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lazy-ahh · 2 days ago

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It would be cool if you wrote something for maskless mark x kryptonian!malereader

(YOU WERE) MY HOME

pairing maskless! mark grayson x (kryptonian) male reader

you memorized the exact shade of brown in mark’s eyes. the way his laugh crinkles his nose. how his hands always tremble after a fight. he memorized the way your body went limp in his arms when the kryptonite hit. how your blood looked smeared across his suit. the exact second your heartbeat stopped. (he’s not your mark. but when he kisses you like he’s drowning, you let him.)

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro

your earliest memory is fire—not the gentle kind, not the warm glow of a hearth, but the violent, screaming kind. the kind that eats metal and flesh alike as your family’s ship tore itself apart in earth’s atmosphere, the heat so intense you could feel it searing your skin even through your crash harness. the scent of burning circuits and something darker, something organic—your parents, still strapped into their seats, their bodies limp and wrong in ways your child-mind couldn’t name but understood instinctively. you remember the way your throat burned from screaming, the way your fingers trembled as you clawed through twisted wreckage, your tiny hands slick with ash and something wet that wasn’t yours. then—cold grass beneath your palms, the shock of it against your skin as you collapsed in a stranger’s backyard, the night air biting at your tear-streaked face. you didn’t know where you were. you didn’t know if you were dying. you just knew you were alone.

until you weren’t.

a boy—messy-haired, pajama-clad, eyes wide with curiosity instead of fear—peered down at you like you were the most incredible thing he’d ever seen. "whoa," mark whispered, voice hushed with awe, as if you were a fallen star instead of something broken. "are you an alien?" you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. your voice was lost somewhere between the wreckage and the weight pressing against your chest, but it didn’t matter because mark didn’t wait for one. he just reached out, small fingers brushing your arm like you were something precious, and you shattered. you clung to him, shaking, gasping, and he held you back without hesitation, his arms tight around your shoulders like he already knew you needed to be held together. neither of you understood what had happened—you were both just kids, too young for death, too young for the weight of the universe—but mark didn’t need to understand to be kind. he whispered soft, clumsy reassurances against your hair, rubbed your back in slow circles the way his mother did for him when he cried, his voice wobbling but determined. "it’s okay," he kept saying, even though it wasn’t, even though it would never be okay again. "i got you."

mark always had good intentions.

after that night, you were never alone again. the grayson household wrapped around you like a second skin—debbie’s gentle hands guiding you through human meals that tasted too rich, too warm compared to the nutrient packs from your ship. nolan’s steady voice explaining earth’s customs with patient amusement when you stared too long at things like skyscrapers or television. and mark—always mark—dragging you into his world with both hands, insisting you share his bed when the unfamiliar silence of your new room kept you awake. the mattress was too soft, nothing like the firm sleep-pods you were raised in, but mark’s presence beside you, his quiet snoring, made it feel like home.

cecil came later, all sharp suits and sharper eyes, but his grip on your shoulder was firm, not cruel, when he signed the adoption papers. you even remember cecil's expression softening a tiny bit when you finally mustered up the courage to look up at him. "you’re special, kid. you could do a lot of good in this world." he’d said, and you didn’t realize then how much that would cost you. the training was brutal—learning to control the way your fists could shatter concrete, how your vision blurred red-gold when anger spiked too hot in your chest—but you endured it. not because you cared about being a hero, but because nolan had quietly told both you and mark that he would inherit powers one day. and mark? mark already dreamed of it. of soaring through skies, of saving people with that bright, fearless grin of his. "we’ll be unstoppable," he’d say, bumping his shoulder against yours, and you’d nod, because all you ever wanted was to stand beside him.

you remember the little things most: the way mark split his peanut butter sandwiches with you in the cafeteria when you couldn’t stomach the school’s mystery meat. how he’d sneak you onto the roof at night, pointing out constellations he’d misname on purpose just to hear you laugh and correct him. the winter your fingers went numb during a snowball fight, and mark—without hesitation—pulled off his gloves and pressed your hands between his own, blowing warm air onto your skin until the feeling returned. "better?" he’d asked, cheeks pink from cold, breath fogging between you. you lied and said yes, even though your chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with the weather.

and then there were the bigger moments: the first time you flew together, mark whooping as he clung to your back, his laughter vibrating against your spine. the way he’d look at you after messy, early missions—bloodied but triumphant, grinning like you’d hung the stars yourselves.

somewhere between stolen lunches and whispered secrets, between scraped knees and shared victories, you fell in love. not all at once, but slowly, inevitably, like gravity pulling you into orbit around him—helpless, hopeless, a collision course written in the stars. and the cruelest part? you never even tried to stop it.

you memorized the shape of his name like a prayer, the syllables curling soft and reverent against your tongue every time you almost said it: i love you, i love you, i love you. it lingered in the spaces between your ribs, ached behind your teeth, spilled into every quiet gesture you couldn’t stop yourself from making. the way you’d fix his suit after battles, fingers lingering a second too long on the fabric stretched over his shoulders. how you’d always bring him his favorite snack after patrol, even when he forgot to ask. the nights you stayed up late just to listen to him ramble about his day, your chest so full it threatened to crack open.

you were brave in every way that mattered—except one. the words never made it past your lips, because you knew. you knew. mark liked girls. loved them, even. the way his eyes followed amber in the hallways, the soft, dazed smile he’d get when eve laughed. you watched it all with a hollow kind of hunger, wondering if maybe—maybe—you could be the exception. if his hands, so careful when they patched up your wounds, might one day cradle your face instead. if his laughter, bright and endless, might one day be yours in a way that wasn’t just friendship.

(you remember one night, the two of you tangled together on the couch after a movie, his head lolling sleepily against your shoulder. your breath caught, heart pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it. this is enough, you told yourself. this has to be enough. but then he shifted, his lips brushing accidentally against the curve of your neck, and for one delirious second, you let yourself hope.

he didn’t even notice. just yawned and mumbled, "g’night, dude," like you hadn’t just short-circuited entirely.)

you never overstepped. never pushed. you loved him too much for that. so you stayed—always giving, always there, hands outstretched but never grasping. and mark? mark never pulled away. never acted uncomfortable. just smiled at you like you were his favorite person in the world (and you were, just not in the way you wanted).

sometimes, you wondered if that was worse.

but of course, ever the giver, you stayed. continued to pour yourself into the spaces between his broken pieces after nolan left him shattered across that mountain. held ice packs to his bruises when his healing factor was too slow, stayed awake through his nightmares when the memories of his father's fists became too loud. every life he couldn't save weighed on him like stones in his pockets, and you? you became the water that buoyed him up, whispering "it wasn't your fault" into the hollow of his collarbone when he shook apart in your arms. and when he'd look at you afterward—eyes wet with gratitude and something unreadable but familiar, mouth soft with something you didn't dare name—you let yourself pretend, just for a second, that it meant more.

but then the drift began. slow, like the tide pulling back from shore—that subtle, inevitable retreat you didn't notice until you were already standing on damp sand, wondering when the water had gotten so far away. you told yourself it was fine. normal. that this was just what happened when two people grew up and became heroes, when the weight of the world settled across their shoulders like second capes. mark was drowning in responsibilities, just like you were—global crises that left blood under your fingernails for days, collateral damage measured in broken buildings and broken families, cecil's ever-growing demands that came with that particular tilt of his head that meant refusal wasn't an option.

you'd see mark across crowded briefing rooms, the shadows under his eyes darker each time, his shoulders tensed like he was still bracing for his father's blows. sometimes your fingers would twitch with the memory of how easily they used to fit between his shoulder blades, how he'd lean into your touch like a sunflower chasing light. but in the rare moments he surfaced for air—between missions, during stolen minutes in the guardians' lounge—he never reached for you. not like before. not with that easy, unconscious trust that used to have him slinging an arm around your neck before he'd even finished saying hello.

instead, there were new distances measured in centimeters of couch space between you, in conversations that ended just a beat too soon, in the way he'd sometimes look at you like he was trying to solve an equation written just behind your eyes. you told yourself it was the exhaustion. the trauma. the growing up. you told yourself it didn't feel like losing something you'd never really had in the first place.

(you remember that particular tuesday night with crystal clarity—the way the dim lamplight caught the exhaustion in the slope of mark's shoulders as amber's name flashed across his phone screen again, the third time in forty-seven minutes. the couch cushions dipped under his weight as he slumped against you, his forehead pressing into the junction of your neck and shoulder like he was trying to fuse himself there. you could feel the frustrated heat of his skin through your shirt, could count each uneven breath that gusted against your collarbone. "she says i'm never present," he muttered, the words cracking open like overripe fruit, all sticky vulnerability. your fingers spasmed against his back, nails leaving half-moon indents in your own palms as you fought the urge to fist your hands in his shirt and scream i'm here, i'm always here, why can't you see me? instead, you traced the familiar topography of his spine through thin fabric, your palm skating over the knobs of vertebrae you'd set back in place after countless battles. "then be present, mark," you whispered, the advice settling like powdered glass between your teeth. he never knew you'd rehearsed those exact words in your bathroom mirror that morning, watching your reflection mouth them until your expression stopped twisting into something ugly. never knew you kept a mental tally of all the times you'd talked him through his relationship problems like some masochistic saint.)

you were stupid. selfish. a fraud wearing a martyr's skin. because when mark and amber finally shattered apart—when you found him sitting on your roof outside your bedroom window in the rain, his hands shaking around a lukewarm cup of coffee you'd made him just how he liked—your grief came in layers. the first was genuine: the way your throat closed at his red-rimmed eyes, the immediate urge to fix what you couldn't. but beneath that? something rotten and hungry uncurling in your ribcage, whispering maybe now. maybe me. the shame hit like a solar flare, burning through your veins hotter than any kryptonian heat vision ever could—because even as you pulled him into a hug, even as you let him stain your shirt with tears, some treacherous part of you was already calculating if this pain of his might finally turn his gaze your way.

and then—

the words hit like a kryptonite blade between your ribs, delivered with that familiar, awkward scratch at the back of his neck that you'd always found endearing. "hey, so. eve and i. we're, uh. together." mark's grin was bashful in the way that made his left dimple appear, afternoon sunlight gilding the curve of his cheek like he was something holy. your fingers spasmed around the coffee cup—the one you'd brought him back from that paris mission last year—and you took a hurried gulp, letting the near-boiling liquid scald your tongue raw. the pain was a welcome distraction from the way your vision blurred. "that's great, man," you managed, the lie sticking like wet sand in your throat. you'd gotten good at this, at stitching your voice into something steady when everything inside you was collapsing.

he didn't notice. of course he didn't. mark never saw the way your breath hitched when he touched you, never caught you staring at the place where his t-shirt rode up when he stretched. now he was practically vibrating with the need to share, knees bouncing as he leaned forward. "she kissed me after the downtown mission," he confessed, voice dropping like you were co-conspirators in this joy. "like, right in the middle of all the rubble? and her laugh—" his fingers fluttered over his sternum, mapping the phantom flip of his heart, and you thought distantly that you could chart every fracture spreading through your own chest in real time. the ceramic mug creaked ominously in your grip, but you couldn't feel the heat anymore, couldn't feel anything except the terrible, perfect clarity of this moment: mark, glowing with happiness that wasn't yours to claim, and you, committing every detail to memory like a masochist preserving their own ruin.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the sky isn't just red—it's hemorrhaging, great arterial sprays of crimson light pulsing behind thick, choking clouds that don't move like normal clouds should. below you, the streets gape open in jagged wounds, asphalt peeling back like the skin of some massive creature trying to escape its own bones. the air isn't just smoky—it's alive with the taste of burning copper and molten steel, each breath scraping your throat raw with the ghosts of a thousand shattered lives. your cape snaps violently behind you, a desperate thing trying to flee the carnage, while your heart jackhammers against your sternum with such force you're half-afraid it'll crack through and go tumbling down into the ruins below.

chicago isn't just burning.

it's being unmade.

again.

you've seen this city broken more times than you can count—watched it crumble under alien invasions, superpowered brawls, the careless collateral damage of beings who called themselves heroes. you know the drill by now: the screaming, the sirens, the way the news cameras always zoom in too close on crying children. you've memorized earth's sick little dance of destruction and rebirth, how it always stitches itself back together with temporary scaffolds and hollow promises of "never again."

but this?

this is different.

because the figures streaking through the carnage below—the ones reducing buildings to dust and civilians and heroes alike to red smears on concrete—they all wear his face. his jawline. his messy dark hair. they move with his fighting style, shout with his voice, even bleed the same shade of red. but their eyes? their eyes are all wrong. cold and chaotic where his are warm, empty where his always held that stubborn spark of hope.

none of them are your mark.

the sky weeps fire around you as you hover above the carnage, the acrid smoke stinging your eyes worse than the truth ever could. somewhere in this nightmare of broken concrete and broken bodies, the real mark fights for his life—while you're trapped here, your lungs burning with the cruel joke of it all. that in this city of a thousand twisted copies wearing his face, the most unbearable pain wouldn't be failing to find him... but reaching for him only to grasp another hollow imitation.

you don't know where your mark is. he's probably halfway across the world by now, his arm slung protectively around eve's waist as they fight back-to-back like some perfect, seamless team. while you? you're knee-deep in rubble, using your body as a human shield between collapsing buildings and innocent civilians—always the bridesmaid, never the groom. or something like that.

the irony tastes like blood in your mouth—metallic and thick, the kind that lingers after a punch to the jaw. you’d stood like this days ago in the guardians’ headquarters, your trembling fingers digging into your palms hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indents, half-moons of desperation carved into your skin. mark had been gearing up for another mission with her, his suit clinging to his shoulders in that way that always made your throat tight. his gloves smelled like ozone and sweat when you grabbed his wrist, stopping him mid-motion as he reached for his mask. your grip was too tight, your pulse too loud in your ears.

"you're always with her," you’d choked out, the words scraping your throat raw, tearing free like shrapnel. your voice fractured like the sidewalk now splitting beneath your feet, each crack exposing years of buried longing.

it all came tumbling out then—how you’d memorized the exact shade of brown in his eyes (warm, like earth after rain), how you’d counted every faint freckle scattered across his nose like constellations. how you’d give up your powers, your legacy, your name if it meant he’d look at you just once the way he looked at her—soft and awed, like she’d hung the stars herself. the confession burned worse than kryptonite, searing your tongue, leaving your mouth tasting like smoke and regret.

for one suspended second, mark’s face did something complicated—his lips parted like you’d punched the air from his lungs, his pupils blowing wide, dark with something unreadable before his gaze dropped to your mouth. your heart stuttered, a trapped bird slamming against your ribs.

you didn’t know why you’d said it. maybe it was the alcohol rex had shoved into your hands earlier, his smirk sharp as he’d muttered, "drink up, superboy. maybe it’ll make you stop staring at him like a kicked puppy." you’d swallowed it all down—the bitter drink, the bitter truth—and now here you were, spilling your guts like some pathetic, lovesick fool, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

mark had frozen like you’d hit him with kryptonite, his hands suspended in air, fingers still curled around the edge of his half-raised mask. the familiar crease between his brows deepened, his lips parting slightly—not in anger, but in dawning, terrifying comprehension. "what?" he breathed, voice barely above a whisper, and you saw it then—the exact moment realization struck. his breath hitched, his pulse visible in the jump of his throat, his gaze dropping to your mouth one again for one electrifying second before snapping back up, wide and startled.

in that suspended heartbeat between confession and consequence, you could have sworn something shifted behind his eyes—something warm and terrified and impossibly, dangerously like reciprocation. like maybe, just maybe, he’d been waiting for this too.

then the comms crackled to life with eve’s voice, bright and urgent, and whatever fragile moment existed between you shattered like the storefront windows now raining glass down around you. "mark? you there?"

he flinched like you'd caught him with his hands in the fire, his mask slipping into place with a sound that felt too final—like a coffin lid sealing shut. "we'll talk later," he muttered, but the words came out all wrong, cracked down the middle like his voice was splitting apart the same way your ribs were. you saw everything in painful clarity: the tremor in his fingers as they fumbled with his mask's edge, the way his adam's apple bobbed like he was swallowing back something thick and unsaid. then he was gone in a streak of blue and yellow, leaving you standing there with your heart ripped clean from your chest, still beating raw in your palms. you wondered if this was how icarus felt—watching the sun flee from him, knowing he'd flown too close.

you became a hero for him. learned to fly not because the sky called to you, but because it was where he lived. trained your fists to break bones only so you could be the one to set his afterwards. stood beside him through every battle, every loss, every quiet midnight where the weight of the world pressed too hard against his shoulders. always beside him. never with him. never the way you truly wanted—fingers laced together, mouths sharing breath instead of battlefield strategies.

now, as you wrench a sobbing child from collapsing rubble, their tiny fingers clutching at your collar like you're the only solid thing left in this nightmare, you wonder if that hesitation in his eyes meant he felt it too—that inexorable pull between you two, like twin stars caught in each other's gravity. or if you'd just shattered the best thing in your life for nothing more than a maybe.

a building groans nearby, its steel skeleton screaming as concrete rains down in deadly chunks. you move before you think, your body slamming into the structure with enough force to crack your spine. the impact knocks the air from your lungs, but you hold firm, muscles burning as you lower the crumbling mass inch by agonizing inch. people scramble free beneath you, their screams mixing with the distant wail of sirens. you don't have time to gasp before the shockwave hits—another explosion ripping through the street, sending you skidding backward through debris. smoke fills your mouth, your nose, your pores, but all you can taste is the ghost of his name.

that’s when you see him.

floating there like some half-remembered dream, blood painting abstract patterns across his cheekbones. but—no mask. no goggles. nothing to hide the way his face transforms when he sees you, his eyes widening like you’re the first real thing he’s seen in years. the moment his gaze lands on you, something fractures deep in your chest—not the clean break of a bone, but the slow, seismic splitting of tectonic plates—only to knit itself back together with golden thread when his lips part in quiet awe.

this mark looks at you like you’re the answer to a question he’s been asking his whole life. like you’re water after decades of drought, like you’re the first star he’s seen after being trapped in an endless night. his eyes trace your face like he’s memorizing it, like he’s trying to drink you in before you disappear again—and oh, god, the way his expression softens when he realizes it’s really you, like his entire body sighs in relief.

then he’s moving, closing the distance between you in a heartbeat, his hands coming up to cradle your face before stopping just short, trembling in the air like he’s afraid you’ll vanish once again if he touches you. "hey," he murmurs, his voice so tender it aches, the sound wrapping around you like sunlight. "it’s okay. i got you."

and suddenly you’re seven years old again, trembling in the wreckage of your pod, your tiny fingers clutching at the grass as the world spins too fast around you. you remember the warmth of mark’s small body pressing against yours, his arms tight around your shoulders like he could shield you from the entire universe if he just held on hard enough. the way he whispered, "it’s okay, it’s okay," into your hair like a prayer, his voice wobbling but sure.

this mark is looking at you with that same fierce protectiveness, that same unwavering devotion—but now it’s layered with something deeper, something older. something that makes your breath catch. he looks at you like you’re the axis his world spins around, like every scar on your body is a constellation he wants to worship. like he’s loved you in every lifetime, and will love you in every one to come.

a sob claws its way up your throat, raw and broken, because this—this is how you’ve always wanted to be seen. not as a sidekick, not as a best friend, but as the living, breathing center of someone’s universe. and here, in the middle of a burning city, with a version of mark who wears his heart as openly as he wears his scars, you finally are.

you let him carry you in his arms, let his fingers curl protectively around the back of your head as he tucks your face against the warm hollow of his neck. the wind screams past your ears as he takes off, but you don’t fight it—don’t even tense. your mission brief echoes dimly in your mind (neutralize all variants, show no mercy) but it feels distant now, drowned out by the steady thump of his pulse beneath your lips. let them see, you think hazily. let the whole world watch as he flies you away like something precious.

next thing you know, you’re perched on the edge of your bathroom sink, his hips slotting between your knees as he patches you up with practiced hands. he’d flown you high enough earlier that the sun could kiss your wounds closed, but he still fusses—dabbing antiseptic over the cuts that haven’t quite healed, his touch feather-light when you flinch. "still hurts here?" he murmurs, fingers hovering over your ribs. you nod, and he makes a soft, wounded noise in his throat before reaching for the salve.

you watch, hypnotized, as he cups the salve between his palms—the same way you've done for yourself a thousand lonely nights—letting his body heat soften it before spreading it across your aching skin. his fingers move with practiced ease, tracing the map of your wounds like he's reading braille, like every bruise and cut tells a story only he understands. "you know my place better than i do," you murmur, voice scraped raw from smoke and unshed tears.

his hands freeze mid-motion. when he lifts his gaze, his eyes are bottomless pools of ink in the dim bathroom light, swirling with emotions too complex to name. "of course i do," he breathes, the words spilling out like a confession dragged from his chest. his thumb finds the sharp angle of your hipbone, brushing once—a fleeting touch that burns hotter than any solar flare. "how could i not when i spent most of my life with you?" his voice drops to a whisper, cracking open like an eggshell. "when i spent years memorizing the way you breathe when you're hurting? the way you grit your teeth slightly when you're lying?"

the air between you grows thick, charged like the moment before lightning strikes. you can feel his pulse where his fingertips rest against your skin, rapid as a hummingbird's wings. the mirror fogs with your shared breath, obscuring your reflections until it's just this—just his hands on your body, his truths in your mouth, this fragile thing you've both been too afraid to name.

the confession lingers in the humid air between you, delicate as the steam spiraling from the faucet, as transient as the condensation tracing paths down the mirror. you ache to ask—how many realities exist where your fingers intertwine as more than friends? how many versions of himself experienced this moment with you? but then his calloused palm rises to frame your jaw, his thumb sweeping salve across your cheekbone with a tenderness that steals your voice. the medicine stings, but you'd endure a thousand cuts just to keep his hands this close.

"there," he murmurs, his breath ghosting over your skin like a summer breeze through open curtains. the scent of him—ozone and the faint metallic tang of blood—mixes with the antiseptic's sharpness. "good as new."

except you're anything but. you're a constellation of fresh wounds and ancient scars, your pulse fluttering wildly beneath your skin where your bodies press together. yet as his forehead comes to rest against yours, as his lashes brush your cheek when he blinks, the familiar ache in your chest doesn't feel like shattering.

it feels like dawn after endless night. like gravity finally pulling you into orbit. like the first full breath after years of drowning.

it feels like every cliché about home you ever rolled your eyes at—because home was never a place. it's the boy who learned your pain before he learned your favorite color, who carries the shape of your wounds in his hands like something precious.

the warmth of his hands on your skin feels like sunrise after decades of darkness—like finally breathing after being submerged too long. for one heartbeat, two, you let yourself drown in it, this dizzying sensation of being cherished, of being truly seen for the first time in your life. then reality comes crashing back like a fist to the gut, bitter and violent. this isn't your mark. can't be your mark. this is one of the invaders, the destroyers, the monsters who painted chicago's streets red with innocent blood. his hands may cradle you with familiar tenderness, but you saw what the other versons of him did to the city. what he's done too.

your muscles tense, fingers curling into fists at your sides. you should attack. should drive your fist through his chest the way cecil trained you to. should make him pay for all the lives lost today.

but then—

his lips quirk in that lopsided smile you've traced in your dreams a thousand times, the one that makes his left dimple appear just so. his eyes crinkle at the corners in that way you could recognize blindfolded, but there's something shattered in his gaze now, something ancient and grieving. "god, i missed you," he breathes, voice cracking like dry earth in a drought, like the words have been clawing their way up his throat for years. the sound of it—so raw, so painfully familiar—makes your traitorous heart stutter behind your ribs.

your breath catches. "what happened..." you swallow hard, fingers twitching at your sides. "to the me in your world?"

his face does something complicated. for a second, he just looks at you, his gaze tracing your features like he’s trying to commit them to memory all over again. then, softly: "we were together. properly, i mean." his thumb brushes your cheekbone, hesitant. "confessed to each other a year before i got my powers. it was... stupidly awkward. i tripped over my own feet trying to kiss you." a wet laugh escapes him, his eyes shining. "you laughed at me. then pulled me in by my shirt."

the image blooms in your mind—mark, younger, softer, his face burning red as he fumbles through a love confession. you can almost see it.

his expression darkens. "then the invasion happened. you fought—of course you did. even when that bastard pulled out the kryptonite." his voice cracks. "i was too hurt to move. could barely breathe. but you—you looked at me, right before..." he chokes, his hands tightening around yours. "you smiled. like you weren’t scared at all."

the sob tears through you like a supernova—violent, uncontrollable, leaving you trembling in its aftermath. before you can think, you're clutching at him with desperate hands, fingers twisting into the frayed fabric of his suit as if you could somehow stitch reality back together through sheer will alone. your knuckles press white against his ribs, nails biting into your own palms, but you can't loosen your grip. you'd crawl between dimensions yourself if it meant bringing his version of you home. because seeing him so broken like this... it just. hurts so fucking bad.

he collapses into you like a dying star, his arms locking around your waist with bruising intensity. his face presses hot and wet against the curve of your neck, his tears searing your skin as his shoulders shudder against yours. you feel the exact moment his knees give out, how his weight sinks into you—the great invincible mark grayson, brought to his knees by grief.

"we lose you... in every other dimension," he chokes out between ragged breaths, the words fracturing as they leave his lips. his fingers scramble across your back like he's memorizing your pulse points, your scars, the way your lungs expand with each shaky inhale. "and i feel so god damn jealous of the versions of me who didn't-" his voice shatters completely then, dissolving into something raw and wounded.

instinct takes over. your hands find their way into his hair, cradling his head as your thumbs sweep across his damp cheeks. "shhh, i've got you," you murmur into his temple, the same words he once whispered to a scared alien boy in his backyard. the irony tastes bitter on your tongue—how after all these years, you're still comforting each other through losses that never seem to end.

the salt on your lips could be from his tears or yours. you've lost track of who's breaking apart more violently, whose grief runs deeper. are you mourning the you he watched die? the mark who will never look at you this way in your own world? or simply the cruel joke the universe keeps playing—that in every reality, one of you is always left holding the pieces?

"please..." his voice cracks like a breaking spine as he drifts closer, hands hovering near your face but not daring to touch. his breathing comes in ragged bursts, lips trembling around each word. "come home with me." the raw need in his tone makes your stomach flip. "my dimension—it's quiet there, baby, so quiet. just us. no eve, no cecil, no him." his fingers finally brush your cheek, sticky with blood and tears. "we'll disappear somewhere where no one knows us. i'll build us a house with my bare hands. you'll plant those stupid flowers you love. we can even take a bunch of cats with us. i'll—fuck—i'll worship you like you deserve. please."

you want to. god, you want to. your traitorous body already leans into his touch, craving more of the warmth you've been starving for.

but—

"mark," you whisper, heart shattering at how his face lights up just hearing his name from your lips. "you've... you've killed people. innocent people."

he doesn't flinch. doesn't hesitate. just leans in until his forehead rests against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven puffs that ghost across your lips. you can smell the blood and smoke clinging to him, can feel the way his pulse races where your skin touches. "yeah," he admits, voice rough like gravel, thick with something desperate between shame and worship. "but i'd burn a thousand worlds to ashes before i let anything hurt you again." his hands slide down your sides, fingers digging into the curve of your waist hard enough to bruise as he yanks you flush against him. you can feel every hard line of his body, the way his heart hammers against his ribs where your chests press together. "i'm already damned," he murmurs, lips brushing yours with every word. "let me be damned with you."

you wince, hands coming up to push weakly at his chest. "mark, you're not mine—"

"i know," he interrupts, pressing his forehead harder against yours like he's trying to fuse your thoughts together. his voice drops to a whisper, raw and broken. "but i could be."

around you, the city burns. the air is thick with the stench of melting metal and charred flesh, the distant screams of the dying swallowed by the roar of collapsing buildings. somewhere beyond the smoke and ruin, your mark is fighting—whole, unbroken, untouched by the kind of grief that twists this version of him into something sharp and feral. somewhere, he's pulling eve close, whispering promises against her lips that taste like forever.

and here you are.

letting a ghost hold you.

this mark—this broken, beautiful monster—is on his knees for you.

you swallow hard around the lump in your throat. because despite the blood on his hands and the fire in the distance, you already know your answer.

oh my god, 6.1k words of pure, unfiltered angst and i am unwell over it. this one-shot clawed its way out of my soul like a demon possessed and i blacked out only to wake up with this masterpiece of pain?? i was absolutely feral writing this, fueled by spite, sleep deprivation, and the haunting echo of "what if mark loved him back but in the worst way possible? what if he did love him but never realised he did (but he did realise this in every other dimension except this one)?" and now here we are. sobbing. you probably thought this would be cute or wholesome. you probably thought, "oh, maskless mark? hot." AND THEN I HIT YOU WITH THE EMOTIONAL WAR CRIMES. but come on, it’s maskless mark—did you really expect anything less than soul-crushing, heart-stabbing, tear-your-ribs-open angst? be so for real. anyway, enjoy the suffering. i sure did. 😭💔

#GOD #WHY #WHY DID I WRITE THIS #WHAT HAVE I DONE #but i'm so glad i wrote this #i think this might have helped me overcome my 'writer's block'/writing burn out #of course angsty stuff fuels me #of course angsty stuff motivates me to write #cause why wouldn't i enjoy making myself suffer?#MARKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK #WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY #mainstream mark being in love with his best friend but he doesn't realise it #realises it too late and now he can't have you back #ever #you're too busy enjoying your life with another version of him somewhere #probably #nahhh i'm just kidding you are #hopefully #NEED THAT INVINCIDIH #are you sure?#lazy-ahh #invincible #invincible variant #mark grayson #maskless invincible #maskless mark grayson #invincible x male reader #invincible variant x male reader #mark grayson x male reader #maskless invincible x male reader

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seokminfilm · 1 month ago

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yours ── lee seokmin

🤍 pairing, lee seokmin x reader

🤍 warnings, non-idol au, fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship, boyfriend seokmin, mentions of thunderstorms, kissing, skinship, seokmin calls reader baby, reader calls seokmin by his nicknames, soft seokmin hours, just really fluffy

🤍 summary, you hated thunderstorms—thankfully, seokmin was just in time to comfort you.

🤍 author's note, tornado warnings are going off at the moment of writing this so...i can relate to what's happening in this fic 😭 i hate hate hate thunderstorms but we ball anyways!! this too shall pass 🙏 anyways enjoy lyrnation!

🤍 now playing, headliner (seventeen)

🤍 word count, 1.1k | for @kstrucknet, @maestro-net

as the rain beat harder on the windows of your bedroom, your body tensed up with fear as the sky lit up brightly with lighting, thunder coming soon after and shaking the ground with its intensity.

it was a saturday night, and the whole day hadn't been the best for you: not only did you mess up your chance to cook your sweet boyfriend, seokmin, a nice breakfast, but your friend had canceled her plans to visit you and you had been asked by your boss to up in ten more extra hours next week—ruining the idea you had of taking seokmin out on a date.

and now, to top it all off, thunderstorm warnings sounded off on your phone, and one was approaching your apartment.

another intense shake of your house brought you back to the present, and you felt the hair on your neck stand up as fear gripped your body. you hated thunderstorms—the loudness of it all terrified you, and your mind seemed to go to the worst places when thunder was present.

suddenly, your phone rang, and you stared down at it to see your boyfriend's contact light up the screen—seokmin was calling you, probably to make sure you were okay. you let a sigh of relief fall past your lips, picking up the call quickly.

"seokmin, hi.." you sigh out the greeting breathlessly, and seokmin sighs with the same tone you do, responding with a relieved "hey, baby."

"are you doing okay? i know the thunder's getting bad now, and i keep getting thunderstorm warnings in my notifications..." seokmin's voice has a constant hint of worry as he speaks. your heart softens, so grateful to know seokmin's worried about you just as much as you're concerned about him.

"i'm doing the best i can. the thunder isn't my favorite thing, but you know—" you pause to laugh, hoping it convinces seokmin as you fidget with the strings of seokmin's hoodie you were wearing. "i'll make it eventually. i always do."

seokmin laughs at your response, sighing again as you hear a clicking sound in the background. "don't worry, baby—i'm on my way home now. i'm sorry i had to be out so late."

"no, no, seok—don't apologize. it's okay. i'm just happy to know you're coming home. i really need you right now." you say with a wince, ears ringing after the loud bang of thunder outside. seokmin sighs, a smile behind his voice as he replies with a soft "i know. i need you too."

bidding your goodbyes after you catch up with seokmin a little bit more, you let yourself bundle up in the blankets of your massive bed, awaiting seokmin's return.

the sound of a door closing downstairs stirs you from your sleep, and you listen to the shuffling of feet and the continuous sound of rain against the glass of the windows. too sluggish to move from your position, you listen quietly to the sounds surrounding you, breathing deeply as another thunderclap sounds in the distance.

stairs creak under your boyfriend's weight as he cracks open the door to your bedroom, and you smile as you hear the shuffling around your room and smell the familiar scent of seokmin's cologne.

"hey, baby. are you awake?" seokmin asks quietly, a few feet away from you. you nod, shuffling under the covers as you push them away from your face.

"hi, baby. god, i'm so happy to be able to put my hands on you. i missed you so much," seokmin's smile is glorious as he approaches you, squatting down to his knees as he brushes your hair away from your face with his slender fingers.

"are you doing okay? do i need to get you anything?" seokmin asks softly, staring into your eyes as you shake your head, clearing your throat. "i'm doing fine. i accidentally fell asleep while waiting for you to come home—i'm sorry, min."

"baby, don't apologize. i'm glad you fell asleep—you need some rest." seokmin smiles, kissing you softly as his sharp nose bumps yours. "let me take a quick shower, and then i'll get in bed with you, yeah?"

"okay," you smile, letting seokmin cradle your face in his palm before he kisses you again, making a little 'mwah' sound when he pulls away.

"i love you," seokmin says softly, staring at you with love in his eyes as you stare back, face warming up as you stare at seokmin's handsome features. "i love you too, seokmin. thank you for everything."

"of course, baby. i'll be in bed in a few minutes." seokmin gives you one more peck on the lips before standing up and disappearing into the bathroom, the door closing behind him as you let your eyes flutter shut once again.

a creak of the bed brings you to consciousness once more, and you sigh contently as seokmin slithers in behind you, firm body pressed against yours as you allow yourself to melt into him. seokmin sighs heavily behind you, the familiar scent of his deodorant melting into the cold air of the bedroom.

"i'm here, baby," seokmin whispers tenderly, kissing your neck softly as you sigh at the contact of his soft, plush lips on your skin. "i'm glad you are, seokkie. i missed you so bad today."

"awww, i missed you more." seokmin chuckles lowly, enamored with your clingy nature as you exhale, sinking deeper into your pillow.

"how was your day?" you ask seokmin, hands falling to seokmin's arms as they wrap protectively around your waist. he sighs, shuffling under the blankets for a moment before he answers you.

"it was good. tiring, but good—i got a lot of things done today, too, so...it's good for you and me. i can stay home tomorrow." seokmin smiles against your hair as he leans his head on top of yours, and you hum happily, too comfortable to speak in this moment.

"how about you, baby? how was your day?" seokmin asks, and you sigh heavily, allowing yourself to finally vent all of your frustrations from the past day to him.

"and then, to top it all off, this awful thunderstorm." you finish your rant, out of breath as the thunder rolls outside once again. seokmin had been taking such good care of you, you had even forgotten there was still a thunderstorm going on.

"baby, i'm so sorry." seokmin sighs, tone matching yours as he runs his fingers through your hair. "that did sound like a really rough day. i wish i was here with you."

"it's okay. i have you here with me now, and it erased all the bad things that happened earlier today, so....thank you." you say, and seokmin kisses the tip of your ear, smiling against it as he nibbles at your earlobe, causing you to giggle uncontrollably.

"of course. i love you so much, baby. i'm so glad you're mine." seokmin whispers softly, tenderly kissing your neck as you start to fall asleep, smiling as you quietly reply.

"i love you too, seokmin. i'm glad i'm yours, too."

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borgialucrezia · 5 months ago

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"You've got the polar opposites of historical views of Lucrezia as the adulterous, incestuous villainess, the Machiavellian manipulator, and then there's [the view that she's a] very passive victim who was just a pawn in her family's game. They're completely contrasting views and I think Neil's similar to me in wanting the middle ground. Yes, Lucrezia does have a strong moral grounding and she was quite religious, but she's also a Borgia! So she's got to go out and do the best for her family, and for herself as well, and make decisions that maybe aren't completely based on Christian morals!" — HOLLIDAY GRAINGER

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heretherebeturtles-comic · 8 months ago

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Hello! Many people have said this but ill say it too, I LOVE YOUR COMIC SO MUCH ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡

I really wanted to ask you about how you do the backgrounds? (Something i struggle with) whats the process? Like from start to finish, also, to do the rise backgrounds do you use reference from the show and generally real photo of ny? Or do you come up with them? And last question- The shadow and light on the background- Like HOW

i know it’s a lot of questions but i’m just so curious qwq and wanna learn to be better, thank you again in case you read this and respond, in case you don’t, i hope you have a nice day and a wonderful life uwu keep up the great work! (≧◡≦) ♡

Backgrounds are a really broad subject and I'm always a little overwhelmed when asked this question. Just like drawing the human body, backgrounds take time, repetition, and practice!

My answer got a bit long, so it's going under a read more :) but if you digest info better in video format I found this on youtube

youtube

It pretty much goes over everything I wanted to say, but in a much better way. I wish I had found it before writing all this out lol

ok, first of all, I'm not a teacher nor was I built to be one of those cool helpful art tutorial people who do a full coloured tutorial filled with illustrations. This is just going to be a messy "how I do backgrounds / environment layouts from start to finish." kinda thing.

... lets start with a sight tangent.

Sketch from Life!!!

If you want to get better at backgrounds I recommend doing some sketching out in the real world!

When I was first getting into doing backgrounds I went to cafes and parks to just sketch the buildings and objects. Sketch rocks, flowers, clumps of grass, garbage cans, bottles, tables, street signs, etc. If you are drawing a tree observe how the trunks twist, how the bark flows, or how the leaves are bunched.

If you can't leave the house the same still applies! Sketch the interiors of your house, the walls, or common objects like chairs and bookshelves. How are objects stacked? items on the floor?

If you aren't comfortable with drawing outside or in public you can take some photos to draw from! They are good for practice and you can use them again as references later. Alternatively you can find pictures online of buildings and objects to sketch as practice.

All spaces have objects in them, it becomes easier to draw those kinds of spaces when you already have spent time observing and sketching them.

ALSO! They don't have to be good sketches! It's just to build out your mental catalogue and strengthen your perception of perspective.

now the actual thing...

BACKGROUNDS

(the pictures used for this are my own. I dug them out of my 2022 folder)

Backgrounds have slightly different rules based on what you are making them for. Videogame Environment Concept Art vs Animation Layouts vs Comic Backgrounds vs Illustration backgrounds.

They all follow the same basics, which I will go over here, but the intention and function of those designs are going to be different. It's all about how you set up the scene and what it's purpose is!

Brainstorming and Thumbnailing

I like to think about a location as though it is a character. An abandoned old house with creaky sagging floorboards is very different from a futuristic space ship with sharp metal floor panels. A gas station has a very different feeling from a library.

I usually start by asking what is this location's story? Why was it built and for what purpose? What kinds of things does this room need to fulfill that purpose? You don’t need solid answers, but its good to be thinking about it while you are working.

Next, sketch some ideas for how this place is going to look. For me, this usually involves drawing the idea from multiple angles and then making lists & small sketches of the objects I think should be filling the space.

Example: The main character of my original work is a Wanderer. They collect a lot of things on their travels, but those items have to be small enough to be easily carried in a backpack. I wanted his room to be in the corner of an attic, walled off by curtains, and filled with trinkets. You can see some of my brainstorming above.

References

I only look for references after I've done some sketching and planning; this is to solidify my idea first so that I don't accidentally copy anyone else's work. I will make a moodboard with pictures of lighting, colours, items, rooms with specific ceiling beams, old chairs, etc. basically whatever I feel fits the vibe.

Honestly, I don't use references as much as I should. For ROTTMNT fanart I look at backgrounds and screenshots from the series to study the style. I also reference actual photos of NYC to get a feel for how Rise condenses the visual information.

In general, it's good to have references of real life objects/locations, because there are so many details like cracks in pavement, stickers on polls, crowning on buildings, fancy fencing, weird chair legs, etc. that you might not think of. It's the imperfect details that can make a location feel more alive.

Perspective

Once you have your chosen sketch we move to.... the infamous perspective boxes. Doing backgrounds is just learning to be comfortable drawing So Many boxes and carving items out of them.

Many better artists than myself have made videos on perspective, vanishing points, and all the technical bits. Videos like THIS ONE and THIS ONE are helpful (this post is great too!!). There are probably a lot of classes to be found on Skillshare or Schoolism. I learned a lot of this in my college art course, so I can't give you a specific video which helped me.

You can get by and be a good artist without learning this stuff. There are quite a few successful artists who have admitted they never bothered to learn perspective (one of these people even made a whole graphic novel series).

I personally avoided properly learning this stuff until I was in my 20s because I thought it would be boring and difficult to do. tbh I really wish I had learned it earlier because it's so much fun to make those silly little boxes imo. It looks scary and complicated but, just like drawing humans, it just takes time, repetition, and practice to develop the knowledge and skills.

Cleanup

You have your boxes and lines! Cool! Now to make a scene out of it. Fill in the details, get everything placed were you want it! Generally, the lines of each item will point back towards the horizon line, but they can have different perspective points.

Generally you would want to clean it up and get your room completely sketched before doing the lineart. I tend to combine the steps (not recommended)

Lineart

I've mentioned how I do this before. Closer objects have thicker lines and more detailed inside. Further objects have thinner lines and less detail. I didn't quite achieve that balance with the image below, but it's close enough.

Colours and Shading will have to be a separate post. In the meantime, I highly recommend the book "Color and Light" by James Gurney. I used to borrow it from my local library and a good chunk of my knowledge was learned from it :)

#Artist's Comic Rambles #asks #art related asks #thank you for the ask!! I'm glad to hear you enjoy the comc :D #i hope this was somewhat helpful...#i get overwhelmed by broad questions very easily haha #if you would me to elaborate on something specific I mentioned feel free to ask #i wrote this all out weeks ago and then forgot about it... I just added a link or two but yeah here it is

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flickering-nightfall · 2 years ago

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#in the game files the last image of hunter's ascension ending - the one with nsh - is named “embrace”#as a side note #i typically as i like to interpret slugcats as...#intelligent of course as they can draw and sign in downpour lore...#but in a different way from humans. in a different way from iterators.#that's just how i like to interpret them though - if you like to interpret slugcats in a more anthropomorphized/humanized fashion #i'm glad for you and i'm glad you're having fun too :)#anyways i wrote this comic the way i did because i felt like it was the best and most succinct way #to get the message i was trying to express across #so hunter's thoughts are pretty straightforwardly written despite the more complex concepts behind them #i mean they are also made and raised by an iterator so that could come into play #maybe i could have thought of a different way but eh i already drew the comic #rain world #rw hunter #no significant harassment #flickerdoodles #comic #long post #rw spoilers #art

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thelittlespanielthatcould · 2 months ago

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Kovu was diagnosed with "basically the perfect dog" at his annual exam yesterday. He was also given the nickname "Tranquilo Ten Kilo" because he is exactly 10 kilos and, you guessed it, tranquil.

#the vet literally wrote “this is basically the perfect dog” on his report card like sooo true bestie I'm so glad you agree #he said if he had to choose just one breed to recommend to Everyone he would choose a cavalier #because if youre looking for a companion its just hard to go wrong with a good cav #in terms of temperament at least #and even among cavs kovu is just. perfect #hes never done anything wrong in his life Ever #I know this and I love him #kovu #ckcs #kovus face #joy is stored in the spaniel #kovus greatest hits

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deoidesign · 9 months ago

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"what do hands mean about a character?"

Their hands mean they love eachother

(webcomic)

#i almost wrote 'source' instead of 'webcomic'#that's a little twitter brain rot right there ngl #it's so bad on twitter rn yall like #straight up isn't showing my posts to my followers anymore #and art in general does. so much worse when it's actually the artist posting them #like provably art performs better when the artist pretends they stole it...#so so so glad I'm still on tumblr LMFAO #every time i use twitter i take psychic damage #'ohhhh why do you still use it' everyone is asking me this #my job. is to post art #kinda gotta post #I mean. ok that's not my job #you know this and I know this #but it's an important part of my career #its gonna be my job after i leave webtoon tho #god i hope that works #im so scared #LMAOOOO #anyways. these hands look good as hell #i think all the hands i draw look good #caus i love hands #but i loooove drawing hand holding...#the amount you can say with how a hand touches another.#im gonna be thriving with wwl #cause they have to hold hands or hell die #pump it into my veins #ok i can tell my bf js getting annoyed ive had my phone on for 3 hours in bed by #time and time again #adam and Steve #webtoon originals

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clovariia · 8 months ago

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we can FINALLY post our pieces for the @tohgrimoire zine!!! i wrote a fic about luz and her family visiting her father's grave. it's a tragic but healing time for all of them.

thank you so much to @astrolavas for drawing the devastating spot art and the zine's writing mod @taruchinator for helping with beta reading!!! all the zine contributors and mods were so sweet and encouraging. i'm so grateful that i got to be a part of this project! thank you to everyone for all the support!!!!!! 🦉💕

🔗 https://archiveofourown.org/works/58919038

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solarmorrigan · 11 months ago

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Open Doors, Part 1

Ao3

Everyone was so kind about the first fic I wrote about Steve and Eddie's neighbor adopting them that I had a few more thoughts about it! I owe you all thanks for the inspiration and I hope this is also an enjoyable read <3 Part two will be up later this week

Tags: POV Outsider, Steve Harrington Has Migraines, Protective Eddie Munson, past minor character death, car accident mention, the looming specter of period-typical homophobia

Gladys isn’t a churchgoing woman. She’s never even been particularly religious, beyond a performative sort of faith for the sake of her God-fearing mother (God rest her soul, Gladys supposes), but Sundays are sacred, all the same.

Sundays are for Murder She Wrote. And, more recently, they’re for dinner with her boys.

Neither Eddie nor Steve are the religious sort, either (she’d brought it up once, just to see, and they’d laughed a little in an uncomfortable sort of way that had told Gladys all she’d really needed to know), but Steve is a fellow fan of Jessica Fletcher, and Eddie is happy enough to join them on the couch after a good meal and watch them compete to see who can guess the solution first.

It’s something they all look forward to, so Gladys isn’t sure why she’s been left standing in front of the boys’ front door a full minute after she’s knocked. They ought to be expecting her, after all; they take turns hosting, and Gladys is sure it had been her turn last week. She knocks again, a little louder this time.

After another few moments, she hears the thud of hurried footsteps coming towards the door, and then Eddie’s voice is hissing out at her before he’s even finished opening it.

“I’m here already, now will you keep it–” he falters when he sees her standing before him on the doormat, “–down?”

“Well, if I’d known that was the kind of welcome I’d receive, I would have stayed home,” Gladys says dryly.

Eddie’s face morphs quickly from irritation to confusion and, finally, to a kind of horrified understanding.

“Oh, shit, it’s Sunday,” he realizes, voice still pitched low.

Taking in the state of him, it seems as though Gladys has interrupted some kind of lazy day; his hair is a mess (more so than usual), and he’s in pajamas and bare feet.

It smarts a little to think their evening has been so easily forgotten.

“It is Sunday,” Gladys confirms, maybe a little sharply. “But I can see you’ve had other things to do, so maybe we’ll just try again for next week.”

“I’m sorry, Gladys,” Eddie sighs, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Today’s been… stressful. I swear I meant to call, I just got distracted.”

Gladys softens. She doubts if she could stay mad terribly long even if they had forgotten, but it’s nice to know they hadn’t, exactly. “It’s fine, Eddie,” she says, reaching out to pat his hand.

“It’s not, I seriously meant to let you know,” Eddie insists. “We can make it up to you next week? Or maybe, like, Tuesday? Tomorrow’s not gonna work, but–”

Whatever else Eddie has to say is lost when the door at the end of the hall, the one Gladys knows from the layout of her own apartment leads to the larger of two bedrooms, swings open with a creak. It’s dark beyond the threshold, but Steve is standing in the doorway, holding onto the edge of it and looking far more disheveled than Eddie.

With a faint flush of embarrassment, Gladys wonders if she’s walked in on some sort of… private time between them, but then Steve takes a few unsteady steps into the hallway and has to brace himself against the wall, and she realizes that something else altogether must be going on.

“Hey, hey,” Eddie says softly, leaving Gladys at the front door to rush down the hall and support Steve. “What’re you doing up?”

Steve, also clad in pajamas, his face almost shock-pale and his hair flatter than Gladys has ever seen it, makes a little noise of discomfort as Eddie pulls him away from the wall. It’s jarring to see when Gladys is so used to Steve moving with the confidence and easy grace of the athlete he’d told her he once was. His eyes are scrunched shut, but he moves from leaning heavily on the wall to leaning heavily on Eddie without hesitation.

“You were gone,” Steve mumbles, his head falling to rest on Eddie’s shoulder.

Eddie glances down the hall to where Gladys stands at the still-open front door, something almost like nervous, but he doesn’t make Steve move away. Instead, he moves his hands to Steve’s shoulders, kneading gently. “I had to get the door. Gladys is here.”

“Gladys?” Steve mutters, and then, after another moment of silence, groans, “Oh, shit, it’s Sunday.”

Gladys almost laughs at the way he unwittingly echoes Eddie. Eddie does laugh; just a little breath of a thing, something helplessly fond crossing his face.

“It’s fine, Steve. We’ll take a raincheck,” Gladys says, just loud enough that she’ll still be heard from the other end of the short hall.

Steve makes a protesting noise, straightening a little so he can face the front door. He opens his eyes just enough to squint at her, and it really only serves to make him look more pained and tired. “’m sorry,” he mutters, his words stumbling worryingly into each other. “Wasn’xpecting this today.”

“It’s fine,” Gladys says again. “You just feel better.”

He’s still frowning, and Gladys gets the feeling it’s as much out of displeasure with the situation as it is out of discomfort, but then Eddie tugs gently at his shoulders, turning him back towards the bedroom.

“C’mon, ba– Steve. Let’s get you back to bed.” Eddie glances down the hall at Gladys one more time before leading Steve away.

Silence falls over the apartment, and Gladys takes the opportunity to invite herself in, shutting the door behind her. She won’t stay long, of course, she just wants to be certain that Steve—and Eddie, who had looked awfully stressed—will be alright. The low tone of Eddie’s voice drifts out of the bedroom, quiet and indecipherable, followed by a grumbling that must be Steve, and then Eddie is slipping back out into the hall, shutting the bedroom door as he goes.

“Everything alright?” Gladys asks, keeping her voice low.

Eddie sighs. “He, uh – he gets migraines, sometimes.” He raises a fist and raps his knuckles against his temple. “Took a couple’a knocks to the head when we were younger and– yeah. Today’s a bad one.”

Gladys itches to ask, to press for more information, but she does actually possess a filter; she knows when to hold her tongue, even if she usually chooses not to. Instead, she says, “But he’ll be alright,” not really sure if she’s asking or reassuring.

“No, yeah, he’ll be fine, he just needs to rest.” Eddie nods, as much to himself as to Gladys.

“And you’ll be alright?” Gladys goes on.

Eddie shoots her a funny little look. “Yeah?” His voice quirks up at the end, like he isn’t sure why she’s asking. “I mean, I’m not the one whose brain is staging a full-scale revolt.”

“But you’re here with him,” Gladys says. “It’s hard to watch someone you care about be in pain.”

It had been a car accident that had taken Avery from her, not illness, but the few days she’d spent in the hospital with him, keeping vigil until his damaged body had given up, had been some of the worst of her life.

“I guess.” Eddie sighs, rubbing roughly at his chin. “It’s– They make medication for this shit, but it’s expensive, so we can’t– Sleep is really the only thing that helps, and it just sucks to sit around knowing I can’t do a damn thing for him while he’s– he’s suffering.”

“You’re here with him,” Gladys says again. “It seems like he appreciates that enough that he came looking for you when you’d gone.”

The ghost of a smile crosses over Eddie’s face. “Yeah…”

“I think you’re doing just fine.” Gladys reaches out and gives Eddie’s arm a little squeeze, and his smile grows.

He reaches up and twists his fingers into the ends of his hair, half-ducking behind it, as if he’s trying to hide the smile from her, but she can hear it in his voice when he tosses out a quick, “Well– thanks.”

“You just keep taking care of your boy, and I’ll see you two later in the week,” Gladys says, and Eddie nods.

“Yeah, I’ll–” he stops, blinking at Gladys as the full sentence hits him. “Uh–”

Gladys offers him a smile, seeing herself out the door. “Let me know if you need anything,” she tosses back over her shoulder quietly as she can, and shuts the door on his confounded expression.

She doesn’t know much about migraines, but she supposes she could learn. In the meantime, she decides that no matter what the ailment is, chicken soup is always an appropriate answer.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #I honestly didn't expect much to come of the first thing I wrote but I'm glad other people seem to like outsider pov as much as I do #solar wrote

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milk-sharks · 1 year ago

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smitten ☁️

#my last drawing of the year!#i wrote a big mushy thing on twitter but i'm so grateful for everyone's kindness and support and patience with me this year #i used to be a hardcore lurker for 2 years and i'm so glad i started learning how to draw humanoids #because it led me to a really great and silly and wonderful community and i'm just really grateful for everyone #my art #skyfire #jetfire #transformers #maccadam

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paranormal-taters · 11 months ago

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Love and Attraction in My Adventures with Superman

As someone who has never been particularly drawn by superhero media, I wasn't really sure what to expect when I first started watching My Adventures with Superman about a week ago. I had seen a few posts here on Tumblr that had piqued my interest, but all I really knew about it was that it was well-loved and had an art style that I knew I liked.

I absolutely did not expect to fall head over heels for the show entirely, or to be moved to tears multiple times by the wildly sweet, revolutionary relationship between this adaptation's Clark Kent and Lois Lane.

I say "revolutionary" because this romance touches on a lot of things that I feel are lacking in most modern portrayals of romance, and it handles them masterfully.

Most of what I reference/talk about in this post will focus on the first four episodes of season one (with a particular focus on the fourth episode, Let's Go to Ivo Tower, You Say) , because they are my favorite episodes and I think I can communicate what I want to by pulling mainly from those episodes. But I will be pulling bits and pieces from the whole series so consider yourself spoiler-warned.

The main point is this: I absolutely adore the way that physical attraction and emotional attraction are balanced between Clark and Lois.

The fact that this is possible comes from how well-crafted the dynamic is between the two of them; Lois' raw passion and energy inspires confidence and a mutual passion in Clark, and Clark's gentleness and kind heart inspire a tenderness in Lois that she was never given an outlet to show or receive. From this dynamic, a wealth of physical and emotional intimacy is naturally born. But never in the series do the two aspects of attraction feel out of balance; rather, they play off each other effortlessly. When one is brought into focus, the other quickly follows.

From the first episode and onward, it's obvious that Clark and Lois are awed by each other's physical appearance. Lois outright describes Clark as "beautiful" (which, if you saw one of my earlier posts from not too long ago, is something that makes me so incredibly happy to see in mainstream media).

To be fair, she doesn't say that to his face and says it in a moment of extreme frustration. But I still count it.

Anyways.

Upon seeing Lois for the first time, Clark is practically frozen in wonder for a good few seconds.

Lois, too, experiences this initial moment of attraction and almost immediately makes contact, with a playful punch to Clark's chest as he holds the door open for her.

This is a detail I really love, because first of all wow, I aspire to have her level of confidence. But also, it becomes clear early on in the series that Lois expresses herself very physically. She has no qualms regarding physical affection. Clark, on the other hand, is much more reserved and, at first, generally only initiates contact after an invitation from Lois, or after enough time has passed in their friendship for him to know that Lois is very physical and wouldn't have a problem with it.

There is also an immediate emphasis on Clark's concern for Lois' physical well-being. Take a sip of water every time Clark asks Lois if she's okay just in the first episode alone and you will be well hydrated.

Later on in this first episode, while trying to infiltrate a warehouse, Lois confidently asks Clark to boost her up to a window so she can get inside the building. Clark is immediately flustered, showing how much he feels out of his depth even with physical contact that, on the surface, would have no romantic connotations. (But to be fair, Lois is asking him to put his hands around her waist and lift her up when they literally just met like maybe six hours ago. I would be flustered too.)

And when Lois loses her balance and Clark effortlessly catches her, his first response (after blushing, of course) is to ask her:

Even in moments where the romantic tension is thick enough to cut with a knife and Clark clearly knows it, his first priority is to make sure she's okay.

And thus begins one of the strongest underlying themes throughout the whole building-up of their relationship, which is trust.

I'm gonna jump ahead now to the scene that inspired this whole post: the stairwell scene in episode four.

A basic rundown: Clark, Lois, and Jimmy are given an assignment to attend a tech unveiling for the city's top investors at Amazotech headquarters. Lois, naturally, ignores the parameters of the assignment and tries to use it as an opportunity to expose corruption in the city and get her stop-the-presses story. Clark very reluctantly follows her lead, believing that she will get herself into trouble . . . until Dr. Ivo, head of Amazotech, makes a few rude comments about Lois' appearance (Lois doesn't hear these, only Clark). This deeply irritates Clark and prompts him into revealing how much he knows about Dr. Ivo's corrupt business dealings, in an attempt to intimidate the truth out of Dr. Ivo, who responds by having Clark thrown out of the building and into a pile of garbage in an adjacent alleyway. Lois comes to find Clark (who is unhurt) and teases him about whether or not she should let him back in the building, since he didn't follow the assignment. Clark jokes that he doesn't even meet the dress code anymore, revealing that his suit jacket was torn as he was tossed out of the building.

Lois then reveals that she came prepared for this, and tells Clark to "take it off."

Clark immediately becomes flustered again and begins stammering as Lois pulls him back into the building by his jacket, continuing to tease him.

It's in these moments, as you can see, that the lighting of the scene changes. As soon as Lois says "take it off", everything is bathed in a rosy light. This happens frequently between these two; often, when we the audience are seeing one of these characters through the perspective of the other, the lighting takes on a very dreamy quality. This will come up again momentarily.

As Lois and Clark ascend the stairs, Lois removes her jacket and pulls a sewing kit from her pocket, admitting that she carries one on her because she herself has torn a lot of her clothing on her escapades.

The two then sit down on the stairs, and Clark removes his jacket. The lighting changes again, and we see Clark from Lois' eyes. It's clear by the dreamy lighting and the way that Lois blushes and involuntarily chokes out a "Wow . . ." that she is once again awed by him and deeply attracted to him on a physical level.

And this scene represents so much about their growing dynamic. It honestly has me floored.

But before I explain fully, I have to go on a tangent about my beloved Clark.

Throughout the beginning of the series, I believe Clark shows several signs that indicate that he is insecure about his physical appearance. Which you wouldn't expect, right? I mean, look at him. He's objectively a dreamboat. He was designed to be that way.

But at this stage of knowing so little about where he really came from or who he is, I think Clark struggles with not having a way to explain his physique. He admits that he wasn't an athlete in school; he was in the chess club. He doesn't work out as an adult. And yet he has the muscles of a bodybuilder. But, like so many other aspects of himself, he doesn't have a way to explain it. This causes a disconnect in how he sees himself physically; he likely feels as though he doesn't deserve his naturally impressive physique. And you could argue that he even does his best to hide it. As a civilian, he generally wears bulky, layered clothing like sweatshirts and sweaters. He slouches and carries himself in a very inward direction; his shoulders are often forward and his arms close to his sides, as if he is habitually attempting to make himself smaller.

This is one thing that brought me to tears when I saw it. The idea that a person can feel insecure about having physical attributes that would normally be seen as positive (and that they can't explain and/or feel that they don't deserve) is not very well-explored in media, but it is experienced by quite a few people, myself being one of them. But often in the real world when someone attempts to express this kind of insecurity, they are shut down and mocked and told to "be grateful" for what they have because others would envy them. Which I can say from personal experience is unbelievably damaging to a person's self image. So seeing this possibly be represented in Clark Kent himself was incredibly moving to me.

But back to the scene itself.

In the most recent gif above, this is the most vulnerable Lois has seen Clark thus far. What I think is so beautiful is the way that she invites him into this vulnerability by making herself vulnerable first.

Rewind a bit. Outside the building, Lois tells Clark to take his jacket off. Not a big deal, right? It's not like he's not wearing an undershirt. But Clark becomes flustered, not outright expressing that he's uncomfortable with this, but certainly indicating that he's not exactly at ease with it either.

Next we see them climbing up the stairs, and as they do so, Lois removes her own jacket and reveals her bare back to Clark in the process.

I believe this was incredibly intentional. This scene would have carried a very different tone if Lois' outfit was revealing in any other way. But the fact that her back is exposed symbolizes that she trusts him, in a physical and emotional sense. It's like when my cat Penny rolls on her back and exposes her fluffy tummy. Lois revealing this part of herself was her saying "I trust you, I feel safe with you, and I'll be vulnerable with you if you'll be vulnerable with me."

And only after that does Clark remove his jacket.

Because there is the factor of attraction at play, there is a lot of blushing and stammering going on in the beginning of this scene. These are two incredibly attractive people who are incredibly attracted to each other, after all. But immediately after the initial romantic tension, there is emotional vulnerability as well. Lois confides in Clark about her relationship with her dad, and the crippling self-doubt that she has kept very close to her chest. Clark jumps to reassure her in earnest, telling her that she has "changed his life for the better, in every possible way."

And that is what I meant at the beginning of the post when I mentioned balance.

Every moment of physical attraction in this series is followed by or harmonized with a moment of emotional vulnerability. Clark and Lois both invite each other deeper into each aspect of connection, and thus their relationship builds in an incredibly natural and beautiful way.

At this point, I think this post is about five miles long as the crow scrolls and I should probably stop now before all my thoughts run away with me. I could go on forever about the impact that this series and these characters have had on me, though. I will forever be grateful to the creators for giving us such an incredible series, and such a beautiful romance.

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