#I'm sure there is more to add

[captainbee66]

I miss the era of the internet where everyone had an evil alter ego/character that would show up on their channel, just to be silly, that eventually got a lot of lore from the fandom for no reason. It was a simpler time.

[nightjar-jack]

Something something "eat your heart out" or however that phrase goes...

Had one hell of a visceral dream the other night, and knew I had to makes something about it.

A paper collage of an anatomical heart made from pomegranate flesh. Made a few small digital alterations to fix the colour balance and not have them bleed into each other :)

[captainadwen]

Damian Wayne vs the World

Sixteen year old Damian Wayne is on the hunt for a younger sibling. Being more discerning than Bruce 'child collector' Wayne, Damian's firm criteria for Batman's latest adoption problem includes but is not limited to: black haired, blue-eyed, tolerable humor, not evil, and most importantly - younger than Damian.

Lucky for him, fourteen year old newbie vigilante Danny Fenton is the perfect fit. Now, to fulfill his end of their deal, Damian must defeat the evil government organization hunting Danny in order to gain a baby brother.

Or, @livinghalfway your post made my brain go !! but in such a different way I figured it was better to make a separate post, hope you don't mind/enjoy still

~~

Damian Wayne re-entered Tim Drake's life like a gnat revealing itself in a closed bedroom space. Tim was in t-shirt and a boxers, maneuvering ramen into his mouth with one hand and scribbling out an epiphany on a murder case with another, when Damian's demonic dulcet voice echoed down from the ceiling. "Drake," said Damian, judgemental, "You live like this?"

Tim nearly choked on his ramen, because the day Damian doesn't attempt to murder him - however doubtfully accidental this incident might be - is the day Darkseid decides to be friends with the Justice League. "Fucking knock," Tim coughed out. "And get out. No one invited you in."

"Put better traps if you don't want me here," said Damian, dropping from the ceiling where he'd crawled in on wall-clamps.

"This is my apartment," said Tim. "It's called courtesy."

Damian sniffed. He padded around to Tim's desk and frowns at his cases, then said, with no further lead up, "I need your assistance."

"No," said Tim.

"You did not even listen to my request."

"Don't need to," said Tim. "Answer's still no. Door is that way. Bye."

"Father says mutually assisting each other is beneficial," said Damian.

"Father," said Tim sarcastically, "blamed me for you exploding a glitter bomb in the batcave two weeks ago."

"That is your fault for not being able to provide evidence to the contrary in an appropriately efficient manner," said Damian. He squinted down at Tim. "And he apologized. Eventually."

"I would not have glittered the batcomputer," said Tim. "Do you know how much of a pain in the ass it is to backup those servers? No, because you don't like tech work, you just profit off it."

"Blaming me for Father's mistake," said Damian, "Most mature of you. But we must put our differences aside. I have selected a new family member and I need you to dismantle a government organization."

That drew Tim up short. He blinked down at his ramen as though it might explain Damian's words to him, but the ramen remained disappointingly uninformative. "Repeat that," said Tim, gesturing with his chopsticks. "Slower, and with more detail."

Damian pulled out his phone and sent him an email. Silence surrounded them in the brief moment it took Tim to set aside his chopsticks and open the email. The subject line was titled 'New Baby Brother', which birthed all sorts of horrifying nightmares of Damian Part 2: Demon Child Boogaloo. The teen in the inserted picture, however, was reassuringly not in possession of Damian's bone structure.

He did have black hair and blue eyes. "Who am I looking at?" asked Tim.

"Daniel Fenton," said Damian. "He is fourteen years old, enjoys puns, and has recently awakened 'ghost powers' that allow him to transform into the vigilante Phantom to fight other ghosts."

"Is he also an orphan with a tragic backstory?"

"No," said Damian, and Tim relaxed. "But that will not be an issue. We can share custody if they cannot be removed from the picture."

"Jesus H, kid."

"I am joking, of course," said Damian blandly. "Murder is wrong."

"Ha ha," said Tim. "If he has parents already he's not joining our menagerie."

"He will," said Damian, with a smug upwards tilt of his lips. "He and I have a deal."

"So you're coercing him in addition to stalking him. Anything else you want to share with the class?"

Damian considered this query with a serious frown, which was how Tim knew this was not a flight of fancy or a very early midlife crisis (although with their lifestyle and Damian already having died before...).

"He has," said Damian after a moment, "a rogue that calls himself 'The Master of all Technology' and is a technopath." This was clearly meant to be of interest to Tim, and not to be a stereotype, but it kind of was.

"Great." Tim turned his attention back to the email the demon child sent him. He scanned through it quickly. There was apparently a secret and evil government organization dedicated to the investigation and extermination of 'ghosts' and other paranormal creatures in the world. Their latest efforts were focused on the town of Amity Park, Illinois, which was 'infested with ectoplasmic pests'. Their words, not Damian's. (It was specified in the email.)

"Okay," Tim drummed his fingers against his desk. "Before I help you defeat this secret evil government organization so that," he opened the email attachment with a contract on it and squinted at the legalese, "this poor newbie teen you've harassed into signing this joins the family in exchange."

"I did not harass him," Damian huffed. "It was a gentleman's agreement."

"Does he know that?"

"I am not a politician, Drake. I thoroughly explained the terms and legalities before presenting any contract. Now ask your question."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because," said Damian, tone implying 'you are stupid and haven't noticed something obvious, idiot'. "Father has begun saying he misses the noise around the manor and looking wistfully at old pictures."

"We still live there though?" said Tim. Damian looked flatly at him. "Sometimes."

"If you lived there frequently enough," said Damian, "you would already know Father is having...empty nest syndrome." Damian sounded disgusted. "I refuse to tolerate whatever inadequate and incompetent child he will find."

"So instead you found an incompetent and inadequate child for him?"

"Don't be stupid, Drake," said Damian. "I would not have chosen someone inadequate. Daniel is merely lacking formal training. Father can rectify this. It will keep him occupied for at least the next two to four years, which gives me enough time to find another black-haired, blue-eyed, tolerable child I approve of to be his successor and my second younger sibling." Damian paused. "Or until one of you procreates and gives him a grandchild."

"You're really serious about this," Tim whispered in horrified awe.

"I am serious about everything I do," said Damian. "Now, you will help me defeat this evil government organization so that our new sibling joins us."

"Okay," said Tim, but his mind snagged on a minor, throwaway detail, so utterly in odds with Damian 'Demonic Jealous Child' Al Ghul it surely came from another person - "Did you just call this kid your successor?"

[exutrio]

orym + suprising dorian / doing things for dorian without him noticing

[dragonpyre]

Batshit canon things about 9-1-1

Ghosts are real. So are curses/jinxes. This is never addressed.

One of the characters sued the fire department for losing his job when he... hadn't actually lost it

Someone joins a fighting ring and almost kills a dude. Only gets a slap on the wrist

An evil paramedic induces heart failure in patients so he can bring them back

Beenado. Yes that was a real thing

Angela Basset has to land a 747 on a freeway

[tears-of-xion]

Marinette has homework, so they are having a date via cellphone!

:D Have some Marigami for the prompt 'Separation' for day 5 of @mlbfemslashfebruary 's mlb femslash feb prompt list!

Marigami won the poll I made, so I put in extra effort to make sure I'd be able to post this drawing on their day on the prompt list. =^^=

-

Please do not use or re-post/re-upload my artwork without my permission. Thank you!   (reblogs, however, are welcome and appreciated)

I do not own Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug and Cat Noir, nor it’s characters. All rights to their owners.

[lazy-ahh]

THE THINGS YOU'D DO FOR LOVE

pairing sinister! mark grayson x (superhero) gender neutral reader

you’d follow mark grayson anywhere—even into the dark. when he asks you to betray everything you once stood for, you don’t hesitate. not when his hands are the only ones that still feel like home.

taglist @no-bishes

you’ve known mark grayson since you were both kids, back when his biggest worry was passing algebra and not the weight of an empire resting on his shoulders. back then, his hands were gentle when they held yours, calloused from skateboarding but always careful with you, like you were something fragile and precious. his laughter was bright, unburdened by the future, ringing through the school hallways or the quiet of your backyard where you’d lie on the grass, shoulders pressed together, counting stars. you loved him even then, in that innocent, aching way that only children can—pure and unwavering, the kind of love that doesn’t question, doesn’t doubt.

he was always there for you, a shadow with a smile. when the other kids whispered behind your back or shoved you into lockers, he’d appear like he’d sensed it, his voice sharp as he glared them down before turning to you, fingers brushing the tears off your cheeks. when you hid in your room after a particularly bad day, he’d climb through your window like it was nothing, flopping onto your bed with a joke already on his lips until you couldn’t help but laugh. he was there when you tripped on the sidewalk, his hands—warm, firm—catching you before you could hit the ground, lingering just a second too long on your hip as he steadied you. when you walked home late at night, streetlights flickering, he’d melt out of the shadows like he’d been waiting, falling into step beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world.  

people called it weird. creepy. teachers would frown when they saw him lingering outside your classroom, his gaze fixed on you like nothing else mattered. your friends would tease, half-joking, “does he ever not know where you are?” but you never minded. to you, it was sweet. romantic, even—your own knight in shining armor, always watching, always there.

and then he got his powers.

suddenly, his protectiveness had teeth. the bullies didn’t just get glared at—they disappeared for days, coming back with hollow eyes and shaking hands. when you stumbled, he didn’t just catch you—he lifted you like you weighed nothing, his grip just shy of painful. always there to protect you before the villain you were fighting could even hurt you. the shadows he stepped out of at night felt darker, his smile sharper. but you told yourself it was fine. he was still mark. still yours.

(you didn’t realize yet—you were his, too. in every way that mattered.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the world shifts. mark’s eyes, once warm like sunlight through honey, grow colder—darker. his smiles are sharper now, edged with something dangerous, the kind that makes your stomach flutter in a way that isn’t entirely fear. he talks about strength, about destiny, his voice low and fervent as his fingers card through your hair. “earth needs to be ruled,” he says, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “and we’re the only ones strong enough to do it.” 

you don’t understand, not at first. you flinch when he crushes a car under his boot just to prove a point, when he laughs at the way the metal screams. but he’s patient with you. always so patient.  

“you’ll see,” he murmurs, fingers tracing your cheek, lingering just a little too long. “you’ll understand.”

and you do.

it starts with little things—justifications whispered against your skin in the dark. “they’re holding us back,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple as you watch the news together, footage of some ‘accident’ he caused flashing across the screen. “they’re weak. we could be so much more.” his words seep into you like poison, sweet and slow, until one day you wake up and the guilt doesn’t sting as much. the fear feels like power.

you’re in your costume now, spandex clinging to your skin like a second shadow, tight against your frame as the wind whips past you. mark’s beside you, his cape flaring behind him like a living thing, the edges flickering like flames in the dim city lights. below, the streets are chaos—flashing sirens, overturned cars, civilians scrambling like frightened animals. some scream, some curse, some hold up signs with shaking hands. monsters. tyrants. we won’t bow.

“look at them,” mark says, voice dripping with disdain. “running in circles like ants. they don’t even know what’s good for them.” 

you swallow hard, fists clenching at your sides. “maybe they’re just scared,” you offer, your tone righteous, matter-of-fact. it’s one of the things mark’s always loved about you—how sure you sound when you stand your ground. he can’t wait to hear that same conviction turned toward his cause, that angel’s voice preaching the devil’s words. how divinely blasphemous.  

he turns to you, visors glinting under the sun. “scared?” he repeats, tilting his head. then he laughs, sharp and sudden, before swooping down so fast the air cracks behind him. you follow, heart in your throat, just in time to see him land in front of a group of protestors. their signs crumple in their hands as they stumble back, eyes wide with terror.  

“you’re right,” mark says, grinning as he turns to you. “they are scared. and they should be.” he steps forward, and a man at the front—brave or stupid—shoves a sign toward him. “monster!” the man snarls.  

mark doesn’t even blink.  

“invincible, don’t—”

one second, the man’s standing. the next, he’s on the ground, blood pooling from his nose, mark’s boot planted on his chest. “say that again,” mark taunts, leaning down.

your stomach twists. but then mark glances back at you, eyes bright with something like pride. “c’mon,” he says, holding out a hand. “show them what happens when they disrespect us.”

for a heartbeat, you hesitate. your eyes flicker between mark’s outstretched hand and the horrified faces of the civilians. you shouldn’t accept it. you shouldn’t even be considering it. but this is mark. your mark. your knight in shining armor. everything would be alright as long as he’s here, right?

just as your fingers twitch toward his, still hesitant, mark pulls his hand back. you look up, surprised, but then you see it—that devilish glint in his eyes, his lips tugging upward in a smirk that spells trouble. he’s scheming. he’s got a plan, and it’s sick enough to make your pulse stutter.

“actually... can you do me a favour?” mark’s voice is low, barely audible over the panicked crowd, but he knows you hear him.

“...what favour?” you ask, wary. it’s adorable, mark thinks. how you act like you might refuse, when he knows you’ll say yes in the end. you’ve always been so good to him, never been able to deny him.  

“fight me.”

“what—?”  

his fist flies toward your face before you can finish. you barely block it, the impact rattling up your arms as you skid back a step. the crowd gasps, some stumbling further away, others frozen in shock.  

“what do you think you’re doing?” you hiss through clenched teeth, your fingers tangling with his in a desperate, bruising grip—like if you hold on tight enough, you can stop him from slipping away. your boots scrape against broken asphalt, the sound grating as the two of you push against each other, caught in a standstill of muscle and will. his hands are warm, familiar, but the way he’s looking at you—like this is just another game, another calculated move—makes your stomach twist. there’s a flicker of panic in your eyes, raw and unguarded, before it hardens into something sharper. betrayal.

was this it? was mark really going to leave you behind, discard you the second you hesitated? the thought cuts deeper than any blade, a silent scream in your chest: you promised. you promised it would always be us.

he’s still smirking, leaning in until the heat of his breath mingles with yours, lips nearly brushing as he whispers, “play along, won’t you? i want you to stay on their side—for now.” the words curl around you like smoke, suffocating and sweet.

“you’re still not making sense, mark,” you grit out, but the tension in your shoulders eases just slightly. the realization washes over you like a sick relief: he isn’t abandoning you. he’ll never let you go, not even if you begged. the thought should terrify you, but all you feel is the dizzying weight of his obsession pressing down on your ribs. the two of you are holding back—you both know it—yet the force between you still splinters the pavement underfoot, cracks spiderwebbing outward like a warning. “are you saying i should fight you? protect these people?” your voice wavers, not with doubt, but with something far more dangerous—complicity.

something inside mark purrs at your tone, low and satisfied. there it is. that righteous fire, that stubborn spark he’s spent years fanning into flame. he wants to bottle it, twist it until it burns for him alone. make it his.

“yes,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your knuckles where your hands still press against his. a mockery of tenderness. “i need you to get on their good side. help me find their stupid little resistance.” his grip tightens, just shy of painful. “you’d do that for me, won’t you?” it isn’t a question. it never was.

it clicks like a bullet chambering in a gun. he doesn’t just want you by his side—he wants you to be his spy, his weapon, his judas wrapped in righteous fury. the realization should send ice through your veins, should have you recoiling at the thought of betraying these innocent people, your friends, every moral you’ve ever clung to. but instead there’s only the searing weight of his gaze pinning you in place, the addicting heat of his absolute trust burning through your hesitation. he’s handing you a purpose wrapped in bloodstained hands, and god help you, you’re already reaching to take it.

“fine,” you mutter through gritted teeth, but there’s no real resistance left—just the electric thrill of your surrender as your eyes flash with dark determination. before he can react, you plant your hands against his chest and shove with enough force to send him skidding backwards, his boots carving trenches through the crumbling asphalt as the crowd’s collective gasp hangs in the air.

the explosion of sound is instantaneous—cheers tangled with screams, someone’s voice cracking as they shriek “get him!” but it all fades to static in your ears. because mark’s already coming at you again. that feral grin flashing as you launch yourself forward to meet him. your fists collide mid-air with a concussive boom that ripples outward, shattering every window in a twenty-foot radius as the shockwave sends debris spiraling through the air like macabre confetti.

you're pulling every punch, every kick measured to bruise but not break. he's doing the same—both of you dancing this violent waltz with clipped wings. but to the terrified crowd below, it must look apocalyptic—their trembling savior trading earth-shaking blows with the devil himself, concrete fracturing beneath each feigned killing strike.

mark's grin splits his face when you pirouette away from his telegraphed haymaker, his voice dropping to that intimate whisper only you can catch. "good job, baby. now sell it." the praise curls warm in your gut even as you spin into the next attack.

so you do.

your body moves on trained instinct—a deceptive stumble left before whipping right, fist connecting with his jaw just hard enough to snap his head back. he staggers with theatrical flourish, clutching his face as the crowd roars. you don't waste the opening, darting past to scoop the bleeding protester into your arms, their blood smearing garish red across your chest.

"move! now!" you bark at the remaining stragglers, shepherding them toward the alley's shadowed mouth with sharp gestures. your voice carries that perfect blend of authority and desperation—the golden hero playing their part flawlessly.

mark doesn't chase. he just watches from his kneel, fingers idly probing his "injured" jaw as civilians scramble past him. but when your eyes meet over the chaos, his gaze pins you with terrifying intensity—black pupils swallowing brown until there's nothing left but hunger.

this was only the first act.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the weeks bled together in a haze of performative heroics and hollow smiles. after that staged battle with mark, you'd stumbled into robot and eve's path, your ragtag group of survivors trailing behind like broken shadows. the shelter they led you to stank of desperation and unwashed bodies, packed with wide-eyed refugees who flinched at every distant explosion. you played your part perfectly—the trembling hands, the fractured voice when speaking mark's name, the way your breath hitched whenever someone mentioned his rampage. eve had pulled you into a crushing hug, her warmth so genuine it made your stomach churn. "we'll stop him," she'd whispered, not realizing the monster she comforted already had its claws around her throat.

you threw yourself into their cause with feverish dedication. evacuating crumbling hospitals, scavenging supplies from irradiated supermarkets, standing guard during the witching hours when nolan's loyalists prowled the ruins. every act of kindness carved another layer from your soul, each grateful smile from survivors feeling like another stone in your gut. but nights were worse. the thin cot in your makeshift room offered no comfort, the moonlight slicing through barred windows like a spotlight on your deceit. you'd curl into yourself, fists clenched in the sheets that smelled like antiseptic and dust—nothing like mark's cedar-and-lightning scent. the loneliness ate at you, sharp teeth gnawing until you swore you felt his breath on your neck, his phantom fingers tracing your spine.

then the whispers started.

"you're doing so well, sweetheart." his voice curled from the shadows, velvet-dark and intimate. you squeezed your eyes shut, but the words seeped in anyway. "eve trusts you now, doesn't she? lets you stand close when she's exhausted from healing." the mattress dipped behind you, an impossible weight. "one quick snap. you could end her before she even screamed." your traitorous fingers twitched against the pillow.

"robot's always watching the monitors," the voice continued, lips grazing your earlobe. you could almost feel his teeth. "but even geniuses need to sleep. imagine it—all those innocent little lives, snuffed out because you flipped the wrong switch." a shudder ran through you, but your thighs pressed together, feeling what little warmth you had start to make its way down. his chuckle vibrated against your skin. "you like that idea. i can feel how much you miss me."

the next morning, you volunteered for perimeter duty with trembling hands. when a child offered you their last candy bar, you nearly vomited. but that night, when the whispers came again, you rolled over and answered them.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the next day, you walked into the shelter with practiced ease, your hero's mask perfectly in place—until you noticed the way eve and robot exchanged a loaded glance before guiding you away from prying eyes. their hands were gentle but insistent as they led you through winding corridors, down a hidden passageway that descended deep underground. the air grew cooler, damp against your skin as fluorescent lights flickered overhead.

your breath caught when the cavernous space opened before you. this was it. the heart of their resistance. makeshift workstations hummed with activity, screens displaying maps of ruined cities and casualty reports. civilians moved with purpose—some tending to wounds, others hunched over blueprints. your eyes snagged on familiar faces: that telekinetic hero from detroit, the armored vigilante who used to patrol seattle, all now hollow-eyed and gaunt. the reality of it sent your pulse thundering, not with fear but something far more unsettling—a cold, detached clarity. your heartbeat echoed through your ribs like a drum in an empty cathedral, steady and... hollow.

eve's voice pulled you back as she explained their plans, her fingers brushing your arm in reassurance. "i know how much this hurts," she murmured, her eyes glistening. "but stopping mark... it might mean..." she couldn't say the words. robot remained silent, his mechanical gaze heavy on your face. when they finally asked for your decision, you made a show of hesitation—biting your lip, staring at the floor. fingers crossed tightly behind your back, you whispered your agreement. the guilt should have crushed you. instead, you felt only the terrifying lightness of a bridge burning behind you.

later that night, you claimed you needed air. eve smiled understandingly, squeezing your shoulder. "just be careful," she said, unaware she was sending a wolf to guard the sheep. you waited until the shelter's doors sealed behind you before launching into the ink-black sky.

you flew recklessly, arms outstretched as wind screamed past your ears. below, the ruined city sprawled like a corpse picked clean, skeletal buildings silhouetted against the moonlight. you spiraled through the air, laughing soundlessly as you skimmed the jagged remains of skyscrapers. this was freedom—the kind that would have sent the resistance into a panic if they'd seen you. the thought made you tilt your head back, savoring the sting of wind in your eyes. let omni-man see you. let mark come.

as if summoned, heat bloomed along your spine. phantom fingers traced your jawline, calloused and achingly familiar. "look at you," mark's voice purred in the hollow of your ear, thick with pride. "my beautiful little traitor." his spectral hands slid down your arms as you flew, guiding your movements like a puppeteer. "you had them all fooled. especially eve." a dark chuckle vibrated against your neck. "she trusts you enough to let you near the children's ward now, doesn't she?"

you shuddered, but didn't deny it. his approval curled hot in your belly.

you missed mark with an ache that hollowed out your ribs, left your hands trembling at your sides. and then—as if he'd plucked the thought straight from your fevered mind—a streak of black and yellow cut through the night sky below you. before you could gasp, strong arms encircled your waist from behind, pulling you flush against a chest that smelled like ozone and that stupid cedar cologne he'd worn since freshman year. your breath hitched as his nose nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his exhale warm against your pulse point.

"missed you," he murmured, the vibration of his voice traveling straight to your bones. right. this was mark. your mark. the boy who'd bandaged your scraped knees after bike crashes, who'd appeared like magic every time you'd whispered his name under your breath. your fingers clutched at the fabric of his cape, twisting the material as you turned in his arms to properly face him. his smile was all sharp edges and soft devotion, the kind that made your stomach swoop. 

this wasn't some phantom conjured by your loneliness—his hands were real where they cradled your face, thumbs brushing the apples of your cheeks. the way his pupils dilated when you finally touched him back, when your palms settled against his chest and felt the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. his breath stuttered when you leaned in, when your lips grazed the corner of his mouth in a barely-there kiss.

"you're really here," you whispered, the words spilling out like a prayer. he laughed, the sound rich and warm, before capturing your lips properly. his kiss tasted like victory and something darker, something that curled hot in your gut. when he pulled away, his eyes gleamed with something possessive, something hungry. 

"always," he promised, fingers tangling in your hair. "no matter where you go, i'll always find you." the words should have been sweet. should have been comforting. but the way his grip tightened just shy of painful sent a thrill down your spine all the same.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

"hey, can we talk?"  

eve's voice cuts through the bunker's dim hum, too soft for the war raging above ground. you turn slowly, arms crossed tight over your chest—the perfect image of an exhausted hero barely holding it together. when your eyes meet, a wave of deja vu nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. wait, haven't you done this before?

"yes, of course. what do you need, eve?" you uncross your arms, letting your practiced mask slip into something softer, more vulnerable. the concern furrowing your brow isn't entirely fake—you've memorized the new shadows under her eyes, the way her shoulders slump when she thinks no one's looking.

"well, it's just..." eve hesitates, fingers picking at a loose thread on her sleeve before she meets your gaze again. "i wanted to check on you. especially after... earlier."

ah. earlier. the strategy meeting where robot had coldly outlined three separate scenarios for mark's termination while you'd bitten your lip raw pretending to stomach it. you let your hand settle on her shoulder, feeling the tension coiled beneath her jacket. "thanks, eve, really. but enough about me - when was the last time you slept more than two hours?"  

the startled laugh she lets out is worth the twinge of guilt in your chest. "robot caught me napping by the monitors yesterday," she admits, rubbing her neck. "gave me this whole lecture about circadian rhythms while i drooled on the keyboard."  

you snort, nudging her with your elbow. "sounds like someone needs a designated cuddle buddy for nap time." the second the words leave your mouth, you both freeze. it's an old joke—one mark used to make whenever eve pulled all-nighters studying.  

for one terrifying moment, you think you've broken the fragile peace. then eve's lips quirk, just slightly. "pretty sure my cuddle buddy's busy, unless they suddenly found free time then i’m pretty sure they know where my room is," she murmurs, nudging you. it's not quite a smile, but it's the closest thing to one you've seen since chicago burned.

"well, i should go," she sighs, rolling her shoulders back into soldier-straight posture. "robot wants to 'review tactical variables' - which is robot-speak for 'i don't trust you not to screw this up.'"  

you catch her wrist before she can leave. "don't let his wiring get crossed," you say, squeezing gently. "no one could do this better than you." the words taste like ash, but the way her fingers briefly tighten around yours almost makes it worth the lie.

the underground bunker hummed with quiet activity, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and nervous sweat. a fragile peace settled over the space—the kind veterans called "the calm before the storm" with grim smiles. if only they knew how right they were. across the room, eve leaned over a makeshift table, pointing at blueprints while the other heroes nodded along. nearby, robot's mechanical voice droned instructions to a group of civilians, their hands shaking as they prepped medical supplies. everything felt suspended in time, balanced on a knife's edge.

then the world exploded.

the ceiling shattered with a deafening roar, concrete and steel raining down like artillery fire. screams ripped through the dust-choked air as mark descended through the debris, his black-and-yellow cape billowing like a war banner. behind him, nolan's silhouette cut through the smoke—larger, more terrifying, a living nightmare made flesh.

"told you we were close," nolan said, his voice cutting through the chaos. the two viltrumites scanned the cavernous space, taking in the scrambling survivors, the overturned equipment. mark's stomach twisted when his eyes didn't immediately find you, a flicker of something raw and panicked flashing behind his visor. but he crushed it down, buried it deep. he had five minutes. if he doesn’t find you within those five minutes, he’ll have painted these walls with the civilian’s insides, turn this bunker into a slaughterhouse so brutal even his father would raise a brow. the thought sent a thrill through him—not at the violence, but at the certainty that when he found you, you'd be just as eager to watch it burn.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

mark's voice drips with venom as it echoes through the ruined bunker, bouncing off crumbling concrete and sparking wires. "you and your stupid resistance made us kill thousands of innocent people," he says, so calm it's worse than any scream. his boots crunch over debris as he strolls toward eve like this is nothing, like she's nothing.  

eve's hands glow pink as she slams them together, layers of shimmering energy erupting between them—wall after wall of hardened force meant to cage him, to buy time for the last civilians scrambling up the emergency tunnels. she's panting already, sweat beading at her temples. "you did that yourself," she snaps.  

mark doesn't even slow down.  

he flies through the first barrier like it's mist, the second like paper, the third shattering around him in a rain of pink shards that dissolve before they hit the ground. eve barely jerks back in time when his hand lashes out for her throat, his fingers closing on empty air. he clicks his tongue, tilting his head as he studies her the way a cat studies a wounded bird. "cute," he murmurs sarcastically.  

eve's eyes flash. she feints left, then swings her glowing fist right—and for one glorious second, it looks like she might actually connect. the energy crackles inches from mark's smirking face—  

then your boot slams into eve's ribs with a crunch that echoes louder than gunfire.  

she doesn't even have time to scream. one second she's mid-strike, the next she's airborne, her body folding around the impact before she crashes into the far wall hard enough to crack the reinforced concrete. dust plumes around her slumped form, her pink energy sputtering out like a dying light.  

mark blinks. then his grin widens, slow and delighted, as he turns to you. "well," he purrs, "look who finally decided to play."

eve struggles to sit up, her body screaming in protest as shattered concrete digs into her palms. but the physical pain is nothing compared to the way her chest caves in when she sees you—your hands fluttering over mark’s arms, your brow furrowed as you check for wounds that don’t exist. mark leans into your touch, his smirk dripping with smug satisfaction as he watches the realization dawn on eve’s face.  

"...why?" eve’s voice is barely a whisper, but it cuts through the dust-choked air like a knife. you flinch, your fingers stilling against mark’s sleeve before you finally meet her gaze. the guilt is fleeting, there and gone in a blink, but it’s enough to make her stomach twist. her expression fractures—horror, hurt, betrayal, then finally, white-hot rage. "why?!" she screams, her voice raw as pink energy erupts around her, forming jagged armor over her trembling limbs.  

you don’t answer. just square your shoulders, fists clenching at your sides.

eve doesn’t wait. she lunges, a war cry tearing from her throat as she swings a glowing fist toward your face. you duck, her knuckles grazing your cheekbone as you pivot and drive your elbow into her ribs. she stumbles back with a gasp, but recovers fast, slamming a knee into your stomach that sends you skidding across the rubble.  

"you were supposed to be better than this," she snarls, her voice cracking. pink energy coils around her fists like serpents. "you were supposed to be good."  

you spit blood onto the broken concrete, your lips curling into something too sharp to be a smile. "good didn’t save anyone," you say, and launch yourself at her.  

your fist connects with her jaw hard enough to snap her head back, but eve’s already twisting, her armored forearm slamming into your throat. you choke, staggering—but then mark’s voice cuts through the haze. "c’mon, sweetheart," he purrs from the sidelines. "show her what happens to traitors. stop going easy on her."

the words ignite something feral in your chest, a hunger that coils hot and vicious under your skin. you feint left—just enough to make eve jerk sideways—before slamming your knee up into her stomach with a wet, cracking sound. the air bursts from her lungs in a choked gasp, her pink armor flickering as she folds in half, hands scrabbling at your costume for balance. you don’t let her find it.

your fist cracks across her jaw with enough force to send teeth skittering across the concrete. she doesn’t even have time to cry out before she’s on her knees, one arm braced against the ground as blood pours from her ruined mouth. her armor sputters, barely clinging to her body now, revealing the deep purple bruises already blooming across her ribs.  

above her, you flex your fingers, knuckles split and dripping red onto the rubble. "stay down," you murmur, voice soft as a lover’s.  

eve sways, her breath coming in ragged, wet hitches. but when she lifts her head, her eyes are wildfire. blood streaks her chin, her neck, the front of her ruined suit. "never," she rasps, and with a broken scream, she lunges.  

her fingers hook into your hair, yanking your head back as her other hand ignites with the last dregs of her power. the pink glow reflects in your widened eyes—just for a second—before you grab her wrist and twist. the snap of bone is obscenely loud. eve’s scream is louder.  

you don’t stop.  

your knee meets her face this time, cartilage crunching under the impact. she collapses onto her back, her nose a ruined mess, her good hand twitching weakly at her side. the pink glow finally dies, leaving her bare and broken in the dust.  

somewhere behind you, mark laughs—that bright, boyish sound that used to echo across playgrounds and now drips with something rotten. it makes your stomach flutter with warmth you desperately wish was disgust. you remember how his laughter used to sound when you’d push him on the swings, how his cheeks would dimple when he’d beg you for one more push, just one more—

the memory fractures when your gaze lands on eve. she’s barely breathing, her body a broken puppet sprawled across the concrete. blood bubbles at her lips with each shallow gasp. the world starts to blur at the edges, the sounds of the crumbling bunker fading into static—until mark’s hands settle on your shoulders. his touch is so familiar it hurts, his fingers tracing the curve of your collarbone before sliding down your arms.

“good job, baby,” he murmurs against your ear, his voice honey-sweet. “you did so good.” his hands don’t stop until they’re wrapped around your wrists, guiding them down to eve’s throat. your fingers twitch against her pulse, still fluttering like a dying bird’s. when she manages to focus her eyes on you—wide, wet with tears, the same eyes that used to crinkle when she’d sneak you candy between classes—your stomach heaves.

“shhh,” mark croons, his lips brushing your temple as your hands tremble around eve’s throat. “you’re helping her. look how she’s suffering.” his thumb strokes the inside of your wrist, tender as a lover. “end it. be merciful.”

your voice cracks like glass underfoot. “...i-i can’t.” the words taste like ash. this isn’t you. this can’t be you. this isn’t right. right?

mark doesn’t get angry. he never gets angry with you. his fingers just tighten over yours, pressing down until you feel the first faint crunch of cartilage beneath your palms. “do it,” he whispers, his breath scorching against your skin. “show me how much you love me.”

eve’s mouth opens in a silent scream.

your hands shake.

then they don’t.

when it’s over, the blood isn’t just on your hands—it’s in the creases of your knuckles, under your nails, streaked across your costume where you’d wiped them absently. mark beams at you like you’ve hung the moon, his hands cradling your face as he kisses you deep enough to steal your breath. his tongue swipes across your bottom lip, licking away the salt of your tears.

“mine,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to yours.

and you are.

down to the marrow.

..... 5.3k words... i'm so sorry to anyone who's been disturbed when they read this umm... i don't know what else to say it took me approximately 4 hours to write this one-shot. wait, does this even qualify as a one-shot still? and if anyone noticed, yes, i know mark still doesn't wear the black and yellow suit during that resistance scene but like... he looks hot in it- that scene where he goes "ohoho, poor angstrom" is just stuck in my head

[psink]

Whilst overall I prefer the manga to the anime, there's one aspect that I think the anime does better - the very ending.

Compared to the manga's very compactly shown thoughts of the cast, the anime gives each of them a short scene.

But although that change already is great, what matters to me the most, is this added scene of Saiko.

Despite it being so short, it feels so fitting and important to Saiko's character, making its absence in the original seem wrong. (They also added Rifuta, though comparatively, her scene isn't so significant.)

[total-trash-tenno]

looking forward to the Hex expecting the Drifter to add some normalcy to the group, or think they're gonna freak them out, only for the Drifter to bring in more chaos than all of them combined

listen they come from a nonsense fantasy world where there's skeleton animals, flying horses, everyone's made of some kind of ceramic, there's no real day and night, the king's court are turning into dragons all the time, and crazy weather like fire raining from the sky every other cycle. plus running around this nonsense fantasy world with just a pistol, a couple of sticks and no warframe. and winning. but they play checkers against a rabbit and lose

and outside Duviri, full-warframes are walkin around chilling like regular dudes, and also those warframes are piloted by a bunch of gremlin children who happen to be their alternate timeline selves. people live on venus and they have robot heads, there's a giant tower made of flesh that people chop up and eat and by the way it talks to them. Also there's talking animals in Albrecht's basement

i think the 'regular' stuff in 1999 would confuse them more than anything else

[dribs-and-drabbles]

Sorry, I can't get over the ThamePo/tempo thing that @thebroccolination's friend pointed out.

In my tags of their post I reblogged, I wrote (read: screamed) that it's 'tempo' because of music, because they're in an idol group.

But then I thought about the full title...and that ending to today's ep:

Heart That Skips a Beat

And I realised it's also about a rhythm, a beat, a heartbeat...time...and how the heartbeat speeds up - increases in tempo - in that moment of attraction.

Tempo is everything about this show. The right time to be together, the right time to go their separate ways. When to feel they have achieved their goals, how to persist when things feel like failure. The music and songs that bring the group together, the steady, regular beat that keeps them in time, in tune with each other during their performances, in the dances. And the time Thame and Po take to get to know each other (9 hours and whatever minutes long it was), the rhythmical repetition of a phone number remembered, the time to stop still and wait and listen and feel the tempo change.

I know there'll be more to add to this as the series goes on but honestly I'm so blown away at this discovery and I can't believe we haven't noticed it earlier. Anyway, thanks again to Key's friend 💙

[momomallowart]

Happy International Women's Day! I love women and I love Tomura so I drew him as a beautiful woman ʕ⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴥ⁠ꈍ⁠ʔっ💗

Close up 🫶💗

[stygiusfic]

early morning writing hack (real) (it's been working for about a month now):

think about the scene you're going to work on that morning not when you sit down to write, but the previous evening. this is daydreaming but with purpose. think about what might happen and how the characters feel about it. get excited. don't write a single word.

go about your evening normally, doing whatever else you do. your subconscious is a slow cooker and while you do other stuff, it's working on your idea for you.

get up early, like an hour before you'd need to start your day if you were cutting it close. everyone else in the world is snoozing their alarm, so no one can bother you rn. you're free! no one can judge your writing, not even you!

(optional i guess but it really helps me) unless the first few words of your scene are already clear in your mind, warm up. I've abandoned the idea of warm-up drabbles or whatever the hell people recommend. instead, I pull up a story by someone whose writing I love, and I type out a fragment of it in a blank doc, reading the words out loud as I go. this wakes up my writing brain as I become aware of how their prose and dialogue work their magic, when and where they reveal new information, how each detail leads to the next. I'd advise doing this with work that is of high quality and purposeful, so you can learn their tricks, but I'm not the boss of you.

write!!!!!!!

don't stop to judge if it's good or not!! it's too early for that shit!! if the draft sucks you can fix it later but you need the draft done first!!

do stop once yesterday evening's daydreaming prep has run out and you're out of steam. (sometimes the momentum can reveal the next part of the story you hadn't actively considered yet, but don't depend on it.) if you hit a wall where you have no idea how to continue, or it's still too vague to put words down, trying to push through will only bring frustration. and even if you do manage to write a bit more, the chances you'll end up scrapping it later because it doesn't fit are significant. just call it there, you're done.

take a minute to appreciate what you accomplished. you now have words you didn't have yesterday. you won the day, and meanwhile everyone else is still asleep, the absolute losers

if you use a word tracker, go ahead and input your word count for the day. maybe you got a lot done, or maybe you didn't; it's a victory either way. on mornings when I've been struggling, writing and then erasing and writing again, if I'm too pissed off to check the word count I just put down a symbolic number, like 50 words. it may not look like much, but when I look at the month's stats it feels good to have proof that I showed up and did the thing even when it was hard.

now you can start your day. and frankly at this point I don't give a shit how annoying my day is, because I already did the thing I care about getting done, so I'm not going through work resenting every task for stealing brain juice I could've used for writing in the evening. "I'll write when I'm done with work" is the ADHD hubris devil speaking.

and now it's the evening and you're free to daydream again!! and use absolutely zero brain power!! wheee!!

[thelatecaptainpierce]

m*a*s*h heritage posts (to me)

so long, gay hawkeye (part 1 and part 2)

klinger draft dodger rag amv

henry blake leave the door open fancam

klinger compliments compilation

mulcahy mountain goats

you can call me henry

biblically accurate klinger

the love shack amv is too recent to really be considered a heritage post but i'm gonna mark it down as a future heritage post anyway

and of course this summary of the show to close us out

please add any further heritage posts below (no specific requirements only that they're ideally at least a couple of years old and undeniably iconic)

[gummi-ships]

Kingdom Hearts - Traverse Town

[phierie]

best friend

alt ver:

[tonyjalapeno]

starting a collection of transmasc coded los campesinos! lyrics