#The Dark Inker

[geekynerfherder]

Selected art by Adam Stothard, Albert Collado, Attila Szarka, Edgar Ascensão, James Neal, Rich Davies, Stephen Sampson (The Dark Inker) and Mike Rogers (Straife01)

Officially licensed 24" x 36" fine art giclee prints on Fotospeed Matt Ultra archival paper, in numbered limited editions of 50 for £69.99 each.

On sale now through Moor-Art Gallery.

[mekanikaltrifle]

Speaking of 'Juniper in outfits not designed for her': this. Fuck yes I'm fucking good, mother fuckers! Inking is so fucking fun >:O!!!!!!!!

[vyrion]

im in such a mood

[keycomicbooks]

Warp #1 (1983) Frank Brunner Cover & Pencils / John Ostrander, Frank Brunner & Peter B. Gillis Story / Joe Staton Inker

#Warp #1 (1983) #FrankBrunner Art / #JohnOstrander, Frank Brunner & #PeterBGillis Story / #JoeStaton Inker #DavidCarson, ordinary man in an ordinary bank teller job, suddenly finds himself pulled into another time and space where he is called #LordCumulus and put into training to face the powerful #PrinceChaos in "Warp." https://rarecomicbooks.fashionablewebs.com/Warp%201983.html @rarecomicbooks Website Link In Bio Page If Applicable. SAVE ON SHIPPING COST - NOW AVAILABLE FOR LOCAL PICK UP IN DELTONA, FLORIDA #FirstComics #RareComics #KeyComicBooks #KeyComics #VintageComics

[deliciousbasementtrash]

Playing Nurse for the Batfam

From Batman Wayne Family Adventures on Webtoon. Artist Inker Starbite

Summary: you are a nurse working for Gotham General Hospital. Batman has offered you a job. You are now a nurse for the entire Batfamily. Jason patches you up.

Pairing: Slowburn Jason Todd x Female!reader

Warning: Adult language, angst, mention of a gunshot

Word Count: 1.3k (sorry it's a bit shorter today)

Note: These characters are not my own they belong to DC. The only character that is 'mine' is the reader. I am going to be as nondescript as possible for the reader as well for physical attributes. This is a continuation series; I’m not sure how long it will be. Also for some reason, my replies to comments are not showing up. I’m not ignoring your comments Tumblr won’t let me respond :( But please, please comment I live for it

Masterlist

Part Six: The Patch Up

Tentatively, I gave Jason my burned hands. They dwarfed in comparison to his. I watched Jason’s face as he assessed me. His dark brows were pinched with concentration; his jaw was clenched tight. I noticed his forehead was spackled with sweat, and his cheeks looked flushed. Concern flashed in my mind, as I closed my eyes and did my own assessment of him. 

My power fell over me like a blanket, covering me with the essence of Jason. I searched around trying to find the cause of his disheveled state. There, flashing bright, was a gunshot wound to his stomach. My eyes flew open. 

“Jason, why the hell did you not say anything? You have a fucking gunshot wound!” I yelled at him, as I slowly healed him. I saw spots float in the edges of my vision and felt bile rise in my throat. Quickly, I blinked and swallowed trying to regain composure. After healing Tim, Dick, and Bruce using my power felt more like drudging through mud rather than gliding on ice. 

I felt Jason’s grip on my wrist tighten, “Don’t you dare try to heal me. I don’t want it.” Contraindicating his harsh tone, he lightly cleaned my hands and began wrapping them meticulously. 

“What do you mean you don’t want it? You need it.” Anger flashed inside me. His tone might have been harsh, but mine was final. There was no arguing with me. Not over this. 

Jason must have felt the signifying cue of pins and needles, “Dammit, y/n! I said I don’t want it! Not when you’re like this!”

Annoyance, sharp and hot stabbed through me, “Jason, I’m fine. I’ve dealt with worse before, and I deal with worse in the future. But you need to have that healed.” The argument was futile. I was done healing him by the time the words left my mouth. 

I felt Jason tense when he realized what I had done. His eyes burned with anger. I tried my best to keep eye contact with him. Not wanting to back down. But my body betrayed me and began to sway. 

Jason’s hands steadied me and I heard him swear under his breath, “Dick get me a protein bar.” Once again it was a demand. 

“Were you raised in a barn? Saying fucking please, dickwad,” I said, unsteadily. 

Jason held up the protein bar, “I don’t want another word out of you. Eat it.”

Out of spite, I kept my mouth shut tight. 

“You either eat this willingly or I shove it down your throat,” Jason practically growled. 

Succumbing to my body’s needs I ate the damn protein bar. Despite not wanting to follow Jason’s commands I needed food, water, and sleep. When I finished the protein bar I held the empty wrapper up for him to see. “There are you happy?”

“Not in the slightest,” he grumbled. 

I barely refrained from rolling my eyes, slowly I got up. “Well while you are sulking in the corner I am going to bed. Goodnight.” 

“Try not to pass out on your way up there,” Jason yelled behind me. I was already in the elevator. 

“Try not to get shot again,” I shuck my tongue out just before the doors closed. I could have sworn I saw Jason smirk at that.

***********************************************************************************************

That night I could barely sleep. I tossed and turned, my mind racing. Just as I was finally drifting off to sleep a scream cut through the air. In a matter of seconds, I threw my blankets off and ran out of my room. I looked frantically around trying to determine where the scream came from. A few whimpers sounded and I realized it came from the room neighboring my own. Without a second thought, I opened the door. 

The room was dark save for one lamp that remained on, giving the room a slight glow. The room was clean with miscellaneous books and knives scattered about. Toward the back of the room, pressed up against two walls, as if hiding, was a bed. A bed with a man thrashing around like a fish out of water. He was gasping for air, and crying out. 

“Please, stop! Please! Please!” Jason cried and begged. Something inside me cracked, as I ran forward. 

I knew I probably shouldn’t have abruptly woken him up, but I couldn’t stand the fear and heartbreak in his voice. 

“Jason,” I said gently, but loud enough to wake him up. He thrashed more. “Jason, wake up, please,” I begged him. 

It wasn’t working, slowly I put my hand on his shoulder, and as if I struck him with lightning he abruptly shot up in bed. His hands wrapped around my throat. Instantly, I couldn’t breathe. His grip was a steal that I could not break. 

“Jason!” I croaked out. His eyes were unseeing, somewhere far away. “Jason!” I tried again. Not wanting to hurt him, but needing him to get off I started lightly slapping his face. I saw him blink and shake his head as if clearing cobwebs. I saw the moment he realized it was me. He released me instantly and pushed himself to the far edge of his bed. Putting the most distance between us as he could. 

“What the fuck are you doing in here?” He yelled at me, his eyes crazed as he looked at my neck. 

“I’m sorry! I heard screaming. I just wanted to help–”

A dark bitter laugh escaped him, “Of course, you just wanted to help. That’s how you justify everything, isn’t it? Get the fuck out of my room.” I got whiplash from the words leaving his lips. They paralyzed me for a moment. “I said get out!” Jason yelled. 

Waking me from my trance I ran out of the room. My heart pounding. Tears threatened to spill. I couldn’t get his words out of my head. 

Of course, you just wanted to help. That’s how you justify everything.

Have I become manipulative like my father? Using my righteousness as a shield thinking I’m better than him? When all along I was just the same. A cruel person using others to make myself feel better. Was that the root of my motivation? I didn’t know. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. 

As if the universe heard my thoughts, a text popped up on my phone from a number I did not have saved. 

[Have lunch with me today. Your mother’s favorite spot. 12:30. Don’t be late.]

A cold bitter laugh left me. Today was going to be a fucking shit show. 

**************************************************************************************************

Jason ran a hand through his hair, over and over. Ever since he came back he had the same dream every night. Every night he relived the Joker beating him. Every night he felt the pain of coming back to life. Maybe that’s why it is so hard to forgive Bruce. To Bruce it’s linear, something that happened in the past. To Jason, it happened in the past but is also happening right now. 

Jason was used to the nightmares. The whole house was. At first they all came and comforted him. But each time Jason snapped. He said something that cut too deep. And eventually, the people stopped coming to comfort him. It was a blessing and a curse. Jason wasn’t sure if he was happy or sad they stopped coming. He didn’t want to hurt them, but he didn’t want to be scared and alone. But he never thought… he never thought that she would try and comfort him. 

Jason’s heart raced as he clutched his head in his hands. He had strangled her. What if he hadn’t woken up? What if he broke her neck? She needs to stay away from him. She is too good. Too pure of heart. If she was around him; his black decaying heart would make her own start to rot. He couldn’t handle that. He couldn’t hurt her again. 

No. Jason would have to push y/n away. That was the only answer.

Taglist: @soundsfunbutno@killxz@morpheus-girl@redhood414@bungunz@conicoroahre@greenyofthegreens@taytaylala12 @theroyalmanatee @nym-0-s @sarahskywalker-amadala @bonesbonesetc @dreaming-of-the-reality @gone-batty-fics @thescarletcryptid @bakugosgf2005 @irregular-child @vythika96 @greenyofthegreens @mythicalmo

Let me know what you guys think <3

[smashedpages]

On this day in 1982, the Uncanny X-Men and the New Teen Titans came together in a Marvel and DC crossover event. Together the two teams battled Darkseid and a resurrected Dark Phoenix!

Marvel and DC Present: Uncanny X-Men and the Teen Titans was written by Chris Claremont and featured artwork by Walt Simonson, inker Terry Austin and colorist Glynis Wein.

[gamesception]

Sception Reads Cass Cain #32

Batgirl (2000) #14 writer: Puckett pencils: Scott

Different inker this time, John Lowe instead of Campanella. I'm not enough of a connoisseur of comic art to really notice the difference. Honestly, I've been favoring pencil art in this series in general and not really mentioning inker & colorist. Should I be crediting/calling those out specifically? Let me know.

Anyway, we're back to the main series. Last time Cass was riding high after saving a repentant assassin from government agents. It fit more or less right in with the sort of one shot story we've seen a few times in her series, so there really wasn't a reason to expect any follow up from it, though the tone was a notable break from the usual Batgirl benchmark somewhere between sombre and miserable. This time is a return to form.

Before we get into the issue, that note about the tone does tie into that DCWomenKickingAss post that's been making the rounds again recently (link), the one with the interview with Scott Peterson where he describes the original instructions he gave to Kelley Puckett for designing the new batgirl as:

“Hey, new Batgirl. Young–late teens, I think–and Asian. And cheerful and chipper and always up and good natured and she has a complete and total death wish.”

As much as the Cass we got ended up being my favorite comic character ever, it's unfortunate that the 'cheerful, chipper' aspect - which is definitely there in the character, I've talked in previous posts about how much she loves being Batgirl and how critical that is to her character and to the overall themes of the book - is rarely the dominant tone of her ongoing. The quote from Puckett above implies book that on the surface is bright and cheerful, with a subversive undercurrent that fades into the background only to rear up and slap you in the face unexpectedly, where as what we got is an unrelenting 'long darkness of the soul' situation, punctuated by brief flashes of light that more often than not turn out to be the headlights of an oncoming train.

Which brings us back to the current issue.

We start with some government suits watching video of Cass and debating whether she's a metahuman or not, before being surprised by the fact that they have no matching info for her. Still pretty fun and lighthearted, but it does establish the idea that these guys are going to be a problem.

we also re-do the goodbye scene from the end of last issue...

Only this this time Puckett adds this bit where the assassin realizes he'll never get to see his family again, dampening the mood, setting up for what happens to him later, but also putting this divide between himself and Cass. Last time this guy could be read as a sort of self-surrogate for her, someone parallel to her situation as a former assassin, and by saving him Cass was sort of getting the chance to save herself.

Here, though, the guy establishes himself, however briefly, as his own person, with a life and a family. All the things that Cass's unique history and circumstances have denied her.

Things that Barbara is extremely concerned that Cass may have permanently cut herself off from ever having in the future by letting herself be recorded by the government outside of costume.

Cass, of course, can't imagine a future for herself. Because she's going to die within the year when Shiva returns. And because she doesn't want to be anything other than Batgirl. But mostly because deep down she doesn't believe she deserves a life or a future, and doesn't want to think about why that is.

As it is, Cass doesn't think she has any connections, so isn't afraid of losing them.

Bab's dialog implies that she's going to go to Bruce about this thinking maybe he could get through to her, but Bruce, consciously or otherwise, has been actively isolating Cass, so can he really be counted on to prevent her from isolating herself even further?

There's this transition page where Cass wakes up to find Bruce instead of Oracle in the Tower. I don't talk about color much, but Jason Wright does a good job here, the colors not just conveying a transition to night but also the switch to a darker emotional and narrative tone, despite still being all smiles, not knowing what happened.

Just like John way back in issue two, we have another guy who Cass thought she had saved, and let herself feel happy about, only to find out that the villains had come back for them later. And once again it's a pretty gut wrenching twist.

Cass asks Bruce's permission to hurt these people, not just take them down and capture them, but to personally punish them, and he grants it, which is a pretty gross dynamic all round.

Remember this bit from issue 4, when Bruce is talking about how 'perfect' Batgirl was?

Better even than himself, not just as a matter of skill, but more importantly for how she was untainted by any excess cruelty. It's why he was so shocked to find out she might have killed someone, despite knowing Cain had trained her from birth to do just that. It wasn't something that the Cassandra the he knew was capable of. But a few short months working for Batman and...

This isn't 'gentle'. This isn't someone you'd be shocked to find out had killed someone.

Remember this bit from issue 4? Bruce all high and mighty about what David Cain did to Cass. But for all the painful and potentially lethal extremes of his training regimen, and for all the evil he intended her to do, David raised a girl who, once she understood what killing was, chose to abandon her life and her father - despite loving both - rather than kill again.

A few months exposure to Bruce is eroding away the humanity and compassion that compelled her to seek atonement in the first place.

Bruce, his methods, the way he treats his friends and family, he's actively making Cassandra worse.

On the way home Bruce says he's sorry, but it's about what happened to the assassin, he's not sorry for what he's doing to Cassandra himself, what he's taking from her. He's not even done taking things from her this issue, as he doesn't take her back to the clocktower.

Of course. Of course he's fine with throwing away even the possibility of a future independent of him and his mission. You can just imagine how the conversation with Babs went too, at first trying to appeal on Cass's behalf, Bruce just not getting it, switching to practical threats to the mission, how Cass's exposure potentially exposes Oracle, in the hope that he'll respond to that - only for Bruce to respond by taking Cass away entirely, severing the one lonely link to someone who at least tries to care about her as a person in her own right.

When Babs was trying to appeal to Cass earlier, she brushed her off, convinced that she didn't have anything to lose anyway. You can feel the realization dawning on her that yeah, she really did have something to lose.

And the issue ends with this panel that makes her tiny to emphasize how completely isolated she is now.

This issue is a major emotional low point in Cass's early series, maybe *the* major low point. Bruce at his worst, Cass at her most alone.

Things will slowly improve from here, though sadly never in quite the way they needed to, with a direct confrontation of Bruce himself.

[arceespinkgun]

Maybe this is obvious to everyone already but isn't it great that Earthspark has so much Filipino representation in it partially because Filipino artists have had such an influence on the franchise? Floro Dery and Don Figueroa designed huge swaths of transformers and their work is still constantly being used and referenced today! Plus there are the lesser-known artists like inker Danny Bulanadi—when I was reading the Marvel comics I was struck by how good the art in stories like "Rhythms of Darkness!" and "The Cosmic Carnival" was!

The representation in Earthspark was so needed and honestly, overdue! (I do NOT count Cab from Masterforce as real representation lol)

[onyx666]

☽◯☾ let the moon settle you ☽◯☾

chapter 1

pairing : finnick odair x black fem!reader

warnings : none

don’t hesitate to click on the links （＾ν＾）(underline text)

In the dimly lit room, the air was heavy with the scent of incense and the echo of distant memories. Reclined on a worn leather chair, the cold sensation of the tattoo artist's gloves on her neck is sending shivers down her spine. The walls were adorned with faded tapestries depicting scenes of both despair and triumph, a visual testament to the haunting stories etched into the skin of those who sought solace here. The steady buzz of the tattoo machine hummed in the background, filling the room with an ominous soundtrack as she braced herself for the ritual about to unfold.

The inker, a silent figure with eyes that held the weight of countless stories, prepared the ink that would soon be embedded into her skin.

As the needle met flesh, the pain mingled with a strange sense of catharsis. The molnija, a symbol of the life she took in the arena, began to emerge on her skin like a dark omen. Each stroke of the needle echoed the haunting memory of that fateful moment, the arena's unforgiving atmosphere, and the desperation that had led to the kill.

The room seemed to absorb the shadows, amplifying the somber mood as she thought about that soul she had annihilated on that battleground. The flashing ghost that lingered in the recesses of her mind, its presence intensified by the ink weaving its way into her skin. The pain and regret converged in a melancholic dance, leaving an indelible mark not only on her body but also on her soul.

The lodge became a sanctuary of shadows, the only illumination emanating from the dim glow of the artist's lamp. The mark, now etched into her skin, seemed to pulse with a life of its own, a macabre testimony to the harsh reality of the Games.

Near the end of the process, a heavy silence settled in the room. She, marked by the indigo ink that told a story of survival stained with sorrow, rose from the chair. The molnija on her skin was a permanent scar, a visual echo of the arena's brutality and the darkness that had seeped into her soul.

In the mirror, she confronted her reflection—a visage altered by the weight of her choices. That mark is going to stand as a haunting emblem, a constant reminder that, in the pursuit of life, one will have to confront the shadows that cling to the edges of survival.

Capitol - [17 - 19]

As she stepped into the grandeur of her victor's party in the Capitol, the contrast between her humble origins and the extravagance surrounding her was stark. Winning the 69th edition of the Hunger Games became real. The venue, adorned with opulent fabrics and sparkling lights, gleamed with a decadence foreign to the simplicity of her home District. The air was filled with the lively hum of Capitol citizens, their colorful attire and extravagant hairstyles creating a spectacle that seemed to defy gravity.

Finding herself in a world where excess was the norm. The walls were draped in cascades of silk, shimmering in every hue imaginable. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting prismatic patterns across the room. The Capitol's eccentricity was on full display, with citizens dressed in outfits that defied logic and science—feathers, metallic fabrics, and avant-garde designs that hinted at a creativity untamed by the constraints of practicality.

A live band played a lively tune in the garden, the music pulsating through the space and drawing Capitol attendees to the dance floor. Still adjusting to the splendor around her, she couldn’t help but observe the vibrant dance of colors, both in the attire of the people and the kaleidoscope of lights that danced above them. Waiters glided through the crowd, bearing trays of delicacies that she had never imagined.

The exotic scents of Capitol cuisine wafted through the air, tempting her senses with a richness she hadn't known in District Eleven. Golden platters held bite-sized treats adorned with edible gold leaf, and glasses filled with effervescent drinks bubbled enticingly.

Despite the festive atmosphere, she felt a pang of homesickness. Her gaze lingered on the holographic displays showcasing scenes from Eleven, a stark reminder of the life she had left behind. The Capitol's citizens, however, seemed oblivious to the disparities between the districts, lost in their own world of excess.

The eccentricity of the Capitol population was a spectacle in itself—each person striving to outshine the other in a display of flamboyance that bordered on the surreal.

As she navigated the party, she encountered Capitol citizens eager to engage with the new victor. They complimented her on her triumph, but their words felt like a distant murmur amid the overwhelming opulence. The Capitol's fascination with the Games manifested in their insatiable curiosity about the victors, turning her into a temporary celebrity in this glittering world.

She exchanged bitter pleasantries with Capitol officials, their polished manners contrasting sharply with her straightforward sincerity. The conversations were a delicate dance between the genuine and the superficial, as she struggled to navigate the unfamiliar terrain of political niceties.

In the midst of the celebration, her eyes met those of a fellow victor from a previous Hunger Games. A mentor now, they approached her with a knowing smile filled with sadness. Their eyes held a shared understanding of the harrowing journey she had undertaken, a journey that went beyond the glitz of the Capitol.

One Capitolite, a woman, with an elaborate headdress that seemed to defy gravity, giggled and remarked, “You must have had quite the adventure! I can’t imagine living without all the luxuries we have here.” The implication hung in the air—her life in Eleven was inconceivable, a distant and inferior existence compared to the opulence of the Capitol.

Despite the glittering surroundings, she felt an undercurrent of isolation. The Capitol citizens, in their pursuit of entertainment, had forgotten the humanity behind the victor. It was as if her struggles and victories were reduced to a theatrical performance, a diversion for their amusement.

The conversation fading in the back of her mind, her eyes met those of the fellow victor who had approached her earlier. There was a silent acknowledgment between them, a shared understanding of the dichotomy they faced—the duality of being celebrated and yet diminished to mere entertainment.

As the night unfolded, She found herself torn between the allure of the Capitol's extravagance and the memories of District Eleven. The party was a swirl of colors, music, and laughter, but amidst the celebration, she couldn't escape the shadows of the arena that lingered in her mind.

In this juxtaposition of luxury and survival, her, the young victor from Eleven, stood as a living testament to the resilience that could emerge from the darkest corners of Panem.

In the midst of the discomforting conversations, she felt a rather presumptuous touch on her shoulder. Turning, she found Finnick Odair, the charismatic victor from District Four, wearing a smug smile that hinted at both arrogance and mischief.

His tanned, sun-kissed and golden skin provided a striking contrast to his sea-green eyes, a captivating blend that reflected both warmth and depth.

He seamlessly interrupted the group, his presence demanding attention.

“Care for a dance?” Finnick’s request was accompanied by a challenging smirk, and he extended his hand, as if daring her to refuse. With a mix of reluctance and annoyance, she accepted the offer, escaping from the scrutinizing gazes and disconcerting questions.

The sudden shift from interrogation to an invitation to dance was met with a collective pause from the attendees. Finnick's effortless arrogance had transformed the atmosphere, turning an uncomfortable spotlight into an impromptu moment of forced celebration.

As she took his hand and joined him on the dance floor, the live band adjusted its tune to a rhythm that matched the graceful movements of the two victors. Finnick's skilled steps and her stoic expression turned the dance into an unexpected spectacle, a blend of tension and compliance.

Their dance, devoid of any genuine warmth, became a symbol of reluctant participation, a forced interlude against the Capitol's tendency to objectify victors. Finnick's cocky banter and her occasional biting remarks created a dance that mirrored the power dynamics of their world. The Capitol citizens, momentarily intrigued by the unexpected turn of events, witnessed a performance that teetered on the edge of social discomfort.

As they twirled and moved across the dance floor, Finnick maintained his smug demeanor, enjoying the discomfort he had thrust upon her. Yet, she refused to let his arrogance go unchallenged.

"So why did you accept? Was it my pretty smile or the infamous reputation that lured you into this dance?" Finnick's voice carried a mocking tone, attempting to unravel her composure.

A wry smile played on her lips. "Oh, Finnick, don't mistake my acceptance for admiration. I merely thought a dance might provide a more tolerable alternative to your insufferable conversation."

Finnick's attempts to steer the conversation away from personal matters met with her sharp retorts, turning the dance into a verbal battleground.

Undeterred, he leaned in with a sly grin. "You can't deny there's a certain charm to this it. Perhaps you'll find it more enjoyable than you anticipated."

Her gaze remained unwavering. "Your charm may dazzle those pigs you occasionally call your friends, Finnick, but it holds little sway over me. This dance is a strategic maneuver, nothing more."

He chuckled, a low, confident sound that reverberated through her. "A strategic maneuver? You give this dance far too much credit. Perhaps you're not as immune as you'd like to believe."

The response was swift. "Charm is a fleeting illusion, Finnick. It holds no power over substance. This dance is a calculated choice, not a surrender to you."

Finnick's eyes gleamed with amusement. "Most would have succumbed to the allure of the Capitol by now. Yet here you are, dancing on your own terms."

A flicker of something unreadable crossed her eyes. “If you gaze long enough into an abyss-”

"The abyss also gazes into you" Finnick finished her sentence, intrigued by the cryptic response.

The party, once an uncomfortable ordeal, had transformed into a nuanced dance of social dynamics, where she navigated the Capitol's expectations with a mixture of defiance and composure. Meanwhile, he, though seemingly victorious, couldn't deny the unexpected complexity that had unfolded beneath the surface of that interaction.

As the dance concluded and the crowd rejoined them on the dance floor, they slipped away, finding solace in the secluded beauty of the garden. She couldn't shake off the resentment for what he represented – the embodiment of the Capitol's playboy image, a pawn in their elaborate game.

He noticed the lingering tension and attempted to break the ice. "You know, not all of us chose this life. We're just pieces in their twisted puzzle."

She shot him a skeptical glance. "You seem to be enjoying it quite a bit, playing the part they want you to play."

Finnick sighed, his eyes momentarily betraying a hint of weariness. "It's all about survival. You play the hand you're dealt."

She scoffed. "Survival? You seem to be doing pretty good from what all Panem and I can see."

He paused, his gaze meeting hers with a flicker of sincerity. "Not everyone is as free as they appear. There are strings attached, and cutting them comes at a cost."

They strolled amidst the vibrant blooms, the moonlight casting a delicate glow on their conversation. She couldn't deny the complexity of his existence, even if she resented the role he played.

"I've navigated shadows, walked paths I'd shield from the sun," Finnick admitted, his voice a delicate unveiling of vulnerabilities veiled by his charming facade. "But survival, that's the currency they demand from us."

Her skepticism softened into a momentary understanding. "Surviving at what cost, Finnick? Your fucking soul?"

He chuckled bitterly. "The Capitol doesn't leave much room for souls, darling. They don’t even care for it"

She sighed, the weight of the Capitol's influence pressing down on them.

He met her gaze, his eyes revealing a complex blend of defiance and resignation. "Did Snow spoke to you?" he asked dodging the look in her eyes.

"Not yet. Why?" she replied, searching for understanding in his guarded expression.

Finnick shrugged nonchalantly, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Just curious. The Capitol tends to play its games, and Snow is the puppet master. Always worth knowing whose strings you're tangled up in, especially after a victory."

She frowned, a knot of unease forming in her stomach. The mention of President Snow brought back memories of his looming presence in the Capitol, a figure synonymous with control and manipulation.

"What does Snow want with me?" she questioned, her voice tinged with actual concern.

Finnick chuckled, a wry edge to his laughter. "Who knows what goes on in that twisted mind of his? Just be cautious. Capitolites love to weave narratives, and we're all characters in their grand spectacle."

He deftly shifted the conversation, steering it away from the enigmatic dealings of the so called regent.

“What was the anchor that kept you going in the arena ?” he asked.

A pensive silence hung in the air before she began, “It’s not a memory; it’s a feeling—the warmth of the sun on my face as I worked in the orchards, the rustling of leaves, and the quiet whispers shared between workers.” Her voice carried a nostalgic lilt, a reflection of the simple and rarejoys she had known in District Eleven.

Finnick listened attentively, the subtle dance of moonlight casting shifting patterns on the garden floor. “But in the arena, that warmth turned into the cold steel of weapons, and the whispers became the screams of those who fell.”

Her words bore the weight of the transformation, a metamorphosis from the familiar embrace of home to the unforgiving arena.

As she spoke, the moon’s glow accentuated the contours of her face, revealing a tapestry of emotions etched in every expression. Finnick, still standing in the shadows, observed with a silent intensity. The night seemed to unfold like a novel, each sentence adding depth to the narrative they were constructing.

“What about you, playboy ?”

He painted the scene with his words, “It was during the calm before the storm. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the district. The waves gently lapped against the shore, and for a moment, the air was filled with tranquility. I stood at the edge of the fishing docks, surrounded by the familiar scent of the sea. In that brief respite, I found a seashell on the beach. It wasn’t much you know, but it was enough. Just a simple reminder of a world beyond the brutality that was awaiting. Holding that seashell, I felt a connection to something pure, something untouched by the darkness that we were immersed in. It was a moment of quiet pride, watching the boats return with their bounties. I believed in a future where I could contribute to our district, make it better.”

Finnick’s gaze held a mix of nostalgia and sorrow. “But dreams have a way of shattering. The hollowness set in after the celebration, and the silence in my heart matched the quietude of the sea after the cheers faded away. I faced the reality that awaited me, all of us, as a victor, and it just became a distant echo of the life I had hoped for.”

"Live fast, die young, be wild and have fun....they say." she expressed with a bitter laugh slipping off her lips still cringing at the mantra.

As the gloomy moonbeam reflected on the side of her face in the moonlit night, she spoke with a grace that caught the peacock's attention, still standing in the shadows. The moonlight painted her face with a soft glow, revealing a tapestry of emotions in every expression. As strands of her hair danced in the gentle breeze, Finnick observed in silence.

The night, wrapped in the luminous embrace of the moon, held the promise of a new narrative written in the language of stardust and whispered confessions.

"I believed in the country Panem used to be." she said, still holding hope for the person she wanted to become.

In this moment, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, she became Moon, a celestial muse -a constellation of emotions and experiences that left an indelible mark on his heart, even him not noticing it.

Their conversation meandered through the intricacies of their existence, touching on the compromises they made to survive in a world that thrived on spectacle. Finnick, typically a master of charm, revealed fragments of a soul that yearned for freedom beyond the Capitol's whims.

As they continued to wander through the garden, the dichotomy between them softened. She glimpsed the cracks in his playboy facade as he caught a glimpse of the fire that fueled her resistance.

a/n : i keep seeing ppl do the ai voice cloning thing for a more immersive reading so why not try it

1) Finnick and Moon are 19 and 17

2) since the majority of Eleven’s population is predominantly Black and Native American/Indigenous, it seemed logical to me that Moon came from this District.

[dailyjsa]

Dark Crisis The Deadly Green #1

Writers: Ram V, Alex Paknadel, and Dan Watters

Artists/Inkers: Daniel Bayliss, Tom Derenick, George Kambadis, and Brent Peeples

Colors: Matt Herms

[johnny-dynamo]

STAR WARS THURSDAY!

Art by Stephen Sampson (a.k.a. The Dark Inker)

[keycomicbooks]

SUPERMAN #44 (1990) Jerry Ordway Cover, Story & Pencils, Dennis Janke Inker, 1st Appearance of Blindspot, Featuring Batman

#SUPERMAN #44 (1990) #JerryOrdway Cover, Story & Pencils, #DennisJanke Inker, 1st Appearance of #Blindspot, Featuring #Batman "DARK KNIGHT OVER METROPOLIS PART 1 - GREEN DEATH IN CRIME ALLEY" A string of connected murders lead the #DarkKnight Detective to Metropolis—and Superman. https://www.rarecomicbooks.fashionablewebs.com/Superman%20Comics%202.html#44 @rarecomicbooks Website Link In Bio Page If Applicable. SAVE ON SHIPPING COST - NOW AVAILABLE FOR LOCAL PICK UP IN DELTONA, FLORIDA #KeyComicBooks #DCComics #DCU #DCUniverse #KeyIssue

[deliciousbasementtrash]

Playing Nurse for the Batfam

From Batman: Wayne Family Adventures #67-69 on Webtoon; Artist Inker Starbite

Summary: you are a nurse working for Gotham General Hospital. Batman has offered you a job. You are meeting the whole family for the first time. What could go wrong?

Pairing: Slowburn Jason Todd x reader, (maybe a why choose with Dick Grayson as well?? Idk tell me what you guys want)

Warning: Adult language, knife injury

Word Count: 1.5k

Note: These characters are not my own they belong to DC. The only character that is 'mine' is the reader. I am going to be as nondescript as possible for the reader as well for physical attributes. This is a continuation series; I’m not sure how long it will be. Also for some reason, my replies to comments are not showing up. I’m not ignoring your comments Tumblr won’t let me respond :( But please, please comment I live for it 

Part One, Part Two, Part Three

Part Four: Dinner and a Show

Anxiously, I took the napkin from the table and began twisting it vigorously. I felt Alfred leave his seat as he rose to meet his family. I swallowed hard, not wanting to look at all of the people that were entering the room. They just seemed to keep coming. How many people were in Bruce’s family? 

Before I had time to register it a hand was outstretched near me. It nearly made me jump. The stranger cleared his throat and smiled, “Hello, I am Dick Grayson. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

In an ungraceful motion, I put the napkin on the table and stood up to greet him properly. I took his hand in mine and firmly shook it. His hands were large, calloused, and a little clammy. It was almost like he was a little nervous to meet me. But that couldn’t be right. 

“Nice to meet you, Dick Grayson. I am y/f/n y/l/n,” I said, trying to make eye contact with him. Dick was an extremely handsome man. He was almost achingly pretty. With his soft blue eyes, dimples, and dark curly hair, he could definitely charm the pants off anyone if he really wanted to. 

His smile grew when our hands met. He just stood there for a moment looking at me, and then he pivoted to the side. He introduced Tim Drake and Duke Thomas. Tim was cordial and did the customary new person greeting, Duke was somewhat rambling. 

“Your powers are truly something to be admired, thank you so much for everything you have done,” Duke said as he excitedly shook my hand. 

I smiled at him and rubbed the back of my neck, “It’s really not that big of a deal but thank you, Duke. You guys are the ones that make the real change.”

Duke opened his mouth as if he were going to disagree, but a red-headed woman with glasses wheeled up to us and joined the conversation. 

“You boys are hogging her. Hello, I am Barbara Gordon. This is Cass, she doesn’t say much, and this is Stephanie, she says too much.”

I greeted them both, slightly overwhelmed by the amount of new people. I was trying my best to act ‘normal’ and be as social and charming as I could be. A younger boy who strongly resembled Bruce stood far away from me. He surveyed the room, taking in the reactions. He seemed so serious for his age. I wasn’t sure if I should make the introduction or not. 

“Where is Jason?” Bruce asked the room. 

“He is running late,” Dick said, “he said he had some ‘other shit that needed to get done first.’”

Faintly, I saw Bruce tense, but just as quickly as it came, it went. “Alright, everyone leave y/n alone and go sit down.”

On my right, there was Alfred, who felt my anchor to the world. On my left, there was Dick Grayson, who felt like he was trying to get me to smile and laugh every chance he got. 

The table soon became loud with conversations that finally were not about me. However, I felt eyes on me the whole night. Damian Wayne was across from me, staring at me the whole time like I was an intruder. 

“So, you are a healer,” Damian said, skeptically. 

I swallowed a bite of food and nodded, “I am.”

“What can you heal?” Damian asked, twirling his dinner knife in the air. 

“Flesh wounds, broken bones, blood loss, head injury, organ injury,” I trailed off not knowing what else to say. 

“How does it work?” His eyes narrowed at me.

“I’m not really sure. It’s as natural for me as breathing or blinking.”

“What are your–” Damien asked but then Bruce interrupted. 

“Son, you do not need to vet our guest. Let her enjoy herself.” 

Damien was suspicious of me and curious I wanted the boy to feel comfortable, “It’s okay, Bruce. It’s natural to be curious about it. What other questions do you have for me, Damien?’

“What are your limits?” Damien asked.

I felt the table go quiet. They all were curious and wanted to know my weaknesses. I instinctually did not want to answer, but I knew that if I wanted to be accepted I would need to be vulnerable and honest. 

“I cannot heal a majority of terminal illnesses. Spinal injuries can go one way or the other it depends on the severity. I cannot heal tumors. And…. and healing is draining. If I am not smart about it, I can make myself sick.”

“Sick how?” Dick asked, leaning in. 

“Well, it’s hard to explain. When I healed Bruce, it was after my shift at the hospital, I barely ate that day or slept the night before. So, when I put all that energy into healing him, it was exhausting. I nearly passed out on the ground next to him. When I got home, I slept for 16 hours straight. That is a more mild case though, it can get more… severe.”

“I wasn’t aware of that,” Bruce mumbled. 

The boyish charm on Dick’s face vanished, “How severe can it get?”

“Oh, you know tremors, fever, bloody noses, vomiting, seizures. It can get bad. I’ve learned my limits the hard way, but I’ve learned them. Growing up my limits were more extreme. I couldn’t heal a paper cut without getting a headache. Small stuff like cuts and bruises doesn’t bother me at all now though. It barely scratches the surface of my limits.”

“Prove it,” Damien said. 

“Excuse me?” I asked, annoyance filling my tone. I can handle his constant questions, but being told to prove it vexed me. 

“You say you can heal cuts and bruises without it ‘scratching the surface.’ Prove it. Prove you’re not a charlatan witch.” It was a movement for a boy too quick for his age he took his dinner knife and sliced along his own arm.

“Damien!” Barbara yelled. Dick leaped across the table but it was too late, blood was already pooling. Bruce and Alfred cursed. 

“Why did we allow Damien to have a knife at dinner?” Tim asked over the yelling. 

“Tim, do you really think we gave him that knife?” Bruce asked, incredulously. 

Anger surged as I slowly made my way around the table full of people yelling until I was in front of Damien. I glared at him as I rested my hands just above his cut. The room became silent as I healed him. The cut closed, and I replenished the blood that he lost. 

Damien looked at me, dumbfounded. The whole room did expect for Bruce and Alfred.

“It’s one thing to hear about it, but to see it… you really are a miracle.” Duke said the words and I flinched from them. 

I looked at Damien and let my anger show through. “I will not heal you if you pull something like this again. I don’t care how much your father pays me. I am not a monkey that will dance for you on a whim. Do not harm yourself to make a point or prove something again.” Damien angrily ripped his arm away from me. I didn’t care. It was unacceptable. He should never hurt himself intentionally like that just because he knows I can heal him. I turned and faced the room, “It was lovely meeting all of you. I hope you all have a nice evening, good night.”

And with that, I turned around and left for the night. Maybe I shouldn’t be as mad as I am right now, but I know I need a moment to myself. I heard light footsteps beside me as someone lightly jogged to catch up.

“I’m sorry about Damien we are still house-training him,” Dick said, trying his best to lighten the mood. 

I didn’t crack a smile, “It’s okay, Dick, really.”

“He can be intense sometimes, well we all can,” ever so lightly he reached up and grabbed my elbow, turning me so I faced him. “We are a lot. We are loud. We are sarcastic. We all think we are right all the time. We fight. We can be obsessive, protective, and socially inept. You will constantly have to patch us up–”

I shook my head, my eyebrows pinched in confusion, “Why are you telling me all of this?”

“You need to know exactly what you are getting into. It won’t be fair to you if you don’t know,” he said, absent-mindedly his thumb stroking the inner part of my elbow. He probably didn’t even know he was doing it, but I was acutely aware of it.

I just nodded, “Thank you for telling me. I appreciate the honesty. Besides, if I can handle my family, I can handle yours. Good night, Dick.”

“Of course, good night, y/n.” It looked like he wanted to say more, but I didn’t have the energy for it. 

I walked toward my room, suddenly so exhausted. I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my palms, and accidentally ran into a wall. 

“Um excuse you,” a deep voice said.

Taglist: I am just starting a taglist; if you would like to be included please comment :)

@soundsfunbutno

Also please vote below for what you would prefer

Thank you guys

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

"...AND WHO KNOWS WHAT'S OUT THERE IN THE DARK..." -- HERE IT COMES!!

PIC INFO: Mega spotlight on the opening two page spread/splash titled "Induction in the Savage Land, packing an enormous Tyrannosaurus head full of teeth in the way of our heroes; Wolverine, Jubilee, & Rogue, from "WOLVERINE" Vol. 2 #69. May, 1993. Marvel Comics.

EXTRA INFO: I included the two succeeding pages for maximum storytelling effect.

Story: Larry Hama

Penciler: Dwayne Turner

Inker: Chris Ivy

Colorist: Steve Buccellato

Letterer: Pat Brosseau

Source: https://readcomiconline.li/Comic/Wolverine-1988/Issue-69?id=10544.

[vertigoartgore]

2021's Dark Ages Vol.1 #2 variant cover by artist Ryan Stegman, inker JP Mayer and colorist Jason Keith.

[sabrinatvband]

Notes on Comic Art #1: Jim Shooter, Jack Kirby

A few years ago I was reading Jim Shooter's blog and he was talking about a comic he co-wrote for a short-lived company called Broadway Comics. The book in question, Fatale, was illustrated by JG Jones.

I found the art in these pages incredibly appealing; while there's a certain stiffness to the figure drawing, the characters all exist within a space. There are few panels with no backgrounds, perspective is being used, etc. The coloring is also great, but that's mostly besides the point here.

I found JG Jones's artwork so strong here that I eventually decided to buy a copy of Millar's Wanted, even though I don't like Millar, because I don't think I understand DC lore enough to read Final Crisis.

However, I eventually watched a Cartoonist Kayfabe video about a different comic Jim Shooter wrote and noticed something . . .

It has the exact same sensibility, and it's drawn by a different artist, David Lapham. And so it's clear that, to some large degree, Jim Shooter's editorial hand is guiding the artwork here.

Jim Shooter wrote a bunch of different pieces about different facets of comics craft, and one of them is about inking. He says a few things that I think explain the mentality of this artwork; I've trimmed this down slightly:

Creating the illusion of depth. Depth is the key to clarity. Inkers control black, white and gray, that is, the extremes of VALUE, lightness and darkness, and to some extent, gray, the middle ground. Value—lightness and darkness—is THE most effective tool for creating the illusion of depth.

The basic “atmospheric” progression of values is from dark to light. Dark values on things close are very dark. The mountains in the distance gray out and almost blend into the sky.

So dark, lighter, lightest, natural “atmospheric perspective” is a commonly seen value progression. Doesn’t have to be three planes, foreground, middle ground and background. Could be as many as you want.

The important thing is to separate planes—even if the planes are only feet apart, you have to create progression/separation. Check out Woody’s work, and Eisner’s and Kubert’s.

You have to be a picture maker. You can’t ink a panel a piece at a time. First, you’ve got to study the pencils and PLAN how you’re going to use value to ORGANIZE the illustration to make it read, make it have the illusion of depth.

Someday, I will find the guy who invented the expression “spotting blacks,” and kill him with my shoe. Spotting blacks—scattering black areas around the panel stupidly? WHAT?

There are people who should know better who advocate making an “interesting pattern,” an “abstract design” with the placement of black areas in the panel. They are insane.

Even the great John Buscema, in How to draw Comics the Marvel Way says that crap!

John seldom inked, but when he did, he never sabotaged his art by destroying the depth by “spotting blacks.” He knew better. He was a great artist. If he had lived during the Renaissance, he’d have given Michaelangelo a run for his money. Yes, I’m serious.

Don’t spot blacks. Make depth.

So, the tl;dr / explanation is that Shooter believes each panel should have depth, and that thinking in terms of more circular compositions by "spotting blacks" is bad practice in his eyes.

[A composition with a lot of depth can also have a circular composition, Shooter mentioned nothing about circular compositions, and some of the panels above, in fact, have circular compositions, but we'll circle back to this later.]

Anyways, watching that Cartoonist Kayfabe video, I began to notice that the artwork in that David Lapham book starts to look very bland after a while [let's not blame Lapham]. In small doses, such as the single pages above, the book looks incredible. When looking at the entire issue, the lack of dynamic compositions starts to really stand out.

There is definitely such a thing as being too dynamic; look at Spawn, Youngblood, etc, to see what I'm talking about. Too many extremely wide or tall panels, too many figures bursting out of panels, too much extreme perspective [that usually is also completely incorrect]. I definitely prefer the look of the Shooter books, but there has to be a middle ground, right? After all, I'm working on a book that uses six panel grids right now, and so I'm obviously concerned about how my own work looks.

In the aforementioned Cartoonist Kayfabe video, one of the guys mentions that Jack Kirby also used six panel grids, and so let's quickly study some Kirby to see what makes his artwork look so compelling. Some of these are pictures I took with my phone; I tried perspective correcting them the best I could but they're not perfect. I took these pictures all the way back in 2016, but I guess I could never think of how to write about them without using different artwork as a point of comparison.

Here's an OMAC panel. Brilliant circular composition; the guy in the green is overlapping with the other guy on the right, creating depth. The three figures are standing in a triangle. Tech surrounds them in a circle. There are what could be considered "spotted blacks" on the floor. What's interesting is that, in many ways, this is not unlike the Shooter-dictated panels from earlier on an ethos level; Kirby is not breaking any of Shooter's rules.

More OMAC. This is eyeballed, but in essence this is a one-point-perspective composition. We can see some furniture and a plant creating the foreground. The computer on the right is balanced by the figure in the center and OMAC on the left. What I think really creates a certain sense of immersion here is that the hallway has an L-shape, which makes the reader imagine what's going on beyond that curve.

Here's something from Madbomb, a 70s Captain America story. Captain America and The Falcon interacting with the bars of the cell create some depth, as does the perspective of the cell itself. The wall to the far right makes it clear the hallway is very wide, and the soldiers marching add not only depth but also some movement and interest. 70s Kirby is underrated; he was a fucking genius here.

Here's an early Fantastic Four panel, before Kirby truly hit his stride as an artist. There are only two planes here; Doctor Doom and the computer he's looking at. Does that make this a bad picture? Absolutely not; I think the fact that Doom is interacting with the computer really enhances things, but really the entire 75% rightmost portion of the composition is perfect [the imperfect picture / gutter warp maybe is shaping my opinion too much here].

This is from an adaptation of The Black Hole, which came out in 1979, so this is very late-period Kirby. Still a masterful composition; the three L-shaped tubes create depth, the guns in the foreground create depth and dynamicism, the end of the hallway establishes yet more depth. Once again, this all feels like stuff Jim Shooter was advocating for.

Here's a panel I've already talked about from Captain Victory, one of the last big comics Kirby ever did. What do I even need to say? You could hang this thing in a museum.

I've noticed something about all of these pictures; they aren't really too different from the JG Jones and David Lapham pictures from earlier. There are more black areas, the coloring is different, the figure drawing is certainly less realistic. But these still, on a more fundamental level, feel similar. So what's going on here?

Well, there's a certain level of bias here; I selected all of these pictures, and I selected them years ago, so none of these choices were shaped by me deciding to write this piece. I truly am very attracted to these kinds of compositions.

The other thing is that they don't acurrately reflect the full Kirby reading experience. These types of panels are not uncommon in Kirby's work, but he did a lot of other stuff too. Let's see all of the panels I didn't include, that you're not going to find in those Jim Shooter books. I didn't feel like opening my books and taking more pictures, so these are all images I found online.

Here's another panel from Captain Victory. After a certain point in the 60s, panels that were literally just someone's face became increasingly common in Kirby's work. I don't think anyone else does these kinds of panels, and if they do, it's always a Kirby homage. I feel like these panels usually had the face at a 30 or 40 degree angle, but for whatever reason this one is very straight.

Even when Kirby had people talking, he could still get extremely dynamic, without the artwork becoming confusing or exhausting to look at. Look at how close the "camera" is to Captain Victory's face, and from a low angle!

Here are three panels from Sky Masters, inked by Wally Wood. First panel and third panels are very tight while still giving some kind of indication about where the characters are. In the middle we can see one man behind the cylinder, another infront, and an arm coming from outside the panel, signalling there's more than what we can see.

I've deliberately been avoiding highlighting Kirby fightscenes here [as well as his two page splashes], because while lessons can certainly be learned from fights and applied to more normal scenes . . . it's just very obvious why Kirby's the best at this stuff. Look at Namor fucking slam Tony into a wall.

I think the takeaways are obvious here; the Lapham and Jones artwork from the beginning is great, but these more dynamic Kirby-type panels need to be sprinkled in to create visual interest across an entire book. And as I demonstrated, despite Kirby's reputation for dynamicism, a large chunk of a given Kirby book did resemble the Shooter-dictated stuff from the pages I showed, just, once again, broken up with different things.

I'm trying to downplay the more base aesthetic qualities of this artwork as well, because I don't think the Shooter edited books from the beginning are poorly drawn by any stretch of the imagination. But it does need to be said that Kirby was a better artist than Lapham or Jones. Sure, both of those guys are probably better at drawing normal objects like lamps than Kirby, and they certainly are better at doing mathematical perspective. But you've looked at Kirby's work; it's so stylish, has so much character, so much energy, while also being completely legible. Kirby was the King.