#(also because i haven't decided yet)

[pokimoko]

Asexual bird? Please

How about two asexual birds?

[snarkspawn]

I really enjoy playing through tnp again like hi it's been a while

[nipuni]

Trying out styles with these two 😌

A step by step process of these will be available at my Patreon on august 1st

[nattikay]

OC lineup! All the characters that currently exist in this "story"

[onesnoopyaday]

I AM AT MY LIMIT

Snoopy #90

30/12/2024

description under the cut

[description: a cartoon-style drawing of Snoopy's head. Snoopy is a white dog with black ears. His eyes are shut and his mouth is a horizontal line. There are two large blue teardrops, one under each eye. The text "I am at my limit" is handwritten across the top of the image.]

[courtmartialme]

can we see your royai shrine?

humble but built with so much love

[bluebird8683]

RR is dead, Tim is not

Tim Drake stood on the rooftop of an abandoned high-rise, the wind pulling at his cape like it was trying to hold him back, as though Gotham itself were begging him to reconsider. He would miss this—the only home he had ever known. The city stretched out beneath him, its ceaseless hum a bittersweet symphony, a reminder of all the people who probably wouldn’t miss him, not really. And yet, the wind seemed almost alive, whispering doubts, pleading with him to stay, even as he remained steadfast in his decision.

They’d mourn Red Robin, perhaps. Maybe even Tim Drake, for a fleeting moment. (Tam is the only one he truly feels bad about leaving behind, but she has a life outside of him, friends who care about her. She'll be ok.) But eventually, they’d move on, the way Gotham always did. Would the family even notice his absence?  A part of him whispered they might be better off without him. That they’d be happier, lighter, without the weight of someone they never seemed to truly see. 

He’d made sure of it.

Tim looked down at the blood pooling on the cracked concrete, dark and glistening under the cold moonlight. The crimson trail spidered out across the rooftop, a macabre work of art he had painted with his own blood, painstakingly collected over weeks to ensure authenticity. Almost hiding the faint scent of ozone in the air from the rainstorm earlier today, the scent of iron, or blood, hung heavy in the air. The scene in front of him is a gruesome sight- one he purposely staged to be that way, but horrid all the same. The manikin he painstakingly ensured looked exactly like him (down to not having a spleen and that paper-cut he got earlier today in the office) was one that he had grown and made explicitly for this. It never breathed in life, but he had made sure all the muscles showed all the wear and tear his muscles likely had.

He arranged it to be crumpled near the roof entrance of the building, its fingers splayed unnaturally, some twisted and broken as though his attacker had tried to torture something out of him that he refused to give. One shoulder was visibly dislocated, the other broken in such a way that his bone was sticking out of his skin. The left leg bent as if he had somehow gained a second knee. The neck bore the telltale bruising of strangulation, the skin mottled with dark purples, a haunting testament to his fabricated final moments. (Though there is bruising elsewhere on the body, the ones on his neck were the darkest.)  

The area around the manikin was a tableau of chaos: broken bits of his bo staff scattered like splinters of a shattered life, and tears in the suit—carefully slashed to match the grotesque injuries—added the final touch of authenticity along with the extra blood he had collected from himself in advance pooling and being poured from specific spots. He doubted anyone would be able to tell that he was still alive after seeing this. No one but him would ever see this as what it was, a staged exit. They might call it a tragedy (if they're feeling generous) or a lost fight. They would call it the curtain call of his life, but all it truly was is the end of Act I.

The stage was perfect. (Thinking of this all as a play had made him feel better about it, thinking of the clone as a manikin as he removed the spleen and injured it, as he put together the murder scene...) 

Tim’s gaze swept over the rooftop one last time, cataloging every detail. The smear and drops of blood around the roof, the broken bits of his bo staff lying near the body covered in wounds, the com he placed in its ear. The entire scene screamed tragedy—a hero ambushed, overpowered, and left lifeless on a cold rooftop, the final act of violence etched around his neck in a black bruise.

It had to be convincing. It had to be enough to fool Bruce, Dick, Damian, and even Barbara. Tim could imagine the triumphant sneer on Damien's face, the satisfaction of no longer sharing the Robin title in any form. And Jason… Jason might raise a beer, toasting the end of the “replacement.” The thought hurt. (Thoughts of how they viewed him always did- it's why he tries not to let his mind wander... not that he can really do that- but that's part of the reason that he's doing this.) He’d run through every possibility, refining his plan with several contingencies he can switch to at a moment's notice. That was what he did. That was who he was. (Something that Bruce trained into him.)

His fingers trembled as he adjusted the position of the manikin’s arm one last time. Not from fear or regret—those emotions had burned out weeks ago. This was the final piece of a puzzle he’d been building for months. (He left a nice little case for the detective family to follow, if they decide to investigate his demise. All the leads would turn cold though, of course.) He should feel relief, maybe even triumph, but all he felt was a bone-deep exhaustion.

“This is it,” he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the gusts of wind.

He stepped back, letting the scene burn into his memory. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what would happen next. The news would break—Red Robin, dead in the line of duty. (He knew his body would be discovered in the morning- the owner of the building liked to come up for a smoke every morning before going to work.)

The family might grieve, or maybe they wouldn’t. Tim wasn’t sure anymore. Would they even miss him, or would they be better off without him?  Maybe they’d even be happier. Bruce would brood, sure, throwing himself into the case until he found just enough to close it. Damian, though, might sneer, claiming he saw it coming. Dick… Dick might actually cry. But eventually, they’d move on. They always did. After all, it had been months since any of them had really talked. How could they miss someone they never cared to know?   

But eventually, they’d move on. They’d forget. It's not like it'll change much.

Tim swallowed hard, forcing the lump in his throat back down where it belonged. This wasn’t about them. This was about him. A chance to finally breathe without the crushing weight of their expectations, their demands, their indifference. All this without even a courtesy "thanks." He’d spent so long loving them, sacrificing his sleep, his time, his social life for them, and all it had earned him was emptiness. Exploitation masquerading as family.

He's had enough.

He turned away from the body, moving to the edge of the rooftop. His new gear was already packed, hidden in a secure location outside Gotham. His offshore accounts were loaded, his new identity (and several back-ups) painstakingly crafted. Every system he’d set up—from the programs helping Gotham’s homeless to the automated responses at WE—would run smoothly without him. He’d made sure of it. Everything major will be fine without him. They’ll be fine without him.

Tim took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill his lungs. His heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins. This was it. The last goodbye.

He turned on the device that would hide his heartbeat from anyone with advanced hearing, stepped off the ledge and disappeared into the shadows, leaving behind all he had ever known, the fractured remnants of his life, and the only city he had ever called home. 

[royalnavyart]

♰ ⋅⋆ ─── Comic Log 001 ─── ⋆⋅ ♰

Another silly wip i'm working on~ ヾ(*´ ∇ `)ﾉ

I'm trying to setup the scene where they negotiate with Ubba and Guthrum, so the first part dialogue is just 1-to-1 with the show.

But the second part is going to be my own dialogue lmao which means ... well. (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧🌈✨❤️‍🔥

It's still in super doodle stage so it might take awhile to finish up \(; v ;)/ i just thought this panel came out looking quite cute aha.

[radyo-kabaw]

I had a family thing come up last month, so I missed posting this for Bonifacio's death anniversary. alas! better late than never! and every day is a good day to post about Bonifacio tbqh

[trensu]

Have an itty bitty tiny piece of stasis in darkness, just so you all have an idea of where the story is going after the godly reveal. and also have proof that i am, in fact, still toiling away at this (as well as hawkins halfway house.)

A week and a half later, Steve entered a town he’d never seen before. He wore simple traveling clothes and carried no weapons aside from a couple of carefully hidden knives. He’d left his armor and shield behind. His satchel held only the essentials one needed for travel and a single stone as large as his fist. The stone was wrapped in layers of cloth to keep it safe during the journey. 

I need you to find someone. 

He felt very bare but he hadn’t been given much of a choice. Speed was of the essence for his quest, and little no-name towns tended to be wary of strangers in plain clothes, even more so around strangers decked out for battle. Steve wasn’t sure this place could be called a town. It was so small it hadn’t been on any official map. It didn’t even have an inn. Hopefully, Steve wouldn’t be needing an inn once he found who he was looking for.

He’s too far from me to reach.

He asked around, laying on the charm generously. He explained he had been a friend of a friend and had been trusted to deliver something. Eventually, he was told where to go. The house he found far beyond the village’s boundary was small. It looked like it had once been well cared for but it was old and had fallen to disrepair. Steve took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

A sallow old man opened the door. He was bald but had some scruff on his face still. His shoulders, stooped from age, trembled. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked so tired.

He’s my very last worshiper in all the world.

“Wayne Munson?” Steve asked.

“Who wants to know?” The man’s voice was phlegmy and rough. He coughed into the crook of his elbow almost before he could finish speaking. 

“I’m Steve. Ser Steve Harrington, pledged to the Lord of Night.”

Wayne’s eyes widened. His grip on the open door weakened and slipped. Steve caught the door before it could hit Wayne.

“He sent me to you,” Steve explained. “May I come in?”

yep, that's it for now. i told you it was small. i'm not even gonna bother with a read-more here.

[kakyogay]

big kibby suns and their momdad spearirator (name pending I'm really bad at naming iterators even if they have a theme)

next post? maybe hunter and siggy idk depends if motivation doesn't fail me.

[transmasc-rose]

You're the Eleventh Doctor in Victorian England. You think you're on your last regeneration.

You miss Amy. And it gets to you.

And you walk off your cloud.

And you wake up (on the ground? In someone's house? Victorian Clara could find them falling, it would be their luck) and somehow, you survived. A 13th regeneration. A 14th life.

And then you look in the mirror.

(I think Amy!Doctor would talk to Amy in the mirror. They miss her and they are her and sometimes, if they believe hard enough, they can pretend she's still here with them.)

[fluffs-n-stuffs]

_____ used Destiny Bond! _____ is hoping to take his attacker down with him!

-

(Belatedly) celebrating the one-year anniversary of the 'Destiny Bond' comic with a rare, fully-illustrated piece. A bit of extra context and rambly thoughts under the cut 🫶💖💕

A little over a year ago, I posted the first part of the Destiny Bond comic, originally intended to be a one-off doodle exploring the consequences of Morty's prophetic abilities on his relationship with Eusine.

That sketchy doodle of mine ended up being a whole narrative project spanning across a few months, before I eventually took a pause on it to focus on my mental health (having reached a low earlier in the year).

It was a daring enough project in and of itself, especially with how I had spontaneously taken it on when I was still recovering from a years-long burnout with 2D art. Though (temporarily) stopping sooner than I had hoped, I can confidently say that this little comic project of mine had helped to rekindle my love for drawing as a whole, and had further lead me to meeting some of the most wonderful people and friends in this small corner of the Pokémon fandom (whom also happen to be obsessed with these two silly guys from the GSC/HGSS games). It's a project I hold dearly to my heart, and one that I hope to revisit and continue once I feel ready to do so; as the story has yet to truly kick off (I'm not even joking we're still in the prologue technically I'm yelling /lh).

I hope to be able to share the rest of this story with you all one day, in whatever new form it'll take as. For now, I want to say thank you, from the deepest parts of my heart, for supporting this passion project of mine - and to assure you to tune in for the future of this title. 👀✨

[myownpersonalstar]

amangela shakespeare play au

I have so many thoughts and ideas......

[whos-hotter-jjba]

[vandalizedheart]

btw since i'm still doing those pre-established relationship memes... if u send one in for your Sonic (the character lol) muse and they're within the same age-range as Nikki... expect me to including the shippy parts. i have many sonikki alternateshipping ideas ranging from sugary sweet to deathly toxic.

also Sonic deserves a goth gf.