#look at this absurd thing

[lupin-le-troisieme]

Oops! All legs (aka the dumbest most brilliant idea i've ever had)

(available on Redbubble as stickers)

[freefallintothevoid]

The real reason everyone makes fun of Dicks Discowing outfit is because he's the only one that can somehow pull it off

Every superhero and vigilante has has a costume like that at some point, something daring or a bit ridiculous that in hindsight that they just couldn't make work for whatever reason. Nightwing? The pretty motherfucker not only made it work, he slayed in that outfit. It looks ridiculous by itself on display in the batcave but not when Nightwing puts it on

The only reason Dick doesn't know this is because all his siblings have collectively gaslit him into thinking that it's his worst costume to date.

[technically-human]

Part two of the reverse verse is here! The reverse boys meet the original boys. They're not really getting along as well as I had hoped...

Again, this was a commission for @i-am-as-normal-as-you-are and they asked for angst/funny vibes... I think it's mostly just angst though. Oh, well...

Part one

[stealingyourbones]

Never will I stop with the steadfast notion that folks in the DPXDC fandom should interact with at least some form of canon DC media.

There are comics, tv shows, radio dramas both old and new, podcasts, movies, magazines, so much shit that intentionally avoiding the media is simply preventing yourself from spawning new ideas and gaining a new appreciation for a fandom that you’re already in.

The Superman Radio Show has episodes 11 minutes long. A lot of the TV shows don’t have episodes that surpass 30 minutes and most are nearly fully clipped on the official DC YouTube channel. The amount of fan made motion comics is astounding. The amount of fanmade animations is equally as incredible.

[doctorsiren]

give this angle another tri

[ferronickel]

A bunch of webcomic Ralseis! I've been wanting to do fanart for all of these comics for a while and I've got an upcoming page of my comic that requires a mix of styles/shading, so I thought this would be good practice!

Eldritchrune by @lynxgriffin

Looking Glasses by @ferronickel

The Chara Timeline by @lilybug-02

Reconnecting by @purplebehittindifferent

Twin Runes by @akanemnon

Flat colors under the cut because I think you can see some of the stylistic differences better without shading.

[zarla-s]

I've been playing a lot of Palworld lately, it's so addictive! It scratches a certain itch for me perfectly, haha. These are the three that have stood out to me so far, which probably doesn't come as a huge surprise.

[patreon]

[opikiquu]

(disappears for a month and reappears with a slightly obscure hyperfixation) Hey guys

[3amsnek]

weird (not quite) autumn- one layer practice Mae with some vague leaves stuck on for funsies

[sparring-spirals]

I was initially clipping this to capture the overwhelmingly accurate, absolutely devastating hilarity of "you went for realistic, and sadly, you nailed it". And then just kept recording because I really fucking love the discussion about how to balance the line between like:

You are trying to tell a story that feels good and gives you the kind of lift you might be looking for in an explicitly fantasy story,

vs

How to ensure it still feels grounded and rewarding in a way where you can "bring this good feeling back to earth" at the end.

Like they're talking about TTRPG's but they clearly make parallels to other forms of storytelling/worldbuilding mediums, like movies, and. like. Yeah. Yeah.

Like the framing of "you really recreated the feeling of powerlessness..." and wanting the fantasy element to manifest in there being the clearer, straightforward ways to solve complex issues, vs trying to ensure that you can have a victory and it feels feasible and substantial and applicable in some way, and has something you can take out of the fantasy world and hold with you back on "terra firma".

Its tricky! Its a tricky thing to balance, and I don't think there's a single "right" answer nor should there be because it depends. It depends on the story, and the intent, and the setting, and the medium, and etc. Big fan of this framework to explain it.

[universesrising]

shows up late to the server meeting with starbucks

-

hello hermitcraft fandom have the only image i will ever draw of the funny minecraft doofuses

my eyes hurt why did i go nuts with the shading

image i struggled greatly to reference:

[windandwater]

Ed + being a whole adhd mood, part 2 (part 1)

note: first, this isn't a diagnosis, only a very familiar pattern. also I know that we have contextual clues to hint that breaking the record was about more than boredom, but. that is such an adhd line.

[emily-mooon]

Stacey Pilgrim’s Disaster Love Pentagon (guest starring Wallace Wells as the emotional support. He’s obviously not apart of this Disaster Love Pentagon™️. He’s got his own to deal with off screen!)

Close ups ⬇️

(Alright since I ran out of tags I just wanna take a quick moment to thank whoever called a Stacey a malicious white girl cause it’s so true. I love my malicious gossip girl <3)

[egginfroggin]

Wirt is far too tired for this

Saw the quote and immediately thought of them

Transcription:

top left - Greg: "Oh, just so you know, Wirt, it's very muggy outside

top right - Wirt: "..."

bottom left - Wirt: "Greg, I swear, if I step outside and all our mugs are on the front lawn..."

bottom right - Greg: "*sipping from a bowl*" (arrow, pointing to bowl: "hot chocolate")

[084392]

someone still needs to die for this design btw

[goodday-goodmorn]

Little blurb that’s been sitting in my Docs for while based on @auspicioustidings idea from a while ago now i think— But yeah! I’be got like zero motivation to continue this- butttttt i liked the scene a lot so it shall be seen now! (Plus it’s Mhari’s Birthday!!! Happy Birthday Mhari! :> Even though i’m a few hours late into the day Hope you’re having a wonderful birth celebration!)

Based on a a scene i cooked up where reader finally gets caught by none other than the Ghost himself:

The weight of a gun in your hand is familiar.

So is the quiet sounds of a break in. You point at the door, watching, waiting. Like clockwork it creaks open, and there he is.

“Don’t move.”

You say sharply. Making the gun in your hand well known to the intruder.

Silence. He stares at you, you stare back. How many times have you done this dance? Tense words and a dashing messy escape. (The poorly wrapped bandages around your abdomen throb answering you question for you. Too many then.)

You sigh, and lower the gun.

He doesn’t even look suprised.

With a soft, Thump! ,you plop backwards onto the bed, arms outstretched. The gun is still in your hand but it’s dead weight. (Just like you.)

“…You’re not gonna ever stop are you?”

It’s said up at the shitty hotel ceiling. Hushed in the darkness of the room.

“No.”

He says it so simply.

You hum, pulling your knees and legs up onto the bed and rolling over. Back facing him, on your side. You snag a plushie on the way, hugging it close to your chest and settling your chin atop its head.

“Well shit. Turn all my red flags to white then, i give up.”

Defeated. Hushed. Tired. It sounds so unlike your normal voice. “But you already knew that didn’t you?”

There’s a dip in the bed, true to his namesake- he was silent as he walked to sit. You haven’t even heard him.

“…Who did your bandages?” Gruff bastard with his gruff voice. Sounding way too passive for talking with you, an enemy, his target actually. He should be barking orders and threats to you, you’ve heard the way he speaks on a mission before, all bite and harsh. But he shows none of that tension now. Not a lick of hostility.

“Who do you think?” You snort out, tucking your face into the head of the plushie and vehemently ignoring him.

“Kid, you need help. You can’t survive on your own.” Straight to business it seems.

Without even turning to look at him, you halfheartedly raise your middle finger.

He sighs.

Silence. Blissful, damning, silence. You’ve no more fight left to give and he knows it. Months on the run, months of constant near death escapes, months of being hunted like a dog. You’re tired. So tired.

“Ya know, Torture isn’t an effective way of getting info outta someone: statistically speaking.”

“We’re not gonna torture you.”

“But you do want that info don’t you?”

More silence.

You hum knowingly.

“And what happens after you get your precious information? You’ll kill me? Maim me like all the other fuckers who end up in your shit list?”

“No. Never.”

He says it with such ferocity it almost takes you by surprise for a second. If you were to be facing him, you would see the hardness of his eyes. The pure conviction swarming in his gaze.

“Not you. Never you.”

…

Finally you turn to him, feeling far too much like a young little kid on the playground who just can’t understand-

“Why?”

Something in his gaze softness. He wants to tell you this because he cares. The team cares. All of them- that they saw you, a prickly, panicked little bird in over their head and flying blind- but he knows it an answer you won’t accept. One you won’t understand. Not at this stage. Not yet. You don’t believe in words, you’ve been lied too far too many times for that.

So he says something you will believe. A watered down version of the truth that feels like such a disservice to everything that makes up your very being.

“You’re interesting.”

You seem to digest his words. Turning them over and thinking in that little head of yours.

‘How long is that interest gonna last?’

That's what you want to say. You want to scream at the top of your lungs that he doesn’t want you. No one does. He’ll get sick of your brashness eventually- he’ll learn and grow used to your tricks. And when your spontaneity grows old, you know what’ll happen.

But you don’t.

You say nothing except—

“…Can I at least pack my bags? …please?”

He knows you don’t have much to pack. He also knows you’re one tricky, flighty little bird. However, he heard your small plea, sees the defeated look in your eyes, the way your hand is so lax around the gun.

Gently, oh so gently, he takes the gun from your hand. You don’t even try and fight him.

“Sorry little bird. Can’t trust you to pack.”

The sad look on your face nearly makes him reconsider. But he can’t risk you getting away again. Not when you’re so easy to catch right now. So vulnerable.

“Can’t you restrain me and then i’ll tell you what to pack?”

That, he can do.

“Up.”

Commands come so naturally to him. You’re almost jealous at how easily they fall from his lips.

Like the old defeated dog you are, you listen, sitting up and presenting your hands to him to restrain. You don’t meet his eyes.

He takes no chances, you are securely bound with a pair of handcuffs. He tugs on them, standing you up and nudging you to the common area of your hotel room. It’s a sizable room, a nice hotel, though truthfully you hadn't really been thinking when you booked it. Brain to frazzled and exhausted to think about anything beyond a clean bed and a hot shower.

The lights are flicked on by his gloved hands, flooding your vision. You hiss blinking and adjusting while he nudges you to the center of the room, down into your knees.

“What am I looking for here, bird?”

Your gaze flicks to him, then to the corner of the room, a vent right by a little corner desk with a lamp.

He follows your gaze and then, (with one last hard look towards you that screams ‘stay’), he walks over. Inside the vent is a crumpled up backpack, old and raggedy. It looks out of place amongst the clean cream colors of the hotel amenities.

He prods at the thing, trained caution. (You don’t blame him after your last stunt with explosives.)

Unceremoniously he opens up the bag and dumps all its contents on the floor. You wince, watching your whole life be scattered on the ground.

A journal, a thermal blanket, a lighter, cash, USB sticks, Your laptop in its thick padded casing (thank god), stolen hotel amenities, nicotine patches, several pill bottles, a half empty water bottle, a pocket knife, bullets…

Your own personal little horde of trinkets.

“Was that necessary…?” You mutter, as he stuffs some stuff back into the bag.

“Can’t blame me for bein’ cautious.”

“Well- i could.”

He turns to look at you. Just… stares at you, all you can see is his eyes at that dreadful mask, boring into yours. He doesn’t need to say anything. You both know you could but you never. Been through too much to really blame him.

You’ve saved his life before, even though he was hunting you. You both know you would never blame him for doing his job. Not at this point.

(Just as he would never blame you for running.)