Weirdly, AI detectors clock my pencil sketches as AI generated until I plop them into Ibis Paint and color them? Anyway, I'm returning to my unapologetically cringe era. Have a young Sirius Black, on the house. Before and after color.
I'm a HUGE fan of Nightcrawler. Kurt is, was, and always will be my favorite. He's the sweetest, no notes, perfect blue angel.
And I now know who should play him. I like the current actor, but they're writing this version of Kurt weird and I need my blue Excalibur swashbuckler boy like I need oxygen,
Not writing related, I'm actually just a very artistic priest, sometimes. But this felt like something to show off.
I've been trying for MONTHS to get those satin drapes to wine-stain (because this is a small, private, outdoor temple to Dionysus) and they finally have.
Also, the tapestry is new and I love the way he looks. So stoked for Samhain, this year!
Hi!!! If it's not too much of a bother, may I ask about the condition of the Batfam x Hogwarts fic??? It's rlly good, I'm kinda addicted. Has it been discontinued??? That'd be a shame, cuz finding good crossovers are rlly hard. But also 2tim fic. hehe. readin that rn
It hasn't been discontinued. I'm actually taking a break to consider where I'm going with it. I have some ideas, generally, but I want to make sure I stay faithful to the characters. Jason and Roy especially, because they are my favorite.
Y'know what, AI can have art. I might be finished. Spent days on a piece just to have some fuckhead insist it was AI. If the computers are getting good enough to make it look like they spent a week and a half on it, good for them. I found joy in art until rabid morons decided to start running around calling actual artists out for using AI when they're not.
Do you have any idea how many artists have just straight up quit making art at all because of people like that?
I was supposed to patch up in the warehouse off Kane and fifth—the one with the busted furnace and the mildew that smells like wet paperbacks. But my leg was shot through. Straight pass-through, upper thigh, clean but angry. I could’ve handled it. I’ve done worse. Hell, I’ve stapled my own shoulder in a drug den in Cairo once.
But it was raining.
And I was tired.
And your light was on.
That’s all it takes, sometimes. A little warmth at the end of a long night and a part of me—something soft and damn-near forgotten—pulls me toward it like a goddamn tide.
So I showed up.
Again.
Bleeding and stupid and heavier than I meant to be.
You opened the door like you were expecting me.
And maybe you were.
Maybe that’s the worst part.
“I’ve got peroxide and bourbon,” you said, stepping aside.
I grunted, one hand still clamped on the gunshot wound, the other pressed to the side of your doorway like gravity meant something. My helmet hung from my belt, cracked. My hoodie was a dark, wet mess. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.
Your eyes just dropped to my leg, your mouth pressed tight like you were chewing down the part of you that cared too much, and you nodded toward the couch.
“Sit. I’ll get towels.”
And that was that.
Like I was a stray cat too mean to die and you were the idiot who kept leaving out food.
I didn’t speak until you started unwrapping the makeshift gauze around my thigh. My jeans were shredded—black denim soaked blacker with blood. You peeled the fabric back with careful fingers, your jaw tense. There were those little lines between your brows, the ones I always try not to stare at when you're concentrating.
“Could’ve just gone to a clinic,” you said after a beat.
“Too many questions.”
“You could’ve gone to the Cave.”
“Too many eyes.”
That made you pause. Just for a second. You didn’t look up. You just nodded, slow, and kept working.
You didn’t ask why I came to you.
But we both knew.
The bullet hadn’t hit anything major. A lucky break. I had a lot of those. The kind that keep you alive but not whole. You cleaned it out anyway. Irrigated it. Pressed gauze hard enough to make me hiss between my teeth.
“Sorry,” you murmured.
I shook my head. “Don’t be.”
“You’re allowed to feel things, you know.”
Yeah.
Sure.
Like hell I am.
When you wrapped the bandage around my leg, you used the thick white roll I left here last time. I remembered the way you’d looked at me then too—like someone trying to map a fault line with their fingers. Like if you found the crack fast enough, you could stop the break.
You can't.
You still try.
And that’s the part that gets me every goddamn time.
“Take the shirt off,” you said when you noticed the bruising on my ribs.
I hesitated.
Not because I was shy—Christ, the number of times I’ve been stripped on operating tables or dragged through triage half-naked could fill an entire goddamn horror novel. But because this was you. And you always looked at me like I was more than the damage.
I didn’t want to lose that.
Still, I peeled the hoodie off. Then the bloodied t-shirt. You didn’t say anything at first.
You just looked.
At the Lazarus scars.
At the burn along my side from that night in Blüdhaven.
At the way my ribs still caught weird when I breathed too deep.
“You look like you crawled out of hell,” you whispered.
“I did.”
You didn’t flinch. You pressed the cold edge of a washcloth to my side and started cleaning the grime from my skin.
“I wish you’d stop going back in.”
We didn’t talk much after that. You stitched the worst tear—just six neat little sutures under my collarbone—and I let you, because your hands were steady and warm and I trusted you more than most licensed professionals.
Afterward, you handed me a mug of something hot and bitter—probably the world’s worst tea—and curled into the far end of the couch like you were trying not to take up space.
“You can stay,” you said.
“I always do.”
“I know.”
And that’s when I realized how badly I wanted you to mean it. Really mean it. Not just tonight. Not just because I was hurt.
Because something in me—something lonely and rusted and starving—was starting to believe you might not be afraid of the monster under the mask.
And that scared me more than bleeding ever could.
I watched you tuck your legs up, wrap a blanket around your shoulders. There was an old western playing quietly on the TV—something grainy and full of men pretending to be harder than they really were.
I sank down beside you. Close enough to feel the heat of you. Close enough to notice how your hands twitched a little when they weren’t busy.
“You don’t have to patch me up,” I said. “Not every time.”
“Maybe I want to.”
I turned to look at you. You met my eyes, steady and unblinking.
“I know what you are, Jason. I know what you’ve done. And yeah, maybe it scares me sometimes. But I also know you come here. You choose this. That has to mean something.”
It does.
It means more than I’ll ever be able to say.
So I didn’t say anything.
I reached out instead—slowly, carefully—and let my hand brush yours. You didn’t pull away. You curled your fingers around mine like you’d been waiting for me to do it for months.
Maybe you had.
It’s raining harder now.
The city sounds muffled. Distant. Like it’s somewhere we don’t have to go back to yet. And for once, my chest doesn’t feel like it’s collapsing in on itself.
For once, I feel like I can breathe.
You fall asleep with your head on my shoulder, your hand still in mine.
And I sit there for a long time, watching the screen flicker, listening to the rain, memorizing the shape of your fingers against my calluses like a prayer I don’t believe in.
Finally back to drawing practice. Made an accidental character while sketching outside. Deer girl wasn't the goal, but I like her anyway. Feel free to suggest names and a backstory for her.
Yippieeee!!! Finally the first two chapters of the Timverse!
Summary of Chapter 1: Tim Stoker finds himself hungover, going to work, and finding... Himself?
Summary of Chapter 2: Jason's missing. Dick's acting weird. Someone in London is pretending to be Tim, which is rude. Also there's a circus fire, possible Joker hallucinations, and Tim hasn't slept in 36 hours. So, yeah. Totally normal Tuesday.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Yes, it's BatFam meets Harry Potter. Yes, Rowling still sucks. I'm an autistic millennial, it was a cultural phenomenon for a huge chunk of my generation, let me heal how I heal.
I was supposed to patch up in the warehouse off Kane and fifth—the one with the busted furnace and the mildew that smells like wet paperbacks. But my leg was shot through. Straight pass-through, upper thigh, clean but angry. I could’ve handled it. I’ve done worse. Hell, I’ve stapled my own shoulder in a drug den in Cairo once.
But it was raining.
And I was tired.
And your light was on.
That’s all it takes, sometimes. A little warmth at the end of a long night and a part of me—something soft and damn-near forgotten—pulls me toward it like a goddamn tide.
So I showed up.
Again.
Bleeding and stupid and heavier than I meant to be.
You opened the door like you were expecting me.
And maybe you were.
Maybe that’s the worst part.
“I’ve got peroxide and bourbon,” you said, stepping aside.
I grunted, one hand still clamped on the gunshot wound, the other pressed to the side of your doorway like gravity meant something. My helmet hung from my belt, cracked. My hoodie was a dark, wet mess. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.
Your eyes just dropped to my leg, your mouth pressed tight like you were chewing down the part of you that cared too much, and you nodded toward the couch.
“Sit. I’ll get towels.”
And that was that.
Like I was a stray cat too mean to die and you were the idiot who kept leaving out food.
I didn’t speak until you started unwrapping the makeshift gauze around my thigh. My jeans were shredded—black denim soaked blacker with blood. You peeled the fabric back with careful fingers, your jaw tense. There were those little lines between your brows, the ones I always try not to stare at when you're concentrating.
“Could’ve just gone to a clinic,” you said after a beat.
“Too many questions.”
“You could’ve gone to the Cave.”
“Too many eyes.”
That made you pause. Just for a second. You didn’t look up. You just nodded, slow, and kept working.
You didn’t ask why I came to you.
But we both knew.
The bullet hadn’t hit anything major. A lucky break. I had a lot of those. The kind that keep you alive but not whole. You cleaned it out anyway. Irrigated it. Pressed gauze hard enough to make me hiss between my teeth.
“Sorry,” you murmured.
I shook my head. “Don’t be.”
“You’re allowed to feel things, you know.”
Yeah.
Sure.
Like hell I am.
When you wrapped the bandage around my leg, you used the thick white roll I left here last time. I remembered the way you’d looked at me then too—like someone trying to map a fault line with their fingers. Like if you found the crack fast enough, you could stop the break.
You can't.
You still try.
And that’s the part that gets me every goddamn time.
“Take the shirt off,” you said when you noticed the bruising on my ribs.
I hesitated.
Not because I was shy—Christ, the number of times I’ve been stripped on operating tables or dragged through triage half-naked could fill an entire goddamn horror novel. But because this was you. And you always looked at me like I was more than the damage.
I didn’t want to lose that.
Still, I peeled the hoodie off. Then the bloodied t-shirt. You didn’t say anything at first.
You just looked.
At the Lazarus scars.
At the burn along my side from that night in Blüdhaven.
At the way my ribs still caught weird when I breathed too deep.
“You look like you crawled out of hell,” you whispered.
“I did.”
You didn’t flinch. You pressed the cold edge of a washcloth to my side and started cleaning the grime from my skin.
“I wish you’d stop going back in.”
We didn’t talk much after that. You stitched the worst tear—just six neat little sutures under my collarbone—and I let you, because your hands were steady and warm and I trusted you more than most licensed professionals.
Afterward, you handed me a mug of something hot and bitter—probably the world’s worst tea—and curled into the far end of the couch like you were trying not to take up space.
“You can stay,” you said.
“I always do.”
“I know.”
And that’s when I realized how badly I wanted you to mean it. Really mean it. Not just tonight. Not just because I was hurt.
Because something in me—something lonely and rusted and starving—was starting to believe you might not be afraid of the monster under the mask.
And that scared me more than bleeding ever could.
I watched you tuck your legs up, wrap a blanket around your shoulders. There was an old western playing quietly on the TV—something grainy and full of men pretending to be harder than they really were.
I sank down beside you. Close enough to feel the heat of you. Close enough to notice how your hands twitched a little when they weren’t busy.
“You don’t have to patch me up,” I said. “Not every time.”
“Maybe I want to.”
I turned to look at you. You met my eyes, steady and unblinking.
“I know what you are, Jason. I know what you’ve done. And yeah, maybe it scares me sometimes. But I also know you come here. You choose this. That has to mean something.”
It does.
It means more than I’ll ever be able to say.
So I didn’t say anything.
I reached out instead—slowly, carefully—and let my hand brush yours. You didn’t pull away. You curled your fingers around mine like you’d been waiting for me to do it for months.
Maybe you had.
It’s raining harder now.
The city sounds muffled. Distant. Like it’s somewhere we don’t have to go back to yet. And for once, my chest doesn’t feel like it’s collapsing in on itself.
For once, I feel like I can breathe.
You fall asleep with your head on my shoulder, your hand still in mine.
And I sit there for a long time, watching the screen flicker, listening to the rain, memorizing the shape of your fingers against my calluses like a prayer I don’t believe in.
As collected by someone who has done it for twenty years
✒️ Write like no one will read it. Edit like your grandmother is judging you.
✒️ Characters drive a story, not events.
✒️ Plot is External Conflict. Story is how it affects and changes the characters.
✒️ Imagine your book as a movie. Introduce your main character, their desires and fears in the first five pages. First 5 pages = First 5 minutes.
✒️ Do the Disney thing. Protagonist in a bubble (comfort zone) longing to break free, held back by both fear and circumstance, discovers their fears are true and must face them.
✒️ All plots are the same. That is a good thing. All stories are not the same. That is also a good thing.
✒️ Curiosity, stimulated by unpredictable outcomes and emotional dynamic change, can literally addict someone to your story. Aim for the roller coaster with unexpected twists and turns.
✒️ The “Expectation vs Reality” principle helps create compelling conflict and makes the audience care more deeply about the characters.
✒️ Emotional Dynamic Change is crucial for ensuring your story doesn’t feel monotonous or overly dramatic. The contrast in emotional tones makes high-intensity moments stand out.
✒️ Chemistry is GOD
When MC goes on and on about how hot LI is, chemistry dies.
Give characters time alone together, or you will lose the chemistry. Less proximity, less chemistry. EVEN IN ENEMIES TO LOVERS. Force Proximity. Force them to problem-solve.
Love at first sight kills chemistry. Make it weird. Soulmates are weird.
If it’s creepy, lean in. Own your creepy shit. Toxic sells.
Touch. Even accidentally. Read Jane Austen. She’s the master.
Let them think about each other. Even Enemies.
Challenge each other’s faults and weaknesses.
Flawless is boring. You NEED conflict. Even for Lovers.
It is not a love triangle unless it’s at least a little gay. It’s a love Corner, and the woman is backed into it. ^ is not a triangle. ∆ is a triangle.
Homestuck has the best shipping charts. Copy them. Learn them. They will help you write better conflict.
jacobvanloon
dededos
dailybridgerton
theartofmadeline
origamiaround
ellievsbear
romaincrisis
blakekathryn