#the boy(2018)

[red-rover-au]

These are the vibes the first meeting with Big Mama gave off lmao

[hacksawvelvet]

[itty-bitty-sunshine]

Made it through the day

[v-albion]

GUESS WHOSE BIRTHDAY IT IS!! 🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉

Masterpost

[xialing-gf]

if u hate them u will die and go to hell

[meggalice]

Did anyone ask for an exhaustive list of my personal head-canons?

You're welcome regardless.

Edit: I uploaded higher quality versions of the images hopefully that makes reading a little easier for you guys <3

[4pologygir1]

✶ BEAUTIFUL BOY ✶

spencer reid x reader | angst / hurt-comfort | 2.6k words

cw: post tobias hankel reid, established relationship, addiction/dilaudid abuse, needles mentioned, withdrawal symptoms, emotional distress, intense arguments, mean spencer but he isn’t mean he’s just struggling, themes of codependency, rehab mentions, recovery, brief mentions of vomiting… overall just pretty sad :( but it’s okay! he’s alright! oh and use of y/n.. (i know, i'm sorry!) basically reader loves him and gives him the support our guy SHOULD have had!!!

summary: he used to be all coffee spoons and poetry, soft hands and fast facts—but now he’s gone, and you’re searching. a fic about staying. about what it means to love someone through. heavily inspired by the 2018 film beautiful boy.

---

He hasn’t come home in three days.

You stop trying to sleep. You stop waiting for his key to rattle in the door. You stop wearing the sweater he left on the couch because it doesn’t smell like him anymore—it smells like dust and old coffee and panic.

You pace. You whisper his name to the walls. You turn your phone up so loud it startles you every time it buzzes, even when it’s not him. 

You leave the porch light on. Always. You tell yourself that it’s for safety, but it’s really a lighthouse. If he’s out there somewhere, maybe he’ll see it.

You check in with Garcia—clumsily, cloyingly, ashamedly. She tells you she’s worried too. She won't elaborate when you ask her if the rest of the team has noticed anything off about him.

You leave notes in bookstores, libraries, coffee shops:

He will sometimes send you funny emails. He prefers spaghetti over penne.

Have you seen my boyfriend?

Have you seen my beautiful boy?

Tell him I miss him.

You talk to strangers. You learn the faces of local street people by heart. You ask, gently, over and over:

Have you seen him? Tall, messy hair, talks fast, brown eyes like burnt sugar. Has anyone seen Spencer?

You start writing letters you never send.

I miss the way you talk when you’re tired. I miss how your hands fidget with receipts. I miss you. Please come home. Please be home so that I can come home to you. Where are you, Spencer? What can I do?

And when you finally sleep, you dream of him as a child, wandering around alone and calling your name like he’s the one who lost you.

---

When he returns, it’s like someone else is wearing his skin. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, the way they were after Tobias Hankel. But this is different. Less trauma, more...hunger.

“Hey,” you whisper. He flinches like the sound is too loud. “Where were you?”

Spencer shrugs, shuffling past you, eyes downcast.

You notice the tremble in his fingers, the way he scratches at his arm absentmindedly.

He doesn't want to talk. He wants to pretend. Pretend this is fine.

So you cook him spaghetti. You ask him about a crossword puzzle. You pretend, too.

But later, when you find the vial in his coat pocket, you stop pretending.

---

He gets mean. Not all at once. It isn’t immediate, It's little barbs at first. Corrections that feel more like punishment than help. Eye rolls. Disdain. Cold silence when you touch him. You start to feel like an intrusion in your shared apartment.

“You know,” he says one night, “for someone who reads as much as you do, you don’t really understand people very well.”

You stare at him, stunned. “Where did that come from?”

He shrugs, smirking to himself bitterly, eyes sharp like knives. “Just saying.”

You walk away. Not because you're mad, but because you're afraid you'll cry in front of him. And he's not him when he sees your tears these days. He twists them into guilt trips or throws them back at you like weapons.

But some nights, when he thinks you’re asleep, he holds your wrist like a lifeline. Murmurs your name in apology over and over again.

You keep letting him in. You love him. Even when it hurts.

---

It happens after he misses your anniversary. After you wait in a candlelit apartment for four hours with a trembling glass of wine and a heart that thuds with dread.

When he walks in at 3 a.m., he smells like motel soap and chemical sweetness.

“Where the hell have you been?”

He scoffs, dropping his bag. “Don’t start.”

“No, Spencer. I am starting. I’ve been quiet. I’ve been supportive. I’ve held you when you shook, and I lied to your friends, and I—”

“You lied to my friends?”

“You told me you didn’t want them to see you like this.” 

He throws his keys against the wall. You try not to react, but you can’t help but flinch. “God, you’re just like them! You don’t actually love me—you love some.. version of me that you made up in your head.”

“This isn’t who you are. This sickness. I know you, baby. I know my beautiful boy, and this isn’t him.”

He throws his hands up in the air. You notice the tremors. “You’re just embarrassed ‘cause I was like.. You know, I was this amazing thing, like, your special creation or something, and you don’t like who I am now.”

“I thought we were close,” you sob. “I thought we were closer than most girlfriends and boyfriends! Why?”

“I felt better than I ever had,” he spits. “What am I supposed to do? After that case… I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t think. I feel alive now. You need to quit trying to fix me and just let me be happy.”

“This isn’t us,” you whisper, chest heaving. “This is not who we are.”

He stands there, face twisted in something between rage and grief.

“This is me, Y/N! Here, this is who I am!”

You don’t have the chance to part your lips for your response before he shoots you down.

“What are you doing, huh? You always have to be controlling everything all the time!”

The next hour is spent with harsh words and strained yells confined by the walls that once held nothing but love and domesticity. You confront him about how your shared bank account is seemingly draining more and more each week. He tells you to go through your monthly subscriptions. That’s the moment it becomes even clearer. An alcoholic will steal your wallet and lie to you. A drug addict will steal your wallet and then help you look for it.

You collapse into a chair. You don’t look up when he storms out.

---

You wake up to an empty house.

You check every motel in Alexandria. Every street in Quantico. Every subway station in D.C.

You visit every needle exchange program in a 30-mile radius. You even try shelters, pretending you're his wife, or sister, or... anything that makes it easier to say please help me find him.

You carry a photo of him folded in your wallet. You hold it out like it’s sacred.

You tell stories about him to strangers:

He solves puzzles in seconds. He cuts his own hair. He can read seven languages. He cries during documentaries. He never matches his socks. He writes letters for me to wake up to when he leaves for work. He’s a good man. He’s just... sick right now.

It’s raining the night you find him.

He’s curled up outside a gas station, legs pulled to his chest, jacket soaked. You can’t tell if he’s crying or just drenched.

“Spencer?”

He blinks, slow and vacant.

“Oh,” he mumbles. “You.”

You kneel beside him. “Don’t move. I’m gonna take you home.”

“I don’t... I don’t think I want to go home,” he slurs.

You swallow your sob. “Why not?” You manage to say in a way you could only describe as weak.

“‘Cause you’ll hate me if I do.”

“I don’t hate you. Oh, I don’t hate you. I hate-” You can’t help but choke up, brushing strands of hair stuck to his forehead back. You force the words out anyway. “I hate what using has done to you. This- This anger, it isn’t my boy. It’s the drugs talking, don’t you know that? Because I do, Spencer.”

He looks at you like you’re a sort of savior, someone who will take this pain away. You catch your reflection in the car window as you carry him to the passenger seat. You look more like a confessional. Somewhere to voice your sins and be cleansed of them. Again and again. A seemingly endless process that you go through every other time you manage to find him.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” he breathes. “I just want to be home.”

You press his head to your shoulder and wrap your arms around him.

“I know,” you whisper. “I know, honey.”

---

It's hell.

He shakes. He sweats through his clothes. He throws up until there's nothing left and still his body heaves. He cries. He curses. He begs you to make it stop.

“I can’t—I can’t—” he gasps one night. “Please, angel, please just a little—just one more time—I swear I’ll stop after, I swear.”

You kneel beside the bed, tears streaming down your cheeks. “No, baby. You know I can’t do that. God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” You say through his incessant begging.

He claws at his chest. “I’m dying.”

“You’re healing.”

He knocks a water glass off the nightstand, thrashing as he presses his fingertips into the dark, hollow circles of his eyes. “You can’t do this to me. Just—” He brings his hands down to his inner elbows, scratching.” “Give me some money. I can get it. I need it.”

“And I need you!” you cry. “I can’t give you any money, and you know I won’t. Where does this end, Spencer?

He turns his face away.

But later, when the sun begins to rise, he reaches for your hand.

---

The worst comes weeks later. He’s been clean. Recovering. Trying.

But relapse lurks. 

Days are spent writing on every online page you can find.

Fortunately, I have a boyfriend, my beautiful boy

Unfortunately, he is a drug addict.

Fortunately, he is in recovery.

Unfortunately, he relapses.

Fortunately, he is in recovery again.

Unfortunately, he relapses.

Fortunately, he is not dead.

This repetitive cycle doesn’t feel any easier now, only different. You miss his call at first—your phone is buried in the laundry. 

When you finally pick it up, your hands are shaking. Partially in fear that he won’t be your Spencer, but also sick with the dreadful thought that there may not be a Spencer anymore.

“Y/N,” he whispers. “I wanna stop... but please, please, please, please, please no rehab, alright? Just let me come home.”

You close your eyes, tears falling freely.

“You know what? I realized it’s actually—I need to be at work. Solving cases, helping people. That’s gonna give me the strength to stop. Alright?”

You breathe out. Steady. Gentle. Grieving.

“I wish that I could do that, Spence. But I can’t.”

The silence on the other end is soon ntrrupted by crackling as he shifts the phone in his shaky grasp. You can almost picture him outside, either laying on the dingy floor of a cheap motel room or sitting out on the steps of some old building. Waiting. Waiting for you to give in. Waiting for you to give him money. Waiting for you to leave. Waiting for his dealer. Waiting for it to kick in.

“Y/N…”

“I wish… I wish that I could do that for you, but I can’t. That’s not what you need, Spencer. You need to go somewhere where they can help you.” You sniffle, and hope he doesn’t hear it. “Help you in ways that I can’t.” You specify, keeping your voice level.

He sobs.

“I’ll go,” he says. “I’ll go.”

---

And he does.

It’s hard. It's awful. It's beautiful.

He writes you letters. You visit when you can. Sometimes you don’t talk, you just sit in the sun and read.

He begins to smile again—not often, but when he does, it reaches his eyes.

He comes home different. Softer. Clearer. Tired, but willing.

There are rules. He has a sponsor. You make tea. You learn how to build trust again, slowly, piece by piece.

Some nights, he wakes up crying. You hold him and don’t ask why.

Some mornings, he hums while brushing his teeth.

One afternoon, he cooks you spaghetti and laughs at his terrible sauce. And you know that he is coming back to himself.

---

He’s standing barefoot in the kitchen, hair damp from a shower, wearing his sweater with the fraying cuffs. There’s a cracked mug in his hand—lavender tea steeping slowly—and the sun is melting through the windows like honey. 

He doesn’t see you at first. He’s just standing there, staring at the steam.

You watch him for a moment. You memorize him again. The curve of his spine. The slight twitch of his fingers. The way he breathes deeper now, like his lungs finally remembered how.

He turns and sees you. His mouth tugs into a crooked almost-smile.

“This is the first morning I haven’t woken up already running,” he says, voice gentle again. “Like… my body wasn’t bracing for something before I even opened my eyes.”

You cross the room slowly and press your palm to the center of his chest.

“What does it feel like now?”

He looks down at your hand. Then back up at you. And he glows. Like dusk and childhood and safety.

“Like I can finally stand still. Like the noise of it all has quieted. And— And like there’s space inside of me again for something soft.” he whispers.

You lean into his chest, both hands tangled in his cardigan now. He wraps his arms around you. Holds you like you’re breakable and sacred and the last thing tethering him to this world.

“You saved me,” he murmurs into your hair.

You shake your head gently. “No. You saved yourself. I just left the light on.”

He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

“I want a boring forever with you,” he says. “I’m tired of the battle. I want laundry and grocery lists and falling asleep on the couch. I want a whole life where you’re just... here.”

You smile, wet-lashed and aching. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted too.”

“Thank you. For not giving up on me, I mean. For loving me even when I was...”

You don’t make him ramble his way through that sentence. Instead, you slip your hand into his, squeezing it reassuringly.

“Do you know how much I love you? If you could take all the words in the language, it still wouldn’t describe how much I love you. And if you could gather all those words together, it still wouldn’t describe what I feel for you. What I feel for you is everything. I love you more than everything.”

He kisses you, slow and sure.

“Everything.”

You stand there a long time, swaying slightly in your own orbit. The kettle sings. The sun moves. The planet keeps spinning.

And for the first time in a long, long while—neither of you flinch. The world feels small and safe again.

—

a/n: i’ve always been drawn to stories where love is messy and awful yet still worth it. My first angsty piece… this fic isn’t soft, but it’s devoted. it’s about choosing someone repeatedly—even when it’s hard, even when it hurts. if you’ve ever loved someone who was falling apart, this is for you. if you’ve ever needed to be found, this is for you too. if you like this fic, i recommend watching the film that inspired it! ALSO there are DIRECT QUOTES from the film AND the memoir it is based around written into this fic! i do not take ANY credit for the phenomenal words of david sheff.

with all my aching, awfully sentimental heart,

winona.

[cowburr]

me when i set myself on fire for attention

[risestarkiss]

Being Big Red

Rise Ramblings #312

In “What Was Meant To Be” and “What They Became,” I discuss how the turtles were created by Draxum to be weapons and then how the boys were embraced by Splinter to be a part of the Hamato clan.

I also discussed how Splinter viewed television as a window into his former life. He used television as a means to drown himself in a never-ending cycle of reminiscing the past and mourning his former self.

Splinter’s crushing depression, though never voiced, impacted the turtles’ emotional growth and development. As a result, all four brothers had to cope with their father’s lack of attention and his expectations for their lives in their own way…

However, I believe that no one had more pressure placed on them than Raphael Hamato.

Raphael is naturally easy-going, sweet, fun-loving, and supportive. But, as the oldest/biggest turtle, he became the impromptu leader of their little team by default. Consequently, he takes on several different roles for the sake and well-being of his family.

Their day-to-day training regimen is directed completely by him.

He is the boys' moral compass and who they go to for guidance.

He's the team’s backbone, support, and backup, which often cumulates in him acting as a physical shield when things get rough.

And, most significantly, Raph is the leader even when he himself wants nothing more than to crumble to pieces.

Raph is so physically imposing, strong-willed, and devastatingly kind-hearted that it’s easy to expect these roles from him.

But, Raph is also just a child.

In reality, these roles should never have been Raph’s to bear…

Parentification is a process in which a child or adolescent is forced to act as a parent to their siblings (or to their actual parent) through providing emotional support (Emotional Parentification) or physical support (Instrumental Parentification) in order to maintain the household.

I believe that Raphael was subjected to both, but was especially subjected to the former.

All of the roles described above are the roles of a supportive parent to their children (or Sensei to their students.) To verify this claim, you needn’t look further than the roles that Splinter encompassed in any other iteration.

With Raph, none of this responsibility comes naturally. He has to work hard to live up to the pressures and expectations placed onto him, resulting in a dissonance between his responsibilities and his true nature.

I believe that you can see the evidence of this dissonance in his chosen form of dress.

Have you noticed that when Raph casually dresses himself, he mostly wears white?

Even Donnie picked up on this trend when he chose outfits for his brother in "The Clothes Don't Make The Turtle." (See "The Fashionista" for a full breakdown on Donnie's impeccable fashion sense.✨)

Yet, when Raphael is filling a role, or dressing to impress others, Red is his automatic go-to.

It’s almost as if the title of “The Red One” was not one that he chose, but one that was merely placed onto him.

But I digress...

Raph is able to be a pseudo-parent to his brothers and serves to fill in the gaps that their actual father could not fill. However, with no outlet for his own insecurities, all of that pressure had no relief.

And, if you understand chemistry, pressure, with no release, creates an explosion.

“Acting out” is an unhealthy defense mechanism in which one expresses their unacceptable feelings through physical actions.

In this case, the "unacceptable feeling" is disappointment, not at his brothers, or with his father, or with any external force, but with himself. And with no outlet and with no one to turn to for support, that disappointment turns into red hot anger.

He’s so disappointed with himself, in fact, that he reaches his breaking point.

Then finally, finally, he opens up.

And at long last, he gets the support he so desperately needed.

Thus, he is able to ultimately let it all go...

It's so lovely to see that his family does not disappoint.

○○○○

Next | Being Baby Blue • Being Purple ○ Part One • Being Purple ○ Part Two • Orange, Baby!

Finale | Being Hamato Yoshi

[scribleez]

no, the redbull did not in fact give him wings 🥀

also second post here WOOOOOOOO (how does tumblr work again)

[li-rheinn]

[supercap2319]

"Conner? I thought we talked about this. You have to wear clothes in the Tower and out of it." Dick said. Conner had taken a step back from everything that he's learned since escaping Cadmus laboratory. He used to not understand the need for clothes when he was innocent, but now that he had matured, Conner realized why they were important. Until a few days ago.

Conner turns to him and smirks that damn Superman-styled smirk. His cock was flaccid, but still incredible in size and length. His muscular chest was on display as he bit into another chip from the bag he had in his hands.

"Living in sin is the new thing, Richard. At least that's what Jason says. Besides, everyone's doing it." He points behind Dick. The leader of the Titans turned to see Gar completely naked with a PS controller between his junk. Hovering a few feet above the couch, Y/N turned the page of his book, his legs crossed over his naked form.

"What is this? A nudist camp?" Dick asked.

[chalamet-chalamet]

Timothée Chalamet at the Palm Springs Film Festival in 2018, 2019 & 2025 🌴✨🌴✨🌴

[to-all-the-boys]

'to all the boys i've loved before' is absolute perfection. i can't believe i'm saying this but oh my gosh i forgot just quite how good it is. my sister just put it on and of course i insisted i rewatch it with her and wow. the colour grading, the direction, the palpable chemistry between the leads, and sweetness and innocent joy that permeates the film...oh that movie is absolutely everything to me. all time banger

[featherfangart]

Late as always, but another year of wings, swords and the absolutely best bois <3

[khayalli]

i have nothing sanitary to say about them your honour