#and it’s almost morning now
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ndrwlls · 7 months ago
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i love the fact that in mag142 jon became one of the entities he reads about. he is now a nightmare haunting innocent people i love that for him
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no green eyes version he looks crazy here
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xxplastic-cubexx · 2 months ago
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hey can you guys watch them for a second
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temeyes · 3 months ago
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eyebrows >:^(
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shadowed-yet-vibrant · 3 months ago
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It’s fascinating how little the US at large knew about Walz before this week, but at the same time… it makes sense. He wasn’t their governor. They haven’t seen the incredible work he’s done first-hand, and they haven’t had years to appreciate his authentic charm.
He’s never been a politician who sought out the limelight - everything Minnesota has done in this historic year of progressive legislation and policy has been relatively quiet. He’s not on the road jockeying for the latest sound byte on CNN or some podcast - he’s working to implement the policies people want. He’s tweeting about Mountain Dew. He’s at the state fair eating fried food and talking to his constituents. This is the governor we know. A man who cares deeply about the work he does and the people he represents, not the fame, not the clicks.
He’s genuine. Minnesotans know that. Now it’s time to sell that to the rest of the country.
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poorly-drawn-mdzs · 9 months ago
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Good Morning, World.
[First] Prev <–-> Next
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isettreesonfire · 29 days ago
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Walmart or smth Idk I wasn't paying attention
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leafie-draws · 5 months ago
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practice 🌤️🍂
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wigglebox · 1 year ago
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That’s the power oooooooof love! [x]
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canisalbus · 3 months ago
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The Hawaiian language doesn't attach gender to pronouns, but it does have a complex set of relational pronouns, so you can use a particular pronoun to note for example "all of us (except for that guy)"
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persephoneflouwers · 1 year ago
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Wait i dont get the english breakfast thing sorry
Oh angel, that’s a super secret code meant to unlock even the gelid hearts of people like me.
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English Colazione ♥️♥️
Or maybe he meant he’s having his English husband for breakfast. I don’t know, ask Louis 😭
——
Edit (only to have all the complete compilation in a single post):
Harry has a “colazione” (breakfast in Italian) tattoo on his thigh. @ialwaysknewyouwerepunk ‘s post described it after the AIW BTS.
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Here’s Harry fonding because Louis mentions missing English Breakfast on tour. (Thanks @louansue for the gif addition! I’ll search for the video when I get home)
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And this is Louis in 2023 :) curious how his having the first English breakfast of his US leg coincidentally when Harry’s tour ended just 6 days ago.
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Very funny, very coincidental.
I swear, these two!
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artsy-1diot · 3 months ago
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i like him a normal amount i think
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taxed-up-trotter · 6 months ago
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tried learning blender, i think it turned out ok
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angelpuns · 2 months ago
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Suddenly wishing my parents could read my mind/see inside my head so they understood I actually CAN'T do the things I say I can't do. Its not that I don't want to its that I literally cannot do them :)
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joelscruff · 10 months ago
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so the new fof is currently at 6k and ik that prob sounds so silly to some people cause it's literally been 4 months since the last update and THATS ALL i have written BUT. when i tell you that it was stuck at like 2k for the longest time because my brain just would not allow me to write. and now it's gone from 2k to 6k in the last few hours??? like that's just huge to me and i'm proud of myself and happy with my progress. just wanted to share :)
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desceros · 7 months ago
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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.
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ineed-to-sleep · 5 days ago
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It honestly baffles me that some people are so casually dismissive of animals' feelings. Istg some ppl only see pets like toys and are barely able to hide it
#vent post alert#but I'm just so frustrated#my mom's dog got hit by a car yesterday and she refused to take him to the vet#she said she doesn't have any money for it and that he's fine#physically he seems fine just bruised. I think he might have something internal but she's been very dismissive of that#anyway. he spent the whole night crying bc he was alone and terrified#I went upstairs and almost begged her to take him to the vet but she still refused saying he was fine#then she put him inside her house and he calmed down after a while#the next morning when she came downstairs to talk to me she kept being dismissive#saying he was fine in the end he just wanted attention#and I'm like yeah?? obviously?? he got hit by a car???? the poor thing is traumatized and terrified#ofc he doesn't want to be alone#and she hit me with the 'dogs don't get traumatized. he's just being dramatic'#I pointed out some dogs have psychological pregnancy so ofc they have psychological problems too#and THEN she hit me with 'but those are female dogs. males are different. because hormones' like. WHAT#this just in not only do human males not have feelings but now dog males don't either. because hormones.#I thought my mom was smarter than this tbh#istg her boyfriend is just making her more ignorant. bc this is the kind of bs I expected to hear from him but not from her#anyway I don't know what to do. I don't have money for the vet either bc I just had to pay for a surgery#we talked and she said she'll monitor the dog and if he looks like he's getting worse she'll take him to the vet#ig I'll have to settle for that#I love my mom but man. this is weird#I just didn't expect it from her#what's worse is that when it's just her and me it's one thing. but when her bf is around I feel like she gets different#like with me she agrees but then around him she doesn't?? how am I supposed to trust her that way#it's all just so weird. idk what to think or what to feel rn. I just feel bad#sleep.txt
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