#or at least

[turtleblogatlast]

Leo’s natural intuition and perceptiveness are so good and subtle but seen throughout the whole show many, many times. And it’s interesting to see how these natural characteristics of his give way to other traits of his as well.

Like, him loving twists and betrayals and surprises goes hand in hand with him being so naturally intuitive.

Canonically, he knows his fam so well he can predict how they’re going to react (knowing what state his fam would be in during the base Shredder fight, being able to trick everyone in Lair Games, knowing Splinter would fall asleep after milk and cake, etc etc etc etc), and he also knows how to predict and manipulate his enemies as well (the “salami paper”, everything with Big Mama, etc etc etc etc).

This intuition comes off as very natural, so it makes so much sense that anything that throws that off would be fun for him to encounter! Provided that the “surprise” isn’t, y’know, world ending.

Moreover, this intuition and perceptiveness also goes hand in hand with how he’s secretly more responsible than he lets on, having to remind his brothers to be aware of how they appear or what may be too much for them or who they may hurt if they’re not careful.

Lastly, and this one is obvious, but these traits are also what fuel Leo’s sense of strategy, which is displayed not only with his actions on the battlefield, but every conversation he has outside of it. After all, it’s a long game to play, to appear a certain way. The Face Man is just another strategy.

So yeah, he knows people. He knows people very, very well.

And he tries very hard to make sure no one knows him.

[sweeneydino]

MOOREE KRANG FEED US🤲🤲

Krell 👉👈

[nothingtoseeherebyeexx]

I need your fem remus so bad it’s not even funny like . need her to [REDACTED] my [REDACTED] with her [REDACTED] until i [REDACTED] GODDDDDDD shes such a masc daddy too like omg [REDACTED] MEEEEEEEEEEW

S: MOONY!

R: …what is it?

S: look what they’ve been writing about you!!

R, chuckling: that’s…that’s actually pretty funny, you know-

S: don’t laugh! you know i’m jealous.

R: how can i be sure *you’re* not the one who wrote that, though?

S: i wouldn’t meow!

R: …

S: what??

R: …you wouldn’t meow, but you’d call me a masc daddy?

a close up xx

[k-f-c-official]

“there are no rules for being a man! if you feel like a man you are wrong!” actually in order to be a man you must:

be swift as a coursing river

have all the force of a great typhoon

have all the strength of a raging fire

be mysterious as the dark side of the moon

[bunbotbuggiman]

shen yuan transmigrates into xiu ya

if you saw this b4 it's my other account I'm moving all my shit (one singular post: this) over dont @ me

shen yuan transmigrates into a qing jing peak disciple who gets attacked and who's spirit gets trapped in Xiu ya by a random unnamed Wan Jian Peak disciple.

in the "original story" the character of xiu ya is awoken when shen qingqiu goes up for trial, and as he cannot remember his name or anything before he wakes up, (and the peak lord from when he was a disciple has ascended already) it is framed as if shen qingqiu trapped him in there in order to make himself stronger, despite him having been there for ages before Xiu Ya was claimed.

however this time around something goes wrong and the original xiu ya spirit dies as he's being placed into the sword instead of simply being put into a slumber, and shen yuan wakes up in the sword, extremely awake, for the entire process of his body (???) being disposed off and the sword being placed into containment. he only realizes what sword he is when it is named by his captor, when the captor is registering the sword into containment.

luckily, shen yuan, once placed into containment, is able to sleep for most of his solitary imprisonment in the sword containment, so he does not have to physically (physically?????) experience decades passing.

he does wake up again when he, as the xiu ya sword, is claimed by shen jiu.

cue wacky "is my sword alive what the fuckkk" hijinks

[the-broken-pen]

“I’ve never used a gun before,” the hero swallowed, mouth dry. They had never needed to, but now—

The villain’s head lolled over to look at them. A lazy grin spread across their face.

“Don’t worry,” they held the hero’s gaze, unflinching. “I have.”

The gun went off. Across the room, one of their enemies dropped, blood splattering against the wall.

Still, the villain didn’t break eye contact, content to shoot without looking. They hit their target every time, but still—

“Can you please look where you’re pointing that thing?”

“Why,” the villain tipped their head, and that shit eating grin was back, “Am I making you nervous, hero?”

The hero grimaced as the villain sent another target sprawling onto the floor. Surely they had to run out of ammo eventually?

When the hero didn’t respond, the villain laughed.

“Oh, I am. Well, that’s adorable, frankly.”

The hero flinched at the next gunshot, and the villain nodded their head towards the hero’s gun. “If you were to—and bear with me this is a crazy idea—help me, this would be over with way faster.”

The hero looked down to their gun, shifting it side to side in their hands. It didn’t look all that hard. Point, aim, shoot. They could do that, right?

They lifted their gun, aiming at the nearest combatant—

The villain slid to a stop next to them, tsking, and their hand settled onto the hero’s gun too quickly for them to see. “Not-no not quite like that,” they hummed in the hero’s ear, and though they couldn’t see their face, the hero knew they were amused. 

The hero’s jaw clenched with irritation.

“First,” the villain murmured, far too close, “Safety needs to be off.” They clicked something on the hero’s gun, repositioning the hero’s hands as they did. “Second,” they continued, and the hero shivered. “Don’t aim at me, love. You like me too much to kill me.”

“You’re awfully sure about that.”

The villain half rested their chin on the hero’s shoulder, batting their eyes. Their free arm jerked up, firing a shot behind them at someone who had evidently gotten too close to the two of them.

“I am,” they grinned. Their hand rested over the hero’s once more. “Now, aim,” they guided the hero’s hand towards the nearest enemy. Their finger slipped over the hero’s on the trigger. “And shoot.” They pulled down on the trigger, trapping the hero’s finger underneath theirs, so when the gun fired, they fired it together. The hero winced.

It was louder than the hero had thought it would be.

Across the room, the body dropped.

“Good,” the villain praised, voice low, and something stirred in the hero’s chest. “Again, love.”

They guided the hero through the motions once more.

By the time there was no one left to fight, the villain was staring at them with a look they couldn’t decipher. It was all encompassing. Hungry. Wild.

The hero cleared their throat, and the villain smirked like they knew what the hero was doing.

They eyed the hero, still with that look on their face.

“God, you’re pretty with a gun in your hand,” the villain cursed. They stepped closer. The hero didn’t move, holding their breath as the villain wiped a splattering of blood off their face. “Pretty covered in blood, too, but that might be a bit too insane for you, hm?”

The hero’s face went hot. It wasn’t, they thought. They wanted to kiss the villain so badly they worried it might be a sickness, twisting their mind, something terminal. But still, that smile—

The villain stepped away. They scanned the hero’s blushing face, and grinned harder at whatever they saw.

Gently, they took the gun from the hero’s hands, vanishing it behind their back.

“The next time you need someone to show you how to shoot, give me a call,” they nodded towards the hero’s hands. “I wouldn’t want someone else touching my hero, now would I?”

The hero couldn’t stop the smile that spread across their face.

The villain winked, stepped back, and was gone.

My hero.

Oh, the hero was well and truly fucked.

[suchafaunystory]

a faun gets grabbed in the club, someone groping her body. someone a full head or so taller than the cute, squishy faun. she tries to resist for a moment before a pink cloud is puffed into her face, and everything changes. heat flows through her body, overwhelming her senses, and all her reservations are drowned out by a flood of desire. she sinks into the arms of the stranger, who keeps her from falling, easily supporting her weight with one arm, the other snaking down her body. squeezing her cute tits, pinching a nipple through her too-thin shirt, eliciting a little whine, rubbing her belly thinking about how big they're going to make it, how stuffed she'll be, and lower, and lower until resting between her legs, pressing on her cute, quickly hardening cock.

the faun is barely aware of anything but the feeling of the hand along her skin, the hand moving from her neck, down her front, then sliding up her shirt to play with her sensitive tits. and as she whimpers and whines, the body pressed against her back shifts, and she feels another pressure. a hard shape, pressing into her lower back. the poor doe's mind floods with images of what it could look like. big. stiff. leaking... gods she needs it.

the figure leans down, squeezing a tit in their hand, letting out a low, hungry growl into the faun's furry ear, the ear flicking, eyes widening, pupils dilating as the growl, the scent, the experience of it all activating something in her. a prey response of sorts. cornered prey.

while some react with fleeing, and other try to fight, there are some, always some, who simply

Faun

[gin-juice-tonic]

very happy to learn that it can rain inside of caves

[inkysquelched]

Been wanting to draw her for literal years, I hope I did her justice. 🥺

Meanwhile Eight:

[samdeans]

CHRIS HEMSWORTH as Thor Odinson in Thor (2011)

[loquaciousquark]

My dog is getting old. This has happened to everyone in the history of the world who has ever loved a dog.

It's my turn, horologically speaking, to watch age catch up to him. I keep trying on the grief to see how it fits. Today I'm more sanguine; today I'm remembering the good days and the good years. The lump in the throat still hurts.

It's hard for him to stand up now on the bad days. Especially in the evenings, especially when a few hours ago he'd flung himself wall to wall with joy when I got home from work; and especially first thing in the morning when he wakes stiff as a board in the hips. On the good days he can still take the four stairs up to the living room in one light-speed jump when he's on a tear, though he trusts the kitchen linoleum much less than he used to. Today's a bad day. Yesterday was worse.

There's a faint discolored patch on my quilt where he sleeps. Right side, foot. It took half a decade to show up, and every few months I give it an extra soak in a bleach-filled bathtub. It still never really goes away; besides, he puts it right back on. Not tonight, though. Tonight he sleeps in the front room, because the stairs up to me are too hard. He watched me go up tonight without him and his tail drooped so low it touched the floor. He's only been mine eight of his eleven years, but I was there when he came home the first time, when he was exactly eight weeks old. I held him up in one hand like a waiter's tray and it was easy. He's ninety pounds now and I can't help him much at all.

German Shepherds are prone to hip dysplasia. Half-breed, half-hipped, I'd hoped, but on the bad nights he struggles to get up on those back legs like he's heaving ballast off a sinking ship. The husky part of him just seems to make him shed and yell, especially when I'm late getting home. I'd hoped for a little more time from the mix, maybe. But maybe not.

He's finally gotten used to fireworks. Thunder's mostly all right now, unless it's very bad. The washing machine is a new terror; sometimes I forget until it goes into the spin cycle and he lifts my legs off the ground trying to crawl under me. He eats books when he's anxious, when I've committed the temerarious crime of coming home and leaving again in the same day. Cold Mountain is nothing more than shredded cardboard and a few strung-together chapters, a sacrificial lamb to preserve Catherine, Called Birdy and Holes. The Private Patient died years ago.

He didn't want to come indoors tonight. The dryer was going, almost as bad as the washing machine, and there were stairs between him and bed. He let me coax him in at last, because I can't lift him and can't push him, and he made it clear that when he stiff-leg trotted inside he did so because he loved me, not because he wanted to. I sat with him while he found an acceptable patch of rug in the front room; I cooed and petted him and gave him a treat he didn't earn. He still whined when I left and looked like he wanted to get up, but didn't think he could make it.

He's getting old; it's his turn. His muzzle is turning white and his eyes have gone cloudy with cataracts. 2+ nuclear sclerosis, maybe -- probably all a little blurry, that's all. No PSCs, no cortical spoking; central vision's honestly probably fine. The vet keeps saying dogs adapt well. He can certainly see the stray cat who keeps lurking on my front porch. I'd like them to be friends, but a week ago he got out and chased her off like a bullet from a gun. His hips were good that day, and adrenaline covers a multitude of sins.

I have a picture of the first time we took him to get a Christmas tree. He's sitting and looking up and his head isn't even high to my knee. I remember watching him tear around the dog park lap after lap after lap, the single mixed greyhound out of fifteen or twenty dogs the only one who could keep up with him. I have pictures of him at the end of nearly every lecture I give; lately I've been tripping over them like rocks, stony little griefs worked loose from a streambed when the water moves too fast.

I'm thirty-five years old. I keep thinking that every dog who was alive on the planet when I was born is dead. Most are long dead. My dog has meds to help, which is comforting. I have a vet who will help me put him to sleep in my home, his home, when the time comes. Two to four years, she guesses, maybe, if he doesn't get cancer. When I watch him struggle to stand up I wonder if that's not too long for kindness.

It's a very human thing to miss someone before they die. Dogs don't do that. They live in an endless now, like a kid in a yellow summer. Now, I love you. Now, it hurts -- now it stops. Now, I love you.

I want that for us for what's left, for whatever one two three four years we have. When it happens, I want him to die in no pain, looking at me holding him where all his toys are, his favorite rope, his purple pig, his leash, his tennis balls. I want him thinking nothing but Now, I'm tired; now, I'm happy.

The empty place at the foot of the bed hurts tonight. The grief stings and bites, worse because I know I'm borrowing it ahead of time, because he's asleep fifteen feet below me, warm and full, even if tonight's a bad night and the stairs are too hard. I have to sit in it, though, just for a few minutes. Try it on for size. It's his turn, I keep thinking, and mine. Everyone who has ever loved a dog has done this before me. Now, I love you. Now, I miss you. Now, it hurts.

[kjlikesfemmetops]

Got the cosplay, blocked my face out for identity protection

I know the coat is a lighter green but I think it works

Hey look a Hamilton mug

[runawaymarbles]

The thing is. The reason Ron DeSantis wouldn't win isn't because of the transphobia. Or the book bans or the racism or the voter manipulation or anything else. It's because all his opponents have to do is say THIS MAN HATES MICKEY MOUSE.

[menciemeer]

Does anyone ever think that like. One of the central ideas of Hannibal is that human beings are delicious.

Not even just in a cannibalism-taboo way, either. Literally everyone who’s gone to one of Hannibal’s dinner parties agrees: The food is good.

(There’s that confusing moment in Trou Normand where it looks like Abigail is realizing what it is she’s eating--confusing because she doesn’t Figure Hannibal Out until later. But what if she isn’t thinking, This tastes just like-- but instead I haven’t had meat this good since--)

It’s not just the taste, either. Human beings in Hannibal seem to make incomparable mushroom fertilizer and instrument strings. Bees love human bodies. And every artist in the entire goddamn world seemingly has this temptation towards human-corpse-as-artistic-medium. Garret Jacob Hobbs uses human hair as pillow stuffing. He holds his pipes together with paste made from human bones.

Also probably worth mentioning is That One Shot in Sorbet (no, That Other One Shot in Sorbet)--the one with the opera singer’s throat, followed by the lingering shot of Hannibal’s ear. It’s the meat again. Meat is singing and more meat is listening. Hannibal is moved to tears--his enjoyment even of music is physical.

It’s probably stretching a bit to try to fit Self-Actualization Via Murder into this paradigm but well. I’m going to try anyway. It’s not just the corpses but the making of corpses that holds this fantastic power in Hannibal Land. We’ve got Randall Tier and Francis Dolarhyde and Will Goddamn Graham all reaching (for) their truest selves via the doing of murder. Hannibal talks about it like this:

We both know the unreality of taking a life. Of people who die when we have no other choice. We know in those moments they are not flesh, but light, and air, and color.

There’s something magical about that. The moment when a person separates from their (useful! valuable! delicious!) body and becomes something else. The moment itself is valuable, if you are one of the Tier-Dolarhyde-Graham classification of killers in Hannibal’s universe.

I feel like I’ve seen a lot of focus on Hannibal disguising what it is he’s cooking with. How his cooking is so good despite. If this post has a thesis, I guess it is that, instead, Hannibal is a good cook because.

[cits-kirby-brainrot]

First Mission

[iamsuperwholocked]

Ianto: I feel like doing something stupid.

Jack: I’m stupid, do me.

Ianto:

Jack:

Jack: Did I just say that out loud-