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the self-indulgent fanfiction will continue until morale improves

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When a fic doesn’t fit my head canons but it’s well-written

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"Evan, I'm going to be late."

To be fair, Tommy isn't not enjoying the way Evan has draped himself, shirtless, along his back. He's one long hot point of contact, and when he slides his hands down Tommy's arms until he can tangle their fingers together, it chases the air conditioned chill from Tommy's skin.

"Mmph. Stop picking up people's shifts and I'll let you go." Tommy gamely doesn't point out the sleepy whine in Evan's voice. Instead, he kisses the back of one of Evan's hands and starts trying to pull his fingers free.

"I told you - c'mon, sweetheart - McAllister had the baby, and we're all pitching in to give her a little more mat leave - Evan, really-"

Evan suctions himself even closer, somehow. "But you're the one I come home to." He sighs. "The one I'll be missing."

Either unaware of or choosing to ignore the way that Tommy's heart has melted into utter goop, Evan burrows his face into the side of Tommy's neck. The soft whuffs of his breath tickle.

"It'll be over before you know it." Tommy frees his fingers, finally, and turns so they're chest-to-chest. He cradles Evan's face in his hands. "Next time you see me we'll have a whole three days together, and trust me, I'm not going to be letting you out of my sight."

Evan grins, loose and dopey with affection. "Okay. Deal," he says, and leans in to press a kiss right in the middle of Tommy's lips. He leaves another at Tommy's cupid's bow, another at the corner of his mouth, one more at the top of the cleft in his chin. "Love you. Keep yourself safe, I happen to like that guy."

"Yeah?" Tommy kisses right under Evan's grin. "Guess I'd better, if that's the case."

"Okay then."

"Okay."

He lets the moment linger, and it's worth the reprimand he gets for jogging up to the hangar ten minutes late. It's worth more than anything.

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I cannot stop laughing, the hater in me is FED. Kendrick said imma teach y’all about blackness and how we have to behave to be taken seriously with the help of Samuel L Jackson, and then - just for me - I’m gonna kill Drake on national television *smiles to camera*

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Kendrick looking right into camera with a cheeky smile when he said “Say Drake” was the sexiest half time moment of all time.

Can’t change my mind.

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Listen, I have seen many a posts to the tune of "Hozier is a fae god!" Or "Florence is a fae god!" And I am here to tell you that neither of them are fae gods. Paramours, probably, maybe members of an Entourage, but gods? No.

You want to know who an actual fucking fae god is???

Kendrick Lamar.

The pettiness. The creativity. The persuasiveness. The accuracy. He had 110 million people across the nation today singing "a minooooor" like it was fucking nothing. This man has cast a thousand-year curse on Aubrey Graham's bloodline that cannot be undone through mortal means.

Now, THAT is some fae god level shit.

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cutting buck some slack because it’s hard to do a deep-dive on sexuality and queer history when you’re too busy getting dicked down by your hot as hell beefcake of a boyfriend for six months straight—non-stop, fucking like rabbits—in all of your free time.

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Will is worse than Hannibal.

So recently I made a little rant-y post about how it would be better to have Hannibal want to kill rather than have Will want to kill you. And I kind of touched on how fucked up Will is and was gonna leave it at that but I decided that gorgeous twisted little man deserves a post all of his own. So here goes:

Will is much more sadistic in the traditional meaning of the word than Hannibal. Hannibal kills for the sake of the end result, he kills to have the person dead, he kills to get rid of a witness, he kills to eat. Will kills for the sake of the process.

In the three seasons of Hannibal even while Will was severely restraining and repressing himself you could still see glimpses of the monster that lives under his skin.

He is most unhinged in his fantasies about Hannibal. Will never imagined Hannibal being dead, Will always imagined the process of killing Hannibal. There’s a huge difference. He imagined a stag pulling at a rope at Hannibal’s neck strangling him until blood burst from his body in a wave. He imagined cutting Hannibal’s neck to release some blood and lowering him into a pig pen so the animals would eat him alive. Now tell me does that sound like something a normal person fantasises about? And I’m not talking about just wanting somebody dead, that would be understandable given the context, even normal. But that’s not Will fantasises about. Will fantasises about killing. That is not normal.

But thoughts are one thing. Let’s actually look at what he does, his actions: the first example I would present is Randall Tier. In the scene where Tier attacks Will, Will is holding a shotgun. No, not just holding it, pointing it directly at Randall. All that was left to do was pull the trigger and grant Randall a quick end and grant himself safety. What does Will do? He tosses the gun to the floor in favor of pouncing on Randall and beating him almost to death with his bare fists, and then snapping his neck. Oh and doing all that while imaging he was doing so to Hannibal Lector. And later Will himself admitted he enjoyed killing Randall. Again this is not a normal thing to do, not even close to normal or sane or understandable.

And the final nail in the coffin for me has to be Chilton. Will knew what he was doing and knowingly set Chilton up to be attacked by an unpredictable and sick(in every sense of the word) murderer. Will did not need, did not have to set Chilton up. And sure Chilton was not the nicest person ever. In fact he was a huge prick throughout the show, and got on my nerves whenever he was on screen. Chilton fully deserved a nice heavy punch in the nose, public humiliation and banishment from the medical community. He however did not deserve to be kidnapped, mutilated and burned alive by a serial killer. And what happened to Chilton was very much Will’s fault, but Will did not show an ounce of regret or guilt about what he did.

“Extreme acts of cruelty require a high degree of empathy.” Bedelia says. And Will is extremely empathetic, he is bordering on supernatural levels of empathy. He chose to do all of those actions. So while Hannibal doesn’t really care or acknowledge the pain he is causing just how a butcher doesn’t acknowledge the pain of a pig, Will does. Hannibal doesn’t acknowledge his victims humanity but Will is acutely aware of it. Will is acutely aware of what he is doing and to whom he is causing pain. And he chooses to do it anyway.

And just one final thing: the Will we saw in the show was a Will that was repressing and restricting himself. He was keeping his person suit wrapped around him like a straitjacket. The violence we saw him commit were mere echoes of the violence he is capable of. After season three, after the fall, after Will sheds his person suit and embraces everything he had kept hidden deep inside, the violence he is able and willing to unleash upon the world would be multiplied tenfold. It is terrifying to imagine this Will. This Will would be worse than Hannibal.

Hannibal enjoys the end result and does not really care about how he gets it.

But Will?

Will delights in the very act of killing.

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on the topic of buck’s thighs and tommy loving them—yeah they’re thick and meaty but they’re also sooooo hairy and i know tommy fucking loves just how hairy they are—specifically the area by buck’s inner thighs, close to his dick. on the one hand, i think sometimes tommy loves to pinch and twist the hairs when buck is being especially bratty; see the way his skin turns red and the way he winces at the sensation—whether he tones down the brat or acts out even more in retaliation. and on the other hand, i think tommy loves to make a mess there with his come just so he can clean it all up, languid yet fervent; feeling buck’s rough, coarse hair against his tongue with each measured and deliberate move across the tender skin—biting and sucking along the way; marking his territory—until he’s covered the entire surface area and every single drop of his come is back inside him. and buck is often a whimpering, squirming mess underneath tommy during this but he lets him move as he pleases—luxuriating in every bit of the worship.

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Already Home

Pack nights at the loft were loud, chaotic, and exactly what Stiles needed after a long week of school and supernatural nonsense. He’d curled up on the couch, wedged between Isaac and Boyd, still listening to the conversation even as his blinks grew longer. The warmth, the hum of voices, the solid weight of Derek sitting on the armrest beside him—all of it lulled him into sleep before he even realized he was drifting.

It wasn’t until Scott tried to wake him that things got… tense.

“Hey, Stiles—” Scott barely had his hand halfway to Stiles’ shoulder when a low, warning growl rumbled through the room. Scott froze. Everyone did.

Derek was staring him down, eyes dark with the promise of violence if he took one more step.

Scott raised his hands immediately. “Whoa. Not trying to take your boy, dude. Just trying to get him home.”

Derek didn’t even hesitate. His voice was firm, absolute. “He already is.”

The words settled over the pack like a command, like a truth that had always existed even if no one had said it out loud.

Scott blinked, exhaling through his nose. “Okay. Got it.”

There was no more arguing after that.

Derek didn’t trust anyone else to do it, so he scooped Stiles up himself, carefully shifting him so his head rested against Derek’s shoulder. Stiles stirred slightly, making a soft, sleepy noise as his fingers curled into Derek’s shirt.

The pack made no comment as Derek carried him up the loft stairs, though Erica smirked knowingly.

Once in his room, Derek set Stiles down on the bed, tugging the blanket over him with more care than he’d ever admit to. He hesitated for a moment before brushing Stiles’ hair back, fingers tracing lightly over his temple.

He should leave. Give him space. But before he could move away, Stiles shifted, murmuring something barely audible against the pillow.

Derek frowned. “What?”

Stiles’ eyes stayed closed, but he turned his face toward Derek’s touch, exhaling softly. “Heard what you said,” he mumbled. A pause. Then, even quieter, “’M home with you.”

Derek’s breath caught. He swallowed hard, watching Stiles’ face, waiting for any sign that he was awake enough to remember this conversation in the morning. But Stiles was already sinking deeper into sleep, face relaxed in a way Derek rarely saw.

Derek let out a slow breath, then—without thinking too hard about it—leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Stiles’ forehead.

“Yeah,” he whispered, “You are.”

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He shoves his feet into his sneakers and then double checks that he has everything: keys, wallet, an old Trader Joe's bag filled with a lemon-blueberry pie, two almond-cranberry loaves, a bunch of cream puffs, ice cream bread, a fruitcake, and a cheese danish almost as big as the circumference of the bag opening, plus the stupid cue cards he spent an hour writing out.

Exhaling, Buck glances at his watch. 11:09pm. That gives him about 35 minutes to get to South Robertson, 10 minutes to hyperventilate in the Jeep, three minutes to do the most humiliating thing he's ever dreamed of doing, and one minute to hopefully ring in the new year before it officially starts.

The plan is foolproof, it's Chimney approved, and it's the only one he's got. He can't spend another two months baking and staring at his phone hoping to see bubbles dancing. And not just because none of the grocery stores within a ten mile radius of the loft will sell him small batch vanilla extract anymore.

He can't spend another two months feeling like he's suffering from something that Hen would normally use the LifePak to fix. Which is why this is going to work. It has to. Because he can't think about what the next year is going to be like if it doesn't.

"Okay," Buck murmurs, nodding to himself. "It's go time."

Slipping the bag handles over his wrist and tucking the cards under his arm, he pulls the door open and walks right into a brick wall.

"Shit, I'm sorry," the wall says, steadying Buck with big, familiar hands, then bends down to pick up the cards that had spilled to the floor. "I wouldn't have been standing there if I'd known you were gonna fly out like the place was on fire."

It's been a while since Buck's felt this wrong-footed—two months, to be exact—and that's the only reason why he opens his mouth and "You ruined my plan!" falls out.

Tommy looks up from the cue cards with a disbelieving smile. It's the same one that had spread across his face after bad coffee and a plea for a second chance. You already know I'm interested. "Were you going to Love, Actually me?"

He turns the cards in his hands and shows the top one to Buck. It says To me, you are perfect an asshole (but I want you anyway).

Buck puts down the Trader Joe's bag and gives himself a minute to drink Tommy in. He looks good, if wan. The bags under his eyes are new, but the way he curls his shoulders in, like he's trying to make himself smaller, turn himself into a smaller target, takes Buck right back to the last time Tommy was here.

"I-In my defense, Chimney thought it was a stroke of genius," Buck grouses. "Although I'm starting to suspect that he was just giving me shit."

Genuine amusement makes hills and valleys out of the corners of Tommy's eyes, and the way the sight of them makes something unknot inside of Buck feels like muscle memory. He used to wish that his own crow's feet were that pronounced; it always seemed like Tommy's were a mark of a life spent smiling. But even the knowledge that many of those smiles weren't real can't stop Buck from being charmed.

With shaking hands, Buck takes the cue cards from Tommy, who seems a little reluctant to let them go, and absolutely doesn't clutch them to his chest like a shield.

"What are you doing here?"

Tommy scratches at his forearm, a little tic that draws Buck's eye, and because of it he almost doesn't see the tremor in Tommy's bottom lip when he breathes out shakily and says, "I was on shift today, and Nico asked everyone what their New Year's resolutions were. I didn't have one. I never do. It's not something I ever—just getting through the year intact has always been my goal. You really can't call that a resolution."

Buck can't help but give a mystified nod, because he has no idea where this is going, but he honestly doesn't care. Tommy's here. He's here.

"But I couldn't stop thinking about it," Tommy continues, and the laugh he chokes out sounds like it scores the inside of his throat on its way out. "Tonight I had a little kid code in the back of my bird on the way to First Pres, and all I could think about was what my resolution would be if I had one."

"D-Did the kid make it?"

"No," Tommy sighs. "No, he didn't. And I sat on the roof of the hospital for, like, twenty minutes sobbing like a baby, because all I wanted was to hear the sound of your voice. I just wanted to call you and I wouldn't let myself."

The image of Tommy crying alone in a cockpit and denying himself even a little bit of comfort hits Buck like a sucker punch. "W-Why didn't you?"

"I was scared," Tommy admits with a smile that hurts to look at. The corners of his eyes crease anyway. "I was shit scared that I'd call and you'd, I don't know, tell me to go fuck myself, or tell me that I did you a favor by breaking things off. Or worse: the call wouldn't go through at all, because you'd blocked me. You had every right to do any of those things, but... I was too afraid to find out what it'd be. So I didn't."

The prickling heat in the corners of Buck's eyes and in his sinuses feels like a warning. He clears his throat, trying to head it off at the pass, but his eyes feel too wet to safely blink.

"But then why are you—"

"I was on my way home when it hit me out of nowhere: my resolution. Forty-something years and I finally had one."

Heart pounding, Buck takes a step forward and ventures, breathless, "Which was...?"

"My resolution was to be brave for once in my life." Tommy's nose scrunches like he's holding in a laugh, but his eyes look suspiciously glassy. "And suddenly I was parked outside your building."

"Y-You got a space?"

Tommy laughs wetly. "Believe it or not, it was the same one I got that night. And as I pulled in, I thought, 'See that, Kinard? Even the universe is telling you to stop being such a fucking coward.'"

"Your resolution is to be brave," Buck echoes, and just saying it feels like standing at the edge of a canyon and being unable to judge the distance from one side to the other because of the sun in his eyes. "T-That's a good one. We could all stand to be a bit braver this year."

Swallowing, Tommy shakes his head, but before Buck can flirt with the notion of a breakdown, he steps closer. Enough that Buck can count his individual lashes; enough to see the fear in his eyes, as well as the determination holding it at bay.

"I'm no expert, but I hear the best resolutions are the ones where there's someone to hold you to them." He stares into Buck's eyes as he talks but, with every other word, his gaze dips lower.

"I've made and broken a million resolutions in my life. I think that makes me an expert," Buck murmurs. "And yeah, having someone hold you accountable is the key to keeping them."

"I've still got—" Tommy glances down at his watch. "—forty-one minutes. Maybe I should wait until midnight, make it a clean start. What's your expert opinion on—"

Whatever he's about to say gets cut off when Buck drops the cue cards to the floor and presses his entire body into Tommy's. He hopes Tommy can feel every single vibration coming from his bones.

Whether or not he does is anyone's guess, but Tommy doesn't hesitate in wrapping his arms around Buck, sliding a hand up his back to cup the base of his skull, gasping a little in the space between their mouths when Buck rests his forehead against Tommy's. He's shaking even harder than Buck, but his hold is steadfast.

"I'm going to nail your ass to the wall if you break this resolution," Buck whispers.

"I'm counting on it," Tommy whispers back. "In the meantime, you should show me the cue cards. This is literally a fantasy of mine."

Snorting, Buck bites playfully at the bolt of his jaw, and tries not to go completely boneless in relief. "I'm so glad you fucked up my plan. That movie is so bad, Tommy, and I had to re-watch that stupid scene a hundred times to get the cue cards right. You don't deserve them."

"Say 'it's carol singers,'" Tommy nuzzles at his cheek. "Just once. I've been incredibly brave tonight and I deserve something."

"Suffer," Buck laughs, and kisses him into next year.

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tattoo artist x florist but it’s johnny as the tattoo artist and simon as the florist

johnny opens up a studio in london, with that industrial vibe and en entire wall that’s just exposed brick. he steps out one day for a smoke on a nice sunny day and takes notice of a flower shop across the street. his eyes focus on movement inside the shop, but the person seems a little tall. no matter, he doesn’t mind a tall girl, he’s taller either way. he expects to see a lovely lass dressed in a floral dress exit through the door, but he nearly chokes on cigarette smoke when a man the size of a tank walks out instead. he’s dressed in all black, a sleeve of tattoos covering his left arm and a surgical mask covering the bottom half of his face.

he’s carrying the biggest bouquet of flowers johnny’s ever seen, pink and purple and red flowers decorated with wrapping paper a similar hue to the flowers, and hands it to a lovely old lady that’s waiting out front. she’s grinning widely and nodding her head at the man who, johnny has concluded, is the lovely lass he expected.

the lady leaves with a bright smile on her face, and johnny, in a complete trance, watches the man retreat back into the flower shop.

the next day he goes to work, he’s greeted with a single red rose wrapped with a neat bow around the handle of the shop’s door. in a trance, he’s hurrying across the street to get the biggest bouquet he can afford, and hopefully the man’s phone number.

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you ever just click on a fanfic and read the first word and go “shut up” and exit

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Why isn't Stalker Harry a popular tag in the HP fandom, it's literally canon?

Hermoine: Harry, what would you say your love language is?

Harry: My love language? I would probably say... stalking.

Hermoine: ....

Tom watching from afar, gripping his binocular: Perfect~