#like in a bad way lol

[misc-obeyme]

Okay I'm seeing a lot of Solomon discussion on here lately and while I wasn't originally going to say anything, I kind of feel like I should since I'm obviously a Solomon enjoyer. So if nothing else, this is just how I personally feel about it all, in case anybody was wondering. In the end, these are fictional characters and I have no problem with people hating or loving or having a different opinion on any of them!

Inevitably this is going to have NB spoilers.

Let me begin by saying that I do not trust NB Solomon at all.

I think all of my Solomon love is carried over from the OG game. I fell in love with him in season 3 when he really took on the role of being MC's teacher.

In the OG (I think it might have been in season 3, but I can't remember exactly), Solomon straight up says that he used to see demons as tools. And the demons we know who have a pact with him (Barbatos and Asmo) are aware of this. I think the way he made his pact with Asmo initially is part of why all the demons see him as shady - they still call him this throughout most of the OG. One of Barbatos's home screen dialogues is how you should watch out for Solomon.

Solomon often talks about how alone he's been for most of his long life. I was always under the impression that he only recently came to the Devildom in the OG game for the exchange program. He never once mentioned Cocytus Hall or said anything about having lived there before. His dealings with demons always seemed to happen in the human world.

And in the OG, he also talks about how he used to be alone all the time, but now he feels like he's found friends and even family. Even in the first couple of seasons of the OG, I felt like he didn't see the angels and demons as friends/family so much as just acquaintances. But by the end, he has realized how much they all mean to him. Not just MC, but everybody. This was part of his OG character arc.

Then here we are in Nightbringer where he suddenly has known Diavolo for a long time, has an actual mansion in the Devildom, and is well known for having tried to fight the entire Devildom at one point. It's suspicious that he's the only one Barbatos sent back from our present timeline. Do I really believe that none of the brothers would want to go, too? Is the implication that Barbatos only did this for Solomon because of their pact? Do we really think that Diavolo wouldn't ask Barbatos to use his powers for this reason?

I don't know for sure, but it does seem a little unlikely to me.

And then we have NB Solomon being incredibly soft and sweet with MC, but clearly still using demons as tools. Does he really not remember why Barbatos is mad at him? Or is it that what he did was something that MC would find upsetting, so he pretends he can't remember?

This is a huge part of why I believe that the Solomon we're dealing with is actually past Solomon. That he somehow knew that MC was going to be brought back to the past by Nightbringer. He obviously knows Nightbringer and straight up talks to him, so it's easy for me to believe that he somehow found out what Nightbringer was up to.

Because yes, Nightbringer Solomon is off from the OG. He's not the same character in a lot of ways. It's confusing and while I don't want him to be an enemy, I want it to make sense too. And to me, this being a different version of him is the only one that makes sense.

You can read more about my theory in this post: past Solomon theory

Anyway, this is just my thoughts on the topic. All the fics I write about NB Solomon are with the assumption that he doesn't have ulterior motives, but that doesn't mean that's what I actually think is happening. I absolutely find him questionable at best and I don't think he is who he seems to be.

I think the only way they could make this okay at this point is to have MC be the reason Solomon realizes that demons are more than tools and that he doesn't have to side with humanity against them.

Otherwise, it doesn't make sense with how OG Solomon acted.

I guess we'll see! But I totally get why some people don't like him. I'm just hoping they go somewhere with the story that makes sense and doesn't just change him into a completely different character from the OG.

[ink-the-artist]

Rabbits

Some bonus art, I initially started making this in a totally different art style but changed my mind about halfway through lmao, here are the parts I finished

[mroddmod]

i’m still hoping for a CX-2/tech reveal, if for nothing else than to see this scene play out

[crumb-crumblet-s-crumbington]

different POV of this comic

x

[bacchuschucklefuck]

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

[confessedlyfannish]

Writing Prompt #12

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn't look away from the man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."

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

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

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

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

"Him."

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

"Why me?"

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

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

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

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

Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."

"I have more than one."

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

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

There is a pause.

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

"Resolve what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"They will have already muzzled him."

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

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

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

Clack!

"sluuuuurp!"

"Master Timothy, honestly!"

"Sorry Alfred!"

[thegreatidk]

My biggest beef with the way Annabeth was written in the show is that I think Rick fell into his own trap. Like his whole thing with Annabeth is that just because someone doesn’t look smart doesn’t mean they aren’t. And while it’s about their literal looks for both the show and the book, book Annabeth also sometimes acted in ways that people wouldn’t stereotypically associate with “smart” because I think we’ve all be condition to think bbc sherlock no emotions genius is the only way to be smart. Book Annabeth acts super flustered around Luke because she's a kid and she has a crush on him, she's afraid of spiders, and wanted to see the arch just because she thought it was cool. In general book Annabeth is allowed to be sillier and have a wider range of emotions than show Annabeth without it detracting from the fact that Annabeth is smart. I find this whole "stoic genius" idea is often used to put down teenage girls for being dumb and superficial just because they show emotions and the only way to beat it is to be cold, calculating, and emotionless and most people just aren't like that.

[triaelf9]

"how do you enjoy *insert fandom here* I hear they're the worst"

Find the ppl who enjoy the thing you like the way you do. Ignore, mute or block the ppl who don't.

Ta-Da~

[tomatoart]

sterma never dies

[manchesterau]

the switch into and out of sister daniel is like watching a performance

[darqx]

Do you have anymore drawings that we haven’t seen of Cain absolutely fucking up Rire? Idk about you but there’s something about Rire being put in his place by Cain that really makes makes my heart quiver 💥💳💥💳💥💳💥💳💥

I drew this to a Vengaboys compilation mix

[sporeclan]

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Oh yay a new queen with kits let me just check out her informatioFOURTEEN MOONS?!?!?!?!?!?!??!

[francy-sketches]

Whenever people talk about lack of media literacy they always bring up people who think a character doing bad things=the author endorsing said bad things which are very annoying but I feel like we're ignoring the opposite, equally annoying side of the discourse who think if you criticize the inclusion/depiction of dark/sensitive topics in any way it’s bc you’re a dumb baby who can’t separate fiction from reality. and it's like no I know I’m not supposed to clap and cheer at violence against women I’m criticizing how much of it there is. Idiot

[inkskinned]

for a second, you did the bad thing and bargained about it.

if it meant that you would never be numb like this again, what would you give up?

maybe it's the childhood stuff or the religious trauma or how your dad doesn't believe in medication, but this is how you are, right. you need to have a counterbalance. suffering has to have its own reward. there needs to be a point to it. and if you're happy - if you could just be happy, and the world could actually fill in enough space that the edges of your spirit actually meet the horizon of your body - you would need to pay for it.

your passions? that one seems fair, but how could you actually be happy without them. well, you'd never be numb again, so maybe you'd be able to find joy in the small things like you used to. gleeful, you'd make coffee and breakfast into an artform. you'd find a way to make it make sense, somehow. you'd move on. it'd be different, but it would be doable.

your lover? your friends? this would be hard. you owe so much to your community. still, you could maybe make yourself a small home in the woods. you could live a quiet life, one devoid of friendship - but also without this horrible grey mist. a life like bigfoot, then. you'd figure out how to make the most of it.

your hair. your teeth. all of it.

sometimes you are jealous of mental illness as it appears in media: a big stroke of a meltdown, a firestorm that resolves prettily in therapy. it is flashing lights and thin teenagers. you've absolutely had breakdowns that stole the show - but life after resolved into a pixel art of things you managed to piece together afterwards, not a tapestry of a heart made suddenly-beautiful. that people could pick up blades as if they weigh nothing, that the way it all appears is as a cry for help, not a slow backsliding.

you have to stop the thought: i'd give up everything.

but also - be real. you'd never give up your dog. nor your best friend. nor the way you feel walking while through deep fog. you'd never give up the last bonfire of summer, the reckless laughter of halloween. so you do still love things.

maybe that's the problem: you know it should be easier. you have everything you could possibly want. so how come you are still trapped? still yearning?

[bacchuschucklefuck]

space sweepers but they're delivery people and are at no point on screen through the entire movie

[royaltea000]

Saw his stage actor and now I can’t act right