Disclaimer: massive spoilers for the series finale. Triggers for pretty brief suicidal thoughts. They both know it. They say it to each other in looks and tentative touches, when House is rubbing Wilson's back when he feels as if he's about to hack up his lungs. In those moments, he doesn't have enough headspace to think, "House loves me," but sometimes he doesn't have to think it. Sometimes it's just his touch on Wilson's back and a few gentle words swathed in sarcasm. He knows. They both know. And what if Wilson was a star? And what if House was the universe, and what if he loved Wilson and let the oceans of time dwindle so he could be with him; only him, forever? What if there was a utopia?

in which a boy is turned on by testosterone, and valentine's day is celebrated a #taygetsthegay one shot [special mention yay]

BOOK ONE Coming out was supposed to set Julian free. Instead, it left him with a broken arm, a mother who won't stop preaching, and a silence that grows heavier every day. High school feels like a cage, and Julian is certain he doesn't belong anywhere-until Paul crashes into his world. With his inked skin, effortless charm, and a following that makes him untouchable, Paul should be the last person Julian lets close. But in Paul's arms, Julian feels something he's never known before: safe. As their connection deepens, so does the danger. Loving Paul means risking exposure, rejection, and heartbreak all over again. Worse, it means facing the cruelest voice of all-the one inside Julian's own head. Tender, raw, and unflinching, Open is a story about first love, first heartbreak, and finding the courage to believe you're worthy of both. ::: I could feel it when his body finally went slack, when he'd fallen asleep and soft snores emitted. And I thought I was getting better at this breaking down thing... I honestly did but when I was alone, I seemed to fall apart. Endless serenades of how worthless I'd been and how destructive I was; I was a disappointment to literally everyone and I hated it. My breathing became shallow as I cried for the second time that day, finally feeling content being immersed in guilt. A shudder wracked through my body, tears escaping and Paul pulled me closer as he woke silently. Mumbling soft nothings against my skin and kissing it to slow my breathing, he tried to lull me to sleep, "It's okay, you're okay." Refusing to speak -my voice failing me- his arm came up to wrap around my shoulder and I held him there, placing a small kiss to his tattooed skin in a broken sign of gratitude, I must've run out of tears. And I felt at ease.

It's true what you've heard. There are people all around the world with extraordinary abilities and powers. For some it runs in their blood line, others, the power is bestowed upon them by family members, families like these are able to pass on their abilities through touch, sight or even sound, all depending on the individual. The Anarchy's are one of those families, a long blood line dating back to the sixteenth century. Passing on their gifts through to every second generation. Ebony, Zen, Zero, Phenix, Lucy, Havoc, Blades and Luna are next in line to receive their powers. Should be the origins of a superhero story right? Wrong. They each grew jealous and bitter, their powers counteracted each other, making it impossible to work together, so they split and went their separate ways. Three years later they're all lured back by a mysterious invitation to a charity masquerade ball on Halloween night. (Slow updates)

Hannigram one shots

Hannibal arrives at his home to discover Will has murdered the man he sent to kill him. (Based on a prompt from tumblr. I may edit it a bit over time.)

John's never had a patient quite as broken as Sherlock Homes. Or as ignorant of the fact that he is, indeed, broken. He speaks rarely, and when he does it's this torrential flow of insults and hurt memories and sadness. He speaks like he doesn't know that he's broken yet, like he thinks he's fine, and superior to everyone else in the room. Maybe he is. John doesn't know. Maybe he's not as beautiful, and clever, and graceful as he believes. Maybe he isn't some kind of ethereal creature that John has had the honour of beholding. Maybe he's just broken. And useless. And alone. John doesn't think so. John thinks he's everything, broken man and all. * Sherlock's never done anything quite like dancing. When he was there, wood springing under his feet, soft and warm and secure, he was happy. Sure. But he didn't know then that he'd give anything to be able to dance again. To have the pain of crushed toes, blisters, aching and biting all the fucking time. He didn't know he'd miss it like he misses breathing. But he does. Sherlock forgets to breathe, sometimes.

Sherlock is bored as usual. He needs JAWN ACTION for...erm...SCIENCE! Yes. Anyway, I suck at descriptions so just read. Contains Johnlock and rated I don't know because I'm making it up as I go along. Maybe it will get porny ;)