#idk what this is but my brain made me write it

[keferon]

Ok so, I've got a little something that's been eating in my head for the past hour or so

So, from as far as i am aware, it depends on the iteration of him, but I've seen a few posts talking about how Ratchet is, first and foremost, a healer, and he wants to help people no matter what. But he's stuck under the terrible circumstances of war, and can't save everyone (not like he can always save everyone, even without a war, but it gets alot more challenging). How he even sometimes helps decepticons!

And so, for the mecha au, i kept thinking: Ratchet having a breaking point after losing one last pilot he was close to (honestly something i plan to write at some point), to a stupif decision the company has made, and they right of the bat, not even a week later is sending new recruits, young recruits, to the same suicidal mission bc "they were so close the last time"

He breaks, leaves, and hides with his alien bf, going off radar and starts to secretly help out the citizens, the families, the children, caught on the crossfire because it just seems like no one cares for the little guys anymore.

He works for the people. He's a healer at heart, even if he's not allowed to be - my sister

Idk, just a thought. Not entirely sure what your interpretation of Ratchet really intels, but it's something that keeps chewing at my brain after a few posts about him i saw a while back.

What gets to me though, is wondering how that comes across to Deadlock, ya know? Does that push some change of heart? Does he see the human differently as he risks himself to save the one little kid everyone seems to ignore the cries for help?

I'd imagine Ratchet asking Deadlock help ride around the ruins and to carry the wounded.

Actually. This is EXACTLY how I see him. Like. YES. ABSOLUTELY.

The same thing he was doing in canon, working in Dead end. Caring for people. Regular people who suffer from the war the most.

[vatelixx]

In the crooks of your body (I find religion),

mid-seasons Spencer Reid x afab!reader

SMUT!! (and fluff, lots of fluff. no angst this time, mostly for damage control) ─── soft love & early mornings. idk it’s just domestic bliss for a change.

Warnings: light d/s dynamic (sub spencer, im predictable), low-key praise for both parties, pre-established relationship, they’re soooo in love, they’re also domesticated, morning sex (but there’s no penetration, just oral), they’re both nerds, their pillow talk is science, autistic spencer always (it’s canon to me) greek mythology references, probably the nicest thing i’ll ever write.

w.c: 3k

a/n: post-prison (as requested by many) is still being worked on. it makes me sick. i wrote this to improve my mental health. i’d apologise for being inactive recently but it was necessary, ohmygodihavesomuchcoursework.

──────────────

Saturdays are for this. Waking up to no obligations, work tossed aside, Spencer’s state of impending doom reduces to something distant, untouchable. Barely dawn, there’s a level of domesticity to the art of sleeping together.

Sure, he could go on tangents, disbelieving that he’s allowed to attain this. But it’s futile, he’s long grown tired of exhausting the how to your dynamic, the statistic improbabilities, he always thought you would be reserved to his fantasies. Pandora’s box, a hypothetical kept under lock and key.

But no— he’s willing to accept that, on this one off occasion, he’s made an error in his calculations. An illogical anomaly.

Draped in the mantle of sleep, he feels the soft push of cotton sheets first, then the warm-blooded body curved around him. There isn’t traces of a case lingering at the forefront of his mind when he shifts, drawing himself closer, almost subconsciously, by guided instinct.

Touch. Touch, a natural, biological need. Something Spencer has always shied away from, finding nothing but hurt at the double-edged sword of intimacy. It’s not like he has much experience to base this on. And yet, right now, he’s not thinking factually, from a logical standpoint. Because, okay, there’s comfort in knowing the person that touches you is in fact supposed to touch you.

His hands find your body, his movements still slow and weary, thumb brushing the edge of your vertebrae, the divot just below your shoulder blade.

Spencer is many things. He’s obsessive, incessant, obstinate on occasion. Difficult, to put it bluntly. But despite all that, despite his complications, he’s here, touching, trusting, because for the first time in his life, it feels good.

“Moonless earth theory,” he says, moving to accommodate when you decide to lie on your side. Face to face, in hazy, dimmed light. He stares. “Okay, Abian, Alexander Abian, claimed that blowing up the moon would solve every problem in existence.”

Selfishly, unabashed, he slips his hand beneath your top to trace halos across your skin. “It’s so dumb. If that happened, tides would decrease. And, and, the moon's presence has a partial correcting effect on any instabilaties that arise in a non-homogenous, non-symmetrical—“ he sighs, presses his lips together for a moment, “Basically, the earth would wobble. Which… uh, isn’t very good?”

You’re still half-asleep, dreary to his random information. It takes a moment for your brain to settle, to comprehend what he’s saying, and then another, longer moment, to respond.

“Mhm. Days would be shorter,” you respond before laughing. “This is what you think about when you’ve just woken up? I’m basically a walking lobotomy until at least 10AM. And that’s providing I have a shower, feed my caffeine dependency, et cetera et cetera.”

You look at him, observe the sight: tousled hair, swollen lips half-parted, dilated, heavy-lidded eyes that stare back back back.

“I think about a lot of things in the morning,” he mutters, “A lot of things in general.”

When he leans in to kiss you, it’s languid, slow, he’s still in stasis, a state of suspended animation. Tenderly, as if the contact could break, he parts your lips with his own, his breath warm against your mouth, slow, like he wants your touch burnt into him.

Inevitably, your tongue slides against his, and he moans. Hot. It’s so slow, slow enough that time feels warped, nonexistent, like the universe has just stopped without warning.

He feels you shifting, the movement subtle, legs intertwining, hips flush. Good. So good. His lips break away, only to find their way across a cheek, along the column of your throat, further, over the curve of your collarbone.

He’s pressing kisses anywhere his body allows, touch lingering against your skin, tracing invisible imprints. “Sometimes, well.. um, most of the time, I think about you.”

He laughs, shifting to press his forehead against yours. “It’s a huge interference on my routine. And yeah, there’s also the facts, and the statistics. But then my mind will betray me, and i’ll just think about how you might respond, if I told you them.”

This information isn’t exactly new; you’ve woken up to random, impromptu messages regarding space, earth, philosophy, facts that you can never quite place at such an early hour. Then, there’s the phone calls, the dumb, domestic phone calls, ringing you just to over-explain some new hypothesis he’s studying.

Starry-eyed ambition. Sometimes it hurts to think that the job, the BAU, the nature of the cases, will inevitably warp his softness.

You cup his face, palm pressed against cheek, watching as he melts, molten gold, into the contact. “Yknow, I’d really like to study you in a lab.”

“Mm,” he hums, a sound that translates to please don’t put me in a lab.

His hand wraps around your wrist, preserving the contact, holding onto it like there’s a possibility, an actual chance, fact and figure, that he could lose it.

“I’d just be your lab rat? And they say romance is dead,” he scoffs, “You would commit so much medical malpractice.”

“Pft, medical malpractice. That’s made up,” you silence his protests before they can leave his lips. “I think it would be fun to preform experiments on you. Though, i’m not sure I should be trusted with a scalpel. A law probably needs to be put in place. Yknow, for the safety of the people.”

“Ah, ha.” he’s quick to respond, “It’s the scalpel you’re worried about? You’re forgetting the needle, the drugs, the restraints? You cannot be trusted, you’re a danger to society,”

Spencer pouts, features creased. “And your idea of a fun Saturday morning is committing violent acts against your oh so innocent boyfriend. I see, I see where your priorities lie.”

You grin, press a light kiss to his cheek. It’s soft, tentative contact, and yet he still shivers. No dignity. “Sorry, sorry. What was that last part of your sentence? I zoned out after you said restraints.”

“Right. That’s uh, well. That wasn’t the point I was… trying… to make?”

“Yeah, yeah. Medical malpractice. Evil girlfriend. I get it. You’ve made your point. I am very very ashamed of my hypothetical actions.” you say, hooking your leg around his waist, drawing him onto his back. Spine meeting mattress, your body on top now, straddling him.

You hike up his sweater, running your hand across his torso. There’s something obscene to the way he blushes, draping an arm over his face, as if your movements physically pain him.

“Stop acting coy. I’ve seen you in this position before. Worse ones, if we’re going to be honest here—“

“Hey, hey, hey— I’m not acting coy!" he protests, unconvincingly. He’s breathless, attempting to hide the way his body reacts. As if the slight friction warranted from the movement doesn’t grant him fleeting bliss.

The contact is intense, fervent, your body flush with his. “We really really don’t need to talk about the other occasions.” his eyes shut, head falling back against sheets, lips parted, hands gripping the skin of your hips.

“You’re uh, you’re really unfair,” he mumbles, “And beautiful. I should tell you that more often.”

“You tell me every day.”

Moving off his lap, he’s accommodating as you help to untangle clothes from his body, raising his hips when needed, lifting his arms when necessary. Your touch has him compliant, obedient, eager to fall pliant, beneath you. The sight, god: slender, pale skin, faint blemishes staining his thighs from previous nights, matching with the few that adorn his neck.

“I don’t say it enough, then.”

You laugh, “Oh, you’re such a sap.”

It’s a process: getting Spencer to sit up. Because he doesn’t seem to comprehend your intentions, to realise what you’re trying to imply here. Still, when he’s finally perched on the edge of the bed, you rise, shifting to stand between his legs, to look down at the picture of him, bare, undone, so pretty just for you.

He stares up, eyes wide like marbles. “Hi.”

You card your hand through his hair, strands falling between crevices in your fingers. It’s soft, the movement, the gesture, you’re not sinking down to the root yet. “Hi.”

Your name falls from his lips. And yeah, there’s something reverent to the way he says it, the pained whisper. Something that dissolves into a messy, unrefined whimper when you sink to your knees.

“Oh, god. I—,” he swallows, his voice rough. “I, I love you so much.”

There’s this repeated question on your mind, the same one that loops into existence every time you’re in a compromising position: how loud is Spencer going to be today? Because, objectively, he’s loud. It demeans, ruins the chances of abrupt, clandestine touches in semi-public places. In sneaking around. Even when you’ve got your palm against his mouth, he somehow manages to combat, to prevail the suffocation.

Your lips press soft kisses along his thigh, touching those marks now, the ones you must’ve left last night. No? Maybe yesterday afternoon? It’s hard to keep track. “I love you.”

He melts.

“Such a pretty cock. All for me, hm?” jesus christ. You’ve always been so blunt, outward, inherently shameless. Spencer thinks he might die, divine madness. Theia mania.

When you drag your tongue along the length of his cock, there’s a current, sharp, sending his hips bucking. They arch forward, into you, into the contact. Sight shuttered by swollen eyes, he thinks about regulating his breathing, inhale, exhale, the concept falls on deaf ears.

“All yours,” he whimpers, “Yes. Only,.. only you. Always.”

It feels like devotion. The way he confirms vocally, the way you sink down, take him deep into your mouth. His head spills backwards, baring his neck, indiscernible noises bleeding through the open air, sunlight touching his skin, highlighting his intemperate demeanour in diluted canary.

He’ll apologise to the neighbours later.

Shaky, fumbling hands reach out to brush loose strands of hair from your face, to grip, the pads of his fingers meeting your scalp. He would never push, he just needs something firm, solid, tangible to hold onto.

And when you hum around him, just to mess with him, just to hear those sounds, to draw those pleasure-soaked, beautiful noises out of his mouth—

“Oh, oh oh— that’s, yeah. Mhm, yeah. Just… ruin me.” he’d probably thankyou after. Because he’s polite.

You draw back from the contact to catch your breath. Lips stained, now bruising, emitting soft little gasps. There’s tears gathering in the corner of your eyes, reducing your vision to a distorted haze. Blurry traces of reality that all seem so inconsequential now, now that you’re here.

“I love the way you sound for me, Spence. So pretty.”

“Well,” he huffs out a breath, “I’m uh, being taken care of… very well.”

You lean forward to press a kiss against his tip, as if that’s the most innocent, innocuous gesture imaginable. “You deserve it.” your nails run across his thigh, leaving faint white lines in their path. “Exploding that genius brain of yours yet?”

“That shattered the moment you got down on your knees. Maybe, um… okay, possibly earlier.”

“Earlier?”

“Way earlier..”

He whimpers when you drag your tongue across his tip. There’s a plethora of please please please he shamelessly emits, only somewhat satiated when your lips are wrapped around his cock, when you’re demolishing his sanity, and everything else in the process.

He doesn’t even realise how lewd he is, most of the time. It’s not like he’s making a deliberate effort, he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to attain that skill anyway. It’s just… him, raw and unbridled, so delirious from pleasure.

His eyes, dilated, gone, are half-lidded, watching you through thick curls of messy hair, damp with sweat and morning light.

“I’m trying, I’m trying so hard,” he moans, and then words are destroyed, obliterated, as you gag, taking him down to the hilt. “Oh,” he says, “Oh.”

It never lasts long. Not where he’s concerned. Features creased, pleading, you have to restrain him from bucking, nails burning crescent marks into his skin. “Please— please, ‘m gonna…”

He looks done. You hum, oh, silent confirmation, the vibrations stimulate his cock, and then he’s shapeshifting, morphing, transcending into something blissfully gone, releasing deep into your throat.

The orgasm has him ruined, undone. Barely conscious, just floating like something inviolable.

Afterward, he’s urging you to drink water, soft kisses pressed down the curve of your neck as you both readjust. When his phone, his outdated, underused phone lights up, artificial haze, he curses Prometheus for giving humans fire, for hiding it in a stalk of funnel and allowing them to inevitably create technology.

The phone gets locked away in his drawer. He’s half-scared of it anyway.

Spencer has never quite understood the appeal of mornings, but he’s starting to see the merit in them, with you. He’ll tell you that sometime, maybe. One day. Soon.

Right now, however, he descends down your body, lips dragging a path from collarbone to the space between your thighs, where he actively groans.

“Best Saturday morning ever,” you remark, helping him to remove your shorts, then the offending panties that prevent his mouth from working you to ruin.

It’s almost domestic, the way you mirror his actions, feeding your hands through his hair, supporting him as he slips a pillow beneath your hips. Sprawled out across tangled sheets, flushed and restless, you let out an appreciative sigh at the reciprocation.

“Definitely,” he agrees, blowing cold air against your core, just to watch the way you curve, contort. “Though, uh… every morning with you is the best morning ever.” It’s dumb, and god he’s blushing between your thighs.

But, Spencer likes to thank you. Because all in all, he considers himself a well-mannered person. So this, he parts your thighs further, applies slight pressure to your clit, is completely necessary. Mandatory, he’d argue. Something that needs to be embedded into daily routine.

Usually, it’s a slow, methodical process. He can be a perfectionist, a completionist, but he doesn’t mind. He trails his tongue across the inner sections of your thighs, to catch the wetness that stains your skin there.

“You are so perfect,” he regards, pressing a kiss to your clit, mirroring your actions. “So pretty. The prettiest— i’m going to, yeah..”

His tongue moves in languid circles, in soft, calculated motions, before finally delving inside of you, tasting you, drawing a moan, a plea, a muffled prayer from your lips. Okay, alright, maybe his lips too.

“I could do this all day, I want to, I—“ And he doesn’t really have to finish the sentence, because you know him too well, and it’s implied. Implied that he’d spend ceaseless hours here without complaint, oh far from complaint.

He likes to have something to focus on. A task to preform. It distracts his mind, and this one? Yeah, it reduces his thoughts to only you.

If he had it his way, his current mental state would be permanent.

“On your back, pretty boy..” you watch with soft eyes as he mindlessly obeys. Legs bent, pressed against the mattress, you sink down onto his face, getting off from a new angle. Your back instinctively curves, arches, a series of warped moans ripped straight from your throat.

“Just like that— mhm..” you mutter, gripping his hair tighter now, mostly for stability. It’s hard to look down, to see the obscene sight he’s been demeaned to.

His thoughts are always haywire, spitballing off one another. It’s a constant cycle of overthinking, over-analyzing, brain fried beyond reason. But you? You make him feel grounded, tethered, to the very world itself. You’re the one constant that he can predict, and yet, oxymoronically, still so unpredictable in the same breath.

So human..

When you begin to rock against his face, to take the initiative, using him, he simply reaches down, hands trailing across his overstimulated body to stroke himself because of course he’s hard again. How could he not be? He’s at the altar of your body, and god he knows how to serve.

Spencer’s pretty certain he’s forgotten how to breathe, and it’s a hard, harsh gasp when he has the chance to drag air into his lungs — before diving back down to you, because yeah he needs it, he needs you.

It’s messy, muffled whimpers, and desperate sounds emitted from both of your mouths. A constant onslaught of him, his tongue working halos against your clit. When he comes, he’s got his face buried into your heat, obstructing all of his senses. Delirious. Pussy-drunk.

There. There. There. He makes sure to prolong the pleasure, to work you through the bleeding mess of stars, and cosmos, and heavenly bliss, until you’re squirming away from overstimulation.

There’s a set routine when it comes to aftercare. One that both of you fail to adhere to, every. single. time. You’re both firm, assertive, in the belief that you should be the one to look after the other, so it ends up being a lazy, mutual act. Showering, the way he buries his face into your shoulder, naked body pressed against naked body. Hydration, soft touches, muttered words that help you return from the astral plane.

“I can’t believe we’re getting back into bed,” you say after you’ve changed the sheets, traded your ruined clothes for fresh pyjamas. You’re wearing Spencer’s shirt, fumbling buttons, half sealed, exposing your collarbone, draping over your shoulder when you preform any sort of physical movement that requires arms.

“No complaints though.” by nature, your body finds his beneath blankets. “I’d happily rot here. They could make a shitty reality show, it would be good entertainment.”

“I think I’d get fired from the BAU,” he protests, “You know, the first reality TV show aired in 1948. Candid Camera, on ABC, the premise was uh… hidden-cameras? So, yeah, the usual invasion of privacy, sounds entertaining.”

“Mhm. Sounds like something you’d hate.”

You’re lying face to face, arms draped over each other. The Lovers of Valadro position, he calls it. You’re not sure if that’s romantic, or slightly morbid.

“Here’s the plan,” you press your forehead to his, staring at those doe-wide eyes, “We’re going back to sleep. Then, I guess you can be a rule-abiding FBI agent, or whatever, and finish up your reports. As long as you’re done by 4. Because I want to see a movie,” he laughs, in that knowing way. “Yes, yes, i’m aware it’s your turn. Which means we’re gonna end up watching some documentary. Just uh? Make it space themed, yeah? Or, dinosaurs. I can settle for dinosaurs.”

His lips meet yours, abruptly, and he’s grinning into the contact. “I love you so much. I, we, still need to watch MoonWalk One. The Mars Underground, um.. The Valley of the T-Rex? There’s another that I read about yesterday. The Universe at the Edge of Knowledge. Oh, or Dark Universe. You’ll really like Dark Universe, and Edge of Knowledge has this, this cool segment on —“

“Okay, nerd.” you laugh, “Whatever one you want, we’ll watch. I’m still halfway through Paleoworld right now, 30 episodes in.” he knows that, because you’ll message him through the duration, make use out of that untouched (borderline) dusty phone he neglects.

He intertwines your fingers, presses a soft kiss to the back of your hand. “Yup. Yup. Whatever. Can we nap now?”

[ghouljams]

how does one become free of insecurity? i’m already doing therapy but i feel i’ve only moved away from hating myself so much i want to d*e into just thinking everyone’s better than me

It's a long journey, but well worth it.

I don't think anyone is ever truly free of insecurity, but I think there's also a lot that is unpacked simply through the language we use to describe ourselves and the jokes we allow other people to make at our expense.

Therapy is great at helping you deal with the big feelings, but sometimes little things get caught in your head and it's hard to shake them. Here are some things that I do to keep myself feeling good, and also some things that I'm working on:

No suicide jokes. I make it a point never to joke about "oh I'll just kill myself" or anything like that because ultimately it just makes me feel worse and nobody finds it funny. It's also a good way to change your thinking and direct your solution brain away from "I'll just end things when shit gets hard." This one is a constant battle.

I compliment myself whenever I have the chance. I take every compliment someone gives me. I pretend to be vapid and self-absorbed. I make kissy faces at myself in the mirror. I tell other people how pretty I am, and I don't fucking care if they think I'm a stupid bimbo because I'm trying to love myself and that's more important.

Being kinder to my younger self. This one feels weird but I found myself being mean to little Ghoul when I was really sad. It feels easy to take out your anger on a kid that didn't know any better, and it doesn't guilt you because that's you that you're hating. But look. You were just a kid. You weren't stupid or ugly or unlovable or evil, you were a kid. I just caught myself calling my teenage self ugly the other day on my way to visit my mom and I had to stop and go "why am I saying this? I was just a kid." And it made me cry a li'l bit ngl, but if felt... idk it felt good in a way.

Don't let fucking anyone tell you, you're not worth it. Does your friend make jokes about how dumb you are? Or how you're so cringey? Or so embarrassing or bad at something or forgetful or WHATEVER? Yeah, fuck that noise. Tell them to stop doing that. Tell them it hurts your feelings and if they still don't stop they aren't your friend, they're your bully. I fucking hate bullies. Don't let anyone talk down to you, I don't care if it was a joke at first, it's not funny anymore. Fuck them.

This is something I'm working on, but when you start fixing one insecurity another will probably pop up. I've been working for a long time on liking how I look, and it's gone really well. But now I'm insecure about my intelligence. So I have to stop myself from calling myself stupid or not answering questions. I just fucking rocked my work trivia party, and Mr. Ghoul thinks I'm smart, so I just gotta keep track of my wins. Sometimes you realize that making yourself secure in one thing makes you insecure about another, but that's ok! There's a learning curve to all of this.

Everyone thinks everyone else is better than them. You don't have to be the best at everything, you don't even have to be the best at one thing! What's important is that you're doing your best. People notice when you're working hard, even if you're not churning out the best product because it means you care about it. Which brings me to

Done is better than perfect. Sure it would be great if you were God's most specialist soldier, but think about how much work that would be! Ok so you're not the world's best knitter, but the scarf you made your friend is their favorite scarf anyway because you made it. So you're not a world class writer, but you had a story in your head and you wrote it down. That's better than it never being written at all. Also just because you think it's bad doesn't mean other people won't think it's a masterpiece. Hell, half of the fics I wrote when I first started this blog I could write better now but that doesn't make them bad, it just means I've gotten better.

We as humans are constantly improving and evolving. Don't let who you are no stop you from striving towards who you'll be in the future. Taking one step down the path towards loving yourself is better than giving up and hating yourself forever. It's slow going, but man I've been doing this shit for a decade and I'm so much happier than I was at 18.

You might think that the more you improve the harder and faller you'll fall back to the bottom, but the lows don't get that low again. You're doing great. I'm proud of you.

[iwantmochisoup]

mochi soup's sappy happy crying session

i'm so sorry, please bear with me, but i really need to be super sappy rq. (it's gonna be a long one, so imma add the read more here)

i just recently hit 10k likes and lost my shit over it qwq;; i was overthinking a lot, i wanted to run away, and it kinda hit me because honestly, i don't think i deserve all this ;; like i'm just being silly on here and having fun ;;

but that aside, i have been thinking how to properly say thank you, since words are really hard for me (wow big shocker ikr lmao) but i realized it's thanks giving, despite me not being from america i saw all the love today and i thought maybe i can try, this time, to put it to words. (i'm sorry if i don't make sense at all, and honestly don't mind me honestly, i've always been super scared of talking on here but i need to ramble)

so, idk how to start this, i honestly quit art for good like 4 years ago, won't comment on it but this year i tried to pick it back up. i am so scared of people, especially online but i thought why not, so i made a lil acc on here, i wanna say i'm so lucky to have met you all and seeing people like my art, seriously it's what keeps me going. (that sounds so sappy but for what feels like the first time in my life i am genuinely being myself and i am so happy idk what to do) this is way too long of an intro...

i'm gonna start off my twin of course, it feels fitting hehe ;; so, @saltedbiscuiit you know how shit i am at words, and you know how thankful i am for you, and we talked so much about it already so i'll try to keep this short ;; i am genuinely so happy to have met you, kinda feels like it changed my life back then, it honestly hasn't been that long really, since the art trade back in july, i honestly feel like i found my other half (that's so sappy pls don't cry but i'm being honest) thank you so much for everything, you do so much for me, even if you don't know it and i am honestly so so grateful and happy. thank you so much <3 hehe, salty soup salted mochi

the next one is @cryptid-juzou we just recently met, but i fell in love with your writing, almost instantly!! you're such a great friend, and it's sm fun talking and playing games with you!! and i'm so happy and grateful to have met you!! Really, thank you so much for all you did for me and for accepting the collab! To be working with you on our thing (i won't go into detail, yk big surprise and all) honestly, i'm so so happy and i can't wait to finish it!!

next!! @k-aez !! you've been haunting me in dreams, scolding me and i still think about that raw chicken art you did. okay jokes aside, i'm so happy to have met you and i feel the need to thank you like forever for creating the server and everything you've done. you've been supporting me and pushing me to get out of my ass and kept encouraging me sm. i can't put it into words, but i will be forever grateful for everything!

big big thanks to @ohhcinnybuns, @anticidic and @ediblepandas ya'll have been feeding my brain so many good ideas and enabled some brainrot i will thank you forever for. cinny, you know how much i love your fics and your massive brain in general, i'm so happy i was brave enough back then, and did some art of your ideas, idk if i would even tried to join the server if i didn't see your reblog. rosie, you know how much i love your fics, i'm not about to fangirl in public but i'm truly thankful, you've inspired me so so much, i love with your writing, your kitsunezai au and your scream in phasmo still is the best scream ever! pandas, hehe yk i need to thank you here too! your yapping about dresses and in general talking to you is so much fun! i love your brain sm! thank you so so much for enabling me so much, and please send me more dresses, i love them all!

and, ofc i have to give big thanks the chaos trio too @thatghostinyourbog @spccts & @msshinylemon !! yes, i'm calling you that, that name is fitting, shovel fight if you disagree, losers >:3 i have to thank you three a lot, ya'll are so fun to hang around and play games with, i seriously love what you all do, be it drawing, writing or just the way ya'll yap nonstop! it's sm fun hanging out and i love how we bounce off each other so well and ya'll inspire me so much!! also tysm @nolongerforthetainted for babysitting them!! i really love your writing sm and it's always sm fun yapping with you, and also pls make more coleslaw beds!! i need them! but honestly, thank you so much, i am so happy to have met ya'll and i always look forward to talking and hang out with ya'll!!

WAAAAA THAT IS SO LONG OMG BUT!!! I also need to thank each one of you, all my moots and everyone that just takes their time to look at my art, leave a like, reblog, comment what ever really, i appreciate each and every one of you so so much! thank you all so much, from the bottom of my heart, i can't explain how much it means to me! i also want to give a lil thanks to @noakiie @nevertheblood @altruistic-meme @artsyaudience @konbupie @jellyphink & @lethargyinafishbowl i wanted to tag more but i'm so sorry but i'm too scared, really ;;;

idk how to end this, honestly, i feel like i wrote too much and rambled way too much. i guess i'm just gonna-- *runs*

WITH MUCH LOVE AND A BIG HOP STEP JUMP -mochi soup

[elronds-meleth-nin]

Never Too Late - Part One: The Awakening

This is something entirely different from the things I've written before. I don't know what made me want to write this beyond hearing one of Adar's lines from S2E8. For those who stick around for this ride, thank you in advance. I know this might not be everyone's cup of tea, but here we go nonetheless! Things will begin (I hope) to make more sense in the second chapter.

Disclaimer: I know this is not how the Maiar or the Valar or any of canon works. I do not care. This writer is playing in a sandbox.

Cross-posted to AO3 here.

~*~

Adar (RoP) x Maia!Reader

[A/N: There will be smut in future chapters, so 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI!!!]

Warnings: An exploration of Adar's origins, discussions of the first Elves, Elf x Maia romance, he falls first, feelings of unworthiness, fear, Morgoth's manipulation (discussed further in later chapters), brief mentions of pain, regret.

~*~

The whisper of the wind in the trees was hypnotic to the Elf with no name. He was among the first to wake. He'd tasted the sunlight as it spilled across his lips in gentle caresses for the first time. Warmth had trickled into his limbs, and soon he'd found himself wandering happily, joyfully through a meadow full of flowers.

For a time he continued in that manner, exploring the world around him, lying in the sun on a riverbank, tasting the sweetness of berries as they hung ripe in the sunlight. Occasionally he would encounter others who looked like him. Other Elves who did not yet have names. Though they did not know it, they would earn them in time.

A small group formed together, giving each other names and forming a small community in the newly-made world. In time, he found that he enjoyed crafting words into set structures, playing with them as one of the other Elves toyed with carving wood, and as another painted pictures.

As he tinkered, he found that the name given to him was not right. It did not fit him correctly. The meaning was not how he saw himself, but he did not argue it, choosing instead to string more words together. They could know him however they wished, but that name was not how he knew himself. The land, the light, and the beauty of the world inspired him to create stories and poems. After a time, however, he found that the flow of his words had slowed in favor of simply experiencing that which he found so lovely.

So, when the thought struck him to walk along the riverbank he favored so much and listen to the birds singing in the trees, he did not hesitate to strike out. Familiar sights and scents surrounded him, wrapping him in a veil of contentment.

Then a different sound met his ears: the gentle whisper of fabric amongst the breeze. The Elf's green eyes opened curiously, and he looked around him for what could have made such a noise. His own clothing - brown leggings and an off-white tunic - were too silent to have done so.

That was when he caught a glimpse of her for the first time. She seemed to glow of her own accord, despite the brightness of the sunlight streaming down upon them. A dress that seemed to glimmer in the light adorned her, translucent and bright. But it was her eyes that drew him to her. They met his for barely a moment, but in that glance, the Elf felt as though she called to his fëa.

She gave him a small smile, and flitted back into the trees as quickly as she'd appeared. So amazed was he by the appearance of such an ethereal creature that he could do no more than follow mutely in her path.

But, he did not find her that day, nor the next. For nearly a fortnight, all he had to remember her by were the dozen-or-so poems that had poured forth from his mind the night after spotting her. He read them aloud to himself by the riverbank amongst the swaying sage blossoms as he tried to perfect them. She - whoever she was - had captivated him and deserved no less than the most perfect tribute.

The way she'd smiled at him made him long for more. To see her laugh, to watch a sunset with her, to feel the rain dampening his skin as he held her in his arms. Undoubtedly, this was something important. He'd seen other Elves feel this way about each other, but never about one who was so clearly Other. Granted, their existence was young, but without a precedent, the Elf wondered what he was to do about these feelings.

Midway through the revision of one the poems he'd written for her, he paused his reading and scratched out a line in favor of a correction. He was so lost in his work that he did not register the sound of approaching footsteps until someone knelt in the grass beside him. The Elf looked up and–

Paralyzed by the warmth in her gaze, he was amazed to find the very woman he'd been writing about was less than a hand's breadth from him. The wind swirled around them, blowing a few strands of his dark hair into his face. Before he could fix it, however, she reached up and brushed it carefully behind one of his pointed ears. Her touch lingered for a beat longer than it should have, and the Elf felt his heart beating wildly in his chest.

Her skin was softer even than that of his own people! He could write for years about the simple sensation of being so close to her.

"Such beautifully-crafted words." Her praise was more nourishing than even the most filling meal.

"For you, my lady," he admitted in barely a whisper. "All for you. No greater beauty have I seen in all my days as a part of this world."

His voice was so quiet that he was afraid the breeze might spirit it away before it reached her ears, but she heard him. Of course she heard him. A warm smile stretched her lips, and a silvery laugh spilled from her throat.

"Oh? And what have I done, kind wordsmith, to earn such a gift?"

'Existing' was the simple answer, but he could not say that aloud. It was too honest, too forward. She would surely be offended by such a low creature's desires. He shook his head quietly.

"Wonders deserve to be praised, híril vuin," he murmured dropping his gaze to his paper.

"Then, should you not be writing about yourself?" He question drew an incredulous laugh from him, but she was entirely serious. "The light of the Valar lives within your people."

He shook his head.

"You are light itself," he asserted. "I could hope for no greater a muse than you."

They spoke for many hours that day and for many days after. Those days added up, and the pair continued to meet beside the river or amongst the trees, speaking of everything and nothing, wandering where they wished.

He did not mention having seen her to the others, but he did overhear a few of them, one night. They were speaking around a fire, taking turns speaking about the Valar and the Maiar. He paid no mind until one of them mentioned something familiar.

"One of the Maiar hides within the woods near the river," the blond Elf said. "She has been glimpsed, but none of spoken to her. I witnessed her eyes glowing from deep in the trees, but before I could approach, she disappeared."

"Why would one of the Maiar hide in the forest, much less take a physical form?" One of the others with brown hair asked.

"Who can tell? It is not our place to know the minds of the Valar or the Maiar," the blond said decisively, and at that, the group began dispersing for the night. Only the blond Elf and remained when the Elf with no name approached him.

"What does she look like, the Maia in the forest?" He asked, knowing in the racing of his pulse that it was her to whom he'd spoken and about her whom he'd been writing. It was as obvious as the leaves on the trees and the sun in the sky.

"None can see any details beneath her glow, but that is not unusual. Those who have caught sight of the Maiar say that they only show themselves to those whom they wish. They can hide their visages, only taking physical forms when they choose to do so."

When he retired to bed that night, he clung desperately to the secret of their conversations together. She had chosen to reveal herself to him and only him. Even if he did not know why, he was honored, and he hoped he could one day prove himself worthy of her trust.

As the days became months, then years, there was a particular bend in the river where he would meet his lady. Wandering for hours, sometimes days, he became as close with her two people could without delving openly into the realm of romance, though, he did harbor those feelings for her. His heart raced whenever she was near, and he knew that should he ever have a family, he would want it to be with her.

But, he was not worthy. He never would be. No matter how much he may want a daughter with his hair and her eyes, or a son who favored his mother's light, an Elf could never be worthy of one a Maia's love.

As he returned one night, musing over his situation and feeling his heart twist itself into knots over the futility of his love, he found the others in an uproar.

"What has happened?" He called as he neared the group of terrified Elves.

"Three of our number rode out earlier. They were meant to return at sundown, but it is near midnight and there is no sign of them," one of the painters said, twisting the sleeve of his robe compulsively.

"They could simply be late." One of the others said trying to calm the group, but the painter wasn't swayed.

"No, they are lost! Taken! There was something dark at work this morn. Two of the three who left expressed misgivings about the Valar ere they left." With their numbers added, that made seven so far who had disappeared. "'Tis the darkness! The shadows seek to blot out the light, even that within our hearts."

That was the beginning of his trouble. Hearing his kin speak of such darkness ignited within him a curiosity. He wished to understand why those who left chose to do so. Why would they willingly put themselves at risk when they had everything they needed here? The Valar provided for them in abundance. Why should they seek the bleak nothingness of the shadow?

So, in his attempts to understand, he began to study that which he should not. The shadow no longer seemed as dangerous to him, but a welcome respite from the perfection of the light.

In his zeal, he began visiting the river bend less frequently, but his lady appeared no less glad to see him when he did make the trip to see her. On the last of such occasions - which he had no way of knowing was the last - the sun was gentle, the river babbled away happily, and the trees shivered beneath a soft breeze. Everything was sweet and lovely...perfect.

Even the way she looked at him was particularly tender. He read her his latest composition, but he found midway through that his words, as excellently chosen as they always were, did not adequately express how he felt about her. Eventually, her fingers laid atop his arm, and his breath caught in his throat.

"Darling wordsmith, what troubles you?" She asked, and he felt exposed before her. Guilt wound its way through his heart for having explored what he ought not. Would she recoil from him? Cast him from her sight forever? Instead of a confession, however, a question slipped from his tongue without his permission.

"It has been said that one of the Maiar wanders this wood. Are you she?" He asked, and she did not hesitate to smile up at him.

"I am, but you have known that for quite some time." Brushing a few strands of his dark hair behind his ear as the wind shifted, she lifted an eyebrow. "Now, what truly troubles you?"

Swallowing nervously, he caught her wrist lightly in his grasp, laying a reverent kiss upon her skin. He had never been so bold before. He had never dared touch her or express his adoration so openly.

She did not object or move away.

"I trust you have heard about the Elves who have disappeared?" She nodded her head even as her expression became solemn. "I have been considering a course of action for some time, and...I intend to seek them out."

The Elf with no name looked for the woodland Maia's reaction only to find tears gathering in her eyes and spilling slowly down her cheeks - sparkling, diamond droplets seemingly glowing of their own volition. The sight lit a spark of alarm within his breast, constricting his lungs and urging him forward until he'd gathered her in his embrace.

With a bit of adjustment, she sat in his lap with her face buried in the crook of his neck and her arms around him. He held her close, but he could not find the right words to say to her. Ultimately, he murmured to her his apologies and felt one of her hands glide onto the back of his neck. Her lips brushed against the shell of his ear, and she spoke barely above a breath.

"Should you need me, you need only call my name." She told it to him, and he could not help clutching her tighter at the sound of that word encapsulating all that she was. Eventually, she pulled back just far enough to press her forehead softly against his own. "I will always come when you call. All I ask is that you do not surrender your own light. You will need it ere long."

Her nose touched his briefly as he swore to her that he would do as she said, and grief coiled in his heart when he felt how damp her skin was. He had not meant to make her weep. Reaching carefully up, he cupped her face in his warm palms and whispered quiet comforts. She deserved more than this - every happiness in the world, in fact - but he would still give her all that he was able.

Not for the first time, he wondered what it would be like to be bound to her as her husband. An Elf could never be worthy of a Maia, but he imagined what it would be like to be entangled with her like this every day. Her tears or her laughter, soft sighs or pleasure-filled breaths - anything she chose to give him would be a gift beyond measure, just as this moment was.

She allowed him to comfort her, to hold her. He savored the contact, even if he did regret bringing her unwelcome news. They stayed there on the riverbank until long past midnight. The moonlight, gentle and cleansing, caressed their faces as they lay down in each other's arms. Quietly, he caressed her face, tracing the bridge of her nose, the curve of her lips, the softness of her smile.

When they eventually parted, it was only after she'd placed her hand over his heart, whispering words in a language which he did not understand. Her fingers had begun to glow, and that light bled slowly into his chest, floating seemingly beneath his skin until her touch retreated. He did not know what she'd done, but the determined glint in her eyes made him wonder if it was some form of protection.

With great reluctance, he returned to his home. Before the next morning dawned, however, a call trickled into his ears, rousing him from his rest. It was time. All that he ever desired awaited him. He need only seek it. Low, guttural, and tugging at his very being, the voice - if it could be called a voice - dug a tendril of shadow into his mind.

He and five others rode away before daybreak.

The journey was a blur, and when he came back to himself, he found that all six of them were in a cave. Their horses were gone.

The Elf with no name looked around him but could perceive only darkness. Only shadows writhing and dancing before him. He'd been tricked. This was not the liberation he'd been led to believe the others had sought, nor was this something from which he could save them.

"Who are you? What do you want from us?" He called into the oblivion surrounding him, and a sinister laugh curled from its depths scratching fear from deep within the Elf's heart. The other five shuddered as well, but smiles broke across their faces. Was he alone in his regret?

"I am Morgoth." The voice seemed to echo and twine through the darkness, through the air, and bury itself deep within his heart. The Elf with no name dropped to his knees along with his kin.

He assumed that the voice in the darkness, the being who called himself Morgoth, would kill them. Mournfully, he recalled the face of his lady, his muse, his joy. How disappointed she would be with his actions! When she visited the river next, she would not find him there. No longer would he be able to write and recite poetry for her. Gone were the days wandering through the forest with her, seeking its privacy for their conversations.

He had not been worthy of her - his current position proved that - but he still lamented the thought that his death would sadden her. Her gentle spirit would not allow the death of a friend - low creature though he may be - to pass without notice. He had seen her weep before and it nearly shattered him to pieces even as he comforted her. He would not be there to do so this time.

The darkness rumbled again, and this time, pain streaked up his legs, making him crumble to the ground as he cried out.

"Six you are, and seven have come before you. Those who survive will be rewarded, but live or die, you are mine, now."

What had he done?

~*~

Taglist:

@asksizworld @bigblissandlove1 @gandalfthepimp @horta-in-charge @zoya-olenko

[xxplastic-cubexx]

cant stop thinkin bout charles and erik readin together on the couch but instead of reading with him charles is listening to eriks thoughts while he reads. Live mind commentary ……..

[danidoesathing]

hey remember that one horror fic i mentioned i was doing like a month or two ago. yeah finished it

[ganondoodle]

i often really do feel like an .. unwanted part of the fandom, i dont draw beautiful landscapes, i have unpopular but strong opinions im constantly annoying about and rarely change, dont like/dont draw the pretty young popular twinks and hot gurls to fanboi over nor do i turn characters into one, the opposite moreso, draw only one ship no ones heard of really, got little energy to interact with the few people that are nice to me and send me asks so it probably looks like im ignoring everyone and unfortunately but still rarely get so stressed i get overwhelmed and emotional about pehaps seemingly minor things and spiral almost into a breakdown feeling super embarrassed about it afterwards but the damage is already done and i look like a freak or agressive weirdo

[sukugo]

sukuna and gojo use binding vows for sex, taking things like orgasm denials or touch deprivation steps further, where the other is contractually bound to not be able to do certain things, like touch themselves or touch the other etc etc 

one such instance being a vow where gojo has a vibrator up his ass, but he can't touch himself or remove it, until sukuna specifically, pulls it out.  

he keeps the vibe in throughout the day, with sukuna controlling it remotely, even as they both go throughout their separate days.  

gojo goes to have his usual breakfast, and meets yuuji at the dining room, they greet and sit next to each other. yuuji is, as always, energetic and excited to see him 

they make conversation, until gojo gives a jolt and starts twitching and huffing. sukuna has turned the vibrator up all the way. yuuji worries and panics and asks him what's wrong. gojo gives a breathy laugh and reassures him. he motions low and tells yuuji about the vibrator inside him, through sudden jolts and soft whimpers.  

satoru complains about it, and yuuji advices to remove it or go and take care of himself.  

except gojo states that he can’t and yuuji puzzles.  

"it's... a pact—mmh!" 

"a pact???" yuuji's voice rises in volume, but he visibly calms, shoulders dropping into a fond sigh. "sensei, you really are..." that's all he can manage to say. reprimand is useless. gojo likes it, yuuji is well aware, he is enjoying every second of this, even as he complains.  

gojo gives a few odd jolts, undoubtedly an odd pattern of intensity from the vibe, yuuji can guess. sudden irregular ups and downs that are not taken well by the man.  

satoru clicks his tongue. "what is that guy doing?" he actually looks irritated for a moment—a look yuuji doesn’t get to see often—until it’s broken with a sigh and his pleased, calm demeanor returns, mimicking the soft waves of pleasure across his thighs. 

still, yuuji can see his hands crumpled at his sides, undoubtedly wishing to use them.  

that's when satoru perks flares up all of a sudden.  

"actually, yuuji,” he turns to look at him, grinning. “you can help me" he opens his legs and lifts the edges of his kimono, his dick peeking out the fabric. yuuji gulps at the sight. satoru motions to it, giving yuuji a wordless look. yuuji hesitates for a moment, but complies, taking his hand to the cock, and starts stroking. 

satoru crumbles under the touch, immediately breathing out his nose and muffling moans. he leans into yuuji, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, fingers clasped in yuuji's kimono, nuzzling into his hair and whining in his ear.  

satoru's sounds fluctuate in pitch and volume, making it known when his vibe's gotten stronger. yuuji keeps his pace and satoru spills in his hand. he twitches and sighs, soft breaths against yuuji's flushed ear. 

yuuji stares at the cum in his hand.  

"you can wipe it on me,” satoru tells him with a breath that's calmed much too fast. “my clothes are already soiled anyways". and yuuji feels bad for it, but he obeys nonetheless.  

satoru takes a hand to yuuji's chin and turns his face to him and gives him a kiss. short and sweet.  

"as a reward." he smiles at yuuji. the boy surprises but takes it happily, cheeks warm and eyes softened, albeit a bit timidly. a tinge of disappointment colors the edges of his face. 

"you want more?" satoru brings his face to yuuji's again. the vibrations have reached a slight plateau, so his voice is steadier.  

yuuji’s face widens a bit, but he nervously chuckles, pulling back from gojo's face. "no, it's alright," he lies. "i don't want sukuna to kill me" 

but satoru’s already pulling into him, breathing into his lips. "i won't let him <3"

"that's...actually reassuring......" yuuji’s eyes flutter shut as satoru's lips meet his again.  

and with that, they're kissing and slowly the vibrations and gojo’s twitching start again. satoru moves atop yuuji's lap to straddle him, and while they kiss, yuuji takes his hand between them and jerks him off again. satoru moans and gasps into his mouth, each jolt mirroring the pulses against his prostate.  

they separate for gojo to bury his face in yuuji's shoulders, arms hugging his neck. he humps into yuuji's hand until he comes against him again. 

he pants and huffs atop the boy, catching his breath. yuuji's gentle arms hold him, fingers rubbing slow circles at his back.  

satoru's breathing calms against yuuji’s neck. 

"yuuji, u're such a good boy."  

yuuji's heart and dick swell. 

[johnslittlespoon]

ok 1. these are my tough and sweet drafting docs, i have never been this insane about outlines in my life this is what getting on adhd meds does to a man. someone sedate me (i have also Never drafted out a fic until i started writing for this fandom jfc) (also sry i forgot to mute spotify b4 making the vid and i cbf to reexport)

and 2. i think i've mapped out the whole storyline for TAS gahhh my heart already hurts. i'm pretty set on an ending and it's gonna rip my heart out to write (in the best way) but leaves space for a long epilogue (or possibly even a second fic lol we'll see if my interest holds, i either fixate for a few weeks on an idea or i'm locked in for a year). as of now the fic will be set from july 2005 to june 2006 + the epilogue aughghgh but i gen have sm more i could write if i were to do a time skip and write a second fic, i just have so many other aus i wanna write if i can prove to myself i can commit to chaptered fics like this so :')

all the major events are plotted, most gaps in between are filled with the scenes i've been brainstorming in my docs, but i'm sure i'll come up with plenty more as i go knowing how i operate rip lol. esp going thru asks, i still have so many to get back to regarding tas i'm sorryyy!! honestly sometimes i read them and have to go straight to my doc to plot and then i forget to respond to the actual ask lol y'all are cooking <3

this fic is gonna be sooo long, def longer than yadiym. i'm thinking minimum 12 chapters if i end up sticking to this stupid long wordcount per chapter but the story/plot keeps expanding as i write so i'm probably gonna eat my words and idm as long as i can keep myself fixated/inspired lol :')

also don't mind me i'm just yapping to myself atp bc it helps me to post my progress somewhere other than in my notes app so i can refer back easier and also bc it makes me hold myself accountable if i speak it into the universe lmaoo i'm peer pressuring myself xoxo

[boyfriendyke]

there r a lot of things about the myth of psyche and eros that makes me a little insane but one of them has always been the tasks from aphrodite and the unfairness of it. they're not intended to be possible. they're so obviously not meant to be possible, and psyche isn't fucking hercules, you know, she's not a demigod or whatever, she's mortal and these aren't mortal tasks!! it's why psyche has to be helped with each one, fucking by like ants and river gods and shit. and so like. idk. i know ppl see psyche and eros as like a story about love and shit which obviously it is but as a kid psyche and eros always felt like a story about being able to accept help

[withthewindinherfootsteps]

pov you’ve just reread the yi city arc… except that clearly wasn’t ENOUGH because of course your analysis brain had to take over and search for parallels, so you have to go and reread and save the most depressing WWX scenes right after…

i’m fine :))

[skunkes]

unsure how to word this but there is something about having ocs with unsavory events happening in their past where it's like. talking about it, even when asked, seems almost gratuitous and inappropriate. and i'd much rather describe it through the oc themself and/or draw Them saying it. which is like. fitting for the subject matter? like of course its weird to talk about somebody else's business...!

and falls back into humanizing em/exploratory writing and development where u consider the impact of words said/words unsaid/HOW those words are said etc etc

[mintleafkitty72]

Okay, random thoughts about ROTTMNT regarding a "what if" scenario:

I saw this post and it got me thinking about what if the last back up plan of all back up plans for the bad future timeline in the Rise movie was supposed to be Both F!Leo AND Casey Jr. going back to the past to stop the Krang?

(Really really (that's two reallys) long talk about my thoughts on this under the cut)

Like, they both go back and it roughly follows the same timeline as the movie but so much would still be different just because f!Leo is there too with CJ. Which would be nice for CJ specifically because then he wouldn't be alone after the events of the movie and f!Leo and CJ would have someone that could talk to from the bad future, but I just can't stop thinking about how everyone would react and how differently conversations would go during the events of the movie specifically. There is just so much that could happen and it could go more into depth on how CJ feels about the events and how f!Leo would react as well. And every time Mikey tries using his mystic mojo, f!Leo and CJ's hearts break just a little and that also happens every time any one of them does something that their future selves would do in the bad future. (I wish we got more into CJ's character and how he was feeling during/after the events of the movie and I'm so glad that there are so many writers and artists who have dove into his character, thank you guys)

Just imagine f!Leo seeing his younger self come back from the initial attack on the Foot where he's panicking and Raph isn't back yet and f!Leo just gets a flash back to when he lost his Raph. And then past Leo would still go after CJ (and possibly f!Leo too) about how they knew this would happen and then both Splinter and f!Leo try to talk to p!Leo (or maybe it could go a different way, there's just so many possibilities). And then from that point on, f!Leo sees what p!Leo is doing and deciding as the leader and f!Leo is simultaneously irritated that his past self is being reckless and not listening to anyone's input but also realizing that he is a 16 year old kid and that he was too when the invasion first began in the bad future. (I personally don't think f!Leo would hate his past self if he ever went back in time and that he wouldn't act hostile towards his past self, there'd just be a lot of feelings that he never got to really acknowledge during the apocalypse and a lot of realizations and thoughts occurring that he also wouldn't be able to properly address until after the invasion is stopped. Plus, both Leos I feel like have a lot of self hatred but I don't think f!Leo would take out his hatred on his past self).

Then when the bros are going to the turtle tank, f!Leo either stays with Splinter and April while the bros and CJ go to where Raph is or f!Leo goes with the bros and CJ. If he goes to help find Raph, they'll all still get separated in the subway system but it would still be p!Leo and CJ and the PB&J duo + f!Leo and after that, the final fight would happen. How? Idk lmao, but it would still lead to p!Leo alone to fight Krang Prime and his self sacrifice. And it makes me wonder how f!Leo would react to his past self's decisions, knowing what he was getting himself into? Knowing he would have done the same? Understanding how CJ felt every time he made a similar decision in the bad timeline and barely made it out alive? Knowing exactly how p!Leo feels but also knowing exactly how everyone else feels when losing someone close? The dread of knowing that they're gone but not wanting to accept it? Thinking about how he is going to be the last of their family to die from the bad timeline but the first in this one? Then once a few minutes pass, Raph uses his comm to reach them.

And he tells them to get to Staten Island asap, his voice urgent and filled with worry, but not grief. Questions are asked and eventually Raph says that p!Leo is alive, awake (barely), but severely injured and needs medical attention like now. Then one of the four (either Splinter, April, CJ, or f!Leo) ask Raph how p!Leo isn't in the Prison Dimension anymore and he answers by stating Mikey made a portal with his mystic mojo and CJ and f!Leo's hearts stop. Because they think that Mikey died making that portal just like their bad timeline Mikey did.

So, the four of them head to Staten Island as fast as they can and CJ and f!Leo are confused but relieved to see that Mikey is okay and not dead (but they take note of the markings on Mikey's hands, Donnie's right hand, and Raph's left hand). Then, they see Leo's extremely broken body, they make their way home, and they ALL start their healing processes. How all of that may occur can go in many different ways and I'm down for any of them.

I'm sure others in the Rise fandom have also thought of f!Leo going with CJ to the past to "find the key and stop the Krang" but I just had that thought occur and I had to just talk about what that could entail and all my thoughts about it. Because there are a lot of works where f!Leo goes back in time but I don't think I've seen one where he goes back in time with CJ in order to stop the Krang and is there for the events of the movie. If any of you do know of something like that, would you mind sharing it? I'd love to see it.

[kazumasougi]

im gonna be real for a second. if fantasy can only be enjoyable to you when removed from any and all real world implications then is it even good

[ow1et]

you ever feel like you're writing your own oc incorrectly??