#(your choice)

[xreyyart]

What we could have been

[tatzelbookwurm]

Danny's human form ages like normal, but his default form as Phantom is still the 14y/o he was at his time of death. Luckily he can change that with concentration, since his ghost form is malleable. But he has to a) have the time to enact the change and b) consciously maintain his form. His superhero colleagues don't know he's half alive, so he's typically got his adult ghost form firmly in place before they meet. While fighting a powerful enemy, Phantom's concentration slips and he reverts to child form. Doesn't matter, it's just aesthetics and the enemy is what's important. He’s equally strong in his 14 y/o form. Except, his colleagues are very concerned to “discover” that their teammate is a child who has been lying about his age all this time. So now Danny has to figure out how to convince them that he's just looked 14 for over a decade now, or bite the bullet and show them all his secret identity. Preferably before they demote him to a team of teen heroes, or he gets forcibly adopted.

[deadlyr0s3]

if you see this devious smile…

[bestboycaps]

Yyyyyeeeeeesssssss!!!

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Ignorantia Neminem Excusat [part 2]

[Ignorance excuses no one, lat.]

[ <- part 1 ]

Now that Tim thinks about it, it does look ominous.

A seven feet tall, cylindrical glass tube that emits a soft, slightly pulsing green glow, countless cords and wires plugged into its base. It made sense at the moment — a giant space station needs a giant power source — but right now, when Tim knows what that entitles, it's... he bites on his cheek and looks back down to the tablet he is holding.

"Ten more minutes," he says, his words echoing off the walls of the room. Tucker nods, not taking his eyes off the battery — or, rather, a containment device.

Tim doesn't look at him either. The twisted, nagging sense of guilt is eating him alive: it's been almost two weeks since the legally nonexistent boy demanded a meeting with Batman. Two weeks since they've learned that the Watchtower's shiny new power source is just a fancy name for a cage holding an interdimensional being.

If it was up to Tim, he would have broken this glass the moment they've got their hands on the extensive, irrefutable proof that Tucker all but threw in their faces. Unfortunately, that would have resulted in the whole Watchtower losing power and possibly going off-course, and they couldn't risk it.

Tucker, with his pale, eerily still eyes, understood it. He said a week or two won't make a difference at this point, and the one held inside the capsule would have been gravely offended if his rescue ended up in malfunction of a whole space station. He said he'll wait, and he kept his back straight and his head high as they've spent those two weeks tracking and locating various other batteries and setting the souls within them free.

The seconds tick by so slowly that Tim feels like all three of them — him, Tucker, and the ghost inside the tube — are stuck in amber. He looks down to his tablet again.

Nine more minutes until all the main systems are safely switched to an emergency generator.

"Tell me about them," he asks, surprising even himself with it. Tucker turns to look at him, his eyebrows raised, the green light of the battery making him look like something out of a horror movie. Specifically the zombie apocalypse one.

"About who?"

Tim nods to the capsule in front of them.

"You're not exactly subtle," he shrugs when Tucker just keeps silently staring at him. "The way you spoke about this particular cell sounded like, whoever is inside it, you know them personally."

The silence stretches for a few more seconds, clogging Tim's ears like someone poured honey inside them. Then, Tucker looks away, his gaze returning to the capsule.

"He was my best friend since kindergarten," he says, and the air gets stuck in Tim's throat. "And I watched him die."

The other spirits that they've freed, they were all ghosts, souls of the deceased, Tim knows that. Some of them looked like blobs — emotional imprints, Tucker said — others took forms of animals or plants. They've seen a few humanoid ones as well, but it was easy to distance himself from them, to not get attached or involved. They were just faceless civilians, in a sense, however morbid that sounds.

And now, the sudden reminder of the fact that all of them were living beings once, that they've had friends, and families, and maybe their whole lives in front of them, feels like a punch to the gut.

"It's a bit ironic," Tucker continues, a humorless smile on his lips, "He wanted to be an astronaut. He wanted to go to space," he almost laughs, and the unnatural light of the tube makes his features look sharper than they are, "Beware of what you wish for, or something like that, I guess."

Tim stays quiet, forgetting to pay attention to the timer on screen.

"He was- he still is kind of a hero in our hometown," Tucker continues, "If I had to compare, I'd say he's a mix of Superman and Flash — heart of gold, but his mouth runs faster than his brain sometimes. And he kept somewhat of a nice relationship with most of his rogues, you know. Friendly banter and occasional team-ups and stuff." He takes a deep, steadying breath, his sad, bitter smile fading.

"It's what got him in here," he adds, the words falling into the silence like a rock in a pond. Tim blinks.

"Being nice to his rogues?" He clarifies, and Tucker snorts.

"No, I meant the heart and the banter, but, in a sense, you're not wrong either. As far as the agency's records go, he was captured while he was rescuing one of them." Tucker turns to look at the tablet in Tim's hands, "How much more?"

Tim looks down, abruptly reminded of the reason they are here.

"Uh, three more minutes," he says, but then grimaces and changes his mind. Bruce and the rest of the League can go fuck themselves, honestly, "Actually, you might want to start now. Disconnecting it would take time anyway," he shrugs, as nonchalant as it's possible in these circumstances.

Tucker stares at him, his eerie eyes looking almost grateful for a moment. And then Tim blinks and finds him on the other side of the room, kneeling on the floor with his fingers dancing over the battery's control panel.

Tim breathes out and looks at the ticking timer on his tablet. Two minutes and forty-five seconds. Tucker is a tech genius, they've all had time to see and appreciate it in the last two weeks, so he is surely going to finish working on the capsule sooner than two minutes. Yet, Tim can't bring himself to really care — he knows Bruce has probably set the timer with a few minutes of delay, just to play it safe. But even if he didn't, it's not like Watchtower will fall down from the orbit after a two-minute blackout, so-

A loud hiss interrupts his musings, and when Tim raises his head, he sees the glass wall of the capsule opening slowly, reluctantly sliding to the left. He only has a brief moment to be surprised — he knew Tucker worked fast when he wanted, but not that fast — before some kind of thick, green substance starts pouring out of it. Yet, instead of spilling on the floor, it glimmers and fades into thin air like fog.

This hadn't happened with any other batteries, Tim thinks, but then the capsule finally opens completely, and-

That's a person.

A person who looks the same age as Tim, his skin and hair lacking any kind of color to it like it's all bled out. A faded picture of a human being.

The toxic-looking liquid around him keeps leaking, turning into clouds of greenish white, ice cold steam. It's kind of pretty; it would have made a great picture, or, maybe, a painting if you ignore all the implications that brought it to life.

When the colorless boy starts falling, Tim doesn't even notice how he drops his tablet. He steps forward, reaching his hands out to catch him.

A moment later, he is holding a ghost in his arms. He is surprisingly — or maybe not so, considering his species — light; it's like holding something that's only slightly denser than air.

The boy sluggishly moves, shifting in his arms. His white, floating hair gets into Tim's nose, and he huffs, trying not to sneeze.

There's a quiet, almost sleepy moan that feels like a vibration on Tim's skin, and the boy lifts his head.

Tim's heart skips a beat.

His eyes are bright green, and they hold the whole universe within them.

Tags:

@thewisperwitch @yassjr @calisto112 @failedbimboinstem @yesdangerpls @restedenergy00 @tf-wildstrike

[ozcreator]

How about you draw Vlad in some kind of swordfighting pose?? 🤑

I had a bit of trouble because I don't draw many (if any) fight scenes, so I'm glad I proposed this challenge !

I based my drawing on a real medieval fencing technique that I find "amusing." It simply involves holding the sword by the blade and striking with the pommel to damage the armor like with a mass.

It's called the "Mordhau technique", you can look it up, there are old engravings that show it👀

[liliacsdelight]

Translating for Mama​

Whoever (m) x BlackFem!Reader

~°463 words, fluff, baby talk, your daughter trying to get you to understand her, etc°~

The late afternoon sun was streaming into the living room, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.

He was settled cross-legged on the floor, stacking bright wooden blocks into a tower, while Alma—a solid, determined little chunk of a toddler—sat opposite him, deeply engaged in a serious discussion.​

Alma, whose vocabulary consisted mainly of "Mama," "Dada," and a rapidly expanding collection of elaborate, highly expressive nonsense syllables, was speaking with great conviction.​“Bah-boo-da! Geee-wah!” she pronounced, gesturing emphatically at the collapsing block tower.​

Her dad nodded gravely, leaning in conspiratorially. “Oh, I see. The structural integrity is compromised by the load-bearing pillar at the base, which is simply unacceptable for the proposed trajectory of the intergalactic satellite, isn’t it?”​

“Bah-booo! Ye!” Alma agreed, nodding vigorously.​

You watched from the sofa, scrolling on your phone but smiling into your screen. You loved the completely serious, lengthy, and utterly fictional conversations he would have with his daughter.

Alma then scrambled onto the sofa beside you, grabbing your knee. She patted your cheek with a damp, sticky hand and leaned in close, her brow furrowed with urgent information.​

“Mama! Goo-wah bah-bop!” she stated, pointing back toward the catastrophic block tower.​

You looked down at her earnest face, tilting your head. You caught the important part, but the rest was lost to the wind.​

“Hi, sweetie,” you said, reaching up to stroke her cheek. “I love your little face. But I honestly don't know what you're saying.”​

She froze. Then frowned at you, pulling back slightly as if you'd just failed a crucial pop quiz.​

“Bop-wa?” she repeated, slower this time, clearly trying to simplify the critical message.​

“I know ‘Bop,’ but I don’t know ‘wa,’ honey,” you confessed with a light chuckle. “You’re too smart for me.”​

Alma’s lower lip jutted out, and she looked immediately over at her dad on the floor, her little face a picture of confusion and betrayal. Her eyes seemed to say, Why isn't she getting the urgent intelligence report?​

Her partner, still on the floor, immediately chimed in, leaning forward, winking at you.​

“She said, ‘Mama, the structural integrity of the base is compromised, and the fire truck is needed for immediate reinforcement!’” he translated, his voice low and serious.

“You missed the whole point of the mission brief, sweets.”​

You laughed, shaking your head at his commitment. You leaned down and kissed the top of Alma’s head. “Alright, alright. Go tell the structural engineer you need reinforcements, then.”​

She beamed, instantly vindicated by his father's translation. She scrambled off the sofa with renewed purpose, grabbing the red fire truck and barreling straight back toward him, ready to rejoin the complex, secret world only they understood.

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