#dancing with my eyes closed

[fanaticallyfleeky]

i’m just gonna leave this snippet here of this fic i’m writing because i’m a delusional girl and i refuse to let go of these two no matter what s6 finale

So that’s how he finds himself in the Diaz living room, furniture pushed aside and Eddie’s hand on his waist. And honestly, maybe Buck should have thought about this a little bit harder before begging Eddie to help him. Because being in this close vicinity of his best friend is definitely not helping his brain to function at all.

“Can you show me one more time?”

“Jeez, Buck, I explained this step to you three times already. How do you still not get it?”

“Well maybe you’re just a bad teacher,” he grins at the offended look on Eddie's face.

“Excuse me, I can’t help it that you have two left feet,” Eddie scolds but the slight smile on his face betrays him.

“Hey, I would like to point out that you offered to help me yourself,” Buck shoves him lightly.

“Yeah, well I started to regret that decision four bruised toes ago.”

Eddie grabs his hand again and Buck’s other hand hangs awkwardly in the air.

“Eh, where did I—“

“You’re leading so your other hand goes on my waist,” Eddie interrupts him.

And honestly, it shouldn’t feel this scandalous to put his hand on Eddie’s waist. It’s not like they’ve never been in weirder positions with their line of work. But Buck’s face still heats up.

“Right, yeah, hand on the waist,” he clears his throat, “wait and why again are you not leading?”

Eddie looks bemused, “because you’ll have to lead Maddie. The man takes the lead, the woman is led.”

“Well that seems kinda sexist,” Buck mutters and Eddie snorts.

“Come on, let’s try again, you can fight the patriarchy another time. Left foot first, then— left foot, Buck–”

“Wait, my left or your left?”

“Your left!" Eddie laughs and drops his forehead on Buck’s shoulder, “Why would it be my left?”

[mayhemspreadingguy]

a companion piece

[tsuchinokoroyale]

Happy new years… let’s stay hydrated together ✨

[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.

[dumbnotstupidfuck]

I feel so strongly abt this part of the song in particular, it should win every single award there is

[fisheito]

collab #2 with @xenole i was given a chibi yakumo and i.. i...... turned it into thiS

[voiceofsword]

thank you for taking all my dia and causing me mental anguish

[princington]

gusto kitang isayaw nang mabagal

gusto kitang isayaw nang mabagal

hawak kamay, pikit mata

sumasabay sa musika

[mamawasatesttube]

tim cries at the timkon wedding btw. i know this in my heart

[mnih765]

He has those m o v e s

For context I will link a video of how he's dancing in the show but the audio will be in Polish cuz I couldn't find that one clip in English and the Polish dub is more iconic to me

[fanaticallyfleeky]

Another little snippet because I need some motivation for this story

How could he possibly have thought they were on the same page? He must have completely misread the situation because he obviously has no idea what is going on in Eddie’s head anymore.

Buck had once read about a scientist who discovered that pendulum clocks always sync up when they’re mounted to the same beam. No matter what the scientist did, no matter how oscillating they started, within thirty minutes they would end up swinging in sync.

And he devastatingly realises that for the first time since that blown-up ambulance and the precious promise of friendship, somewhere two pendulum clocks on the same beam stop swinging in sync.

[askdacast]

Martyn has stated numerous times the Watchers/Listeners/Speakers trio is a pretty obvious “hear no evil see no evil speak no evil” reference

As someone who has to study Japanese religion/history as part of her degree and roughly knows the origin of that phrase, that one factoid has been sending my brain at 120 km/h

Yet I STILL cannot think of a good name for my funny mcyt death game theory “orz

[luckyspacerabbit]

i got overexcited for citadel dlc and doodled preemptively </3 glyph play immortality by céline dion and the bee gees

[jack-with-roses]

sometimes I think how much I like just dance is normal but then I go to work and the only way I can make it through the day is replaying just dance maps in my head

[many-gay-magpies]

it is very dangerous for me to listen to maneskin anywhere but in the privacy of my room because most of their songs imbue me with the unbearable urge to, at least, bob my head while aggressively and emotively lip-syncing and, at most, break into a full unhinged dance routine around the room

[skinreflectsthesun]

I am not well 🤧🤒🥺😴