#I still don't have a title yet

[dollya-robinprotector]

Dress me up, make it tight, I'm your dolly You're my doll, rock'n'roll, feel the glamour in pink Kiss me here, touch me there, hanky panky~

Inspired from This post of @just-dol-headshots and this ask from @hakusins. Don't worry I'm still aiming for your ass Haku-Dean :) References and something under the cut

We all have to agree Bully Robin should have some softer and caring sides. When there's only them two and no one else is around to judge, he can let loose and slip back into that kinda of "Original Robin" we know and I love. I mean, that's what JDOLH made that got me into these swap messes from the beginning jsjkhskjhd you knowww the HUG!!

Reference: Barbie Girl (Aqua) and this cute ecchi Clamp Chobit piece

All in all I'm a pink bietch and Dollya won't be losing her V-card anytime soon that I can promise so hang in there okay mr.Bully.

edit: OMG THIS IS MY 1000TH POST TTOTT)) JKSDJLASKJKDLA

SELF-INDULGENT HERE WE GO

[cinamun]

Do I know you? | Next

[fohatic]

Tony Stark / "Human"

a fill for square K5 of my @tonystarkbingo card: "weakness"

[dylaneon]

birthday sex in stalag fic has gone in a direction i did not originally plan out for

“‘S cold.” John whispers, and the sudden extra pressure of breath on Gale’s neck sends another shiver down his spine, despite the warmth of it. Does he say something back? Pretend he’s asleep? John probably knows he’s still awake too, just like how Gale can tell.

“Just a bit.” Gale breathes, voice shaking as it comes out. He hopes John thinks it’s from the cold. They both know it isn’t, know that John can read Gale inside and out. 

Sometimes he hates that, hates that someone knows every minute detail about him. He’s supposed to be stone-cold Cleven, just like his father wanted. Supposed to be a sort of riddle, one that no one has any real answers for, unpredictable and all-knowing. But, there’s also a comfort in someone being able to give him exactly what he needs when he needs it, someone that can understand him. It’s terrifying that it ended up being John.

[morninkim]

Power Rangers: Prime Suspects

In the wake of the Darkest Hour, trapped in a new universe and cosmically entwined by threads of Morphin energy, two former enemies must evade a fascistic anti-Power Ranger Task Force and figure out how to survive in a world where their lives meant nothing.

[idl3dr3ams]

ok, The Day of Going Forth, right?

It celebrates journeys, rebirths, and revelations

I'm thinking its probably celebrated toward the end of spring rather than the beginning. no particular reason for that besides its fuckimg cold here at the beginning of spring and I'd rather not be near any body of water until its at least 15°C outside.

so I've decided it's celebrated on the first New Moon in May, which makes it May 26th this year for anyone who wishes to celebrate alongside me

why the first new moon, I'm sure you're wondering. why not a set date? it celebrates the day the promised bride looked into the river and saw the trawlerman, so should it not have a set day?

well... this feels like the Parish of Tide and Flesh's Easter to me. so that was why I decided it should be based off of the lunar cycle as well. The new moon is both the beginning and end of the lunar cycle, and is a very clearly defined transition (as opposed to a half-moon, for instance). For those unfamiliar with the term, the new moon occurs when the moon is directly between the sun and the earth, meaning you cannot see it in the sky. With this absence, it is as though the vast darkness of the night sky, not unlike that of the river, has devoured the moon, and in a days time it shall be returned anew.

for any of my dear siblings reading this who might be interested in celebrating, but aren't sure how or where to start, don't fret, I have a few suggestions to help get the ideas flowing

first, and what I would hope to be the most obvious, is to reflect on the story of the promised bride and what you can learn from it. I may share the story and give a small sermon on The Day of Going Forth, for those interested, but you can always revisit Chapter 6 of The Silt Verses for Katabasian Mason's telling.

but of course, this is to be a day of celebration.

Surround yourself with your friends, or family. Spend some time by the river. For my siblings who are of age, treat yourselves to some schnapps -or any other drink of your choice-

We're all on our own journeys, and The Day Of Going Forth is the day for you to celebrate the progress you've made on yours. No matter how small your most recent milestone may seem, this is your excuse to be proud of it.

[chronosbled]

{ Because of @hakusins, I now feel like properly expanding upon (female)Dickson's DoL variation after talking to her a little. I had the basics of an idea for Dickson, yes... her name is still Dickson because I don't like any female names I come up with for her and she will still go by the nickname Dick to others, but now after listening to a bunch of music and doing icons, I actively have a deeper idea for her. }

Basic Idea (that I came up with talking to @stestylius-arts): Dickson comes from a rich family where it's mainly just her and her grandfather. Said grandfather is a piece of shit though and does shady business in the city of DoL, also expecting her to do the same at some point and take up his company. But she's not really into doing bad shit just because. She'll do it for important things or just because of something she deems important to her. She's somewhat mentally unstable, but taking her medication keeps her from freaking out on others. Somewhat timid and has perfect grades.

Deepened Idea: Dickson comes from a very large rich family, but lives with her grandfather, guardian and half-cousin. Said grandfather is a piece of shit and does shady business in the city of DoL, also expecting her to do the same at some point and take up the company — said shady shit being human trafficking, black market trade, human experimentation, organ hunting, illegal drug production and sales, kidnapping, assassination, prostitution, and more. Instead of Dickson's grandfather or guardian being in charge of the dirty work, Dickson is the one who handles everything. Due to the way she was raised, Dickson has no problem getting her hands dirty whether it's slicing someone open and harvesting their organs or sleeping with rivals for information and killing them afterwards, everything is free gain to her. Additionally, she serves as a scientist within her grandfather's company and a makeshift doctor. She's extremely mentally unstable, but retains a perfectly normal reputation within the city of DoL, leading many to believe she is a compassionate person. She retains perfect grades at school and appears to be extremely friendly, but be warned, making friends with Dickson doesn't always end well for all those involved. Due to never experiencing any type of kindness or compassion in her life, she is prone to falling head over heels for those that try their best to look out for her — resulting in her to develop obsessive and possessive mannerisms towards her target of affection, often following them around without them knowing or bestowing them with constant gifts — but surely she has nothing to do with the sudden disappearances of those who are malicious towards you, right? There's no way Dickson could ever be a serial killer... right?

[journey-to-the-attic]

about that after-story i've mentioned like fifty times... the outline for each chara's part isn't at all set in stone yet, but can you guess from these preliminary titles what might happen?

i'll tell you what simeon's is going to involve though, just bc you definitely wouldn't get it from the title AND it's one of the few concrete plot points so far: he gets to go to a hen do

[greypetrel]

Oooh I'd love to know more about Rolling a Wave 👀

Hi Mo!

It's the general plot of my original story which I'm translating into English. I'm working on character studies, but it's been slow these last months. I hope I'll finish Raina's in this winter break and quickly design secondary characters. I may pick Priscilla back as a design, who knows. I can't wait to start planning actual pages. xD

First act summary under the cut, tagging also @bfire92 who asked me about this. :3

ACT I – Iceland

1907. A marine biologist, Aisling, is finally at the head of her very own arctic expeditions to study the social behaviour of sperm whales. She has to reevaluate her plans, when she saves a harponeer from the shiprwreck of the Hvalur, a whale fishing ship caught in a bad storm. She’s the only survivor, and also a woman, Naroa, from San Sebastian, who crossdresses to work on the ship, and tells her that it was a sperm whale to cause the wreck.

The expedition was born unlucky: Aisling has received very low fundings, both because nobody really trusts her in a leading position as an unmarried woman, both because her father was a former professor for the same institute that funds her. Small detail: he was stripped of his role and exiled from the Kingdom for having used public money from the university to finance the Irish rebels/Fenian society. Aisling was really able to get some money and sponsorship because she asked for years upon years, has a couple of contacts that vouched for her, and basically is a person that causes very little trouble. Her goal is to gather enough data to demonstrate that sperm whales are highly intelligent social animals, and that their hunting should be severely limited before their number drops. It’s very important to her, not only for personal satisfaction and crowning a lifelong dream of becoming a proper scientist, paid enough for a living and with prestige that female researchers in female colleges were not granted in England, but also to avenge her family. She MUST publish in Oxford because it was the institute that kicked her father out, she must reinstate the good name of the family.

So, with very little money to her name, she rented the smallest, most run-down hovel she could find, 40 minutes from the harbour, fix what she could to make it inhabitable, and hire a small sloop with a fully female crew. Ex piratesses running from the law, widows of fishermen and other figures that needs a living runs the Lusca, not for gold, but to chase whale pods.

In spite of being broke, Aisling welcomes Naroa in until she feels better. Their forced convivence is difficult at first: Aisling is over-enthusiast over whales and is actually diving with the whales to observe them better during the day (“I thought I would have drown today, but Cacciucco was absolutely adorable, you see, so it’s ok, he can bump me again.” “… Da fuq.”), Naroa had fished them for years, and after the shipwreck has not much love for the animals, of course there is only one bed. After a while, Naroa starts working, and embarks on the Lusca to help out, too, there’s some mutual pining and they slowly confess they like each other, fuck gender roles and so on and so forth.

Until one day arrives a letter from the Royal Society, informing Aisling that they’re gonna cut her fundings: the season good for sailing is ending, they’re not willing to pay her to stay another winter doing nothing. Winter that Aisling was planning to use to organize her notes and write the essay for the peer review: it must be done exceedingly well if she wants to have a chance, she doubt they’ll give her another chance if she fails now. She manages to obtain another month, but nothing more.

She quarrels with Naroa: the harponeer tells her that even if her research should fail, it won’t be the end of the world. She has a roof upon her head, a fucking university degree (in France, more open for women), she can decide to do anything else, she has brains and possibilities, what’s the problem? Plus, if her research gets published, it could hit an industry that offers work and livelihood to so many people that have not her chances and possibilities, and for whom losing the job would be much more of a problem. For Naroa it would be: her family is still in San Sebastien, she’s the first of 4 sisters, her father died, and she’s sending money home. Don’t mention she introduces herself as a man because she doesn’t fully feel herself in women clothes and canonically female roles: she can’t afford to lose the job. Plus, she’s Basque, and technically in Iceland it was legal to murder Basques until 2014 (old medieval law they forgot to abrogate). Naroa can’t understand why Aisling is so stubborn and so compliant towards a bunch of idiots that don’t consider her, and all for what? Personal pride? What if her research fail, she’ll be better off without it.

Aisling gets mad, just a little bit. She can’t tell the RS to fuck off, and chances for female biologists aren’t that many. She isn’t very sensitive for whalers, as Naroa fails to understand why an academic research is so important. They split up pretty badly, Aisling leaves for London.

ACT 2 - London

ACT 3 - Alghero (necessary quote)

[sentientcave]

Mood board for my latest project. Little bit of it below the cut.

You eat the lunch you packed and pull off your sweater, the noon sun warming you up enough to not need it, at least for the moment. You putt along to a new spot and try fishing again, this time catching three good sized fish. Surprising, considering the time of day, but sometimes you get lucky. You're thinking about heading back home when you spot a flash of white under the water.

You grab your camera, determined to be ready. And then a grey shape launches out of the water and into your boat, nearly capsizing it. The white orca sluices through the water next to your boat a moment later, regarding you disdainfully with one bloodshot eye. He flicks his tail as he dives again, soaking you and your passenger.

Your seal friend makes himself comfortable at the prow of the boat, entirely too pleased with himself.

"You're on thin ice, mister!" You tell him, turning back the way you'd come. Thanks to him you missed your photo and nearly went for a swim in deep water. You're pretty sure he couldn't help you out of that situation even if he wanted to, especially with a hunter swimming just below. You certainly don't want four inch teeth biting you in half.

Of course, you don't want to see your friend get eaten in front of you either. You know its the way of the ocean, but he's your little buddy.

The white orca cuts across your path again. You stop your engine, heart hammering, and grab your camera. He disappears into the depths for a moment, and then jumps a little ways away. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he was showing off. You get several quick snaps that you know will be gorgeous— Water droplets catching the sun, his ghostly white body stark against the backdrop of the dark ocean. You grin at the seal, and yelp when something thumps the bottom of your boat, rocking it harshly.

Then the white orca (he needs a name, so you land on Ghost) surfaces next to you, terrifyingly close, and spits water at the seal.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, adjusting your lens for the close contact, camera shutter clicking away as you shoot pictures. Ghost eyes you, and then spits water a second time. The seal looks deeply offended, but not concerned, even with his hunter bobbing in the water a few feet away. “Aren’t you a pretty boy.”

He is pretty. A juvenile, maybe, now that you see him up close— He’s a bit small for an orca, but he’s all alone out here, no pod to speak of, and a juvenile wouldn’t survive on it’s own. As if he can hear your compliment, he creaks at you.

The seal barks back. He seems offended by Ghost’s presence. Understandable, since Ghost was trying to eat him earlier. You get a few funny snaps of the two of them regarding each other over the rim of the boat, having a conversation that you have no way of understanding. You feel a bit insane. A bit like you’re going to wake up laying in the bottom of your boat any minute, and this will all be a funny dream.

[prjctdiva]

he wants that cookie so effing bad

[eephemeris]

finished the first chapter guys

[zorilleerrant]

Names are important, Phillip has been told. He studied that. He remembers. It’s hard to feel how important they are in the moment when all he has is facts and figures to back that up, but sure enough, there they are: so many names. So many instances in the historical record of people fighting to keep the name that’s theirs.

Phillip never had a name until he borrowed one. Some of the others did, before, but he was born into the program, and the Director was the only parent he ever knew. He was born with a file number, a specialty, a destiny. A part to play in the Director’s ever expansive vision, and he was jealous for a while, early on, of some of the children it let him play with, children with names, children with families.

That was before he learned so many names he would have lost his own among them. The Director knew that, probably. He always thought it did, but he always thought it would send him into a host that could accommodate him, one that wouldn’t cloud his mind with a vice that was never his. A vice it could have told him about, back then, one that might have made it just a little less painful to be a Historian, back then, back before he learned how to deal with it. Back when it was just constant screaming in the back of his mind.

It was easier, then, being a number. Numbers were simple. Numbers lined up. Numbers were what made the screaming stop, ordering things in rows and columns, keeping his memory chained where it couldn’t hurt him anymore. When he was a number, he knew exactly where he fit in, how to order himself with his fellow Historians, where in the stack to look for his work, his instructions, his missions.

Being Phillip, he doesn’t know where the hell he belongs anymore.

The historical record deals with specifics, a lot of the time. It deals in generalities more. There’s only so much the human mind can hold, even trained, even modified. And Phillip’s still human enough. Human enough to know a generality when he sees one: pets keep you company. Comfort you. Help you cope.

Pets are the kind of companion you’re supposed to name, so that they know you love them. Pets aren’t important enough to the flow of the timeline to come with pre-approved names, either, probably, usually. There are some. Enough to put his money on. He doesn’t think, probably, the kinds of names that racehorses and showdogs have are the kind you’re supposed to give a turtle.

There are names for turtles in the historical record. Franklin, Yertle, A’tuin, Merton, Donatello. Somehow, he doesn’t think any of those will suit his needs.

His turtle is female. This is important, in the 21st. Phillip still doesn’t understand why, but he’s been learning it long enough that the pronouns come naturally to him, and so: she needs a name. Because names are important, in this instance. She needs a name that’s meaningful to her, or, rather, that’s meaningful to him, so that he can project meaning onto her, so he can most efficiently benefit from their mutualistic symbiosis.

Ray says he needs a pet to get him off drugs. Something else to concentrate on, sure. It’s dark humor, he thinks, to name her Heroin, or Methadone, or Therapy. It’s dark humor still to name her after a plant that opiates are derived from, but it was different, then, under the care of the Director. When it gave him something – something else, not something that gentled the mind so effectively he couldn’t do his job – it stopped the burning like code scrolling endlessly across his synapses. He didn’t control the dose then, either, but it was less out of his control. It hurt more, but it didn’t hurt as much.

Poppies weren’t there just to derive medicines from, either. That was therapy of a sort, too, gardens prepared for residents to take their turns walking through, necessary to the optimal mental health of every human alive. Not that anything was really optimal, in those days. But he walked through on schedule every week, leafy greens shining in artificial sunlight, just enough to add a smidge of variety to their diets, when their lotteries came up.

The light felt warm on his skin, light sharp against his eyes like a billion sunrises across a billion lives, memories blooming like the flowers around him. He couldn’t see the sun directly, but he could feel what it must have been like, here and now, where he can feel the sun burning against exposed skin and hair whenever he wants. Warmer, brighter, but with the same sense of care, hope, too grand purpose he could never understand.

He walked through the garden every week, running tiny fingers gently against the bright splash of color, petals too soft for anything but joy. One species that might have been replaced a million times over, living on in the glint of artificial light, as if it caught his eye and winked at him. The weekly task that never felt like one.

Phillip can see that same spot of color in Poppy.

[imunbreakabledude]

ok what if i said:

this "annie + elena mourn maeve" fic IS gonna be multiple chapters

and

I'd like to post chapter 1 tomorrow??

[lowstakesvampires]

a couple years in the future, but not many...

colour key: blue = english spoken red = norwegian/norse spoken black text = language being masked by english so you can still read. see the borders for actual language. purple borders = norwegian/norse accented english (it's blue tinted by red) orange borders = whatever bat's accent is. while speaking norwegian (it's red tinted by yellow)

i am very normal about languages <3

[pamshindouu]

Realizing that I will eventually have to add a new piece to those tarot card-inspired illustrations of the Digimon anime protags...