#another late night fic

[fishbrain-glubglub]

The fight was going on forever, and Danny was exhausted.

Plasmius had appeared in Amity Park, flaunting some evil plan or whatever. Danny had honestly stopped paying attention after the fourth "Little Badger" and was just trying to figure out a way to escape so he could not study for his upcoming Biology exam and maybe catch more than five hours of sleep in a night.

At least the "not studying" part seemed to be going well for him.

"Honestly, Daniel, I expected more from you." The vampire-imitator blasted a pink ecto-ray at the boy, who didn't have the energy to dodge, and was sent sprawling onto the nearest rooftop, oozing ectoplasm from various cuts across his body. His healing factor was slowed due to lack of rest, and his body was utilizing more of his ecto-energy to just stay in his ghost-form, let alone try and counter-attack. If it wasn't for the fact it was a weekday, Danny would've put more effort into fighting back so he could spend the next day resting.

"Sorry to disappoint, Vlad." Danny rose slowly to his feet, hoping he wasn't shaking. "Not everyone can lounge around in an oversized mansion making thousands of dollars by just breathing."

"Oh, but you could, my boy. All you have to do is-"

"Renounce my father and become your loyal son, blah blah blah." Danny rolled his eyes and held his still bleeding side, praying to keep his ghost form long enough to escape. "You're so predictable. Is there anything you think about that isn't pining over my mom and bribing my loyalty? Get a cat or something."

Plasmius growled and sent another blast to the boy, knocking him back to the ground. Coughing up what felt like three lungs, Danny looked up at the looming fruit loop and shuttered before his ghost form finally dissipated. Ectoplasm transformed into blood and began staining his normal clothes before he was picked up by the back of his shirt. As Danny was turned to face Plasmius, he noticed the frown on the halfa's face.

"What," growled Danny, baring teeth slightly bloodied from his nose. "Was my beating not satisfying enough for you?"

Instead of replying, Vlad set Danny on his shaky feet, stabilizing the boy by holding him under his arms. Settling himself next to Danny, Vlad transformed back to his human form, the frown never leaving his face.

"Oh, now are you going to prove your superiority by beating me in human form?"

Vlad's grip tightened around Danny, digging his fingers into the boy's side, tensing the wraps around his chest Danny had forgotten about.

Oh shit.

"Care to explain, Daniel, what these are?" The man dug his fingers into the wrap again, causing Danny to wince.

"None of your business, Candy Pants." he bit out.

Vlad hummed before narrowing his eyes. "Despite what your naive young mind believes, I do care about your well being."

"You have a wonderful way of showing it."

"And because I care," Vlad continued. "I must insist that if you are to be binding, you are to do it properly and only for the maximum allotted hours for your safety."

Danny's blood ran cold as his entire body stiffened. There was no way that Vlad, after a single interaction, knew what the wraps around Danny's chest were for. "I don't know what your talking about."

"Oh please, dear boy, spare me your pathetic excuses. I know improper chest binding when I see it." Vlad had begun to guide Danny to the edge of the roof, glancing around to check for bystanders before turning the duo invisible and floating them down to the alley below before they emerged onto the sidewalk. "I might be old, but I am not oblivious."

Panic started to settle deep within Danny's core as Vlad led him down the street. The man seemed to be busy on his phone, typing away, probably doing boring rich people things Danny was too poor to care about. He didn't even think he had enough energy to phase out of Vlad's grip or even run down the street without collapsing. He could only hope that Vlad would take pity on him and leave him on a corner so he could crawl his way back home and get many three hours of sleep before starting his day over again with a new set of bruises.

To his surprise, waiting at the corner was a limo with the driver holding open the back door like in the movies. Danny glanced up at Vlad, but the man was still engrossed in his phone, barely sparing a glance at the driver as he dragged the boy into the back, signaling to the driver to start driving.

"I would say I'm surprised at the kidnapping," Danny snarked, trying not to get too comfortable in the admittedly luxurious seats while also trying to push down his rising panic. "but you've already tried to kill me on multiple occasions, so I'll just wait until we get to the torture chamber I'm sure you have hidden in your basement."

Vlad let out a sigh, still not looking away from his phone. "Relax, Daniel."

"Easy for you to say. You're not the one being kidnapped." He wrapped his arms tightly against his aching chest as Vlad sent him a short glare, flashing red eyes before returning to his phone.

Seriously, what was going on?

He must have nodded off without realizing it, because when he opened his eyes, the neon sign of Fenton Works was shining through the window. Vlad, no longer on his phone, seemed to be patiently waiting for Danny to rise from his much needed slumber.

"Take a photo, it'll last longer."

Vlad only rolled his eyes before exiting the limo. He motioned for Danny to follow, tapping his foot impatiently on the pavement.

After sliding out of the back, Vlad placed a surprisingly gentle hand on his back before guiding him up the steps to the front door.

Before he could slip inside and collapse on his bed for the foreseeable future (until his alarm went of in the morning), Vlad's hand shifted to his shoulder, squeezing for a moment before turning the boy to face him. There was a glimmer of something different in the older man's eye than Danny hadn't seen before. The only word his sleep deprived brain could conjure up was sympathetic. But that couldn't be true. This was Vlad after all.

"If there ever is a time where you need anything..." The man's eyes glanced down to the hidden bindings for a moment before looking back to Danny. "specific your parents might not be aware enough to fund, I am willing to support those endeavors."

Danny narrowed his eyes. "What game are you playing at, Plasmius?"

"No games, dear boy." Vlad patted his shoulder before withdrawing his hand completely. "As I have stated, I care for your well being. Despite our differences, we are more alike than you think. I have a certain understanding that others might be unable to comprehend."

Danny's sleepy brain tried to read between the lines, but he had clearly spent too much energy just trying to stand up straight. Vlad noticed, huffing out a laugh to himself before turning back to his limo.

"Wait!"

Vlad turned around and raised an eyebrow.

"You're not gonna..." Danny licked his lips. "You're not gonna tell anyone, are you?"

That weird glimmer returned to the fruit loop's eyes. "It's not my place, Little Badger. I'd be quite the hypocrite if I went around 'exposing' your secret."

Danny frowned. "Why?"

Vlad flashed his perfect human teeth. "You'll understand soon enough. Rest well, son" He turned back around and reentered the back of the limo, riding away from a bewildered Danny.

Shaking his head, Danny entered his home, surprised at the lack of parents hovering at the door demanding why he was past curfew. Not wanting to press his luck, he rushed upstairs to his room, shutting the door quietly and ready to sleep until he was 20.

Before he could collapse into bed, however, he noticed the decently sized package waiting for him. It was in a plain black bag, no decals, no logos, nothing. Curious, Danny looked in the bag.

He gasped.

Inside was a stack of skin-colored binders. Proper binders from those websites Danny browsed every so often, unsure on how to ask his parents to buy one. Despite the risks, he had opted to just use ace bandages knowing the abundance they had due to the injuries of ghost fighting. My chest isn't that big. He would reason with himself. I'll be fine for a few hours.

It was never just a few hours, though. As long as Danny existed outside his room or the comfort of Sam or Tucker's room, the bandages were there, squeezing his chest to create the illusion that created enough serotonin to get through the day. Sure, he bound longer than he should, but he was already dead, right? What was the harm?

There was a note at the bottom of the bag, somehow written in familiar snobby fruit-loopy handwriting.

Daniel, I pray that you only use those horrid bandages for their intended purpose from now on. This bag should contain enough garments to last you a while, though with your track record, you'll require more within the year's end. Regardless, I expect you to be safe and take care of yourself properly. I am not above overshadowing you just so you don't permanently damage your ribs by being, as you so eloquently call me, a "fruit loop." I look forward to our next exchange. Vlad Masters

Danny stared at the note, rereading it again and again just to make sure it wasn't a prank and Vlad's pet ghost vultures weren't going to pop out of the bag and capture him for Vlad's gloating Packer-filled pleasure. It seemed too good to be true.

Nothing happened though. The garment stayed where they were and Danny's ghost sense didn't alert him to another threat.

The boy smiled, surprised at the tears forming in his eyes. "Thanks Vlad."

In the morning, if anyone noticed that Danny's shirt didn't seem as rumpled at his chest or that his smile seemed brighter than usual, no one commented. They let the boy go about his day, glancing out the window seemingly staring off into space, his smile never failing for a second.

[cuubism]

Exploration

Dreamling | Explicit | 2k

--

“Are you… sure you don’t want me to touch you, too?”

Hob brushes light fingertips over the back of Dream’s hand as he says it. He is lovely, to wish to give so. And he is lovely where he lies back on top of the covers, head pillowed on one arm, hair loose across the pillow and bare chest gorgeous and tempting in the low light.

“You don’t have to,” Hob continues. “I just. I feel kind of bad.”

“I would like that,” Dream says. The phantom thought of Hob’s hands lingers over him; he can perfectly imagine how Hob would touch him, with strength and heat and surety. “But. Later. I wish to focus on… exploring you.”

He has been promised a chance to touch, to breach this wall that has not yet fallen with his curious hands. He has been wanting to, without true reason or allowance within the boundaries of friendship — and yet Hob allows him.

“Alright,” Hob says, “I’m not going to turn you down again.”

Dream settles on his knees by Hob’s hip, studying the warm tones of his skin. The bedroom lamplight is flattering on him, illuminating each curve of his body in gold. Everything is flattering on him, to Dream’s eye. Hob is the vitality of the universe condensed into a form he can touch, and it is overwhelming to hover his hands over those coals, but Dream carefully lays a hand on his chest anyway. Lets warm skin and coarse hair surprise and please him in a way little does.

He drags his thumb up over Hob’s collarbone. Hob had been confused, at first, when Dream asked simply to touch him, perhaps thinking it a precursor to more — but it is simpler than that. Dream has just been compelled by the sight of him; he watches the flex of Hob’s arms and back when he lifts crates of beer down in the inn, and the curve of his cheek when he smiles, his solid thighs, and strong brow, and the breadth of his chest under thin t-shirts. Dream does not want to delve through daydreams to understand outside perspectives on these matters — he wants to know what Hob’s body feels like himself, to be close to him for no other reason than just that.

He is not used to touching humanity so intimately, but Hob is one he would know.

Hob’s gaze is locked on him as Dream wraps a light hand around his throat, feeling the bump as he swallows, and the kick of Hob’s pulse under his thumb. He doesn’t linger or hold him there, instead touches his jaw, his cheek, leans in to study the way his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“I can’t decide if I feel like an exam, or a slice of cake,” Hob says, voice low and hushed and fond. Dream feels like a bit of a silly thing that’s being indulged, and it’s surprising not to mind.

“Neither,” he says. At least, that is not how Dream feels. Puzzled, yes, hungry, yes, but more so as though he is sitting too close to a hearth, overheating, getting smoke in his eyes, just starting to sweat under his clothes but still not moving because the fire is so gratifying after the winter’s chill.

Hob’s eyes are bright and amused and hungry, too, but he doesn’t move, lets Dream peck over him like a curious bird. His eyes are so warm and good; everything about him is warm and good. Dream touches underneath one eye, feels the fragile skin there.

“You are beautiful,” he murmurs.

“If you say so.”

Dream raises an eyebrow. “I do believe my opinion is the only one that matters at the moment.”

Hob laughs. “Alright. You’re not wrong there.”

“Do you not agree with my assessment?”

“Eh. It’s not that.” He does touch Dream then, just a light brush of the hand over Dream’s thigh. “It just has so much more gravity when you say it.”

Dream would like to… have gravity to Hob.

He returns to his studies, traveling lower, running his hands over Hob’s biceps, the bend of his elbow, the coarse hair on his forearm and his strong hand, threading their fingers together briefly before letting go. The more he touches, the more he wants to touch; he only feels hungrier, never sated, and he goes back to Hob’s chest, laying both hands on his sternum. His pectorals. Dragging a finger over one nipple, which gets him a little gasp, and a shiver that runs up Hob’s spine.

Dream likes the way Hob’s body responds. He likes how sharply he can feel Hob’s attention, every ounce of its intensity on him. He revels in the novel textures of this so human body, so different from his own even when he is playing at humanity.

“You have very tempting hands,” Hob murmurs, but still doesn’t move.

Dream doesn’t respond verbally, but he does keep touching. He drags his fingertips down the ladder of Hob’s ribcage — he can feel each rib if he presses hard enough, although much less so than on his own chest — and then to the soft belly that gives inwards under his touch, that rises and falls under his hands. Hob has a thin white scar just beside his belly button, and Dream can imagine a knife slipping in there, gutting, spilling organs. He traces his thumb along it and feels the history there.

“Permission to touch stops at the skin level,” Hob teases, as Dream lingers there.

“I was not intending to play with your innards,” Dream says.

“Well, let’s not be too hasty.”

Dream meets his eyes again, and finds a spark of unbearable playfulness there. He finds he is looking forward to returning to Hob’s offer to touch him in return. He is also wondering if he might be allowed to explore with his mouth next.

But there is much he can do with his hands.

“I have frequently been too hasty,” he admits, and lets his hands ghost lower, to Hob’s hips, and dragging through the trail of hair from his belly to the button of his jeans. He glances up to meet Hob’s gaze again, and Hob just nods, breathless.

Dream plucks open the button and zipper of Hob’s jeans, anticipation curling inside him. There is nothing new about this, but it is new with Hob. And even if it weren’t, Hob has a way of making everything Dream touches feel new.

He considers pulling Hob’s clothes off all the way, and perhaps after he will — but there is something wondrous and thrilling in sneaking his hand into Hob’s pants, pushing his underwear down just low enough to free his cock. He feels like he is, for once, allowing a momentary slowness to unveil things one at a time, instead of all at once.

He imagines that afterward Hob will insist on returning the favor, so to speak, and Dream is not inclined to decline such an offer — perhaps then he will strip them both bare and touch every inch of skin, feel the heat of Hob’s body all along his. He thinks it might ruin him for an evening, that Hob’s hands on him, around him, in him, might set him alight when he has been but ashes for a very long time. He thinks perhaps he’d like to be ruined for an evening. Or forever, though that is too much to hope for.

For now, he listens to Hob’s breath pick up and shudder in the quiet bedroom. He fixates on the weight of Hob in his hand, how he’s rapidly growing harder just from Dream’s touch, his presence. How Hob squirms under him for the first time. “Dream—”

“Hush,” Dream tells him. “Do not worry. I won’t tease you. I intend to see you come.”

“Fucking hell.”

Dream licks his palm to provide the barest amount of slip and returns to Hob’s cock. He strokes once, twice, experimenting as Hob fills out in his hand. His own arousal simmers between his legs, up his spine, but it’s background noise in comparison to his true focus. The blush rising to Hob’s cheeks. His flailing hand, reaching for Dream.

Dream takes it, but rather than entwine their fingers he pins Hob’s wrist to the bed, two fingertips pressed to his pulse. He wants to feel the thrum of Hob’s blood, and his heart tripping over itself as he comes.

Hob bites his lip on a groan, head tipped back. “Fuck you’re strong.”

“I could pin you down,” Dream says, as he twists his hand around Hob’s cock and pulls another strangled gasp from him. “Would you like that?”

“Jesus, Mary, and— and— and what? You’d take what you want from me?”

“Or fulfill all of your dreams.” Dream gives in to his own craving and kisses Hob’s pelvis, nosing at the base of his cock. Then keeps working with his hand at the base as he spreads his lips over the head, hearing Hob curse above him again.

Dream has never been good at going slow, but he is only feeling rewarded for this failure by the weight of Hob in his mouth. He is salty and musky and hot. Dream bobs his head, swirls his tongue curiously around him, and under his fingertips, Hob’s pulse trips double time.

“I thought this was exploration, not a mission to kill me.” Hob’s voice is cracked. He grasps at Dream’s hair with searching fingers, and Dream tips his head closer in acquiescence, and if he makes his hair just a bit longer to make it easier, well, no matter. Hob takes a fistful of his hair with a grip akin to what Dream is currently exerting on his arm, and Dream’s moan is pulled out of him.

Hob may not have the supernatural strength of Dream, but his grip is sure, and Dream wonders if Hob would let him flip the narrative, if Hob would not only touch and explore him but also hold him. The thought makes him shudder pleasantly.

He pulls off long enough to speak, a line of spit trailing from his lips to Hob’s cock. “I have not known exploration to kill you, Hob Gadling.”

“You might.”

“I do not desire this, though I admit it might be flattering.”

Hob laughs, a warm, rough sound. “Just the sight of you is enough to strike me where I stand. And your mouth… I better not start or I’ll come just from talking about it, and I’d rather come in your mouth, if it’s all the same to you.”

“It is not the same, it is preferable,” Dream says, and Hob’s breath hitches, and Dream takes him back in his mouth, deep enough that Hob bumps against the back of his throat. Hob curses, pulling his hair, sharp and painful, pushing him down— Dream swallows convulsively around him, Hob’s cock heavy and pleasantly bruising in his throat.

“Dream—!” It’s broken off and choked, and Hob comes down his throat. Dream pulls off and manages to swallow, though a line of Hob’s come escapes from the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t bother to wipe it away. He feels blissed out, light and sated, for all that he is still hard in his jeans.

Hob takes him by the arms and hauls him up. “Come here—” Dream crashes into his mouth before he can finish that sentence, bruising himself on Hob’s lips as Hob pulls him close. Hob’s hands go back to his hair, but gentler now, petting, running through the strands, cradling his head. Dream licks into his mouth, a rumble of happiness building in his chest. He had not intended to explore quite so far, but he doesn’t regret it.

He runs his hands over Hob’s strong shoulders. There is still so much more to touch.

“Dream,” Hob murmurs, when they pull apart, expression so soft and tender now. He runs his thumb over Dream’s lower lip, and Dream wants to open his mouth for him again, wants to open everything for him. It’s a heady feeling to want, and feel comfortable wanting.

“Does your offer of reciprocity still stand?” he asks, voice rough. He doesn’t even truly care if he comes. He just wants Hob to touch him.

“Are you kidding?” Hob says. “I think I might die if I don’t touch you.”

“I do not understand this obsession with dying because of me,” Dream says, but hums with pleasure as Hob kisses him again.

“It’s because you’re making my heart stop.”

“I felt your pulse and know this to be untrue.”

“I’d think you’d be the first to know that not everything that’s true is physical, King of Dreams,” Hob retorts, with such fondness in his voice, in his hands, in his body under Dream’s.

What he says is true, for none of Dream is truly physical, and all of him is going tachycardic over all of the points where they touch.

“I want you,” Dream says. “I want—” he takes Hob’s hand and places it on his neck, his thumb over the pulse that Dream allows just for this. It flutters in his throat, new and yearning— “you to touch me.”

Hob kisses that brand new heartbeat. “Darling, that is the easiest thing in the world for you to have.”

[sigskk]

sooo i started thinking about pacific rim again

[ID: A traditional drawing of Sigma from Bungo Stray Dogs on lined paper, wearing a drivesuit from Pacific Rim. The drivesuit resembles a mecha-style suit of armor. His full body is shown, standing and leaning more onto his right leg. His right arm is awkwardly sitting near his waist, and his left hand is brushing his bangs from his face. The plates of armor are white, whereas the suit underneath is black. He's looking off to the right with a neutral expression. End ID.]

[greenlaut]

[assassin's creed] playing ac2 and thought of transfemme ezio. ezio "my gender is whatever makes the relationship homoerotic" auditore da firenze. gnc ezio. whatever gender makes u flustered the most is his now. power move.

alternatively; accidentally nb altaïr. whats his gender? whatever gets his mission done faster. whats in his pants? knives.

[dhoranbolt]

So idk how super invested anyone was in the Sukuna/ shy reader, but I had some ideas for a part 2 if anyone liked it enough

[verymuchablog42]

would you guys believe me if i said i wrote another ronance fic?

[eshithepetty]

Concept: after the events of the manga, Mob, now seeking to accept all of himself,  becomes looser with the usage of his powers. His vast strength, once so tightly kept to himself, dense and suffocating, expands. As a result, things start happening that he doesn't exactly mean to happen. Little things, little accidents - tying his shoes without thinking, flickering the lights when he's upset, the plants around him standing taller when he's happy. And they pile up, little things becoming big things, until the whole of seasoning city is pretty much coated in his aura. A gentle presence now that it isn't so concentrated in one place.

The espers in the area can obviously feel it, but the non-espers come to notice it too in other, subtler ways - the plums beggining to bloom earlier in spring. The weather forecasts becoming more unreliable, as sunny days come when it was meant to be cloudy, or wind sometimes picks up out of nowhere, or rain arrives sooner than expected. A lot of car accidents get saved from a lethal end just from seemingly sheer luck. The creepy sounds that one and another have been haunted by dissapear suddenly. And at times, out of nowhere, more than before, people stop to think, just how lucky they are.

From this, new urban legends arise, and the common consensus that believers arrive at in the end, is that a benelovent spirit has entered town to bless it with small miracles. But at the center of it remains, in truth, an unintentional protector - just one small boy, named Kageyama Shigeo.

[silverskye13]

In which there are many masks.

[allylikethecat]

“nightmares again?”

as an unfortunate sufferer of them often, i would love to hear your thoughts on this and pretend i have someone like one of the boys to comfort me 😪

The way I was like HELL YEAH I'm chipping away at these prompts! 🎉 Then I promptly reblogged another list and got more (which I am very excited about and will also get to eventually I promise) On that note, thank you so much for sending this in! I'm not sure if this is exactly what you were looking for, but alas here it is! Thank you for your patience as I took twelve thousand years to fill this prompt, I hope you like it! (If anyone else wants to submit a prompt from the late night prompts list, it can be found HERE I make no promises on WHEN I will be fill it, just that it will be filled eventually) Thank you again for sending this my way!! I hope you had a lovely day and that you have a wonderful week!

❤️Ally

WARNINGS: Nightmares, references made to drug use/ abuse / overdose, discussions of character death even though there is NOT any character death in this fic

“nightmares again?”

Matty frowned, pushing the blankets off his chest to sit up, reaching over the bedside table and turning on his reading lamp. His frown deepened when he realized that he was alone in the king size bed, George’s side of the mattress cool to the touch. He sighed, rubbing at his eyes groggily, before groping near blindly for his glasses. He slipped them onto his nose, and swallowed a yawn. 

He shivered as his bare feet hit the cement floor, and he shuffled in the dim light until he found his slippers. He felt like the old man in a horror movie, gray hair and all, trudging through his darkened home, wrapped in the red and blue plaid flannel robe that Louis had gotten him for Christmas the year before.

“Hey,” said Matty softly, not wanting to startle George, but accidentally doing so anyway. He looked up sharply from where he sat at the kitchen table, a cup of tea, long since gone cold sitting in front of him. Matty yawned and hobbled over to the stove, intending to make them both a fresh cup, his knee protesting stiffly after spending the last few hours in bed. 

“What are you doing up?” George asked softly, tracking Matty’s movements as he stood on his tiptoes, reaching to retrieve two fresh mugs from the top cabinet. His robe fell open as he stretched giving George a lovely view of his tattooed chest and toned stomach. 

“Could ask you the same question,” said Matty, setting the mugs down on the counter. George looked down at the wooden surface, his cheeks pink.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said at last, “and I didn’t want to wake you up with my tossing and turning.” 

“You know I can’t sleep without you anyway,” Matty said, coming up behind George and wrapping his arms around the younger man’s broad shoulders. He pressed a kiss to his cheek savoring the warmth of George’s back as it pressed against Matty’s chest. 

George just hummed in response, taking one of Matty’s hands in his own, holding tight, swiping his thumb back and forth against Matty’s palm as if trying to memorize the divots of his lifelines. 

“Nightmares again?” Matty whispered, hesitating to break the calm that had settled over the kitchen, but needing to know. George nodded, giving Matty’s hand a squeeze. 

“Yeah,” said George, his voice hoarse, “yeah.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Matty asked softly, sometimes George wanted to talk about his nightmares, other times he just wanted Matty near. George sniffled, and Matty’s heart broke. 

“You were dead,” he said quietly, “you ODed and I was too late,” he let go of Matty’s hand to swipe at his eyes and Matty took advantage of the shift in position to drop down onto the bench next to George, wrapping his arms around George’s hulking frame as he curled into himself, then into Matty’s chest. 

“It was just a nightmare,” said Matty, “I’m alright, I’m right here.” He took George’s hand maneuvering it to press it against his bare skin, letting George feel the rise and fall of his chest. The steady beat of his heart. 

“I know,” said George wetly, “I know, but it's just,” he took a shaky breath, “it was so real, and, and it could have been real. If I had been a few minutes later—”

“No,” said Matty, pressing harder on George’s hand. “No, stop that, I’m right here.” He took a deep breath George hand moving out then in with his lungs as he exhaled. “I’m alright,” he said, his own words growing watery as silent tears streamed down George’s cheeks. 

“I know,” said George, leaning forward to bury his face in George’s shoulder. “But, but if I had been just a little later, if I planned on stopping for coffee but it was raining and I was lazy, if I had stopped it would have been too late and you would be gone, I would have had to find your body.” George hiccuped wetly, his breath hot against Matty’s skin. 

“But you didn’t,” said Matty, rubbing what he hoped were soothing circles against George’s back. “And that was a long time ago, I’m okay, I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere as long as you’ll have me.” 

“It just,” said George, “it felt so real.” 

“Fuck,” said Matty taking a shaky breath of his own, “fuck, I’m so sorry for putting you through all of that, I was selfish, and it’s keeping you awake even years later, and I’m so sorry.” 

“No,” said George, “no, you don’t have to be sorry, it wasn’t your fault, you were sick, I should be over it by now—”

The tea kettle whistled, and Matty apologized, detangling himself from George and quickly pouring the piping hot water into the mugs, then adding a drizzle of honey before bringing them back over and setting them on the table. 

“I’m sorry,” Matty said quietly, nudging the mug towards George. “I’m sorry that I put you through that, and that it’s haunting you even now.”

George gave Matty a watery smile. “As long as you’re still here to haunt me in person.” 

Matty chuckled, and leaned forward, pressing a chaste kiss to George’s dry lips. “Forever and always.” 

[painless-innit-colourful]

there are two wolves within you. one of them wants your best friend (squeamish) to be able to read your fics. the other wants to write the most messed up, grisly sht you've ever seen. they are both surprised any time you actually do anything like that.

Techno appeared at his shoulder and shoved him from the plateau he was standing on: he landed hard several metres below, with two sharp cracks and a blossoming of white-hot agony that told him both his legs were broken.

[whoslaurapalmer]

i swear i’m gonna put these in an actual legitimate proper fic. i swear!!!!!! but until then!!! it’s klaus’ turn to hang out with lemony and get emotional about grief and stuff 

so. i think klaus as an adult does not form very many attachments. he has the very few and very specific things he has -- his sisters and beatrice -- and that’s all he needs. nothing else is necessary. and then beatrice shows up with lemony, and she looks at him like she looks at violet and klaus and sunny, like he’s necessary too. and klaus is not happy about this, but beatrice likes lemony, so he stays in the baudelaire home. this random stranger, who creates as many questions as he answers, who, sure, helps around the house but isn’t necessary. he doesn’t need to be there.

so klaus doesn’t trust him. he keeps an eye on him, because that’s what you do with adults you don’t trust, who you aren’t supposed to trust at all, who could do anything and just get away with it. and beatrice is a child, younger than sunny, even, and sunny barely even trusts lemony. she lets him in the kitchen but keeps him in one spot on the other side of the counter from her and has him relegated to handing her ingredients, which she takes and still scrutinizes, looking back and forth between him and the ingredient with a raised eyebrow while lemony snicket stands there with what looks like endless patience. klaus knows violet doesn’t mind him, but he doesn’t think she’s entirely okay with him, either. violet is just so endlessly kind, she wouldn’t say anything bad if it mattered to beatrice. and, the point is, beatrice could be wrong to trust him. so klaus just has to keep an eye on him.

klaus doesn’t sleep very much, so he spends most of his time at night outside of lemony snicket’s room, making sure he doesn’t go anywhere he’s not supposed to. if lemony snicket notices, he doesn’t say anything about it. he takes beatrice to school, he helps violet with her car, sunny lets him roll out a pie crust one day. klaus throws questions at him, about everything. innocuous things, things klaus already knows, just to see how lemony snicket will answer. lemony snicket takes it in stride, with that endless patience. klaus doesn’t know where it comes from, how lemony snicket can stand there, awkward and out of place and not necessary at all, and take the things that happen to him. he looks like he looks forward to klaus pestering him (because klaus is aware that’s what he’s doing). klaus does not look forward to it. he is checking on lemony snicket to make -- to make sure he doesn’t do anything.

one night klaus falls asleep, in the hallway outside of lemony’s room. and when klaus wakes up, and the shadows filtering through the little window at the end of the hall have shifted farther than he usually sees them, he is terrified. if he was asleep, lemony could’ve done anything. if he was asleep, anything could’ve happened to lemony. and that’s not supposed to happen. klaus is right here, and nothing is supposed to happen to anyone, not anyone he knows, he’s right here and he’s supposed to pay attention and he’s supposed to do the right things and he’s supposed to help, he’s supposed to call back the taxi driver to uncle monty’s house he’s supposed to convince mr. poe about olaf being captain sham he’s supposed to not get hypnotized at the mill he’s supposed to stand up for his sisters against nero he’s supposed to be home and not at briny beach -- anything could’ve happened, olaf could’ve -- and it wasn’t only olaf, of course klaus never forgot the mill, you could’ve -- and klaus would’ve done it again, he would’ve let everyone down, he would’ve lost -- 

klaus did this once, twice, too many times, losing parents and guardians and friends and enemies and people he never knew at all. all those people in the hotel, dying for children they didn’t even know. and he was always supposed to do better, and it keeps him up at night with the weight of it. you can’t get anyone else. you can’t lose anyone else. you never get your parents back.

he scrambles to his feet, stumbles across to lemony’s door and shoves it open.

and lemony is still there. he looks up from his desk, by the window, with the side lamp turned on, illuminating the sheet of paper in his typewriter. for a moment he looks so startled, so frozen, klaus thinks something has gone terribly wrong anyway.

“what can i help you with?” lemony asks.

and how is klaus supposed to answer that? lemony is alive and klaus is, relieved and upset and scared and not supposed to be. he’s not supposed to trust lemony. he still doesn’t, he thinks insistently. but lemony is still alive, but he’s not the right person who’s supposed to be alive, but. but klaus can’t let go of the thought. he wavers in the doorway.

“what are you writing?” klaus asks. he’s never asked this before, because klaus does not know the answer. but he needs to talk about something.

“beatrice,” lemony says, “has expressed an interest in music.”

this is true. beatrice has flitted from one interest to the next, with sharp but brief intensities that have worried all of them at one point or another -- like she’s trying to define herself by them and doesn’t know what to do when they can’t. right now it is music, and it seems the thing she is most comfortable with so far.

klaus stares at him, waiting for lemony to continue.

“i thought i would write her a story,” lemony continues. “would you like to hear it?”

klaus waits. when nothing else happens, he sits on the floor by the door, and waits again. and lemony tells him about composers, and how you play their music, what survives and what doesn’t. what does. lemony talks for a long time, until klaus gets tired and asks him to stop, and he does. klaus has had enough.

klaus comes back, the next night, just to check. then he asks lemony about the composers again.

[violetsareblue-selfships]

good morning!! <3

[ithinktheygotthealias]

i’m (slowly) watching netflix’s atla and while i am still formulating Thoughts on it, one thing they definitely, thankfully got right was Uncle Iroh.

which got me thinking, as one does, about fanfic, and how most of the atla fanfic i’ve read has been very gen stuff about iroh parenting zuko. and i think this real speaks to the core of what fanfic is about. like sure, we may want to read about hot characters fucking, but there’s a reason why hurt/comfort and angst are, and have historically been, some of the most popular genres in the medium.

it’s the very human desire to have someone at the end of the day to tell us “you did your best. you matter. let’s rest now” and have that person get us, so well that we believe them.

the reason it usually manifests through shipping is that we’re predisposed to want that from romantic partners. firstly because that’s the person you choose to go home to every night for the rest of your life (ideally) (, which i think is very valid), but also because the vast majority of us don’t really get that from their parents/guardians/adult figures, so we go looking for it in people we see ourselves in equal footing with. be honest, how many people do you know that have or have had an uncle iroh figure in their lives? do you have one?

when i’m doing ok mentally i like reading fanfic before going to sleep. earlier in the day if i have time i like to read original stories, but i need that comfort at the end of the day. when im not well i want to drown myself in fanfiction and forget everything else. i think the repetitiveness of the stories we tell ourselves comes from the same place. there’s something comforting in knowing that spock will always belong at jim’s side, like he’s always been there and always will be, that’s comforting in the dead of night.

(and if you have a loving partner, or anyone else in your life, who provides you with this reassurance, and you still read fanfiction, that’s normal too. humans like both finding things they can relate to and platonic ideals in their stories)

back to uncle iroh, i think this kind of wish fulfilment is even more visceral when it comes to parenting because it speaks to where the desire comes from in the first place. i know i do, so maybe this whole thing was just me projecting hard.

and so, Internet Stranger, if you stopped to read this until the end: you did your best. you matter. let’s rest now. and may you find as many persons you believe in as much as they believe in you as you need.

[justaz]

allura, lance, and coran is my fav trio. LISTEN lance learning altean to bring a bit of home to allura and coran. allura and coran picking up on spanish to bring a bit of home to lance. matching friendship bracelets that they made together one night. lance making them honorary mcclains so they have a new home on earth if they want to stay there. them holding a silly little crowning ceremony to make lance a prince bc if they’re a part of his family then he should be part of theirs. them going to the mall and causing so much goddamn chaos for pretty and sparkly things, coran threatening shopkeepers while allura gets distracted by everything pretty and lance being torn between pulling allura back and taking the knife out of coran’s hand.

[notalotgoingonatthisinstant]

“This is so nice,” Wilhelm manages to say. He feels the vibration of Simon’s chest in agreement, and he takes a deep breath before saying, “I wish we could have this every day.”

“I did offer to kidnap you.”

They share a tired laugh. Wilhelm squeezes himself closer, closer, closer. “I want this every day with you.”

Simon presses a kiss to his head and slowly moves around to kiss him wherever he can reach, each kiss melting into Wilhelm’s soul like the glue that keeps it together. He speaks between the little pecks. “I want it, too. More than anything.”

//

Or how a certain question is on the tip of their tongues, but the fear of royal commitments is getting in the way.

[palettesofrenaissance]

might go to a beach tomorrow so I can cry into the sand

might purchase a taco to eat and cry into too