#HOLY 😮‍💨

[bberetd]

Luigi: *exists*

Mario:

I was watching a documentary for my sociology class… who else would I see 🥹♥️💚

[mossymage]

if i don’t draw wuming every week i’ll die

[daddy-long-legssss]

words fail me at this time.

[x]

[bloodandiron-if]

How would the ROs react if, during a fight, m looked at them SO fondly and decided to confess right in the middle of the action??

- - -

⚠️ EXTREMELY LONG CONTENT INCOMING ⚠️

- - -

OPERATIVE D-6

The alley is soaked in red. Brick walls on either side echo every impact—the dull thud of fists, the crunch of boots, the hiss of a blade slicing air.

You’re fighting back-to-back with D-6, the two of you flanked by a group of men you’ve been tracking. No room for error. No time to talk. And yet—

D-6 moves like shadow incarnate. Efficient, brutal, wordless. They don’t waste energy on flourish, don’t grunt or shout like the others. Just inhale, exhale, react. Every movement is calculated—until you catch a glimpse of their face.

Blood trailing down their temple. Eyes sharp, scanning every angle. Then for a split second—your eyes meet.

You’re not sure why it happens. Maybe it’s the adrenaline. The way your ribcage feels too tight. The way they always move closer when you’re hurt, even when they swear they don't care. But the thought breaks loose in your chest and won’t go back in.

You look at them again, mouth bloodied, arm trembling from a deep gash—and you smile.

Not a smirk. Not a challenge.

A real smile. Soft. Fond. A warmth they haven’t seen from you in years—if ever.

“I’m in love with you, Dee.”

It’s quiet. Almost lost in the chaos around you. But it hits like a bullet.

D-6 stops. Just enough to matter.

Their blade catches the arm of an incoming attacker but doesn’t swing right away. You see the brief hesitation—the shake of their shoulders, like someone tried to reboot them mid-mission.

They turn toward you, eyes wide in a way you’ve never seen. Shocked. Unreadable. Something fragile and dangerous flickering in the silence between you.

Another guard lunges. You don’t even flinch—D-6 is already on them, intercepting the hit, feral in how fast they react.

But it’s different now.

There’s something raw in the way they fight. Not cleaner. Not calmer. Messier, like they can’t focus. Like your words took out some crucial wire and now they’re glitching through the rhythm. Their hands tremble after each kill. Their shoulders twitch like they’re fighting the urge to look at you again.

When the last one falls, you’re both bleeding. Breathing hard. Leaning against the alley wall, barely upright.

D-6 looks at you.

Really looks. Then steps closer.

You expect a nod. A punch. Maybe one of those rare glances that says “don’t do that again.”

Instead?

They press their forehead to yours. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to feel how cold their skin is. How tightly wound they really are beneath the surface.

They don’t say anything. They can’t. But their hands hover—fists at their sides like they don’t trust them not to reach for you.

You feel the unspoken words between you:

“Why would you say that?”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“I don’t know what to do with this.”

And somewhere deep beneath it:

“Say it again.”

- - -

DETECTIVE JUNO REYES

The warehouse stinks of old copper and gunpowder. Light flickers from a broken overhead bulb, casting everything in a twitching yellow strobe. You and Juno move through the shadows like twin blades—clean, fast, coordinated from far too many nights tracking this particular crew.

They’ve been smuggling bodies through the meatpacking district for months now—victims with their organs carved out like butchered cattle. It’s not your first joint mission. Won’t be your last.

But tonight, something feels different.

The air is thick. Heavy with dust and sweat and something sharper underneath. You’re ducking behind a rusted conveyor belt when you hear the crack of gunfire—too close.

Juno’s already there, stepping in front of you, pulling you back with a growl. “Keep your damn head down.”

You want to bite back with something sharp—something that’ll make them flinch—but the words die in your throat the second you look at them.

Blood speckled across their cheekbone. Jaw clenched. Shoulders tense. Their body coiled like a spring even after the last shot's been fired.

They move like a force of nature. Controlled, steady, brutal when they have to be. You’ve seen Juno at their worst. They’ve seen you at yours.

And still, they’re here.

Still keeping you alive.

You’re both pinned in a choke point now—five armed men fanning out, pushing forward. You toss a flashbang to the left, Juno fires to the right, and in the storm that follows, something strange takes root in your chest.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline. Or the way your arm burns from a graze you didn’t register until just now. Or maybe it’s just the way Juno shouted your name like it mattered.

But the words hit your tongue before you can stop them.

You lean in close as you reload, breath ragged, voice low.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Juno freezes. Their hand drops halfway to their holster. The magazine clatters to the floor.

“What?”

You don’t repeat it. Just keep your eyes on theirs. Let it hang there in the heat and chaos, as bodies close in from every side.

And then—they snap back.

No words. Just movement.

They’re more violent now. Less precise. Every blow has weight behind it, like they’re exorcising something. Every time someone gets too close to you, they’re there—blocking, intercepting, protecting. It's reckless. Uncharacteristic. You’ve never seen them fight like this.

And maybe that’s what terrifies you.

When the last man drops, groaning and bleeding onto the concrete, the silence roars between you.

You lean against a pillar. Juno’s still standing, chest heaving. Eyes wide and unreadable.

“Say it again,” they murmur, voice rough from shouting, from shock, from… something else.

You blink. “What?”

Their gaze cuts to yours. “Say it again.”

You do.

They don’t move for a long time. Then—slowly—they cross the space between you. Not to grab you. Not to yell. Just to be closer.

Their forehead drops against yours, their palm finds your wrist, and the warehouse fades around you for one suspended second.

“You can’t say shit like that in the middle of a firefight,” they whisper. But their voice is trembling. “You can’t just—drop something like that and expect me to keep it together.”

They pull back just enough to look at you. Eyes soft now. Conflicted. Open.

And then, the smallest smirk, cracked at the edges.

“You’re a goddamn menace.”

But they don’t let go.

And you don’t want them to.

- - -

NICO/NIA RUSSO

The fight is chaos.

Of course it is.

It’s South Side chaos. Rusted fences, blown-out floodlights, and a chain of abandoned warehouses that smell like gasoline and guilt. The kind of place people disappear into, but don’t come out of.

You’ve been tracking this crew for week now, hoping to take them alone as always—but Russo had forced you to bring them along, and wasn’t taking no for an answer.

The group is splintered—with too many guns and too many debts. You’d been moving silently, inching your way through shadows and metal stairs—until someone tripped an alarm, and now everything's gone loud.

You’re flanked, ducking behind a stack of rotted pallets. Russo’s just ahead, crouched low behind a rusted sedan that still smells faintly like blood.

Gunfire pops. Muffled screams. The glint of steel in the dark.

Russo curses under their breath, fires two clean shots, and slides over the hood of the car like they were born in a damn movie. They land next to you with a scowl, winded but electric with adrenaline.

“You good?” they rasp, not quite looking at you. “You better be.”

You nod. Lie. You’re bleeding from somewhere, but it doesn’t matter.

Their eyes finally meet yours.

There’s dirt smudged on their jaw, a cut on their lower lip. That ridiculous piercing still gleaming under the weak light. Russo looks like hell—but they always look good when they’re angry.

You should focus. Should reload. Should plan your next move.

But instead, you’re looking at them.

Really looking. And it just… slips out.

“Hey, Russo,” you murmur, blood in your mouth, smile soft and stupid.

“What?” They glance over, impatient. “We’re a little busy, genius.”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

And then—

“The f**k did you just say?” They whip their head toward you, voice sharp enough to cut. “Are you—? No. Nope. Say that again. I dare you.”

You grin, half delirious, maybe. “I said I’m in love with you.”

It hits them like a misfired round.

Russo doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

Their jaw works through some invisible argument, eyes scanning your face like they’re waiting for the punchline. But there isn’t one. Not this time.

“…You’re out of your goddamn mind,” they mutter.

And then?

They lunge.

Not at you. At the guy trying to sneak up behind you with a pipe. Russo takes him down like they’re possessed—grabs the guy by the collar and slams him into the concrete hard enough that the wet crunch makes your ribs ache in sympathy.

“You don’t get to say s**t like that,” they growl through gritted teeth, barely breathing. “Not while we’re in the middle of a gunfight.”

Another attacker runs up. Russo spins and throws a punch so clean it drops the man in one hit.

You lean back against the wall, stunned. Watching Russo unravel with every swing.

They’re reckless now. Not sloppy, but aggressive. Emotional. Like your words untethered something they were trying so hard to keep hidden. Like if they fight hard enough, they won’t have to admit they felt it too.

When the last man goes down, Russo stands there—chest heaving, eyes wild.

They turn back toward you. A beat passes.

“I’m gonna pretend you said that ‘cause you were bleeding out or had a concussion,” they say, voice cracking just a little. “And you’re gonna let me do that, yeah?”

You don’t answer.

Just watch as they step closer. Closer still.

Russo doesn’t kiss you.

But their hand brushes your shoulder as they move past, fingers curling like they want to hold on—then flattening into a fist at their side.

They mutter it so quietly, you almost miss it.

“Say it again when we’re not about to die.”

And then they’re gone, already storming toward the next building.

But their ears are red. And they don’t look back.

- - -

KIERAN/KIERA MYLES

You’re inside a mansion.

No—more like a rotting palace pretending it still matters. Cracked marble, columns held up by duct tape and delusion. The kind of place that used to host gala nights and governor handshakes, now stripped to its bones and taken over by men with hollow eyes and expensive guns.

You’re not supposed to be here. But neither is Myles.

You hadn’t planned it, but your leads crossed. A sting operation gone crooked. Surveillance cameras looping the wrong feeds. Now it’s just the two of you, ducking behind shattered statues and torn velvet curtains, fighting to stay one breath ahead of the crew you’ve both been hunting for months.

Glass shatters as someone fires from above.

Myles yanks you down, back colliding with theirs. You’re both crouched behind a pillar that’s already half-gone. Their voice is calm, but their breath hits your neck.

"You're bleeding."

You glance down. Shoulder wound. Deep, but not lethal. You’ll live.

You chuckle. "So are you."

Myles says nothing.

There’s smoke in the air. Dust. Gunpowder. The scent of their cologne still clinging to their coat, sharp and clean, like they planned for this moment even if they’ll never admit it.

They reload. You press a hand to your wound.

And then, for no reason at all—maybe because the world feels too loud, or maybe because Myles has this look like they’ll disappear the second it’s over—you speak.

"I’m in love with you, Myles."

It’s too soft.

Too honest.

You don’t know why you said it now, of all times. But the words are out there. Between the gunshots and the sirens and the flicker of failing chandeliers.

Myles freezes.

Just a breath. Just enough to register the blow.

They glance over their shoulder at you, eyes sharp as razors, lips parting—but no sound comes out. You’ve seen Myles composed during interrogations, smirking during firefights, unbothered while being hunted by half the city.

But this?

This cracks something in them.

"You're joking," they murmur, voice low. But there’s a flicker. Not amusement. Not disbelief. Something closer to fear.

You shake your head.

"I'm not."

Their stare could cauterize. Could kill. But it doesn’t.

They look away first.

Myles stands, gun drawn, movements stiff and precise like their entire system had to reboot. They fire at the men rounding the stairwell, three clean shots that send bodies toppling. But it’s different now.

Every twitch of their jaw. Every step they take.

They’re unraveling.

You follow, shoulder screaming with each breath. You reach the landing as Myles takes down another man with a brutal, sweeping blow—elegant and feral all at once. Their coat flares behind them like they planned for the dramatics.

They didn’t.

They’re rattled.

And when the last enemy falls, when it’s just the two of you again under the ruined glass dome, Myles turns.

Not their usual stance. No calculated poise. Just a person trying to hold themselves together with silk threads and pride.

"You don’t get to say things like that when I’m this exposed," they whisper. "That’s cruel."

You take a step closer.

Myles doesn’t move.

"It’s not a tactic," you murmur.

They laugh, quietly. It doesn’t reach their eyes.

Then—slowly—Myles steps forward. Closer than they should. Their gloved hand rises like they might touch you, but stops just shy of your cheek.

Their eyes search yours. Not with suspicion. Not even with caution.

With longing.

"You do realize I could get addicted to you, right?" they say, voice raw.

You nod, lips barely parted. "Yeah. I think I already am."

They don’t kiss you. That’s not how Myles works.

But they lean in.

And their breath brushes your ear like a secret, a sin, a promise.

Then they're gone—coat whipping behind them, rage and wonder knotted in their spine. But they don’t look back.

They don’t have to.

- - -

ALEX/ALEXI MONROE

It’s chaos.

Pure chaos.

The kind that tastes like copper and burns the back of your throat. Somewhere outside, a car alarm is shrieking. Inside the half-demolished apartment complex, you and Monroe are trapped in what used to be a laundry room, now nothing but rubble and steam. The tiles are cracked. The walls are damp with burst pipes and dirty rainwater.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

You were tailing one of the lower enforcers. Just watching. Just gathering intel. And then everything exploded—literally. A pipe bomb in the stairwell. Reinforcements swarming faster than either of you expected.

Now you’re fighting side by side, hearts pounding, soaked to the bone in heat and fury.

Monroe isn’t trained like you are.

But they’re quick. Smart. Desperate, in the way people get when they’re terrified and trying to protect someone else.

You.

They shove someone back with a rusted broom handle, breath ragged, foot slipping on the wet tile. You close the gap before the second attacker can swing—slam your elbow into his throat, feel the crunch, push him down and keep moving.

Monroe grabs your arm. Their voice is tight.

"You good?"

You nod. Blood’s running down your temple. Your lungs ache. But that’s not what gets to you.

It’s them.

The panic behind their eyes. The way they haven’t left your side even when they could’ve ran. The way they glance at you between every punch like they’re checking if you’re still breathing. Still here.

You don’t mean to say it. You don’t plan it.

But between the noise and the fists and the flickering fluorescent lights, it just spills out.

"I’m in love with you, Monroe."

Their head snaps toward you.

The world blurs. Slows.

Monroe stares like you hit them. Not physically—but somewhere worse. Their mouth parts slightly. Eyes wide. You think they stop breathing for a second.

"You—" Their voice breaks. They blink fast, like trying to erase what they just heard.

Another man swings at them from behind.

You intercept it, driving your fist into his solar plexus, then again, and again until he drops. You’re panting, vision starting to swim. You wipe the blood from your face with the back of your hand and look at them again.

"I said what I said."

Monroe drops the broom handle.

Their whole chest rises like they’ve just remembered how to inhale. Then they take a shaky step forward, close enough that you feel the warmth coming off them, even in this icy wet mess of a room.

"You really mean that?" they whisper.

You nod.

Monroe swallows hard.

"That’s..." They shake their head, overwhelmed. They reach out like they’re going to touch you, but their fingers hover—trembling. They pull back.

"This is the worst possible time for you to say something like that."

"I know."

"And still..."

They don’t finish. They can’t.

Instead, Monroe leans in. Not to kiss you. Just to rest their forehead against your shoulder. A quiet moment in the middle of ruin. Their breath shudders against your collarbone. Their fists clench and unclench at their sides like they’re trying not to fall apart.

You stand there, both of you bleeding, shaking, surrounded by steam and broken pipes.

And they whisper it into your shirt like a confession they don’t know how to live with.

"I think I’m in love with you too…”

- - -

ROWAN/RHEA CARTER

It’s a warzone.

Or close enough to it. Burned-out cars smolder in the alley behind you, still hissing smoke. The cracked pavement beneath your boots is wet with something that isn’t just rain. Sirens echo somewhere, far enough away to ignore. Close enough to feel like a warning.

You and Carter have been tracking this cell for weeks. One of the syndicate’s nastier arms—ideologues and black-market butchers with a penchant for “cleansing.” You were supposed to hit them before they moved the shipment. In. Out. Done.

But they were ready for you.

Now, you and Carter are fighting through what used to be a parking structure, half-collapsed, scattered with debris and broken steel. You move in rhythm. Strikes traded without words. One breath apart from each other, backs nearly touching.

And Carter—Carter is brutal.

When they fight, it’s not graceful. It’s furious. Efficient in the way someone becomes when they’ve lost too many people already.

There’s no room for error, no patience for show. Just fists, blood, and a righteous kind of rage. Like the world wronged them personally and they’re still collecting receipts.

You duck a swing, pivot behind the attacker and bring them down. Carter kicks another through a rusted railing—no hesitation, no wasted motion.

And yet… you catch them glance at you.

Just for a second. But it’s enough.

The way their brow furrows when they see you bleeding. The way they keep shifting toward your side when they don’t have to. It’s not tactical.

It’s protective.

And maybe that’s what does it.

The crack inside you that’s been waiting to split. The words you’ve been holding like broken glass in your throat. You don’t know why they come now—maybe because everything hurts. Maybe because Carter moves like the world is ending and you want to believe in something else, even for just a breath.

So when the last two attackers go down and there’s a heartbeat of silence in the dark—

You say it.

Soft. Grounded. Real.

“I’m in love with you, Carter.”

They freeze.

Completely.

Their hands lower. Their chest rises and falls, fast. Like someone trying to slow their heart with fury alone. They don’t even look at you—not at first. Just stare ahead at the shadows, like maybe they misheard. Or maybe if they ignore it, it won’t be true.

But you don’t move. Don’t flinch. Just watch them.

And when they finally turn to face you—oh.

It’s like looking at a storm that wants to hold something.

Their jaw is clenched tight. Eyes darker than usual. Burning in a way that has nothing to do with rage and everything to do with fear. Hope. Grief

"You shouldn’t say that."

You don’t respond.

They take a step closer, soaked in sweat and bruises and blood that might not all be theirs. Their voice drops—low, sharp, trembling.

"You don’t get to say that now. Not when I’ve spent every second trying not to feel anything. Not when you’re bleeding. Not when we still have a job to finish."

Another step.

"Because if you say that..." Their breath catches. "If you say it again, I’m not gonna be able to pretend I don’t feel the same."

The silence swells. Tight. Hot. Barely contained.

And then Carter reaches out—not rough, not demanding. Just... steady. Their hand brushes your arm like they’re anchoring themselves to something real.

"Say it again," they whisper.

"Say it like you mean it."

And you do.

You say it again, and this time Carter doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t run. Doesn’t fight it.

They just nod, once—and step forward into the wreckage, into the danger still ahead, with you at their side.

Because now? There’s something worth surviving for.

[rafesthroatbaby]

SLUT ME OUTTTTT

[heartsoftruth]

PRE SPRINT RACE | QATAR

[dellovestorant]

GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL WHAT THE FUCK

[this-blog-needs-a-new-name]

Let’s get technical…

Asking to keep her promise 👀 by wan

🙈 Keeping her promise by Pleng

“If you want me, I’ll give myself to you” -Pleng to Wan…. I’m floored 🥹

[basicalyrandom]

He’s looking at me guys dw 🤭

[musical-attorney]

This is most definitely the single best Ace Attorney promo video I have ever watched.

[violetsdumpblog]

i’m feeling something…

[pignipplez]

Poolverine frolicking through napkin drawn on hills with a little to cool for proper education sun

🌸👶🗣️

Awe Wolverine’s head looks like it got smashed by a cinder block 🥺🫶

(Logan is kinda hard to draw 🤕)

[mrsoharaa]

…I was looking for some aesthetic pics on Pinterest for this short blurb about this man I just thought about and I….i got a littleee distracted with his official art (him).

[loganshouseofworship]

I need him 🤭🤭🤭

[ohhoneypascal]

All I gotta say is Pedro Pascal fans, we are being fed well.