#mcd implied

[vozart]

last game

[shadow0-1]

Rest easy

[amikoroyaiart]

Just let me go or take me with you

[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!!!)

[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

[gomzdrawfr]

it's hard loving yourself

[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.”

[kurithedweeb]

I know we always talk about Garroth ending up looking exactly like his father, but what about Dante growing up to look eerily like Gene.

When he joins up with Phoenix Drop, he's still young. He's a little on the short side, still a bit too thin from life in the wild and imprisonment, and he's a little anxious and shaky around so many people after having grown unused to living in a village. The smiling faces of the citizens remind you of your old home, of clamoring crowds and standing frozen in the plaza as your brother . . .

Anyway, it's good here. It's easy to fit in. The guards joke around with you and make sure you're healthy. They don't know a thing about dual wielding, but you get plenty of sparring partners out of helping the local baker practice her magick, and you maybe make a friend too. You're not too sure how you feel about the Lord, but she's a kind soul and does her best to make sure you're comfortable here in town, and her kids are great. Babysitting the boys is easily your favorite duty. Yeah, it's good here. For the first time in a long while, you feel like you're doing good.

Then the war comes. The children and non-combatants are sent away. The jovial atmosphere of the guard tower has soured into solemn silence as you make your final preparations. In the morning, you step into the battlefield and you go to war for the first time in your life. You have a horrible feeling in your gut that it won’t be the last.

You, Sir Laurance and Sir Garroth make a good team. It makes you sick. The three of you cross the battlefield at a slow and inevitable pace, cutting down any soldier that dares stray too close, and together you cleave the enemy forces in half, scattering them. The killing comes easy to you. You had hoped that in this peaceful new village, with time, you would become unfamiliar to how easily you were once able to take a life, but right then you’re glad your body never forgot the motions of death. Glad for the blood that stains your hands—how can you be glad?

You can’t remember how long you fought for. Days, weeks? Surely not months, or so you think. Yours is a small force, and though Miss Lucinda is a good healer, she grows tired while the other army’s numbers are replenished time and again. You remember the bags under her eyes as she tipped a potion sip by sip into your mouth the time you were shot through the face.

You remember sneaking into the enemy camp in the dead of night, skirting around the edges of it to the back line where the archers rested. You quietly slit five of their throats before you were noticed, and managed to slash another across the belly before the arrow caught you in the side of the face, in one cheek and out the other. The wood of the shaft cracked when you bit down. It was everything you could do not to scream as you fled. Dale thought you were a fiend when you first stepped out of the shadows, face obscured in blood and cradling your jaw as you cupped a hand beneath your mouth in an effort to catch more blood before it left a trail. Laurance held you while Garroth split the arrowhead from the rest of it with a knife and pulled the shaft out the other side of your face, your jaw gripped tight in one hand to keep you from struggling. It took hours to pull the splinters from your cheeks and tongue before they sent you to wake the healer. The whole ordeal had been excruciating. You might have cried. You remember that a lot more clearly than most other times at war. After a while, it’s hard to tell which side spills more blood when so much is shed that red squishes out of the earth wherever you step.

Every day, you fought dawn to dusk. And then one day you won. By Nicole literally knocking some sense into her father, of all things! You find a quiet corner to throw up in and for a beautiful moment, you think life in this little town you’ve started thinking of as home will go back to being good. Until your Lord tells you to guard the village as she races past the gates, and she doesn’t come back. None who followed her do either.

For days, you stand waiting at the gates. You don’t eat, you don’t sleep. O’khasis is gone, Scaleswind has made a refuge of the plaza, and still there is no sign of your Lord or your brothers-in-arms. You won’t even leave to have your wounds seen to. Nicole has to drag a doctor to the gates to treat you, and the entire time you watch the forest hoping that any moment they will reappear. You only step away when someone brings you news that the ship that took the children away has returned. You should be the one to tell them.

Zoey knows something is wrong the moment she sees you. Levin and Malachi smile and ask where their mother is—they call you ‘uncle’ while they do. You get down on your knees before them, and you gather them close in your arms, and you cry as you tell them their mother has been missing since the day the war ended. You’re still holding them when the exhaustion catches up with you.

Zoey is with you when you wake. She tells you you’ve been out nearly two days. She fusses over you, and you know you’ve worried her because that’s what she does when she’s worried. You’re a mess anyway, so you let her fuss. You drink the broth she makes you, you change into the clothes she provides, you sit still while she cuts the unruly mats of your hair and shaves your face. You used to cut yourself shaving all the time, no one ever taught you how and you were only six or so when Gene was learning to; you don’t remember now how he showed you each step or the laugh in his voice at the face of disgust you made when you slapped a little hand into the lather on his face and left behind a tiny palmprint. Zoey doesn’t cut you once. When she’s done with you, she takes you by the arm and guides you back into civilization, where everyone who remained has decided already on search parties to go out looking for your missing friends.

You head each expedition. Dale brings himself out of retirement to watch over the town while you’re gone, and asks only that you also look for his son. Does he know you used to be a tracker, used to spend days in the woods trailing coyotes and runaways for enough coin to carry you through the cold months? You try for him, but the ground is soft still and every step anyone takes leaves a print, all overlapping and muddled. You keep an eye out as you circle the same stretches of woods for days, but you find nothing. Your group goes further and faster than any other, the first to find and dismantle bandit camps and dens of fiends, but no matter how far you go you find not a sign of anyone who has disappeared that day. It’s as though they vanished into thin air. Every time you return home, Dale looks at you with hopeful eyes, and every time you must take him aside and break his heart a little more. Eventually, he stops asking.

For a year, you search. The area has never been safer. You have never felt so alone as when people start to suggest that a funeral may be in order.

You feel like a monster for the rage in your voice when you denounce these people. You know they aren’t dead—you would have felt such a thing, you know, you would have felt pieces of yourself snapping like wire pulled too taut, you would have felt the sharp edges tangling inside you—it would have felt like it did when the brother you killed rose from the grave to slit your throat and cut your very existence from the memory of Boboros. You hear white noise rumbling in your ears when the first brave soul says Sir Dante, there’s been no sign for a year now, and your blood is boiling when you slap their comforting hand off your shoulder. You spit that you’re not giving up just because everyone else has taken no evidence of life to mean the surety of death, and with their pitying looks burning into your back to return to the woods. You scream into the trees until you can’t anymore. When it doesn’t help, you use your considerable tracking skills to hunt something, anything, until you feel human again.

You crawl back home the day before the funeral with your cape stained with blood; they held it back so you could attend. You polish your armor and swords until they shine, and the warped reflection of your own face makes you feel sick the way waging war did. You stand at attention the entire ceremony without moving a muscle. When Dale reads the names of the deceased at the end, offering their souls into the embrace of the Matron, you salute, and the clatter of your armor silences the crowd.

Everyone who fought in the war salutes with you. So do your Lord’s sons. You’re too tired to cry. You hold your salute long after everyone else has left.

The remaining forces of Scaleswind return home. One by one, family by family, the streets of your home empty. Without your Lord, without your guard, the citizens trickle out the front gates and never turn back. Some apologize to you as they say their goodbyes, and some of them you actually believe. You close the gate behind each of them until all that remains is you, Zoey, and your Lord’s sons. Then Zoey tells you she’s taking the boys to the Yggdrasil Forest. She holds you tight for too long and kisses your brow when you show them to the gate for the last time.

You can’t believe you ever thought you knew what loneliness was before this.

For five years, you are completely and utterly alone. You search and you patrol and you do your best to maintain the village. You don’t believe in Irene, but every day before dawn you stand before her statue and look down down down over the cliff’s edge and pray that this won’t be the rest of your life. That you haven’t deluded yourself into believing a fantasy, that you haven’t made such an incredible fool of yourself that people can’t bear to be around you, that you haven’t been forgotten. For five years, you pray that someone, somewhere, remembers that you exist. You look down down down over the cliff’s edge and have the terrible thought that you don’t know what you’d do if you were forgotten again.

The gate is falling apart. You don’t know how to repair the damage the weather’s done to it, you tried to patch the cracks but it never holds. With each year, you’ve been pushed further and further outtowards the coast. The only places you have the energy to maintain anymore are the guard tower and your Lord’s home. You blockaded the gates when the mechanism broke, you check it on occasion to be sure no bandits get in, and one day you hear voices from the other side. Familiar voices. You scramble up the wall and look over the other side at a boy you don’t recognize looking back up at you. He says, Is that Uncle Dante? and you climb down as fast as you can to embrace Malachi.

He’s nearly the age you were when you first met his mother. He’s grown tall, and strong enough to carry his brother on his back. Levin is fevered when you first see him, flush and hurting even as he dozes, and Malachi tells you he can’t walk from how bad he hurts. You remember how Zoey fretted over him when he was young, how sometimes he’d scream for seemingly no reason, and once you show them to their mother’s home Malachi refuses to leave his bedside.

You sit with them and ask where Zoey is. Malachi tells you of her obsession, and the relief that you are not alone in the belief that those who disappeared are alive feels like a hint of betrayal. You’re relieved that she’s driving herself into a downward spiral because of what? Because it makes you feel like you were reasonable to fight not to let their souls be put to rest?

You wait for her at the gates deep into the night and take her to her boys when she bursts from the woods, frantic that she’d lost them, and safe if your Lord’s home she holds you so tight your ribs hurt from the force of her grip. After so long, you’re not alone anymore.

You wake before dawn and strap your swords to your back. For the first time in a long time, you feel safe enough to go without your armor. You hike up the steep cliff to the Irene statue. You kneel before her to offer your thanks. You look into the pool at her feet and fear grips you by the throat.

Your brother’s face looks back at you.

You wear your swords the way he did. Your hair falls like his, dark in the shadow of Irene. Your face is gaunt and pale from old habits, eating only enough to sustain yourself so rations will stretch long enough for you to find more—do you remember how they starved Gene before they killed him? How they weakened him so he wouldn’t have the energy to fight? How pale and gaunt he was, dirt streaking over the side of his face, blood and grime drying in his hair, shaking and sweaty with how hard he fought back? Do you remember the scar that twisted around his throat when he returned from the dead to get his vengeance? Your collar is open over the scar he left twisting across your own, and it matches his own so very well. In the shadows of your eyes, you see his own staring back.

You think of the war. You think of how easy the killing was. You think of how easily Gene cut through the guards, the Lord, the memories of Boboros. The rage in his voice when he denounced you as his brother, the twist of his smile when he told you he would leave you to rot, Dante. No one will ever remember you. You can see that twist in the corners of your own smile, pushed into shape by the deep scars on your cheeks. You and your brother are the same.

You’re shaking too much to stand. You never go without your armor again.

[pollyna]

Hangster prompt that could go two ways when Jake, exasperated, tired, a little drunk and a little heartbroken, asks Bradley - in front of everyone and Penny, during one of their nights out at the Hard Deck - what he knows about:

Prompt A: unrequited love and Bradley answers with the description of two men looking at each other from the opposite side of a piano, while a kid tries to learn a new melody, telling each other they are in love for then never talking about it again just for the love to find space in every aspect of their life but never ever in the way it was supposed to.

Prompt B: love. What the hell does it know about love. Just for Bradley to stop in the middle of a sentence to look up at Jake, smiling softly and asking him if he's really ready to hear all that Bradley does know about love, and if he has a little more time to spear, he could tell Jake what he doesn't know about it.

[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.

[shadow0-1]

Stars

[bigheartyradish]

psst, hey...yall wanna read some vampire stuff? (reaches into the depths of my trench coat)

[mcdfanaticx3]

Okay, MCD Zane has a lot wrong with him (seriously need to study him but theres a lot going on) but why did Zianna believe he was always evil even as a child? I’m confused since its implied he was groomed by his father? Did aphmau retcon 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. "

[siriaera]

There has been something I've been pretty curious about for a while, in all of your rewrites are any of you giving Aphmau a new last name or never mentioning her having a surname at all? OR are you using the Shalashaska surname?? I am considering coming up with a surname for her but I'm not sure if it will make it into the final drafts but I know many people on here have gone as far as to change her first name which is always fun to see the idea behind the new names but I wanted to get an idea on where most people stand on her surname?

ooohh also, what about the characters whose surnames have never been mentioned?