#my wip of months is finally DONE

[paintedkinzy-88]

Something's Wrong: Casey's POV

All of Leo's family for the last year: He's acting weird, what does any of this mean?!

The one who's known him for a month and only ever sees him happy: That dude wants to fly and honestly MOOD

I like to think Cass and Leo would get along well after a while! Casey grew up in a cult clan that views emotions as weakness, and weakness can get you killed. Leo learned to hide his own emotions so as not to worry anyone, and instead bases his personality around their two biggest TV idols. Their masks are near flawless, built up from years of practice, but it's a lot easier to see through a mask when you have one of your own...

And that was the last of Something's Wrong! Onto... Idk, something else!!

Raph's POV

Donnie's POV

April's POV

Mikey’s POV

Masterpost

Also, a bit about COI Cass: She had parents as a little child that treated her as such. She was read fantasy books and was fascinated with adventures and knights and dragons. Then those parents died, and she was brought into the Foot to be a soldier. There, she was taught that dragons were ruthless monsters that deserved to be extinct. It never really sat well with her, but y'know. This was her new family, afterall. Her new purpose. No matter how poorly she was treated.

[thekaiserroll]

Zosan comic inspired by videos of otters holding hands so they won't float away from each other.

[ms-spkhd]

Steve settles against the back of the couch and says, “I got a question, Ed.”

“Yeah?” Eddie replies and tries very hard for Steve not to notice that he spent the last fifteen minutes either picking at a loose thread on his jeans or sneaking surreptitious glances at him.

“And be honest with me. No deflecting.”

“Uh-huh. Go ahead.”

“Do you…” Steve pauses, and he’s got this look where he’s tossing the question around like a salad over and over in his head, like he hasn’t gotten it right quite yet. “Do you think Arnold Schwarzenegger is hot?”

Eddie blinks. This cannot be his real fucking life. 

Steve’s still looking at him expectantly, as if the question that just left his lips wasn’t affixed between world-endingly stupid and nuclear bomb-levels of disastrous to Eddie. It’s…he’s so blase about it, too. Completely unaffected! As if he didn’t just drop that question onto the gay friend he’s conveniently, y’know, swapped bodily fluids with. 

“Excuse me?”

Steve shrugs. “So you’re gay, right?”

Alright, foot-in-mouth gold medalist Steve Harrington expertly sticking the landing as always. It’s curious, Eddie thinks, out of all of his friends, Steve should be the one most well-acquainted with the sheer magnitude of Eddie’s gayness and the biblical nature of it–what with the whole dick in ass thing.

Eddie purses his lips and tries not to play the cynic, the you of all people perched on the tip of his tongue. The last thing he wants to do is scare him off again, not with their shoulders pressed against each other like this; the closest they’ve ever been since that night. He axes it before it goes any further and causes trouble. “Well shit, what do you think?”

“Alright, dumb question,” Steve concedes, though there isn’t any shame in his voice. He smiles that golden smile of his and waves his hand at the screen, where Arnold and the fussy flight attendant are busy studying a piece of paper evidence. They’re an odd pair. “So, does he do it for you or not?”

Eddie blinks, takes a sip of his High Life and purses his lips in thought. “Nah, not really.”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline and his eyes dart from the screen to Eddie’s apathetic expression. “Really?” “Don’t act so surprised, man.”

Steve shakes his head and looks away from Eddie, chin resting on his palm. “No–no, I’m not surprised or anything–”

“Well, girls like pretty boys, so…”

“But you’re not a girl, you’re a gay guy.” Steve scoots to the side, fully facing Eddie, and gestures wildly at the vague wholeness of Eddie’s body, like he’s the representative for every homosexual man northwest of Lake Michigan.

“Last time I checked.”

“Gay guys like macho dudes, right?”

Eddie grimaces at Steve’s naive brightness. There’s a decently well-oiled machine that whirrs away in his head, but Eddie is absolutely and positively dumbstruck, and operations screech to a halt. If things go any further, it’s going to reach triangle-shirtwaist levels of disastrous. What the hell does Steve Harrington–homecoming king and president of the Key club fucking Steve Harrington–know about what gets gay guys’ rocks off? I mean, yeah, he’s wandered into ‘have gay sex and only acknowledge it as a mistake’ territory, but far be it for him to thumb open a copy of Blueboy or–God forbid–fully understand the concept of a leather daddy.

“You’re…serious…?” Eddie ventures.

Steve’s mouth twists and scrunches at the corner as he wilts slightly, lost in the proverbial woods.  “I’m pretty sure I am, yeah.”

“Okay, well”--Eddie scoots forward in his seat and knocks Steve shoulder with his fist in a semi-decent attempt to lighten him up– “think of it like this: attraction isn’t a monolith.”

Steve’s eyebrows scrunch curiously. “Right.”

“Right. So some chicks like macho guys like Arnie and other chicks like prettier guys like…uh.”

“Iceman?” Steve supplies helpfully.

“Yeah. That guy.”

“Val Kilmer.”

“Oh! The hot guy from Willow. Anyways, gay guys are the same, we’re not all just into Arnold Schwarzenegger ��cause he’s got muscles. Some of us also like pretty boys. Hell–ugly guys are on the table, too. It’s open season, man!”

The corners of Steve’s mouth twitch upwards and his basset hound eyes brighten a fraction in relief. Eddie lowers his hand to his lap, taking it as a personal victory. Well, the word ‘victory’ is a bit of a reach, all things considered. In those massive Merriam-Webster dictionaries he used to leaf through to understand the books Wayne would lend him, ‘victory’ was defined as an achievement of mastery or success in a struggle or endeavor against odds or difficulties. Explaining the ins and outs of gay sexual attraction to some haplessly gorgeous straight man like multiplying fractions to a fourth grader was the farthest thing from a victory. Especially since Eddie’s unfortunate enough to be halfway in love with said haplessly gorgeous straight man, what with his kind eyes and swoopy hair and disarmingly boyish charm. But! A success it does make. 

Christ, it’s a sacrifice nonetheless.

“Okay, new question,” Steve prompts, because apparently he’s fixing to be this decade’s new Sherlock Holmes. Or Colombo. Eddie tries to push the rapidly materializing image of Steve wearing a tan trenchcoat and loosened tie with a cigar pinched between his teeth to the back of his mind because–to the surprise of absolutely no one–he finds it devastatingly sexy. He shoots a cute little message up to God in his little corner of the sky (or whatever primordial being is running this fucking hellscape) begging to grant him some actual, discernable relief.

“You’re a curious cat tonight,” Eddie says after his brief yet exhaustive prayer.

“What can I say,” Steve replies with a shrug, “I like to get to the bottom of things.”

“Go ahead, champ.”

“So…Val Kilmer, huh? You like pretty boys?”

  Eddie has half a mind to jump onto the couch, take Steve by the shoulders with an iron grip, and shake him around wildly, screaming and spitting, “You’re the prettiest boy I’ve ever met! And handsome! And sexy! Beautiful! Every synonym in the Goddamn thesaurus!”

Thankfully, Val Kilmer is a high enough jumping point for Eddie to prevent himself from swam-diving and landing face first into the bottom of the figurative ‘I’m so deeply in love with you it’s not even funny’ pool.

“Hell, I’d never say no to Madmartigan.” Eddie tips his head backwards against the couch headrest and fans at his face, all hot and bothered. “He could do whatever he wanted to me.”

Steve rubs the back of his hand against his lips and his breathy laugh clips at its edges. “What about sexy naval fighters? Tom Cruise in a uniform do it for you?”

“Nah, too establishment. He may be hot, but I’m not tripping over my feet for the military industrial complex. But if you want me to be honest…” Eddie’s eyes drop to his rings, his fingertips brushing against his nickel plated rings. They start twisting the scratched and worn things before he looks up at Steve’s expectant expression.

“I like honesty,” Steve says.

“Well there’s this movie, The Sting, it’s one of Wayne’s favorites–saw it in theaters and recorded it when it showed on TV Christmas day of, ‘79, I think. Could’ve been watching It’s A Wonderful Life or whatever, but the old bastard wanted to watch some movie about these two con men bullshitting an Irish guy. Anyways, Wayne loved it, so he’d play it all the fucking time, but I wasn’t complaning, like, at all, because the main character was the hottest man I’d ever seen in my life.”

“Wow.” Steve blinks. “All that talk and I don’t even know what he looks like.”

Eddie releases his grip on his rings and drums his fingers against worn denim instead. “Well, he’s Robert Redford.”

Steve shrugs smugly, because of course he doesn’t know who Robert Redford is. Eddie’s so Goddamned charmed by it.

Eddie hums, leans back, and rolls his head towards Steve. “Tall. Chiseled jaw”--he lists the traits with his fingers– “Blue eyes. Looks insanely handsome in a dress shirt with rolled up sleeves. Blond, which is curious because I don’t particularly care for blonds, but I think the hair thing is pretty much null and void because I like the devil-may-care attitude.”

“So you like bad boys, then?”

“Depends on your definition of bad. Rebel without a cause? Hell yeah. Downright war criminal? Not advisable.”

“I didn’t know war criminals were on the table.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Alright,” Steve says, clapping his hands with finality, and straightening himself on the couch.. “You say you like pretty boys, but generally go for more handsome, refined guys.”

“Who said I like handsome?” Eddie interrupts..

“You when you said you had a thing for rolled up dress sleeves,” Steve says, self-satisfied. “And you like ‘em bad. Not bad bad, but like, a realistic amount of bad. Spray paint and knife fights, not like. Uh.”

“Mussolini?” Eddie offers.

“Not like Mussolini.”

(It's wip wednesday when I say it's wip wednesday (it is currently friday), so here's another snippet from my fic Stand There, Looking Backwards. i'm almost at the homestretch of the second chapter so. big if true.)

[disaster-fruit]

All the time in the world

[backslashdelta]

"Go back out there and be there for Kurt. This is going to be a lot harder for him than it is for you." [insp]

[kyo-hiki]

babies are asleep, shhhh

[mirthfulmoonshine]

‼️🇵🇱 Circa 1944

Hellsing the Dawn - cover redraw

[cansofbees]

like dogs, shianni

[dykekarkat]

wip monday 👍enjoy the set up for another omegaverse fic featuring collaring + jealous neil

Neil doesn't quite like going to Eden’s, despite the many Friday nights they’ve spent here over the last three years. 

The lights are too bright, the music too loud, the people too drunk, and the scents too many. It's hard to track the crowd, track the exits, even to keep track of their own measly group of six. 

Neil knows he doesn't need to keep track of everyone, but it's a leftover habit that his mother engraved into his bones. 

He must be twitchier than normal because Nicky is the first one to comment on it, “Are you good, Neil? You’re not in pre-heat, are you? You’re always so uptight in pre-heat.” He’s already six shots in, so Neil doesn’t bother feeling offended, just amused. 

Matt still cuffs Nicky upside the head for him though, “Don’t be rude. Neil’s a delight, even when he’s attacking you for not taking your dirty socks off quick enough.” 

Neil scoffs, but the laughter around the table brings a light feeling to the chest. It’s enough to offset the feelings caused by the overwhelming atmosphere. 

He watches Andrew hide the upwards twitch of his lip behind his glass and that feeling only grows. He nudges him slightly, just to enjoy the way Andrew’s eyes cut to him in faux irritation, before he nudges Neil back. 

Neil waves a hand dissmissively at Nicky, “It’s nothing, just a full house here tonight.”

“Well there’s an easy fix for that Neilio!” He drunkenly slides a shot glass across the table to him, only Neil’s exy-honed reflexes save it from careening off the side. 

Nicky winks, “You just need to learn how to let loose a bit.” 

Neil rolls his eyes but takes the shot, enjoying the warm slide of it down his throat and simultaneously ignoring Nicky and Matt’s excited cheering. It will be his only one of the night.

[kei-emji]

Can you guess the current hyper fixation?

[cheriboms]

doctober day 31: free day (halloween)

insp this scene from criminal minds :) verne and marty being buds in the cartoon genuinely WRECKS ME, they are too cute ;w;

[that-was-anticlimactic]

see a world so beautiful and strange (spinning off somewhere)

“Why? Why are you suppressing?”

“Because I can't tic,” Alya whispered, fingernails digging into the skin on her arm. “I know Tourette’s isn’t exactly uncommon, but it’s part of my identity as Alya Césaire. It can’t be a part of Rena Rouge, too. Someone could figure out who I am and then…”

And then she’d have to give up the coolest thing that’s ever happened to her, give up living her dreams.

[or, alya is suppresses as rena rogue in order to protect her identity, but neither ladybug nor trixx will let her hurt herself like that]

🦊2,345 words | alya-centric, alya & ladybug friendship🦊

happy tourette's awareness month!!!

[hana-bobo-finch]

THE PUMPKIN DADDY BOOK CASE IS COMPLETE 🦅🦅🦅💥💥💥 IT IS NOT THAT GREAT BUT WHATEVER. BEHOLD

[fawnnbinary]

Roronoa Zoro - the Demon

[cakemousse]

so toxinelle has snuck up on marinette and alya in marinette’s bedroom and this is what they see when they finally notice that she’s there, toxinelle hanging upside down listening in on their plan (click for a clearer image!)

reference below the cut

[blood-mocha-latte]

to the millionth degree

The metal of the jailhouse bars was cool against his lips. 

Their hands, clasped together and resting on the steel, seemed to generate the only warmth in the open, echoing room.

“Carwood,” He said, voice strained and shaking, hands warm and rough. “It’s not too late—”

“Of course it is,” Carwood cut him off. It was almost like they’d switched positions, in two years. Neither hunted nor hunter, neither loved nor lover, the same in the most opposite way. “It’s always been too late. Since… since the day I first saw you, it was too late.”

Dark eyes bore into his and barely wavered. Slender, calloused fingers tightened around his own before releasing them.

“Go.” Ronald Speirs said, and stepped further back into the cell. “Before I won’t let you.”

-

19.4k - Rated E - Read on Ao3