#or something else

[circledwithaheart]

WIP Wednesday 🔑

tagged by the lovely and talented @bidisasterevankinard @rewritetheending @spotsandsocks (all with some very intriguing entries)

right now my brain apparently wants to work on everything except what I'm supposed to be. Have a snippet of something that started as a distracting conversation with @diazsdimples and became... whatever this is gonna be 💖

One thing that hasn’t changed from LA is the way his bedroom ceiling is still the primary view when he should be sleeping. This one has hairline cracks, spackle where a fixture used to be, a small water spot in the corner. And it’s white. Not eggshell or ecru, but honest to god the most blinding white he can imagine. The 118’s bunk room has more personality than this. 

He sighs and rubs his forehead. He’s going to repaint it soon. All part of the fixer upper plan that he refuses to look at too closely lest he acknowledge what it is he’s really trying to fix. He could just choose the same color he used in LA, but a fresh start feels like it should have a new color. Like it deserves one, even. 

Before he thinks too hard about it, he snaps a photo and sends it off to Buck with a simple question: what should I make this one?

The three dots appear immediately. You haven’t taken a bat to it already have you?

Eddie smiles, because it’s something they can joke about now. It doesn’t mean he can’t sense the undercurrent of worry. He gets it. 

No, asshole. I haven’t. Now help me pick a color.

What about this one? It’s supposed to be calming but playful.

Eddie muses over the choice for a moment before rejecting it. So’s a service dog. No.

No?! But it’s an expert pick! And infuses a ‘whimsical nature’.

Eddie rolls his eyes even though Buck can’t see. No. Not looking for an infusion of whimsy. Next option, Buckley.

Maybe you should be.

It’s not wrong, but he doesn’t feel like giving Buck the satisfaction right now.

np tagging @diazsdimples @daffi-990 @stereopticons @steadfastsaturnsrings @midsummersmorn @actuallyitsellie @wildfluorescent @honestlydarkprincess @tizniz @diazheartsbuckley @theotherbuckley @kitteneddiediaz @your-catfish-friend @thekristen999 @inell @eddiebabygirldiaz @dr-shortsighted-owl @imtheiliad @bi-buckrights @elvensorceress @giddyupbuck @beyourownanchor6 @indestructibleheart @ladydorian05 @lemonzestywrites @monsterrae1 @statueinthestone @slightlyobsessedwitheverything @thelikesofus @wildlife4life @eowon @spaceprincessem @bekkachaos @bucksbignaturals @tommyactually @whatwouldeddiedo @hyperfocusthusly @loucifersbitch and anyone else who wants to😘

[procuder]

The baby from mysterious egg (4) [(1/2),(3)]

I love him so much look at him please 🥺🥺

Also, I haven't thought of a name for him yet...maybe Lloyd will call him that. 'Javier junior' or something like that lol

[notllorstel]

previous <<< 2nd wave of left hand speedrun batch☠️

[bluebird8683]

RR is dead, Tim is not

Tim Drake stood on the rooftop of an abandoned high-rise, the wind pulling at his cape like it was trying to hold him back, as though Gotham itself were begging him to reconsider. He would miss this—the only home he had ever known. The city stretched out beneath him, its ceaseless hum a bittersweet symphony, a reminder of all the people who probably wouldn’t miss him, not really. And yet, the wind seemed almost alive, whispering doubts, pleading with him to stay, even as he remained steadfast in his decision.

They’d mourn Red Robin, perhaps. Maybe even Tim Drake, for a fleeting moment. (Tam is the only one he truly feels bad about leaving behind, but she has a life outside of him, friends who care about her. She'll be ok.) But eventually, they’d move on, the way Gotham always did. Would the family even notice his absence?  A part of him whispered they might be better off without him. That they’d be happier, lighter, without the weight of someone they never seemed to truly see. 

He’d made sure of it.

Tim looked down at the blood pooling on the cracked concrete, dark and glistening under the cold moonlight. The crimson trail spidered out across the rooftop, a macabre work of art he had painted with his own blood, painstakingly collected over weeks to ensure authenticity. Almost hiding the faint scent of ozone in the air from the rainstorm earlier today, the scent of iron, or blood, hung heavy in the air. The scene in front of him is a gruesome sight- one he purposely staged to be that way, but horrid all the same. The manikin he painstakingly ensured looked exactly like him (down to not having a spleen and that paper-cut he got earlier today in the office) was one that he had grown and made explicitly for this. It never breathed in life, but he had made sure all the muscles showed all the wear and tear his muscles likely had.

He arranged it to be crumpled near the roof entrance of the building, its fingers splayed unnaturally, some twisted and broken as though his attacker had tried to torture something out of him that he refused to give. One shoulder was visibly dislocated, the other broken in such a way that his bone was sticking out of his skin. The left leg bent as if he had somehow gained a second knee. The neck bore the telltale bruising of strangulation, the skin mottled with dark purples, a haunting testament to his fabricated final moments. (Though there is bruising elsewhere on the body, the ones on his neck were the darkest.)  

The area around the manikin was a tableau of chaos: broken bits of his bo staff scattered like splinters of a shattered life, and tears in the suit—carefully slashed to match the grotesque injuries—added the final touch of authenticity along with the extra blood he had collected from himself in advance pooling and being poured from specific spots. He doubted anyone would be able to tell that he was still alive after seeing this. No one but him would ever see this as what it was, a staged exit. They might call it a tragedy (if they're feeling generous) or a lost fight. They would call it the curtain call of his life, but all it truly was is the end of Act I.

The stage was perfect. (Thinking of this all as a play had made him feel better about it, thinking of the clone as a manikin as he removed the spleen and injured it, as he put together the murder scene...) 

Tim’s gaze swept over the rooftop one last time, cataloging every detail. The smear and drops of blood around the roof, the broken bits of his bo staff lying near the body covered in wounds, the com he placed in its ear. The entire scene screamed tragedy—a hero ambushed, overpowered, and left lifeless on a cold rooftop, the final act of violence etched around his neck in a black bruise.

It had to be convincing. It had to be enough to fool Bruce, Dick, Damian, and even Barbara. Tim could imagine the triumphant sneer on Damien's face, the satisfaction of no longer sharing the Robin title in any form. And Jason… Jason might raise a beer, toasting the end of the “replacement.” The thought hurt. (Thoughts of how they viewed him always did- it's why he tries not to let his mind wander... not that he can really do that- but that's part of the reason that he's doing this.) He’d run through every possibility, refining his plan with several contingencies he can switch to at a moment's notice. That was what he did. That was who he was. (Something that Bruce trained into him.)

His fingers trembled as he adjusted the position of the manikin’s arm one last time. Not from fear or regret—those emotions had burned out weeks ago. This was the final piece of a puzzle he’d been building for months. (He left a nice little case for the detective family to follow, if they decide to investigate his demise. All the leads would turn cold though, of course.) He should feel relief, maybe even triumph, but all he felt was a bone-deep exhaustion.

“This is it,” he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the gusts of wind.

He stepped back, letting the scene burn into his memory. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what would happen next. The news would break—Red Robin, dead in the line of duty. (He knew his body would be discovered in the morning- the owner of the building liked to come up for a smoke every morning before going to work.)

The family might grieve, or maybe they wouldn’t. Tim wasn’t sure anymore. Would they even miss him, or would they be better off without him?  Maybe they’d even be happier. Bruce would brood, sure, throwing himself into the case until he found just enough to close it. Damian, though, might sneer, claiming he saw it coming. Dick… Dick might actually cry. But eventually, they’d move on. They always did. After all, it had been months since any of them had really talked. How could they miss someone they never cared to know?   

But eventually, they’d move on. They’d forget. It's not like it'll change much.

Tim swallowed hard, forcing the lump in his throat back down where it belonged. This wasn’t about them. This was about him. A chance to finally breathe without the crushing weight of their expectations, their demands, their indifference. All this without even a courtesy "thanks." He’d spent so long loving them, sacrificing his sleep, his time, his social life for them, and all it had earned him was emptiness. Exploitation masquerading as family.

He's had enough.

He turned away from the body, moving to the edge of the rooftop. His new gear was already packed, hidden in a secure location outside Gotham. His offshore accounts were loaded, his new identity (and several back-ups) painstakingly crafted. Every system he’d set up—from the programs helping Gotham’s homeless to the automated responses at WE—would run smoothly without him. He’d made sure of it. Everything major will be fine without him. They’ll be fine without him.

Tim took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill his lungs. His heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins. This was it. The last goodbye.

He turned on the device that would hide his heartbeat from anyone with advanced hearing, stepped off the ledge and disappeared into the shadows, leaving behind all he had ever known, the fractured remnants of his life, and the only city he had ever called home. 

[what-if-i-was-a-book]

Wow I have never understood Luo Binghe as much as I do right now wait a sec do I actually understand now or do I just think I do

[weirdnico]

on my marauders x dc characters brainrot:

evan rosier as: catwoman

• his costume looks so funny, i adore him

• rich boy steals things from rich people because he has too much time on his day

• the little rose whip might be the best idea i ever had

part 3 (narcissa)|part 5 (bellatrix)

[conflictedemma]

Whats he singing?

[leclercsun]

should i make the last chapter max’s pov where he’s been noticing that charles and oscar are a lot closer to each other but he’s been ignoring all of it because of his feelings for charles?

and after the qatar gp podium the drivers are all somewhere private maybe a club or something and max has been stealing charles’ attention and oscar gets jealous and…

[blangkocharti]

it would be really funny and shocking for tubbo to get a piece of etoiles's lore while impersonating etoiles

[sedlex]

There it is, the demographic breakdown (& comparison) I was waiting for:

And many a reporter is saying that the main reason is economic, to which somebody most eloquently responded:

[sawsession]

i think that riz's love is an "i'd die for you" kinda love and fig's love is an "i'd live for you" kinda love.

i know fig is the type to say she'd die for you, but in terms of their actions (specifically in jy) this is the vibe i'm getting.

it's just that riz is happy to take on stress for his friends. sure he feels it weighing on him, but he thinks he can take it. he'll easily sacrifice his wellbeing for them. and fig will go to class for them, she'll even change her class to something that she thinks will better benefit them. she's willing to put effort into improving herself if it's for the sake of her friends

[poisonblossoms12]

I'm not sorry

[whatshappeningheree]

Stuff your fingers in my mouth to shut me up

[ekat-fandom-blog]

Yet Another Soulmate Prompt

Constantine didn't have a soulmate. He didn't have a body counter on his arm (in any sense of the term), and he had never body swapped with them. That was fine. A soulmate would slow him down. Be a liability. Plus, not everyone had a soulmate. No big deal.

But then something happened. He had a counter on his wrist. Since the number was freakishly high, his soulmate couldn't have just been born. When they swapped bodies, it was dark and cramped and uncomfortable. He tried for what must have been hours to swap back. When he finally returned to his own body, he found himself being restrained by the House of Mystery. After that experience he decided to actively resist the swap whenever he felt the pull.

Dan hadn't noticed when the counter appeared on his wrist, but it had been there even in his timeline. Not that he ever found out who it was. By the time he was interested in learning, he was unable to swap. Not that that was a surprise, he had killed a majority of the world by that point.

He hadn't even thought about swapping with his soulmate until after he was trapped inside the thermos. He figured that he could use the situation to his advantage.

He started experimenting with the limits of this new body he'd found himself in. Physically, it was rather weak, but he could feel a hidden well of power that could be useful if he figured out how to tap into it. He explored the house for a while, until he came across a library filled mostly with books on magic. Exactly what he needed to continue doing whatever he wanted.

In the back of his mind he could feel the other trying to swap back.

He started reading through the books, trying out spells. Then he found a few that were too much for the body he was in and pushed it further. The ectoplasm being created by his core would soon allow him to form outside of the physical body anyway. He wouldn't need it.

That was when he started noticing that the house was moving. By that point it was too late. The house was more proficient in magic than he was and was more than capable of preventing him from leaving it. When he was completely restrained by the house, he gave up resisting the swap. The body's owner would probably allow him to swap again when they weren't stuck inside that house.

Except they didn't. It made him wonder if his soulmate was trapped in that house similarly to how he was trapped in the thermos. Or perhaps they hated being in the thermos just as much as he did.

As much as he tried to fight it, he began to wonder who the other was, what their life was like. He began to regret not finding a mirror to see what his match looked like. He was starting to become rather curious who the universe would pair him with.