#fosterverse

[fosterverse-au]

Frank and Gerard references!!

Fosterverse Frank and Gerard, in case anyone needed visuals :)

edit: stop reblogging this and saying "not a frerardie i just like the pics" this is a whole blog dedicated to a frerard fanfic. this post was made with the intention of providing visual references for the frerard fanfic. go get ur own fucking pictures im so serious dont piss me off.

[boopernatural]

Can u give me a snipet of fosterverse since you said you're writing it or is it asking to much?👼

cause you asked so nicely anon...

[coolguysky2312]

here is another fanfiction I wrote for Fosterverse I absolutely love writing for this Fandom

[superbatfics]

this is where love comes to die by stonecarved

Summary: There are three types of people at this party. A, the ones who want to fuck him. B, the ones who want to hurt him. C, the ones who want both.

 

 

Pre-fosterverse. Bruce and Clark's first meeting.

Explicit — 3523 Words

oh my god this fic is actually insanee, bruce and clark's characterization was so on point! and all the feels omg, i don't know how this fic managed to be so hot and angsty at the same time. anyway this is definitely one of my faves one shot!

[biglisbonnews]

You can now adopt real-life dogs in the Metaverse With Fosterverse, you can spot a 3D avatar of a Dachshund in Decentraland and adopt it in real life. https://www.itsnicethat.com/news/bbdo-pedigree-fosterverse-digital-270123

[hopesoldcomicblog]

Fuck I spent my day reading Fosterverse for the twelfth time instead of doing my math homework and now I'm having a mental breakdown

[tvxcue]

just for one night, bruce repeats to himself. just enough for it to be good, just enough for him to feel safe and loved for a few hours. he can afford a few hours. It’s his birthday. and then he’ll let go.

it’s not where you come from (it’s where you belong) by figure8

[fosterverse-au]

Frank and Gerard get into a highly competitive game of Uno when the internet at the foster home goes out

[boopernatural]

Ewwww not me posting part 2 of the fosterverse series

[coolguysky2312]

Yet another Fosterverse fanfic might make a blog just dedicated to my writing

[eastcoastmentality]

guess what now has a fic

[agentsterling]

"You know what I want."

"After work, Darcy. What have I said about location location location?"

[alastor-the-executioner]

“How…how is she doing?” [You started this new pup thing, gorramit.]

"Sleeping," He whispered, holding the little bundled up child in his arms. "Not quite as rambunctious as you might expect of a child born of her parents huh?" He looked up and smiled, "How about her mother?"

[fosterverse-au]

Coming Soon...

“Frankieeeeee” Gerard called across the table, stuffing a spoonful of cereal into his mouth clumsily. A dribble of milk ran down his chin but he didnt seem to notice. “What’s up?” Frank hummed, then reached over to carefully wipe Gerard’s face off. “Wanna go to the park today.” The boy said after swallowing what was in his mouth, already scooping more onto the spoon. Frank didn’t see any reason to say no. “You know the old lady that comes in the afternoon on the weekends?” Frank asked, and Gerard nodded, not sure what this had to do with the park. “Well, when she comes to the house, then you and I can go to the park, okay?” Gerard seemed satisfied with that, humming quietly to himself as he finished his breakfast.

stay tuned :)

[boopernatural]

FOSTER VERSEEE :D

💃🕺💃

[lemonjuiced]

a simple loss

“Damn,” Snowden says, and then, because one word didn’t seem to be enough, “Damn.”

It’s far from the messiest scene he’s witnessed, even in these first months—so far from it—but it’s a grey morning that looks to be the precursor to a grey day, and after a third check-up the engine in his car is still making the strange noise, and there’s the tiny naked form of a dead boy curled in the alleyway next to a broken bottle and a dumpster spattered with pigeon droppings.

He wants coffee, but he’s cutting back on those, so he tries to want something else instead. Tea. A nice glass of cool water. It doesn’t work.

Doug Kelly is pacing around the edges, scuffing his toes lightly against the ground with his shuffle-walk, squinting at everything like he’s sizing up the best angle for a postcard shot. Welcome to Illinois. He looks up when Snowden speaks, and Snowden guesses some sort of coffee-deprived discomfort is visible, because he looks for a moment longer and says, “You get used to it.”

“Really?”

“No.”

Surprise twist right there, he thinks, but what comes out is a noise that sounds like a sigh trying to be a snort, and it’s embarrassing enough to be a reason to keep his mouth mostly shut this time ‘round. He can take a hint from his own larynx.

Wright gives them a limp flap in hello as she sidles past, hands already wrapped up in rubber and bag bouncing off her left thigh, and he pulls a hand out of his pocket long enough to wave back. Kelly moves to let her by, then follows behind, lifting his feet carefully now. He likes to wait close, likes to get the facts as soon as possible.

Hovering doesn’t change the fact the coroner needs a few moments to check the body, though, so Snowden keeps his distance. All the better to keep observing the scene, he supposes, for all that it seems less appealing today than it usually is. Sometimes he almost likes these moments best, the pause before they know anything for certain, when there just might be some explanation for this that isn’t human cruelty. The moment of absorbing the entirety of the scene, before it breaks down into shreds of evidence and snapshot moments that are turned over and contemplated so many times it becomes the act of fitting the worn edges of a centuries old jigsaw puzzle together, even when it’s only been a week since that first sighting.

Not so much today. The bubble is still there, but it’s as fragile as the thin body and as grey as the sky above. There are no stark blood splatters to draw the eye, save what has painted its way through blonde tufts of hair. Nothing to make the scene stand out, replay itself in dark rooms, drive you to give a warning to your children when you get home again. Maybe that’s what is leaving his nerves unsettled. It’s uncomfortable to watch, like he’s intruding on something that was never meant to be seen; not even hidden, necessarily, just swept quietly to the side. A life no one was meant to remember had been among them, let alone disappeared. Easily forgotten in its stillness.

Movement sweeps back in when Wright rocks back on her heels, and he looks over at the same time Kelly straightens expectantly.

“Mostly superficial,” she announces, “but there’re some older marks, older scars, more serious stuff. Definitely had a broken bone or two in his time.” She glances up at Kelly, gives her head a little shake. “More than a little scrapper like this should have.”

“Abuse,” Kelly summarises, and that single word is success and failure in one, because in an instant they’ve got a strong lead on a suspect but the kid’s here now and maybe someone could have done something about it before he ended up curled and dead in an alleyway.

“Need to do a proper examination first, of course, but I’d say the cause of death is head trauma.” Wright runs gentle fingers in a line through the stiff hair, flakes of blood fluttering free like cherry-flavoured dandruff. “Skull’s caved here. Might have been a strike, but the shape of it…I’d say it’s likely the kid fell, hit his head.”

Once again Kelly takes up the narrative, like they’re playing a gruesome game of red robin for Halloween, and Snowden almost wishes they’d stop except, of course, this is the job. This is just the job. “A fight gone bad? Kids hurt themselves all the time, but maybe they figure someone will notice what you did. They panic, dump the body in a hurry, and take anything that might help us trace him back.” Then he sighs, reaching up to pluck at the back of his collar, shifting the tag around as he always does when tired and irritated. “Or hey, maybe he wanted to be a stuntsman when he grew up and spent his time jumping off the roof, and he’s got loving parents waiting for us to tell them some lunatic stole his clothes. I shouldn’t get ahead of myself.”

“Always look on the bright side,” Wright murmurs in agreement, and signals her assistant to bring the body bag over.

And just like that the bubble has passed. Kelly is stepping back towards him saying, “We’ll need to get an identity soon as possible, find out who he belonged to,”, and there’s a clip-snap as someone takes a photo of something, and the sound of the stiff body-bag zipper is harsh and loud and grating. He can see his future. Interviews and paperwork and, if it all works out, a court case. It’s a rare few jobs that lead you to hope for a court case.

He doesn’t know whether to hope for parents that hit or parents that lost. He still can’t have his coffee.

“Yeah,” he says, and pushes his hands down so that his knuckles brush the seams of his pockets. “Damn it.”