#also me: *keeps splinter the same*

[turtleblogatlast]

Something I think is cute is that - y’know how Raph’s eyes are more on the yellow side?

Well, you know who also has slightly yellowed eyes? Donnie.

While Raph’s are more yellow, I think it’s cute that this is something that they share and I don’t see it pointed out too often?

It’s also something they both share with Draxum and Splinter’s current form (though again, these two have much more yellow sclera than the boys do.)

But yeah, I like that there’s this little detail that ties Raph and Donnie together, even if it’s small.

[fieldofdaisiies]

Just A Little Bit of Your Heart

ship: Azriel x Reader type: angst word count: 2,4k  warnings: curse words, mentions of a one night stand, unexpected pregnancy summary: It was just a one night stand, or that is what you thought... fic masterlist

"The baby will have wings!" 

Your hands tremble. And they tremble so much the plate you are holding slips out them, and then shatters when it hits the floor. Splinters fly everywhere, but your best friend is quick to shove you away.

She is faster than you, gently shoving you away before you can lean down to collect the shards. "Not in your current state! Let me do this."

You huff. "I am pregnant, not fragile or ill," you say, still dried tears on your cheeks, and more burning behind your eyes. 

"Yes, with a winged baby, because this fool did not pay attention." There is so much fury inside of your best friend, you have never seen this side of her before, her voice drips with venom. 

"For making a baby it always needs two people. I am not innocent in this." You crouch down and help your best friend collect the shards of broken glass and—

"Fuck!" You lift your index finger to your mouth, licking the droplet of blood away. 

"I told you to let me do this, you are hurting yourself and—" "And what? They baby will still have wings and I will still be pregnant. I just cut my finger, nothing dramatic."

You swallow thickly, slumping onto the ground. You immediately regret your tone and snapping at your best friend. She only wants to help and be there for you…

But it is so much to deal with and then the hormones just intensify everything you are feeling.

The fear, the apprehension about the baby having with wings and the prospect of having to raise the child by yourself, should you survive the birth, finally reach the surface. You tried hide these emotion for so long, but now you fail — they all bubble up, overwhelming you.

You lean against the kitchen counter behind you, pulling your knees up and fold your hands over your face.

Then the damn breaks, tears running out of your eyes, rolling down your cheeks as you sob into your hands. 

"I am so scared," you bawl. 

Your best friend has already scooted over, careful of the broken pieces of porcelain, and wraps her arm around your shoulders. She pulls you to her chest, letting you cry into her shirt. "I know that the babe has wings, the healer confirmed it. And I am just working in this little shop, I don't earn enough to take care of the child alone."

Your tears wet her shirt, and your best friend holds you tightly, her hand clasping your upper arm. She is becoming your anchor, the only thing you can hold onto in this moment.

"It was so foolish. He said he took the tonic. I also drank the tea the same morning, and neither of those things worked. Conceiving for fae is so difficult, why…"

Your voice breaks and you can't finish your sentence, your throat is dry, burns and the back of your mouth aches. 

"It wasn't foolish. You were both careful, and it just happened." Your best friend's voice is softer now, although inside of her a burning fire of fury about the shadowsinger putting a baby that could harm you inside of you. It could cost you your life and she would never forgive him for that.

You exhale a long breath when you lift your head a little, still leaning onto your friend. You rest your head against her shoulder, staring at the window opposite you. 

A veil of grey is being drawn over the sky, dark clouds passing by — rain is about to start. You keep staring at the window, sitting in silence as the first raindrops start to fall, landing gently on the window pane. You watch as the rain intensifies, and the sky darkens further until heavy rain pours down and wind whips agains the windows and the walls of the apartment building you are living in. 

The atmosphere outside mirrors the whirlwind inside of you, the storm brewing there, the cold and gloomx atmosphere.

There are so many emotions. And these emotions, mostly fear and nervousness, mingle with the hormones that actually make you so very happy that your are growing a little babe inside of you, but at the dame time so sad that the child will have to grow up without a father.

The whole previous evening you spent staring at your round belly in the mirror, sobbing silently to yourself.

With the big wool sweaters you always wear the belly is barely visible, but when naked, one can obviously see the growing bump. 

You best friend draws in a deep inhale and leans her head against the top of yours. 

"You need to talk to him," she says in a soft voice. "And before you protest, I say so because first of all, he has a right to know. And secondly, and most importantly, he might be able to help you."

You sniff loudly. "How should he help me?"

"The High Lord, who he is close with, has a son with wings. And our High Lady is also only fae, so there must be a possibility."

"What if he wants nothing to do with me?"

"Then you at least tried."

"Don't you think I will only be hurt more?"

You lift your head to look at her. There is a small smile on her lips, one that conveys support and warmth, her eyes shining with empathy.

She shakes her head. "You still have me. I won't leave you alone with this. I never would. But you still have to tell him."

You don't want to do it, you don't want to face Azriel, don't want to tell him, but you know she is right. You have to do it. He has a right to know.

This was a one night stand. 

You somehow caught the male's attention in a small bar in Velaris, and somehow he ended up in your bed. When you woke up, Azriel slipped into his trousers and out of your flat within a few moments. He was gone without a word, disappeared into the shadows, and you haven't heard from him since. You don't even know how to contact him. 

You don't know where he lives? Does he live with the High Lord? Or in this huge house on the mountain? With the general of the Illyrian armies and his mate?

"I don't know what to say to him," you whisper. 

The rain outside intensifies. Your friend uncurls her arm from around your shoulder, bringing it forward so she can clasp your hand in hers. 

She places a soft kiss to the top of your head and in a calm voice she says, "Tell him what you told me. That you don't understand how it happened and that you are afraid and want nothing more than his help."

"What if I want more than that?" You bite back a sob and turn your head a little.

"What if I want a little part of his heart. For the baby. If it—if we survive this, I want my baby to have a father. I want my baby to know its father." A single tear slips our of your eye and your friend quickly wipes it away with her thumb. 

"That is something to think about in the future. You need to think about yourself now, sweetie. You matter now, everything else is open for the future."

You nod, trying to agree with her, but the thoughts about the possibility of the baby never meeting its father are gnawing on you. 

And they keep gnawing on you the whole night where you lie awake, shifting and turning, your back aching, and tears still wetting your cheeks and pillow. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Cold sweat coats your back, your palms. Your knees wobble, and your whole body trembles as you lift your hand, drawing in a deep inhale. Then another. And another. Your hand rests on the cool door handle, but you can't bring yourself to pull it down. 

He really came.

You can hardly believe it. He got your letter, and he is truly here. Until a few moments ago, you doubted it. You did not think he would really follow your invite. You were very vague in your letter, only mentioned that if he remembers you you would have something important to discuss with him. It could have been a trap, but he must have recognised the urgency in your wording, must habe known he could trust you.

Drawing in another breath, you finally pull down the handle and your lips part as your eyes land on him. 

He is…still the most beautiful male you have ever seen in your life, covered in darkness and shadows, expression stoic, eyes glowing with curiosity.

But he came!

"You came," you whisper, voice trembling.

Your heart beats in your throat, hammering so fast and hard you think it might burst right through your ribcage. 

It was just a one-night stand, a fleeting moment of passion, but you still remember him so vividly. How he touched you, how he kissed you, how he held you. And how he left. You felt used and sad after it, but you shouldn't have. Both of you only wanted fun for a night, but still it somehow hurt when he left.

"You called." His voice is flat, no emotion in it as he speaks. His face is not necessarily cold, but nonchalant, emotionless.

Azriel is nothing but darkness as he stands there, shadows swirling around him, stretching out towards you.

He eyes you closely, jaw clenched slightly.

You barely know him, only know his body, but he is now connected to you in the most profound way possible. You carry a part of him inside of you. Your child. His child. 

Azriel's face is a mask of unreadable emotions, some clouds darken his eyes and you can’t tear your eyes away from his.

"I wasn't sure you if you—" "I do remember you."

Something, some unreadable emotion passes over his face, and a muscle in his jaw ticks. His hands, those scarred hands you felt all over your body, are folded behind his back, and he stands in a stance, almost like he is ready to fight whatever is about to come. A stern warrior, and not the passionate male you lay with. 

"Come in?" you say, your voice trembling slightly as you step aside to let him enter. Azriel hesitates, but eventually he walks in, gaze wary as it sweeps through the inside of your room. He is looking for possible danger, making sure the place is safe and you can't blame him for it. Your invite must have sound cryptic, he is careful and that is alright. 

"Why did you invite me?" Azriel asks, finally speaking up and taking the weight from your shoulder to open the conversation. 

You are wringing for the right words to explain it all as you lead him over to the kitchen counter. You lean against it, your gaze moving to his eyes.

You drop your glamour, and try to hold his gaze, but suddenly Azriel starts to sniff the air, his brows furrowing as he looks around him. It almost looks like understanding dawns on him, whirlwinds of emotions glowing in his eyes. He must sense it in this moment.

"I am with child!" you blurt out. 

The words are so loud in the room, they bounce off the walls and hollow through the room. Through your mind, making you feel dizzy for a second. 

You move your hand over your round belly, smoothing out the sweater, to show him the bump. 

 The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the sound of your own ragged breaths. 

Azriel says nothing, his face pales, his shoulders slump, and his whole expression and posture crumbles. 

He blinks, as if trying to process what you have just revealed. Although his face is unreadable, you can see the storm of emotions swirling beneath the surface. 

"Is it mine?" he asks and you want to face-palm him. You would do it, if it were under different circumstances. 

"Of course, it is yours. The babe has wings!"

The tone you have chosen wasn't alright, he could not have known, you could have been with other males…but why would you invite him and tell him then?

This revelation shatters him truly. Azriel begins to vehemently shake his head, like he can feel the weight of what the baby having wings means.

"No," he whispers, and then repeats the word over and over again. He brings a hand up, brushes his hair back and shakes his head again. "No, that can't be. You took the tonic, I did too. How did that happen?"

"I also don't have an explanation, I only know that I am with child now. A baby with wings." Your chin quivers, lower lip starting to tremble. You feel how your body begins to shake, blood rushing in your ears.

"And I am afraid." 

Once again the damn breaks, and a sob rips itself free.

Azriel says nothing, just stands there. 

"I understand that it is a lot to take in, that this is difficult, but I needed to tell you." 

You suck in a sharp breath, your tears tasting salty in your mouth. "I just thought you deserved to know. It was a one-night stand, and I never planned for any of this to happen, but it did, and I can't keep it a secret from you." 

You feel so vulnerable in this moment, your heart cracking open, everything inside you convulsing. 

It somehow angers you that he says nothing, but you had more time to deal with the newly learned information, he only found out now. Maybe he just needs more time to process. 

"I don't know what to say," he admits, his voice softer, and for the first time he lets his own emotions show, vulnerability flashing brightly in his eyes. "This is... unexpected. Overwhelming."

You nod, biting down on your lower lip. With the back of your hand you wipe away some tears. 

"I don't expect anything from you, I just…if the baby and I survive this, all I am asking for is a little bit of your heart. Not for me, for the babe."

Your voice is so terribly shaky, tears welling up in your eyes again as you try to hold his gaze. "I didn't expect it either," you whisper, wiping away a tear. "But I want the baby to know its father. If it ever comes to that."

Azriel is the one to suck in a breath now, the weight of his own childhood crashing down on him. Everything, every little pain when he was a child, bubbles up inside of him and his body starts to shake. 

The room is filled with a heavy silence once more. It feels like the walls are moving in on you, the room growing smaller and smaller, almost suffocating you.

As you wait for his response, your heart still races, but now it's not just with fear. There's a glimmer of hope, a spark of possibility that maybe, just maybe, he will grant you this wish and be a father for the child if it comes to that. 

"We are going to see my healer, the High Lord's healer. She knows about wings, she knows about babes with wings. You are not alone in this."

Azriel's steps are so fast, so unexpected, he hesitates for a moment, but suddenly his arms wrap around your shoulders and he embraces you tightly, his chin coming to a rest on top of your head. 

"I am not leaving you alone in this. It comes as a shock and I am sorry about my reaction, but this child is as much mine as it is yours, and it will have a part of my heart." His arm wraps around you tighter. "It will have my whole heart." 

He swallows, his chest heaving with a deep inhale and your curl your own arms around him, loud sobs ripping themselves free, muffled in the fabric of his shirt. "And so will you."

~~~~~~~~~~ tags (crossed-out I couldn't tag) : @juulle987 @marimorena06 @danikasthings @younxii@nightcourtwritings @mrofontaine @lunalilyf @whor-3-crux @tired-all-the-time @anni-was-here @ummmmmwat @azbracadabra @j-pendragonx @hollyismentallyillhelp @famousbasementpainter @bsenpai @lena-davina @red-highlady @thesugatoyourtae @azrielsbabyg @aroseinvelaris @moony-thoughts @wrensical003 @cherryjain17 @moonfawnx @crushedcloudsx @devilsfoodcake22  @valeridarkness @azrielscertifiedslut @mulansaucey @cynicalpotato95 @hanasakr @high-bi-andreadytocry @eerievixen @feyretopia @moonlightazriel @randomness-it-is @brekkershadowsinger @eliieee23 @girasoli-e-sorrisi @illyrianvalkyriecarynthian  @kennedy-brooke @highladyofillyria @theworthlessqueen @marina468 @topaz125 @illyrian-dreamer @azriels-mate123 @eos-princess @courtofjurdan @a-frog-with-a-laptop @insufferablebookaddict @callmeblaire

[pastafossa]

"Waking Nightmare" (Matt Murdock x F!Reader, Fic)🌧️

Time for the next prompt for my Tuna-Tober prompt challenge! This is for day 7. Took an extra day to work on it cause this is a very angsty one, since our prompt was 'Nightmare' and I went with the classic, 'he accidently swings at you while asleep' trope (many thanks to @sunflowersandsapphires and @shouldbestudying41 for helping me with our chats on this one!). You can see the rest of the prompts I've chosen here if you'd like to know what's coming this month from me. Also, if you'd like notifications when I post a new story, drabble, or chapter, you can follow my sideblog @pastaxandria and set it for notifications!

Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Wordcount: 5.2k

Warnings for this chapter: BIG angst warning on this one, along with a warning for being hit (not intentional), nightmares, guilt, blood, Matt's convinced he committed DV so that is discussed.

It began, like so many disasters did, with a series of small fractures. 

What started as a horrible week turned out to be the harbinger of a truly terrible month for Matt. Despite near-constant, frantic late nights of casework at Nelson and Murdock, the firm lost two important cases in short order. Both cases had been a long shot when it came to success, but that had done little to soften the blow to Foggy, Karen, and Matt—especially Matt, who’d made promises to client families that he’d been unable to keep.

Matt’s work as Daredevil hadn’t gone much better. A new gang had moved into the Kitchen and set up shop, staking out a territory drenched in blood, ash, and terror. Matt had thrown himself into that fight with the same determination that he always did, and while he’d made serious progress breaking down their operation, there had still been losses. As far as he was concerned, the lives lost in the past month—the three targeted victims in the burning apartment complex he’d been unable to reach in time, and the two store clerks shot and killed in their shops before he could make it to them—were caused by his own personal failings. Despite your best attempts to convince him otherwise, the perceived blood on his hands had only driven him to devote himself even more ferociously to his work at night and during the day.

That devotion snowballed rapidly into a lack of sleep, often the first casualty in Matt’s life when things got stressful or busy. The exhaustion only sent him spiraling further into bouts of anger and a retreat behind his emotional walls. He snapped at you whenever you tried to talk to him about it, shying away from the kind touches he felt he didn’t deserve. While a quiet apology almost always came later in the night, soft and full of regret, it didn’t change the fact that you could see him beginning to splinter and crumble beneath the pressure he’d placed on himself, your Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders. You’d gone through this with him before, the periods in which it all seemed to go wrong and he refused to strap on the lifevests you stubbornly threw to him over and over again. As best you could tell, when these storms came there was no other option but to simply plant your roots deep and ride it out with him, ensure he knew he wasn’t alone. And when he finally fell to pieces, giving beneath the weight, you’d make sure he had a loving hand to help him glue his bloody, broken pieces back together. 

You’d thought that fracturing would come from something on the streets. Another death, maybe, or sheer exhaustion. 

You’d never expected it to happen here.

Not at home. 

“You’re going out?” You watched him dig through his father’s trunk for his suit, his back to you. He’d only just returned from another late night at the office. The only reason you were seeing him at all was because you’d woken up thirsty, heading out to the kitchen to get a glass of water. The distance between you both abruptly felt so much farther than a meager ten feet, so much harder to cross. Still, you tried. “It’s almost two. Some rest might—” “Don’t,” he said tightly, yanking his mask out and tossing it back onto the couch. He pulled out the rest of his suit next along with his billy clubs. His movements were unnaturally stiff, almost robotic. “I need to…” He sucked in an uneven breath, reaching up to run an exhausted hand through his dark hair.  After a moment, he dropped his hand, going back to what he’d been doing. If anything, your implication had only made him more determined, his voice now resolute and closed off. “Our appeals aren’t going well. The city’s quiet for the first time in a month, but that might not last. I need to go out. Just for an hour or two. Go back to bed.”

You gnawed on your lower lip in thought as he stalked over to the couch. Without his shirt, it was so much easier to see the lines of stress and tension cutting their way through him like winding roads, his muscles drawn up tight and hard. The bruising along the canvas of his back and ribs stood out with every neon flash of the billboard beyond the windows, adding a layer of blood red to the spiraling waves of deep blue and sullen indigo painted on his skin. That he’d been hurt even with the protection of the suit told you just how bad it had gotten out there. He needed rest, desperately. You both knew it. But you couldn’t bear the thought of trying to keep him here, forcing him to listen to the sounds of the city without being able to do anything about it. It was a promise you’d made to yourself, once, and you intended to keep it.

“Ok, D.” You kept your tone gentle. He’d hear you even across the room. “Ok. Come back safe.”

Some of his tension eased at your agreement, and he slowed where he’d been opening up his suit, preparing to step into it. Had he really thought you’d fight him? 

“I…” He shook his head after a moment. He turned until you could see him in profile, that same red light now highlighting the dark, bruised shadows beneath his eyes. But for just a moment, there was the barest softening in his expression, a glimmer of warmth in his eyes. You knew this look, this hand stretched out through the bars of the darkened prison cell he’d found himself trapped within. “I love you,” he said softly. “So much. I shouldn’t have snapped. I’m sorry.” 

“I know. Don’t worry about me for now. We’ll work it out. Just be careful tonight.” You tilted your head as he took a few tentative steps towards you. You took your own small step, cautious like you were approaching a stray who might run if you moved too quickly. He lifted his hand once you were within reach, the back of his fingers stroking lightly, tenderly against your cheek. You turned and brushed your lips fondly against his fingers, your eyes fluttering shut as you soaked in the warmth of his skin. It was the most intentional touch you’d gotten from him in a week, outside those moments in his sleep when he held you close, and god, were you grateful for it, something in you easing at the return of his affection. It meant he was coming out of this, swimming back up to the light and out of the void he’d been lost in. Sometimes you wondered if him denying himself your touch wasn’t just another way he punished himself when his darker thoughts seized hold of him. “I love you, too.”

“Go back to bed, sweetheart.” He tipped your chin up so he could place a tired kiss on your forehead before he let you go and returned to his suit. His motions, at least, seemed more settled now. “I’ll be back in an hour if it’s quiet, I promise. I’ll find a way to make it up to you this weekend.”

You left him there in the living area, more content than you’d felt in weeks. Sure, the past month had been shit for you both, but you were coming out of it now just like always. You fell asleep comfortably with that knowledge, cradling it inside you against your heart as you drifted off. 

You weren’t sure what it was that woke you later. Not at first, anyway. The bedroom was dark and quiet, save for the usual sounds of the city at night that leaked in through the closed windows. Matt’s arms weren’t around you, but it was possible he hadn’t gotten back yet. Without any other signs of danger, you gave a soft huff of irritation. Figures. Waking up over nothing. You shifted your head around on the pillow until you found a nice cold spot, closed your eyes, and began to drift back off. 

Then you heard it again behind you.  

Your brow furrowed, eyes blinking back open.

Right, now you knew it wasn’t just a dream. 

The sound you’d heard wasn’t quite a moan. It wasn’t a word, either. Hell, you didn’t know what to call it, exactly, but it definitely wasn’t a happy noise, that much you knew. This sounded… almost pained, hitched and edged with something like panic. You blearily rolled over to get a better look, still half-asleep.

Apparently Matt had gotten back while you were asleep, the shadowy outline of him curled up on the opposite side of the bed. He was also facing away from you, which was… odd. Most nights, he slept with you in his arms—or him in yours on particularly bad nights. That he’d either consciously or unconsciously placed this much distance between you would have stirred the smoldering embers of worry if you’d been more awake. It wasn’t right that he was over ther, curled in on himself, small and isolated, a lonely island in the sea of silk sheets. As you watched, he twitched restlessly, before making that same small, pained noise you’d heard before. Or was it scared? 

Nightmare, you thought sleepily. That explained the distance. He’d probably just rolled away in his sleep. You yawned, untangling yourself enough from your cocoon of blankets that you start crawling over towards him. Clearly this was one of those nights when he was the one that needed to be held. You weren’t entirely sure why your presence helped to soothe his nightmares, but for whatever reason, your arms around him and your breathing against his back, your heartbeat pressed against his back, was often all he needed. Even if he woke up when you got over to him, he’d have an easier time falling back asleep with you holding him. He always did. Especially after such a terrible month. 

You yawned again when you finally settled down behind him, throwing one arm over his waist and spooning affectionately up against his back. He stirred slightly at that, his body going tense and hard, his chest resonating with a soft growl. But he quickly quieted, soothed at the sound of your voice.

“It’s ok, Matt,” you said sleepily, breathing slowly, intentionally against the hard line of his back. “You’re ok, sweetheart. Just a bad dream.” You tucked your legs up behind his, nuzzling over onto his pillow, hunting for him even as your eyes fell shut again. You’d kick yourself later, for what you did next. 

Without thinking, you leaned in… and brushed a firm kiss against the back of his neck. 

Just like that, the peace, the calm was shattered. 

A wild snarl filled the air, followed by a sudden, blinding explosion of pain across your face that lit up the black behind your eyes like a skyline of fireworks. Before you could even cry out, you’d been thrown clear of the bed. You only just avoiding cracking your temple on the corner of Matt’s nightstand. But what your head missed, the rest of your body didn’t. As you slid across the nightstand and came crashing to the ground, you brought down every last object on the nightstand with you, glass and metal shattering somewhere far away from where you were, the whole of the world gone thick and quiet. 

Things got fuzzy then, a sickening carnival maze of light spinning in your vision every time you blinked. Your dazed thoughts were thick, slow to come together. But, still, you tried, because something was very, very wrong. 

Matt. 

Yes. You needed to find Matt. He was probably out on the streets still. It was the only way someone could have broken in just to hit you like an asshole. You weren’t sure where you were crawling too exactly, but away from the threat felt like a good start. As you moved, something hot and wet began to pour down your face in steady streams, irritating and coppery whenever it made it into your mouth. Fortunately, that was a distant problem. You could worry about whatever was on your face later. Your only concern at the moment was holding your attacker off until Matt could get here and kick some fucking ass. 

A pair of feet slammed against the floor, someone calling out, panicked and frantic. The sound was far too garbled for you to understand it immediately, but what it did tell you was that your attacker was still close by. There wasn’t anything around you that you could easily use to defend yourself, or at least, there wasn’t until your hand bumped into something long and metallic. You snatched it up, ignoring the sudden appearance of pain in your palm as you did so. You dragged it with you, metal squealing across the floorboards as you scrambled on your hands and knees. In seconds, you’d made it out of the bedroom and into the living area. 

Good. When Matt came through the rooftop door, he’d have less distance to cross to get to you. You’d also be able to see your attacker better in the flash of the billboard lights, though the flashing sea of red light made your eyes water and burn. But you could also feel your vision clearing, which was great. You’d need it. 

A shaking, trembling hand brushed against your shoulder. 

You rose up swiftly on your knees, metal rod clutched tight in both hands. “Get away from me!” you snarled, putting every last ounce of strength you had into your motion as you twisted and swung. 

And Matt—

What?

—snapped his hand up, catching the lamp rod just before it could hit him in the face. 

“...Matt?” you asked shakily, unable to hide your confusion. “It was you?”

“This can’t be happening, no, no no no,” he choked out tearfully, his breath coming panicked and wild. His tone was so ragged you almost didn’t recognize the voice as his. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re bleeding, I-I’m sorry, I’m so—”

The lamp rod fell from your paired grips. Hands shaking, he brought them up tentatively towards your face. He stopped just before he could touch you, hovering them a breath away from your skin. The first of his tears began to trail down his cheeks, his expression twisting in what you alarmingly recognized as grief. You’d seen him cry before, but never like this. “God, I-I didn’t know it was you, I’m sorry, I thought you were…”

He was… apologizing. But that didn’t make sense, no matter how much you tried to force the idea to settle into your dazed mind. It couldn’t have been Matt. You weren’t afraid of Matt. Matt didn’t hurt you. He didn’t hit you. Those were facts, as irrefutable as gravity, as reliable as the rise and the fall of the sun. You didn’t understand, just like you didn’t understand why he wasn’t holding you. He always did when you were hurt. “You… you hit me?”

The low, agonized noise he made was inhuman. It was the sound of a wounded animal, of someone who’d just been carved open. His hands drew back from your face, dropping down towards your hands where they’d settled on your thighs, though he seemed just as hesitant to touch you there. Tears dripped down from his face, joining the droplets of thick, deep red now scattered across the floor. Had you left all fo that there? You really… were bleeding, weren’t you?

“I-I… I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t,” he whispered brokenly, his breath hitching with what was almost a whimper. He grabbed one of the blankets off the chair next to him, the one you loved to curl up under with him. He slid it as gently as he could around one of your hands—oh, you were bleeding there, too, just a little, goddamn cheap lamp—though he avoided allowing his skin to brush against yours. “I was… having a nightmare, and I thought-I thought you were someone else, they had you and I was trying to-to get to you but someone grabbed me and I—God, you have a concussion, your nose is-is bleeding. I have to call Claire, get away from you b-before I… I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry—”

Finally, the idea settled into your mind, the world abruptly righting itself. 

The nightmare.

Well, that made sense.

You still weren’t quite thinking right, thoughts thick and fuzzy like wisps of cotton, a massive, throbbing ache in your head and face that only got worse every time the billboard lit up. But you you’d been right. Matt didn’t hit you. He hadn’t hit you, because he hadn’t known it was you. Hell, he’d even apparently been trying to save you, at least in his nightmare. It seemed simple enough to you, an obvious accident. But it didn’t seem quite so simple to Matt. You reached for his cheek. “Matt,” you soothed, your words only a tiny bit slurred as he sniffled and wrapped the blanket tighter around your hand, applying firm pressure to stop the bleeding. “It’s ok, Matt. You didn’t mean it.”

But the second your fingertips brushed against his skin, he threw himself backwards and out of your reach, his dark eyes wild. “Don’t!” he spat.  You faltered just a little, suddenly unsure. But you quickly shook it off, shakily climbing to your feet to follow after him. Your own injuries felt secondary in that moment, because this… this was the wound, the disaster that might do you both in if you didn’t find some way to stop it. Your bloody nose and hand could wait. “You didn’t mean it, Matt. It was an accident.” 

For every step you took forward, he took one back, the two of you performing some twisted, heartbreaking sort of dance across the floor. Eventually you cornered him against the wall, hemming him in. He was almost shaking as you stepped in close. Your hand rose and this time around, you successfully managed to cup his jaw, trying to press your affection, your calm into his skin. “Easy, Devil-Man. I’m ok,” you murmured. You swiped one thumb over the trail of tears sliding down his cheek, a new one appearing each time you’d cleared away the last, an endless stream of them falling from his grief-stricken eyes as they darted sightlessly around you. “This wasn’t your fault. Help me get cleaned up and then we’ll talk about it, ok?” 

He hitched a soft, quiet breath when you tugged his head down, his forehead pressed to yours like he’d done for you so many times before. You breathed with him for a moment, trying to ease him down.  He swallowed hard, his eyes fluttering closed as you stroked your thumb against his cheek, and for a moment, you almost thought you’d managed to fix it. 

A breath. 

His jaw clenched, and your heart sank.

This time when his eyes opened, all traces of warmth in them were gone. Whatever door you’d once pried open was now shut, slammed resoundingly in your face. “No. It’s not ok.” He brushed your hand away, sliding out from between you and the wall without so much as a pause. He reached up to wipe away his tears, the motion sharp and edged with tension. “Where are you going?” “I need to call Claire to come look you over,” he said flatly, heading for the kitchen. “I’ll use my burner. Mine was on the… the nightstand.” The brief crack in his voice, a brittle chip in the armor he’d just tried to throw up around himself, only confirmed what you’d hoped you could avoid.

“Matt,” you said softly. “Don’t lock me out like this.”

He may have been aiming for calm but he couldn’t hide what he was feeling, not entirely anyway. Not when his hands were still trembling as he felt around on the kitchen counter, acting like he hadn’t heard you. “I’ll call Foggy, too. Once they’re here, I’ll go.” 

“What?” You watched in disbelief as he kept hunting along the counter. With every second that passed and he failed to find it, he grew more frustrated, more angry. He quickly turned his back to you, body stiff like he was expecting a sudden blow. “You’re you’re leaving me?” “I hit you,” he spat viciously, another seething wave of emotion bubbling up through the cracks of his voice like acid, bitter and toxic and just as liable to burn. Here it was, here it was: the self-loathing, the disgust, the burning hatred. He drew in a sharp breath, shivering as he did. And on the exhale, he seemed to have regained control. His voice rapidly returned to that same cold, emotionless monotone, though he kept his face out of your view. Whatever expression he had would give him away, you were certain of it. “I almost broke your nose. You have a concussion. You cut yourself trying to get away from me. I’ve put men in the hospital for a lot less. You’re not safe with me—”

“That’s horseshit,” you huffed, starting towards him on wobbly legs. You had to stop and grab one of the chairs just to keep your balance and halt you from pitching over onto the floor. Not that it was a concern; no matter how upset Matt was, he’d catch you. But still, you falling would only make things worse. You forced yourself to breathe through the roiling in your stomach, unsure if it was the concussion that was making you nauseous or simply the knowledge that he was trying to leave you. But you wouldn’t let those fucking voices in his mind—ones that probably sounded like Stick—drive him away from you. Not without a fight. At least your nose seemed to have stopped bleeding. That was a good sign. “It was an accident. We both know it. This just—it happens something with nightmares, including non-vigilantes, Matt. I’ve woken up scared and smacked you in the face more than once, and you know it.” 

“You didn’t throw me across a nightstand or give me a concussion.” He barked out a bitter laugh. The hateful sound filled you with dread, as did the heartbreaking resolve beneath it. He’d already made up his mind, convinced himself of what he’d done. “I always knew. That’s what they all said. That I was cursed. That I had the Devil inside me. That all I wanted was to hit someone. This is who I am. I wanted to believe it wasn’t true, but deep down, I knew. And now I hurt you. I can’t let that happen again, even if it means I have to leave to keep you safe.” 

“Matt,” you said desperately, managing to make it to the couch, bracing yourself against the arm of it. If you could just get to him, you could fix this. You knew that. “That’s not true. Let’s just talk about this.”

Matt ignored you again, snatching up his keys and starting towards the hall. “I can’t find my burner,” he said. That tone, flat and empty of all feeling, was so much worse than anger. You’d take anger any day—you’d take grief, or hurt. Emotion meant you had a way in, that he’d opened himself to you, baring all the parts of him left vulnerable and raw. This tone, though…You couldn’t help but feel like you were banging your bloodied fists against a door abruptly chained shut. “Keep pressure on your hand. I’m going next door to ask for their phone so I can call Claire. I’ll only be gone for a minute, then I’ll be back. I’ll find somewhere else to stay once she’s here to take care of you.”

No. 

No, he couldn’t leave you over an accident. Your heart rate shot up, rattling against the lump in your throat. You almost felt like you couldn’t breathe, panic crushing your lungs in their grip, something that made him him stiffen. And you-you couldn’t let him leave, not like this, not when he might not come back. There had to be something, some way to reach him and keep him from destroying, burning down the best thing in both of your lives. And there was only one method that might work in a moment like this.  

Holding up a mirror.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed. 

And Matt… froze in the hall, a mere three steps from the front door. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeated, more firmly now. You didn’t bother to hide the waver in your voice. You drew in a slow breath, exhaling just as slowly. It wasn’t blood running down your face, now, and he’d know it. “I’m sorry for scaring you. For touching your neck in your sleep. I know how vulnerable it is, and how you feel about it being touched by anyone other than me. I didn’t think about what touching that might feel like during a nightmare.” 

“Stop apologizing,” he growled, his shoulders drawing up tight. “They’re not the same thing, and you know it.”

But despite his objections, he hadn’t moved. He hadn’t left yet. Hell, maybe he’d found he couldn’t. Not when you were injured. You’d take it if it meant you had a chance.

“Aren’t they the same?” You reached up with your good hand, sniffling a little as you wiped some of the blood off your face. “According to you, they are. It doesn’t matter what I meant to do, right? Just that I did something that led to me hurting you. And this is hurting you. I can tell.” You choked out a wobbly laugh when he flinched. You used that break in his armor to edge closer, praying you didn’t stumble and fall, losing the ground you’d just gained. “Do you remember when I slipped and dropped that bowl last month and it shattered and cut your feet?” 

“That’s not—”

“I had to pick shards of porcelain out of your poor bare feet. I felt horrible.” Another step. Then another. “Remember when I smacked you in the face during my nightmare last January? Split your lip and everything.” You caught one hand against the shelving unit by the hall, taking a split second to breathe, more tired than you wanted to admit. “You told me those weren’t my fault. You even fucking laughed about your lip. But if this accident is your fault, then all those times are my fault, and so is this one, if you think about it. So I’m sorry, Matt.”  

“I hit you,” came his voice, trembling and uneven. You had a feeling those three small words were your target, spiraling on loop in his mind, their sharp edges tearing into him over and over again. His head slowly dropped, his body curling in on itself as you stopped a few feet away. He shuddered then, and without being able to see his face, you couldn’t tell if it was shame or just… hurt. “Don’t apologize when I hit you. I threw you across the room. I-I hurt you.” 

“Oh, Matt,” you whispered. You took another step, at last coming within touching distance where you might be able to reach him. “It was an accident, sweetheart. You didn’t mean it. You didn’t know it was me. But… but if you want to talk about hurting me, let’s talk about this here.” He stilled when he felt the first gentle touch of your hand against his back. Warm, unafraid, tender. 

“If you’re worried about hurting me, this is how you’d do it,” you said softly, trailing your fingers down the line of his spine with all the love you had in you. “By leaving, Matt. By leaving me here without you when I love you more than anything or anyone else in the world. Don’t do that to me. Please.” This time the sound he made was a broken sob, one hand rising up to fist in his hair. He sank slowly to the ground. You sank with him, winding your arms tight around him as he finally broke, shattering beneath the weight of his guilt. When he didn’t reject your touch, you quickly shifted around him, climbing into his lap. His arms found their way home around your waist, clinging to you tight as you rocked him in your arms, his face buried against your neck, tears flowing hot to join the blood still clinging to your skin. “I’m sorry.” His voice was thick with sorrow, each breath one he had to fight for.  “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I never wanted to hurt you, I don’t want to hurt you, I’m sorry—” “Listen to me. This was not your fault. I promise, baby,” you whispered, lifting his head to press your forehead to his like you had before. His eyes were shut, but they fluttered open just for you, as he finally, finally let you back in. You could almost see the torment swirling in them, the guilt, but that was alright. If you could see those shadows, you could fight them. “You were asleep, Matt. You were dreaming. You can’t control what your brain does then. If it thinks there’s a threat, it’s going to react without your input. Do you know how I can be so sure you won’t hurt me? How this all just proved I’m safe with you?” His blank gaze shifted around you, one shaking hand coming up to trace your smile in open disbelief. 

“Because the second you woke up, you were horrified.” You leaned into him, running the fingers of your good hand through his hair as he let out another shaky, breathless sob. “The second you woke up and realized it was me, it just broke you. You would never choose to hurt me, Matt. You're not a violent person, even if you've been taught to use it out there. A bad man doesn’t react like you did. A good man does. You are a good man, do you hear me? And if you leave?” You found his hand with your good one to lace your fingers together and squeeze, his eyes fluttering closed, as did yours. “I swear to God I’ll go stand in an alley in my pajamas and scream that until you have to come protect me from every mugger in the Kitchen. Which will only prove my point that you’d never let anything or anyone hurt me.”  He choked out a quiet, watery laugh, letting you bring his head back down to your throat. His tearful groan at the affection just made you cling to you tighter. “I love you,” he hitched out. “I love you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… I’m so sorry. God forgive me, I’m so, so sorry.” 

“I love you, too, Matt,” you whispered, burying your face in his hair. “It’s not your fault. Don’t let your nightmare knock us out this easily. Get back up. Stay, and fight for me, for us. Can you do that for me?”

You felt his eyes fall closed, and for the first time since he’d woken up, you heard a different kind of resolve in his voice: one that was far more familiar, far more welcome, solid and warm and steadfast, a strength you’d happily build your life upon, as he let your love seep in through the cracks to at last chase away some of the dark.

His breath eased out against your skin, soft and familiar. “I… ok. I can do that.”

“Good.”

[meanbossart]

What is your take on Astarion's relationship with his siblings?

I have put unreasonable amounts of time into thinking about what the dynamics were like during Cazador's reign in that house. I mean, imagine sharing the same tasks, bedrooms, and general experiences of abuse and duress with the same people FOR TWO HUNDRED YEARS. That's absolute madness. If any of you have had experiences with co-living with family under stress for any extensive amount of time, you know very well the levels of emotional 4D chess-ing that tend to take place as a result. You end up distributing so much frustration and anger around and often onto the very same people you will ultimately seek comfort from - this is that situation but blown up to impossible proportions.

So, "strained" doesn't really do justice as a descriptor here. I believe the family had a dynamic, ever-evolving hierarchy within itself, years-worthy of time where the spawn shifted alliances and made "cliques" within themselves - rebels would evolve into pushovers and trusted friends would turn into snitches. You had endless amounts of drama within the group and flies on the walls would witness them cut each other's heads off one day and sob into one another's laps the next.

Naturally I think all of them were resistant to the concept of being a "family" at first, but it's pretty much impossible to not develop family-like ties throughout that long of a period. Following Cazador's death, I believe there would be further splintering within as some want to maintain said ties and others are eager to cut them - seeing both their siblings and the relationships themselves as yet another painful reminder of what Cazador imposed upon them.

I think Astarion falls into the latter category. If he had his way, he would never see, speak, or think of his brothers and sisters again. And while the sibling nomenclature is a deeply-rooted habit, he doesn't think it holds any legitimacy whatsoever (whether or not that's the case in his heart is another matter).

Dalyria (the moon-elf physician, whom I have come up with a story, personality, background and motivations during several long showers that might not necessarily line up with yours, so, if anything of what I'm about to say seems pulled out of a hat, it's because it was) is the opposite. She has grown attached to the constant presence of her siblings and taken a mother-goose role upon herself. With the Exception of Leonard and Violet (more on that later) she has decided they are her responsibility and wishes the group would stick together.

I like to think that there's a lot of history between those two in particular. Obviously, the interactions between Astarion and his siblings are very brief, but It's enough to run with. Dalyria shows a lot of concern and understanding towards him and even pleads when he threatens Petras' life - again, I think she did a lot of trying to pragmatically keep the peace among them and genuinely grew attached to a few - Astarion being the main one of said few. You even get the smallest hint of a on-and-off intimate relationship with the way he derisively calls her by her nickname.

Also, Astarion very occasionally showcases enough emotional maturity that I could see him latching onto the one other person around who seems to have her wits about her, but he's still flawed enough that Dalyria can think of him as a younger sibling that needs her care. Not to mention that, to me, she demonstrates a penchant for moral superiority and a dash of a machiavellian outlook, based on her diary and her completely unapologetic initiative to kill a child on the small chance it would lead her to a cure - not any child either, but Leonard's child. I can totally see Astarion sympathizing and gravitating towards someone like that.

Which brings us to the rest of the siblings - I would wager that, at least by the end of it all, Leonard and Violet were the odd-ones out. As it tends to happen within any tight-knit group, when one succeeds by stepping over the others (even if the reasons for it are justifiable) that brews a lot of resentment and eventual exclusion. Leonard not only did that, but he apparently still held onto hope of future and family outside the Szarr house; wheter or not everybody wanted out, I think a us-versus-them mentality is unavoidable under those circumstances, and Leonard was looked down upon by the others in their respective ways for what he was trying to do.

Violet just seems like she had gone a little cuckoo to me. We get very little about her, but when I think of an adult woman playing childish pranks on her roomates while you are all stuck in what's essentially a human trafficking ring... I think of a person who's either just a very silly breed of evil or who has lost touch with reality, and the latter is more interesting, imo. I think no one liked her, not only because she was a nuisance but also because she became completely emotionally untouchable. I think both Violet and Leonard are spawn who did not survive long after they were all freed.

I'll stop here before I ramble on for another 8 paragraphs about Aurelia, Yousen and Petras (Oh Petras, my beloved), but, yes, suffice to say that I believe it was kind of complicated LOL

EDIT: Not me calling Leon "Leonard" this whole post. Sorry buddy, you look like a Leonard.

[caspersscareschool]

favorite lair details

- the giant heat lamp

- the clean looking moat that they never use or acknowledge because they prefer to swim in dirty sewer water

- mikey's graffiti tags all over the place but especially the scribbles all over his room that look like practice doodles in crayon going back to like kindergarten, practicing his name and abcs, etc.

- them having beanbags instead of a couch so they can lean back with their stupid shells. same goes for mikey's hammock. same goes for the massage chairs that only appeared once

- the mystery gamer room that only appeared in the purple game- i presume because it had to be sealed off after the events of the episode due to the gamer stink

- the kitchen cabinet with a sticky note that always says "BUY GRANOLA"

- the med bay that they only used one time that's just a giant industrial garage with a single dentist chair in the middle

- their actual garage that apparently just leads directly onto the streets of Manhatten and still no one has found their lair. it's also where they keep training dummies made to look like each of them and donnie's is always strung up on the rafters, limp. forgotten. like a frisbee on a roof

- number 1 lou jitsu huggy pillow

- the fact that leo has a queen sized mattress with pink & red sheets while raph sleeps on a twin sized bunk makes me feel like he lost rock paper scissors for the big bed at like 6 years old and has paid for it ever since

- donnie's titanium self portrait sculpture that's so hyperrealistic that raph thought it was his actual decapitated head and this item just migrates around the house as like a doorstop or whatever and no one ever acknowledges that he is apparently, canonically, in-universe, a master representational sculptor much like the real Donatello of Renaissance fame

- splinter having an extremely elaborate expensive sewing setup in his room to keep up with their constant demand for stupid little outfits

- splinter having a minibar in his room . actually everything about his room just in general he's so real for this

- their fucked up toilet

- the only visible way to get upstairs is a skateboard ramp

- probably more I'm forgetting

[steddielations]

Eddie’s missing. Steve can’t form a coherent thought beyond: Eddie’s missing, find him. The last few hours, it’s been his every thought, his every action.

There’s never a smooth visit to Hawkins. Eddie’s reputation has only gotten worse in the years since they moved to Chicago. Every time they come back, something goes wrong. But Eddie wanted to spend Wayne’s birthday with him, which also happens to be his mom’s birthday. That’s why he put on Wayne’s Muddy Waters record after a few drinks too many, mumbling, “Doesn’t sound the same.”

One second, Eddie was drunkenly rocking to the music, then he went outside for a smoke and didn’t come back. 

Wayne shouldn’t be out in the cold weather, but nothing could stop him from getting in his pickup to look for Eddie.

Steve’s mind jumps to nightmare conclusions. Eddie still has enemies, maybe they’re finally taking their revenge. Or what if they hadn’t destroyed the gate afterall and something worse took Eddie? Steve’s mind skipped every small explanation, but that detail about Eddie’s mom comes back.

He’s searching backroads and the thought leads him down Philadelphia street. No one goes there anymore, convinced there’s more ‘Munson victims’ buried where Eddie’s childhood home once stood.

Steve sags with relief when he shines the headlights and sees Eddie among the piles of old burned wood.

“Eddie!” Steve’s already jumping out the car, hurrying to him, “Oh God, there you are. What are you doing out here, baby? You okay?”

Eddie doesn’t seem to realize Steve’s there, frantically digging through the rubble. Looking for something.

“Eddie?” Steve reaches him, crouching down next to him, “Hey, what’s going on? Are you hurt?”

Without looking up, Eddie mumbles something like, “Can’t find ‘em.” 

“Can’t find what?” Steve asks, keeping his tone soft despite how worried and confused he is. Eddie doesn’t answer. There’s random cuts and splinters on his hands, covered in dirt and soot but he doesn’t slow down. Steve winces at the sight and reaches for his shoulder, rubbing gently to get his attention. 

“Eddie, look at me, hey. What is it? You can’t find what?”

Finally, Eddie turns to look at him. Though, his stare is a thousand miles away, eyes wide and bloodshot. The headlights show tear tracks through the soot dirtying his face. It’s like he’s in a trance, still mumbling things Steve can’t quite make out. He can smell the beer on Eddie, but he knows this isn’t just from drinking. Eddie gets stuck in his head sometimes, like in the boathouse all those years ago. Reliving nightmares from '86, and things that happened to him long before that too. 

“Her records,” Eddie stresses, “My mom’s records. I left them right here.” 

Steve looks down where he points to nothing but charred, rotting wood. There hasn’t been a house here in years. Steve remembers the fire, everyone said Eddie did it just because he was a ‘no good Munson’. Steve didn’t learn the real story until later. Eddie told him about the records, how they burned in 84 when all his dad’s scheming backfired.

“Eddie…” 

“They were right here!” Eddie interrupts, almost like part of him knows what Steve’s going to say and he doesn’t want to hear it. “I left them right here and now I can’t find them.” 

With a half-choked sob, he turns back to scouring through the rubble.

“Hey, It’s okay.” 

“No it’s not. I gotta find them, Steve, they’re all I have of her,” Eddie strangles out, flinching when Steve’s hand slides behind his shoulders.

Steve swallows down the emotion swelling in his chest. Feeling powerless to really do anything, he says, “Okay, we’ll— we’ll find them. It’s okay.”

That’s the only thing that seems to ease Eddie. Though, the way he slumps seems like he knows it’s not true, but lets himself believe it anyway. Just for the comfort. 

He’s breathing raggedly, shivering in the cold and every sob rattles his body under Steve’s hand. Finally, he lets himself sink fully into Steve, his cold wet nose pressed to Steve’s collarbone.

“S’all I got. Momma’s music,” he keeps repeating as Steve rubs his back, so drunk and so sad, “Gotta get ‘em back. S’all I got left of her.” 

“I know, baby, we’ll find them.” Steve presses kisses into Eddie’s forehead, holding him and rubbing his back. It’s not the truth, Eddie knows that, but he doesn’t need the truth right now. So Steve says it again and again, as long as Eddie needs to hear it. “We’ll find them.”

[inkskinned]

something that stuck with me once, way back in middle school when i was still learning how to write - my teacher said "writing shock and tragedy is easy, it's humor that's the hardest."

i have been up and down the halls of academia. i have the fancy degree and the experience in publishing. i think i paved most of my own road with the little bricks of sorrow i had stored inside of me. i know i did it mostly with works that are blisteringly lonely. i know why we write like that. it's lifesaving.

but yeah, i mean. i also know how much people think that "sad" media is the same thing as "good" media. our human desire to connect is so hard-pressed that we immediately latch onto any broken themes. the bullied kids and the tales of inspiration. people keep saying things like "glass onion" and "everything everywhere" weren't actually good. because, you know, they're. happy. or happy-ish. happy enough. and we only value art if it's grimdark-adjacent.

do you know - people still consistently whine at me that my writing would be so good if i just capitalized things. i used to flinch. i get kind of a weird, vindictive little rush these days - i get to say thank you for the comment! i have chronic pain and this is how i conserve my hands so i can write more during the day :) grammar isn't real anyway! and now they're trapped in the room with me, you know? i get to pull out my map and show them how grammar is not the same thing as good writing.

writers have this thing. we scratch at our insides, constantly, prying our lives apart into splinters. prying the splinters apart into atoms. when we combust something into poetry, we control it. it cannot hurt us if it exists outside of us rather than burning a hole through the bottom of our lungs. it's not a wonder to me that so much of what i make comes out like a death gasp. i spent a long time at the bottom. i keep going back, too. when you're down there for so long, the only thing you can exhale is fumes.

but humor is hard. humor needs timing; which i can't promise in a paragraph. i can kind-of force it through careful spacing, but i have no idea how fast you're reading these things. humor needs a somewhat awareness of your audience, when really - anybody could be looking. humor needs us to understand what the joke is, why it's a joke, and to think - ha! that is funny. in tragedy, everyone understands the metaphor of a kicked puppy. in humor, you need to introduce them to the concept of a dog.

and forget about positivity. forget about anything not made for adults explicitly. every time i see a well-made children's media piece, i feel fucking horrible for the creators. most of the time, people see children's media as being sort of "not worth" applause, even though i'm pretty sure they have to work twice as hard. i have no idea how hard it must be to not be able to have your character just say. "well, fuck." something about a message of peace or friendship or caring - for some reason, that makes the media not for adults. like, okay. i'm pretty sure my father actually, out of all of us, could use a good book on how to control his temper and talk about his feelings.

but whatever. i write a short story about my ocd, and how it's fucking killing me. it gets an award. it gets published. i write a short story about my ocd, and how i'm overcoming it, and how my days are getting lighter and starting to flourish. i keep getting ghosted. no response. it just is lacking... something.

is this it, forever? you can be an artist, okay. but the trade off is that the things you make - if they're happy? if they're joyful? people will say it's stupid and pandering. you bite your nails off. you file your teeth. you hear something inside of you breaking.

the other day in a writing group, someone i'd thought of as a friend said: "you write so much better these days! i love what you make when you'd rather be dead."

[zepskies]

The Boys S4: Is it just me or...

Okay, anyone who knows me knows I love this show. And I don't mean to be overly critical, but...there's something missing for me in season 4. 🤔

Episode 4 brought me back in a bit more this week, but I have thoughts and just wanted to get them out. Which of course you don't have to agree with, if you so choose to dive below the cut. 😂

So here we go! Highlights and lowlights (and **spoilers**): ⤵️

Sorry in advance for my slightly stream of conscious-style thought process.

Lowlights (so far):

Kimiko x Frenchie: Violently pushing down something you built up for 2.75 seasons? Because "being more than that/family" can also be romantic? Why do you hate the fans, Kripke? 😂

The political "satire" is getting a bit old for me. A lot of the same jokes over and over. However, the problem of taking out Victoria Neuman is a very intriguing conundrum (and Bob Singer sweating over it while trying to keep supes out of the military/law enforcement is keeping me hooked).

THAT Rob scene: lmfao come on now. This was for gross shock value and nothing else. Even the exploding dick and Love Sausage in S3 served a narrative purpose. (But I enjoyed the footnote commentary while watching it on Prime: Rob B. apparently wants to remind everyone that he's a Shakespearean-trained actor. 🤣) I’m actually more disappointed that he didn’t have a more meaningful role in the show, because he really is a fantastic actor and I was looking forward to seeing what his character would bring. (Not that lmao.)

Overall, the season just feels...emptier than seasons 1-3? Maybe that has to do with the lack of Soldier Boy's gravitas as a new antagonist, and connecting the entire narrative and various conflicts of the season -- all while shedding light on the grisly past of Payback, Grace Mallory, and Stan Edgar. Stormfront also brought that ante up in season 2 in a similar way, all while shedding light on Vought's sordid history with the creation of Compound V.

We're missing the layers here in season 4. Now, this could just be because we haven't seen the full season yet as well, but that's what I see so far.

I think it also has to do with the odd dynamic the boys side is in right now. With Butcher on the fringe of the group, and the others splintered off on their own side plots, it feels like the supes' side of things are more...for lack of a better term, "unified" in the narrative.

Which I realize is probably to reverse parallel the state of each side in season 3. But it just feels "off" to me somehow, since we're supposed to be just as invested in the boys side lol.

Highlights:

Butcher and Ryan: Butcher's doing his best there now, and it soothes my heart.

Ryan's slowly seeing the consequences of his choice to join Homelander. In fact, I'm wondering where Ryan is in episode 4. Hiding in his room?

The Khan Worm that appears to be inside Butcher is both frightening and intriguing. I wonder if this is the key to saving his life? Or just another lovely side effect of taking V24 long term. 🐛

JDM (Joe) and Butcher: All their scenes were golden. And that subtle John Winchester reference? Being willing to train up his son to be a killer? Being able to grieve at his son's funeral, knowing he "saved the world?" *Chef's kiss* 🤌🏽

(And if Butcher or Joe end up being the one to break Soldier Boy out of his cryo coffin, my fangirl heart will freak TF out. 🤣)

The way that Homelander is noticing his age is fucking hilarious. Bet you wish you had that life longevity from your father/sperm donor, dont'cha? 😂

But also the way Homelander "confronted" his past in E4 had some truly WTF/Holy Shit™️ moments, in a good way. As in, I'm once again afraid of this unhinged psychopath--kind of way. 😅

A-Train continuing to struggle internally with the place he's fought so hard to keep in the Seven, versus recognizing the evil around him, his own complicity, wanting forgiveness from Hughie, and wanting a true connection with others (namely his family).

It's interesting that Hughie's mom is being brought back in at this time. And even MORE interesting that she seems to be the one who gave her ex-husband Compound V. Her story of why she left her family seemed so normal that I actually got a little suspicious of her. But now, even more so. 🤨

M.M. doing his fucking best. (Except for the way he suddenly had a change of heart about Butcher in E4. Not sure about that one.)

Tilda effing Swinton voicing Ambrosius. PLEASE. My Queen. 😭🤣🤣

I actually had more lowlights before I watched episode 4. There were some really interesting moments that literally had me gasping in shock (this time in a good way), more so than in the first 3 episodes. However, I still think seasons 1-3 were stronger from the get-go.

But even with my lingering reservations, now I'm actually more so looking forward to getting into the meat of the season in this second-half coming up. 👏🏽

[yanderes-galore]

Could you make Yandere Platonic Splinter Vs Yandere Platonic Shredder (TMNT 2012)?

I can try, sure :) Did most of the personality from memory so this is like an overview with how they'd act.

Here's your two dads, lol.

Yandere! Platonic! Splinter vs Yandere! Platonic! Shredder

(TMNT 2012)

Pairing: Platonic - Rivalry

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Overprotective behavior, Violence, Attempted murder, Manipulation, Kidnapping, Forced (Shredder)/Dubious (Splinter) companionship.

Honestly, these two having a rivalry doesn't surprise me.

NEED I REMIND YOU THEY HAVE ALREADY FOUGHT OVER PEOPLE BEFORE?

For example, they fought for the same girl romantically.

Then later on they fight over Karai as a daughter.

I am not surprised if they both fought over you.

Maybe you're a ninja in training and manage to catch the eye of the two.

They may just see themselves as your teachers, but they could also see themselves as a fatherly figure in your life.

Although, they are very different in their approach.

Splinter already has a family so he's already very welcoming.

He treats you similarly to April in terms of training you alongside the turtles.

In fact you'd be lucky if you met him first.

The way you could meet Shredder is most likely through... kidnapping.

It would make more sense if he kidnapped you to get info on Splinter and the turtles.

Although it could've just been the wrong place, wrong time.

Either way, when you're there you manage to intrigue Shredder into sparing you.

Only to be taken back by Splinter and the turtles.

This could serve as your first meeting with Splinter too if you want, where you get involved with the family due to having nowhere else to go.

Both of them would want to train you if they felt an attachment with you.

Splinter is adamant on training you for self-defense.

While Shredder may do it to make you another pawn or weapon at first.

I can see their rivalry being... brutal.

It always has been brutal, even before you came into the picture.

Shredder already wants to kill Splinter.

Meanwhile Splinter has concerned himself with protecting his family.

When the two realize they both have a similar goal, it just gets worse.

Shredder wants to make you fully loyal to the Foot Clan so he can break Splinter.

Splinter focuses on having the turtles (and maybe April + Casey) protect you.

Splinter is much more caring, often showing affection and providing you shelter when you need it.

He just seems like a caring dad or mentor who wants to protect you.

Later on he seems to want to isolate you from your actual family... but right now he has Shredder to deal with.

Meanwhile Shredder is more cruel and intense.

He isn't really affectionate, just ask Karai.

Although he does care for you enough to show distress when others take you out of his sight.

Splinter would not usually kill to keep you in his care, not unless he was cornered.

Shredder on the other hand... would probably kill the entirety of New York if it meant you'd be his loyal apprentice.

As you can see... They are vastly different.

We've even seen them fight countless times in the shows, even times where Shredder brutally wounds Splinter.

Blood will be shed between them countless times before there is any conclusion.

The moment those two come together to fight, you can only hope whatever the outcome is will benefit you.

You no doubt are aware of the tension caused by your presence.

Yet even if you put yourself in isolation, one of them is going to find you.

I can see them both sending others to check in with you.

Shredder has countless soldiers and mutants.

Meanwhile Splinter has the turtles, April, and Casey.

I can also see you being thrown into a loop of constant kidnapping and rescuing... no matter who it is.

They try to convince you who is better, you end up tuning it out.

Frankly, you just want to go home... your REAL home.

While Splinter is more caring, he has his own issues with you being around others.

Shredder is straight up just volatile and cruel to those around you, yet strangely caring with you.

Even the best option here probably isn't healthy either.

You can only hope that some miracle saves you from this conflict.

The two have had tension for years between one another... one just waiting for the other to make a move...

With you thrown into the conflict, it's only a matter of time until things boil over and you're forced to see the fate that awaits you all.

[hatekawa]

Okay this idea regarding the Three Months Au has been floating around in my head for a solid two days now and I NEED to spill it out so. uh. here's my alternative ending for your au (so I guess i made an AU for your AU????) gonna keep it anonymous so I don't out myself as completely cringe LMAO

--okay, so. there's this episode of Doctor Who, right? it's called "A Christmas Carol", and a lot of weird shit happens, but one of the big plot points is this woman called Abigail. Abigail has a terminal illness, and was basically put into some kind of cryogenic chamber, which keeps her alive indefinitely-- but only as a frozen body. She's basically asleep while she's inside. She can leave whenever someone lets her out-- something the boy who loves her does, every single Christmas, so he can spend a day with her once a year--but the countdown to her death only stops ticking when she's asleep and immobile inside the cryo chamber. Eventually, her countdown gets down to one day left to live. And the boy leaves her in there for years. Until he's old and close to death himself, he never lets her out for fear of having to watch her live out her final day.

OK. CONTEXT PROVIDED. STAY WITH ME BRO.

--same situation, but with 3 months Mikey. Draxum and Donnie build something that does manage to "halt" the effects of Mikey's mystics on his body-- but it's something like the cryo chamber, where it only works when he's completely frozen and asleep inside. Mikey's 3-month-long prognosis is still intact (probably a bit shortened by the time the machine is built), but they manage to extend it by keeping him in that stasis chamber until Draxum and Donnie can find a true cure. For special occasions, like birthdays or holidays or really big fights, maybe they'll let him out-- but the countdown is still always in the background.

and, uh. maybe they don't find a cure.

days and months and years of trying, and they never find an actual cure. the only thing they have is whatever original invention Donnie and Draxum made to put Mikey into stasis-- and that countdown gets shorter every time they let him out. soon, it gets down to some miniscule time frame-- two weeks left, maybe. then a week. then five days. then three.

Donnie stops taking Mikey out of stasis.

he tells himself that he can still find a cure, or some way to reverse the effects. Mikey no longer leaves the stasis chamber to celebrate birthdays or Christmas. raph and leo and donnie and april all become adults. splinter or draxum die of old age. april probably gets married. huge universe-ending battles are fought and won. the world keeps turning and shit.

--and mikey sees none of it. asleep in the back of donnie's lab, while his brother spends decades trying to cure him; too scared of watching mikey live out his last day to take him out of stasis.

even as his family lives, and ages, and probably eventually dies-- mikey stays frozen in time. dying, but never dead. forever fifteen years old.

wouldn't that be kinda fucked up? :D

I have never watched Doctor Who so thank you for providing me context also OH MY GOD. YEAH, THAT WOULD BE FUCKED UP.

I just- Okay. I couldn't resist making a fanart of your idea

[scottingmysummers]

KNUCKLEHEAD

-a Stan Pines angst one shot-

words- 1378

(A/N: very rusty on my fic writing so take it as u will 😁 also leave me and my obsessive use of metaphors alone)

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋

Stan hadn’t smoked in years. When he first arrived in the sleepy little pacific northwest town, after the incident, he gave it up to keep the appearance of his brother. Cold turkey was tough, or maybe it was just the stress, but either way he was sick as a dog for weeks until the withdrawal had its fill of wracking his body. But now he sat on the back porch of the shack, a cheap and aged cigarette between his fingers. He was surprised he could even find the pack- he had tucked it behind a loose baseboard in his office and even covered it with his rug for good measure.

The worn couch hugged his hips, the fabric rough underneath him. He had spent many nights out here, listening to the birds, mind replaying the last time he saw Ford. The way his six fingered hand reached desperately for him, the way he screamed out his name, the echo of the book hitting concrete. He memorized every part of the scene- the calluses on Ford’s palm, the way his beard was disheveled, the broken test dummy in the corner. The deafening silence that followed was the worst; He heard it in his sleep. The crackling of the broken portal, his heart pounding against his chest. Burnt flesh and fear, the weight of his actions settling on him like a bloody crown of thorns.

He blew out smoke. His eyes followed as the cool night air wafted it up into the stars. For a moment, he was ten years old again. The sand of the New Jersey beach was cold, and Ford was explaining how matter is not created nor destroyed. Everything is made up of atoms that have been around for millions of years. When you think something is gone, it’s essence lingers always, never truly leaving. That simple memory stuck in his mind. He would still give anything to sit on the beach again, his only care in the world was what he and Ford would have for dinner and what they would do tomorrow. Together.

Even with Ford’s return, everything was..different. Stan didn’t know what he expected, but this? Ford was the same loser he grew up with, but he was worn. Serious. Whatever he went through in that portal messed him up, and part of Stan ached that he didn’t get the portal finished sooner. Maybe he could’ve saved his twin from his fate.

“Stanley?”

Stan coughed out smoke, holding the cigarette to his side and squinting to see who was standing in the dark doorway. He half expected Soos or Mabel, tensing once he saw Ford. Stan leaned into the couch, lounging and acting like it didn’t matter at all that Ford was there. They had fought every single night about something- about Dad’s funeral, about the shack, about the kids. Their relationship was a frayed cord, ready to snap at any moment, and Stan’s hands tore from trying to keep the ends together.

Stanley gave a grunt, taking another drag of his cigarette. “That’s the same brand Mom smoked,” Ford mused, standing still in the doorway. Stanley lifted his fingers to look at the cigarette. He hadn’t even realized. “Huh. Guess it is.”

“…May I sit?”

“Knock yourself out.” Stan shrugged, scooting across the couch. His chest was tight underneath his worn muscles, but he blamed it on the nicotine.

Awkward, tense silence filled the air between them, The wall was thick- another reminder that the twin they both once loved was lost to time and circumstance. “Can we talk?” Ford broke the silence. Stan gave a nod, keeping his eyes trained on blades of burnt grass by the edge of the splintered porch.

Ford took a deep breath, tapping his fingers on his leg. His posture was perfect, his back stiff and upright. It pissed Stan off; It was just another way Ford was better than him. “…How did you put together the portal like that?..”

Stanley was caught off guard by the softness in his brother’s tone. He hadn’t heard that since the day before he was kicked out, all those years ago. The catalyst to his wasted life. His jaw tensed and he brought the cigarette back to his lips, speaking through smoke. “What, didn’t think I could do it?” he huffed back, not even looking at Ford.

Ford’s silence was all he needed to know. Of course Ford didn’t think Stan could do it. He was the dumb sibling. He was a con man and a mistake, the bottom of the barrel scum while Ford was the genius. The air of superiority that floated around his twin put a sour taste in Stan’s mouth. Stan put the cigarette out on the bottom of his heel, just like their mom used to do. He was a Mama’s boy always, even when he was literally dead to her.

“Shit, It wasn’t hard to do. You aren’t as groundbreaking as you think, Poindexter,” Stanley lied with an eye roll. Teaching himself advanced physics and high level science was the hardest thing he had ever done. He had to actually apply himself for the first time in his life, and it was all for Ford. Everything he did was for Ford.

He felt Ford tense beside him. Was it annoyance? Frustration? Disappointment? Stan could no longer read the shell of his brother. “That's..incredibly impressive, Stanley.” Ford murmured, picking at the skin of his fingernails. A nervous habit, though his stoic face betrayed it.

“Yeah, whatever. You gonna thank me now?” Stanley leaned his head back against the couch, arms extended over the back. He couldn't help the bubble of rage that filled his chest at Ford’s inability to answer. So simple, two words to justify the three decades Stan relentlessly spent cooped up in that basement.

Stan scoffed, pushing himself up from the couch. His joints ached, his age only helping fuel his rage. “Of course not. Stanford Pines doesn’t thank anybody.” He hissed. Ford’s expression darkened, sitting up a little from the couch. “That’s enough, Stanley.” He warned, “I told you how dangerous it was bringing me back.”

“I saved you from whatever hell you were in! And you can’t even pretend to be grateful?!” Stan’s voice raised, and he was sure the twins could hear the argument. In this light, Ford looked just like their dad. In a blink, Filbrick Pines was glaring at him through his bushy grey eyebrows.

Stanley blinked rapidly, dispelling the thought. He clenched his jaw. “I’ll show you dangerous!!” Stan roared, pulling up his sleeves. Ford stood up in response, a vein in his neck bulging. “Stanley, you knucklehead, you’re going to wake up the kids!!” The word was like a trigger. Knucklehead, knucklehead, knucklehead. His dad’s favorite word to describe him. It filled his bones with a heat he hadn’t felt for 30 years. He gave his life to Ford, and this was how he repaid him?? With snide remarks and side eyes??

Stan’s hands gripped his brothers shoulder before he could think- he was never good at doing that. His fist collided with the nose identical to his. The punch was filled with years of rage and emotion. Ford stumbled back, hand over his face and blood dripping through his fingers.

You could cut the intensity with a knife. Stan stood, panting, hands clenched. Ford deathly silent. Moments passed like that, wondering how their relationship ever became like this. How did the two boys repairing a pirate ship turn into two men glaring at each other in the darkness.

“Goodnight, Stanley.” Ford huffed out, holding his bloody nose. He shoved him with his shoulder as he walked past, disappearing into the shack that used to be his own. “Pfft. Yeah. Run away like you always do, Stanford! That’s always worked out for you!” Stan yelled back. He sat back down on the couch, huffing and rubbing his bruised knuckles. The birds continued their chirping, and the sounds of the forest resided around him. He put his head in his hands, unable to stop the hot tears of frustration. Ford wasn’t the same- hell, neither was he- but was he really that bad?

Maybe he’d be the same fuck up knucklehead forever.

[turtleblogatlast]

Previous | Next

AU start here

Tfw ur alien supervillain ex roomie knows more about your prison curse than ur family does

Stuck as a sixteen year old with your worst enemy on speed-dial makes for a terrible combination, it turns out

[sister-lucifer]

Apology, With Tears 

Lucifer x Gender Neutral Reader

Genre: Fluff, Angst/Comfort

Summary: Lucifer comforts you during a hard time, and reminds you that your feelings are always welcome with him

Content/Warnings: Comfort, guilt, angst with happy ending, implied venting (the source of anguish itself isn’t specified, please project whatever issue you may be having onto this fic /srs)

Like my writing? I take requests! NSFW or SFW for any fandoms in my bio! 

Also, please reblog! it’s free, takes two seconds, and really helps me out 

Feedback is encouraged and appreciated:)

Not fully proofread! Let me know if you see any errors!

“I-I’m sorry….” 

Your voice was so small. Shockingly, terrifyingly so. For a moment Lucifer froze, unsure if he had really heard it. The words were as fragile as a single snowflake landing on the bare concrete, ready to break and melt into oblivion at any moment. They were as quiet as the coo of a dove in a raging thunderstorm, and yet they shook Lucifer to his very core. 

“Excuse me?” 

“I’m sorry, Lucifer…” 

There was a small part of him that thought maybe the repetition would bring clarity, but no such luck. Gently he hooked two fingers under your chin, tilting your head up towards him in a slow manner so that you’d have ample opportunity to resist him if you’d like. 

You did not. You allowed him to meet your eyes with his. 

That was the softest you’ve ever seen his gaze. 

The sharp brows that were usually taut with annoyance were furrowed just slightly in such a way that you could tell Lucifer didn’t even know he was doing it. He would never purposely let concern show so obviously, but it seems he was preoccupied with other, more pressing concerns at the moment. 

Something sorrowful in the swirling red of his eyes stabbed into your heart with a pang of guilt. To know you had caused Lucifer—the chronically overworked head of house—such worry brought a heaving sob from you. 

The last of your resilience disappeared like a flame in the wind. The tears flowed freely, and there was no stopping them. They ran fast down your cheeks and fell into your shaking palms and stained your shirt. They were shamefully, burning hot, like liquid fire on your face, but once they fell to your lap you could not feel them. You brought up an arm to cover your eyes, the tears soaking into your sleeve and soon after your skin. 

“I’m…I’m sorry, I—“ 

“Please, please stop saying that, my love….” 

The words are surprising, but even in your shock you can’t bring yourself to look up at Lucifer. 

“Why…” He begins, at a loss for words for the first time since he can remember. 

“…Why do you keep apologizing?” 

You thought you’d have an immediate answer, and yet when you open your mouth no words come. That should be an easy question. You knew why. 

Didn’t you? 

You have to search a bit more before you even think of speaking. 

“I just…I feel bad for…b-being like this—“ 

“Being like what?!” Lucifer interrupts, and now his confusion and desperation is showing through. He’s not raising his voice and yet his words hold a sense of urgency akin to that of a scream for help. He isn’t angry, but he is so overwhelmingly worried. 

“I…I-I shouldn’t…” You have to fish around in the word pool a bit more before pulling out the right ones. “I shouldn’t be…making you deal with this, i-it’s my problem, I can handle it, I…” 

The pause is heavy. Unbearably, crushingly heavy. 

“I shouldn’t be doing this to you…” 

It is in this moment that Lucifer’s black heart shatters into countless pieces. The larger fragments linger in their place, the smaller splinters go flying off in all directions. It is likely that he will never recover all of them. There is no way to when something like this happens. He knows that you have felt the same. You have lost many pieces of your heart along the way here. 

Fortunately, Lucifer has some to spare. 

“You aren’t doing anything to me, my love…” He assures you, taking your hands in his. His grip is loose, encouraging you to follow his movements instead of forcing you. 

“You talk about yourself as if you are some terrible, laborious thing that must be dealt with against all will. I’m not here because I am forced to or because I feel I must, or else. If I thought this wasn’t a serious matter I would have walked out of this room long ago.” 

He’s right. You know he’s right. Living with six unruly little brothers means Lucifer has a very high tolerance for emotional turmoil. You’ve seen him shoo his bickering brothers away or send an injured Mammon off with no more than a ‘good luck’ and a wave of his hand. He knew his brothers could deal with themselves. 

But you? You were not them, but he still knew exactly what you needed.

“You are not some heavy burden forced on my shoulders, I choose to be here. You have nothing to apologize for because I am asking you to seek me out for help.” 

A gloved thumb wipes a tear from your cheek, and for the first time you meet Lucifer’s gaze on your own. His expression is lighter somehow,  brows not pressed quite so tightly together. 

“Hardships cannot be endured alone, that is a fact. They are meant to be shared. So please, no more ‘sorry.’ Apologies are for when you do something wrong…like how a certain twin keeps eating the drywall in the common room…” 

You can’t help but laugh at that. It’s weak, hardly intelligible through your labored breathing, but Lucifer hears it. 

The smile that crosses his lips is merely a ghost, gone in a moment. 

But you see it. 

It comforts you in such a way that it destroys every defensive wall you had been fighting so hard to keep up. Suddenly you’re reaching for him, gripping onto his uniform shirt with aching fingers before pulling him to you. A loud sob echoes through you as you hide your face against his chest, hot tears leaving trails down his button up. 

If you were anyone else in any other scenario, Lucifer would probably be a bit appalled at how you were ruining his freshly ironed uniform. 

And yet, the thought never even crossed his mind.

A tender hand strokes the back of your head, and the other ushers you up into a more comfortable sitting position in his lap. 

He doesn’t shush you, or tell you it’s okay, because it isn’t. But it doesn’t have to be. He knows you will calm yourself in your own time. 

Until then, he is more than content to stay right here. 

[munsster]

take me to church

A/N: i am down ASTRONOMICALLY for big men who are also whiny babies (gif creds: @mulderscully)

Pairing: Hugh “Ransom” Drysdale x Fem!Reader

Summary: The Drysdale heir gets on his knees for his darling goddess. 3.0k words

Warnings: smut mdni, switch!ransom, switch!reader, degrading, worship, slapping, pet names (princess, puppy, sweetheart, honey, baby, angel), gentle slapping, religious references (mainly catholic), overuse of italics xoxo

"You should know your place by now, Drysdale."

"I'm sorry—"

"Don't whine, you sound like a baby," you groan. Just a moment ago, you had slammed his bedroom door shut tight, and all six feet of him had whipped around with the meanest scowl on his face. He's big, sure, but you've got leverage on his heart. It kills him the way you snap into place between his ribs with, god, the prettiest laugh he's ever heard. He'd never admit it, though. Least of all to you.

And he knows he's nothing but an insect under your heel, yours to shatter and reconstruct. He gets a rush in your presence. He has never been so intimidated by someone with such a sweet smile. Such a gentle soul but the worst sadist he's ever held close. Worse than himself.

"You think you stand a chance, don't you?"

You're like a roman candle with how unpredictably fiery you are. Yesterday, it was being stuck in traffic down the ninety-five. Tomorrow, it'll probably be some coworker's silly mistake. Tonight, you simply came home angry. That's it. You need a release, and there he is. Dark hair ungelled and messy but pushed back and flawless still, standing like a statue and at your mercy. You're set off, the wild look in your eye setting him off.

"I'm all yours, princess, tell me what you want," he coos so sweetly you could melt, but you never ever would. It'd boost his ego and splinter his edges. He'd get worse. And what you give him is discipline. Patience for his inner child. Medicine for his deepest wounds.

"On your knees, puppy."

He does. Without one single thought. Every iota devoted to your demands. With a thud, he's at your feet, lamenting his own devotion when your hands preen through his hair.

You're his heaven and hell and all the bits in between. He's a shrine to your love, a glimmering reflection in the pool of your heart. And he's grown oh-so-narcissistic these past few months.

"What to do with my poor boy," you whisper because he pouts, not a single change to his expression, but he sinks in on his own body, deflating at the core. You coddle him. "Oh, I know."

He hates your mystery. Because it's no secret what you're up to. It's no longer mystery with a grin like that. He shifts and settles his big hands onto your thighs, pushing up to hold your waist tentatively.

"Please, sweetheart, anything."

"Hugh, you know exactly how I feel about begging." You hold his chin and lean close. So close blood pumps through his ears and drowns out his panic. Yeah, his cock is hard, but it's no rival to his blown pupils and needy hands that tug the waistband of your slacks.

"Keep going," you say against the corner of his mouth, nipping his bottom lip and sucking until he whines and digs his fingertips into your skin. The heat of your palm blows over his cheek as you strike him. Gently, though. Just a kiss of your fingers on his skin, and he blushes. No way in hell would you hit him—harm him without permission. He has to admit though: he'd like the sting if it was your doing. For it would be his unraveling and a blessing all the same.

"Princess, sweetheart, come on, I can give you everything," he huffs, grasping desperately for you, at anything within his insatiable reach, "Just say the word, please, honey, you gotta understand: I worship you."

"Oh, I understand plenty, pet. Why don't you prove it?"

He stands from the floor like a ghost fulfilling his final purpose in your hands. His body is so ardently belonging it's sickening. To be yours is a rite amongst the holy and yet you bring the sin out of him. All seven, splayed out like a deck of cards across his thieving brain.

"You Boston boys think you're so scary. All that east coast charm just pourin' outta you. You couldn't scare a newborn. What makes you so special, huh?"

"You."

Your breath seizes. Every nerve alight with his warm hands crawling over your torso and his cheeks pink. Your boy has never been so forward. Not like this. Not ever. His eyes gleam like he's never witnessed such beauty and wickedness up close. Like he's never seen a mirror.

You stare at him, incredulous of his charisma, his grace. He is sure of one thing though: whatever you are will kill him, but wouldn't that be the best poison?

"You have no idea," Ransom whispers. He tosses your shirt aside and unbuttons your pants. And you let him. Sincerely, you are taken aback and breathing in awe. He is filled to the bones with your light, blood replaced by lust. He needs nothing else besides your soul. Your wicked hands.

Then he kisses you. Like he could lose you to the abyss if he let go for even one moment. With saliva spun from his tongue and delving into yours, but soft and kind and to feel the familiarity of your warmth. He becomes pliant, knowing with clear certainty he is a lonely boat and you are a raging sea only lying in wait to rip him to shreds.

And yet he sails willingly. Blissfully.

"You know," you mumble against his fervent mouth. "You'd be so handsome if you weren't desperate." Though, he doesn't stop to listen. He's too dissatisfied. He needs the taste of you and the half-glass of wine you downed in the kitchen. It tingles in his mouth, bitter and recherché, the best he could find. For his goddess, he'd pay with his life.

If you truly meant the things you said to him out of frustration, he would still promise you every ounce of starlight in the sky. If you truly meant every insult, he would still beg and pine and bleed to be called yours. He'll be a disgrace as long as he is your disgrace.

And he knows you're lying when you tell him things like that. As if someone so lovely as you would consider some lowlife like him if he weren't the finest looking asshole in northern Massachusetts. Worship is an exchange of grace. It's not a one way street, no. It's an intersection. God must love his mortals or they would not be his.

"Hugh."

He pulls back and squints. You call him that when: one, you're pissed off, or two, you're about to fuck the living daylights out of him and leave him destitute and longing for days. Either way, he wins.

"My angel... my beloved... my one. What can I do for you?"

Each endearment peppered with kisses along your throat. He sweetens it up because he's smitten and wants what you give him every time: pain.

"If only I could use you like the poor beggar you are," you say, condescending in that way he goes mad for. And he grins.

"Please?"

Say no more, you tug his hair without any sense of remorse and no gauge for his pain. Anyway, his tolerance is boundless when he's with you. He tilts his head back, neck bare and Adam's apple bobbing as he gulps. Out of fear or pleasure, he can't tell. But he gives you that cheshire smirk, and it all dissolves down into his affinity for your touch.

You trace the column of his throat and press your tongue to his jaw, sucking at the skin to mark him. And he wishes you would do it all over and everyday. He is nothing if not yours. When you leave little bruises, he gets to be told even when you're away.

"You're incorrigible," you pant against his warm skin that pulses with cold blood. "Look at you, so so needy. Trust-fund-fuck-toy, little no good dolly, hmm? Need someone to tell you what to do so you don't rot away."

Something like a growl blooms in his chest, though it feels like a purr when he goes slack and leans into your touch. You're always taken aback by his antics, but you've never let on about it until now. With eyes wide, you're spoon feeding him abuse, and he's taking it without the airplane noises. He slips easily into your submission, and you're stunned. Even now, after all you've put him through.

"Ransom," you whisper into the little indentation at the base of his neck. He hums. Your fingers comb through his hair, and he shivers with delight. We create false gods to pass time and worship them all the same. He is yours, and you are his, and it will be that way until the end of time.

"On the bed. Now."

He jitters with excitement, only still under your scrutiny, and manages to drop his sweatpants into a crumpled pile at his feet. You dare not look down. You don't have to. You know he's not wearing his usual briefs: crisp white and snug around the muscle of his thighs. You know because he hisses when the cold, autumn air sidles along his cock. Doesn't matter. He'll warm up nicely once he gets inside you.

For now, he sloppily kisses the bow of your lips and slumps to the bed, breathing heavy with his back to the headboard. He's loud and yet untouched. You'd think he ran a marathon. Or six.

"Join me," he grumbles, scratching his knee before slowly dragging his blunt nails up and up and—then his fingers are wrapped around his cock. Nothing in comparison to any ounce of what you've given him before. The best sex of his life stands clad in panties with her arms crossed. Brooding over his weak body. "Princess?"

"Shut up. Let me get a good look at you, pretty boy." You hold his chin between thumb and forefinger. Between head and heart, he lies steadfast and boyish in the wake of your warmth. His strength is drained by your every touch. You render him incapable, but he's the one built far above and toned like the shaft of a power drill. You can fit your fingers perfectly into his divots, and all is restored. Turn his house into a home so long as you keep looking at him like he's a work of art.

"Ransom, what're you thinking about?"

And then again, you hold him so so gently, he'd think he was precious. Beyond value, even. What is value anyway. His gauge will always be whether you want him or not. His value is subjective to you. Forever and always, he may be a dreadful Catholic, but he’s well-versed in your scripture.

"What do I ever think about? Other than your sweet pussy," he mumbles and cups his palm between your legs, fingertips slow and circuitous around your covered clit. "Come on, princess, I know you want it. I can tell she needs me. Give in."

You've gotten good at being angry with Ransom, so good it's hard to remember his softness. The assailant of his soul often outsmarts the gentleman. But once in a while, he shines through the cracks beside his eyes when he smiles. So genuine, it's hard to deny. Not now, though.

Now, he reads troublemaker loud and clear.

You straddle his hips, and he gargles down a throat-clawing moan. Oh, you're horrible. A fist around his cock, you tug the crotch of your underwear to the side and slick his tip between your folds. You manhandle and taunt him, and yet he's never been this hard. He's gonna need painkillers for the headache you rattle him with.

"Who needs who again?"

He could cum. In fact, he would burst if he wasn't clenching his fingers through the sheets: tight enough to draw blood between the linen and from the heel of his palm. He's withholding because of your withholding. He won't last like this. And he's going fucking crazy.

"God—fuckin' damnit—gorgeous, baby, you're killin' me. Huh—fuck—'s that what you want?" He groans, head thrown back against the headboard.

"Be careful, Hugh. I can be a lot less nice if you want," you grumble with teeth scraping the edge of his jaw when you kiss his skin. And he wants. Oh, he wants you—with every fiber of his wicked being—to be mean. But he'd also die every which way to be your good boy. He slips his fingertips beneath the underwire of your bra, weaseling his palm to cup your supple breast.

"I'm being careful," he says, "so careful. Wouldn't wanna hurt my babygirl." You grab his jaw hard as he pinches the bud of your nipple with a grin.

"You're the worst, Drysdale."

"You love me."

"I love using you."

He stills. Then lifts his head. Of course. Of course. He suspected it, sure, but never has he wanted you to take back what you said like he does now. His body aches for you nonetheless. He shatters into pieces for you. Of course you love it. But not him.

"Take it back," he mutters.

"Hmm? I can't hear you—"

Ransom wraps his arms flush around your waist to hold you against him like a crime. Your smirk melts away hot and fast at the frown on his pretty face.

"You love me. Say it, princess, you love me." A sinner in every degree, he's begging. His repentance is you. If only you'd forgive his wounded pride. You press the pad of your forefinger to his chin and look down on him like a god. Like he's a sacrifice.

"Oh, Hugh. You don't know the first thing about love."

"But you do. And you love me. Please, love me," he huffs. You lick his wet bottom lip like a cat, stray and rabid and curling into his warmth with the sun long gone.

"I'll show you love, pretty boy. Like you've never felt it before."

And you sink onto him; he nearly loses all control beneath you, squirming and grabbing at anything he can reach. Needy as babies often are, only he is fully grown and you both know it. Though his whining might prove otherwise. 

"Jesus—Jesus Christ, that's—that's—keep going." His hips jerk up off of the mattress with every pulse of your walls clamping around his shaft. His body is so limp and yet so tense, he could explode. He wants nothing more than to make you his: to fill you so deeply he's there for months. Nine, maybe.

You mewl. Holy shit, the prettiest noise he has every heard, you mewl. Like a newborn fawn, ever fair and fragile, only graced by sweat and heavy breaths. His eyes snap open to see your back arched, palming at his wrists with your eyes fluttered closed. He licks his lips, then kissing your navel wetly, he watches you coyly through his lashes.

Your fingers scratch at his scalp while he bounces you on his pulsing cock. Every vein, every subtle undulation, you feel slipping out of you just to slip back in. Yanking his hair, he pants, and you purr again at his body's rough reaction. His hips jolt, and you grin with your lip content between your teeth.

His hands are so big, and you're so soft, and there's nothing he can do but worship and sanctify your hallowed and celestial body. Ethereal. You are of literature, written as an angel, halo and all. A blade of light piercing a thick blanket of clouds, shedding calm on his broken heart. And he's a pagan of your beauty. 

At this point, he accepts it. He wouldn't mind being nothing more than a doll to you. Because you still chose him. He's still your doll, once all is said and done. And his pulse steadies from a raging pounding to a heavy beat in his ears, rushing through his bloodstream like narcotics.

"Feel so good, princess, all tight 'n warm for me. All mine," he groans. Eyes shut, you breathe in the soft slapping of damp skin, and he savors the way you drip down his inner thigh. "My little vice, all wrapped 'round my cock. So good to me, aren't you? Atta girl."

You crane your neck forward and clench your jaw. Your thrusts grow slow and deep and reaching as the warmth drains from your head and you clench his shoulder with eager fingers.

"C'mon, we both know how bad she want it. Fuckin'—can feel you squeezing me, angel." He pats your thigh, and the vein on his neck goes red hot about to burst.

Then you go weak in his palms. It's your turn to be used while he lets you wring his cock for dear life. He glides you in slow up down, up down strokes and spills into you, plugging you tight as you keep him struggling for air.

You nudge the tip of your nose against the soft part of neck beneath his chin. The softest part of Ransom Drysdale—besides the spot reserved in his little heart for you, his dove. You press, and he swallows and syncs to your every movement. From the bat of your eyelashes to the ample exhales of your parted lips.

"I love you, Ransom."

He goes dizzy.

"What?"

"I love you."

You lift your head, dead serious with fingers ticking along his expanding chest. He grins, dopey and elfish and needy. And shifts his hip. You gasp at the blood flowing hard into his cock once more.

"Say it again," he grumbles.

"I love you."

"Yeah. Yeah, you do. Now you're gonna scream it till the neighbors do, too." You're sure of one thing and one thing alone. Ransom Drysdale has always been true to his word. That's how you end up with his hand around your throat and your fingers in his mouth.

masterlist

[tragedy-of-commons]

killjoy

childe x gn!reader | wc: ~1.6k

You catch your boyfriend setting up the cake.

tags/warnings: bday fun, modern & college au, based off of the American College Experience™ sorry, tooth-rotting fluff, teucer is a national treasure, comedy, possibly ooc, reader has hair

notes: for @staarri's 100 followers & bday event <3 trying to write childe was a nightmare but the wheel of doom has spoken. chosen prompt "cruel summer" :)

It has been one hell of a day.

Pop quizzes in two of your classes (that you are now tanking), getting heckled by that same group of protesters, slamming head-first into a glass panel like a pigeon, and then getting splashed by a puddle via a speeding car. 

To give credit where credit is due, you’ve suffered through every incident with class and poise. Despite how you drip with murky street water, the saving grace that is the promise of your warm bed keeps you from inventing new profanities and falling to your knees in the student parking lot.

It’s almost over with, it’s almost over with—

The splintered door of your dorm unit has never looked more welcoming. When your keycard is approved with a click, you heave the barrier between you and uninterrupted sleep wide open. However, what you don’t expect is the little spectacle unfolding in your kitchenette.

Who you belatedly realize is your lovely boyfriend is sticking candles into something - it being quickly shielded from your view as he reacts to your arrival.

“You just had to be early,” he grins, revealing those pearly whites, “Maybe I’ll start calling you ‘Killjoy’.”

“Ajax?” He’s here? Today? But he said— He must notice your sorry state, but he’s wise enough not to mention it. “You really think I’d miss celebrating your birthday in person? Seriously, what kind of partner would I be, just sending you a text? Babe, you gotta start setting some higher standards.”

“Rotten liar,” you mumble, growing smile threatening to split your face in two. 

A small flash of copper peeks around the bedroom-adjoining hallway, hyper. Teucer rushes up in front of his brother, the latter ruffling his hair. “Hey, you’re not supposed to be here yet!”

You snort, wondering if anyone else is planning to jump out of the shadows. “My sincerest apologies. I could always leave—”

“No need,” Ajax dismisses the notion with a cavalier wave. “I think we’re all ready, huh Teuce?”

He huffs in agreement, beaming up at you like you hung the moon. “One second!”

Teucer scampers off faster than you can blink, making you bellow a laugh. His energy knows no bounds, necessitating many hours of entertaining his whims. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Happy birthday,” Ajax says softly; wistfully.

You stalk over to him, embracing your boyfriend like he might disappear into thin air without a moment’s notice. “If you broke in, I will be calling campus security.” “You’d never turn me in! Also, we just so happen to still be on the guest card from last week.” You part from his warmth so you can kiss him. He tastes of sugar, the bastard.

“Buttercream?” you place, peering over his shoulder. The sight of a round cake on the counter confirms your suspicions, and your heart swells. He would’ve had to bake and decorate it somewhere else, given that ovens are a luxury you do not possess in college hell. You picture him in his too-nice apartment, piping frosting in the familiar loops of your name. “Yes!” Teucer rushes back in (you note that he’s hiding his hands behind his back), while Ajax pokes your nose. “Big brother spent soooo long on it!”

You snicker deviously. “Really?”

“No reason to lie,” your boyfriend pouts, “Though I’m a bit hurt that you’re both trying to embarrass me, after I went to all this trouble..”

Teucer sticks his tongue out in disgust whenever you console Ajax with another kiss, likely wanting you both to hurry up your gross couple stuff so he can show you his gift. It’s presented to you ceremoniously, and you honor the splendor by pretending not to know that it’s definitely one of his toys. 

Your acting is award-winning, perfectly ignoring the obvious ridges and appendages of a Transformer. After tearing open the paper, you’re told that his name is Mr. Cyclops and you have to take good care of him - your sworn oath.

(Of course, Mr. Cyclops will mysteriously end up back in Teucer’s bedroom if you can count on your partner in crime to help you out. You and Ajax share a Look that hints at conspiracy.)

Speaking of your boyfriend, you don’t think he is governed by even one modicum of shame. During the Happy Birthday song, he performs with his whole chest, much to your chagrin. You think that Ajax lives the most for other people; even if it shines brightest whenever he teases and flusters. His camaraderie is most genuine when he’s this comfortable - when he knows that the present moment is all he needs to focus on. 

When did he start letting his guard down? You find yourself unable to recall among past memories of trudging to the local diner at ungodly hours, cramming for finals at the library, and responsibly talking him down from any antics that would surely get him in trouble.

(Maybe it was when you first held an ice pack over his eye, swollen shut from a punch he shouldn’t have taken just for the thrill of it. Your admonishment must have been jarring, because without any teasing remarks whatsoever, he promised that he’d dial it down. You remember lacing your fingers with his - and promptly threatening to “embalm him with jet fuel” if he ever got hurt again.)

Now your relationship has progressed to the point where spending your first birthday together feels natural. It feels so natural that shitty paper plates stacked high with slices of cake is enough to make you forget that you look like that one damp owl picture. Ajax, as per his boyfriend duties, has to remind you, of course.

“Bad day, huh?” 

You rest your chin on your fist, elbow supported by the armrest of your (comically small) couch. In retrospect, the fleeting illusion of a living room probably wasn’t worth it. Squished into a corner by a dozing Teucer and an awake Ajax, you yawn. “The worst, actually.”

“Well, we can’t be having that,” he tips your chin up to meet azure hues, “Maybe my gift will make you feel better.”

You blink. “Gift? You don’t have to, you know. The little guy’s was plenty enough for me.” 

Ajax spares a fond glance at his little brother, whose head is resting in his lap, legs thrown over the opposite armrest. “Nonsense! If you’re worried about me having bought out a whole store—”

“Don’t tell me you—”

“—Then you have nothing to fret over, Killjoy,” he laughs. “It’s pretty small.”

You don’t suppress the smile that breaks out on your face. “Okay, I’ll bite.”

“Hopefully not too hard.” He’s so annoying. You want to kiss him stupid.

From what you assume is from his back pocket, he removes a black silk pouch before dropping it into your awaiting hand. He was right about it being small, that’s for sure. Toying with the material of it for a moment, you pull open the bag delicately. Ajax tenses. “So.. whaddya think?”

Inside is a brass key that fits into your palm nicely. Of course you’ll love anything he gives you, but you’re unsure of what this could mean. Is it symbolic? Literal? You thumb over the grooves, unsure of what they could possibly unlock. Your head swims with a fuzzy feeling that you don’t entirely hate.

“What’s it to?”

“Our place.”

It’s perfect. You turn the object this way and that way, swallowing. “Giving me my own copy? You realize that you’re gonna be stuck with me crashing at yours way more often, right?”

Your boyfriend wraps a sturdy arm around your shoulder. “It’s not there for you to crash, it’s there for you to stay. I want you to move in with me.”

The following awed silence from you is clearly taken as something else, because Ajax backpedals in that flippant way that belies the panic he’s actually feeling. You need to tell him that it’s okay; that it’s more than okay.

“Of course you can say no, but the rest of your birthday plans kinda hinge on the possibility that you’ll make me the happiest man in the world and say yes,” he amends.

You pay no heed to his theatrics, because all you really need is him. Gross. “Duh, idiot. As much as it kills me to say this, I’d want nothing more.” Ajax glows. “Because you’re head over heels in love with me?”

“No, because I won’t have to drag my ass to the laundromat anymore.”

The offended sound he lets out is muffled with your mouth against his once more, and the tears that roll down your cheeks are obviously not because you’re ecstatic to be so involved in his life. What a preposterous idea.

His hands cradle your face, a little awkward because of the position, but he’s so warm. 

“Killjoy, I have something to confess,” he breathes, pulling back enough so you can see the faint constellation of freckles dotting his features. “You need to start packing immediately, or else the flowers will wilt before you’re able to see them.”

You sigh, happy-sniffling. “Flowers? Is a bouquet perhaps part of these ‘birthday plans’?”

Ajax dries one of his hands stained with your tears off onto his shirt before raking it through Teucer’s curls affectionately. He stirs but does not wake. “Try thirty!”

“Ajax..” The horror in your tone barely disguises the admiration.

“I love you too, Killjoy.”

That night, when you’re both alone in his apartment, tangled in each other’s arms, your overnight bag on the floor - you tell him the same. The few tears he sheds into your hair are also definitely not because you’re finally comfortable enough to say it back. Ridiculous.

taglist: @hanyi-writes, @karagatan02, @bfajax, @aphrodict, @nomazee

[lilium-nepalense]

No ok hot take your all wrong. Neither Leo or Donnie is the older twin. They switch it around everyday even.

Splinter choose all thier ages based on height and at the time they where both the same. Simple explanation: twins! Leave it at that and back to his shows.

Leo and Donnie spend the rest of thier young lives trying to one up eachother on who's older.

Leo: im taller !

Donnie : that's not how ages work ! And your not even taller !

Leo: oh yeah ? Well I am cooler and more awsomer so that makes me older twin.

Donnie: No it doset!!!

as they got more annoying about it Raph decides to have them flip a coin for it every morning. They have been doing it ever since.

Somtimes it's used as leverage

Mikey: Donnieeeeeeee spend time with us you've been up in your lab all day!!

Leo: come on ! Don't you want to hang out with your favorite little brothers !

And somtimes it's used as a weapon

Donnie: as the older twin of today I get all authority and your opinion dose not matter

Leo: what !!!

Could Donnie very well work out who's older from blah blah blah science? Yes ! He could ! And maybe even did. But consider he dosent want to. Consider him wanting to connect with not only Leo but also Mikey and raph on a deeper level.

Think about days where Donnie is the older twin and connects with raph by shouldering responsibility together. Seeing the effect splinter has on his older brother and filling in the gaps. Consider days when he's younger and goofing off with Mikey trying out some crazy experiment with the faith that the older brothers will be there if they need.

Think of Leo and his relationship with Raph. Being Raphs right hand man on the team backing him up and fixing flaws in his planing. Working together to keep Donnie and Mikey safe. Days where being the younger twin means being babied like one and connecting with Mikey about not being trusted to make decisions (especially withing the first season of the show)

Days where Leo steps up to be a pillar for Donnie when he needs it and Donnie stepping up for Leo when he needs the same.

All these actions are things they would have been doing anyways. Supporting eachother and the rest if thier family. But it's layered with a flavor of older or younger for ease of connection.

Sure Mikey and Leo connect about not being trusted but isn't it better if they are also both the youngest ?

Sure Raph and Donnie connect over the huge specific loss of splinters supoort (as do all of them but these two in particular are pretty similar) and isn't it better if they where older together ?

In the end I don't think anyone really knows who's older at any given moment and the twins will flip it around for what's better or funnier in the moment. Because they are insane like that and don't care what anyone thinks.