@greenteafiend / greenteafiend.tumblr.com
klance but they traded jackets and lance is absolutely clowning on keith’s stupid fucking cropped monstrosity but keith can’t retort because lance’s jacket is so comfortable and it smells like him and and and and—
you guys are good at this hang on
For those of you who want to lock all of your works with all the silly AI scraping of AO3 (which AO3 is recommending you lock your works, as stated in this post)
Here is a quick and easy guide of how to edit ALL of your works at once.
From your Dashboard click on “edit works” on the far right. This will bring up all of your works that you can select.
Select all the works you want to edit, then hit “Edit” at the bottom right.
Scroll to nearly the bottom of the page where you find “Visibility” and select “only show to registered users” and then update at the bottom.
That’s it, all of your works have now been locked without having to go in and edit each fic individually.
I hope this helps!
Hi,
It’s you friendly neighbor fanfic author here. In the light of this apparent new trend of people feeding unfinished fics to AI to get an “ending,” and some people even talking about “blanket permissions,” let me just say this:
I EXPLICITLY FORBID ANYONE TO FEED MY FICS TO AI. DUDE, THAT IS ABOUT THE LEAST RESPECTFUL THING YOU CAN DO. IF YOU DO IT, SHALL YOU BE EXCOMMUNICATED FROM YOUR FANDOM AND WALK ON LEGOS BAREFOOT TILL THE END OF DAYS.
That is my anti-permission.
Thank you for your attention.
What appeals to me about whump: an incomplete list
“So there was this guy in my lab, he came in late—in the middle of a question I was doing an excellent job of answering I might add—and he barely even apologized, which: big mistake. And he was totally unprepared too, didn't do the homework, didn't give a single fuck. The whole class was mesmerized though, like he was a celebrity or something." “Very cool Lance, that’s interesting. Was this guy, perchance, attractive?” Hunk asked. Trust Lance to find a way to get hot and bothered about a random guy in class while freaking out about homework at the same time. It was impressive multi-tasking.
enjoy <3
Rip Kevin Conroy
Well this is just annoying accurate...
recent batmen
the transition from people needing each other to wanting each other is literally one of my greatest weaknesses that shit makes me want to walk into the sea and sit on the ocean floor for a thousand years
like. characters whose entire self worth is based on how useful they can be to others, who think that they're going to be abandoned as soon as they're no longer necessary, being told by someone that they want them to stay and realizing that they have value to people in and of themselves and not just for what they can do for them will never fail to completely unmake me. like on a molecular level.
it's about the moment dependence becomes devotion
Just because you’re dead, doesn’t mean you can’t have a sense of humor, and The Batman was too good a joke for Federico del Fantasia to pass up.
While alive, he’d been part of an Italian comedian troupe that had performed for King George the First himself, so he had something of a flair for the dramatic, and a healthy appreciation for comedic irony.
He’d been a vampire for three hundred years, and had never encountered another human that would be half as amusing to turn into a vampire.
Other vampires went for looks, or brains. A human whose companionship they enjoyed, and did not wish to lose. Humans that reminded them of family or friends, long dead.
Federico was different.
Federico had once tried to turn a goat just to see if it would work. It hadn’t, but it would have been pretty entertaining—a literal Chupacabra.
Federico had gotten it in his head to try turning Bram Stoker back in the 1920s, only to find out that the man had gone and died already, as humans were wont to do.
This time, Federico was going to turn a grown man who dressed up like a Bat and only came out at night, because it would be fucking hilarious.
He just had to catch him first.
with those little superbat snippets I’ve been writing, the post sex pollen one, not sure if I wanna keep writing them getting it on every time they meet up, or if I should attempt to come up with some actual plot 😅
Clark wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and grins sunnily up at Batman from his knees. Batman’s chest is heaving, and Clark can hear how hard his heart is hammering. One of his gloved hands is clamped over his mouth, and the other rests on the top of Clark’s head, petting his hair back from his face.
“Okay, this is getting out of hand.” Batman sounds gratifyingly undone. His knees are trembling—something only perceptible to Clark with his super senses. The hand at his mouth falls slack to his side—he’d gone wonderfully lax the previous times Clark had made him come, too. Clark makes quick work of tucking things away and refastening the batsuit.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, taking that lax hand and exerting enough pressure to bring Batman down. Clark sits back so he’s kneeling, and guides Batman to straddle his lap.
“This is undignified,” Batman grumbles, knees hitting the floor on either side of Clark’s hips, but he drapes his arms over Clark’s shoulders anyway, and noses in for a lazy kiss. It’s good, so good—Batman is a fantastic kisser.
It’s just when Batman puts a hand deliberately on Clark’s crotch that he hears it—the moment both of them have been waiting for—their suspicious shipment is docking in the harbor. He cocks his head—a force of habit, it doesn’t actually help him hear better.
It’s scary how quickly Batman switches back into business mode the moment he senses Clark’s attention drift.
“It’s here?” he says, already back on his feet. There is no trace of the pleasured, sated creature that had sprawled on Clark’s lap moments earlier.
Clark clears his throat and climbs to his feet, hoping sheer force of will be enough to make his erection wilt.
“I heard our cue,” Clark confirms.
“Come on,” says Batman, stalking towards the door.
Part 2 of this.
Do it. Get it over and done with.
Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose hard, trying to stave off the headache he can feel building behind his temples. It’s a good night for the task he has set himself—it’s a Tuesday, and the city is uncharacteristically quiet—the criminal element seems to be taking a break.
A strong cold front had rolled over the city as the sun had set, and now sheets of rain hammer down mercilessly, shrouding Gotham in a cleansing veil of pink noise. She looks like an impressionist oil painting, details blurred away by the water, the light from her streetlamps smudged.
Bruce had chosen his spot strategically; a high vantage point, secluded for privacy, with plenty of possible exit points if he needs to extricate himself quickly.
He pulls the cowl back down into place and crosses his arms.
“Superman,” he says at a normal conversational volume.
