#its a great idea

[sorted-shifter]

what if i make a vampire dr where im sad and lonely then i meet my cr wife(platonically but hopefully soon my gf) and make her a vampire then we live together forever and i perma shift there so im always with her

[atomicpatrolcreation]

I’d love for DC to remember that one of Carter Hall’s (Hawkman’s) past lives was Catar-Ol, a Kryptonian who dedicated himself to archaeology, philosophy, and history. He was even Kara’s history teacher and got along very well with the entire El family (especially Jor-El).

It would be so interesting to explore this because there's literally a being (still alive) who remembers living on Krypton, who knows its culture, traditions, and history perfectly. I’d also love to see Carter in the Fortress of Solitude.

And yes, I want a meeting/conversation between Clark, Carter, and Kara—especially when you remember that in Hawkman Vol. 5 (2018), Catar seems to care a lot about Kara and refers to Clark as “Jor-El’s boy.”

That reunion would be so touching, in my opinion. It might ease some of Catar’s pain, since he died along with Krypton and never knew if anyone remembered his planet (which he says was his greatest burden in Venditti’s Hawkman run).

Plus, it would be hilarious because in another past life, Carter was also Sir Brian Kent—an ancestor of Jonathan “Pa” Kent.

[lilbabykoe]

OH MAH GWOODNESS

M' JUST HAD A GWEAT IDEWA!!!!

Otay so I don knu abwout da rwest of ywou but wen I was wittl sum of my teachwrs used Clwass Dojo to keep twack of good an bad thwings we did. And I was thwinking abwout dat an lwike. I dunno if anyone thwought about uswing it for Lwittles, but dat wuld be SO COOL! If ywou hav a lwong distwance cg, dey culd make a 'clwass' for ywou and giv or take away pwoints. An rewards culd be thwings lwike latwr betwime, extra sweets or sumthwin lwike dat. M' lwitterawy jus thwought abwout dis and thwought it was gwood idewa so m' thwought I wuld's shware!! :)

[tellyphonestuff]

The things I would do for a gallavich spinoff

[refundwhereappliccable]

@kazuma-asogi-blog

if we made everything legal the crime rate would drop to zero. follow for more judicial lifehacks

[exhausted-undead]

tried out apothecary diaries the other day, got inspired to do a study, redrew jinmao as Gustav Klimt's "The Kiss", died

ive been sick for a while so excuse the messiness

[chloesimaginationthings]

Why did Charlie Emily say all that in fnaf UCN

[winter-the-elder]

Adding this to my homebrew setting...

Lotr headcanon, having lots of patches on your clothes is fashionable in the Shire. The more patches, the cooler you are. Especially if it's a lot of different fabrics. It's common to trade patches with friends and family, and it's usually treated with high sentimental value. It's like carrying a piece of someone with you.

While the hobbits are on the quest, their clothes get holes and such. This leads Sam and Frodo to nab small things from the other members of the fellowship, like handkerchiefs or anything too worn for use, to use as patches. Merry and Pippin aren't so courteous, and cut pieces from the fellowship's clothes while they sleep.

Of course, the hobbits exchange patches amongst themselves while traveling, and they never go anywhere without a needle and some thread. Sam is the best at sewing. Pippin is not allowed around needles.

Boromir notices this, thinks it's adorable, and leaves things out purposely for the hobbits to use. Eventually, he asks about it, and they convince him to do the patches, too.

Aragorn also notices and thinks it's adorable, but doesn't bring it up to them. He's secretly flattered to find pieces of his rag on Frodo's pants. He asks Boromir about it instead.

Legolas doesn't notice. His clothes are elven-made, and the scissors refuse to cut it.

Gimli notices the random holes in his clothes, and the things going missing, but doesn't realize it's the hobbits. He brings it up to Legolas, who immediately convinces Gimli that he's crazy and it's all in his head.

Gandalf notices, obviously, and he doesn't mind until Pippin tries to cut his cloak while hes asleep. He proceeds to wake up and yell at him until dawn.

After Boromir dies, Aragorn takes his cloak, and sews pieces onto his clothes. These are the only patches he has.

Bilbo has a set of clothes with patches from the dwarves, from his own adventure. He told them about the tradition, and they all gave him pieces of fabric to use. He can still recount which patch belonged to who.

[bluerosefox]

Eldritch Children

Hmmm

Wanna know would be a fun prompt.

So you know those stories where Danny goes all eldritch on a Gotham Rogue (mainly the Joker) after he attacks someone Danny cares for or him.

What if, instead of Danny, it's a deaged Ellie and/or Dan. What if Danny was hit by that one device that Vlad hit him with during that one DP episode where his powers were shut off for like 6 hours or something similar.

Basically Danny can't use his powers, he gets captured by a rogue, maybe it's being live broadcast or streamed, his tiny toddlers are there or while being babysat see the livestream/broadcast and decide to go save their 'Mama' from the 'baddy peoples'.

The Bats and Birds get there just in time to see a (or two) tiny toddlers demanding the 'baddy peoples' to give them their 'Mama' back or else. The Rogue laughs and says back like 'and how do you plan to make us?'

Then the child(ren) go full on (tiny) eldritch beast mode and takes everyone 'bad' out like it was nothing. (The cameras glitch out the moment they go eldritch so no one outside the room sees it happening)

Danny unties himself (he's been tied up so much he learned how to undo them even in his human side) or is untied and runs past the Bats/Birds ignoring them as they try stopping him and runs to his kid(s).

[stealingpotatoes]

heres a crappy venn (??) diagram explaining the dynamics in the tl4j time travel au bc it's easier than trying to write a full plot

[corkinavoid]

I have been blessed by wonderful @fine-x and their beautiful art!

Thank you so so so much for it, I know I've already said it, like, ten times, but I really can't express how happy this makes me feel!

Remember the Alt Rock to the Rescue post?

Behold the art inspired by it!

[pricetagged]

butcher paper

Here's a young (maybe 19-early 20s) Simon struggling with his emotions, working as a butcher's apprentice, and fixating on the pretty student waitress at the café next door (':

Content: plus size f-presenting reader; allusions to domestic abuse (Simon's past); fat-shaming (not Simon); little bit of violence, unedited. (Link to Ao3)

He's not sure that it counts as desire. Interest. It crawls over him, makes him feel aggressive, makes him want to dig his teeth in and shake and snarl.

It's hunger.

And he knows hunger. Knows it like he knows the cigarette burns on the back of his hand. Knows it like he knows his old man's a waste of space and that he has to defend his mum and protect Tommy and- and-

He's the man of the house, only the house is rotten. Woodloused frames, crumbling bricks. Gutted. Empty shelves hidden behind broken doors. Chipped plaster, electricity cutting off. Squeaky steps that always clued them in when the old man was on a rager (not that it helped, creaking out a warning but giving no clue where to run. The percussion leading to a gallows' jig; the heavy step before the hit).

But the old man's gone now. And Simon is left trying to fill in the boots he doesn’t know how to wear. All growth spurt and gangly limbs and anger. So much anger at the old bastard. Tear-soaked anger at his mum sometimes (buried deep behind the shame that he feels when he thinks of her black and blue. Anger and shame, bitter roots that he chews at to soothe the clench of in his jaw and the grind of his teeth). And then he sees you through the window. Through the peeling CHRISTMAS SPECIAL sign highlighting ham joints and turkey and pigs in blankets.

You're so soft.

You look like you’ve lived a life well-fed and well-loved. Something round and sweet and helpless, like the puppies he and Tommy had seen dumped in the park while they snuck cigarettes and swigged from cheap supermarket cider.

And that brings him back to the hunger. He's an awkward creature, shuffling to the café where you work part-time. He's more feeling than man, all rage and appetite stuffed into a skin suit. You sense it too, nerves tugging at the tilt of your smile as you approach the scavenger that swept in to sit at the cheap plastic tables in this greasy spoon. He sits awkwardly, too, hunched over the table like his stomach is gnawing at him. Big hands snapping the disposable plastic coffee stirrers and shredding the napkins. That first day, he just stares at you. Sneers a little when you flutter over to take his order.

You slosh the tea a little when you serve it.

He sees the burn bloom, watches as you suck at the sting with plump cheeks and a rosy little mouth, and he just wants to dig in and scratch hard to see you do that again.

It becomes a habit, watching you. He finds out bits and pieces listening as he rends and chops and saws through muscle and bone, stinking of sweat and iron. You're here as a student. You're living in student digs (good, best that you avoid the up-and-downs and rough streets that would fit a student budget), and you're a real sweetheart. Old Sal who has been running the café for the past 30 years leans a heavy elbow on the display counter as he chats with the boss.

"She's lovely, taken to it like a fish to water," his raspy, smoke-charred voice is cheery as he waits for the bacon and sausages to be weighed and wrapped. "Only asked for Thursdays and Fridays off since she has afternoon classes then. Otherwise, I almost have to round her out of the shop, doing more afternoons and weekends than my own kid."

You're hardworking too, then. He wonders if it's because you're hungry too, needing something to do with your time, living on pot noodles and supermarket ready-meals like he'd heard some students do. It's strange how that thought sits uncomfortably, makes him want to hunch over you and bring you his scraps.

That week, he decides to talk to you. Only the words get caught, don't come out quite right as he stares at the way your jumper clings to the soft curves under your faded apron. When you turn around, bustling to other customers, he can't help but stare at the line of your skirt. It's real pretty, decent, sitting just above your knees but Christ, he wishes that it would roll up a little higher. That it would catch on the corner of a table or hitch up as you raise your arms and swish past with a tray full of fry-ups. He almost gets lucky as you bend over to mop up a spill just across the room. Your thighs widen as they press against the table, tights stretching thin and sheer and he just can't tear his eyes away-

(The hunger in his stomach turns hot and biting, makes his cheeks flush and his mouth dry-)

But it's ruined. Fly in the soup, hair in the dish, as you catch him and your eyebrows pinch together as you look away. There's something guarded, bitter, in your lovely eyes, and the dryness in his mouth turns wet and sour. You seem to take pains to avoid him, swapping out with Sal's son so that you can work the counter instead of the floor.

"'m Simon," he grunts as he goes to settle the bill. "Work at the butcher's across the street."

You clearly didn’t expect an introduction, shoulders relaxing and hesitant smile blooming as you give your name in return.

"Yeah, I know. Sal mentioned you a few times. He's tried to give me the rundown of practically everyone on the street, feels like."

"Y'should come in t'the shop," the invitation rushes out in a way that makes him feel clumsy. Perhaps that’s why he did it; to have you in his space, with his head and his footing right. Here, he feels every inch the artificial man. Pieced together, too big and too looming, with no help or guidance on how to talk to soft things and pretty girls.

You grimace a little, eyes focused on the till as you count out his change. "Not really on a butcher-shop budget right now."

"'S'alright. I can keep something aside for ya," he doesn't mention how it would come out of his wages. How it would come out of what he brought home to his mum and Tommy. It didn't matter, though, when he was used to going without.

"That's - that's really nice, actually," Your sweet face is glowing now, and he feels like he could bathe in the warmth of it. "Next time you come by lunch is on me."

He sees the way you tuck your chin and smile as he walks away, and that bottomless pit in his guts feels just a little more full.

(He doesn't quite catch the snickers of the boys at table three, whispering and nudging each other as you come to take their orders. This time.)

He stares more and more through the window of the shop, watching as you come and go. Watching the way you greet the regulars and skirt around the group of lads who like to linger in the evenings. There's something sharp, nasty, to the way they circle around the entrance. The way they cackle and hoot when the one with the eyebrow piercing smirks and whispers to his mates as they force you to brush past. They're a pack of hyenas, shrieking and smug as they toy with the poor little thing that's walked past their watering hole. He's seen this type before, practically grew up with them. His old man was probably one of them, perfecting his cruelty while young, cementing it as part of his nature.

It has Simon sharpening his knives while he grits his teeth. Has the boss tutting at him when he cuts too close to the bone.

He knows there's something violent in him. The old man tried to bring it out then snuff it out, getting scared when the knife that he sharpened was able to cut him in return. He's no stranger to bloodshed. No stranger to the calloused, deprivation-dimmed apathy that breeds like algae in the environment where he was forged. Dripping, slimy, suffocating.

Doesn't mean he likes it, though.

(He'd gone back for those puppies, you know. Felt wrong leaving them. Felt like a rebellion against his old man's sick life lessons as he dumped the box outside the doors of a local veterinary clinic).

So he keeps his eyes peeled, stakes out the café like he owns it. Stares down anyone who looks at you wrong until they look away, muttering under their breath. 'Fucking freaky dead-eyed git.' It seems to work.

And you seem to like it, sparing more smiles for him. Bringing him bigger portions than normal and topping up his cup before he even needs to ask.

"I know you've been working since seven, Simon. Gotta keep your strength up," You seem bashful as you slide the plate across, and he just eats it up.

You've been looking at him, thinking about him. It's not something he's familiar with, having someone care for him. His mum loves him, of course. Tommy too. But it’s not the same, not when it's been his job to take care of them. His job to step up to the mantle and into the shoes that his father should've filled. Watching the sway of your wide hips as he tucks into the steak and kidney pie with gusto, he feels satisfied. The hunger is there, always is, but it's not gouging at him under the skin. It's satiated, pleased. The kind of comfort that leaves his eyes heavy and his belly warm.

It's a routine you fall into, and everything is rosy-

Until it's not.

He's closing up shop, wiping down the counters and getting ready to haul down the shutters when he sees them. Those stupid pricks, travelling in their pack and signaling that their quarry is in sight. Look, there it is alone and limping and- You're in a rush, leaving later than usual and shrugging your coat on carelessly as you shout your goodbyes to Sal. You're in that skirt again, the one that makes his lower belly tighten and mouth feel dry.

"Oi, look! Dirty scrubber has her fat arse hanging out!"

It sets them off, chittering and howling as you freeze wide-eyed and lip-quivering.

"Gonna be sick, mate. Don't want to see your knickers, love. Didn't even know they came in that size."

He doesn't even see red. Doesn't see anything but your pretty, round face crumpling as you try to tug your skirt out from where it got caught under your coat.

The ringing of the bell by the door muffles the sound of the first punch. His fist crunches into that prick's nose, and he wants nothing more than to keep going until his face is little more than meat and pulp and blood. He can taste it, smells the blood in the air like a shark.

But you're watching.

"Bit bored with y'taking the piss out of her," he snarls it as he hauls the man by his jacket, shoving him hard against the wall until his head thwacks against the bricks. Easy as hauling a side of beef. "Why don't ya try me next?"

The man seems dazed, head spinning and nose dripping. His mates, too, look floored. Ready to scatter and abandon their leader to the bigger beast. Only the promise of more blood keeps them watching, feeds their nasty appetites and he's just itching to let them see. Watch what happens; it's coming for you next.

"Speechless now, eh? Had so much to say earlier," he's spitting the words out, teeth snapping as he leans down so close to the man's face that he can see how his pupils constrict. "Apologise."

And he's smarter than he would give him credit for. Smart enough to whimper out his 'sorry, sorry, sorry' as he drops to the filthy, damp pavement when Simon swivels towards the others. Something about the set of his shoulders, the way his hands and apron are splattered with the gore of man and animal, has them scattering.

"That goes for the rest of ya! Don't ever want t'see your ugly fucking mugs around here again," he spits on the ground, itches at his jaw with his wrist as he watches them run.

He can't hear them anymore. Can't hear anything over the sound of his heavy panting and pounding heartbeat.

It's cold out. He's only realising it now, standing in the December chill with just an apron over his jeans and t-shirt. It has him shaking, flexing his hand as his knuckles start to sting and swell. He welcomes it, welcomes the familiar bite as he pushes down the savage, ragged anger rippling through his chest.

"Simon-"

"Y'alright?" he cuts you off, faces you head-on.

And all the rage saps out. You're not cowering away. There's no disgust on your face. No tears or embarrassment either, no. You've got a crumpled packet of wet wipes in your hand, reaching out for him. Concerned.

"Figure you'd want to get that prick's blood off you soon as possible," you give him a sad little half-smile. "Didn't have to do all that for me, Simon."

"Yeah, didn't have to." He concedes as he steps closer to you. Crowds into your space until you're toe-to-toe and he can feel your warmth. He brushes his fingers against yours, lets them linger on your soft skin as he reaches for the wipes. "I wanted to."

-----------------------

Let's all pretend that this was okay and ignore the fact that I still haven't posted the wips that I keep going on about 🫠💖

Just a little self-indulgent drabble idea that I had today, thinking back to watching 'My Mad Fat Diary' as a teenager, feeling nostalgic ~ (The Finn-defending-Rae scene had 18yo me in a chokehold lol).

[bamsara]

There are ten billion personal Lamb interpretations and all of them are correct (and also the other characters but I suffer from lamb favoritism)

If you're looking for an excuse to ramble about your Lamb or AU (or any cotl character you have) take this post to do it NOW

[xxplastic-cubexx]

graph

bonus:

[ethan-acfan]

Merlin getting injured while saving Camelot again (getting stabbed or shot, etc). But he hides it so Arthur won't ask questions, and he has to just grin through the pain until one of his stitches gets undone and he doesn't realize and passes out in Arthur's room. So Arthur comes back from training to find Merlin crumpled into a ball shivering and covered in blood.

[marunalu]