#i might continue this one

[mileycyprus-hill]

The Heart of Gondor

Boromir x female reader

Summary: Set after Boromir's conversation with Aragorn in Lothlorien following the fall of Gandalf. As the 10th walker of the Fellowship and longtime comrade of the Captain of Gondor, you rest with Boromir and share a moment of comfort with him, asking him questions about his childhood - specifically his mother as he rarely spoke of her. Boromir finally opens up about his mother for the first time.

Tags/Warnings: no warnings, just fluff and romance.

———————————

"Tell me, what was she like...your mother?" Your question travels softly to Boromir's ears. Your voice is tender, like a breeze rustling through the leaves of Lothlórien. In the gentle glow of candlelight, your eyes shimmer like pools of earnest curiosity, reflecting the flickering white lights and the deep, ancient sorrow that dwelled within the heart of Boromir.

Boromir sits across from you, the light casting shadows that dance across his rugged features. The shadows seemed to come alive, whispering tales of valor and loss. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword, but his grip is loose, as if the weight of the weapon had become too much to bear, and his thoughts were far from the battlefield. For a moment, the world outside these woods - the ceaseless war, the burdens of leadership - all faded into the background. In this quiet, intimate space, he is merely a man speaking of his past and memories to a woman he secretly adores.

"She was…" Boromir began, his voice rough with the echoes of old grief, "a woman of grace and strength. Her name was Finduilas, and she was the heart of our home."

You sit upon a cushion on the forest floor before him and listen with your full attention, as if enraptured. Unbeknownst to you, your presence is soothing; a balm to his calloused soul. You have been his companion on this perilous journey, a steadfast friend who has given him comfort in his darkest moments. Boromir had rarely ever spoken about his mother to you, but your curiosity was both a gentle nudge and a silent invitation to finally open himself to you.

Boromir leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze distant as if he were peering into a mirror of memory. "She was a daughter of the house of Dol Amroth. Her beauty was renowned, but it was not just her appearance that captivated those around her. It was her spirit, her kindness, and her wisdom. She had a grace that went beyond mere physical beauty."

He paused, drawing a deep breath, as if to steady himself against the tide of memories that threatened to overwhelm him. He feels you watching him closely, as if you're sensing the deep well of emotion that lays beneath his stoic exterior.

"In those days," he continued, "our home was full of laughter and light. She would sing to us in the evening, her voice like a melody that lingered in the air long after the last note had faded. She had a way of making even the simplest moments feel like magic. I remember the way she would kneel beside me and Faramir, her hands gently brushing our hair as she told us stories of old."

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, but it was bittersweet. "She would speak of the stars and the moon, of the ancient forests and the seas. She had a knowledge of things beyond the reach of our young minds, and she shared that with us as if it were the most precious gift."

Boromir pauses to look into your eyes. He sees them shine with empathy and understanding. Boromir is offering not just a recollection of his mother but a piece of his soul, a glimpse into a world that had been lost to him. You reach out, placing a comforting hand over his. Your touch is light and reassuring.

"Tell me more about her," you encourage him softly.

Boromir’s gaze drops to your joined hands, the warmth of your touch grounding him. "She was everything a young boy could ask for in a mother," he said, his voice carrying the weight of both his sorrow and his love. "She wished for us to find happiness and peace. She hoped that we would grow up to be honorable and just, and that we would live our lives filled with purpose."

His eyes grew distant once more, as if he could see his mother's face before him, illuminated by the pale light. "She believed in the goodness of people, even in the darkest of times. I remember her saying that the true measure of a man is not how he faced victory but how he endured adversity."

There was a long silence, filled only by the mournful song of the elves and the gentle rustling of leaves. Your eyes hold steady, your presence a steadying force in the storm of his emotions.

"And your father?" You ask gently, your voice breaking the silence with a note of curiosity and concern. "What is he like?"

Boromir’s expression grew solemn. "My father, Denethor, is a man of great strength and ambition. He is fiercely dedicated to Gondor, to protecting our people. But, true dedication often comes at a cost. He is a ruler, and the weight of his responsibility sometimes...pushes him away from those he loves."

He looks back at you once more, his eyes shadowed with pain. "The relationship between my mother and father was complicated. While they loved each other deeply, the pressures of leadership created a rift between them. My mother tried to bridge the gap, to bring warmth and light into our lives...despite the heavy shadow that loomed over our family."

There was a softness in his gaze as he continued. "Her memory is what keeps Faramir and myself together, though Faramir was much too young when she passed. She reminded us of the beauty in the world, even when my father's prophetic speeches seemed to overshadow everything. Her love was like a beacon in the dark, guiding us through the trials of our lives."

"It sounds like she was a remarkable woman," you say softly. "A true light in the darkness."

Boromir’s eyes meet yours, and for the first time in a long while, he feels a sense of relief, as if he had finally shared a burden that had been too heavy to carry alone. "She was," he agrees quietly. "And her memory continues to guide me, even in the darkest of times."

You continue to sit together in silence, while the lights of Lothlorien cast a cool glow around you. The shadows of the night seem less daunting now, the weight of Boromir's memories lightened by the act of sharing them.

A small, genuine smile touches Boromir's lips as he moves closer to you. "Thank you, my lady," he says.

You blink your eyes at him in confusion. Why should he thank you when you're the one who asked him?

As if answering your unspoken question, Boromir says, "It is a gift to have someone who listens. Given our task in this journey, it is easy to forget the simple comforts of companionship and understanding."

Your knees graze against his as you close the gap between the two of you, taking both of his hands into your own. "I am honored to be here with you, Captain Boromir," you reply. "And I hope to always be your steadfast companion."

Boromir's eyes widen with sudden realization. From this moment, he is confirmed that his romantic feelings of adoration for you is not unrequited, but mutual.

Gazing into your eyes, he feels a spiritual bond is forged—an established connection of shared understanding, empathy, and the quiet strength that comes from knowing and being known.

All that is left now is to seal the bond. Like a flower reaching for the warmth of the sun, Boromir leans into you and presses his lips against yours, his heart blooming in his chest from the feeling. A swarm of emotions swirl within him: joy, curiosity, fear, and excitement. The fear is quickly subdued and overcome with excitement and curiosity once he feels your lips reciprocate his kiss.

The night stretches on, filled with the promise of new beginnings and the echoes of old memories. As the two of you sit together in each other's embrace, the world outside seems a little less daunting, the burdens of your quest momentarily lightened by the simple, profound act of sharing a piece of each others hearts.

[barghest-land]

working on early horses, i wanted to do a quick sketch to show how small Eohippus was compared to an extant horse (this one is about 150cm tall). as you can see, it wasn't big at all. a perfect little lap horse :)

[puppppppppy]

renaissance dogys

characters belong to @canisalbus

[vanilla-extracter]

found more discworld books its so over for me

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

The penisest of tunes.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[imaroyalmess]

An Apprentice’s (Unofficial) Guide to House Garments

based on @energ00n 's apprentice AU! (i'm obsessed with the concept of apprentices making up garment rules)

Wc: 2.1k

The datapad—an older model with discolored spots, showing where servos touched its framing—is the first thing Orion Pax’s optics land on as he walks into his new room. Orion snatches the datapad and tilts his helm as he reads the title over again. A peek at the contents shows that it begins with Hey newbie followed by three exclamation glyphs (an overabundance of any glyph, if you asked Orion).

Orion glances up and catches his own gaze in a mirror hanging in front of him. It’s strange, seeing two sheer fabric pieces delicately flowing over the hard metal of his arms—he’s hesitant to move his arm joints in fear of tearing it. That, as well as the jewelry occupying the space where his cog would be creates a vision that’ll take some getting used to.

He pries his optics away and down to the datapad again, dermas pinching as his processor whirrs. Prima explained to him how to care for his garment personally and what if, since the datapad looks old, the data was outdated? No, safer to follow Prima’s instructions and not confuse himself.

Orion places the datapad to the side and sets off to explore his new home.

~

Hello newbie!!!

Congratulations to you and your new position! There’s so much you need to know before you get started. If you wanna make friends, then you’ll wanna keep reading, little mech!

It’s most important that you know about your House garment. No, no, not how to wash oil stains out of it (though that’s good to know!), I’m talking about the meaning behind what you do with it.

Lucky for you, I’ve compiled a list for your easy reference! Learn them well, little mech!!

DO: Wear your House garment at all times! I’ve been told it’s respectful to the Primes. Also helpful so we can tell each other apart. Usually only an apprentice’s special somebot sees them without it! Even then, maybe not.

~

D-16 has always been a stickler for the rules. It’s structure—it’s security. He can’t afford to slip up and never lets that resolve waver. So how exactly did he let pretty blue optics lure him into a cargo hold that supposedly has a passage leading into the (highly forbidden) archives? D-16 isn’t sure.

“Orion Pax,” D-16 hisses, “you idiot, there’s no way—”

Orion hushes him with a digit to his dermas and a wink. D-16 lowers his voice. “Why did you drag me into this?”

Orion pries the cover away from the passage and lowers it to the ground, a soft clank echoing. “I need you to keep watch for me, ‘kay? It’s a tight squeeze for me so you definitely wouldn’t fit.”

D-16 frowns, a retort fully prepped in his processor, but then Orion unclips his garment and D-16’s vocalizer short circuits. For a horrifying and long nanoklik, only static emits from his voice box. “Wh–Pax, what are you doing?!”

“I told you.” Orion rolls his optics. “Barely enough room in there and I can’t risk ripping my clothes up. Prima would offline me.”

He slips the sheer fabric over his helm and presents it to D-16 with splayed servos. Primus, help him. It takes D-16 exactly 1.46 kliks to reboot and shake his helm vehemently. “No? I…you want me to—”

“It’s just my garment,” Orion states, playful but also firm in a way that says I don’t have time to argue. “I’m not asking you to do anything else. Keep it safe?”

Just my garment. If Orion’s antics don’t get him expelled, his cluelessness would. However, he’s correct about one thing, and it’s that their time is running out.

D-16 half-snatches half-cradles the garment, careful not to let the ends touch the ground. With a deep intake D-16 says, “Go. Before they spot us.”

Orion grins, scrambling his way through the crawl space, leaving D-16 to listen for passing mechs. The fabric feels smooth between his digits.

~

DON’T: touch another apprentice’s attire, especially(!) without their permission. A passing touch may be an accident but deliberately grabbing is almost like a kiss!!! Don’t kiss or put your dermas on their clothing either. That has…intimate implications I won’t discuss here.

~

Orion loves watching Megatronus Prime spar with D-16. The size difference between the two could be laughable, if it weren’t for the ferocity that overtakes D-16’s faceplate and the corrections Megatronus throws out to him. Multiple times, Orion’s systems remind him to function as he watches—his friend is a vision under his Prime’s tutelage, all gritted denta, radiating optics, and arcing gauntlets.

Once satisfied, the looming Prime kneels before his apprentice and speaks lowly to him. Orion’s audials are unable to pick up what’s said but the open and hungry way D-16 receives his feedback sates him. Megatronus returns to his full height, nods to release D-16 from his training for the day and Orion perks up at the gesture.

“D!” Orion calls. His friend pads over to what’s becoming Orion’s usual spot, a barely-there smile on his dermas.

“You been waiting long?” D-16 asks, setting his practice spear against the wall.

Orion shakes his helm. A white lie—he’s been there longer than he should’ve but it’s not his fault that watching D-16 fight is so fascinating. “What were you learning today?”

D-16 dutifully launches into the intricacies of battle strategy and close-ranged combat. Orion props his helm up with his loose fist as he listens—mostly listens, at least. That task becomes difficult as the jargon grows thick and D-16’s broad servos capture Orion’s attention as they move in small motions.

An idea pops into his processor. “Why don’t you show me?”

A pause, then D-16 scoops up his practice spear, muttering, “It’ll look stupid without an opponent.”

Orion hops over the half-wall that’s been separating them and bounces over to stand in front of his friend. “I’m right here though.”

“No,” D-16 said immediately. “It’s not safe.”

“C’mon, D,” Orion teases. “I trust you.”

D-16 cycles his optics and Orion’s lopsided grin grows. “It’s not about that. You don’t know what you’re doing and even if it’s not real, I could hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Orion states, full of confidence.

“I could,” D-16 argues. “Then Prima would offline me for harming his one and only apprentice—”

Orion begins to circle D-16, close enough to reach but far enough that he could evade it. “I know what you’re doing, Pax. It’s not going to work.”

“Is it not?” Orion teases as he keeps in D-16’s blindspot, his friend calmly trying to catch sight of him again. He takes a chance while behind him, dashing out and giving the purple fabric of D-16’s House garment a good tug.

“Pax,” D-16 chastises. Yes, it’s a sparkling-like move, Orion knows and does not quite care. He does it again, giggles erupting from his vocalizer as D-16’s calmness dissipates.

Orion manages to tug at D-16’s garment twice more before D-16’s arm snaps out, captures the joint above Orion’s servos, and crowds him against the nearby wall. The yellow of D-16’s optics blaze. Orion notices how close they are, how his friend’s weight is the only thing that keeps him upright, and he grins.

D-16 growls, “Orion.” And honestly? Orion isn’t sure what’s going through his processor when his reaction to hearing D-16 say his name is to bite down on the gathered cloth by one of the gauntlets he’d been admiring earlier.

D-16 drops him. His aft hits the ground with a rough clank and Orion cries out, “hey!”

But D-16 isn’t listening. His optics are focused on the spot where Orion’s intake fluid darkened cloth’s already deep purple. D-16’s expression is horrified.

“Oh scrap, D.” Orion scrambles to his pedes. “It should go away, right? I’ve never—D! Where are you going? Wait!”

Before Orion can say another word, D-16 runs—no, sprints—out of the practice arena, leaving Orion there alone wondering what he’d done wrong.

~

DO: keep your garment clean! It’s polite and respectful, blah blah blah, you should know this. But! What you don’t know is that leaving a mark on another apprentice’s garment, accidental or not, is a serious offense! You tear it, that’s a show of disrespect to the apprentice and their House and you might have to fight them. On the other servo, if you, say, put a small decal on the cloth, you’re effectively marking that mech as your own. Same goes for intake fluid, though that just tells everyone that you and that bot are...together in a different sense. Catch my drift? 

~

“I’m sorry, D.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know but I made you upset, didn’t I?”

“...no. You didn’t.”

~

DON’T: wear another House’s garment!!! Unless you’re ready to be conjunxes. And I’m serious! It’s saying your devotion to that mech is equivalent to your devotion to your Prime. Ask yourself, little mech. Would you swear undying fealty to them? Would you choose that mech over your Prime? No? Then don’t do this.

(Okay, I might be a little overdramatic, but seriously, don’t.)

~

What fascinates Orion is how different the textiles feel from one another. He’s read about the arts and asked on multiple occasions to speak with the bot who made his House clothes because he must know more. Orion shifts the material of D-16’s garment between his digits, reveling in the weight and watching the fabric fold as he moves.

He drapes a length of it over his arm and turns to D-16, who’s dozing in and out of a light rest cycle. “Do you think purple would suit me?”

“Hm?”

Orion nudges his friend with the bend of his arm still wrapped in material. This time, D-16 rouses, even if only a little. “Your House garment, silly. How does it look?”

“Fine,” D-16 says.

“Just fine?” Orion complains. “You’re the meanest friend ever. You won’t even let me try?”

D-16 resettles his helm. “Not mean. ‘M honest.”

Orion shoves his shoulder plate, only serving to further tangle himself. “Your honesty is mean.”

“Would you prefer a more elaborate answer?”

“Not anymore,” Orion mutters. This time, he lets D-16 rest as he lays the garment over his lap and smoothes out the wrinkles he’s made. 

~

Congrats!!! Now you’re fully equipped to take on the social terrain in the House of Primes!!

In case you didn’t read all that, basically, keep to your own business and every other bot will keep to theirs. You’re lucky you have me to help you out with this because I didn't have anyone explain it to me and I broke about every rule before an apprentice told me. I was so embarrassed!!! No need to thank me though, little mech, whoever you may be. Just have fun! Be responsible! Follow these rules!!! I promise, you’ll have a better time if you do. Byeeee ;)

~

D-16 might cease to function—if he hasn’t already. On this particular solar cycle, Orion had dragged D-16 into another one of his schemes and deemed his quarters the meeting point. The door slid open, Orion welcomed him inside, and D-16’s optics landed on a datapad that made his spark drop.

That thing isn’t supposed to exist—not physically, anyway. How did it get here? How in Primus’ glory does Orion have it?!

“D?” Orion cuts through his panic.

“Have you…” D-16 can barely force his vocaliser to say the words. “Have you read it?”

Orion raises an optical ridge. Confused but fond. “Read what?”

A digit points at the datapad, though D-16 didn’t consciously give the command for it to do so. “That.”

“Oh that?” Orion ambles over to the offending object. “It was here when I moved in. Weird right? Maybe Prima put it here in case I forgot what he told me?”

D-16’s joints creak with the effort it takes to stride over and pick up the datapad. “You don’t need it though, do you?”

Please say no, D-16’s processor screams.

Orion laughs, though his confusion melds into concern as well. “No, I guess not…did you need it? You can take it, if you do.”

And D-16 then and there wishes Orion Pax had chosen a better friend, one who he deserves. Except, D-16 is also selfish and cold in ways where Orion is warm—he doesn’t wish that, in actuality. (It feels kinder to say that he does. Orion deserves kind.)

“Thanks,” D-16 says for lack of any explanation that wouldn’t be a flat-out lie.

Then Orion smiles at him, as he always does, and pats him on the chest plate, right next to his empty cog slot, right on his garment. D-16 musters a quirk of his dermas and tucks the datapad away from Orion’s prying optics. It’s hard to feel guilty about it, when Orion seems so content and his servos make his garment so warm.

~~~

A/N: tysm for reading! i'm sorry if i got any details wrong, i read all the comics over again to make sure i got it all correct but just in case i missed something! please check out the main comic if you haven't already. the worldbuilding, writing, and art style are all stunning!

[westywallowing]

oh the accidental transformations,,,

[slavhew]

jakey + dirkjake sandwiched between my organic chem notes. a poem in there somewhere

[lets-try-some-writing]

"The Titans were gentle beings, knowing neither fear nor pain. For all their power, it was the Primes who cared for them, guarding their innocent sparks." - Thundercracker, Speaker of Trypticon.

A lil bit of lore below the cut.

In my little continuity, the Primes were indeed Primus's firstborn, but they were made from the suffering of their maker as he fought to survive. The Titans though? They were born to give life, made to spread Primus's gifts to all creation. As such, they are naturally gentle and inherently incapable of violence.

They will not fight back if attacked, nor will they rise to the defense of their citizens (although they will provide weaponry and protection in the form of walls and the like). They cannot even comprehend why one would hurt another outside of the natural order of things. It is to the point where those who care for the remaining Titans have labeled them as having the cognitive capabilities of newbuilds. For all their age and wisdom, Titans are, at their core, the only entities in the universe to maintain a sense of innocence all throughout their lives. They hold no anger, no bitterness, and no grudges. Everything, in their optics, will play out as it should.

As such, the Titans have always had guardians to protect them from a reality that would seek to crush them into dust. During the first age, the Primes filled this role. In the modern era, seekers of Vos have taken on the mantle, guarding and speaking on the behalf of the three remaining Titans on Cybertron.

[yuukirita]

Prowl's hand name. This one might mean something in real sign language but like I said- I'M MAKING EM UP! gotta think like "what would Bee choose to represent his friends?" So... Eyebrow-horns...

[haveihitanerve]

Gotham Protects Her Own

“Gotham protects her own.” Bruce had whispered to him once, in a, at the time, not so rare moment of affection, cradling dick to his chest as they looked over his city. Their city. Batman and Robin. Dick had believed him, of course, but he hadn’t really felt it. Not until he had stood at the bats side for the second year in a row, and his cape had fluttered. Dicks cape had never fluttered while he was standing. Running across the rooftops? Sure. Jumping over a chimney? Most definitely. But just standing still, no movement? It had never happened. Bruce’s did, from the very beginning Bruce’s cape had flown behind him, flapping with grace in the wind that was not there. But dicks hadn’t. But now… Bruce smiled down at him, pride lining every line in his face, before he took off across the roof, a challenge and a test at the same time. Dick chased after him, and for the first time since he had become Robin, he flew. His feet barely touched down, cushioned by the roofs, by shadows, and he laughed, wild and bright and free, and Bruce joined him, laugh deep and rich and full. Dick belonged to Gotham now, the city had laid her claim on him, and as Batman and Robin flew across the city, Dick could hear a new laugh join them, light and happy and feminine, delighted by their delight, their acceptance. Gotham protects her own, and Dick Grayson-Wayne, the first Robin, had earned that right, that protection, with his leaps and jokes and belief in Batman, in a belief in the city, in the belief that it could be better. 

Gotham protects her own. Catherine Todd had murmured to him once, late one night, a bruise blossoming on her cheek, eyes heavy from drugs. She was close to death, Jason could feel it practically wafting off her, and he didn't think much of her last words, a hazy drugged hallucination, slurred speech. But then she had passed and Jason had left, choosing the street over his father and then he had understood. People came looking for him, naturally, even his father ventured out, but shadows seemed to envelop him, the streets opened to his footfalls, and he always found a safe place to sleep, never waking with his things stolen or suddenly kidnapped. Jason could feel the city, his very lifeblood, could hear her music in her traffic, felt her song in the earthquakes. Gotham cradled him, sheltered him, and when the time came, pushed him to a left unattended Batmobile, tempting him to steal the tires. For the first time, Jason doubted his city, hated her for sending him into a trap. But then he became Robin, and Gotham squealed in delight, and Jason watched in awe as Bruce flew, as Gotham made his cloak billow, as she nurtured her prodigal son. Batman had gotten injured, once, badly enough that he had struggled with his grapple line, and it had snapped. Jason had screamed, lunging for him, but it was too late. Before he could cry over the dead body of his mentor, he found Bruce at the bottom of the building, not much worse for wear at all. Gotham had cradled him, shadows leaping to cushion his fall. Jason had laughed with glee, rushing Bruce home as quickly as possible, and something had brushed his cheek, a faint kiss against his forehead. Gotham protects her own and Jason Todd-Wayne, the second Robin, had been born into that right, that protection, and felt her city pound through his body like blood, feeding his soul. 

Gotham protects her own. Tim had seen the slogan on a Wayne Enterprise billboard once, when he had been seven, an ad campaign promoting insurance and helpful housing. It had become a sort of mantra for him, something he whispered under his breath every time his father made a snide comment about Tim lacking proper talent or social skills, after every call his parents declined, after every fight that had him biting his lip to stop the tears and debate running away. Gotham protects her own. Became his lifeline, his mantra, a promise of a better life. It wasn't anything he ever believed, until he finally worked up the courage to approach Bruce Wayne about the secret. Tim slipped on the Robin uniform for the first time… And something inside him settled. A woman's voice in the back of Tim’s head squealed. But as he raced over the rooftops, finally at Batman's side as he always dreamed to be instead of a few feet behind, snapping pictures, his cape dancing with the wind, his feet hardly touching down, that mantra, that false belief of hope, of a better life, became truth. Gotham protects her own, and Tim Drake-Wayne, the third Robin, had believed in that truth his whole life, wishing with every fiber of his being that she would protect him, and she finally had. 

Gotham protects her own. David Cain had warned her once, telling her great stories of the city with air of midnight black, of water a putrid green, and of a people a hardy and tough. It hadn't been a compliment, just another obstacle she would need to overcome to fulfill her future missions. She had believed him, of course, but… she had never truly known what it meant. Not until she had stumbled into the city, hurt, bleeding, afraid, and she had felt that… otherworldly power. Reaching for her. Its tendrils soft and kind, like a mother, shadows stretching across her, shielding her, as the League prowled the streets. It wasn't until she saw him. The Bat. And his little Bird, brutal efficiency and yet mercy in every action, wasn't until she saw how Gotham cradled them, lifted them, helped them to fly. Gotham had been more accepting to her than she had thought. Maybe because she hadn't hurt her children. Maybe because she knew her pain. Maybe because Cass had been so afraid. But whatever the reason, when Cassandra Cain-Wayne took to the streets, a proud, blazing Bat on her chest, her cape billowing behind her, Gotham sang. 

“Gotham protects her own!” Arthur Brown had screamed once. It had been in a fit of rage, followed by the sounds of windows crashing and tables smashing against the wall. He had been angry, livid even, the sound of his footsteps heavy and hard on the floor as he stormed around, pissed that Batman was unreachable for him, untouchable, protected by the city he claimed to do the same to. Steph knew the truth in the words, had been protected by them her whole life, finding a window open right when her father got home, the closet door unlocked miraculously after her father had locked her up, alleyways opening for her to escape through when bigger kids picked on her, or the cops chased her. And it happened now, as Arthur Brown came storming for her, rage and malice and every evil intention written across his features. Steph could feel that tug, that indescribable feeling of home, and she took a step back, melting into the shadows as she fled, fled her home, fled her father, fled his wrath and everything wrong with the world. She settled on the roof, the way she always did when he got like this, and waited, as she always did. For it to end. For him to stop. It was that night that she saw him for the first time. Steph had heard of him, of course, the Batman was infamous throughout Gotham by now, but she had never seen him in person. Never watched his work. It was at Bethany’s house. Bethany’s father, Vincent, was screaming again. The way Arthur was. But Gotham, Gotham didn't protect Bethany the way she did Steph. Or maybe Bethany just didn't listen. But Batman.. Batman listened. Batman protected. Steph watched, wide eyed, as he jumped through the window, as he grabbed Vincent by the throat and slammed him against the wall, snarling in his face. Steph watched, hands clutching her teddy, wondering whether she would rather risk her father than this demon. But he stopped. Paused. Threw Vincent to the ground in disgust, unconscious, and turned to Bethany. Beth had stopped moving, the way she always did when Vincent got the way he did, dissociating so she wouldn't feel his hands on her. Steph didn't think it worked, but it was something. Batman bent down, gentle, slowly, a few feet away, extending a hand to Beth. Steph couldn't hear what he said, couldn't see his face, but Beth blinked at him. She blinked, and she walked closer, slowly. And Batman… Batman held her, held her until she was crying, held her through her tears and wiped her eyes and rubbed her back, held her until she was asleep without nightmares, and carried her to bed, tucking her in gently. Steph didn't know how long she sat there, watching as he cared for this little girl, forgoing the Bat Symbol in the sky, and his anger, for her. Gotham protects her own, Steph swore as she watched him drop from the window the same night, flitting away on shadows only she could see. Gotham protects her own, and she would protect Gotham. She would mold herself after the Bat, and help. 

[brainrotcharacters]

deadclaws badassery where it's revealed Wade and Logan tested the distance on Logan's hearing.

Watch them hundreds of feet away from each other in the battlefield and all it takes to set Wolverine loose is for Deadpool to mutter "Logan."

gif credits to original owners!

[dollya-robinprotector]

Once upon a time... Reference: Hylas and The Nymphs by John William Waterhouse

[notesbynor]

Day 6 of drawing every D20 Character

All the Bad Kids in my style!!

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

‘Poseidon left a party in Ethiopia because the sea vibes went rancid after Odysseus set sail’ feels like a bit I would make up, but no. That actually happened.

[ew-selfish-art]

DPxDC AU: Ellie was going to beat the shit out of this space cop if he was lying…she might just do it anyway but, like, fr she’ll throw down on Danny’s behalf.

Enter scene following a bad tandem clone + identity reveal where in Danny is captured and wounded, Ellie escaping just narrowly. She manages to get Sam and Tucker on her side and together the three of them save Danny. (Where was Jazz? Why couldn’t she find Jazz?)

Ellie has traveled all over the world, has seen its hospitality just as much as its hostility- besides Danny liked space right? Mostly, Ellie is panicking and, being unable to think of a place to take Danny while he’s bleeding out on her, she just goes… up. Out of the atmosphere and just beyond the satellites. It finally feels far enough away, tho she didn’t take them beyond the moon, she has limits to her paranoia thank you.

Imagine to her annoyance that apparently someone actually watches for biological materials leaving and re-entering the earth! Total Bullshit! She’s needed to make a number of trips back and forth to get Danny food and water and medical supplies- and she’s doing a damn good job of getting him stable. Too bad she hadn’t realized the ring guy following her sooner.

Turns out he’s “made a report” and “will find them justice” and “wants to help”. Yeah right. She throws down with him as best she can, and he clearly doesn’t want to hurt her so he keeps letting her get away with Danny in tow. Danny is sleeping through most of this but a few times he lets out a woop or a go get ‘em.

Eventually Hal calls the only person on the team with a single paternal bone in his body (even if it was only a single one most days). Pulling Batman into a spacesuit, into a ship and across the atmosphere shouldn’t have been that easy- though it was obvious how his agreement came immediately after Hal mentioned the wounded and entirely isolated twins he’d found.