#kind of ????

[adrugstorecowgirl]

need this done to me asap

me smoothing out the tattoos of a butch/masc just like violet

[necromonica]

i was gonna revamp some ocs but i drew these fuckers instead since i just finished catching up on Scar's POV of hermitcraft 10. this is supposed to be based off of when jevin first arrives in exile but skizz wasn't there. but dont worry. scar wasnt gonna let his fellow cop be left out.

[arttitude130]

it’s his 1st birthday 🎂

[dekkiidan]

An older piece I made for the 2024 OWtober prompt of "Signal" - featuring the Grove Shard and Gabbro's Quantum Poem!

I think it might look neat as a National Park style sticker, especially if I can get some text to wraparound the design!

Oh, please full view, it looks better on a transparent background!

[mesapies]

Parallels

[green-butterfly-writes]

Yandere Batfam concept: neglected trans reader

Warnings for: child neglect, unintentional transphobia as a result of child neglect, (non bigoted) religious imagery, blasphemous imagery, idolizing Bruce Wayne

I'm Dyslexic, and don't have a beta, so mistakes are likely to happen.

Standard neglected reader, they are Bruce’s bio kid, don’t get involved in Batman stuff, and end up getting punished to the side.

They realize they are trans while still living with the Waynes, and aren’t sure if they should come out or not. Not that they think the batclan would hurt them, but given the total lack of support or attention they were raised with, they were worried.

After a year or two of suffering through dysphoria and anxiety, they decide to come out to Bruce.

Except Bruce is very difficult to get a hold of. Especially for them. So when they do finally tell him, he’s distracted and not paying attention. The conversation goes roughly like this:

You finally managed to find time he wasn’t Batmaning, spending time with your siblings, or in the office, and even though you’d prefer he look at you and not the paper work he was doing, you’ll take what you can get.

You were in his darkly furnished home office, in a deep blue plush chair sitting at an angle from Bruce, who was behind the large dark wood desk in the center of the room. The walls were lined with bookshelves taller than mount Olympus, each and every one of them filled with neatly organized text books, encyclopedias, and dictionaries.

Bruce sat in front of the only window in the room. It was tall, and a made of neatly organized, fractured glass. It lit Bruce from behind, like one of the stained glass murals from your grandmother‘s church, and made him look like an angel. A heavenly messenger you prayed to every night for protection, and every day for love. But the world is cruel, and so is its creator, so your prayers continued to go unanswered.

“Dad,” you started hesitantly, “I have something I wanted to talk to you about. I thought it best to tell you in person.” Typically, if you had something you wanted to share with Bruce, you would write it in a letter, leave it on his bedside table, and he’d get back to you in a week or two. But you wanted to tell him yourself. You need to see his face when he found out.

Bruce only hummed in response.

“I’m trans. I’m not going by (dead name) any more, I’m going by (chosen name) now. And I’ve changed my pronouns too. It would mean a lot to me if you used them.” You stared down at your lap, fidgeting with your intertwining fingers, waiting for a response.

Silence suffocated you as Bruce continued his even scribbling across his note pad, turning to the next page in the grant proposal he was reading.

“That’s nice (dead name). Why don’t you go see if Alfred needs help in the garden, I’m sure he’d love to hear your stories.”

You felt as if your very soul had shattered into a million pieces. Your heart burred in your chest, and your mouth went dry. It felt like someone had dunked your head a pile of fresh snow and held you there. You couldn’t feel your body, or hear your mind, and at the same time you felt it all too much, and heard it far to loud.

You had prayed to your heavenly messenger, your savior, your prophet. He who had granted you life and meaning. Who had saved you from deaths door, and carried you into his home. And you were just turned away at the altar.

That was the last time you called him dad.

You considered coming out to Alfred, the only member of the family that remembers your existence without you needing to remind him, but he’s old and you wouldn’t be able to stomach another rejection.

The next few years were hell.

Every event felt like a nightmare, trapped in a cage of fabric, every time you put on your school uniform you wanted to scream

Everyone called you the name you were desperate to forget, used the pronouns that made you skin sit wrong on your bones

You stopped looking in mirrors, hating what you saw.

Once you turned eighteen you practically ran out of the house.

You got excepted to a school in another state and took it, never looking back.

You wrote Alfred monthly letters about how you were doing for the first two years, then every other month, then every four. Slowly weening him off of updates about your life. You still send him a card during the holidays and one for his birthday so he knows you’re alive, but the address is for a P.O. box, so he doesn’t know where you live.

It’s now ten years after you left and you’re doing amazing. You’re flourishing in your career, have an amazing group of friends, and maybe most importantly, changed your first and last name. You got the surgeries you wanted, went on hormones, and can look yourself in the mirror now. You love your life

Sometimes when you’re watching tv or walking through the streets, you’ll see advertisements, magazines, or talk shows with imagery of your now forgotten false idol. Sometimes you wonder how he’s doing, how his kids have grown. You wonder if he misses you. Your therapist told you that’s normal for victims of child abuse. You pay the thoughts no mind.

You don’t watch the every move of your golden bat anymore, in fact you don’t watch any. And you don’t realize that he’s watching you, praying for forgiveness, not only for what he has done, but for what he’s about to do.

[rhodes-1]

been thinking about this

[wayrok]

Guess whos finally becoming a magical girl!

Are you sure

Pretty sure! Made a contract with kyubey

[notyourfunnyman]

razz...is bpbuppy...

something lgbt is afoot

[sakinyeh]

elaborate.

I made a chart for my fantasy au

this au btw:

[toastbaby]

Thinking about the fact that we now know the names of Katniss' parents and Peeta's dad, but still not the name of his mom. Yep, seems suitable.

[bast6415]

i've been getting more and more obsessed with her

[inkpotsprite]

To those who read my work "I'll Die When I'm Dead," a while back a lot of readers were asking to see the group chat Tim has with the rest of Death's favoured, is that still something you guys would be up for seeing?

https://archiveofourown.org/works/40426734/chapters/101272437

[pynkhues]

Lestat is sitting on a pillow in the next shot. I mean, come on!

Anon!!!! I have watched this scene 1,200 times and still somehow never noticed that they straight up have him lower back / butt supported on a bolster cushion. I've lightened a screencap to share, and:

Yeah, haha.

[max-the-silly-guy]

creativity soup nom nom