#anon MM

[cripplecharacters]

hi! i'm in process with my book, and i really wanna give one of the antagonists a rollator as his main aid. i'm disabled, i use a cane, but i daydream about rollator so. that's why.

the question is. what conditions in your mind lack representation? i have no problem with researching, but i lowkey don't want to just give him my experience. thank you!

anon MM

Thank you for your ask! Personally I believe every disability lacks representation, as disability shows up extremely infrequently in media and even when it does it’s often shallow and poorly represented.

One thing I’ve noticed in media is that when someone uses a mobility aid it’s often due to an old injury, amputation or muscle weakness. There’s nothing wrong with giving a character one of these, I just think it would be cool to see someone using an aid due to a limb difference, a heart or lung issue, a brain condition, or to help with fatigue or dizziness. There are a lot of reasons for someone to use an aid and I’d like to see them represented!

Here’s a short list of disabilities I’ve never seen represented that could cause someone to use a rollater:

camurati-engelmann’s disease

congenital genu recurvatum calcaneovalgus

bilateral peroneal neuropath

nail-patella syndrome

tetralogy of fallot

arthrogryposis multiplex congenita

cardiomyopathy

You don’t have to use them, but since your question can also be read as asking for specific underrepresented conditions we decided to include them :) (smiley face)

Before I finish, I noticed you said that the aid was for an antagonist. Please make sure that you aren’t falling into the disabled villain trope by giving some of the protagonist characters disabilities as well. Keep in mind your antagonist also shouldn’t be the only character with an aid or visible difference (if you choose a condition that causes visible differences).

Have a nice day!

Mod Rot

[jesuistrestriste]

i think art would say “fuck me” even when you’re in missionary, even when he’s getting a blowjob. even when he’s in a physically dominant role hes still sososo submissive, looking to his partner for guidance and reassurance. he is so dumb💝

oh absolutely

it doesn’t matter if he’s the one penetrating you—trapping you underneath his warm heavy body while his cock slides in and out—he’s always gonna reach for your hand and moan like he’s losing himself.

he’s curling his hips repeatedly atop you, desperately trying to get deeper while he gasps and twitches. licking at your neck and breathing in the smell of sex that’s wafting off the both of your bodies. his balls are drawing tighter with each consecutive thrust, but as soon as he starts to feel the boiling of heat begin to climb up his length—

“oh, fuck me,” he whimpers; not an exclamation, but a desperate plea.

his voice is breaking and sizzling around the edges, needy and hungry and falling apart.

he squeezes your hand that he caught with his own minutes prior, pushing it down into the mattress as he feels your legs wrap around him and force his tip deeper till it hits your sweet spot buried inside.

“gah! fuck me, fuck me, yeah please—“

he’s slamming into you repeatedly with abandon, but he’s begging you to keep going. it doesn’t make sense, and deep down he knows that, but right now it doesn’t matter. he knows you’ll know what he needs.

you reach your hands up and pet his trembling biceps, and you kiss away some of the sweat pearling on his neck. “you like when i fuck you?”

“oh yeah!”

“..yeah?”

“yes, g-god, need to—“

you brush your lips over the shell of his ear.

“i’ve got you, baby.. let me fuck the cum out of you…”

and that’s all it takes for him to let the waves of pleasure consume him wholly; his eyes rolling back as he cries out brokenly and lets his hips stutter. he’s clinging to you with everything he’s got as he feels his cock jump and spill a heavy creamy load into your squeezing parts, mumbling into your skin, “love you, love you, love you—”

“— you fuck me so good…”

[yeosin-n]

Omg ur so wonderful!!! I was wondering if we could give horror some chocolate? (And if he's up for it maybe even a hug... Or a kiss) please? I love ur stuff btw!!!!

I ALMOST FORGOT HOW HOT HORROR IS he’s so fun to draw

[lazy-ahh]

CHAOS LIKES COMPANY. A.K.A I LIKE YOU

pairing mohawk! mark grayson x (vigilante) male reader

you always imagined your grand exit would be more dramatic - maybe a hail of gunfire, a building collapsing in slow motion, at least a decent fucking punchline. instead you're testing a theory: if you disappear now, will mark grayson (your idiot, your disaster, the love of your shitty life) even notice? were you gonna be a tragic loss that haunted him forever, or the weird stain on the couch he learned to ignore?

this is for you MM (mohawk mark) anon! hope you enjoyed this one <3

you’re standing on a rooftop, the city sprawled out beneath you like a toy set some rich kid smashed in a tantrum. the wind’s tugging at your hair, the strands whipping across your face like it’s personally offended by your existence. not that you mind—gives you that "tragically windswept" look, and hey, maybe the audience is into that.

"nice view, huh?" you say, grinning at no one in particular. "seriously, take a screenshot or something. this is prime wallpaper material."

mark—mohawk mark, because this universe just had to make him extra—lands beside you with a thud that cracks the concrete under his boots. his black-and-blue suit is all "look at me, i’m edgier than the original", complete with that ridiculous "i" logo stretching down to his knees like it’s trying to escape. his mohawk’s practically defying gravity (and common sense), and the bags under his eyes make him look like he hasn’t slept since the invention of energy drinks.

"who the hell are you talking to?" he asks, squinting like he’s trying to spot your imaginary friends.

"the audience," you say, like it’s obvious. "you know, the people watching our lives like some messed-up reality show? hi guys, love ya, don’t forget to leave a like and reblog."

"the… what?" his nose scrunches up, and oh, that’s adorable.

"don’t worry about it." you wave a hand. "they’re cool. mostly. some of them probably ship us already—oh, and spoiler alert, they’re gonna love the angst fest coming up."

mark blinks. "what does that even—you know what, never mind." he shakes his head, but you can tell he feels it—that weird shift in the air when you break the fourth wall like it’s made of wet paper. he doesn’t see them, but he knows something’s off, like the universe just glitched for a second.

"you’re weird," he mutters, but there’s no real bite to it. just that same fond exasperation he’s had since you were kids throwing rocks at mailboxes (okay, you threw rocks—mark just watched and panicked, because back then, he was a "rules" kind of guy. boring).

"and you’re rocking a haircut that screams ‘i got into a fight with a lawnmower and lost’," you shoot back, reaching out to flick his mohawk. he swats your hand away, but he’s grinning now, all sharp edges and "i could kill you but i won’t (today)" energy.

"shut up," he says, but it’s half-hearted. then, quieter: "you’re the only one who gets to say shit like that and live."

and oh, that stings a little, doesn’t it? because you’ve known each other forever—since back when he was just mark, not invincible, not this version of him with blood under his fingernails and a smile that’s too wide to be sane. you know him better than anyone, even when he’s pretending he doesn’t care.

and yeah, maybe you’re a little (a lot) in love with him. maybe you’ve always been.

"lucky me," you say, forcing a smirk. "guess that means i’m special."

"guess it does," he says, and for a second, his eyes flicker with something almost soft.

(too bad you won’t be around long enough to enjoy it. because let’s be real—this is mark’s story, and in every universe, the best friend always dies. you’ve read the comics. you know how this ends. but hey, at least you’ll go out in style, right? saving this idiot’s life like some tragic, self-sacrificing idiot. classic.)

"so," mark cracks his knuckles, the sound sharp in the quiet before chaos, his fingers flexing like he's already imagining them wrapped around someone's throat. his grin is all teeth, too wide, too eager—the kind that makes normal people back up slowly and call the cops. his boot taps impatiently against the rooftop ledge, vibrating with barely-contained violence. "wanna go wreck some bad guys?"

you sigh, dramatic and long-suffering, like he’s just asked you to help him move a couch instead of commit several felonies. "oh, sweetie," you drawl, flipping a knife between your fingers just to watch the way his eyes track it—hungry, amused. "i was already doing that. you’re just late to the party." you tilt your head toward the alley below, where a bunch of armed goons are currently trying (and failing) to look intimidating. "see? they even brought balloons."

mark rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck, but before he can fire back some half-assed insult, he’s already leaping off the roof, arms spread like he’s embracing the inevitable chaos. you don’t even hesitate—just tuck your weapons back and dive after him, the wind screaming in your ears.

(you always follow. you always will. that's how you'll die, remember?)

the fight starts before your feet even hit the ground.

you land in a roll, coming up with a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other, already firing before the first thug even registers you’re there. the bullet takes him in the knee—"oops, guess you won’t be running anymore. well, not on that leg, anyway."

mark, meanwhile, doesn’t bother with weapons. he is the weapon. he plows into a guy twice his size like a freight train, sending him flying through a storefront window. glass shatters, the guy screams, and mark just laughs, kicking him in the ribs hard enough to crack bone. "aw, what’s wrong?" he taunts, tilting his head. "thought you were tough?"

one of the half-conscious goons on the pavement groans, dragging himself up on trembling elbows. his face is a mess of blood and regret as he glares up at you through one swollen eye. "what the fuck?" he slurs, spitting out a broken tooth. "i thought you guys were supposed to be heroes- AGH!"

your boot connects with his family jewels before he can finish that thought - a picture-perfect punt right to the baby factory, the twig and berries, the ol' troublepuffs. his voice cracks into a shrill, eunuch-like squeal as he folds like a lawn chair, hands cupped protectively over his now-useless crown jewels. "heroes?" you echo, tilting your head with mock sympathy as he dry-heaves onto the asphalt. "aw, cupcake. we're the guys your mom warned you about."

a bat comes swinging at your head from the blindside - amateur hour. you duck without even looking, feeling the whoosh of air ruffle your hair as you pivot and sink your combat knife deep into the guy's meaty thigh. he screams like a banshee as you twist the blade, feeling tendon grind against steel. "shhh, it's okay," you coo, patting his sweaty cheek with your free hand while he trembles. "you're doing great for someone with the fighting skills of a concussed koala."

then - classic move incoming - another meathead charges you with a crowbar raised high. is this also a reference to the author's other fictional crush? you sidestep like a matador, snatching his wrist mid-swing and using his momentum to yank him face-first into your rising knee. the satisfying crunch of cartilage tells you his nose just became abstract art. as he wheezes through the blood bubbling from his nostrils, you grab a fistful of his greasy hair and introduce his forehead to the nearest car hood. DING. "and that's the dinner bell!" you announce as he slumps to the pavement. "congrats, you just failed villainy 101. solid d-minus for the effort."

another shrill scream tears through the alleyway, high-pitched and desperate enough to make you pause mid-swing. you glance over your shoulder just in time to see mark - your personal hurricane of violence - plant his boots against the pavement, grip some poor 6'2 bastard by the waistband of his jeans, and heave. the guy goes airborne with a comical yelp, flipping ass-over-teakettle before crashing windshield-first onto a parked sedan. glass explodes outward in a glittering shower, the car alarm immediately wailing like a wounded animal.

"ohoho," you purr, letting your (new) bloodstained bat rest against your shoulder as you backpedal toward the nearest brick wall. you prop yourself against it, crossing your ankles with deliberate casualness as you watch mark work. the way his muscles flex under that skintight suit should be illegal. the way his mohawk bobs with each brutal movement? downright obscene.

mark doesn't even pause for breath before stomping toward the next threat, those unfairly thick thighs straining against his suit with each step - god, the way that fabric clings to him should be classified as a war crime. his fingers curl around a dented street sign, biceps flexing obscenely as he wrenches it free from the concrete with a screech of protesting metal. when he swings, it's with the practiced ease of a major league slugger, his whole body twisting in a way that makes his ass look absolutely sinful in that skin-tight suit - and then the aluminum connects with some mobster's jaw in a spray of saliva and enamel, three pearly whites skittering across the asphalt like tiny dice.

you swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. it's ridiculous how good he looks like this - all coiled violence and barely-contained power, his mohawk sticking up in every direction like he just rolled out of bed (your bed, preferably). the way his shoulders bunch under the fabric when he lifts the sign again, the way his thighs flex as he plants his feet - christ, you could write poetry about those thighs.

but then something tightens in your chest, sharp and sudden, stealing the breath from your lungs. you turn to glare at no one in particular, pointing an accusing finger. "woah woah woah, hey! don't you dare. i know what you're going to write in the next paragraph and i swear to god-"

because one day - soon - you won't be here to see this. won't be here to watch the way the streetlights catch the sweat on mark's neck, or the way his nose scrunches up when he's trying not to laugh at your shitty jokes. one day, you'll just be... gone. and mark will keep fighting, keep living, with some other poor bastard at his side who isn't you.

the thought hits you like a punch to the gut. fuck...

(you hope, when it happens, it's quick. you hope it's saving his stupid, reckless life. you hope he misses you, just a little.)

"homerun!" you crow as you look back at mark, pushing off the wall to deliver slow, sarcastic applause, trying to erase your negative thoughts. no need for allat when you're still alive and breathing, right? one of your gloves comes away sticky with someone else's blood. "ten outta ten for form, but i'm deducting points for lack of showmanship. where's the flair, grayson?"

"shut up," mark growls through gritted teeth, but the way his lips twitch betrays him. he chucks the ruined sign aside like trash before lunging for his next victim - some meathead who clearly skipped neck day. mark's fingers close around the guy's throat, lifting him clean off his feet until their faces are level. the thug's sneakers scrabble against empty air, his face blooming an impressive shade of eggplant as mark just... watches. his head tilts slightly, eyes dark with something between scientific curiosity and outright glee. it's the same look kids get when they poke dead things with sticks.

you whistle low through your teeth, nudging an unconscious goon with your toe. "y'know most heroes don't commit felonies on the daily. pretty sure throttling dudes counts as excessive force."

"we're not most heroes," mark snarls, finally dropping the gasping thug in a heap. he wipes his palms on his thighs, leaving smears of red across the blue fabric. "and i literally saw what you did to those guys back there," he jerks his chin toward the alley mouth where four bodies lay in increasingly creative positions, "so don't even start, hypocrite."

your grin stretches wide enough to hurt. he's got you there. while mark was playing fast and loose with the geneva suggestions, you'd been busy turning a switchblade into a modern art installation in someone's shoulder socket.

"touche, mohawk," you concede, flipping your bat in a lazy arc. "but in my defense?" the aluminum cracks against the skull of some sneaky bastard trying to flank mark. the guy folds like a lawn chair. "my felonies have panache."

mark's answering laugh is all teeth and no remorse. the sirens wailing in the distance mean it's time to bounce, but neither of you move just yet. not when there's still blood in the air and that electric hum of violence buzzing under your skin.

(and if your eyes linger on the way mark's chest heaves, on the wild light in his eyes - well. that's between you and the audience. you can't judge him, can you? perverts.)

luckily for the two of you, the universe apparently decided this shit-show wasn't over yet, with one final act left. with a running start, you plant one boot against the side of a overflowing dumpster and push off, tucking into a neat flip that would make any olympic gymnast weep with envy. you land in a crouch behind two meatheads who clearly skipped villain orientation day - their matching "we do crime" energy is almost cute in its patheticness.

the first guy telegraphs his punch like he's sending smoke signals. you catch his fist mid-swing, twisting his wrist in one fluid motion until the bone gives with an audible snap. his scream is high enough to shatter glass. "dude," you sigh, shaking your head as he crumples to his knees, "you gotta warm up first. this is just sad. i'm embarrassed for you."

his buddy takes this moment to make a terrible life choice, fumbling a glock from his waistband. the barrel wavers wildly as he tries to aim.

you blink. "oh, rude."

the gunshot cracks through the alley, but you're already moving - twisting sideways just enough that the bullet parts your hair like a fucked-up comb. before the echo even fades, your knife is airborne, burying itself to the hilt in the guy's shoulder with a meaty thunk. his shriek is music to your ears as the gun clatters to the pavement. you saunter over, planting a boot on his chest for leverage as you yank your blade free. "thanks for the target practice," you muse, wiping the blood on his shirt before he passes out. "tell your friends."

meanwhile, mark has apparently decided physics are optional. you turn just in time to see him grab some poor bastard by the belt and collar, muscles straining under his suit as he heaves - the guy goes sailing through the air like a ragdoll, crashing through a fruit stand in an explosion of splintered wood and flying oranges. before the first body even stops rolling, mark's already pivoted to grab another thug, launching him ass-first into a trash can with enough force to dent the metal. the clang echoes down the alley like a demented church bell.

"having fun?" you call, spinning your pistol around your finger before slotting a fresh magazine home with practiced ease. the click of it seating is downright pornographic.

"shut up," mark pants for the umpteenth time, but there's no heat behind it - just that breathless, unhinged laughter that makes your stomach do funny things. he grabs the last guy by his collar, hauling him up until they're nose-to-nose. for a heartbeat, they just stare at each other - then mark slams their foreheads together with a crunch that would make a butcher wince. the guy's nose practically explodes in a crimson spray, his eyes rolling back as he collapses in a boneless heap.

suddenly, it's quiet.

the aftermath looks like a tornado hit a butcher shop - bodies strewn about like broken dolls, glass glittering amidst pools of darkening blood, the distant wail of sirens growing steadily closer. mark's chest heaves with each breath, his knuckles split and dripping onto the pavement. his mohawk's gone full hedgehog mode, sticking up in every direction, and there's a smear of someone else's blood across his cheekbone that you have the sudden, overwhelming urge to lick off. weird. last you checked, you were a picky eater.

when he turns to look at you, his eyes are alive - pupils blown wide with adrenaline, that manic grin still tugging at his lips. it's terrifying. it's beautiful. it's so mark that your chest aches with it. so mark that you can literally feel the blood in your veins start to make its way down.

"so," you say, holstering your gun with a flourish, "same time tomorrow?"

mark scoffs, rolling his shoulders as he turns to leave. but he doesn't check if you're following - doesn't need to.

(you always do.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

"i feel like i'm going crazy. like my brain's been stuffed with cotton and set on fire at the same time." you stare at the water-stained ceiling talking to no one in particular, fingers digging into your pillow hard enough to tear seams. the eyebags under your eyes have gotten so dark they look like bruises (at least now you and mark match, his from violence, yours from... whatever this is). your hair's a disheveled mess, strands sticking to your forehead after days of bedrotting and only wearing t-shirts and sweatpants. you need to do your laundry soon, you were about to run out of t-shirts and sweatpants from your closet. you can feel death crouched at the foot of your bed like a stray cat waiting to be let in. "i'm literally about to die and what do i do? play fucking martyr instead of just... just..." your voice cracks as you press the heels of your hands against your burning eyes.

this was supposed to be some noble gesture - giving mark a trial run at life without you. you'd dove into the plan half-delirious, imagining how he'd come pounding on your door by sundown, all wild-eyed and vibrating with barely-contained panic. he'd drag you out of bed by your ankle, that adorable angry crease between his brows as he yelled about how you can't just disappear for hours, how he'd torn the city apart looking for you, how maybe - just maybe - he'd been a little more brutal than usual with the criminals today because what if something had happened to you and -

except that's not what happened.

three days. seventy-two hours of radio silence. the notifications on your phone have tapered off to nothing. you keep checking it like a pathetic loser, thumb smearing fingerprints across the cracked screen as you scroll through increasingly distant messages:

sidehoe #1 🐈💨 2:43 AM

we both know you don't got other sidehoes, so why is there a number next to my nickname??

manwhore <3

why would i tell you who the others are? you'd just kill them anyway, so i gotta keep the huzz safe, you feel me?

and don't worry, marky, you'll always be number 1 in my heart <33

sidehoe #1 🐈💨 7:58 AM

oh shut up

8:02 AM

okay when i said shut up, i didn't mean literally

8:15 AM

you alive?

9:29 AM

you haven't watched the tiktoks i sent yet watch them or you're going to get it tonight

9:31 AM

when i said you're going to get it tonight i meant i'm going to grab you by the throat and glue your phone screen to your eyes or sexual intercourse don't even make fun of me for calling it that whichever one gets you to answer my fucking messages

8:16 PM

whatever

"it's like..." you rasp to the empty room, throat raw from disuse. "like when you stop texting your boyfriend first to see how long it takes him to notice you're gone. except you're the idiot who breaks after five minutes because the silence makes your chest hurt, while he's just... fine." you let your phone clatter to the floor, screen-up so you can watch it stay dark. "fuck. that doesn't even make sense. i fucking hate myself."

outside your window, the city keeps turning. somewhere out there, mark's probably elbow-deep in someone's ribcage, not even realizing there's a you-shaped hole in the world. the thought makes you laugh - a wet, broken sound that turns into a sob halfway through. you roll over and bury your face in the pillow that stopped smelling like him days ago.

(you always knew you'd die for him. you just never thought you'd have to watch him stop needing you first.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

that suffocating dread finally lifts one night - not because it's gone, but because you've grown too tired to carry it anymore. it had clung to your ribs like tar for days, weighing down every breath no matter how many shitty jokes you cracked or how many bad decisions you made. hiding in your room didn't help either, the walls pressing closer each day like they knew what was coming. part of you wondered if the danger was you all along, if you'd somehow become the villain in this story. but no - you know how this ends. you've always known. you'll die saving that reckless, mohawked idiot who still doesn't realize you're in love with him.

after your first proper shower in days (the water scalding your skin pink), you crack open another soda and watch the bubbles fizz against the can's rim. the carbonation burns your throat as you gulp it down, the sugar rush doing nothing to steady your hands as you strap on your gear. your suit smells like old blood and gunpowder when you shrug it on, the familiar weight of weapons settling against your thighs as you step out into the night.

you take your usual patrol route - yours and mark's route, the one where he always complains about stopping for hot dogs but eats three anyway. every shadow makes your pulse jump, half-hoping you won't see him, half-terrified this might be your last chance if you do. the city stretches below you, all glittering lights and oblivious crowds. it looks peaceful from up here. you almost feel peaceful after finally accepting that you only have a few pages left before your book ends. (liar.)

"but of course," you murmur to no one in particular, gloved fingers tightening around the rooftop's edge, "you've got different plans for me, right?" the wind doesn't answer. then -

a rush of air colder than the night itself. the scent of leather and that cheap citrus body wash mark refuses to stop using.

"where the fuck have you been?" his voice loud like a gunshot, raw with something between rage and devastation. you don't turn. can't. the city lights blur beneath you as you focus on keeping your breathing even. "i said," mark snarls, closer now, "where the fuck have you been, you stupid son of a bitch-"

"you've been doing fine without me." your mask hits the concrete with a dull thud when you pull it off. the smile you force feels like a death rattle. "see? proof you won't completely lose it when something does happen to me-"

"will you fucking quit that?" mark's boots scuff against concrete as he storms forward. when you finally turn, his face is a mess of anger and fear, eyes glassy under the moonlight. "you always - fuck - you always talk like you've got one foot in the grave. why do you keep talking like that? are you- " his breath hitches, hands flexing at his sides like he wants to shake you or hold you or both, "are you planning on killing yourself?"

the laugh that tears from your throat sounds alien even to you. "what? no, i'm not-"

"stop lying!" mark's shout echoes off the rooftops, his composure shattering as tears finally spill over. your chest caves in at the sight - mark never cries, not even when he's bleeding out in some alleyway. his hands find yours with desperate urgency, calloused fingers trembling as they squeeze yours hard enough to bruise. "just... stop. if you're hurting, tell me. am i - " his voice breaks, "am i really not someone you can trust with this?"

he drags your joined hands up, pressing your knuckles to his forehead like a prayer. his breath brushes your wrists as he leans into the contact, hot against your skin. when he speaks again, it's so quiet the wind almost steals it: "i might be a disaster, but i fucking care. so please... let me in."

the dam breaks.

"i'm sorry," the words spill out in a broken whisper, saltwater dripping off your chin as tears carve hot paths down your wind-chapped cheeks. "god, mark, i'm so fucking sorry."

your hands slip from his trembling grip, moving on instinct as you drag him into the tightest embrace your battered body can manage. one hand finds its way between his shoulder blades, fingers spreading wide over the familiar topography of his suit's fabric as you rub slow, grounding circles into the knotted muscles beneath. the other settles at the dip of his waist, thumb tracing absentminded patterns against the curve of his hip through the thin material - that same spot you've secretly ached to touch for years, now warm and solid under your palm.

his breathing hitches when you pull him closer, his forehead coming to rest heavily against your shoulder as his hands fist in the back of your jacket like you might vanish if he lets go. (and he's almost right.) the scent of his shampoo mixes with gunpowder and copper as you tuck your face into the mess of his mohawk, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear when you murmur another apology into the space between you.

but it wasn't enough to just whisper apologies into his skin, not when you still hadn't told him the crushing truth - that soon you'd be nothing more than another ghost haunting his memories.

his breath is warm against your neck as you hold him, his heartbeat thundering against your chest in a rhythm you've memorized through countless battles. you let your fingers card through the short hairs at the nape of his neck, smiling faintly when he shivers at the touch. "hey audience," you murmur silently against mark's shoulder, your voice barely a thought, "funny how i can take a bullet without flinching, but can't say three stupid little words to the guy who actually gives a shit if i live or die, huh?"

mark shifts in your arms, his calloused palm sliding up to cradle the back of your head like you're something precious. the moonlight paints silver and blue along the curve of his cheekbone when he tilts his face up, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes your throat tight. you press your forehead to his instead, breathing him in - the citrus of his shampoo, the iron tang of blood from split knuckles, the unmistakable scent that's just mark. your thumb traces the arch of his cheekbone, wiping away tear tracks you pretend not to notice.

(you don't say i love you. but when his lips brush yours in something too soft to be a kiss and too tender to be an accident, you think maybe he knows anyway.)

OH MY GOD 4.5k WORDS??? THIS MIGHT BE THE LONGEST ONE-SHOT I'VE EVER WRITTEN, and honestly... i think i might have cooked with this one-

[marshmallowprotection]

OH MY GOD WE GOT OUR WISH I DIDN’T THINK IT WOULD ACTUALLY HAPPEN

[Twitter Link]

I consider this a major victory. I am now living my best life while the RFA tends to us and we got an Elizabeth the 3rd cameo!

Zen gets the chance to live his Cinderella dream, Yoosung just realized he needs to watch his step, Jumin isn't having a good time cleaning the floor since he just realized how long it takes, Jaehee is having the time of her life styling out MC's hair, Jihyun is unbothered and content doing laundry for MC, Saeyoung is absolutely thriving in sheer gender euphoria, and Saeran seems so happy to tend to the daily chores to make the space clean and tidy for MC!

[edgy-senju]

Masterminds meet the regular version of their respective bro... it doesn't go well.

[mopillow]

This is how I remember this scene, if you’re wondering what I’m doing the answer is measuring He Cheng’s body parts, prime example is those nipples, I want to thank the US government for the stress that’s making me find new ways to distract myself from reality, I keep my promises pervy anon your answer is here

[rfaromance]

kissing Saeyoung's hands!!!

"It doesn't even hurt!"

"Please don't fuss over this!"

"I'm telling you, honey butter, I'm fine!"

Saeyoung's protests fell on deaf ears as you dragged him to the bathroom, where the lighting was better. You didn't care what he had to say; the cut on his hand looked nasty, and you weren't going to risk letting anything happen to your lover.

"Look, it's not even bleeding anymore!"

You snorted as you pushed him against the countertop. "Sit," you ordered, and with a grumble Saeyoung obediently plopped himself on the counter. "It is still bleeding!" you wailed in dismay, as you held his hand up to the light.

"So you can hear me."

"Saeyoung Choi!"

Hastily you dug out first aid supplies from the cabinet. As you searched for bandages and ointments, you could spot a dark hoodie shuffling out of the corner of your eye. "Don't even think about leaving," you snapped. "You are getting patched up here and now!"

The shuffling stopped.

Heaving a huge sigh, you returned to Saeyoung with supplies in tow. Carefully you reached past him to turn on the faucet, soaking and soaping a washcloth. You then turned back to Saeyoung and gently grabbed his injured hand. He didn't resist you this time, but rather tutted dramatically as you began to dab at the wound.

"Saeyoung... how in the world did you manage this?"

"One of my babies is in her rebellious teen phase."

"You mean there could be OIL in here, and you weren't going to let me clean it?" The horror and exasperation in your voice were powerful enough to make him wince.

"It's really not a big deal," he began, but you firmly squeezed his hand to shut him up.

After you'd wiped off the dry blood, you were able to see his injury clearly for the first time. A gash on the side of his hand, running from the bottom of his pinky finger to the top of his wrist. "This is the length of your palm," you fretted.

"Couldn't even tell."

His tone was different, somehow. He'd stopped arguing but also was acting less blasé. Now he just sounded... tired. Resigned. Hollow.

"It really doesn't hurt?" you asked softly. Carefully you put the washcloth in the sink, and you reached out to get the antibiotic ointment. "It didn't even sting when I washed it?"

"Not even a tickle."

You didn't want to believe him, but as you spread the ointment over his injury, he didn't flinch once. You gave his palm an experimental squeeze, wondering if he'd react. "Shoot!"

The pressure had opened the cut once again.

"I felt that," Saeyoung commented as you grabbed the washcloth again to dab at the edges of the wound. "It just... felt no different than picking up a shoe or opening a doorknob."

You reapplied the antibiotic that you had wiped off, furrowing your brow as thoughts raced around in circles in your head. Had his fingers always been this calloused? Had his knuckles always been covered with this many old, faded scars? Had his fingers, thin as they are, always been this muscular? Your own hands suddenly felt so feeble, so flimsy, as you began winding gauze around his hand, over and over.

"I can't afford to feel too much pain," was all he offered in explanation. "Not the way I've lived.

"Hands like mine don't deserve tender care from someone like you."

Having just put on the last stretch of bandages, you looked up at him with sorrow in your eyes. Much to your dismay, he was looking up at the ceiling, perhaps unable to meet your gaze.

You didn't know the full extent of the things that he had done to keep himself and Saeran alive; you didn't particularly care. All that mattered was that you knew he undertook those actions and made those choices in the name of love. He was a good person.

He had stopped trying to push you away, so why did he have to talk as if he was still damning himself? Did he plan to live the remainder of his life joyfully, but then spend his afterlife in flames? You didn't quite know or understand his feelings on that matter.

But you did know you loved him, and that he deserved every reminder you could give him.

"Your hands can't feel anything anymore?" you murmured, the lilt in your voice clearly prompting him for an answer.

"If only."

The detached, distant expression on Saeyoung's face immediately melted away, replaced by one of awe, caution, fear, and wonder, as your lips began to peck at each and every one of his knuckles. Then his fingertips. Then his (bandaged) palm. You even nudged the injured side of his hand with your nose, gently so as not to aggravate the wound. "Nothing at all?"

His tearful golden eyes met yours directly as he whispered, "Maybe there's something after all."

[lucytsukii]

Heyy Luck, buddyy!! :D Question...

Do you miss her?

He...

Didn't seem very happy to answer that question…

After that he went back to replanting flowers.

But I understand as a maybe :D

Tag: @boiling-potato @justafriendlystranger @googlyeyes-blogs @chipi-chupi-chips

[cripplecharacters]

- anon MM

thank you so much for ideas!

and what about disabled villain trope: he's not a villain, he's an antagonist that goes from ""bad"" role to grayish one. i already can see readers simping for him (i simp too lol). but i still considered making more visibly disabled characters!

i just have this gross voice in my head telling me "ohhh now you're making EVERYTHING about disability". this character i mentioned will show only in third book in series, i'm still on my first book (though slowly getting to finishing it yay), but i already feel self-conscious about it.

but after you recommended it, i immediately thought about other character that just... VIBES disabled. and he's a 100% good one (he makes a lot of questionable decisions, but he still totally is protagonist). so i thought what if i give him a cane like mine! it'd suit him.

also, the main protagonist of 2nd book vibes disabled too. she already has autism but now i'm thinking about something physical too. she just ~vibes~ as fibro girly.

love this account, you give so much support

- still anon MM

shit i made a mistake in previous ask, that antagonist is going to show in SECOND book, not third, sorry

Thank you for your ask! I’m glad we could help, and the more disabled characters the merrier! I know it’s hard not to listen to your own negative thoughts, but disability in media is so rare, and rarely done well, that it’s refreshing to see stories with well researched portrayals of conditions.

If you have any more questions about your characters disabilities, feel free to ask!

Have fun writing!

Mod Rot

[jesuistrestriste]

sage ok walk with me… so imagine virgin art that’s so deep into subspace and is so painfully hard that he’s going “m-mommy, it hurtsssss, what’s wrongggg, what’s going onnnn” like I think I have an innocence kink. Are we fucking with it or no

guhhhh ….. i’m not walking, i’m sprinting with u

corruption kink goin crazy rn ! !

thinking about lulling virgin!art into subspace for the first time. he’s all wide eyes and shy touches and sloppy kisses; letting you tease his aching cock with just a fingertip while he sprawls himself out on your bed next to you.

has he orgasmed tons of times before now?

absolutely !

but as he ever come by someone else’s hands?

well.. no.

and god, it’s a whole new world of sensations. the warmth from just the pad of your digit on the underside of his cockhead is more than enough to ignite an unstoppable flame in his stomach— one that’s completely different from all the ones that were stoked via his own touch..

you’ve been edging him for only twenty minutes (denying him already seven times, if you can believe it), and that’s just about all he can take before he’s gasping and desperately reaching down to cling to your wrist. he’s squeezing so hard you think he might break it for a second..

tears gather at his lash line so fast that he doesn’t even have time to perceive the sting of it all; looking up into your eyes with writhing hips as he feels his release pulse in his balls and threaten to climb up his shaft

“i… s-something’s wrong, i dunno— hurts, hurts- nnghh—! never… never felt like this, please help me,” he’s whimpering to you, completely lost, “dunno what’s haah-happening—“

he’s looking up at you like he’s begging for some sort of salvation, like he’s too scared to find out on his own so he’s hoping you’ll push him in instead of expecting him to willingly dive in head-first. he’s much too out of it now for that.

“please— come, come— can i come? feels weird, i wanna—.. mngh..”

all you’ve gotta do is drag your index fingernail lightly over his slit and he’s gone.

his pelvis immediately bolting up to seek you, a strangled cry of confusion and ecstasy pulled straight from his chest. he’s squirting out everything’s he’s got, the fluid spilling out over his arched tummy as he squeezes his eyes shut and finally lets the tears fall.

“thank you, thank you— sorry, i’m sorry—“

he’s a mess.

[rosekasa]

seeing mysme on your blog woke me up from a slumber I didn’t know I was taking

MYSTIC MESSENGER NEVER DIES

[marshmallowprotection]

Seeing more of the twins bonding makes me want to fall to my knees and cry tears of joy. They deserve to be happy together

Sometimes, I look at the art we've gotten since Saeran's After Ending and I cry because the boys deserve to be happy and do silly things together.

[dysfunctional-doodle]

MM Mikey: Wait so raise your hand if you’re a neurotypical

Everyone: *doesn’t raise hand*

Leo: *raises hand*

Donnie: *lowers said hand, shaking his head*

*adds to stupidly long drawing lost*

[rottenk1sses]

oh em gee sage i see rick twd in your characters list and I WANT THAT COOKIE SO EFFING BAD cant wait to see what you might write for him!!! there’s like zero quality sub!rick x readers to be found on the internet and i have Searched

i am a firm believer that rick grimes is a desperate service sub, but i could also see him being switchy if the situation calls for it

he’s just so traumatized and tired and in dire need of someone to take the reins for once. i mean he’s always looking out for everyone around him, taking care of the big stuff and having to make the hard decisions.. i think he’s overdue for some quality time with a dominant partner who’ll lay him back and let him relax for once

[fan-tube-asks]

Hey fan! Wl blf vevi tvg gsrh uvvormt? Wvvk yvmvzgs blfi hprm? Zonlhg zh ru hlnvgsrmt rh..xizdormt. Gsv yfth, Uzm. Gsviv ziv yfth fmwvimvzgs blfi hprm. Blf mvvw gl irk rg luu, Uzm. Irk luu blfi hp

“I just spend a very long time trying to.. decode this but it all leads to nothing. Nothing?!, no no It has to be something!, I’ll try again tomorrow��