#wrote this during dinner

[stararch4ngelqueen]

In spirit of ur last Jason fic can u do a Drabble or small fic w ghost where he has a night terror and when reader tries to help him he really hurts her? Even though she forgives him he doesn’t trust himself. (Maybe she is also a military personnel)

This is not proofread

- -

It’s unclear who’s hand Simon believed he was clutching back with all of his strength. A forearm withholding glimmering, serrated steel from his jugular by an enemy.

The hand of his bastard spawn labeled as his father preparing to strike him down with a fist.

Hands attached to painted faces grasping rusted butcher hooks behind their backs.

A whisper invaded his conscience. A trembling plea from quivering lips, begging him to wake up from his cursed agony. Your voice was soothing, like warm milk and honey, encouraging him to open his eyes.

His heart never hurt so horribly when his mind slipped back into reality, meeting your petrified gaze full of distressed tears.

“Simon.” You speak up through a forcibly calm demeanor, like you remembered to practice.

“Simon. It’s okay, you’re okay … you’re fine. You’re safe.”

He almost believed you, until he fully collected his bearings.

What he saw, what he had done, made all your calm words reach chiming ears.

Its unclear if he had you pinned down to the mattress like he’d done with his shadowy victim. No, regardless, why are you choosing to forgive him so easily?

What he remembered that night was scrambling out of bed, tossing the sheets off his sweaty back. He didn’t look back, refusing to acknowledge your worried cries when you follow him, only halting once the front door slams shut behind him.

He didn’t come home the first night. All phone calls going straight to voicemail for a solid nine hours, just until you remembered he didn’t leave with it.

Simon told you to slap him if he ever caused harm on you. Hit him back, punch him, stab him deep in his scarred ribs, but you never could. Violence struck with violence never stuck well with you, regardless of the battles you fought for your country.

Simon said nothing to you when you greeted him from the kitchen when he came home the next evening. You behaved as if it didn’t happen at first, offering him a sweet, hopeful smile he had no right to visually bare.

“It wasn’t your fault, Simon,” you attempt to convince him, not seeing the wrong he believed he had some to you the night before. No, the wrong he knew he had committed.

“Better off putting a bullet in my damn head.” He murmurs, exhausted eyes refusing to meet yours.

It was the first words he had said since he came back home. Those very words striking a bullet in your heart instead.

“No. No no,” you approach fast, grasping his face in your hands. “No! Don’t you ever say that. Don’t even think about it, Simon!”

Without warning, he clutched your hand, wedding bands clinking against each other as he yanks up your long sleeve, revealing the damage he’d done.

“I hurt you!” He shouts, forcing your other hand off his face. “Get that through your head! How can you stand here and forgive me for this?!”

Bruises. Broad, indigo bruised the size of his fingerprints. Grape colored crescents from his naturally crooked nails painfully digging into your skin, nearly drawing blood.

“You did hurt me,” you say, meeting his furiously narrowed expression with glassy eyes. “You’re hurting me right now the more you keep blaming yourself.”

Simon scoffs after releasing your hand, wanting nothing more than to rid himself of your presence out of self disgust. However, your hand grasps hold of his arm, encouraging him to halt in his step.

“Did you intend it? No,” you shook your head. “You didn’t. That’s not your fault, this is something you can’t control. You can’t blame yourself for that!”

There you go again, continuing to insist he wasn’t to blame for your injuries, conveniently hidden under your long sleeve to appear presentable. As if you could pretend it didn’t happen.

Simon wished he could pretend too, but he’s a strict believer to reality.

What else could you tell Simon to get it through his mind? It was difficult. Even after this discussion, he slept on the couch for nearly two weeks. His natural silence was painful, his heartache for harming you without intent was difficult for him to process.

You couldn’t take it, sleeping alone without your husband. He hadn’t had this kind of episode in weeks, nearly two months in total. Yes, he never hurt you before, but the harm he inflicted upon himself left you feeling powerless to help him.

“Simon?”

Your sweet voice opens his eyes to darkness, his rattled mind preventing him from receiving an ounce of sleep.

There you stood in front of the couch, a thin blanket draped over your shoulders, a heavily distressed expression invading your sniffling face.

You missed him. Even since before you were married, you used to enjoy sleeping alone. These weeks of distance had you realizing what hell you were immersed in, sleeping in an empty bed without your death masked killer protecting you from the cold.

Sleeping on the couch wasn’t new, crammed together like little fishes in a tin was how the both of you slept when you first moved into your home late at night. The both of you too tired to construct the bed frame or unwrap the mattress from copious amounts of heavy plastic.

Simon missed you too, regardless of his guilt. He missed your koala like tendency to cling to his body as if you lived in the Antarctic all your life, submerged in your dreams with the sound of his heartbeat to keep you company.

Thousands of screaming apologies express in the silent essence of his tears as he holds you, pondering over what he could do to make sure this never happens again.

[steddieas-shegoes]

cw: mentions of scarring, canon-typical violence, flashback (not graphic), minor body horror (again, not graphic, mostly just emotional feelings about scars)

♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️

Everyone gave him weird looks when they walked in, quickly schooling their features when they noticed he was awake and watching them.

He didn’t know exactly what that was about.

They had him on a lot of good drugs.

But eventually he got weaned off them, and he noticed the pull of bandages on his side, and his arm, and his neck, and his face.

He was still unable to get out of bed. Still couldn’t even reach his arms above his chest for more than a few seconds.

But he damn sure reached up to feel the cloth and plastic surrounding his cheek. How had he not noticed for days? How had no one bothered him about it?

Maybe they had and he just didn’t notice. The morphine was one hell of a drug.

Wayne was soft, patient with him. Saw him touching it, saw the way his eyes filled with tears. He’d never been particularly vain, hadn’t cared much about what he looked like to others, but this felt bigger than that. This felt like he was changed in a way that everyone could see.

Add it to the list of things people could bully him for.

He cried himself to sleep, Wayne’s hand in his, silently comforting in the way he’d always done.

When he woke up again the next morning, he was alone.

It was the first time he’d been alone since the boathouse.

He could swear he heard bats outside his door, screams coming from the attached bathroom, flashes of someone dying on the ceiling.

He felt the sharp sting of teeth puncturing his skin.

He felt hopelessness creep into his bones as he gave in.

Maybe this time they would finish the job.

“Eddie!”

Steve Harrington’s voice broke through the thoughts, panicked enough to bring Eddie back to his hospital bed within a second of hearing it.

“Shit, are you okay?” He continued, hand brushing against Eddie’s bandaged cheek.

Eddie nodded once, closed his eyes, leaned into the touch.

He could blame it on any number of things if Steve felt weird about it. The morphine, the flashback, the loneliness.

“You’re okay, Eddie. I promise. Won’t let anything happen to you,” Steve whispered.

Eddie believed him.

He fell back asleep with Steve’s hand gently cupping the mangled side of his face.

If Steve could still touch him there, then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️

Steve came by every day, sometimes in the early morning, before visiting hours officially started, sometimes well after Wayne had left to get some sleep. He always smiled when he walked in, a genuine one, not the one everyone else gave that was so fully of pity and pain he couldn’t bear to make eye contact. He sat down on the side of the bed, not the chair like everyone else, not scared to be close.

And every single day, without fail, he would run his finger along the edge of Eddie’s bandage on his face, watching his own movements and cataloging any changes.

Eddie sat quietly, still, scared to put words to anything happening. Scared to tell Steve what it meant to him to have someone acknowledge his pain in this way. Scared to think Steve could mean anything by it.

It was easy to pretend Steve was doing this because he cared.

Maybe he did care.

But he didn’t care the way Eddie wanted him to, needed him to.

So he stayed quiet, still.

He watched.

He fell asleep while Steve talked about his day, the kids, what Joyce made Hopper do around the house.

He woke up alone most days, but that was okay, because Steve would be there eventually.

♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️

“You ready to get that thing off?” Wayne asked, gesturing to the bandage.

“Oh. Today?” Eddie suddenly didn’t want to ever be without the bandage. Removing it meant he’d see what was under it.

It meant seeing how much that place had ruined him.

The pull of the stitches hadn’t been as obvious with the pull of the bandage masking it.

But now it’s all he felt.

The nurse smiled at him as she put some antibiotic cream over the area, saying he would probably still have to keep it extra clean for the next week or so while the stitches did their job.

Wayne smiled at him in the way that meant he didn’t really want to smile at all, but knew Eddie needed him to.

Steve didn’t come.

Eddie didn’t sleep.

♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️♦️

He woke up with panic in his chest and a silent scream in his throat.

He woke up with Steve’s hand on his face.

Gentle, soft, but a strong comfort.

“Promise I washed them first. They said we have to be careful about germs,” Steve said quietly.

“You don’t have to. I know it’s…it’s gross. It’s ugly. I’m ugly.”

Steve shook his head. “No. Not gross. Not ugly. Alive.”

“Steve-“

“You’re alive, Eddie. You could have your entire face held together by staples and you would still be a miracle. You’d still be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Well, Steve’s charm wasn’t an exaggeration, was it?

He wasn’t even sure if the skin barely pulled together could blush anymore, or if the heat that should be on his cheek was burning on the outside the way it felt like it was on the inside.

“It’s gonna be awful when it heals. I saw it in the mirror.” Eddie could feel every stitch in his jaw, the few that spread across the corner of his mouth and bottom lip, the ones that were nearly up to his ear. “I’ll always have a crooked face. The scar will always be huge. It’s all anyone will see.”

“Then they aren’t looking.”

Eddie bit his lip, eyes searching Steve’s. “But you are.”

“No. I’m seeing. There’s a difference. I see you. I see what you’ve survived. I see the mark it left on you. I know it wasn’t just the scars that cover your skin.” Steve leaned his head down, touching Eddie’s forehead with his own. “We all have them. And we’re all still here. Your heart’s beating. That’s all that matters to me.”

“Who knew you were so good with words?” Eddie smiled sadly.

“Robin says I’m just good at not having a filter.”

“She’s right as always.” Eddie wrapped his fingers around Steve’s wrist, turning as slowly as he could to kiss his palm. “You’re not scared of it.”

“No. Are you?”

“I’m scared that you’ll change your mind when it’s always there as a reminder of what happened.”

Steve kissed his nose, making him smile for the first time in what felt like years.

“I’ll have the reminder that I got you out of there. That no matter what, the bats couldn’t finish the job. That you were stronger and you made it.” Steve let his hand drop, but quickly laced his fingers with Eddie’s. “I know it’s a lot to ask of you to trust me, but will you? For today?”

“Just today?”

“I’ll ask again tomorrow.”

“And what? Every day after that?”

Steve smirked.

His eyes were glistening with tears, but Eddie could tell it wasn’t sadness or fear.

“If that’s what I have to do.”

They hadn’t even talked about feelings, not really. Nothing that made any sense to Eddie, nothing that they could define. A part of Eddie was still convinced he was in a coma and dreaming this entire conversation up.

But even the nurse had noticed the way Steve watched him, how he touched him, how he fought for him. She said he’d been a firecracker from the moment he carried him into the hospital, dripping blood on the tile, staining the halls with his demands for help.

Wayne said he barely left his side the first day, only doing so when the doctors had told him they would call the cops if he didn’t.

Erica even noticed how things had changed between them, stating that she refused to watch her babysitter and the only DM she had respect for make out.

But Steve held Eddie, made him feel like he could get out of the hospital bed and live a life that wouldn’t keep him running. Steve was there.

Steve might even love him. If not now, then some day.

And Eddie could trust him today.

He could probably trust him tomorrow.

“Kiss me?” Eddie probably shouldn’t. The stitches tugged when he talked, and another mouth anywhere near his wounds was just asking for an infection.

But Steve would be careful. He knew what Eddie could handle.

It was barely a kiss. A graze of the lips at most.

But it was the best kiss Eddie had ever had.

At least until tomorrow.

[whipbogard]

Think I'd like to stay a minute longer

“I don’t remember it being this difficult,” Harvey says, amused, but the frustration is also evident in his voice as he pushes and pulls at the Batsuit’s utility belt.  

Bruce smiles, placing his hands over Harvey’s and gently guiding them to where the hidden latches are on his belt instead of letting him fumble blindly.  “It’s been over a decade, Harv.” A click and the belt goes loose. Another click and the belt comes off, sliding down Bruce’s hips gracefully before landing on the plush carpeted floor with a thud. Harvey kicks the belt to the side and Bruce laughs. “Technology evolves; so does the suit.”  

Harvey looks up at Bruce from where he’s sitting on the bed, his good eye squinting. “Nerd,” he says, but he pulls Bruce in closer anyway and kisses the Bat symbol on his chest. There was a time, from a very long time ago, when undressing The Bat didn't feel like trying to figure out a complicated mechanical puzzle. But loving Bruce? That is something that will always be familiar to him.

--------------------------------------------------

Posted this with an older drabble on AO3. I can now have a collection yey because I've wrote two (2) drabbles!

[piratekane]

(post-3x05 kacy scene)

Warm fingertips press down against the thin skin on the inside of her wrist, a melody she knows that she knows but can’t quite place in the early grey of the morning, the sun rising, muted, through the low clouds outside the window. She was asleep a minute ago and there’s a dream quickly fading away as her eyes open slowly and the room shifts into focus.

“Morning,” Kate whispers, still sunken in her pillow.

“G’morning.” Lucy pulls the words from the back of her throat like she’s pulling cotton from a cattail. “Time s’it?”

Kate doesn’t roll over to check her phone. “Early,” she guesses. “Too early for our day off.”

A day off. A present for her jungle excursion, courtesy of Tennant. A whole day to let her body come down from the high of being chased through thick vegetation with a life hanging delicately in her hands. Lucy lets her eyes close again and sinks back into her pillow. She goes back to focusing on Kate’s fingers looped carefully around the wrist between them. Tap, tap, taptap. Tap, tap. A song, then. One that she knows but can’t quite place.

“Is that Boot Scootin Boogie?”

Kate exhales a short laugh. “Taylor Swift.”

“Who else would it be?” Lucy feels the bed shift as Kate slides a little closer. She can feel the soft heat coming off Kate’s bare arms and wants to reach for it, pull it back over her, close her eyes and slip back into sleep for just a little bit longer.

It was a long day yesterday, her nerves pulled to their breaking point. When she stepped over the threshold to their apartment, the weight she had been working so hard to push off came crashing down on her. She doesn’t remember tasting the pizza Kate ordered, doesn’t remember picking Love is Blind on the TV or queuing up where they left off. She doesn’t remember brushing her teeth or turning out the light.

She does remember Kate’s body warm behind her on the couch, her own body pressed to Kate’s front as they sat wrapped up in each other. She remembers Kate’s arms and how they wrapped low around her waist in bed and held her tightly. She remembers soft lips to her bare shoulder and I love you against her skin as she let the exhaustion take over.

She remembers the Kate of it all, the steady and warm and loving presence she’s come to need like oxygen in her lungs. She remembers the overwhelming feeling of love—one she thought she’d never find in a million years.

“I could sleep another hundred hours,” she admits, eyes still closed.

She feels Kate’s smile against the back of her hand. “You can. We have nothing planned today.”

The thought is so tempting. She could pull Kate’s arms around her, drape them over her like the light comforter they’re sharing, and let herself sink back into sleep. It’s not too far off; she could reach for it and be asleep in moments.

But Kate is awake and tapping out a Taylor Swift song against her pulse point and that usually means banana pancakes and a Golden Girls marathon and pressing Kate against the counter edge and kissing her until either their lungs start to burn or the pancakes start to smoke. Lucy loves those mornings and the way Kate tastes like the bites of bananas she snuck before mixing them into the batter.

“Did I dream yesterday?”

“Only if we were having the same nightmare.” Kate’s free hand pushes back some of Lucy’s hair. “Otherwise, it was real.”

Lucy slides her foot forward, curling her ankle around Kate’s calf. “I thought so.” She opens one eye, studying Kate’s profile. She’s committed it to memory by now. “I feel like a truck ran me over.”

“It did,” Kate murmurs. “That very much happened.”

Lucy sighs. Yesterday wasn’t a dream. She can see it vividly in her mind and she closes her eyes against it again, trying to fill it with Kate—Kate so close and so warm.

“I’m not ready to talk yet,” she admits. She isn’t. She can’t. She’s still working through her family in her own mind; she can’t possibly put into words what they’re like and what they’ve done to her and to each other.

“We don’t have to talk.” Kate’s voice is soft and genuine and Lucy thinks again—again and again—how lucky she is. “We can just lay here. We don’t have to do anything at all.”

Lucy knows Kate isn’t lying. She knows Kate won’t push and she won’t prod and she’ll let Lucy set the pace for when and where and how. And it sounds perfect—a whole day in bed with Kate and their bodies pressed close together, hidden away from the world.

But someone told her to live her life yesterday. Someone who had the courage to throw theirs to the wind and start over from scratch. Someone who proved that there are still good people in the world who want to do what’s right for the sake of doing the right thing. And even if she can’t talk about it yet, even if she’s not ready to unlock the ugly parts of her past and lay them out on the table, she’s not going to lay in bed all day and let the world just pass her by.

“No.” She opens both eyes, staring deeply into Kate’s brown ones. “Let’s get up. We can make pancakes.”

“Banana or blueberry?”

“Both,” she says, feeling greedy and not caring. “And bacon. And toast. And—“

Kate laughs. “Okay. Remember we can only eat so much.”

“I can eat so much. I’m from—“

“Texas, yes.” Kate laughs again and leans in, kissing Lucy softly and pulling away too soon.

Lucy thinks about chasing her, pressing her deep into the mattress and not stopping until she has to come up for air. But she settles on letting Kate pull away and slide out of bed, pulling her hair up into a ponytail that exposes the long line of her neck. In her thin tank top and her soft shorts, no one has ever looked more beautiful than Kate does right now.

Lucy may be holding some things back, may be keeping some things close to the vest, but this? This she wants to scream from the rooftops. This she wants everyone to know. This she wants to tell Kate.

“I love you.”

Kate looks back over her shoulder, a smile on her face that threatens to break through the grey clouds outside their window. “I love you too.”

Live your life, Lucy Tara.

Lucy smiles as she gets up and stretches her arms above her head, feeling the tension break in her shoulders. She is going to live her life. She’s going to take every moment and hold it tightly in her hands. She’s going to love Kate with every part of her that’s capable of it and when she’s ready she’ll tell Kate everything she wants to know.

“Lucy?”

Lucy looks up. “Hmm?”

“I said, we can make toast too. If you want.”

She thinks about it for a moment before she smiles. “Life is too short to skip the toast.”

Kate rolls her eyes, pulling the sheet back up on the bed. “Where did you read that?”

“That’s a Lucy Tara quote, free of charge.” She winks when Kate laughs and scrubs her hair back off her neck into a bun. “There’s more where those came from, by the way.”

“Lucky me,” Kate grumbles, still smiling.

“Yeah,” Lucy says softly. “Lucky you.” She holds Kate’s eyes for a moment. “Lucky us.”

Kate’s smile slips into shy before she clears her throat and gives the neatly-made bed one last pat. “Lucky us,” she echoes. She slips out of the bedroom and heads towards the kitchen, humming something under her breath.

Lucy watches her walk away and thinks: this is a good life. This is a life worth living.

She follows Kate.

[shibusawaz]

actually I think that fyodor and nikolai ARE friends, that fyodor genuinely intends to be a friend to nikolai. That nikolai genuinely does value fyodor.

but I also think that friendship is really, really fucking codependent. I think that fyodor needs nikolai to rely on him. I think fyodor provides nikolai a sense of acception and belonging because nikolai will return this with wholehearted belief in him. I think that fyodor needs a challenge, a challenge that nikolai provide without becoming a driving problem for fyodor. I think the spirit of their friendship is "if you accept my flaws and quirks and oddities I'll accept yours. I'll feed into them and enable your behavior" I think that, if anything, fyodor is dazai's opposite. the reason fyodor is so bad, the reason fyodor is a "demon" like dazai was, is that he has no one to form a balanced relationship with him. He has someone who accepts him and his flaws and supports him. He has many, many people who try to challenge him on his wrong beliefs. I think he needs someone who does both. I think the reason fyodor, as a person, cannot develop is because he is so trapped in this loop of competition with those on his level and manipulation of those below it, is because he hasn't realized all of this. Unlike dazai, fyodor hasn't realized, or doesn't completely understand, that even some "godlike genius" such as him or dazai can enjoy the company of others. I think the same goes for nikolai too. I think, even though he's not on the same iq level as fyodor, I think they both have the same low emotional intelligence. Nikolai just responds to this "outlandish idea" of enjoying someone's company much more violently. I think that Nikolai wants to kill fyodor not out of a desire to be free, but out of a fear of being trapped. I think that he's, like fyodor, hasn't processed the value of being friends with someone. However, I think that nikolai, instead of ignoring this like fyodor, takes action and blames it on his mentality. I also think they're both mentally ill

[dreamonminecraft]

These people are seriously tearing my patience as a writer like how tf am I supposed to write a fic with no side characters. Here's Dream George and Sapnap. They have no friends. They have two managers and a camera man. Cameraman's name is Tony but not really. I might make him and Sapnap date just because there is nobody else in this godforsaken baren wasteland.

[jacereaall]

Souvenirs for when it's over

Characters from @jflashandclash 's series: The Traitors of Olympus

[lookedlikethebins]

i can't exist within my own head

After failing to make any progress on a solo project (again), George turns in early. Matty had been so supportive and kind to him all day, and George feels bad turning away from him, but he can't stand his own ineffectiveness. His own shortcomings. His obvious, involuntary flaws. When Matty finally comes to bed, George feels the need to apologize. But for what, Matty isn't sure…

Short 1.3k oneshot based on the text post, "Sex is cool but has anyone stayed awake with you just because you are feeling low?" [sent by a lovely mutual so everyone say thank you for such great accidental inspo] also on ao3.

---

George needed to remove the clock from their bedroom.

He’d never noticed the ticking before. Despite each second making the exact same sound—the same mechanical click into the next position—there was an imagined sense of rising tension, increasing volume. A countdown. Or the past-due count forward after time has run out. The inventory of borrowed time. And George could account for every second of it.

George had gone to bed early. He spent most of the afternoon working on a project he thought he would’ve had presentable weeks ago but continued to fiddle with nearly every day to no actual progress. The only thing that stopped him—made him decide to give up—was Matty’s quiet interruption to tell him dinner was ready:

A gentle knock on the door George had thought—through his headphones—was the sound of his coffee mug resting back on his coaster; a gentle, familiar hand running along George’s shoulders as Matty entered his peripherals with a silent hello; those same hands nudging off George’s headphones as Matty sat across his lap, kissing the wrinkles of his furrowed brow; kissing his lips, slow and full, as George rested one hand along Matty’s waist and the other over his legs; Matty breaking the kiss to tell George, again, that dinner was downstairs and he should take a break to eat with his husband.

After cleaning up, George went straight upstairs. Dinner had been wonderful, as it always was with Matty, but even the simple time alone washing dishes gave his self-doubt and loitering insecurity the chance to gain their ground and lay claim to George’s mood once again. He left Matty to finish his post-dinner cigarette and evening reading alone in the living room as he lay in their bed, staring at the ceiling. Watching the slivers of light from the setting sun on the ceiling change to the glow of the moon.

Finally noticing that fucking clock.

Matty came into their bedroom when it was fully dark outside. George didn’t know how long it had been—although he should have, considering he was conscious of every second that went by. The sound of the doorknob turning and light from the hallway casting over the room startled George. He felt like he’d lost track of something, suddenly uneasy by the company. His self-criticism hated an audience.

George had left Matty’s bedside lamp on for him. The big light was off, leaving George in only partial, borrowed light. Matty was able to find his way to their bathroom, leaving the door open and casting more light into their bedroom and over George—in the shape of the door—as he brushed his teeth.

Matty’s brushing, gargling, and spitting drowned out the sound of the clock. But even when George couldn’t hear it, he still felt an ongoing pulse in anticipation for another second passed. George was still borrowing time. Or, as maybe Matty thought, wasting it.

“What’re you still doing awake? Thought you went to sleep ages ago.” Matty slid under the blankets while still tossing aside his shirt. The warmth of Matty’s body, a faint echo beside George’s, was immediate. A rejection to the cold clutches of self-imposed isolation.

“Tried to.”

“Can’t sleep in this bed alone, can you?” Matty said with a wink, lowering his head to rest on George’s shoulder. Matty placed his hand over George’s chest and made him aware of his own heartbeat, feeling it jolt against his ribs and up toward the body, warmth, touch that wasn’t his own.

“You know me too well.” George said, trying not to make it sound like a curse.

“Well, you know I feel the same way about you.” Matty continued, gently patting George’s chest. “Being alone in bed just always seems to remind me what I’m missing—even if I do get all the blankets finally. They’re not as warm as you are.”

George turned to smile at Matty but knew he had nothing left in him to match Matty’s aching sincerity and open joy. George looked dejected and uninterested, he knew it. After the dinner Matty had made him and generously open-ended questions he always asked about George’s projects, wanting to let him work on things solo and with his own “genius,” but still asking with enough specificity to gather his own insight; the way he hurried to his side, pleased to see him while George was feeling shrouded in a frustration and guilt so thick Matty’s touch to his chest and kiss on his shoulder felt like accidental grazes.

The room was quiet. George could hear the clock again. He could feel Matty’s nose against his neck. The weight of his arm, heavy across his chest. The faint flicker of Matty’s eyelashes against his skin as he blinked.

He was awake. He was staying awake.

Guilt coated George’s insides and made even his words drag out of his mouth, reluctant and stunted. “Matty, I-I don’t think—Tomorrow, okay? I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“I don’t really want to do anything tonight.” George closed his eyes to limit the input of disappointment he’d have to endure; he already heard his own voice; he didn’t want to see Matty’s face too. “Sorry.”

He felt Matty pull away from him. The warmth on George’s neck was gone and the hand previously on his ribs pushed the mattress down as Matty held himself over George. He didn’t want to look.

George couldn’t stand himself. All Matty had done for him, and he still slipped deep into a dark and broken mood. It was as if saying Matty wasn’t enough to ever stop it from taking over. But Matty was always enough.

Although, “enough” implied Matty to be a certain amount of something when, really, he was the something. He was everything. And George just wished, in that moment and in their bed, he could give his own everything to Matty.

“George, look at me.” Matty whispered. George braced himself for a furrowed look of confusion or maybe worry—Matty thinking he’d done something wrong—but instead saw a softer, more concerned look weighing down Matty’s features. “You don't have to apologize for that. We never have to do anything.”

“But you let me work all afternoon, even when I’m pretty sure I’m just making that whole project worse at this point. And you made dinner and—”

“Which I did because I love you. Because you would do those things for me. Not because I wanted to cash in on anything.” Matty said. He was stating the obvious, but with the kindness of establishing it for the first time. For the insecure part of George that was, in a way, always hearing it for the first time. “I can tell you’re not feeling alright. Could tell the moment I saw you working. I would never expect—never, never, George. I just want to be here and make sure you don’t think you’re holding any of it alone. Whatever it is.”

George lifted his head from his pillow and met Matty halfway for a kiss—partly hesitant and apologetic, partly relieved that even through his grimace his lips still fit the same against Matty’s. He still had something to give, something complementary to the everything in Matty.

When George said I love you, Matty said it back but never with the obligatory “too.” Never I love you, too. His love was separate and independent from George’s offering. His was its own constant. A special way of loving George that wasn’t reciprocal to the way George adored and loved and cherished all of Matty. He wasn’t returning any favors or learning by example. This love was his own, something he had—made—within himself and wanted to give, proud and willing, to George. And George was always grateful to accept, to have, to hold against him: flush and warm, giggling and squirming from George’s cold hands on his back, chin resting on his chest. Never having to speak to feel understood.

I love you.

And I love you.

[bdor1995]

pentiment liveblog

oh bro no please dont bring up martin luther up at dinner at the monastery i (the player) have social anxiety

[industria-adastra]

[Puella Magi Madoka Magica] - Love, love, love (I watched you behind bars) - [1/3] - Fool me once

Next

Summary: To love was to let go. Homura found that to let go was to be alone.

A.k.a: I wrote three drabbles in a fit of sudden inspiration on the dinner table because ???

-----

They said to love was to let go.

When Homura was young, stupid and naïve, she'd stepped down—one step, one timeline at a time—into the waters of a madness called love. But oh, it was all too terribly easy to love a girl like Madoka. 

Fourteen year old Homura had no one but electronic screens, professional caretakers and an uncle who likely wouldn't have noticed if she dropped dead unless notified.

Fourteen year old Madoka was a shining star of kindness, freely offering care to a starving child. She'd offered a hand and waited.

Homura had grabbed on and did not let go.

She did not let go, for if she did, Madoka's light would vanish, out in a flash. Again, and again—lifeless pink eyes would stare back.

Just a regular Tuesday for a magical girl.

[highdensityrabbitsituation]

great news everyone: I'm gonna fuck my ex-boyfriend's boss

[kanekoii]

you offered the matchup……so now im tempted………

so, my name is hannah, obviously 🙏 uhhh I was born in October and i genuinely have no clue what my sign is HAHAH i love love love love LOOOOVEEEE singing and dance, ive done competitive dance since i was two years old. I like to say i have a decent singing voice, i made honors choir this semester if that helps anything?? 😭😭 im more of an ambivert but if i had to choose im more of an extrovert but in extremely shy around my s/o. im bisexual so any gender works!!! i would just prefer male LMAOO.. i have a more gothic/grunge style which my friends have said is like completely different from my personality. my love language is quality time & physical touch 🫶🫶 sorry if that not enough

english is my 2nd language so im sorry if i made any mistakes!!

it’s okay non native english speaker gang cuz it’s not my first either 💕💕 AND OMG ANOTHER COMPETITIVE DANCER SINCE RHEY WERE TWO ONG OMG NE TOO I LOVE U (your english is very good btw at least to my japanese speaking self!!)

you’ve been matched with…

luca kaneshiro!!

he’ll go to all of your dance competitions to support you! even if he doesn’t know anything about dance, luca just wants to show that he supports you! he thinks your style of dress is hot too, he’s just SMITTEN with you. you said you’re shy around your s/o so he will absolutely pick up the slack for you! you will NEVER hear the end of it from our favorite silly mafia boss. he thinks your shyness around him is absolutely adorable!!

sing for luca and he will be in absolute heaven, he believes your voice is absolutely amazing and so angelic. please take care of our favorite mafia boy.

[corybiit]

It is weird to see them praying. To hear their whispers. The anger of my mother reflected on her face when I told her I wasn’t coming. The option of not going, it had never been an option before.

I hear her speech now, and I feel the shame she carries for being called my mother. The shame and anger, the disappointment. How long has it been since I’ve become that anger?

She doesn’t love me how she’s supposed to because she has decided I am not what I was supposed to be. I’m not her daughter, I haven’t been for a long time. I killed that little girl and now use her body to play the son she never wanted.

I’m the son they prayed for.

I’m a curse to her world, an unending storm of trying. I’m not her daughter and I’m not her son, I’m penitence, a sin, a stain in her family tree. I’m a punishment from a god who doesn’t even exist to me.

[villanevehaus]

the real question is are my brainworms and the ants that live in my skull going to allow me to put tme down for the duration of not one, but TWO movies today? tune in at 12 for more

[listenerofpodcasts]

prodigy, 11/09/24 by me

[retiredteabag]

winter weight (nanami ver)

Synopsis: nanami has gained some weight this winter, it seems you don't mind.

based on this fanfic I wrote for Toji which was based on this fanart! thank you @lil-sis for requesting more nanami :,)

〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰

You had known Nanami Kento for years before you were romantically involved. He had never made an inappropriate comment, always treated you with the utmost respect, and was all-around, the truest form of a gentleman.

For a time, you locked away your feelings for the kind man, sure he could never see you in that way, but little did you know, the man in question hid from your gaze, not because he did not want to see you, but in fear that you would see him. See him for what he was: a man, obsessed.

You had been with Ken for nine months now and he was everything you could want and more. He was communicative, thoughtful, and romantic. He looked at you in a way nobody had before. Likewise, for you, those nine months passed with comfortable ease.

This was your first winter together, and with the changing of the seasons you learned day by day that the man you knew was your life partner. The both of you were homebodies in a sense, however, with the chilly air and light snowfall this week, you were even more keen on a night in together.

You raced around the house, lighting candles, simmering mulling spices on the stove, and laying out blankets for the two of you. The house felt even cozier knowing that Ken was coming to join you.

He had spent the afternoon with his parents and was coming over after having dinner, he told you to eat without him and you had just finished cleaning your plate when you received a text,

"I am on my way now, sweetheart, is there anything you would like from the store?"

Ken was like this, domestic in the way that made you want to bounce around the room. You thought for a moment before deciding you would probably need more eggs. Earlier this week the two of you had planned a movie night, the next morning you were both hoping to bake cookies together while playing board games or taking turns reading to one another.

You informed him of the need for eggs and he told you he would be just a few more minutes. During that time you scrolled through the choices of movies, picking a few for the two of you to choose from.

Despite being together longer than the gestational period for a baby human, you still received butterflies in your stomach at the thought of his arrival. Knowing he was nearly home, you bounded to the kitchen and faced the door, the room smelled delicious, the only thing missing was his presence, and perhaps another layer of clothing.

Even so, you could hear his footsteps approach and knew that the two of you would share a blanket and body heat in no time.

When the man finally opened the door he was smiling shyly, a red dusting across his face from the cold. He wore a long winter coat, and in his arms were a bouquet of flowers and a wrapped gift.

You rushed to greet him, taking the day bag from his arm,

"Oh! Ken, they're beautiful!" You stood on tiptoe as he bent his knee and you kissed his cold cheek. "Goodness, you're freezing! Come in please!"

"Hello, my love." He smiled more broadly now, wrapping his free arm around you, "This if from my parents, but they told me not to let you open it until the holidays."

A warmth ran through you, the Nanami's were all too kind. Kento set the flowers on the counter and stepped toward the coat rack by the door to retire his shoes and jacket.

In the motion it took for him to pull the sleeves off his broad shoulders, you took him in. Leaning on the kitchen counter you allowed yourself to stare at him. His dress shirt was tight on his arms, and his suit pants clung to his thighs. You took a step toward him again.

"I almost don't want you to change, you look so handsome in your work clothes."

"Well, I've certainly put on some weight. These pants hardly fit now." he looks increasingly uncomfortable, not to be in your presence but to show that he was dressed in such a tailored fashion.

"Ken, my dear, you look incredible." You contain the desire to squeeze his thigh by walking to the bedroom and bringing out a pair of sweats and a cotton shirt.

"Although you are a delight to see this way, I'll let you get comfortable." You smile and pinch his bicep.

"Thank you, dear, I don't believe I've ever been so heavy. It's all the good restaurants you introduce me to, perhaps I should get back into the gym." He had grabbed the soft clothes you picked for him and walked into the bedroom to change.

"You're the one bringing me to all those good restaurants so you can't just blame me." You smile from outside the door.

"I'm just grateful you're with me" He laughs, pulling the shirt over his head.

"Ugh!" You exclaim, "Of course, Ken, don't say something so ridiculous." He laughs but you are still caught on what he said earlier. "And don't start going to the gym, you look great, very chewable."

He pops out from behind the door and looks down at you, amused. "I'm not sure how to feel about that descriptor, but if you still like me with extra weight, then I suppose I can remain comfortable."

"Still like you?" You gasp offended, "Ken, I grow more attracted to you every day, I don't care how tight your clothes are, in fact, it's a good look."

He gives you a mischievous face, "Go sit on the couch, pick a movie, stop trying to seduce me."

You laugh, incredulous, "I'm not trying anything, I'm only speaking the truth." You shrug, bounding to the couch and crawling beneath the blanket. Ken brings two mugs of cider before joining you.

That night you lay on his chest, watching a cheesy romance, the both of you laughing at the silly main character. You tilt your head up, to watch his face, your eyes catching the beginning of a few grey hairs dispersed in his blonde hair. You gently run your hand through his undercut.

In that moment, in his arms, as comfortable as you've ever been, you are sure, he is the man you will grow old with.