#「mercurys wips」

[a-ikuoliver]

fank yew my love @fre4kie for the tag <3

rules: pick a bunch of your wips and summarize them as badly as possible, then ask your followers to vote on which one they'd be most likely to read. multiple/all/none options are completely optional.

no pressure tags!!! <3: @0301995 @kingkatsuki @kweenkatsuki-fics @mechamedusa @aquadenks @tenkomura

[eliounora]

my country bumpkin🍅

[valenkad]

Some wips. Idk always forget about tumblr :-P🫵

[a-ikuoliver]

me when half of my sentences are whole paragraphs

katsuki doesn’t respond with a single word, her dishevelment, glossy smirk, and a picture she flashes them enough of an answer; her phone screen dimly displaying the cute girl she had gone upstairs with, now with her brown bob messily strewn over the pillow she laid on, fringe sticking to her forehead when she smiled up at the camera, holding up two fingers as she posed with her shirt unevenly buttoned.

you want to look closer, a morbid curiosity washing over you, simultaneously wishing katsuki would answer every question hanta and denki threw her way and wishing she had never even invited you to this party, never met her friends, never seen the look in her eyes as the girl tugged her upstairs.

you’re standing before you even register your own movements, stumbling a little on your feet as you stand, only just managing to steady yourself before spilling your drink.

three pairs of eyes are trained on you, all of them curious, intrigued, denki the only one to cringe away from you, worried you might vomit where you stood.

gingerly, you spun back around to face the group, a shock of adrenaline sobering you when your glassy eyes locked on katsuki’s mischievous ones.

“you wanna go, or somethin’?” her voice was rough, deep like it was after she’d sleep at your house, like it was before she’d fall asleep at your house, shrouded in dim light with your fingers tangling in the shorter hair at the nape of her neck.

again, you grew quiet, a heat swirling inside your stomach that didn’t match the jealous upset circling your head.

thank u lukey!!! no pressure tags: @fushigurro @weird-dere-writes @kaidabakugou @eijirhoe @t-tomuras @deskaisers @kweenkatsuki-fics

tyty for the tag, @emelkae!

rules: post the last seven sentences you've written, then tag seven people.

this was actually never supposed to see the light of day (didn't even make it out of my notes to a doc lmao) so no title for this

How long until he himself is slain in the name of peace across the nation and finally laid to rest in waters marred by his own blood and for once not that of others? Surely the blood should be gone by now. But he can feel it, splashing up to his shoulders. Pouring down his lungs. He is wading in it. How much blood is on his hands? Too much.

open tag ofc!! buuuut for the challenge rules i'm tagging: @perpetualcynicism, @minhxiao, @frankenjoly, @legend-of-cupcake, @thirdleaflogic, @cocrante, @airbluest

[nettleparade]

um....hiiiiii.......nice to meet youuuuu............

[helveticathestitcher]

Some WIP shots of an upcoming pride month custom build. It's a little late but I live in Portland and our pride is this weekend so I'm gonna give it to me.

Edit:

You can see the finished piece here

[ultrainfinitepit]

Sketched out some angel ideas for different Angelic Hierarchy themes. I'm leaning toward Celestial Horror, Animals, or Planets myself - but you can let me know in the poll below what your favorite is :))

[francarieq]

i heart hermes i’m so sorry guys

[decaffeinated-heads]

Tired but cooking

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for lottie behind the cut; a pocketful of Kons. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

He’s the only one who cares about that, Bart guesses, since nobody else has to.

So it sucks, yeah. 

It really, really sprocking sucks. 

Helen sighs, her shoulders slumping, then glances back towards the TV. Bart finishes off the last bar and throws the box and wrappers away and glowers at the stupid grilled cheese that’s taking forever and then grabs a couple of bananas and eats them too and then gets back to the couch just in time to see Match start nibbling testingly at his own little chunk of protein bar and Helen finishing turning back to the TV. 

“Is this still on?” he asks, squinting dubiously at it. It’s still the news, and on top of that still footage of the maybe-armored/maybe-robot guy. How much of that do they even have, geez. 

A lot, he guesses. 

“It’s been less than five seconds, Bart,” Helen says, looking frustrated for a moment–a million-billion moments, at Bart’s speed–and then just sighs again. “You need to stop spending so much time in subjective time. It’s doing nothing for your patience.” 

“I guess,” Bart replies with a shrug, and then Helen doesn’t say anything back for so long that he forgets what they were talking about to begin with and runs back to the kitchen for another banana. He forgot to save a bite of the first two for Match to try, and maybe he’ll like ‘em or at least he’ll like getting brought ‘em ‘cuz he liked him setting up the mirrors and stuff for him and why’s he always have to slow down, why can’t anyone else just grifin’ speed up for– 

“Bart!” Helen shouts out of nowhere, and Bart trips over the coffee table coming back into the living room and, uh. Whoops. 

Ow, he thinks from the floor, blinking up at her as Match immediately drops his protein bar chunk and starts screeching at her, for like . . . some reason? 

Bart’ll figure it out later, he guesses. 

“What was that for?” he asks her with a frown. Helen looks frustrated, and Match zips over and starts pushing at his face with his tiny little super-strong hands, for . . . some other reason, Bart guesses, he really doesn’t know. “Stop squishing my face. Why are you squishing my face? It’s annoying.” 

Match scowls at him, then grabs onto both of his cheeks and squishes them together. 

“I think you’re kind of a brat,” Bart says, squinting sourly at him. “Did I tell you I think you’re kind of a brat yet? ‘Cuz I definitely do think that.” 

He really definitely thinks that, yeah. 

“Imp,” Match says accusingly. Bart doesn’t really feel like that’s an answer, really? 

Then again it’s not like Match knows any other words yet and he definitely doesn’t know any Pocket-talk, so that’s probably kinda unavoidable and– 

“Please focus, Bart,” Helen says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “If this is your soulmate on the news . . .” 

“Oh, he’s probably not,” Bart says with a shrug, because Match really seemed annoyed when he asked if the guy on the news was him or not. “Especially if he’s Superman. She’s? They’re? I dunno, I didn’t figure out if they’re piloting a robot yet or not, so who knows.” 

Helen–frowns, and lowers her hand away from her face to give him a weird look. Bart pretends it’s not a weird look. It’s fine. He’s just–it’s fine. That’s all. 

“Bart, your soulmate is Superman,” Helen says. 

“Oh, yeah,” Bart agrees. “But he’s not that Superman. Like, the first guy, I mean. The first guy’s still gonna be dead for like–ummm, what’s the date again?” 

Helen stares at him some more. 

Bart doesn’t fidget. 

At least not slow enough for her to see, anyway. 

“Pretty sure the robot guy isn’t the first Superman either,” he says. “Superman’s real big on people seeing his face. And doesn’t even wear gloves or anything. But like, especially the face thing, right?” 

“Why do you think your soulmate isn’t Superman, Bart?” Helen asks carefully. 

“‘Cuz I asked Match?” Bart replies, wondering why that’s even, like, a question? Obviously he asked Match. A) it’s super-obvious, and b) why would he not ask Match? Who else would even know, anyway? 

“You . . . asked him,” Helen repeats slowly, staring blankly at him again. 

“Yeah,” Bart says, still wondering why this is even a question. “Like, he’d know. And also I wasn’t actually allowed to leave the house and I don’t have the Fortress of Solitude’s phone number or anything so–” 

“Bart,” Helen cuts in, glancing sidelong at the TV for a moment, and then down at Match. “If he’s not Superman, then who is he?” 

“I dunno,” Bart says. “Maybe he’s Nightwing, actually."

“Who?” Helen looks bewildered. Bart squints at her. Do they not have Nightwing yet? At least one of them, anyway? 

“I mean, there’s been a lot of Supermen, and I guess a lot of them looked pretty much the same?” he says, then shrugs purposelessly. Not that he ever really paid attention to all that ancient history stuff, just he vaguely remembers hearing about it a couple times. “I guess, anyway. Though maybe he’s Supergirl, actually, I guess she looks kinda like Superman sometimes too. Match, are you Supergirl?” 

Match fixes him with the most dubious look in the world, then gestures pointedly at himself. Bart has absolutely no idea what said gesturing means, but okay, he guesses. 

“I don’t think he’s Supergirl either,” he tells Helen. ”Though if he is maybe somebody should ask her about her pronoun preferences?” 

Helen looks a little stressed, for some reason. Bart doesn’t get it. She starts to open her mouth to say something–and takes a subjective month about it–but gets interrupted when the front door opens and Max walks in through it. 

Max looks at Helen’s stressed expression and then at Match’s dubious look and then at Bart, and then he sighs. Bart–prickles, kind of.

It doesn’t feel good, that Max sighed like that about him. 

Not like it ever does, though.

[mahkinarya]

Put Miguel in a dark room with some noise-cancelling headphones and a comfy sweater and maybe he'll calm down

[a-ikuoliver]

put me out of my misery.

[fakesorbet]

le chevalier aux fleurs

[valenkad]

Some summer wip's🌞🌞🌞🙏🙏🙏

[scarnemo]

miss them

[inkxhan]

[ mermaid AU ] OMG this is so real (in my head)