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braimin · 5 days

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I just realized that Sanji accidentally got the whole crew addicted to nicotine through second hand smoking. Like, during WCI everyone was So Anxious, obviously because Sanji was gone, but also because the are literally addicted to Sanji's presence (the nicotine, the smell of food, his cologne, everything about him)

Them accidentally getting a nicotine addiction is actually so funny✨

I bet when Chopper heard everyone's complaints about how they felt after Sanji left he was like 'uh oh'. Usopp complains about how he's so anxious he's stress eating and Zoro is suddenly soo aggressive with everyone and can't fall asleep, the whole crew feels like they're going to starve to death without him, their nerves are all completely fried and after a bit Chopper puts the pieces together and is like 'Damn, that bitch gave us all an addiction.'

It also got me thinking about poor Zoro.. You know those girls that joke about putting nicotine patches on their partners after sex ? That's what Sanji has basically done to him. Because after every encounter they have Sanji lights a cigarette and blows the first hit in his face to be a dick. Neither of them ever thought about the long term consequences, Zoro just thinks it's hot and Sanji thinks it's funny.

One of the main reasons Zoro didn't go to WCI with Luffy is because he was the one with the worst withdraw symptoms. Like the trip to Zou from Dressrosa was already really shitty because he was having trouble. But then they find out Sanji's gone and everything and Zoro is like 'Yeah, I'm gonna have to sit this one out.' Because they were already pushing it letting Luffy go on what is supposed to be a stealth mission, bringing Zoro when he's like a second away from going apeshit over Sanji withdraws would be a terrible idea.

#one piece #sanji #zosan #when they get Sanji back the crew has to sit in the galley all day for a few days #because they all missed the cigarette smell #they make him chain smoke so they can get their fix lol #not that he minds #he also thinks it's funny as shit that Zoro has the worst addiction out of all of them #he's like 'aww the poor marimo can't live without me'#and Zoro is so mad he's screamin at him like 'you! you did this to me!'

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thepeacefulgarden · 5 months

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#relationships #you can't change them #you can't fix them #acceptance #detachment #detaching with love #self care #breakup #divorce

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mariamthe1st · 1 year

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"You tried to change, didn't you? Closed your mouth more, tried to be softer, prettier, less volatile, less awake... You can't make homes out of human beings. Someone should have already told you that."

–Warsan Shire

#Dark #Truth #You can't fix them #aesthetic #dark academia #quotes #healing #Home #Love #Change

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desceros · 21 days

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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.

#me slurring with a voice thick with sleep: two best friends that are in love but too close to tell and so they dance like leaves in the wind #forever brushing close. darting about like little butterflies. gossamer wings catching the light and enchanting one another w each breath #but too close. too close. you can't see the scope of a painting when it's the single strokes that catch your eye.#.....................it's almost four in the morning. im sure there are errors but i shan't be fixing them now. have it as it comes #tmnt #rise #donatello/reader #my fic #rating: t

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kays-artstuff · 2 months

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My take on a revived clover AU

I like to think that monsters preserved the human children as a sort of remembrance using similar magic to their food since it doesn’t expire, but since humans have more physical matter it only delays rotting rather than completely stopping it, and since clover had died being much less harmed because they gave up their soul rather than getting murdered they get to be the first to come back with minor changes since they didn’t rot that much and their internal organs stayed in tact.

Also in this au flowey kinda goes MIA on frisk and doesn’t wanna be friends/isn't ready to talk to them juuuuust yet, clover’s kind of an exception though :D which also means frisk doesn't reaaallly know about clover til weeks later cause clover isn't ready to face martlet starlo or anyone else until they feel ready, dying and choosing to be alone as a 12 year old can be not great for the brain

Flowey is technically clovers guide through the underground but is still trying to get the other humans to wake up so he’s kinda busy but will know if clover is near a save like in game.

I might give this clover figerless gloves to hide the more human-lookin' skin

Clover is actually essentially sneaking around places like waterfall and snowdin town, staying places that have small shops and less people that would be able to recognize them

The tumblr user howlonomy gave me so much brainrot in their au so look at it!!! Their clover is such a creaturr!!!! /pos

#art #sorry for the tags #drawing #uty fanart #clover uty #uty clover #ut yellow #undertale yellow #undertale yellow au #I might make more stuff when my laptop is fixed #howlonomy seems very cool but also I'm not @-ing them because jesus christ social interactions are terrifying and the concept of being #percieved also scared the heck outta me #Ap bio makes me want to explain magic in a microscopic sense y'know? like explain how magic turns into chemical energy which when you eat #goes through your bloodstream or by electrical signals and makes you heal fast #also like #debating whether the stasis they were in would be either because it stopped the cells from majorly decaying and deviding or whether it #continues the cell cycle but prevents dna from being damaged in this statis preventing things like illness or cancer while in a sort of #living stasis?#I'll think abt it some more #if you can't tell I really like science and art.#“Lucky” Clover Au

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