#when i say some have been in my drafts for like. a year.

[tiktaalic]

pa said the well's run dry he said the bank came out yesterday and said we're gonna have to sell the blog and get work in the city like the rest of folks less we can come up with something real quick. he was all ready to sign the papers today but i begged him to wait to give me time to find something anything and he sighed and said he could give me a week and not a minute more. and i nodded and i cried because he was right when he said there was next to nothing i could do and even if i did find a miracle. all our neighbors shuffled off weeks months years ago because the posts dried up and the bank came knocking. i break open my piggy bank hoping there's enough drafts in there to tide us over. i sit there. and i have to decide if it's worth spending everything i have just to buy us an extra day. and i know this extra day will consist of walking around mute and shellshocked. and i decide. it's worth it. i give pa all my drafts and he looks at me and shakes his head and his voice cracks when he says i better keep hold of those for getting settled in the city. i could fight him. i don't. i leave all my drafts on the table and storm out the back door. there must be something. they must have just missed it. pa says he knows this blog better than anyone. but i grew up here, same as him. and as much as he loves it, i love it more. when i was seven years old he tore the place apart looking for me after i wandered off. but i wasn't lost. i'd found a tag to play in, happy as could be. he never found me, or the tag, i just wandered back out when i got hungry. it's pa's blog, but it's my home. i know where the creeks and streams and ponds are. i know if i look hard enough, i can find a new posting well.

day one, i strike out. i wake up before dawn. i come in after dusk with no posts to show for it. pa's boxing up our plates when i walk in. he doesn't say anything. i don't either.

day two, i wander a further. yesterday, i was following a map with areas of interest marked in order of likelihood of success. today, i pick a direction and walk. i have more to show for it, if only barely. i get home with one bucket of posts. pa tells me i should keep them.

day three i wake up because pa's dragging furniture into the yard for a yard sale. when i ask him what he's doing he says he'd rather be paid flop drafts by our neighbors than flop drafts by the bank. i walk back inside. get my map. i get home after midnight with empty hands.

day four. when i wasn't looking, the cold single minded determination turned into fear. i'm realizing i'm running out of time. i'm realizing the reason pa didn't put up a fight is because he knew there was nothing out here. i could kill him. what kind of farmer depends on one well? my heart isn't in it today. i head out after noon. i'm back before dusk. there's been a stack of empty boxes sitting outside my room since pa told me the news. i haven't touched them. tonight, i take one and put away some of my things.

day five. there's more ground to cover. it's more out of a sense of completion than anything. so that when we're in the city, i can say, i did everything i could. i looked everywhere. this was the only option. i stop midday for a rest. the ground i put my palms on is curiously softer than the rest. i dig. it comes away easily. it turns into mud. heart thudding in my ears, i keep digging. the mud gives way to a trickle of posts. ears roaring. i keep digging. hands covered in mud. the trickle turns into a stream. i start yelling for pa. i'm too far from the house for him to hear me, but i'm not thinking about that right now. i'm thinking about the posts in front of me, clear and fresh. text posts. gifs. amvs. there's enough to live another twenty years on this blog. i splash my face. i laugh. i fill my bucket. i'll have to bring more. we'll have to get the pump set up. because there are enough new supernatural posts here for me and my children to build a life.

[suddencolds]

a personal milestone 🥳 + author's note

i finally made it 😭 (there is probably another 10k sitting in my drafts, but i have always tracked word count for this project as a sum of already-published installments)

also a (somewhat long) journal entry below:

—

This has been the main project in my life for almost two years, now (I started writing on 1.26.2023). It's my first proper attempt at a novel, and it's one of my first times ever posting original work anywhere 😭

It's hard to say how I feel now, perhaps because I feel too much.

Where to go from here? I considered dropping the series entirely before I hit the milestone because I was very tired. In a way, I felt like I had said everything I wanted to say. But I think I also love this series a lot more than I can properly verbalize.

To be completely honest, writing this series was so lonely. To work for so long on something that I could not show to nearly anyone irl (not family, not close friends, not peers, not strangers I met who I talked to about art); to spend hundreds of hours on something that I could only ever post to a small subset of people... all of that was very lonely. I'm sure other creatives have felt this way too.

And at the same time, hearing what people on snzblr thought became probably the most potent source of happiness in my life (is that pathetic? Maybe so.) I don't think this project was self-sustaining at all; I think to some extent, I wrote it because I wanted to hear people tell me that they liked it. I realize this is a terrible and unsustainable reason to create art, but that's the truth.

On some level, though, I kept writing because I loved Y+V. They've been at the forefront at my life for almost two years now 😭 I spent a long time teaching myself how to write them, and a lot of the themes & choices in the series are quite personal. Embarrassingly, I still want to talk about Y+V all the time.

When I posted to ask if I could send my unfinished/unpolished WIPs, some people reached out to offer to read them... and then I never sent anything over to anyone. I think a part of me could not get it through my head that people would be willing to read something completely unpolished, because... well, frankly, a lot of my drafts are just pretty unreadable; I typically only post things that I have already cleaned up. More importantly, I felt like sending my drafts to people—even people who had given me explicit permission to send them!—was selfish and troublesome.

On some level, I also felt the same about asking others to brainstorm with me: I felt like I was asking them a favor which I did not know how to pay back. Perhaps this is just another way in which I have been cruel/uncharitable to myself, but I never imagined people enjoying receiving my drafts. I could never convince myself that for those people, giving feedback/discussing ideas might not actually be a chore. I was always scared to make writing less of a lonely process because I could only think about how easy it would be for me to ask too much.

This is probably the most honest I've been about this particular subject 😭 I am not good at gauging what constitutes 'too much.' I feel like I can get carried away when someone expresses interest, so I try to preemptively position myself as someone who does not impinge on others... I think that even outside of this series, I have defaulted to this pattern of trying to give and trying not to ask. In that particular sense, I am perhaps to blame for my own loneliness.

Anyways! Recently, I've gone back to (tentatively) writing after months of not writing. I'm not sure if I will post another installment here (maybe if the drafts are 'good enough', I will?), but it's nice to write without worrying so much that what I am writing needs to be publishable/presentable.

If you have ever left tags/comments on my work, and you are reading this, I am grateful beyond words to you for keeping me company + for making me feel like what I was spending so much time on was a little more meaningful :') I always go back to reread them when I'm in need of encouragement. Thank you sincerely for the happiness. ❤️

[committingcrimes-2047]

HNNNG GUESS WHOS BACK

(I wrote this way too fast because i needed to write this down before i writers block kicked back in so there are probably spelling mistakes, grammar issues (theres always grammar issues with my writing LMAO) goodluck!)

I'm imagining Reader, who is a traveler who goes overseas often. They go to Piltover and meet Vander and decide to join their cause, becoming a merchant to get extra money to bring in.

Reader is getting ready to set sail with their crew and Vander pulls thrm aside just before they leave and gives them a promise ring. Once they do set sail, Reader waves at Vander until hes out of sight.

While they were away, Vander, Silco, Connol and Felicia helped him plan an actual proposal. When Reader did finally return, they were expecting to be proposed to the second they got off of the ship but to their surprise, they were just welcomed back normally. After the next few weeks, Reader stays suspicious but in the end figures that he's going to wait until after they beat Piltover.

Once Reader is no longer suspicious, they set the plan in motion.

One day, Felicia invites Reader out and they walk around topside. Eventually, Reader is dragged into a shop and Felicia pretends to look around before "spotting" an outfit that Reader also likes. Felicia convinces them to buy it, and they do. They head back and Reader styles the outfit and while they were changing, Connol told her that everything was ready and they both sneak out.

While Reader and Felicia were out, Silco and Connol had been cooking. Reader faintly smells their favourite food as they walk out, all dressed up and see that the only thing waiting for them was a note saying that Felicia had to go.

Before Reader could change Silco shows up and asks them to help him gather some supplies or something. He insists that they don't need to change and they head out, grabbing bits and pieces from various shops before heading in a direction Reader doesn't recognise and before they can ask about it, Silco hands them a blind fold and asks them to put it on. Which they do, now incredibly suspicious (and slightly concerned).

Silco leads them along until they stop and he walks off, and Vander tells them to take off the blindfold, which they do. Immediately seeing that they're stabding ontop of an old building, a gorgeous view of Piltover and the sky, the sun setting, casting a beautiful glow over the city. Two chairs and a table, covered in their favourite food and drink and fairylights strung up all around. And Vander, dressed nicely and looking uncharacteristicly nervous.

They sit down, eat and talk and eventually the sun has set and they're witting in comfortable silence when Vander breaks it and asks them to stand up. Weeks of practising what to say go straight out the window and he stutters his way through a small speach before he gives up and pops the question, kneeling and holding up a small box.

Reader stares down at him in shock, completely silent- everything he just said processing in their hand and as Vander goes to stand up- akwardly apologising- he gets tackled down by Reader, who happily says yes.

...

NOW IMAGINE

Every year, at the same time, on the anniversary of his proposal. Reader puts on the same outfit, grabs their favourite alcohol sits in the same place they sat on that day. Mourning the life that could have been.

I hope you guys know, I looked into my drafts to posts this and i found this

I have no memory of writing this

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

Pausing halfway through reading one of your fics to pop in and say I really love your narration and character voices. It’s not common in fanfic for an author to write in a way that’s layered enough for the reader to gain their own insights and conclusions. Like I’m in the last chapter of therianthropy and there’s the stuff that happens on the same page when there’s dissonance between thoughts and actions or when Karen buys Matt the sympathy muffin and Matt’s mad that that tactic totally works, and there’s also the longer story motifs that must be so hard to tie together when you’re publishing at the same time as actively writing.

The bit that got me to stop is when teenage Matt’s at Fogwell’s. Previously we saw Fogs starting to talk about the little boxing found family and Matt’s all “oh geez I hope he doesn’t start the lecture about sacred boxing fraternity 🙄”. And on its own this was a great scene because it showcased the characterisation of Fogs, Matt and Lisa in a few short paragraphs. Fogs is real passionate about this one thing, Matt’s heard this windbag go on about it a million times and is comfortable enough to be a little bitch, and Lisa’s relaxing for the first time in a /long/ while. And it’s beautiful.

But then. BUT THEN!!!!!!! This *fucking* speech Fogs was about to launch into!!!!!! Is the very thing that made Matt feel genuinely loved for the first time since Jack died!!!!!!!! Nearly ten years!!!!!!!!! And when Matt finds this traumatised teenage soldier that needs reassurance, love and support, he takes her to the the place where that unconditional care was given to him all those years ago and arhgrgahgrhhogohrgohhhh don’t even get me started on kintsugi ok I hope u never stop creating ok ur fics make me wanna howl at the fucking moon

2/2 Sorry my coherency evaporated real quick there. Your stories are also laugh out loud funny

Hello extremely kind ask I have neglected in my ask box for far too long. Thank you for your kind words they made me extremely happy and made me feel more competent than I actually am.

The tough part about fanfiction is that everything y'all get is basically a first draft because, like you said, it's publish-as-you-go and I don't have the chance to go back and rewrite the story to be more cohesive. Like, the act of writing itself means the plot and characters are still developing, and i really rely on editing and second drafts for that in a way that's not super possible with fanfiction. Sometimes the characters just Do Things and i'm like "wha--stop that. why are you. since when do you. why didn't you do that like 100k words ago." and it gives it a very flying-by-the-seat-of-my-pants vibe from my perspective.

I am a very big fan of Recycling when it comes to my writing, and i think it makes it seem a little more put-together than it is. Like, I always have big Scenes in my head that exist from the start of the story that I know are going to make an appearance, so I just bury references to them them I need to craft the moments leading up. Or, if I don't have a scene planned and there's something missing, I tend towards trying to tie it back to something that already existed in the story, so there's a little bit more of a common line running through it. Granted, if you do this too much it seems a little kitschy, so I don't always do it, but I'm a firm believe in using what you have to the fullest extent.

If i recall correctly, Fogs' confusing Matt into staying by just sort of talking until he passed out was a Big Scene and I was just planting my chekov's guns like a deeply unqualified gardner who should have been fired a long time ago and never given access to the guns safe. I knew that I wanted Lisa being taken in by Matt to parallel his own recovery from Stick, so it was sort of low-hanging fruit to have Fogs go off on the same rant. I also kind of liked it because I think time does a lot for reframing how we think of things.

Like, when Matt first gets Fogs' speech about Ancient Sumerian Men Beating The Hell Out Of Each Other, he's half starved, half feral, and trying to fling himself back out into the hostile streets of New York because he feels safer alone than he has ever felt with other people. He passes out, wakes up with a blanket over him and Fogs asleep at his desk even when he doesn't have to be. Like you said--it's the first time in a very long time that he's felt safe.

Then, when he's in the future, it's just very casual. It's not really framed as remarkable, and Matt doesn't hold it in his mind as something that glitters. I thought it showed an enormous amount of healing for him to be so comfortable with Fogs that he didn't seem to remember that this was something that once brought him to tears.

And you're also right about Matt bringing her there--it was easy recycling in the sense that i needed to answer the question of "where would he bring this traumatized child he doesn't know how to help" and figured the answer was "probably the place that helped him."

Thank you for your kind words they made me extremely happy and I'm very glad you like my writing

[ganondoodle]

so with echoes of wisdom .. i havent watched any of the trailers beyond the very first one and the thumbnails/screenshots and what others have said about it-

but with the world inside the rift being called "Welt des Nichts" aka "world of nothing/void" in german ('still' in english, for some reason) and demises title in french being "avatar of nothing" ... yeah my anxiety is shooting through the roof again

(hopefully you can be a little more forgiving for me being anxious/weird about it bc demise is my blorbo)

i had similar worries with totk, that werent proven true thankfully, but the darn book is making it all worse again with all those weird lore things the game doesnt even so much as hint at AND potential retcons- im in for a really rough time huh, not just stress in real life (more in tags.. its alot) but now about my specific hyperfixation from two things even (AND artblock still..)

weird as it may sound, i dont want demise to get more lore, partly bc i dont believe theyd do anything with him that i would like (given their track record) but much more importantly- the fact that he has this little lore about him is precisely one of the reasons why i fell in love with him, i tend to like characters that are neglected by the narrative, and his story being both so flat and already done meant i can be very creative with what i come up with for him without necessarily contradicting anything in canon (which is ... or was a big point of how i wrote destiny's story and lore, working with canon in a way that reframes it all without straight up ignoring it ... but i suppose i urgently need to let go of that and accept i spend alot of time working things that will go to waste :( ) AND not having to worry that there will be more stuff with him that would massively change not only what im writing but also potentially how i feel about him since the game he was briefly in was the oldest chronologically and ended with his death- i didnt expect them to mess with anything that far back and thought theyd just go forward and leave the timeline behind and wouldnt mess with it again, given how botw seemed to be a sort of 'fresh start' that seemingly regarded the past as the past that needs to rest and that the timeline was finally no longer a discussion if everythings unified through botw and one thing going forward

but i suppose i was very wrong with that .__.

right now the only thing that motivates me still is the left over determination and spite to work on my zelda comic, since i have never gotten this far and really want to get something done for once, but i cant lie that im feeling like i should pause all work on it too to wait and see waht the book and the new game will do .. either to determine if i still have the will to keep working on it after those things are out (my love for tloz has been taking alot of hits lately ..) or if i have to change stuff (mostly bc of my lore problem trying to not ignore it ..)

[2hoothoots]

i was having a chuckle to myself last night about Gristol, and how his plans are basically:

Restore Ford Cruller's memory

Find Maligula

???

Profit

but then... of course they are, right? this is Gristol we're talking about. Fatherland Follies drives home again and again that he's still operating on a child's logic, a warped and reductive version of the world that he never bothered to grow out of. both of his memory vaults center on the images of his childhood, this idealized version of the past that he clings to no matter what. and that's still how he remembers Maligula, too - as this saviour figure, who rushes in to help him when he's in trouble.

[ID: Two slides from Gristol's memory vault, Glory to Grulovia! Left: Gristol clings to Maligula's back as she summons waves to sweep away his assailants. Right: Gristol and Maligula waving from a balcony as the people cheer. Gzar Theodore brandishes a dagger in the background.]

like so much else, Maligula represents a return to this idyllic childhood - to the peace and simplicity of his youth, when he was free from worries and responsibilities. in his mind, he doesn't need to make any further plans - once Maligula's back, everything will go back to normal. Maligula will make everything better.

...is what i thought, but then i remembered this line:

[Screenshot source. ID: Gristol, in Truman's body, bows on his hands and knees in front of the newly-awaked Maligula. The caption reads: "Yes, High Priestess! I am here to correct the mistakes made by my father!"]

and that's kind of interesting, right?

to be clear: this happens directly after Maligula sees Helmut-in-Gristol's-body, and recognises him. her line before this is:

"Little Gzesaravich! Have you come to pay for your father's sins?"

my first thought was that Gristol hadn't expected to still be in Truman's body by the time he managed to find Maligula, and this was him trying to placate her and buy some time until he could explain the situation. but watching the cutscene back, that's clearly not what's happening here. Gristol is answering as himself, and his response of throwing himself to his knees before her is, as far as i can tell, genuine.

so what is going on here?

in Fatherland Follies, there's this line in the ride narration that stuck out to me:

"Why didn't the Gzar help Maligula in her time of need? No one knows, but historians agree - it is Gzar Theodore's biggest failure."

other lines mention Gzar Theodore's "mistake", and it's wording Gristol himself echoes in the screencap above. evidently, he believes that his father abandoned Maligula, leaving her to her fate at the hands of the Psychonauts, and it was that mistake that lead to them being driven out of the country - that mistake which he seeks to correct. maybe he even feels like he has a debt to repay to her for his family turning their backs on her all those years ago.

the 'High Priestess' thing, though - that's kinda weird, and threw me for a loop the first time i played the game. it took me until my second playthrough to connect the dots, and remember how the room in the Lady Luctopus - Gristol's room - was full of Delugionist scribblings and symbols.

[Screenshot source. ID: left, the walls of the hidden backroom in Gristol's hotel suite, covered in scrawlings of eyeballs and Maligula's name. Right, the pinboard from the hidden backroom. On its surface are photographs and newspaper clippings connected by pieces of string.]

i mean, look at this stuff! he had a whole conspiracy board and everything!

we learn very little about the Delugionists and their beliefs as a whole during the game, but i think drawing the connection here suggests two important things. one: that Gristol was in deep with this stuff. i don't know how he linked up with them - maybe via old family connections, or just good old-fashioned digging (we know he's skilled at worming his way into peoples' good graces, after all) - but it seems likely that he's begun to internalise their ideas, maybe even warping his own memories of events. and two: the Delugionists themselves are, if you'll pardon the pun, pretty far off the deep end.

like... i understand why PN2 didn't go heavy on the "mass-murderer cult worship" aspect of things, in the end, but man this is such a tantalising glimpse into the wider mythos around Maligula. Gristol is proud and haughty and thinks himself above everyone else; the fact that his first reaction seeing Maligula is to throw himself to the ground at her feet says so much about the way he's come to see her. he's not just trying to bring back Maligula, his childhood bodyguard. he's trying to bring back Maligula, the High Priestess of the deluge, the semi-mythical figure whose supporters believe even death couldn't stop. he doesn't even flinch at the way she confronts him, and maybe it's because he's bought in so completely to this deified figurehead, this idea of Maligula; more a living force of nature than a person. and it all comes back to the same place: an abdication of responsibility, not just to the person who protected him when he was little but to this avatar of floods and destruction. Maligula will make everything better.

i'd write more about my thoughts on the Delugionists but that'd be taking a hard turn into speculation, and this is already kind of long and rambling so i'd better end it here. but what an unexpected and evocative line, right? it's some of the only stuff we have to go off of regarding the Delugionists as a whole, but i think it does such a good job of hinting at the wider story - at teasing another layer to the mythos surrounding Maligula, one whose ripples we see throughout the game but which never quite breaches the surface.

[mishy-mashy]

En was killed by being cut in half by AFO. It wasn't that he couldn't handle OFA, but that AFO just decided to nuke him

All Might says using One For All with an untrained body would make your limbs fly off. But

This isn't his limbs? Yes, that's his arm, but that's HALF OF HIS BODY

Yes, there's also the argument he could've used it on his whole body and that's the consequence but there is a small cut on his thumb. It matches the line in which he was cut in half, and blood spurts from his hand.

The translation hides it, but his thumb got cut too from the slice. His thumb wasn't the focus, but still got hit. It at least shows when En passes on OFA to Nana

Since Banjo's arms got wrecked by using OFA, maybe En used it in one leg and that's why his leg is differently-colored and looks more beat up. En probably couldn't handle the Quirk either.

This means that En was being logical and saw OFA as a tool, and only used it in a leg so he could run.

All Might specifically says an unprepared vessel's limbs will fly off. Even if En used it on his whole body, that means only his arms and legs; but that's his torso. His leg didn't go flying either; at least until they both went flying cuz he was severed.

[maximusboltaqon]

my villain origin story is the belief that inhumans r copying xmen just because theyre both a group of people that have superpowers. everyone is a group of people with superpowers dipshit it came free with the fucking superhero comic company

[james-spooky]

this is a test

[dawnthefluffyduck]

Sunday doodles

[cloyingcadaver]

x

[dizzybevvie]

boy how do you reblog such great things

been cultivating my dash for years. i also found most of them in my drafts

[seagull-scribbles]

Lie Awake

A TMNT 2012 Casey and Raph ficlet [AO3]

word count: 1,191

just a small drabble focusing on Casey and his view of their relationship. I didn't write this as a ship fic, but I do ship them so you can interpret it as platonic or romantic

Casey hates people seeing him as weak. He wears every cut, bruise and mark like a medal, a badge of honour for a hockey game well played or a fight well fought. He hates when neighbours or the school populace look at him with pity in their eyes and sympathy coating their words like sponge covering a toddlers playroom or bubble wrap suffocating a porcelain doll.

So what if he doesn't have a mom anymore? Who cares about his deadbeat dad? Casey is keeping his promise and at almost 17 is protecting and looking after his sister, the best player on a hockey team within the region and a vigilante the purple dragons will write legends about. He is strong and brave. He bounces back from anything with a witty comment and a toothy grin. Missing incisors be damned.

So why is this different? Strong, calloused, leathery hands gently graze over fragile skin. Instead of the usual burn of anger such caution would ignite, Casey Jones feels a sense of calm and his breath almost gets caught in his throat. Almost. Arms he has seen tear robots to shreds, dislocate joints from vigilantes, break monstrous jaws are now delicately tracing over his pale soft surface, well- it should be pale but the current complection is primarily a mixture of injuries, marks and dirt. Purple, blue, green, yellow, pinks, reds- any colour besides a natural skin tone coats his body like a vandalised back alley wall.

The hand stops moving and instead a comforting weight is placed across Casey's chest and torso. The weight he has seen choke and crush wrong-dooers, crack brick walls and dent spaceship walls now comfortably rests along his side like a weighted blanket, the arm across his middle.

Awareness of his current location comes back. Why's the ceiling looking blurry suddenly? Casey realises his eyes are starting to water. These can't be tears of frustration though? Maybe these are not new tears but the remnants of the storm that leaked from those eyes earlier this evening, in the privacy of these four walls as his own inner walls crumbled in Front of his current companion. No mask or face paint or armour, no facade of cokyness and happiness. His emotions are raw and his mind is still screaming at him, maybe that's why he hadn't noticed the burning eyes. These tears can't be new. Definitely not! He's happy and safe now, why would they be? He is brought from his thoughts as a hard smooth surface buts the bottom of his jaw, sending a short vibration of pain through his skull.

"'Ya sure this is alright?" A gruff voice nervously whispers.

"Yeah, 's fine" he mumbles back before finally looking down at the friend pressed against him. His own voice sounds raspy and sore. Perfect.

Raph has put his head back down on the pillow, his beak fitting like a jigsaw puzzle in the gap above Casey's shoulder. The bolt he'd felt had been from Ralph bucking his head to hit his jaw with the top curve of his beak. It hurt a little but he isn't fragile. Raph knows that. All he can feel now is that comforting weight on his side. He's focusing on it. Raph certainly wasn't scared to touch him. Why else would he hit him to gain his attention?

Soft cold breath gently brushes against Casey's neck in delicate puffs.

"I can sleep on the floor y'know?" tiredly drifts out of the terrapin creatures mouth "This bed ain't exactly made for two"

"Nah it's your room, I'm the intruder"

"Hmm" Raph lazily hums and slightly squeezes his ribs, getting comfortable in his squashed position on the edge of the bed "a warm one".

Casey sits there in silence for a bit, his friend drifting off to sleep. The overwhelming smell of sweat and blood and the sewers clogging his nose. Raphael is the only person Casey talks to about his home life, the only one he talks about his troubles too. He knows Raph instils that same comfort and confidence in him as he tells the lanky teen his own insecurities and secrets.

Tender moments like these however? They usually proceed fights. Fights they start coated in darkness or just heated spars between friends who are shouting and blowing off steam. They'd collapse with exhaustion on some random rooftop and through jagged breaths become vulnerable, no eye contact, maybe a squeeze of the hand or a punch in the side to let the other one know they're there. Kind, soft and comforting pain. Like the kind you get from laughing too hard or playing a game. It is strange to think they are now squashed and laid across each other, even if the reptile insists the body warmth was an exciting upgrade to his sleeping arrangement.

Casey was kicked out tonight after a particularly bad fight at home, he limped his way to his usual meeting spot and a few texts later Raph was on his way. He's going to be staying here with his friend, just tonight... he'll go home tomorrow. No one else in the sewer family needs to know why, Raph will come up with a lame excuse to torment him with. The thought makes him smile a little. Raph is the epitome of masculinity. Testosterone coats his existence like a second shell. He's violent and abrasive and yet here he is, not throwing punches, but still being gentle. His body weight is not entirely on top of the teen, but it is there along his right side nonetheless. He wasn't repulsed by Casey and he hadn't tried sugar coating anything all night. When he 'picked him up' he'd joked at Casey's expense and made the boy laugh. Casey wasn't too sure how Raph managed to create such a strong positive moment up on that rooftop in those circumstances. But none of the Hamato clan followed logic by nature so maybe that is not so surprising.

Casey isn't sure why this isn't affecting him the way it usually does. He feels calm and safe, even stripped down to his boxers and pressed into an old smelly matrice and cold metal wall.

Maybe it's because he keeps reminding himself that Raph doesn't see the squishy, thin human as delicate. He knows the turtle enough to know he considers Casey a great enough fighter to stand amongst his brothers, without any formal training or skill.

Maybe that's why this tender moment is nice? Raph isn't scared Casey will break, he wouldn't touch him if he thought he'd be hurt. Raph wouldn't joke with him and invite him here like this. The ninja had seen the boy break earlier, as he broke down and sobbed on the bed when they first arrived at the decorated subway car. The weight against him now is heavy, not crushing. It's grounding him.

Why is being treated tenderly so nice right now? Maybe that's the kind of privilege having a best friend creates? He doesn't remember his childhood friend creating such a welcoming environment before though.

Casey hates people seeing him as weak. Raph doesn't, even now.

[echeveriia]

i’m in full ‘i should text her’ mode help what do i do

[fingertipsmp3]

The last like 12 hours have been one disaster after another tbh and I think I am mostly to blame

[waywardsalt]

.