cant tell you how bad it feels to constantly tell other artists to come to tumblr, because its the last good website that isn't fucked up by spoonfeeding algorithms and AI bullshit and isn't based around meaningless likes
just to watch that all fall apart in the last year or so and especially the last two weeks
there's nowhere good to go anymore for artists.
edit - a lot of people are saying the tags are important so actually, you'll look at my tags.
#please dont delete your accounts because of the AI crap. your art deserves more than being lost like that #if you have a good PC please glaze or nightshade it. if you dont or it doesnt work with your style (like mine) please start watermarking #use a plain-ish font. make it your username. if people can't google what your watermark says and find ur account its not a good watermark #it needs to be central in the image - NOT on the canvas edges - and put it in multiple places if you are compelled #please dont stop posting your art because of this shit. we just have to hope regulations will come slamming down on these shitheads#in the next year or two and you want to have accounts to come back to. the world Needs real art #if we all leave that just makes more room for these scam artists to fill in with their soulless recycled garbage #improvise adapt overcome. it sucks but it is what it is for the moment. safeguard yourself as best you can without making #years of art from thousands of artists lost media. the digital world and art is too temporary to hastily click a Delete button out of spite
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Damian's online friend is sleeping over at Wayne Manor, and its going great.
Well, until he dies.
They had all gone down to "sleep", which meant that they had Daniel go to sleep while everyone went out on patrol.
Upon returning, Damian checked on Daniel.
Just to make sure that his Grandfather had not sent any assassins that had taken advantage of Damian's weakness in friendships, of course.
Daniel isn't breathing.
When Damian goes to check his pulse, it isn't there.
Damian storms out of the room on a warpath; he would find who had killed his friend and he would make them pay.
Danny wakes up six hours later on a metal slab in a secret underground lair with one Leslie Thompkins hovering over him with a scalpel.
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DP x DC: Homme Fatale
Noun. homme fatal (plural hommes fatals) An ultimately seductive and dangerous man; a womanizer.
On a bit of a Film Noir kick right now, so blame that
Imagine, if you will:
Danny, a private eye in Gotham, ever the hard boiled detective, sitting in his dark office, drinking coffee you could use to tar a roof. The office isn't in a good neighborhood but rent still ain't cheap. He's fixing to get a new case on his desk soon
Enter one Timothy Drake-Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprizes. He walked in shirt unbuttoned dangerously low in a suit sharp enough to cut yourself on and bags under his eyes to large to be counted as carry on. Mr. Drake has a job for him, one he wants to keep quite, and one important enough that he's willing to add a couple zeros to Danny's usual rate. This job is a dream come true... almost too good to be true...
or
Tim Drake aka Red Robin(yummm) needs plausible deniability on a case tied to his civilian identity and so hires a PI and lays down a trail of clues for him. All the while playing up the Noir tropes to flirt with the cute detective.
why doesn't he just take care of it as Red Robin? Shhhhh... the detective is cute and he's having too much fun playing the homme fatale
Bonus: Immediately after wrapping up Tim's case Kon walks into Danny's office dolled up in a vintage dress, period appropriate makeup done, all to play the part of the Femme Fatale and do the exact same thing Tim did. Does he know Tim literally just did that? Maybe, maybe not
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I’ve been thinking about Steve and Eddie’s canon interactions, so let’s forget Steddie for a second.
I’ve been wondering, why would Steve tell Eddie not to be a hero? of course, he worries about Dustin. But Dustin has done this before, I think Steve trusts him to not do anything that would get him killed.
Steve worries about Eddie.
And he never says "Eddie is not so bad" or stuff like that, but he worries the second he meets him. He's the one concerned about Eddie wandering around while being a fugitive. When Eddie opens his heart to him about changing his mind about him, Steve doesn't show any interest but he's concerned when Eddie refers to himself as a coward.
Steve listens carefully but so silently I don’t think anybody notices. And he does this with everyone, he listens and he pretends not to care but I might argue that he’s the most attentive one of the group. He listens to Dustin when he tells him about his love life, to the kids when they have the plan to go to the tunnels in season 2, to Robin in any possible occasion and to Eddie when he confesses to feeling like a coward.
It’s been what? Two days? since Eddie got involved with the upside down and Steve as been attentive enough to have a part of him know that Eddie could do something stupid about being a coward.
They’re not close enough for Steve to be certain or to say more, but he worried nonetheless.
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𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐘, 𝖺 '𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌' 𝖿𝖺𝗇𝖿𝗂𝖼. (𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗎𝖾)
𖥻 ۫ ׅ ˚ 𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜 : Suffering several losses and ongoing, world-renowned tennis champion, Art Donaldson, is beginning to lose hope. After unexpectedly crossing paths with a familiar-looking journalist, Art realizes there could be more at stake than just his career. Will he leave the world he knew behind, or give the game one more shot?
𖥻 ۫ ׅ ˚ 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 : art donaldson x (f) sports journalist!reader.
𖥻 ۫ ׅ ˚ 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎 : (𝟷𝟾+), second chance romance, angst, fluff, slow-burn.
𖥻 ۫ ׅ ˚ 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 : 444.
𖥻 ۫ ׅ ˚ 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝/𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 : none.
𖥻 ۫ ׅ ˚ 𝚊 / 𝚗 : Hi, and welcome to my first fanfiction in 10 years! I've written this prologue for now as I write future chapters during my free time. I hope you guys enjoy this story, and I hope Challengers continues to receive the bountiful amounts of love it has been since its release.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ . . .
“I don’t want to do this. I can’t.”
“Should’ve decided that before you became a world championship player.”
The shuddering breath that leaves his nostrils narrowly frees the anxiety coursing through his veins like a racetrack, the dizzying walk down a familiar feeling corridor more nauseating than the last. Art practiced, hard, and to see that it was all for nothing felt like a slap to the face, a rude awakening for a man who had been yearning for the younger version of himself; fresh-faced and ready to take on Stanford— then, the world. What a fucking joke.
He winces instantly as the conference room doors yawn open, dazzling flashes from the multitude of various press outlets waving their cameras in his face, the flurry begging for him to answer trampled questions over the next. He can’t imagine how exhausted he must look, drenched in sweat.
The anticipatory looks of reporters and bloggers, ready to barrage him with inquiries of his ongoing defeats, his future plans to ensure a win: He hated it. He wanted nothing more but to retreat to his hotel room in peace and quiet to reflect on what he could have done better, what he did so wrong. With every step toward the press table, his footing grew heavier than the last, that awful sensation in the pit of his stomach settling, worsening once he sat down.
A mic is placed on him by an assistant, and a reporter emerges amid the sea of people that grow calm. His blue, tired eyes meet theirs.
“Mr. Donaldson.”
“Hi.”
The reporter clears their throat. “I... can only assume this wasn't the result you'd be hoping for— none of us had. I mean, months and months of agonizingly hard training regimens and diets to stick to... I can't fathom how disappointed you must be feeling right now,”
A long pause.
“…Why don’t we just start with something simple: What exactly happened out there, today?”
Amongst the quiet whispers and shutter clicks that flash from cameras that stun him, Art Donaldson, the acclaimed savior of tennis is utterly silent; frozen.
“... Art?”
“...”
He doesn’t utter a word, he doesn't have any to explain why he continued to be a disappointment to not only himself, but to everyone around him. His trainers, his media team, his fans... himself. The deafening loud ringing in his ears finally falls silent when his wings are clipped and he falls back down to earth. Despite it all, the waves of anguish, the disappointment, the embarrassment he feels for those around him... he smiles, glassy-eyed and defeated for the tabloids to see in all his pitiful glory.
“What happened?”
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Harry, turning to Tom, who has been sitting quietly with him in the library for the past three hours: …Hey, Tom?
Tom: Yes?
Harry: I love you.
- Later That Evening -
Draco: ….and then you said thank you???
Tom, lying face down on the dormitory floor: Yes. And then I told Potter thank you.
Draco, horrified: Dear Merlin. It can’t get worse than that.
Tom: …and then I went in for a handshake…
Draco: …
Draco: I was wrong, my lord. You should change your name and leave the continent - you already have one picked out, so it is simply a matter of going.
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