#implied mcd

[ittybxttykxttytxtty]

.....your art cost me my sanity.

Rest easy

[gomzdrawfr]

it's hard loving yourself

[8-rae-rae-8]

My V would let himself slowly die just so Johnny could live, no corporations involved. Just him fading out slowly in his bed, with Johnny trying to change his mind, saying over and over that he can't watch V do this because V is supposed to fight but he's not fighting. But V just looks at him and hums - this is on his own terms, surely Johnny can understand that.

[marginofthought]

Season 4 Sam giving birth in the panic room👀👀👀

I don't know what happened here:

" The survival rate of a baby born at 32 weeks was 95%. 

Sam knew this. 

Still he hadn’t actually expected to birth a living, squirming baby. 

Sam’s throat had already been screamed raw from the detox but when the withdrawal had induced his labor he found out he could scream some more. 

His body tried to adjust rapidly but it was no match to the way the fetus wanted to leave him just as the last of the demon blood dissipated from his veins, making him even weaker.

Sam was pretty sure he was stone cold sober by the time his own screams were replaced by wailing. 

He stared dumbstruck for a few long moments, looking down at the naked, squishy and screaming thing that was laying on the cot between his legs. 

It stared up at Sam and he flinched back instinctively, expecting black or even worse, yellow eyes looking up at him. 

He couldn’t comprehend that they weren’t. 

To be honest, he couldn’t understand anything that was going on right now. 

This hadn’t actually happened, it couldn’t have. He hadn’t ever really acknowledged that he was pregnant, much less told Dean about it, no way his brother would have believed it had been his baby.

The green eyes staring up at him, twisted up in an unhappy expression, were proof enough though.

Dumbly the only thought currently in Sam’s brain was that he was glad that he had been uncuffed, he was sure he couldn’t have gotten his pants off otherwise. 

The baby was wrinkly and covered with blood and gunk, blood was soaking the cot under Sam and he was pretty sure he was bleeding rather heavily from places he didn’t like thinking about. 

Another loud wail finally broke through and Sam scooped the baby up, the umbilical cord dragging through the blood and mucus. 

He looked at it for a moment before he pressed the baby to his chest, covering it’s back with a huge hand. It was small. Too small in Sam’s uneducated opinion. But eight weeks too few and demon blood as the main nutrition probably didn’t make for big babies. At 32 weeks the baby should be able to make it but it would need medical attention soon, milk and oxygen and other things Sam didn’t know.

The wailing got quieter and Sam all of a sudden felt like he was back in his body. He was shaking all over, so hard he was rattling the cot. Sam’s whole body hurt and he didn’t know whether it was from the detox or giving birth or maybe both. He was covered in blood and vomit and gunk. 

He didn’t know how long he had been down in the panic room, couldn’t tell you the time or date. His throat was burning and his mouth was dry but then again he didn’t know when he had drank anything last. 

Just as Sam thought he had gotten himself under control, he felt the urge to push again and his jaw opened in another scream as the placenta slid out of him. He was panting heavily and shaking worse by the time it was done, though there was nothing in the panic room to cut the umbilical cord with and he had no other choice but to leave it attached to the once again crying baby. 

He was pretty sure he was about to pass out but call it motherly instinct or something, he knew that if he did right now, the baby wouldn’t survive. If it didn’t get medical attention soon, it wouldn’t make it, no matter how much Sam wanted that all of a sudden.  

Sam forced his eyes back on the crying thing, the eyes screwed up as it cried into Sam’s t-shirt. Sam only saw a little bit of green when it relaxed for a millisecond just to get enough air to start screaming louder instead. 

His head was about to explode from the noise but he couldn’t stop his eyes from sliding shut. Sam wanted to cry too, share in the misery but there were no tears left for him to cry. He dumbly thought about calling out for Dean again but knew his brother would not come, hadn’t come any of the times he had begged for him in the past days and this wouldn’t be any different. 

“Shhh, shhh.” Sam mumbled against the wet hair on the thing’s head. His words were slurred but he doubted the baby cared. 

Sam felt his eyes close involuntarily and no matter how much he tried to, he couldn’t muster up the energy to open them agaín. 

“I’m sorry.” Sam cried. “I’m so sorry.” His head dipped down further, his lips brushing unintentionally against the baby in the mockery of a kiss. “You don’t deserve this.”

Sam could feel himself slipping away, a tear finally making its way down his cheek as he knew that no one would come for him or the baby and they wouldn't make it out of the panic room. "

[yes-my-paladin]

hi griffguts nation I'm back with a wip. drawing this time...(based on this painting of Anne Boleyn and Elizabeth I)

found out one of the last things Anne Boleyn did before she died was order more clothes for little Elizabeth I and I got saaaaaaddddd omgg. It gave me an idea for an AU where Griffith undergoes a similar false imprisonment, and begs asks the King to show mercy upon his daughter, and not leave her destitute as he was in his youth. He leaves every cent he can to Guts, who is his baby daddy daughter's godfather, and tries to leave them as well off as he can before his execution.

One of the few mercies they grant him is regular visits with his daughter, who is accompanied by Guts every time she visits. She asks when he's coming back, when they can all play again together, and it takes all the strength he can muster not to break down. He finds a way to make her forget her question, and once she is tired out and snuggled in his arms fast asleep, he feels a few tears fall onto her silver hair. Guts gathers them up in his arms and holds them silently until it's time to leave again, for good this time. The heavy lock of the prison door marks the last day as a family, and the White Hawk's last full day in this mortal realm...

[molassified-minipak]

There’s a chapel in the Temple of Time.

A close space, gated, with a window to the west. The stained glass does not fill its frame as the Temple’s other windows. The bottom third remains clear, low enough for children to peek through and view the Lost Woods through the roofs and spires of Castle Town. Adults must stoop.

Vines twist around the ever-open gates. Golden and green, with bejewelled fairies wrought into the bars. A sapphire body’s wings are rubbed dark and tarnished - for luck, the townsfolk say.

There’s a shrine in the chapel in the Temple of Time.

Fairies, real ones, gather there. The seven symbols of the seven Sages encircle it in a halo of blessing. The plaque is wood, not metal or stone. Ancient red paint flakes in a spiral. There are no other marks.

The chapel is haunted, the townsfolk say. Only the pure of heart may enter. The gates warp in a way that anyone with ill intent finds themself back outside. Discordant flutes follow them. Laughter brands them unworthy.

The children of the town know better. They play safely and warmly in the light of the setting sun. They leave flowers and sweets and interesting bugs at the base of the plaque. This chapel, this shrine, is to their hero. They will all return home without care - as their hero never did.

[echoingalaxies]

A question regarding this post...

[otomine]

Chapters: 5/15 Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Relationships: John "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley Characters: Simon "Ghost" Riley, John "Soap" MacTavish, John Price (Call of Duty), Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Alejandro Vargas, Rodolfo Parra Additional Tags: Implied/Referenced Character Death, Past Character Death, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Character Death In Dream, Pining Simon "Ghost" Riley, Pining John "Soap" MacTavish, Mutual Pining, Angst with a Happy Ending, hurt/ comfort, lots of other military battles, seriously there will be lots of military battles that all end poorly, War violence, Protective Simon "Ghost" Riley, Feral Simon "Ghost" Riley, Simon "Ghost" Riley Loves John "Soap" MacTavish, POV Simon "Ghost" Riley, They are switches because I said so, military banter, Eventual Smut, Wanted to write a PWP but ended up creating a slow burn, will add more tags as the story progresses, Gruesome deaths, detailed war violence, Asphyxiation, gun shot wounds, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, No Beta, We die like 09 Ghost, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Suicide, Referenced Abduction, Implied/Referenced Torture, eating rats, Assisted Suicide, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Toxic Gas, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, brief emotional cheating, Dry Humping, Smut, Frottage Summary:

Ever since the mission in Las Almas, Ghost has developed an alarming attachment to his sergeant, Soap. Even though it causes him to be in a state of existential dread, he still finds the familiarity enjoyable. That is, until his nightmares start to change from a past he recognizes to a past that is not even his. At least, he thinks it isn't. But no matter the doubt, he always recognizes his partner. Johnny.

With the nightmares haunting his evenings and the constant state of impending dread following him during the day, will Ghost be able to save not only Johnny, but himself as well?

[vozart]

last game

[amikoroyaiart]

Just let me go or take me with you

[kakairu-rocks]

Oh my goodness! Poor Kakashi, and Iruka! 😭 Kakashi looks absolutely horrified and in total disbelief that the only thing there is Iruka's halo; and he has the expression of a man who has cracked, and is about to go on a mindless rampage. And being a demon, I'm sure it won't be pretty!

I'm going to pretend that I didn't read what you intended it to be, and that everything will work out in the end XD

Thank you so much for sharing such an amazing piece with us! ❤️💕

(CW: Implied MCD)

I couldn't decide which one I liked best, so have both!

Here is my submission for the KakaIru Maze Challenge 2024, prompt being "Angels and Demons". Here is Kakashi as a fallen demon, looking down in shock at a lone halo, beloning to Iruka... I had in mind that Iruka died and what's left is his halo, but what happened is 100% up to interpretation.

Close-up:

Style-wise, I'm not so happy with the colouring but the composition and feelings mostly came as I wanted, so I quite like this piece even if it doesn't showcases my best

[mcdfanaticx3]

Textpost, MCD Edition (2)

Some Silly Ones First

Now for the sad ones (it’s Dante Angst…)

Dante enjoyers how we feeling?

(Btw tell me your favourite textpost!!!)

[shadow0-1]

Stars

[awbublie]

chat i saw a laurance edit on tt and cried so i drew it

said edit VVVVVVVV

also cadenza IS SO RIGHT to feel this way

like if i saw my brother in a mad situationship like this i'd BE WORRIED SICK!!! like that my brother!!! i want him to be happy!!!

later she does get out of line for getting mad at aph, but like I GET ITTTT TOT

[queermentaldisaster]

Damian and Jon being thick as thieves.

It's almost impossible to see them apart, especially when on patrol or out in uniform, hell, even in civilian wear, they're side by side.

There's a fight.

Usually they can pull through. But they know one of them isn't making it through this.

But they'll be damned if they're letting the other go.

So, side by side. As it's always been.

Jon, already weak from Kryptonite and his wounds, takes Damian's hand.

Damian, bleeding out from a gash in his side, takes Jon's hand.

They charge back into the fray, determined to finish this...together.

Their stories will end at the same time, whether fate wills it or not.

[goodlucktai]

16 for the dialogue prompts?

dialogue prompts

16. “God, I’m so sorry, it’ll be over soon, I promise.”

@dandywonderous im so sorry about this in advance 🥹

x

When they were little, and they started wearing masks because Mikey wanted to be like the heroes he watched in Saturday morning cartoons, Donnie asked Splinter to cut the tails of his short so they wouldn’t get in his way.

Leo thought that was a crazy decision, because if the tails were short they wouldn’t match Raph’s. 

“So?” Donnie said, unscrewing the bottom panel of the oscillating fan he stole from Splinter’s room. 

“So what?” Leo said. 

“So what if I don’t match Raph? I don’t have to,” Donnie pointed out, a seven year old at his most reasonable.

His twin blinked, then his striped cheeks puffed out, brow furrowing, fully not understanding the question. He wanted to do everything Raphie did, but denied it when anyone told him so. 

This certain proof of that behavior made Donnie smile, quiet and indulgent the way he only ever was for his other half, but only when it was just the two of them. 

Leo whined and kicked his feet but Donnie wouldn’t tell him what was funny. 

Those long blue mask tails are sodden and heavy as Donnie shifts them out of the way, leaving a sickening trail of red where they drag against Leo’s neck and shoulder. 

They’re pinned down, what’s left of the tunnel groaning and shifting around them, at least three Technodromes filling the sky outside. Donnie can feel the hum of impending doom in his teeth. 

“Hush, Nardo,” Donnie whispers, hand clamped over Leo’s mouth hard, even though it cuts him to have to do this. “You can’t scream, mellizo. Hush.”

His twin writhes, digging at Donnie’s grip with desperate fingers. His chest is heaving, eyes wild with pain. The rosy glow of Raph’s ninpo is all they have to see by as the projection hovers above them in case of another collapse. In the dim light, Donnie can almost pretend it’s mud he’s kneeling in, warm and slick and pooling at an alarming rate from the slab of concrete that Leo’s right arm has been crushed under.  

The safe zone has been compromised. It’s devastating, but not at all surprising. Two of their scouts didn’t report in when they should have, baseline humans who didn’t have a hope of resisting the Krang’s method of interrogation, so it was only a matter of time before the enemy came knocking. 

April, Mikey and Cass have been evacuating their people and transporting supplies in and out of sunny orange portals all morning while Draxum, Hob and Usagi guarded their every move with eagle-eyed vigilance. 

Donnie, Raph and Leo were holding the Krang at bay for every extra second that they could, but they stayed out there a second too long. 

Now Leo is bleeding and the Krang hounds are prowling, their horrible faces scraping the ground as they sniff out that rich source of life, and Donnie’s mind is blank with panic. They’re trapped, and if he lets go then Leo will scream and bring death down on them, and if he doesn’t then death will come anyway, with teeth and venom.

“Shhh, Lilo,” Donnie tries to soothe, imagining Leo’s sweet, bright ‘shhh yourself, Dodo!’ in place of the uncomprehending whine he gets in response. “God, I’m so sorry. It’ll be over soon, I promise.”

Maybe we should pray, he thinks wildly. Not to god, because that would be a spectacular waste of breath, but to one of the people who left the party early and might be willing to toss a miracle or two in their direction. Papa, or Gram-gram, or April’s mom. 

The red projection surrounding them begins to shrink. Slowly, making sure the rocks above and around them won’t shift, until the ninpo is just a warm glow beneath Raph’s skin. Donnie feels a rush of relief and anticipation—Raph has a plan, Raph will tell him what to do. 

Raph puts one arm around Donnie’s shoulders and cups Leo’s face with his other hand, stroking his cheek with the pad of his thumb. Blood smears beneath his fingers. His expression is hard to read in the dark underground. 

“You’ll be alright, big man,” Raph murmurs, all conviction, as if he can make it true out of sheer love. If anyone could, it would be him. Then he says, “Donnie, can you cut him out?”

The question makes his stomach lurch with nausea, bitter and acidic, but it’s a question that he can answer. After fighting in a three-turtle team for the better part of two hours, Donnie’s ninpo feels like coffee dregs left in the bottom of an empty pot. He has enough strength left that he could summon a tool for an emergency amputation, but only that. 

“Not quickly,” he says pointedly, “or quietly.”

Raph nods. He just sits there for a minute, holding them. They don’t have a minute and Raphie knows that but he’s just holding them. Donnie’s heart begins to race in a brand-new direction, some frightened thing in his very center sitting up and taking notice. 

Donatello has always been an incredible number of things, not all of them good or noble or worth bragging about, but above all else, at the end of each and every day, he was Raphael’s little brother. 

Donnie didn’t imitate him when they were kids—didn’t wear his mask tails long or find reasons to follow him around—but he was every firm hug Donnie needed to keep his skin from itching when life got too loud. He was an attentive, listening audience when Donnie had to talk about the things pingponging around in his mind without being interrupted or he’d scream. He was the large hands that held Donnie’s, the snaggle-toothed face that smiled in encouragement, when Donnie learned to walk. 

Donnie knew him fundamentally. Intrinsically. A textbook he never had to study, knowledge that grew up with him from the first moment he opened his eyes to the big, bright world. That’s how he knew what was about to happen the second before it did. 

“No,” Donnie says hoarsely. “Please don’t.” 

“Raphie’s gotcha,” Raph says warmly, the last steadfast and solid and remarkably kind thing left in the apocalypse.

He reaches down and presses the panic button on Donnie’s gauntlet. The alert activates with a bright pinging sound effect, echoing twice in their little disaster-made cavern as it’s received by Leo and Raph’s comms, and the Krang hounds nearby whine and bark in excitement. Their claws churn up earth and rock as they start to run.

Raph spares a second to press a kiss against Donnie’s temple, and another to Leo’s forehead, and then he’s gone. The light goes with him. Donnie shakes like a leaf, unreasonably cold, unable to think. 

Leo is half out of his mind by now, sobbing and jerking at his trapped limb, but all his agony is soundly drowned out by the brutal battle Raphael is leading far away from them. 

“Hush,” Donnie whispers, eyes stinging so badly he can hardly keep them open, tears dripping endlessly down his face. “It’ll be over soon.”