#that are normal sized

[prlssprfctn]

AU, where Bruce accidentally gets de-aged (physically and mentally), and the first person he bumps in is... Red Hood.

To Jason's defence, he didn't connect the dots at first. He was just patrolling around his usual turf, thinking of nothing in particular, when he saw a small child in a ridiculously serious suit, sulking around Crime Alley. He looks distraught, and considering that he looks rich, it is no surprise - that is not a place for him. So, he is either lost or something happened, right?

He takes the helmet off, as he usually does when he is dealing with kids (they got scared easily) and carefully approaches a brooding baby.

'Hey, shrimp. Where are your parents at?'

That said shrimp turns around, his big blue eyes looking confused and lost, and Jason thinks he looks awfully familiar.

'I am not shrimp,' he protests instantly, pouting at him. 'And they are somewhere... here. We just left the movie theatre together!'

Jason glances at the abandoned movie theatre, back at the little rich boy with a familiar frown, and it clicks. This is his fucking dad. Suddenly, a kid - but it is fucking Bruce Wayne, for sure.

'Was watching Zorro by any chance?' Jason still asks, just to be sure that he is not going insane.

Bruce - and it must be him - beams at him.

'Yes! This is a great movie, by the way.'

Oh, hell. At least, he didn't witness his parents' death just yet. Jason wasn't sure he would be able to deal with his father being so small, and mourning his mom and dad. He would probably cry himself at some point.

'Hey,' Jason calls out for him slowly, squatting down; God, who would've thought that this little shrimp would become so tall and big in the future. 'Aren't you... You must be Thomas's kid, right?'

Okay, yeah, Jason is going to lie to this kid. Because there is no way he manages just to steal Bruce as a stranger to bring him back home; it is still a kid, even if it is his father. Right?

'You know my dad?' Bruce tilts his head, little fingers tugging on the hem of his jacket; suspicious.

'You could say that,' Jason nods. 'Alfie... I mean, Alfred called me. Asked me to pick up a kid, since Thomas and Martha got an urgent call.'

Fuck his life and stupid life choices. What the hell he was even doing? He looked like a mugger; or like a psycho. But Alfred was his best bet - he could call him, after all; ask, well, support his idiotic made-up story.

'No one calls Alfred Alfie but my dad,' Bruce pouts in a very, very spoiled manner.

'Well... I do. We served together in the army,' he blurts out.

His armour, apparently, is enough a proof for the kid to nod slowly.

'Okay. But you gotta take off your strange mask first,' Bruce folds arms on his chest.

...???

Did this kid just agree for an unknown man to take him home? Like this? Who could've thought that this pouty child would become the most paranoid man alive in the future?

'Uh, why?'

'So I can remember your face and do an identikit, if you turn out to be a bad guy,' Bruce smirks stupidly. 'Duh.'

Jason is going to cry. This kid is so cute.

'Yeah, duh,' Jason huffs, but despite his better judgment takes the domino mask off as well. 'Go on, take your time. My identikit should be the prettiest, shrimp.'

Bruce... gawks at him. His eyes are comically wide now, mouth open, and then, he jumps a little closer to him - oh, God, he is jumping when excited? - putting his hellishly cold hands on Jason's cheeks.

'Woah. You look like dad.'

'Uh,' Jason nods awkwardly, and because he is an idiot, adds a joke: 'We are brothers, actually. Just don't talk much.'

...Apparently, little Bruce can't take jokes. Because he lets out an adorable gasp, and throws himself on Jason as if they knew each other for ages now.

'Uncle? That's so cool. You look like Zorro!'

Damn this little kid, and this stupid family. Damn Joe Chill and the night he killed this kid's parents. Damn it all. Bruce might be an asshole sometimes, but he was so... cute and innocent.

'Thanks, shrimp,' Jason slides a domino mask back on, picks up little Bruce with one arm, and grips a helmet with another. 'Come on, let's go home. Alfred will make your favourite tiramisu.'

'You know my favourites?!'

Jason sniffles.

'Yeah. Yeah, I do, kid.'

If he gets so emotional over this kid, he has no idea how worse Dick is going to be once he finds out.

Oh, this is going to be one hell of a night.

[lazylittledragon]

I have this beleif that Guen is a VERY Instagram'd cat, she's very spoiled and very pretty

you're so correct!!!!!

+bonus catti :3

[fizzlo-and-the-cubes]

Sneeg seeks further medical advice (2/2)

(1/2)

[corantus]

aibotaurs

[fairweathermyth]

THE GREEN KNIGHT Dir. David Lowery, 2021 Dev Patel as Sir Gawain

[clovixen]

THIS IS THE ONLY WAY IT COULD HAVE ENDED.

THIS IS THE ONLY WAY IT SHOULD HAVE ENDED.

[zinzabee]

Throwing this out there in case people are working on learning how to draw Raph and need some help. His design/proportions are way different from the other brothers and most of the time I see people instinctually going for normal human proportions with him.

((And you are more than welcome to continue drawing him that way if you wish to do so; this isn't a callout post or anything! /gen))

But for those who want to adhere closer to his cannon design, ya gotta specifically break some of those art school anatomy rules you learned.

Also adding this for the neck muscles from another post I did a while back.

Go forth and draw the big turtle boy!!

[c2-eh]

😳

[waveoftheocean]

clark gets smaller. his glasses get bigger (⌐⎚⩊⎚)✧

(comments from this post! ty y'all for making me think abt clark's humongous glasses 💕)

[buttercupshands]

So! An au!

Siffrin is indeed fine as a Bigfrin, well aside the world isn't fine, sure he said the wish and got accepted... But oops it didn't work we're now stuck

And while the world around them is now a broken version of it they can only try to work with it, maybe Siffrin will shrink on their own

And for now Siffrin can help however they can, maybe hold the leftover books that library had or read the forgotten country books

Considering he now is a lot stronger no sadness or harm would hurt their friends

Sadly I didn't get to draw any of silly things Bonnie and others would do to keep Siffrin and everyone's spirit up, like I can see a hat being a cool thing to play with in its gigantic version

And Universe knows what is Loop up to in this interesting predicament

[chanrizard]

250119 | dominATE Hong Kong D2

© hjsimh0914

[starscream-is-my-wife]

Starscream then proceeded to do that really annoying thing where he edges sleeping and gets out the last second before the night passes

[livecrow]

Gundog!Soap's errand gets derailed when he catches your scent.

A retriever "retrieves" a plump bird.

Shifter/Hybrid Dark!Soap x fat reader

(cw: kidnapping)

Soap’s popping down to the shops.

He just needs to pick up an ingredient for dinner last minute. Ghost isn’t home yet, so he’s off the lead. Unsupervised. Normally, they’d get the messages together, but he only needs one thing. He could manage it. It wouldn’t be more than a wink.

But as he mills about, he can’t help feeling off.

Like he really is a dumb dog wandering around without his owner, his lead might as well be dragging on the floor behind him, collecting lint and stray bread ties—

It’s turning into one of those days where he feels far more mutt than man. 

Without Ghost’s firm hand grounding him, the place is a cacophony of input. Too many smells, too many sounds, too many colors, too much movement—all melding together into a murky emulsion of stimulus under the glaring LEDs. 

He squints down the vast row of isles for longer than he’ll admit.

Eeigit.

He should have written a note.

Thought he could have remembered one bleedy thing. Ye dinnae need a list for one thing—

Feeling frustrated and dafty, he resigns himself to traipsing down each aisle and hoping something jogs his memory. Pride wouldn’t let him call up Lt. He’d never hear the end of it. He’s a birddog for chrissake, proper braw at findin’ things—when he knows what he’s fuckin’ looking for. 

Least he can skip the sundries. He knows that much. Soap’s more than happy to avoid the detergent aisle. Stuff is bowfin. Stings his nose, makes his heid ache.

Lot of good his heid was anyway, feeling fuzzy, like it was packed with cotton. Might as well be. Nothin’ else between his ears. Certainly not the one fuckin' thing he pulled on his gutties and left the house for—

He let's loose an irritated huff and it's probably a bit too close to a growl than is wise.

Soap's trying to make good time, but he's a solid four isles in and hasn't had any luck. Eventually, he finds himself staring down a sea of tins. Fruit and veg, beans, and the sort. His eyes scanned the labels, but even readin' was a real Herculean task when he's feeling so out of sorts.

The canine part of him can't be convinced deciphering rows of little lines and squiggles is a proper use of his time. Especially when he could be usin' his nose instead.

Some wee bairn has starts greetin’ a few aise down.

—Green beans, peas, sliced carrots, corn, diced potatoes. Nae, that wasn't it—

....who in their right mind buys tinned tatties?

A passing trolley is making an awful racket. Discordant shrill squeaks and clunks of a stuck wheel scraped against his ear drums.

—It’s definitely not the asparagus—shites mingin’, and that’s fresh. Wouldnae faff about with a recipe that called for that. Cannae think how foul tinned would be… 

Soap sighs in exasperation. As he goes to abandon this aisle, he steps back to turn and bumps into something.

Soft. Soft, soft, softness presses into his hip—

The kind of softness that cradles, that molds around him. Softer than any of his toys. Soft an’ cozy as his own bed, maybe—nae, softer. His bed didn't have the same give, the same wobble. It was a softness that sent a literal shiver up his spine, saliva pooling in his mouth. That smell—

Not something, someone then.

An incidental collision, a bird had been trying to slip by him just as he stepped backwards.

The touch was there and gone in a second but he was mournful for its absence. The scent lingered at least, soothed the whine that crawled into his throat. There was no artifice to it, no acrid chemical edges that came with any fragrance found in a bottle.

You had actually managed to catch him off guard. The shiver that rattled through him began with a slight jolt of surprise at the two of your union. He must have been more out of it than he thought, he hadn't even noticed anyone else in the aisle. He'll never get used to being startled, but he wouldn’t hold that against you.

“Oh, sorry,” you muttered apologetically as you stepped back, embarrassment coloring your face. The contact clearly ruffled your feathers a bit.

Soap’s mouth shuts with an audible click, he hadn’t realized his lips were parted. He hurriedly swallows a completely unadvisable pant in your direction.

“Nae bother, hen,” he blinks. Finally finding his human voice, responding like he's supposed to when he's out and about on two legs. It’s a little breathier, a beat later than he should have responded, lower too. There's a rasp there that chafes the very air. 

...Maybe his head wasn't packed with cotton.

Maybe it was your soft, downy feathers that was muddling him up, making itself a sweet little nest in his cranium—

The bird sends him a polite, restrained smile as it scurries off.

His world narrowed, like he was watching through a spyglass. Or was it a scope? Regardless, everything else but you dissolved into blur, even his peripheral was swallowed up. Framed you in a vignette. Every tiny aspect of the minute interaction seared painlessly into his mind.

A pretty, fat partridge.

Wandering too close.

Game like that, ambling by all round and plump, right under his snout? Feathers close enough they almost tickle his nose—

It's instinct, ya ken?

Mind, for a dog that retrieves quarry, it’s in his nature. Cannae help it anymore than the shade of his coat. So, is it the dog's fault then, when he lunges? Snatches the bird up, into his warm mouth? Firm and soft all at once. The delicate control from a pup that can cradle a raw egg without fracturing the shell. When he brings it back to his master, tail waggin’ as he’s done a hundred other times?

Nae. Noone’d blame him.

He can already practically feel the pantomime thumping of your frantic heartbeat in his mouth—echoing his own excited pulse. 

Soap’s keen eyes never left his prey, even as your back was foolishly to him. His hind paws were already ahead of his brain, he followed, trailing at a distance. Stalking.

Thing should know better, he might have been a wolf. You’d have waddled straight into it's gaping maw, mistake the canines for stalactites and his tongue for a cozy spot to lay your little head.

But no, he’s no wolf. He’s safe. Won't take a bite out of you. He's a good boy— 

Good dog.

Bird dog. A Gordon Setter, Si says.

A jack of all trades, proficient at tracking, pointing, and retrieving. A soft-mouth breed. That’s very important. Most dogs cannae do what he can. Pick up a bird without pricking it. Ghost has been working with him, trainin’ him up. Helping him be more patient, learn new tricks.

Your scent—it was so hard to describe, but he luxuriated in it, nose twitching. It was warm, but not torrid. Sweet, but not cloying. Rich, but not heavy—

Familiar, somehow. Like a childhood lovey. Cheek-worn and supple as a lamb's ear. 

He’s struck by a piercing déjà vu.

It should have confounded Soap—but it didn’t. It just was. The strange mix of familiarity and unfamiliarity that shouldn’t normally coexist. He didn’t know you, nae. But it felt like he should. Maybe he’d seen you in a dream? Some sticky remnant from a past life? Nothing else could explain the strength of the reaction that gripped him by the scruff. Commanded him to “fetch”.

...He’s doin’ so well. Being so, so careful—game’s normally still, after all. Not wriggling about anymore. Is much more effort to control his grip on a bird thas tryin' to fly away.

Thing squealing like a squeaky-toy doesn’t help, zaps somethin' in his brain, even though he’s hardly pressing. Ghost will look at you an’ see there’s no teeth marks on you. He’s being good. Knows better. Not even a tiny nibble. 

Soap's so pleased.

Only wish he'd had his tail out, so he could articulate his excitement properly.

He’ll take you home and keep you. Rest a heavy paw on you when he wants you to stay put. Carry you round the house with him. Share his food with you. Show you his other toys. Only roughhouse gently, like he would a puppy. Bat you around a bit. Paw at you real gentle like. This soft, living squeaky-toy that he can nap with. Even let you nest in his own bed, tucked under his chin. He’d only ever mouth at you gently, you'd learn you wouldn’t have to fear his teeth. He’d rasp his tongue over you, help you preen yer pretty feathers.

He ached to sigh happily against you, rut his face against you. Wanted all the rest of his sighs to be against you, pressed into your skin. Nose at your crown, in your soft neck, on your squishy belly. He’s curious where on you that scent would be the strongest.

Ghost will be so proud when he sees, when he proudly lays you at his boots—

You'll like his owner. He'll pet you real nice. Ghost always knows the right spot, even before you do. Thoughtful.

So thoughtful that he won't even mind that he'll have to sort something else out for dinner.

[mail-me-a-snail]

spy is banned from all snail-sitting duties forever until further notice

[zondearts]

More More doves

[ancharan]

“Mine,” the word swirls in through the color, clear as a bell. Clear as the atoms that make up every shivering molecule of who Ford is, and who he ever will be. Clear as any fact in the multiverse at large.

- Chapter 2 of These Sweet Instincts (Ruin My Life) by @jack-fruit

wink wonk

this might help some of you intrepid color pickers