#why are yall so bad at this?

[still-searching-for-something]

New York City elect a halfway decent fucking mayor challenge (impossible)

[gibbearish]

love when ppl defend the aggressive monetization of the internet with "what, do you just expect it to be free and them not make a profit???" like. yeah that would be really nice actually i would love that:)! thanks for asking

[opikiquu]

iknow my comics are ugly please just hear me out

[stealingyourbones]

I desperately need more mentor uncle figures and mentor brother figures in DPxDC to fill the interesting relationship dynamic gap that father figures stories can't always fill are u picking up what I'm putting down. Hell, just a regular friendship relationship with absolutely 0 familial dynamic.

[starry-bi-sky]

Blood Blossom Au: Baby's First Commissioner Meeting :)

TL:DR This Post: Danny (orphan) gets poisoned with blood blossom extract by Vlad. He runs away from him and ends up under the care of one Pre-Robin Battinson Batman! Starry is loudly pushing her batdad agenda.

(Also known as "Late At Night, When The Nightingale Sings" on my ao3!)

This was a fun rough idea I've been sitting on for weeks, thinking about how Commissioner Gordon and Nightingale's first meeting might go.

---------------

Commissioner Gordon likes to think that he's adjusting to the new normal of Gotham very well, -- the new normal being grown men running around dressed like bats, in military-grade strength body armor, committing acts of vigilantism, -- and slowly, little by little, he was no longer being surprised when this new normal pops up out of the shadows like the world's most terrifying daisy. His shaving lifespan thanks him for it.

....

The kid is a surprise though.

Granted, he seemed to be a surprise to the Bat too.

There's been a string of murders lately, -- which, in Gotham, is kind of like saying there's been another storm during monsoon season. And there's just been another; in some dilapidated building down in south Gotham, with the broken, boarded-up windows and mildew-crawling walls to match. The victim is a man in his thirties, multiple gunshot wounds to the chest, left in the center of the room for the blood to pool out around him.

The place is already secured when he arrives, the building swarmed with officers and the forensic detectives. The Bat emerges shortly after he does -- or, he might've been here the whole time, hiding someplace dark and shadowy. For his own sanity, Gordon doesn't think about it too hard.

The kid is a surprise, and he appears like a bolt of lightning.

He shows up in the middle of a conversation Gordon is having with the Bat.

A whistle, sharp and loud, slicing through the air, meant for open air rather than a confined space. Gordon's ears pierce and protest the sound, and the solemn, murmured chatter floating through the room abruptly cuts off like the swing of a gavel. As he turns towards the sound -- as they all do -- he swears, up and down, that he sees Batman's shoulders jump, just slightly.

At the source, perched on the window, is a boy. A boy in a gray-blue scarf and an oversized black hoodie, one that hangs off his frame and has ace bandages wrapped around the wrists in some attempt to cinch the sleeves. The hood is up, big like the rest of it, and threatens to swallow the upper half of the boy's face whole in the fabric. What upper half Gordon can see, is smeared with some kind of opaque, black face paint. He's holding onto the side of the frame with one hand, on his hip is a grappling hook. A familiar grappling hook.

Gordon has multiple questions, and his officers tense up.

Martinez puffs up, brows furrowing as his face shapes into a frown. Shoulders rolling back. "You can't be here, kid--"

The reaction is immediate, like a spark to gunpowder, the boy yanks his fingers from his mouth and his mouth twists into a scowl. Head snapping over to Officer Martinez, his hood manages to stay on but Gordon swears that as he bares his teeth, the glint makes them look sharper than they should be. His voice is rasp and quiet and harsh; snappish in its hissing; "Put a fuckin sock in it, Martinez. I'm not stayin."

Martinez reels back, and the boy immediately veers his attention off him. Like a switch, his demeanor drops. Despite half his face being covered, his mouth twists into a cringing, apologetic smile. Slanted and off-beat, embarrassed. It'd be disarming if this wasn't Gotham, and if he didn't just hiss at Martinez like he was about to bite his head off.

"Sorry." He whispers, voice deceptively polite and softer now. Gordon has to strain his ears to hear him. "I was looking for him."

He points his finger towards-- Gordon? No, Gordon follows the direction, and finds himself looking at -- the Bat.

The Bat, who always looks stiff as a pole, now looks even stiffer. Somehow. Well, the explains the grappling hook attached to the boy's waist.

"What are you doing here?" The Bat says, gruff and unable to completely smother the stumble of surprise in his tone.

The boy still holds a sheepish smile, and slips off the window ledge. His feet hit the creaky boards with a near-silent thud, the Batman finds his feet and rapidly begins crossing the room.

Gordon notes the slight tremble in the boy's legs as he straightens. He adjusts his scarf, which droops close to his knees now that he's standing, and slings a backpack -- how long has had that? -- off his shoulders. When the Bat reaches his side, he does as he always does, and looms over the boy like a spectre. A threatening mass of shadows cloaked in all-consuming black. Standing next to him, the boy looks teeny in comparison.

The Bat is a man who terrifies even the most hardened criminals, Gordon has seen grown men shiver in fear at the mention of his name. And yet when the boy looks up at him, he doesn't even flinch.

Instead, his sheepish smile melts away like ice under the sun, holding only traces of his previous embarrassment. It remains as a shadow on his face, a small upturn at the corners of his mouth. The boy pushes his hood back just enough to reveal glinting, ice-flint eyes surrounded in tar-black face paint. He holds the backpack up with one arm. "You forgot this."

[revasserium]

waiting for winter (我期待的不是雪)

zayne; 1,616 words; fluff, pining, gn!reader, no "y/n", spoilers for lads ch.4, whipped!zayne

summary: he has never loved the winter

a/n: yes, this was inspired by that one chinese tiktok song. no, i will not elaborate.

He has never loved the winter.

But he remembers the first time he watched the snow fall reflected in your eyes — your cheeks kissed pink by the unforgiving wind, the sky a smear of white as the cold sunk into his bones. He remembers the silver bell ring of your laughter as you’d dragged him by the hand out to build a snowman, the look on your face when he’d remarked that your snowman’s nose was crooked because there were no carrots at the corner store so you’d had to make do with a potato instead.

“Look! It’s snowing!”

Zayne shakes himself into the present, glancing out of his office window at the cotton-soft flurries spinning by his windows. Across from him, you’re sitting with a muffler thrown haphazardly around your shoulders, watching the snow with an open, child-like wonder that makes his entire chest twist tight with —

He clears his throat.

“All the more reason for you to be careful — make sure to bundle up when you go outside,” he says, dropping his eyes back to your most recent health report.

You’re not sleeping enough, and your vitamin D levels are lower than he’d like. He’d hoped that becoming a Hunter would at least expose you to a decent amount of sun but then again, you had told him that Jenna’s been keeping tight reigns on you since the explosion.

“Yeah, yeah — I’ll be careful.”

He looks up, his eyes dark as he looks over the shape of you, fingers curled in your lap as you look up at him from beneath your lashes. He holds your gaze and fights to keep his expression neutral as you blush and look away, somehow reverting back to a much younger version of you — the memory of it superimposed upon the look of you now.

“You’re just as bossy as you were back then,” you say, sighing as you shrug up your shoulders like a scolded child.

Zayne scoffs, affording himself a small laugh, “Except I have a doctorate to back it up now, don’t I?”

You pout, pursing your lips. Zayne wonders, for the millionth time that day, how soft they might be beneath his own.

“I liked you better before you got your fancy creds,” you say, still pouting.

Zayne sighs, flicking off his tablet and putting it down on the table.

“Alright, what do you want?”

You blink up at him, eyes wide enough to convince anyone else of your innocence. But he knows better. He’s always known better.

“What do you mean?”

He ticks his tongue against his teeth and leans back in his chair, checking his watch.

“It’s almost lunchtime — c’mon.”

He pushes up from his desk and tugs his doctor’s coat from his shoulders, rolling them loose of the tightness that had gathered there all morning.

“Huh?”

He rounds his desk and tugs his winter coat from the back of the door, turning to fix you with a look.

“The noodle shop around the corner has your favorite as a lunch special.”

He counts down from five in his head — four, three, two —

“Really?” your face breaks into a grin wide enough to split your face. He chuckles.

“Yes, really. Are you coming?”

You stare for a second longer before leaping to your feet and bounding to his side. He reaches out to adjust your muffler, tying it tighter over the front of your chest, swatting your hand away when you try to loosen it.

“I’m going to choke!”

“Better that than for you to get sick again.”

He tugs open the door and watches you walk into the hallway, a bounce to your step that he hasn’t seen since you were both kids and he’d promised you he’d buy you sweets on the way home from school.

“How’re you so sure that the lunch specials gonna be my favorite?” you ask, pivoting on your heels and fixing him with a look, halfway down the white-washed hospital halls. Zayne takes his time buttoning up his own coat and locking his office door behind him.

“Because,” he says, voice steady as he strolls by you, glancing down with the shadow of a smile crimping his lips —

“I know you.”

* * *

He has never loved the winter.

But, he thinks as he watches you slurp down a bowl of wide-cut noodles, your cheeks flushed red with joy, he might just learn to love a winter like this.

You don’t question it when he reaches out to swipe at the corner of your mouth with this thumb, licking off the excess with a contemplative hm. But he revels in the way you swallow and blush and look away.

He wonders if you know.

He wonders if you know that you haunt him like the cold haunts him on the nights when he’s alone. He wonders if you see him the way he sees you, cast behind his eyelids like the frames of an old film whenever he closes his eyes, your smile more familiar to him than his own.

“Full?” he asks, watching as you wipe your mouth on a bit of napkin, lips stained red by the chili sauce.

“Mhm!” you nod, smiling up at him.

The noodle shop smells of chicken stock and green onions and the sharp dampness of snow on winter coats. You push the noodle bowl away and stare down at your hands.

“Are you — I mean… you have to go back to work, right?”

He can’t help but notice the note of reluctance in your voice, the way you look up at him as if hoping he’ll say no. He nods, folding his napkin into halves, and then forths. Outside, the sun is already falling toward the far horizon, casting everything in a goldenrod glow. Shadows fall long and sure along the pavement and Zayne doesn’t want to think about the endless hours of darkness ahead.

“Are you going home after this?” he asks, nodding stiffly to the waiter as he hands over his card, wordlessly pushing your hand away as you make a feeble attempt to try and snatch the receipt.

“I… was thinking about going to see a movie,” you say, thumbing at a stray thread along the edge of your coat. He watches you tug at it for a while before reaching out to take your hand in his.

“Go home,” he says, his voice level.

Your brow creases in a slight frown as you look up.

“But… I wanted to see —”

“We’ll see it this weekend,” he says, giving your hand a quick squeeze before letting go, thanking the waiter as he takes back his card and scribbles his signature on the receipt.

“We will?” you ask, blinking up at him as he stands up.

“Yes. It’s showing Saturday at 2:30 — we can get lunch before, or dinner after.”

He’s tugging on his coat when you reach up to loop his scarf around his neck, standing too close, so close he can smell the caramel milk and whipped cream of your skin. He fights down the shivers that threaten to shake down his spine as he goes still, waiting as you tuck his scarf securely around his neck.

“You never tie your scarf right,” you say, dropping back down onto your heels even as you shoulder on your own coat, cheeks dusted the most darling shade of pink Zayne has ever seen. As he watches you, he thinks it might just put the winter sun to shame.

He thinks he might thank you, or he might just bend down and kiss you — he’s uncertain all the way till you make it outside and you turn to smile up at him. And like this, with the dying sun caressing the edge of your cheek, the line of your jaw, you are nothing short of ethereal.

Zayne reaches forward, his thumb and forefinger catching your chin as he leans down.

Your gasp is little more than a hiccup of breath —

“Don’t be late,” he says, stopping mere inches from your lips, whispering the words against where your lips might be if he were a little more daring.

You hold perfectly still, your eyes round as you stare up at him, searching his face for… something — anything.

When he pulls back, he thinks you almost make to chase him. But you let his fingers drop from your skin and you tug at your muffler, toeing at the slushed-up snow on the sidewalk.

“Winter’s my favorite season, y’know,” you say. And Zayne doesn’t dare to hope. But he does — he watches you out of the corner of his eyes. Above you, all around you, the afternoon sun flickers and fades, a daytime aurora, like tendrils of some long-gone magic, coaxing willing believers toward their untimely doom.

“Hn,” he says, not trusting himself with more. He waits; you take a long breath before turning to look at him.

“You wanna know why?” you ask. And finally, finally he turns to you, his eyes catching your eyes — and in them, he sees the twisting colors of the sky reflected there, serpentine and sinuous. Ancient and inexorable. Reds and yellows, pinks and purples, bleeding into an endless, endless winter blue.

He wets his lips and swallows hard, “Why?”

You smile, and it is like the first glimmer of sun after an arctic winter’s night, and he can’t breathe for the sight of it.

“Because… it reminds me of you.”

lads requests r.... open lol

[lonestarss]

i think i hauve covid

[deoidesign]

"what do hands mean about a character?"

Their hands mean they love eachother

(webcomic)

[victorianeumans-wife]

If evil why so cute?

[toytulini]

listen im ace and im pro kink at pride and whatever, but the way some of yall are wording your posts in response to the backlash against it is uh. really taking me back to the ace shitcourse era.

yall know theres nothing wrong with being a "virgin", right? that its not inherently shameful to have not had sex, to never have sex, even if youre not ace, even if you do want to have sex someday, like, its fine that you haven't had sex?

maybe if your problem is that theyre trying to police your behavior and shame you for expressing your sexuality, you can say that? instead of resorting to "haha stupid virgin gets no bitches" like my god. do you not hear how fucking regressive that attitude is? i know, i know, youre "joking".

get a better joke

[ssaseaprince]

Season 1 Will truly holds my whole heart. I know he's struggling, I know he's still got that darkness in him. But something about the way he struggles just hits my soul. Something about him just makes you fall in love. He wears the cologne he always gets for Christmas, he doesn't hesitate to rescue a stray dog. He goes out in the snow just so he can look at his house light up in the dark. He wears glasses he doesn't need and keeps people at arms length. He sleeps on a mattress on the floor so all his dogs can curl up around him. He makes his dogs food from scratch, he ties his own flies. He'll go out into the cold to look for a wounded animal. He forgets to eat, and he connects with those who are suffering, and he just wants to be good, even if it's purely for selfish reasons. He wears flannel and gives his dogs baths on the porch and may or may not play the piano. He is beautiful.

[paint-it-dead]

sooo *twirls hair* berserk has everything-

[kryhara]

I think this is funny but it doesn’t look right like his face doesn’t look like how I drew it last time Arthur Lester can you just work with me pls

:((( maybe it’s just the angle idk I redrew his eyes twice and might have to redraw them again anyways yes this is a Jerma redraw

Also trying to draw him armor too but that’s also not working he’s being difficult >:(

[yrdnzz]

shidou ryusei GRINS LIKE CHESHIRE

comms are closed at the moment but i will be doing sketches in return for donations for supporting those in palestine, more information on that here :]

[virgothozul]

[luxtea-07]

heres my yaoi for the night