#to something you might enjoy

[chloesimaginationthings]

Vanny mixed up FNAF Help wanted with Digital circus,,

[verflares]

(click for higher quality!) draconified link concept ive been chipping away at this past week ..... here's my funny little compendium concept for him:

"A heroic spirit has taken the form of this bestial dragon. Unlike it's kin, this creature exhibits an extremely aggressive disposition. It appears highly territorial, and will relentlessly chase down those who disturb its skywide patrols - of which it seems to be endlessly searching for either a long-time vassal or foe. Unfortunately, it seems the spirit within has long since forgotten exactly who it was looking for…"

[haveihitanerve]

Gotham Protects Her Own

“Gotham protects her own.” Bruce had whispered to him once, in a, at the time, not so rare moment of affection, cradling dick to his chest as they looked over his city. Their city. Batman and Robin. Dick had believed him, of course, but he hadn’t really felt it. Not until he had stood at the bats side for the second year in a row, and his cape had fluttered. Dicks cape had never fluttered while he was standing. Running across the rooftops? Sure. Jumping over a chimney? Most definitely. But just standing still, no movement? It had never happened. Bruce’s did, from the very beginning Bruce’s cape had flown behind him, flapping with grace in the wind that was not there. But dicks hadn’t. But now… Bruce smiled down at him, pride lining every line in his face, before he took off across the roof, a challenge and a test at the same time. Dick chased after him, and for the first time since he had become Robin, he flew. His feet barely touched down, cushioned by the roofs, by shadows, and he laughed, wild and bright and free, and Bruce joined him, laugh deep and rich and full. Dick belonged to Gotham now, the city had laid her claim on him, and as Batman and Robin flew across the city, Dick could hear a new laugh join them, light and happy and feminine, delighted by their delight, their acceptance. Gotham protects her own, and Dick Grayson-Wayne, the first Robin, had earned that right, that protection, with his leaps and jokes and belief in Batman, in a belief in the city, in the belief that it could be better. 

Gotham protects her own. Catherine Todd had murmured to him once, late one night, a bruise blossoming on her cheek, eyes heavy from drugs. She was close to death, Jason could feel it practically wafting off her, and he didn't think much of her last words, a hazy drugged hallucination, slurred speech. But then she had passed and Jason had left, choosing the street over his father and then he had understood. People came looking for him, naturally, even his father ventured out, but shadows seemed to envelop him, the streets opened to his footfalls, and he always found a safe place to sleep, never waking with his things stolen or suddenly kidnapped. Jason could feel the city, his very lifeblood, could hear her music in her traffic, felt her song in the earthquakes. Gotham cradled him, sheltered him, and when the time came, pushed him to a left unattended Batmobile, tempting him to steal the tires. For the first time, Jason doubted his city, hated her for sending him into a trap. But then he became Robin, and Gotham squealed in delight, and Jason watched in awe as Bruce flew, as Gotham made his cloak billow, as she nurtured her prodigal son. Batman had gotten injured, once, badly enough that he had struggled with his grapple line, and it had snapped. Jason had screamed, lunging for him, but it was too late. Before he could cry over the dead body of his mentor, he found Bruce at the bottom of the building, not much worse for wear at all. Gotham had cradled him, shadows leaping to cushion his fall. Jason had laughed with glee, rushing Bruce home as quickly as possible, and something had brushed his cheek, a faint kiss against his forehead. Gotham protects her own and Jason Todd-Wayne, the second Robin, had been born into that right, that protection, and felt her city pound through his body like blood, feeding his soul. 

Gotham protects her own. Tim had seen the slogan on a Wayne Enterprise billboard once, when he had been seven, an ad campaign promoting insurance and helpful housing. It had become a sort of mantra for him, something he whispered under his breath every time his father made a snide comment about Tim lacking proper talent or social skills, after every call his parents declined, after every fight that had him biting his lip to stop the tears and debate running away. Gotham protects her own. Became his lifeline, his mantra, a promise of a better life. It wasn't anything he ever believed, until he finally worked up the courage to approach Bruce Wayne about the secret. Tim slipped on the Robin uniform for the first time… And something inside him settled. A woman's voice in the back of Tim’s head squealed. But as he raced over the rooftops, finally at Batman's side as he always dreamed to be instead of a few feet behind, snapping pictures, his cape dancing with the wind, his feet hardly touching down, that mantra, that false belief of hope, of a better life, became truth. Gotham protects her own, and Tim Drake-Wayne, the third Robin, had believed in that truth his whole life, wishing with every fiber of his being that she would protect him, and she finally had. 

Gotham protects her own. David Cain had warned her once, telling her great stories of the city with air of midnight black, of water a putrid green, and of a people a hardy and tough. It hadn't been a compliment, just another obstacle she would need to overcome to fulfill her future missions. She had believed him, of course, but… she had never truly known what it meant. Not until she had stumbled into the city, hurt, bleeding, afraid, and she had felt that… otherworldly power. Reaching for her. Its tendrils soft and kind, like a mother, shadows stretching across her, shielding her, as the League prowled the streets. It wasn't until she saw him. The Bat. And his little Bird, brutal efficiency and yet mercy in every action, wasn't until she saw how Gotham cradled them, lifted them, helped them to fly. Gotham had been more accepting to her than she had thought. Maybe because she hadn't hurt her children. Maybe because she knew her pain. Maybe because Cass had been so afraid. But whatever the reason, when Cassandra Cain-Wayne took to the streets, a proud, blazing Bat on her chest, her cape billowing behind her, Gotham sang. 

“Gotham protects her own!” Arthur Brown had screamed once. It had been in a fit of rage, followed by the sounds of windows crashing and tables smashing against the wall. He had been angry, livid even, the sound of his footsteps heavy and hard on the floor as he stormed around, pissed that Batman was unreachable for him, untouchable, protected by the city he claimed to do the same to. Steph knew the truth in the words, had been protected by them her whole life, finding a window open right when her father got home, the closet door unlocked miraculously after her father had locked her up, alleyways opening for her to escape through when bigger kids picked on her, or the cops chased her. And it happened now, as Arthur Brown came storming for her, rage and malice and every evil intention written across his features. Steph could feel that tug, that indescribable feeling of home, and she took a step back, melting into the shadows as she fled, fled her home, fled her father, fled his wrath and everything wrong with the world. She settled on the roof, the way she always did when he got like this, and waited, as she always did. For it to end. For him to stop. It was that night that she saw him for the first time. Steph had heard of him, of course, the Batman was infamous throughout Gotham by now, but she had never seen him in person. Never watched his work. It was at Bethany’s house. Bethany’s father, Vincent, was screaming again. The way Arthur was. But Gotham, Gotham didn't protect Bethany the way she did Steph. Or maybe Bethany just didn't listen. But Batman.. Batman listened. Batman protected. Steph watched, wide eyed, as he jumped through the window, as he grabbed Vincent by the throat and slammed him against the wall, snarling in his face. Steph watched, hands clutching her teddy, wondering whether she would rather risk her father than this demon. But he stopped. Paused. Threw Vincent to the ground in disgust, unconscious, and turned to Bethany. Beth had stopped moving, the way she always did when Vincent got the way he did, dissociating so she wouldn't feel his hands on her. Steph didn't think it worked, but it was something. Batman bent down, gentle, slowly, a few feet away, extending a hand to Beth. Steph couldn't hear what he said, couldn't see his face, but Beth blinked at him. She blinked, and she walked closer, slowly. And Batman… Batman held her, held her until she was crying, held her through her tears and wiped her eyes and rubbed her back, held her until she was asleep without nightmares, and carried her to bed, tucking her in gently. Steph didn't know how long she sat there, watching as he cared for this little girl, forgoing the Bat Symbol in the sky, and his anger, for her. Gotham protects her own, Steph swore as she watched him drop from the window the same night, flitting away on shadows only she could see. Gotham protects her own, and she would protect Gotham. She would mold herself after the Bat, and help. 

[lets-try-some-writing]

"The Titans were gentle beings, knowing neither fear nor pain. For all their power, it was the Primes who cared for them, guarding their innocent sparks." - Thundercracker, Speaker of Trypticon.

A lil bit of lore below the cut.

In my little continuity, the Primes were indeed Primus's firstborn, but they were made from the suffering of their maker as he fought to survive. The Titans though? They were born to give life, made to spread Primus's gifts to all creation. As such, they are naturally gentle and inherently incapable of violence.

They will not fight back if attacked, nor will they rise to the defense of their citizens (although they will provide weaponry and protection in the form of walls and the like). They cannot even comprehend why one would hurt another outside of the natural order of things. It is to the point where those who care for the remaining Titans have labeled them as having the cognitive capabilities of newbuilds. For all their age and wisdom, Titans are, at their core, the only entities in the universe to maintain a sense of innocence all throughout their lives. They hold no anger, no bitterness, and no grudges. Everything, in their optics, will play out as it should.

As such, the Titans have always had guardians to protect them from a reality that would seek to crush them into dust. During the first age, the Primes filled this role. In the modern era, seekers of Vos have taken on the mantle, guarding and speaking on the behalf of the three remaining Titans on Cybertron.

[sallymew4]

EVERYONE STOP WHAT YOURE DOING RIGHT FUCKING NOW

EVERYBODY SHUT UP IMMEDIATELY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[5ummit]

The Left-Handed Winter Soldier Myth

A theory has been circulating for years that the Winter Soldier is left-handed (or at least heavily favors his left hand and uses it at every opportunity) while Bucky is exclusively right-handed. I’ve tried to ignore it in the past, but it’s come back with a vengeance in the wake of the Thunderbolts trailer and I can no longer sit idly by and let this misinformation continue to spread unchallenged. Not when it's now being used as “evidence” that the Bucky we see in Thunderbolts is not actually Bucky but the Winter Soldier.

Luckily, this myth is easy to disprove.

Turns out there’s tons of examples of the Winter Soldier favoring his right hand (these are just a few I could grab that clearly showed his hands and weren't too blurry). I actually noticed while gathering these screenshots that the soldier rarely fires a gun and basically never uses a knife with his left hand, even when it might make more sense for him to do so as the metal arm is theoretically stronger and faster. Unsurprisingly, Bucky being right-handed means the Winter Soldier is too.

But just to be thorough, here are few counterexamples of Bucky using his metal arm when he’s definitely not the Winter Soldier. One of which even includes him killing people with a gun, something I've seen some Bucky fans also claim he never did in TFATWS and try to use as further proof that he’s the Winter Soldier in Thunderbolts, because their Buckybear is a sweet innocent baby who doesn't carry weapons and wouldn’t harm a fly.

I know I'm constantly beating this drum to the point that it's probably getting annoying, but it’s really easy to manipulate "data" to “prove” whatever you want. Just because something seems like it could be credible at first glance doesn’t mean it is. Please double-check other people's claims before you use them to inform your own opinions.

[critter-wizard]

ep 43 had me tearing up in a fucking shopping centre ‼️‼️

b+w alt version that I truly couldn't decide if I liked it more . Also I included a lot of thoughts in the tags but they're somewhat incoherent<3

[lee-minhoe]

hanjitonin for @strayklds 💖 happy birthday!!!

[scarycranegame]

guys. guys listen.

if you wanna write and/or post a fanfic but are worried that no one will like it.

do not be worried. at all.

because even if no one else is interested, YOU are. you enjoy this idea. you're passionate about this concept. you should write for YOU, not for potential critics.

and even besides that, i guarantee you that there's at least 1 other person out there who would also enjoy your fic. it's essentially statistically impossible for you to be the only person on the planet who thinks the way you do, and enjoys the themes and ideas and characters and settings that you do.

write it. post it. take pride in the fact that you created something that you value. your fic exists, and that in of itself is amazing.

antis dni, this isn't about you or the graphic threats of harm you send to real people whom you dislike. get a real hobby.

proship/comship/profiction/etc. safe!

[livesincerely]

Eddie leaves and Buck bites his lip until it’s bloody, holding back every single question that wants to burst out of him.

Doesn’t ask if he’s gotten any offers on his house here in LA, if there’s already a new family waiting to move their things into all the nooks and crannies he knows like the back of his hand. Doesn’t ask if Eddie’s already been assigned a station in El Paso, or if he’ll be on the roster as a floater, or if he’s going to take the opportunity to work on his Paramedic Certification.

Doesn’t ask him if he’s really, definitely, absolutely sure about this.

Because he’s learned—finally, finally, learned, like that saying about dogs and tricks, like a number that’s finally up, like seven years of borrowed time that’s finally run out—that it’s not his place to ask.

Maybe it’s for the best, since he’s not sure he can bear to hear the answers.

Instead he plasters on a smile and tells him to drive safe.

“I’ll call you when I get to the hotel for the night,” Eddie says.

Will you? Buck wants to ask.

Don’t, he thinks. Don’t drag this out. Don’t make this any harder than it already is.

Call me when you cross the state line, he wants to plead. Call me at every gas station and drive-thru, call me every hour, call me the moment you pull away from the curb and just leave me on speaker the entire way. We don’t even have to talk, I’ll just listen to your terrible oldies playlist in the background and the whisper of your breath and pretend I’m sitting there with you.

Block my number, he begs. Block my number because I’ll never be able to block yours, and I don’t know how to let you go without a clean break. Maybe not even then.

“Sure,” he responds aloud.

He can’t resist one last hug, but he makes himself pull away first. Lets himself wave goodbye but doesn’t stay to watch Eddie’s tail lights fade as he turns the corner.

He doesn’t turn back to look, no matter how much he wants to.

Eddie leaves.

Eddie’s gone.

And Buck bends at the waist and hurls directly into the bushes in front of Eddie’s house.

No, Eddie’s old house. Eddie’s old house, from Eddie’s old life.

The thought almost doesn’t hurt, funnily enough: like tissue so scarred that the nerves don’t register pain anymore.

Numb and sensationless.

Buck wipes his mouth. Takes a shuddering breath.

He’s always known that Eddie isn’t someone he’s allowed to have, allowed to keep. He knows he has to let him go.

So he does.

And whether Eddie knows it or not, Buck’s heart goes with him.

[icewindandboringhorror]

Pages from trying to keep a little sketchbook-scrapbook type thing going for two weeks lol. I gave myself specific rules in hopes they might all end up more cohesive/consistent seeming, but alas, scribbly chaos reigns, it seems

[hey-melissa]

Don’t be scared of the dark 🔭💚

listened to pulp musicals and now i’m OBSESSED. can’t wait for episode 4!!!

[1queasycrow]

Some people are just mad Veilguard wasn’t an inaccessible game, with a backbreaking amount of lore that did their job of gatekeeping for them, and it shows.

[anneapocalypse]

Tired of the false dichotomy between "you should create for yourself without desiring any form of connection" and "feedback is everything and without it there's no reason to create." Neither of these things are wholly true, and it's frustrating to me that people have taken "create for yourself" to mean "you shouldn't want feedback or enjoy it, you should create in a vacuum with no hope of human connection" and are lashing back against what they think it's saying rather than what it's actually saying. I love comments and feedback and connecting with my readers as much as anyone and would never discount the value of that experience and I try to be the kind of engaged reader I would want to have because I know how much it means. I especially know how much it means to a niche creator because I've been that creator myself and I so treasure the readers who took a chance, gave my stuff a try, and stopped to say something supportive about it.

But that's also exactly the thing: the things I want to write are often things that do not in any way guarantee me an audience, but they're what I enjoy, and creating for myself is what gets me through those long first drafts where I know there is no guarantee of an audience because the reality is I'm choosing to write this thing and nobody owes me a readership. Internal motivation matters because there are parts of the creative process where internal motivation is all you have. I've seen people give up or nearly give up on projects that probably would have found an audience, if a niche one, because they convinced themselves that nobody would care and then couldn't motivate themselves to care. Or they decided that a small audience wasn't good enough; they need their work to be Popular or it was worth nothing.

And if someone doesn't want to invest themselves in creating something that might have a small audience, well, that's their choice. But creativity is inherently an act of risk, and a lot of amazing art would never be made if the creator wasn't willing to risk silence, rejection, loneliness. Yeah, those things suck. I'm not saying they don't, that's why it's a risk. But art isn't always about safety. Sometimes it's about creating because you simply have to get this thing out of your head, and you hope someone will connect with it, but you don't know until you try. So everything can't be external motivation. It just can't be. It's too limiting, it's too stifling. I can't live that way, personally.

[riuhere]

"Oh no! He's hot!"

[unhingedlesbear]

I'm sorry but it's the way I will ALWAYS see SMG fans have such aggressive hatred towards black characters and their only reason for it is "he's boring." and this kind of energy never seems to be extended to white characters they think are boring

You see it with Matt, Ryan, Alex, Nick K and Mark. Like yeah you don't have to like them, but people will put so much energy into hating these "boring" characters. Like if they're so boring surely you can just... not enjoy them and move on but no, it always has to be full on hate. Can't think why...

There's also something to be said about how SMG may often put less thought into characters who are poc which is an issue itself, but just focusing on the fandom here, the hate these specific characters get seems so iffy to me.

Anyway yeah, the SMG fandom has a racism issue. It has a lot of issues.