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hannahleah · 9 months

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Alexia Wight by Nick Knight

#Alexia Wight #Nick Knight #photography #fashion photography #fashion editorial #fashion

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lyssahumana · 1 year

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#voguencer #Alexia Wight #fashion #Nick Knight #photography

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eolande · 11 months

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this is a long as hell project that i still haven't barely started but i've been thinking abt for years but. i have always wanted to sort of "populate" bitterblack with "friendly" monsters at least from the perspective of tenanye who has been sort of taken in by the labyrinth as a monster of her own.... even fauna or barroch probably wouldn't be on friendly terms or w/e w/ most of them but those two just slink around the isle always have and always will.... whereas anye likes more to walk abt like she own the place....

#clyde.txt #🕸oc: out of a black cloud came a bird #i have a wight named midas and i want to make a few eliminators and an enchanted armor and a gold and silver knight pair #and ofc arthy is still scary and hostile as ever he's the only thing to worry abt #i wonder what other bbi monsters would be good to make ocs out of in this way.... separately i've always wanted to make ocs of #the dark bishop and his dragon cause their lore could be very fun to explore....

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lonehuna · 1 year

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The arms closer 2 front are older, withered, but thats why he takes other arms, he keeps up his power level. (perhaps he has skipped leg day, and thats a joke PC has said b4, fighter players shouldnt be too hard to push into making that joke and using it here.)

The second closest was a famed swords master who had a prophecy set before his death, that his descendent would found a tribe and spawn a city and king. But only ‘When the heir surrpases the founder (who is now a death knight) and curbs the arogence of his dynasty.’ The Founder defeated his grandson, and ggrandson, and took their arms to ‘curb their arrogance’. PCs father never did this ‘the city and the living need my arms!’ (hes actually arrogent and wants to use son/PC to fulfill profecy but rule in his place) PC will have to defeat the Founder and then reject his fathers ‘Arogence’. the latter may be: a class system 4 new city, ‘we need to be a warlike people’, or

#undead boss #stray boss #wight #barrow king #Death Knight #PC backstory

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visenyaism · 3 months

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feastdance dashboard simulator

💋queen-cersei-defense-squad Follow

it’s so sick that people keep criticizing queen cersei as if she’s not the first female ruler of westeros??? literally elevating bastards and women to her small council is super fucking progressive as is creating the precedent of dismissing unfit kingsguard??

🪨dragonstoner Follow

aren’t all of her children literally bastards born of incest

💋 queen-cersei-defense-squad Follow

oh so now you’re going to listen to stannis baratheon, known misogynist, kinslayer, fornicator, team green supporter, and homophobe, huh.

🦑pykedyke

okay guys i know there’s no “perfect candidate” but you have to vote in the kingsmoot anyways not voting is how someone like e****n g*****y wins and literally anyone is better than him. suck it up and row to the polls

🦈reaveherihardlyknowher

ohhhh not this “vote your crew no matter who” “blue lips man bad” bullshit again. fuck off idgaf which godless man sits the seastone chair i’m not voting for asha shes literally a neoliberal

🦷 lastoftheegiants

first i had to give up my rights and then i had to give up my gods just to not get killed by fucking wights but i literally cannot believe the nights watch made me give up my strap as part of the treasure ransom. shit was expensive it was IVORY. i hate southerners so much i hope the lord commander dies

🌪️kinslayerr

DO NOT COME TO THE RIVERLANDS

🍓silverspurs Follow

why

🌪️kinslayerr

there’s riverlands here

🧜‍♂️theythemderly

freys

🌾maidencool

my cousin got eaten by rats in harrenhal

🐎brackennation Follow

dumb cunts wearing raven feather cloaks strutting around who think they’re better than you but they’re not better than you

🌟sevenstar

i saw a guy get killed and then just stand back up and start fighting again because his friend kissed him on the mouth down here once

🦌whitehart

giant feral pack of 60 wolves running around

🍓silverspurs Follow

ok understandable have a nice day

🫧bastardwaters

i hate the fucking sparrows can we be normal for five minutes or can we just not have shit in the crownlands

☠️real-stormlands-patriot Follow

ITS LORD COMMANDOVER #RIPBOZO

🐦‍⬛mormonts-raven-bot Follow

CORN! DEATH! CORN!

(CAW! I follow members of the Night's Watch to remind them of their oaths!)

🦷 lastoftheegiants

????

🍋floriansjonquil

Loras Tyrell x Queen of Love and Beauty!Reader Imagines

Keep Reading

🪻maidens-smile Follow

girl this is notttttt the time he literally just fucking died at dragonstone?

💎oathkeeper

should’ve stanned jaime #LORASFELLOFF

💐flowerknight

one kill yourself jaime lannister is an honorless kingslaying turncloak two i heard loras tyrell was literally fine?

👊fleabottomtop

lord davos seaworth, the class traitor from the stannis baratheon administration, is a nasty little thottie and just died from making it clap in white harbor

🌅girlheir

this tower fucking sucks.

🌅girlheir

i’m just like rhaenyra targaryen for real

🌅girlheir

🐀ratcook5000 Follow

people meat tastes good asf when you don’t have a wench in your ear saying it violates guest right

🐺threeeyedwolf

🍒ladylance

need that targ girl in mereen to get those lizards over here and liberate this website by any means necessary cause what the fuck is going on

#asoiaf #affc #adwd #its been so long since i did one of these. missed it #valyrianscrolls

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ryunumber · 1 year

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Chun-Li from Street Fighter

Chun-Li has a Ryu Number of 10.

(clarification below)

As with before: Chun-Li's actual Ryu Number is 1.

All appearances in the route above except Chun-Li in Ultimate Marvel vs. Capcom 3 are only possible through game mods, and more specifically mods that change the gameplay a bit more than a model swap. I can't guarantee that any two mods for the same game are compatible, especially seeing as the Castlevania: Dawn of Sorrow links are romhacks that replace the playable cast with those characters, but for hopefully self-evident reasons, I'm not being super strict about that.

The mods highlighted in this route are:

Palette Swap Characters for Ultimate Marvel vs. Capcom 3 by tabs

Cyclops for Fraymakers by poop674

Zero from Megaman Zero for Fraymakers by BeelzeSama

Castlevania: Zero X Harpuia for Castlevania: Dawn of Sorrow by Shametal

Yami Yugi with summons playable in Castlevania: Dawn of Sorrow for Castlevania: Dawn of Sorrow by Shametal

The Duelist for Slay the Spire by Nyoxide

The Bug Knight for Slay the Spire by VenIM

Hollow Knight for Don't Starve Together by WUDA and dirte737

Satori Komeiji for Don't Starve Together by Hansard

Reverie - Touhou Combinations for The Binding of Isaac: Rebirth by Cuerzor

The Binding of Undertale & Deltarune for The Binding of Isaac: Rebirth by Cake, Wight, and abcbadboy

Spamton for Stardew Valley by AngelOfTheWastes27 and mitchellojello

Paper Mario Partners in Stardew Valley for StardewValley by AnotherStardewValleySunday

Paper Mario for Rivals of Aether by Phoba

Hatsune Miku for Rivals of Aether by DinoBros

Hatsune Miku's Vocaloid Civilization for Sid Meier's Civilization V by Vicevirtuoso

Metal Gear Solid: Militaires Sans Frontieres Civilization: Subsistence for Sid Meier's Civilization V by Vicevirtuoso

Project M EX REMIX for Super Smash Bros. Brawl by the PMEX REMIX Team

(In the interest of transparently covering my own ass, I am not making any assertion about the quality of the above mods or the respective mod creators beyond "these mods by these people exist and are functional, probably".)

#chun li #street fighter #ryu number

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promptthebear · 1 year

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Kissmas Day 9

Prompt: Distracting kisses from someone that are meant to stop the other person from finishing their work, and give them kisses instead

Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Reader

CW: Female reader, lots and lots of swearing (It's Sandor c'mon now), reader is pregnant, some mentions of canon typical violence. If i forget anything please let me know!

A/N: Hello! This is a little different from the last few fics I wrote. I was going for like something cozy? So the pacing is a little slower and it's sort of a "not much happens but there's vibes" kind of fic. Hopefully you all enjoy it. I just really wanted to give my boy a story where he's safe, well fed, well rested, and doesn't have shit trying to kill him for like five minutes.

It was still dark when Sandor awoke, and colder than a wight’s arse. He could see the earliest light of dawn, though, through a nearby window. Pale yellow rays were starting to kiss the tops of the large, gloomy pines that encircled your cottage, and he knew it would be several hours yet before the sun would provide any proper warmth.

Grumbling and cursing under his breath, Sandor pushed back the furred hide that served as a blanket and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He hissed when his feet touched the floor, the chill so fierce it bit at his soles, even through the two layers of woolen socks he wore. Everyone, from great Kings to common fools, knew that Winters in the North were bitterly cold. But it was one thing to hear the tavern stories and another thing all together when you were trying to live through it.

He wondered, as he tugged on his boots, why he didn’t make for the Free Cities and Dorne like the few remaining knights did when the whole world finally fell apart in flame and ruin. Yes, the stories of the fine wines and glimmering cities where even beggars could be Kings might have been exaggerated, but it couldn’t be any worse than here. At the very least, it might be nice to live somewhere your piss didn’t freeze midstream and your cock didn’t stick to your hand each time you used the privy.

Sandor turned the idea over in his mind, finding that its appeal grew with each passing moment. However, any thoughts of leaving vanished the instant he glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of your face peeking out from under the edge of the blankets. Your expression was peaceful, almost serene.

He leaned over you, his hair falling around his cheeks like a curtain, and placed a quick kiss against your temple. You stirred slightly in response, your eyelashes fluttering as a soft moan escaped your lips.

“Whassamatter?”

Sandor chuckled and reached out to deliver a gentle pat to your side before answering.

“Nothing. Gonna go cut some firewood. I’ll be back before you’re up.”

You mumbled something in reply, too faint for him to make out, before sleep’s embrace claimed you once more. He chuckled again and fondly shook his head.

At one point, nobody wanted to spend a night in his bed, not even when he'd gone to a brothel. Those girls had been too frightened of his face to give him more than a few hours at most, leaving him to wake to a cold bed and empty purse the next morning.

You, on the other hand, were comforted enough by his presence to stay through the night. You even claimed you slept more soundly when he was with you. It had taken a while before Sandor believed you, but after over a year of waking with you warm and content beside him, he was starting to see that you’d been telling the truth.

The bedroom door squeaked as it opened, which made the large, shaggy dog the two of you kept leap to its feet and growl deep in its throat. Sandor shushed the animal, which immediately bounded over from its spot by the fireplace, tongue out and tail wagging at the sight of its master.

“Stupid mutt.” Sandor said, as he began to rumple and massage the dog’s ears. “Good thing you’re loyal, or else what use would you be?”

The dog, which you’d so cleverly called Nameless because Sandor had refused to give it one, eagerly leaned into his touch and gazed up at him in squinty eyed delight. You’d found the poor beast roughly around the same time Sandor had been able to walk again, where he’d been left to die in some abandoned crofter’s hut.

At first, Sandor had wanted nothing to do with the animal. As far as he was concerned, you didn’t need another mouth to feed, what with him still half crippled and you were only able to set the most basic of rabbit snares. There had barely been enough food for the two of you, let alone a walking gut disguised as a dog.

He’s a big, black dog you’d insisted on just like your crest. If that’s not a sign from the gods, I don’t know what is.

Bugger the gods had been Sandor’s reply, but in the end, he’d yielded, if only to have some peace from your griping. Since then, Nameless had followed Sandor around like a second shadow. He’d cursed the beast and the bitch that whelped him each time he got underfoot, but eventually this gave way to begrudging acceptance and finally a quiet sort of affection.

Whoever left Nameless behind had, whether they knew it or not, forfeited a skilled hunting dog. Despite his sweet nature with people, he could catch rabbits and squirrels as skillfully as any wolf, which kept you and Sandor well stocked with meat despite the North’s unforgiving climate.

Once again, Sandor found himself questioning why he’d chosen to live in the frozen arse end of the world as he tried to open the front door. A thick layer of ice had settled over the tiny cottage you called home, a parting gift from last night’s storm.

Despite ample shoving and force, the door was refusing to cooperate. With each attempt, the aged wood groaned and creaked as though in protest, but wouldn’t budge. Though he couldn’t see it, Sandor had a feeling the damn thing had frozen shut in its frame, which was a much more common occurrence than he would’ve liked it to be. With a muttered oath, he threw his shoulder against the wood, swearing louder at the shock of pain that came after.

A thin sweat had broken out on Sandor’s brow when he finally gave himself a moment to breathe, half slumped against the bastard door and wishing agonies upon whichever fool god made ice to begin with. He stole a glance over his shoulder, hoping the racket hadn’t woken you, and was greeted with the sight of Nameless. The dog was sitting a few feet behind him and watching the entire process as though it was a Mummer’s show Sandor was putting on especially for him.

“Are you just going to look? Or are you going to be helpful for once in your sorry life?”

By way of response, Nameless rose to his feet, stood for a moment, squinted at Sandor, and then let out a quick, loud sneeze that sent forth a spray of drool and dust motes into the chilled air. Satisfied, the dog sat down again with a bump, and stared at his master. He cocked his head to one side, and spread his mouth wide in a lolling, doggy grin, as if two of them were sharing some sort of secret joke.

Sandor couldn’t help but grin back, albeit a little lopsidedly, before returning to the problem of the door. Once upon a time, he could’ve split the bloody thing in two with the heel of his boot and a well-aimed kick, but he had been a different man then. The Hound, with all his strength and rage, had died with Gregor the day they both went over the falls. Now, all that remained was Sandor, who had to huff and puff and struggle with frozen doors just like anyone else.

When the door finally gave way, it did so with a mighty crack, which shattered the morning air in a flurry of loose snow that tumbled off the roof and bits of ice that shimmered like diamond shards as they fell.

Sandor stumbled outside, shoulder first since he was mid shove when the door decided to open. Instantly, he was blinded by the sheer, sterile whiteness of fresh snow and sunbeams that cut like yellow knives after the dimness of the cottage. For a moment, he had little choice but to wait and lean against the door frame while his vision cleared.

Despite the early hour, the woods were already awake and teeming with life. Around him, Sandor could hear all manner of birdsong, as well as the chattering of squirrels and the far off call of a solitary deer.

From behind the cottage came the sounds of the sheep, small, squat, shaggy creatures with more wool than brains between their ears. They bleated mournfully from inside their little shed, hoping it would get them fed all the sooner, but their cries stirred no pity in Sandor’s heart. He could hardly stand the sight of the fool things, with their empty eyes and the way they ran in panicked, useless circles every time they were frightened.

When you’d first asked Sandor why he hated the sheep so much, he told you it was because he had no patience for anything, man or beast, that was too stupid to know how stupid it actually was. You’d laughed at that, a bright, musical sound that made warmth bloom in Sandor’s chest, but you hadn’t left the matter alone like he’d hoped.

As far as you were concerned, there was no point in wasting time hating something so pathetic and harmless and so you persisted. If Sandor was stubborn, you were twice as much, pestering him with that unfaltering cheerfulness each time you went you to feed the damn things. Eventually, he relented, the name and reason tumbling from his lips like rain after a drought.

Mycha.

From the ashes of Sandor’s rage, shame had blossomed, and with it a thin, choking vine that clenched a little tighter around his heart each time he’d thought of the boy. He’d lived what felt like a thousand different lifetimes since that fateful day by the river, and no matter how much he’d drunk, fought or fucked, he couldn’t seem to shake that one particular ghost. It was as though a small part of Mycha had always been there, slowly poisoning what little shreds of goodness Sandor had managed to grasp hold of, and for a while, he supposed that was what he deserved. Until you came along.

You, who had dragged Sandor out from the water when he was little more than a half drowned corpse. You, who had set every broken bone, stitched every wound and fed him spoonfuls of broth even when he’d cursed you after each one. With your constant, stubborn, infuriating cheerfulness, you had talked Sandor into talking, smiled him into smiling, and somehow loved him into loving you back. You had become the sun that rose and set on each day of Sandor’s life. You were what got him up in the mornings and kept him working until dusk. The thought of losing you, or worse, having you cast him aside, scared him more than dragons, others, and his cunt brother ever had.

That was why, in the end, Sandor had chosen to tell you the truth. At least then you’d hear it from him, instead of whatever exaggerated horseshit the village gossips would invent. Ugly as it was, Sandor knew honesty would be his friend in this matter, and he’d had more than his fill of liars after spending so much time in service to the Lannisters.

And so you came to know the whole sordid tale, one dreary morning in the sheep shed. He spared no detail, no matter how gruesome it was or how poorly it reflected on his character. If you were going to keep loving him, it was best you knew the sort of man you’d chosen, lest the truth curdle what little affection he’d earned.

At first, Sandor wasn’t sure how you were going to take things. He half expected you to try to brain him with the bucket of sheep’s feed, then drive him off in a hail of shrieking and chunks of dung. Tears were also a likely possibility, though you didn’t really seem the type. But learning that the man who you’d let into your home and bed had the blood of an innocent child on his hands could make anyone behave strangely.

When he’d finally got up the courage to stop staring at his boots and look into your face, you, as always, surprised him. You were smiling at him, that same warm, gentle smile that Sandor remembered from the moment he’d woken up in your arms.

I know is what you’d said. I’ve always known, and I love you anyway.

You’d reached for him after, setting aside your bucket so you could bring your hand up and caress his scarred cheek. Sandor had leaned into your touch, like it was the only thing keeping him from breaking apart into a million pieces. Of course you’d known, who in all the Seven Kingdoms hadn’t heard the stories about King Joffery’s rabid dog and the things he’d done? He should’ve given you more credit.

From there, it had been easy enough to tell you why he hated those sheep. Their cries, the sheer terror in their eyes each time he approached? They reminded him too much of that boy, and regardless of how you felt about it, he was not entirely certain he’d ever be able to forget. It was one thing to have your forgiveness and another thing entirely to be able to forgive himself.

Give it time is what you’d told him And let me worry about the sheep. You’ve got enough to do around here, anyway.

The sound of Nameless’ barking is what suddenly tugged Sandor from his memories and back into the here and now. Somehow, the dog had managed to squeeze past him without Sandor noticing, and he was now diving face first through the fresh snow, on the hunt for grouse tracks and anything else that would provide a decent chase.

Sandor watched for a moment, unable to hide the smile playing about his lips. The sight of the big dog, now sporting a healthy dusting of snow across his shoulders and muzzle, was enough to brighten anyone’s mood. He supposed, after almost starving to death on his own, the idiot creature was simply happy to be alive long enough to see another day.

The two of them would go and check Sandor’s traps later. With any luck, they’d snag a rabbit or two that you could roast for supper and have plenty of bones left for Nameless to enjoy. But, in the meantime, you wouldn’t be cooking anything if there wasn’t any wood for the fire.

It hadn’t warmed up any by the time Sandor walked to the woodshed. The snows frozen crust crunched under his feet as he walked, while his breath floated away in thick, white clouds that dampened his beard. His axe, stuck blade down in the stump a few feet away from the woodshed, was a welcome sight.

It was by no means half the weapon his greatsword had been, but Sandor found comfort in the way its worn, wooden handle fit snugly into his grasp and in its blade that thirsted for pine sap instead of blood.

Before long, the sound of logs splitting filled the air, mingling with the soft creak of trees in the wind and an occasional bark from Nameless. Sandor quickly found his rhythm, letting the weight of the axe guide his arm on the downstroke and pushing aside each long with his other hand to be stacked in the shed later.

He went on like that for a while, cut, push, another log, and do it again. The repetition of the work was soothing, almost meditative. It brought a sense of peace to Sandor the way only busy hands could.

Cut, push, new log, do it again.

It was like the axe was an extension of his arm, with the beat of his heart matching each thud of the blade and his breath moving in time as the axe swung through the air. There was most likely going to be a fresh tree fall after last night’s winds, no doubt with plenty of new wood for Sandor to haul home. It probably wouldn’t hurt to bring a length of rope and the sledge when he went hunting with Nameless later. If they didn’t catch anything, at least they wouldn’t be coming home empty-handed.

The young pine he was currently working on was halfway gone by the time you’d made an appearance. Sandor hadn’t heard you at first, too absorbed in what he was doing. It was only after you’d said his name for the third time that he’d finally stopped and turned to look at you over his shoulder, squinting at you as though he wasn’t quite sure who you were or where he was.

“What are you doing out here?”

His tone, like everything about him, was gruff. You smiled at him all the same, knowing that for Sandor, gruffness and worry were often interchangeable.

“Came to check on you. You’ve been out here for hours.”

Sandor glanced upwards and was surprised to find the sun sitting squarely above his head. A sheen of sweat had also broken out over his arms and forehead, and he could feel where it was pooling in the hollows of his back. With a sigh, he set aside his axe and removed his heavy woolen cloak, before turning back towards you.

“Have you been asleep this whole time?”

The slight tilt of his chin in your direction indicated your odd choice of garments. Born to a wilding father and shepherd’s daughter, you always swore the North in your blood kept you from ever truly feeling cold. Still, a sleeping shift, boots, and knit shawl tossed hastily about your shoulders was a questionable choice in midwinter, even for a Northern girl.

You shook your head and gestured back towards the cottage where steam had fogged up the windows.

“I started the laundry, wanted to make use of the sunlight while we still have it. I figured it didn’t make much sense to change until my other clothes were dry, and then I could wash these next.”

Sandor listened to your explanation, his face unchanging save for an arched brow. When you finished, he raised his arm and pointed back at the cottage with a thick finger.

“You should be inside, you fool, woman. You’ll freeze your tits off out here.”

You laughed before wrapping your shawl a little tighter around your shoulders and closing the space between you and Sandor with a few steps.

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. I’m a Northerner. I don’t get cold. We’re not as pampered as you Southern city types.”

Sandor grumbled softly and shook his head, something about “tongue lashing harpy bitch.” There was no venom behind his words, however, only affectionate resignation. Instinctively, he brought his hand to rest on the curve of your stomach, a protective gesture towards the child you’d been carrying for the last five months. You reached up for Sandor’s face, cupping the scarred side as you usually did against the palm of your hand.

Sandor’s eyes fluttered shut in response to the touch, and for a moment, years seemed to fall away from his expression. He turned his head slightly to the side and pressed a kiss against the skin of your wrist. You loved seeing him like this, vulnerable and content. It was like a glimpse into the past, when he was young and full of hope. However, his eyes opened all too quickly, and he was back to being the Sandor you knew. Older, grumpy, and entirely done with your nonsense.

“Inside. Or I’ll sling you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes and bring you there myself”

You rolled your eyes, knowing he’d do no such thing, not while you were pregnant, anyway.

“Fine. But I want a kiss first.”

There was more grumbling, but Sandor did as you asked, catching your mouth against his while his hands snaked down to encircle your hips. You leaned into the kiss, pressing your body as close to his as you could get while still keeping your feet on the ground. His beard was coarse against your cheeks, and he smelled faintly of the woods and sweat. The heat of him seemed to envelope you, like a familiar blanket.

You stood like that for a while, the two of you bathed in morning sunshine and kissing as though you’d never get a chance to do it again. When Sandor tried to pull away, you chased him, closing the space between your mouths by wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him downwards. This kiss was a little messier and rougher than the first, most likely due to Sandor’s surprise, but you didn’t mind. It was only when you nibbled at his bottom lip that he broke the kiss off in earnest, catching your two hands in one of his and trapping them against his chest.

“None of that. I told you, go inside.”

You stared up at Sandor and pulled your mouth into an exaggerated pout.

“One more? Please? And then I’ll go, I promise.”

Sandor swore softly under his breath and used his free hand to adjust the front of his trousers before leaning down to claim your mouth again. For a moment, it seemed as though you were going to get your way. Sandor had brought his other hand up to twine in your hair, which only served to deepen the kiss. You welcomed it eagerly, opening your lips and running your tongue against the seam of his mouth. He let out a groan in response, the hand that still held yours squeezing tight. You squirmed against him eagerly, trying to wrap one of your legs around his and haul yourself upwards, your hips seeking the friction they so desperately craved.

This, however, didn’t have the desired effect. Sandor began to laugh, and then placed his hands on your shoulders, gently pushing you back so you could no longer reclaim his mouth.

“I’m not a tree, you little minx, so stop trying to climb me. You said one more, you’ve had one more, and now you’re going to go inside or else.”

One look at Sandor’s face, and you knew there was no use in pushing your luck. With a long, suffering sigh, you stepped away, already mourning the absence of his mouth and hands on your body.

“Fine. But I better see you again before it gets dark. I’ll need to wash those clothes you’re wearing, and I’m not warming up your dinner twice.”

Sandor grunted, the noise vaguely affirmative enough that you took it as agreement. You turned to head back towards the cottage, only to stop mid step when you felt the familiar sting of an open hand strike your ass. You spun back around, your shawl spinning about your shoulders, and stared at Sandor, who grinned wolfishly back.

“That’s not fair!” you sputtered, your already pink cheeks flushing deeper.

“Nothing ever is,” came the reply.

You shook your head, turning once again to leave. Sandor let you do so without further torment, watching the way the sunlight made your hair glisten and the subtle swing of your hips as you walked. Nothing was ever fair, but sometimes things got close, even for an old dog like himself.

#kissmas 2022 #sandor clegane x reader #sandor clegane #the hound #sandor celgane fluff #sandor clegane x you #got fic

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silverskye13 · 1 year

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So, the thing about being damseled, Welsknight is rapidly realizing, is you don't really have to be a damsel to do it. Or have it done to you, that is. Being damseled isn't really a gender thing, like all the old knights tales would have him believe. He doesn't have to have long blonde hair, or a princess dress. He doesn't have to make deals with obscure fae gods or spirits, doesn't have to know how to weave golden thread. Heck, he doesn't even have to be locked in a tower. Damseling -- that is, the state of being a damsel in distress -- is a much broader scoped state of being. It's not so much a trope or a role, and more of... An essence. A vibe. If one can be trapped and helpless and in need of a knight in shining armor to save the day, one can in fact be damseled just fine without any of the key fairytale hallmarks.

How does Welsknight know all this? Well, because he's managed to damsel himself, of course.

Welsknight is trapped. He should have known better. Well? Should he have known better? Eh. Even if he should have, he definitely shouldn't have expected to. He's new to Vault Hunting.

Iskall and Stress made it sound so easy. Yeah! Just go find a vault, gear up, don't be afraid to run for your life. Nothing can go wrong if you're careful. Beware the curses and traps and tripwires. Don't eat anything growing on the walls. Fight. Survive. Win! They do it all the time, with their adventuring teams and alone. Whatever suits their fancy. Just don't anger the gods and do run screaming if something way beyond your skill level wanders into the room. Cowardice? Nonsense! Vaults aren't duels, they're thrills. Thrills that sometimes glean cool treasure, and treasure, while awesome, can't challenge your honor and isn't worth your life. So go, kill some monsters, have fun, run when you need to. It's low-high stakes, choose your own adventuring at its finest!

And Wels is a knight errant, alright? He's slain dragons. And withers. And, yes, rescued a few damsels. He's good at what he does. So when he and Iskall went for some drinks at a local tavern, and Welsknight whined that he was getting bored of escorting mining parties and killing oversized lizards for neglectful nobles, well, Iskall had smiled and pointed him to the Vaultlands. And Welsknight, bored and stupid in his boredom, had decided raiding vaults was a great idea.

"If I get out of this," Welsknight vows in his most solemn, oath-binding knight's voice, "I am going to punch Iskall right in his grinning, stupid face."

He is barricading a door with anything he can find, all while the screams and shrieks of some persistent undead challenge his fervor from the other side. The undead here are different than they are outside the Vaults. The slow, lumbering, hollow things that amble blindly around deep caves and unstable mines don't hold a candle to these creatures. These are malevolent undead, things that seem to hate Welsknight personally, inhabited by the dreams of sleeping gods that were, probably, sealed in these Vaults for a freaking reason. He's pretty sure one of them is jibbering with the voice of his dead brother, which is, honestly, demonic scales of unfairness. And he would know demonic unfairness. Welsknight has fought exactly one demon, and while he certainly isn't an expert, he knows more about how much they cheat and torment than he had ever wanted to know. And anyway, how is he supposed to kill that kind of malevolence in the undead? He's not! For heaven's sake, he's faced fae with less personal malevolence, and the fae court is the most petty place on earth!

Welsknight kicks his barricade with an armored boot, making sure it'll hold. The stack of pilfered detritus shakes but stands firm. Somewhere in that lot is his broken sword, barring the door shut. The blade shattered in four pieces when he was tackled by some wight-creature, not because the creature was that strong, but because he'd just used it to fight some sort of corrosive slime, and really, the fact that living acid slime exists in the Vaults is unfair, and something Iskall really should've warned him about. At least it hadn't gotten on his armor.

Welsknight backs away from the barred door, listening to the angry screams of what lay beyond it. There's a lot of name-calling going on. "Come to your death, coward!" And "Brother please! Help me! Don't let it take me!" And "Sleep with us forever knight! Aren't you tired?" Screech and groan through the air as though the door and barricade aren't there to muffle it. There's hysterical cackling as well, which is kind of typical. He can't tell if the loudness of the noise is supernatural, or if it means there's another entrance to the room he hasn't noticed yet. As unsettling as the supernatural option is, he kind of prefers that right now. Weaponless and exhausted, he's not sure how well he'll manage if the undead just start pouring in from a side door somewhere.

Welsknight blinks, and belatedly realizes he's blinking back tears. His hands shake as he wipes them away. Yeah, okay, maybe the screaming-with-the-voice-of-his-dead-brother thing was getting to him more than he thought it would. He's a knight, not an iron golem. He still has feelings. He tries to be detached and gentle about it. He knows what fear is. The first time he fought a dragon, he cried. He cried a lot, actually. After it was dead he lay on the ground sobbing for a good hour, which had been terribly inconvenient at the time, since it had broken one of his ribs. Terror kind of just, does that to him -- makes him cry. He learned a long time ago not to be ashamed of it, no matter how badly timed it could be.

"Right," Welsknight croaks into the room around him. "Cry about it later. Escape now."

It's not a big room that he's trapped himself in. It has the trappings of an ancient hall, with some newness to it, indicating he isn't the first adventurer to stumble in here. Rotting boxes and chests are tumbled against a collapsed wall, the smell of damp rot wafting off them. One has candles and two plates on it, someone's makeshift dining set up, and there's the scorched remains of a campfire. It looks pathetic compared to the massive columns and reliefs it sits beneath. Maybe this place was a temple? It sure seems kind of temple-y, but Welsknight has yet to encounter an altar to any Vault Gods -- which is probably good. Iskall had mentioned those were guarded by scary creatures, and if "malevolent undead who steal the voices of your loved ones from your memories to torment you while they devour your flesh" hadn't registered on Iskall's "scary creatures to warn Wels about" index, he really, really doesn't want to know what insane creatures might guard the altar chambers of the Vault Gods.

"Probably like, undulating tentacle demons with acid breath," Welsknight mutters out loud as he meanders the chamber, searching for something useful. "Or maybe the Gods themselves just come down and use you as a hackey sack until you prove your worth or die. That sounds about right."

The cold stone walls make no comment, which is probably for the best, since given current trends, they would probably talk back with the voice of his disapproving parents, or maybe the old knight he'd been squired to, which would really start straining his already stressed out psyche right about now.

He can still hear his brother's voice calling to him through the door.

For as impressive as the room is, there really isn't much in here of use. The boxes from the old expedition have let the moisture in the room in. There's old, indecipherable food inside that is now mostly black sludge. The candles might be useful if he had anything resembling a tinderbox to light them with. Everything else in here is far older, and mostly carved stone too heavy to pilfer. This place has obviously been picked over before. No relics are on the walls. The one chest he finds that is (probably) older than the boxes contains only a single glorious cobweb as a prize. Welsknight has just about submitted to his fate to die in obscurity in a random Vault somewhere, when he encounters a corpse. It is not reanimated dead, though he does give it a few good kicks to make sure it doesn't feel like crawling to life and talking with ominous voices.

"Well, at least the ambient necromancy going on in here has limits," Welsknight sighs, squatting down on the balls of his feet to pick the corpse over. "Well, friend, I don't suppose you've got anything helpful on you?"

Their chainmail is rusted, their features, save for a few whisps of black-brown hair, are decayed away. He manages to find a coin purse with some woefully old looking coins -- so the chances of some other adventuring party stumbling to his rescue are quite small then. He picks up a shield from them that, though dry rotted, looks like it could block one or two more hits before giving up the ghost. On their back is a scabbard so rusted, it looks like the sword might be fused inside. Welsknight grimaces, then shrugs and concedes that even a brittle sword is better than none. Still, it doesn't make prying the sword belt off the old bones any more pleasant. There's a lot of brittle cracking, and a lot of wincing on Welsknight's part, before he finally manages to get it free.

"Sorry friend, but I think I need this a little more than you do."

The skull rocks a bit on the floor as it settles, but otherwise doesn't seem to care. The sockets aren't even facing his direction. Welsknight takes that as his sign that he isn't horribly cursed... Or at least no more so than when he first got trapped in here. Welsknight rubs at the blade, trying to see how much of the rust is superficial. A bit chips off beneath his fingernail, revealing bright silver beneath.

"A silver scabbard?" Welsknight raised his eyebrows at the corpse, "Well, weren't you a glamorous fellow?"

Welsknight grimaces and, taking ahold of the hilt, draws the sword. It pulls a lot easier than he thought it would. The rust holds it for a moment, and then smoothly releases, revealing bright steel underneath. The sword unsheathes with a ringing hiss.

"--ON'T SHEATH THE SWORD YOU IDIOT!"

The scream is right by his ear. Welsknight lets out a startled yelp and turns to face the voice, tripping over his feet and landing in an inglorious heap on the floor.

Standing in front of him is a knight garbed in black armor, a fiery plume rippling from his helm. His back is facing Welsknight, and he stands with his shoulders hunched, one arm reaching forward like he's trying to stop someone. The knight takes a step back, surprised, then rocks on his heels.

"Oh." He says, then looks down at the skeleton by his feet. "Oh."

He stares at the skeleton for a long moment, shrugs, and then gives the skull a hard kick, sending it clattering off across the room. "Serves you right, you asshole!"

Welsknight is crying again. He can't help it. He's scared and overwhelmed, and this knight is so, so terribly familiar. From the armor to the way he stands, to his voice. And when the knight turns to face him finally, the face is familiar too.

"Hels?" Welsknight whispers.

Helsknight, his definitely-dead brother, looks down at him with uncomprehending eyes. Then he scowls, "Nope. Sorry."

"I-- but--"

"I am the Spirit of the Sword," Helsknight cuts him off, rolling his eyes petulantly. "I serve the wielder of my blade, loyal in death, as I wasn't in -- blablabla. I take the form of the protector, the guardian, the comforting, and yes, I'm used to the whole "oh you look just like my dead loved one" thing. So let's skip the unnecessary angst, okay?"

A particularly loud shriek from the ghouls outside echoes shrilly through the room before Welsknight can even attempt to gather his response. Helsknight spins to face the barred door and takes a threatening step towards it.

"Oh would you SHUT UP? We're in the middle of something!"

The sounds behind the door fall abruptly silent. Welsknight stares in bafflement, feeling just confused enough to stop crying. The Spirit Of The Sword That Looks Just Like His Dead Brother offers a hand to him.

"Come on, get up." He says as he pulls Welsknight to his feet roughly, and then gives him a long, appraising look. "Well, you look like you might know how to swing my sword, so there's something at least."

"I'm-- I'm a knight errant," Welsknight tells him, trying to recover some of his senses. "What-- are you another trick of this terrible place?" Anger starts to bubble underneath everything else he's feeling, and his fists clench. "I'm tired of the stupid mind games and the trickery, and everything screaming like Hels and---!"

Helsknight holds up his hands, looking something between annoyed and appeasing. "Aye, yes, I understand. My last wielder did die in this Vault. No I'm not a demon, or an evil spirit -- unless you intend to use my sword for evil, in which case, I'm evil by proxy." Helsknight ushered to himself. "The enchantment in the blade turns me into something you're familiar with. Whoever I am, I don't have his memories or his mannerisms--" his lip curls in something like disgust as he adjusts his breastplate, "--or his taste in armor. Really, what's wrong with some nice high mobility chainmail? Or leather? Leather is amazing! It's quiet and doesn't feel like I'm carrying a whole damn armory around."

Welsknight screwed his eyes shut and breathed. Alright. Alright. He's okay. He can deal with this. He can-- well at least he can ignore the specter of his brother following him around for as long as it takes to get out of this Vault. But when he gets out ohhh, oh Iskall owes him six pints at the nearest tavern and a damn good explanation.

"Sword Spirit," Welsknight asks after another set of calming breaths, "can you fight?"

Helsknight looks down at his hip where a sword is sheathed. He draws it, tests its weight and shrugs. "I'd be a poor sword spirit if I couldn't."

"Alright then," Welsknight picks up the magical sword from where he'd dropped it and walks towards the barred door. "Let's get out of here, then."

Well, there is one good thing about being damseled at least, Welsknight thinks bitterly as Helsknight begins moving the debris. Someone always sends you a knight in shining armor.

#the barking writer #welsknight #helsknight #swordheart au #sorry i couldnt resist this has been rotating in the back of my head ever since i read swordheart #hermitcraft fic #vault hunters fic #i know nothing about vault hunters except for like 10 eps of Iskalls singleplayer season 1 lets play please forgive me vh fans #helsmits

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vasiliquemort · 2 months

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When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme, In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights, Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best, Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have express’d Even such a beauty as you master now. So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring; And for they looked but with divining eyes, They had not skill enough your worth to sing: For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

Within all tender's, all benign's that are within - all thankfulness, all swaying notions and gentle dispositions of sunlike and of tall, are all for @Valkyrrhic's domes of gracious and beau!<зз

Thousands of thank-you's are for your hands, thousands of adore's are for your benigns!

#takehiko #original character #oc #other's oc #digital art #portrait #Naruto #Naruto OC #Jinchuuriki #Matatabi #Kumogakure OC #Naruto Jinchuuriki #Jinchuuriki OC #Matatabi Jinchuuriki #Pyrokinesis

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thepineconelord · 2 months

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Ghost-Maker Reading List and Order (ultimate cool version by me so its correct)

essential reading/recommended reading/optional reading

Batman v3 (2016) #100 [this is his first appearance, but it's very brief and not necessary to understand the character]

Batman v3 (2016) #102-105 [Ghost-Maker's introduction arc, very important]

Batman v3 (2016) #106-111 [lead-in to the Fear State arc, lots of good moments, the secondary story starting in #107 is Ghost-Maker focused and absolutely essential to understanding him]

Batman v3 2021 annual [my favorite Ghost-Maker story of all time]

Batman Fear State Alpha [he's barely in this, but if you want some context]

Batman v3 (2016) #112-117

Catwoman (2018) #37-38 [I have a fun time with these appearances, but you don't need to read them unless you like the Wight Witch story-line]

Batman Urban Legends #11-13 [he shows up briefly in the Wight Witch 'Stigma' story-line]

Batman Fear State Omega [he's barely in this, but he has such funny lines]

Batman v3 (2016) #118-121 [context for Batman Inc stuff if you want it]

Shadow Wars [an event story that Ghost-Maker shows up in. Find a reading order on the Wikipedia page]

Batman: The Knight (2022) #1-10 [technically he doesn't show up until issue 4, but just read the whole thing. Also this is the most up to date cannon of the backstory, even if I like it less :/]

Batman v3 2022 annual [Batman Inc kick-off]

Batman Incorporated v3 (2022-2023) #1-12

DC Pride (2023) "The Dance"

Misc non-story appearances (you'll be disappointed if you read these for him)

Infinite Frontier #0

Justice League (2018) #75

DC Pride (2021)

DC Pride (2022)

Harley Quinn: Uncovered

DC's 'Twas the Mite Before Christmas

Wildstorm 30th Anniversary Special

Trade Paperbacks

Ghostmaker/Clownhunter [collected issues that mostly feature stuff from the issues I've already mentioned above]

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hannahleah · 9 months

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Alexia Wight by Nick Knight

#Alexia Wight #Nick Knight #photography #fashion photography #fashion editorial #fashion

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goodqueenaly · 3 months

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I’ve never come up with an entirely perfect working theory on Coldhands, but the one I lean toward most is that Coldhands is - somehow - an “ordinary” wight (to the extent the word can be used) whom Bloodraven has skinchanged into, effectively taking over from the Others' control of him, and is using as his agent, so to speak, outside the cave of the children of the forest. Whether or not this sort of skinchanging is even possible, I have no idea - but I gravitate toward this idea because I could see Bloodraven using, and justifying the use of, such a being to achieve his ends. As a wight, Coldhands would presumably raise no suspicions among other wights, and perhaps not the Others either - a useful cover for one who had to travel across many hostile miles between the Wall and the cave (and indeed, when Coldhands shows up to save Sam and Gilly, there doesn't seem to be any indication that the wights are going to attack him). Supernatural agents serving as his spies or as part of his spy network is of course nothing new for Bloodraven, given his actions in his political life: even if the stories Dunk remembers that Bloodraven “could change his face, put on the likeness of a one-eyed dog, even turn into a mist” and command “gaunt gray wolves [to hunt] down his foes” and “carrion crows [to spy] for him and [whisper] secrets in his ear” were not all completely true (though some, I think, undoubtedly were), Bloodraven was certainly willing to use a glamour to disguise himself as a hedge knight at the tourney at Whitewalls. From fabricating an identity, and face, to garb himself as another person, Bloodraven has, perhaps, progressed to taking over another person (or at least, their body) entirely, projecting himself into the world as he no longer physically can.

More to the point, I like the way that Coldhands as a skinchanged wight controlled by Bloodraven might in a way represent Bloodraven himself (beyond merely serving as his agent). Like Bloodraven, Coldhands is a Night’s Watch ranger, both complete with tattered old blacks that once reflected their Night's Watch membership, seemingly dead “long ago” but in fact alive (or as much as either can be deemed alive, anyway). Coldhands is, like Bloodraven, a figure both sustained and bound by supernatural power. As Bloodraven has “lived beyond his mortal span” thanks to the weirwoods’ magic, so Coldhands, though killed long before his encounters with Sam and Bran, walks and talks like a living being; however, just as Brynden is fated sooner rather than later to “[go] into the trees” completely, to remain permanently in the cave and join that lineage of greenseers on their weirwood seats, so Coldhands is restricted to the wilds beyond the Wall, permitted neither to cross the Wall’s boundaries nor to enter the children’s warded cave. Coldhands no more hesitates to serve Bran, the Reeds, and Hodor the physical flesh of Night’s Watch deserters, despite the horror of cannibalism, than Bloodraven hesitated to serve Daeron II and Aegon V, metaphorically, the flesh of Daemon Blackfyre and his sons and Aenys Blackfyre, respectively, despite the proscriptions against kinslaying and violating guest right (albeit perhaps with some personal qualms for Bloodraven to the former). In the sort of amusing twist Bloodraven himself might appreciate, the man who once spoke with the king’s voice as Hand now perhaps almost literally has another speak with his voice while he himself sits on a mystical throne. Too, as Bloodraven had once appeared to Dunk looking like “a living corpse” as the former rode through King’s Landing, so now a real living corpse, just as pale, would represent Bloodraven as he rode across the lands beyond the Wall.

What I like about this idea as well is the way in which it adds to the nuance and ethical questions surrounding Bloodraven and the magic he uses. To be clear, I think Bloodraven does care about saving the world: the literally superhuman effort put in to shepherding Bran to becoming his greenseer successor is I believe indicative of this aim. Nevertheless, by skinchanging into a raised wight, Bloodraven may be approaching something close to the rather more nefarious magic employed by the Others; if the very evil of the Others is in their enslaving the reanimated dead for the purposes of destruction, how moral or immoral is Bloodraven’s similar use of a wight, albeit for ultimately positive (or intended to be positive) ends? This potential willingness to take over a human body through magical means, with all the accompanying implications for and discussions on the morality of the actor in question, echoes not only in Varamyr’s disturbing Prologue (with his attempts to seize Thistle) but even in the otherwise very sympathetic Bran and his forcible takeover of Hodor, especially in non-survival or unintentional situations. Obviously, I do not think Bran is malicious or evil, much less on the level of monstrous Varamyr, but I do think the author wants readers to recognize the horror implicit here - through the Others, through these circumstances with Bran, and through, perhaps, Bloodraven’s control of Coldhands (hence the chilling self-identification of Coldhands as “your monster, Brandon Stark).

#asoiaf meta #coldhands

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jedimaesteryoda · 5 months

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"That come from Hardin's Tower, m'lord," Horse reported. He might have said more, but the scream cut him off. Val, was Jon's first thought. But that was no woman's scream. That is a man in mortal agony. He broke into a run. Horse and Rory raced after him. "Is it wights?" asked Rory. Jon wondered. Could his corpses have escaped their chains? The screaming had stopped by the time they came to Hardin's Tower, but Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun was still roaring. The giant was dangling a bloody corpse by one leg, the same way Arya used to dangle her doll when she was small, swinging it like a morningstar when menaced by vegetables. -ADWD, Jon XIII

At the time of Jon's stabbing, the setting is basically a mimicry of the time of his birth at the Tower of Joy.

A northern "princess" in a tower guarded by a ferocious figure with Val guarded in Hardin's Tower by Wun Wun as opposed to Lyanna in tower of joy guarded by Kingsguard

There is a baby boy inside with her ostensibly of royal blood using a false identity (Craster's son posing as the son of the King-beyond-the-Wall)

The "princess" is betrothed to a knight she does not want to marry when she has affections for a certain Targaryen prince (who happens to be the son of Rhaegar)

There is a confrontation between a man who has come to take her and her guard

A battle ensues outside involving a man of Stark blood

This scene could indicate that Jon is about to undergo rebirth.

#asoiaf #house targaryen #a song of ice and fire #jon snow #nights watch #val #the wall #rhaegar targaryen #rhaegar #rhaegar x lyanna

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itshype · 1 year

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My DC x DP Masterpost

Here is my masterpost of works that fall into the category of a crossover of DC comics and Danny Phantom. Mostly, these will be notfics. If any of the links are broken please message me ASAP. Edit: I will not be doing taglists because people are quite frankly abusing the idea.

What's a notfic?

So, this was really common in fandom like 10 years ago but it's less common now so I'm just including this quick explanation in case. Notfic/Not!Fic is the halfway point between an actual fic and a prompt. It mostly sort of has the tone of describing another fic to somebody, or working out an ongoing plot with a friend (e.g. Instead of writing out an entire set of dialogue, a notfic might just put "Jason and Tim discuss why they both want to fake their deaths").

Permissions Housekeeping

I totally don't mind if anyone wants to take all or part of what I've written for any prompt and write an actual fic or create another transformative work as long as I'm appropriately credited. If you're just taking the most oblique inspiration from something I've made I'd appreciate at least a tag so I can read it!

Also if you'd like to tag me in any of your works please do, provided that it's the first if it's in a series and not Jazz/Jason as the main pairing, please.

Works

Kingmaker, Kingbreaker, Crowntaker, Realmshaker

Danny isn't the Ghost King but after defeating Pariah Dark the new king knows Danny has massive political influence.

Navigate any storm, with nothing but the stars to guide you

Danny is obsessed with space so the whole 'superhero' thing is on the backburner.

Please don’t pet me! I am working!

Repeat after me, SERVICE ANIMAL CUJO. (Minor Connor Kent/Danny Fenton)

It's a boy, congratulations... to me!

Danny insists Connor is his clone even though he's really not.

Gaslight, Gatekeep, Girlboss, Godhood

Danny gets caught and tells the JLA that neither he nor Vlad are ghosts.

New type of Vlad just dropped

When a ghost's obsession is destroyed, they get a new one.

Mother of the Year

Talia Al Ghul gets to be a good mother. As a treat.

Amorpho Whomst?

Danny, Dani and Dan trade off on responsibilities.

Halfa? Half a What?

Danny's half human, no one's sure what the other half is.

The second, secret Justice League

There's another Justice League that not even the Justice League is cleared to know about.

Excuse me, do you work here? Danny is sent to represent the first, non-secret Justice League.

Triple Threat

The Champion of All Magic and The King of All Ghosts have a mutual triplet.

Like peas in a pod [person]

Jason is healed of the pit rage but has a whole new problem.

There's a Mr Wight Hood to see you?

Jason adopts Danny instead of being the Red Hood.

The Wight Baby For The Job Sequel to Mr Wight Hood

You Make Miso Scared

Danny's always talking about soup time.

Reverse Bruce

Give baby Jason MORE PARENTS!

Work Experience

Danny has to learn about Ghost culture before he can rule it.

Mansplain Yourself

Constantine probably knows best about ghosts over the Justice League's newest member...

The Opposite of a Golden Ticket

International star Ember McLain is in danger

Haustoria Horror

Undergrowth's got Poison Ivy

Like and Survive!

Danny runs an advice website for young heroes

You're not the Boss of me!

Batman accidentally outs his family to Danny

This is a PSA

Danny's Wail affects the JLA

Floral Fiasco

Poison Ivy errs

How I Met Your Brother

Dan joins the JLA

The Manhunter's Manhunt

There's a miscommunication with the Martian Manhunter

The Green Knight

Jason lives (just this once)

___

The Job

Danny's gotta put food on the table (Also available in DP only version)

Always A King (DC x DP)

The Realms must have a king

Series: The Surprise Obsessions of the Ghostly Batclan (image heavy)

Ghost Bruce HC

Ghost Jason HC

Mini prompts

Danny Phantom vs The IRS ; part 2

Phantom's mistaken identity

Billy and Danny are secret twins

Danny scars the batfam

Superheroes need more therapy

All-caste Jason

Poison Control

#masterpost #dc x dp #dp x dc #danny phantom #danny fenton #justice league #mine #batman #tucker foley #the JLA #teen titans #titans #vlad masters #vlad plasmius #sam manson #valerie gray #jazz fenton

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