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Im happy with how this turned out actually:3

Also glad that a lot of ppl chose Nightwing in my previous poll cause I wanted to draw him lmao

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you can ask any of them what they were doing before they became vigilantes and the answer will be the same

“I was with my parents”

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Remember when Damian was with Dick and was basically like, "Everyone else is inept, but I'm not, so I know you're not fine."

Damian saw through Dick's mask 🥲. He knew when Dick told the others, "I'm fine," that he really wasn't. And maybe the others didn't fully believe that Dick was fine, but they didn't confront him about it like Damian did.

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mahmoud (@ma7moudgaza2) has asked me to share his story again -- he believes the above illustration sums up his experience well. holiday season is approaching, and after that -- new year. no matter when and if you celebrate, please take some time to think about what is happening in gaza and what palestinians have suffered this past year. please help mahmoud - he has not received any donations in a day. the campaign is not doing well despite combined efforts of his supporters. the situation is truly dire. you can donate with paypal or simply follow the gofundme link below:

this is a verified, trusted fundraiser.

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UPDATE: NEW LINK! Yahya and his family were displaced by the IOF, and are currently residing in Deir al-Balah, south-central Gaza.

Life as displaced Gazans was already extremely difficult for them. Food is very scarce, and their living conditions leave them exposed to the elements. Here is the frequent condition of their tent now that the winter rains have come:

Then, Yahya’s father was injured. Some cartilage was damaged in his neck, and doctors say he requires IMMEDIATE surgery to avoid permanent paralysis.

Yahya and his family previously had another campaign, but it was suddenly shut down by GFM with no explanation. They have created a new one, but it has EXTREMELY LOW FUNDS.

The surgery is a stifling €15,000 euros (about $15,729 USD). Yahya and his family have no hope of paying for it without your help.

I am currently watching an elderly loved one lose their mobility, and it is an extremely heartbreaking and isolating situation. I cannot imagine what Yahya and his family are going through, having no social or financial support and only minimal medical care.

Please give what you can to this family. You are their only hope to save their beloved father’s mobility!

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Superman and Batman by Yasmine Putri

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i feel the need to make a clarification here. I’m not saying alfred must be written as some cruel, suspicious, or mean person when interacting with others. He’s very obviously not, but what i am saying is that the whole stiff upper lip is REAL and should be accounted for. yeah he’s all “very good sir, very well, here’s your sandwich” but he’s also “i am sending reinforcements to these coordinates and if you do not get there in time, batman may very well die”

there is urgency and stiff tone but there’s also loyalty and an eventual warming up. there is rightful wariness and judgement and pettiness, but there’s also mending armor and stitching wounds and making meals. the og post was just a reminder that Alfred has never had soft or clean hands and it’s odd when i see him written as such

friendly reminder that if you are going to write in the pov of alfred pennyworth, that old man's thoughts are not going to sound like your grandpa's. he's not going to be thinking "haha i love my kids, i love my grandkids, i wonder if they ate anything today... oh my joints ache, but i'll persevere anyway bc it's important i make tea and dust and whatever the fuck"

this man was a british noble before becoming a deep cover intelligence spy in special operations. he was an actor after that and only came to work for the waynes at the behest of his late father (pre-crisis). if you're writing an early-on in the butler career alfred, he should be cunning and possibly a little resentful. he should be sly and wary and intelligent. he should be attempting to hold his tongue and watchful. he should only be thinking of the waynes as employers, as as obligation. he should have had very little interaction with bruce overall because he was a butler, not a nanny, and thus oversaw the other servants of the house

if the alfred pov you're writing comes after dick grayson, alfred can be softened a little, but he should be loyal only to bruce. alfred would only be in his maybe-50s at this point. he is not some old and doting grandfather figure to dick. once again, he is merely employed by bruce wayne and takes care of dick grayson only by obligation. he should not be trusting or especially sweet. alfred should still be calculative and speculative about dick. he should be judgmental and disagreeable and sarcastic when it comes to dick. alfred does not know this child yet, he has only ever known bruce, and after 15+ years of service in a quiet house full of quiet people and strict routines, involving a 9-10 year old into the mix should have made alfred downright irritated by him

this cycle should repeat with every child that comes into the fold, especially damian (though this pov of alfred with damian is much closer to canon in fanfic and others mediums [we all know why])

alfred pennyworth is not some simpering, soft, sweet old man. he never was and really should never evolve to be one. he is a brutally intelligent, critical, and hardened man, and this should always be kept in mind when writing him. he does indeed soften to people who come into and stay in the fold, but alfred has never and would never open his arms, heart, and the wayne home to anyone ever with ease

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dick grayson is dc’s fav robin too

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early dick and bruce (coughs up blood)

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“What changed?”

Bruce sighs and lifts his head up to the stars.

“Everything,” he says. “Everything changed, Clark.”

or

On his way back to Gotham, Bruce stops in Smallville. Though the Kents are nice, he can’t help but think of the little boy waiting for him. It’s still new, their team of two, but Bruce knows something has shifted inside of him. For good.

The Kents go to bed early. They’re older and have habits engrained too deeply to change for company, so when the sun sets, a scarlet blush behind acres of corn, Ma Kent comes to the porch where Bruce and Clark are sitting and gives them both a kiss on the cheek.

“Now, don’t stay up too late,” she says, smiling warmly at the two. She’s not yet dressed for bed, but her white hair falls in soft curls around her shoulders, a kind etherealness in the homely picture she creates. “Even grown boys need their rest. The crickets get loud, so holler if you need anything. Goodnight, dears.”

Bruce says goodnight, dipping his head, and watches as Clark leans over to kiss his Ma on the forehead before bidding her goodnight as well. She pats his cheek, short nails and calloused hands holding her son’s face lovingly. It’s a scene like the ones at the end of every homecoming movie, a warm embrace and bleeding heart to close the finale– picturesque in every sense. Yet, it’s also one that the Kents are familiar with, a normalcy that bites to see.

Pa Kent comes out a little after Ma heads back in, warmth in his smile and bearing two cold glasses of what looks like beer. He hands the slightly tacky glasses to each of them, watching carefully as Bruce takes a sip.

“Been brewin’ for myself about seven years now,” he comments, thumbs in the pockets of worn denim overalls. “Picked it up as a hobby a little after this one,” he nods to where Clark is swirling the drink in his glass, “left for the big city. Keeps me occupied now that I’m not chasing after the troublemaker.”

Clark grumbles behind his father, looking off to the side as his ears turn pink, and Bruce chuckles mutely.

“It’s good,”  he compliments, taking another sip before setting it down. “Thank you.”

Pa Kent hums, satisfied, and his sun-spotted face stretches a little, a twinkle in his eye. Despite the wrinkles and silver hair, he holds a tempered youthfulness inside of him– a kind of excitement that Bruce sees in children, gleeful mischief and remembered past times from years gone by behind those eyes. 

“Well, you heard the missus. Don’t stay up too late, and don’t get into trouble. No funny business, even if that there rooftop looks like a good climb, you hear?” 

When they respond in the affirmative, Bruce perhaps a touch too serious, Pa Kent nods and laughs to himself. “Well, goodnight, boys.”

“Goodnight,” they say in unison, Clark squeezing his father’s hand gently. Ever so gently.

They listen as the man’s boots thump back into the house, screen door clattering against its frame, and after another few minutes, the bedroom lights flicker out and a snore soon follows. They sit like that for a long time, an audience to the Kents and all of the creatures on their farm: low moans of cows in the distance, melodic whistles of wild birds settling in for the night, gentle cheeps echoing from the hen shed, an occasional annoyed bleat. It’s a different kind of noise than the one Bruce is used to. It’s… It’s not loud, not blaring like it's whining for attention. The orchestra of sound on Kent Farm simply exists. A part of the scenery as much as the name of the farm is, lungs inhaling and exhaling with the life in it.

Clark blows out a breath, easing back into his rocking chair. The story goes that they were handmade by Ma Kent’s father and were a wedding gift. Bruce studies the smoothness of the wood beneath his hand, grasping the edge of the chair’s arm and finding the subtle indentation of fingers having rested there decades prior to his own. So many years worn into these chairs. A visible show of love and care. His own grandfather had gifted his mother the garden at Wayne Manor and filled it to the brim with yellow roses, her favorite. No one had the time for upkeep though and Bruce remembers his mother sneezing every time she went outside. 

It’s as the sun finally dips into the crust of the earth, hues of dark lilac and galaxy blue filling its place like the tide, that Clark finally speaks up.

“Thank you,” he says, soft and peering into his half-full cup, “for helping my parents with the farm today. I really appreciate it.”

Bruce hums, the oaky mix of smoke and something bittersweet warming on his tongue. “It was the least I could do. Thank you for letting me stay the night. Gotham is… far.”

Clark shakes his head, fondness in his smile. “Of course. You only ever need to ask, Bruce. You’ve always got a place here if you want it.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, choosing instead to watch as the sky slowly continued to darken, flecks of white coming into view. A crescent moon hangs low, waning in its cycle, and Bruce thinks about how he doesn’t get to see skies like this in Gotham. There’s a breeze, something careful in it as it runs through the corn and grass, and it smells clean. He likes it, the calm. The easiness of it all. He wishes he could bring it to Gotham.

“How’s Dick?” Clark asks in that soft, slow voice. The barest hint of hesitation.

“Good,” Bruce says, fingers tapping against his chair. “All A’s on his report card. Alfred made him tiramisu to celebrate. Recently signed up for the school’s math decathlon team, too. I think he likes it, sharp as he is. He’s got a nice group of kids he hangs out with sometimes.”

“That’s good. Really good. Sounds like he’s keeping busy.” A pause. “How is he with… with the city?”

Bruce’s fingers still, lying limply over the arm of his chair. Turned towards the dim light of the sky, his face looks almost luminous, pale despite the day’s work in the sun. Clark watches as his friend’s eyes shift to look at nothing, a memory, and waits patiently for him to answer. It takes a moment.

“The city loves him,” Bruce finally answers, mellow likes he’s trying to subdue a yell, “and I think he’s starting to love it, too. He adapted to it extraordinarily well, he’s good at thinking on his feet, and I’m so–”

He doesn’t finish the thought, wrapped up in unsaid things since the day he donned the emblem, and Clark lets him have his silence. They sit like that for a while longer, each lost in their own thoughts as the Earth gently spins them, peeling away more and more darkness to reveal a careful collection of stars and galaxies far from their own. They’d been to a few of them before. Visited those brilliant, gorgeous, and completely alien worlds, and still nothing compared to home.

The air is humid and fat drops of condensation slide down Clark’s glass, rolling across his fingers and onto the old wood of the porch. He slumps over to place his drink on the ground and rests his elbows on his knees, leaning ever so slightly forward as he studies Gotham’s legend. When Bruce notices, he raises an eyebrow that Clark can’t help but laugh at, a sound that mimics his father’s.

“Sorry,” he says, easing back into his chair. “It’s just… you’re different.”

“Different how?”

Clark squints as though he doesn’t have beyond perfect vision. “You just look… lighter. There was this, I don’t know, weight you used to carry around. Like an invisible, great thing on your back, but now–” he exhales, something small– “You’ve just changed, Bruce, that’s all. It’s a good change.”

His friend stays quiet, a modest frown pulling on his face, no doubt trying to figure out what it was that made him appear different. It’s fascinating, watching the most intelligent mind he knows struggle to trace back something as vague as ‘looking lighter’ to himself. Eventually, as he always does, Bruce seems to figure it out and a light shines in his eyes. It leaves him stone-still as if stunned by his own discovery, and the nag to have the answer, too, itches at Clark. He lets the moment sit, though, careful not to startle whatever revelation his friend has discovered about himself. 

Above, wispy clouds drift under a dark sky, obscuring the moon for the faintest of seconds before moving on. They were the first travelers in the world. Perhaps also destined to be the last. Clark likes the thought of it: here since the beginning, unchanging, willing to stay until… well, whatever end came upon them. It was comforting to have something like that so close to home, to his parents, knowing they’d at least have one constant in their lives.

Clark listens to his friend’s heartbeat, a strong and slow forty-two beats per minute, and finds comfort in that too.

“What changed?”

Bruce sighs and lifts his head up to the stars. Out here, the sky is somehow blacker, bottom of the ocean pitch. There are no neon signs, no blaring horns, no Bat Signal shining in the smog. Out in the fields of Smallville, there are just pin-prick stars and gentle wind. 

“Everything,” he says. “Everything changed, Clark.”

His friend hums, leaning back in his rocking chair, old wood squeaking in the night. The porch light yellows his face, something golden there whispering through like a god hiding in human skin, and it reminds Bruce how little he understands about the hero next to him. Patched jeans and dirty plaid has never looked so mortal, and yet...

“Because of Dick?”

Bruce nods and feels the wind cool the sweat on the back of his neck. Listens as crickets sing in the tall grass and wheat fields, miles away from sirens and screams. He wonders if this is why Clark loves the farm so much. Why he keeps it so close to his heart.

Clark turns to face his friend, earnest and wondering. “You used to only talk about ‘the mission’. What it meant to you. Not long ago, you said it was the only thing keeping you going. So, what… Why–”

Bruce’s eyes are on the stars, tracing them one by one. He finds Hercules and can’t help but look over at the myth beside him, hunched and searching for a way to be soft-handed in this world made of cardboard. Bruce never thought himself to be so fragile as that, having endured the worst in the hopes of coming out tougher. Better. He’s learning new things, though. Adapting.

“You’re right,” he says, studying the way his friend’s face cringes inward; polite, self-aware country boy to a fault. “The mission, Gotham– they were everything. I needed to make it right. The only goal was to protect Gotham’s people and bring justice to them. I needed to be the city’s vengeance and that was what I had set out to do.” Bruce pauses, turning back to face the night sky again. He can’t seem to keep his eyes off of it.

“But?” Clark prompts quietly. 

Bruce lingers on the arms of Libra, struggling to put to words what his heart keeps murmuring. 

Under the same stars, hundreds of miles away, secure and safe, was Dick Grayson. At this time of night, he would be in bed, clutching his pillow beneath the poster of his family flying through the air. His cheek will be creased red in the morning, hair flattened on one side of his face, the other half skewed upwards like some tornado swept him away in the night. When Alfred serves him his favorite breakfast of cinnamon oatmeal and sliced bananas in the morning, he’ll mumble about the dream he had in still-waking recollection. And when Bruce sits down beside him holding coffee and a newspaper, he’ll smile and say good morning before asking for the funny pages, scanning through them and giggling to himself at Garfield’s laziness and Snoopy’s witty commentary, showing his favorites and dipping the paper corners into Bruce’s mug. Then, when he’s readied himself for school, he’ll wave goodbye and make Bruce promise to let him know if Batman needs his partner while he’s away. 

Bruce promises him every time.

“But then I found someone like me,” he whispers, “and I couldn’t leave him to be alone. I had always thought Gotham was the only thing I could devote myself to, it was all I could do, but–” Bruce sucks in a breath, his throat suddenly stricken. “But when I think of Dick, the only thing in my head is that I want what’s best for him. It’s not just about avenging Gotham anymore. I don’t want him to grow up in the same city I did. I want it to be better. I want it to be a place he’ll be happy living in. I just, I just want him to be happy.”

“You love him.” Clark’s eyes are soft and glimmering in the light. He seems to glow beneath the sunless sky.

“He’s my whole world,” Bruce admits, scarcely a breath. “My whole world. It scares me, what I would do for that boy. There’s nothing I wouldn’t. Nothing.”

“You love him,” his friend repeats.

Bruce presses his lips together, a little dry and still tasting of Pa Kent’s homebrew. All the way in Gotham, his entire world sleeps and Bruce’s heart aches in the distance. He hasn’t freely loved anyone since his parents died. Hasn’t dared leave himself vulnerable and bleeding, waiting to either be tended to or picked apart by scavengers. He’s not foolish enough to subject himself to that kind of chance, he’s learned his lesson time and time again, but. 

But a thousand miles away, his world sleeps, and in the morning he’ll call Bruce and ask him about the cows and the cornfields, what it’s like being in Superman’s childhood home, if he’s seen any wolves or coyotes around, and what time he’ll be coming back home. Back to him. Home.

The stars blur together, white blots against ink-black sky, and Bruce closes his eyes and imagines himself a thousand miles away. Imagines himself and Alfred and Dick Grayson, together in Gotham, doing things he wouldn’t have ever done a year ago. So many changes, so many plans scrapped and rewritten. All because of one little boy, a light in the dark, his dark, and because… Because Bruce…

“I just want him to be happy. That’s all.”

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Robin (and Batman) by Chris Samnee and Mat Lopes

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I’m a real artist

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friendly reminder that if you are going to write in the pov of alfred pennyworth, that old man's thoughts are not going to sound like your grandpa's. he's not going to be thinking "haha i love my kids, i love my grandkids, i wonder if they ate anything today... oh my joints ache, but i'll persevere anyway bc it's important i make tea and dust and whatever the fuck"

this man was a british noble before becoming a deep cover intelligence spy in special operations. he was an actor after that and only came to work for the waynes at the behest of his late father (pre-crisis). if you're writing an early-on in the butler career alfred, he should be cunning and possibly a little resentful. he should be sly and wary and intelligent. he should be attempting to hold his tongue and watchful. he should only be thinking of the waynes as employers, as as obligation. he should have had very little interaction with bruce overall because he was a butler, not a nanny, and thus oversaw the other servants of the house

if the alfred pov you're writing comes after dick grayson, alfred can be softened a little, but he should be loyal only to bruce. alfred would only be in his maybe-50s at this point. he is not some old and doting grandfather figure to dick. once again, he is merely employed by bruce wayne and takes care of dick grayson only by obligation. he should not be trusting or especially sweet. alfred should still be calculative and speculative about dick. he should be judgmental and disagreeable and sarcastic when it comes to dick. alfred does not know this child yet, he has only ever known bruce, and after 15+ years of service in a quiet house full of quiet people and strict routines, involving a 9-10 year old into the mix should have made alfred downright irritated by him

this cycle should repeat with every child that comes into the fold, especially damian (though this pov of alfred with damian is much closer to canon in fanfic and others mediums [we all know why])

alfred pennyworth is not some simpering, soft, sweet old man. he never was and really should never evolve to be one. he is a brutally intelligent, critical, and hardened man, and this should always be kept in mind when writing him. he does indeed soften to people who come into and stay in the fold, but alfred has never and would never open his arms, heart, and the wayne home to anyone ever with ease

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she would not fucking be shorter than him

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loving a character so much will unlock such vulnerable and cringe parts of you that you try to suppress so bad but you can't like it's so humbling

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Little Joan needs surgery!!!

Joan Al-Habil is has been repeatedly hospitalized due to severe gastrointestinal problems and overwhelming fatigue. This poor girl has been to multiple facilities and seen multiple doctors, undergone extensive testing (as extensive as is possible in Gaza’s collapsed medical system), even having to endure an unsedated endoscopy, which I know from personal experience is extremely uncomfortable.

She has now been diagnosed with severe gastritis due to starvation and hazardous living conditions. Remember, she and her family are living on the streets, which are cold and wet due to winter rain. Homelessness, stress, exposure to the elements, her previous injury when the IOF firebombed her tent, and malnutrition all conspire to sap little Joan of her strength.

Her condition is so serious that she now requires surgery. Gastritis very rarely requires surgery to treat, so this is an indication of how dire her situation is. In addition to surgery, she is going to need treatment to manage her symptoms.

The cost of this is very very high. One consultation alone cost $650 USD. Joan’s family is going to need your support to pay for her treatment.

Please, this little girl is in so much pain and misery. Her parents are watching her waste away as her condition worsens daily.

You can help Joan get her surgery and treatment ASAP! Her parents Maha @mahafamily and Ahmed @ahmed-family-1 recreated their GFM after their previous campaign was arbitrarily terminated. You can share this campaign by copy-pasting this link (https://gofund.me/85a1b400) in your own Tumblr posts and all across your social media accounts.

If you plan to spend any money for the holiday season, please save some back and send it to Joan. She is in absolute misery, but your support will go a long way toward extending and improving her life.

Please help this innocent little girl get the help she needs!!

Link to share: https://gofund.me/85a1b400

Link to donate:

@socalgal @idontwikeit @shesnake @russianspacegeckosexparty @vague-humanoid @appsa @sar-soor @sayruq @nabulsi @butchniqabi @butchfeygele @dykesbat @frigidwife @wellwaterhysteria @vakarians-babe @apollos-olives @spacebeyonce @fluoresensitivearchived @gazagfmboost @vetted-gaza-funds @90-ghost @gothhabiba @killbenedictcumberbatchagain @silicacid @irhabiya @buttercuparry