#impulse is next

[reading-writing-dying]

Thinking about how we were ROBBED of Gem's facecam footage from the amongst session

[pearlore]

to water, to wing

[freeme169875]

Young Justice my beloved

I spent far too long on this but I genuinely love all of them too much so ignore timeline continuity for who’s there 💖

And then also here are some sketches. Originally did the 4 that have hidden faces but once again I love all of the too much so I did all of them ofc

[sweetaru1]

THE MAIL MOUNTS ARE DONE!!

Continuation of the snail mounts!!! Once again, these take long but they are super fun, especially trying to figure out how to saddle them. Here's some ramblings about them:

Pearl - she gets a chocobo! Mostly because I was thinking of chococraft at the time.

Etho - a very big grey wolf. The saddle is mechanic and shifts based on the wolf's position, that way it can sit down without Etho falling off!

Tango - a ravager of course! It's design is based mostly on a bison

I wanna make art of other things so I'm taking a break from these, but I still have a lot of ideas for other hermit's mounts!

[boopeey]

Doing some art studies and decided to use Bart as my model cause this guy lives rent free in my head (ignore the inconsistency of his hair length)

DC pls I need more Bart content and a proper characterization 😭

[jaybeess]

Young Just Us DND AU :-) More art to come!

[hijinxinprogress]

Does the JL know that YJ has just casually been beefing with darkseid??

imagine there’s a all hands on deck battle against darkseid and everyone is there but darkseid points out the nearest yj member (it’s probably Bart) like ‘you!!! You managed to escape with your lives last time but this meeting will be our last’ and for a split second Clark’s so fucking confused bc we haven’t fought in years wtf are you talking about then he hears ‘oh shit, look it’s Doug’ and everyone turns to see Bart nudging Kon going ‘he’s talking to you…damn he must still be mad about the coal’ and kons shoving him back bc ‘you were the one fucking around with his coal, you fucking walnut’ while Cassie’s being scruffed by wonder woman bc they’re trying to avoid being around when the jl finds out and tims having a very intense silent conversation lecture about why tf there’s at least half a dozen yj mission reports that mention an assailant named ‘Doug’ 

then Constantine shows up with Greta and everyone (including darkseid) starts yelling and if you don’t know her Greta seems like the one with the ownership of the braincell in yj (she is not but I guess she looks like it from a distance if you squint) which goes one of two ways:

retired-civilian!greta is giggling and waving excitedly to each member of yj along with hal before she practically tackles each of them in a tight hug while the titans, jl, & jl: dark lose their collective shit bc Constantine brought a tiny civilian dressed in pastel floral prints from head to toe into an active battle with fucking darkseid, a civilian who doesn’t register as a threat in any capacity until she makes eye contact with darkseid and gives him the most disgusted look imaginable “Doug… you look…well.” and then like three jl members have to stop her from leaping at darkseid while Hal’s like ‘no! No no, bad Greta! We don’t fight supervillains with…what is that?? I really fucking hope that’s not a gun…Is-is that fucking silly string?! Greta no we don’t silly string supervillains! We’ve talked about this!’

or

never-retired!/recently-out-of-retirement!greta who does the same thing but when she notices darkseid she rocks his shit in eight seconds flat and starts muttering about ‘that fucking Doug, always ruining my goddamn day’ and Hal is the first one to recover from the shock/confusion but only to tell Greta she’s grounded which gets another irritated ‘fucking doug!’ while Wally and Barry are losing it at Mach 6 while Bart tries to explain himself also at Mach 6, Cassie manages to catch Wally’s exasperated ‘where the fuck did you get Doug from?!’ And responds with ‘Apokolips’ in a tone that means they’re questioning his intelligence which leads to more screaming bc ‘so you knew who he was?? Why didn’t you come to us??’ and they all back up Kon when he claims they told Lex bc that means they have at least 3 hours of freedom while Lex is getting yelled at by the jl (and honestly every cape over 24)

[snootyfoxfashion]

Pre Order - Over the Garden Wall Crewnecks and Cardigans from Knock Thrice

The pre-order is unlimited, you can get as many as you want and we will not sell out! It will run until August 14th  and limited overstock will be sold in the next month or two after preorders have shipped (December/January).

[crystallizsch]

is this what you call subtly flirting. do they even know they’re subtly flirting.

jamil i think u forgot ur ( parentheses )

[eleanor-is-probably-my-real-name]

—The Running and the Hiding— (3,9k words)

_________________________________

Emperor Geta x fem!reader

Request: @coruja12345: I would love to read a time travel fanfic, in which the modern reader goes back in time, Geta is obsessed with her and she doesn’t like him because she thinks he’s arrogant.

Summary: On New Year’s Eve you make a small wish that maybe could be responsible for you falling quite literally into a different time. Drunk and clueless you find yourself at the feet of a Roman emperor, who may or may not wants to kill you. Now you have to try your best to not die—which gets awfully complicated with that emperor finding some interest in you…

Shorter summary: time travel is a bitch and Geta, too.

Trigger warnings: alcohol (alcoholism if you squint really hard)

A/N: i am horribly sorry for posting so rarely. also, i wrote the first bit somewhere in january and finished the other two thirds, or smth like that, just now at 1:30 am. i plan to do some more parts and if you’re lucky you’ll get it even before this year ends, ha! i hope you like this piece of something here, i’d love if you give some feedback! love you!

Part: 1/?

_________________________________

Be careful with what you wish for.

You have heard that phrase — of course you have — but no one ever pays attention to these kinds of wannabe wisdoms, as you believe. So why would you?

Oh, but how could you have known the silly little wish you’ve written on that damn piece of paper on New Year’s Eve would ever find a real meaning? That the wish for a “drastic change of that boring life” you’ve burned in a drunken haziness over that stupid lighter would come to hit you like a train?

Maybe you should have thought about that phrase, after all.

When the first of January sees the first light, your guests (three friends it were; you like it quieter) have already left, and you are still awake. Sitting on the kitchen floor with a half-empty bottle of tequila and smeared lipstick, you regret half of the evening. You don’t regret it for people you miss or people you desire, no, you never minded a more lonesome life. You’ve simply drunk too much of everything.

And so, still slumped on the floor with only one shoe on and hair in a total mess, your head starts to hurt, and you consider getting up and making yourself a nice hot tea.

Minutes pass. You don’t move.

Then you groan and take another sip from the tequila. What a great way to start the new year, you think. It is just the same way it started last year. And the year before. And the year before that.

You grab the bright red hair clip, of which you are not sure if it is even yours, lying on the kitchen floor and try to put your hair away into something. You only half succeed, the alcohol in your blood is not helping.

Eventually you decide that you need to do something—anything. Considering cleaning up your apartment and deciding against it very quickly, you get up, nearly fall, and search for your second boot. You feel dizzy, horribly dizzy.

When you finally find that shoe (it was behind your sofa), you believe that for this very moment there is no better thing to do than go out for a walk with a bottle of tequila.

And that’s what you do.

Or, at least, try to.

With a jacket, boots, and that glittery mini dress of yours, you stumble out of your small apartment, drinking from the bottle like an alcoholic (you are not an alcoholic, you tell yourself). You don’t know what makes you think you have a plan or even a destination to go to, but you don’t care.

You reach the stairs and, once again, are horribly aware of your dizziness. Things seem much farther away, and they turn and twist and spin. Awful feeling.

And then you trip. On the stairs.

And you fall, and you scream. But when your already miserable head hits something, no noise leaves your mouth anymore. Pain and dark is the feeling.

And you think you are dead.

You are, in fact, not.

When you slowly come back to your senses and feel a hard floor under your back, you don’t open your eyes right away. Legs and arms are twisted under and over your body in weird ways, and you fear that something is broken. You don’t dare moving yet.

The air is the next thing you grow to be aware of. It feels fresher and smells warmer — unlike your hallway. But maybe your senses are mocking you after that pathetically hard fall down the stairs in the drunken mess of yours.

Your eyes flutter open. First, you don’t recognize your surroundings because of your awfully blurred view. You blink a couple of times, trying to push the headache away and to see.

And when you finally do, you realize that you really don’t recognize your surroundings.

What?

You jolt upright from your lying position, sitting straight. Your look darts around, trying to understand the things you find in front of you. Instead of the narrow green hallway walls, you see wide and open marble columns. The walls are gigantic, adorned with colorful frescoes of ancient people. The floor is not dark and dirty, something you normally avoid touching with something that isn’t your shoes, no, now it is smooth and light and noble. Again, marble, you think.

And then you turn your head to the stairs you have fallen off and find no dirty old wooden staircase. It’s also marble. And it’s wide and high, and you feel incredibly small with all of this looming over you.

“What the hell…,” you mutter slowly.

Where are you? The room must be in a palace, you have never seen anything bigger. But you very certainly do not remember ever making your way towards such a building, no amount of alcohol would make you forget something like that. There is no palace in the small town where you live, anyway.

Then how did you get here? Are you dreaming? Are you in a coma? You count your fingers, watch your surroundings, and count your fingers again. Ten. Nothing has changed. And how detailed the frescoes are, how vivid the colors. You have never dreamed in such realistic ways.

You take a very deep breath. But it has to be a dream. There is no other reasonable explanation. You must have fallen way too hard, you decide.

A dream, just a dream.

You suddenly hear voices. And heavy steps, rattling with iron. People are coming, heading right for where you are crouching, probably very pathetically. And you hear their voices growing louder, deep and strange.

Deep, because there are men laughing. And strange, because the words leaving their mouths are very much not your language. Not at all! Oh, damn, your fall must have been really hard, your hallucinations are now speaking new languages.

The hall, in which you sit in your puddle of misery, is big, so the men‘s voices sound much louder when they enter that room. Your heart begins to race as you see the figures coming through the massive door, right in your direction. Shit, shit, shit! What do you do?

You try to stand, pressing your hand into something sharp. You curse, pain darting through your hand and blood running immediately from that ugly cut on your palm. That the tequila bottle has shattered into a hundred pieces you only realize now, and you would have taken the time to mourn the waste of the good tequila (it was never good, you just like getting drunk) (you definitely don’t have a problem) if it wasn’t for the men freezing a couple of meters away from you.

Oh, fuck.

You have to get up.

Your legs are shaking when you try to stand, needing to avoid using your poor cut hand for that. A headache stings through your forehead once you are out of your seated position, and your vision runs dark for a couple of seconds too long (you blame it on the fall). You nearly tumble to the ground again, you aren’t close to being sober.

“What are you doing there?” One of the men calls with an aggressive tone, that makes you flinch.

Strange, you think. The words are so horribly unfamiliar, and yet you understand. Your brain is a genius for coming up with a completely new language.

Still, you are confused.

You take some time until you answer; your head spins, your hand hurts, and you slowly start to feel warm liquid running down your fingers. You wipe it off on your jacket and remember afterward that it’s blood.

And the men come closer, and you think you can answer anything because it’s not real, it can’t be real! You could ask them where you are, and you could ask who they are. Also, you could try to explain that you would like to go home (or maybe a hospital, if you think better of it), but after blinking at them for too long, you say:

“What?”

Oh, they don’t like that answer. They understood, you realize, and after recalling the word you just said, you notice that you haven’t spoken your language.

“Are you not hearing right, girl?” They are closer now, and you back away a step.

“I have no idea,” you say, because you really are clueless.

“Oh, so you’ve forgotten the reason for your little visit to the palace, right?” the other man mocks.

That man is taller but slimmer than the other, but he is dressed the same as his companion. They are wearing armor and helmets, fully made out of metal, and on their belts are hanging dangerous-looking swords. Swords! You gulp and hope they are only decoration.

They are, actually, not decoration, because the first man suddenly pulls his sword out in a sharp motion and points it right at you, and you gulp, stumbling another couple of steps away.

“Wait, wait, wait!” You pull up your hands in a desperate attempt to appease the men. “The thing is, I have no fucking clue how I got here, okay? I fell down the stairs, being drunk like shit, and boom, I am here.”

You chuckle nervously.

There is a long pause. The men look at you and seem incredibly uncertain whether they should laugh at you and kill you or kill you right away. That’s what you read from their expressions.

“I know, I sound crazy.”

The taller man nods slightly. “Yes, you do.”

You inhale and exhale deeply, shivering, and let your gaze dart around to maybe find an answer in this hall, written on the columns or drawn on the floor. But that only makes you more miserable and hopeless. Everything feels a little bit too real, and you don’t like it. You really don’t like it. The throbbing pain in your head and the bleeding wound on your hand remind you that things seem to be pretty existent. You never cut your hand so painfully in a dream and you start questioning your mental stability.

“You have to believe me,” you then plead, “it’s the truth!”

“What are we supposed to believe?” The first man says again, “That you have fallen from the sky? Like a present from the gods? Ha!”

The muscles in your face tense as you feel yourself getting more and more desperately frantic.

“And what are you wearing there?” the other man remarks. “Are you a whore? A whore from the barbarians? I have never seen such clothes.”

“Ouch,” you are offended, “I like my dress, actually.”

The dangerous-looking men share an uncomprehending glance. Then the one who has his sword pointing at you turns again towards you, his expression becoming that aggressive sternness again.

“You know how you look, right?” He moves a step closer. “You, girl, look like a damn intruder. Like someone who breaks into the palace of the emperors and is, let me say, up to no good. What are your plans, huh? Espionage? Stealing? Murdering the emperors?”

A subtle fear starts to cramp around your gut. You realize that you not only have no idea how you got here but also have no protection. If all of this is real and these men are right when telling you that you are in a royal palace of two emperors, then you are screwed. Nothing else can explain what you are doing here in the middle of the night.

You absolutely look like an intruder with very bad intentions, and you have nothing to make you denying it believable. This is probably a good moment to start praying, because everything feels, again, too real and too hostile to rely any longer on your hallucination theory.

“I—I don’t—“ you start, but get cut off.

“Yes, of course, you are innocent, completely harmless. You can tell that to your cellmates in the dungeons.”

Oh, no. No, no, no. This is really bad.

“If I think about it,” you start, taking slow steps back, “I’d rather not visit the dungeons, you know?”

You turn around and run. Or you try at least, because you only come two steps forward before being dragged back by your jacket, your arms being forced onto your back, and every attempt to wriggle your arms free is futile and only answered with a harsh grip.

“Oh, yes, you think you are smart, don’t you?”

“No, not really—ouch!”

 Your arms are being twisted painfully.

“Oh, just shut your mouth!” The man who is not holding you, the smaller one, barks.

If you really think about it, you come to the conclusion that talking back, giving unfunny retorts, and trying to run away are the worst possible things you could do in your terrible situation. But you are still drunk. You don’t think rationally. And that is a problem. You should be much more scared.

The men drag you through the halls, your curses and insults (that are horribly loud, by the way) echo in these high rooms, with their massive walls. The ceilings are being held up by these gigantic and elegant columns, and fine statues of soft women and heroic men fill every corner. You would have been amazed by the beauty of this place if it wasn’t for you being painfully torn by two men towards the dungeons. God must hate you very much, because you probably will die here.

It is a long hall where you come to a sudden halt.

“What in the gods’ names is this insufferably loud noise for?” A voice calls out, turning into a scream at the end, making your captivators flinch, now.

You try taking a clear notice of your surroundings again to see to whom that voice belongs. That’s harder than expected, because the alcohol in your blood denies you a clear vision, your eyes simply refuse to focus quickly enough. Not that you have had any chance anyway, because your head, no, your whole torso, is pushed harshly down to bend over. You’re now facing marble floor and your feet, thanks to the man holding your head down.

Steps come closer. Two people, three? You are not sure, everything is too dizzy anyway.

“Your majesty,” the taller man holding you speaks. He also has his head down, bowing, you realize, and suddenly he doesn’t sound so confident and harsh any longer. Humbled, he is. “My emperor, please, forgive us this disturbance.”

“It is in the middle of the night, and you are not even able to make sure that this palace is not being kept from sleeping.”

“Greatest apologies, your highness, greatest apologies,” the other man beside you quickly says.

“We make sure that the prisoner is being silenced and brought to the dungeons as quickly as possible,” the man gripping you mumbles, “your highness.”

Ah. A prisoner you really are now. Great, your new year couldn’t be better!

The man, who spoke and screamed at the two men holding you captive, scoffs.

“Cut out her tongue if necessary.”

What?

“Of course, your majesty.”

“I wouldn’t like that,” you mumble without thinking.

“What was that?” the so-called emperor says.

The air is thick suddenly, and horrible tension seems to be crushing you. Even the two men beside you shift uneasily. They are not bowing any longer.

“We will punish her for that, your—“

“I don’t remember talking to you, idiot!” He snaps. “Show me your face.”

Finally, the grip on your head loosens, and you inhale deeply to steady your racing heart when you slowly get back into a straight and less humiliating position. You feel, however, not less small.

The man in front of you has a killing big authority, according to the way the men are acting, but he himself isn’t big. In fact, he’s rather small, with red hair and no shoes, only dressed in a red sleeping gown, you guess. If it isn’t for his unpleasantly stormy expression on his face, you would believe him to be pretty harmless, like a sweet, sweet dog. (If you really think about it, he could be categorized as a furious chihuahua. But you stop thinking of weird dog metaphors.)

Beside him stands a woman, not bigger than the emperor himself. Light fabrics are hanging from her shoulder, wrapping elegantly around her body down to the floor. Beautiful jewelry adorns her arms, her neck, and her hair, and the long, dark curls fall nicely coiffed over her back. She looks obediently down at her feet, and you are not sure of the role she has to hold.

You start to feel weird in your clothes.

“Speak up,” the man with the red hair, the emperor, demands.

The situation is overwhelming, and you want to go home very much.

“Um,” you start, because you think too slow and need to remember what it is exactly he wants to hear, “I said I wouldn’t like that.”

He raises an eyebrow, and you want to run away.

“I could also let you fight to the death in the arena if that suits you better,” he says blankly.

“Excuse me?” You gulp, and a nervous smile shivers itself onto your lips. What have you gotten yourself into? Where the hell are you? You find no reasonable explanations anymore.

The emperor seems to enjoy your reaction, chuckling, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he starts shouting at you again just to see your miserable face.

“Please, don’t act as if you don’t know what happens to intruders. You surely can’t be that stupid,” he says and makes a step toward you.

“I—“ your voice cracks, “I am not an intruder, I promise!”

He looks you up and down, judging you. “What weapons was she carrying?”

The smaller of the men guarding you stutters around. “She, um, she wasn’t carrying any weapons, your highness.”

His gaze wanders back to you. “I seem to have misjudged you, you really are stupid.”

You feel pathetic.

“I don’t even know how I got here, I swear! I fell off the stairs, bumped my head, and, just like that, woke up here,” you explain hastily, trying to somehow prove your innocence of any crime. When you see the emperor not reacting in favour of your well-being, you quickly go on: “And I am not insane!”

That makes you, actually, sound more insane.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” He starts, his voice low.

“Sometimes, yes…” You mumble, not thinking.

“Stop that!” He shouts, and the taller guard gives you a hit on your already hurting head.

“Do you even realize how incredibly ridiculous your story sounds?” he goes on, his voice loud and his face furious. “Do you even have the slightest idea who you are talking to? Jupiter, have mercy on me. I am Emperor Geta, ruler of the Roman Empire, and I forbid you from lying to me like that, you—“ he struggles to find an insult—"you barbarian!”

You traveled through time. That’s the first thing that comes to your head, the next thing is the tears forming in your eyes without you wanting them to.

“Please!” You beg, suddenly falling to your knees. “I don’t know anything, really! Do you see my clothes? I don’t know what happened. Do you think I would come up with that weird explanation to disguise stealing? I don’t want to die!”

There is a weird silence where you crouch on the floor in the most humiliating state possible, the guards not knowing what to do, Geta eyeing you with anger and some sort of interest. Your sniffing is the only sound that can be heard for that time, and when the confused man lets your hands go, you wipe your nose with your hand. It’s the bloody one, and you now have blood smeared under your nose and on your lips.

“My emperor, Geta,” a shy voice suddenly speaks up. It is the soft woman. “May I state a thought?”

He turns towards her, realizing that she is present, and makes a disinterested “hm” and an approving hand movement.

“I don’t see why she would be lying about that. The guards haven’t found a weapon or something stolen. She seems to be severely wounded, it could explain the loss of memories. I know from experience that that is something possible to happen.”

“That doesn’t explain how she got into my palace!” he snaps.

“No, no, it doesn’t. But,” the woman looks at you, “she doesn’t seem to have bad intentions. Before you want to raise your judgement, which I trust to be fully reasonable and legal, we could maybe give her some time to remember some things about… her story.”

You don’t understand why she is helping you, you really don’t.

Geta seems to consider. His eyes twitch over your face, then your body.

“How do I make sure she won’t hide anything she remembers from me?” he thinks out loud, an awfully presumptuous tone in his voice.

The woman is about to speak up again, but he raises his hand sharply, signaling her to stay quiet. She obeys.

“If you, you stupid girl, have to tell me something in the next weeks, I will grant you a punishment that does not involve your death,” he says and goes down onto his knee to look you right into your eyes, “because Cornelia believes you didn’t want to murder me in my sleep, and I trust her. Besides that I think that you,” he suddenly grabs your face, holding your cheeks too tightly between his thumb and the other fingers, “have a quite interesting pretty face.”

You startle at the sudden touch of Geta. His face is much too close to yours, and your stomach clenches.

“Also, I am not in the mood to see you dead.” He lets go and stands up again.

How merciful, you want to reply, but this time you can stop yourself. You just escaped death for at least some days.

“Prove yourself.” He holds his hand right in front of your face, and you need some time to grow aware of what he’s demanding with that. While you slowly lean forward to press your lips as softly as possible (you don’t want to touch him at all with your lips) onto his fingers, you think that you could as well bite him.

But you choose life this time.

He pulls his hand away (thank God) and looks at the taller man, who is still standing right beside you.

“You.” He points at him.

“My name is Augustus, your highness.”

“I don’t care the slightest for your name,” he hisses. “You lead her down to the dungeons. You,” now he speaks to the smaller man, “leave. Tomorrow I will talk to her.”

Oh, no, no, no! Not the dungeons! You try to wriggle yourself free again when your arms are again being grabbed, but you have no chance of escaping.

Emperor Geta turns around, already about to leave, but he stops and hesitates.

“Cornelia,” he speaks to the woman, “bring her something proper to dress in. These clothes she has are horrible.”

“Wait, no, I really like my things—hey!” You are dragged off.

“Gods have mercy, don’t you ever shut off?”

That’s the last thing you hear from Geta before he is gone, out of the hall, and you are, once again, being dragged through the massive palace towards the dungeons.

Never in your life have you been in such a desperately pathetic situation, and you curse yourself for ever finding your normal life boring. Right now you would like to do anything that didn’t involve trying to convince a crazy Roman emperor that you suffer from amnesia and needing to come up with a damn good explanation of how you got here.

And you have not the slightest idea how to do that.

Shit.

[kettlefire]

As Good as Good Gets (DP X DC Snippet)

Richard "Dick" Grayson is the golden child. In the eyes of the public, and in the eyes of the league. Dick is a sweet, caring son, a man who went from being a sidekick to being a hero. The pipeline from Robin to Nightwing had many people applauding his dedication to keeping Gotham safe.

No one knew the full story, not truly. No one but Bruce Wayne himself. And maybe a certain butler. Many don't know that Dick only became Robin to stop him from hunting down and killing the man who killed his parents.

No one really knows about the harsh fights and arguments he has had with Bruce. The times when Dick would find himself cut off from the Wayne name for a week or so. No one knows that the first person Dick warmed up to was Alfred. Having been bribed with cookies.

Things weren't always this good, trusting, happy relationship between Bruce and Dick. It had been a rough ride, a complicated one. But that was okay, because it got better.

Dick stopped being so moody and angsty. He grew up, he learned, and he changed. He became an older brother, found people that needed him. Needed him in a way that the citizens of Gotham didn't need him.

His brothers like to call him annoying. A goody two shoes who Bruce trusted more than everyone else. They couldn't fathom how someone like Dick could be so stupid and bubbly at all times.

All times, except when shit hits the fans. Despite the name calling, despite coining Dick as the stupid Wayne. They all knew better. They knew that when it mattered, Dick Grayson always pulled through. He was a force to be reckoned with when needed.

The whole Wayne family was a force to be reckoned with when called for. It didn't have to be under the guise of costumes and vigilante acts. Whether he was Officer Grayson or Nightwing, Dick was a man with his morals and values.

One night on patrol as Officer Grayson, Dick found someone who needed that force. A force willing to protect and care for the innocent. The hurt. The damaged, yet still good.

It started like any other night. A call of shots fired by an empty warehouse. There was no sighting or knowledge of any rouges being there, so Dick took the call. Told the team he'll contact them if it seems more than just a civilian incident.

The warehouse was dark, reeked of copper and oil. It didn't take long for Dick to find the trail. The liquid he found looked like the person had been dragged before walking. There was a clear struggle, even with the mess and emptiness that was the warehouse.

That wasn't Dick's biggest concern. The concern lay in just how much blood there was. Too much for any normal person to lose and still manage to stumble through the warehouse.

It wasn't just blood. It wasn't that much, but Dick could spot the strangeness in the liquid. The mixed in green that had an eerily similar color and glow as a certain pit.

Without thinking, Dick followed the trail. Barely remembering to make contact with his family. Give them an update on what he found. Words telling him to stay put for backup went in one ear and out the other.

Something in Dick's gut was telling him he couldn't wait. He needed to find the source. Whoever was currently bleeding out in this warehouse. He silenced the comm, moving further through the dimly lit building.

Then Dick found it. Or more so, he found him. It was just a boy. A boy that reminded Dick too much of the youngest Wayne. A boy sat against a wall, looking pale and weak.

Red and green coated the front of the boy's shirt, arms wrapped tightly around his middle. An attempt to stem the bleeding. A puddle had already started to form beneath the boy, and Dick moved without thinking once again.

He quickly found himself kneeling beside the boy, hands carefully reaching out. Before Dick even touched him, the boy flinched. Eyelids suddenly opened, wide and terrified blue eyes landed on Dick's.

In just that one look, Dick knew what he had to do. The haunting, terrified, and pained look in the boy's eyes told Dick everything he needed to know. The boy was in danger. Someone had hurt this kid, and it was clear it wasn't the first time.

The boy struggled weakly against Dick's touch, terrified whimpers, and barely coherent pleas spilled from the kid's lips. It had Dick's heart aching, clear as day the poor kid has been through hell and back.

It took a lot of reassurance, gentle touches, and promises of help before the kid let Dick take a look at the bleeding wound. A promise on Dick's soul had been the final thing that earned him any semblance of trust. A strange promise, but Dick was willing to make it.

That concern turned to pure anger the moment Dick managed to pull the sticky shirt away from the wound. The sight of a Y-incision cut perfectly into the skin, stitches tight on the skin, but blood still leaking heavily from the wound.

It didn't take long for Dick to realize why. Despite the perfect surgical care of the wound, a good couple of stitches had broken. Leaving gaping spots for that red and green liquid to pour out of.

The boy was deathly silent, tears streaking down his cheek as wide blue eyes stayed trained on Dick. In that moment, Dick knew he had to help. Had to get the kid to safety, patch him up, and find out what kind of monster would do this.

It didn't matter if the kid was human or not. It didn't matter if the kid had special abilities or not. No one, absolutely no one, deserved to be vivisected.

The kid was shrouded in mystery, but that mystery only seemed to grow and become clearer when Bruce had entered the scene. The boy had tensed, eyes flashing a bright glowing green.

Lazarus pit green.

It set a pit of dread in Dick's gut. His mind brings forward memories of Jason. Jason, after his revival, after his dip in that cursed pit. The same flash that his brother would get if he got too angry. Too emotional.

As much as Dick wanted to focus on finding who did this, if it had any connection to Ra's al Ghul. He couldn't. Not when the kid tried to get up, to pull away as Bruce and the others made their way closer.

Right now, Dick only cared about making sure the boy was okay. Fixing those stitches, getting him a meal, and a warm bed.

He needed to get this kid someplace where he felt safe and secure. Comfortable and protected. Dick wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the promise he had made, but he wasn't letting anyone get to the kid.

That included his family. As strange as it seemed, Dick put himself between the others and the kid. Shooting them all a glare that they had only ever seen a handful of times.

Dick lifted the poor boy up in his arms, cradling the crying child close as he led the way out of the warehouse. Ignoring the questions or confusion coming from Bruce and the others. As Dick walked, feeling the trembling boy clinging to him, he made a rather obvious realization.

Maybe the eldest son really was more like Bruce than he expected. Just a few short moments the the boy, a boy that Dick didn't know his name, and he was ready to pull out adoption papers. To give the boy a safety he so desperately needs.

Give him the chance that Bruce had given him all those years ago.

[xxplastic-cubexx]

Yes you should draw Witch King Charles (for scientific purposes of course)

For Scientific Purposes

[lukazade]

I think it's 90s Kon week but I'm busy 💔 so have a super-late sketch for the first prompt (family/friends)

[amevdw]

[rambles-about-minecraft-ocs]

one of my favorite things about zedaph is that on a server full of people that find strange and oft-overlooked minecraft mechanics or rare events and then see just how far they can push them in the name of spectacle or efficiency or world-breaking, zed is over here finding these mechanics in order to do the weirdest things he can think of in as entertaining a manner as possible

like i 100% have faith in zedaph's theoretical ability to be just as efficient or spectacular or world-breaking. if he wanted to do that stuff, i trust that he absolutely could. but thats so far from being his priority. instead, hes going to spend around a week of irl time focused entirely on eventually having the good luck to spawn in something insanely rare so that he can convert it into something even rarer, the result of which being something that 99% of the server reacts with complete and utter shock that it even exists in the first place, just because its zany and funny and he wanted to. and i love that

[katabay]

PAGLUIB

way back in like. march?? I took a stab at writing some kind of kabitserye type of story but it was a mess: it kept veering off into murder mystery drama territory because I was reading a lot of murder mystery novels around then and it Wasn't Good because I hadn't tried writing mysteries, let alone murder mysteries, before lmao

I did write a handful of short mystery stories since then, so next year I might take a stab at this idea again now that I'm no longer jumping head first into a genre pool I don't know how to swim in :)