suddenly struck with thoughts about the devastating concept of Jason Todd
because he was good. because he had a bleeding heart despite every reason not to. he loved school and was good at it. he was the first to be adopted, with little pretense of guardianship. he did everything he could to be a perfect Robin and live up to an impossible ideal. he only ever wanted Bruce and Dick to like him.
because he met Bruce in the same place and on the same day that Bruce's parents died--the single defining moment of Batman's existence. and he made Batman laugh. he hit the Dark Knight, Terror of Gotham, with a tire iron. he wasn't afraid of the man who turned fear into a weapon.
because he couldn't save his mother from herself, but he tried. because he was too good not to try and save the woman who gave him up. too good to play the Joker's game. the crowbar didn't kill him, the bomb did. he died knowing he wouldn't make it and tried anyway. he died a hero.
because other Robins have died, but none of them put an irrevocable tear in the mythos of Batman. because Jason Todd always dies, in every universe. he dies for the sins of his father. he was put to death by popular vote, sacrificed by the crowd. doomed by the narrative and doomed by the audience. the boy who only ever tried to prove he was good enough--wasn't good enough.
because he has every reason to be angry. because he didn't ask to be murdered, didn't ask to be brought back, and when he did everyone acted like he was better off dead. Bruce tried to kill him and nearly succeeded. he's blamed for his own death and blamed for his resurrection. he can never come home because the house is haunted by his own ghost.
because he's been the hero, the victim, and the villain. because his family and his writers and his universe don't know what to make of him. they don't know how to look his tragedy in the eye. and how can you?
it hurts to look at the hero who cannot be good enough, the victim who will only ever be angry, the villain who can sometimes be right. the audience hates to feel complicit and, in this exceptional case, they are.
What are the odds of one sibling being really pale and the other sibling having a darker complexion?? Because Human!Twilight and Human!Shining Armor being brown and white respectively...IDK actually. Like, the art for when they make them have IRL skin tones. Then again, Twilight Velvet is grey.
I have so many WIPs that if only I knew how to work with myself, I’d have finished or at least made sm progress. I’m trying to actually plan my fanfic now but am struggling. Some of these WIPs will never see the light of day so I’m thinking of just posting them as prompts or headcanons
Shout out to my writers that don’t plan their fics at all. Readers be like “I can’t wait to find out what happens next!”
Babe me too
Helpful Links I Actually Use
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Artbreeder (digitally create what your character looks like)
Unsplash (freely-usable images for book covers, blog posts, social media graphics, or anything else you may need)
Descriptionari (enter prompt and receive creative descriptions)
DiversityStyleGuide (ensure you refer to communities with accuracy and respect)
Cliche Finder (copy and paste your excerpt to find cliches and examine word choice)
Inkarnate (create your fantasy world map)
Behind the Name (the etymology and history of names)
Family Education (browse surnames alphabetically)
Fantasy Name Generator (lists of names for characters, locations, descriptions, etc.)
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Reverse Dictionary (find word by searching definition)
My hair is desperate.
It curls in on my face, my curtain bangs swoop in. Windy, rainy, sunny, no matter when, my hair always cover my face. With or without my consent. It's desperate. It's desperate to hide my face.
It doesn't matter if I tie my hair back, hair would always fall down to face; my hair would curl inwards until it stabs at every inch of my cheeks, my nose, my forehead, my eyes.
My hair feels desperate.
Desperate to hide my face.
I wonder if my mind had grown to hate my face so much that even the dead cells of my hair are desperate to hide it. To stab it like they're needles that can change my face with enough attacks.
My bangs feel desperate to hide my eyes. As if it knew it were the windows to my soul and it wants to hide it, to let it live and disappear in the shadows of them, of my bangs.
As if it was so ashamed of my soul, of me, that it would try to hide it at all cost, at any time of any given day. From the moment I wake up, it will fall to cover my face. And from the moment I sleep, it'll fall down to cover my face already shadowed by the darkness of my room.
My hair is desperate.
And ashamed.
I took my stance
And paid a glance;
I brought my hand down,
And fire danced around.
I brough him flames,
And they marred his face;
I am aware of the cruelty,
And the tragic beauty.
A tragic tale,
Told by people that wail;
Though, I will not regret,
Lest I fall to my death.
nobara
My twin OC's. Sora, the one with short hair, is the younger twin. And Hana, the one with longer hair, is the older twin.
Got Krita and decided to draw one of my previous art but decided to change the whole color scheme. The lines are awful and terrible, I'm not used to not having full control of where my pen lands on the screen. I usually just move the screen and not really my hand but that's hard with a PC and a tablet that has points to mark the location on the screen. But I'm figuring it out.
shorter wong deserved better