#Just a liddol guy :]

[angelsdean]

yes i know abt perspective and angles. yes that is also just a liddol guy

[comatosevulpes]

MY LITTLE GUYS

THE SKRUMKLE

I LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE

[pastadoughie]

transfemme pikachu!!!

[clownsuu]

more doodles I have managed to throw 😔🥄

Iv been gettin a lotta asks for these lil nerds lately- and even though I am fighting a wicked art block, I must doodle thembs smhh (@thelone-copper)

[danielsarmand]

plagued by thoughts of how cute edwin and monty would have been though because like neither of them knows Anything At All monty was a crow for his entire existence and edwin is only now beginning to accept and navigate his homosexuality so like. they really could have been a cute first relationship sort of dynamic help give me back my crow babe my astrology bitch my sassy legend

[beepboopappreciation]

🥺

[spirallingstarcases]

mm. yum

[skecherss]

new hobby is taking pose references from feral raccoons

[castiel]

endless dean winchester - 76/∞

[hawberries]

local carp just cannot stop adopting kids!!

[image is a drawing of Luo Xiao Hei in his small cat form popping out from under the hat of an indulgent Lee.]

[angelsdean]

i can never meet jensen in person because seeing that man be a full foot taller than me will ruin the pocket sized dean illusion

[pastadoughie]

transmasc pikachu!!!

[clownsuu]

Ay. An offer; one doodle of lovelie for the price of answering my question 🦅

Eh? Eh?— Anyways my question is; what’s an art tip you can give that really helped you? Anything special when drawing or do you just have a hand of god?

(Btw your one of my favorite artists and I love seeing your work homie, number 1 inspo fr. Keep on cookin 🦅💞)

WAHHH THEY LOOK SO SCRUNGLYYYY (despite his many, m a n y crimes)

[cowboy-kidd]

complicit // a regressor bruce wayne & caregiver alfred pennyworth drabble (pt. 3)

x - x - x

—NSFW DNI—

After Bruce’s little ‘slip up’ Alfred becomes more of an observer than an active participant in his charges' activities. He no longer does any poking or prodding. The realization that he doesn’t have to forcibly pry the boy open for answers but rather that he will come to his caretaker of his own accord (subconscious or otherwise) noticeably settles his heart and steadies his hands.

Just as Alfred’s patience pays off, so do Bruce’s escapades become more apparent. He overhears the boy sneaking into the cookie jar his guardian does his best to keep full- a well-before dying wish of Martha. When he pretends to be asleep by the firelight and Bruce brings his beat up coloring book and snapped in half crayons to come messily fill up the dirtied pages. His mourning grows louder and sounds much more pronounced- his sobs no longer muffled by an already damp pillow. The expression of his emotions become much more apparent in his face and body language, a stark contrast to what is usually such a “well put-together young man who knows how to handle himself.”

It doesn't show in the big things either. It’s one of the many critiques of Bruce that one wouldn’t notice if they weren’t looking. The slightest downturn of a lip at that day’s breakfast menu. Whenever Alfred isn’t where he’s expected to be at any given moment. When something’s too high for the boy to reach.

All of it is so achingly foreign and yet just as familiar as the butler’s own sleeping quarters. He knows in his mind's eye where his clothes are, how his furniture should be positioned, and what his made-up bed should look like. And yet everything is so different. This is not his room. This is Bruce in the absence of his parents. And it’s not necessarily that Alfred doesn’t know what to do- it’s more of a how to go about it. Like he’s holding an instrument he once knew how to play a long time ago, only to have it thrust upon him in the wake of a new realization.

On top of that, there is an insistent nagging in the back of his head that would otherwise be unrecognizable and even ignorable if not for the way it stops him in his tracks whenever he cracks the door open a bit and finds his young charge smothered in soft colorful blankets; the fragrance of both his mother and fathers perfume mixing garishly but permeating throughout the room nonetheless.

The binky from the other morning wedged between his lips and above it all; he looks at peace. The dry tear streaks caked on his face hold no weight. The boy is in stark resemblance of childlike innocence, picture-perfect. If Alfred didn’t know any better he’d assume something much more wholesome was going on. A child who wanted to stay up, lured to sleep by teary aching eyes and a familiar soother over the tongue. But he does know better, and instead he is like a deer stuck in headlights. Staring blankly at the face of a child who has no business grieving so seriously.

In fact, it is an inexplicable phenomena how silent and put together a child who used to be so rowdy and loud can be. And Alfred had just left it. Should Bruce not be stomping his feet and shouting at the top of his lungs until it reverberated off of the high ceilings and shook the chandelier till it fell from its perch?

Should he learn how to quiet himself and curl into a ball in order to no longer inconvenience those whose very presence is there in order to be inconvenienced? Should he feel inexorably selfish for wanting what can no longer be?

Those are the thoughts that keep the Wayne Family Butler awake far into the night. That keeps him scrubbing the counters until his knuckles are a bright, pomegranate red. That allows him unrest whenever he finds the strength to simply sit down. Until one day he finds himself in the store on a familiar drowsy and drizzly day. Gotham’s staple. The rain plops against the entranceway in a random fashion, roughly beating against the storefront's glass doors.

He’s standing in the baby aisle, memory’s flitting through his mind with the likeness and rapidity of a familiar rolodex that used to perch so prettily (still does) on Thomas’ desk. When Martha was pregnant with Bruce she’d drag him here and hand him a basket. Only to fill it with milk and cookie baking ingredients. Then she’d walk right over to the very aisle he’s standing in.

The tiles are squeaky clean, a murky reflection of his black penny loafers glaring back at him. He deigns to move his eyes down, keeps them glued on what’s in front of him. As if looking around and observing his surroundings would break the reminder of such a painful saccharine memory.

The aisle is put together nicely. It’s like the thousands of soothers, bottles, blankets, and their ilk glare into him- their perfection anything but in the wake of their use. The faint call of Martha’s voice makes his head twist to the side. Neck cracking with the speed, eyes alight with intensive, almost-there recognition. But the voice floats off somewhere far and safe. Somewhere he cannot reach in this Tantalus complex. Martha is not there. Martha will never be there. But he is.

He’s here. In the baby aisle. Grabbing new coloring books and checking the price tags to make sure that only the most expensive markers, pencils, and crayons are in hand. Added to that are a few new binkies and soothers and bottles that he’ll have to boil. There is a wetness on his face that he wipes away with an uncanny quickness as he gently places said accessories inside of his cart. Right next to some milk and cookie baking ingredients.

[saetoru]

ykw what if we did corrupt nerd gojo 🚶🏽‍♀️

[footballandshit]