#so yknow. vindication!!!!

[ppepohappy]

thinking about mickey again

[lavendermonkie]

Ever since the game black myth: wukong came out, there's been a surge of monster lovers finally embracing this weirder part of themselves.

Never felt so grateful for fucked up tragic monkey backstory.

[vic-does-battlecats]

So very happy frostpaw gets to kill a guy .. and she’s a medicine cat guy killer . Go frostpaw go !!!

[anakinh]

i do love the casual ominousness of 'i'll be joining you up front for your performance review. good luck." corporate horror

edit: okay just to add. vaguely ominous trolling is very on-brand for sephiroth and i'm very glad he was like that even before the reactor

[besly1]

RARHGHGHGHGHH I'VE FINALLY CAUGHT UP ON SEASON 3 AND IM SO MAD AND HAPPY AND RHGRHGHRGHRHGRHGH

[kohakhearts]

when people first meet me and inquire about my studies im generally hit with two different responses, being 1) “wow, that’s an unusual combination”/“you don’t see that often”/etc. and 2) “you must be SO smart!” (or its evil twin, “you must hate yourself ha-ha”), and while the first is obviously a better response than the second, both are kinda…awkward to react to.

like? IS it an unusual combination of interests, or is it actually that most institutions make it exceptionally difficult for people to pursue stem and arts concurrently? and that we don’t often talk about the heavy crossover between stem and the arts because we’re so culturally obsessed with this notion that the world is split into Art People and Science People (also known as English People and Math People)?

and how would my interest in a science make me any smarter than someone in my program who chose to pursue a minor in history instead of physics? also, NO, i don’t hate myself. obviously taking stem classes after spending years believing im “not a math person” has lowered my gpa, but that’s not really something i care about, because at the end of the day i find the subject endlessly fascinating and i enjoy my classes very much, and i get better at math every semester because i have no choice. because it’s just…a method of communication. it’s a language. you practice, you improve - but you have to be consistent and intentional about it. the same way you have to be consistent and intentional about analyzing fictional texts and historical documents.

which is to say that like. you are using the same skills. i tutored a high school student last year who looked at me like i was crazy for saying that close reading a short story is functionally the same as solving an algebra problem. you collect like terms. then you compare and contrast them to make a statement about them - it’s human nature to seek refuge in what is familiar even if it is simultaneously traumatic, or x = 2 and y = -2. you can chart it, you can graph it, you can draw it. listen, isn’t there something so inherently beautiful about the word integral? it’s something intrinsic, baked into a person or a thing - the fundamental values formed within you by tiny, infinitesimal pieces: moments, experiences - they coalesce into something completely different, but still. you can go back. you can find the pieces. define them, pick them apart, put them together again in new ways. expand them, contract them, equate them to something else just to understand them.

half the study of mathematics is called analysis, for god’s sake. what is the study of art if not analysis? is it not the goal of the artist, the writer, to make sense of our place in the world? and is this not what we do in physics, too? look at the world and try to find reason in it? as the poet spends their life trying to make the intangible tangible, the particle physicist attempts to study dark matter. when we form a sentence, we utilize a complex system of equations that are so second-nature to us we don’t even register that’s what we’re doing - but there’s a reason this branch of linguistics is called syntactic calculus.

like…believe me. if you told my teenage self i’d be taking calculus-based courses in university, i wouldn’t have believed it. i teach high school students now who tell me they know they aren’t good at english, but it doesn’t matter to them because they do so well in math. and i get it. i do. but it’s disappointing, too, because i think my knowledge of math has made me a better reader and writer. and it feels like most people are missing out on that connection, because they feel like it’s impossible to make. but any experimentalist can tell you there’s an art to the scientific process. any musician or poet can tell you that great art is dictated by numbers - rhythm, rhyme and metre, all of it. the only group of people as interested in conceptual symmetry as physicists are artists.

anyway, all i’m saying is like - one is not more essential than the other, these things are inextricably linked, these things are as fundamental to human existence as breathing. there’s a reason why astronomers defer to shakespeare to name newly discovered bodies in space, you know? we've all gotta learn to love the math in our art and the artistry behind math.

[joyridingmp3]

being the parent to my mother she never was to me because she never had a parent like me

[milfbrainrot]

So now that multiple other yj actresses are speaking out abt shitty writing and bad communication can we stop acting like simone is in the wrong for doing the same

[eveningdawn222]

people who act like batman isn't "judge jury and executioner" because he doesn't kill people are like. genuinely so funny to me because. they're very obviously thinking of "executioner" as like. the stereotypical guy with axe who chops people heads off, and not, yknow, the literal definition of the idiom itself, which is about someone who has the ability to judge and then subsequently punish someone unilaterally. which is quite literally what batman does.

he has the ability to decide what is a "crime" to him, he is the one who decides whether people are guilty of those crimes, and he is the one who executes their punishment. the severity of the punishment doesn't matter - he is unaccountable to anyone else, and indeed is allowed to commit as many crimes as needed to reach his arbitrary ideal of "justice."

the ideal of batman is this: a man who is so fundamentally changed by an act of senseless violence that he takes it upon himself to fight back against the rot and corruption in the world. he does this not through political activism, not through ridding himself of his wealth in favor of a greater good, not through community outreach, but through an individualistic fantasy of being a hero.

and you'll say: charlie, but he does do that !!! he donates his money all the time, he funds social programs, hospitals, orphanages, gets people jobs -

and i will say this: so why don't things get better?

because here's the base of it. gotham, at its core, can't get better. no matter what bruce wayne does, there will always be more crime, more villains, more death, more people for batman to beat up in back alleys. because that's what sells.

reoffending rates don't matter in gotham, prison reform doesn't matter in gotham, what actually causes crime doesn't matter in gotham because that doesn't sell books.

and so here it is; dc has unintentionally created a world where batman can't win, but can't be wrong, and where thousands of nameless, faceless, only-created-to-die civilians must be pushed into the meat grinder that is gotham, to fuel bruce wayne's angst and vindicate his constant, tireless, noble fight against the forces of evil.

and then: a new robin, who is poor and who's parents are dead or gone because of this cycle; who is happy go-lucky and hated by editors and fans for being robin, for not being dick grayson, for being poor.

and this robin is written, unintentionally or not, to be angry at the ways in which batman's (the narrative's) idea of justice is detached from its victims. bruce seems perfectly fine to allow countless unnamed women to be at risk from garzonas in his home country, yet robin is the one who is portrayed as irrational and violent.

this robin is not detached from gotham in the way bruce wayne is: this robin is a product of gotham.

(and here's the thing. you can't punch aids. you can't fight a disease with colorful fights and nifty gadgets. and how would robin dying from aids add to batman's story; it would call into question the systemic changes that haven't been made in gotham. how does a child get aids, in batman's city?)

so robin dies, and then bruce (the narrative) spends the next couple of decades blaming it on him. it is jason's fault; he was reckless, he just ran in, he thought it was all a game. if only bruce had seen what was coming, if only he could have known that jason wasn't rich enough or smart enough or liked enough to be robin.

batman gets a little more violent, a little more self destructive. he hurts people more and almost (!!) kills a couple guys. this is bad because it's self destructive and "not who he is." it is not bad because batman should not be able to just beat people up when he's angry.

and then he gets a shiny new robin - who is all the things jason "wasn't": rich and smart and rational and he doesn't put who batman is into question. batman and robin are partners, and jason is a grave and a cautionary tale, and (crucially here) never right.

the joker kills thousands and it doesn't matter because they were written to be killed.

batman beats up thousands and it doesn't matter because they were written to be criminals.

and then jason comes back, and nothing has changed. there is a batman and a (shiny! rich!) robin and the joker kills thousands. (because it sells)

and jason is angry - he has been left unavenged - his death has meant nothing, just as willis' had, just as catherine's had, just as gloria's had, just as -

thousands. ten of thousands. hundreds of thousands. written to be killed.

but one of them gets to come back.

and he is angry - not only at the joker, but at bruce (the narrative) - because why is the joker still alive (when thousands-)

here is the thing - jason todd is right. not because the death penalty is good, not because criminals deserve to die, not because of everything he says -

but because of what he calls into question. why is the joker alive?

because he sells books.

and dc has written a masterful character, through no fault of their own, because jason knows what is wrong, and he knows who is at fault - batman. (the narrative)

so the argument that bruce can't kill because he's not judge jury and executioner; the argument that jason is a cop or that jason is insane or that jason is in the wrong here; they hold no weight.

batman can't kill the joker because the joker sells comic books.

and jason can't kill the joker because the joker sells comic books.

so he will beg and plead and grovel - he will betray everything that is himself, he will forsake his family and his city and kill himself - just so that bruce (the narrative) will let the joker die.

he was condemned to death by an audience, and after he came back he has spent his whole life looking us in the eyes and screaming, asking, pleading; why is the joker still alive?

why are thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands (the number doesn't matter, see, because they're just a number. not people. not real.) why are we expendable for his story? why did i have to die just for nothing to change?

and the answer is money. and the answer is the batman can never be wrong. and the answer is shitty writing. and the answer is -

nothing jason can ever change.

which is the worst of it all. he is a victim with no power, and no one else in the world can see it. he is raging and crying and screaming at his father and his writers and you - and it doesn't matter. jason doesn't matter. and he knows it.

[cookiealchemieart]

Cosplay of The Long Quiet from @blacktabbygames Slay the Princess

Holy shit I worked on this since at least august! And it's DONE!!!!! Let me tell you I feel both so vindicated and mildly infuriated with how close I got to the design we see in-game, but it's ok. Cosplay is what ya make of it! And I made a damn fine costume If I Do Say So Myself!

I know I don't ask for reblogs like ever, but I worked really hard on this project and I'd like for the fandom to see it. That'd be so cool. So like, yknow, reblog it if you like having bones or something.

ALSO THANK MY MOM FOR TAKING THE PHOTOS SHE'S AWESOME

[asaarii]

hey guys its been a while huh

uhh

yah

idk bro ive just been busy and my love for invincible just took a huge backburner before eventually fizzling out almost entirely

im sorry from the bottom of my heart for disappointing all of you but i cant force myself to write smth i dont care about

also i started college and have been busy doing shit on art fight (aarkose - follow me or dont its up to you im not ur guardian lolsies) oh and the ghost concert in baltimore was really peak

so um yeah this is my official goodbye to the invincible fandom nd i might switch gears and start posting for other fandoms so if u only followed me for this then feel free to unfollow or even block me, no hard feelings

but im not gonna say goodbye with nothing so here are all my mark drafts unedited (not that i ever did before but yknow)

—

lucky lucky lucky pt 2:

“Well, well, well. You’re looking a bit different here, aren’t you, [Name]?�� The caped Mark’s voice lilts with the slightest tinge of morbid curiosity, grinning too widely as his imposing figure floats ever closer. Blood coats his suit, clinging to him like another layer of skin.

So you were a woman in this universe? How interesting…

He’s never felt this seeing you before. Odd. His eyes rake over your body. Calculating. Invasive.

Mark’s grip tightens around you, grounding but unsteady as you feel his chest rise with labored breaths. “What? You know the [Name] from you’re dimension too, you piece of shit?” He snarls, wincing when he reopens a wound on his bloodied lip. You bring your hand up, the pads of your shaking fingers sealing the tear instinctively. His eyes are cold, trained on his variant with a hostility you pray to never evoke—a stark contrast to his warm hold on your waist.

“Knew,” the caped Mark corrects, his shoulders rising and falling in a casual shrug as he lands gracefully before the two of you, the surrounding grass seemingly bending at his presence. “He was a great guy, you know? Had his whole life sorted out. Stable job, good friends, typical college shit. Was a good fuck someyimes too.” He waves his wrist dismissively, gaze locking onto you with a look that could almost be described as mourning.

Almost.

His jaw goes taut beneath his blood-stained skin, lip pulled into a scowl, allowing his sharpened canines to glint beneath the sun. You barely have time to react when he violently pries you from Mark’s grasp, his forearm locking around your throat in a vice grip while his breath fans the shell of your ear.

“I fucking hated him.” The prior bemusement in his voice vanishes, replaced by sinister, deep-rooted vindication that has you shuddering even though it’s not directed towards you. Well, you you. “But hey,” he chuckles darkly, the humorless tones ringing heavy in the air while his arm tightens around your throat, making it more and more difficult to breathe with every passing second, “at least he tasted good.”

You aren’t sure whether the burning in your throat stems from the lack of air or the tears that welled in your eyes for the nth time in the last few hours. Disgust crawls up your spine in nauseous waves as he licks a stray tear up the plane of your cheek, biting down on the wet skin.

All you can do is scream, writhing in his iron grip in a vain attempt to get away from him. It only serves to drive his teeth deeper into your cheek, your blood on his tongue like an oasis in the desert.

He moans at the taste, the sound perverse and vile to your ears. How he’s missed this…He should've savored you more. But the more of this version of you he tastes, the less bad he feels for killing his version of you off so quickly. Here you’re so addictingly sweet, and even though it’s a barely noticeable difference, he’s hooked.

The torn flesh of your cheek melds around his voracious and unrelenting assault, doing its best to pull itself together to no avail. He pauses at the feeling, pulling away slightly to watch the skin warp back into place, eyes darkening with unfiltered desire as he licks remnants of your blood from his lips, that feeling from before coming back stronger than ever. Yes, he recognizes it now.

Lust.

“Well, would you look at that?” He smirks, nose nuzzling against your trembling cheek, “Looks like there’s something of value in at least one version of you. Hell, mine couldn’t even heal a papercut if he tried!”

Oh, this version of you truly was perfect. He can’t help the salacious grin that curls at his lips or the way his tongue instinctively runs over his bloodied teeth.

His free hand travels up the expanse of your navel, settling between the valley of your breasts.

Just how much could you heal? Your bones? Your heart? What he would give to find out…

He’s going to have so much fun watching you fall apart and come back together, sprawled beneath him while he ravages you.

Over and over again.

The tips of his fingers gouge through your skin, and he relishes in the way you cry out; a siren’s song to his deranged ears.

In his daze, he doesn’t register the quick, unaimed grab your Mark makes toward him, prying the variant off you in a violent rage, and shattering his arm with a squeeze of his hand. “Get your disgusting hands off of her!”

The caped Mark has the audacity to look shocked for the briefest of moments, lips parted as he stares down at his now deformed arm, its bones jutting out unnaturally in every direction. On the ground next to them, you wheeze, desperate for the new breath that fills your lungs while simultaneously coughing on choked cries that bubble past your lips.

Your Mark spares you a terrified glance over his twisted double’s shoulder, his momentary distraction allowing the latter to land a solid hit to his abdomen. He keens at the sudden punch, but reacts instinctively to dodge the fist aimed at his skull.

The two take to the sky, their fight a barely perceptible flurry of black, blue, and yellow; an unstoppable force and an immovable object clashing with you at the center of it all. They crash in the field around you occasionally, the ground crumbling beneath the weight of their bodies like sand before they shoot up again, seemingly faster every time.

You can only watch with bated breath as your Mark grabs the variant’s yellow cape, desperation finally cracking through his determined expression as he chokes him out. You can’t hear their conversation from your place below, but you stare as your Mark’s nostrils flare while his malicious double shakily cackles in his grasp, his one good hand clawing at Mark’s wrists.

None of you sees the first ReAniman fall from the sky, landing atop the two Invincibles with a solid thud and sending them all crashing headfirst into solid ground, causing it to splinter around them. Another appears, ripping your Mark away before zeroing in on the hostile variant. Dozens more follow suit, each of their iron-clad fists pounding and hitting with each crazed roar they let out.

Deep down, you know it’s far from enough to kill him, even with a broken arm and number disadvantage. But you can’t help but melt into the safety of Mark’s arms when he rushes over to you, sobbing into his bruised chest while he whispers reassurances into the crown of your head.

“I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”

And you believe him. Of course, you do, because despite it all, he’s still your Mark above all else. The same Mark who wouldn’t stop bugging you about Seance Dog since you were in elementary school, and the same Mark who still eagerly took you to your senior prom with a stupid grin on his face, even though his new responsibilities as a hero often kept him busy.

No, he was yours. Not some fucked up variant with a male—dead—version of you.

You shudder remembering their lustful touches on your skin. So similar, yet so wrong compared to Mark’s.

Amidst the chaos of clammoring fists and pained yells, a drone floats down.

“Cecil…” You hear Mark murmur, his arms tightening around you, acting as a barricade between you and whoever’s on the other side of the drone.

“Mark! Thought we lost you there for a bit, kid.”

“What do you want?” Mark’s voice is strained, tepid as he swallows thickly. You press your hand to his ribs, watching each shift in his expression while you attempt to heal the worst of his wounds. He spares you a thankful glance before staring cautiously at the drone, the lenses of his goggles broken beyond recognition.

“You know, the GDA could use an ability like that.”

Mark stiffens almost instantly, jaw tightening as his eyes narrow into a deathly glare. “Like hell she’s gonna work for you. Now, what do you want, Cecil?”

The person behind the drone sighs wearily in a similar fashion that a parent would when scolding a bratty child. “We want to offer protection to you and your family. It’s the least we can do.” There’s a contemplative pause on the other end, and you jump when the caped Mark from before cries out, no doubt tearing through the ReAnimen with terrifying ease. “We’ve already got Debbie and Paul, but your brother’s still out there. Somewhere. Probably fighting.”

“You took my mom—?!”

“Let me finish, damn it!” Another sigh, this one far more frustrated. “She and Paul are currently at the Pentagon with us, and as lovely as it would be to finally meet your girlfriend in person, it would be too much of a risk to host both of them in the same location.”

“So what are you suggesting?” Reluctant acceptance. Not ideal, but it’s a start.

“Guardians HQ. One of the most secure locations you can reach on such short notice.”

“You’re fucking crazy if you think I’m taking her there!” Mark’s voice cracks with frustration, sneering at the camera on the drone as he sucks his teeth.

“Look, Mark. I don’t care what you decide, but if you want to keep her safe, you better make a choice now because our little friend over there is about to finish tearing through five million dollars worth of government funding and American tax dollars.”

“Cecil! When I get my hands on you—!” The variant’s angered screams cut through the thick silence, the ground quivering beneath your feet as he’s slammed into the ground again and again. Even then, he still gets up, barely phased by the horde unleashed upon him. “I’ll. Rip. You. To. Shreds!” Each word emphasized by a brutal punch to the closest ReAnimen.

Mark watches with an almost macabre fascination, his arms trembling around you as he turns back to the drone.

—

viltrum mark (smut warning: male masturbation and talks of pregnancy)

You knew you were in for it when you’d brought up the prospect of children to Mark. You remembered the way his usually neutral expression darkened, a haze of lust overtaking his expression, only perceptible to you because of how long you’ve spent by his side.

It had been an off-hand comment. One made when you were half-delirious from fatigue during an open house event, tucked into his side, your finger trailing intimately up his chest while you watched the people of Viltrum dance in a rare show of celebration after a hard-fought (and won) conquest over a lesser planet.

You’d watched as parents danced with their children; some of them were born of foreign blood, every other one a different color, with only some lucky enough to take features from their foreign parent; all so insanely different, yet all still so wholly Viltrumite.

You turned to Mark that night, half leaning on his sturdy form, and cradled his strong jaw in your hand while you admired each line of his face. He, too, was no exception from the rampant Viltrumite genes that seemed to plague all of their offspring, but even then, you couldn’t help but wonder if your children would take after you or him.

“Something on your mind?” His words had cut through the fog of your scattered thoughts like a solid punch, his eyes now solely on you instead of the people of his empire, their undeniable warmth setting butterflies loose in the pits of your stomach. You’d felt his fingers overlap yours, his concern evident in the way he gently kissed your palm.

“What do you think our children would look like?” It was nothing more than a gentle, soft-spoken question stemmed from genuine curiosity, one laced with exhaustion and a bit of liquid courage.

And yet…

The world seemed to go still despite the cacophony of celebration around you. Mark’s grip had tightened on the arm of his throne so tightly that all of the nearby attendants had just barely flinched at the sound of denting metal. You swear his eyes darkened by at least three hues as they scanned your face, and you could feel how the hand holding yours had trembled with barely withheld temptation.

However, Mark merely smirked, humoring your half-baked thoughts with a tepid hum to crack the silence. The smallest quirk of his lips that had your heart thundering in your chest and a jolt of heat down your spine. You blinked, and it was gone.

But, he’d heard it, of course, he had. The bastard.

So he took the reins.

“Well, what do you think they would look like?” He’d asked, voice laced with an uncharacteristic teasing lilt. Only his eyes seemed to betray his amusement; the rest of his face the same collected expression it always had been when the two of you were out in public.

You’d brought your free hand up and pinched your chin between your thumb and forefinger whilst trying to conjure the image of your potential child in his mind’s eye. Beside you, Mark leaned in just a tad closer to gauge every shift in your expression, rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb.

“They’d have your nose,” you started slowly, shyly glancing up with a flustered scowl. Your thumb seemed to move on its own when it gently traced up the slightly crooked bridge. His eyes crinkled as he leaned into the touch, still yearning for the feel of you even after all these years. “Maybe your shoulders. Definitely your hair.”

“My nose?”

Your brows pinched as you shoved him away playfully by the shoulder, earning the concerned glances of nearby retainers, who can only watch with bated breath while their emperor takes the blow. “I love your nose.”

“I don’t recall deeming it a bad thing,” he shrugged, his gaze flickering down to your parted lips in a way that could only be described as sin incarnate, “but I’d prefer our child to take on more of your features.”

That has you go stock-still, heat creeping up your cheeks while your mouth goes dry.

Truly, this man would be the death of you.

“Like your smile," he added with a fleeting kiss to your wrist, “your brows,” another kiss, “and, most importantly, your eyes.” A third kiss, weighted and smoldering.

You couldn’t stop yourself from laughing at the absurdity if you’d tried. “My eyes, really? That’s what’s most important to you? A shame since I quite like yours.”

“I love your eyes,” he echoed, blunt and straightforward, yet adoring all the same.

“Yeah?” Your hand fell to his chest, just above the Viltrumite crest where his heart resided, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath your fingertips, and unable to stop the fond smile from tugging at your lips at the intimacy.

“Of course.” Stars above, he adored the look of love in your eyes—your innate ability to look past the monster he was to the rest of the galaxy and remind him that he, too, was merely just a man.

Then, without another word, he turned back to face the crowd, one hand holding yours, while the other mussed his perfectly styled hair as a weak form of distraction before he rested his chin on his knuckles. To anyone else, it appeared as though their emperor was merely getting tired of the festivities, but that couldn’t have been further from the truth.

If anything, he was grateful for whatever it was here that made you finally want to take the next step.

The night continued on without any mention of the interaction, but the lingering tension between the emperor and his empress had been made clear, and it was safe to say that the event had been cut short, much to your relief.

You’d tugged Mark along to your shared room that night with a soft, knowing smile, aware of the heat behind his stare and the implications tied to it. Your usually stoic husband was nowhere to be seen; in his place, a ravenous beast with only one goal in mind.

If only you hadn’t passed out as soon as your head had hit the pillow. Maybe then you would have caught a better glimpse of how deep Mark’s hunger ran—how his eyes roved over every curve of your perfect body beneath the thin sleeping garment you’d slipped on without much thought, from the dip of your collarbone, to the most minuscule shift of your hips.

He huffed a breath through his nose and glanced down at the throbbing problem between his legs, the tent in his royal event attire shamefully prominent.

Maybe if he’d woken you, you would’ve gotten your first real taste of how dedicated Mark could be to getting you pregnant.

He’d pondered the idea, truly, he did. Thought of how you’d feel, all sleepy and pliant beneath him, unable to do anything but run your fingers through his hair or scratch at his back.

Or maybe he’d pin your hands up. Yeah, he supposed that worked, too.

He’d take his time, he surmised, running rough hands over the expanse of your soft skin while you moaned his name like it was the only word you knew.

Instead, he pulled a blanket over you, pressing a chaste kiss to your temple before he made his way to the bathroom connected to your suite.

He initially squinted at the stark fluorescent lights when he flicked them on, but was quick to dim them before a headache could settle behind his eyes. It wasn’t long before he found himself beneath the familiar warm spray of his shower whilst he replayed your words from earlier on in the night.

Children, huh?

The thought of breeding you had wormed its way into his head, injecting itself into his conquest-fuelled brain like an addictive drug long before you’d brought it up. Long before the two of you were married, actually. But, while unconventional by his father’s standards, whose first instinct was always to breed first, court later, he waited; bided his time until the opportunity presented itself.

Because, unlike his father, Mark had no plans of ever becoming intimate with another, no matter how much his people and the council begged and pleaded. All he needed was you, and he wanted you to be comfortable with the idea of having children—his children, to be exact. So, no, he remembered snapping at his father, the wait had never bothered him.

(Not that he’d ever let you have anyone else’s. He’d sooner cut off all of the pathetic, leaking dicks of every soldier under his command before even thinking to entertain such blasphemous thoughts.)

He let his hands roam his body, imagining the ghost of your soft touch in place of his calloused, battle-hardened hands.

He’d always heeded your request for protection, no matter how uncomfortable the earthly rubber felt clinging to his shaft, and when you allowed him the heavenly reprieve of taking you raw, you were always on medication—a pill unfortunately crafted by some of the best doctors on your side of the galaxy. Strong enough to keep even the most potent Viltrumite sperm at bay.

It had been so long since he had any desire to touch himself, especially when he had you to satiate his needs. He finds it almost pathetic how hard he is.

His hand had found its way to his leaking cock, his thumb circling the tip in slow, curated circles that had him, Viltrum’s cold and composed emperor, involuntarily shuddering at the mere thought of you carrying his heir. His head tilted back, exposing the column of his neck to the comforting stream of scalding water that he imagined to be your mouth instead.

His Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed, eyes pinched shut as images of you fluttered behind his eyelids. All the positions he’d taken you in, the sounds you made when you held onto him for dear life while he fucked you into the matress with the might of a man who’s made planets crumble beneath his palm, softened only by his unending desire to love only you.

For you were never something to be conquered or taken. No. You were his wife, his equal in everything.

It didn’t take long for the sight of you to shift in his brain.

What were once memories bled into possibilities.

You, round with his child, yet still regal all the same. A maternal aura around your ethereal being in his mind, your smile directed only towards him, before falling to your stomach, where your hand caressed the fruits of your shared labor and the future heir to his throne.

He spared a glance down at the hand wrapped too tightly around the length of his shaft, the tip of it flushed red and swollen with want despite his generous strokes. He felt the familiar feeling of a pending orgasm build within the depths of his stomach, his abs clenched taut in anticipation, but it never came, only leaked from his head in a pathetic, thin streams of need and a desire to be buried deep inside your warm cunt.

His strokes became more vigorous, his arm curled over his head while he leaned against the shower wall.

He’d murmured your name like a prayer beneath his breath, each twist of his wrist fuelled by the idea of you cradling his child in your loving arms in the near future. He always knew you’d be a great mother.

—

random ass angst idk

“You aren’t listening to me, Mark.” Exasperation ebbs into your tone as you rub the bridge of your nose in an attempt to quell the churning ball of fire in the pit of your stomach. Neither you nor Mark had opted to take off your costumes outside of your headgear after finally recuperating since the invasions of the variants, and, to be fair, the conversation started amicably at first, but it didn’t take long for it to spiral, leading you to now, both of your fists clenched on opposite sides of the kitchen of your shared apartment.

You heave a sigh, leaning against your fridge and finding small comfort in the way the cold metal presses against your cheek. The Invincible magnet hangs close to your eye, just barely brushing another that holds your hero insignia. Another sigh threatens to break past your lips when you turn back to your usually emotive boyfriend, but you manage to choke it back by dragging your hand tiredly down your face.

Mark remains silent on the other side of the kitchen, and you can see his jaw clench the same way it always does whenever he holds his tongue.

“Where were you?” You finally start again after a moment of tense silence, voice barely above a whisper but impossibly loud to his inhuman hearing. Maybe you were kicking a dead horse at this point, but you needed answers. “You were gone twelve fucking hours, Mark. Where. Were. You?”

His lips part, then close, then open once more. He swallows down the bile threatening his throat the second he speaks.

“With Eve.”

He watches the plethora of emotions that cross your face, ranging between betrayal and unbridled rage before you ultimately school your temper. God, all he wants to do is reach out to you and hold you close, whispering his apologies into the crown of your head. He’s internally pleading for you to say anything as the minutes tick on. Maybe he’s a masochist, but he doesn’t allow himself the liberty of breaking your stare.

He wishes so desperately to turn back the clock; to kill Angstrom before he had the chance to ruin his life.

But, unfortunately, this fault didn’t lie with Angstrom.

Your stare, once confused, now pierces through him, not as Mark, but as Invincible, the hero who turned his back on Earth during its time of need to stay at the bedside of a friend. A tired “Why?” is all you can muster, shoulders slumped as if weighed down by his answer.

One word. That’s all it took to shake Mark’s already unsteady resolve. The slump in your shoulders and the slight crack in your voice has his hand twitching at his side, drawn to you like a compass pointing north. He watches with tear-brimmed eyes as you sigh to yourself, unable to meet his gaze as you nearly shut down after what could have easily been hours of arguing for all he knows.

Mark swallows, his voice trembling as he responds despondently. “I couldn’t lose another friend. She needed me there, [Name].”

Your brows furrow involuntarily and you take a step closer, pointing accusingly at him while the words dry in your throat. All you can do is stare at him emptily while you try to slowly process his words—he’s not serious, is he? He holds your gaze pleadingly, running his hand through his hair, tousling the already messy locks. His other hand holds onto the counter, cracks appearing on the polished granite despite the little force applied.

Oh. He is.

“What about Rex?” Another tentative step. “He was a friend too, wasn’t he? He needed you.” You can hear the pathetic tremble in your own voice, the feeling of fresh tears burning your overworked tear ducts. “Or the hundreds of thousands of people left to die because Invincible wasn’t there to protect them. They needed you—still do, actually.” Your chest is nearly touching his now, protected only by your crossed arms as your voice rises an octave. “Or even me, Mark. I—fuck, this is so stupid.”

You feel his palm on your shoulder alongside a tender whisper of your name when you turn away, but he’s quick to drop it when he feels the muscles tense beneath his palm.

“They could have attacked her!” His frustration is evident in the way his eyes shut, jaw clenched tight enough to shatter his own teeth. “I’m the only one who could’ve protected her.”

Deep down he knows he should just stop talking, but his brain is too inebriated to be able to stop the words from flowing out.

“Are you fucking hearing yourself? She’s a superhero, Mark! And I doubt Cecil would have let anyone come close without busting that goddamn teleporter first.” You gesture wildly to the empty space around you. “These people don’t have that luxury!” The simmering rage beneath your skin falters upon seeing the tears stream down his bruised and bandaged cheeks, and you fight the growing urge to pull him into your arms and wipe them away. Instead, you double down, your words far more venomous than you anticipated. “Debbie doesn’t have that luxury.”

Your hand flies to your lips, eyes wide with instant regret at how easily the low blow slipped from your tongue.

Fuck, the fatigue of recent events was really starting to get to both of you.

For the first time since the argument started, he squares his shoulders, taken aback by the direct attack. “Don’t bring mom into this.” His words are stern, an unspoken warning that puts you on high alert. His cheeks are still wet with tears, but his gaze is now guarded; tense.

Yet, even though your skin prickles beneath the sudden hardness of his stare, you can’t help but scoff, puffing your chest up defensively while your fingers dig crescents into your arms beneath your suit, the fight almost entirely drained from your body. “She could’ve died.” The words are nothing more than a tired murmur, but they tilt Mark’s world on its axis nonetheless.

“What?” Just as quickly as his defenses are put up, they’re torn down, and you can see the conflict clouding his sunken eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”

You swallow thickly, licking your lips as the sound of thunder rumbles in the distance. Part of you wonders why Cecil hadn’t told him, but the man most likely had his reasons. Whatever convoluted slop they may be.

“One of your variants broke into your mom’s house,” you start slowly, the memories of that night coming back in broken fragments that had previously been locked away.

It doesn’t take a genius to see the way you curl into yourself protectively, your previous rage simmered down to an unreadable amalgamation of feelings as you take a generous step away from Mark who feels his already fractured heart nearly shatter in his chest. He calls your name out, voice cracking when you put even more distance between the two of you.

The counter splinters in his grasp unintentionally and you can’t hide the jolt that travels up your spine at the loud sound.

It’s only for the briefest of seconds, but he sees his deepest fear come to fruition in the form of your scared face directed towards him.

You steady your breathing, trying not to look at the shattered counter. “I had a feeling something was wrong, so I went to check on your mother, and when I got there,” you gulp, attempting to suppress the tremor that racks your whole body, “he—he was pretending to be you. He’d called out to your mom in an attempt to lure her out. And I’d rushed in thinking Debbie was still inside the house.”

Mark’s heart stills, cold terror washing over him. Suddenly, he’s aware of the gooseflesh beneath his suit, the bile he’d previously swallowed now coming back at full force.

---------

goodbye everypony and im sorry once again

[fanfixforfanfics]

Late Night Picture Show - Lux Imperator|Mr. Ring-A-Ding x Reader

oh my god i haven't written much less been close to finishing something in years i've been possessed by this FREAK. it hasn't even been 24 hrs since i started on it. i wasn't planning on this getting sexual but uh. yknow. just felt like i should keep going. so i figured i'd post the first half since it's all i originally INTENDED to write. dear god put me down like a lame horse

chap 1 is sfw, chap 2 will be explicit

It’s been a few months since, you met your… acquaintance, Mr. Ring-A-Ding. You say acquaintance, because you don’t really know your standing. You met him while working on a project to rebuild an old theater in town, and the little freak has been bugging you since. You caught on to the “I’m just a little guy” act within a month, but you’re still not completely sure what his deal is. You’re careful, but try not to let him yank you around either.

Words: 2,357

chapter 2 -> (coming soon!)

It’s been a few months since, you met your… acquaintance, Mr. Ring-A-Ding. You say acquaintance, because you don’t really know your standing. You met him while working on a project to rebuild an old theater in town, and the little freak has been bugging you since. You caught on to the “I’m just a little guy” act within a month, but you’re still not completely sure what his deal is. You’re careful, but try not to let him yank you around either.

You’re taking a small break from taking inventory on the recovered films in the projector room, just sketching whatever takes your fancy, when he pops his eyes over the desk. You pretend not to notice, just keep drawing. His little fingers pop up next, wiggling with an accompanying sound effect, before placing the pads of his fingers on the notebook with clear intent to swipe it. You put your arm on it as you lean over the desk to eye him down like a naughty cat.

“And just what do you think you’re doing, sir?” His shit-eating grin, previously hidden by the desk, is now on full display as he rises.

“Just checking in on my old pal! You don’t seem like you’re too busy for me right now, you know, your favorite excuse.” You draw in a breath through your nose, and sigh.

“Not busy at the moment, I guess.” You sit up and remove your arm, about to shut the notebook, when he stops you. “No, wait, I wanna see!”

You give him a tired smile. You can humor him-- this notebook is for work, so there isn’t much he could tease you for in there. Just doodles between the notes you take about the theater. You shut it, and hand him the book. His grin widens, and he snatches it with a ‘yoink!’

He begins thumbing through greedily, but he slows down as his face falls. He looks at you with his big wet eyes.

“These are nice, but… not a single one of me? I thought we were friends?” You giggle, and feel vindicated in your choice to only draw him in the peace of your home. Some of the art you’ve done would surely become ammo against you in his hands.

“I mean, do you see anyone else in there either?” He flicks to a page and shoves it in your face.

“You drew Kevin before me? You hate that guy!” You throw your head back and cackle when faced with the doodle of a man in a hard hat with an anguished face shouting “If only this could have been prevented!” as he lies prone on the ground.

“That was the day he fell in that hole I told him not to walk over, fuckin’ idiot.”

Mr. Ring-A-Ding tuts, waggling his finger and scolding you for language. “Still… not a single little scribble for little old me?” He pouts and lets one little crocodile tear dangle from the corner of his eye.

“You want one that bad, Ring?” He nods, slow and sad, before batting his eyelashes with a little 'plink plink!' He hands over your notebook.

“Make sure you get my good side!”

“You’ve only got two of ‘em, Ring.”

“But they’re both good?” “’Course, handsome little devil, aren’tcha?”

He grins and straightens his lapels before adding, “And humble to boot!”

It doesn’t take long, you had admittedly gotten quite good at drawing him in your spare time. Not that you’ll tell him that. It’s just him grinning and winking, but he lets out a whistle as he appraises it.

“Now this… this is art!” His hat falls forward as he looks down at it, and without thinking, you push it back into place for him. His pupils flicker yellow for a split second as he looks up at you. “Oh! Uh, thanks for that.” You grimace, feeling bad for touching him without permission.

“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

He waves away your concerns. “I don’t mind! You caught me off guard, warn a guy first.” “Yeah. Forgot about the touching thing.” “Touching thing? I don’t have a thing .” He pouts, indignant.

“You totally have a touching thing. You get this look in your eye like you’re gonna bite my hand off if I touch you.”

He squints. “I think you’re making assumptions, and you know what what they say about that. But I don’t have to assume anything to say you drew that pretty quickly.” His smile widens, lids lower and eyebrows raise.

You do your best to remain neutral. “Yeah, that’s not an assumption, but an insinuation. Very astute!”

He scowls, and lifts himself up on the desk to be eye level as he leans forward, pointing a blue finger right in your face. “You did that like you’ve done it a hundred times before. I’ve got your number, babe , don’t I?”

You feel heat in your cheeks, but bite your lips to keep them in a flat line. You go to move his hand from your face gently as a you start with a soft, “Ring,” but he cuts you off.

“I think you like me a lot more than you let on.”

God, you didn’t want him to know anything about this. Sure, you’ve got a crush on him. So what? You weren’t going to let him know, because you knew it’d lead to this. Teasing. Being made fun of. That’s the sort of thing that happens when you open up . Your cheeks burn, and you feel your eyes start to water . You can’t look at him, not right now.

You train your eyes on your lap as you gently move his hand away. “Ring, I… I gotta get back to work. You can keep the drawing.” You tear it out of your notebook and leave it on the desk, and leave the room.

H e leaves you be for the rest of your shift, to your surprise. No making faces in the projector window, no trying to convince your coworkers there’s a ghost by turning things on or off… nothing. You hate to admit you miss it. You watch the last of your coworkers leave, then sigh in relief. They know you’re always last to leave, even if they don’t know why. You’ll take the undue credit of being a diligent worker any day, though.

The sun has been down for a long while, now. You make your way back up to the projector room, at least wanting to give Mr. Ring-A-Ding a proper farewell before you leave. You’re just a bit… worried.

As you walk in, you see he’s waiting for you already. He waves meekly, rather unusual. You smile softly, and give him a little wave back.

“Work over already, huh?”

“Yeah,” you rub the back of your neck. “And it’s Friday, so y’know… I’ll uh, see you Monday.”

He grimaces, and rubs his knuckles nervously. You murmur a little “bye” before he puts a hand out, asking you to wait. You turn to him, obliging his request. He plays with his collar, tugging on it comically before speaking. “Was just thinking, you need to watch over the old reels to see which ones still work, yeah? Thought maybe you could squeeze in one before you went home?”

You smile, before deciding to tease him a bit. “Man, I dunno Ring, I’m real busy. This weekend I was planning on narrowing down my list of countless suitors, visiting one of my several luxurious vacation homes, and hanging out with my closest hundred or so friends. Y’know, weekend plans. Just so busy.”

He rolls his eyes, then twirls what’s left of his hair, letting out a very convincing, “Ahaha, you’re sooo funny.” He walks over to the second-hand love seat that had recently been brought in to use the projector room as a break room of sorts, but you were really the only one who used it. He sits down, then pats the seat beside him. “I already loaded in the reel, you just gotta start it, sunshine.”

He’s acting like himself again, good. You start the reel, before taking the seat beside him, leaning on the arm.

You expect some old shit you’ve never seen before that you’ll mostly make fun of, but it seems familiar…

“Dude. Did you really put on Singing in the Rain?”

He shrugs and grins. “C’mon, it’s a classic! An old favorite of mine!”

“Sorry, I forget you’re like, a million years old.”

“You don’t know the half of it!”

You watch the movie quietly, listening as he tells you trivia. Within fifteen minutes, you notice he’s been trying to inconspicuously get closer to you, your knees now touching. 30 minutes in, his cartoony thighs are pressed against the side of yours. He tries to play off an exaggerated yawn as he rests his arm behind your shoulder. Goober. You side eye him, vaguely amused.

“See? I don’t have a “touching thing.”

You raise your eyebrows, not believing him. “This is you touching me, not me touching you. That’s different.”

He takes the challenge. “Oh yeah? Then do it. Touch me.” He grins at you like you’re too chicken, the little fucker.

“You got it, boss.” You reach under the arm behind you, and pull him so that he’s sitting hip to hip with you. You feel him tense as you do it, and feel him try his best to relax. You don’t hold him there, immediately giving him the option to scoot away. He doesn’t though. He does wiggle a little, before resting his head on your shoulder. “Comfy?”

He nods into your shoulder, and looks up at you. There’s that flicker of yellow again. You sigh. “Ring, you don’t have to do this to prove a point or something. I just want you to be comfortable.”

“I don’t have anything to prove.” He looks back at the movie, but you keep watching him as he takes the hand that pulled him closer, gently resting his hand on top. There’s just a hint of blush on his cheeks. Was he… genuinely enjoying this?

Slowly, you turn over your hand, splaying your fingers in a silent offering. He takes it, twining his fingers with your own. There’s this sort of… buzz to the way he feels, the same kind of warm hum that comes from something like a light bulb. Slowly, you lean your head closer to him, the side of your cheek nearly touching the top of his head. He scoots into the touch, and sighs contentedly. You give his hand a little squeeze. This is nice.

A little too nice, apparently, because you’re woken up as he snaps, calling his ladies to turn off the projector.

“Oh, it’s over?”

He leans against you a little more firmly. Carefully, you hold him a bit closer. He looks up at you a little too innocently and asks, “Do you have to leave yet?”

You groan a bit as you reach for your phone to check the time. It’s nearly eleven. You look back at him as he bats his eyelashes. Damn him.

“I can stay a little longer. Should wake up a little more before I try to get home, I guess.” He grins triumphantly, and you ruffle his hair a little bit. “You’re so silly.”

He swats your hand away playfully, and you let it fall back to his side. He snuggles up closer to you. He’s been awfully quiet…

“So…”

“So?” You look down at him, waiting for him to continue.

“Was thinking about helping you narrow down that list you mentioned earlier.”

“Oh? Checking the films?”

“Huh? No, no, your uh, countless suitors?”

You stifle a laugh. “Oh yes, how could I forget. Always vying for my attention and what have you.” You turn your body toward him, and gently cup his cheek. He jumps just a little, that little yellow flicker. You move to take your hand back, but he catches it in presses it closer to his face. He looks you in the eye, pupils still holding that light glow, and it brightens, almost shimmering as he presses a reverent kiss to your palm.

Oh.

You stroke his cheek with your thumb, and he nuzzles your hand. You pull your hand back for just a second to get leverage as you lean back on the arm of the love seat, before pulling your legs up, inviting him to sit in your lap. He wastes no time in straddling your hips, and nuzzles into your neck. He pulls back up, lidded eyes, and return of the shit-eating grin.

“I knew you liked me.”

You shrug, letting one hand sit on his hip, the other against his cheek. “Maybe. You like me?”

“Puh-lease. You’re the only reason I haven’t chased all of those clowns out of the theater. Or worse.”

“What? You like being the only clown?” He turns his nose up in defiance, but take away all of his bravado as you squeeze it and it very much makes a little honk noise. He hides his face in the crook of your neck. You press a kiss between his antenna, they tickle your face as they curl up. “I’m sorry for freaking out earlier. I just… I didn’t think this would happen. Thought you were making fun of me.”

“Don’t mention it.” You pet his head, fingers playing in his hair idly.

“Ring, I, uh… Is it okay if I kiss you?”

H e looks up at you with eyes widen immediately, and you swore hearts were in his pupils for just a fraction of a second before he nods. Your eyes flutter shut, and before you can press your lips to his, he’s pulling you in by your shirt. Your face is held in his hands now, he kisses you softly, every movement intentional. He’s leaning into it, trying to get closer, arms circled around your neck, the back of your head cradled by him. You kiss him back, caressing his face and holding him closer your body. You find yourself unable to keep from smiling.

[martinblackwoodhater]

just finished my second relisten to tma and actually why is martin such a fucking bitch fr 😭 bro stands around doing nish for 3 seasons with a cup of tea then spends a season following peter like a fucking dumbass being a bitch to anyone thats not jon the whole damn show like godamn 😭 then hes walking the fucking apocalypse like 'jon fuck ur morals u should kill avatars thier monsters never mind that we are both avatars also im going to slap u and hold u accountable for starting the apocalypse so its ur job to fix it not like u were manipulated' 😭 liek damn bitch fuck off actually

yknow what someone had to say it good for you i lowkey love you for this. i do always appreciate when there are people who hate martin more intensely than me it really makes me feel vindicated and less radical

[mothiir]

yknow what??? fuck it. im not even gonna turn on anon. IM NOT EVEN GONNA DO IT!! because at this point you'd clock my ass a nautical mile off for who it is just bc im gonna ask for exactly what you caught me for on anon LAST TIME.

SO,,,, haha,,,, heyyyy mothiiiiir,,,, pllllleeeasse more nasty ass rabbit/emp headcanonnns OR writing or anything,, you always cook and im one starving ass loser.

thank you ily and your writing once again ok ok ok BYEEE

cw: angst, not what you intended but this got me thinking about the emperor and then uh. we got this. not set in the little rabbit verse, which will soon become obvious. playing loose with the canon timelines because i don’t know exactly how the burning of monarchia went down.

—

—

Monarchia burns — and three days later, Guilliman and his sons make planet fall.

—

It takes a great deal to surprise a Primarch, and yet here Guilliman is, blinking at the charred rubble of your former capital, struggling to find words.

“Say that again,” he says, at length. You sit up from your prostrated position, lifting your head just enough to address his shins rather than the ground.

“There is no penance great enough for the crime we have committed against the Emperor and the Imperium,” you say, your voice soft, but ringing clear. “There is no punishment that we do not deserve for such blatant defiance of the Imperial Truth. I can state that we were misled — which is true — and that we were ignorant, but that is no excuse. All I can say is that when I discovered that my Lord Husband was acting in defiance of the Emperor’s wishes, I acted as swiftly as I could to remedy it.”

It makes even less sense the second time around. The once-glorious city is wreathed in flames; the sun blotted out by a miasma of smoke. The same story is repeated across the entire planet. A revolution almost overnight — temples torn down, idols cast into the sea, believers put to the sword. The few Word Bearers that remained had died at their posts; they had slaughtered thousands of their kinsman, but died all the same. Bears torn down by hounds.

“You did this,” he says. You shake your head minutely. Your hair — once a glorious braid almost to your waist, always ornamented with some fancy that Lorgar had gifted you — has been chopped into an unkempt bob around your shoulders. Guilliman vaguely remembers a tale amongst Lorgar’s adopted people: of a queen who had lost a great battle, and shorn her locks in penance.

“No my lord. I did nothing. My people acted against the rot in our ranks. They carved it out.”

“Millions have died.”

“It is no great loss that those who would espouse the evils of theology perish,” you say, your voice as flat and featureless as a windless sea. “All I ask is that those that remain…”

For a moment, emotion returns to your voice, colouring it.

“All I ask is that some of them be spared. Please.”

You lift your face for the first time since his arrival. Your lips are lined with blood, shadows hung beneath eyes sunk deep into their sockets. In the space of three days, you seem to have aged decades — from a fresh-faced woman in the bloom of youth, to a crone who has seen the ending of all that she loves.

—

The seas do not boil. The sky does not burn. Another battle is brought to a shuddering, decisive end as the Ultramarines join on the side of your rebels — no, you cannot think of them as such. They are not rebels; they are vindicated. They are fighting for the truth, for what is right and good. They are crusaders.

You — you are not a crusader. You are not sure what to call yourself. Lorgar called you a goddess; a title that always disquieted you, but you accepted it, for his eyes shone so when he looked at you, and he made love to you as though you were the only thing that mattered. Now, you have lost count of the number of men and women who have died for referring to you as such.

You are not a widow either. Your husband lives, though you do not know where he is. Once, Lorgar pressed his hand to your chest and felt the thrum of your heart against his palm and said that no matter where you went there was a golden cord that bound your heart to his; that no void nor fire could split asunder what was joined in love.

You dream that you wind a golden chain around your hands, pull it taut, and bite until your teeth chip, until your tongue bleeds, until it frays into dust on your lips.

—

When you meet the Emperor, you press your forehead to the cinder-warm flagstones that used to be a marketplace, and you wait for death. You know, in a distant dreamy sort of way, that you should be afraid, but you are not. You accepted your death what seems like a lifetime ago — in reality, it is less than four days since you gave the order to start burning the temples.

The irony of it all. People answered your call to arms, to not-so-holy war, because you are Lorgar’s bride, because you are the woman once called goddess. And what did you do with the power that he gave you? You ordered that his greatest works be destroyed.

But what else could you have done?

Colchis is your home. And in his arrogance — in his endless childish arrogance — Lorgar would have let it burn to ash rather than do as he had been bid. Did he truly believe his father a god? If so, why would he not obey his commandments as soon as they were given?

Thinking this way hurts you — not only because it stirs anger like a wounded animal in your breast, but because it throws into stark relief how Lorgar’s mind contained chasms and corners you never saw. How even though you gave yourself to him as completely as a woman can, he always kept parts of himself hidden from you — but you will not waste time delving into that labyrinth. His beliefs are inconsequential. Only the facts matter. Lorgar worshipped his father as a god. Lorgar was told to stop. Lorgar did not.

You visited the day of judgement upon Colchis before the Emperor got the chance, betting everything on a single desperate gesture. You do not regret it, though you will dream of the dying wails of your people until the end of your days. If you had not acted, all would have died. Now, maybe — just maybe — some may live.

“The girl acted in the best interests of her people,” the Emperor says, and it is only then that you realise precisely what was happening: he was rifling around in your head, subtly enough that you could not see the intrusion; mistaking his exploration for an ill-timed moment of navel-gazing. All at once, pain rushes into your knees and thighs, knife-like cramps. How long have you been kneeling there?

Then, inexplicably, a wash of frustration: girl, he calls you. Girl. You are staring down your third decade of life — nothing for one such as him, of course, but really.

Girl. You carved out your still-warm heart and laid it on a flaming altar and he refers to you as girl.

“Stand,” he says, and you obey, fighting the hysterical urge to snort with laughter — you’re exhausted, swooning, and starting to feel the after-effects of the universe’s most powerful psyker reading your thoughts. Blood drips down your chin. “I am satisfied with the efforts of your loyal Imperial citizens against the primitive cultists.”

“Thank you my lord,” you say, keeping your gaze fixed on the ground — thus missing entirely the swift, puzzled look Guilliman gives you, for ‘I am satisfied’ is more praise than the Emperor normally gives anyone.

(And perhaps it is just a trick of the light, or the wild shadows cast by the afterglow of battle, but Guilliman swears that just for a moment his father smiles.)

“Heracles,” says the Emperor, addressing one of the gigantic golden sentinels standing to attention beside him. “You will escort her aboard the Bucephalus. We will speak further when I have dealt with my son.”

The golden sentinel inclines her head, and you try your best to stay upright, your legs shaky as a newborn colt. You do not think of what the Emperor will do to Lorgar; you cannot.

“It goes without saying,” says the Emperor, almost as an afterthought. “But your marriage to him is annulled.”

Eight years. Your life; your heart; that golden cord. What love has joined together, none may tear asunder - except that is not true, was never true.

“Yes my lord,” you say.

[metal-queer-rex]

discussing Taskmaster series 19 spoilers under the cut, with data i gather from a spreadsheet i keep of the scores

So the 9th episode just aired, and since episode 5 aired i've been building a comprehensive spreadsheet of every taskmaster score from every task in every series. At that point i'd been rooting for Mat since day one already and that was his second disqualification from a task, and i wanted to prove to myself that he was still statistically likely to win.

ive never done statistics my whole life so idk what i'm doing but i love using spreadsheets and i know how to turn those into graphs, so i started collecting the data from every series, hoping to dig out some patterns, which i did.

as soon as i was done compiling everyone's data i saw similarities with the score patterns of Noel Fielding (s4), Liza Tarbuck (s6), Lou Sanders (s8) and Dara Ó Briain (s14)

(what the s19 graph looked like, 5 episodes in)

they all got some pretty close calls, but stayed in first place pretty much their entire series, with Noel being the only one to dip below first place past episode 1 (by cheating and disqualifying his whole team, smh)

now that's pretty much what i was hoping, in the best case, for Mat's scores to look like. Rosie was setting herself up to be catching up to him in a pretty consistent way, so at that point i was clinging to the knowledge that everyone who had a strong early lead similar to Mat's ended up winning their respective series.

obviously now i have stats up to the end of the penultimate episode, and after seeing them i just wanted to do a little experiment. what if i filled the section for episode 10 with the score from episode 4 (Rosie Ramsey's best scoring episode in the series, and also one that was below Mat's average score)

alright so he would still win, but what if they're keeping a pretty bad episode for him at the end, like a plot twist? let's imagine he got disqualified in his most successful task, and dock him 5 points

riiiiight i mean let's say he failed his second best one as well then

sure let's push it, three disqualifications then, giving him an episode score of 3

it's getting harder to notice but he would still be in first place if next week he gets a total score of three and Rosie gets her own best score a second time.

this is a very long and pointless post that truly shines a light on how UNWELL i am about taskmaster at the moment, but the fact i have to push the scores cartoonishly far for Mat's score to be threatened is all the vindication i needed. i spent hours making a spreadsheet to prove to myself that Mathew Baynton would win, and i think i've proven it.

is this whole post just another proof to myself? probably. some sort of digital footprint of "YES!! I CALLED IT" about the show i've been obsessed with since early spring? absolutely. but also it's really fun and i know i'll keep on filling it when s20 comes.

and yknow what? if by some miracle Mat DOESN'T win and face plants at the very end, i'll be just as impressed because that would be a feat in itself.

[midnightshindig]

Deep inhale

Deep exhale

Okay official thoughts on the new invincible episode

Spoilers (duh)

I’m going to get a LOT of hate for this but the Invincible writers need to get more comfortable with plot alterations because I’m starting to suspect the comics weren’t well written.

That’s a scathing and DAMNING criticism but hear me out: there’s too much.

This was a 52 minute episode and I was emotionally exhausted by the end of it. To the point I FORGOT why Eve was in the hospital because it was like forever ago.

There’s too much. There’s no room to breathe. Having longer episodes doesn’t mean you should cram as many plot lines into it as possible, it means you get to take your time with the most important ones.

This episode felt like that one phineas and ferb episode where everything is being told backwards through a series of parallel flashbacks and I LOATHED that episode as a child. But that was for absurdist humor not genuine bad storytelling.

Mark has been too angsty for too long. Like, he doesn’t listen to anybody about anything and I genuinely can’t tell if the show is framing Mark as being wrong but sympathetic (because he’s obviously sympathetic as hell he’s a young adult child in the face of everything) OR if the show genuinely thinks Cecil is the wrong one and Mark is vindicated in his police state bullshit. Mark can’t decide if people should die or not and damns Cecil for contradicting a moral system Mark hasn’t even solidified himself.

And the show just. Doesn’t care? Because there’s no time to care. The pathos is getting put on the back burner so we can infinity war POOF like half the cast- except- nope! We lose the only side character with any real growth or investment and keep, what,.. exactly? Kate pregnancy arc? Shapesmith? Fucking- Black Samson???? Why? Rex’s sacrifice kills one Mark, equivalent to a couple of Cecil’s reanimen. That sucks. And his death didn’t even get the comeuppance it deserved because the show HAD NO TIME to give a fuck about it.

I loved the Mark variants, and I thought it was cool how they have such distinct characters and motivations, they weren’t just all copies of evil asshole mark. Some of them killed Nolan, some killed Debbie. They didn’t recognize Oliver. THEY DIDNT RECOGKNIZE OLIVER. god I’m realizing that as I write this Jesus Christ

But that’s because it gets glossed over!

Eve and Mark grew on me a little, but watching Mark choose Eve’s safety over his brothers and his completely powerless mothers was character assassination go fuck yourself. I could buy Oliver, he has powers and Mark has trained him in not worried about him

But Mark choosing to be Eves ADDITIONAL security instead of procreating his mother, when, in alternate universes Eve doesn’t even matter to Mark, but Debbie is ALWAYS his mother, and explaining his decision with “what if they come for Eve?”

BRO WHAT IF THEH COME FOR DEBBIE????

And we see that they literally tried to!! I imagine killing/threatening Debbie was part of Angstrom Levy’s plan. Yknow. Seeing as they’re at her fucking house???

There’s too much and the only character with real enjoyable development is dead and the second best character is Oliver imo.

ALSO- Darkwing suddenly gets redeemed enough to sacrifice himself for the greater good and like. For what? When? Why? If his sacrifice means nothing about redemption to Mark then he can go fuck himself he has been genuinely so unlikable this season

Which is a shame because Mark in season one and two was my favorite show protagonist like ever. I LOVED the way he interacted with the world and was reasonably flawed but still enjoyable. The show is forgetting what made it enjoyable. It’s a complete tone shift that- I can rock with- but isn’t being handled gracefully. I almost wish this episode had been split up, for breathing room, to give the mark invasion more of an impact and less of a “monster of the week” feel.

Making Rae a love interest only for Rex to die was cheap and trite and really robbed us of an opportunity for Mark or Eve or even like Rudy to mourn Rex. Rudy has been reduced to the smart guy in love with Amanda and I don’t think Amanda actually had any lines this episode which is damning because shes delightfully catty at times. Give Rex telling Rudy to make good use of his dna, give me Rex apologizing to Eve for not being a better boyfriend, give me- idk man- Rex asking Bulletproof to take care of things for him, or reconciling with a joke with Amanda, or crying or SOMETHING. His death wasn’t even triumphant, it was miserable

Characters the show could probably kill with minimal consequence: Amanda, Shapesmith, Black Samson, Bulletproof, Rae, POWERPLEX, and many, many others

Like Allen and Nolan aren’t in this episode at ALL and I just noticed because it felt so crammed full and they still didn’t have space for Nolan and Allen.

It’s too much. They’re writing five different shows all at once and it’s too much to write and too much to put into one hour long episode and it’s too much to watch in one sitting. It’s a monster of a project and it doesn’t/shouldn’t have to be.

The positives:

Oliver SHINED this episode, consistent in that he disobeys when he thinks he’s right, but he’s so damn cute and we see him know his limits, focusing on saving people when earlier S3 Oliver would’ve went straight to killing variant Marks.

I can see Oliver being manipulated by a variant Mark at some point in the future.

Debbie. Debbie is always a win.

The Varient Marks were a fucking marvel. Say what I will, they juggled different costumes and personalities so well. Someone else on here pointed this out but they’re all annoying in different ways it’s so well crafted and the voice actor (Steven Yeun?) did a great job of distinguishing their inflections and speech patterns without them sounding too different

Cyborg Donald and Donald’s gradual acceptance of what he is was so nice and understated and I liked it a lot. Who the fuck is Brit? They’re mentioned by name like three times. I’m so curious

Cecil was a total babe this episode fsfs

The animation? Peak. The animated gore?

I winced and cried out and genuinely screamed in shock multiple times.

When Angstrom is showing how he got put back together and his bottom jaw moves in different directions? My dad and I had to look away when we rewound to show my sister it was genuinely sickening. MAJOR props to them for that. Eves leg snapping made me almost throw up it was so suddenly nauseating to hear and see

Oliver having to crouch a little to stop midair versus the varient Marks being able to stop while standing straight like Nolan is such a good little detail. Oliver is flying like he’s swimming because he’s just a kid.

Paul? I guess? Idk I like the implication that he coaxed Debbie into relocating to his house for safety. Wish they’d had the time to show that.

All the background superheroes looked appropriately nice and recognizing them from the GotG tryout episode from s1 was a nice callback

Uhm, Rudy and Amanda. Always a win. Wish we’d seen Amanda take advantage of her new belt but I’m sure that’s coming soon enough

Eves parents are devastatingly well written as always. The mom being well meaning but still awful is so grotesquely true to form. Watching them reminds me of my exes parents and makes me a little sick to think about, 10/10 writing for them

The chemistry between Eve and Mark was pleasant this episode, i wish Eve still felt like her own character </3

I LOVED the William/Rick moment and the brief Amber/keith(? Is that his name?) moment. Rick realizing the positives of his tragedy is a nice moment albeit understated as hell.

Uhhhhhhhh shit… the background art was particularly nice. Buildings crumbling looked good as fuck

I think that’s all from me for now, feel free to respond or ask me additional stuff!!