#and have like four close friends

[professorjirt]

I’ve discovered my favorite genre of Bagginshield art is where Thorin is a lovesick idiot who is Losing It and Bilbo is unbothered or oblivious to Thorin’s suffering LMAO

[localicecreambiter]

I love putting my favorite guys into increasingly unlikely scenerios

[desceros]

tries to sleep, fails, gets melancholy, copes by writing purple turtle fic donatello/reader, gn!reader, rated t, 1.6k. insomnia, friends to.... friends, (were you ever just friends? are you something more? what is love if not friendship shifted an inch to the left?), yearning, yearning, yearning, yearning—

Donatello is sleeping.

Hefting a fatigued sigh, you hover in the doorway to his bedroom for a moment. Staring at his face, taking it in. He’s gotten unfairly handsome as the years have gone by. Beautiful, even. Pretty angles, sharp defined lines, dark seductive eyes. Like this, unmasked, slack in sleep, it’s free for you to look as much as you want. More than you can during the day. A little secret thing just for your own heart’s keeping.

…Best friends shouldn’t want to stare at each other like this, you think with an ache.

It’s late. You can’t sleep. Lying down has provided nothing but racing thoughts you can’t quiet. Things to do tomorrow. Things to say when you see someone. Things to write down if you can hold them until the morning. Things, things, things. So many things in your head, ten thousand little voices like little snowflakes in your skull. Each small, powerless; but together, a force too mighty to outrun.

And Donnie is sleeping. Normally he’s awake. Fiddling, poking, prodding, studying, twisting, cracking, bending. Available to draw you into sleep. Always soothing, petting your hair, cooing at you until you drift off at last to the dulcet sounds of his low rumbles.

But not tonight. Tonight he sleeps, pretty in his sheets even as he’s all sprawled out and drooling. Cute. He’s cute. He’s cute and close enough to touch but so, so far away that you know you never will. Not like that. Not like that. 

It’s late. You can’t sleep. 

Slowly, not wanting to wake him, infuriated with yourself just at the thought that you’d risked it by lingering as long as you have, you peel away from his door frame and sneak into the living room. The couch greets you again. Inviting, soft. It smells like turtle ass. Popcorn. Movie night. It smells like family, like home. Scratchy beneath your cheek. You’ve been meaning to get them some new pillows. The way Mikey had laughed so hard he’d snorted his drink. Leo’s squawk when it got all over him. The weight of Donnie’s arm on your shoulder when he’d leaned on you while laughing until he got the hiccups. His cologne, new, smells nice. You should tell him tomorrow.

(You can’t tell him. There’s no way for a best friend to look at the other with pupils shaped like hearts and be the same. You can’t tell him.)

Heavily, you sigh. It’s late. You can’t sleep.

You sit up. Get up off the couch. Stretch a little before exhaling and walking around a bit to try and work off some of this excess energy. The darkness of the living room isn’t so much, anymore, what with how your eyes have adjusted. You can see the pieces of the evening strewn about. A pizza box that Splinter’s going to find in the morning and yell at the lot of you for not throwing out. Raph’s teddy bear, leaning against the other couch where he’d been pretending he hadn’t been using it to hide his face in the scary parts. Mikey’s cup, half-full, forgotten in Leo’s panic to find paper towels. And—

—Donnie, standing in the doorway, bleary-eyed, arms folded. 

“Why are you awake?” he asks, voice tumbling over your ears like rocks on a riverbed. Guilt strikes you like a blow. He’s exhausted. You’ve woken him up.

“I’m sorry,” you say as an answer, tangling your fingers in the shirt you’d borrowed out of his closet. The shirt you always borrow. The shirt that’s half yours, now. 

Donnie’s quiet. You sink your teeth into your lower lip and hope he’ll shrug and go back to bed. Maybe, if he’s lucky, he’s got enough sleep juice in him that he’ll drift right back off and forget this happened. 

He doesn’t. “…Can’t sleep?”

The guilt burns your skin like sand in the wind. You smile and pretend. “I’ll be okay. Go back to bed, Don. You need it more than I do.”

He doesn’t. 

“…Please?” you try again. 

You’re met, instead, with a sigh. He rubs the back of his head where his mask would tie if he were wearing it. Lets his arm fall to his side—ah, except no. He’s holding out his hand, palm outstretched, inviting you to come close. When you don’t, his beak wrinkles. “Come here.” 

You take a few steps closer, but don’t take his hand just yet. “What are you doing?”

“Just come here,” he says again, curling his fingers a few times in an imperious grabby command. You come closer. He opens his tired eyes in a squint, mouth dipped into a frown, and his gesture gets more demanding. “Come here.” 

Stepping closer, closer, closer, finally you get within range. You realize he wants your hand the moment he loses patience with you, watching as he rolls his eyes and reaches out to encircle your wrist with strong fingers. They eclipse the bones there easily, tugging as he turns, pulling you out of the living room. 

“Don—” you start to protest, but he stops you with a breath.

“Stubborn,” he accuses, though there’s no heat to the word. The scoff is thick on the back of your tongue—Donnie of all people calling you stubborn—but you don’t let it out, knowing it’ll be too-loud in the pitch night. 

He pulls you into his room, the very room that had been such a sweet siren song to you earlier. He pulls you towards his bed. He pulls you in behind him when he settles in. He pulls you beneath his blanket. He pulls, pulls, pulls, until your chest is flush to his plastron and his arm is around your waist and his breath is in your face and your heart is in your throat.

It’s late. You’re not going to be able to sleep.

“…Go to sleep,” he says after a few seconds, doubtless able to feel the way your pulse is like a hummingbird against his skin. 

“Sorry,” you say in lieu of—anything else. You don’t dare try to say another word, unsure of what exactly would tumble out instead. Perhaps a sweet poem about the texture of his skin against yours. Maybe a lament that he feels the need to tuck his thigh between yours so so so close to where you wake in a pool of sweat dreaming of his touch. Or possibly a whispered confession that tastes like lightning and blood and sugar all at the same time; that you want this but not this, you want this but more. 

Gently, a forehead bonks against yours. Dark eyes open and meet yours, centimeters away. He studies you, and you watch the gears turn. More slowly than usual, lethargic even, because of his slumber. 

“You’re thinking too much,” he murmurs. Dumbly, you nod. “Need to talk about it?”

“…Yeah,” you admit, then, “…but I won’t.”

He doesn’t like that. A frown mars his beautiful, beautiful face. 

“Why?”

You swallow the incredulous laugh, the kaleidoscope of responses. They’re all irrelevant, impossible to share, save for one. “You should sleep.”

Donnie’s hand tightens, fingers curling in his—your—shirt in the small of your back. “So should you.”

“Yeah.”

“…”

“…”

“…I don’t understand.” The confession, rare, makes you sigh. 

“…I don’t either,” you tell him. And you don’t. Why did you have to feel this way for him? Why couldn’t it be someone easier that stole your heart? Why does it have to be the one person you can’t stand to lose? Why does he have to be so comfortable touching you like this and making it hurt even worse? Why can’t you stop feeling this way?

Why can’t you sleep? Why can’t you sleep? 

His fingers unfurl from your shirt. His hand dips beneath the hem, finding the skin of your back. Slow shivers spread like little earthquakes as he strokes along your spine, tectonic caresses that ripple and destroy. It's familiar enough a touch that you don't stop him; unfamiliar enough that it rends you inside out.

Donnie leans in. Ghosts his lips along your jaw. It’s not a kiss; you’re just friends, after all. But it’s a sweet caress that feels good, all the way to where he lingers at your ear, whispering there, quivering at the touch that's too close to something else to be fair. “Close your eyes.”

You have one rule: listen to Donatello. So you do; you close your eyes, let his nails drag down your back, let his mouth press warm into your pulse, let his chest rumble with churrs that fill the night air with something akin to a lullaby. His legs curl around yours, mixing, confusing, making the separation of you disappear. 

It’s… maddening. You hate this. You love him. You love him so much. You hate that he can do this so easily. 

“Shhh,” comes the gentle coo against your skin, like he can tell you’re pulling away from his intent. You obey that, too. Donnie says to be quiet, so you quiet. Thoughts, movements, words; all of them fall away at his beckoning. “Just like that. Good.”

Good, you think, feeling a little fuzzy. It feels good to be good for him. God. You’d be so good for him—but no. None of that, now. Not when you can pretend that these little presses of his lips are kisses. That the thickness of his thigh pressed to your shorts means something. That his hand scratching lines in your skin is something meant to claim as much as it is to calm.

“Making me work for it tonight,” you hear him mumble, half-conscious of the words, not sure if they’re real or part of a dream he’s built for you. “Good job, sweetheart. Just like that.” 

More brushes of his mouth. A slow glide of tongue. A lovely dream, you think, finally letting your muscles go slack. A dream of a Donatello who would hold you like this, talk to you like this. A Donatello who is more than just your best friend.

It’s late. Finally, warm and held and pulled into a sweet dream, finally, you sleep.

[isan0rt]

See, here's the thing about Dedue and the non-Dimitri members of the Faerghus Four. They're not his friends. Ashe and Mercedes are his friends, Annette is debatable, but Ingrid, Felix, and Sylvain he is not even looking to be friends with.

They're his in-laws. In-laws that, at least in the Academy phase, he doesn't even particularly like.

Like, if not for Dimitri, he would absolutely not talk to those people. He's making nice with them because they're the closest thing Dimitri has to family that's not actively trying to murder either of them, and they're important to Faerghus so Dimitri has to have a relationship with them no matter what, and it's important to Dimitri that they and Dedue at least kind of get along with each other as much as possible.

But Dedue isn't trying to be friends with them! Dedue is like, I'll go to the family holiday party because it's important to you but if Felix starts talking shit or Ingrid says something racist then I'm not going to be the one to deal with that. They're your relatives and I'll be nice but that's your problem. He's not looking to be close with them, he just wants to have a halfway decent relationship with them for Dimitri's sake and like no more than that.

And they improve a lot in their supports, especially after the time skip, especially in Three Hopes, but like. The relationship there is still fundamentally in-laws. It's just a graduation from "shitty in-laws I'm putting up with" to "in-laws I've come around on and can have a decent-to-good time with." Depending on what supports you get they can even graduate to "in-laws I actively like and admire." But like. He's still hanging out with them because they hang out with Dimitri. He's not hanging out with them for their own sakes.

Dimitri has one important familial relationship with them and another vitally, crucially important relationship with Dedue. Both are fascinating to explore and I love to explore them. But they're completely different relationships.

Like they're not all a big five-person friend group, Dimitri is in the position of having to like. Try and keep the peace between his extended family in all but name who he still loves, and the person who has been the most important person to him for his entire teens so far. Even if Dimitri were tired of his friends' shit personally he can't just stop talking to them, they're the future leaders of their houses, the only houses that are all in behind House Blaiddyd and not fomenting assassinations. He HAS to maintain a good relationship with them for Faerghus.

Dedue gets this. He'll play nice with them. He knows Dimitri also needs them on his side if he's ever going to restore Duscur, but he doesn't have to like them. He'll save their asses on the battlefield for Dimitri but he's going to go hang out with Mercedes and Ashe after.

[sparkly-skies]

@reserved-fruit thank you for the link to this video with Kris' heart ring (goes perfectly with Keep Me Grounded, Keep Me Calm, just saying 👀 do you like friends (Bojan and Kris) comforting each other and jokingly proposing while still being deeply serious about how important their friendship is? Go read this!).

Here's some screenshots to look at with me, why? Because I'm a touchstarved bitch and scream and cry at any sighting of physical affection. Thank you Bojan for providing enrichment in my enclosure.

Also this one. Because I see a mention of friends spending time together because they love each other and love spending time together, I scream and screech in missing my friends noises.

[ratatatastic]

"And Lundy, talk about all the different Finns on this team: one of them a good friend of yours, Eetu Luostarinen got married pretty quickly right after the Cup got done. How did that party compare to the Cup parties? You guys just kept the action going it feels like!" "Yeah, I mean, it was awesome to see one of my best friends get married and be a part of it! But it got a little tight with the time since the season went so far—he actually missed his bachelor party but I think he's pretty happy with the parade and the parties we had in Florida so I don't think he minded that too much... but it was awesome to be a part of his wedding and see all his friends and family celebrating; that was a special moment as well."

Territory Talk | 8.26.24 (x)

[peppermintack]

show tempe gang crossover with the morris islanders would actually have been the best episode of bones ever. btw

[bunibelles]

Current wip going on!! 🍒

[horsemage]

I think we should bring back basic etiquette lessons such as shutting the fuck up when you’re watching a movie in a group that is not exclusively your friend group 🙂

[blood-injections]

I fucking love the desert I haven't been there in years but between constant danger days thoughts and falling in love with it back when I've visited family there i can just zone out and feel like im standing there im so fucking like spiritually connected to it.

[darkdragon768]

???

Some reddits that made me laugh

[caelcstis]

me w my lil group of ars goetia bbies watching everyone getting involved w them bc of mastermind

[simptasia]

my mum has stage four cancer

[aposematic-jessica]

its kind of a brainfuck to know that your parent is actively engaged in ontological, superficial evil. like ive known since at least age 13 that my dad is a bad person. he's a great guy, great father, so caring and charming and really a picture perfect person--he had anger issues that he's resolved with therapy, he's open minded, he became a better father and husband, he's changed in his life, he's introspective and humble--and he is actively part of a system of racism, misogyny, abuse, violence, hatred, prejudice, and all around institutionalized Bad. and he loves it in a lot of ways. he finds it fulfilling. he's been working for this system nearly as long as ive been alive. infant me was at his swearing in. many of the things that people love about him: generosity, compassion, protectiveness, fairness, friendliness. these are all the same things behind why he chooses to stay in this system. i havent tried talking to him about how disturbing i find it all since freshman year of high school, when he told me he chose his profession because he wanted to feel like a hero. im his daughter. i will never be able to properly have the conversation with him that needs to be had in order to open his eyes to how fucked up what he does is. my dad wakes up every morning and goes into work and the system he upholds with every hour of labor is evil and cruel and selfish and harmful. morally destitute, abjectly horrific, devoid of reflection or accountability, however you want to say it. and he's my dad. thats my dad. hes taking me and my friends out for dinner tomorrow night and on sunday he has a shift at the evil factory. i hope-- -------

[professional-dragonsandmemes]

my tumblr blog is the perfect level of privacy in between my regular instagram story and my close friends instagram story

anyways i broke up with my boyfriend today and i cant believe im still fucking expected to reply to 2 classmates tonight and then work 9am-1pm tomorrow and then drove 40 minutes to school for a stupid midday intro-level class and then stick around until 6:45 for my grad level major class. fuck that man im playing a furry dating sim and daydreaming all night about telling my favorite local band all my deepest darkest secrets in a way thats just comedic enough to make me not seem like a creep next time i get korean bbq with them again