i think we donât talk enough about how dick grayson fully killed the joker when he thought tim had died. how the others had to physically pull him off his lifeless corpse. only to FUCKING REVIVE HIM.
âą
imagine youâre nightwing. youâve lost one little brotherâyour successorâto a megalomaniacal terrorist in the past two years. you canât kill him then. he kills dozens, hundreds more in the time since you let him walk free. you canât kill him now. he breaks free from prisonâa global affair; thereâs news coverage across the country and the clouds rain joker gas on your home city. every single criminal has been artificially and chemically altered to be more unstable than they already are.
one of them kills your brother. the second robinâs death this man has caused in as many years. the rage consumes you.
you finally kill him.
his heart no longer beats. heâs beaten black and blue, heading into the light. itâs finally over. heâs dead. your brother, one brother, is alive, and the man whoâs killed so many is dead.
Messaging people for the first time is so hard. What am I supposed to say? Like, "You seem really odd and your blog intrigues me. Do you want to have philosophical conversations or perhaps talk about fictional characters?" What! Whatever. I will just follow you back and stare at your blog with my big beautiful brown eyes.
Reblog if you're okay with people coming into your DMs with the "you seem really odd and your blog intrigues me, do you want to have philosophical conversations or perhaps talk about fictional characters"
desperately need more fics where authors lean into the fact that kon and tim were at each others throats for a WHILE. like yeah tim literally cloned his "platonic superhero best friend" 99 times and had a massive breakdown that somewhat directly led to him pseudo-joining and then demolishing an assassins league. that doesn't mean those stupid teen boys weren't digging into wounds that would never really heal on purpose at the beginning.
have we considered though the absolute emotional devastation that comes from timkon because they know each other's most debilitating weak spots and insecurities yet actively choose to love each other instead???? banter is amazing and beautiful and they would definitely have a snarky communication style but i know in my HEART that they look back on the comments they made that sent the other spiraling and go "no. i will not say those things ever again. i love him and i will continue to love him gently in conjunction with those fears"
timkon is so important to me and i keep failing the fucking proposal minigame on my tomodachi island and need the imagines to stay sane
wish i could go up to popular fandom artists and go. hey. you know that fanwork you liked? the one that my friend made? yeah anyways they think youâre so awesome and cool and are kind of Having A Panic Attack about it. :)
thereâs a spider in my car and iâve never seen her but she likes to leave me beautiful tapestries on my headrest and occasionally scares me by ensnaring a bit of moss and letting it dangle over the steering wheel but today i really hope she catches the mosquito thatâs in here
can i be honest? i donât like that concept art for our ocâs for smps becomes the canon look that everyone draws our characters like ;-; i donât mean for my concept art to be the official âlookâ down to the details of the outfit. itâs more of an idea.
i like when people take our skins and get really creative with their interpretations. and i hate to see people think concept art means that look is locked in as canon and canât be imagined any other way.
i want to see other interpretations of my skin, as if you never saw the concept art! i almost didnât post my concept for the flight because i didnât want people to take is as 100% accurate canon that canât be changed or reimagined or even wrong from my own idea.
thereâs so much creativity in the minecraft community among artists. i love seeing what comes from your imaginations, and the concept art comes from mine. you guys have way cooler imaginations than me!
figured iâd do a quick doodle since iâve never seen the concept art! i donât have the context of having watched the series to add headcanons, but it was nice to draw some mcyt art again :D
Young Justice '98 is wild. Boob joke! The ending of classic children's movie Air Bud (1997) but with a car instead of a dog! An out-of-options suburban father shoots his 17 year old son because he's terrified of any harm coming to his wife! Sick pop culture reference! A local PTA hires the team to throw a safe, substance-free party! Superboy is unable to age and it terrifies him utterly when he thinks about all his friends aging and then dying and leaving him all alone! 70's disco hell!
In his sophomore year of high school, when he was 16 years old, Bernard Dowd went to Tim Drakeâs house.
This was an uncommon commodity in their friendship. Tim was an exceptionally âbusyâ boy for someone who had no hobbies other than skateboarding and, from what Bernard hears, a bit of photography. Tim, like most teenagers, was embarrassed of his parents from time to time and how they might be perceived by his peers. Bernardâs parents were⊠the way they were, with him. So it wasnât always that the circumstances lined up for a house visit. And it wasnât always that Bernard or Tim would bother to ask after one. They much preferred to bum around town, anyways.
But one day, Bernard did go to Timâs house. It was rather nice. His dad was⊠well, not as scary as dads normally were in Bernardâs experience, and his stepmom was pretty nice and made such a mean pie it made you forget how young she was.
Then again, Bernard couldnât judge their relationship. Older people kind of did it for him, too, for reasons he never wanted to think about too deeply.
So after the obligatory dinner and conversation, Bernard followed Tim up to his bedroom. It was fairly normal at first. They talked and they played on Timâs impressive collection of consoles, losing time. And then Tim spilled his Zesti on himself while drinking, somehow. Which was hilarious, so of course, Bernard laughed accordingly and followed his friend as he trudged to the bathroom to clean his hands and chest before the stickiness settled in.
Once Tim had finally cleaned himself off, now sporting a damp shirt, he gave himself a once-over in the mirror. Bernard had no idea what his friend saw, but Timâs eyes widened just a fraction before he was rifling through a drawer and whipping out a bottle so fast that Bernard didnât register what it was until Tim was dabbing it on his cheek.
Makeup. Drake owned makeup. More than owned itâ he wore it.
Bernardâs thoughts screeched to a halt as he struggled to comprehend what, exactly, he was looking at. Tim didnât seem even slightly put off by the fact Bernard was here, watching him put on makeup. Which, okay, men wearing makeup isnât, like, world boggling new information. Rockstars do it! And, um⊠probably some other guys. And gay guys. Did he mention rockstars? Yeah, so, itâs totally⊠normal to wear makeup. For those people.
But Tim isnât a rockstar, or gay. Tim isâ Tim. Was he doing this to be funny? Was this supposed to be funny?
With a strange clamminess, Bernard barked a laugh, because heâs supposed to. Because guys donât wear makeup. They just donât do that.
Tim shot him a look, brow raised in a bit of judgment and a bit of amusement. âWhatâs so funny?â He asked, definitely sarcastically. Bernard wondered if he does his eyebrows, too, like those chicks in movies. Or maybe they were naturally perfect like that.
Bernard swallowed around a dry mouth. âYou, dude. Why do you have that?â He nodded to the open bottle of⊠of⊠something the same shade as Timâs skin. Itâs ever so slightly too pale, he couldnât help but notice. Timâs face is a little warmer these days. A result of evenings spent roaming around town with Darla, the three of them trying desperately to soak up the meager sun that peaks through the always-grey clouds.
Bernard internally bashed himself for even noticing that. He shouldnât have noticed that.
Tim frowned. âTo cover my acne. Why?â
Bernard fumbled. Why? What does he mean, why? Doesnât Tim know what would happen if he was caught with that shit? He opened and closed his mouth a few times as he struggled to put his jumbled thoughts into words. âWell,â he said. âItâs⊠itâs makeup.â
Tim turned to squint at Bernard, then. His strikingly blue eyes narrowed slightly. Dangerously. âYeah,â Tim said. âIt is.â
An uncomfortable feeling squirmed in Bernardâs stomach. It reached up and squeezed the life out of his chest, constricting until it felt like he couldnât breathe. He shoved his hands in his pockets and tried for something more casual and normal and not freaking out over a tube of whatever that is. âJustâ I mean, itâsâ normally⊠Weâre dudes, Drake.â
Somehow, that was the wrong answer. Tim carefully set the tube of unidentified makeup down on the counter. âIâm going to pretend you didnât say that,â he told Bernard evenly. Then he left the bathroom.
Bernard didnât immediately chase after him to soothe whatever damage he caused by being weird. Instead, he stared at the inconspicuous cream-colored tube on the counter. He picked it up with shaking hands.
dissimulateur/corrector, it said. High-definition concealer. 02, Porcelain.
Bernard shot a desperate glance to the doorway. But there was no Tim to stop him, to call him a creep for touching his stuff, to call him weird for being so hung up on the stupid plastic tube of concealer. The hallway was empty. So he shut the door, even as an uncomfortable guilt swam in his lungs.
He faced the mirror like it was his execution. Then he⊠tried it. He twisted the little cap off and put just a little bit of the substance on his trembling fingertip. He slowly and cautiously swiped his finger across his cheek, as if it might bite him.
It⊠felt strange. Cold against the bathroom air. Wet, but not liquid. It was the wrong color. Too pale for him, too. It stood out starkly against his freckles, hiding them from sight. He looked a little naked without them. He definitely felt naked. Which was weird, because he was now wearing more than he was before. He was wearing makeup.
Oh. Oh god. Heâs wearing makeup.
Bernardâs heart jumpstarts and goes straight into heart-attack territory. He drops the tube of concealer and flicks on the faucet, frantically rubbing the makeup off his finger. Then he swipes at his cheek with his wet hand, grabbing a towel to make sure he really got it all off.
Mom was going to kill him. Fuck. Would she be able to tell? Could Dad tell? Heâs dead. Heâs fucking dead.
âBernard?â Tim called from the other side of the bathroom door. âAre you coming back, or are you sleeping in the bathtub tonight?â
Bernard startled hard, dropping the towel in his hands. Shit. He hurried to fix it back on its little hoop-thing, and twisted the cap back on the concealer, and turned off the faucet and tried not to look like someone being chased down with a hatchet. He opened the door. âDrake!â He greeted with a smile. âHey, man! Letâs boot your PlayStation back up.â
The concealer was not put back in its drawer. It lay on the counter, beside the sink, reflected in the mirror.
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