairs. You made sure the water was hotter than warm, pouring in oils and bubbles for him to relax. You helped Shanks in after undressing him, your fingers brushing over some bruises as he sat in the bath.

His expression was still empty, broken and you knew it would be a long journey for him to get better. You thought about closing the pub and following him on his adventures. Maybe by being by his side you could help him.

You took your time washing Shanks’ body and hair. All that time, your lover said nothing and just looked down. His body was tense, muscles hard as if he was ready to bounce and fight, but there was no danger. You massaged his shoulders and slowly, Shanks relaxed once again.

You gave more attention to his missing arm, massaging what was left of it. Your fingers traced the scars and you remembered the day he came to you, hiding it as if you would think less of him. You had, of course, been horrified at first, thinking something horrible had happened. But when he told you the story, you had only laughed.

As you massaged what was left of his arm, Shanks turned his head and looked at you. He had a small but soft smile on his lips as if he was amused. You looked at him, chuckling.

- “What?” You asked with a chuckle

- “Sometimes I feel like you love that arm more than me.” He said, drunk, but clearly amused.

You flicked his forehead and laughed.

- “Its part of you, you idiot. Of course, I love it as much as I love you.” You replied, caressing his neck.

Getting Shanks out of the bath proved to be one hell of a task. He was drunker than earlier, the alcohol finally catching with him, meaning he was as graceful as a tree rolling down a hill and so limp it was like holding a plastic bag full of water.

But you managed to dry him up and get him to bed. You wrapped Shanks like a sad burrito in warm blankets before laying down next to him. Shanks had closed his eyes, but you could tell he was still awake.

- “I am not going anywhere.” You whispered, fingers brushing his face. “Give me a few days to close the pub and I’ll follow you.”

That got Shanks attention and he opened his eyes. They were clouded by alcohol, but also hopeful. You smiled, fingers brushing his lips as he spoke softly.

- “Really?”

- “Yeah. You, me, the crew… up for a new adventure. Been years since I took off, you'll have to give me some slack and a place in your bed.”

He laughed. A true laugh coming from deep in his chest as he nodded. Pulling his good arm out of the burrito, he took your hand and you squeezed it gently.

His heart and soul were broken, but you were hopeful he would get better soon. You fell asleep at the same time as him, knowing you made the right choice.

[heartfullofleeches]

Childhood best friend Darling and Bugman always seems like such a silly concept to me cause stuff like this can happen-

Darling drunkenly calling Bugman sobbing and rambling about how during their night out they saw a bug crawling on their arm and killed it in a panic only to realize what they’d done and feel horrible about it so now they’re begging Bugman for forgiveness and to not hate them forever

Darling taking the time out of their night to apologize and legitimately feel remorse, even if they are under the influence, is exactly why Bugman forgives them and falls a little deeper in the love with them everytime. Childhood Bestie Darling was terrified and I mean terrified of bugs as a kid - While they're frightened, Darling is aware and respects how important insects are to Bug. They won't be the first to touch one, but they also aren't the type of person to kill on sight and for Bugman that speaks volumes.

-

"So I was cleaning out my closet the other day and the biggest spider I've ever seen crawled out some boxes. I'm telling you it was huge!"

"Gross! Did you kill it?"

"What else was I supposed to do? Just let it walk all around my house until it decided to bite me?"

They aren't mad. It's typical for people to fear what they don't understand. That poor creature was probably more terrified than that human - finding a safe home just for it to be ripped from you in the most ruthless way. Bugman wasn't the type to shed a tear over someone they've never met, yet a prickly sensation prods at the corners of their eyes.

Such a tragedy....

-

"Bug?...."

A call? At this hour? Something must be wrong.. As Bugman wiggles their other arm free of their sleep bag, your voice picks up over the phone again.

"It was an accident, I swear... I felt something on my arm and I just - reacted. I, uh, put the body in a napkin. We can have a funeral for it or you can add it to your collection. I can't really tell what it is, but I'm sure you know. You know everything about bugs.."

Is this... Are you calling them because you killed a bug? Any resemblance of sleep clinging to Bug was thoroughly shaken off by the tiny catch in your voice. Are you crying as well? Over a bug?

"I'll be there shortly. Please refrain from shedding tears over something so small."

"But you care about them, Bug!- And I care about you!"

"You ..do?" In all your years together, the notion that you truly care about them and their interests never fails to leave them speechless. You despise bugs. Exposure therapy in controlled environments with their pets has help some, but you still tense up when you see one. You hate bugs, but you love Bug.

"Is it alright if I stay the night when I come by?"

A small chuckle cut through your tiny sniffles. "Why wouldn't it be, Bug?"

Bugman has never put in their shoes and been out the front door quicker.