#and bravo because this was funny

[wildskissed]

Literally had to reload because Eve used pet pal and her wild magic surged and turned Halsin and the Owlbear cub into dogs, and Lae'zel, Karlach and Scratch into cats...and the five of them attacked her. I was laughing so hard I was crying at the sheer ridiculousness and how Astarion was LAUGHING when the fight started.

[urbodymytemple]

he's literally taking notes calm down

[kingofdorkville]

i kinda wish my f/os could be at my graduation instead

[icharchivist]

Man usually i keep french stuff to myself, but i reblogged the bravo les lesbiennes thing and now plenty of friends who are not french keep throwing it back to me

Unhelped by Enyo's new unit bc therefore this is where we had everyone start agreeing BRAVO LES LESBIENNES looking at it

Never would have i expected a french meme to break into my inner circles, but it shows the power of lesbians to be transcending languages like that i guess???

[toshidou]

i love this dumbass game so much

[snonkerdoodlefizzy221b]

echo would say this

val kilmer the cutie patootie you are

- from danger zone - the making of top gun

[choochooboss]

Sketch dump! Vol. 5

September 2022 (Part 1/2)

The first piece on top summarised my cosplay rush for Tracon 2022! The second is an old idea for a charm.

"SURPRISE!!"

Back in 2022 I hosted an art raffle for reaching 777 followers on Twitter! The winner would get their submas themed idea realised (which was their friends throwing a surprise party for the twins!). I wanted to make a little comic and have the bosses walk in their office where depot agents, Elesa, Drayden, Skyla, Clay etc. would be waiting with decorations and treats and games.

Emmet is all smiles of course while Ingo gets so emotional he could only whisper a "super bravo".

Not really headcanons anymore but still funny ideas.

1. Emmet gets clumsy when off-rhythm! He starts walking in curves if there is nobody else around to match his rhythm with.

2. Emmet spaces out/forgets to say things aloud when someone speaks too long or when things go off-script! His thinking gets interrupted easily.

3. Ingo sometimes bumps into doors because he is too used to automatic doors!

4. When things go off-script Ingo speaks too much and rushes in straight lines"

Also my little inexpensive sketchbook & my trusty tools! Mechanical pencil and eraser pen are life when scribbling my skrimblos smaller than a postage stamp!

More Ingo~ I utilise a wide range of sources for references, including CSP's poseable 3D models, they can come really handy with perspectives and proportions!

The second piece is my very first attempt at cosplay in Tracon 2022: Blingo! I walked in with a sequin hat, leather jacket, leather pants and high heel patent leather boots.

The hardest part of cosplaying Ingo is remembering NOT to smile ahaha!

Some hairstyle tests

I drew these for a huge submas art collaboration over Twitter hosted by @/mimizukeii!! It was technically my first art collab before I started arranging them myself with Aggie/Magma.

While looking for train related songs I found this cute nursery rhyme to go with the marching:

"Over the mountains,

Over the plains,

Over the rivers,

Here come the trains.

Carrying passengers,

Carrying mail,

Bringing their precious loads In without fail"

I wanted to compare these silly twins, planning to do something more silly with them later. Also a sketch of @/fukurow's butler designs I never finished.. The capes compliment them so well, I love them!!

Prequel to this piece! Emmet is so confident in himself he thinks Pierce wants to learn from him but is invited for a duet on the stage instead!!

Emmet has really great voice actors in Pokemas! I especially love how his english VA gives him that bri'ish/posh/sophisticated vibe while also soft and melodic! I know for SURE this VA/Emmet can sing, I can show you later!

One of my favourite sketches!! I wanted to add a bunch of characters in the BG reacting to this sonic blast of emotion over a performance!

Heyyy it's the smile buddies comic!! I really hope Ingo gets to interact with Marnie in Pokemas one day!!

I feel Ingo's eyes in the mirror panel is a little off in the final comic, I meant to keep it softer like in the sketch!

It's Nimbasa trio!! Idea inspired by submas EX uniform colors. Might continue this later!

Some BG tests for this piece! Compositing is hard but absolutely worth the effort, it can make a huge difference in the appeal of your piece!!

Practise piece drawing over a photo I thought was cool! I want to get more experimental with lighting and perspective!

'How's it hanging bro?' Who hung him up there anyway??

Sketch for this arguing scene! Something REALLY BAD needs to happen for them to end up that tense! Even if I want to present them close to the canon material I still want to put them in really challenging situations to see how far I can push their emotions!

Thank you so much for coming all the way down here!! This set was pretty loaded, I hope you enjoyed scrolling through all this ahah!

Previous posts:

Sketch dump Vol. 1: April-June 2022

Sketch dump Vol. 2: July 2022

Sketch dump Vol. 3: August 2022

Sketch dump Vol. 4: July 2022 Part 2

[writers-potion]

do you have any dialogue prompts for enemies to lovers (like the stages separately)? thanks

Enemies-to-Lovers Dialogue Prompts

A mix of prompts from: @celestialwrites, @corvase, @novelbear, @unboundprompts and myself, @writers-potion

1. Making the Enemy

"Cry me a river and drown in it."

“You are a mockery of philosophy.”

“You are truly pathetic if you thought I’d ever rely on you."

“Oh bravo! No one cared.”

“You’re nothing, you were nothing even to your mother/father.”

“You’re on a path of self destruction and I’m not going to stop it."

“Having you around is just like having a nightmare I can’t wait to wake from.”

“what even is the point of you?”

2. The Clash

"I've met a lot of funny people in my life, but you... you are the most hysterical."

"I'm not trusting someone who looks like... that."

"I can't wait to wipe that wicked smirk off of your smug face."

"You know if you do this, you'll be fucked too, right?"

"Am I being too rough? Well, I'm only getting started."

“i think we’re friends now.” “God, don’t say that.”

“everything is just a competition for you… isn’t it?” “isn’t it for you, too?”

“h—” “don’t talk to me.”

“i’d pay good money for you to admit you tolerate me.” “tolerate being the operative word.”

“why can’t you open up to me?” “why do you want me to?”

3. A Shift In the Air

“i realise that i am clearly irresistible but..why did you choose to act on all the flirting now?”

“wanna do it again?”

“should we like. talk about it”

“you’re..extremely red” “shut up” “like actually vermillion” “go to hell”

“are we about to kiss right now” as a joke, but then the other character actually leans in

“look since the events of last night i can safely say that i have discovered multiple new techniques to shut you up, and i am not afraid to use them”

“this never happened” “consider it forgotten” proceeds to happen many times after

4. Being Vulnerable/ Losing for Love

“Since when did you ever care about me?!” “Since fucking forever, you idiotic dunce!”

“Well, I’m sorry I fell in love with you, okay? But it happened and I can’t do shit about it.” “You… What?” 

“You think I wanted this to happen? You think I, of all people, wanted to fall in love with you?” 

"i brought you flowers." "for what?" "there has to be a reason?"

“I’m not…used to feeling this way, okay?”

“Oh - don’t fucking do that.”

"shut up and kiss me"

"such a pretty liar mhmm"

“We might have been wrong.”

5. Lovers At Last

"you want me?" "you know i do"

"i hate you." "hate and love, what's the difference, darling?"

"i want to stab them, i want to shoot them, but my fucking god i want to kiss them too."

"you better kill me soon because it's the only way you will ever be able to keep me away."

"what are you doing?" "asking you to marry me? daggers and all."

[rebloggingrexan]

#yes (on my main) and I felt <????> #definitely strong emotions I don’t know if they were negative or positive

#I’m not mad at whoever did it or anything so I guess positive? #I was mostly like WHAT. how did this happen #it’s my most popular post and it’s also sliglty incorrect so

#it’s about the Spanish dub of gravity falls #I misheard it

#every comment is arguing Spain vs Latam dub

*This poll was submitted to us and we simply posted it so people could vote and discuss their opinions on the matter. If you’d like for us to ask the internet a question for you, feel free to drop the poll of your choice in our inbox and we’ll post them anonymously (for more info, please check our pinned post).

[on-a-lucky-tide]

A funny prompt: Gaz’ No-Good, Terrible, Very Bad day. In which in the span of 24 hours he walks in on NikPrice, GhostSoap, then AleRudy bumping uglies because those pairs of idiots keep having sex in weird places and Gaz keeps having to bare witness.

How you wanna play it is up to you, but I love the way you write Gaz and I wanted to lean more into the comedic side of sexy times rather than the hot n heavy stuff this once.

Mikey, I love you for this prompt. I actually wrote it all out and then Tumblr shat itself. Serves me right for writing in the app on my phone, eh? I hope this redo is as good. Two of my favourite things: humour and sex.

Gaz has a really bad day.

cw: sexual content.

Really, Gaz should have called it a day when he had decided to have a Rich Tea with his breakfast brew and the fucker had broken off in it because he had gone zero point one second over the optimum dunking threshold. Bad omen. Yeah, pack it all up lads, turn in.

If someone were to ask him precisely when his day had gone to shit, he would definitely say it was then, because if he had to recall the next part he was pretty sure he'd require several sessions of therapy.

It was unusual for the store cupboard to be locked, which was his first warning that something was amiss. But airpods in and his mind on the afternoon's planned exercise with Bravo Company, he didn't think much of it. There were only five people on base with a key, so it was easier to leave the door unlocked. When it came time for inventory at the end of the week, Price was disturbingly effective at nailing anyone with sticky fingers so no one bothered pushing their luck.

As DJ Snake turned down for what and the beat dropped, Gaz tugged his lanyard out of his shirt and jammed the key in the lock. Shouldering the door open, he slapped a hand over the light switch and looked up at the same time, only to be faced with Lieutenant Riley's lily-white arse pounding between two hairy legs directly opposite. "What the fuck?"

Gaz practically slapped himself in the face in his haste to snatch the airpods from his ears and cover his eyes with his palm. He heard rather than saw Tav slide down the wall he'd been pinned to, and the resulting yelp as he hit the concrete floor.

"Did ya ma no' teach ye tae knock?" Tav squawked.

"You're in the store cupboard, Tav! The fucking store cupboard!"

"We locked the door..."

"He has private fucking quarters, which is... literally what they could be used for, fuck my life!"

Ghost cleared his throat and Gaz chanced a look through the slats of his fingers. He regretted it almost immediately when he glimpsed the lieutenant's monster hog, which was somehow three times the size hard as it was soft, according to the sparse glimpses Gaz had snatched in the shower. Professional curiosity, you know. Ghost was completely unfazed, standing there with it all just hanging out. "Uh, sir, if you could..."

"What'd'ye want, Garrick?" Tav growled, pulling his hoodie over his lap to hide whatever gaping devastation the lieutenant had inflicted.

"Camelbak skin. Top shelf on the left."

Gaz heard a box grind over the metal shelf and the split of plastic sellotape. When the rustling stopped, he looked through his fingers again and saw Ghost holding the skin out for him to take. He hadn't even pulled his boxers up, his hard dick still on full display. Gaz sidled over, keeping his face turned away, and took the offered plastic parcel. "Cheers," he murmured awkwardly.

"Welcome," Ghost rumbled back, and if Gaz didn't know him better, he'd say the bastard was laughing at him. Seconds later, he hightailed it out of there as quickly as he could, pinching the bridge of his nose and hoping the image of all that pale skin thrusting away between Tav's hairy stalks wasn't going to haunt his fucking nightmares. Luckily, he had a fitness course to coordinate that afternoon, which would help take his mind off of it.

No such fucking luck, as it transpired.

As Bravo Company were taking a breather after making good time over the course, Gaz snuck off into the woodland for a quick slash before they moved on to first aid training. As he rounded an old oak tree, he caught the sound of hushed voices over the usual bird song and rustle of leaves. Little fuckers had snuck off for a smoke and thought he wouldn't notice.

He did up his fly, put on a stern face and readied his most blood-curdling shout as he stomped in their direction. The 'oi, ya little cunts' sat on the tip of his tongue as he burst through the bushes, only for it to dissolve into a high-pitched little 'ah!' when he came face to face with Rudy, slack-jawed and sweaty.

Colonel Vargas was two knuckles deep in him, Rudy's cock drooling over his superior's wrist, hips twitching. That was all Gaz managed to see before he swung himself round and covered his eyes for good measure. The low voice he had heard must have been some truly filthy Spanish, because Rudy looked about ready to blow.

"Hola, sergeant," Alejandro said calmly. "¿Qué tal? I thought you were not due in the woodlands until tomorrow."

"Uh, yeah, orienteering is... tomorrow, sorry, colonel, I thought you were trainees, I, uh..." Gaz glanced over his shoulder and saw that Alejandro had moved his body to shield Rudy from view. He whispered something softly in Spanish in his lover's ear, because Rudy was hurriedly yanking up his trousers, his belt rattling, looking panicked.

"It is I who must apologise, amigo. I cannot control myself with Rudy, and with all this nature around us, I let my heart lead my head," Alejandro said. "I would be... grateful if this indiscretion did not get to the captain."

"Uh, sure, mate, yeah. Mum's the word... I'm gonna... go this way. As you were, or... not." Gaz hotfooted it back through the bushes, his face on fire, and was relieved to find some troopers slacking off because he had someone to beast. Seriously, this day could fucking do one. It couldn't get any worse.

Famous. Last. Fucking. Words.

First aid training concluded in time for dinner and Gaz sent the troopers to mess. He didn't go himself because he wasn't sure he could look Tav or Ghost in the eye just yet. Instead, he headed to his bunk and snacked on some Pringles as he finished off a report on the week's progress for Price. And yeah, he left out the sheer volume of unnecessary cock he had seen that day.

Last thing on the day's list was to submit the report and he could turn in, hoping that tomorrow had less cock and arse on the agenda for him. He rapped twice on the captain's door and let himself in, missing the sudden scuffle of movement as the hinges creaked. "Hey, sir, got the summary ahead of sched-u-oh, Nik."

Nik was sitting in Price's chair bolt upright, his hands in his lap beneath the desk, shoulders squared. "Gaz, my brother," Nik greeted, but his voice sounded a little... tight. "Kak dyela?"

"Where's... the..." Gaz studied Nik a bit more carefully and began noting a few more oddities. His skin was flushed, eyes blown wide, usually slick hair all ruffled out of place, and he was shifting minutely in his chair, but keeping his feet very, very fucking still. "He's..." Gaz pinched the bridge of his nose, "he's under the desk, isn't he?" Because of course he fucking was.

Nik flashed a mischievous smirk.

Gaz sighed. "Jesus fucking Christ..."

Nik bit his lower lip and then opened his mouth to say something, but Price got there first, his voice low, rough and husky from his hiding place beneath his own desk. Probably from where he had just been gobbing off Nik's--no, no, for Gaz's own sanity he just couldn't finish that thought.

"Leave the report on the desk," Price growled.

"Yup, right, it's on the desk," Gaz replied, getting as close as he could to be able to chuck it on the keyboard without risking seeing Nik's cock next to his captain's face. "Have a, uh... a good..."

"Garrick," Price snapped.

"Right, yeah, going. Going."

Nik waved at him as he left but Gaz could do nothing more than cringe his way back into the corridor. Three for three. Fan-fucking-tastic.

There was no way he was getting any sleep after that. Gaz headed for the mess and a cup of tea. Maybe if he managed to dunk the biscuit properly, the day would stop fucking with him.

He was completely engaged in a thousand yard stare when Tav slid onto the bench opposite. Gaz gave him the side eye. "Surprised you can sit down."

Tav smirked. "Aye, s'taken some practice."

"Nope, no, no more. It's gonna take years of therapy, decades, to get over seeing that man's arse between your legs."

"Dunno what yer whinin' about, ah've got bruises from where the fecker dropped me."

Gaz snorted. "Good."

"Look, ah... ah came tae apologise. It weren't decent, an', uh..."

"Mate," Gaz sighed, slapping his hands on the table as he sat up. "The shit I've seen today, Ghost's pale arse ain't even the half of it." He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. "Do you fuck in there a lot?"

"Oh aye, and other places."

"Oh god..."

Gaz's eyes narrowed as Tav turned in his seat and extended a leg. That was an exit manoeuvre. Tav rolled his lips into his mouth, smirked, and then landed the killer blow. "Pretty sure we've done it in yer bunk."

"You cun--oi, c'mere you rat Scottish bastard!"

Tav fled cackling and Gaz followed with full intent to put a few more boot-shaped bruises on his arse. Perfect end to his no-good, terrible, very bad day.

[vsk0au]

Continue?

‘Alphas like obedient omegas, ones that will sit on their knots and care for them and their pups.’

Obedient… you wanted to be obedient you really did, but whenever someone got close that weird sound came from your lips: that rumbling feeling coming from your chest. Betas were bad and alphas even with their rarity were even worse; coming here hadn’t changed a thing. In fact it was worse, alphas and betas coming to get a power trip from all the depressed and desperate omegas. You wanted to leave. But the only way for an omega to leave, is with a pack, and said omegas get no choice in the matter. If a pack just so happens to like your scent and want you, they get you. You have no say in the matter, if you’re lucky the program will make the pack members send back pieces of cloth with each member’s individual scent. If, you’re lucky.

Often omegas would be sent to stay with military squads, a bunch of angry pent up alphas wanting a release. You’d seen omegas that had come back from squads, they all went into permanent drops because of being mated without permission, permanent until an alpha whose scent they truly loved ordered them out and took care of them… you’d never seen that happen…

‘This is from the pack that’s chosen you.’

Now a pack sending something to the omega they wanted, that had never happened.

‘You’ll be sent out to them next month.’

You didn’t want to meet them; you didn’t want anything to do with them. Slowly you moved towards the box, unease blooming in your stomach. Using your claws to cut the tape you opened the box, and the most delicious smell you’d ever caught a whiff of hitting your nose, causing you to scrunch it. You backed away a little before moving closer, the box contained four large Ziploc bags containing an item of clothing and a file. Slowly you pulled each of the bags out staring at them, it scared you to a new extent; your body starting to tremble as you stared at the bags.

Alphas don’t send you things; they don’t give you a warning of who they are. With shaky hands you opened one of the bags taking out the file and then closing it again before the scent got to you. You did that with each of the bags, taking a few minutes between each to catch your breath. You stared at each of the files as you had each of them laid in front of their respective bag. You picked up one of the files and stared at the man’s image, he was funny looking; had a Mohawk and deep blue eyes. His name was John “Soap” MacTavish and he was a sergeant… sergeant… panic settled in as you quickly looked through the files. Sergeant Kyle “Gaz” Garrick, Lieutenant Simon “ghost” Riley, Captain John “Bravo six” Price.

‘Task force 141…’

Tears swelled in your eyes as your body trembled, full panic mode setting in as you realised.

‘Their military…’

[johns-prince]

“He acknowledges that the interplay of Lennon and McCartney was 'nothing short of miraculous', describing how they 'wrote with two guitars'. 'The joy of that was that I was left-handed and he was right-handed, so I was looking in a mirror and he was looking in a mirror.'”

—Paul McCartney, The Lyrics: 1956 to the Present

“I think Linda put her finger on it when she said me and John were like mirror images of each other.

"Even down to how we started writing together, facing each other, eyeball to eyeball, exactly like looking in the mirror.''”

—Paul McCartney, Uncut Magazine, July 2004 (x)

“John and Paul would sit opposite each other by the fireplace. As Paul was left-handed their guitars went the same way and each could enjoy the mirror effect of watching the other’s fingers shape the chords as if they were his own.

Paul would later call these ‘eyeball to eyeball sessions’ and he’d be treated to something few witnessed: John put his glasses on. Only rarely did they leave his pocket, even though without them he could barely see a thing. Almost in each other’s face, John and Paul quickly gained an unusual closeness, little or nothing hidden. Paul noticed that ‘John had beautiful hands.’”

— Tune In: The Beatles: All These Years, Vol. 1 by Mark Lewisohn (x)

“(…) most of the time we would sit down opposite each other with our two guitars. And because I was left-handed, when I looked at John I would see almost a mirror image of myself, I’d be playing the guitar as it were upside-down, he’d be reading me; upside-down, so we could clearly see what each other was doing, almost what you were doing yourself.”

— Paul McCartney, Many Years From Now - Barry Miles (x)

“The lights in the studio were turned off to set the mood; the sole source of illumination was a table lamp next to the wall. The two beatles, lifelong friends and collaborators, sat on high stools, facing each other, studying each other’s lips intently for phrasing. Watching them, I remember thinking that John’s and Paul’s voices were so different yet so perfectly complemented each other’s, just like their personalities and approach to music-making.”

—Here, There and Everywhere by Geoff Emerick (On the recording of She’s Leaving Home). (x)

“So I had to learn upside down. It’s funny: John learned upside down, too, because of me-because mine was the only other guitar around for him, if he broke a string or didn’t have his. That’s more unusual; left-handed guys can nearly always play a straight guitar.”

—Paul McCartney, interview w/ Tom Mulhern. (July, 1990) (x)

“On one occasion that still resonates for those involved, the Quarry Men went to a party in Ford, a village on the outskirts of Liverpool, out past the Aintree Racecourse. “John and Paul were inseparable that night, like Siamese twins,” says Charles Roberts, who met them en route on the upper deck of a cherry red Ripple bus. “It was like the rest of us didn’t exist.””

—the beatles: the biography, bob spitz (x)

“I was fortunate enough to see them together many times in the late 60’s, and have always been fascinated by what I saw/heard: they finished each other’s sentences, laughed together, just seemed totally in sync. I was a 15-year-old girl, but I did notice that about the two of them and will never forget it.”

—Lizzie Bravo, apple scruff, on John and Paul (x)

“Years later, Paul told his brother that he loved his photo of the “I Saw Her Standing There” writing session because it captured how it really was—“the Rodgers and Hammerstein of pop at work.” Writing “eyeball to eyeball” as John said, they weren’t just frontmen for a rock group; they were composers working in concert. Having already pledged to co-credit all their work, around this time they made it formal, taking equal shares in a company called Northern Songs that would control their publishing.

“Historically,” writes Mark Lewisohn in The Beatles: All These Years, “joint-songwriter agreements enumerated splits of 90:10, 85:15, 80:20, 75:25, 67:33 and every other fiddly fraction down to 50:50. But John and Paul went halves all the way, closeness and ambition shared and matched.”

Now every lick of music that either one produced (regardless of the other’s actual contribution) would be both literally and metaphorically—both legally and emotionally—co-owned.”

—Joshua Wolf Shenk, Powers of Two: Finding the Essence of Innovation in Creative Pairs (2014) (x)

“It was like a tug of war. Imagine two people pulling on a rope, smiling at each other and pulling all the time with all their might. The tension between the two of them made for the bond.”

—George Martin on Lennon/McCartney (x)

[crackshipguardian]

Or consider; Clint is so extremely Not Like Other Girls that Barney has to logically be on the other end of that spectrum, and there is simply nothing more Like Other Girls than exclusively going by your middle name so much so that no one knows your actual first name

The interesting case of Barney Barton's name

Let's focus on a bizarre mystery in the Clint Barton universe (even though it's not really a mystery). And no, I'm not talking about why Clint is portrayed as a loser in the latest comics.

I'm talking about the the biggest idiot in Clint's life. His brother, Barney Barton. And based on the title, you can probably guess the topic of focus: about his name, duh.

To be fair, if you're not deeply into his lore or Clint Barton's family lore, you might not think his name is a mystery. You might assume his parents just didn't love him enough and named him Barney. Easy thing, right? Nope. Wrong.

Many people don't know this, and I don't blame them, but this bastard actually has a different name.

Please give a round of applause for: Charles Bernard Barton!

Yes, it's on his tombstone. And I bet he would rather be in his grave right now instead of being alive, but unfortunately, he didn't have much choice <3.

Don't feel bad if you didn't know this; his full name appears once and once only. It was shown in Hawkeye Vol. 3 and never mentioned again.

If you're like me, you probably have many questions. Why was his name mentioned only once? Why is his name Charles Bernard? Why is he ALWAYS called Barney? Why is his nickname based on his middle name instead of his first name? Why isn't he called Charlie or whatever????

Well, I'm going to answer every question you have—or at least I'll try!

We'll break this post into two parts: first, the real reason behind his name (from the author's perspective, but remember this is just my theory) and second, the fun reason I use in my fanon.

I'm dedicating it for @carcrash429 because I promised them Barney posts a long time ago but my depression didn't let me </3 I have more posts in my drafts so I'll public more soon. And for @hawkzeyes because they're my bestie.

Why Did the Authors Hurt Him with This Name?

The answer is quite simple. Barney was never supposed to have a significant role in Clint's story. Let me explain this. He first appeared in Avengers #64 (March, 1969) as a racketeer from the mob.

Look at him, the fancy criminal, with his own crew working for him. Even Egghead, a well-known villain bastard, wanted to work with him. He's a serious deal, guys; Barney must have held a high rank in the mob or whatever. Everything about him screams: a bad guy.

And despite all that, his sole purpose was to reveal Clint's name to us readers. And that's it, it was the only reason for his existence.

So, let's consider this from the author's perspective. We have a character who is a criminal, destined to die for the plot, just because we want to make Clint's name reveal more dramatic. He's suppose to be a bad guy who decided to change his ways before his tragic death, and in some way he serve as the other side of coin trope for Clint. What name should we give him? In this goofy comic with characters who look ridiculous—where even one of the villains is called Egghead—it's no surprise the authors would give him a stereotypical name.

If you don't know it: The name Barney is slang for "an angry argument." According to the Oxford dictionary, it's also defined as "a derogatory term for a man," originally meaning a worthless or contemptible man, but later used to describe an inept, unfashionable, or unattractive man, sometimes implying a loser.

In short: This name carries very bastard vibes.

I'm pretty sure they didn't pay much thought with naming him. They probably chose it quickly because it fits and that's it. And it sounds a bit like a nickname for a mobster (there is a real gangster from one of New York's crime families named Barney so yeah).

Barney remained Barney for a long time because he wasn't meant to be someone important like I said before —just a family member from Clint's backstory who was supposed to reveal Clint's name to us and make Clint angry for the plot.

But then came Hawkeye Vol. 3 where they decided, "Fuck it, let's un-barney your barney". And it turns out Barney isn't a very good name for someone like the Barney we see in Vol. 3. That's why they decided to give him a better name, making him seem more serious and fancy.

And now we have his name on the tombstone, and only on the tombstone. After that, Hawkeye Vol. 3 never refer to him as Charles and Bernard again. Even Barney's friend from the FBI calls him Barney in the letter to Clint for some goddamn reason.

The authors probably simply wanted to show, "Hey! He's a deep character with a serious name. He's more than just a goon from now because we need to give Clint more trauma."

You get that vibe, right? From now, Barney is just a nickname for Charles used by his friends, coworkers and family and that's it. Sounds reasonable, doesn't it? And it should be, however something got very wrong. No one seems to use his real name. Everyone calls him Barney regardless of who they are, even those who should use his real name.

Like, in his freaking MEDICAL CHART in New Avengers (2010), they called him Barney Barton.

It's ridiculous. But why this happened? It's simple The authors simply doesn't know his name.

Those who wrote him later after Hawkeye: Blindspot didn't bother to check his previous appearances (which you can see by how they wrote him). This kind of thing is common in the comics industry. For instance, remember when in Hawkeye Vol. 4 they forgot that Clint was dating Jessica and accidentally made him cheat on her? Funny times.

The only reason Barney appeared in later comics as Trickshot after Hawkwey: Blindspot is because the authors wanted a villainous counterpart to Hawkeye and they didn't pay much attention to his character. They just wanted an evil Clint lmao

Barney's time as Trickshot was a weird chapter in his lore, where he became a very different character than he was before. He just became a loser copy of Hawkeye before the authors eventually forgot about his existence. Then, in Hawkeye Vol. 4, it was suddenly decided to bring Barney back without bothering to explain why he quit his villain work. Why? Because nobody really cares about him; he's just a side character and he was needed for the plot. That's why Barney is the most frustrating character I've ever liked—his personality and motives changes in every new comic. It's INSANE.

But not every author forgets the fact that his real name isn't Barney… though they still don't use his actual name correctly. In some comics with different Earths or in other media, they refer to him as Bernard.

(Secrets of the House of M #1 [Earth-58163])

Why? Perhaps because they want him to sound fancier or more serious. They likely didn't use his first name because those who are not into Hawkeye lore wouldn't know that Barney and Charles are the same person. It's that simple.

Which brings us to another question: WHY IS HIS FIRST NAME CHARLES????

To be fair? I don't know. I wish to know. I've tried to research it, but I've come up empty-handed. Maybe I'm not good in research.

I mean, people tends to have nicknames from their second name but it's still weird. We may never find out why they made him Charles Bernard and not Bernard Charles.

Why Did His Parents Hurt Him with This Name?

Alright, it's time for the fun part of this post: how I imagine the reasons behind his nickname in story-wise. Let's dig in, shall we?

First and foremost, it's important to note that his parents never called him Barney. Perhaps this is because flashbacks always focus on Clint alone. It's Clint Barton's world after all.

Their father referred to Barney as a brat in one issue, but that's the extent of their parents acknowledging Barney lmao.

And the only person in flashbacks from their early childhood who calls Charles by his nickname is Clint. So it's likely that his parents called him by his real name and the nickname came from Clint.

So we can assume it's a childhood nickname that carried into adulthood. But why Barney? You could assume that Clint just called him Barney because it sounds better than Charlie, but I like to complicate things. I have 2 (maybe 3) options I usually explore in my stories (which I've never published because I'm a coward, so you'll never read them).

1. There was a lot of Charles in their neighborhood.

Probably there were many other kids named Charles, and to avoid confusion, they started giving each Charles a nickname (because Charles is popular name, duh — it's #11 in Top Names Over the Last 100 Years). Which is a normal thing tbh. I had another kid with my name in school, and my friends gave me a nickname to avoid mixing us up too.

Maybe Barney's friends started calling him Barney, and Clint picked it up and started using it too.

2. There was another Charles in their family.

I like to write in my stories that he was named after his grandfather from his father's side, and to distinguish between them, they called Charles "Bernard." Clint became so accustomed to "Bernard" that he started calling him Barney. This nickname persisted even after their family stopped exist lmao.

Maybe he also had a cousin with the same name after their grandfather, and that could be another reason why he was called Bernard. I don't know why people name their children after their siblings' kids, but it happens sometimes.

3. BOTH

Do I need to even explain this? I always incorporate both of these headcanons in my stories. It began with family, as he was named after his grandparent so they called him Bernard, then his friends started calling him Barney. Easy story.

I imagine that he was also called Barney in the army/FBI, because there were too many Charles. And that's why his best buddy from Hawkeye Vol.3 calls him this way.

These reasons are also the same reasons why I believe he continues to be Barney and never Charles later in his life.

I'll borrow a bit from the canon, because there's one interesting thing here.

(I think it was from Thunderbolts issues but I don't remember now.)

He probably doesn't like his name. Yeah, I know this panel is probably about his name being Barney and him being bitter about it because it's a stupid name (because authors didn't bother to check older Hawkeye comics again). But I don't care. I'll do whatever I want with this panel and treat it as if he's bitter about his real name lmao.

Why is he bitter? Why doesn't he like his name? You can create any headcanon you want, but mine is simple: he was named after someone in his family, and he hates his family. Maybe this caused him to have a bad relationship with his name. Or his parents were the only one who called him Charles and he hated it because of that. And he would want to disconnect from his past and therefore uses Bernard.

He was called Barney for most of his life, so I think he usually tells people he is Bernard and not Charles. Or "Yeah, I'm Charles, but you can call me Barney". I also think that after the Trickshot fiasco, he changed his name to Bernard Barton (probably not legally because he's still a wanted criminal). And he did it in other universes (like in Earth-58163).

That's it. I hope it wasn't too messy. Remember, it's just my theories and headcanons so you can not agree with me if you want.

[hells-okayest-dad]

Worlds Beyond Number is so funny because we'll open up with Suvie who will be having the worst day of her life for the eighth time in a row. Aabria the player will be openly weeping. And then. Then we will make the hardest cut to Ame and Eursulon who are having the most wholesome and whimsical forest witch spirit adventures. Different days indeed. Truly the masters of tonal balance and emotional whiplash. Bravo.

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

So It Goes...

Gold cage, hostage to my feelings Dieter Bravo x Female Reader

Rating: Teen. Summary: Today's the day you've been dreading... letting everyone know. Little do you know your day is about get worse... Dieter has to leave. Warnings: pov switching, pining, fluff, comfort, so much inner turmoil for them (don't worry they'll figure it out soon), call back to one of my favorite simpsons episodes, a secret reference to drag race because @devineconjuring is very funny, croissants Words: 3,400

A/N: Help, I've fallen for characters I've written and I can't stop writing out scenarios. If you love Dieter and Golden Girl like me, welcome back. The biggest most grandest thank you to @devineconjuring for being the bestest beta who lets me yell insane typo'd ramblings to her. She gave me the title suggestion and also is so smart and wonderful and excuse me, I have to go wave a flag with her name on it as I march in a parade in her honor. Previous Chapter Golden Girl Masterlist Masterlist

*** His phone shrills him awake at 8:25. 

ALEX DAVIES CALLING

Shit. 

He gently shuffles out of the bed, instantly missing your touch when he delicately lifts your arm off his chest. He quickly tiptoes out the room and answers the call.

“Alex,” he whispers, eyes focused on the framed wedding photos that hang across the hall from the guest room. 

“Sorry to call so early, Bravo, but Spencer’s decided to go a different way and he’s going to need you for reshoots on Bittersuite. He needs them stat, so your hiatus has been cut short.” 

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How short?” He steps closer to the collection of photos, focusing on the photo of you smiling in front of a grand bookcase full of leather books. Your white wedding dress with the delicate threads of golden ivy flourishing across it catches his eye. He had downed drink after drink that night, trying to quiet the thoughts that rattled through his mind. God, he wishes it was him.

“Shooting starts Tuesday… back in London.”

His head hangs down. “Fuck,” he mutters.

“Sorry, Bravo. You good to leave tomorrow?”

“I have no other choice,” he grumbles, his eyes focusing on a backlit photo of you laughing and dancing at the reception.

“You don’t. I’ll have Court get your travel and hotel situated. She'll follow up later today. Alright?”

“Alright,” Dieter sighs, his heart breaking at the thought of 7,000 miles separating the two of you and not being here for you. 

Ending the call, he opens his camera and aims it at a candid shot from your wedding. You and him are laughing, your heads thrown back, your arm grabbing his. Warren stands with his arm around you, wearing that same sly smile he always has. Dieter zooms his camera in, cropping Warren out of the picture. Now, it’s just you and him. To a blind eye, it looks like it could be a happy bride and groom on their wedding day. He snaps a pic, feeling somewhat like a criminal, rewriting the narrative of your wedding night in his head as he quietly walks back into the guest room. 

You’re still asleep, splayed across the bed, mouth slightly agape. Your green pajamas have your old initials embroidered on them in golden thread that reminds him of the ivy on your wedding dress.

He gently lays back down. His jeans annoy him, but he didn’t trust himself to sleep in anything besides them. Like a self-imposed denim chastity belt. 

He replays last night–the secret moments, half-spoken confessions, feelings, and declarations swallowed down before they could escape. One day you’ll know. One day he won’t feel like he’s crossing a line. He just wants to do good by you. 

Two days now, he’s woken up next to you, feeling like he’s been in a dream. But everyone eventually wakes up. Reality always returns. 

Today’s the day you open the proverbial door to hell, letting everyone know. Today, he has something to tell you: tomorrow, he leaves for London.

He watches you peacefully sleep, chest steadily rising and falling. You’re the first thing he’s seen when he’s opened his eyes for two mornings now, yet it feels like something he’s done for a lifetime. You’re not his, and yet it feels so right.

You sigh in your sleep. He wonders if you dream of him. Or is it Warren? God, he hopes it’s him. 

He shouldn't feel this way. Your life will soon turn too chaotic, too unknown. 

And yet he can’t ignore the way you looked at him last night, eyes heavy with words left unsaid. He wonders if you truly know how he feels. If you feel the same pull he’s always felt.

He pulls the sheet up over your shoulder with adoration. He wishes he could stay in this bed with you forever, shielding you under his heart and the soft blankets. 

Tomorrow he’ll be far away, on a film set–surrounded by people, lights, and cameras–playing the hero of the story. And none of it will matter. Because you won’t be there with him. Because he can’t protect you. Because he won’t wake up next to you, feeling the warmth of your body next to his. Because he won’t be able to get lost in this temporary illusion of him being the one who holds you and loves you. 

He could wake you up and tell you everything. Confess all the feelings he’s felt for all these years, risk it all, take a chance, and gamble with his heart. But he can’t. He’ll continue to toe that line for as long as he can, too terrified of losing you. He’ll take his unspoken words with him across the ocean and time zones. Where they can’t hurt you. 

The morning sun shines through the sheer curtains, backlighting you, casting you in a rich golden glow. For now, he’ll stay here, laying beside you. Pretending you're his golden girl for a little longer.

–

Your phone alarm rings, jolting you awake. Your head is pounding. The bed is empty, but you swear you remember placing your head on Dieter’s warm chest in your drunken haze and being lulled to sleep by the tranquil rise and fall of his chest. You try to rub the sleep out of your groggy eyes, letting out a large yawn. God, you drank a lot last night. Speaking of last night–the realization wallops you upside your already aching head–the song confession to Dieter, the way his eyes rounded in sadness, how close he held you against him. The press of his lips against your forehead when he wished you sweet dreams. The feel of his arm wrapped around your body, pulling you deeper against him. 

Another realization hits. You have to let people know today because, once they know, you can begin to move on. God, you don’t even want to think of the prospect of telling everyone. What will you say? Hey, it’s me, Warren left me for someone else, but it’s okay. I was kind of miserable in the marriage as it stood. Anyway, see you around!

You shake the thoughts out of your head. First thing first, find Dieter, then get some sustenance in your stomach and some Advil for your head. 

“Dieter?” you call out as you get out of bed.

No answer. 

You walk down the hall, and the house is quiet. 

“Dee?” you shout as you head down the stairs. 

Nothing.

Did your feelings offend him? Did your drunken confessions spook him? 

The only sign he was here is that the records are cleaned up, no longer strewn across the floor. No note left, nothing. There’s no way he’d do this to you… right? God, what did you tell him last night? You feel like a fool. Not even 48 hours after your husband walked out and you’re trying to confess your love to someone else… let alone his best friend. 

Why does this hurt more than your marriage ending? 

Flopping against the couch, you feel ridiculous at how sad you are over Dieter leaving you like this. You feel the trail of a lone tear as it falls down your cheek. You knew today was going to be awful. You just didn’t think it would be this ba–

The doorknob jingles open, and Dieter walks in with a white bag and a tray of coffee.

You can’t hide the smile that spreads wide across your face when you turn and see him. 

“Dee,” you whisper.

“Hey, Sweets,” he sends you a lopsided smile. “Was hoping I’d be back before you woke up. I got you your favorite.”

"You're the best, Dee," you say, gratefully accepting the coffee.

You can’t even recall the last time you told him what your favorite food was. Something as simple as breakfast is making your heart race in the middle of your living room. “You didn’t have to…”

“Of course I did,” he interrupts, walking over and setting the bag on the coffee table. “You need food, and I need…” He trails off, his eyes staying on you for just a second too long before he looks away. His voice softens. “...I need to make sure you’re okay.”

“Thanks,” you say quietly. “I am.” 

He sits down next to you, tenseness radiating from his body and the way he moves. He clears his throat, nervously raking his hand through his hair. 

You take a drink of coffee. Of course he ordered it the way you like it. “What’s on your mind?” you ask tenderly, turning to him. 

He looks up at you, and for a quick moment, you think he might tell you everything you want to know… but then he looks away and leans back, rubbing his face with both hands.

“I–uh,” he starts, then stops. His voice cracks. “I have to leave tomorrow.”

A bomb. Dropped in the middle of your living room. 

Your heart sinks. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” He whispers, as if saying it out loud will make it even more real than it already is. “Spencer wants me back for reshoots. London. I leave first thing tomorrow.” 

Your stomach twists, the thought of him being thousands of miles away hitting you harder than you expected. You haven’t even begun to process the end of your marriage, and now the one person who has held you together is about to leave.

“Oh.” It’s the only word you can manage. 

His brown eyes watch you, his brows furrowed as he tries to figure out your reaction.

“Look, I-I wish I could stay here and not g–”

“No, I know. You have to.” Your voice cracks. “I’m sorry, I’ll be okay. You can’t just stay because…” Your words trail off as they reach your mouth, dying in your throat.

Because you have to lie. Because you do need him. Because you know you can’t do this without him.

His jaw clenches. His eyes flash through something akin to anger, sadness, and frustration. 

“I know, I’m sorry.” His voice is so fragile, like he knows just how much this is going to break you. 

“Last night… What I said… Did I–?”

“You didn’t say anything wrong,” he interrupts, his voice soft but firm. “You didn’t.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, his hands clenching into fists as if holding himself back from saying more. He stands and paces the room like he’s trying to burn off the nervous energy buzzing within him.

“I told you I’d be here for you, Sweets, and now, I can’t.” He stops and turns to you. “I can’t be what you need right now. Not like this.” 

Your heart breaks a little more at his words. You want to tell him he’s wrong, that he’s exactly what you need. But you don’t. You just nod, because you think he might just be right. 

He moves closer, standing just inches away, his eyes searching yours for something. You don’t know what he’s looking for, but you want to give it to him.

“Dieter,” you say, your voice barely audible as a tear slips down your cheek. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want to either,” he says softly. He steels himself with a deep breath. “But I have to.”

“Can we just have breakfast together still?” Your voice sounds so infantile and desperate. Another tear falls.

He kneels in front of you, wiping your tears with his thumb. “Of course,” he says, giving you the smile you’re going to miss. 

—

He reaches into the bag and pulls out a croissant, flakes scattering like confetti around you. This is undoubtedly the saddest party he’s ever been to. He smiles at you, and you return it, but the smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. He feels like a fuck up again. He feels sick to his stomach, his appetite waning as he studies you.

“How’s your head?” he asks softly.

You glance down at your cup, swirling the coffee absentmindedly, avoiding his gaze. “No complaints yet,” you reply with a weak smile, trying to lighten the mood. 

Dieter laughs at the joke, but he knows you’re upset. Hell, he is too.

“You should have seen the line at the café,” he says, trying to distract you. “A guy recognized me and let me cut the line, so I got the last croissants of the morning. Sometimes this whole acting thing works out.”

You let out a weak laugh, but it’s barely a whisper against the silence that envelops you both. He wants to reach for your hand, to bridge that gap now clinging between you like a thick fog. “I’m glad I went, though,” he adds. “You deserve a good breakfast after last night.”

“Yeah, last night…” Your voice trails off.

His heart sinks at the way your words are left hanging in the air, raw and unspooled. It hurts to see you so distant. The croissant feels heavy in his hands. He places it on the table with a sigh.

“Look,” he starts, trying to steady his voice. “I-I hate this, Sweets. You nee—I told you I would be there for you, and now, I’m going to fail yo—”

“No, Dee. God, I’m sorry,” you turn to him, your eyes rounded with guilt. It breaks his heart to even look at you, sitting vulnerable next to him, still in your cute little pajamas.

“I didn’t mean to put you in this position.” Your voice trembles. “I just… everything is so overwhelming right now. I’m still trying to process all of it.”

He nods, his chest tightening with every word you speak. “It’s okay,” he reassures. The words feel hollow coming out of his mouth. He knows it’s not. He knows he’s lying. “You’re allowed to feel everything. I just…I want to help you, not make it worse.”

“I know you do,” you say softly. “That’s why it’s so hard.”

“Hard?”

You look away, fiddling with the edge of your pajama top. “Dee, it’s hard… because… I’m scared of what this means for us. For me.” You breathe in deeply. “Warren left me–no notice, no explanation. And now… here I am, sitting with you, and last night I–I–the song, you know. It feels like I’m just rushing into something I don’t understand, and now you’re leaving… for… so long, and I feel…you–you’re so important to me, and you’re–you–”

He interrupts gently, “You don’t have to say anything more if you’re not ready.” He can’t hear this now. He can’t. He stayed up holding you last night, thinking of that song and the lyrics. Eyes like sinking shipsOn waters so invitingI almost jump in

You nod, returning to your croissant. The bite you take of the flaky pastry echoes in the shared silence that hangs heavily in your living room. He wants to pull you close and hold you, but the fear and the quickly approaching deadline of his inevitable trip keep him at bay.

“What are you going to tell everyone?” he asks quietly. His shoulders hurt from the stress of holding everything back; he tries to loosen them. He feels like he’s letting you down with every word he speaks.

“I don’t know,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “I guess I’ll just… tell everyone the truth.”

You’re so brave. He swallows hard. Warren’s ruined your life, and now he feels as if he’s done something wrong too.

“Well, you’ve already told me, so there’s one person down,” he offers with a slight smile.

You laugh, and his heart soars, reminding him of the plane he’ll soon be on, traveling far away from you. Why can’t his brain just allow him one victory?

“I guess I’ll start with the important people and work my way down the list,” you shrug.

“Sounds like a plan, Sweets.”

“God, I am not looking forward to it,” you sigh, dusting off the crumbs that had fallen from your now-finished croissant.

He watches you with a mixture of admiration and concern. Your shoulders slump, pressed down from the weight of your own thoughts. His heart aches for you and all of the vulnerability you’ve shown him.

“Come here,” he finally whispers, leaning back on the couch. You hesitate for only a moment before sliding closer. He wraps an arm around you, pulling you in. His heart skips a beat when you lean against him, resting your head against his chest. This is all he’s ever wanted.

“Cartoons?” you ask, your voice already relaxed.

“Cartoons,” he nods, grabbing the remote. Now, this is all he’s ever wanted.

—-

The clock ticks above the television screen. Dieter has to leave your house by 3 to pack and get ready to go. You almost ask if you can accompany him, but you stay silent. You have too much to take care of today. Your family doesn’t even know yet. The sooner everyone knows, the sooner you can begin to heal.

It’s 2:45 now. Fifteen minutes left. You cuddle closer to him, relishing the feel of his soft shirt. He chuckles at Homer Simpson ordering a crab juice, and a small smile edges your lips. For a moment, you feel happy. You hum a peaceful sigh, feeling his strong arm wrap around you even tighter. His lips ghost the top of your hair as he takes in your scent with a deep breath.

The clock insidiously continues to tick. You wish it could just stop. That time could suspend itself here in your living room. But it won’t, and it doesn’t.

The Simpsons episode ends. Dieter reluctantly extracts his arm from around you. “I—need to get go—”

“I know,” you say.

He stands, the space between you widening, a chasm filled with unsaid words and feelings not realized. You watch him move, already mourning the warmth of his company as he slowly begins to grab his belongings. The sun filters through the windows, lighting your house in a bright glow, but all you feel is the darkness of your and Dieter’s impending separation.

You reluctantly rise from the couch, feeling foolish in your pajamas as he puts his sunglasses on and grabs his keys.

“Well,” he softly says, reaching for the door. “I should get… going.”

“Yeah,” you reply, trying not to sound as sad as you feel.

“You know, I’ll be back before you know it,” he offers, though the words feel like a fragile promise.

“I know,” you say, stepping towards him, bridging the distance between the two of you.

“And I’m always just a call or text away,” he says, his hand cupping your chin. “Take care of yourself, Sweets.”

“I will,” you whisper. “You too, Dee.”

You lean forward to kiss him. Just as your lips are about to meet his, he slightly turns his head, your kiss landing softly at the corner of his mouth. A bit of hesitation lingers between you, and a flush of embarrassment warms your cheeks as you pull back. He offers you a shy, sweet smile before he turns away and walks out the door. 

Why did you lean in? You feel like a fool.

He walks down your front path and unlocks his car, and with one last solemn nod toward you, he gets in. You can’t watch him drive away. You shut the door. 

Now it’s only you in your cold house, alone. You head to your kitchen and grab a bottle of wine and a wine glass.

It’s a pajamas and wine day today.

You pour yourself a glass and settle on the couch. It’s time to move on. It’s time to take care of yourself. You’ve got this. 

You spend a long time on the phone with your parents, reassuring them that you are okay and will be fine. Exhausted, you switch to Turner Classic Movies and find a marathon of war films. Oh good, nothing with love, please. You begin to write the list of everyone who needs to know as William Holden tries to escape a POW prison camp.

Dieter’s text tone dings from your phone. Two texts. Your heart pounds against your chest when you read them.

Hey, sorry about earlier. I just knew if I kissed you…. I wouldn’t stop

---

Next Chapter

[shapelytimber]

Disco queens d'un soir : Jeanne Brakmar and Harriette des Doigts !!

I mean, it would have been a shame to do nothing with the blond wig

[PRINT] - [COMMISSIONS]

Translation and explanation for the names and process below vvv

Why Jeanne Brakmar : 'Jeanne' is the feminine of Jean, and 'Brakmar' is a silly vulgar word that means "erect dick" in french slang (it sounds pretty close to Vicquemare) (and the phrase "fuck me, Jeanne brakmar" said in an heavy french accent is just too funny)

Why Harriette des doigts : It was @quijicroix 's idea ! It translates to "Harriette fingers/fingering" kgkgkgn 'du bois' and 'des doigts' are prononced nearly the same (yes the 'gts' is silent, because french is a language of clowns)

(I had an alternative name that I thought was very funny, but incomprehensible to anyone who's not french : "Comment Dom Costeau" kfknglfn is it a drag name ? Not really. But I hope the french speackers reading this will appreciate this tastefull word plays)

I think having both drag names be a dirty derivative of their name reinforce the cheap drag/first time doing drag feel of the drawing :)

It's been too long since I've drawn Disco Elysium fanart :) I really should do it more often

PS : Deso les francophones pour l'utilisation du mot brakmar tel un vieux gars de 50 ans au pmu lfkckgkglcl j'ai jamais dit j'etais pas beauf

Btw si vous avez la refs du 'disco queens d'un soir', bravo a vous, on ne récupérera jamais ces 2h30 perdus