#im writing it as we speak!

[may12324]

Tilly and Spina- her arch-nemesis! Her Rival! The thorn in her side! foiling all her plans and adventures...but she's also cute and has nice hair so it's not so bad

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[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!"

[ganondoodle]

(OC Lore and design time!)

(it got longer again ... sorry ... idk how to make things short, i just need to talk, but i guess if you can read the written stuff in the pic thats the barest bare bones of what i wrote here)

i was asked what new lore story stuff i had thought about that made me sad which i mentioned a bit ago, and while that is too hard to explain given all the missing context i thought i could at least talk about lore having to do with it :D

so, (Lord) Eadrya is one of my fav OCs (big blue lad, here a rough sketch in humanoid form) they are both one of if not THE most powerful demon alive and the most battle trained;

at the mid point of the story the demon world gets invaded by the celestials (the angel inspired things i talked about in the previous lore post with Xaror) and Shargon, as the king, should be their first and only frontline, but at this point his life is only being sustained by maschinery after being mortally wounded, he cannot fight (he realizes what is going on, rips himself off the maschinery to get at least his youngest child to safety, barely managing it before dying- the guardian, the demons god, takes over his body to attempt to fight against the celestials but cant keep itself alive long enough since its host is already dead) Eadrya takes the role of the frontline fighter (despite being very full of themselves and aggressive they care about their 'job' of protecting their own, also giving them the chance to show off just how strong they are); the fight was going well for them all things considered, but when the guardian activates it drains the power of all elemental lords (which Eadrya is one of, and since they have the most strength it also takes the most from them), so much so that they lose the fight and suffer deadly wounds (the worst being a spear through the chest made of a material that grows hard, root-like formations when in contact with demonic blood like a fungus but worse, also stopping any self healing processes) after the guardian falls apart it creates a huge shockwave of energy that stuns every living thing within a certain distance and possibly more-

Eadrya (in true demon form, so like a blue whale in size at least) was likely taken through an active gateway to the human world in a large tidal wave also created by the guardians fall; they wash up in the harbor of a small secluded village, the head of which is 'lady 13'; although never having seen a demon before and everyone being afraid (largely thinking its a strange hurt animal, only she suspected otherwise), they still gather all villagers to pull out the celestial spear, which is diffcult and brutal given that its already taken root, but the village lacked both knowledge and means to help any other way- doing so damaged their heart which is how they were able to collect samples of all three demonic blood types ('normal' -red like humans-, energy -essentially purely magic- and heartblood -highly concentrated energy only found within the heart of a demon and the only one to contain genetic material) (this is the start of Eadryas character arc, having to deal with the fact that their world is likely destroyed, them failing what they didnt think they could fail, having lost a battle so badly (even if not really their fault) for the first time and not knowing if literally anyone else has survived .. also being now stuck in the human world, which they dont like)

Lady 13 (placeholder name? stands for experiment 13) is a human that was tricked by demon hunters to enroll into a series of experiments trying to create hybrids of demons and humans, which they hoped would be powerful and easily controllable tools for their endeavours, though the two are inherently not compatible, they tried grafting body parts of demons on humans to make them compatible- all experiments failed except for her, more or less, though she never got to see the hybrid she carried and was then told it had died too, they threw her out believing she wouldnt survive much longer either and all such experiments were cancelled due to the high cost of human life, research material (demons are still rare) and upkeep with no successful results Lady 13 survived though (perhaps even via the pirates picking her up?) and she ended up living in said small village far away, hiding her half demonic body, though most know there soemthing 'wrong' with her (her being this tall when it doesnt fit the rest for one), only few know the full extent; she enjoys the life she has now, perhaps on the more poor side but safer and more loved than ever before; she largely lead the efforts to try and help Eadrya when they ended up in the harbor, though there wasnt that much anyone could do it was still enough- they leave immediately after waking up, but return after really having nowhere to go and struggling to deal with everything that has happened; over time (probably years) they start to open up towards the people there (though not .. very much) enough to get rather close with Lady 13 too- she actually falls madly in love but after Eadrya (extremely aro/ace) rejects all her attempts quite clearly she respects their boundaries

However, after hearing news of potential demon sightings Eadrya decides to leave in hopes of not being the last demon left after all; Lady 13 then decides to reveal her secret to them (though hearing and seeing what lengths hunters would go to for their experiments makes them absolutely seething with rage- she insists on not being out for revenge) and asks if they would be willing to donate a small amount of heartblood; shes always wanted to be a mother but is now incompatible with humans too- through things she picked up back at the experiments facillity, hers and her doctors research she is sure that is all that is needed, she dares to ask since she does not know when, if ever, she will meet another demon, much less one she could actually trust enough for this though Eadrya hesitates (why would she want to go through the same thing again that didnt work and threatened her life, if it does work, do they want to be involved with any of this? what if hunters find out it worked after all?) but after her ensuring that they would have no part in it other than giving up a little blood and would not be considered a parent in any way, nor made responsible for anything that might happen to her, but considering it all in the end they agree to it

only for her to reveal shes had a small bottle of it already, along with multiple samples of the other types, which she collected when Eadrya was bleeding out into the harbor not knowing if they will survive, though not wanting to make use of it without their consent either way (they are actuallly rather touched by this)

alot later the main group returns here and it turns out to have worked (though she is unable to walk/bedridden for a long while bc it did alot of damage to her body, which can heal since its demons parts, but only really slowly bc she does not have a full functioning system and no demonic blood of her own -she uses the other samples for the healing process-) though its a little awkward to explain, especially considering that 13.1 took alot after Eadrya xD (their theory as to why it worked so "well" that time is that even though the sample was already taken, them giving their consent for it still made it less likely to be rejected; demons dont need partners to have offspring, and all can do it, they just have to decide to- so them agreeing to it, even though its long been outside their body, still had an effect on the blood sample)

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Try Morse Core. Women Love Morse Code.

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[mothmanavenue]

can i confess something else that will absolutely get me stoned in the town square since im dropping my unpopular opinions. I don’t like altean broadsword Lance. i already disliked red paladin Lance. the broadsword was like rubbing salt in the wound. why couldn’t he have his own niche. why was his character development just making him keith. i understand that it was like “he accepts that he doesn’t have to be a leader and excels as a co-leader and you can find happiness that way yada yada yada”. but you could’ve done that without making him keith. also now give him something unique, cool, that falls in line with his sniper bit. i’m not saying just give him another gun, im saying give him something quiet and lethal. like a garotte. yeah i want garotte lance.

i yap a lot more in my notes by the way if you were interested in other unpopular opinions. don’t send me hate messages or comments i won’t read it and will block viciously i also will not be debating this this is my hill to die on <3

[morika]

🧵 from coin to coin 💰

[aoi1dee]

hi here is a sneak peak of my game in the most vague way possible

it is currently in the making and i promise SOON i will go into more details about it :3

but for now if you have really vague questions about it i am willing to answer :)

[coolnonsenseworld]

Samurai and Ninja in crappy pics because December here is under a constant cloud and I just want y'all to see them all golden and cute without learning how to take aesthetic pictures 🥴 💙❤️😆🥰

linktr.ee/Mezzy

[raineandsky]

hi! i love ur work! i was wondering if you could write something about two enemies (hero x villain) that are undercover as civilians and begrudgingly working together? and somehow villain witnesses an interaction between hero and someone that clearly makes the hero uncomfortable, and realizes his hero has some trauma there? thank you!

ooooh i love this!! thank you for the request, hope you enjoy :D

tw: stalking

“Huh,” someone says flatly from the tills. “Long time no see.”

The hero’s gaze is turned very pointedly to the screen in front of them. “Yeah.”

The villain glances up from where he’s more or less fighting a stack of baskets. A woman is letting herself into the hero’s space, her arm resting casually on the counter and a smug smirk playing at her lips. The hero is leaning as far away as physically possible from her, looking anywhere but her face.

Ooh, drama. The villain can’t deny a little excitement in this bland little life.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” the woman continues. Her voice is much too loud for what she’s saying. The hero winces. The villain edges curiously closer. “A talk is long overdue, ain’t it?”

“I’m working,” the hero says weakly.

The hero has a fatal flaw. The villain positively delights in the fact. As if the hero can feel the joy radiating off the villain, they shoot him a desperate glance.

“You’re helping a customer, honey,” the woman says brazenly. “Now tell me why you’ve been avoiding me.”

“Sorry.” An older man pulls the villain’s attention from the unfolding show in front of him, much to his dismay. “I’ve been waiting a while. Is that the only till available?”

The villain groans inwardly. This bit of fun will have to be for another day. “Sorry. Let me sort that for you.”

He makes his way to the tills, where the hero is trying—and failing, by the looks of it—to shoot down the woman’s questions. Villainy has given him an extra lack of care; he shoves himself straight into their conversation without a thought.

“Hi,” the villain cuts in smoothly, “hi—sorry, you’re holding up the queue.”

A queue of one, mind. The woman gives him an incredulous once-over. “They’re helping a customer, honey.”

“They’re chatting on the job.” The villain shoots the hero an annoyed glare, which they return, stupidly, with relief. “You’re preventing our staff from working. I need you to pay and leave, please.”

The woman smirks like she’s about to win an argument. “I’m not paying for anything.”

“Oh, cool.” The villain returns her smugness with plain annoyance. “You can just get out then.”

“You—! Ugh, fine.” The woman sneers at him before turning her gaze back to the hero. “I’ll see you at the end of your shift, honey.”

The hero positively pales. “Oh, uh—”

The woman saunters for the doors, clearly disinterested in an answer, and the hero watches her go blankly.

“Alright.” The villain ushers the old man ahead. “Do your job this time, or I’ll have to smite you into next week.”

The literalness of the sentence is lost to the old man, but the hero smiles slightly at the threat anyway.

He leaves after what feels like an eternity, and the villain pounces on his opportunity for gossip instantly. “Well? Make this dead-end job worth it, please.”

The hero’s face hardens into an irritated frown. “Is there a reason you’re so interested in my life?”

The villain graces him with an innocent smile. “Blackmail.”

The hero stares at him for a long moment before deflating with a sigh. They start folding a plastic bag more carefully than the villain has ever had the displeasure of watching. “She’s my ex.”

“It’s always the ex!” The villain laughs, giving the hero a light punch in the arm. It’s a lot calmer a gesture than he’ll be giving them later, but he doesn’t need the entire shop knowing he could burn this place to the ground. “What’d you do to piss her off?”

The bag gets lovingly placed on the folded bag pile the hero apparently has. The villain’s never been close enough to this till to have noticed it before.

“I didn’t do anything,” the hero says defensively. “She’s the one who couldn’t let it go and thinks following me around is going to fix anything.”

The villain gapes openly at the hero. The hero pointedly turns away to fiddle with something on the register next to them.

“Oh my god,” the villain says in the tones of a dramatic schoolgirl. “You have a stalker.”

The no I don’t the villain was expecting doesn’t come out. The hero carefully adjusts the register screen, the angle way more important than it should be. “Oh my god, [Hero],” the villain repeats, “you have a stalker.”

“I don’t see why that’s such a crazy concept to you,” the hero snaps. “I thought you’d have loved the thought of someone creeping around after me.”

“I’d love it if it was me creeping around after you,” the villain says with a scoff. “I know what I’d be doing if I was doing it. What’s she doing?”

“Hoping I’ll talk to her.”

“She’s insane.”

“That’s well established by now.”

“Okay, well…” The villain wrings his hands awkwardly. “If you, like, want me to smite her or anything, y’know…”

“What is with you and smiting people?” The hero laughs, kind of, and the villain hates that he’s glad they do. “And why would you do it if I wanted you to?”

The villain shrugs. He’s the one turning his face away now, picking idly at some of the vinyl peeling off the counter. “It’s a nice excuse for me to go after someone who clearly deserves it.”

“And I don’t?”

“I’m trying to be nice for the first time in my life, [Hero],” the villain snaps sharply. “Stop making it so difficult.”

The hero rolls their eyes. “Sorry, sorry. Go ahead. I’ll be reporting this to the first journalist I see though. Ah, I can see the headline already.” They grin at the villain’s growing scowl. “Evil villain turned good by a hero's personal problems. They would love you.”

“And I’m going to love kicking your ass so hard tonight you won’t be able to sit for a week,” he retorts. Then, after a moment’s deliberation, “do you need me to walk you to your car?”

“Aww, you’re so—”

“Okay, no, nevermind. Walk yourself.”

The hero smiles lightly. “If you don’t mind. It’d help a lot.”

The villain nods shortly. He turns back the pile of baskets and makes a mental note to add an extra round to his smiting machine later.

[irishmammonagenda]

“What do you think you’re doing?” The Avatar of Gluttony says, uncharacteristically angry, demon form out, bhí a sciatháin ildaite ag bualadh go feargach.

You’re trembling still, the previous altercation sparking in your nerves, although, cool, refreshing relief courses through your veins as you look up at the redhaired Demon.

Beel’s eyes. That was all you could look at. You had seen a plethera of emotions painted in his purple pupils, most commonly serenity, or joy, hunger or thirst, less commonly sadness poisoned his expression, rarely anger, annoyance yes, the expression he’d make before he went on a rampage that was a mix between hunger and anger, yes. But you’d never seen the pure unbridled fury ablaze in his eyes like you were seeing right now.

Not directed at you, never at you. Rather directed at the demon who had tried to give you a beating; Beel had stumbled upon it whilst looking for his twin, and A Thiarna is a Dhia, was he furious. You shivered, it was a scary sight.

Iridescent ildaite wings buzz angrily. The air is thick, Beel runs his tongue over his fangs threateningly, staring menacingly at the demon, who, gaining its senses, flees, tail between its legs. Beel lets it run, having a longtime learned from Lucifer how to play an cluiche cleasach.

Besides, letting the demon wallow in its fear for a while would make it taste a lot better when he disposed of the threat.

He wouldn’t tell you that, though, to protect your soft, pure, sparkling human soul.

Leaving you alone with a seething Demon, you trembled. Normally, you would trust Beelzebub with your life, but the sheer power buzzing around him paired with the rage doused you in icy cold water, a strong reminder that your reisdent softy was ifnfact capable of horrors beyond you comprehension.

You whimper, Beel snaps his head towards you in an instant, the fury in his eyes softening. Suddenly, his hands are on you, pulling you into strong arms. You shake involuntarily.

Beel coos at you in a language long dead, the syllables are harsh and guttural, like waves crashing into the shore. A huge hand comes up to pet your hair, so gentle it almost hurts.

You stay there for a while, in that empty classroom, enveloped in Beel’s arms. Slowly but surely you lean into his touch, your heartrate calmed, your head resting against his muscled chest, it was silly to think even for a moment that he would hurt you, laughable even.

divider by @saradika-graphics

dia daoibh (hello to you [plural]) grma for reading as per usual 🫶🫶, heres the meanings of the words:

‘A Thiarna is a Dhia’ (A year-nah is a Yee-ah’) is a way of saying, ‘Goodness Gracious’/‘Good God’ etc

as per usual I cant write pronounciations😔

‘An Cluiche Cleasach’ (An Clue-Heh Clah-Sa) -The Sneaky Game’, bc i have no idea how to say the long game in irish and cluiche fada sounds wrong.

Now for the big one😰:

‘bhí a sciatháin ildaite ag bualadh go feargach.’

(pronounced: Vee ah Scee-ah-han ill-dat-che egg beh-whale-oo go fair-eh-gawk’)

as per usual the ‘k’ sound in feargach is pronounced with your throat, its technically right to just pronounce it ‘k’ (like the word chick in english) but its not the way native speakers pronounce it‼️

this roughly translates to: ‘His colourful wings were flapping angrily’

bualadh comes from the verb ‘buail’ which can mean a lot of things, but paired with ‘ag’ and ‘sciatháin’ it means ‘flapping wings’

heres a photo of me trying to explain it, please ignore my handwriting i tried to make it neat😔✊

[bluebedo]

I can't stop imagining all of the robins as parents so I'm gonna make y'all cry with me:

Dick, finally with a baby of his own rather than ones Bruce latches on to, is perfect. He knows how to soothe them, how to love them, and he will stop at nothing to protect them. His babies almost never cry in his arms, he's a master of changing diapers, and he even manages to balance being a father with being Nightwing. To anyone on the outside, he is perfection, as the first Robin always has been. Inside, he feels his heart break every time his baby trips and he stays up, late at night, watching the baby monitor, terrified that he'll lose it forever. Somebody will reset the timeline or the Joker will find his apartment or he'll simply blink and they'll be gone. He's so scared of losing another child - like how he lost Jason and Steph and Damian. He can't let that happen to this precious ball of sunshine.

When Jason first makes eye contact with his baby, he isn't sure how he feels. Sure, his heart flutters and his eyes start to tear up, but he's not sure that paternal feeling has kicked in yet. He tries his best (he may not be as outwardly perfect as Dick but he tries) and he acts as the good dad that he never got, in both Willis and in Bruce. As much as he learned that they loved him, they never did it the right way. Jason's always seen his way as the right way, in both crime and parenting, and he'll be damned if this kid gets involved in the vigilante business. Even if he isn't sure he loves the kid yet, he's protective. It isn't until a rogue makes a throwaway comment or his young daughter finds his guns for the first time that he realises that is love. His way of loving is simply protecting, not doting. He loves his baby. He finally cries when he realises.

Tim has no idea what to do. Jason seems to have eventually gotten the hang of it and Dick seemed to have always been a great dad from the moment his kid was born, but Tim? He sees that baby in the crib and, though his heart lurches to reach out and hug her and pepper her face with kisses, promising her the world, he finds himself frozen. Because how is that baby his? How did he survive long enough to live? His baby is solid proof that he can make a difference in this world outside of being Red Robin and that terrifies him. He's given a chance to be Tim Drake-Wayne rather than just the third Robin and he doesn't know what to do with that. He tries, like Jason does, but he's certain he fails where it matters. Raising a kid isn't maths and logic it's compromise and emotions and Red Robin wasn't trained for that. Tim wasn't trained for this.

Steph has been a mother much longer than the others have been fathers. Dick may have been the first to show Batman his child, to give his baby a name, to learn how to change a diaper, but Steph was the first to be a parent. If she ever has another kid (because it's not a definite for her like it may be for the others, she refuses to let it be a definite) she knows exactly how she'll care for them. She'll hold them, she'll love them, she'll kiss them goodnight, she'll take them to all their dance or karate lessons, she'll go to every recital, she'll take embarrassing pictures on prom night, and she'll be there through thick and thin, highs and lows. If Steph ever let herself go through that pain again, this time, she's never letting go.

Damian... Something clicks. He looks at his baby for the first time and the frown that was stuck on his face the moment he learnt he was having one melts away. In one singular moment he understands why Bruce was always so harsh on him, why Bruce tried his hardest to keep Jason around, why Bruce never ever gave up on any of the rogues, nor any of his fellow Bats. The moment Damian got something as precious to him as the robins and batgirls were to Bruce, he understood. And he never looked back. If he happens to adopt his own personal army of children, a carbon copy of his own father with a couple amendments, then that's future Damian's problem. Well, or Alfred's.

[quick-catton]

i just want to say that these two have been on my mind literally all of january. the thought of the debauchery they would indulge in. bobby and his pretty boygirlfriend. using him as a decoy in robberies, his cute lil thing an easy distraction while he takes what he needs, allowing them both to easily slip away. getting to show off his pretty baby in clubs, having a sweet little thing as his passenger princess during long drives through the dessert. a doll for him to dress up and have hanging off his arm wherever they go. anyway <3

[the-astronome]

Can please someone explain to me why fandom sometimes refers to the Bachelor as DDD or Daniil D. Dankovsky

Like what does that middle D stands for? Dick? Dickhead? Dumbass?

[smoosnoom]

unfortunately the parasites have gotten to me and i Need to write byler again . wish me luck

[crybaby-bkg]

have u ever considered gojo trying to tease you about how into it you get whenever you suck him off, but how flustered he gets when you admit yeah, I like it more than I thought i would, mainly because it’s you, because you’re so pretty to look up at, you always treats me so well when I’m on my knees for you. now you’ve killed him, especially with the way you’ve been touching yourself all the while running your tongue up at that one vein on his shaft. dead. gone and buried.