#these fics live in my head rent free

[anxiouscr0w]

A quick messy Cryptid Sightings sketch for @naffeclipse ! Forgive me, it's my first time properly drawing a human (or drawing at all in almost 2 years-) lol.

I'm rereading this fic only a month after i finished it because oml I love it. It makes me laugh in chapter 3 when in the past 2 seperate devices have set off for "dude theres literally a demonic cryptid right next to you" and we're told by the poltergeist "girl that is a creature of the night tf" and instead of becoming remotely suspicious we become a Skyrim NPC 'must have been my imagination'.

I can just imagine our cryptid skrunklies nervously sweating but also laughing at how oblivious their little hunter is!

In all seriousness I absolutely love Naff's fics, they're all so good and unique! Their version of the DCA live in my head rent free and I have never been geniuenly unsettled by a book the way Crush Depth made me feel arghhh so good! I'd love to make physical copies of them all :D

I recommend checking them out and their amazing work!!!

[mantimae]

Hm, me? Oh yeah, I’m totally normal about @zillychu ‘s firecore AU and def haven’t been thinking about it since it first crossed my dashboard! :)

[charlie-artlie]

Bonnie in the real world 💖

[nonbinoclard]

a conversation on the coast (original fanfic + inspiration)

[moshaeu]

it has been a long eight hundred years

from kyasuu’s where dreams are laid to rest

[justaz]

merlin told arthur his favorite color was the color of the sky during sunset when it shifted into a deep violet. arthur gets a tunic made in that exact shade. its the best thing merlin owns. arthur was hoping that would mean he’d wear it almost everyday but merlin almost never wears it. the only time he does wear it is when royals come to visit (which isn’t all that often). arthur “subtly” asks about it and merlin is like “it’s the best thing i own. i’m not gonna dirty it mucking out the stables or serving rowdy knights wine while they splatter food on it” and arthur is like “why not wear it when nobles come to visit? look at least a little presentable for them” (cough nice save). merlin doesn’t see the point in it bc nobles don’t care about him at best, view him as less than human at worst.

arthur really just wants to see his boyfriend servant in the tunic he had made for him (bonus points for sending a message that merlin is his. not that merlin seems to notice. man is too much of an idiot). merlin wants to preserve his favorite tunic and gift from his boyfriend king.

[stinglesswasp]

Fanart of all that's said in the low light by headlocket

This fic will make you cry the most cathartic tears ever. Be sure to also check out the epilogue, in lieu of the bells 🥹🧡🧡

[futuristichedge]

Traditional doodling

[foopsie-daisy]

Im so ill about them you dont understand. You know im obsessed with a duo when i pull out the crane wives lyrics

[videogamelover99]

Bill Cipher angst at 2AM??? Also plz read Flat Dreams

[maaxverstappen]

help me hold onto you | T | 8/13

f1driver!max and streamer!charles

The man—Charles, Max assumes—sounds French. He loves that. He should be used to a French accent, he was forced to converse with Pierre often enough, but it sounds different coming from Charles. More melodic. Almost similar to someone he used to know once. “And that made me think,” Charles says, voice bellowing from Max’s speakers. “That it was stupid that we didn't have carrots before. Like, come on, it's a farming game.” Max has no fucking idea what the hell he is on about.

or: Max is lonely and finds Charles streaming on Twitch.

based on this prompt sent to @f1prompts

[deviouz]

oh, to be bent over nanami kento’s lap <3

he’s already had a hard day with work — endless meetings that could have been reduced down to a measly email and stacks upon stacks of paperwork that had his head pounding tended to do that to a person.

so imagine his surprise when he gets home and sees his pretty little partner with an attitude and already bratting off. couldn’t you have waited for him to unwind a little?

nanami had tried his hardest to make what little patience he had left in the reserves to make do, but you just had to go and run your mouth when he was kind enough to give you ample time to behave.

“ken, wait!” your voice rang out, hips squirming as you attempted to crawl off of his lap. “‘m sorry!”

your struggling proved to be fruitless as one of his hands came to sit at the small of your back, keeping you pinned against thick thighs, while the other grabbed a fistful of your hair and tipped your head back. his eyes were hardened, lips pressed into a thin line of disappointment.

“now you’re sorry? i don’t think so, sweetheart, but you will be. make sure you remember to count, otherwise we’ll just have to restart.”

with that, your head drooped back down, falling between slumped shoulders as your body quivered with something akin to dread. it definitely wouldn’t have been your first time at getting kento so riled up.

any and all thoughts soon left your head as the first smack! was delivered to your bare cheeks, oversized tee pulled up and lacy panties long discarded. all you could manage was a stuttered out one, ken before you felt the next rhythmic slap.

it was hard enough to have your eyes glazing over and fingers digging into the plushness of the couch below.

“how many should we do, hm? i think thirty should suffice.”

[hiding-under-the-willow]

A bunch more out of context stuff from the fic I've been working on. I swear I'll actually post it so y'all can understand what any of this means at some point lmao

[fastcardotmp3]

Eddie Munson does do the whole rock star thing, but it doesn't quite go the way it did in the daydreams of a sixteen-year-old kid trying to stay awake in school.

He leaves Hawkins after the world doesn't end, gets himself out there, takes all the hurt and fear and fucked up shit and puts it into a handful of good enough songs to get himself signed.

It's not quite the genre he grew up with, not quite something any of his idols might have played, but only because it is so entirely Eddie, so influenced by where he's been and what he's seen that it kind of doesn't fit one specific influence.

It's new and it's good, is the point. Really good. And he skyrockets fast enough to give himself the spins.

He's recognizable and then he's famous and then he's too famous and too young to know what to do with it and too far from home and everyone he loves to really cope with it and it's just.

Eddie isn't built for it. Eddie hasn't even processed the fact that he was maybe supposed to die in that place, or the fact that he did watch people better than him actually die, but he's out here shooting to the top of the charts and being called the next big thing and it's too much.

It's just enough, at the end of it all, for him to self-sabotage his way out of being more than a one-hit wonder.

One big hit, a contract broken by the guys at the top with the fancy lawyers because Eddie has become the too much thing, just like always, and it's over as quick as it started.

He disappears, becomes one of those whatever happened to him? he was supposed to be the next big thing? stories that travel by word of mouth and then fade with the shift in conversation.

So what does happen to Eddie Munson?

He falls hard, he hits rock bottom, he crawls his way home to an uncle who deserved for Eddie to really make it, make him proud, have him financially set for life and get him into a real house with two stories and a garage to park the truck in, maybe even a yard for a dog.

He spirals and isolates and falls apart and stops letting himself make music at all and makes some personal choices that will probably have lasting effects on him for the rest of his life and then somewhere along the line a girl with hair like tangerines and terrible aim manages to smack him with her cane and says if I learned to walk again, so can you, asshole.

There are people in his life again after that, a reason to get out of bed and realize that he can make Wayne proud in more ways than the one he'd already fucked straight to hell.

Eddie watches a bunch of kids graduate high school and then he packs up and chases down some people who pulled him out of hell once before up in Chicago, crashes on Steve and Robin's couch until he gets himself a job painting houses and they can afford three bedrooms instead of just the two.

He cuts his hair, not short but shorter, and he gets more tattoos and itches for the guitar that sits in a case under his bed, ignores it. Itches for the pen in his hand, ignores that too.

He's still barely past his mid-20s and he still has some fucking around left to get out of his system, some finding out to accomplish doubly so, but he learns as he goes no matter whether it's forwards or backwards.

He falls in love and falls out of it, gets fired from jobs and tracks down new ones, gets into fights with his friends because they're all a little fucked up and codependent and weird but makes up with them for the same reasons.

The thing with Steve happens slowly, going from tolerating each other for the sake of knowing they'll always be on the same team to genuinely liking each other to discovering a care between the two of them that's a bit too strong to be normal about even if it still takes them a half-dozen so-called turning points to really name it and take it and keep it.

Eddie's 33 when they buy a condo together on the outskirts of Chicago two weeks after they fall into bed with each other for the first time, and he's over a decade on from being a kid who rose to the top too fast but it doesn't feel dissimilar, that sensation of a too-good thing that's bound to go wrong.

Only this time he doesn't try to sabotage it, tries the opposite, tries to hold it tightly in ways that would probably be too tight for anyone other than Steve Harrington with all his deeply intense feelings and inability to love at anything other than an eleven.

It's in the move that Steve finds a box of notebooks, snoops because it's who he is, and finds years worth of words that never made it past the tip of a pen but did, eventually, make it that far.

And it's not an easy thing, convincing Eddie that they're words worth sharing, because Eddie doesn't want it to be an easy thing. He can't let kind words shoved into his orbit by a beautiful man be enough to make it feel worth it, can't see a world where sharing his art doesn't end in another great big self-induced mess that he can't let happen when he's finally found something good.

He doesn't want to go on tour and get screamed at on stage and, besides, he's pretty sure the rest of the world doesn't want to scream for him anymore either, but then Steve has to go and remind him--

"You don't have to be the face of it. You can just be the words; you are so fucking good at being the words, Ed."

Which still isn't quite enough to be convincing, but it's a start in a solid six months of the words coming easier now that he has someone to share them with, someone to listen as Eddie plucks away at a guitar that sits out in the open now, free of dust.

It stops feeling like something shameful to hide, his music, and the thing is? It doesn't feel how it did back then either.

It's not an escape or a purge of violent energy or a distraction from everything he didn't know how to think about. Sure, it takes all of that into consideration because it takes the whole of Eddie into consideration, but more than anything it's just fun.

Like he's thirteen and still learning how to play the guitar, like it's just a hobby that never has to go anywhere, like it's just art that maybe deserves to be heard.

Everyone pitches in on ideas when they find out he's trying to come up with a pseudonym, and it's goofy and supportive and kind of the final straw in reaching out to old, burned bridges to see about any new artists looking for equally new tunes.

The first time Eddie and Steve catch familiar lyrics being sung by a new hotshot band on the radio, Eddie cries not because he's jealous or disappointed, but because it feels right.

He doesn't like being up in front of the crowds, had only ever walked across tables and made himself big and scary and loud out of self preservation, would always rather his biggest performances be for the people he knows really care.. Besides, after everything he's survived he's learned, albeit slowly, that he really likes the freedom of the quiet.

This way he still gets to say what he has to say, gets to throw his hat into the ring of an artform that he loves without selling his soul to a machine that tried to eat him alive (trust him. he knows what that feels like.)

Of course, someone is going to put 2 and 2 together eventually, the industry isn't as big as it looks and pseudonyms only pull so much weight when you went out in such a spectacularly messy and memorable fashion, but Eddie's got his condo in Chicago.

He's got the guy he shares it with in his bed.

He's got two cats and a windowsill full of plants he's going to keep alive this time, Steve, just you watch.

He's got his uncle settled in Indy these days, a small place with a small yard.

He's got music, too. Turns out even his own tendency to self-destruct couldn't take that away, huh?

It's what got him out of hell alive, after all.

[soulmushh]

OK so I've been in love with this one Batfam fic and I wanted to visualise the fox masks that Tim and Damian have, so I made fanart :]

The fic in question is:

And if I'm not mistaken then their tumbler is @luxaofhesperides

[kusanagihaku]

goodnight (goodnight)

⭢ alan x mc, 1.1k

p is for phone calls. ˖⁺‧₊⟡ alphabet series | ao3 insp by @kurosagi-h8r's alan headcanon!

Alan waits until you disappear safely into the lit haven of your dorm room before turning away, smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

It is a new feeling, this bursting and blooming of ardency beneath the race of his heart. Just the thought of you, laughter tangled into his own, fills his fingertips with morning sun and soaks into the heavy of his bones; it slides clouds under the soles of his feet and springs under his step. 

He doesn’t quite know why you set your mind on him all those months ago, has never quite understood why you  would ever look at him the way you do even after seeing him doused in another’s blood, but he does know that ever since you stepped foot into the grime of Vagastrom his world has never been the same. 

You look at him and still love him even on the days he can barely stand to look at himself. When you’re around it feels like his hands can be used for things other than hurt. When your fingers interlace with his he learns they can be gentle; when you turn your nose to the heat of his palm he learns they can be tender. When you slide them up your waist and let them coax gasps from the heat of your lips he learns that strength is not inherently brute and that maybe, sometimes, they deserve to hold good things too. 

He is still learning, with every day you choose to love him; he will continue to learn, for as long as you’ll let him.

His thoughts carry him all the way to Vagastrom. It is a familiar route now, with all the times he’s walked you back to the cathedral - he’s even added the cathedral as a stop on his morning jog, just so it becomes muscle memory to travel to where you are. 

(He doesn’t protest, though, when your hands still find his on the premise of tugging him in the right direction. He will gladly let you guide him anywhere if it means getting to hold your hand.) 

The garage is already dark, meaning the first years have already turned in for bed, so he picks up a folder of undone paperwork and heads upstairs. He makes short work of his night routine, but instead of settling down and reviewing the general students’ reports he finds himself staring at the Wickchat icon on the tiny screen of his phone. 

There is a little red bubble next to your name. An indication of an unread message, he remembers, and he taps it to find a sweet, “Thank you for today, Alan!” tucked into a white text box. 

The strange, bursting feeling in his chest returns, and before he knows it his thumb has found the little phone icon tucked into the corner of his screen. 

You answer on the third ring. “Alan?” 

There is always something in the way you say his name that makes it feel like it has been swaddled in clouds. His name might be all storm and mountains and divine punishment, but on your tongue it dissolves like cotton candy, a type of sweet nothing he has never imagined himself to be. 

“…Alan?” 

He can hear the smile in your voice, can picture you lying in bed cradling your phone to the apple of your cheek where he left a goodnight kiss not even an hour ago. “…honour student.” 

You laugh, bright and sparkling, all honey lemon soda in the warmth of his night. “Is there a reason you’re calling, or did you just miss me already?” 

Alan flushes. Ah. 

He did call without thinking, huh. 

He runs his fingernail against the edge of his desk, and scrabbles to verbalise the first thing that pops into his mind. “Are you free tomorrow?” 

He has no new missions to invite you on. Hell, he has so much paperwork for general missions to get through he should probably be working on that instead. And yet… 

You hum. He can hear you biting back a smile as you say, “I’m always free, for you.” 

The bubbling in his chest intensifies, and he strains to keep himself from smiling giddily at the silliness of your response. He opens his mouth a few times, trying to find the best words to say, but you understand his silence anyway, like you always do. 

“My classes end at two tomorrow, but I can bring my homework and meet you in the garage after, if that’s okay?” you say. 

“Yeah,” he says, intelligently. “Yeah.” 

There is a rustle on the other end of the line, like you’re turning in bed. “See you tomorrow, then?” 

“See you tomorrow,” he echoes. Some part of him wishes you’d stay on the line, fill the stifling silence of his dorm room with the sun of your voice and the sweet of your smile, but he knows he should let you rest. He shouldn’t be so greedy - your presence during the day time should be enough for him. And yet something keeps him from hanging up, from shifting his one lifeline to you away from his ear. 

“Alan?” 

There it is again, the way your tongue rolls his name around your mouth like a piece of caramel. He cannot stop the way it makes his heart swell; if he could, he’d listen to the way you say his name forever. “Honour student.” 

“If you miss me, you could have just said, you know,” you continue, cheekily, and he laughs this time, a low chuckle two shades more embarrassed than he’d like. 

“Goodnight, honour student,” he says, instead. 

“Goodnight, Alan.” 

A thought springs, unbidden, into his mind, a quiet picture of you in his sleep shirt, curled up in the off-white of his duvet and blinking sleepily at him as you say those words to him in person. 

He wonders briefly if he can get you to stay over tomorrow, if he can get to curl his arms around you and kiss the crown of your head and feel the rise and fall of your chest as you drift off to sleep, then shakes himself. He shouldn’t. Not… not yet. 

“I’m going to hang up now,” you say. The glimmer of laughter in your voice that dances its way straight into his heart. “Or we’ll never get off the phone.” 

He bites back the upward tug of his lips. “Alright.” 

There is a soft rustle before the line goes dead, and he lowers his phone, tilting his head back with a contented sigh. 

Tomorrow. He’ll see you tomorrow.