#source: second best

[your-incorrect-quotes]

A: Remember, the enemy is only as strong as you are weak.

B: So extremely strong then.

[deadwerewolfgirlfriend]

Supernatural + the many meanings of "Castiel" 4.01 Lazarus Rising // 4.16 On the Head of a Pin // 4.21 When the Levee Breaks // 8.10 Torn and Frayed // 8.17 Goodbye Stranger // 13.01 Lost and Found (source)

[daenysthedreamer101]

HOTD behind the scenes - S2 pt2

masterlist

[epiphainie]

literally struggling writing anything canon related bt bc i just don't see how i can make buck feel reassured and comforted by tommy when tommy left him so unsure by pulling the rug out from under him and constantly dismissed what he says. like anytime i open up the doc for this cock worship fic i wanted to write since october im like i dont want buck to worship tommy. i want buck to be trusted and not get his words scoffed at but thats just not canon tommy. canon tommy repeatedly let his insecurities take priority over buck asking to be together and buck asking clarity about what changed his mind and in my mind it's like i need to write a 50k fixit before i can write this smut fic set slightly in the future

[puzzlingphronistes]

The "you can crash on my couch anytime" to "can I live in your house and be your dog" pipeline is absolutely incredible. Remember when he got flustered at the idea of a sexy rat?

This is a man who calls dancing sinful. I heard him bark this morning.

[mo-ok]

Jiraiya being exceedingly useful for (almost) 3 minutes

[lesbiangiratina]

I won at buying doujinshi today

So cute explodes

[incorrect-worldless-quotes]

Edda: Don't worry, Aven. It's going to be great!

Edda: ...or fine.

Edda:

Edda: It's going to be.

[iarrelm]

An early morning conversation about tea got a little out of hand

[quirkle2]

more zombie au :] (1.2k words)

The odor of rot has joined the damp growth of life from pots. Even if some things die off without human aid, there are always stronger elements that thrive in their absence.

The aisles are overgrown. Ritsu brushes past the vines as gently as he can, wooden floor groaning under his worn soles. There’s a gap of empty space in the middle of each aisle that he slots through, eyes roaming the shelves of largely useless things. Stronger stems snag onto his backpack and he tugs distractedly while perusing the labeled pots along the tables.

The barn is quaint, and Ritsu thinks he would love to stay. Moss eats at the boards under his feet and bugs swarm around him in the hot air incessantly, but it’s peaceful and there’s a constant sprinkle of sound to his ears that have grown so used to silence. Whoever owned this place beforehand put up a few wind chimes indoors—they must’ve always had the front entrance open for customers.

It’s a quiet little homemade garden center, or something similar, on the side of the highway. It’s an overgrown property with something dead in the backyard that Ritsu refuses to acknowledge or let Shigeo near. The shingles and boards in the roof have been replaced with polyethylene sheets—a barn-turned-greenhouse, uprooted from the hay and cattle it likely used to house and settled back into the Earth to be a paradise for plants.

There’s a large branch hanging through a hole poked into the plastic overhead. It sways with the wind and the chimes that follow, and Ritsu whistles with the leadless melody and gives it a direction while he studies old seed packets.

They didn’t stop here for any particular reason—a garden center doesn’t have much for apocalypse survivors, but Shigeo has always liked overgrown things. He’d always enjoyed taking care of their mother’s plants back home, and then Reigen’s at the office. His brother likes the humidity of greenhouses and the smell of soil and dirt and must.

He sees the top of Shigeo’s head over the aisles, across the barn. He walks past a shovel hanging on the wall and yelps out a grunt when it clangs to the floor behind him. Ritsu shakes his head and smiles, running his fingers along faded price tags.

The feeling of greenhouses has always had this… wet fullness, to Ritsu.

When he breathes in it’s like he can taste the life that breathes out and it feels like a conversation, a question and an answer, both of which he’s not sure how to articulate. The leaves wave to him and he waves back, the once-active sprinklers pepper his skin with dots, with compliments, with proclamations they are eager to share. The vines weave between fencing just to reach him, just to talk.

He understands why Shigeo likes it, and why he’d always asked to accompany their mother on trips to get new seeds. Ritsu hadn’t really understood, then, how pretty it could be, how full it could feel.

Shigeo had always been right about loving the little things. Ritsu wishes he’d seen that sooner.

His brother ambles down the aisle ahead of him and he listens to the quiet patter of his sloppy footwork, moving around a table of seed trays. His whistles carry across the barn, sort of aimless in their own right instead of leading the wind and the chimes somewhere worthwhile, but the sounds soak into the overhead plastic nicely, so he keeps going.

He pulls back a layering of vines and leaves to scan the contents of another shelf, and then he notices Shigeo stop in his peripherals. His dirty shoes stay planted in the corner of his vision, leaves burying the toes, and Ritsu looks away from the products.

He means to say something, to ask him what’s up even if saying things to Shigeo very rarely results in productivity, but he stops when he realizes his brother’s head is… tilted.

He’s looking at him with as much inquisitiveness as his dulled down awareness can muster, pale eyes flickering across Ritsu’s face like he’s working out some puzzle. He instinctively stops whistling, brain lagging behind on this new info of this new behavior, and the sound fizzles out into a little huff of air that leaves the greenhouse feeling oddly empty.

Shigeo studies him for a moment longer, blinking slowly, and then he straightens his head out as Ritsu stares back. His brother’s gaze lingers there on his mouth, like he’s still confused, like he still expects something to happen.

Ritsu blinks once, twice. The wind chimes call as wind pokes at his greasy spikes, as it prods at the ends of his jacket and fills the silence with a different flavor of itself. The interest in the zombie’s eyes fades a little, gaze straying to the vines around them.

Very tentatively, Ritsu wets his lips and blows. The whistle grabs his brother’s attention immediately, and he’s suddenly tilting his head like a curious dog.

He can’t help the laugh that spills out and makes the whistle a mess of exhales. His shoulders shake a little and he hurries to keep the tune steady and consistent; a few seconds pass and Shigeo tilts his head the other way, exhausted eyes big and more alert than they’ve been in days.

Ritsu experiments, and ventures around with the sound—goes lower and higher and watches his brother twist his head back and forth like he’s trying to understand calculus. There’s something very innocent about it, about the look in his eyes that reminds him of when they were kids and their father would show them magic tricks.

It’s muted by the ever-present fog there in his pupils, but Ritsu thinks he sees a spark of that life in them, of that curiosity born from a mind that knows little. He gives him a simple sensation, a simple experience, and his brother is eating it all up like he’s four again, like he’s new and everything is colorful and unknown and big.

Ritsu watches Shigeo tilt his head back and forth, watches the rusty gears behind his window panes move. He changes tactics, because some sad part of him tells him to, and whistles Shigeo’s favorite song instead.

He remembers the name, but he doesn’t need the name because when he thinks of the tune he thinks of his brother, and that’s all that matters. It’s happy, because Shigeo likes happy music. It’s chipper and yet it meanders, like it’s willingly getting lost, like it’s wandering where it wants to and it’ll eventually find its roots again. It’s happy the whole time. The whole adventure.

Shigeo stops tilting his head, and the gears behind his eyes churn a little bit faster. His gaze clings to Ritsu’s and his brother makes actual eye contact, sinks his own being into Ritsu’s head when he’s least prepared for it. The recognition in his gaze has his soul souring.

He keeps whistling. He doesn’t want to stop, because Shigeo feels like Shigeo right now, and he doesn’t want that to stop.

His brother stares. Ritsu’s grief tints the music.

[formosusiniquis]

bela lugosi's dead

written for the @steddiemicrofic prompt: suck | wc: 480 | T | cw: none | tags: vampire!Steve

Like every good freak worth the nickname, Eddie made a habit of reading Dracula every Halloween. 

The first read led to closeted daydreaming about getting abducted by a handsome vampire. Letting himself poke at desires he hadn’t been ready to commit to. With age his fantasies and aesthetics matured, until he was the bloodsucking creature of the night stealing pretty boys away to give in to their secret temptations. So, if he's honest, he’s having a hard time dealing with life and the lemons it’s juggling off to the side of him.

“It isn't fair.”

“Hmm,” Steve, with his red puffer vest and his coordinating Nikes, sat across from him at some point in full view of Eddie’s misery over his annotated copy of Dracula.

“There's an aesthetic you're failing to appreciate and it isn't fair that you-”

“Are we going to do this every time?” He asks around the straw in his mouth, poked into a blood bag labeled ‘Robin:)’ like he’s sipping from a juice box.

“Until you stop dressing like a JCPenney catalog model, or vampires become lame, yeah we probably are, Harrington.”

“Fine,” he sighs, having the decency to pull the blood bag away from his face, “I'm sorry that you had to have five blood transfusions and basically have new, non-vampire blood. No one has ever suffered the way you, Eddie Munson, have.”

“You're being sarcastic, but I have suffered so apology accepted, Stevie.”

“Now you.” Steve prompts, gesturing with the bag in his hands.

“Now me what?”

Steve sits up, a languid move that makes Eddie’s prey brain sit up at attention and his horny boy brain poke its head up too. “Say I'm sorry, Steve, that you had to save the world for the fourth time so a bunch of freaky bat venom metastasized-”

“You absolutely stole that word from Henderson,” breathless, the jab doesn’t carry the weight it could.

“-in your bloodstream and combined with the remains of the experimental Soviet drugs and now," He crawls closer, "you can't eat garlic anymore.”

“That's the hang up for you? Not the blood drinking?”

“I'm Italian, I can’t eat anything anymore. Sure I can supplement the blood with raw meat, but what’s the point if everything is poorly seasoned.” Blood bag all but forgotten in the arm chair, he has Eddie pinned in place looming overtop of him, talking shit about what he’ll never be able to eat again.

The white collar of Steve’s t-shirt is visible beneath the color-block vest, even that isn’t enough to stop his brain from screaming predator on repeat. Supernaturally strong, it doesn’t take more than a hand on the shoulder to push Eddie down horizontal on the couch. He has to feel Eddie’s heart beat, the way it pounds in his chest as Steve noses up the collarbone to his neck. “Really does suck for me, huh baby?”

[kangals]

it’s once again Radiator Season, which means my beloved loyal kitty who sleeps in my bed every night has immediately abandoned me for the Warm Box 😔

[bmpmp3]

Why did everyone tell me the ao oni movies sucked like they ruled HARD actually. There was timeloop multiverse bullshit. And homoeroticism.

[your-incorrect-quotes]

A: Look, I just treat others how I treat myself.

A: Constant criticism until perfection is attained.

[evilrwbyfan]

behold my shitty sfm video with my shitty voice acting (this might get a part 2 but idk yet)

[clumsypuppy]

footnotes arent enough I need you to talk to me like im fucking Amelia Bedelia