#and also how bad these are lol

[that-was-anticlimactic]

here you go beloved ilyyyy <3

"you need to take care of yourself." + yosano & kunikida

"you don't talk much." + kyouka & elise

"why are you asking for my help?" + tachihara & kenji

"your facial features are in all the right places." + steincraft

we can ignore how this is, like, four months late lol anyways ilyyy, thank you for the silly prompts <333

"you need to take care of yourself." + yosano & kunikida

“you need to take care of yourself.”

yosano snorts, popping the last of the rice ball kenji managed to grab in her mouth. she doesn’t bite into it, she lets it slowly dissolve, savouring every bit of the flavour. who knows when the next time she’ll get to eat is? “doing my best.”

kunikida hums, shuffling his position against the tree. “you’ve done a lot of healing today.”

“yup.”

and now kunikida sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “you can’t take care of other people if you don’t take care of yourself.”

her fists clench in her lap. “i know that.” she glances around the clearing where kenji, kyouka, and jun’ichirou are asleep. both kenji and kyouka are using one of jun’ichirou’s thighs as a pillow, and he has his arms draped over them.

it’s sweet how he can’t stop being a big brother, even in sleep.

“they’re just kids, kunikida.”

“i know.”

her gaze flits to him. “you’re just a kid.”

he is. and so are dazai and atsushi and naomi and haruno. she, fukuzawa, and ranpo are the only full fledged adults at the agency.

twenty-two isn’t very old. she would know, she was twenty-two once.

it’s only been three years since she was, yet it feels like an eternity has passed. she is not the same person she was when she was twenty-two.

-

"you don't talk much." + kyouka & elise

“you don’t talk much.”

Kyouka blinks at her, slowly.

Elise huffs and stomps her foot, turning to Tachihara. “Why isn’t she talking?”

“Uhhhh…it’s, uh, kind of complicated?” Tachihara stumbles through his words, keeping his eyes trained on Elise. He doesn’t like looking at Kyouka. It just makes him sad. Isn’t she the kind of person Tachihara swore to protect as a Hunting Dog?

But Elise is unrelenting.

“Complicated how?”

Tachihara wishes he were anywhere but here, doing anything but babysitting. Why is it always him? “She’s kinda… not really supposed to talk much, I guess? Like, she’ll get in trouble if she talks a lot.”

Ugh, the more he speaks, the more he wants to bash his head against the wall.

Elise hums, giving Kyouka a once over.

“But she’s the only person here around my age other than Q, and I’m not allowed anywhere near them!”

She dons her invisible tiara and points at Kyouka. “I demand you talk to me!”

Again, Kyouka just blinks.

Elise practically has steam coming from her ears, and he knows that, if he doesn’t redirect this conversation now, Elise will throw a tantrum, and it will be his fault.

“Hey, uh, why don’t you show her what we came here to do?”

Elise perks up instantly. “Okay, Kyouka-chan. I wanted to color but Tachi-san is bad at it!” She ignores his indignant squawk and takes a bag of colored pens and a notebook out of her bag. She tears a couple pages out of the notebook and passes them to Kyouka through the bars of her cell.

It takes a couple seconds for Kyouka to realize they’re actually for her, that it isn’t some kind of a trick.

A shaky, timid hand grasps the papers tightly, crinkling the edges.

She stares at the paper with wide eyes and only looks up when Elise pokes her with some of the pens. The edges of her lips twitch faintly, and Tachihara is sure that’s the closest she’s come to smiling while being with the mafia.

As Tachihara reaches for a paper, Elise slaps his hand away. “Tachi-san! I have a new drawing partner! Now sit still!” She turns to Kyouka who appears to be watching with bated breath. “Let’s play dress-up with Tachi-san. We’re gonna draw him, but in silly costumes because he doesn’t know how to dress himself.”

“Hey!” His pride takes a hit as he realizes it's hard not to be offended by a children’s fashion critiques.

He’s about to respond with something kind of snarky but not so snarky that Elise tells Mori and he gets on his a.ss when he hears it.

A soft, barely audible giggle.

He and Elise simultaneously whip their heads around to Kyouka, who has already begun drawing.

Holy s.hit—that was a real giggle.

Elise instantly gets down to business and begins furiously scribbling on the paper, but Tachihara is still looking at Kyouka.

Her normally dark, tired eyes seem a bit brighter. They even crinkle at the edges! She still isn’t fully smiling, but her lips are the slightest bit wider than just a minute ago.

-

"why are you asking for my help?" + tachihara & kenji

“why are you asking for my help?”

kenji grins up at him with irritating happiness oozing out of him. “cause you and nii-san are really good friends!”

tachihara raises a brow. “you’re older brother? what, back at your farm?”

kenji just giggles. “no! jun! he said that i could call him nii-san!”

oh, jun’ichirou. tachihara stifles a snort. really good friends, that’s funny. the best way to describe someone he makes out with on a daily basis. “okay,” he drawls, “so what do you want me to do, exactly?”

“well, nii-san’s birthday is next week, and nee-chan wants to throw him a party, so we need someone to distract him.”

ah, ‘nee-chan’ must be naomi.

“she said you could come to the party, too, but only if you help, and that it would make nii-san really happy.”

kenji stared at him with big eyes and the most genuine smile tachihara’s ever seen. jeez, they really went all out, sending the kid to ask him. the stupid agency, thinking he wouldn’t do it.

he pretends to think about it for a minute, pursing his lips and staring off in the distance. finally, he shrugs. “i guess i can do it,” he sighs, “but only ‘cause you asked so nicely.”

“oh, thank you!” kenji leaps forward and wraps tachihara up in a really tight hug.

yeesh, he forgot the kid with the super strength was the hugger.

-

"your facial features are in all the right places." + steincraft

lovecraft plops their hands on john’s face and squeezes his cheeks. “your facial features,” they breathe, the words slurring together a little, like they’re out of breath (they aren’t—they’re just really tired), “are in all the right places.”

they squish him a little more because it’s cute and john’s smiling beneath his puffed-out lips. they lean forward, still squishing, and knock their forehead against john’s. “pretty…” they mumble.

john wraps his arms around their neck, twirling their hair with his pinky. it’s a nice feeling. very soothing. very sleep-inducing. lovecraft nestles closer, practically inhaling john’s hair.

“thanks, babe,” john giggles, but it comes out more like nonsense than actual words. “yours are, too.”

lovecraft doesn’t feel like moving their arms from john’s face, so they let their tentacles loose use them to hug him back.

“i’m… ‘m like you.”

john’s head vibrates a little as they mumble. it’s a funny sensation, kinda tingly, but they like it.

they think john tries to say it back, but everything that comes out of his mouth is indecipherable at this point, so they just kinda lean into john until they both collapse and they can fall asleep on the ground together.

[intermundia]

this is the single worst way i've ever read to describe an erection, frank herbert

[gibbearish]

love when ppl defend the aggressive monetization of the internet with "what, do you just expect it to be free and them not make a profit???" like. yeah that would be really nice actually i would love that:)! thanks for asking

[hoshizoralone]

reflection

[mroddmod]

everyone be quiet i'm manifesting

[bacchuschucklefuck]

summer of junior year 06/11

[zephyrchama]

[Thoughts about an MC who gets periods]

Getting periods in the Devildom must be pretty rough. Demons probably don’t get them, and the number of humans freely wandering around has to be incredibly low. If MC takes the form of a sheep then they likely don't have to deal with it immediately, but eventually that's going to wear off and they'll revert back to a human. Does the Devildom even have pads and tampons for sale?

MC might have to sheepishly ask Barbatos if he can acquire some in bulk from the human world. Barbatos would remain professional as always when inquiring about the use of these products and their role in daily life. He'd have to report it to the prince. They're both aware of what periods are, but only in a vague "oh yeah, humans do that" kind of way. (Perhaps in the future, Lucifer could use his secret Akuzon account to order more?)

There's surely some plant or potion that prevents them, but they're not meant for long term use. Probably tastes nasty over time and covers human skin in a weird oozing rash if consumed too often.

A month or two into the exchange program, MC might have to call up Solomon for aid.

---

“Can you help me with something?”

Solomon, not too interested in MC yet, agrees just to be amicable with his fellow human exchange student. They must be scared! They must be missing humans! “Is something on your mind?”

“You know how to do magic, right?”

What a silly question. It’s almost refreshing to hear. “I do.”

“Do you know… like, uh, smell…? Reducing magic? Something to cover up smells? Without being obvious, I mean. I feel like I stink and I was really hoping you could help me figure something out.”

How cute, he thinks. He can’t quite remember the time when he smelled fully human anymore, and he can’t really smell the distinct odor on people that demons can, but he knows demons can easily sniff out a human from afar. “Oh, don’t worry about that. It should go away on its own as you spend time here.”

MC isn’t convinced. “I don’t think it will…”

“Trust me. How are you finding Devildom cuisine? I know you’re not used to it, but eating more will help you adjust. I can whip up a few simpler dishes for you to try if you need help.”

MC is silent for a bit. Solomon thinks his job is done until they say quietly, “that’s not the problem.”

“What?”

“I’m pretty sure the brothers I live with can smell, uh, my cycle.” No use being coy about it, better get straight to the point. “They stare at me when I’m on my period. I think - no, I know - they can smell the blood. I’ve seen them sniff the air when I’m around. It's weird. And I can’t exactly stop it from happening every month.”

“Oh.” Now it’s Solomon’s turn to be quiet. He’s embarrassed and surprised, a little humbled, and also really interested in this problem. It’s not something he’s ever thought about before.

MC continues, “I think they can tell when I’m ovulating too, Asmo started lingering around more often, and Lucifer looked scarier than usual, and they all stare more, and-”

“I think I get it.” Solomon can’t stop his face from turning pink. Despite his usual grin, he doesn't think he’s ready to listen to the rest of MC’s sentence.

There should be an easy solution, but it’s something that warrants testing if MC doesn’t want the brothers noticing a sudden spell cast upon them. It could get mistaken for something malicious. Solomon says, “I might be able to help. Can you come over today?”

[forgettable-au]

FORGETTABLE-AU (Page 61-64)

* I-I don't think we were talking about the same thing...

[BEGINNING] [PREVIOUS] [CONTINUE]

[oh-gh0st]

i heart these rivals so much. maybe they'll kill each other. maybe they'll kiss. maybe they'll make ou

[damian-lil-babybat]

They're judging their sibling's life decisions, and they are not impressed.

(And to think Jason and Dami have pit-madness in their system)

[anatomical-puppet]

my source is that i am autistic about horror

[sparticus2000art]

Here’s a bad guys line up!

I’ve been thinking about how I want to draw these guys recently, and I figure I may as well draw it out!

I’ll be using these designs for any projects I tackle with them going forward! (Unless I change my mind on things)

Nightmare by jokublog

Dust by askdusttale

Killer by rahafwabas

Horror by sourapplestudios

Cross by jakei

[hoagiesnadwich]

back together

HOLY MOLY ITS FINALLY DONE!!! I honestly never thought i would get this far into making the comic. its crazy to me that ive been doing this for like 5 months?? thank you everyone so much for your support!!! :-D

part 8 <- part 9 -> part 10

[tubbytarchia]

got an urge to design ponies oops

[bacchuschucklefuck]

they tried to rebrand as The Criminals but riz is literally the city council's treasurer and also turns out people in their late 20s don't really name their friend groups. so now they're The Intrepid Heroes

[confessedlyfannish]

Writing Prompt #12

Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.

Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.

Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.

While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.

These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".

There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—

"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.

But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.

He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.

"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.

"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.

"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.

He doesn't look away from the man.

"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."

"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.

The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.

The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"

Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."

"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."

He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.

"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.

"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.

"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.

"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."

"Him."

"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."

"Why me?"

"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."

This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.

"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"

"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."

Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."

"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."

"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."

"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."

"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."

"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.

"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.

"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."

"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."

"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."

Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.

Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.

"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."

The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.

"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.

"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."

"I have more than one."

"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."

"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"

There is a pause.

"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."

"Resolve what?"

"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."

"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."

Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."

The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."

"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."

"They will have already muzzled him."

Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.

"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."

"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—

Clack!

"sluuuuurp!"

"Master Timothy, honestly!"

"Sorry Alfred!"