#if you see errors tell me but like-

[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.

[sun-e-chips]

Decorating for Halloween at Waterspark Bay!

(for the love of all that is Tiki please ignore the floating cart I forgot to fix it and when I realized it was too late)

Let’s just pretend Sun is lifting it for the sake of stopping the package from falling over

[corsairspade]

Halenthir scenario where they get married for tax benefits (in a platonic good friends sort of way) and fall in love long distance via sending each other letters with ideas on how to best leverage their marriage for tax evasion.

[faaun]

Jack Marsh (2005), Friendship Otherwise - Toward a Levinasian Description of Personal Friendship

[grvntld]

26 may 2024—got my much wanted (((and needed))) pamper sesh (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ im so happeh like yay!

𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼 hand spa x foot spa × hot stone massage × microdermabration and perfectio x face therapy

𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼 miss v, the one who attended to me, told me my hands are like a baby's bc theyre actually already soft prior to the hand spa lol

𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼 i supah dupah mega ovah missed doing this!

𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼 gosh tell me why did i stop doing this again???¿?? right, life happened—

𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼 felt like a princess—nawp, wait, scratch that hMpf i felt like a dyosa fairy queen thank you very much

[writereleaserepeat]

This last month I've been enamored by @sowhumpshaped's interactive whump story, "Stray." It came to a beautiful end just a few days ago, and I was inspired to come out of the woodwork long enough to write a little fanfic. Make sure to go read their story before continuing here! It's a lovely work of art and I had so much fun seeing where it went. I miss the daily updates already!

This story is set twenty years after the main storyline of "Stray," and ten years after total pet liberation. It takes place in I-Can't-Believe-It's-Not-Disneyworld, and it features our MC (you!) meeting a ghost from their past.

CW: mentions of pet whump, second person POV, swearing

WC: ~2250

You run your tongue along the mountain of sweet vanilla cream, savoring its delicate flavor as it slowly melts in your mouth. With how much this ice cream cost, you were determined to enjoy every moment of its blissful respite from the summer heat. The mouse might know how to mark up its sweets, but it wouldn't steal away your enjoyment of this day, not even with an ice cream cone that cost an arm and a leg.

You're pulled from your thoughts by the sight of the ride coming to a halt beyond the fence. The harnesses begin to release and the children start pouring towards the exit, all smiles and laughters as they rush to find their parents on the other side. Your daughter is easy to spot, a tall girl - god, when did she get so tall? - with a glowing, gap-toothed smile.

Much to your surprise, she comes to greet you with another girl in tow, a child whose face reminds you of someone you can't place, their eyes sparkling with a hint of familiarity. A celebrity, maybe?

You don't have any more time to ponder before your daughter begins talking. She holds the other girl’s hand, a child who couldn’t have been a year older than her, and all but pulls her up to greet you.

"This is Delaney, we were on the ride together! She's so nice," Libby speaks in that same pleading tone you're never able to resist. "Please, please, please can we go to the next ride together?"

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” you say as sympathetically as you can, putting a palm on Libby's head. “We need to ask Delaney’s grown-up first.”

“My dad will say it’s okay,” Delaney says with a vigorous nod, “he’s right over there!”

She points towards a man striding in your direction, his hair long, but his gait familiar. As he brushes the hair from in front of his eyes, you freeze. You know those eyes. You’ll never forget those eyes, even if they’re set deeper in wrinkles now.

The world stops. For one painful moment, you don’t even feel your heart beat. It’s like all the air has been sucked out of your lungs.

But it wasn’t. You draw a breath, a deep breath that pushes hard against your ribs. You’re free. All the pets are free now, and they have been free for ten years. It had been another ten years before that since you’d last seen Rayan.

He recognizes you too, you can tell in the way his jaw slackens, dumbfounded. That glitter of recognition continues as he finally stumbles into earshot and his tongue begins to work.

“Thirt-"

“Not in front of my daughter,” you hiss, leaning in towards his ear as you do so. “Not in front of my fucking daughter.” You keep a smile on your face, only just, so your child doesn’t have to see you fall apart before her eyes.

He seems startled, startled enough to shut up for one moment. But silence had never been his strong suit, you could remember that much, the way he'd ramble on and on after his volunteer shifts. You'd always let him talk - not today. The dynamic had shifted. Today, you look him in the eyes as an equal.

“I’m sorry, I-“

“Papa!” Delaney interjects, cutting Rayan off a second time. “I met this girl on the ride, her name’s Libby, she’s super fun, and super nice, and we want to go on another ride together.” She tugs on Rayan’s arm, but he doesn’t look down.

“Actually,” you say, pulling your daughter close to you, “I think we need to go catch up with Libby’s little brother and my partner.”

“Please?” Libby pleads again, staring at you with those doe eyes that always melt your heart. “Just one ride. It can be this one, we can do it again, we don’t even have to walk anywhere.”

Fuck.

What was almost twenty years of therapy worth if you couldn’t stand next to Rayan for another five minutes? You’d imagined talking to him a thousand times over, you’d thought painstakingly about what you’d say to him if you ever could, you'd prayed to his memory as much as you'd cursed it. But now, all you want is to walk away and never look at him again.

No more running. You'd promised yourself that almost two decades ago, and hell if you couldn't carry through with that promise today, especially with a family that needed you.

“Okay,” you concede, forcing a smile at Libby. She would never see you falter, not now, not ever. “You can ride this same ride one more time, just once, and only if you use your QuickCard to skip the line. We don’t want to get too far behind the rest of the family.”

“Sure,” Rayan says, voice measured. He smiles down at Delaney as well, but you can tell it's forced. “You can go too. Don’t forget, you only have three more taps on your QuickCard.”

“That’s okay!” Delaney chirps, already pulling Libby towards the line. “We’re going to have so much fun!”

And as the girls run in a tangle of limbs and laughter back into the ride's entrance, you’re left alone next to Rayan. The silence weighs heavily on your shoulders, and you feel the ice cream beginning to melt between your fingers. Then it's just you and Rayan, alone.

Not literally alone. You two are the furthest from alone you ever could be, stood next to a swinging steel pirate ship, amidst a park milling with tens of thousands of other people. But you can hardly hear the screams, the voices, the mechanical groans of the rides. Rayan’s presence next to you is suffocating.

You say nothing yet. What is there to say? You’ve said it all a million times before. To the shower walls, to your therapist, to the darkened skies in the early dawn. But none of it had ever compared to what you feel right now.

Something like hope begins to itch in your chest. Maybe this would give you closure, real closure, not the metaphorical closing of a book at the end of a therapy session. You've craved closure for so long. Could Rayan finally be this holy grail?

“I’m sorry,” Rayan says. If you didn’t know better, his voice sounded on the verge of breaking. “I’m sorry for everything.”

His swallow is louder than even the most cacophonous thunderstorm. He continues, tripping over his words, falling over himself with every syllable.

“Look, I was just doing my best. I mean, you were a kid, and I was basically still a kid too, and I was doing what I thought was best, just trying to help, you know? It’s been twenty years and I’ve never forgotten your face. And I mean, look at you now, here with your kids, this is what all the freed pets wanted, isn’t it? The chance to live like this?”

In that moment you know what you need from Rayan. It's what you've needed from him all along, even if you couldn't name it before now.

“Say it,” you mumble, struggling to find your voice. That hope for closure, god, you can feel it, you need it, and-

“What?”

“Say it,” you growl, more firmly this time. “You know what I need you to say.”

“Look, thir- whatever name you chose, I don’t know what you want from me.”

You finally look him in the eyes again.

“Say that I’m a person. Tell me that I’m a person.”

“Of course you are,” Rayan begins, and you watch him hold up his hands as he fights against his tongue's knots. “That’s what the Decree says. All pets had their legal status changed to reflect their unequivocal personhood.”

“That’s not what I asked. I know my pet lib history - likely better than you do. I want you to tell me that I, me, the living being standing in front of you, is a person.”

That nervous look in Rayan’s eyes tells you everything you need to know. The pregnant pause that follows is just painful confirmation. There would be no closure here for you today.

“Pathetic.” It takes all of your strength not to slap him in the face. “Twenty years and you haven’t learned a damn thing. The rest of the world has moved on from that nonsense and you can’t take five seconds to pull your head out of your ass.”

“Look," another swallow as Rayan wrings his hands. “Yeah, it’s been ten years, and still, there’s these studies, right? I'm sure they taught you to read in the, uh, the rehabilitation classes. There's studies that shows the pets that were liberated, they just aren't adapting to society as people do, you know? They don't excel at their jobs, they don't succeed in forming traditional family units, they engage in crime and anti-social behavior at much higher rates..."

You scoff and roll your eyes. All you can feel is the bile thick in your throat. Those studies, those lies, that propaganda, it would never stop. And people like Rayan would never stop feeding on it. You knew this, hell, you taught about it, at your community college's pet lib program. There would always be someone with an interest in the tyranny over 'pets,' be it emotional or financial, and it would succeed as long as people like Rayan were stupid enough to buy it.

"Look," Rayan says, putting his hands on the nearby railing as he looks away from you, "all I'm saying is, if you're a good- as good a soul as I think you are, you'd want what's best for your daughter, right? And, and maybe, well, maybe what's best for your family is how things used to be. You don't know for sure that things are better now. What if you're denying your family the chance to be taken care of, to truly thrive? What if they're not meant to be taken care of by, ah, by something like you?"

For a moment you think about striking him. You think about taking him to the ground, right there in the middle of the theme park, and pummeling him senseless. You want to beat that nonsense right out of his skull.

But that would prove his point, wouldn't it?

No. You know you can't do that. You can't wait for your daughter to come back and see your knuckles bloodied, this stranger choking on his own teeeth, your face contorted into an unfamiliar visage of rage. You weren't going to be a monster.

"You disgust me." The words are stickier than honey on your tongue. "Your vapid platitudes mean nothing. Your saviour complex has kept you stuck in the past while the rest of society is growing and learning from our sins. I'll always be grateful that you dragged me out of the trash that one day, and I'll always be grateful that you kept a roof over my head long enough for me to find my liberation. But I owe you nothing, not now, not ever again. I have my personhood - I always have. It's a shame you aren't using yours for something more meaningful."

You see a flash of pink out of the corner of your eye. Libby was coming back, running hand-in-hand with Delaney, that same joyful smile on her face. The smile of a child who had never seen the tyranny of the system you'd oncee been subdued by. The smile of a child who would learn just how important their personhood was, and always would be.

"Libby, darling, we need to go," you say as she comes within earshot. Your tongue is dry and sticky in your throat, and you need a drink of water. Your partner has water, wherever they are in the park now. You want to go to them now, seek the affirmation of everything you'd built in the time since you'd left Rayan behind all those years ago. You want to feel their comforting touch, something to ground you, to remind you of who you are. Who you've always been.

A good person.

Libby seems to wilt a bit, dejectedly dropping Delaney's hand from her own.

"Aw, but-"

"No buts. It's time to see what your brother is up to, and we have a lot of rides to catch before the day is over."

She pauses for a moment, and you can see her thinking it over. After another second she nods, seemingly convinced.

"Okay, as long as you promise to come on the next roller coaster with me."

"I promise," you say, reaching out a pinkie towards her. She hooks her pinkie in yours, and you take the opportunity to pull her close to you, away from Rayan, and away from the child he will undoubtedly raise to think just like him.

"Bye, Delaney! We're friends forever, okay?" Libby shouts over her shoulder as you begin to walk away.

"Bye Libby! Forever!" Delaney replies, giggling as she waves.

Your eyes meet Rayan's one last time. They're clouded with emotion, his lips pressed in a thin line. In spite of yourself, you smile at him once, and turn away.

"Alright, sweetheart," you speak to your daughter as the door to your past slams shut behind you. "Let's go have some more fun. We've got the whole day ahead of us."

[trunklewunjle]

It’s okay you can say hi, just don’t get too close, Broomie has a mind of its own…

Ink belongs to comyet

Paperjam belongs to 7goodangel

[moe-broey]

6/11 • Day 3 • Celebration

I Think We Might Be Friends -- Level 40 Convo, featuring my Summoner, Moe! (Uses it/it's pronouns!)

Aka what happens when a mirror reflects a mirror. But like with one of those funhouse mirrors that distort your image. Wouldn't that be fucked up or what

Also also just. Sharena bestie you have me BEWILDERED. I remember so distinctly when I got her 40 convo, waayy back before I had a good read on her character... it struck me, stuck with me for years. I think I finally understand, now, though.

Some close ups of my fave shots!

Also! Coloring this was a last-minute impulse decision, which thankfully paid off! I was sooooo scared though ESP of not making time after. ALL OF THIS TIME. So I took pics beforehand too!

With... kind of inconsistent lighting LMFAO 🧍 I feel like this version has a nice effect too, but! It was important to me to show Moe in full-color, here. Similar, but in opposite directions...

@sharenaweek

[bloody-wonder]

Top five mangas?? 👀👀

thanks i'm gonna include manhwa too tho bc i read it more often :)

semantic error made me unlock hitherto undreamt of levels of fun that can best be compared to the profound enjoyment a hetero woman experiences when watching a really good self-indulgent romcom. i previously thought i'm only into exceptionally fucked up bl but this manhwa taught me i'm not above very basic romance if it's well-written, hilarious and sexy and frames weirdness as something that can be appealing and awaken desires

killing stalking was the first bl manhwa i ever read and what an introduction to the genre it was! it's very good but very dead dove do not it so i wouldn't rec it to just anyone. for me, it was very fun binging the whole thing overnight bc why sleep when you can instead plunge deep into the darkest corners of human psyche while scrolling cartoons

twittering birds never fly has the audacity to maintain that slowburn since *checks wikipedia* 2011?? what the fuck?! if semantic error is a romcom twittering birds is a soap opera with no end in sight - and it has me in a chokehold. yashiro is one of the most characters of all time, i hope he admits his feelings for doumeki sometime before i turn 50 but it's still fun to watch him get into increasingly dramatic situations in order to avoid doing just that lol

painter of the night is just self-indulgent. i don't think the plot is any good at all and i don't particularly like the main character but i'm sufficiently compensated for these flaws by the historical setting and yoon seungho. the joseon period costumes are just so fun to look at - at one point i went down a rabbit hole researching those fascinating gat hats. more bl should be set in the past tbh but it probably takes more time and research for the creators. and yoon seungho is just your classic bad boy you want to fix and do in fact fix. the drrrrama of it tho!

the cornered mouse dreams of cheese / the carp on the chopping block jumps twice is probably the least well-known on this list? this short two volume manga was recced to me by a friend and i really liked it bc it features a protag struggling with his sexuality in a way that to me read very aro. it's also about the quarter-life crisis so. all the themes very near and dear to my heart lol

[little-whats-her-name]

"I can't hear you over the sound of the eight billion glasses and plates clinking, and the very high possibility that I'm going to lose my job, and the fact that everyone at this charity dinner hates me but we have to act nice to each other, and the weird lighting in this room, and these fucking Spanx!" - Katherine Hastings, probably

[inafieldofdaisies]

WIP Whenever | Tagged by @stacispratt and @adelaidedrubman ❤️

A snippet from Chapter 1 of John's misadventures as a lawyer. Leslie and other familiar faces are in this universe too, baby.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have begun our descent into Portland. Please turn off all portable electronic devices and stow them until we have arrived at the gate. In preparation for landing, be certain your seat back is straight up and your seat belt is fastened.  Please secure your carry-on items, stow your tray table, and pass any remaining service items and unwanted reading materials to the flight attendants. Thank you.", the long-awaited announcement was music to John's ears as he looked through the window at the city and its twinkling lights below. 5 hours had passed in what he could only describe as torture. His day before that hadn't gone too well either, it felt like anything that could go wrong had, in one way or the other. His alarm not going off and almost making him late. Showing up at the firm only to find out Preston Manning, his second chair on the case, had called in sick and wasn't going to be making the trip with him. Penny slipping him her number for heaven knows what time and offering him a "quickie" in the bathroom for "good luck". More like a quick and proven way to get me a meeting with HR. Traffic and a flight delay (not unsual but still absolutely nerve-grating paired with everything else). The TSO officer taking way too long fondling him, as if he could have been hiding anything under a simple suit. The airline double booking his seat and giving him another last minute, which had doomed him to sit next to a menace of a passenger. In many ways he was happy to have left Manning behind in Atlanta, but he also couldn't deny the fact despite all his flaws he would have been more tolerable than the man that was currently using his shoulder as a pillow. He had lost count how many times he had shifted in his seat, tried to shake off the pesky passenger, hoped eventually he would stir up and move away, giving back his personal space. He better not have drooled all over my suit, or I'd be meeting with my client in jail sooner than anticipated. And we'd be wearing matching outfits.

It's all he could think about as he nudged the man away yet again and absolutely not-so-gently with his patience worn completely thin. "We're landing.", John muttered under his breath when an annoyed look was sent his way, like he was the one being out of line. He brushed off his dark gray pinstripe suit before crossing his arms over his chest, and focused his gaze outside once more, refusing to pay further attention to the crude individual next to him. Deep down, he didn't mind having to fly over to meet with the people he would be representing, he found a certain type of thrill in being up in the sky, had dreamt of becoming a pilot for as long he could remember, but being forced to share such a tight space with others was definitely testing his limits and making him deal with not so pleasant thoughts. "Ladies and gentlemen, our crew welcomes you to Portland. The local time is 10:22 pm. For your safety and the safety of those around you, please remain seated with your seat belt fastened and keep the aisles clear until we are parked at the gate. The Captain will then turn off the “Fasten Seat Belt” sign, indicating it is safe to stand. Please use caution when opening the overhead compartments and removing items, since articles may have shifted during flight." The man next to him yawned over the voice of the flight attendant, his hand almost smacking John in the face as he went to stretch after his long nap. Don't do anything. Don't say anything. The mantra played on repeat in his mind and he could already imagine himself in his hotel room. The promise of a shower and soft bed was the only thing that got him through the loud clapping from "Naptime Sam" and each slow step that led him off the plane and into the airport. John clutched the strap of his leather bag he always used as carry-on, ignoring the excited chatter around him, his eyes darting from suitcase to suitcase in anticipation of his own finally showing up on the baggage carousel. Just as he spotted it and moved ahead to grab it, a child rushed past, bumping into him in the process. "Ah, I'm so sorry, Mister.", the redheaded girl said quickly, sending a apologetic toothy grin his way as she clutched a small rainbow duffelbag. He waited for the annoyance that usually came from every human interraction to swoop in, instead he ended up returning the smile while he heaved his suitcase off the line and headed for the exit. "Savannah Mae.", the girl breezed past, running towards a sharp dressed woman and grabbing her outstretched hand.

Cool air hit his face as he stepped past the sliding doors of the airport, gaze shifting between the cars parked out front and his phone that for some reason refused to turn on. Goddamn it. I charged you, I know I did. Penny had sent him a message with the details of the driver that was supposed to pick him up, as well as his hotel reservation, and he had no way of accessing either. "Welcome to Portland, sir.", an older gentleman reached for his luggage, and he breathed out a sigh of relief, telling himself his night was starting to look up. The man hoisted his suitcase into the trunk of the black SUV and swifly jumped into the driver seat, peeling off down the road just as John reached out for the door handle. "What the-" "Mr. Duncan?", a voice came behind him, partly drowned out by the shock that coursed through his body and rooted him to the spot to watch the vehicle disappear out of view and take his suitcase with all his belongings along with it. "Mr. Duncan. I'm sorry I'm late, there was a traffic accident…", John swiveled around, doing his hardest to keep his temper in check. He breathed in deeply, his tone taking a dangerous note and making the man in front of him wince, "What did you say?" "I-I- I'm here to pick you up.", the driver gestured to his own car behind him and forced a smile, "You're Mr. Duncan, correct? You're traveling light." "FUCK.", the word broke free before he could stop it while a hand ran over his face. This isn't happening. No. Not to me. No. "Mr. Duncan?" He opened his eyes again, fingernails digging into his palm, grounding him as he spat out, "I was robbed." The man blinked in surprise, "Robbed? Here? Now? How?" "My suitcase.", he shook his head, letting out a bitter laugh, "My damned suitcase." "Someone stole your luggage?" "Yes.", it was all he could muster, already feeling done with the conversation, with the day itself, with Portland, with the onlookers staring his way, with "Naptime Sam" that chose the moment to walk through the doors.

"Oh my god, I-" John brushed past the driver, throwing his small bag into the backseat and slipping after it with a growl. Shitstorm. Ah, Clive? He watched the man scramble around the front of the vehicle in confusion, the car door slamming shut after him putting a stop to his line of thought. "Mr. Duncan,-" "Do you have a phone charger?", he asked impatiently, making it his priority to figure out which hotel he was supposed to be staying at without having to deal with Penny. Shaky hand reached for the glovebox, pulling out a charging cord and passing it over, "Shouldn't you talk to someone at the airport? Report the theft?" And watch them flail around and tell me I was technically on the street, find a damn loophole so it's not their problem? "Mr. Duncan?" "Drive me to a police station, I don't care which one, uh, I didn't catch your name…", he finally replied as he stared down at the device in his hand, waiting for it to turn on. The screen refused to light up no matter how long it stayed plugged into the car's port, making him release a sigh of defeat. You're dead, aren't you? "Robert. And are you certain, sir?" "Yes." The man nodded, turning the key in the ignition, "May I ask, how did your luggage-" "I don't want to talk about it.", John trained his gaze out of the window, pocketing his phone as the realization that his night was far from over set in. The idea he no change of clothes for his first in-person visit with Mooney in the morning and was probably going to get no rest before it, felt like the final straw. And knowing his luck since being handed over his newest case, he was about to deal with an incompetent police officer next.

The scenery outside passed in a blur, making him zone out while fatigue fough to take over his body. No matter how many hurdles life threw his way, he refused to give up, promising himself he was going to win the court battle, prove Clive he had made the right choice by naming him partner at "Westbrook, Harrison and Jones". "and Duncan", now. Robert cleared his throat to draw his attention, announcing, "We're here, sir." "Thank you.", John muttered as his fingers wrapped around the door handle, the man's next words giving him a pause. "I won't be able to wait around… I have another pick-up arranged and it's on the other side of town. Would you be okay on your own?" "Sure.", he would have been lying if he was to say had expected anything else as outcome. "Have a good night, Mr. Duncan.", Robert called out and drove off, leaving him in front of an off-white building, the silver letters above its entrance spelling "City of Portland Police Bureau" confirming he was at least at the right place. He muttered a silent prayer as he pushed past a set of double glass doors and stepped inside the precinct. One win. Give me one win tonight. No more tests. No run-ins with inadequate officers of the law.

He took in the beige and dark blue interior, noting the dead quiet ruling over the lobby as the doors shut behind him. His feet carried him over to the front desk, the human shaped silhouette behind its protective glass giving him hope despite the lack of greeting upon his entry. Any hope he harbored died a horrible death the second he reached it, and an unmistakable muffled snore carried over from the officer that was reclining back in his chair. "Excuse me,", John gritted out, frowning at his name tag, "Officer Bradley.", but the curt words failed to wake the man up. "Excuse me.", he tried again, louder this time around, yet the officer was as unresponsive as his phone. Just when his hand rose, ready to bang against the glass in another attempt to grab his attention, quick footsteps sounded behind him followed by a melodic voice calling out a simple, "Hello." that made him spin around. His narrowed gaze was met by the most expresive pair of hazel eyes he had ever seen, and he blamed the exhaustion for how they almost knocked the wind out of him for second. A wave of familiarity washed over his system as he scanned the woman standing in front of him, his baby blues running over the gray streaks framing her face then down to the freckles scattered across her nose until they stopped at her lips just as they parted, "Can I-" You... Detective Donovan.

He didn't know if he wanted to laugh or curse at fate and its idea for a joke. He'd read over the information on potential witnesses for the upcoming trial for weeks, had stared at her picture enough times to memorize her features, yet the grainy image he was presented with paled in comparison to seeing her in person. He'd expected to meet the detective in court, looked forward to it, in fact, especially after everything her personnel file had revealed. He wasn't supposed to come face to face with her when he was having an unarguably awful night and on the verge of cracking. Close to grabbing one of the lovely chairs you have for visitors and throwing it at your welcome desk. Because I'm not feeling very welcomed, currently. "Your colleague is sleeping on the job.", John interrupted whatever she was about to ask him, but her smile didn't waiver at his sharp tone and the demeaning way he had used the word "colleague". Like Bradley was beneath him. And she was too, just by assosiation. If it wasn't for the spark of defiance in her eyes, he would have guessed she was completely unbothered. "It's the first quiet night we've had in a long while, Mr-" "Duncan." Anticipation coursed through his system as he waited for her to say his name back, and he refused to think too much about what her presence alone was doing to him. How it was threatening to unravel his already fragile composure. And how much he wanted to hear his name again the second she uttered it out. "Mr. Duncan, what can I help you with?", she continued smoothly, biting down on her lip as she regained him. John crossed his arms, nodding to the messenger bag she had hanging over her shoulder, her attire hinting at the fact she was headed out, "Shouldn't that be Officer Bradley's job? Are you even on the clock?" "He'd point you to a division, just as I would."

His lips quirked up at her blunt reply, "I've come to report a crime." All he got this time around was a nod. She was expecting him to continue, to give her more than stating the obvious. "I landed at PDX and,", he paused, hating the idea he had to admit he had fallen victim to such ridiculous con, "a man blindsided me by pretending to be my driver and stole my luggage." "That's-" "Awful?" He was too keen on how he was drinking in every little mannerism she displayed, like how she pursed her lips in displeasure at the news, before saying, "Follow me." "And what about your colleague?", he remarked as he fell into step behind her. His gaze was drawn in by the belt of her black oversized coat tied in a loose bow swaying with every movement she made, and he couldn't help but scowl at how her body was almost completely covered by the garment and then at himself for even entertaining the thought, when he had more important matters to deal with. "Lenny's wife just gave birth recently.", she explained quietly, "Letting him catch some rest is the least I can do." A bleeding heart. It's what you have, Detective. On paper and in person.

Detective Donovan led him down a long hallway, moving past multiple doors that seemed to open up to offices for different divisions until she came to a halt and knocked on a door marked with "Robbery". Seconds passed without a reply from the other side, instead of rapping again, she grabbed the door handle and pushed it open, revealing a series of empty desks. Of course. She turned around with an apologetic look, "I think they're out on a case." John raised an eyebrow, "All of them?" "Understaffed. It's what happens when you get people retiring and on sick leave all at once." He exhaled in frustration, but aside from that kept his silence. "I can check who is on duty and call them…" "And you?", he ignored her suggestion, suspecting he wouldn't get anywhere at that late hour, especially with an offence that would be considered "low priority" in comparison to other cases. "Me?" "You didn't tell me your name or division." Another smile. He was becoming addicted to those. Why didn't you smile in your photo, Detective? That right there, is a robbery on its own. Then, a hand was offered to him, and he wasted no time, enveloping it in his. "Sabrina Donovan. I'm a Detective at Missing Persons. So I fear I won't be of much help with your case, Mr. Duncan." The handshake was getting past the line of socially acceptable, but he couldn't bring himself to let go, "I see, tracking down missing belongings isn't really among your duties."

Sabrina pulled her hand out of his grasp, walking into the office ahead of them and aiming for a large bulletin board at the far end. Her index finger traced over a sheet of paper pinned there before she was on the move again. "Give me a second.", she said as she stopped at the desks, picking up the phone receiver and dialing whoever was supposed to be reachable from the team. "Stockton. You or any of the others planning on heading back soon?", she was back to chewing on her lip while she listened to the man on the other end of the line, "And some kind of ETA for me?", there was a pause, "At PDX. A suitcase. No, and no as far as I'm aware. Vic came straight to the precinct." After what felt like forever where she listened intently about his potential options, she wrapped up the phone call with a quick thank you and walked back to where John was leaning against the door. Her face told it all - she wasn't bearing exceptionally good news. "They're unsure when they would be back, but a couple of hours at the very least." His eyes darted to his watch, "It's almost midnight." Sabrina winced, "I know. The suggestion was you either wait up for them here, return in the morning or-" "Or what, Detective?" "I can jot down notes for them, anything you can provide right now, take down the report and pass it along, to get your case moving as soon as possible…" He frowned, "Basically, do their job for them and deal with something below your paygrade? Weren't you headed home?" He hadn't missed the way she had avoided his question prior, how she had stayed behind when she appeared to be leaving in the first place.

"Won't be my first time of working overtime or helping a fellow detective. The sooner we have an official case started, the quicker they can locate the guy. I'm sure after flying, the last thing on your mind would be to sit around at a police station for hours, when you could be getting some rest." It was obvious she was prioritizing his wellbeing and that of the front desk officer before her own, and knowing her records by heart at that point, he suspected she wouldn't give up on the idea easily, so all he could do was agree, "Okay." She pushed past him at that, her scent teasing him at the closeness in the doorway and haunting his senses as he followed her further into the building and towards an elevator. "We're on the second floor.", Sabrina stated and pressed the call button, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. The doors opened promptly with a ding, and they both stepped on, the ride feeling disappointingly short for his liking. "I suspect my stolen suitcase wouldn't be much of a priority?", John guessed as she followed a similar path to the one on the first floor. "I didn't say that." "But simple larceny wouldn't be as serious as whatever case the on duty officers are following at that time of the day." "Ah, I'm not really at liberty to discuss that." "Naturally."

"And you, Mr. Duncan?" "Me?", he mimicked her earlier question. "What do you do for a living?" He could sense even the smallest amount of curiosity in her words, making him smirk, "I'm a defense attorney." She laughed, and he couldn't decide which was better - her smiles or her laughter, "That explains it. And judging by your attire, well, would have been my first guess." "Oh? Should I feel offended?" He was flirting. With, no doubt, a future witness. Clive would ask what had taken over him and why he'd even entertain things further. Good thing he's not here. And I'm not really someone to do things by the book. "No.", she shrugged as she stopped in front of her own division's sector, "You certainly have that aura about you." With that, she pushed the door, open, drawing the attention of a fellow detective inside. "Rina,", the man called out, "Didn't you go home already? Should I push you out the door?" "Ollie. Behave." The man's eyes stopped on John finally, noticing his appearance for the first time as he moved his feet off his desk, "Do we have a case?" "No, no, I'm doing Stockton a tiny favor." "Again?" The word piqued his interest, same for the strange looks "Ollie" kept sending his way. "Don't start, Oliver."

John paid the man no mind and took a seat in one of the chairs across Sabrina's desk as she removed her coat until she was down to a simple gray shirt that was unbuttoned halfway to reveal a dark turtleneck underneat it. His eyes shifted from her to her work space, noting how tidy it was, especially compared to her colleague's, and had a couple of framed pictures he wished he could see. "Fine. But you know, Leslie wouldn't be that easy to silence in voicing his concerns." She ignored the warning, gaze moving back to John's, "Name." "John Duncan." He noticed how she silently mouthed his name as she typed it, and doubted it was a habit she was aware of. The next minutes consisted of marking down his basic information, and he loathed having to recall the slip up, how he had fallen for such a silly trap, especially when he was anything but incompetent. "It's good you remember a partial plate. That, paired with the car's description, and, the fact, PDX would no doubt have footage of the incident…" "You're confident they'd find my belongings." "The perp, most likely. Belongings, I can't say. At least, the things of most value." Oliver walked over, placing a cup in front of Sabrina before leaning in closer to whisper something that caused her to giggle and mutter a quiet, "Stop it, Ollie. Absolutely not." She cleared her throat as she tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and took a sip of coffee when the man wandered back to his own desk, "Would you like a coffee, Mr. Duncan?" She was yet to say his first name, and he wondered how it would sound coming from her, if she would utter it out as playfully as she did Oliver's. Doubtful. "No, thank you." "Well, I think I have everything noted down. If you don't have any further questions for me…"

She was wrapping things up, sending him on his way, putting an end to whatever time he had in her presence. Then it hit him, "Can I ask to make a phone call?" "You're not under arrest, Mister.", Oliver remarked jokingly. He ignored the jab, his focus remaining completely on the woman in front of him, "My phone died, and I have no idea which hotel my reservation has been made at…" "Ah, I see.", Sabrina reached for her bag, pulling out her phone and passed it over to him after she unlocked it. At the same time he produced the little folded post-it note Penny had crammed into his pocket that morning, trying his hardest to hide the ruby red lipstick stain on it out of Sabrina's view. Her homescreen wallpaper gave him a pause. It was a candid picture of a familiar looking redheaded girl, Sabrina and a man that- What in the- If I squint I can almost convince myself he looks like me, Detective. He doubted she'd appreciate the observation, yet his curiosity about the man's identity and relation to her only festered while he punched in Penny's number. Just as he was starting to wonder if she would pick up, her voice came through, and he rushed to quickly get the needed information, trying to keep the interraction as short as possible. Sabrina pushed a notepad towards him, together with a pen to note down the address, Penny was relying in an overly excited manner despite the fact he had called her for assistance at almost 3 am. "Thank you, Penny. Have a good night.", he muttered flatly and hung up, returning the phone to Sabrina. "She must be worried." Are you fishing for information? "She's not my girlfriend, just an assistant at my firm.", he blinked at the confession that he had blurted out, despising the fact Oliver was there to witness his slip-up and laugh at it. My firm? "I, um, I wasn't really-", Sabrina shook her head, deciding against whatever she was about to say, "I sent over the report to Detective Stockton, he will be in touch soon. I will note down your hotel information since you're having phone issues, so he'd be able to call there and get a hold of you through reception for the time being…" "Thank you."

She rose up, quickly gathering her things and putting her coat back on now that she had sorted out his report, "I will see you out then." John followed suit, exiting into the hallway first as she announced to Oliver, "I'm heading home for real this time, Ollie. You better not snitch to Leslie." "We shall see about that.", he hollered back, "Good night to both of you." As they made their way down to the lobby, Officer Bradley was finally awake and staring at John with a similar to Oliver's expression, "Staying late again, Rina?" Sabrina only laughed as she passed his post, "Bye, Lenny. Hope things stay quiet." She pushed open the doors before John could do it, wrapping her hands around herself as they stepped out into the chilly night. "Thank you again.", his voice was even, perfectly hiding the disappointment he felt on the inside because they were parting ways. "Of course." He expected her to leave at that, especially with the hint of awkwardness that remained in the air after he had mentioned Penny. Seconds passed by in silence where he clutched his only bag and wondered if she'd look at him the same way and be so eager to help him if she knew he was representing one of the most hated men in Oregon. Someone she herself had a run-in with. You wouldn't, would you? You'd probably curse at me. Call what happened to me premature karma.

Instead of wishing him a cheery goodbye and leaving him to his own devices to watch her disappear like the car of the man that had stolen from him, Sabrina gave him another small smile as she stuck her hands in her coat's pockets in an attempt to warm up, "If you don't mind me asking… you do have a way to get to your hotel, right?" John quirked an eyebrow, taking his time to respond and enjoying every moment of where she shifted in place as she waited for him to reassure her he would be alright. It was too bad he wasn't about to do that. Not when it meant she would feel content to head home. Not when the alternative was stealing a few more minutes with her. And he liked his second option more. Field work. You'd call it a "stakeout", wouldn't you? Getting to know my future oppponent. The promising young detective that had apprehended Mooney and was bound to make defending him a challenge. There was no doubt the jury would love her. Feed on her genuity and charm.

"I do not.", he muttered out slowly, watching her face closely, memorizing how the street light above them picked up the gray strands in her hair, "I assumed I could grab a cab, despite my lackluster luck tonight." She nodded along to the idea, but made no move to leave, "You certainly could." John could sense an in, and he took it shamelessly, a step bringing him closer to her until her sweet scent invaded him again, "Were you about to suggest something else?" Cross the line. Offer your help again. "I-", a shake of her head cut off her words as she frowned. She was putting up a wall once more, guarding her thoughts just like she had on his oversharing about Penny. "Yes?", his hand reached out to tuck a piece of her hair that the wind had picked up behind her ear, voice growing huskier when he added, "Tell me." Her breath hitched the second his fingers grazed her cheek, probably feeling the same current that passed over his skin at the contact and still clutched him even when his arm dropped by his side. Sabrina blinked away the haze they seemed to be sharing, "I was going to offer you a ride, Mr. Duncan." "John. Call me John, Sabrina." Something flashed across her face at his correction, "Hm?" "It's my name after all." It was as if all the background noise ceased to exist as he waited for her lips to form the word and he suspected even if the detective he was supposed to wait on or the criminal himself that had wronged him showed up right there and then, he wouldn't care. She was the sole holder of his attention. "I was going to offer you a ride,", she paused, "John. But I'm not-" "Yes.", the word rushed out, cutting off whatever excuse she was about to make about it being a bad idea, probably thinking of the grinning man on her homescreen. Doesn't matter who he is, Detective. I can recognize interest when I see it. And damn, if I don't want to hear you say my name again. His eagerness seemed to be obvious and… amusing to her, "You sure?" "Are you planning on driving off with my carry-on, Sabrina?" "Cross my heart. I won't.", she gestured to the street behind her, hiking her bag further up her shoulder, "I'm parked over there." A smirk appeared at the fact he was winning, "Lead the way then, before you freeze."

Tagging, @socially-awkward-skeleton @direwombat @strafethesesinners @strangefable @voidika @aceghosts @nightbloodbix @madparadoxum @jillvalentinesday @euryalex @corvosattano @poisonedtruth @purplehairsecretlair @josephslittledeputy @josephseedismyfather @g0dspeeed @trench-rot @cassietrn @chazz-anova @clicheantagonist @dumbassdep @thesingularityseries @theelderhazelnut @florbelles @simplegenius042 @shegetsburned @v0idbuggy and anyone that would like to share a little something this week

[the-lark-ascending69]

> be a robin buckley fan

> be lesbian

> project on robin

> look up "internalized homophobia robin buckley" on tumblr because it's cathartic

> 3/4 of the posts are about st3ddie or just about steve

[alexkablob]

Other favorite bits from the Dorley reread: Lorna's Paranormal Investigator Arc™

[yoihino]

Auuaghh undertale fandom video essays my beloathed. Is it really so much to ask for just one (1) of these to be made by an actual fan who was in the fandom? Like it is so clear they are talking about it from an outside perspective or that they got into it just fpr the video and uggh. Where is the love? The appreciation for the aus and their creators? For the history for the fandom? Honestly I just want like a text post of someone saying 'hey remember those times? They were wild and they may not have been perfect but we sure had a lot of fun'.

[yesokayiknow]

cannot believe that in 2007 the eighth doctor adventures writers just decided to put toxic yuri in their show. they did that for me

[cerealboxlore]

I HAVE A THOUGHT SO HEAR ME SING

SO

We all know Billy Batson' age varies from interpretation and versions of stories, right? How about a version where Billy Batson is 11 years old, been Captain Marvel since he was 8, and he's doing great. Saving lives, being a responsible and cheerful member of the Justice League, and balancing a good and safe life as a homeless street kid. He made a little lair/home in the Rock of Eternity and uses it to sleep in at night, and even invited his fellow homeless friend, Freddy, to move in with him. Best buds! But now the time came for a new threat in their lives, one that can change them forever.

Middle School.

I want to see Billy Batson experiencing a coming of age movie experience where he deals with the challenges of being a young trans boy figuring out his identity, feelings, and other personal issues that come his way during this new time in his life. Maybe a little flustered that he could be developing feeling towards his best friend (Freddy, AKA Captain Marvel Junior-he really needs to find a new name for himself) and how he wants to deal with all these new emotions that come with growing up.

Meanwhile, family issues rise up from the shadows. Not only has the presence of a mysterious cousin, Sinclair Batson, from his uncle Ebeneezer's side, popped up out of nowhere and has begun to run for mayor, apparently his mentor, Shazam, had a daughter named Blaze, who wrecked havoc in Metropolis. That was her warning apparently, and she declared war upon the new Champion of Magic for her "rightful inheritance".

New school, New friends, New foes and New challenges are what Billy Batson must face as he enters the 6th grade. Will he survive? Or will he and the Rock of Eternity crumble to the ground? Maybe Billy Batson will need more than just Freddy Freeman at his side for this adventure

Find out in!...

"Billy Batson's Middle School Survival Guide"

A fic that I will write eventually....haha