#not slash

[charlottethn]

Been trying chess♟️ recently. Wish I could nail it like Jim and Spock but all I think was them hang out and play chess together with Bones by the side.

[coolskeleton66]

was doing some body studies and couldn't stop myself from drawing these guys ദ്ദി (ᵒ̴̶̷᷄﹏ᵒ̴̶̷᷅)

[theclassicistcodenjoyer]

[ movie version!bilbo baggins finds an injured fauntling ( hobbit child ) at his doorstep. set roughly five years after he returns to the shire from his big adventure. strictly platonic/caregiver/paternal. ]

note: most people find it generally acceptable that hobbits age 1.83 percent as slow as humans, aligning with a hobbit’s first “adult” birthday being at 33, whereas ours is at 18. therefore, a hobbit that is 10 human years would be roughly 5.5 years old in hobbit years.

The wind howls like a wounded beast through Hobbiton. Rain lashes down from the sky, cutting the charged air like a blade, illuminated by jagged forks of lightning cracking over the distant hills of the Shire.

You’re exhausted and shivering, soaked to the bone and feeling pummeled by the storm. You’re a young hobbit, scarcely past your tenth birthday, now struggling through the thick, muddy grass growing up on the hill at the end of the lane. You don’t know that it’s a lane, of course, or that it’s the infamous Bag End, home to the strange Bilbo Baggins. You only want to get to the lee of the hill to find some shelter from the wind.

You make it to what you think is a stony divot in the hillock, but is actually a front stoop, and sink to your knees, faint with exertion. Shivering pitifully, you won’t make it to see the next dawn. Your eyes slide shut, and your head hits the door with a faint thump—

Which startles the hobbit dozing by his hearth inside.

From inside, there’s the sound of muffled footsteps, and then the door swings open. You give a little squeak of dismay, tumbling forward over the threshold now that your resting spot has suddenly disappeared. You push yourself up with small, grubby hands, peering up in pitiful confusion at the candlelight that suddenly floods out into the gloom.

“What in the—” The hobbit’s eyes widen in surprise, his mouth framed in a perfect circle. For a moment, he thinks that some kind of strange little creature has become addled by the storm and wandered into town, before he sees your curly hair and fuzzy feet sticking out from under your coat. You're a hobbit, just a child. What are you doing out in the storm?

“Fauntling? Oh, come here, come in, you’ll catch your death of cold!” He scoops you up with his free hand, still balancing the candle with the other, as he leads you inside his cozy home.

You're small for a fauntling, less than half his size. You're pale, shaking, dragging your left foot. The left leg of your patchwork trousers are stuck to your calf with dried blood.

The hobbit notices swiftly, setting you down in a plush, oversized armchair by the fire. He sits on the footstool, inspecting your leg. "Oh, fauntling, you've gotten yourself into a scrape, haven't you? Do you live nearby, little one?" He knows most of his neighbors— do any of them have little ones that look like you? He can't recall. Then again, at the moment, you look mostly just like a drowned rat, so perhaps he just hasn't recognized you yet.

"You stay right here, now. I'll be right back." He disappears, leaving you huddled in the chair, reaching your palms out towards the flickering fire. A few moments later, he returns with a bundle of towels, blankets, and clothes.

You don't have time to process much before he's stripping off your sodden clothes, making you squeak softly in dismay. He pats you dry with the towel, then wiggles you into a plain cotton nightshirt that's several sizes too big for you, being made to fit an adult hobbit and not a fauntling. Then he bundles you up in a blanket and drapes another over your shoulders as he carefully peels off your torn trousers. You cry out, fresh blood trickling from a deep gash that spans from your upper calf to your heel.

The hobbit gasps softly, quickly pressing the ragged trousers to the wound to stem the bleeding. "Oh, fauntling, that's more than just a scrape. It's too late to fetch the doctor, but you just hold this here and I'll fetch some bandages and water."

Bilbo is in no way especially skilled at healing, but he has the rudimentary supplies necessary to alleviate most minor ailments— bandages, salves, a few tonics for pain, and the like. It's the best he can offer for now.

He puts water on the stove to heal up, waiting a minute or two for it to come to a near-boil before grabbing the rest of the supplies and hustles back to you. You're curled up in the blankets, your injured leg tucked up to your chest. Your breathing is starting to even out, your small body unable to support you for much long.

Bilbo sits once again on the footstool, gently taking your leg in his deft hands. He pours the water into a shallow bowl, dipping a clean washcloth in and beginning to dab away the blood and mud from your leg. The pain feels like liquid fire, the cleaning process torturous, though the hobbit is as careful as he can possibly be. When most of the grime is gone, he spreads a salve of marigold and yarrow over the raw, angry edges of the gash, then binds your leg firmly — but not tightly — with cloth.

By the end of the process, you're giving weak little mewls, too out of it to ask him to stop. He shushes you, not unkindly, until he's done. You give another noise of misery, and he can’t resist the urge to lift you into his arms, holding you against his chest and stroking your half-dried curls. You’re like some little animal, abandoned, injured, and he would fail to deny the first stirrings of paternal affection currently flickering to life within him. It’s a survival tactic, really, an instinctual response designed to ensure that any hobbit will be inclined to care for not only their own offspring, but the offspring of others of their species. Because Bilbo has no children of his own, his current top priority is you. “Shh, you’re alright. All done now, fauntling. Are you getting warmed up, hmm? Does your leg feel better?”

He gets no reply. You’re already fast asleep in his arms.

[cryscabbage]

Post-revolution, Connor takes on Hank's last name to humanise him a bit more and make him feel more accepted into the family. It also helps with legal paperwork.

"C'mon, even Sumo has my name."

"That's automatically added by the vet, Lieutenant."

At work it causes... Mishaps.

"Anderson!" Fowler shouted.

"Yes?"

I would absolutely adore anyone who builds on the concept of Connor being Connor Anderson; fanfic, fanart, anything.

[sheets-of-your-own]

DC (Batman)

Ain't No Compass, Ain't No Map

ebjameston

51863 words

Medium Recommendation

A CPS agent gets sent to investigate a tip that Tim Drake has been abandoned by his parents and is living with the Red Hood. The CPS agent leaves with no Tim Drake, a date with Red Hood's lieutenant, and an intern who's promising to fix the IT systems at his office.

It's a weird day for Theo.

This fic is part of a greater series called Gotham CPS, with the only other fic being "Ain't No Compass: Side Conversations" and is just oneshots in the same world

I absolutely love this fic for so many reasons. First I am a sucker for siblings!Jason&TIm, (This Fic is Not slash), Second, fics that go into the worldbuilding are always great. This one really expands on the 'little guy' in Gotham outside of the vigilantes. The OC Theo is so well written and really fun to read. He's just so tired, constantly, and the batfam give him no rest. He is also just the right level of insane and it's just a really fun experience.

Also Bernard is here and I love him, any fic that gives him a conspiracy theories subplot and makes it an *issue* that's relevant rather than a quirk is great.

Theo starts so much drama without meaning to. This fic is just really well written and plotted, everything flows into the next plot point so well, you can tell a lot of work went into making sure that the timeline and known information makes sense.

**Cough Cough** I definitely didn't forget to schedule fics for the rest of December, lets say it was a break for exams and holidays.... sure

[itsrainingtheblues]

what if, what if, what if

what if all Jason and Bruce needed to bridge the gap in their relationship is for one of them to cry to the other.

like inconsolable bawling, rambling about what went wrong and what they think went wrong.

apologizing for everything they did to hurt the other.

maybe they're not fully lucid. maybe they just woke up from a nightmare. maybe they got drugged.

[bumblewyn]

intervention

Summary: Max has been waiting for Lando to reach a breaking point sooner or later, but he hadn’t expected that breaking point to be the interior of his jet.

lando & max post silverstone