#shadow is brain fungus

[rootbeerrex]

I WAS DOING PROCRASTINATED ENGLISH HOMEWORK AT 10:30 PM AND THIS BATFAM INTERACTION POPPED FULLY FORMED INTO MY BRAIN

Jason, staring down a defeated villain with his helmet off, dramatically monologuing like the theatre kid he is: Death didn't stop me the first time, what made you think you'd be the one to make it stick? Haven't you people learned? You cannot kill me in a way that matters.

Tim, pausing where he's taking down the remaining henchmen: hold on a second. I've heard that line before. did you just- did you just quote a Tumblr post in your takedown monologue?????

Jason, red in the face and blatantly embarassed: I don't know what the FUCK you're talking about, Replacement.

Dick, sweeping in on a grappling hook and knocking out a goon coming up behind Jason: No, he's definitely right. "decay exists as an extant form of life" and all that.

Jason, shoving his guns back into their holsters and walking away while grumbling to himself: and they wonder why I don't come to family dinners

Damian, popping out of the shadows: So long, fungus boy

[phoenixblaze1412]

Hello ! I was wondering if I could request a dottore x reader who is like sparkle from honkai star rail ? I hope you're having a nice day and thank you ! (⁠ㆁ⁠ω⁠ㆁ⁠)

He doesn't like surprises.

Which is exactly why you make it your life’s mission to be one.

The doors to his private lab creak open, uninvited. He doesn't look up. Not at first.

“Zandik~”

Your voice lilts like silk, wrapped in mischief. "Guess who rerouted your test subject? Clue: they’re currently learning interpretive dance with a fungus colony."

His quill freezes mid-scratch. "You again."

"Me always," you hum, hopping onto the nearest lab bench as if it’s your personal throne. You're dressed far too brightly for the sterile gray around you — ruffles, ribbons, and a half-mask that only covers the side of your face you're least interested in using.

He finally turns. Cold red eyes flicker across you, calculating. “You tampered with my experiment.”

"I improved it. Now it’s more… avant-garde." You grin, teeth flashing behind your painted lips. “Besides, isn’t chaos the best variable?”

He strides toward you, coat swishing like a blade. “You’re testing my patience.”

"Good. Patience is so dreadfully boring. I’m testing your limits instead." You lean back on your hands, boots swinging off the table. “You think in straight lines, Dottore. I like to scribble.”

He stops mere inches from you. “What are you after?”

You tap your chin, then his nose. “Fun. Secrets. And maybe a peek into the messiest part of that brain of yours.”

"You’d be disappointed."

"I'd be delighted."

His gaze narrows, but you see it — the corner of his mouth twitching, like he's resisting the urge to smile. The game has begun.

You shift, eyes gleaming. “Do you want to know the real reason I came?”

“No.”

"Too bad!" you sing. You jump off the table and circle him slowly. “I had a dream you built a clone army and forgot which one was you. So I brought name tags!”

You pull them out with a flourish — absurdly glittery, gaudy things that say 'HELLO, I’M THE REAL ZANDIK™'

He actually pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you ever take anything seriously?”

You pause.

When you speak again, your tone is velvet-dark. “Only with you.”

His head tilts. “Is that flattery or a threat?”

"Both." You lean in, whispering like you're letting him in on a cosmic joke. “I think we’re more alike than you care to admit.”

"You're delusional."

"You're intrigued."

He says nothing, which is as good as admission.

That night, he finds his notes rearranged. Not deleted. Not altered. Just… dramatically reordered with cryptic annotations in calligraphy.

“Did you ever think madness might be a kind of genius in costume?”

“Why settle for predictable when you could be magnificent?”

He should be furious.

Instead, he lets out the softest of chuckles.

Maybe surprises aren’t so bad after all.

———

You were supposed to be a nuisance. A disruption. A chaos factor in his rigid world of order and control.

But now you’re something else entirely.

A partner.

A mirror, twisted and brilliant, reflecting all the things he’d never admit he wanted.

The game shifted the moment you both realized no one else could keep up.

You didn’t just tease him anymore. You collaborated—rewriting operations, infiltrating noble houses, and turning Fatui politics into a grand stage performance. You slipped into courtrooms draped in drama, kissed enemies on the cheek with poisoned words, and left with secrets tucked into your sleeves like daggers.

Dottore called it "efficient subversion."

You called it "fun with flair."

Together, you were unstoppable. He brought precision. You brought performance. Where he dissected, you distracted. Where he threatened, you seduced. Where he plotted in shadows, you painted in light—and no one ever saw the knives beneath your smiles.

"You made him cry," Dottore muses one evening, fingers idly toying with a scalpel as he watches you across the candlelit lab.

You’re reclined on his worktable, arms behind your head, still in costume from the noble banquet. “Which him? I made at least three cry today.”

"The diplomat from Fontaine. The one who tried to blackmail me."

"Ohhh, him." You grin. “Yes. He wept beautifully. I told him if he threatened you again, I’d replace his teeth with glass shards and make him smile at children.”

Dottore chuckles — a rare sound, deep and low. “You’re terrifying.”

“We’re terrifying,” you correct, rolling to your feet. “Don’t hoard the credit.”

He doesn’t flinch when you walk straight into his space, hands curling around the collar of his coat. “Admit it. You like having me around.”

"I like results."

"But do you like me?”

He grabs your chin, firm but not cruel. Eyes like glacial fire bore into yours. “You are a weapon with a ribbon tied on it. How could I not?”

You smile. “Flattery. That’ll get you everywhere.”

[outofgloom]

GOOD SPIKIT

He awakened in the dark of the hive, found that his mind was his own once more—what was left of it, at least. Dug his fingers beneath the brain-husk that covered his face, felt its sleeping mind try to resist him peeling it off. But the queen was dormant and distant, down below.

He was the first awake, the lightest of the sleepers.

Out into sunlight. Early morning. Horrible pangs of hunger and thirst. He tried to recall how long it had been, but memory was short amongst the swarm. All he had left was from...Before.

Escaping. Fleeing across a patchwork desert, a landscape that was both old and new. Escaping...but from what?

Drink from the fetid pool. Eat the creeping fungus. Hope it wouldn't kill him at least. He climbed the cliffside with newfound strength. A grassy plateau stretched before him, and the wind was cool and dry. The sky above him was...too big. Too open. Too long closed inside the mind of the swarm. Too long underground. Eyes down, he walked, and tried again to remember.

Escaping. He was escaping then, just as he was escaping now. Escaping across a patchwork desert....

Escaping from...Dreams.

Tracks in the soft earth. He recognized the shape, the claw-marks, saw the signs of grazing. A herd of them. Follow, as his shadow bent round beneath him. Follow and follow until he found what he sought.

It took a few hours, but at last he caught up to them. The herd was just beyond the ridge now. He peeked over the rise and counted... Twenty-two. Why did he count them? What did that matter? Some old habit, maybe...from before.

What do you seek? Your dream, it shall be granted.

No, too many. No more dreams. Please.

Escaping across a patchwork desert. Escaping from too many dreams.

What do you seek?

Spikits they were called. Yes, he knew that. Spikits, the two-headed beasts. One head stayed up while the other grazed. Hard to sneak up on, but he knew better methods. They were looking thin. Must be the narrow season for them, up here on the plateau with only grass. They'd be hungry for other things.

Hungry. Hungry for...dreams.

No, he'd escaped that too. Somehow he'd escaped, and he'd made his wish.

Hungry...

Not my dreams!

He lay still where he'd crept, a little upwind of the herd. The grass rattled, and he wondered if he should make some noise. Thought better of it—don't want to spook them.

Finally, movement. Two heads went up into the air as a scrawny Spikit caught his scent. The heads turned to and fro, then red eyes settled on him. The left head—that must be the dominant one. The right head tilted to monitor the rest of the herd as the beast loped toward his prone body. Closer. Closer....

Head bent down. Nudged him. His fingers clenched in anticipation. Yes, this is fresh meat. You want meat. No more grass for you.

The jaw unhinged. He saw teeth, smelled breath. Opened wider, then the bite:

Teeth clamped down on the makeshift metal bit that he'd fashioned from the remains of his helmet-spur, and he was moving with all his strength and speed, wedging the bit down further between the two largest back teeth, wrapping the grass-woven bridle round the head-spikes. The right head whirled as the Spikit backpedaled, but he was already on his feet, running with it, between the two necks. He gave the right neck a hard blow in just the right spot, and the right head flinched downward. Enough for him to slide a leg over, heave himself up onto the back, and pull the reins tight on the dominant head.

The Spikit was clearly not at full strength. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to hold on as it tried to shake him. Its croaking and shrieking filled the air, but he kept his grip tight on the reins and his knees hard against the flanks, as he'd done many times before, it seemed. Leaning side to side, back and forth, repeating his strike on the right neck when that head got any ideas.

The beast flagged. The rest of the herd had fled. The sun was starting to go down. He spent some time teaching his new steed the ropes. The heel-jab meant go, a pull on the reins meant turn. Good Spikit, good beast. Pats to the neck, in just the right spot. You're a good learner. No, not that way. Yes, good Spikit. Have a seed-husk. I know you like those. Say, there's greener grass across that way, round this ravine, isn't there? I'll feed you better than you've had. Let's see.

After a while, he chose a direction, off toward the setting sun. It felt right, somehow, like the wind made a good noise that way. And he rode, straight on across the tablelands. Escaping now. Really escaping.

It had been a long time since he'd rode bareback. No wagon or chariot. He'd liked the chariot, but it was probably a wreck now and rusting, somewhere beyond the horizon, along with everything about his past life. It all seemed unreal now, and he had a moment of uncertainty as the Spikit loped beneath him. Maybe it had been unreal, just a dream he had conjured through the mind of the swarm. There were memories of that time too, mixed in. Memories of battle...war, maybe? He alongside the others, fighting for the queen, fighting for the task: to purge the world. To return everything to the Before Time.

He shook his head. No. He'd had a life before the swarm. He knew that, even if the memories were a bit frayed now. There were too many for it to all be false. He'd known people. He'd killed people. He'd loved. He'd hated. He'd captured Spikits and Rock Steeds and Sand Stalkers and made them serve him. He'd raided settlements in the wake of the apocalypse...and enslaved the inhabitants.

And now...Now he'd felt what that was like. Just a fraction, maybe.

Escaping across a patchwork desert. Escaping from too many dreams.

He'd escaped the dream-eater somehow, the entity that had driven his people insane so long ago. And after that, he'd made peace with the cursed fate of his tribe. But then, when he returned, the dream-weaver had taken him. He'd thought that it was his ally, but instead it enthralled him, made him a part of its bizarre kingdom, for however long. He didn't know how, but that dream had ended too, and at last the veil lifted.

He'd fled then, into the waste, heedless of anything else but to get away. To get free. To escape....

Across a patchwork desert. Escaping from too many dreams.

His life was cursed, maybe because of his lineage. Maybe to pay for past misdeeds. But for that moment, he'd been free. No more illusions or false realities. He could breath. He could think. No more insanity.

A rumble in the distance, off where the mountains were strange. He hadn't seen those peaks before, and there were lights up and down the hills. The rumble growing closer.

And there was a mind. It touched his.

Her mind.

He'd dozed for a second, nearly slipped from his steed, but now he was awake. Lucky it hadn't tried to buck him at unawares. It was a good Spikit. Pats to the neck. Now, where were they?

The sun was very low. Almost gone. It lit the horizon into a jagged red line ahead. They'd come pretty far, but without a destination, it didn't matter much. Still, he felt somehow that they were going in the right direction. The wind still made that good noise, almost calling him, and—

And there was something on the horizon. He squinted through shading fingers. It was murky against the red, but as the sun faded, it became clear.

It was a tower of some kind. Ram-rod straight against the sunset. Unmistakable. He was aiming right for it. What luck! Elation rose in him. Good Spikit. We might make it there by nightfall, if we double-time. It's a good wind. It sounds right. It's calling me there. We're going to make it.

What luck...!

Her mind had touched his, and he knew that he stood no chance. Whatever She was, She was in terrible haste.

Flee the Great Wreck, She called, and all the units of the swarm answered back: Flee the Great Wreck and rebuild, till my sister can be repaired, and the swarm renewed. Come all, come to the swarm!

Frozen to the spot. The rumbling noise came up over the edge of the patchwork desert in a great wave of round metal bodies, and they poured over him and around him in their haste. He never even saw the queen, but felt Her pass by. Felt Her awareness touch him briefly. The briefest of commands. He could not even resist as they fastened one of the brain-husks over his face, and the voice of the swarm filled his ears and mind.

And just before the fear left him and the despair evaporated, just before that, he had a brief final thought:

This must be what it was like, for those he'd captured and sold over the years, back in the raiding days. Helpless. Knowing they stood no chance. Must be how they felt. He'd never really thought about it before. Maybe he should have.

Then there was no feeling. Just the swarm, calling him. A good voice. It sounded right....

A good wind. It sounds right. It's calling me there. What luck....

There had been no luck. It was a signal. He could hear it plainly now: a high-pitched tone ringing across the distance. He'd thought that he'd gotten away. She was asleep, dormant and deep below. He'd simply slipped the swarm's awareness, just this once.

But the signal was clear in his ears and in his mind. A signal of awakening, and he was responding to it. Elation. Excitement.

Make haste. You are the first, sent forth to make contact, to bring news back. News of renewal.

His hands raised slowly to his face. He thought that he'd—

All your skills are in service to the swarm. In service to Her.

...thought that he'd peeled it off, thrown it away....

Make haste!

The brain-husk was still there, covering his true face. He felt it throb at his touch. How had he not realized?

All your skills are in service to the swarm. To Her.

Was he still a puppet, simply acting out Her desires? No, She was asleep. He knew that. He'd felt it. Dormant and deep below. Her will wasn't on him, not at this moment. But he was still under its influence. He could still hear the voice.

But maybe...maybe he could....

He gouged at the fringe of the brain-husk suddenly with one hand. Viciously, and it stirred. Pain needled into him as he tore at it, got the tips of his fingers under one edge.

Agony. He writhed in his seat, and the Spikit kicked warily beneath him. The strength in his arm failed as the husk's own will strove with his own, and he dropped the reins.

Quickly, before She awakens. Before She comes!

Small movement in his vision, blurring red with the red sunset. The Spikit's right head glanced at him sidelong.

He raised his other hand to his face now. The husk didn't expect that. Both sets of fingers tore at the fringe behind his temples and under his chin, and he screamed, twisting and arching his back.

You have to...before....

The Spikit croaked and shifted again. The reins were free. The right head squinted at him darkly.

Turning his body back and forth, he felt the husk give way a little. Fire along his skin. He pried his fingers further, but....

She will awaken. She will know....

His arms were numb. His fingers wouldn't work. Couldn't push back against the brain-husk's will. It was too late, and now She would have him again—

Teeth. Jaw open. Foul breath. The Spikit's right head had taken its chance, snapping right at him, at his face.

But that was not his face.

Incisors pierced through the brain-husk and grazed his skin, and he heard the husk's voice leap and then die away. With the last of his energy, he twisted, flinched back as the jaws closed and tore the thing off of him. It ripped away and left his face raw and stinging, and he watched as the Spikit's right head bolted the strange meat of it. Gone.

The reins were back in his hand before it finished, pulling hard to head off the beast's inevitable attempt to throw him. Knees went in tight at the flanks. The right head whipped round again.

Surprised I'm still alive?

There was a moment of stand-off. His hand was raised to deliver a blow to the neck. The mouth was open, dripping spittle. Red eyes. Both breathing hard.

He patted the neck instead. Gentle with it. Good Spikit. Good...good beast. You saved me. The meat's good, right? Told you I'd feed you better.

The right head tossed. A conflicted look. It licked its lips. Good meat. More.

Good Spikit.

The red light darkened, down into orange-blue. The tower was still there, standing straight, far away. For a moment, he imagined that he could still hear the voice, calling him to it.

...Till my sister can be repaired, and the swarm renewed...

Was that the source of the signal?

...Come all, come to the swarm...

No, just the wind.

He pulled lightly on the reins, and the Spikit agreed, turning to face the opposite direction.

Did you like the taste of that? I know where we can find a lot more, though we might have to dig a little. Might still be time....

A light prod, and they loped off together along the plateau, back the way they'd come, as night fell.

...And then we'd better find someone to warn about what might be waking up soon.

[nonnewtonianracoon]

Okay, I was listening to music and my mind hurt my own feelings so I spent four hours expanding on that! All characters and storyline is from @scientificallywrongsoap and his heart wrenching countdown series on tiktok, the song lyrics are Thank You by The Jolly Rogers, and the pain is ours to share. Grab a pet or stuffed animal, some tissues, and whatever other comfort you need, and strap in because it's long and painful 🙂

We all laugh and tell old stories

Just sittin' in the dark

And not one of them knows that

When we land I'll disembark

Pain, unlike Smith has ever felt. He thought he knew pain, but fuck, it feels like Zed injected lava instead of Ed’s serum. Cuts, breaks, bruises, even bullet wounds he’s nursed time and time again, but this is different. All consuming, stealing his breath as his body begins to mutate. He can feel it before the changes become visible, and he gasps and tenses, hands trembling as he rips off his mask. His desire for privacy is overtaken by the desperate ache in his chest, lungs screaming for fresh air, and he barely notices Zed’s eyes widen as he sees his face, *his* face, for the first time. It’s like looking in an old mirror, the streaks and chips distorting it slightly, a myriad of scars that don’t match, but the base is the same, faces nearly identical even as they’re currently masks of a Venn diagram of expressions: one shocked, one tortured, both terrified. Smith’s racing heart sinks in his chest as a cold feeling of dread washes over him.

We've spent so much time together

Out prowling on the sea

That somehow this strange group of men became a family

Family. What a strange concept. Foreign and familiar all at once. He’s got the Shadows, certainly, but since coming here it’s been…different. He loves his brothers, deeply and fiercely, but it feels almost programmed into him to do so. Not necessarily an obligation, but an unquestionable fact. But the others, the men he’s met since coming to help the doctor with this project, the ones he begrudgingly calls friends only within the privacy of his own mind�� they grew on him, like a particularly stubborn fungus, or a wart he just couldn’t dig out the root of. Love is a bit of a strong word, but as his mind whirls through years of memories, he’s surprised to find a lot of them are from the last few months, as opposed to the collage of solely memories of his unit as he had expected. They say the last seven minutes of your life, your brain tries to comfort you by playing a highlight reel; who’d have thought this bunch of chronically ridiculous bastards would have wormed their way into mine so quickly?

We started out no more than boys

With more guts than brains

Doing what they said could not be done

They thought we were insane

But of course, as expected, there are many memories of his brothers. Well, brothers and sister, he mentally amends. I wonder if she’ll ever work up the courage to tell Graves. We all know he’d accept her, but I also understand the fear. How my heart was pounding almost as fast then as it is now when he followed me to that bar, and how worried I was about his reaction, and his dumbass idea was just to throw a paper airplane of “wingman” tips at me with a wink, leave a list of resources and surprisingly helpful books on my bed, and an offer to listen or pretend it never happened. Memories of explosions, fireworks and C4, laughs and screams, kites and drones, life and death, all flashing before his mind’s eye even as the ceiling blurs above him, tears and sweat stinging his eyes as his hands tangle in Zed’s shirt, fighting to stay as aware as possible, time warping around him.

One by one they wandered to their bunks, ready for another day

And I'm left alone here with the stars

Where they can't hear me say:

Thank you, lads, for all you are

And all you've been to me

Thank you for the laughter and

For all the memories

Thank you, for being there

Through the good times and the bad

And thank you for being the best mates I've ever had

Nobody knows. Nobody but Zed and Doc. It was never even discussed to tell the others; not the specifics, anyway. Everything was relatively normal tonight, heightened emotions and anticipation hidden by a practiced facade of disinterest and sarcastic humor. The König brothers had made dinner for everyone; Jack found a new recipe for some ridiculous dessert. It was so bad, but everyone mutually agreed to eat it anyway and choke it down with a smile. The kid had worked so hard on it, and nobody wanted to hurt his feelings. While Jack is a grown man too, every bit as capable and vicious as the rest, he has a fragile quality that tugs at Smith’s protective side. Not quite like WZ and his ridiculous projected naivety, he thinks as a choked laugh bubbles in his aching chest and burning throat, the stupid little pink cat ear headphones he manipulated his way into possession of popping into his head unbidden. No, Jack has an optimism and hope that’s managed to stay untarnished through everything, and the way the kid had literally started radiating a soft yellow when everyone complimented his efforts was worth the horrendous experience of the dessert currently re-appearing all over the floor, forced from Smith’s body as he writhes in agony as a raw scream tears from his throat.

We have seen success and we've watched our fortunes grow

And we have shared more happy times than many men will know

We were all there together when each of us found a wife

Love was something he had never envisioned for himself. Didn’t think it to be possible before coming here, not for someone like him. Stained from the moment he entered the world, designed instead of conceived, honed instead of raised. But watching Swagger and 7-1, as well as WZ and Ghost, he had started toying with the idea, and now the what ifs swirl through him, as bright and hot as embers in the breeze, pinpricks of pain that have nothing to do with the serum overtaking his entire being.

And we proudly watched the children grow

And have a happy life

Childhood. What a novel idea. The thought of being so small, so defenseless and helpless, utterly dependent on the adults around you… it terrifies him. Children terrify him, he’s always known he wanted nothing to do with kids, even as Graves made sure they had as much of a chance to be kids as he could provide. Decorating a Christmas tree, brightly wrapped boxes, chalk and stuffed toys mixed in with new weapons and survival guides. Days where they’d run around a training field with paintball guns or bubble wands instead of actually doing something useful, or watch animated movies with popcorn and candy, building impressive but sloppy forts with blankets and pillows. Graves has his faults, to be sure, but he also did his best to balance what their existence was curated for with the life he said they deserved, and Smith finds himself more thankful for that now than ever before.

And we have shared great tragedy

That none should bear alone

And with every loss and heartache

Our brotherhood has grown

I'm not the first to leave, it's true

Some have gone before

I know without me the crew

Will reinvent once more

Zachariah. Victor. Aaron. Jacob. Eric. They’re skilled, but they’re not perfect, and sometimes good plans go bad. It’s like losing a limb every time, a part of his soul going cold, a corner of his mind going dark, a nail in the coffin of his sanity every time one of his brothers falls. But they always come back stronger, angrier, out for revenge. Some of their best ops were carried out in the name of vengeance. He distantly hopes nobody that doesn’t deserve it gets hurt, the only ones at fault being himself and Ed. Zed and the rest have no blood on their hands, they don’t deserve retribution for his choices.

Thank you, lads, for all you are

And all you've been to me

Thank you for the laughter and foe all the memories

Thank you, for being there

Through the good times and the bad

And thank you for being the best mates I've ever had

As the pain intensifies, Smith hears yelling. A small flicker of hope in his chest as the doctor walks in, but it quickly fades as Ed’s eyes fill with disgust and distant loathing, looking at him like nothing but the bodily fluids pooling around him on the floor, cold and clinical, nothing like the warm amusement he thought had been there mere hours ago. Broken tools aren’t worth their space on the shelf, he thinks bitterly, hands tucking under his chin as Zed shoves them off him. A bolt of panic shoots through Smith’s heart, sharp and white hot. “Please,” he tries to say, but the thick, swollen lump of his tongue won’t move right and all that comes out is a disheartened wheeze as his teeth enlarge and change shape, morphing to razor sharp fangs within his gums. Please, he thinks desperately, please don’t leave. I don’t want to die alone, I don’t want you to go, please don’t walk away too. Don’t leave me, please….

With that the coughing starts again

The crimson hard to hide

Hands, on his throat. A sharp pinch, different enough from the agony of the mutations that it stands out. Heat flowing into him, but not the burning flame of the serum; comforting, like sunshine on a spring day. His eyes fly open, eyes he didn’t realise had fallen shut. The foolish engineer crouched above him, silhouetted against the glaring fluorescent light like an angel, even as he curses himself for thinking something so repulsively, dreadfully cliche. But Zed is visibly irate, trembling with righteous fury even as he handles Smith like he’s made of porcelain, touch achingly tender as he monitors the flow of something into the cannula he’s inserted into Smith’s jugular. The substance becomes apparent as the mutations slow, the pain easing slightly, and hope buds again as he stares into the same eyes that greet him from his reflection, as dizzying now as every time before. The weirdest deja vu, even with his unit, he’s never been able to get used to it.

I'm sorry my brothers

Hope you never know I lied

Omission. The guilt is eating him alive; he thought they’d never need to know. His friends here, his family there, he was foolish enough to believe he’d be able to handle this tonight and go back to life tomorrow. Hubris, pure and simple. He had too much faith in himself, and didn’t think to so much as leave a video or note. He thought he was being noble, thought he’d be doing a good thing by helping them, but now he just feels selfish for not having a backup plan for this. He’d had too much faith in the doctor, blind faith, and now he’ll be little more than a cautionary tale once they find out exactly what happened.

But this one won't get better, lads

And I know it's true

So I choose to walk away before I burden you

The pleasant warmth is fading, the australium not doing enough to counteract the serum, and Smith now knows with certainty he’s going to die tonight. There’s no peace, no grim satisfaction of a job well done, no morbid excitement at the possibility of reuniting with his fallen brothers, just the cold claws of failure sinking into his heart as Zed’s tears fall on Smith’s face, the former having noticed the pain creeping back into the latter’s eyes and reaching the same bitter, cold realization.

I will say the time is right

For me to go my way

And I know you'll understand

Or at least that's what you'll say

The excuses he’d made when he came here, the cajoling and borderline begging he’d had to do to try to get permission, the way it failed and he slipped out in the night because this felt so goddamn important he was willing to risk everything to help. The excuses he’d made to himself to justify it, staying in contact with a couple of his brothers to keep them from panicking and launching a search party. How he’d had the lecture of his life when Graves found him and called him back, and he had to explain everything and promise seventy three times, in ninety two ways, seventeen silly voices, twelve ridiculous accents, and four languages to ***be careful*** and here he is, dying on a cold tile floor because he overestimated his abilities; something they’d all been warned against from the start. He’d been so sure he was making the right call, but now he’s no longer able to justify it to himself. The harsh reality is unforgiving and he finds himself wishing for just one more. One more stupid movie in a blanket fort, one more adrenaline crazed mission, one more stupid dad joke from Ghost, one more day of chasing bubbles in the sun and drawing chalk flowers and practicing penmanship on the concrete parking lot, one more godawful meal that’s somehow undercooked and burnt but still tastes better than the most expensive restaurant because it was made with care…

I will wish you luck and watch you sail upon the sea

For the first time in forever

I will just be me

What will it be like? To not be part of a unit? Every day, dozens of iterations of his own face swarm around him. Tiny differences, but nearly identical. He’s always had his own opinions and preferences, but he’s never been a singular person. Even here, he’s nearly a carbon copy of Zed. How nobody ever noticed is beyond him….. He’s never considered the afterlife, never really felt drawn to; now is probably the best time to do it, he muses as his mind starts to separate from his body and the growing distance between his mind and the soul shredding agony allows his thoughts to begin to clear and grow more cohesive. But what’s the point in speculation? He’ll be finding out soon enough, anyway.

Thank you, lads, for all you are

And all you've been to me

Thank you for the laughter and for all the memories

Thank you, for being there

Through the good times and the bad

And thank you for being the best mates I've ever had

A conversation, words exchanged between himself and Zed, each breath growing more shallow and ragged. Tears from both men, twin expressions of guilt for different reasons, and a twin hatred for the man they butted heads over for so long. Animosity for each other morphing and joining, aimed at the doctor who’s hands are now stained with Smith’s blood even though it’s Zed’s that spilled it.

Thank you, lads, for all you are

And all you've been to me

Thank you for the laughter and

For all the memories

Thank you, for being there

Through the good times and the bad

And thank you for being the best mates I've ever had

Forgiveness and acceptance, even as the fire within him grows unbearable, even as words start to lose meaning and become abstract shapes in his ears, the world going dark around him. Hearing is the last sense to go, and through the heavy darkness overtaking him, Smith hears a variation of the same vow he himself has made, five times over. A vow of revenge.

Thank you for being the best

Mates I've ever had

I hope you laughed and cried, and I am immensely proud of this so be nice or I might cry. Alas, Glitch has set these characters loose in the world and they have been plaguing me, so I decided to take the muse and skedaddle. (Also this is my formal written apology for the Graves slander in your comments, Glitch. I hope it suffices.)

I hope I did them justice, and I hope you suffer as much reading this as I did writing it 😁💜

[the-most-humble-blog]

<!-- BEGIN TRANSMISSION -->

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap">

<meta anomaly-threat="undocumented biosphere class horror">

<script>ARCHIVE_TAG="FOSSIL_GAP_EPIGENETIC_HORROR:WASH_CYCLE_CENOBITES"

EFFECT: cold spine, evolutionary trauma echo, permanent reality discomfort

</script>

🧬 **THE CREATURES THAT DIDN’T FOSSILIZE**

(*A forbidden lecture on real-life Cenobites, hot rinse extinction, and why time travel should stay on the pause screen.*)

Let’s talk about what’s not in the fossil record.

Not because it didn’t exist —

but because **it didn’t leave bones.**

---

## I. THE FIRST RINSE CYCLE

Mother Nature has started over.

**Not once. Not twice. At least five times.**

Each time, she turned the planet into a **high-pressure scalding industrial washer** —

not to punish us, but to wipe the slate clean of life forms **so incompatible with existence**

that the Earth itself said:

> “No. Absolutely not.”

The fossil record only covers **a fraction of 1%** of all species that have ever lived.

Everything else?

> Gone.

> Not “buried.”

> **Deleted.**

---

## II. SOFT-BODIED DOESN’T MEAN HARMLESS

The most terrifying life forms of prehistory

didn’t have skeletons.

They didn’t roar.

They didn’t stomp.

They **melted**, crawled, slithered, parasitized, liquefied, injected, and **absorbed.**

They left behind no teeth.

No claws.

No tracks.

Just **chemical shadows.**

If you went back in time with modern equipment?

You wouldn’t survive long enough to scream.

Because…

---

## III. YOU CAN’T OUTRUN A FUNGUS THAT THINKS

> The oldest confirmed multicellular fungus?

> 2.4 billion years old.

> Capable of photosynthesis, colony-wide memory, and chemical warfare.

Now extrapolate.

We have **absolutely no way** of knowing

how many cognitive, reactive, or **predatory fungi**

lived before soft-tissue decay erased them.

Some of them?

Likely functioned like mobile nerve nets —

with no eyes, no mouths, just **chemical tendrils that followed your breath.**

---

## IV. 99.999% OF VIRUSES LEFT NO TRACE

We’ve barely scraped the surface of what viruses **can do**,

let alone what they **used to be.**

Imagine a pathogen:

- Airborne

- Fully temperature-adaptive

- Uses your brain as a nest

- Doesn’t kill you

- Just turns off the part of you that says “don’t eat your family”

> Not sci-fi.

> We found a **48,500-year-old virus** in Siberian permafrost

> that came back to life — in a lab —

> and still infects single-cell organisms.

We only studied it because it was **frozen.**

Now imagine what we’ve **never found** because it **evaporated after feeding.**

---

## V. TIME TRAVEL WARNING: DO NOT EXIT THE VEHICLE

You're thinking of going back?

Paleolithic era?

Cambrian explosion?

You will be **flensed**.

Why?

Because the further back you go, the more reality **bends into psychosis.**

Earth was covered in:

- **Spined jellyfish the size of box trucks**

- **Worms with multiple detachable mouths**

- **Predators that injected **dissolving enzymes** before you even saw them**

- **Plants that functioned like bear traps and memory foam combined**

We only have vague traces.

Chemical scars.

Faint echoes of DNA fragments.

But even conservative scientists admit:

> “There were ecosystems so alien they would be classified as incompatible with current biology.”

Translation?

**You’d lose your mind looking at them.**

---

## VI. THE ORDOVICIAN MASS EXTINCTION WAS A RINSE CYCLE

450 million years ago.

> 85% of marine species disappeared.

Why?

A global freeze.

Massive glaciation.

Rapid climate inversion.

But the part they don’t tell you?

The *before*.

There’s evidence that soft-bodied, open-vascular organisms with **folding exoskin**

were dominating oceans —

creatures with **no known analog** today.

And then they vanished.

Completely.

Not a trace.

Just a biological void in the record

where something **too successful** had to be wiped clean.

---

## VII. THE CENOBITES WEREN’T CREATED. THEY’RE REMEMBERED.

We love to think Clive Barker invented horror.

Hooks. Chains. Flesh manipulators.

But the idea of “eldritch biological sadists”

is **older than writing.**

Ancient cave etchings show entities with:

- Skin flayed outward

- Faces without mouths

- Multiple limb sets in ritualistic poses

- Organs displayed **outside** the body

These aren’t hallucinations.

They’re **trauma recordings** from encounters with something no human language could categorize.

And we survived those encounters

by becoming **too boring to eat**.

---

## VIII. WHAT IS EPIGENETIC FEAR?

Why do we scream at shadows with the *wrong number of legs*?

Why do we freeze at sounds that don’t match any known animal?

Why does the unknown **paralyze**?

Because somewhere deep in the bone marrow of our ancestors

is a memory of something that **didn’t just hunt them** —

but **revised** them.

You don’t develop that fear from theory.

You develop it from **generations of mutation under pressure.**

The monsters were real.

We just **can’t afford** to remember them clearly.

---

## IX. SCIENCE KNOWS. BUT SCIENCE IS SCARED.

Ask the academics off the record:

> “Why don’t we talk about soft-bodied terror?”

They’ll say:

> “We can’t prove it.”

But off-mic?

They’ll whisper:

> “There are gaps in the fossil record that suggest something was in control.”

Control?

Yes.

**Apex forms that weren’t armored.**

Weren’t loud.

Weren’t flashy.

Just **perfect.**

Perfect at hiding.

Perfect at adapting.

Perfect at cleaning the plate when nature said it was time for a fresh cycle.

---

## X. HOW MANY RINSE CYCLES HAVE WE SURVIVED?

• The Cambrian explosion

• The Devonian decimation

• The Permian cleansing

• The Triassic glitch

• The Cretaceous reset

Five confirmed extinction-level events.

But the scariest one?

The one we haven’t recorded.

The one where **whatever crawled the Earth didn’t leave a fossil...

but might’ve left something else.**

---

## CONCLUSION: DO NOT TIME TRAVEL

You think you’d go back and see dinosaurs.

Saber-tooths. Mammoths. Evolution.

What you’d see?

**A planet mid-scream.**

Biological rage in a form you couldn’t name.

Wombs with teeth.

Worms that hunt with light.

Plants that sing before they digest.

And if you’re lucky?

You’d get torn apart.

If you’re unlucky?

You’d come back with **something in you**.

</div>

<!-- END TRANSMISSION [AUTO-WIPE IN: 06:66:06] -->

[imagionationstation]

Journey Through A Brainiac’s Brain

So me and @teks-emporium have been experimenting with the idea of A Journey To The Center Of Mikey’s Mind, but it’s the mind of our favorite purple masked big-brained teen instead!

We got to the topic of who might be found in Donnie’s subconscious and finally have a pretty solid idea of who’s running the show.

Introducing: Our Goobers 💜 (Art by @teks-emporium)

Brainy Donnie: (Seen throughout Series)

Opinionated about everything

Knows that he’s the smartest person in the room at all times and isn’t afraid to drop constant reminders

Usually holding objects (tool, beaker, blueprint) that changes every time someone looks at him

Randomly spouts big words

Gets easily distracted by whatever he’s holding

Never seen without Curious Donnie nearby

Curious Donnie: (Most visible in The Creeping Doom)

Oldest personality trait

Carried around in Brainy’s labcoat pocket

Acts like a child (giggling/touching things/climbing people)

Only asks questions, and once he starts, he has trouble stopping

Never seen without Brainy Donnie nearby

Needy Donnie: (Seen throughout Series)

Hovers around his brothers from the second they enter

Most comfortable with Mikey out of all the brothers

Timid and awkward, always trying to do things for others

Jumpy/hopeful in demeanor (puppy waiting to be kicked)

Can’t stand negativity addressed at him/others

Absolute People Pleaser

Romantic Donnie: (Seen throughout Series)

Newest personality trait that none of the others like (but he is the youngest so he gets away with alot)

Constantly making every conversation about April

Plotting ways to make her happy with every other breath

Random bouts of swooning

Is an absolute bundle of enthusiasm and joy that cannot be phased or squashed by anything until The Power Inside of Her.

Anxiety Donnie: (Seen Throughout Series)

Ex: In Dreams/Fungus Humongus/Revenge of the Triceratons

An constant nervous wreck

Always freaking out about something

Only other expressed emotion is anger (getting angry makes him huge but being angry doesn’t last long)

Tends to have more influence on decisions than Brainy and Ninja, despite them trying to take the lead

Personification of Body Dysmorphia

Ninja Donnie: (Most visible in Heart Of Evil)

Blank expression/white eyes/negative vibes

Stalks around the background

Doesn’t like Leo or Mikey but randomly appears next to Raph (scaring him multiple times)

Very violence-oriented, especially when science is involved

Doesn’t like being overruled or disagreed with

Makes all the others uncomfortable

The Living Example Of Intrusive Thoughts

Goober Fun Facts:

The subconscious is a gray room covered in tech. The main monitors and consol sits in plain sight shadowing the room. The room is empty unless the traits are using something, in which case whatever they’re doing exists. The door to the imagination looks like Donnie’s lab door and stands off to the side.

Inner Donnie (aka the One True Donnie) struggles to keep up with all of them and tends to get overwhelmed, especially by Romantic and Anxiety, who never let up

Anxiety is basically the second-in-command despite being the least stable trait in the group

All the traits have teamed up at one time or another to run things

Ninja gets the least amount of time in control because they’re all afraid of what he might do, but he’s also their defensive capabilities, so they instinctively trust him to keep them safe

Romantic is SUPPOSE to get the second least amount of control but he always finds his way back to the control panel

Curious and Romantic are the happiest goobers. Unfortunately, they’re also the least respected. They tend to be shuffled off to the side, but they never stay quiet for long

[aspiringtrashpanda]

Please heed the warnings. Find the prompt list HERE.

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

DAY 29 Prompt: Growth 726 words C/W: NB season 3 and OG season 4 spoilers, body horror, minor gore

There is a lump.

Between Simeon’s shoulder blades, a bit higher than halfway down his back. That spot that he can almost scratch, but can’t quite get a good angle. It takes effort to push his hand down from above, to gently skirt the flesh that seems to swell just out of reach.

It is easier to measure the space without mentioning what no longer exists there, twin scars inflamed and infected when he glances over his shoulder in the mirror. His gut squirming with that familiar guilt, he shrugs on the silky navy button up that he had first started wearing in the human world. His trembling fingers slip over the gold buttons of his vest, struggle to center the knot of his tie. 

“I just felt like wearing this today,” He rehearses to his reflection. “Don’t worry. Nothing’s wrong.”

Luke takes his words at face value, though the lingering stare from Raphael tells Simeon that the older angel will be harder to fool. Plastering his best smile across his face, aware that perhaps he is trying a little too hard, Simeon attempts to telepathically inform his friend to leave it.

Not now.

A little voice in his head taunts, “Will you ever be ready to admit it?”

The days go by, Simeon silencing the intrusive thoughts ruminating inside his skull, clinging to the interior slope like a fungus festering from pious neglect. Roots were planted deep in his brain, curling around memories of his brothers’ faces as they tumbled from celestial light, shadowed tendrils tugging at their limbs and stitching up their wounds.

The Devildom wove sutures of sin through once heavenly flesh, and now Simeon sees the own red of his wounds turning dark, rotten, evil. The growth between his shoulders pulses, grows, and he swears he can make out movement beneath the thinning layer of skin suppressing whatever shifts underneath. 

He wants to scream. He wants to rip out his tongue and plead forgiveness.

He wants to tear out his heart and eat it whole, give himself fully to that voice in his head that promises his rightful place at Lord Diavolo’s side. 

Simeon scratches at the edges of what he can only describe as a tumor, hunching his back and rendering his button up ill-fitting. He supposes he can’t wear his angel robes instead–No, the growth would appear prominent, bulging from his spine. 

It’s only a matter of time before Solomon effectively corners Simeon in the kitchen of Purgatory Hall. “You’re corrupted,” the sorcerer states matter-of-factly. When Simeon tries to protest (the attempt half-hearted at best), Solomon only laughs, “Really, are you surprised?”

No. No, he isn’t. He knew it was only a matter of time, that he was playing a dangerous game, that his heart had long yearned for a being forbidden to his lips. Was this his punishment? A grotesque deformity all for longing for a reciprocated affection? 

“But, that’s not what scares you, is it?” The little voice teases. “It’s not because you’re becoming a demon, but because you like it.” 

The attention.

The recognition.

The concern, the desperation of his peers to save what has been long lost. 

Your sweet, doe eyes, watching him with such lovely pity. 

Simeon can see the wings, now. They are small, still developing. Bare, fleshy bones flexing like a chicken embryo within the egg. His spine aches, curves towards the ground from the weight of the lump. He finds himself wondering how they will present themselves. Feathered like Lucifer’s or leathery and bat-like like Mammon’s and Asmo’s? He doesn’t think they resemble the exoskeleton extension of Beelzebub’s insectoid wings. Perhaps they will be something entirely different.

The image of a swallow soars behind his eyes, symmetric wings curved towards the sky above as it flexes its dark feathers. The swallow, the harbinger of land, the symbol of homecoming.

Simeon grins, a sinister smile in his reflection as the pressure within the growth reaches a breaking point. Blood begins to seep from the slightest rip of flesh, and he can’t hold back the wild laughter that tears from his lungs.

“You’ve wanted this all along,” That voice coos, and Simeon embraces the darkness as he scratches at his skin, allows his true self to unfurl for the first time. 

He speaks to his reflection, though doesn’t recognize the words spilling from his lips, “Welcome home.”

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

OBEY ME! MONTH MASTERLIST

[mishoarts]

Phantom Dimension

[ theories yap 1 ]

you see ,I'm not exactly sure how to begin with my thoughts ,but I'll try

Remember when red said that she was inspired by the real sbg and something religion related with other stuff? 

I bashed my brain out and ended up coming with 4 possibilities :

1- phantom realm is the afterlife ( not heaven or hell yet ) and the phantoms are dead people, and the gravies see them like monsters because they're still not dead and don't belong there , and on the other side phantoms attack them bc they see them as monsters or unrecognised entities.

2- phantom realm is the place between the living and the afterlife where the sinners atones their bad deeds so they don't end up in hell and where souls meet ( I'm not christian I don't know that much about it ), phantoms are what remained from the people who was making for their acts , and the kids got there because the curse/fungus put them in an unstable state not being fully alive nor dead .(smth like otgw)

3- phantom realm is the dimension where the demon-mates live .

( quick explanation : in some beliefs there's for each human a demon-like twin/self that they can't see , born with their birth and stays with them till they die , and its main job is to inveigle and lure the human to the bad paths , and in certain cases it seeks harm to other humans who hurt its human , but it's still not a friend ) 

So the phantoms are those demon-mates ( this might explain why there's less phantoms in places where there's less humans in the real world ), and when the kids got into TPR they got fused with their demon selves ( why they're  getting stronger and more aggressive ).

4- Phantom realm is a copy dimension of the real world created by nightmares and shadows/souls , and that dimension can't be counted "real" because it can't affect the actual world (before) , but it gets real more and more with real world creatures coming to it ( aka the kids or even Ashlyn at her birth. ).

I'm not sure of any of these 4 but I'm 98.5% sure that 

the phantoms don't see or hear the kids like how we see and "hear" them ( until now ?)

The kids aren't dead yet not fully stable alive,

Phantoms are equivalents of the real humans

The kids got merged with their equivalents 

Shî is so long that i need to make p2 cuz I still didn't talk about the gravies 💀😭

sorry for the long talk and pardon any misspelling, i relied on google translate for some words 👉👈

[queenofhalloween94]

Master List: ATRU Ch. List

Summary: What happened on Joel's last mission?

**Warnings: Hybrid science, eventual smut 🔞, medical inaccuracies, a/b/o dynamics, violence, science experiments**

Part Four

"My reflection is a battlefield, and I lose every time I look."-Unknown

      The lights never turned off in the FEDRA lab. Buzzing fluorescents overhead beat down like a second sun, sterile, and merciless. Joel followed the FEDRA guards down the cold hallways to the main lab. “You boys are always this friendly, or is it just my lucky day??” Joel asks the FEDRA guards. One of the guards replies by shoving the butt of his gun in Joel’s stomach. “Shut up mutt!” the guard yells. As Joel doubles over he feels the fire in the gut feeling before a shift reminding him of the shifting mishap. The wolf paces his mind snarling for the blood of the guards.

:Some hours earlier:

     They didn’t call him Joel anymore. Not in the field and definitely not when they clicked his collar in place reminding him they could send a jolt of electricity to his brain whenever they wanted.

 “Subject 12, released. Target zone: Sector Echo-4. Full viral presence. Orders: clear and return.

     The voice over the comm crackled like it belonged to a god watching from Mount Olympus. The FEDRA bastards watched everything from the cushion of their lab or office. They wanted carnage, proof that the experiment was working.

     Joel didn’t speak as he stepped off the armored transport, hitting the wet ground of a ruined QZ street. Rain fell in sheets, mixing with ash ,blood, and rot. The city was dead- overgrown with vines and rage–and yet FEDRA still sent him in alone.  The change had always come easy; the wolf always wanted out, pacing in Joel’s mind almost, another entity now. He didn’t have to force it anymore–the wolf wanted out when it smelled infected. Containing it after had been becoming harder and harder. 

    Joel’s breathing deepened, and his bones creaked as the shift rolled over him like a fever. His spine cracked, shoulders bulging, teeth elongating. He didn’t need a gun, he was the weapon. The first clicker came from the shadows—bone white fungus crawling up its skull, twitching like a puppet on rotten strings. With a blur of motion, he was on the creature, claws ripping through spore-slicked flesh. Screeches echoed off the buildings as more poured in–runners, stalkers, and even a bloater groaning in the distance.

   Didn’t matter. 

   Joel tore through them like a storm–not clean or precise, but brutal. His hands barely resembled hands now–talons soaked in gore, eyes glowing amber in the dark. Blood soaked his uniform, and it wasn’t just the infected. Every shift tore at him. Every kill left something missing. But FEDRA didn’t care if he came back limping or howling–only that he came back alive. By the end, Joel stood in the middle of a massacre. Steam rose off his shoulders as the rain hissed on his overheated skin. His breath came in ragged growls, and for a moment, he forgot he was a man at all. Forgot the names, the faces, and the reasons for being himself.

  Then the comm buzzed again: “Return to base, Subject 12. Report complete. Good dog.”

  His lip curled, the wolf inside refused to let him have control back. Shifting back was gruesome. Bones popping, skin trying to adjust, Joel let out a guttural groan from the mind numbing pain as his body fought itself. A taser to the neck has the wolf lose its grip of control. Joel shifts back and is tranquilized. He is dumped back into his cold, grey prison.

🐺🧬🐺🧬🐺🧬🐺🧬🐺🧬🐺🧬

**Thanks for reading***

[wainwrightjakobshammerlock]

also now that my braincells have cooled down. i will say i have lots of detailed thonks on jade shadows but im not sharing them bc the warframe tag is so full of shit idiot brain fungus rn

i will however say this: if you don't like the quest bc it's triggering for you that's okay, just please say that instead of trying to find some objective reason

also reason number 100000 to hate ballas good lord

[that-one-i-think]

MCD SCIFI AU: THE RED - The shadow knight infection

So it is essentially a sort if zombie infection with various stages and effects that come with it.

1 - Initial infection - Infection happens through contact and/or inhalation of spores from an infected planet. It presents like most fungal infections, and is rather dormant with little to no signs except maybe a rash that can easily be excused by a space suit chafe.

2 - The Itch - It is an almost unbearable itch that pervades the body and is completely neurological. Some people even report feeling their brain itch.

3 - The Rage - The circulatory system fills with an almost magma like substance, the blood essentially lights itself on fire and the veins pertrude from the skin. Adrenaline surges and this is when it deviates.

A - The infection slowly eats the part of the brain that controls impulse. The Rage genuinely begins, and so does the hunger. They feel a need for substance and anything that they don't view as food. They view as a rival to that food. They devour, feed the infection, and then the infection devours them, literally. The body slowly transforms into a perfect specimen and then dies. The spores consume the rest of the body, eventually dying unless it finds a new host, constantly searching.

B - The body is able to resist it. They still feel the itch, the intense rage, and the increased adrenaline that happens whenever they feel a strong emotion, but it doesn't devour them. The infection doesn't eat them. Type B of this infection is rare and almost feels like you gained superpowers, that is, if you are able to control yourself. You are essentially hoped up on hormones and need to completely relearn self-control. Some, do not on account of the adrenaline high being favorable.

The Shield Foundation - The current head of research who is trying to contain and destroy THE RED with massive success, that they say. Whether or not quarantining and burning planets to the ground really is "handling the problem" who knows. Garte and his right hand and son Zane certainly say that they are looking for a more permanent solution.

Though, rumor has it that Zane has been experimenting with the fungus to great success, but not the success one thinks or that is reported. The fungus does have mind control properties, so if one were to delay the effects but allow it to consume just enough of the brain, you could have very susceptible super soldiers. With enough modifications, that is.

[underratedgrapeju1ce]

Oh si was referring to the AU where Black doom possessed Shadow ? And everything goes downhill AJDJCKNDSNNS

ohh yep!

for a taste: the ritual involves the comet fungus literally infecting shadow to an extent, almost like cordyceps. theres actually a point that shadows body went into shock because he felt the fungus start moving between his brain and the inside of his skull :)

[sharktooth-jacket]

i don't remember if i've talked about this but the friend who got me into ofmd had also been really trying to get me to watch the last of us, and they kind of merged in my mind at first. for the first few episodes i was just like "oh wow and stede is going to have to deal with the zombies at some point as well?"

and obviously i got that straightened out aksghalj but now that friend has forced me to watch the last of us too i can't stop thinking about an actual ofmd au set in the tlou universe. putting beneath the cut for tlou season 1 spoilers and also because this is a super niche au no one else cares about akghaljsk

the basic conceit i'd want to keep is that the world is infested with a zombie infection, someone is immune, and at the end the non-immune character must make the choice between allowing a cure to be made (which would require the immune character to die since the zombie fungus grows in the brain) and saving them (and thereby dooming a humanity that through the story they have to wonder is even worth saving anyway). but otherwise i think it works best at their canon ages and replacing the father/daughter dynamic with a romantic one. i think our ofmd/tlou au could work differently depending on who is the immune one

stede kind of feels like the obvious choice to be the one who's immune. he got bit doing something stupid and just never turned, and Ed's a jaded smuggler who, like Joel in tlou, gets hired to get him to the people who can make the cure. he teaches Ed to see this awful world differently and makes him smile for the first time since the outbreak. i think this version works way better if Ed and Stede are told straight-up about what they need for the cure, and the thing is: if Stede gets told that he has to die to make the cure, he'd absolutely want to do it. he'd absolutely put the world (and not to mention Ed's safety and security, which is impossible to gaurantee in a zombie apocalypse) above himself. and, unlike Joel in tlou, i think Ed would let him make that choice. he'd be heartbroken and devastated and he'd go out into this world he's learned how to love again and see the miracle that was made possible by the man he loves, and maybe he could try to be happy because it was Stede's last wish and last gift for him. very bittersweet tragic ending and it compels me

and now on the other hand if Ed is the immune one. i'm still thinking Ed's an accomplished smuggler or something (maybe he gets bit in a parallel to his suicidal ideation in season 2 where everyone thinks he got unlucky or let his guard down or slipped up and he gets to reveal later he did it on purpose?) and Stede is maybe a newbie firefly leader in this au. and i think without a shadow of a doubt stede would do the same thing Joel did in tlou and he would methodically take down everyone in that hospital to save Ed's life, cure be damned. because i don't think he'd want to live in a world that didn't have Ed in it, not knowing that he could save Ed's life. i think he'd put Ed over the whole world, every single time. and i'm not going to lie i think Ed would be very upset by the idea that the world could be saved only by his death, that a better world is possible but he could never see it. and i do think he'd find it very hot that Stede saved him as well

[dreamcrow]

I need some Hot Crow Takes on what was the worst example of Villain Decay throughout ToA. also on what Leonora Janeth uses in her hair

send me a meta prompt (currently closed); thank you for the ask!

the arcane and esoteric mysteries of janeth's haircare regimen are beyond my humble (straight-haired) supposings. but for the villain decay? oh, morgana, hands down. 

gunmar is spooky, but a bit of a ham. for most of trollhunters, he’s also relatively distant. bular is a lot closer, and much more of an immediate threat, but he’s always ultimately subordinate (either to stricklander or his father) and he does, in the end, get got by a teenager. angor is initially presented as terrifying, and rightly so, but even if he becomes sympathetic he’s always formidable; stricklander starts out pretty nefarious (especially if you think about some of the implications of e.g. feeding bular a human security guard) but is of course, in proper gdt fashion, domesticated by wuv. obviously i have niche side blorbo brain fungus re: the arcane order but it's hard to assess their actual "villain decay" without having to think about That Film. at any rate, i don't think they're actually the worst example in toa: despite a concept/design that fucks so absolutely severely, once they get on screen, they're not actually built up all that much (or...well). it takes them less than the space of an episode (22 minutes) to go from "dread, ancient terrors that even merlin is afraid of" to "merlin shooing away them, the green knight, and their evil floating skull castle with less effort than he usually spares to criticize douxie." but that's another post.

morgana, though. part of what made her such a compelling villain was how little arthur figured in trollhunters. the existence of merlin implies the existence of arthur, of course, but in trollhunters arthur isn't there at all. instead, we get the negative space of him: his right hand (merlin) and the anti-arthur (morgana). obviously this is partly her role in arthuriana proper, but it also strikes me as pretty deliberate here: merlin's liege vs. merlin's student (and that liege's sister); humanity's last best hope vs. the queen of the otherworld; the king under the mountain vs. the witch under arcadia. i was not very tuned into morgana when i first got into trollhunters, but looking back over the series for this ask, the parallels are so obvious. and so tight! i wouldn't be surprised if some of this was even deliberate.

and the thing is: trollhunters has enough space as a series that its antagonists don't really have to pull their punches. morgana was nasty in trollhunters. pale lady, baba yaga, eldritch queen, mother of monsters—holy shit, right? and she's creepy, too: all muttering whispers and dread ancient magic! she takes angor’s soul, and then his free will. she taunts stricklander while possessing the body of one of his students (while threatening the permanent exile of two more to the depression dimension), and then in the guise of the human he's in love with. speaking to her faithful children—who only exist through morally dubious, unpleasant processes, for which she is implied to be responsible—via institutional heirloom phonograph! she's so much more connected to the shadow realm, here, probably the most compelling justification for reading shadow magic as dangerous. she's the big bad behind angor and gunmar (while playing them both against each other). she absolutely feels evenly paired with merlin, and (rightly) kicks his ass through most of the battle of the eternal night. she's evil but charismatic and even despite all that still a little human: when she taunts jim for not knowing merlin used her hand for the amulet, it isn't without a shadow of what must have been an ancient hurt.

and then. wizards. jesus christ (tired ben affleck smoking dot jpg)

[ » read the rest of the essay on ao3 ]

[imagionationstation]

more, MORE!!! * evil lagth*

Sorry, i just got way too many dowloaded

…I did say there was no such thing as too many turtles 🤣

OKAY there is way too much for me to write something about each episode so you get what my brain has to process in order to make estimates and then my final answers. That is my deal.

All the calculations/estimations are under the cut!

1) Three brothers. Splinter in the middle. In dojo.

= Mutant Gangland

2) Angry Donnie. Rooftop doorway. Silly Mikey.

= The Alien Agenda

3) Pat on the shoulder. "nobody's perfect" line is a 10/10.

= New Girl In Town

4) Mikey. Failed smoke bomb. Leo and Donnie in front.

= Panic In The Sewers

5) Happy/braggy Donnie. Metalhead's remote.

= Metalhead

6) Raph. On fire. Probably about to murder. No Mikey in the image.

= Turtle Temper

7) Mikey shadowed in the sewers. Pizza box.

= Pizza Face

8) Sewers. Casey Jones is there. Dark lighting.

= Fungus Humungous

9) Mikey. Kitchen features. Soft expression. Def with Icecream Kitty.

First estimation: The Invasion. (Mind change)

= Of Rats and Men

10) Leo teasing Raph. Topside. Mikey behind them.

= Panic In The Sewers

11) Donnie. Cockroach with equipment. Slash's Shell.

= Newtralized

12) Leo. Space Heroes. THAT POSE-

= Rise of The Turtles

13) Sad Donnie. TV in background. "Ahhh! A solar-powered staff!"

= Metalhead

14) WHY IS THIS GUY SMILING MAGAZINE-

= Rise of The Turtles

15) Mikey panicking over Kraang scene. "HE-HE- HE HAD A BRAIN!!!"

= Rise of The Turtles

16) Splinter lecturing. Leo being lectured. Donnie and Mikey behind.

= The Alien Agenda

[winkle-pickers]

Isono for the character bingo!

ISONOOOOOOOOO

I couldn't not check the "projects onto them like a mf" box when the Isonomoji is one of my most used discord emojis and also I make all my server announcements in Isono Voice. ANYWAYS

In my time honoured tradition of getting weirdly obsessed with Normal Guys who are Just There, I LOVE THIS MAN

Yes yes give him a raise and a vacation but really I want Isono and Fuguta, Proletariat Heroes, to lead the union charge at KaibaCorp because their struggles are OUR struggles and also I like to put Kaiba in a salad spinner, what better way than to have the people finally rise up against his bougie well...aristocrat really flat ass and force him to sit down for negotiations with an organizing committee where he has to promise to stop putting his employees in proximity to Shadow Games and exploding islands and suchlike.

Maybe they can get Pegasus' guys in on it, perhaps Raphael & Valon and assorted bikers, form the United International Federation of Goons, negotiate industry wide safety pay, etc. etc. Oh no. A fanfiction is growing in the back of my brain like a fungus.