#forever in love with your voice

[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.

[vaguely-concerned]

watching odo just have to sit there in the background as dr mora is talking about him as a 'child' is giving me. such a visceral reaction. I too want to surrender my physical integrity and become formless goo to get away from being inside my own skin while listening to this. this one scene in a 1990s sci-fi show has better expressed my experience of neuroatypicality than every explicit piece of representation I've ever seen (save harrow the ninth but then no one is doing it like harrow the ninth it can't be beaten).

MORA: It would seem to me that being a scientist yourself, Lieutenant, you can appreciate the difficulty of our dilemma, and the elegance of the solution. When Odo was first found, nobody knew who, or indeed, what it was we were dealing with. A shapeless, viscous mass of fluid, a veritable organic broth. That was our Odo in the beginning. DAX: When did you realise you were dealing with a sentient lifeform? ODO: He didn't. I had to teach him that myself.

sometimes you are truly just sitting there while someone cheerfully calls your vulnerable unguarded childhood self a shapeless viscous mass of fluid or likens your body and soul to a vaguely unpleasant soup and you can't say shit about it. and the fact that young odo started to shapeshift as a desperate wordless helpless plea of 'please stop hurting me', and the way he phrases it as 'teach him that myself' in an attempt to cling on to some sort of control and agency he has to believe he had in that situation........

[pareidolla]

on the topic of cheat-coded (heh) songs, i associate him and razor with "that unwanted animal" esp in the context of then as a ship

i'm the touch you crave, i'm the plans that you made / but fuck all your plans, i'm bored

we've done it, boys! we've broken chearazor down to it's bare fundamentals! banger song btw ♡♡

speaking of chearazor yippee i have an excuse to finish this

(he said no)

[arthursfuckinghat]

The long sleep loosens it's grip as your eyes flutter open. The warmth of sunlight kisses your skin, and a soft breeze combs through your hair, as if welcoming you back to a place you've always belonged.

You find yourself cushioned by the rustling grass around you, serving as a meal for horses in the distance. The chirping of birds and the trill of crickets create a nostalgic symphony from a time you can't quite remember.

You look up to the sky, eyes following the clouds to the outline of mountains that stretch before you. The view of New Hanover welcomes you.

The breath you didn't know you were holding is released, along with all the uncertainty it contained, you remember that you've been here before.

But this time, it feels like you're home.

[birdy-bird27]

Oh my god there’s so much to unpack here. There’s so much I have to go back and look over. Like the notes. Wow this was phenomenal. So many more questions?!?

Wow this really made the story feel even more tragic. It feels so real.

The interactions here really make you feel how real they are

Also now the question is who is bon? and where is Jack? If he isn’t bon then something happened to him (I mean could theoretically be Jack still but I highly doubt it)

Wow I just can’t express how much I enjoyed this. Terrifying as usual I can already feel my dreams being haunted

[mr-not-null]

the earlier dub for dragon ball was so cute to me, there where many mistranslations and it was reaaaaally censured but it was nice and overall pretty well done, and one of my favorites things was yamcha and puar's voice actor,

he voiced both of them and he sounded so nice, i genuenly loved his voice and it suits yamcha so well, he made him sound so sweet and chill, also i think a man voicing puar is way more appaling, bc he still sounds cute and friendlly but in a complitly different way that i really like.

saddly they changed this bc the series changed companies but his work was so good and im glad we got to hear this version of him ^^

[badnewswhatsleft]

TONIGHT LITTLE DARLIN'

[choiraugur]

hi i made this after consuming so much alcohol i have to share it on tumblr too

[percyjacksonxrb]

I knew Kdrama’s hit different and are feeding my delusions but Cdrama’s????? Bro they have me kicking my feet and blushing….

So recommendations with green flag male leads send them myyy wayyy!!!

[oddtripps]

“All nightmares start as dreams,

All love starts as a scheme,

. . .

So wake me up

I’m tired of sleeping ”

He’s so sad face emoji dreary face emoji wtf

I’ll update the punishland!au once I get another stupid baby puter because my old one was hanging on by a thread lmao.

Poor doods been through hell with this stupid little clump!!!!

Wants 2 go back home. :((

[charismabee]

I love the New and Unending Dawn ending so so much. I love my little guys (the voices) and I want them to be happy and free to learn to be safe. I love thinking about them exploring their world, one free of pain and death, learning things. Perhaps even splitting off into their own gods, connected and 'us' but having discovered themselves. Able to develop past their lables like the contrarian did and learning how they interconnect and make a whole, never alone but still themselves. Just let them hang out and discover the beauty in the world together okay I'm cryign.

[punkeropercyjackson]

"We need more m/f ships that aren't heternormative or enforce gender stereotypes!!!"You guys couldn't even handle Todomomo

[akkivee]

🙂↕️🙂↕️okay okay okay so so far within the og divisions we have:

❤️: they strive for a world where words solve conflict. they pointedly did not use mics to express this. at the end of the track, they’re dynamic as brothers has shifted to a more equal dynamic, where ichiro doesn’t feel so compelled to raise them

💙: they strive for a world without violence and used their mics to resolve the conflict. at the end of the track, they reject their status quo and aim to find a new one to change the world without the use of violence

💛: wanted to be real with each other and used their mics to get that across. at the end of the track tho, they say that truth doesn’t really matter anyway and stay true to the selves they formed their bond with

🩶: a battle of wills using the mics. jakurai’s love for yotsutsuji manifested in the form of sacrificing himself and dohifu trying to stop him using their love for their bond as mtr. at the end of the track it’s that love that’s saved jakurai, healed hifumi and elevated doppo’s status at work

and things have changed for all they’ve stayed the same so i’m genuinely curious where nagosaka fits in this lol

[stuffed-x-arts]

I think they like to play card games sometimes. Often they drag in others to supsrvise for cheating. (it won't stop them from cheating but it means they've gotta work harder to be sneaky about it and that just adds to the fun!) Cheated has a score-count for everybody. for every different game they play. him vs opportunist. him vs cold. the whole group playing. contrarian is often banned for bringing other card games to the table. he also never gets to supervise despite often asking to. Hero volunteers to supervise a lot but often doesn't catch the cheating so he's denied the role. Cheated, skeptic, opportunist and cold are the best. Broken is also surprisingly good sometimes. Even when he has the best hand he worries he'll screw it up somehow, and his downer attitude tends to convince the others he's gonna lose too. erm thats all i think

i just know these two have the potential to end up breaking into a fight over their silly card games. After cold left and the two eventually got tired of their games and went their separate ways opportunist stuck his leg out so cheated could trip over. they push each other down the stairs, maybe.

[harwin-breakbones-strong]

Ryan Corr as Simon Beecher in THE SECRETS SHE KEEPS S02E01

[bueris]

okay maybe I should seriously reconsider my path in life and sell my soul to marketing or journalism instead