Heartbeat

preliminary cover drop 😌

the peter parker to steve harrington pipeline is real huh

anyway,,,

Loki season 2 this, I Am Groot season 2 that. When does my son Moon Knight come home from the war, huh? What about that?

MENTALLY I AM HERE

The amount of effort ficwriter does in order to write a fic. "nah the story doesn't need to be that accurate it's just a fic I'm not getting any money out of it" and then as they keep writing and posting their browse history is something like "moon calendar in 1981"

    Because let’s be honest the community is lacking bodily diverse characters, faceclaims, and resources so here’s masterlist of over 380+ bodily diverse faceclaims with their age and ethnicity noted if there was a reliable source! If you have any suggestions or know any missing information feel free to send us an ask! Please give this post a like or reblog if you found it useful.

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The Ones You Save [Prologue]

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word count: 1,759

Summary: The one where your chaotic mind is reset.

prologue | part 1 | part 2

There is a part of you that believes you used to know what life was like before you were stuck; stuck in whatever chaotic mess this was. A mess of what you could barely recognize as an endless cycle  ― one that Alexander Pierce constantly thought of; one that involved strange, sickly liquids being pumped into your system; one that had parts of your brain constantly being erased. The endless cycle of you searching for orders in the brains of agents who were deemed superior to you, completing the orders  ― going through with horrendous actions that would leave your hands more blood-stained than before.

Your superiors don’t care about that, though. They don’t care about the amount of blood that tarnishes your hands. They don’t care about the screams and pleas that echo in your head. They don’t care about how unclean you feel; how wrong, how disgusting, how tainted. They only care that you can complete your missions, that you can pave their way in the messy world. As long as you’re a determined, dangerous tool  ― they don’t need to look into your mental state.

There’s an urge in your brain  ― an urge to dig through the mess of barriers and fragments that the electricity from the machine has left behind. But you shove the urge down; trying to hide it deep among the broken, shattered parts of what you once were able to recognize as a person with free will. There’s another urge right alongside that one. It’s telling you to escape from this room, the compound. It’s telling you to get out before the doctor can bother to mess with your mind again. It’s the again part that catches you off guard. You can’t remember another time that you were in this room  ― a cloth shoved between your clenched jaw, metal bonds holding down your arms and legs. You can’t remember anything, actually. Except in uncontrollable spurts. But the thought of trying to conjure up a past memory sends a shockwave of pain through your frontal lobes.

Your eyes focus around the room and you let go of the guard that you had yanked up on your mind. Your eyes are quick to close as every single thought in the room hits you at once. You can tell that your mind and your control have become unstable  ― everything is so loud and you can’t concentrate on a single thought. You’re only able to catch a few keywords, ones that add up to a splintered sentence: seventh time in, looming cryogenic chamber, a mess. The fragmented sentence seems to match your mind and your emotions, making you feel like you have been tossed into a never-ending vortex that happily holds you captive. It seems dead-set on tearing you down.

An extreme pain explodes throughout your head and you immediately realize that your brain is trying to push back your mental barriers. You know that a memory is trying to be brought up, one that you don’t want to recall. You thrust it back down. You thrust it as far down as you can, pretending that you are locking it away in a hidden chamber  ― chucking the key to the opposing side of a very long, very deep ocean. The memory disappears and your eyes lock with a man who is kneeling in front of you. The cold, empty look in his bright green eyes throw you off. You instantly recognize him as your primary doctor.

"Ghost, if you don't get your shit together soon ― we're tossing you in the chamber."

You know that already. You gathered that much from the mess of a sentence that your mind inherited. You’re thinking, though, that you wouldn’t mind the chamber. Your body yearns for a break. You don’t sleep much outside of it. Maybe being chucked into the cryogenic chamber would fix you, maybe it would soothe your aching mind. Maybe you could get some answers for why your mind is so mangled. But you know that it wouldn’t work in the long run. You’d be thrown back into the dreaded chair and your mind would be wrecked even further.

"We're using a different drug today." The doctor speaks again, easily catching your attention. You hadn’t noticed before but the protective barrier in your mind has been pulled back down, everything has become increasingly quiet. You barely acknowledge that you enjoy the silence.

The doctor moves and you’re focusing on his face again; observing the concentration that has sprung up on his facial features. Your eyes flicker over to the IV and you watch as the substance begins to flow down from the bag. Your gaze is forced away from the substance as your head is moved forward. You try not to tense as your head is secured with the headpieces of the chair, the pressure mainly on your frontal lobes. You settle with curling your hands into fists ― your eyes closing as the chair is slammed back. You’re not ready for the procedure to begin, but they don't care that you’re not ready.

You can almost feel the liquid moving through your body ― a freezing cold sensation taking over every inch of your being. There's a quick, fleeting memory that whirls around in your brain; reminding you of the month that you were stuck out in the Russian wilderness, a strange man accompanying you. The machine you are hooked to gives a soft whirl and pain erupts throughout your brain, yanking the memory out of your grasp.

The pain itself is unbearable. It is searing and bright; spreading quickly throughout every inch of your body. It seems to fill every nook and cranny within a split second. In response, you shove yourself up ― your body beginning to convulse against the bonds that chain you down. Your jaw is incredibly tense, tenser than it has been in a while, and you want to scream. You want to scream and cry and thrash, but you fight the urge. It will give the sick minds around here some sort of satisfaction and you refuse to give it to them.

The pain is suddenly disappearing, but it leaves behind an electric feeling. It's a muddled type of electric, though. The pain is still slightly buzzing about your body, lessened by the murky black medicine that's still sluggishly crawling around in your veins. The freezing effect of the strange drug has worn off. In your mind, it's probably due to the electricity that has just bombarded every single cell in your body. You don’t yearn for the cold, though, because the medicine has made you feel numb ― like you’re unreachable to the world around you.

You don’t feel when the needle is pulled from your skin, barely registering what is happening as you are being pulled to your feel. The numbness you feel is intoxicating and, in a way, you yearn for more of it. Your dangerously trained mind would recognize it as a danger if you were fully functioning  ― you’re too apathetic to really care.

Your instincts have kicked in to give you a helping hand. Your back is as straight as it can go and your eyes are void of emotion; like a robot waiting patiently to be programmed. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the doctor's eyes, but you are more confused by the look on his face. It is filled with humor. You are puzzled by it; if you were sobered up, you could take his tall build down without effort.

"Longing." Your eyes blankly focus on a man standing behind the doctor. His eyes seemed so dark that they were nearly back. His voice seemed to penetrate through the numbness; your skull exploding with a dull ache. You want to curl into a tight ball and press your hands tightly against your ears. You want to do whatever you could do block out his voice, to preserve the sweet numbness ― you don’t want to know what the punishment would be.

"Rusted. Furnace."

The second and third words seemed to roll off his tongue effortlessly. Your conscious mind begins to slip out of your grasp. It was becoming increasingly difficult for you to fight to hold on to your self-control. Usually, it was easier for you to cling to what broken bits of free will that you had. The drugs in your system were making it easier for them to brainwash you. Clinging to control would be an extremely hard predicament for anyone in your situation, though. It didn't matter how many cc's of the drugs were in your system when the words officially took hold. You would become dangerous.

"Daybreak. Seventeen. Benign. "

The ache in your skull seemed to be getting worse with every word that slipped out of his mouth. Your whole being seemed to be screaming at you to resist the words ― to block him out, to run far away from this place. But you couldn't. There was no way for you to resist the words.

"Nine. Homecoming."

The words had begun to echo around in your brain. It didn't matter what anyone else was saying or thinking at this point. All that mattered to you was the right words that had already been spewed out of his lips. They seemed to be booming among your skull, reverberating among the soft tissue and harsh bone. They began to take away every thought you had about the drugs in your system; instead shattering the identity that you once thought that you still had a tight hold on.

"One."

You let your eyes flutter close. The darkness you were met with was almost welcoming. It was far more easy to deal with than the agents that were in the room ― entranced by the process that the lead doctor was in the process of completing. Many of them had seen the process before, had watched the transformation that took place after your mind was scrambled like eggs. But they were repeatedly astounded by the process, almost like it was a strange fetish of theirs. Your muscles relaxed against your will, losing all the tension you had been holding on to.

"Freight car."

Your eyelids snapped open, eyes focusing on the black orbs in front of you. You recognized the glint in them, but you didn't acknowledge it. You had no reason to question the malice that the dark orbs held. 

You instead spoke, your tone matching his cold heart, "I am ready to comply."

Book: None!

Word count: 939

Summary: Draco and Isobel find a moment of solitude. 

Drabble, Cut Scene, or Request: Very short request from my best friend.

They had taken a moment to escape from the annual ball of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, needing to get away even for a second from the strict views of the committed Death Eaters and their children. Draco, in his moment of craving to get away, had pulled Isobel out of his parents’ ballroom and up to his own room. It had been almost an instant reaction for one to charm the door shut, while the other placed a spell around the room to make it impossible for anyone else to listen in.

The smile that Isobel offered him, one of relief and unadulterated happiness, almost made him weak at the knees. When she smiled, it reminded him of the sun peaking through the dreary storm clouds - a glimpse of better days that he knew they could get to. And he loved being able to bask in her light, taking in her warmth and allowing it to let him give a soft smile back.

And it’s almost like she can tell how scared he is. She can almost instantly read his tense posture and see through his badly pieced together facade. She moved almost instantly to turn on the radio he had in his room, letting the soft sounds of lullaby-esque music to flow throughout his cleaned bedroom. The way she offers him her hand makes his heart skip a beat, and he forgets for a moment. He forgets about the gathering going on downstairs, forgets about the war lingering on the horizon, forgets about how they will never truly be able to make their own choices. instead, he focuses on gently pulling her against his body - one arm wrapping around her waist as the other alters his grip on her hand. He slowly begins to sway them to the music, appreciating the way her hair sways with them - falling down her back in soft curls.

She looked beautiful. She always did, in his opinion, but tonight she seemed to be even more radiant. Her slight curves were being hugged by an emerald green dress, bringing out the speckles of green in her irises. The color, he thought, suited her perfectly. But he imagined, for a tiny moment, the way she might one day look in a stunning ivory dress that she would carefully pick out. The thought that she would someday belong to someone else hurt him, wounded him deeply, but just to see her in a dress that color would be an honor. Whoever her father betrothed her to wouldn’t be anywhere near worthy enough for her. She was one in a hundred million, a comet streaking so fast past the earth that he was scared he would miss her if he took his eyes off of her for even a second. She was the type of person that men prayed to be with, that any man would be lucky enough to one day call her his wife.

He took a second and let go of her waist, using their interlaced hands to twirl her away from him. The giggle it incited from her made his heart skip a beat, his smile lighting up his face. That was one of his favorite sounds, aside from - perhaps - her soft singing or when she would read to him or even when she would hold conversations with him. Here, in his room, was the only place he yearned to be. With her, dancing to a song he hadn’t heard since he was a child. The moment was perfect to him; life couldn’t get much better. 

He pulled her back to him, heart warming at the soft blush on her cheeks and the adoration twinkling in her bright eyes. She was so full of light, of hope, and he was soaking in every second that he could. Because he knew they would have to leave and go back to the others, to act like this secret moment between them hadn’t taken place. And so he twirled her again, yearning to hear the sound of her laughing, and then he pulled her into a gentle dip, eyes gleaming with happiness. Here, in this moment, she was all his - only his, and that was all he had ever wanted. It was all he knew he would ever need, especially to get through this rocky life he had been given. 

The way she looked, her hair flowing behind her as she smiled brightly at him, made him want to risk everything. He wanted to kiss her and hold her and ask her to run away, to go off and live a life together - away from their families, the impending war, the Dark Lord. He wanted to risk everything to keep her looking this happy, to help preserve the way she was shining. He wanted to risk their friendship, risk years of memories and love and happiness, and try for something more. All he wanted was for her to be his, but he was afraid that she might not feel the same way.

He pulled her close to him again, heart starting to pull with the weight of what they would be thrown back into when they left his room. And he almost asked her to stay, to help him pack before they would sneak off to her house, to help her pack, and then to run away. It took everything in him not to plead with her to do so. Instead, he gently cupped her cheeks in his hands as the song began to slow to an end, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead before he turned to lead them both back downstairs.