#(I really cannot be talking)

[et-in-arkadia]

* * *

Mission mode change detected, now in Monument Mode Goodnight friends. After exchanging our final bits of data,

I will hold vigil on this spot in Mare Crisium to watch humanity's continued journey to the stars.

Here, I will outlast your mightiest rivers, your tallest mountains, and perhaps even your species as we know it.

But it is remarkable that a species might be outlasted by its own ingenuity.

Here lies Blue Ghost, a testament to the team who, with the loving support of their families and friends, built and operated this machine and its payloads,

to push the capabilities and knowledge of humanity one small step further.

Per aspera ad astra!

Love, Blue Ghost

* * *

no you are actively crying over a dying robot on the moon i am doing just fine thanks

[yhwcomeback]

Biblically accurate Golden Ninja

[egophiliac]

I loved your drawing(and I love your style in general) with Leia in your recent post! If/when you have time can we see more of her in your style? I get so happy whenever I actually see people mention/talk about her and she’s not just forgotten because we didn’t get to see much of her. 😭

thank you! 💙💙💙 Leia/Leah/Lea/whatever is fascinating to me. she is the ultimate unknown. what was she like? how involved (or even aware of any details of the invasion) was she? Silver's basically a physical carbon copy of his biodad, so what did he get from her? like, I understand why the two of them kind of have to stay as these super vague and mysterious figures -- the whole point of them is that their story ended 400+ years ago and they're not really relevant anymore (and. well. the more that gets explained about them, the less that can just kinda be handwaved as "oh the politics were Very Messy") (we can sit here and theorize all day but let us acknowledge that, ultimately, canon gave us almost nothing about them post-Meleanor and we'd just be making things up). I do still wonder about her though! RIP Lea, we never knew you and we probably never will.

actually you know what, as long as we're here, I think I WILL go ahead and just make some stuff up about what Silver might've inherited from her instead.

[rachelazegler]

[stiffyck]

HOLD ON HOLD ON THAT ONE POST ABOUT S10 AROACE GRIAN AND THAT ONE POST ABOUT SIREN SCAR-

Aroace Grian who's a fisherman and friends with Scar, a siren, because Scars magic doesn't work on him.

Scar Is also aroace. He just likes eating people.

[inkskinned]

i'm still trying to piece together the truth of it. when you left, you said: feel free to spin this narrative however you want. i have no idea if you were being cruel or if you just genuinely don't remember what you've done to me.

it's hard because i'd done so much of the work for you. i had seen the parts that flaked off, the rust underneath. i started separating you into two people - the one i loved, and the one who hurt me. i had this fantasy version of you - my partner - and then i had this stranger, a third person who would show up randomly to shatter me. i am deliriously glad i'm no longer with "the stranger". i miss the gentle (unreal?) "other" you terribly.

at first, i was so strict about my boundaries. i remember telling you to get the fuck out of my house if you were going to talk to me like that. by the end: i would justify your behavior for you, accepting even your mistreatment as "my fault" in the grand scheme. i look back on the person i was before you - smart, independent, confident - and i feel a strange sense of detachment. i don't even recognize me.

even in one of our last conversations, you said: if you want a partner that always talks warmly to you, find someone else. there was a time that a comment like that would have made me leave. and instead, somehow, i just placidly accepted that kind of thing. you were literally telling me that i wasn't allowed to have a reaction to your cruelty - and i just took it, because you'd so fully turned things around on me.

when people are faced with irrationality, a rational brain tries to make sense of it. this is the trap. they're lovely in the morning, gentle and blue-eyed and sweet. like nothing even happened, they breeze around the house and kiss you on the mouth. but at night; who is that? they snap almost randomly; flying into an impotent rage about just-about-anything. it just doesn't make sense. so the problem must be me, and my brain, and how i think.

the traumatized brain just wants peace. so maybe i'm misremembering. maybe you were just having a bad day. maybe it's actually me.

you eventually would fully turn on me and start implying that i am the bad actor in our relationship. that's what happens, right? that's literally in the playbook. you went to therapy for all of a month, told her a half-truth, co-opted therapyspeak. you figured out how to reframe your actions as "seeking peace." any time i stood my ground, i was "gaslighting." when i asked you to be more gentle, you said i was "tone policing." you said, randomly, i had emotionally manipulated you - i still have no idea what that's even specifically referring to. maybe my consistent requests for calmness and empathy?

and while i literally know better, and i'm sitting here, trained by you, thinking: wait, fuck. was i actually the person you made me out to be?

and the thing that scares me is that i literally do not know if you ever actually saw what you were doing to me. when you'd tell me how you remember arguments, you'd always summarize them in a way where you come off as gentle and easy: "i was trying to set an important boundary." what had actually happened was 15 minutes of you shouting at me i know you did something shady, just admit it already. eventually you'd say my reaction to your shouting (when i finally reacted, which usually happened around hour three) was inevitably "disappointing" and "another way i'm silencing your feelings."

how many times did i ask you - beg you - to just take accountability? looking back, i don't think i ever heard you say: you're right. the way i talked to you was wrong of me.

i am trying to tie together the two people into a full version of you in my head. yes, you made my coffee and made me laugh and spent hours on the phone with me. and yes - you would scream at me until i had to run away and hide behind something.

i wish i did have a narrative i could pull out and shape to my whim. i wish i did have some semblance of reality. instead i just stand here, strange and vibrating, wondering: what the fuck just happened?

[ruubesz-draws]

If Godzilla can wear shoes (in Fortnite) then he can wear heels :)

Hahahahaaa... I warned you guysss

I saw these and... I had to...

(Godzilla figure image from here) (Heels clashing image from Tiktok @stormigee)

[simswoon]

previous // next // beginning

[kizzer55555]

The Vampire Aesthetic

Ok so Danny knows two billionaires personally and they really couldn’t be more different. Yet they had one thing in common. A vampire aesthetic. Sam is fully into goth. Spiderwebs, bats, the color black. She enjoys fangs and fake blood and the darkness of her soul. Meanwhile, Vlad is Vlad. If his name wasn’t enough, the dark clothing, pale skin, and flying around with a cape and fangs with coffins in his mansion really sells it.

Danny doesn’t know many rich people so he thinks this might be some kind of trend. (If Paulina is rich, her family likes the chupacabra) So he just thinks that all rich people have some kind of vampire thing going on.

Cue Danny somehow ending in the Wayne household. Maybe he was brought over as a friend of one of the bats, maybe rescued from a field trip/vacation gone wrong, maybe some other situation. But he is there in civilian form with civilian Waynes and Danny just takes a good long look around the inside of the mansion.

“So where’s the vampire aesthetic?

Everyone freezes.

Danny just starts looking around, checking behind paintings and feeling the walls for secret levers. Used to secret passages with Vlad and possibly Sam. The Fentons definitely had them when they were temporarily rich.

“Come on, I know you guys are hiding it.”

Cue the entire batfamily thinking that this is another Tim and that he is fully aware that these people are the batfamily. Danny hangs around the mansion more and the bats just start dropping their disguises and not even bothering to hide stuff around Danny because they assume he already knows. (Possibly even trying to recruit him to be a new bat) Meanwhile, Danny, who does not know these people are batman and his birds, just does not pick up on any of it.

He grew up in a health violation with a giant ballon observatory lab above his head and a portal to the afterlife in his basement. He is a half dead teenager who has tea with the god of time and his godfather is the other parent to his clone child. He’s used to death lazers being scattered across his home and mysterious stains on clothing.

People are weird! He doesn’t judge!

[bowcard]

some of my favorite things from grian’s s10 server tour:

- whatever the hell joe hills is doing oml it’s very cool to me

- cub’s rocket factory :) like WOW that’s so organized and good

- all of zedaph’s lil games !! gamifying survival!! so fun

- doc’s speakeasy lmaoo (also the armor stand preview for the trims in his shop, it’s a small thing but it’s sick asl)

- joel’s base and just how CITY it is (and his stupid lil songs, i adore them)

- grian playing that whole damn please hold song for us. king

- i LOVED jevin’s forest’s whole vibe omg it was gorgeous, it’s kinda giving ren fair? if that makes sense

- those ugly as sin nether portals in the shopping district :D (everyone say thank you pearlescent moon)

um yes i sat through all 7hrs and 42mins and i enjoyed every second

[lazycranberrydoodles]

getting back into the untamed and i had a thought. / follow for more yllz babygirlism

[spacesheeeeeep]

Actually so tired that people mainly focus on the bdsm when they talk about La Pianiste when we literally have this dynamic right here. Like, that's insane.

What if you were a little girl in her 40's who couldn't grow up because of your mother-wife who made you sleep in her bed and forced you to repress every sexual desires and thoughts of becoming your own person just to keep you close to her ? What if you fought back and yearned for dangerous things out of her reach ? But also, what if you let her because it's all you've ever known and been taught to want ?

[lazy-ahh]

I DONT MEAN TO REQUEST SO MUCH STUFF IM SORRY but i’m thinkingggg. mark with a reader who works out and is muscular (maybe a little beefier than him) i wanna see him drooling though it can be mainstream or mohawk i think of them similarly

BUILD TO HOLD

pairing mark grayson x male reader

mark swears he’s strong—until you pin him to the mat with ease, muscles flexing under your shirt, and suddenly he doesn’t mind losing. not when it means getting this close.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro , @cynvia

you’re sparring with him again. and mark’s losing. bad.

it’s not that he’s not trying—he is, he swears—but you’re just so damn strong. your muscles flex under your tight workout shirt, the fabric straining over your broad shoulders, the defined curve of your biceps, the way your chest heaves with every controlled breath. every time you block his punch, he catches a glimpse of your abs tightening beneath the damp material, and god, it’s distracting. you shove him back with a grin that’s all teeth and no mercy, your biceps bulging, veins popping along your forearms as you effortlessly overpower him. he stumbles, catching himself before he faceplants onto the mat, and you laugh—rough around the edges, a little mean, and it makes his stomach flip. his face burns, and he can’t tell if it’s from exertion or the way your sweat-slicked skin glows under the headquarters' gym lights, your body moving with a lethal grace that leaves him breathless for all the wrong reasons.

"c’mon, markus," you taunt, rolling your shoulders. "thought you were supposed to be-"

he huffs, wiping sweat off his brow, his eyes dragging helplessly over the way your shirt clings to your torso, the fabric stretched tight across your chest, the outline of your abs just visible beneath it. "shut up," he mutters, but it comes out weak, his throat dry.

you don’t. instead, you lunge, grabbing him by the waist—god, you were so much more muscular than him—and flipping him onto his back before he can even blink. the air rushes out of his lungs as he hits the mat, and then you’re straddling him, pinning his wrists above his head like it’s nothing. your thighs squeeze his hips, thick and powerful, and mark’s brain short-circuits, his pulse hammering in his ears. fuck. you’re heavy in the best way, all solid muscle and heat, and he can feel every shift of your weight, every flex of your quads as you keep him trapped beneath you.

"y’know," you murmur, leaning down, your biceps bulging as you hold him in place, "for a guy who can fly, you’re pretty easy to take down."

he should be offended. he should be scrambling to get you off. but all he can focus on is the way your biceps strain against your sleeves, the veins in your arms standing out as you tighten your grip. your chest presses against his when you shift, and christ, he can feel the hard planes of your body even through the fabric, the heat of your skin searing into him. your breath is hot against his lips, smelling faintly of mint and something dangerous, and mark’s pretty sure he’s gonna pass out—or do something really stupid, like arch up into you just to feel more of that crushing strength.

"you’re such an asshole," he breathes, but there’s no bite to it—just a shaky exhale, his pulse hammering in his throat.

you smirk, rolling your shoulders, the fabric of your shirt pulling obscenely tight across your chest. "you love it."

and god, he really, really does.

it wasn’t always like this. a year ago, you were strong—superpowers and all—but leaner, built for speed, not raw power. then you decided you wanted to look like a hero, too, and mark had to watch, helpless, as you transformed. those early mornings in the gym, sweat dripping down your neck while you grunted through deadlifts, the way your arms flexed when you adjusted your grip on the barbell. he’d pretend not to stare, but fuck, it was impossible. the first time you came back from a workout with your shirt clinging to your abs, veins snaking up your forearms, mark nearly short-circuited.

now? now you’re a nightmare—in the best way. every time you move, he notices. the way your thighs strain against your shorts when you shift your stance, the thick curve of your biceps when you cross your arms, the deep v of your hips leading down to—shit. his mouth goes dry.

you tilt your head, catching his gaze lingering, and your smirk widens. you know. heat floods his face, but he can’t stop imagining it—your hands pinning him down, your body crushing him into the mat, the way your muscles would ripple as you—

"mark." your voice is low, teasing, curling around his name like smoke. your lips tilt into that smirk of yours—the one that’s half amusement, half challenge, all sharp edges and knowing glints. sweat beads at your temple, your chest still rising and falling from the fight, and your eyes lock onto his with that same unshakable confidence. "you’re staring."

he swallows hard. yeah. yeah, he is. "can you blame me?" he mutters, voice rough, before he can stop himself. his face burns the second the words leave his mouth, but he doesn’t take them back. can’t, not when you’re looking at him like that, like you already knew exactly what he was thinking.

"well, i think that's enough training for today," you say, pushing yourself up with effortless grace. your muscles flex as you roll your shoulders, dusting off your hands before extending one toward him, palm up. your fingers are still slightly curled from the fight, knuckles faintly reddened, and your grin widens just a fraction—like you’re enjoying this, like you live for the way his breath hitches when you loom over him. "wouldn't want you to get yourself actually hurt from being... too distracted."

"i—shut up," he grumbles, but he takes your hand anyway, letting you haul him up with embarrassing ease. your grip is firm, calloused from years of fighting (you were a hero for far longer than him, having to tend to you and cheer you up as kids when you'd visit him and crumble about the expectations that the world is crushing you with), and he tries (fails) not to linger on the warmth of your skin against his. god, you’re ridiculous. strong enough to throw him across the mat without breaking a sweat, but your smile—sharp, crooked, always like you’re in on some joke he doesn’t get—that’s what really ruins him.

and you know it, too.

a memory flickers in the back of his mind—both of you as kids, sticks for swords and bed sheets tied around your necks like capes. you’d always played the hero, the reckless one who’d dive headfirst into trouble just to pull his ass out of it. "c’mon, mark," you’d grin, bloody-kneed and bright-eyed, "i got you."

some things never change.

except the roles are swapped now.

mark’s the reckless one who’s diving in front of you, shielding you from the villain’s energy blast with a grunt. the impact sends him stumbling back into you, but your arm is already around his waist, steadying him before he even hits the ground. the two of you are bruised and battered, having spent the last twenty minutes evacuating civilians while trading blows with the bastard—him taking the hits you couldn’t dodge, you covering his blind spots like second nature. it’s effortless, the way you move together. no hesitation, no missteps. just the silent understanding of two people who’ve been fighting side by side since they were kids pretending to save the world in their backyards.

you’d always had each other’s backs—when bullies tried to corner him after school, when you were both drowning in the mess of teenage hormones and high school hell, and now, here, in the middle of a battlefield where the air smells like smoke and the pavement’s cracked under your boots. some things never change.

"don’t worry," mark forces out, his voice rough as he smiles down at you in that dorky way you’ve always loved—the same one he’d give you when he’d scrape his knee as a kid and pretend it didn’t hurt. "i got you."

you laugh—bright and startled, like you can’t believe he’s pulling this shit now, of all times—and shove him sideways just as another blast sears past where his head had been. "you’re such an idiot," you wheeze, but your grin is wide, wild, alive. "we’re gonna die because you’re trying to be chivalrous."

"worth it," he shoots back, breathless, and when your shoulder bumps against his, it feels like home.

the villain snarls something unintelligible from across the ruined street, charging up another blast, but neither of you flinch. you don't need to. you already know mark's moving left before he does, just like he knows you're reaching for the discarded pipe at your feet without looking.

your fingers close around cold metal at the same moment mark feints right, drawing fire. "missed me," he taunts, rolling behind overturned concrete as the blast scorches the air where he'd been standing half a second ago. you're already moving, using the distraction to flank—just like when you were kids playing tag in the woods, when he'd bait the neighborhood bullies into chasing him so you could pelt them with rocks and pebbles from the trees.

the pipe connects with the villain's ribs with a satisfying crack, but they backhand you with their gun hard enough to make your teeth rattle. you barely register the pain before mark's there, catching your elbow to steady you while simultaneously kicking out the villain's knee. "still fight like you're twelve," you gasp out, spitting blood but grinning as you regain your footing.

"you really think i'm the only one?" he retorts, and goddamnit, he's right. the villain staggers up, furious, but you're already moving together—mark vaults onto your interlaced hands without needing to ask, and you launch him forward like it's second nature. his boot connects with their jaw at the same moment your pipe swings low, sweeping their legs out. they go down hard.

for a heartbeat, there's just silence and the sound of your ragged breathing. then mark's hand finds yours, squeezing once—a wordless check-in, just like when you were kids hiding in his room after a scrap, pressing ice packs to each other's bruises. one of his goggles is shattered, the cracked lens revealing a warm brown eye that's soft in a way only you ever get to see. his gaze flicks over you—the way your torn shirt clings to your heaving chest, the definition of your arms still tense from the fight, the stubborn set of your jaw even now—and something unbearably fond twists in his expression. "told you i got your back," he murmurs, thumb brushing over your scraped knuckles with a tenderness that belies the blood smeared across both of you.

you knock your forehead gently against his shoulder, laughing despite the ache in your ribs. "never doubted you, dumbass." above you, the first responders finally arrive, sirens wailing, but for this moment—sweaty, bleeding, exhausted—it's just the two of you again. his arm slides around your waist automatically, taking your weight as easily as he did when you were teenagers sneaking in through his window after curfew. the world could be ending around you, but it wouldn't matter. not when you're standing together like this, like you always have, like you always will.

hahahah see what i did there with the title card? bro i've always wanted to do that but worried it might ruin the immersion for my more serious one-shots. so today i finally said fuck it! no angst here anyway, so why not? hope you enjoyed this 1.8k words of pure fun—i definitely had a blast writing it lol. special thanks to you for requesting this, honey (heheh) <33 and can we talk about how i totally pictured jason todd's ridiculous physique for reader? like... have you seen that man? the arms? the shoulders? the pecs? the abs? the waist? the thighs?? god help me-

[confusedmothboy]

Can you draw Javi and Travis hugging :3

sorry for this taking so long but i had a ton of time today so!!! ughghghggh doomed siblings fucking GET me man

[dirtyalpha-rat]

Thinking about slipping fine silks off royal skin and showing them the sweet pleasure of a bruise.

[poisonouspastels]

hi guys here's my interpretation of Tessa as a drone hope you like it