#im hurting..........

[cronchy-baguette]

When all this is over, will you stay with me? For good?

[greykolla-art]

Asterix is such a little ragdoll, it’s irresistible to draw him unconscious.

[suntails]

sacrifice

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Ignorantia Neminem Excusat [part 2]

[Ignorance excuses no one, lat.]

[ <- part 1 ]

Now that Tim thinks about it, it does look ominous.

A seven feet tall, cylindrical glass tube that emits a soft, slightly pulsing green glow, countless cords and wires plugged into its base. It made sense at the moment — a giant space station needs a giant power source — but right now, when Tim knows what that entitles, it's... he bites on his cheek and looks back down to the tablet he is holding.

"Ten more minutes," he says, his words echoing off the walls of the room. Tucker nods, not taking his eyes off the battery — or, rather, a containment device.

Tim doesn't look at him either. The twisted, nagging sense of guilt is eating him alive: it's been almost two weeks since the legally nonexistent boy demanded a meeting with Batman. Two weeks since they've learned that the Watchtower's shiny new power source is just a fancy name for a cage holding an interdimensional being.

If it was up to Tim, he would have broken this glass the moment they've got their hands on the extensive, irrefutable proof that Tucker all but threw in their faces. Unfortunately, that would have resulted in the whole Watchtower losing power and possibly going off-course, and they couldn't risk it.

Tucker, with his pale, eerily still eyes, understood it. He said a week or two won't make a difference at this point, and the one held inside the capsule would have been gravely offended if his rescue ended up in malfunction of a whole space station. He said he'll wait, and he kept his back straight and his head high as they've spent those two weeks tracking and locating various other batteries and setting the souls within them free.

The seconds tick by so slowly that Tim feels like all three of them — him, Tucker, and the ghost inside the tube — are stuck in amber. He looks down to his tablet again.

Nine more minutes until all the main systems are safely switched to an emergency generator.

"Tell me about them," he asks, surprising even himself with it. Tucker turns to look at him, his eyebrows raised, the green light of the battery making him look like something out of a horror movie. Specifically the zombie apocalypse one.

"About who?"

Tim nods to the capsule in front of them.

"You're not exactly subtle," he shrugs when Tucker just keeps silently staring at him. "The way you spoke about this particular cell sounded like, whoever is inside it, you know them personally."

The silence stretches for a few more seconds, clogging Tim's ears like someone poured honey inside them. Then, Tucker looks away, his gaze returning to the capsule.

"He was my best friend since kindergarten," he says, and the air gets stuck in Tim's throat. "And I watched him die."

The other spirits that they've freed, they were all ghosts, souls of the deceased, Tim knows that. Some of them looked like blobs — emotional imprints, Tucker said — others took forms of animals or plants. They've seen a few humanoid ones as well, but it was easy to distance himself from them, to not get attached or involved. They were just faceless civilians, in a sense, however morbid that sounds.

And now, the sudden reminder of the fact that all of them were living beings once, that they've had friends, and families, and maybe their whole lives in front of them, feels like a punch to the gut.

"It's a bit ironic," Tucker continues, a humorless smile on his lips, "He wanted to be an astronaut. He wanted to go to space," he almost laughs, and the unnatural light of the tube makes his features look sharper than they are, "Beware of what you wish for, or something like that, I guess."

Tim stays quiet, forgetting to pay attention to the timer on screen.

"He was- he still is kind of a hero in our hometown," Tucker continues, "If I had to compare, I'd say he's a mix of Superman and Flash — heart of gold, but his mouth runs faster than his brain sometimes. And he kept somewhat of a nice relationship with most of his rogues, you know. Friendly banter and occasional team-ups and stuff." He takes a deep, steadying breath, his sad, bitter smile fading.

"It's what got him in here," he adds, the words falling into the silence like a rock in a pond. Tim blinks.

"Being nice to his rogues?" He clarifies, and Tucker snorts.

"No, I meant the heart and the banter, but, in a sense, you're not wrong either. As far as the agency's records go, he was captured while he was rescuing one of them." Tucker turns to look at the tablet in Tim's hands, "How much more?"

Tim looks down, abruptly reminded of the reason they are here.

"Uh, three more minutes," he says, but then grimaces and changes his mind. Bruce and the rest of the League can go fuck themselves, honestly, "Actually, you might want to start now. Disconnecting it would take time anyway," he shrugs, as nonchalant as it's possible in these circumstances.

Tucker stares at him, his eerie eyes looking almost grateful for a moment. And then Tim blinks and finds him on the other side of the room, kneeling on the floor with his fingers dancing over the battery's control panel.

Tim breathes out and looks at the ticking timer on his tablet. Two minutes and forty-five seconds. Tucker is a tech genius, they've all had time to see and appreciate it in the last two weeks, so he is surely going to finish working on the capsule sooner than two minutes. Yet, Tim can't bring himself to really care — he knows Bruce has probably set the timer with a few minutes of delay, just to play it safe. But even if he didn't, it's not like Watchtower will fall down from the orbit after a two-minute blackout, so-

A loud hiss interrupts his musings, and when Tim raises his head, he sees the glass wall of the capsule opening slowly, reluctantly sliding to the left. He only has a brief moment to be surprised — he knew Tucker worked fast when he wanted, but not that fast — before some kind of thick, green substance starts pouring out of it. Yet, instead of spilling on the floor, it glimmers and fades into thin air like fog.

This hadn't happened with any other batteries, Tim thinks, but then the capsule finally opens completely, and-

That's a person.

A person who looks the same age as Tim, his skin and hair lacking any kind of color to it like it's all bled out. A faded picture of a human being.

The toxic-looking liquid around him keeps leaking, turning into clouds of greenish white, ice cold steam. It's kind of pretty; it would have made a great picture, or, maybe, a painting if you ignore all the implications that brought it to life.

When the colorless boy starts falling, Tim doesn't even notice how he drops his tablet. He steps forward, reaching his hands out to catch him.

A moment later, he is holding a ghost in his arms. He is surprisingly — or maybe not so, considering his species — light; it's like holding something that's only slightly denser than air.

The boy sluggishly moves, shifting in his arms. His white, floating hair gets into Tim's nose, and he huffs, trying not to sneeze.

There's a quiet, almost sleepy moan that feels like a vibration on Tim's skin, and the boy lifts his head.

Tim's heart skips a beat.

His eyes are bright green, and they hold the whole universe within them.

Tags:

@thewisperwitch @yassjr @calisto112 @failedbimboinstem @yesdangerpls @restedenergy00 @tf-wildstrike

[runawayjay]

neil canonically uses his mother’s British accent when he’s traveling overseas so can we imagine maybe a group trip with either the monsters or maybe all the foxes (or maybe just him an andrew, if andrew consented to the long plane ride in any of these scenarios) and neil just slips into a fucking accent none of the foxes have ever heard him use before, and he does it like its his natural accent and not put-on at all.

i cant decide which is better: neil doing it on purpose just to see their faces or him doing it on accident and being confused by their faces.

[rooniearts]

I will so regret this but you mentioned having a mini comic made for the 200 years dadow au…Can we see?? 🥹🥺🥹

(P.S, ur art and headcanons are so cool like its genuinely so awesome and fun and tastes like taffy in a good way hshshs)

Found

Bonus:

[starry-bi-sky]

im being hit with The Visions again

the Vision this time is a "homeless danny in gotham" au except its pre-robin Batman again because im on a batdad kick. --------------------

Danny finds a car.

Which-- isn't, like, anything super interesting or impressive. It's Gotham, it's a big city. There's cars on every corner, can't throw a stick without hitting one somewhere. And then setting off the alarm.

But-! It's a car, and it's past midnight-- or he thinks it might be past midnight, it's late enough to be. He doesn't have a watch and he left his phone at Vlad's; asshole put a tracker on it after the last time Danny ran off.

It's been over a month since, it's a new record -- last time it took just over two weeks for Vlad to find him and drag him back to the mansion. This time, Danny ran further. Left the state and everything. See how long it takes Vlad to find him now, hah.

People go missing all the time in Gotham.

Anyways-- there's a car, and it's midnight, and it's parked in an alleyway. Danny would've called it invisible with the way he pretty much trips over it, phasing through the wall of the building beside it and not watching where he's going, but it's not. So he doesn't.

Danny runs into the hood and nearly faceplants right into the darn thing with an 'oomph', hands catching himself on the metal as a flash of irritation flashes hot through his gut. It doesn't hurt or anything, but getting the wind knocked out of you sucks always, and he's tired and hungry, and as a result not in the best state of mind.

He's just about to sink his foot into the side of the wheel -- it wouldn't do anything, he's not that big of an asshole, but it's the principle -- when he stops.

Danny pauses.

He takes a step back, holding his hands out 'n' everything, and examines the car. He squints, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the darkness, considering the closest streetlight is twenty feet that way and positioned in a way that none of the light is hitting it.

Danny would not call himself a car guy. He doesn't think he counts, considering his size and lack of everything. But, but, he knows his way around a few cars, and he had an old obsession with older models when he was little that kinda petered out of existence after his accident. Had a bunch of little car models sitting on one of his shelves back in Amity, and Dad offered to get his hands on an old car for the two of them to fix up together so it'd be ready for Danny when he got his license.

...Anyways.

Point is: Danny can appreciate an old car, and this car has an older -- albeit obviously modified, if the matte paneling and plated wheels meant anything -- look to it. That kind of flat top went out of style years ago, and it's got this kinda rectangular look Danny doesn't see often these days on modern cars.

Other than the electrical cars, but he doesn't think those count. That's boxy, not rectangular.

Danny frowns, tilts his hands down, and leans back further as if that will let him get a better look at this thing. "...What model is this?" He mutters, it's hard to tell in this lighting.

Wait, he should see if there's anyone in the car. It's not running or anything, and nobody's come out to yell at him -- or shoot him -- but, still. People are crazy in Gotham, crazier than they've ever been in Amity. The last thing he needs to do is piss off some guy from the mob.

Danny peers into the window and-- there's no window, okay. Well, no window, and no driver. Some idiot left their car unprotected and without windows, in Gotham?

He pulls on the door handle just to be annoying -- it doesn't budge. Okay, maybe not that stupid. Especially since Danny didn't even see it until he was quite literally running into it.

So. Not that stupid.

Danny looks around warily, pulling his hoodie around him tighter, and then starts circling the car slowly. Like a vulture. No license plate; shocker. Hear how shocked he is? Clutching his pearls right now.

"Reinforced bumper. Cool." he says, er- whispers, really, quiet enough that it doesn't even echo. Danny squats in front of the car and runs his hands over the -- what, should he even call this a bumper? It's bigger than his head, and it's covering the grille. He picks at these... things on the side that remind him of leather straps. Probably to keep this bumper up? Like a ratchet strap?

Danny leans back until his butt hits the ground and he can sit back properly, propping himself up on his hands -- maybe not a good idea. There's probably broken glass somewhere here and he doesn't wanna pick shards out of his palms, again. It's like popping the world's most annoying zit depending on if it gets under the skin.

(He could always just phase them out, but the picking gives him something to do. It doesn't hurt that much.)

Eh. It'll be fine.

With one knee propped up, Danny looks the front up and down, and furrows his brows. The style kinda reminds him of a dodger, especially with the placement and style of the headlights. He plants his hands on the concrete -- hissing when he feels something cut into his palms, ow, there's that glass he was talking about -- and leans down to look under the car.

Hm, nothing jutting out that much. Looks pretty normal. Good space between the bottom and the ground.

He gets up and circles the side again, brushing whatever pebbles or glass that could've stuck into his skin off. He's really curious about where the owner got matte plating for it, or if it's just a wrap. The silhouette's definitely sixties or seventies; too angular for the eighties and fifties.

...There's no one here, Danny looks around again just to make sure, cranes his ears to catch anything. Nope, just the typical quiet rumbling of Gotham's underbelly. It kinda reminds him of Amity, or-- no. No, it reminds him of the quiet groan of the Zone.

That's far more comforting, he thinks. Danny's never really liked Amity all that much.

Back to the car: there's no one around, so Danny folds his arms against the side of the door and sticks his head inside the window. No keys in the ignition, should've figured.

Not like Danny was planning on stealing the car anyways -- anyone capable of modifying a car into this kinda beast -- or paying someone to modify -- was not someone he wanted to piss off. Danny's an orphan, not stupid.

Ignore the fact that he's got his head stuck through the window. The interior isn't anything interesting, but the seats are made of leather, which is nice. Must be a pain in the summer or winter, but leather is cool, and gets stains out better than cloth.

No stick shift though, he's a little disappointed.

Danny presses his mouth into a line and then slants it, humming in the back of his throat. Honestly, he's kinda tempted to crawl in and go to sleep. The leather seats look really inviting, and he's been sleeping on the ground or on park benches for weeks, and the car is really well hidden. No need to worry about being kidnapped.

But, it still belongs to someone. And they're probably using it for something shady. They'll come back for it eventually, so he should get this gawking over with anyways.

And, and-- and. He wants to get a look at that fucking engine. 'Cause holy shit!

Danny pulls his head out of the window and half-dances over to the back, his hand curling around one of the bars as a grin spreads across his face. Now, Danny hates Christmas, but this, this is like it came early and good for once.

"You could smuggle moonshine with this thing," Danny says to himself, grinning ear to ear and running his hands over the edge of the metal. The car is too conspicuous for backroads driving, but the engine, wow. What a thing of beauty.

One of Auntie's friends would probably know what engine it is -- or what type of engine it's based off of, it could very well be a bunch of different engines frankenstein'd together. Danny doesn't recognize it.

Which means it could be illegal. Again, what a shocker. In Gotham? He's clutching his pearls.

Fully satisfied with himself, Danny dances around to the front again and holds his hands out. He makes an 'L' with both hands and shuts one eye, getting the car within the frame of his fingers like he's about to take a picture.

"I rate you," Danny makes a camera shutter sound and mimics taking a photo, "one cool fuckin' car."

"Thank you."

Danny doesn't scream. He does not. He's taught himself better since ghosts started popping up in Amity, and honestly he deserves some credit for that considering they only started popping up over half a year ago.

He does, however, gasp. And he gasps hard, the type that has a high chance of giving you the hiccups afterwards; the painful, chest-thumping kind. Danny slams both hands over his mouth and stumbles backwards, eyes wide and his heart kicking into the fifth gear in his ears.

Bleeding out from the shadows is a man entirely drenched in black, Danny can hardly make out his silhouette and barely catches the white glints of his eyes. Fear like a prey animal burns in his lungs, wild and rabid, Danny has half a mind to bolt.

His ghost sense didn't go off, which might just be the most terrifying thing.

The man doesn't move any more than a step, just enough that Danny can barely see him, but he can feel him watching him. Shit. Shit. He should've never stuck around.

His hands are still over his mouth, Danny, shaking, flutters them open, "How-- h-- how--" he wheezes, "how long have you been standing there?"

[chubby-bun-bun]

anything for you, darling

If only you knew the atrocities he would commit, all in the name of his devotion to you.

tags: sylus x reader, hurt/comfort

You’re lying on your side, head nestled on his lap. Above you, you faintly hear him humming—a low, gravelly tune, his steady hand gently carding through your hair. The melody is slightly discordant, but the rich timbre of his voice makes you close your eyes, leaning subconsciously into his touch.

The party downstairs is in full swing, but you don’t feel like joining in on the fun. Odd, considering how much you’d looked forward to this event—a celebration of his recent acquisition of a coveted arms manufacturing company.

But when you went to the vanity he’d built for you for a final once-over, your excitement faltered. The dress, while breathtaking and clearly crafted with care and intention, doesn’t accentuate the places you’d hoped it would. It must be your body, you think. It just doesn’t do the dress justice.

And so, you retreated to hide away in his room.

It wasn’t long before he found you, though.

He didn’t ask why you were there. Without a word, he made his way to the bed, propped himself against the headboard, and pulled you to him.

Which brings you to this moment, lying on his lap, lulled by his crooked yet endearing lullaby as his fingers thread through your hair.

“The dress is lovely,” you murmur. “Thank you for having it made for me.”

“It looks especially lovely on you—everything does,” he replies, sincere, pulling a small, rueful smile from you.

“You don’t have to compliment me all the time, Sy,” you say, chuckling.

The hand in your hair stills. “I mean every word of praise I throw your way.”

You pat his knee gently. “I know. I just don’t want it to feel like a chore for you, is all.”

A firm but tender grip on your jaw draws your gaze up to meet his. His garnet eyes burn with intensity, pinning you in place.

“Did someone say something tonight?” he asks, tone low. The subtle threat in his inquiry sends a chill down your spine.

“No!” you stammer, a hand darting out to press against his chest. “No one said anything. I’m just…my mind’s just all over the place.”

His eyes narrow, and a thumb brushes over the corner of your mouth. “If anyone dares to say anything to you, you tell me. Do you understand?”

“Yes!” you squeak, face now thoroughly warm.

He relaxes, releasing you before resuming his ministrations in your hair.

You take a few moments to calm your racing pulse. “You should stop being so scary,” you mutter, poking at the buttons of his tailored suit.

“I’m afraid being scary comes with this line of work.”

“It sounded like you’d kill the hypothetical person who said something mean to me.”

“Sweetie, I’d burn the world for you.”

Your retort dies in your throat.

His eyes are closed again, and he’s resumed his humming. You want to call him out on his joke, but deep down, you know he means it.

“Sylus?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

You feel a gentle pat on your forehead.

“Anytime, kitten.”

other works

[inkskinned]

you know, you know. no gods, no masters, no kings on pedestals. everyone is fallible. death of the author. you know! you are balanced about your intake of media - you allow the wiggle room, the grace, the gratitude, the skepticism. nobody above criticism.

but still. a weird gut-punch feeling, something akin to betrayal. you read the article. surprise! an author you love is actually: a serial fucking predator.

well, shit. what now. no, you knew he was a person (all people are), but now you're wondering - what have i overlooked by accident? what messages have i internalized that are strange and cruel? and also, like, what the fuck?

his actions lay a thick glaze on top of everything. like each place is now ruined, opaque in a new way. but okay, fine, you've done this before. you knew better, right? you've been betrayed by many a cherished childhood author.

still, this stickiness. fuck. can you pick up that book again. will you read it to your children. you've recommended it to others - will you ever do that again? and of course, of course, no parasocial relationships. you were theoretically above this kind of sentiment. but the artist informs the art, right.

so it's not something as clear-cut as feeling he owed you, specifically (a stranger) better behavior - just that you kind of, in a distant and odd way... sort of trusted him to do better. it's not like a real trust or something speakable, just the faint hope that the product (good books) was a thin representation of the soul. now it feels like the product (good? books?) was a mask. in some small or insignificant way, your previous support of this person lent them power. your money and your time and your laughter.

and the thing is - you have this terrible, echoing sensation. how many times will this happen? over and over. you find out that the singer you love is actually a predator. you learn over drinks that your favorite high school english teacher is in jail for what he did to her. you listen to the news idly and suddenly discover that a woman you used to idolize has been abusing her kids for an actual eon.

what can you touch without the static melting off. you can't even really complain about it too much (you were supposed to know better, and besides, you don't want the same re-split "it's not your fault, love what you love" basic advice), but now it's here. somehow, it feels like - you let him into your life.

it's not that things need to be pure or an artist has to be like, endlessly perfect, mindful. demure. it's more just this terrible truth that has been replayed through your veins so often it feels criminally vain. power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely. did you want any one person to be worth that power?

it's just that he wrote books where he seemed to understand that. he seemed to know about hierarchies and unfair systems and bigotry and privilege. you thought they were books about what it means to struggle. you thought they were about having power and still using it for good rather than for control. he spooned you a narrative of being a good guy, a kind soul. you fucking bought what that fucking monster sold.

maybe that's why they were fantasies, after all.

[summikomi]

jjk smau: it's your birthday! ..where are they?

ft. gojo, yuuji, megumi, nanami, choso & shoko

cw: highly suggestive content, fem reader on yuuji & shoko, implied stsg like once on shoko, alcohol mention on megumi, general sappiness

hello, did anybody order a slice of self-indulgence? (it's my birthday!) if the characters chosen seem random that's because i just picked my favorites.. i may add others later but my fingers were cramping up

[thebrainrotsreal]

Drew this real quick because I fucking love these two so much ???? Especially Bee. I wish they interacted more so badly. PLEASE.

Also learning how to draw these guys.. slowly.

[princessjello]

Oh it did not hurt me, no. It DESTROYED me.

[ibahibut]

💀: Fewer wounds, more kisses from me.

🐦‍⬛: Contract's accepted, mi amor.

Music inspiration: A Little Death by The Neighbourhood

[evilrobotalienclown]

hannibal nbc where everything is the same but instead this is the intro

it plays out Friends style and has some upbeat romcom music over it