#breathing in your closeness

[amee-racle-ofmyown]

I AM GOING TO POST THE HEIST DUO BEING SOFT AND DOMESTIC AND NO ONE CAN STOP ME‼️

bye I reached the tag limit💀

[sharkthinker]

the vibe in the conclave novel is that Lawrence/Lomeli has mild crushes of varying degrees on half of his coworkers which is just an excruciating experience all around. not because of the vows of celibacy but because his coworkers are some of the most annoying ppl on god's green earth

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

gojo is the type of bf to kiss you alllllll the time when you least expect it . i know he is. super casually and whenever he feels like it, no matter what you’re doing….. every time you so much as pucker your lips in thought he’s There and ready to smooch you :((((((( you’re sitting on the couch and reading? smooch. you’re cooking? smooch. you’re in the shower? smooch. how did he get in there? smooch. he’s insane and addicted and he loves you sosomuch……..

[kaiminluu]

BYLER X DIRTY DANCING: CLOSE TO ME

SURPRISE!! @wayward-sherlock and I have become a TEAM to bring to life the written and illustrated story of mike wheeler,, who, upon beginning another doomed bummer summer at his family’s retreat spot of choice, finds himself wrapped up in the responsibilities (and arms) of the resort’s dance staff…….

look out for chapter 1 soon,,,,,,

[willowser]

katsuki is very sad and a little clingy when your baby is sick :(

[mayor--charlotte]

𝓬ricket - @cicadatree - 6275-2460-9783

❝calm❞ ❝resiliant❞ ❝nostalgic❞

[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.

[umemiyan]

good morning, i'm thinking about snow leopard/kitty hybrid gojo laying on your back after he cums inside, purring and licking you almost as if he can groom you (and also because he likes the taste of your skin), rubbing his cheek all over you because you're so warm and he's so happy... (and he still hasn't pulled out btw)

[sherurose]

AVATAR: THE LAST AIRBENDER

2.09 — Bitter Work || 3.12 — The Western Air Temple

Zuko experiencing the different and opposite sides of the water tribe people having "a deep sense of community and love that holds them together through anything" one after the other.

[bakudekublogblog]

alright I’m bored so here’s my extremely optimistic crack theory: assuming katsuki seeing a vestige means we’ll see him in the vestige realm, when kudo sorted through izuku’s memories he put his forehead on the wall right??

what if izuku is having a crisis about being left quirkless again and vestige katsuki needs to touch foreheads with izuku to show him all his memories of izuku being heroic without a quirk and he tells him “you never needed a quirk. you were always a hero” or something like that because it’s what izuku always needed to hear

[crustyfloor]

The way Till looked genuinely pissed off because of Ivan but he’s not mean about it. Just thinking. The fact that he didn’t just say fuck off right then and there when Ivan asked him for a kiss, but he instead worked around it, as if after realizing Ivan was actually serious he said this as an attempt to pacify Ivan. because even though we get the irony here, it does look like Till trying to ‘let him down easy.’

Even his internal dialogue is harsh, but he doesn’t voice it.

And when Ivan starts whining and getting in his space again, Till doesn’t bother pressing it and just lets Ivan sulk, as if he’s simply handling a pouty child. Like he’s used to it and just letting it be, it doesn’t mean he liked it but Till really wasn’t trying to hurt Ivan.

(even more unsurprising how no punches were thrown, again. Till can only be provoked into acting that way, had this been Ivan’s perspective I’m sure this situation would have looked a lot more narrow-minded)

[xxplastic-cubexx]

ohhh i just know magneto is so pathetic in bed constantly asking charles if he’s making him feel good and charles just praising him like 😌😌😌😌😌😌😌😌😌😌😌😌😌😌😌😌😌😌😌😌😌

THIS IS WHAT I LOG ON TO THIS WEBSITE FOR 🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️

[t-u-i-t-c]

Taiya Hando in Bakuage Sentai BoonBoomger 01x45 Enemies of the Earth

+ bonus

[interrogatormentors]

a-ny words of ad-vice for some-one a-bout to be sent off to be-come a helms-man soon?? it was al-ways my dream.... un-til i found out what it tru-ly means - DS

ii'm not goiing two wa2te your tiime wiith condolence2 bc thii2 2hiit ii2 ju2t iineviitable for people liike u2. 2o 2ound2 liike you ju2t deciided two roll over and diie whiich mean2 you've 2ucce22fully 2kiipped over the fiir2t 2tep whiich ii2 enjoy the tiime you have left and pretend iit'2 not happeniing. bc that'2 not goiing two get you anywhere.

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Cry whIIle your lung2 can 2tIIll IInflate--

or ii gue22 you could 2ee iif a hiighblood wiill deiign two hook you up wiith a fake vii2a two the far coloniie2. never met anyone that triied two do that and liive though. once the drone2 arriive that'2 iit. my adviice ii2 two...

--a2 mournIIng the pa2t 2hall be dII2couraged movIIng forward IIn your career a2 a helm2man. DrIInk--

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...eat before you go 2o you can puke or 2ometh a2 one la2t act of rebelliion bc you're goiing two forget your own name iif the programmiing work2 riight.

--plenty of electrolyte2 2o they can fIInd your veIIn2 ea2IIer two make the proce22 a2 paIInle22 a2 po22IIble before you become part of our glorIIou2 EmpIIre

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iidk. ii'm not the be2t per2on two a2k bc ii got out. iit'2 not 2omethiing you can really prepare for.

Not 2ure why you a2ked thII2. II have been here 2o long that my corporeal lIIfe no longer hold2 relevance two me.

[vaguely-concerned]

there's this... idea/concept that keeps swirling around in my head of rook going down lethally injured in combat. and spite and lucanis as one voice going 'no. nope. nah. quite simply nuh-uh' but like on a level that reverberates through the real world and the fade because of their soul Situation, so when they wrap rook up in wings and arms and cradle them against them to just -- hold rook's soul in place in their body until emmrich can arrive with the emergency spirit healing of all time to anchor them safely back in the world of the living without the need for spite life support... it actually somehow works, and they're safe and awake and still breathing against lucanis' chest by the end of it all.

it's definitely a one-time trick lucanis has no fucking clue how he even pulled off afterwards, once the 'I can see the weave of the world' flow state has faded, and no one has any good explanation for how it could even be possible, outside of the fact that no spirit and person have ever been so completely and cleanly unified to one purpose before lol. but with rook still walking about safe and sound and already cracking bad jokes, i don't think anyone would particularly care

[jonahmagnus]

I hate his ass so much