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revasserium · 7 months

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butterfly lovers opla zoro screaming crying throwing up

butterfly lovers

opla!zoro; 7,106 words; fluff, kind of childhood friends to lovers, slowburn af, nsfw, pron with TOO MUCH plot, opla!canon divergence, ships doctor!reader, fem!reader, riding, "good girl", emotional sex

summary: yours and zoro's story, from two different perspectives.

a/n: @halfvalid this is ur fault. take responsibility pls. also the smut is literally just one part of a larger story, but it does actually get explicit so. do with that info what u will u__u.

false start.

most good stories, scholars and storytellers would both agree, have a beginning, a middle, and an end. though, famously, not necessarily in that order. and this particular story — well, it has several places one might call the beginning. and one of them is here — in shimotsuki village, in a patch of rich green forest that always smelled of cedar and moss and earth.

it would be a lie to say that the story begins here, at a doujou where eight year old boys and nine year old girls swing wooden swords hundreds of thousands of times each day. where you’d seen zoro for the very first time.

the story could have started here, but alas, it did not.

because you see, you’d never been great, or even particularly good at swordsmanship. and zoro — zoro was one of the best. even from the beginning, his raw, unfettered talent was a force to be reckoned with. but the reckoning came in the form of the doujou sensei’s blue-haired daughter, and you were no more part of zoro’s story then than a drop of ink in a midnight ocean — lost to the tumultuous waves of childhood tedium, of sword practice and sparring, of warm up laps and cool down stretches.

but you’d known him then, watched him as he grew, as he got better and better and better. bigger, stronger, quicker, sharper. and beside him was kuina, steady as the shifting tides, relentless in her efficacy, tireless in her craft. he was good, but she was better.

until one day, when very suddenly, she wasn’t.

the story, as it is, does not start here, because you’d made the solemn walk to kuina’s funeral altar with the rest of the students at the doujou in complete silence, had knelt there in equal silence and watched as sensei had bestowed the wadou ichimonji upon zoro, watched as he had gripped the sword with both hands, his knuckles going white as the sword’s moon-washed sheath, and bowed his head in acceptance.

it does not start here because later, instead of following the same, silent procession of kids back to the doujou’s main compound, you’d slipped away, silent as a shadow, and sprinted through the wide, cedar forest to a secret, open patch of grass where the sun bled from a stretch of endless sky blue enough to sting, and tiny little white-petaled flowers had sprung from the still-damp earth, turning their faces towards the coming spring.

you’d run, screaming through the field till you’d run out of breath to scream with, and collapsed among the tiny white flowers, panting and staring up at the endless blue sky, feeling the helplessness pulse through your veins. because even though kuina hadn’t been your friend — you’d exchanged perhaps a handful of words in all the years you’d spent here — she’d been a constant presence in your life. and now, she was gone. and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

you laid there for longer than you can remember, and then, as the sun finally dipped beyond the far horizon and the darkness grew longer than the sea was wide, you got up and trudged towards the clearing’s edge. only to find a small creature huddled against the trunk of a thin sapling tree — it looked like nothing more than a bundle of white-spotted fur, and it took you a long moment to realize that it was a fawn, curled into a pile of gnarled roots, shivering, eye wet and wide and terrified.

you blinked, staring at it for a few seconds before you’d noticed the gash on it’s hind leg, jutting out at an uncomfortable angle. your heart had stuttered inside your chest, and you’d dropped down to your hands and knees, cooing softly as you slowly approached the creature, trying to look as unmenacing as possible.

“hey there… are you hurt?” you’d said, crawling towards it, trying very hard to make your movements as slow and smooth as possible.

the fawn shivered as it stares at you, apparently caught between sheer terror and curiosity. you tried to smile, before digging into your pockets and pulling out a handful of peanuts, offering them to the fawn on an open palm.

“c’mon, i’m not gonna hurt you… i just wanna take a look… at that leg of yours, can i do that?” you’d asked, inching in closer and closer until the fawn’s warm, wet nose dug into your palm, it’s smooth-edged teeth grazing your skin as it crunched through the peanuts. you took the chance to glance down at it’s injured leg — it wasn’t a deep wound, but judging by the angle, it was a bit dislocated and would need to be set back right if the fawn was ever going to walk again.

slowly, you reached out a free hand to gently stroke at the fawns haunches, feeling it’s muscles tense up beneath you, even as it continues to snuffle against your palm, eager for any remnants of the peanut shells. you ran your hand along it’s leg and quick as a flash, you pressed against the odd jutting of bone, even as it snapped back into place with a satisfying crack.

the fawn made a shrill, screeching noise, jerking to its feet, but a moment later, it seemed to realize that it’s leg was no longer hurting. you held up both your hands in what you hoped was a calming gesture before tugging out a few more peanuts holding it out as an offering.

the fawn blinks it’s dark, watery eyes at you a few times before limping forward to dig its nose once more into your palm. you allowed yourself a smile then, and a soft relieved laugh as the fawn limped forward a few more steps, testing the weight of it’s body on its newly repaired leg. it looked more confident now, seemingly realizing that the wound was somewhat fixed, and it gave you one last, lingering look before it bounded off back into the sunset forest, leaving you with nothing more than a handful of peanut shells and a tightness in your chest you can’t quite seem to put your finger on.

you’d snuck back into the doujou that evening, smelling of mud and moss and cedar, and you’d lain in your futon, staring up at the high slatted ceilings, streaked with moonlight, wondering where on earth you truly belonged.

the next morning, everyone woke to neatly a folded futon and a wooden training katana, the hilt carved with your name, laid across your pillow.

so you see, the story could have started here. but it didn’t. and perhaps we should be thankful for that.

the cost of ambition.

the story, as we know it, starts then at the baratie, on the morning after a meal was eaten and not properly paid for, after an ill-fated duel between a boy with a mouthful of ambitions and a man who’d forgotten what it felt like to be truly surprised. well, he was surprised that morning, watching the boy fall back with a gash the size of the world spurting blood across the docks.

“grow strong,” he’d said, “and come find me.”

and it starts, when a pirate in a straw hat comes crashing into the baratie’s kitchen, shouting about a dying friend.

“help! help! zoro… zoro needs a doctor!”

“whoa, whoa, slow down, chore boy — i can’t understand a word you’re saying,” zeff holds up a hand to stem luffy’s panicked rambling.

“my friend is dying…”

“the nearest doctor’s on the conomi islands —”

“wait, no —” sanji frowns, cutting zeff off, “lemme look at the reservations from last night —” he hurries off to the front desk and returns with a thick leather bound volume, flipping it open to scan through the seating chart for the night before.

“i knew it!” he says, pointing at a name written in deep, ocean blue ink, “there — her! i’ve heard of her — she’s the best ship’s doctor in the east blue, and if i’m not much mistaken, her ride’s not due to leave till this afternoon.”

“great! c’mon — we haven’t got time to lose!” luffy says as he rushes out of the kitchens, leaving sanji and zeff to exchange an exasperated look before following after.

they find you on the loading docks, your nose buried in a notebook, your hand flying across the page, ink smudging your unrolling sleeve.

“please! we need a doctor! my friend — zoro — he’s dying!”

you jerk up from your notes, the name ringing in your ears like an alarm bell, rocking through your body like the base boom of a signal flare. zoro? here?

you look around even as luffy makes his way to you, pressing in too close, a hand on top of his head to keep his hat from flying away, the other curling around your upper arm.

“w-wait — what’s going on? did you say someone was dying?”

“yes! my friend! he got into a fight with this warlord guy and now he’s bleeding from everywhere —”

“show me,” you say, lurching to your feet and shouldering your leather knapsack, pursing your lips as your vision threatens to tunnel ahead of you. zoro. it’s been such a long time since you’d heard that name. sure, you’d heard of his exploits in the east blue. how could you not have?

demon, bounty, pirate hunter. hunter, hunter, hunter —

you take a deep breath as luffy leads you onto the deck of the going merry and ducks below, motioning for you to follow.

when you step into the room, you don’t notice the orange-haired girl or the long-nosed boy, instead, your eyes are drawn to the body on the kitchen table as a magnet would a compass rose. his shirt torn into barely more than ribbons, a large red gash oozing blood, bisecting his torso like some unbridgeable canyon in miniature, his skin paler than you’d ever remembered it being, sweat beading his flickering brow —

oh, zoro…

you resist the urge to press your hand to your mouth. so instead, you swallow back your heart and try to assess the damage. massive blood loss, possible head trauma, and who knows what else?

“you said a warlord with a giant sword did this?” you ask, hurrying to the table and frowning down at the gaping wound.

“y-yeah — he — he had a big hat with a white feather on it —” luffy starts.

“mihawk. his name was dracule mihawk,” the orange-haired girl cuts in, her voice sharp and a bit too forced to be steady, “he told zoro to get stronger, and that… it wasn’t his time to die yet.”

you grimace, chewing on your bottom lip as you dump your supplies unceremoniously onto the countertop next to him, digging out the necessities.

“well, he wasn’t lying — the cut’s clean and judging by the size… he could’ve cut much deeper. but he didn’t,” you sigh, absently rolling up your sleeves as you pull out a hooked suture needle and a length of thread.

they watch you work in silence, first cleaning the wound, and then slowly, painstakingly pinching and stitching him back together. by the end of it, you’re nearly dizzy with exhaustion, and the sky outside has already turned a deep, bruising purple.

you sigh, wiping down your hands.

“can someone go and ask the waiter for a fish? any fish’ll do, but the fresher, the better. oh, and a bottle of scotch.”

“got it!” the boy with the long nose bolts up and is gone in a flash.

you slump down into a nearby chair and let your head loll back. a moment later, you feel someone pressing a glass into your hand and open your eyes to find the orange-haired girl holding a glass of water.

“here… you looked like you could use it.”

“thanks,” you say, taking a grateful gulp.

“i’m nami, by the way… thanks for —” she waves at the shape of zoro still on the kitchen table, “and that one over there is luffy. the guy that just left is usopp and —” her breath catches as her eyes fall back onto zoro’s form.

“i know who he is,” you say, your voice quiet as you look down at the glass clutched in your hands.

“you know zoro?” luffy’s voice is loud, but not unpleasantly so.

you glance up and feel the truth pulsing against the back of your throat like a heartbeat. then, you shake your head with a soft smile.

“i mean, he’s got quite the reputation.”

luffy lets out a laugh, “yeah! he sure does — he’s a great fighter! probably one of the best i’ve ever seen!”

you nod, staring at the sloshing liquid in the bottom of your glass.

a few moments later, usopp returns with sanji in tow, holding a bottle of scotch in one hand and a dead fish in the other.

“you’d better have a good reason for this,” he says, his expression grim, “zeff’s not gonna be happy when he finds these gone.”

you force a smile, “well, i can promise that at least one of those things’ll be put to good use — can you just skin the fish for me, please?”

sanji frowns, “and the scotch?”

you glance around before shrugging, “i don’t know about you guys but… i think we could all use a drink.”

the cliche of the morning after.

when zoro wakes up the first time, it’s to a world-muffling quiet. he coughs, uncertain of where he is, his head throbbing, his chest feeling too light and too heavy all at once.

“oh! you’re awake — here… have some water. you’ll need it.”

he hears the voice, both familiar and foreign, and then, he feels the cool press of a glass against his lips.

he gulps down the water greedily before pain rockets through him and he lets out a loud groan.

“i… i had a dream…” he says, his head spinning, the words slurring from him, and for a second, he wonders if he’d just been fed alcohol instead of water, but the pain seizes him again and he can’t stop talking.

“yeah? what did you dream about?” the familiar, foreign voice asks, soothing, as a cold palm presses against his forehead.

“shimotsuki village… i — i made a promise. i told her — i’d be the greatest… swordsman…”

his voice is fading, and the world is fading with it.

“yeah… you did, huh? and i’m sure you’ll fulfill it, one day…”

zoro sighs, sinking gratefully into the warm, welcoming arms of darkness once more.

“but not today,” you say, reaching out to wipe the sweat from zoro’s brow, your voice so soft that you’re sure no one else can hear, “today… you just need to keep on living. and that’s the greatest promise you could ever make to me.”

smooth sailing.

when he wakes up proper, you aren’t there to greet him. but he doesn’t miss the shape of you as they all pile onto the merry to go looking for nami. he doesn’t miss sanji’s too-wide grin or the unpleasant, burning itch that shoots through his healing wound as he watches the cook ask you about your favorite foods.

he keeps quiet for the most part, but you find him still, and you ask him how he’s doing with a ship’s doctor’s professionalism and efficiency.

“how’re you healing?”

“fine.”

“any tenderness?” you ask, your brows knitting as he tugs open his shirt and lets you peel the bandages away.

“not really,” he lies, because the the tenderness is not skin deep. he feels it in the labyrinthine galleys of his soul and he can’t quite figure out why you, of all people, might make him feel this way.

you run a surgical hand along the stretch of puckered skin and he sucks in a long breath, feeling his cheeks flood with inexplicable heat.

you smell of cedar and moss and freshly turned earth and for the life of him, he can’t remember why it makes his entire body go soft with memory. it reminds him of… something.

something, something, something.

“i hear you, y’know,” you say, and he jerks back to the present, with you absently rolling up your shirtsleeves before tugging at a fresh piece of gauze to wrap him back up.

“don’t know what you mean.” he looks away, willing himself to stay still as you daub a pungent cream against his chest before applying the layers of bandage. he lifts his arm to give you more room even as you shoot him a disbelieving look.

“sword practice, in the middle of the night. i told you that you need to rest — you’ll only prolong your own healing if you keep on pushing yourself like this. rest is it’s own brand of practice.”

zoro narrows his eyes. because he’d heard that from someone, somewhere before.

“your bodies need time to repair,” his sensei used to say as they all gathered after dinner at the doujou for evening meditation, “and a disciplined mind leads to a disciplined body. don’t forget that rest is it’s own brand of practice.”

zoro had never been good at it, but over the years, he’d managed to endure.

“there. all done.”

you lean back to admire your handiwork, unaware of zoro’s eyes as they scan over the shape of you, taking in the length of your hair, the bright of your eyes, the limber, spider-quick thinness of your hands and fingers.

“thanks,” he says, slipping off the kitchen table, pausing as he notices how still you’ve gone, your eyes wide as you blink at the planes of his chest, inches from your nose. a second later, you stumble back, clearing your throat, a sweet dawning pink dusts the high of your cheeks as he cocks his head to watch you, fascinated by your reaction.

he almost grins, letting his stomach flex as he takes his time in doing up the buttons of his shirt, before grabbing his swords and slipping from the room, leaving you to clean up your medical supplies, your bottom lip caught between your teeth.

zoro wonders, just briefly, how it might feel to catch your lips between his own teeth instead.

ink, skin, and bullets.

it’s you who bandages nami’s self-inflicted wounds, you who spends four meticulous hours tattooing over the sawfish curl with a pinwheel spiral that curves into a tangerine’s plumpness. you, who soothes eucalyptus balm over nami’s arm before wrapping it up in a fresh roll of gauze, waving away her hiccupped thanks.

and it’s you, who gets a shotgun pressed into your palms by a stony-faced nojiko as you all prepare to march on arlong park.

“if i can’t go with you… then at least, i can give you the tools,” nojiko says as she wraps your fingers around the butt of the gun.

zoro narrows his eyes as he watches the way your fingers shake as you weigh the shotgun in your palms.

“i don’t like it,” he says.

“yeah, you shouldn’t come with us — we’ll need you to patch us up after,” sanji agrees with a wink, much to zoro’s displeasure.

but you shake your head, a steely light in your eyes as you clutch the shotgun to your chest, “no, i — i want to come. i mean — like luffy said… it’s our fight, after all.”

arlong park.

the flurry of battle is as it always has been. you use the shotgun more as a blunt instrument than as a projectile carrier, but it seems to work just as well. you’re small, and quick, and your knowledge of anatomy (yes, even fishman anatomy) allows you to maneuver the head of the shotgun into the softest, most venerable places on a fishman’s body as you all fight your way through arlong park.

but zoro is never far off, keeping close to you as he fends off the worst of the snarling fishmen, his sword flashing like fish scales in the midday sun.

there comes a moment when he slices an oncoming fishman right through the jugular that you let out a long breath, wincing as the fishman’s body hits the ground with a dull thud, and zoro sighs, turning towards you. but a second later, he freezes as you grab the hilt of his sword and shove it backwards.

he feels it resting against thick, bullet-proof flesh and he hears the loud panting of something next to his ear as he sees in the reflection of your eyes — a fishman standing behind him, frozen against the tip of his blade, the hilt clutched in your shaking, shivering hands.

“d-don’t — i’ll kill you —” you say, your voice a forceful, fractured thing.

zoro searches your eyes before clasping his hands over yours and slowly tugging the sword from your gasp.

“hey…” he says, deliberately drawing your gaze away from the fishman before he jerks his sword back and feels, with a satisfying shink, the weight of the blade sinking into unforgiving flesh. he feels your fingers trembling beneath his as he pulls the sword away, and the fishman behind him sinks to his knees before falling sideways with the dull thunk of a no longer animate body.

you try to tug away, but zoro holds you steady, running his thumb in soothing circles along the backs of your hands.

“s-sorry — i — i couldn’t —”

zoro shakes his head, pulling you up by your elbow.

“it’s okay — don’t apologize.” he whips his swords around and catches another fishman in the stomach, dropping him with a flicker of silver and a splash of red.

“you never have to apologize…” he says, as he reaches for your hands and curls them in the warmth of his own, callused palms.

finding neverland.

you kiss for the first time after a brutal battle. after the deck has been washed of blood and the railings have been hung with the remnants of the tattered sails.

repairs are much needed, but zoro had saved you yet again. you pull him to you in the darkness of the midnight deck, the crow’s nest empty because, well, he’s supposed to be up there, keeping watch. but you’d caught him instead, curling your fingers into the soft linen of his shirt, your mouth seeking out his in the relative dark.

“mnph —”

he grunts as his hands find purchase against your shoulders, pressing you back and back and back, till you’re pushed flush against the thick totem of the main mast, and your panting breaths are all he can taste against his desperate lips.

“s-sorry…” you let out a helpless laugh as he pushes forward, his teeth clacking against yours.

“quit that,” he says, his voice nothing more than a panting breath on the open sea air.

“hm?” you blink, lashes fluttering in the moonless night, your lips kiss-swollen and delectable even as zoro forces himself to pull back, studying you with an accusatory eye.

“you’re always saying sorry,” he says as he brushes a strand of hair from your cheek. above you, the main sail whoomps, catching an evening wind.

“i’m not… i don’t…” you look away, embarrassed to be caught. zoro reaches down to grab your chin, forcing your head back towards him.

“yeah, you do,” he says, his voice gentle, even as he cups your cheek.

“you don’t ever, ever, have to apologize for just... being you. got it?” and there’s a burning ember in the spark of his voice as he twists your face up towards him, his lips hot and hungry as he brands you with this promise, and you’re powerless to do else but accept it.

you find your fingers in the short hairs at the nape of his neck, his breath cascading over your lips even as you press in close, close, closer. a helpless whine twists its way up the back of your throat as zoro hoists you up, his fingers digging into the plush of your thighs.

“z-zoro… please,” there’s something broken in the tenor of your voice that breaks him more completely than he has the words to describe, so he settles for holding you tighter over his hips and carrying you to his room. it takes a bit of finagling to get you comfortably situated in his hanging bed, but once he does, he can’t help the soft sigh that escapes him as he looks over the length of your body.

from your pink-flushed cheeks to the loose, crumpled material of your button up shirt, all the way down to the hem of your skirt as it brushes up along the skin of your thighs. he leans own to press an indulgent kiss into the dip of your collarbone.

“'please' though… i like a little bit more,” he says, reaching down to pop the top button of your shirt, to revel in the way you hiccup as he teases a line down your chest, his lips following his fingers as he undoes your buttons one by one.

“i — ah —” your fingers curl into the soft moss of his hair and he groans, long and lush into the creamy expanse of skin above the waist of your miniskirt.

“again…” zoro says, whispering the word against you, tugging on the elastic of your skirt, pulling them down the length of your legs.

“z-zoro, please!”

your head tips back as you feel his tongue flick over the hot button of your clit, his fingers digging into your hips, the pads of his forefingers tracing gentle circles around your hip bones as he holds you to his mouth and moans.

there’s a fumbling of fingers and a clashing of teeth as he wrenches himself up from between your legs to mouth at your lips. you taste yourself on his tongue and shiver at the indecency. still, the coals of desire burn in the pit of your stomach as his fingers press into your spit-slicked folds and you feel your whole body arch up in response.

he has always been quiet, but none more so than when he’s working three digits into your fluttering core, his eyes dark and fixed as they watch his own fingers pull out of you and push back in, slick and shiny with the evidence of your arousal.

“fuck…” he whispers the word like a prayer, slipping passed his lips like some holy thing. you can hear the near reverence in his voice as he slowly removes his hand and presses them to his lips for a taste. the lewdness of it makes the hot coil in the pit of your stomach twist all the tighter. and this time, when he drags himself up the length of your body to kiss you, you whine against his mouth, tasting your own tang on the heat of his tongue.

“ngh — fuck —!” you echo, as he flips onto his back and tugs you over his hips in one, fluid moment, his palms helping you grind your sodden folds over the length of his cock, the friction all-consuming and dizzying. a thin string of arousal connecting the tip of his cock to the seam of your cunt and zoro is helpless to do much else but moan thickly at the sight.

“shit.”

you whimper softly as he teases at your entrance, your palms splayed against his chest for support, your thighs shaking on either side of his hips as he eases you down inch by slow, excruciating inch, ontohis thick, throbbing cock. you toss your head back as he pushes into you, the fit of him fiery-tight and stretching you in ways you’d never thought was possible.

you feel him pulsing against your walls, and you wish briefly that you could’ve tasted him as he’d tasted you, before he sheathed himself inside you. how would he taste, you wondered, and you feel your mouth water at the thought of his heavy, salty weight on your tongue.

“n-ngh!” your voice cracks as he rocks his hips experimentally against yours, the drag of him inside you driving you to near incoherence.

“good girl,” he whispers, the words falling from him like second nature. you keen beneath his praise, bracing yourself as he plants his feet on the bed and jack hammers up into you, his stomach tensing in deep breaths of tight, sinewy muscle, his arms flexing as he helps you rock down above him.

“pretty… fucking… girl…” he intersperses his heavy groans of pleasure with soft exclamations, fucking you now to the light, rhythmic rocking of the ship, even though there’s nothing light about the way his cock bullies it’s way into your cunt again and again, forcing you to clamp down around him on each and every thrust.

there’s nothing gentle about the way he digs his nails into the flushed skin of your hips, how he leans up to latch his greedy mouth onto one of your pert nipples, moaning as he savors in the way you arch against him, pushing your chest more fully into his mouth.

“r-right — right there —”

“yeah?” he asks, half-smirking as he looks up at you, his warm gaze betraying the hard, teasing edge behind his voice, “where do you want me?”

you keen, whining as you drag your hands down your own body to press against your stomach, grabbing his hand to push it against you as well, his palm hot and flat as it lays along your tummy.

“r-right here —”

“fuck — that’s right —” he jerks up into you, burying his face in your chest with a clipped moan as he quickens his pace, his one hand pressing against your stomach as you feel him pushing up farther into you than you’d ever imagined possible.

the pleasure is intense, an other-worldly feeling as he finally pushes you over the edge, his hips stuttering as he feels you clench around him, your arms winding around his torso, to act as both tether and tide as he holds you to him, grounding you to this feeling while simultaneously casting you against the rough edges of this most selfless and selfish pleasure.

“h-holy… fuck me…” you breathe out, clutching at zoro’s back, digging ruddy red grooves into his shoulder blades as he rolls over to fucks down into you, relentless in his chase of his own climax, groaning deep and throaty as he finally spills into you.

you hiss as you feel the heat of him pooling inside. and it’s not till a few minutes later that he picks his head up from where his face had been buried in your neck to shoot you a wide, lopsided grin.

“yeah, pretty sure that’s what i just did,” he says, rolling onto his side and letting out a deep, soul-steadying breath.

you roll your eyes before turning to look at him, only to find him watching you with a gentle, anchoring softness. and like this, it’s hard to see him as the battle-hardened warrior. like this, it’s hard to imagine that he’d ever made such a promise as to become the greatest swordsman in the whole, entire world.

like this, he just looks like a lovestruck boy, forced to grow up much too soon, searching for any remnants of pleasure he might have left to hold on to.

an irony of hands.

it’s never easy, the night after enemy raids, the deck pooling with bodies and blood, the sea the color of a scabbing wound, flotsam and jetsam like bloated body parts floating on the dark, inky waves.

you’re helping usopp push some of the dead bodies overboard, but then you find one man with three deep gashes on his torso and blood bubbling on his lips.

“… gonna… gonna report — never… escape…”

you nearly yell as you see the tiny den den mushi in his hands, his fingers quivering as he tries to dial the emergency line. you smack it from his hand and press your tiny, surgeon’s scalpel to his throat. it’s sweet, polished silver gleams wicked beneath the moonless night.

“don’t you fucking dare,” you say, even though your voice shakes, and there are perhaps a million other ways of taking care of him more easily. but you know that if you throw him overboard now, he’d bob, half-drowning and helpless, for a few hours, or maybe even days before he’d finally succumb to the terrible, patient drag of the ocean (and most likely, dehydration).

“no,” a voice says, steady and firm, as a long, rough-fingered hands enter your vision and carefully tug your hands way from the man’s throat.

you look up to find zoro, his hand still clutched around yours, an unspoken sweetness flickering behind his eyes.

“i — if we toss him over — he'll just —” you swallow thickly, tearing your gaze away from zoro’s face as his expression shifts into something of the unreadable and soft. you hate to let him see you like this, so hesitant, so incompetent.

“let me do it,” zoro says, giving your hands a light shove before, with one swift arc of his blade, he severs the man’s carotid, leaving him slumped and bleeding on the blood-stained deck.

“oh… oh god…” you press your shaking fingers to your lips, the silver scalpel falling with a loud clatter.

“c’mere,” zoro says, tugging you up and leading you down to the hallway below decks. he slows as the pair of you enter the darkest part of the hallway, and he turns to hold you at arms length, his fingers tight on your arms as you feel his eyes scanning you over, and over, and over.

“you’re not hurt?” he asks, voice quiet and clipped.

“no,” you shake your head.

“not even a little?”

you shake your head again, pursing your lips this time to keep the sob from pouring through.

still, he sees it, and he pulls you to him, cradling your head in his large, warm palm, the other arm wrapping around your middle.

“stupid girl,” he murmurs, light, into your cheek even as you let out a bitten off sob against his chest.

you hiccup, curling your fingers into the material of his shirt, "i — i couldn’t do it,” you say, squeezing your eyes as he holds you to him and lets you cry.

“i — i couldn’t kill him.”

zoro sighs, pulling back to smooth a hand over your hair, bringing it down to cup your now tear-stained cheek.

“yeah, i know. but that’s not what your hands are made for,” he says, letting his own hands trail down and down and down, till he’s got both of your palms cupped in his like a wishbone.

“don’t you get it?” he asks, staring down at your palms, upturned against his, “these hands were never made for taking lives…” he looks up, his eyes too bright in this borrowed darkness. and then, he smiles.

“they were made for saving lives instead.”

confessions, part i.

you stare at him for a full ten seconds before letting your body fall laxed into a soft, bubbling fit of champagne-colored laughter.

“i love you,” you say, the words tumbling from you, more truth than any story or poem or legend or myth either of you have ever heard.

“i love you, zoro,” you say again, tasting the words on your tongue like fireworks, like pop-rock candies, like the first, stinging breath of autumn after the hazy veil of summer has finally lifted. and slowly, in the clarity and truth of your declaration, you think you can see his lips as they lift up in an open-heart smile, as he too tastes the words you’ve just so recently mustered the courage to say.

confessions, part ii.

zoro stares back, and or a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. then, for too long. and you think you’d made a mistake, telling him how you feel. but then, he smiles — a true smile, a smile that lights up his face and erases all the grooves and lines that should’ve been worn there by the weathers and weights of hardship.

and still, listening to your words, he smiles — a smile that makes him nothing short of incandescent.

he nods, squeezing your hands in his.

“i love you too.”

false start (redux).

every story as a beginning, a middle, and an end. though not necessarily in that order. and, looking back, roronoa zoro knows that if he had to pick, his story probably begins here — at the ripe age of eight, in a doujou nestled next to a forest that always smelled of cedar and moss and freshly turned earth.

it probably starts with an endless parade of sword practice and sparring, of warm up laps and cool down stretches.

its true — it could be said that his story starts with kuina, the doujou sensei’s blue-haired daughter, who was better at swordcraft than zoro thought he ever might be. and to some, this is a good enough kind of beginning to latch on to.

but no, zoro knows, because he knows himself now, and he knows that stories, just like swordsmanship, is an art that requires a certain amount of tempering. a certain degree of trimming and tailoring. a certain kind of articulation.

so he’s certain that it starts here, when he’d seen you for the very first time. and it’s true, you’d seemed like nothing special then, just another quiet little girl who’d been forced into the doujou by some faceless set of rigid, expectant parents, and you’d worked just as hard as you could have, given your natural inclination for anything but sword play.

he’d known that you’d never be great shakes at swordsmanship, but still, he’d found himself drawn by and to you, as a magnet would a compass rose, as one might find their destiny, or their soulmate. he had found his eyes tracking you whenever you weren’t looking, found himself watching as you’d patter around after sparring practice to ask everyone how they were feeling, to dig your tiny fingers (strong and dexterous as they already were) into a knot here, an aching muscle there, a pinched nerve that might’ve been really bad if not found here, and left to fester in that vast, horrible elsewhere.

but he’d been a shy, quiet, kind of boy, absorbed by his sport. and kuina’s skill was more than enough for one growing, teenage boy to contend with without worrying about the strange attraction he had towards perhaps the least “swordsy” person in the entire class. and so, he’d never plucked up the courage to talk to you, never questioned when you’d kept away from his side of the classroom after sparring practice, when all the other girls would flutter around him like a flock of unwelcome pigeons, asking if he wanted to be their stretching partner.

then, the morning came when shimotsuki-sensei had informed him in not so many words that kuina was gone. and the funeral had slipped by in a hazy blur of bodies and incense, and the next thing he knew, he was holding the wadou ichimonji, and sensei was saying something about keeping kuina’s dream alive.

he’d seen you flit from the funeral march of black-clad children, shadow-dark and raven-quick, right off into the thicket of trees. and he’d followed you, because he couldn’t think of a place he’d like to be less than back in that suffocating practice room with all his fellow classmates, half of them casting him curious looks, the other half avoiding his gaze like the literal plague.

he’d followed you to the clearing, and watched as you’d sprinted, screaming around the field of tiny, white-petaled flowers until you slumped down, panting with your face upturned to a sea-breeze sky. he caught himself before he could burst out laughing (or crying, he wasn’t quite sure which he wanted to do more at that moment), and he’d forced himself to sit still behind the trunk of a large tree and watch as you pushed yourself up. the light of the dying sun washed your figure in a great, dream-like ream of orange and gold.

then, just as it seemed like you were going to head back, he spotted you spot the injured fawn, curled into the gnarled roots of a sapling cypress tree. and he’d watched still as you slowly approached the creature with a handful of peanuts before distracting it and crack — he’d heard it clear across the clearing — the sound of a bone being set back into place.

the fawn had screeched and bolted to it’s feet.

but you were just as fearless as you always were, holding out your palm with more peanuts, and zoro had watched, with a mounting fascination coiling in the base of his stomach, as the fawn dug its nose into the palm of your hand.

he’d seen the brilliance behind your eyes, heard the bell-toll sound of your soft, everlasting laughter.

and he vowed, then and there, to become the greatest swordsman he could be, the greatest swordsman in the world, if only to protect you from those who might hurt you. from those who might threaten to take away the light — the life — that thrummed, ever present, in the palms of your very own hands.

a/n: i know, i know, there was an authors note before. but i feel like i can explain this better now that you've read the fic -- to me, the story of "butterfly lovers" is and always has been as story of someone pretending to be someone they're not, right? so in that sense, you/reader was just trying to fit into a mold that wasn't quite made for her before discovering her true calling as a doctor. and the fluff and romance was that, unbeknownst to her, zoro's known that this entire fucking time. u__u anyways. i hope you enjoyed. bless up and simp zoro, fam.

opla!zoro requests are open!

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animusrox · 10 months

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Perchance to Dream Batman: The Animated Series

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ralfmaximus · 3 months

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#poll #polls #perchance to dream #this poll is a nightmare

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jomniac · 7 months

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It’s that time of year again folks

Inktober/Batober Day 1: Dream/Reveal

#inktober #batober #bruce wayne #thomas wayne #martha wayne #btas #batman the animated series #yes its based off an episode of btas I can’t help it #perchance to dream is the episode #my art #traditional art #inktober2023 #batober2023 #dc comics #perchance to dream

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thesylverlining · 9 months

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Fifth, The Breach

"Sherry's got a lot he doesn't know how to say to you, and figured I'd be better at it." Jonathan gave a lip-fluttering sigh like an indignant horse. "Finally. After a couple years of walling me up in the cellar, Amontillado-style." I detected a note of bitterness - but just that, a note. Jon, it seemed, was not one for holding onto grudges nor plotting revenge. "Well, I know you've got a lot of questions for me, who wouldn't?" he said, shaking off whatever scrap of resentment remained. "So go ahead, Doc, fire away."

A continued fanfiction for Frogwares’ brilliant Sherlock Holmes: The Awakened. (John finds a journal, and Sherlock finds the words. And finally, John meets Jon!)

#sherlock holmes chapter one #sherlock holmes the awakened #frogwares sherlock holmes #sherry and jon #ficcage #perchance to dream #THIS BITCH JUST HIT 24k #and we are FINALLY to the MEETINGS and MAKEOUTS. i mean what #sherlock holmes

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j0-killer · 2 years

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tw blood version⬇️

🕳️💤 Perchance to Dream💤🕳️

#batman villains #gotham rogues #fan art #dc #j0-killer art #jervis tetch #mad hatter #btas #btas mad hatter #batman the animated series #batman: tas #perchance to dream

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0rph3u5 · 5 months

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G'night!

#original photography #original photographers on tumblr #sleep #perchance to dream

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princess-of-purple-prose · 2 years

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Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood

Additional Tags: Fluff, Horror, of the slow creeping variety, if this fic were a horror movie trailer it'd have "row row row your boat" playing in the background

Martin and Jon finally get to rest in peace.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fanfic #tma fic #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA #HEY GUYS. I STARTED THIS IN LITERALLY 2020 AND DIDN'T THINK I'D EVER FINISH IT BUT NOW I'M SO PROUD OF IT #please check it out if you're intrigued!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#my writing #my posts #kay talks #perchance to dream

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twistedtummies2 · 3 months

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Year of the Bat - Number 2

Welcome to Year of the Bat! In honor of Kevin Conroy, Arleen Sorkin, and Richard Moll, I’ve been counting down my Top 31 Favorite Episodes of “Batman: The Animated Series” throughout this January. The time has come to present the penultimate place in the countdown! TODAY’S EPISODE QUOTE: “Are you the dreamer, or merely part of someone’s dream?” Number 2 is…Perchance to Dream.

This is another episode of B:TAS - like "Over the Edge" and "Growing Pains" - that feels almost like something out of “The Twilight Zone,” and that’s far from a bad thing. In memory of Kevin Conroy, I think it’s a great episode to feature, especially so high up, since I believe this was actually his personal favorite (although I might be remembering wrongly there, so don’t quote me on that). It’s certainly high up in my books, so one could hardly blame him. “Perchance to Dream” begins with a typical scenario: Batman is chasing some thugs, and follows them into a warehouse. While searching for the crooks, something suddenly crashes down and lands on his head…and when he wakes up, Bruce Wayne finds himself in a world that should simply not exist. His parents are still alive. He’s engaged to Selina Kyle, who has no idea who “Catwoman” even is. There’s no Batcave, and no Robin; not around Wayne Manor, anyway. In fact, while there IS a Batman in Gotham City, it seems someone else is in the costume, and none of the famous villains are anywhere to be found! It’s the perfect life, and Bruce soon starts to buy into it, wondering if all his escapades as the Caped Crusader were just a mad nightmare… …Which is why he starts to become unhinged when he starts to realize something is very wrong. When he tries to read, words don’t appear the way they should, turning out jumbled and fragmented. And no matter where he goes, the specter of Batman always seems to be lingering, at the corners of his own little world, never leaving him be. It all becomes too much, and Bruce starts to question his own sanity as he races to find the Dark Knight and tackle the problem head on: he has to know what’s real and what’s not. I can’t discuss more without giving away spoilers, so…SPOILER ALERT: it’s ultimately revealed that Bruce is inside a dream world, manufactured by the Mad Hatter. The Hatter has hooked Batman up to a “Dream Machine” in the real world, and now Bruce is trapped in “his own private Wonderland!” Refusing to live a lie, “no matter how attractive,” Bruce must find a way to escape his paradise-gone-wrong and return to reality.

Once again, there is SO MUCH I could talk about with this episode. One thing I will say is that, after perhaps “Mask of the Phantasm,” this is Kevin Conroy’s absolute greatest performance as Batman/Bruce, at least within the DCAU. I love the way we literally get into Batman’s head with this, as he REJECTS his own paradise in favor of carrying out his duty as a hero. You can read into that in several ways, both positive AND negative. It’s also a great episode for the Mad Hatter! While his actual time onscreen is small, the Hatter steals the show once he enters the frame. I love how his “evil scheme” isn’t to turn Batman into a warped servant, nor even to kill him, but just to get him out of the way. And his way of doing that isn’t through horrible means, but by actually trying to APPEASE the Dark Knight, and make him WANT to stay out of the Hatter’s business. The emotion McDowall puts into his delivery when the Hatter confronts the Caped Crusader is one of the absolute best moments for the character I’ve ever seen, and one of the best moments in the entire SERIES. It’s only heightened by the animation; apparently, the creators had to really push McDowall to give that level of intensity, and it pays off in spades.

As much as I love the Mad Hatter though, and this episode – like “Mad as a Hatter” – is a big part of why I adore this villain, especially in this particular rendition…it really is Batman himself, and the surreal, strange plot, that makes this so great. We know it’s all too good to be true, but watching Bruce buy into it while knowing his heart is going to be broken is such an engaging experience. This episode is similar to “Over the Edge” in a lot of ways, but it plays with things on a different angle and perspective, and raises some interesting questions. If everything we ever wanted was put on a silver platter for us to take, how would we react? If we found out there was a big catch to it, what would get us to bite or to refuse? How wicked is it to give someone so much with such a catch, and how noble or even healthy is it to deny oneself happiness, no matter how it’s earned? “Aye, there’s the rub.”

Tomorrow, the countdown concludes with my number one pick! Hint: “You’d think one of us would have got ‘im by now.”

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revasserium · 8 months

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congratulations 2K followers may I request Victor from ikevil?Theme 17.number the stars.Thank you,have a nice day💕

number the stars

victor; 1,347 words; fluff, mostly -- kinda weird but victor is also kinda weird so i hope you don't mind nonny -- and thanks so much for sending something in!!!

“count the stars with me,” he says one night, his hair dark as the shade of a broken promise, his smile just as sweet. you purse your lips, looking up from the typewriter at your desk.

“i’m… sorry?” you ask, quirking your head as you lean back in your chair, wondering if you’d heard correctly.

victor’s smile is moon-sliver and cyanide, and you find yourself drawn inexplicably to it, like a comet towards the sun.

“come,” he says, offering you a hand, standing by your door, looking for all the world as if he were inviting you for tea. but you know better than that now — don’t you? you wonder.

you get up anyway, telling yourself that you’d been wanting to stretch your legs anyways and the gardens should be beautiful at this hour.

“it’s — it’s a full moon tonight,” you say, tilting your head back to admire the scattered light of the milky way, streaked across the sky. beside you, victor hums in agreement. you feel his eyes on you before you see him, the dull simmer and heat of his gaze as it grazes over your skin, soft as fingertips, strong as sin.

“how many do you think there are?” he asks, casually, turning when you catch him staring, unabashed even as your own cheeks flush with heat.

“what, the stars?” you ask, casting your eyes back up.

“yes.”

you purse your lips, unable to keep your curiosity from bubbling over.

“why?”

victor’s body shakes with his blue-bell laughter, “why not wonder such things?”

you resist the urge to roll your eyes. but of course — has victor ever really needed a reason? or a rhyme, for that matter?

“i don’t know… billions… more than billions, probably,” you say, thinking back to the various headlines you’d seen splashed across the front pages of the papers — scientific discovery this, neighboring galaxies that. you let out a soft sigh as victor turns his head back towards you.

“mm… strange, isn’t it? that we’re all so terribly insignificant and yet… here we are… struggling against our own insignificance every hour of every day…” he flicks a silken strand of hair from his shoulders, leading you towards the tiny pagoda where you’d all shared afternoon tea.

“strange? i… i don’t think so,” you sit down next to him, pressing your palms to the cool of the bench beneath you, “i mean… all the stars up there…” you wave your hand at the vast expanse of night sky, “they’re all just… burning themselves up, aren’t they? isn’t that… a struggle against insignificance too? isn’t that… it’s own kind of curse?”

victor opens his mouth, and then he blinks, pauses. no sound comes from him for a solid ten seconds before his entire body spills into a fit of near-silent laughter. you watch him, caught between confusion and bewilderment, wondering if you’d said something truly strange before he shakes his head and presses a large, warm palm to the top of your head.

“yes — yes that they are… just burning themselves up… all for us to call them beautiful — terrible, isn’t it? i can’t think of anything worse in the world than being a star…” he’s still chuckling when he finishes, pulling his hand away from your head to smile at you, a darkness twinkling behind his eyes that you’ve never quite had the courage to question.

“you’re making fun of me,” you say, narrowing your eyes and making to pull away, but victor shakes his head and pulls you back, humming happily as you topple easily into his chest.

“not in the slightest! i just… i just love the way you think, that’s all.”

you can’t help the shiver that chases its way down your spine at the softness of his words, at the closeness of his voice, brushing by your ear like a summer breeze. you swallow hard as his arm comes almost naturally to rest around your waist, and when you look up, it’s once again to find him watching you. you press your lips into a line and try not to stare at the beauty mark on his bottom lip but —

“ah… if you keep looking at me like that…” victor grins as he leans down, a finger tipping your chin up towards him, his voice thick with honey, warm as poison, “i can’t promise… i’ll be able to keep being such a gentleman…”

you lick your lips, watch as his eyes flicker down to track the movement. your breath flutters in your chest, hummingbird quick.

“i — i thought you asked me out here to c-count the stars…”

victor grins, “certainly i did… and i am… see? they’re right here…” he leans in, so close you’re almost nose to nose, so close you almost go cross-eyed to keep him in focus.

“right here… i think i can see the entire sky in your eyes…”

a tiny whine works it’s way out of your throat and victor tuts, shaking his head.

“i’ve been waiting to use that line for quite some time but…” he makes to pull away, only for you to pull him back with your fingers fisting in the thick silk and velvet of his clothes.

your throat feels dry, but you swallow passed the desert blooming at the base of your tongue as your search his face for a sign — any sign —

“h-how many are there?” you ask, your voice softer than you remember.

victor’s eyebrows twitch, “how many… what?” but the curve of his lips tells you another story.

“how many stars did you count?”

fire licks its way up your stomach into your chest as you feel his fingers tighten around your waist.

“i… i’ll admit that i’ve lost count — i’ve been distracted, you see —” victor’s grin tilts like a planet on it’s axis, and you feel your world shift along with it, degree by degree. like this, you can almost taste the weight of his words, the sound of his breathing, the liquid of his smile — like this, you want to sink your fingers into the fine gossamer of his hair and tug —

he is kissing you before you realize, severing your thoughts with the silver scissor precision of his mouth and you’re left untethered, clutching at him with the tips of your fingers, feeling him pulling you close, close, closer — a thick moan winds its way from his throat and you lean in further, push your mouth to his to take it in, to take it all in —

“please…”

his voice is shaking when he pulls away, his lips the perfect shade of treason.

you don’t feel your own trembling until he pulls you closer, buries his face in the crook of your neck and breathes.

“gods…” he says, wrapping both arms around you, his voice a wreck of barely contained emotions, of barely restrained desires, “by all the stars…”

you find yourself smiling as you let yourself be held, let yourself sink into the tremor and shake of this thing — held between the negative space of your bodies — whatever it is, at least you know it’s precious. at least you know it’s the most sacred kind of burning.

“all of them?” you ask, in what you hope is a light, playful kind of voice, even as victor lets you pull away, to reach up to brush a few fallen strands of hair from his face with your fingers, “we don’t even know how many there are.”

victor’s smile is indulgent and full of surrender.

“no… we don’t,” he reaches up to trail his fingers through your hair, thumbing at the ends as he shakes his head, “but… i think with you… i’d like to try.”

“try… what?”

“why… counting all the stars of the sky, of course.”

requests are open! <3

#ikemen series #ikemen villains #ikevil #victor #ikevil victor #ikemen victor #ikemen fanfic #ikevil fanfic #otome games #cybird ikemen #ikevil x reader #ikemen villains x reader #broseph. hes so weird but i kinda love him okay #i have so many weaknesses but one of them is long-haired boiz i mean look;;;#it started with sesshomaru and went downhill from there i am UNWELL #ANYWAY i hope you liked this anonnyyyy <3 thanks again for requesting!!!!#i'm happy to be writing for this event finally haha hopefully i'll be able to write a few more fics this weekend and then queue them up!#perchance to dream

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rolaplayor101 · 1 year

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Multiamory March day 26 + 13: Sharing Clothes + Argument @polyamships

Bertie just..zoning out. Also Bertie's shirt on Ariel...I want it..Trina Supremacy

Buy this on Redbubble!! My Commissions are always open! Pls don't ignore my DNI! Reblogs are appreciated! Very much so!

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thebarroomortheboy · 1 year

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The Twilight Zone | 1.09 Perchance to Dream

“They say a dream takes only a second or so, and yet in that second a man can live a lifetime. He can suffer and die, and who's to say which is the greater reality: the one we know or the one in dreams, between heaven, the sky, the earth - in the Twilight Zone.”

#the twilight zone #perchance to dream #rod sterling #richard conte #suzanne lloyd #1950's tv #1960's tv #1x09

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popculturebuffet · 1 year

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Kevin Conroy Tribute Review: Batman the Animated Series: Perchance to Dream (comission for WeirdKev27)

In Loving Memory of Kevin Conroy, 1955 to 2022

In Loving Memory 1955-2022

Kevin Conroy was my batman. Sure there have been other greats in the rolls from the Late Great Adam West, to as recently as the thankfully not late but still great Robert Pattinson, but when it came to what sounded and felt like Batman, to what really summed up the character for me and who he was, the triumph of his heroism and feats and the tragedy of his lonliness and pain, there was one man who always came to mind.

It's easy to see why: I grew up with Batman the Animated Series: while I was only about 4 when it first started airing, thankfully Cartoon Network knew what they had and thus warner aired it in reruns frequently, most fondly on Toonami with it's own cool lead in graphics with Batman declaring "I am vengeance, I am the night, I am batman." It was bliss for young me, watching everything from the tragic downfall of harvey dent, to the cold sadness of mr freeze, to that time an alligator man kidnapped the homeless because as I realized last night as me and Jess watched Batman fight a werewolf, this series could get weird. It's where I met my favorite batman Villian Scarface.. and the guy carrying him too. It's what really shaped my perception of the character. I'm not saying no other interpretation is valid, I truly loved the gonzo silver age Batman Brave and the Bold, the recent dark and moody The Batman, the not so recent year one ish The Batman (Cartoon), the utterly fun Burton Batman… there are tons. But you never forget what brought you there and even now as a grown ass man.. the cartoon stands up as a throughly mature work that stands as a solid model for how to hook those young and those old , as both 8 and 30 year old me can attest, to make something for everyone and to show just how broad an appeal animation has.

Conroy's further work on Superman (With the utterly awesome World's Finest four part crossover), Justice League and many, many more just cemented him in my eyes. This was Batman. IT wasn't the only way to portray him but it's hard to argue it wasn't the best.

Yet despite being so essential to my life.. I hardly knew Kevin Conrony it turned out. See in June of this year, I learned I didn't know him at all. I knew what a good voice actor he was but I just never thought, being kinda clueless at times, to actually look into the man. And as he told it in the utterly awesome autobiographical short comic story, Finding Batman

Finding Batman can be found as part of Dc's Pride 2022 a now annual celebration of DC's queer characters, and the issue was made free online for all to honor his passing. I recommend the whole thing, as there's a lot of good stuff.. but Finding Batman was the highlight. As you can guess by the title and as was a shock to me, Kevin Conroy is gay. He has a husband that survivies him and as you can imagine coming up as an actor in the 80's while also being gay.. wasn't easy. The story brilliantly outlines the pain he dealt with, having to hide it like a mask, and loosing rolls simply for who he was. IT's a painful, raw, and ultimately triumphant look at who Kevin Conroy was and why he connected with batman: Like Batman wears Bruce Wayne as a mask, Kevin had to wear being straight as a mask lest his true self be uncovered. And like batman he had ot deal with tons of pent up pain, anger, and heartbreak.. and thus.. perfectly slid into the role. The only reason I didn't review this.. is that I just really can't review an autobiography comic. It's hard to talk about story and tone when the story is VERY real, was very painful to someone and a lot to deal with. It feels wrong. It's the same reason despite equally loving it I didn't cover ND Stevensons comic about them realizing they liked women. Because ultimately it's someone's life story and should be there's to tell, not mine. Most I can do is tell you it's there.

What I can do… is Review Kevin's Faviorite episode, something Kev and I agreed was a good choice: I had thought of it before and kev bringing it up as Kevin Conroy's faviorite clinched it.L While I had PLENTY of brilliant episodes to choose from, this series is rememebred for good reason, I wanted one that really spotlighted Kevin as a performer, that really showed his range, substance and what he could really do. And what better one than when Bruce Wayne contronted Batman? That when Bruce is faced with the very thing that keeps him from being happy. When Bruce gets everything he could want.. and sadly dosen't get to keep it. Ths is Perchance to Dream… and it's under the cut. For Kevin.

Perchance to Dream has a very simple brilliant hook. We start with a normal batman the animated series episode for about a minute: We get one of the greatest opening sequences of all time to one of the greatest theme songs of all time as usual. Seriously the animation, the quick movement, the beautiful use of Danny Elfman's theme.. it all just meshes together perfectly. I probably don't need to tell most of you reading this how great it is.. but sometimes you have to state the obvious because the obvious is so frickin cool.

At any rate it starts pretty simply after that: Batman tails some crooks, goes into a shady warehouse, gets knocked out by .. something.. and wakes up fine in his bed, confused. Then we get the hook as Alfred.. .feels entirely off. He dosen't know what Bruce was up to last night, thinks Robin is some other woman he's seeing ont eh sid eof selina, and more importantly than that.. has no real response to Bruce possibly cheating. Given the guy's main functions are to doll out sass and fatherly advice, it's a nice subtle clue that something is .. off.

The slightly bigger one .. is that the iconic clock entrance to the batcave, the one that's in just about every version of the character… is just a clock. Bruce gets increasingly frustrated.. when the hammer really drops and it finally sinks in just what's going on: Bruce's Parents show up. Kevin's performance of bruce seeing them is also just… heartbreaking. Being Batman… he just.. can't accept their alive. This has to be a trick or a dream or SOMETHING. The other stuff was just off and could just be some sort of scheme, but his parents.. he knows them. They've haunted him, their the reason he became the bat, there's likely not a day he doesn't think of them.. and here they never got shot, bruce is just a happily engaged former playboy who hasn't accomplished much.. it's not the life he had.. but it's a happy one.

Naturally bruce isn't happy or settled, and it's a nice way to have him speak for the audience: the audience too is thrown off by this new reality. They also cleverly get the exposition out about who bruce is in this reality by simply having him ask alfred, knowing it's silly but having him humor him. It also shows that despite the new life.. Bruce is still Batman and Bruce is still a mask. Being thrust into a new reality dosen't change that it only makes him question what's the gimmick? What's the trap? It's what the audience is asking too. It's also likely asking who takes care of the Rogues in a world without Batman? And that's where we get a clever twist after Bruce sees Selina in this reality at the office… and someone comes in announcing batman is outside catching those crooks with his grappling hook.

Yeah turns out BATMAN is still around… and THAT is what convinces Bruce this might be real. And it makes sense: Alfred, Selina , his Parents they all feel off slightly, an idealized version of them without the things tha tmade them real: Alfred isn't looking after bruce like a surrogate father (because his biological one isn't full of holes) and Selina isn't simply a mask for catwoman. His detective alarms naturally grow off. But if he isn't batman, if none of the evidence he ver was batman is around..w as him being batman just a delusion that left him with batman's skills? Is this the real life and was that just fantasy?

It's made more concrete with Leslie Thompkins in this reality. For those not as familiar with her, this series helped boost her stature, she's a child psychologist and skilled physiscian who comforted bruce the night his parents died and one of the very few in most continuities who knows hes batman. So even if he's not here… he's still someone he'd trust and he's still friends with her. She explains it as imposter syndrome: Bruce isn't satisfied with his life and not having earned anything so he created an exciting new one a delusion. It works.. but it's clearly both because the argument is persausive… and because Bruce WANTS it to be real.

It's what makes the episode heartbreaking: Bruce finally gets a happy life: Batman exists…. but so does bruce. He's no longer a mask he can just.. be whoever he wants to be. He has to honor his parents legacy sure… but he no longer has to do so because their cold in the ground. He no longer has to protect the world or fight evil. Someone else is doing it. He can just be.. happy. He and Selina can have an uncomplciated realtionship. He can still do charites and such and get involved in the company again. He can enjoy his parents. He's free.. finally free. And the sheer joy in his voice is so.. kind. We've never seen bruce like this. We've seen him happy.. but we've never seen him content. Finally free to be who he wants to be.

And it makes it that much more heartbreaking, as deep down he and we likely know this isn't real.. and when he tries to read only to get gibbrish.. it' sconfirmed. The sheer heartbreak on his face followed by his breakdown.. it shatters you. Kevin's coarse delivery of "this isn't real' is not of Batman's usual "I figured it out but grufly" delivery.. but of a man realizing his first instinct was correct.. and being broken by it. None of this is real.. it's all a dream. It's also why Leslie's argument likely worked and WHY there's another batman: it's bruce's brain, and the machine he's in fighting him, creating something to challenge his own rightful doubts. He's his own worst enemy.. both because it created the fantasy.. and because he couldn't help but shatter it. In the end he's batman.. and Batman can't help but pull at the strings till the curtainc omes down

From here Bruce tries to find Batman, being half deranged snarling HE DID THIS TO ME, and buying a rope and hook. His behavior is unhinged.. but it's easy to see why: he was the man who had everything.. and now he's just batman again. And while being batman is cool on paper in practice it's being alone, your parents dead and being trapped in a never ending quest, a noble one.. but one that leaves you mostly alone. He has allies.. but he forever will be on this quest. Well until he retires but that's not really the point and still left him with nothing so nyeh.

The police try to bring him in as his parents are looking for him.. but he easily dodges them because Batman, and confronts Batman at the tower of a cemetery. The performance here is stunning: it's Kevin using the bruce voice.. but clearly being batman, while the dream batman is cruel, happily going along with the summation of how bruce figured it out. how is.. kinda stupid. It was a good idea in theory but because the writer got how the brain works wrong it's him saying since dreams are on the left and speech is on the right, you can't read in a dream.

Yeah it's the reverse and it's something even without the internet for research that any of the crew could've looked up.. but it dosne't hamper the episode> it's goofy yes.. but it's not th epoint. The poitn is ptiting bruce against batman, literally showing the reason he can't truly be happy. Bruce gets to lash out. And what's clever is he never says this outright, never says it. but you can feel it. The line earlier is the closest he gets "he did this to me". While on the surface it's him being mad at whoever did this, in practice.. he's mad that he's chained again. while he'll never turn his back on his quest it dosen't mean he LIKES it or isn't aware deep down how deeply unhappy he is, how ultiamtely alone he'll be. he has friends and allies sure.. but deep down this is what he has more than anything, more than a normal life. And it's all he'll ever have.

This story, based on Detective Comics #633 to my suprise though changing some things (i.e. robin is absent), keeps the core: Batman gets everything he could want.. but in the tend the trauma that shaped him into the night.. also means he can't accept it. A fantasy like this worked on superman in the classic for the man who has everything (later adapted after this episode for Justice League Unlimited and yes I will be getting to it someday), because Superman had a happy life. it was trading one life for another. Batman has a life he's proud of.. but one that's inherently rooted in a trauma he never quite adressed, one he instead shaped his life around. It's a vow,a burden, a crusade, a cause, but it's something that dosen't make him happy. This story gives him that.. but the ultimate fakeness of it means he can't truly enjoy it.. and the second he spots the thread.. it' sgone

The why is also brilliant: instead of a mutant making himself into bruce wayne not getting batman and bruce were the same person, long story, it's the Mad Hatter. Sure they coudl've done the original but this works better both for the story their telling with the concept, and just simply that it's someone the audience knows. It's someone they've seen before so it is something they might be able to figure out. IT's hard to sure, but it's something they could see coming.

Roddy McDowell doe sa terrific job as him too, and his reasoning is heartbreaking "You ruined my life. I'd be willing to give you any life you wanted as long as you stayed out of mine" (He's also a simularcrum of jervis, just so we can dance around the identity issue. He can't see the dream and has his copy taking care of it for him). Sure Jervis was a stalker and a pathetic person.. but he's ultimately a very ill man who just wanted to be happy and thought he was doing batman a favor, not realizing that instead… he hurt Bruce worse than almost any villian ever has or will. He gave him something he can never have.. and for that Bruce is furious. He also gets out of the dream despite their being no off switch by jumping off a building.. and the shock waking him. As you do… if you is batman. And if your forever the night… no matter how much you dream otherwise.

Perchance to Dream… is a masterpiece. Going back to it I was in awe of it's deft construction, pacing and timing. But mostly.. I was in awe of Kevin. I wanted to pick a good performance but the torment bruce goes through, his brief ray of happiness and playing off himself. It's all so good. A large reason why I chose this one.. is that it's Kevin's show. There are other actors in it but at the end of the day this is an episode not defined by batman and the cool villian playing off one another (This show was very villain centric and it was awesome), but simply Bruce tortured by being happy. It's a fitting showcase for a man who truly was the night.. and will truly be missed. Thanks for reading.

#kevin conroy #batman the animated series #batman #perchance to dream #bruce wayne #dcau #animation #dc comics #warner brothers

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