two-in-one-day

Clack week 2017

Hey, I haven’t seen a clack week post yet. So, since we do like a lot the puppy and the chocobo-head in this house: I made one! 

Date: august 07 - 13

  • Day 1: bond - dream
  • Day 2: sun - wing
  • Day 3: jacket - game
  • Day 4: uniform - make-up
  • Day 5: cooking - birthday  (since it’s one of Cloud’s birthday ><)
  • Day 6: diary - box
  • Day 7: habit - touch 

SFW or NSFW, friendship or shipping fanworks, participating the full week or one-two days, mashing the prompts together, whatever you feel like. Just enjoy the week.

Tag: clack week 2017, also you can tag me because I want to see everything and gush about it (but I might be slow to do so)

gohugavulcan  asked:

I died at what you wrote in the tags about Hannibal petting touch starved puppy Will. If you ever write that I will read it a thousand times and leave a character-limit-breaking review about all the reasons I loved it but either way the little story in the tags was wonderful ad fuzzy and exactly what I wanted tonight

I hope you liked it! I decided to do a short sequel to the Hannibal pets Will fic with a Will pets Hannibal, set post-s3 fic.


Hannibal’s chest is blotted in purples and blues. He tells Will he has three broken ribs and a few more that are bruised. He says all this without any hint he’s in pain, the only clue Will can find is in his speech, the way his voice is raspy and his breaths are slow and often shallow when he talks. 

It takes Will a week for his hearing to come back to anything close to normal for him to notice those tells.

Will knows Hannibal is an unstoppable force and while Will can slow him down there will always be an inevitability to him. Hannibal, broken and bruised and bleeding, still cooks and he tidies and he changes Will’s bandages as well as his own. Will helps when he can, but a broken knee is enough to slow him down to a torturous, half-bedridden pace.

He’s on a steady intake of pain medication and sleeps most of the day, either in bed or on the terrace under the shade of decades of vines. He wakes up to a tray of whatever Hannibal has decided to feed him. Usually something blended together that can be drunk through a straw and will taste awful but keep him alive until his mouth is ready for chewing.

Hannibal sets the tray down on the small patio table in Will’s reach. Will ignores the food and grabs his wrist before he leaves. It’s difficult to speak and he’s well aware how lucky he is that Hannibal doesn’t need an entire speech to get his point to come here, stay, sit.

Will makes room for him on the lounge chair and Hannibal sits, lilting to one side. His hair is longer. Grayer. He has scruff that’s gone past the itchy stage and into the beginnings of bushy beard territory. 

He watches Will and waits. Years ago he had done the same back in his office and his home. But Will is not as patient, so he pats at his lap and tugs at Hannibal’s sleeve.

Once Hannibal had been shy and Will had been hesitant, unsure of what this would mean now and how this would grow. But it’s been weeks and days and Hannibal is now eager as he settles in a bit stiff, grunting as he lays down beside Will, careful of Will’s knee and his own multitude of injuries. His beard is scratchy through Will’s shirt.

Will wraps his arm around Hannibal’s shoulder, Hannibal places one hand around Will’s side, clutching at him with a hard almost painful grip.

Will runs his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, picking out the different hues of gray and finding the old familiar blond strands that are left. He’s soft and pliant under Will’s hands. His breath is hot against Will’s throat and Will knows he’s looking at him with something too warm for an Argentina summer.

Will doesn’t look back. He keeps his attention on loosening the knots on Hannibal’s neck, on the sticky heat of his back. He feels the bumpy scarred edges of the Mason brand. Hannibal sighs against him and Will pulls him closer and pushes himself further until they are more touching than not. 

He presses his nose into Hannibal’s hair and smells salt and sweat and his lemon scented shampoo. This is what Hannibal must have felt like, how exhilarating it is, no matter how many times they’ve done this, to have the person he wants most in the world melt into him.

2

Steroids, day two, rehab, day one. No quit in this kid. Rewarded myself with a big bowl of vegetables at the food coop. Possibly not the typical suburban dad’s night off the leash. That’s okay.

requests coming today:

  1. Can I request one where roman has to go to his brothers wedding but he doesn’t have a date and his mom is constantly nagging him to find a girl so he says that he has one and that is the reader- his best friend and then he tries to convince her to come with him and play along she’s hesitant )because she doesn’t want to go on a wedding with her crush) but she agrees. His mom really likes her and actually so does roman but he’s afraid to say it and you choose the ending
  2. my request is - Roman really wants a child but his fiancé that is kinda too young for that (he barely convinced her that it isn’t early for an engagement) so she says no. A couple days later her friend comes to the house and she tells the reader that she might be pregnant and the reader goes to buy her a pregnancy test. It turns out positive. When Roman comes home and finds the test in the trash he gets so excited and when she tells him that it’s not hers he’s sad but then she agrees to try

So i had a dream i was watching voltron a while back and Klance canonically kissed and this is kinda what it looked like; a battle was nearing its end and keith was unconscious and i guess lance feared this would be their last battle so he drifted over (there was no gravity for some reason) and kissed the hell outta keith. it was intense.

Why do you write in lowercase?

Why do you keep talking about love, about heartache?

I don’t want to hear about your sadness.

Tell me about the peach trees. About the cherry blossoms,

or the way you smiled at baby Groot.

(I know you did.)

Tell me your equivalent of eating yellow paint,

tell me how the cold made your feet curl.

Did you ask the barista for iced coffee?

I want to know if you laughed at Jimmy Fallon tonight.

Tell me about fairy lights, or leather boots,

or the way the bubbles looked against the incoming traffic.



I don’t want to know your misery anymore.



-

i don’t even know what makes you happy // bluestruckholly

flintsjohn  asked:

For the promt thing, silverflint + 13? Pleaaase! (I love your blog btw!)

(Um, this one is kind of angsty. Sorry! I hope that’s alright. This is set after that conversation in the cabin in 4x08, when Flint doesn’t know the chest is on board yet, and Silver is barely clinging on to his last remnants of trust in Flint’s plans. It’s got a fair bit of ot3-ness about it too, which I hope is ok as well.)  


“How can anyone not be afraid of love?”

The question was apropos of nothing. A thought given voice so quietly that it barely disturbed the air around them, barely existed at all. Flint stilled, unsure of how to reply.

“The things it drives you to do,” Silver continued, his voice a murmur. “It’s not…good or gentle or generous. It’s selfish and destructive. I think perhaps I was better off without it. I think everyone else was better off without me having it too.”  

“Don’t say that,” Flint said, softly. His gaze flicked up to Silver’s face, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to try to catch his eye. Words like these asked to be heard without being seen. Even the light of the candles cast too bright an illumination on them. He would have snuffed them out if he wasn’t afraid that any movement might shatter the atmosphere of the moment. “We’re going to get her back. She and I and everyone will be better off because you won’t rest until she is safe. Because you love her.”

“But that’s not-” Silver said, curling his lip as he cut himself off. “It isn’t that simple. You know it isn’t. You’re speaking in platitudes and I didn’t ask for it. I never ask for that from you. Don’t be so fucking gentle with me.”

Flint sighed. Once, he would have had to fight to swallow his irritation at such a truculent response, but he was just too damn tired. And he knew Silver was tired too. Exhausted. His words were softly slurring round the edges, and it wasn’t with drink. He wasn’t sure from exactly which festering piece of unresolved anger this particular accusation took root, but Flint decided that it mattered little, and that straightforwardness was the only sensible way forward.

“What is it that you do want from me then?” he asked, and he finally persisted in seeking out Silver’s gaze until he had it.

Silver picked at the handle of his crutch, his focus jumping between Flint’s eyes and a point somewhere over his right shoulder.

“I want your honesty,” he said. He paused, swallowing heavily, and then continued, “Did Miranda ever hate you for the things you did for Thomas? Or the cruelties it lead to? Or the selfish choices you made on his behalf, or hers, or your own?”

Flint clenched his fingers. He tried to keep his face calm, keep from his eyes the anger that was so quick to seep out from sore old wounds, but it was barely worth the effort around Silver. If he was an open book to nobody else on Earth, he was to him. Silver could read an essay in the crease of his brow, the deepest of secrets in the twitch of his eye. He wondered whether he would ever find the cipher to allow him to read Silver in the same way, down to the very last word and those most nightmarish of secrets.

“Why?” Flint said, his teeth barely parting to let the word out.

“Because I want to know how singular she was. How uncommon. I want to know what sort of horrors and betrayals were excused because she had your love, and what was excused in return, if you had hers. I want to know what a good person might be willing to forgive. I know the things I would forgive, and the things I would not, but I am not a good person,” Silver said, his eyes now focused unwaveringly on Flint’s. “I’m not,” he added when Flint frowned and opened his mouth to disagree.

Flint twisted the ring on his little finger as he considered how to answer, and contemplated what it seemed that Silver was really asking.

“She forgave a lot of things because I loved her and because she loved me, and because she understood the way Thomas and I loved one another too. Of course she hated some of the things I did, and some of the things to which I subjected her, but she always understood why. I didn’t…I didn’t always love her well. But she forgave it all. She was singular and uncommonly good, but then so is Madi. I think Madi would forgive a great deal too,” he said, his eyes imploring Silver to believe him, as he believed it himself.

“I’m not talking about Madi,” Silver murmured, his gaze piercing and unsettling. 

Flint blinked and frowned, but before he could speak again, Silver pushed himself to standing, the effort looking monumental. Flint was worried for a brief moment that his knee might simply buckle underneath him.

“We both ought to sleep,” Silver said, as he made his way laboriously towards the door. “Whatever happens tomorrow, it will require us both to have our wits about us.”

As the door closed behind him, Flint considered his words again. He was unnerved by them, though he didn’t fully understand them, and they echoed in his mind nonetheless. He knew the things love could drive a person to; knew the corrupted ways in which it could be expressed. ‘I want to know what a good person might be willing to forgive…I’m not talking about Madi.’ The thoughts creeping around the edges of his tired mind, too fragile to withstand much scrutiny, wondered when anyone had last called him good, and what sort of generous forgiveness might be facilitated by his loving and being loved in return. Or what forgiveness might be required. And he wondered whether, just perhaps, he might even be willing to forgive enough to be defined as singular.