#don't ask me why i said this

[jdeanmorgan]

can y'all believe that the 911 writers are pregnant with season s7 right now?

[thelaurenshippen]

watching bridgerton and obviously there were a lot of things wrong with the way socializing has worked in the past, but honestly the idea of a "calling hour" is so appealing. office hours for friendship. you can show up unannounced at my home between 1 and 3pm. you must leave by 3pm. I may give you a pastry. lets bring that back

[clonerightsagenda]

This week one of my coworkers said to me "you have a really strong sense of morals and want everything to be done the right way which sucks for you personally but is a net benefit for everyone else around you" and I think I should put that on my resume

[fearandhatred]

the rapture

it's a holy thing, in theory, a glorious celebration, where those who believe rise to meet the lord in the air. it's a day of joy, in theory, and maybe even of vindication for those who have always believed.

but no one thinks about how it's like to see the dead rise again—bodies clawing their way out of bolted wood and six feet of packed earth, bodies decomposed and maggot-feasted, nails stained with rot and dirt. no one thinks about the violent lurch of their bodies being jolted into the air by the stomach, gravity flinging their heads back down to earth as they struggle in vain to find footing on molecules and gas. no one thinks about those who don't make it.

no one thinks about the screams.

crowley hadn't thought about any of these things. he certainly hadn't thought about the angels that would be called back to heaven along with the believers.

here they stand dead in the middle of absolute ruin, the promise of heaven the only thing left to look forward to on the wasteland of this earth. the sky has opened up like the eye of god, watching over her people for the very first time, and crowley's black wings against the beams of light only remind him that he doesn't belong up there with the rest of them. crowley wraps his arms tight around aziraphale, squeezes his torso like he can maybe keep aziraphale with him through sheer will or, laughably, demonic intervention. like love could ever be enough. like love could stay.

around them, the cacophony of wails and mockingly exaltant trumpets scorch the earth in their intensity, clashing and agonising even—especially—for them, and words make no sound. but they hold on to each other, even as they shrink into themselves against the noise of the undying. i don't want to leave you either, aziraphale doesn't say, but his hands dig into the cotton of crowley's sleeve, and crowley hears the words through his fingertips.

he feels a stronger upward resistance against his embrace now, and he clings tighter, steadfast, even as aziraphale's grip falters. but he knows he can't hold on forever. he knows that nothing ever lasts.

trembling with something unspeakable, he lifts his arms from aziraphale's torso and covers the angel's ears with his hands. he feels more than hearing aziraphale's resulting sob, and he spreads out his wings to wrap them around their bodies. a shield, a comfort, a goodbye.

it's okay, the gesture says in silence. i'll see you in another lifetime.

[notquitebunnie]

WHB Cat Café AU

Tartaros

[static-radio-ao3]

@jegulus-microfic // february 6 // prompt: murder // words: 1,172 // cw: implied/referenced sexual content // part 2 + part 3

“You’re so fucking infuriating!” James calls out as Regulus makes his way out of the bathroom. He runs a frustrated hand through is hair and tries to slam the door behind him, but James catches it before he can.

“Oh, I’m infuriating?” Regulus asks over his shoulder. “Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

“Baby, we both know you do enough looking for the both of us.” Regulus doesn’t need to look at James now to know he has a cocky smirk tugging at his lips, voice smug and pleased.

“Don’t call me baby. And don’t think I like what I see when I look at you.” Regulus rounds another corner, moving further away from the party as he heads toward the stairs. He hates that he still know the house like the back of his hand, even though it’s been months since he’s been here.

He knew he shouldn’t have come but Sirius had asked and Regulus bends easy if his brother is the one pushing.

“Ah, you wound me.” James comes to a stop right in front of him, a hand pressed to his chest in mock hurt. “Besides, I find that a little hard to believe when I only had to smile for you to drop to your knees in the bathroom.”

“A moment of weakness, clearly,” Regulus says as he pushes past James and makes his way up the staircase. He’s not sure where he’s trying to go except away from James. James and his pretty smile and messy hair and hazy eyes that track his movements with a hunger.

And it had been a moment of weakness. A party and one drink too many and James’ eyes lingering on the strip of skin between the hem of Regulus’ shirt and his belt. At the ink peeking out above his jeans, a pattern James was all too familiar with. A brush of fingers against his lower back that had Regulus shivering even in the sultry heat of the room. All it took was a tilt of his head and a smile and Regulus was following James down the hall.

James snorts, short and derivative. “Clearly.”

It does nothing to make him less attractive.

“Like I said, infuriating!” Regulus yells as he stomps up the stairs. He’s not even aware that he is walking toward James’ bedroom. “You and your— your—”

“Me and my?”

Regulus comes to a stop in front of James’ bedroom door. He turns to face him and ignores the thrill in his stomach when he realizes how close they’re standing. He has to tilt his face up just the tiniest bit to make eye contact. Tries to force himself to do it, but his eyes drop down to James’ lips unintentionally.

“You and your Jamesness!”

“Good one,” James huffs. He takes another half-step closer, crowding Regulus against the door. “You really got me there.”

“Oh, I am going to murder you,” Regulus hisses between his teeth. He tries to take another step back, but the door handle digs into his lower back. Cornered. James' hand comes up to rest beside his head and Regulus has nowhere to go when James leans down to murmur into his ear.

“Please make it romantic, at least.” James' breath rustles his curls and Regulus fights not to shiver. There is a hint of beer on his breath and usually, Regulus hates it. But he has learned that he can’t quite manage to hate anything that comes from James Potter.

Instead of doing something embarrassing like leaning up and crushing their mouths together, he grits his teeth and jabs a finger into James’ chest. Desperate to put some distance between them but even more desperate to keep him close.

“I am going to throttle you—” he grounds out, jabbing James’ chest again for emphasis.

“I always did love your hands around my throat.”

“—and I am going to draw and quarter you—” Jab.

“Yeah? You gonna tie me up real nice?”

“—and I am going to set your remains on fucking fire.” Jab.

“No need, you get me hot all on your own.”

James’ free hand comes up to cover Regulus’ before he has the chance to withdraw. He presses it flat against his chest before lifting his hand to Regulus’ face.

“I swear, James Potter, if you put that hand on me, I'm going to get violent."

But the threat is empty. They always are. Because James’ knuckles caress Regulus’ cheek and it takes all his strength to not lean into the touch. James knows it too.

"Oh love,” he murmurs, voice low and a little rough. Something Regulus recognizes but refuses to name. “You usually like it when I put my hands on you.”

And at this point, all bets are off because James is looking at him like he knows.

Like he knows that Regulus spends long nights staring at his ceiling because sleep doesn’t come easy if he’s not in James’ arms. Like he knows that Regulus still buys the coffee James prefers because the smell lingers in the apartment and makes it feel a little less like a haunted house. Like he knows that Regulus hasn’t been on a single date in the months since their break up. Like he knows that Regulus never finished that show they started watching together. Like he knows that regret coats the back of Regulus' throat like bile every time he talks about it.

Like he knows that Regulus is still in love.

Like maybe he feels the same way.

Regulus shifts the hand that’s still resting on James’ chest to the back of his neck and yanks him down, pressing their lips together in a kiss. It’s wet and messy and desperate from the beginning, a moan spilling between when James realizes he can still taste himself on Regulus’ tongue.

James moves impossibly closer, both hands moving to cup Regulus’ face. Regulus wishes they were closer still, wishes he could stay like this forever, because he thinks it’s where he belongs; with James. Always with James.

Lips slick and eyes lidded when they pull apart to breathe, Regulus faintly registers that party is still going on downstairs. Music playing in the distance, a cheer erupting at an unknown achievement, but neither of them feel inclined to return. Regulus tilts his head back for better access when James starts trailing wet a path down the column of his throat, humming at the taste.

“This is probably a bad idea,” Regulus manages between ragged breaths. The last thing he wants to do is stop, but plausible deniability and all that.

“I think you’re a little too faded to drive,” James says, punched out and breathless, the words pressed into the line of Regulus’ jaw as he works his way back up to his mouth. Regulus’ hands clench in James’ hair, earning him a hiss. “Maybe you should stay the night.”

Regulus doesn’t get the chance to agree, too busy stumbling through the now-open door all the way into James’ bed.

[sweetlullabyebye]

Confession attempt n°1 dearly beloved (scene under the cut)

[aru-art]

t4t misery

[lesbianwyllravengard]

My brother's girlfriend and I burnt chicken nuggets together because she read the oven cook time as the microwave cook time and even though I thought ten minutes to microwave a plate of chicken nuggets was astronomically high I didn't say anything because she's usually smarter than me and then when it got to around 7 minutes we were both like "woah these chicken nuggets smell AMAZING like these are REAL chicken nuggets" but even still we didn't think that might mean it's a good time to stop cooking them until eventually at 9 minutes the smell turned rancid and when I threw open the microwave they were fully charred. We're not allowed to cook together anymore.

[ryllen]

said wolf,

🐺

[sergle]

I got something for you to chew on. when I was in chickasha yesterday, at the food truck festival, a girl asked to take a picture with me (and I said yes and I threw a peace sign By The Way) and I still don't know. why. she wanted a picture.

[otome-dissection]

he did Not just fucking say all that

[drysaladandketchup]

for the "things you said" writing meme -- matthew/leon, 12 :)

Thank you for the request <3 I realised very quickly I have no idea what constitutes a 'mini' fic. I struggle to write 'mini' anything lol. Hopefully this still satisfies :)

12. things you said when you thought i was asleep

It takes all of Matthew's willpower not to reach over and smash his phone just to shut off the alarm. All that saves his wallet and an awkward trip to the Apple store is the split-second realisation that the shrieking in his ear isn't his usual alarm.

It's a ringtone. Not his own, either.

He pries his eyes open to find the world through the window is still dark. One of the balcony doors is still ajar, letting in a cool night breeze. He's lying on his side in his own bed, the end of the all-star weekend memorialized by several aches and bruises.

His hips and ass are a little sore too, but that's unrelated. Technically.

The ringing stops. Someone huffs behind him.

Someone. Yeah, no, Matthew knows who it is. They may have met up at the bar once the media was done swarming, but Matthew was far from drunk. Painfully sober, in fact. If he's being honest with himself, he was hoping things would turn out this way.

One more time. One more moment. Because it's been a long time since they were them. Longer still since the sex was just sex, since hate became want. Matthew is strong in a lot of ways, but not against this.

"Davo." Leon's voice is low, and still gruff from sleep when he answers his phone. He sits up on his side of the bed, trying not to disturb Matthew, pulling the covers back up over Matthew's shoulder like he thinks he'll freeze to death in this balmy Florida winter.

Usually Matthew's a heavy sleeper. But never when Leon's around. He makes it impossible for Matthew to completely relax, to let time slip by. Leon's just too big of a presence, almost too much to bear. It was more important that everything linger, to bask in the strange comfort of their relationship, whatever it was. They had so little time. Even less, now.

"I know it's late. No, no, I'm not at the hotel. I'm... I'm with Tkachuk."

Leon says his last name like it's wrong, like it's rotting on his tongue.

When he corrects himself, says, "Matthew", it's better, lighter. Like it's ambrosia.

Matthew remembers when Leon Draisaitl saying his name wouldn't have meant a damn thing to him. When that simple act didn't fill him with fondness.

In the silence, Matthew can hear McDavid talking on the other end, but can't quite make out what he's saying. Matthew tucks up under the duvet, breathing quiet and even, trying to focus instead on the distant sound of waves and the ticking clock on his wall.

Ticking. Always ticking. Time bleeds out when they're together.

He doesn't even remember falling asleep last night, but he wishes he hadn't now. He wishes he'd stayed awake longer, just to... just to see him. To look Leon in the eye, to talk about everything and nothing until dawn, to feel big, too-warm hands on his body more and more and more. He wants to make sure he'll remember how Leon feels, sounds, tastes.

"Connor," Leon says, a warning, followed by a sigh. "I know. I know, okay? It was stupid, but..."

Maybe it was. Matthew has a good thing here in Florida. Better than ever. He was happy to leave Alberta behind and start over. So why did leaving make him feel like a coward?

Because leaving was about Calgary, and the Flames. About his career and his future. It wasn't about Leon. Leon was the wrench in the gears; the one thing he didn't expect to have to say goodbye to, the kind of hurt he never could have accounted for.

"I needed to see him." Leon sounds helpless. He's not the only one.

The only time he's heard Leon so lost was after his team was knocked out of the playoffs last season. The Oilers meant nothing--Matthew was pretty fucking glad considering they'd beat out the Flames--but he never wanted to hear Leon like that again.

He definitely never wanted to be the cause of it. Not like this.

Leon is still mumbling into his phone. "Yeah, I'm fine. He's... we're good. He's happy."

A hand settles on Matthew's head. Fingers play with his curls, nails scratch his scalp. A thumb presses just behind Matthew's ear, stroking the soft skin where only hours before Leon had put his lips, whispering sweetness and filth in equal measure.

It takes everything for Matthew not to groan, to whimper and surrender, roll over and climb on top of Leon and take all over again. Beg him to take something--everything--from Matthew.

"I don't know," Leon says then.

It's easy to guess what McDavid asked.

He's happy. But are you?

"I can't even tell him I still love him."

Still. Matthew didn't even know there was a before, let alone a still. Leon never said anything. Fuck, if Matthew wasn't busy trying to remember how to breathe, he'd roll over and punch him.

Then again, what did Matthew ever say? They never talked about it. Never let those closet hook-ups and slipping out back doors and little drinks and dinners and overnights excused as practical necessity be anything more than that. A bunch of chirps and half-truths and aborted discussions because it was all becoming too much. There was too much uncertainty. Too many ways it could go wrong.

It did go wrong. It became something. It became real.

Maybe that would have changed something. Maybe it wouldn't have changed anything at all. It doesn't matter now. Matthew left, and neither of them said a word about things like love, because it was easier to hope it would shrivel and die with distance and time.

"I know I'm being stupid." Leon pauses when McDavid interrupts, then huffs. "No, I am. Fuck, I really thought I'd get over it. Maybe I will. Eventually."

Don't you fucking dare, you piece of shit, Matthew wants to scream.

"Not sure I can, though." Leon swallows so loud Matthew can hear it. Then quieter, like he's not sure he's even allowed to admit it, he says, "I don't really want to."

He's still playing with Matthew's hair, occasionally dragging a finger over his bare shoulder or down his back, tracing imaginary lines across Matthew's flesh. Like he's something to be memorized and cherished.

They're both so fucking stupid. Matthew bites his lip and tries not to choke on the lump in his throat. Could be his heart, climbing right up and out of his mouth. He clings to the sheets with shaking hands.

"I'm not going to fuck up what he's got here," Leon says tiredly, voice thick with tension and pathetic resignation.

Leon's not here to drag him back. He wouldn't do that. So why is he here? Just to torture them both? Being with him doesn't feel like torture. It feels like winning. It feels like defiance and decadence and too much and not enough. It feels like what could have been and what could still be.

He didn't find Leon at that bar and bring him home out of pity, or nostalgia, one last fuck for old times sake. It was... it just was. Not an ending. Not some final goodbye. Proof maybe there could still be something. Getting over it was never an option, Matthew knew that well before he stepped onto the ice as a Panther and found himself staring Leon down all over again.

Matthew's vision is blurring. His eyes sting, warm and wet. There's blood pounding in his ears, and a hand clutching his heart, a vice around his lungs. He hardly remembers how to breathe.

He doesn't catch the rest of Leon's conversation, except something about meeting Connor back at the hotel tomorrow. Meaning he's staying the night, at least. He's staying.

When Leon hangs up the phone, Matthew finally comes up for air. He relaxes his shoulders, listening to the soft thump as Leon taps his phone against his forehead over and over. Then it clatters on the side table. Leon sighs, sniffs, and sinks back under the covers. He tucks right up against Matthew's back, still burning like a furnace, soft muscle and skin brushing Matthew's spine in all the right ways.

He throws an arm around Matthew and finds one of his hands, worming his fingers through the gaps to hold it. His palm is sweaty, not that it matters at all to Matthew. He can't help squeezing Leon's hand a little, but if Leon notices, he doesn't say a word.

Not until he's wrapped tight around Matthew, near suffocating, like any part of them that isn't touching is a sin.

"Love you," Leon mumbles, barely more than a whisper, pressing his lips right to the base of Matthew's neck. Matthew's body can't seem to decide whether to shiver or melt under the heat.

Leon says it like it's inevitable. Painful. Pitiful.

What he's saying is, I'm sorry I love you. I'm sorry I couldn't say it before. I'm sorry I don't know how to say it now. I'm sorry it's too late, it's the wrong place, the wrong time.

Like he doesn't think Matthew could ever understand. And that's the worst part of it all. They're still not on the same page. Tearing down what they never built.

If Leon's only brave enough to say it when Matthew's asleep, then Matthew will just have to be brave enough to say it in the light of day. He doesn't run, and he won't now that he knows he doesn't have to.

He stares into the night outside his window, listening to Leon breathe, feeling his heart beat through Matthew's chest like that's where it longs to be.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow maybe they can stop chasing time long enough to make the most of what they have. To make up for what they've wasted. And whatever happens after, well, maybe they can stop being afraid of that, too.

[godsworstson]

i dont even know what to caption this, just bam and ryan being bam and ryan

[dreaming-of-barbi]

That's so fucked up that people are romantizing Franco, because even Red Barrels are showing him as a total creep and disgusting person. In Outlast Tag I have a feeling that some artists are making him completly different character, making him charming/safe/lovely. I even have seen some people who were drawing him with normal face (without big forehead) and you couldn't tell them that it's the right character design! I feel like Franco enjoyers are more agressive than fans of other Outlast character. Even with Coyle/Eddie simps they seem to understand that they are evil and they murder others, but with Franco I feel like they can take it when someone tell them that he's grown up, murder people in very brutal way and his voice lines are just disgusting... it really seems that people are getting agressive only because someone tell some shit about 🎀✨️Franco🎀✨️. I know his fans isn't the only one that have stick in their ass (cause I seen a lot of shit bout Coyle/Big Grunts/Easterman etc.) but yall need to understand that FRANCO IS A GROWN ASS MAN and you would run for your life if you'd meet someone in irl as 1% fucked up as he is. Saying that he's just a Baby and he made nothing wrong is just 🤮 and problem is in yall if you justificate him and things he made.

idk how to tell you this ,,,, but this game is fictional. The characters are fictional. You're free to feel however you want about them, just like I and anyone else is.

I partially agree with the part about changing his appearance to make him look more "normal" or whatever, but at the same time people are allowed to interpret their favs however they want to. They can draw / write for him however they want to. I don't like "fixing" his face, just because it (personally) feels like saying "he's too ugly", but again, that's just me. As an artist, I know that people are going to have different interpretations of a character I like. It's just part of other people existing in the world. Not everyone thinks like you do, and that's okay.

Do you know how many posts I saw (and STILL see) about Eddie Gluskin, doing essentially the same thing as what you said people do with Franco?? That man would cut you open to "make a baby in you" no hesitation and people still ""romanticize"" him (me fuckin included I LOVE YOU EDDIE). Its just part of liking fucked up characters, some people are going to want to make them more "normal".

Personally, I see the normalization as more like wanting to give him some normalcy in his life, because of his past / lore. I love the idea of letting Franco have a normal life, be a normal person. A life where he never had to deal with the stupid Mafia stuff, had a decent father and never ran into Murkoff, having a normal, happy life. But, I also seriously adore his original, fucked up character.

Honestly, who actually cares if people are "justifying" his actions??? None of them are real. He is not real. I have never understood the sentiment that you have to make sure people know you don't justify a fictional characters actions... they are not real. It's not a real person. None of the things he did happened.

Maybe it's just me, but I would not run from someone like him. That's not some edge lord "im so evil and dark" bs but because of my real life experiences. Been with and around people in my life / family who are quite like him and I didn't run.

I imagine some of us are using it as a sort of coping mechanism, because (at least for me) some of us dealt with people who treated us like he would. Though, that's getting into personal territory, and I won't try and speak for others.

All I can really say is either learn that not everybody's going to have the same ideas as you or block the tag. Sorry if that's too harsh a response, but life is too short to really give that much of a fuck about someone /something other people like.

And I've said this before but this is literally Outlast, all of the characters are this fucked up, it's not just him.

Like does no one remember Outlast 2??? Does no one remember the pile of dead burnt babies, or the hundreds of other fucked up things in that game?? I really feel like Franco does not compare.

So, can we please just be over with this now? I mean, drama is totally fun and I love it, but I can imagine others don't.

[sparklingchim]