#the right on closing time gets me

[baekuras]

shoutout to every customer coming in the last hour we were open and special shoutout to the one who came in 1min before we closed and tried to discuss if we still had something available (we don’t) and wanted me to check just to be sure (like literally we don’t sir you’re glasses are antique by now please leave) and then wished us a good closing shift later me and my coworker just said “....now” as they left and raced to close up

just sure last hour and little things are fine but one came in 15mins to get his glasses fully fixed which would require taking them fully apart so uh no come in next week and just the last guy “i need these adjusted” “okay-are they loose or too tight?” “they dont fit behind the ears” .....i guessed that much but HOW do they not fit? too tight too loose too smth else add to that i couldnt even do much because the material was too hard by now so...eh lucky for me because we didnt have to sit around too long and wait but also fucking christ

we were open since 9am you really couldnt have found any other time except 1min before closing? aka 4pm? really? are you sure that was soooo necessary but not necessary enough to not come by ANY other time?

[ninjasmudge]

thats a red flag narinder, get that crown back while you still can

+ top panel without text below the cut

[egophiliac]

queen of diamonds, upright + reversed 💎

I've redone this like eighty times, I have to just be done with it now and stop staring at all my mistakes oh no 🫠

[stargirl230]

kaito screencap redraw! plus my favorite panel from the scarlet return arc lol

I've been reading detco for like 2 years and the unhealthy obsession fanart motivation finally caught up

(no reposts; reblogs appreciated)

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Lap Pillow

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[transmascissues]

“trans men don’t have any real safety concerns to worry about” i can’t wear a mask when i go into public bathrooms even though i’m higher risk and bathrooms are some of the easiest places to get sick because i don’t reliably pass when my facial hair is covered and i can’t risk not passing when i use the men’s room, but i also can’t just use the women’s room for safety anymore because i don’t reliably pass as either binary gender anymore. so my only options are to risk getting sick, take my chances with the consequences of not passing, or just never use the bathroom in public (which has its own health risks).

and today, it almost didn’t even matter that i was putting myself in danger to ensure that i passed because, thanks to a faulty lock and a man who didn’t think to knock, i came very close to having my half-naked body exposed to a bathroom full of cis men. if i hadn’t been holding my coat on my lap because there was nowhere in the stall to put it, every single guy waiting in the (very crowded) bathroom would’ve seen that i didn’t have a dick. how well do you think that would’ve gone for me? my money’s on Not Well At All.

[keymintt]

an illustration commission of goober for @callmegoober !!

[turtleplushi]

I haven't seen anybody post the full Riddle Chain yet (including Silas Birchtree) so here you go :)

I didn't find any of these codes myself by the way! I'm not sure who to credit for the rest of them, but I did get the Silas Birchtree code from @dismissivedestroyer (sorry for tagging you ^_^" if you don't want to be tagged let me know and i can edit the post). You can also get the answer using the code "STOD EHT TCENNOC"

(SPOILERS BELOW)

RIDDLE (would you like to play a game) > YES (what's Mcgucket's favorite soda?) > MOUNTAIN DONT (what's a medieval homonym?) > LYRE LIAR (the 20th ingredient of Anti-Cipherzing Tonic?) > HAROLDS RAMBLINGS (how is clown repellant made?) > UNION MADE (Bill's govt file number?) > 29121239168518 (who comes from Zimtrez 5?) > GREBLEY HEMBERDRECK (what's on Bill's flag?) > 3466554 (what leaves a thin line in the snow?) > TINSEL SNAKE (the 6th option on Bill's editing software?) > TORTURE MENTALLY (name an unpronouncable wizard) > XGQRTHX (where do Tri Angels come from?) > 333SUNDAPPLELANECOZYCREEKIL6071494611 (Bill Cipher's Lawyer?) > CAESARATBASHVIGNERE [or] MULTI LEVEL MARK (who defeated Silas Birchtree--?) > EMMALINE BUTTERNUBBINS (you've earned a treat! enter 'DISPENSE MY TREAT' to download) > DISPENSE MY TREAT

The 'treat' you get is under the cut

"BILL FILES DO NOT OPEN"

babydonthurtme.png

billcithescienceguy.png

chernobogwithablog.png

cheshire.png

epacsdnim.png

hiya.png

irrational treasure 2 - the trembley supremacy.png

octobillfest.jpg

remember the bermuda triangle.png

scrapdoodle.png

seeyouinmydreams.png

seeyounextsummer.png

snakeyes.png

trustme.png

xwhyz.png

[turtleblogatlast]

I think a lot about Leo’s tendency to push his way into the spotlight despite clearly being a natural in the shadows. Hell, you could argue that his worst moments are when he’s forcing himself onstage, and his best are when he does things no one notices until it’s already been done.

[puppyeared]

axolotl

[mobius-m-mobius]

It's a pretty cool name.

Loki + the progression of saying Mobius' name for @percheduphere

[chalkrub]

return of mendel

[a2zillustration]

We lived.

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[[ All Croissant Adventures (chronological, desktop) ]]

[[ All Croissant Adventures (app) ]]

[satyricplotter]

(suggestive, slightly explicit content at the end)

Even though you’ve been expecting the visit for most of the night, the Red Hood knocking at your balcony door at 1 in the morning still catches you off guard. You scramble off the couch in a sleepy daze, book falling off your lap and cracking open on the floor. For one long second, the only thing you can think of is that whoever your last assignment was has managed to find you, that you’ve finally been too sloppy and left a trail with which to track you.

That’s your first thought. Your second thought is, of course, Barbara. But before you can reach your phone to shoot your boss a SOS, or, at the very least, an alert, a second rasp at the window panes freezes you on the spot.

“Will you open the damn door?” Red Hood’s unmistakably robotic voice grits out. “It’s raining cats and dogs out here.”

You trip in your rush to open the doors, limbs loose and clumsy with relief. Hood shoulders past you with a grunt, fingers prodding at the back of his head to get at the latch of his helmet. He takes it off in a smooth motion, his hot breath forming a white cloud against the cold air of your running AC. You lock the balcony back up after him as he goes around your apartment, setting his helmet on your dinner table and shrugging out of his jacket. He means to stay apparently. You could’ve lent him an umbrella if he wanted to go back out there. Probably would’ve been best.

See, you don’t like the Red Hood much.

He invites himself over to your kitchen, opening cabinets here and there until he chances upon the dinnerware and pulls out a glass. The Gotham public infrastructure is in such state you have never once attempted to drink out of the tap, but you don’t stop him when he does. It is, technically, allowed. And he had the pitcher full of filtered water right under his nose, so. You wait impatiently as he downs two whole glasses of tap water and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand (there is a perfectly usable kitchen towel draped over the oven handle).

He glances over, notices you staring. The corner of his lips quirks up. “How obedient,” he mocks. He pats at his sides, pulls a folded envelope from somewhere in his body (the Bats have endless pockets, you’ve come to learn) and tosses it on the table. “There’s your file. You better be fucking thankful. Traipsed through half the city in this shit storm just to get you these.”

“Thank you, Red Hood,” you say politely, picking up the rumpled envelope and eagerly flipping through the files. “Much appreciated.”

Red Hood rolls his eyes at you, eternally put off by your insistence on following the proper channels of conduct. “Whatever. You got anything to eat?”

“Help yourself,” you tell him.

You walk back to the couch with the file in hand and leave him to make himself whatever he will, already too distracted by the information within to care that you’re gonna have to make a second grocery run when he’s done with your fridge. Red Hood rummages through your cabinets, pulling out far more stuff than he should for a midnight snack. At one point, he asks if you’ve had dinner, and you respond him with an absentminded (and truthful) negative. The files he’s brought are the latest Robin’s swiped from the team’s ongoing investigation on a dicey arms exchange deal that may or may not involve three out of four of Gotham’s biggest conglomerates (sans, of course, Wayne Enterprises). It’s your job to process the info—a task too menial and too tedious for Oracle and Red Robin, respectively, to handle. Besides, Tim’s far more useful on the ground.

It must be about twenty minutes of you pouring over the pages scattered over your coffee table when the man speaks up again. “Dinner’s ready,” he says.

You look up to see him setting two plates of steaming stir fry on the table. He’s taken off his gloves, his utility belt, the domino mask and rolled up his sleeves—the whole nine yards. Only missing the apron. The food looks lovely, but of course it does. Cooking is listed as a specialty in Red Hood’s file, right along with marksmanship and hostile takeovers.

Your lips quirk up at the unexpected kindness, but you shake your head. “None for me, thanks.”

“I said,” Red Hood says, placing his gun on the table menacingly. “Dinner’s ready. Come eat.”

Well. So much for kindness. You’re about as dumb as Red Hood’s subtle, which is to say only at your benefit and very much at will, so you only sigh and push the papers aside. He watches you rise and sit, and pick up the fork, before he does the same. You eat in silence.

After a few bites, you stop being disgruntled at his coercion and grateful that he’s got something other than a protein bar in you because you were, in fact, quite hungry. That’s not something you can say—or at least not in any way which he would accept, so you just shut up and eat your meal happily. That seems to be enough for him, as he watches you finish the whole plate with a satisfied expression.

“Good?” He asks.

“Yeah, actually,” you beam.

Even when he stands and brings the dishes over to the sink to wash, you are reluctant to leave your spot at the table. You watch him rinse and sponge the plates and pan, the knife and spoon and cutting board, and your afternoon tea mug. He washes his hands thoroughly and rinses his mouth with the dubious tap water again. A thorough, judicious man. He’s played remarkably nice this evening. You wonder if Oracle’s been pulling his ear to leave you alone.

When he finishes, he walks slowly the remainder of the narrow hallway of your kitchen back to the dinner table and leans against the threshold. The long line of his body catches you off guard, always so unexpectedly graceful despite his musculature, his brutality. You hold his gaze serenely, trying not to cave under his scrutiny.

This is why you don’t like the Red Hood. Every time he looks at you, he sees you wholly. As you are. Not, crucially, as you want. It has been this way since the first time he laid eyes on you—a single glance and he had taken the measure of you. No further explanation, no time to make amends. And what’s worse: he expects you to be honest. He expects you to say what he can read in your face. He doesn’t let it go when you deflect, when you coat your truths in niceties. He wants it raw and open.

You can’t play dumb with Jason Todd.

He breaks the silence first. “Were you expecting Grayson this evening?”

The non-sequitur catches you so off guard you break eye contact accidentally. What’s Nightwing got to do with anything?

“No?” You say, evidently baffled. “Nightwing’s been off-world all week. Why would he be coming around?”

He cocks his head to the side, sucks in the bit of flesh below his lower lip. "So you knew it was me who'd be coming around?"

"Obviously?" What is he going on about? He clearly doesn't believe you, either. It's childish when you stomp your foot and whine, but he always brings out the worst in you. "I'm serious, Hood. I've been waiting for you all evening. Just you."

Jason pushes off the wall and approaches, staring you down with slightly raised eyebrows. “Then, if you knew Dick wasn't coming with, what are you looking so fuckable for?”

Despite how much it bruises your pride, you cannot help but sputter. The staring is one thing, the passing brushes are another—even the stupid pulling at your pigtails like you’re both in kindergarten is… permissible. But this? Coming at you so straightforwardly when all you know how to do is circumvent and hide? Desperately, you respond to the one thing in that sentence you can make sense of: the accusation.

“I don’t like Nightwing,” you whine. Jason fixes you with a look of dry incredulity. You huff. How you despise him. He can’t even let you lie. “And I don’t dress for him either.”

“Hm.” He reaches over to pull at the neckline of your admittedly skimpy top, his knuckle brushing against your chest. “Sure.”

You bat his hand away, and stand up, but that leaves you much closer to him than you expected. Or wanted. “This is not fuckable,” you grit out. “This is… pajamas.”

Jason cranes his neck to take a close look at you, every bit as assessing as the first one had been. One of his large hands comes to play with the hem of your shorts, pushes it up just a smidge, and the pads of his fingers are rough and calloused against your outer thigh. Your eyelids flutter, and he has the nerve to smile.

“That’s a blatant lie, you know,” he says, dipping his head low so the words brush against your lips. “Try a little, huh?”

“This seems like a you problem, my guy,” you snap, so close you might as well be speaking into his mouth. You need to get away. You don’t.

Jason’s smug when you gasp after his hands close around your ass and bring you forward, flush against his body. The hardness in his pants trapped between you, a pressing weight just below where it should be. Should be? What are you—but Jason adjusts before you can scold yourself, lining up your crotch with his and grinding. It feels bigger this way, which is insane because it's already pretty fucking huge, and a hot flash of desire runs through you lightning-quick and just as obliterating. You slump against him, head on his shoulder.

“That’s my problem,” he murmurs against your ear. His thumbs press just under your asscheeks, playful. “You gon’ do anything about it?”

[vic-does-battlecats]

Minor spoilers for the already revealed chapters of the next A Starless Clan book Wind

[luck-of-the-drawings]

OOH YEAH BABY ITS THE SURGERY EPISODE BABY!!! ME AND THE HOMIES NEED SOME NEW FACES FOR OUR NEW PLAN, AND WHO BETTER TO GET THE JOB DONE THAN THE TWO MOST EVIL PEOPLE WE'VE EVER HAD THE MISFORTUNE OF HAVING OUR LIVES VIOLATED BY? I MEAN IT WOULD BE FUNNY. IT WOULD BE FUNNY.