#and coming to my own conclusion

[zan0tix]

CAN U PLZ DRAW A WEREWOLF JAKE N A VAMPIRE DIRK IF ITS NOT DIFFICULT🙏🙏🙏

BACK TO THE REGULARLY SCHEDULED DIRKJAKE POSTING 🫡

I DONT DO REQUESTS HERE but this was an actually good prompt and something i had ideas for previously anyway :) TY FOR THE ASK

I WILL COME BACK TO THEM. I HAVE ALOT MORE I WANT TO DRAW WITH THIS IDEA THERES SO MUCH COMEDIC POTENTIAL. and my comment from twitter

Thats their meet cute

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

come get yer Laughin'stock! get it hot off the press! free Laughin'stock right here!

[paradoxbeta]

I'm curious, how would your Suns design look during more serious situations, such as one of the Spearmaster broadcasts?

something like this

and now for a (slightly long) addendum: i know i depict SRS as jokey and kooky, but when it comes to not shitposting and actual characterization, i have Thoughts and Feelings about them. the entire story, they just want to do what they hope will help the people around them, even though it all ends up horribly, HORRIBLY wrong. that's tragic, and it has my interest. considering the heaviness (and intrigue) of SRS’s storyline, for me to only ever depict them as a goofball be way too shallow of me, and unfaithful to their canon characterization.

so to answer your question: they hold themselves together, of course, but the shame, regret, and embarrassment is still evident.

[stil-lindigo]

the candle.

a comic about rediscovering passion and recovering from burnout.

creative notes:

[bacchuschucklefuck]

Riz has counted four casseroles this week alone. Five, if one goes by the method of cooking, but Yelen's scary when she's crossed, and calling her burek by its proper name is important to her, so Riz does her the courtesy and doesn't include it in his mental tally.

He holds the tupperware over his head to keep it out if the way as he takes careful steps over the piles of notes in his path. The dockman case just closed, relevant documentations handed over to relevant personnels, evidences dealt with as needed; all he has lying around now is just record of the process and traces of himself thinking through it. Unsurprisingly they still haven't invented a surface more convenient for people under five feet who like to pace to put pieces of paper on than the ground.

Actual records go into the case folder with the other documents. Anything else with at least one side still blank is going to the school kids in the block - they chew through an astounding amount of paper just learning arithmetic. The rest is for the recycling basket.

Later. It's his mandated lunch break right now.

Riz sits down in front of the corner file cabinet. In an office often overrun with papers and strings and sometimes even thumbtacks, he's never really managed to clutter up this exact square of surface like every other ones. Ever since the bottom drawer rattled for no discernible reason a day long past, his eyes have always just kinda decided to slide across the space without acknowledging it.

It's years out, now. Riz doesn't know why he thought it such a big deal anymore, back then. He wasn't scared, he doesn't think. Not anymore. Maybe just uncomfortable with the idea that certain things persist despite all efforts to change.

He opens the tupperware. Dame Carabelle's experiment greets him with enough spice in the aroma alone to knock out a small mammal. When he chopped the vegetables for this casserole he couldn't really imagine the eventual heft of it, evident even through just these few ladles' worth, maybe weighing heavier for being still warm. His folk eat more through the smell and the textures and the aftertastes than the taste itself. His folk's meal is really the cooking rather than the eating. The eating is the meal's end.

"Hey," he tells the file cabinet's bottom drawer. "Um."

It's the anniversary. Riz doesn't know the exact date of his dad's death; nobody currently alive does. He and Mom both use the date of the funeral, though as he moved out to Bastion and then got more directly involved with Interplanar he hasn't really been going to Dad's grave as much. Doesn't seem like very efficient use of his time, catching a train or borrowing a car or spending a whole spell slot on going somewhere he knows Dad isn't at. They're sorta coworkers now. They talk on and off every other week between missions. When he goes now, it's just to clean up the place, keeping the landmark tidy and respectable.

Without that work to mark the date he doesn't really know what it serves anymore. But he still remembers it. Still takes note, absently or not, when it comes around.

There's not really a good way to tell the drawer that. Riz looks for another way to start the... conversation, hopefully. The question at play, he'd guess, is why he's doing this. He's been pretty content ignoring all the rattlings and the knocks from inside and the times it sits slightly ajar without him ever opening it himself; hell, he still uses the three drawers on top of it. Space is fucking precious in Bastion.

Precious enough to finally fix this damn drawer so he gets his turn to use it? Riz asks himself. Is that what we're getting to? Then he dismisses the thought - he didn't manage to fix it the times he actually tried, let alone-- now. When he doesn't really care that much to.

That's probably a good place to start. "'s fine if you keep being in there, turns out," Riz says.

The lunch hours are quiet in the block, sleepy and bright with the brief window of sunlight that manages to break through roof overhangs and extended balconies and laundry lines and climbing vines. Riz's work isn't loud here (the loud parts happen away from his office, if everything goes right), but the fragment of early summer heat reflected in the steady warmth his meal still carries compels him to lower his voice even more. It makes the words feel intimate, in a way he's never been familiar with - if he says something he just says it. He doesn't whisper. If he gives his friends something, he gives it open-palm. He's found out, along the way, that people usually don't think of rituals and courtesies the way he does.

Small voice for a diminished monster. "You know why I think so?" Riz asks. "Because almost two decades ago you kidnapped me and almost killed me, and now you rattle a drawer in my office."

It doesn't sound as much like a taunt as Riz wanted it to; the drawer has made a lot of noises again this morning when he checked the calendar, and he was definitely annoyed at it. Now, though, facing it like this after cooking the whole morning with more grandparents and peers from the block than he can count on both hands to cater for a tenant union meeting, he thinks the annoyance has morphed. Changed shape.

It has the shades of something like pity. Riz is not prone to pity, and especially not at these kinda matters. It's slightly maddening that he coheres perfectly outside of this one spot. That he commands his spaces, except for a drawer.

He puts the tupperware onto the floor between himself and the cabinet. "I know we're aware it's the anniversary," he says at the drawer. "You do this every year. You make a ruckus every time I decide to go do my job instead of mooching off my friends' aircon, and every time I get an invitation to some stupid social thing I want to turn down, and every time one of the old people tries to introduce me to a child or a nibling, because being a bachelor over thirty is weird," he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I have three fucking jobs. I love doing my fucking jobs. I'm forcing funds into infrastructures. You're never leaving, are you."

The drawer vibrates lightly. It's a very, very mild acknowledgement, considering the history of reactions Riz has gotten from this thing. Riz thinks it's emanating joyous agreement, or satisfaction.

It only sharpens the pity. Riz doesn't like that, but it's how it is. That's, ultimately, the lesson he's been taught over and over and over again, just by existing as himself, turned every which way by space after space that don't see him eye-to-eye: it's not like he'd quit living over any of it. It's not like any of it can sand off these fundamental pieces of him.

He's outgrown a lot of things, he's found out. Again, and again, and again. A childhood home, a yearly trip, a monster.

"'s probably scary for you, huh?" He asks. "Because I left."

He thinks he hears joints creak that sound like you did. Probably the way a scorned lover would say it, in a movie or a yellowback. He has no more connection to the idea than he did as a kid. Less, because it doesn't even scare him.

"That's what it is, right? That it's the anniversary, and I'll never be like Dad." He raises a knee from the floor, pulls it back closer to him. Slings an arm over it. "You love to remind me. The thing is, Dad also left. He loved Mom and he loved me, and none of us wanted it to happen, but it still did. Because love does fuckall to make anyone stay on its own."

He's long past being bitter about it. It's just the facts. Once upon a time he looked into the future and the specter of his friends' happily-ever-after casted lightless, fathomless shadow over him. Love, marriage, that kind of devotion, to a fifteen-year-old with more solved cases than friends seemed so eternal. Final.

But you can only watch your friends build up apps' worth of jilted lovers for so long before getting over it.

"You know what I learned?" Riz tells the drawer. "Love doesn't make anyone stay. Project management does."

He stands up, and picks up the tupperware of Dame Carabelle's casserole, that he helped make, that he helped share with a block's worth of neighbors and members of a community he's at home with, and goes sit at his desk to eat. "Last chance to get any," he drops an offer over his shoulder as he walks away.

He doesn't eat all of his share in one go. What he's spared he leaves on the desk when going outside for a smoke break. Baron looks the exact same as when he saw them last, when he catches a glimpse; they haven't grown at all. They aren't there when he comes back inside, but the leftover has gone days-old cold, like someone's sucked the future out of it.

[caeslxys]

I’ve mentioned this elsewhere but it feels relevant again in light of the most recent episode. Something that’s really fascinating to me about Orym’s grief in comparison to the rest of the hells’ grief is that his is the youngest/most fresh and because of that tends to be the most volatile when it is triggered (aside from FCG, who was two and obviously The Most volatile when triggered.)

As in: prior to the attack on Zephrah, Orym was leading a normal, happy, casual life! with family who loved him and still do! Grief was something that was inflicted upon him via Ludinus’ machinations, whereas with characters like Imogen or Ashton, grief has been the background tapestry of their entire lives. And I think that shows in how the rest of them are largely able to, if not see past completely (Imogen/Laudna/Chetney) then at least temper/direct their vitriol or grief (Ashton/Fearne/Chetney again) to where it is most effective. (There is a glaring reason, for example, that Imogen scolded Orym for the way he reacted to Liliana and not Ashton. Because Ashton’s anger was directed in a way that was ultimately protective of Imogen—most effective—and Orym’s was founded solely in his personal grief.)

He wants Imogen to have her mom and he wants Lilliana to be salvageable for Imogen because he loves Imogen. But his love for the people in his present actively and consistently tend to conflict with the love he has for the people in his past. They are in a constant battle and Orym—he cannot fathom losing either of them.

(Or, to that point, recognize that allowing empathy to take root in him for the enemy isn't losing one of them.)

It is deeply poignant, then, that Orym’s grief is symbolized by both a sword and shield. It is something he wields as a blade when he feels his philosophy being threatened by certain conversational threads (as he believes it is one of the only things he has left of Will and Derrig, and is therefore desperately clinging onto with both bloody hands even if it makes him, occasionally, a hypocrite), but also something he can use in defense of the people he presently loves—if that provocative, blade-grief side of him does not push them—or himself—away first.

(it won’t—he is as loved by the hells as he loves them. he just needs to—as laudna so beautifully said—say and hear it more often.)

[strawglicks]

thing in ttcc fandom that makes u irrationally angry, go

[empty-dream]

What I don't have is what you're made of You make me who I am ↳ KANATAHALUKA - RADWIMPS

[finalgirlsamwinchester]

Alex Irvine, "John Winchester's Journal" | 3.07, "Fresh Blood"

[msfcatlover]

Oh look. Reverse!Robins.

Bruce: “No murder.”

Damian: “No murder.”

Cass: “No murder.”

Tim: “No murder.”

Jason: “No murder for babies.”

Duke: “No murder until you can write me a researched & cited essay on why it is necessary for the greater good. Five page minimum.”

Dick: “I’m gonna murder.”

Red Hood!Steph: “I LIKE THIS ONE!”

[madzwashere]

I’m kinda glad the episode was open ended with Juno and Peter. It’s always been “Juno Steel and…” not “Jupeter and…” I just feel it’s good because us as an audience can form our own opinion on their relationship. Some will say that they don’t get back together and some will say they become a couple again, and I think that’s good! In the end everyone can have an opinion on how their relationship will go!

[luna-loveboop]

I am growing increasingly concerned about Wild and Warriors relationship...

With both Age of Calamity and Tears of the Kingdom, when the games were announced Jojo released a statement about how the game might affect Lu

And in both times she mentioned Wild and Wars relationship:

What does she have planned for them?

Wild has been ignoring Wars for a while now, and Wars has shown anger over the sword breaking, and they were never that close to begin with

...

This is way back, and I could be wrong and I really hope I'm wrong

It's clear from the game announcement posts that she's had some sort of dynamic between them in mind from the start... and then there's this Q&A from way back:

....

[funhouse-mirror-barbie]

I’ll be writing a critique of the way Blitzø and Stolas’ relationship was handled more at length, but I wanted to stop and take a moment to look at this scene from the new episode, “Full Moon”:

This is the sort of power and control that Stolas has always had over Blitzø.

It does not matter that Stolas has never threatened to take away the Grimoire before, or that they were “friends” as kids, or that he offered Blitzø a few months off, or that he’s been nice to Blitzø in the past, or that Blitzø actually does have feelings for Stolas.

When you are in a situation where you cannot say no at the risk of losing your livelihood, you cannot give true consent.

This is the very BASIS of their relationship. It has always been the basis of their relationship—a quid pro quo relationship where Stolas holds all of the power.

I have seen countless people go over and explain in great detail why the full moon deal was not truly coercive, or a quid pro quo situation, or how it was completely consensual.

And it’s just not. It is sexual coercion where Blitzø cannot give meaningful consent. Because if he refuses Stolas, he’s at risk of losing everything.

I want to clarify that my criticism here isn’t with this writing decision. I’m not trying to say anything along those the lines of “because this fictional character did a bad thing the story is bad and people who like the character support sexual coercion!!” That’s not what I’m saying at all.

I am bringing all of this up because my criticism is not of this writing decision, but because of the framing of the Full Moon deal and of Stolas and Blitzø’s relationship.

The narrative often frames Blitzo as if he is the one who has wronged Stolas by not prioritizing Stolas’ feelings and needs above all else. Or, it frames both Stolas and Blitzo as being equally in the wrong for the conflicts in their “relationship”.

This framing, and the extent to which fans try to justify it as being ANYTHING other than what it actually is—Stolas coercing Blitzø into a relationship where he has no power and is at the risk of losing his livelihood—is baffling to me.

This framing, coupled with the writer’s absolute refusal to ever have Stolas held accountable for his actions (including Stolas still not actually apologizing for the situation he put Blitzø into—he acknowledges that the relationship being transactional is wrong, but does not acknowledge that he was wrong to coerce Blitzø into that relationship. He says “…it isn’t right…it never was”, not “What I did wasn’t right, and never was”) is why I can’t consider St0litz to be just a “complex” or “messy” relationship.

It don’t think it can be, because it’s not a relationship. Not a real one. It’s a transaction, where Stolas treats Blitzø like a sex object. And whether that was the intent or not, Blitzø’s reaction above and saying that he would do anything to keep the grimoire makes it really hard for me to see St0litz in any other light.

As a final note, I’m not saying that you can’t write dark relationships, or have complex and unsympathetic protagonists. You can ship whatever you want! You can have characters that sexually coerce and abuse others, you can write every dark and twisted thing your mind can come up with.

But it’s very clear that Helluva Boss’s writers want to frame Stolas as being the wronged party, and the one who we are supposed to sympathize with—and you just can’t have it both ways.

You can’t act like you’re writing a complex love story between two very complicated and real people, when the relationship that you’re describing is so utterly one-sided and unbalanced.

[mercymaker]

re: gatekeeping

i've seen this argument come up again and again across multiple blogs and i feel like it's doing such a disservice to the creative community of this fandom and is worth speaking about (especially considering that some people expressed their reluctance to create in response to the recent events)

and i just wanted to say that YES. no one owns specific scenes. YES. people are allowed to gif the same characters. hell, as far as i've seen this community is incredibly creative and generous, sharing their mods and reshade presets and scenic locations.

to me PERSONALLY, the line is crossed when there's no transparency. when it's a repeated behavior. when there's no respect or regard to your fellow creators or their wishes.

i want to be very clear that this was all brought up in regards to a VERY specific case. a very nuanced case with a lot of context and i don't think it should be used to view the community as a whole.

outside of it and on the bigger scale, this community is full of incredibly skilled and creative individuals. helpful individuals. ones that WANT to inspire and encourage others to create. that share and help and give tips. that support each other. that put a new, exciting spin on 'the same old' game with its limited scenes.

and while, surely, everyone is entitled to their own opinion, i feel like there have been some really thick brushstrokes applied when talking about the bg3 fandom creatives as a whole. and it just doesn't sit right with me.

[thequeenofsastiel]

Hot take:

Loustat=Destiel

Loumand=Sastiel

[bongo-clash]

Peacock Au Part 2

Okay so!!! Part two of this post about the DPxDC eldritch Danny fic that I'm now calling the peacock au lmao!!!!

(Chapter two of the fic under the cut) (Edit: You can now find part 3 Here!!!)

-

When the feeling of being just slightly dispersed settles onto the outer layer of his skin while he’s lying in bed, Danny knows what’s about to happen.

The thing is, he’s in his pyjamas. Sure, he could just stay in his human form for the summoning- because he’s done it before and it went fine- but he never knows who it’s going to be, and being spirited away to some college students’ dorm in his pyjamas is embarrassing. And sure, having something appear in the circle in the first place is probably enough that they’re not paying attention to what he’s wearing either way, but he refuses to bank on that. So, with a sigh, he allows himself the transformation, his human appearance falling easily away. 

It always feels more natural to be a ghost during rituals, probably because they’re summoning a ghost and not a human, but still, it’s different. He feels that little bit looser, maybe even a little more himself, though he guesses being a bit more glow-y is just nice generally, and the space decals that tend pop up as part of his whole light-show-summons are a homely touch. On the other hand, it does make it harder to take stock of his surroundings when he finally fades into view wherever he is. He can make out vague grey walls and floors, but that’s about it. 

Well, that and the man in front of him. Blond, taller than him if he wasn’t in the air, somewhere past his forties, wearing a beige trenchcoat and looking oddly terrified. Danny can see his hands shaking just a little. Does he know this guy from somewhere?

“Uh, dude?” Danny calls, going for something light. It’s annoying being dragged from the comfort of his own home, definitely, but this guy doesn’t look like some cult member, and if he’s alone and this scared it might mean he really needs the help. Danny can sympathise with doing stupid things in stupid situations. “You good? You’re not looking too hot there.”

He knows he’s using ghost speak, but it feels weird to use English in a summoning like this, and fortunately, Danny spies a translation sigil wrapped around the inner centre of the circle, so he knows it should be translating right back to the guy in front of him. Very handy for language barriers, he’ll admit- and it’s working, too, if the reply is any indication. 

“I was told you could- you could help with the pits?”

His voice is gravelly, and he can’t tell if it’s because he’s nervous, doesn’t speak much, a smoker, or all three. Either way, probably not Danny’s business, and right now he’s just curious about what the man’s talking about. “Pits? That’s kinda vague, man. What pits?”

“The Lazarus pits to, uh, to be specific. There’s a huge one cropping up under Gotham that’s not supposed to be there, and the local- I mean, the locals are getting antsy about it. I… heard you could take care of ‘em.”

Lazarus Pits. He’s heard of those, Clockwork’s mentioned them a couple of times. They’re natural portals that open when enough energy is built up, and end up stabilising into the ground instead of collapsing to help seep ambient ectoplasm into the air. They don’t work as actual portals after that, but it’s vital to keep at least a few around no matter how corrupted they can get through human interference, because it keeps the balance of both realms steady. Having too many around isn’t a good thing, though, and especially not in populated areas. It can cause ecto-contamination, which is a lot more dangerous when you haven’t been around it since birth (or if you aren’t from Amity). 

Speaking of which, it certainly is stinking up the place, now that he’s aware of it. Or maybe that’s just Gotham, he’s heard a lot about-

Hang on. Gotham. Weird potentially magic dude. He knew he recognised him! That’s John Constantine! Danny’s heard of John Constantine! Sam’s got her fingers in enough credible occult spaces that they’re at least vaguely aware of some of his endeavours, but if he’s in Gotham then that probably means he’s doing something for the Batman and, wow, Danny totally would’ve tried to go more professional for this if he knew this was going to be his first encounter with the Justice League,of all things. 

Well, he guesses it’s too late now. At least the guy’s not being too weird about it or anything. “Man, yeah, I’ve totally got the smell stuck up my nose now that you mention it. Do you get that as well? Since, y’know, you’ve probably dealt with a couple ghosts.”

“Uh… no, I don’t think so. But can you fix it?”

Dang, the guy seems stressed about this. Maybe he just doesn’t like being in Gotham territory? He’s pretty sure he’s heard of Batman having a thing about magic. “Sure I can.”

“…Will you fix it?”

Danny figures that if they already know about his status through his Zone maintenance duties, and he’s going to be helping the Justice League, he might as well show off a little bit. Assenting with a hum and trying not to grin, he puts his hands to the floor, and lets his ectoplasm reach out to the source of the smell, sending a flash of light across the ground as it goes through. When it twinges back a response, he closes his eyes, and his energy curls around it, threading through like needles to seams, and pushes it shut with a gentle nudge. Luckily, it hadn’t been around for too long- barely fully formed and not even corrupted by human contact yet- it would’ve be a lot more difficult if it had. 

He lets his hands rise up again after a long moment, looking to Constantine for a reaction. He can’t quite gauge what the man is thinking. “Alrighty, that should’ve done it.”

“Uh… cheers?”

He’s about to say something along the lines of ‘no problem’ or ‘you’re welcome’, but then he remembers he should probably warn him about the aftermath so he doesn’t freak. “The pit shouldn’t come back again, but just as like, a PSA: you might see more shades than usual hovering around for the next while. It shouldn’t be too big a deal so long as you leave ‘em alone, though, so don’t worry about it.”

For all that Danny’s trying to be considerate here, Constantine doesn’t look very considerated. “Can I- uh, yeah, great advice. ‘Appreciate it. But, can I ask just, y’know, what you are? Or not.”

“…Dude, what d’you think I am?”He replies, thoroughly bemused. Isn’t this guy supposed to be one of the League’s paranormal experts or something? He really should be able to recognise a ghost by now. “I keep your Lazarus Pits in check. You know, the pits of the dead?”

Okay, maybe a little rude on his side, but he thinks Constantine’s expression is a bit of an overreaction; he can see the sheen of sweat across the man’s forehead reflecting the light of the sigils. “Fair enough! Forget I asked- cheers for sorting out that pit, though. Uh, don’t suppose you’ll just let me go on my way or anything now.”

“Well, I mean, this was a favour for Batman, right?” He asks blithely, pointedly not paying attention to the way the man’s face keeps contorting. He swears Sam said he was more stoic than this. “I’m gonna go- ‘cause I’ve got things to do- but I guess if something comes up I’ll come to you? Or Batman, since this is his city and all. Don’t worry, I’ll let you know.”

Figuring there’s nothing left to be said, Danny lets the return sigil on the edge of the circle activate and punt him back home, wheezing a half-sigh and arching his back once the wispy image of wherever they’d been recedes. He probably looks exhausted after all that- no matter how recently formed the pit was, it still takes a little strain, and he’d just been about to sleep before he got summoned- but looking in the mirror on his wall for confirmation, he doesn’t find his usual face. Something twinges against where his spine should be, confirming its own previously unnoticed presence in the mortal plane. 

…He didn’t go ghost when Constantine summoned him, he used his true form. That must be why he looked so nervous that whole time! And, man, ghostspeak never translates over quite right in this form, either- the Ancients use a different dialect to original ghostspeak- the man probably wasn’t hearing what Danny thought he was at all. What if the only reason he wasn’t attacking was because he was terrified? What must Constantine have thought of him? 

Crap. He has to fix this. How is he going to find him?