#you're mine wip

[burrowingdweller]

Chipi chipi chapa chapa

[insomnia-draws]

I might've gone overboard anyways here's more baby Jason with his wonder woman merch .. I honestly might draw baby Jason having tea with Diana we'll see tho lol anyways I'm still imagining that dick bought him the merch or at least some of it

It was inspired by @wondersinwaynemanor

The people that wanted to be tagged in my baby Jason art : @captain-daryn

Also for both baby Jason bits of art 2 and a half hours and I accidentally stayed up till 6 am rip my sleep schedule hope y'all enjoy it lol

Also yes I despise Bruce like any good he does is moot in my eyes because he's a terrible father I mean he psychologically tortured tim on his birthday like .. I won't ever like Bruce regardless but the fannon versions of him is a sweet concept I just can't get into them especially as a person who's dealt with shitty family

[harbingersecho]

misrecognition is not ignorance

[aintgonnatakethis]

Last Line Tag/WIP Excerpt

Thank you to @wyked-ao3 for the tag! 😄

Am adding the excerpt tag in here because I feel like this needs to be read in one lump to do justice to itself. Content warning for trauma due to racism, homophobia, and child abuse. I love Telford but I am not kind to him.

"How long?!" Telford hisses. "How long have you been doing this to me?!" He sounds deranged, drops of spittle flying wildly from his mouth and landing on Everett's face, but it isn't anger driving him anymore. He can't put a name to the emotion, beyond comparing it to being a child and he had done something the details of he can't even recall now and bad things had happened and afterwards he remembers with startling clarity wishing he could go back to before he had misbehaved so he could make it work out differently because things were never going to be the same again because to a child every time something like that happens to you it's the end of the world all over again. "David…" Everett says, and they are no longer children, Telford knows, though it weighs on him like a heavy cloak he is carrying across his shoulders and he has been carrying it for so long he doesn't even try to escape its hold anymore. In this moment he is not First Lieutenant David Telford. He is five and he already knows why the white children treat him differently. He is eight and he shoots a gun for the first time and he feels it. He is twelve and terrified of this thing growing inside him. He is fourteen and standing humiliated and defiant as his mother finds his gay porn magazine and proudly presents it to his father. I always knew, she had said. There was always something wrong with him. With his type there always is. His father's reaction had been disinterest - as was his most common reaction to anything involving Telford - which had made it worse. If his father had been angry it would have meant he cared, if he had tried to dish out a beating Telford could have fought back; but what was he to do when his mother took a belt to him? It wasn't as if he could raise his hand to her. "David?" Everett's voice sounds very far away, even though Telford realises he is pressing his face into the man's shoulder. He is shaking. He is shaking because he is crying. He cannot remember the last time he cried. Everett's arms are around him and Telford wants to punch him. He can't let anyone see this in him. It's poison. If he lets it out it will consume until there's nothing left.

Tagging: @fortunatetragedy @the-golden-comet @lancedoncrimsonwings @finickyfelix @gioiaalbanoart + OPEN

[hippolotamus]

Tagged for Fuck it Friday by @jamespearce9-1-1 @thewolvesof1998 @wikiangela @exhuastedpigeon my love @disasterbuckdiaz @spotsandsocks @thekristen999 @callmenewbie @daffi-990 @hoodie-buck @watchyourbuck Thank you lovelies

I maintain it is still Friday somewhere so have some more kid date fic (prev snippets here)

“Well, Mama and Papa said dates are special. For people you care about.” He hesitates, the feeling of uncertainty swelling higher. “Is that wrong?” Her expression softens to an easy smile. “Not at all, mijo. You ask Evan for that date. But, let’s keep this between us for now. Let me take care of everything.” Relief floods his chest, sweeping into his limbs like a living thing that seeps into the very core of him. Still, he wonders about one thing.  “Does that mean I can’t tell Mama or Papa about hanging out with my best friend?”  This date business is becoming more complicated by the minute. Tía said it’s okay, but keep it between them. Why would anyone choose to do anything this confusing? Maybe it gets easier.  “Of course not! Perhaps just don’t call it a date to your parents. Now, let’s find out what is going to happen with Maria and Raul.” Pepa focuses on the television once more. She mumbles something under her breath about ‘Ramon being fragile enough’ that Eddie doesn’t think he was meant to hear.  He pushes the conflicting information about dates and secret keeping to the back of his mind, slurping the last of his mint chocolate chip as Raul spins Maria on the dance floor.

in the fuck it spirit i'm gonna tag people anyway (picture me making a very immature childish face right now because i'm so overwhelmed with the tired sleepies) @loserdiaz @eddiebabygirldiaz @gayedmundodiaz @giddyupbuck @underwater-ninja-13 @fortheloveofbuddie @eowon @jesuisici33 @monsterrae1 @malewifediaz @shortsighted-owl @stereopticons @elvensorceress @spagheddiediaz @chaosandwolves @wildlife4life @your-catfish-friend @buddierights @the-likesofus @911onabc @spaceprincessem @fionaswhvre @barbiediaz @honestlydarkprincess @pirrusstuff @steadfastsaturnsrings @weewootruck @theplaceyoustillrememberdreaming @statueinthestone @heartshapedvows

[r0semultiverse]

What We Do in the Land of Ooo

🧛‍♂️ What We Do in the Shadows x Adventure Time crossover AU! ⚔

Finn Mertens in place of Guillermo de la Cruz

Marceline Abadeer in place of Nadja of Antipaxos

Bonnibel Bubblegum in place of Laszlo Cravensworth

Jake the dog in place of Colin Robinson

Vampire King in place of Nandor The Relentless

Betty Grof in place of The Guide

The Lich in place of Baron Afanas

Peppermint Butler in place of Wallace the Necromacer

Simon Petrikov in place of Derek

BMO in place of Nadja Doll (her old consciousness uploaded or something was an idea I had)

Marshall Lee & Gary Gumball/Prince in place of Sean & Charmaine

[roguegrove]

halstarion wip

okay so i have been writing this for a little while, my first ever actual fanfic. annnnnd i have the beginning "done" and i was wondering if y'all would be so kind as to give it a little read and feedback, let me know if i am heading anywhere interesting?

ETA: i left half the fic out for like three minutes lololol sorry

astarion/halsin, pg at this juncture, definitely won't be at one point. very first draft, inspired by hozier's "first time"

summary: Canon-led look at a relationship between Astarion and Halsin, exploring further, following the arcs in the Hozier song, “First Time.”

Astarion learns about life, death, love, and freedom in his relationship with Halsin.

“Little star,” slipped from scarred lips that first time, sounding easy as a summer’s breeze. 

The words instead dunked Astarion into a frigid river, startling awake parts of him long since laid to rest. Terrifying, encompassing, heart stopping. It settled into a little shiver and something else. Oddly…refreshing? It made his skin feel like it fit funnily, worming its way underneath every dead layer and making a home within him, not unlike the tadpole, changing him irrevocably.

He, of course, was aware of the different possible meanings of his name. An old mark once waxed poetic about it to him, assuming the vampire had chosen it himself as most elves his age did. Being as it was one of the few remnants from his past, Astarion was a bit protective of his name. It was one of the only vulnerable spots he knew himself to still have. Someone, somewhere gave him that name. Someone looked at the baby he once was and deemed him sweet enough for his name and its meaning. 

Maybe at one point he was someone’s little star, something bright and twinkling in the darkness. He was out of the habit of imagining who gave him the title, though this wasn’t an unexplored dream. There was a time when he imagined the soft arms, soft eyes, soft words of his nomenclator whispering to him in a language he barely remembered, cradling him in the darkest depths of Cazador’s cruelty. He was once held with the kind of reverence reserved for a long hoped-for child, and that thought had sustained him for nearly half a century at one point, pulling his mind from the experience of his body and taking him into that parental embrace. 

Spoken so boldly, so nonchalantly in the open air of the camp left him emotionally naked where he stood. Astarion imagined the last time he heard it might’ve also been the last time he stood in the sun as he did now. Fitting, he supposed, as his current life experience felt as foreign and unreal as the memories he made up in his dissociations. It didn’t escape him that the gentle way the druid Halsin spoke his name was as close to the way it was always supposed to sound as anything he could imagine. 

Halsin’s voice sounded like the smell of campfire as it went out, like the ground shaking from thunder far away, like the way rough bark feels on a smooth palm. Practically everything he said sounded beautiful, and Astarion’s name was no different. Halsin’s lips didn’t just form the words, but cradled them, placing them lovingly into the world as if they were worthy of care. 

The sound of his name had never sounded so sweet, not after centuries of morphing into a curse. More than spoken with care, his name was treated as a command, as a tug on a leash or a noose. Cazador’s voice poisoned Astarion’s name with his venom, whether delivered within a puncture or a masked sweetness. He began regarding it as a scourge, the sound of it acting as a warning for what awful things followed. A necessary distance from his name formed, leaving it behind with his suffering body most days. At camp, he tentatively allowed ‘Astarion’ to settle back into him as his companions spoke it without malice, without inflicting pain. It was with more indifference, informality than anything else, but maybe that was the casual way most people regarded their own name when they had anything else besides it. 

Halsin turned his curse of a name back into a prayer, but his kindness was such a practiced part of him that Astarion wondered if it was even intentional. Maybe it was a druid thing or just a Halsin thing, but the natural respect and care he gave to all living creatures was difficult for the younger elf to understand. He could understand if it was a rouse, hiding an ulterior motive, sure, but he wasn’t sure Halsin even had the capacity to lie let alone manipulate him. 

A hand reached for him as the words did, Halsin’s big paw tentative as it came toward Astarion like he was some injured small creature or something. It was clear that the older man was trying to find the best way to get him to feel comfortable, and the thought stirred something in his belly. Annoyance, trepidation, butterflies? The hand came with a request, not just to offer Astarion the sweet version of his name.

"Little star,” he’d called, as if his request was simple, as if it didn’t shake Astarion to his core.

  Blinking himself out of the momentary reverie, Astarion turned on his heel to take in the scene. Halsin was seated at one corner of his little camp, on the bare ground, large legs folded beneath him. It was only then that Astarion noticed the curls of wood scattered around him, the knife in his hand, the mangled bit of twig resting on his thigh. Was he whittling? How...quaint. Feigning casual, Astarion cocked a hip and an eyebrow, drawling. 

“What was that, dear druid?” 

“I was wondering if you would do a lazy bear a favor and hand me that bit of basswood just out of reach,” Halsin answered, a chuckle below the surface of the sound. “If it’s not too much trouble, of course.”

There was a glint to his eye that made Astarion feel like he’d been caught doing something more nefarious than simply walking past. The request was innocent, if not a possible ploy to just get his attention, and yet the vampire felt like he must tread carefully. Those hazel eyes saw more than most, Astarion knew. Beyond the wizened age of the former First Druid, Halsin had the unique ability to see what many others overlooked, and Astarion’s carefully crafted masks did nothing to deter him. He often wondered if in that sweet nature hid a schemer who kept tabs as weapons; after all, that would be what he’d do, what he did do. 

With careful, graceful movements that did little to hide the truth of the disarmament he just experienced, Astarion plucked the wood from the ground and offered it to Halsin with a flick of his wrist. 

“Is this what you’re after?” 

“Ah, yes,” Halsin beamed when he got the frightened animal to eat from his palm. “Many thanks, my friend.” 

Friend? Astarion barely grasped the concept let alone considered this lumbering teddybear of a man one of his. He could scarcely bring himself to trust Halsin, so warm affection was definitely not on the table yet. 

Still, being in Halsin’s good graces could be nothing more than an asset. 

On went the charm, an enticing smile tugging at Astarion’s lips as he peered down his nose curiously at the older man’s project. 

“And what, pray tell, are you doing? Not carving stakes, I hope?” 

At that, the laugh that burst from Halsin both startled Astarion and warmed something in his bones, his smile slipping into something less practiced without his knowledge or permission.

“Gods, no,” the bear replied, holding up the wood to show how easily it would fit in his palm. “Not unless we’re going to chase down your kin in bat form.” It was Astarion’s turn to laugh, the image of the large Halsin chasing after his master as a tiny vampire bat with his hand-carved toothpick delighting him. Gesturing to the space beside him with his carving knife, Halsin invited, “come, join me if you are not busy. I’d be happy to keep your company a while longer.” 

Astarion couldn’t say why he sat down beside him, or even what they wound up talking about until Halsin left to join the rest of the omnivores in camp for supper. The sun had shifted across the sky without his noticing for the first time since he’d been able to see it again, the passage of time seeming to rush by. This, too, was a new experience. For nearly two centuries, Astarion had felt time trickle past him like molasses. His existence was pain, isolation, and forced servitude, and anything beyond that had been a rouse. Time passing quickly would have been a blessing any moment of his life except for today. Today, when he allowed himself for a moment to believe in the sweetness of another, the world moved faster around him than it ever had before. Typical. 

[insomnia-draws]

They're flipping off Bruce or the paparazzi Jason may or may not be mimicking dick we love some brother bonding

Inspired by @wondersinwaynemanor

Tags : @captain-daryn

[armulyn]

My favorite thing about writing about Oskar and Peet from the Wingfeather Saga is that Oskar has absolutely no idea what Peet is talking about 90% of the time. It just sounds like nonsense. An example from my WIP:

“In the words of Barnaby Hoodwink, ‘Where’d you come from?!’” Oskar shouts, heart galloping wildly in his chest. Despite only being around him for an hour a month (if he’s lucky), Peet has somehow managed to give him far more near-heart attacks than any other personage in Oskar’s acquaintance, bar none.

“The street!” Peet exclaims, as if it’s obvious, then proceeds to point straight upwards into the boughs of the tree.

From Oskar's point of view, this is nonsense. Of course it's nonsense! What else could it be?

From Peet's point of view, he's pointing out his street--- his bridges among the trees that allow him to move freely through the forest.

[redreasoning]

It would appear that I am in a Wicked mood today. As long as you’re mine awakened something in me that has definitely changed a lot. I think my only nod is that they never remember he has diamonds in his skin like freckles.

[other-peoples-coats]

what is sad trombone babycrimes?

For the wip title ask meme

sad trombone babycrimes is a mostly-outlined little...thing... that is basically just about WSH/OSHA in the gffa. or, rather, about WSH/OSHA violations in the gffa, as experienced by baby-wan, and then how those impact his experience of the early clone wars

General Kenobi is a stickler for the strangest things; the man's happy to rig ordnance form damn near anything that can explode and a dozen things Cody would have sworn blind couldn't, at least in the field, without access to a hell of a lot more specialised equipment than they have on whatever new hellhole they're stationed on that month, but even the slightest suggestion of reusing a borehole and the man damn near court martials the whole platoon.

He hadn't, which is why Cody hasn't actually arranged for a convenient accident, but still. It's a borehole; the whole reason they can reuse it is that it is, by definition, nonfunctional; drilling new ones like Kenobi wants will add another hour to the timeline, which is an hour they could use doing things like literally anything else.

[eleanorfenyxwrites]

WIP Wednesday

So okay I don't know if this is like...a cool thing to do or not, but there's a fic I claimed from the 2022 kink meme list (I couldn't resist, in large part because Tales From Jianghu Shopping Center was listed by the prompter as one of their inspirations for the prompt) that I'm not sure when I'll actually finish writing but I have started it and I'd like to at least acknowledge that I'm doing it even if the prompter won't see this. But the prompt is something along the lines of anything highly specific and niche (like my strip mall AU lol), and I actually happen to have a growing little stockpile of very very niche knowledge about my chosen professional field, which is ceramics! I specialize in wheel-throwing (though I'm also a...passable hand at plaster mold-making/slip casting and handbuilding, I just don't enjoy them nearly as much) so I've started a little something from Lan Wangji's point of view that's a love letter to throwing ♥

--//--

As is tradition, Lan Wangji works in porcelain.

The Lan family have been respected masters of porcelain for centuries, generations stretching back, back, back nearly to the beginning of the imperial kiln production in Jingdezhen. They once produced the enormous pots that adorned emperors’ palaces – there are (very distant) cousins of his in Jingdezhen who still do so for wealthy patrons.

It’s easy to forget such a background when he enters his personal studio on the other side of the world and flicks on the lights to begin the day’s routines. It’s precisely what he wants – a quiet life like this, simple and unassuming, is much more suited to his desire than the weight of tradition that could otherwise press him and his work down into something he would never want to be.

Not that he deviates very far from tradition anyway, but it’s the principle of the thing. Lan Wangji takes quiet pleasure in simplicity, in function that is beautiful in its hard-won mastery. There are very few non-traditional ways to accomplish this that he’s interested in, but he likes having the option should he want to take it. 

Lan Wangji had learned to throw at his uncle’s knee as soon as it was possible to do so. He has continued to do so since childhood with a single-mindedness that once surprised even his uncle. All he’d ever wanted to do was to sit at the wheel for hours and hours on end, only pausing to warm the water in his bowl with a fresh influx from the kettle and to transfer full wareboards (once he was strong enough) to the drying racks in the corner of his uncle’s studio.

Lan Wangji has always struggled to find the words to convey how integral the motion of the wheel and the smooth slip of clay through his finger and against his palms is to feeling like he fits into his skin properly, but his family seems to understand just the same.

Yesterday, as the sun was westering, Lan Wangji had weighed up a few bags of fresh porcelain. The lumps are waiting for him now, tumbled together under their protective sheets of plastic, ready to be molded and shaped by hands and hypnotic motion. There’s enough of a chill in the studio this time of year that there isn’t any condensation on the plastic when he lifts it, so he folds it away neatly and settles into the easy rhythm of wedging his clay to prepare it for the wheel.

There is, in the middle of the studio, a sturdy butcher’s block workbench. He built it himself right there in the studio, the first piece of furniture that had filled the space even before he’d purchased his Shimpo wheel. It’s very likely too heavy to lift – it’s certainly too big to ever get through the door – but he has no intention of ever leaving this studio to begin another, so it suits his purposes just fine.

Wedging the clay on this sturdy, hip-height table is nearly as meditative a process as all the rest of it. A bit more of a workout than sitting at the wheel, but it’s a good way to warm up in the morning, his muscles well accustomed to the push-turn-push-turn-push-turn of spiral wedging that it’s gone beyond second nature, it simply is. His mind wanders pleasantly as he watches the misshapen lumps of pure porcelain become smooth and rounded beneath his palms. Perhaps he’ll spend the day on bowls. They’re quick and simple, suited to his mood today, and he’ll have plenty of them done by lunch when he already knows his typical solitary routine will be interrupted (and can therefore plan for it so far in advance). 

The sun is up properly by the time Lan Wangji finishes his wedging, and once he’s transferred the first batch of prepared clay to the wheel he pauses to stand in the open doorway and look out over the garden that sits between his studio and his home. The grass and the flowers are glittering fresh and dewy in the sunlight as he rolls his shoulders, stretches out his back in preparation to be seated for long hours.

When he returns, the wheel welcomes him, familiar and comforting. He fills an old bird seed bucket with warm water from the tap and arranges the small mirror at the back of the wheel’s tray to the perfect angle to watch his own hands before he settles in and takes a deep breath, sleeves rolled up and apron cinched comfortably tight around his waist as an unnecessary reminder to keep his back as straight as he can while he works.

The first ball of porcelain hits the perfect bullseye of the wheelhead and Lan Wangji leans in to begin centering, the porcelain buttery soft where it runs under his hands. Porcelain, he knows, is notorious for being difficult to work with, particularly for beginners. This far into his career, it’s simply polite and responsive to each confident press of his palms. He cones it first, hands curled around it to coax it in and up; presses it down again with the flat of his hand, every movement focused on the centerpoint of the wheel gliding silently through magnet-powered rotations. 

Up. 

Down again. 

Up.

Down.

Push.

Press.

Lan Wangji loves every part of the throwing process for what it is, but if he were to have to choose only one, this would be his favorite: the moment he can feel the clay running smoothly, perfectly centered the whole way through and ready to become whatever he will tell it to be, the possibilities – for this moment – endless.

[hurlumerlu]

Death, despair, agony, I just found a tiny bit of wip for Bitter Bitter I had written half asleep in a random only half-blank page of my notebook - and yes riot, it was just after your wild dog comment - but instead of focusing on the lips/cheeks (that came much after), I had written :

They make a handsome couple, silhoueted by the light, like these people in american shows with their well-mowed lawn and their proper home. Curling at the feet of the bed would feel so fucking right.

and I am SO MAD at myself for forgetting about this !! Not even sure it would work with what i ended up writting but I can't believe i passed an oportunity for hound-at-the-end-of-the-bed imagery, i don't even recognize myself anymore... ma'am rosemary sutcliff I've failed you once again.

[phoenixiancrystallist]

"You've flowers in your hair," Astra said, and Susurrus turned to her, a wide grin on his face.

"A helm fit only for the bravest and most noble of warriors, milady," he said, melodramatic and overflowing with delight. The child riding on his shoulders giggled as she wove yet another blossom into his coppery locks. Astra found herself staring, in part admiring the contrast of the delicate, slightly squished blooms against the regal lines and planes of his handsome face. And yet, she also found herself captivated by the way he interacted with the children. Susurrus was the most powerful combative mage in the armies under her command, ruthless and efficient on the battlefield. Yet here he was, children dangling off of him and a smile fit to outshine the sun swallowing his hazel eyes.

Another child hit him at the knees and he tumbled, careful and controlled so as not to harm the little ones that clung to his arms. Astra did not see how it was done, but despite no less than two gangly, uncoordinated bodies weighing each limb down, Susurrus managed to flip the child riding his shoulders so that she landed on his chest. His rich, sonorous laughter rang around the plaza like bells, accompanied by the raucous laughter of the children.

"I've been felled!" Susurrus said through his laughter, and the young lad who'd downed him leapt onto him, a battle cry in his throat that sent the other children scrambling. "Have mercy, have mercy!"

Astra found herself giggling as the other children ran past her, dispersing themselves around the plaza and hiding in garden beds and flowering bushes to prepare for a merry game of chase. But she had need of Susurrus, and so clapped her hands to get the children's collective attention focused on her.

"Come along now," she said, "don't you all have lessons to attend?"

The unanimous whine that met her words forced her to smother a smile. But a stern glance from Susurrus sent them scattering to the winds, off to seek some other entertainment for the day. Astra offered her hands to Susurrus to help him up, marveled at the warmth and gentleness in them belied by the rough calluses and scars he'd earned through battle.

"Bad news?" he asked, running his fingers through his hair. Each flower dislodged was gathered and carefully cradled in his free hand, held tenderly so as not to crush them.

"Nothing we hadn't anticipated," Astra assured him, even as her eyes tracked a delicate, yellow, star-shaped blossom. He noticed her attention on the bloom, and reached out to tuck it behind her ear. Though the gentle smile he gave her held a hint of harsh steel underneath, Astra breathed easier to see it.

[lemon-mint-writes]

Chapter 2 is up! (Technically posted on time too so proud of myself for that hehe)

Today's theme was hurt/comfort, and it's the first George pov of the fic :))

[insomnia-draws]

I have some other Jason in wonder woman merch drawings planned but decided to share this little sketchy sketch of a young baby Jason todd that has fallen asleep on his wonder woman body pillow in a wonder woman onesie also I'm just gonna pretend it was dick that bought the onesie, body pillow, and throw pillows for him yes I know the premise is Bruce but I cannot stand Bruce as a character in canon hes a horrible father so ... Pretending it was dick..

And not just cause I have experience with having an abusive family and yes I know I forgot to add the star to wonder woman's crown I'll add it in I promise lol

Got the idea for this from: @wondersinwaynemanor

Tags: @captain-daryn