#yet he’s also the most isolated

[leo-kinnie]

Thinking abt how Sandro sits in a very childish way (legs crossed rocking back and forth, open, vulnerable) and how Sand (carefree) sits with his knees up to his chin, sometimes hiding his face IN his knees, and wraps his arms around his legs. Protected. Cautious. An attempt at comfort.

Thinking abt how that shows their personalities and relationships. Thinking so badly abt my sons.

[wonder-worker]

"As for the government of the kingdom, [Edward V] had complete confidence in the peers of realm and the queen."

"According to the Crowland continuator, [Elizabeth Woodville] seems to have taken the king's place in listening to his council immediately after Edward IV's death. It does appear that she expected to have some role in her son's kingship, and the Crowland continuator’s report of the letters sent to her by [Richard of Gloucester] indicates that she had good reason to expect to be able to work with him and the other councillors: 'the duke of Gloucester wrote the most pleasant letters to console the queen; he promised to come and offer submission, fealty and all that was due from him to his lord and king, Edward V, the first-born son of his brother the dead king and the queen'."

"[However], in what was Gloucester's first coup, Edward V was separated from his household and Woodville advisors. When the young king questioned the move, Buckingham was reported to have told the boy 'It is not in the business of women but men to govern kingdoms'. The blunt remark referred to the authority of Elizabeth Woodville as queen and the power she must have anticipated within the new political climate left by Edward IV's sudden death [...] While the veracity of this scene is questionable*, the words attributed to the duke no doubt seemed plausible to Dominic Mancini who believed they exemplified the popular sentiment held by men [...]."

-Dominic Mancini, The Usurpation of Richard the Third / J.L. Laynesmith, The Last Medieval Queens: English Queenship 1445-1503 / Alexander R. Brondarbit, Power Brokers and the Yorkist State, 1461-1485

*One of Mancini's key sources seems to have been Edward V's own doctor, John Argentine, who attended to him in the Tower. It's very likely that he was the one who recounted this scene to Mancini, which suggests that it should probably be considered more credible than not.

[endiness]

tbh one of the things that makes me think that roman might kill himself is i feel like the show's just gonna give everyone the worst, most tragic, pyrrhic victory ending and i feel like roman's death would do that. 'cause right now he's really the glue holding the family together. he’s the one who most wants them to be a family and is actively trying to get them to be one and he’s the one who genuinely keeps reaching out. and, like. he's kendall and shiv's partner and he’s their teammate but he's also their co-conspirator when they're working against the other and he’s their go-between and kendall and shiv will also unite to work against him and he's the main point of contact with connor and the one to stand up for him when kendall and shiv want to exclude him. he's the center point of those connections. he’s the heart. and if roman dies, and if he does so in a way where they'd likely not only blame themselves but each other as well (and especially because they did in some way contribute to roman’s declining mental health for their own professional benefit, which is kind of already happening), i can see that irrevocably splintering the family in a way that logan's death hasn't. and i feel like something as tragic as that is what the show'll end up doing. (especially if the business side of all their lives does actually end up going well. like, maybe they’ll all to varying degrees ‘win’ but at what cost and was it really worth it in the end?) (it wasn’t but now it’s too late to go back.)

[mirror-to-the-past]

Xingqiu fans are dining excellently with all the references to him and lore regarding the Guhua Clan being spotlighted via Chenyu Vale's "A Wangshan Walk to Remember." The comparisons that can be made between Xingqiu and his predecessors is also very fascinating...

The Grand Master Guhua truly did live out the life of idealized dignity and transparency just as Xingqiu desires for himself. There's something very touching and heartbreaking about the fact that Guhua's life was one deemed heroic, but he was only able to have his legacy carried on by Boxuan who cast his own name aside to exhalt the name of the deceased Guhua.

And then right after briefly recounting the life and works of Master Guhua, Wen brings up Xingqiu, reemphasizing the lofty ideal/hope that he can respark the dying flame of the Guhua (no pressure) and potentially act as a parallel to the founder of the art himself. It's made all the more poignant, considering that we could easily draw the connection that Chongyun could be considered Xingqiu's potential Boxuan equivalent, a fellow young practitioner of martial arts who acts as a peer and supporter of Xingqiu's arts (although lets hope Xingqiu doesn't die preemptively like Guhua did).

I don't have snippets of the dialogue for it or screenshots, but those books in the archive room were just so lovely to see. The fact that many of the old disciples of Guhua were just nerds like Xingqiu and enamored with wuxia novels, shelving their discussions of them among all of the records they held in their library was so sweet.

Additionally, the person who invented the Rain Cutter technique that Xingqiu uses now was the one involved with the hidden Wangshan chambers that had the really forboding message about the heavens rejecting humanity and whatnot... very mysterious stuff.

Additionally, those 5 swords scattered around Chenyu Vale, the first of which you find at the outskirts of the Wangshan Chamber....while not necessarily all individuals of the Guhua Clan, it made me oddly emotional to see how the years that went by, depicted by each sword's material- from a blade to a crude sword shaped stick- and yet they all had in common a very poetic observation of their goals and the world about them that could easily flow as a singular nature/travelling-based poem. And that spirit of poetry intertwined with swordsmanship flourishing across the ages still continues on with this one dorky rich boy. It's honestly wonderful worldbuilding, that through environmental storytelling and the mere mentions of a character who was never even present for the entirety of the world quest, all of these stories and records of Guhua disciples and swordsmen before him tell me all I need to know about Xingqiu as a character, too.

[iced-coffeebean]

Need a swap AU or a wake up and go WOAH WHY IS HE A CHILD, DO I HAVE TO ADULT NOW- AU where SJ is the one that raises Mol and wonders what happened for Mol to start "acting out" the way he does as an adult and then starts seeing the slow wave of factors hit him. Bro tries to see if he could change him to see if he can be less self-conscious about things but it just blows up in his face and Mol ends up the same, if not WORSE.

I like to think SJ thinks he's grown af due to older physical age but we need to remember that he is quite literally a FETUS compared to everyone else. He doesn't know what the fuck he's doing aside from what he's learned from his boss, Molossia's boss, and Mol.

[solannecontinuum]

Oh, hey, Wayne. It's been a little while, hasn't it?

still handsome as ever, I see.

Works in progress. I really liked the sketch, so I included that, also! My linework is beginning to take shape thanks to a Transformers How-to-Draw book I read back in August (in regards to the black shadows).

Sincerest thank you to Pinterest for always saving my rear when it comes to finding more unique poses!

[gummycube]

Two ideas for what Hollis' once-mentioned husband looks like... I'm calling him Rupert

[byfulcrums]

Seeing so many people putting Azula and Zuko against each other bothers me a lot, because that's literally what Ozai did. How can you guys not see that? It's canon

Azula and Zuko were both terrible to eachother in multiple occasions (edit: actually, Azula was terrible to Zuko, but I didn't wanna get jumped by Azula stans so I made it seem like they were both bad. Sorry about that and thanks for correcting me), but they're both traumatized children fighting a war that started before they were even born. The war made them that way. Ozai made them that way

Azula was horrible to Zuko for most of his life, and that's canon. You can't deny it. But at the same time, it MOSTLY wasn't her fault

So, we know how Ozai clearly liked Azula more than Zuko did. But why is this? Zuko may not be as good as Azula in terms of bending, but he's not a bad bender. Ozai likes Azula more (not loves; likes) because she acts the way he wants her to act. She's cold, mean, calculating, manipulative and supports the Fire Nation. Zuko is nice, he asks too many questions, struggles with his emotions and can't seem to stfu (I know I sound mean saying that but that's literally canon. That boy cannot, for the love of god, shut his fucking mouth up)

Ozai made Azula be more like him. Zuko gets his kindness from his mother

And on the topic of Ursa, she canonically loves both of her children, even if she prefers Zuko due to him being less like their abuser. We never see her calling Azula a monster, besides of the scene where she says “What is wrong with that child?” OUTSIDE OF HEARING RANGE and right after Azula did something Bad™ (forgot what it was sorry). This is why I believe that Ursa never directly told Azula she feared her: Ozai told her she did. Ozai spent a lot more time with Azula than he did with Zuko, which was very easily an opportunity to poison her mind even more. And how did he do this?

By telling her everyone hated her.

He isolated her, made her cold and unforgiving, so that she wouldn't have any “weaknesses” like Zuko did. He used her as a means to abuse Zuko. He told her Zuko and Ursa were weak and that they both feared and hated her

Zuko would be right to be angry at Azula for treating him the way she did,but he still should know (and he DOES know, it was literally the main theme of his redemption arc; realizing that his abuser was the one at fault and not him) that the one at fault was Ozai. Same with Azula; it wasn't Zuko's fault nor Ursa's, Ozai is the one that willingly chose to destroy so many people's lives because he wanted power

And I'm pretty sure Zuko and Azula don't hate eachother like many people believe them to do. No, they love eachother, but ofc Ozai fucking ruined their relationship bc he ruins EVERYTHING

Zuko is sad that their relationship turned out to be that way. Zuko wants them to be better, to do better. Zuko wants them to be happy. But Zuko has also grown up with a version of Azula that could never make mistakes and that was mean af. Zuko won't be able to have a perfectly healthy relationship with his sister ever because of how he was made to think of Azula as perfect, and because Azula was made to think of him as weak

So, please, don't pit them against eachother. Don't compare the abuse they went through (seriously. Doing that is disgusting). Don't bring one of them down to make the other look like a little angel that does nothing wrong. They already suffer because of that enough in canon. Leave my babies alone

[sinecosinewheel]

i finished reading the 489 page transformers essay just now and i watched the first three movies over the last couple days. cinematic garbage. but it compels me

[sullyeduc5103blog]

Last, but not least!

Group 6: Boosting Student Motivation - Bola & Marie

Bola and Marie wrapped up our student-led presentations with a bang! Their presentation covered some tools to make our classrooms more engaging that made educational use of popular technology applications. From Duolingo to Minecraft, they expertly showed us how to make applications work for us in the education system, which again aligns with the Five Pillars of Online Pedagogy, which calls upon us to allow students to develop mastery of tools and use what they know to demonstrate learning.

I often do not like breakout rooms. Forced discussions often end up with me doing most of the work, usually as the only one with their video and audio on. It is more isolating than collaborating. However, the breakout room I was in was likely the most helpful group I have had yet. We were tasked with discussing Duolingo, and I expressed that my knowledge extended only so far as my kids' obsession with maintaining their streak. This opened the dialogue for others to share that they did not use it, and they asked questions about my children. I shared that it is motivating; they like to compete, and most of our family fights are over, one or more needing to “Save my Streak!!!!” precisely at bedtime. A classmate asked if I had noticed an improvement in oral language acquisition, and I shared a story with them. My wife has taken our kids to her school, where someone who speaks Spanish would be. She thought they could try out their knowledge, and while they were great at their “canned” phrases, moving beyond the common conversational phrases was unsuccessful. The learning extended as far as knowledge about words and memorized phrases. A classmate shared that his friend was obsessed with the platform and had a streak 4 times the length the streak my kids had, and said he also had limited ability in open dialogue format. Fun fact: when I shared this with my teenage son, he vehemently denied it and said he could speak fluently to anyone. I laughed. Not my best parenting moment, but honestly, his viewpoint is inaccurate.

We took our discussion back to the larger class, and we all echoed the same sentiment. These tools are great as additional educational components but cannot replace learning. They are great for precisely the topic of this presentation - Boosting Student Motivation. They cannot take the place of education.

[babycharmander]

(BOOK OF BILL SPOILERS)

I just finished reading The Book of Bill and I am kindof losing my mind over some of this stuff.

I had wondered if Alex Hirsch might make Bill sympathetic in some way and oh boy I was not expecting him to do it so successfully (and without cheapening Bill's character).

So, we learn that Bill was born into a 2D world... as a mutant who can see into the third dimension. He claims he was absolutely loved by all, but when talking about his powers, he mentions under Pyrokinesis:

"Cipher, Cipher, he's insane / Starting fires with his brain." The kids in grade school could be so cruel. But where are they now, huh? WHERE ARE THEY NOW?

So probably not quite as liked as he was letting on. To add to that, there's the silly straw page, which looks like silly nonsense until you decipher some of the codes:

"EYE DOCTOR OF A DIFFERENT KIND / WHO WANTS TO MAKE HIS PATIENTS BLIND" "THE DOCTOR SAYS / THREE SIPS A DAY / WILL MAKE THE VISIONS / GO AWAY"

I wasn't sure what this meant until I saw someone point out... he was seeing a third dimension that no one else could see. His parents probably took him to the eye doctor to try to "fix" him. Which, speaking of his eye doctor, the coded message in the section about human eyeballs says something interesting:

"MY OPTOMETRIST NEVER SAW IT COMING"

It could be a joke given beforehand he's talking about dissecting a human eye, but given the previous hints of medical abuse, I wouldn't put it past him that he tried to get revenge on his eye doctor.

Oh yeah and the whole thing about him setting his entire dimension on fire? Yeah it turns out it was entirely a mistake (he just wanted everyone to understand the third dimension he was seeing so they could be free of only two dimensions), he was so traumatized by it he blacks out when trying to recall it. He deeply, deeply regrets it, and...

"What? Your ENTIRE home dimension? destroyed? How? By what?" Bill looked distant, more distant than I'd ever seen him. "By a monster."

He sees himself as a monster.

And yet, he's not some innocent, misunderstood being. He still revels in causing pain and chaos. He's terrible in general, but becomes incredibly abusive toward Ford.

"YOU'RE MY PROPERTY. DON'T FORGET IT. The hillbilly abandoned you, your father won't want you returning without millions, you have no friends, and if you died out here in the snow, who would even miss you?"

Which... speaking of him and Ford...

Yes, yes, I know people ship them. But like, whether you see their relationship as romantic or platonic (I see it as the latter), there's some interesting parallels to be made here.

Both Bill and Ford are mutants who were mocked for their being different. (Bill was not physically a mutant, as far as we know, but more in the sense of him having vision stronger than that of everyone else in his dimension, and also having special powers. And he does describe himself as a mutant.) Both became social outcasts, separated from their families but still haunted by them (Ford seeing commercials of Stan on TV and running across old photos of him and his brother, Bill being haunted by his family in some form). Neither could return home for one reason or another. Both more powerful than their peers (Ford intellectually, Bill in terms of actual powers). Both of them isolated and alone. (Yes, Bill does have the Henchmaniacs, but they seem like shallow friends, and only really seem to follow him out of a desire to have a place to party.)

Ford was not aware of most of this, aside from knowing that Bill could not go home because his dimension was destroyed. But Bill absolutely saw himself in Ford. There was no other person he tried to use whom he felt a stronger connection to.

And he actually seems to care about Ford--he actually gave him a birthday present, and when Ford didn't like it, he decided to get drunk and party with him instead to make up for it.

And then when Ford realizes what Bill's plan actually is and refuses to go along with it, and fights back no matter what Bill does, Bill completely breaks down.

After living for trillions of years, he met someone who was like him, and that person rejected him.

He goes berserk, wreaking havoc, being caught by the dimensional authority that he's been taunting for most of his life.

And then after dying and being cast out of hell for being too annoying, he winds up faced with the Axolotl, who sends him to therapy, where he continues to break down further, sending out the book in a desperate attempt to find someone, anyone who will help him break loose and wreak havoc once again.

"You have no friends, and if you died ... who would even miss you?"

I don't know, Bill. Who would even miss you?

In short,

[ID: The front and back of one of Bill's Valentines cards. On the front is a black void with Bill Cipher lying down without his hat, gazing blankly upwards, with the text "I DON'T WANT TO DIE ALONE" above him. On the back is a simple white "TO/FROM" in red, with a red outline illustration of Bill spontaneously growing a mouth and eating a realistic, bloody heart. /end ID]

[usuallydyinginside]

"No One Mourns the Wicked" is about Glinda, not Elphaba

Okay, but hear me out. Wicked songs are so good at saying one thing and meaning something entirely different once you have more context. For instance, "I'm Not That Girl" is Elphaba singing about Glinda initially, then in Act 2 flips to Glinda singing about Elphaba. Because it turns out, Elphaba IS that girl and Glinda is not. When we meet the Wizard, he sings about how he always wanted to be a father. When you get to Act 2, you get the sad little reprise in the background music as he realizes that WHOOPS, he was one and he destroyed his only kid. "Defying Gravity" starts with "I hope you're happy" in the sarcastic sense and ends with them both using the same phrase to genuinely wish one another well.

"Thank Goodness" is set up as a cheerful engagement song where Glinda genuinely means "thank goodness for how great my life is" and ends in a place where she's insisting that she IS happy even as she realizes her engagement is a sham, her best friend is gone, and she's left with the Wizard and Madame M, who she doesn't even like.

You get the picture.

Basically, the whole musical is about subverting what you expect, starting with the base premise of "what if the Wicked Witch was the hero of the story" and digging in from there.

Honestly, I'd never paid much attention to the first song. It's a good opener, sets things up well, but it has some big competition with later songs. However, in the movie the staging and camera choices made me really notice it for the first time. Because you know what? Someone DID pay attention to that song, and you can really really tell.

For those who need a refresher, the lyrics to the chorus Glinda sings are: And Goodness knows The Wicked's lives are lonely Goodness knows The Wicked die alone It just shows when you're Wicked You're left only On your own I was always so busy noticing Glinda's grief over thinking Elphaba was genuinely dead that I failed to notice Glinda's grief over her OWN fate. The movie did such a good job with this because every time we get to the pink lines about being alone, Glinda IS alone. She is standing apart from the crowd who adores her. Standing above them. Standing at the center of a bunch of people yet still, isolated.

Because in the end, we know that Elphaba DIDN'T die alone. We know she wasn't on her own. We know her life WASN'T lonely ultimately. She had her flying monkey and animal friends. She had Fiyero.

And who does Glinda have?

Everyone, but realistically, no one. She is an ideal, not a person to most of Oz, just as much as Elphaba has become the token scapegoat. Where Elphaba is the "Wicked Witch," Glinda is "Glinda the Good Witch" - she is literally supposed to be the embodiment of goodness.

And what does Glinda have at the end of this whole thing (as of this song at least)? A disastrous end to her engagement, the death of her best friend, a sorceress who has hated her, demeaned her, and dismissed her from the start, and a con man who is also just a symbol more than a person.

I think it really hit me when Glinda throws the fire on the giant effigy of Elphaba. Ariana's acting was SO good there, because I'd expected us to see that private moment of horror or regret. What I didn't expect was the sort of determined and almost angry glare at the effigy.

But it makes sense. At this point, Glinda has realized that she lost everything and everyone she actually cared about.

As she so aptly puts it in "Thank Goodness"...

Though it is, I admit The tiniest bit Unlike I anticipated. But I couldn't be happier, Simply couldn't be happier, Well, not "simply" 'Cause getting your dreams It's strange, but it seems A little, well, complicated.

There's a kind of a sort of cost. There's a couple of things get lost. There are bridges you cross You didn't know you crossed Until you've crossed!

And if that joy, that thrill Doesn't thrill like you think it will Still-- With this perfect finale, The cheers and the ballyhoo! Who wouldn't be happier? So I couldn't be happier, Because happy is what happens When all your dreams come true.

Well, isn't it?

Happy is what happens when you're dreams come true.

It's not Elphaba's fault that Glinda has ended up this way. Glinda chose it every step of the way. Yet, if Glinda had never met Elphaba, (if she'd never known her, you could say), she might have stayed shallow and vain. She might never have been challenged to look deeper and realize how empty it all felt.

So as Glinda sings "No One Mourns the Wicked," she realizes that even if the Munchkins are singing about the "Wicked Witch," she's not.

She's singing about herself.

The one who traded her morals, friendship, and love for a taste of the admiration and power over those who don't really know her. The one who was so worried about being likable that she herself doesn't like who she's become.

Even after she makes things better for Oz and herself by sending the wizard away and getting rid of Madame M, it just leaves Glinda by herself as the leader and source of goodness in Oz. It leaves her on a pedestal she can never step off of.

It leaves her lonely.

Entirely alone.

[twisted-broth]

Scarlet End

Mr Scarletta x Reader

(Anything in bold is in the other world language)

How did you end up here? In those apartments? In this other world? Could it really all have been fate?

No. It was all his fault. Ever since you spilt blood on his property, you were in the palm of his hand. He toyed with your reality like it was all just a game to him. You supposed that likely wasn't far from the truth.

How many days had you been running? Every corner you turned brought you face to face with a new monster, difficult to distinguish between friend or foe. Although you suppose you probably didn't look much better at this point. Blood slipped through the cracks of your raincoat, staining the white dress underneath as you fell to your knees. You were so tired. Even if you could keep running, where would you go? All you could see for miles was an ocean of red. And your hunter didn't suffer the same exhaustion you did.

Shade falls over you. Although now that you think about it, was there ever a light source to begin with? Either way, you don't have to raise your head to know that a red umbrella was covering you. Not to mention the telltale static that always managed to make your teeth throb.

He says something incomprehensible.

No, you know this one. It's the same thing he asks for every time he sees you.

"Give name?"

You finally raise your head to look at him. His red hair covered most of his face, but you could still catch a glimpse of his haunting eyes staring at you, unblinking.

You clumsily utter out what you think is the equivalent of "Why?"

"Me like you. You give name, me ??? you."

What was that word again? It was one Mr Crawling used often. Something like... protect.

"Protect you."

Could he really protect you? Judging by the reactions of everyone else here, you were under the impression that he was the one you needed protection from. The voice on the telephone seemed adamant that you not tell anyone your name. But could you really trust that voice? They hadn't led you astray yet.

They also said you would have to make a choice.

All things considered, this is Mr Scarletta's world. Either you refuse and keep running for the rest of your life, or you join Scarletta in his reign of terror. Your crowbar digs into your shoulder, reminding you of your past. When you stop to think about it, you're not so different from Scarletta. Maybe you're even worse.

"Name... Y/n."

His eerie smile grew more than you thought was possible.

"Y/n." He repeats.

His hand is cold and rubbery, not unlike a corpse, as he takes your own. The fact that he was incorporeal when you swung your crowbar at him a few minutes ago nags at the bag of your mind. Your brow creases in annoyance, but if Scarletta notices he doesn't say anything. It really was true that this world was stacked against you.

Scarletta rises to his full height, pulling you up with him. It takes a great deal of effort to force your aching muscles to stretch once more, and your knees nearly buckle again. Amidst your struggle to right yourself, he hands you his umbrella, much to your confusion. Before you can ask why, he scoops you into his arms bridal style. You supposed this was his way of showing that he cared.

Under the cover of the red umbrella, you feel isolated from the rest of the world. Even if that world was only a wasteland of red for right now. Fear grips your throat as you meet his awful eyes. They were even worse up close. Even now, having gotten what he wanted, his expression seemed the same as always. Being so close, the static was almost deafening as it continued to assault your ears. Perhaps these were all traits that you would grow used to in time.

"Let's go."

[spicymancer]

If the Actirangers are the Five Man Band trope, what roles would they all fill? Obviously Blue is the Big Guy, and I feel like Grey is the Lancer. (Haha) But who would everyone else be?

(If you don’t know what I’m talking about, much apologies and I highly recommend Overly Sarcastic Productions’ video on the five man band)

"You merely adopted the TVTropes; I was born in it, molded by it...!"

*cough* Sorry yes, I am familiar! The Actirangers obviously follow the Super Sentai / Power Rangers archetypes but if we were to slot them into classic tropes:

Red: Leader Red is probably the simplest member of the gang and the one who most reflects his archetypical role as the Paragon, generically good heroic guy. A Captain America-esque baseball captain figure in the team. I should probably flesh him out more tbh. Green: Lancer (loyal) / Smart Guy Green is Red's second in command, and she's more sardonic in contrast to Red's earnest character. Green is heavily inspired by Garrus from Mass Effect and Zoe from Firefly. A steady, focused and competent lieutenant. Blue: Big Guy / The Heart Blue is leaning more into the gentle-giant style big guy, befitting a Hockey Goalie. Probably no small amount of Grin from The Mighty Ducks cartoon and Broadway from Gargoyles. I think he's the kind of person who's often underestimated. His kindness makes people assume he's foolish, and his gentleness makes people assume he's soft. And he can be a soft fool, it's only when he wants to be.

Pink: Lancer (foil) / Token Evil Teammate Pink is probably the character I center most of my own mental energy around. "Token Evil Teammate" is probably a little excessive, but she's probably the Ranger who's most willing to fight hard and is the meanest of the group in general. She's rich, angry, and working on it. She's the sort of person who struggles with loneliness even when surrounded by people who care about her due to her own self-isolating mental baggage. Her story (insofar as the Actirangers have a story) is about working through that. Yellow: Plucky Comic Relief / The Heart Yellow is just having a good time. She's the sort of friend who doesn't really occupy a specific role in the group but is happy to support anything that needs doing. She isn't the type to worry overmuch about the future and firmly believes everything will work out.

Gray is obviously the Sixth Ranger, and as of yet isn't really part of the core band. He's the resident angsty boy of the cast. Shadow the Hedgehog, Prince Zuko, etc. A little overdramatic and a little bit of an edgelord but please forgive him, he's still figuring himself out.

Pawnathan might also count as a Cowardly Sidekick? I dunno he's doing his best.

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

SILLY LITTLE BAT

pairings ⸺ Yandere! Platonic! Batfamily x Anti-Hero! Fem!reader.

sinopsis ⸺ In the shadowed halls of Wayne Manor, a girl lost among the darkness seeks the connection she never had. Her mother, a kleptomaniac with a broken heart, vanished, leaving only echoes of empty promises. Surrounded by a family that never sees her, her pain turns into a deafening silence. The void left by her past traps her in a limbo of solitude and sorrow.

One dark night, seeking her own way, she became what she once despised. Now, like the albino bat rejected by its own flock, she flies alone in the twilight. Her pale skin glows in the dark, but her heart still yearns for the warmth of a home she never came to know.

warnings ⸺ Dark Themes, Dead, murdering,Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Discrimination, Violence, Blood, LGBT Content, Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Implicit Sexual Content, Mental Illness, Addiction, Suicide, Torture, Corruption, Isolation, Trauma, Phobias, Paranoia, Manipulation

Chapter Guide! Pt 2. Pt 3. Pt4

A/N — English is not my first language—Spanish is—so there might be some grammar or spelling mistakes here and there. This is the first part of a story I’m writing for a friend (Isabel, I love you, you brat), and also an experiment to see what it’s like to write on Tumblr. Please support me! :"((

Nobody is coming to save you

Get up.

Your mother was not a good woman, and that was an undeniable fact, heavy as the shadow that covers Gotham City at nightfall. She was a creature of the underworld, one among the specters that wandered under the yoke of crime, walking among dangerous names like Selina Kyle or Harleen Quinzel, yet always remaining in the background, never reaching their fame or infamy.

She was nothing more than a kleptomaniac and a mythomaniac, doomed to live by cunning and deceit. She took advantage of the men who crossed her path, from the lowest criminals, like The Penguin, to the most powerful man in the city: Bruce Wayne.

You never called him Dad. To you, he was always Bruce, and on the rare occasions you addressed him, you did so with distant formality, "Mr. Wayne." Richard, your adoptive brother, found in him a father figure, while to you, he was just another shadow in the mansion, that huge, cold house you arrived at after your mother’s death.

You remember how, time and again, you tried to warn your mother to stop stealing, to stop lying, that those dark paths would inevitably lead her to Arkham Asylum, surrounded by all the lunatics you feared so much, or even worse: to death. But she always responded with a playful smile, stroking your head with her delicate hands, adorned with stolen jewelry and crude tattoos. "Those are just fantasies of an eight-year-old girl," she would say sweetly, while her ring-laden fingers assured you that you needn’t worry, "I will always come back for you," she promised, "because you are the only thing more valuable than any diamond I’ve ever held."

But the cruel truth was that was the last time you saw her. That night she left, and she never returned. It was then that the last vestiges of innocence faded with her absence. From that moment on, you ceased to be a child.

And that was one of the few things you understood with absolute clarity. There were no more empty promises, no more caresses tinged with lies. All that remained was the silence of a life fading away, like a stolen jewel that never returns to its rightful owner.

The only thing you knew after calling the police when your mother didn’t show up after two days was that they found her corpse in a back alley far from Gotham, showing signs of having been beaten and bruised by some underground gang.

Commissioner Gordon searched the entire house for illicit substances and signs of debts to mobsters, but he only ended up finding documents, stolen jewelry, and letters from your mother that were never sent, and most importantly, DNA evidence implicating that the city’s millionaire was your biological father.

From then on, your life was stained with eternal gray, that muted shade that erased all traces of light or shadow. There was no more white or black, only a silent fog that, day by day, enveloped you and dragged you into a madness that seemed inevitable. Gotham itself seemed more alive than the place you called home, although "home" was never the right word.

You didn’t love any of the Wayne family members. Bruce, your biological father, never listened to you. To him, you were always just another shadow, a ghost in the vast mansion that he prioritized over his other children, his "true" heirs. There was always something more important, something more urgent, and your presence faded among the cold walls and the echo of his hurried footsteps. With each passing day, you became more invisible to him, as if your very existence were a mistake he preferred to ignore.

Richard, the perfect brother, was kind on some occasions. He spoke to you courteously, but when you needed him, when you asked him to attend one of your performances, there was always an excuse, something that kept him away, as if your passion and accomplishments were insignificant details in his heroic life.

Jason, on the other hand, despised you from the start. He saw you as an intruder, a child of gold—but not of that pure and valuable gold, but of a dirty and false one, which he always mocked with disdain. And although you never cared for him, when he died, silent tears rolled down your face. It wasn’t out of love, but out of respect for what he represented, for the brutal reality of his fall.

Tim, in contrast, was the most indifferent. To him, you were a nobody, so irrelevant that you weren’t even worth a glance. Spending time with his friends or being the Robin of the moment mattered more than you did. You lived on his periphery, in a limbo where neither your name nor your face seemed to exist.

Cassandra, Stephanie, Barbara… at least they treated you with politeness, but you knew they didn’t really remember who you were. They saw you, smiled at you out of obligation, but deep down you knew they had no idea of your name, your story, your struggle to be more than a shadow in that world.

The worst of all was Damian, your younger half-brother. When he arrived at the mansion, Alfred introduced him to you with that serene formality he always had, and you, driven by an almost desperate impulse, tried to reach out to him. You wanted to offer him the support and affection of an older sister, that warmth you would have longed for in his situation. But all you received in return was a cold response: a katana piercing your abdomen. I wish I could say it was just a metaphor, but no, that wound was as real as the blade that cut your skin.

You would have liked to think that the pain was symbolic, that Damian had only rejected your affection with harsh words or his usual arrogance. But no, it was much more than that. The only thing you received in exchange for your attempt at fraternal love was a stab, a scar you still carry not only on your body but also in your soul. Because in that brutal gesture, you understood that the blood that united you also separated you, sharper than any weapon. And that was how you tried to connect.

You strived to stand out, to learn, to shine in your own ambitions, wishing that your success would be enough to earn you a place, a bit of affection. But no matter how hard you tried, it was never enough. Your talent crashed against indifference, your achievements faded into the air, as if they had no weight in the lives of others.

The only light, the only beacon in that storm of gray, was Alfred. The only one who smiled at you with genuine tenderness, the only one you truly loved. To you, he was the real father, the one who was always there, expecting nothing in return, offering you a silent but firm love. You did call him father, and his presence was the only thing that kept your sanity, the only thing preventing the gray from consuming you completely.

But even that love, so genuine and deep, was not enough to fill the void that your own family left you. And in that void, you continue to float, trapped between the girl you were and the woman you are trying to be, searching for a place you can truly call home.

Y/n's small room, though modest, had always been her refuge. The walls were adorned with unfinished sketches, trophies from various activities, and some paintings she had completed with dedication, showcasing her passion for both manual and performing arts.

The dawn light filtered softly through the curtains, bathing the space in golden tones, giving it a warmth that contrasted with the coldness of the rest of Wayne Manor.

On the desk, a small cake rested on a plate, simple yet made with love. Beside it, Alfred, with his usual understated elegance, watched Y/n with a mixture of nostalgia and concern. He, the only one who seemed to remember her birthday, offered her a delicate professional drawing set, wrapped in smooth, elegant paper.

"Happy birthday, Miss," Alfred said with a gentle smile, although his eyes reflected a sadness that was hard to conceal. "I know how much you love art, so I thought this would be helpful for your new projects."

Y/n took the gift in her hands with a genuine smile. It had been so hard for her to find moments of joy lately, but Alfred's gesture filled her with a warmth in her chest that she hadn't experienced in a long time. She placed the gift into one of the many brown boxes she had prepared for her upcoming move.

"Thank you, Alfred. It's perfect," she said, examining the set carefully, as if each detail were a reminder of the affection he held for her. "It will help me a lot... although, well," she sighed, as if searching for the right words. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that." Alfred raised an eyebrow, attentive, as she continued, glancing at the small space that had been her home within the vast mansion.

"Today... today is not just my birthday. It's the day I leave here." Her voice was firm, yet there was a sense of liberation in it, as if this were a long-awaited step. "I am finally no longer a Wayne. I go back to being a L/n."

Silence filled the room for a moment, heavy and dense. Alfred clasped his hands, striving to maintain his composure.

"Miss, I can't help but feel a certain unease hearing this. Are you sure this is what you want? This house, though empty in many ways, has always been your home..."

"Home?" Y/n looked at him with a mix of sadness and determination. "This house has never been my home, Alfred. Not like it was for Dick, nor even for Bruce. I have always been a stranger here, the daughter of a woman who never fit into this world, the bastard child. My mother taught me to find my own path, to not cling to what doesn’t belong to me... and being here, being called Wayne, has never belonged to me." Alfred sighed softly, turning his gaze toward the window. He knew there was truth in her words, but that didn’t lessen the pain of her leaving. "I know it’s hard to understand," Y/n continued, "but for the first time in a long time, I feel happy, Alfred. I’ve graduated, college is just around the corner, and I want to start anew. I want to find what truly makes me, me... not what others expect of me."

The old butler remained silent for a few moments, nodding slowly. He knew he couldn't retain her, that it was not his place to interfere in the young woman's dreams. But still, he couldn’t help but feel a pang in his heart at the thought of the house being even emptier without her. "I just wish you find what you’re looking for, Miss. And if you ever need a place to return to... this door will always be open for you."

Y/n stepped closer to him, gently hugging him, something she had rarely done. "Thank you, Alfred," she whispered against his shoulder. "You will always be my family, but I need this. I need to discover who I am outside of this last name."

The old butler felt the lump in his throat as he tightened the embrace a little longer before letting her go. He knew that deep down, she was doing the right thing. But that didn’t make it hurt any less to see her leave.

"Alfred, can you call the movers? I’ll be leaving tonight," Y/n said as she closed the last box with trembling hands, her gaze lost in the empty corners of the room she once considered her refuge. The butler, ever serene, nodded with his unwavering calmness.

"Don't worry, Miss, I assure you they will be here on time." His voice was soft, almost an echo of the ancient walls of the mansion, as if he himself were part of that structure that had seen so many comings and goings, so many lives broken and healed in silence.

Alfred turned halfway to leave, but Y/n's voice stopped him, broken yet sweet, like a melody at sunset. "Alfred..."

The man turned slowly, his eyes filled with paternal warmth, though always contained behind a formal gesture. "Yes, Miss?" he replied, with that tranquility that had always brought Y/n peace in her worst moments.

She took a breath, feeling how the words she had kept for so long fought to come out, to break the shell she had built since childhood. "I’ve never told you, but... thank you. Thank you for being the father I never had, for being there when no one else was."

For a moment, the silence in the room was heavier than all the accumulated boxes, deeper than any word. Alfred, who had been a witness to so many confessions and secrets in that house, stood still, his eyes shining with an emotion he rarely showed. "Miss," he murmured, his voice slightly choked, "it was an honor and a privilege to take care of you. If I ever gave you anything close to what you deserved, then my life has had true purpose."

Y/n smiled sadly, nodding slowly. "You did, Alfred. You did. And for that, I will always carry you with me, even if I leave here."

The butler slightly bowed his head in respect, swallowing any emotion that might betray his composure. "Wherever you go, you will always have a home here, Miss."

"I know," she said, though in her heart, she knew she wouldn’t return.

And as Alfred left the room to make the call, Y/n let out a long sigh, as if with it, she were leaving behind a part of herself, a part she could no longer carry with her.

Life in Gotham is like constantly walking on the edge of a razor blade. The city never sleeps, always alert, always dangerous, and for someone with the Wayne surname, the risks multiply. It has been a year since you left the mansion, trying to erase any ties that bound you to that life, desperately wishing the name would fade into the echo of the dirty streets and crumbling buildings. But it's not that easy. The name Wayne remains an indelible mark that the media and the people of Gotham refuse to let fade. The forgotten child, the silent accident of billionaire Bruce Wayne. And although you try to live as if you don’t exist under that shadow, the weight of the legacy haunts you.

You left with little, barely enough money to rent a small apartment in one of the worst corners of the city. You share the space with a friend, a plant-loving girl who has filled every nook of the place with leaves and pots, as if trying to make green defy the constant darkness of Gotham. You get along well with her; her love for nature is almost an antithesis to the chaos of the city, and she has taught you that even in the hardest concrete, something can bloom. She always accompanied you on the coldest, loneliest nights, giving you a warmth that, although ethereal, was very welcome. But still, life is not easy. You barely survive, spending the little you have on cheap food and paying the rent. There are days when the cold seeps through the poorly sealed windows, and you wonder if it was really better to be in the mansion instead of this little trench. However, you prefer this rough freedom to the soulless luxury of Wayne Manor.

Freedom, however, comes at a price. It wasn't enough to distance yourself, to change your life, or even to always carry a knife for defense. Gotham does not forget. People recognize you in the shadows, whisper your name, and approach you, sometimes with curiosity and other times with disdain. You have been beaten more than once. Some just for being a Wayne, others because they think they can extort you, even though they have no idea you can barely get by. The scars on your body bear witness to those beatings, but you refuse to give up. You get up every morning, despite the pain, and continue on your way. You don’t need Batman. You don’t need Bruce. You learned long ago that he wouldn't come to save you.

That night, like so many others, you were heading to the subway for your night shift, with the hood of your coat covering your face, trying to go unnoticed. The sound of the tracks echoed in your ears, a constant reminder of the city's hustle. You had gotten used to walking fast, avoiding eye contact, as if each step was a small battle won against the city. But this time, something was different.

"So it was true, the little Wayne girl is roaming the city... how lovely." The raspy, mocking voice rang out beside you, cutting through the heavy air of the train station. The man speaking wore a suit that, at first glance, seemed elegant, but there was something about his extreme thinness, his skin clinging to his bones and his disheveled hair, that made him look more like a specter of Gotham than a distinguished figure. A ghost from the shadows that had stalked you since you set foot on the streets.

If it weren't for his gaunt appearance and unsettling aura, you might have mistaken him for one of your father's employees. "I'm not a Wayne anymore," you said disdainfully, your voice sharp like the edge of a dagger refusing to be touched. "If you want money, I don’t have any. And Mr. Wayne wouldn’t give a cent for me either."

Your gaze drifted to the station clock. 8 minutes until the train that would take you away from this corner of Gotham, far from the shadows and faces that always seemed to recognize you.

The man let out a dry, raspy laugh that sent chills down your spine. "I don’t want your money, pretty girl," he replied, moving closer, invading your space with the same familiarity that Gotham’s filth slipped into every corner. "You’re worth more than that." You felt his calloused, scarred hand rest on your hip, with a pressure that was neither violent nor friendly. The contact filled you with disgust.

7 minutes.

You clenched your fist, your jaw tight as you struggled to maintain your composure. "I don’t want sex either, idiot," you spat, your words loaded with contained fury. Your hand subtly slid toward your bag, where your knife lay, waiting to be used.

6 minutes.

The man didn’t flinch. In fact, he let out a low, mocking laugh. "And I don’t want that either, little girl," he murmured, his cold, deep blue eyes scrutinizing you as if they could read every dark corner of your soul. "I want something more from you."

5 minutes.

"What do you want then?" you asked, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady, even as the ice of fear began to creep down your spine. Your eyes scrutinized him, searching his gaze for any hint of his true intentions, but all you saw was darkness.

4 minutes.

He let out a long, chilling laugh, tightening his grip on your hip. "Do you know what I want, Y/n?"

3 minutes.

His voice dropped, as if his words were a cursed secret the wind refused to carry away. "I want you."

2 minutes.

The world seemed to stop. You knew there was no time to run. There was no time to pull out the knife or to scream. It was as if the clock itself had conspired against you, reducing those last minutes to mere seconds.

1 minute.

The blow was sharp, a flash of excruciating pain at the back of your head. The cold metal of the station, the hum of the city, everything faded abruptly. The last thought that crossed your mind, before the world vanished into darkness, was that this time, you didn’t expect Batman to save you. It wasn’t a mere thief or a street threat that was taking you.

Gotham, with all its cruelty, always had new ways to remind you that there is no escape.

That night, when the Gotham subway stopped at the station, there was no one to pick up.

The mansion felt emptier than ever, like a deserted and cold labyrinth, where each hallway seemed to stretch into an infinite tunnel, devouring the light.

The silence was overwhelming, an oppression that enveloped every corner, as if even the ancient walls had run out of words. It was so heavy that the few who remained in the mansion couldn’t help but move uncomfortably, trying to fill that void with something, anything.

Bruce Wayne walked through those same hallways with a strange feeling, as if something was missing, though he didn’t know what. An unease, a persistent discomfort that he couldn’t shake off.

He had been like this for months, with that absence haunting his mind, a gap he couldn't identify. And then, suddenly, like a gust of icy wind, the truth struck him.

You.

His daughter.

His little daughter.

How long had it been since he last saw you? When was the last time he heard your laughter, the one that always seemed too sarcastic, too filled with resentment? He stopped abruptly, frowning. Why couldn’t he remember you? He couldn’t bring to mind a clear image of your face, not even how you used to look at him... why? How could he have forgotten you like that?

Damn.

It was as if time had stopped. It had been a year, maybe more, since he had really thought about you. He felt a pang of guilt pierce his chest, a heavy, silent guilt that dragged him into the abyss of his own negligence. Not knowing what else to do, he began to check the rooms, one after another.

Each door he opened was another blow to his conscience. Where was your room? The more he searched, the more confused he felt. The mansion was enormous, but how could he have forgotten where you slept? How was it possible that he didn’t know where you lived in the house where both of you grew up? Had you been here all this time?

Each door he opened was identical to the last, as if all the rooms had fused into one.

None showed a trace of you.

None seemed to have a hint of your presence. Didn’t you decorate your room? He thought frantically, didn’t you even mark it as yours? Panic began to take hold of him. Anxiety wrapped around him like a fist tightening on his chest. Were you still living in the mansion? Or had you left without saying a word, like a shadow fading at dawn? But... no, you hadn’t mentioned anything. You hadn’t said you were leaving. Or had you? And if you had, why didn’t he remember? How could he have ignored you for so long that now he didn’t even know if you were still under the same roof?

“Ah!” he exclaimed in a whisper, unable to contain the dread he felt.

Frustration consumed him from within. He stopped in the middle of the hallway, breathing heavily, and the echo of his voice faded into the empty walls. He tried to remember something, anything about you, about the last time they spoke, about how you were... but everything was blurry, as if his mind was betraying him, hiding you behind an impenetrable fog.

How could he have forgotten so much?

He brought his hands to his head, trying to calm himself, but only felt more confusion, more desperation. The mansion, which had once been his home, now felt like a strange and foreign place.

Had you been the one who made it feel like home? The question echoed in his mind, but he had no answer. Just more questions. More uncertainties. Finally, he let his arms fall, exhausted. He had checked almost all the rooms and had found not a trace of you. Not a clue. Not a sign that you had been there. And at that moment, something dark and painful began to settle in his heart.

Had you ever really been there?

Then something caught his attention as he passed by the cleaning room. In a dusty corner, next to a forgotten bag, something was protruding. Something small, old, and faded. He bent down and pulled it from the dirty clothes. It was a stuffed animal, or what was left of one. The faded black of its suit left no doubt. It was a figure of Batman, but worn down by time, battered to the point of looking forgotten.

Bruce's eyes were fixed on the small piece of fabric hanging from the doll's neck. A tag.

Your name.

Your name, handwritten, in ink that was already fading.

Bruce felt a lump in his throat, a mix of guilt and rage. How could he have forgotten something so important?

He clutched the doll tightly, as if doing so would return a piece of you to him, but instead of comfort, he only felt more emptiness. Where were you? He ran to Alfred, who looked at him with a mix of concern and pity.

"Alfred..." Bruce said, his voice breaking. "Where is she? Where is my daughter?"

The butler, with his always serene face, seemed to age suddenly. A long silence settled between them, as if time was fading away. "Mr. Bruce, I didn’t mean to..." Alfred lowered his gaze. "I didn’t want to burden you with that truth, but... it’s time you know."

Bruce felt a chill run down his spine. Truth? What truth?

"She left almost a year ago. She didn’t say where. She just... she took all her belongings, though they weren’t many, and left. She said she didn’t want to be a burden. That you and the other family members had too many things to worry about."

Bruce took a step back, as if the words had physically struck him. Did she have enough age to leave? A burden? Never, not for a second, did he think that of you, of his little daughter who, even though she wasn’t wanted, he embraced under his wing just like Damian.

You were never a burden.

...or were you?

No, he refused to acknowledge it; he just... he hadn’t spent time with you because Gotham needed him!

But when you needed him, where was Batman?

Where was Bruce Wayne when his only biological daughter needed him?

"Alfred, do you know anything about Y/n?" the hero asked, worry clear on his face.

Alfred didn’t look at him; he only stared into nothingness. "...I haven’t heard anything about her for two months...

And honestly... I'm starting to think...

that she might be lost to us forever..."

A/N — This is definitely apart from being my first official Tumblr post, it is also my first DC post and especially the first from the Lord of the Night xD

Don't hesitate to ask me anything if you want.

Isabel, I dedicate this to you, my love. Eat more to be well, you fucking anorexic, don't suck.

take a bath!

inspiration: @acid-ixx with his Again & Again series, @gotham-daydreams' work, @i-cant-sing's work and @klemen-tine's work, be sure to check them out!