#two-strokes

[saddlebums]

Yes, it's the annual Gathering of the Nortons. They came from far and wide, mostly wide, and of a vintage suited to a motorcycle marque which had the bad fortune of hitching its star to Villiers Triumph to form a fragile trinity doomed to failure in a faraway land called 1973. Yes, they still come and go (actually having some success with rotary powered bikes of all things) but Norton motorcycles are best remembered in sepia tones for their beautiful vertical twins that young American men lusted for post World War II. So, here we are today, in New Jersey, near the Delaware River, to celebrate all that was good about British motorcycles away back when. And yes, there were plenty of non-Nortons in attendance to fill up the parking lot.

[buckycap]

i do think it’s very important that liam pointed out specifically that no matter how hardheaded orym is in what he believes he doesn’t let that stop him from seeking dorian out for comfort and wanting dorian close to him and dorian quickly reciprocating. i think that’s especially important when so many people thought that their opposing sides would drive them further apart (especially on orym’s part) when in actuality we learned that orym’s love for dorian is SO fucking strong that it it supersedes his hardheadedness which when you remember who orym is, is actually a big fucking deal

[zoidsfan77]

Basic zedconian diagnostic equipment. Connects to their common interface port under their snout. Used for troubleshooting and repair.

[3-aem]

universal healthcare is not broken and anyone trying to convince you it is is delusional and a dckrider for big health insurance. yes there are wait times but waiting for care is Not the same as being denied care.

in america your physician prescribes care and an insurer can still cuck you out of it because someone across the continent who has never met you can say: doesn’t seem medically necessary. Leaving you to handle a bill that is wildly inflated by the same insurers that just denied you.

let me drill it through your head you can pay thousands a year in premiums and still end up sick and financially burdened for years by One incident. no insurance company is Avoiding going broke by denying claims. theyre doing it to profit off your misfortune and your illness. Because healthcare fundamentally does not cost the amount that they claim it to be.

[rathockey]

↳ crowley + "sides"

[ronkeyroo]

SPLIT / IMAGE

[corpusdiem-seizethedead]

Fat Nuggets: *squealing inconsolably*

Angel: *appearing on scene, prepared to commit a murder* What happened??? Who hurt him??? I swear to satan if any of ya-

Husk: *casually turning the page of his reading material* I said he couldn't have two dinners.

Fat Nuggets: *squealing louder*

[brambletakato]

I got bored so I made a little chart of frequently seen eyes and their details in Professor Layton!

[cedyat]

Reference and a bonus video under the cut (did you know you can't upload more than 1 video in a post? Cause I didn't 🫠)

Bonus video of me repenting for my sins for forgetting a certain someone...

[hylianane]

Out of the (unfortunately) many One Piece scenarios bouncing around in my head one of my favorites is Zoro getting hit with the memory loss beam, and only remembering up until like. immediately after Morgan’s defeat. He’s agreed to join up Luffy and is already feeling his heart swell with loyalty, but is still under the impression that he’s going to join up to a much larger crew, with several other members.

So he just blinks awake and at first there’s none of the confusion and yelling that comes with the memory loss trope, he’s okay, he’s banged up cause of Morgan, he’s on a boat because he just became a pirate, and oh hey Luffy’s right there. This must be his new crew.

Hey, um, is that skeleton playing the violin.

[r0b0t1me]

You are not supposed to be here. You don’t belong here. Get out get out get out GET OUT-

fanart for chapter 4 of take little bites by @bigdvmnhero​

bonus. because i couldnt pick a single scene to draw out LMAO

[twojamie-o-clock]

wish u were here

ko-fi

[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.

[gelphiegifs]

Gelphie Femslash February Day 15: Favorite Gelphie Scene

At this point in the story Glinda has spent years cultivating this public persona of Glinda the Good, despite missing Elphaba terribly she doesn't let those feelings get in the way of how she's trying to live her life. We know Glinda is unhappy as hell but she's still willing to put herself in the spotlight as this carefully curated figure and has spent a significant amount of time and effort doing so.

And yet the second she sees Elphaba again, all of that crumbles.

The Wizard is there! The man who could order her imprisonment if he wanted to is right there and Glinda knows this and she does. not. care.

Glinda didn't even know if Elphaba was alive, she's been dealing with these rumors about her for YEARS and she's so incredibly relieved to see her again she just has to hug her and she throws caution out the window to do so. (And this is GLINDA we're talking about. Her whole character relies on NEVER throwing caution out the window---except when Elphaba is involved. Elphaba is the only reason Glinda ever goes against the status quo but that's a whole other post.)

The scene plays a little differently with each performer, of course, but I love when Elphaba is portrayed as an active participant instead of just waiting for Glinda to approach.

Elphaba absolutely knows she's in danger, and yet she reaches towards Glinda and even shakes her arm a little impatiently while Glinda is frozen (sometimes Elphaba even walks up to her, too.) She's in danger and she doesn't care at all, she wants to allow herself this moment of reunion. Even while she's behind enemy lines. Because this is Glinda!! This is her Glinda who is right there!!

I could go on and on and on about this tbh but it's so precious how they haven't seen each other in years and they're on opposite sides and they're in this very dangerous place and through all the shock and disbelief of seeing each other again they still hold each other even for a moment.

Then it's back to business. "Only you shouldn't have come, if anyone discoverates you---" because Glinda is Glinda after all and there is work to do, but for a few seconds nothing but Elphaba mattered. It was like they were alone in that room.

[fluentisonus]

Study for ‘Ships Bearing up for Anchorage (“The Egremont Seapiece”)’, JMW Turner, c. 1799-1802

[crownmoto]