#CRYING HE LOVES HER SO MUCH

[sophfandoms53]

THEY’RE FINALLY LETTING KIRK COOK IN THIS ROLE OH WE LOVE TO SEE IT

AND WE’RE RE-EMBRACING JUST HOW FUCKING COOL SHADOW IS AND HOW COMPASSIONATE HE AND MARIA TRULY WERE WITH EACH OTHER???

WE TRULY ARE SO FUCKING BACK AND WE WILL NEVER TURN BACK AGAIN

[unadulteratedloathings]

Um, Janet ... quick question: can anyone access our search history, or is this an incognito browsing situation like when you're stalking a hot mailman from your work computer?

bonus:

[maiko-coy]

You're my angel Angel baby, angel You're my angel, baby Baby, you're my angel Angel baby

[gayofthefae]

You know how I know Mike is queer?

These are the same person. Mike is an inherently caring, loving, and protective person. It's what Will called out in 4x08 and reminded us of with Mike's desire and practice in attempt to be a "hero" and be able to help the ones he loves.

But when El tells him she feels unloved by him, he doesn't comfort her. At all. He defends himself. He doesn't even say "yes I do". He says "I say it". Even when he's arguing that he loves her, he is defending himself, not comforting her. If he was comforting her he would have reacted to her crying at all. He doesn't. He just becomes increasingly desperate and escalates the tactics that are making her cry more.

Because the accusation is that important to him. Not many things could be so important to him that he would deprioritize her or taking care and protecting and comforting those he loves. He even does quite well at it at the start of the scene. We have PROOF that he is pretty stable these days with any sort of accusation or invalidation with how well he takes "you don't understand" and simply asks questions without any sort of offense. So he CAN take it. He takes it IN THIS CONVERSATION.

But when she says he doesn't love him, he stops the "they just don't know you". He stops the "don't say that about yourself, you're lovable," which is what this is really about for her. If he had said that even if he couldn't say it himself, it might have still helped a little bit: frame it as his own fault if he can't. But he couldn't do that. Instead, he went with how it reflected on HIM that he couldn't say it and defended himself AGAINST her. FOUGHT her on it.

There are few things that can make him fight a person. And they've all actually been pretty similar. They're all El:

"You're prioritizing El over Will"

"There is something off about your relationship with El"

"You're prioritizing El over [Will]"

"He's right that your and [El's] relationship wasn't a good one"

"Your and El's relationship wasn't a good one"

"You're prioritizing El over [Will]"

"You don't love [El]"

He is comforting. He is kind. He prioritizes others' comfort and safety consistently. He takes other accusations fairly lightly and focuses back onto the person making them and their emotions. And yet, what does he say in those instances and only those instances?

"SHUT. UP."

"You lying piece of shit. You're crazy!"

"It's not my fault you don't like girls!"

"He's just some crazy old man"

"You're conspiring against me!"

"We're friends! We're friends!"

"You're being ridiculous. What is this?"

People who say his character has gotten worse are stating it under the idea that he is always like this. The entire discovery so many people, including myself, had that he's queer was because we noticed that his outbursts were consistent. People think he's random and angry because they think the situations are random: Lucas, Hopper, Will, Max, El. But they're forgetting to note what each of those people questioned about him right before.

The biggest proof is that he doesn't ever talk like this outside of these situations. It's lighthearted debates and empathetic conversations.

Mike Wheeler is a kind person. If he said "You're being ridiculous. What is this?" it is not just because he's scared of vulnerability or commitment.

[demigods-posts]

i would pay so much money to see the last chapter of moa in percy's perspective. i need to see him anxiously awaiting annabeth's return. i need to see him silently cry into her hair when she falls apart in his arms. i need to see him beaming with pride when she describes how she completed a quest no child of athena ever could. but for the love of god. i need see to him experience all five stages of grief the second he sees annabeth being dragged into the pit. i need to see him pray to every god and goddess in existence that he reaches her in time. i need to see him look into annabeth's eyes and come to terms with the notion that they might never come back from this. and i need to see him confess that he'd relive every awful moment of his life if it meant that they were together in their dying moments.

[moeblob]

I love them! So much!

[dragonbabes]

Imagine Solas and Lavellan accidentally bumping into each other during those eight years between Trespasser and Veilguard.

Just so you know, I wanted this to be like two paragraphs max. Wanted to sprinkle a little angst dust on your head, but ended up pouring the whole jar (sorry, but also not sorry?) I hope you enjoy spiraling with me… <3

She sits on a fine couch tucked in a corner, behind sheer curtains that obscure her from most of the prying eyes trying to catch a glimpse of the elvish woman that wielded the very power of the fade; or the hand that had housed it. She isn’t blind to the disappointment that flitters across faces when her hand is found void of any milky glow, and only a shiny white gold prosthetic clinking against her glass of wine.

Wine. She hates it. Most the time. She’ll drink it at events, if only to make the night pass by a little smoother. The wine, however bitter it is, makes every minute packed with questions poking and prodding at her most painful scars sound a little less like stone grating against itself. Usually, Dorian sticks close to her side to fend off the especially insensitive and the racist assholes that like to hover around her as flies hang around shit.

Lavellan grew up among trees and flowers and sweet silence. The petticoats, snide remarks, and hidden meanings that stink up the air here gives her a headache. It's hot, it's crowded, and she feels like a tiger chained and locked in a cage. Despite hiding - or trying to, at least - Lavellan still catches people looking her way and then whispering behind their hand. Someone is always talking here. The one thing that she and Solas disagreed on is the 'pleasure' of court intrigue. The court makes her feel like a pretty little piece to be won by the highest bidder. When she attends, she’s surrounded by men with one drink too many in their bellies, saying things like—

“I’ve lost you to your thoughts again, Herald.” His words roll off his tongue thickly; he’s Orlesian, that much she’s gathered from his accent. He, who is a scholar and wiseman, ever searching for answers of the fade. And she — oh, joy — is an object of curiosity to him (those were his exact words). “I’ve heard such talk always clams you up. These are the things the others who have sought you have said. You are from the Free Marches, a Dalish, so I imagine you are hesitant to leave your people.” Lavellan hides her snort with her glass by taking another drink. Is he going to pretend that she hadn’t left her clan to travel across Thedas and attend the Conclave? Has this scholar yet asked himself, 'How can she fear leaving her people, yet be here, in Tevinter, at this ball?'

Her eyes, now housing unnatural specks of green that really fascinates the pompous magisters roving about, trail away from the human, along with her thoughts, to meet with the eyes of an elven servant just entering the room.

In his hands is a tray of balanced glasses of champagne — a drink much kinder to her tastebuds — that shine the same shade of gold as the servants' widening eyes. She blinks at the panic that washes through them. He spins around (not losing a drop of the champagne, she notes), shoves at the other servant entering just behind him - who bears a tray of yummy little sandwiches in their hand - back into the shroud of the hall and begins hissing at them.

Her gaze falls down to her hands, clasping her drink in her lap. Since the events of the Inquisition, she’s been held above most everyone. Revered as untouchable, someone to be worshipped. To be bowed to. Even by her own people.

She is lonely.

“Surely, I cannot be so unworthy of your company, Inquisitor.” The man concludes his rant at her side. A rant full of reasons of why she should stay at his estate and become his mistress, to put it bluntly. It's all wrapped up in passionate and poetic words he wants to use to tie her up. Like a dog, not like a lover. For she is an elf, she is a trophy to be won! The Inquisitor! Herald of Andraste, she has been touched by the Maker and sent to them. For them. But... She is an elf, and they'll do everything they can to gloss over it. Sometimes she wonders, hundreds - thousands, maybe - of years from now, will she still be remembered as the elven woman she is? Or will they remake her into what they want?

“My lord, my silence is not an insult to your character.” Lavellan watches as the elven servants fully enter the room now, the taller one behind now with a covered face and lowered eyes. Curious... They move around the room, offering refreshments with lowered heads and sagged shoulders; it makes her tongue thick in her mouth. She trails their movements. “I am flattered by your… Fascination with me.”

Glass empty, she sets it down and turns her hand over, eying the pretty designs etched into the prosthetic. Dagna designed it for her, with the help of Dorian; she wasn't surprised when they gave it to her to be blinded by the sunlight reflecting off the gold, but she was also surprised to love it so much. A simple thing, with the eye of the inquisition on her palm - where the mark was - and vines with small, intricate leaves twisting out from it... “The magic I wielded is a curious phenomenon, no?”

“Absolutely! No one has had such a close connection to the fade! Imagine what we could achieve with your ability, and my intelligence.” She grinds her teeth, jaw flexing; of course, she’s not intelligent enough to understand it on her own.

The vines, Dorian explained, wasn't just because she's Dalish or loves botany, but rather because she 'has a habit of making even the most desolate places blossom.' She closes her palm and holds it over her heart. This human next to her is ignorant to that; she shouldn't let it bother her...

“I’m sure it would’ve been extraordinary.” She lowly replies, her irritation barely covered by the smile she forces into her lips, “Unfortunately, I cannot wield it anymore.”

“Ah, yes, your adversary.” The man leans back in his chair, one arm resting on the couch behind her. Lavellan slowly inches away. “What was his name?” The lord taps his chin as he hums to himself. Lavellan doesn’t bother to offer him the answer, though it’s blanketed over her tongue, drying her mouth and casting her eyes out the window. “The Dread Wolf?” The elven servants stop in front of them.

“My lord.” He offers out the tray to them and lowers his honeyed eyes. Lavellan watches him steadily, the taught lines between her brow melting off her unnaturally sharp features. “Inquisitor.” He dares a glance at her, and she takes that second to smile at him. The lord grabs a glass and continues. As if they don’t exist.

“That is how your people refer to him, yes? The Dread Wolf. Fen’Harel.” There’s cheer flashing through the lord's eyes. He takes a taste of his drink and swishes it around his mouth with a smile barely contained. Her eyes sharpen, but she forces herself to look away before the look kills him. It would’ve, she imagines, and she’s almost ashamed to say it would bring her joy. Just a tad. But that’s not very Inquisitorial of her…

“Thank you.” She quietly says as she removes the last glass from the tray. “Yes, my lord. That’s what they call him.” He cackles, head thrown back, and drawing the rooms attention. Lavellan doesn’t share his elation.

“To think that you had one of your own gods under your nose for the better part of the year!” He puts his hand to his stomach and laughs some more. The Inquisitor rolls her eyes and takes a large gulp of her champagne. “And you never noticed, m’lady? That your feared Dread Wolf dined at the same table as you?” Lavellan’s hand tightens over her drink.

“His name…” Lavellan flinches at the break in her voice and takes a deep breath to steady herself. There’s a burning to her eye. One that tells her she may be one drink too deep herself. She downs what's left in her glass and clears her throat. “His name is Solas.” She flicks her eyes, newly hardened, back to the lord. “And he was there to help. Just like the rest of us. He is a good man… I had no reason to doubt him. Ever.”

“You sound rather affectionate in your address.” He comments.

“Yes.” Her words are quiet as a smile ghosts over her lips. “So, you will understand me when I say I cannot accept your offer.”

“Come, I can change your mind. You can merely visit for a while, things may progress naturally.”

“They will not, my lord.”

“You cannot know that.” He leans in closer to her, drawing a nervous laugh from her.

“I know myself well enough. It will not happen.”

“Surely you will not waste yourself on-“

“Would you like a treat, my lord?” The unmasked servants question is sudden and frantic at first but falling quiet toward the end. Lavellan raises her eye at the nervous shift of his feet, and glances to his friend behind him; what has them so on edge? She catches grey-blue eyes for merely a second before they’re obscured by his brunette hair as he bowed and offered the tray with steady hands. Familiarity instantly breathes down her neck at the shade of blue she saw. Then it begins to burn in her gut.

She cannot seem to escape him no matter where she is...

It’s quiet, Lavellan realizes, and she begins to blink herself back to the present. All humor leaves the lord as he finally turns to acknowledge the two standing before them. His eyes have somehow become a darker shade of black, and his lips turned down with a silent snarl. Lavellan shudders at the sudden change, goosebumps rising into her arms. She watches the look in his eye sharpen into a knife, and her heart jumps into a throat. Inhuman. He’s inhuman, she thinks.

“You can see that the Inquisitor and I are having a conversation, yet you would interrupt us?” Lavellan straightens. This will go badly, and quickly. She places her hand atop the lords, and levels him with a stare that she had been masking all night; pupils blown a little wide, hard, and a slight sense of bloodlust. It was men like this that took her clan from her. She can barely conceal the shake numbing her limbs.

She has to reel it in. For Dorian's sake.

“He has done nothing wrong, my lord. Please, there is no need to use such a tone.” His hand grasps back at her own, and he plants a slobbery kiss to the back of it. Horror parts her lips.

“You jump even to the defense of those who are below you. You are exquisite.” Her skin runs cold, as if she stepped out into a winter night with no cloak. Below her? Below her?

“You would sit next to me on this couch and say such a thing?”

“Ah, Inquisitor. You must be upset with my scolding. Forgive me for such unsightly behavior. I do not make a habit of disciplining the help in front of my guests, be sure. But sometimes you must act immediately, to teach them that some behaviors simply will not be tole-“

“Enough. You misunderstand me.” Her voice is low. Her tone is that of the Inquisitor, not Lavellan, and it makes her heart shiver and ache a little. “They are my people.” Her words are, despite being quiet, heavy, hard, and final. “They are not below me. They are my people.” Gods, she’s had too much to drink. She should hold her tongue. Dorian will have another mess to clean up if she loses her cool again. “Do not think that I have been blind to the disrespect you pay to me and my people. You think you have hidden them so cleverly them behind your little compliments. You have crossed the line. You disgust me, and you will never lay a finger on me, my lord.”

The lord is silent. So are the servants. She removes her tight grip from his hand and scoots herself to the other side of the couch. “Leave me. Before I lose the rest of my patience and become the savage you expect me to be.”

Joy, her first taste of it tonight, blankets over her chest at the wide-eyed, open-mouthed look that's taken up his paling face. Without a word, he scurries away. The Inquisitor steadies herself with a deep breath.

“I’m sorry to provoke him. I know my place.” Lavellan’s brow pinches, and her attention is back on the two before her. The other servant remains with his head bowed and tray outstretched.

“Thank you.” She gingerly removes a sandwich. “You must not apologize to me. And,” her eyes trace the lines of his pale face, and the messy curl of his blond locks… She stops herself. He knows his place, he says… But she fears he doesn’t. He is not below the nobles here, not below the human servants, but how can she convince him. In a room full of people that see him as a mouse scurrying between their boots. “Truly, you’ve nothing to apologize for.”

A sense of shame burrows in her cheeks as she looks away from them. She should help them. There won't be any consquences to her, but the lord will run and tattle, and these two will still be to blame. She should help them escape. But… How? Perhaps Dorian will know.

“You’re as kind as they say.” He bows his head to her, and she shifts in her seat. “We are in your debt.” Her eyes dart to the other elf, but his eyes remain downturned.

“Is your friend okay?” She asks. He jumps as his attention returns to the quiet form at his side.

“Oh, yes. He’s mute.”

“Oh?” She takes in the tall, masked man before her. “Why do you wear…” She catches herself, “Why the mask?”

“He has a nasty scar. Wouldn’t want to offend you, my lady.” Her brows pinch, but a laugh plays on her lips.

“People say I’m kind, yet you fear showing me your scars?” She looks to the other, wishing he’d bring his eyes to hers, but he doesn’t. She wants to see that blue again. “Well… I take no offense to yours. I’ve my own to hide as well.” She addresses him, and his eyes return to meet her own. Again, her stomach churns and her heart flutters. She wishes she could see Solas again, to know if she truly remembers his face, or how he looked at her. If the blue of his eye truly is so similar to the ones staring back at her.

Lavellan takes in the straight brow above the masked elf's eye and returns to searching the depths of them. They seem to suck her in, and she's helpless to pull herself away; they felt like wells full of an emotion she couldn’t place. She leans forward before she can think better of it. Why is her heart stirring so much? She felt she could drown in the warmth radiating out of those blue orbs.

Why is he looking at her like that? As if she were the only thing in this room? As if he knew her, as if he understood-

“Lady Inquisitor?” The servant asks quickly, another nervous shift in his stance.

“Ah, sorry.” A sheepish smile plays on her lips as she leans back against the couch. “Your eyes are quite beautiful. They remind me of a friend.” Her own gaze falls, returning to watch the city splayed out before her, and dulls to a melancholy glisten. “Thank you for the sandwich. Take care.” They bow to her, and stalk off.

She’s foolish. She wanted him back so badly she can see him in any set of pretty blue eyes, it seems. Her eyes redden, tears building until they threatened to fall, and all the drinks she’s had begins to burn in her stomach. She’d like to leave soon.

She hates the court. He loved it.

And that’s all she can think about when she comes to these things.

XXX

She hates the court.

Why is she even here?

Where is Dorian? Why would he ever leave her side in a place like this?

Those are the sort of things whirring around Solas’ head. He stares severely at the marble floor and takes deep breaths to ground the uproar within him. His body is buzzing, like every nerve within him is coming to life simply by being so near her. Years have passed, yet she is as beautiful as ever. More so.

Perched on a couch just behind the shifting curtains, the mage casts her several glances as they work their way around the room, and shudders each time she’s revealed to him. Beautiful. Ethereal. Her hair shifting with the breeze, tapping against her jaw, and plump, painted lips caressing the curve of her wine glass.

She hates wine.

He just needs information of who the idol was sold to. It’s a simple mission that any agent could carry out. Therin wasted no time trying to dissuade him. He even suggested Solas take a walk in Treviso, visit a cafe, and take a day to himself. But the mage didn't want to wander, he wanted to focus. There's a reason he insisted to come himself...

That reason is on the couch a few paces behind him. Solas hadn’t wanted to be haunted with the thought of her, torturing himself over the words she would say to him if she knew that he is one step closer to finishing the ritual… A ritual that would ruin the world she fought and bled for…

Therin insisted that he doesn’t follow him in, but she’d already seen Solas following him and she would have questions; the observant, smart, curious creature she is. So here he is, heart hammering so hard in his chest the closer he steps to her that he worries he might pass out.

When her voice finally reaches his ear, he almost let's out an audible whimper, but manages to strangle it with a quiet cough. How he missed hearing her voice. If he could, he’d give everything to spend another night pouring over books with her in the Skyhold library. What wouldn’t he do to hear her voice free of the weight of his betrayal and back to the warm, lilting cadence she used only with him.

“The Dread Wolf?” Solas stills at that name. The lord who is draped across the couch with Lavellan, leaning closer to her, as she leans farther away, hums with amusement. "Fen'Harel..." Solas can barely breathe, this close to her; yet unable to speak to her, to touch or hold her…

It’s nearly more painful to him to be unknown to her, as he is now, than to bare himself before her again.

His tongue swells after he steps past the curtain and beholds her entirely. Clad in a detailed dress clinging to her waist, pushing up her breasts, and resting happily on her wide hips. Solas burns her image into his mind, noting every little detail of her that has changed. His eyes linger on the golden hand that reaches out and plucks a drink from Therin's tray.

He could fall to his knees now and beg her forgiveness. She could tell him he is nothing and he would be grateful she even allowed him to kneel before her… His chest constricts painfully.

“Thank you.” Her voice is warm, softened. “Yes, my lord. That’s what they call him.” Her civility is forced, he can hear it in the flatness of her words. The human begins to cackle, and Solas’ eyes narrow dangerously onto him.

“To think that you had one of your own gods under your nose for the better part of the year!” The mage's hands tighten over the silver tray until they are white knuckled. He would laugh at Lavellan? The woman who saved his sorry ass from the tyranny of Corypheus? “And you never noticed, m’lady? That your feared Dread Wolf dined at the same table as you?”

And he would ignore vhenan's clear discomfort? The shade cast over her eye, the frown on her lips, and her hand tightening over her glass. The expression on her face, sure to fall unnoticed by everyone else, is one of desolation while she looks out to the city. He wanted to reach out and touch her temple, relieve her of what he knows is banging around in her chest; the exact thing that is trying to claw its own way out of his chest and to her. Solas’ mind is narrowing, his willpower dwindling; he’d damn all of his efforts soon if he didn’t leave. He needs to back away or he will blow their cover. The elf manages a weak step backwards.

“His name…” Her voice breaks, and he does the same. Her eyes are slightly irritated, a redness climbing up into her cheeks, and he can see her collecting herself with deep breaths. She’s always been in control of herself. He admires her for it. “His name is Solas.” She brings her eyes back to the lord, keeping them steadily on the shifting fool. “And he was there to help. Just like the restof us. He is a good man… I had no reason to doubt him. Ever.”

Solas’ heart falls into his stomach, where it begins to churn into a nausea that threatened to bring him to his knees. Her words are lodged in his chest.

“You sound rather affectionate in your address.”

“Yes.” It comes from her in a whisper. It comes with a smile. “So you will understand me when I say I cannot accept your offer.” Offer? His eyes flick back up to the two on the couch, trying to decipher the look shared between the two.

“Come, I can change your mind. You can merely visit for a while, things may progress naturally.” Is he asking her to, what, marry him? Be his mistress? Her unease and his insistence leads Solas to believe it’s exactly that; likely the latter, considering. There’s a pang in his chest.

Of course others will want her. Look at her. More than that, she is good. She’s kind, strong, intelligent- he could go on forever. She is everything. What creature could not crave her?

“They will not, my lord.”

“You cannot know that.” The bastard begins to lean closer to vhenan. The panic that shuddered over her expression is enough to send the elven god over the edge. She moves away with a nervous laugh. Solas stiffens, and he hears a sharp breath from Therin; the agent could tell when the Dread Wolf was getting prickly.

“I know myself well enough. It will not happen.” Solas’ eyes are smoldering.

“Surely you will not waste yourself on-“ That’s it. He can take it no more. He takes a step forward, the tray beginning to loosen in his hands.

“Would you like a treat, my lord?” Therin’s voice calls him back to himself. The mage swallows thickly. His eyes instinctively return to Lavellan. She locks him in his place with her gaze, every muscle in his body tensing, and his heart flopping from his stomach up into his throat. He could not get control over himself.

His eyes lower, and he holds out the tray. She would know his voice if he made even a noise, that he was sure of. So he’s silent in his regard to her and the piece of shit next to her. There’s an uncomfortable silence, but Solas doesn’t bother to ascertain why it’s fallen over the four of them.

“You can see that the Inquisitor and I are having a conversation, yet you would interrupt us?” Solas clenches his jaw. Would that the lord knew what beast was barely keeping himself in check a feet away… What would his words be if he knew that the Dread Wolf — the wolf that loved the woman he is so blatantly propositioning — had his fangs positioned at his throat; how Solas salivates at the thought of crushing the man’s windpipe.

“He has done nothing wrong, my lord. Please, there is no need to use such a tone.” The Dread Wolf’s blue eyes cool even further as he watches her hand fall atop the humans. Her skin has paled, her eyes darting between Therin and the lord with a disarming smile trying to stick on her lips.

“You jump even to the defense of those who are below you. You are exquisite.” She is exquis-

He will kill him. Before Solas leaves this ball tonight, he’ll see this man’s heart removed from his chest. The lord thinks he deserves to press his lips to her skin? Skin that Solas himself did not have the pleasure of tasting? This little human believes himself worthy of vhenan? His vhenan?

The lord even pays no mind to the look of terror that breaks through her mask for a second. He would ignore her rejections, belittle her, and touch her so carelessly? Death is almost too good for him.

“You would sit next to me on this couch and say such a thing?”

“Ah, Inquisitor. Forgive me for such unsightly behavior. I do not make a habit of disciplining the help in front of my guests, be sure. But sometimes you must act immediately, to teach them that some behaviors simply will not be tole-“

“Enough. You misunderstand me.” Lavellan’s voice is unnaturally hard and low. He imagines he’d die right then and there if she were to ever addresses him with such a cold voice. Solas waits impatiently for the lord to do the same. “They are my people.” She keeps her voice low so that the others in the room wouldn’t catch whiff of the commotion. “They are not below me. They are my people.” She has not changed so much, it seems. To endure the insults he wrapped up in his compliments, until they were directed at others. Often, she didn’t bother to defend herself from the sharp words of others, but the moment she heard someone mumble under their breath after him — or anyone, really — she was nearly feral. He would pull her away with a smile playing on his lips, and wrap his hand around her waist, plant a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

“It’s ok, vhenan.” He’d say. “Their words do not bother me.”

“But they bother me!” She’d cry back with this same look in her eyes. A direct stare, sparkling with ire, and a promise to fulfill every warning coming off her lips. His hands threatened to tremble knowing that they could not soothe her as they did before...

“Do not think that I have been blind to the disrespect you pay to me and my people. You think you have so cleverly hidden them behind your compliments. You have crossed the line. You disgust me, and you will never lay a finger on me, my lord.”

What is it raging about in his chest? Dying jealousy clashing with his ire, now being smothered by a cool wave of pride.

“Leave me. Before I loose the rest of my patience and become the savage you expect me to be.” The lord scurries away. Lavellan’s chest rises with a deep breath, and falls with her steadying exhale.

“I’m sorry to provoke him. I know my place.”

“Thank you. You must not apologize to me. And,” She bites her lip as she catches her words. His eyes return to her as soon as he feels her gaze slip to her hands. The crease between her brow, and the worry of her lip; she has something she wants to tell them… She returns with only a warm smile and, “Truly, you’ve nothing to apologize for.”

“You’re as kind as they say.” Lavellan shuffles as Therin bows his head to her, and Solas does the same. “We are in your debt.”

“Is your friend okay?” He’s suffocating under her gaze. He’s nearly forgotten how thrilling her attention was.

“Oh, yes. He’s mute.” She hums back a response, and asks about his mask. Maybe he should’ve just turned around and let Therin handle it all. Of course she’d be suspicious of the one elven servant wearing a mask. “He has a nasty scar. Wouldn’t want to offend you, my lady.” She laughs.

Gods his knees are weak. A smile blossoms into his own lips before he can think. Then his brow pinches; he’s smiling, while feeling like he might throw up, or worse, start sobbing in her lap.

“People say I’m kind yet you fear showing me your scars? Well… I take no offense to yours. I’ve my own to hide as well.” In a moment of weakness — pure stupidity —, despite the whispers in his mind that doing it is a terrible mistake, he trails his eyes up to her own. He is all too aware of the love she has for him.

She will know him. Even if it’s just from a short meeting of their eyes. What’s worse is he almost wants her to recognize him.

If she did, what would she do? His eyes search hers for an answer. Would she allow him to apologize? Would she forgive him? Would she run into his arms? Or would she give him that same icy stare that she gave the lord? Could there be even the slightest hope that someday he could hold her again?

But hope is all he’s ever seen in her eyes. This time is no different. He sucks in an audible breath as vhenan leans forward; he sees the familiarity sparking in her beautiful eye, in the part of her lips.

“Lady Inquisitor?” Solas lowers his gaze as her attention is pulled away from him again. He lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Ah, sorry.” She gives a short smile. “Your eyes are quite beautiful. They remind me of a friend.” The world is spinning, until he catches sight of how her eyes have fallen. “Thank you for the sandwich. Take care.”

He bows again, trying to somehow say “I love you eternally, vhenan” with the gesture, but he knows it won’t reach her. He knows it by the far off look taking over the shine in her eye.

His own heart shudders as he gives her one last glance from the shadows of the hall, pulling his mask down and revealing the heavy frown over his lips. The redness of her eye a warning of the tears brimming them, is a cool reminder to the chaos that she’d stirred up in his chest.

All those smoldering emotions that had been warring in his chest, cooled by his pride, are now extinguished with his regret. Regret that he’s ever made her wear such an expression. Regret that he cannot kiss it off of her.

“Let’s continue.” Solas says with a hardened jaw and furrowed brow, turning and walking away with his hands clasped behind his back. “Oh, and try to figure out that lords name.”

“You cant be serious!” Therin exclaims. Solas merely turns to him with a raised brow. “Right… On it.”

[munsonfamilyband]

Okay my recent obsession is just how Weird the rest of Hawkins must think the whole group is, but ESPECIALLY Steve. Steve is weird even in their group and he has no idea. (I also had a realization that his behavior feels so odd because he acts like he’s from the northeast not the midwest. I don’t know how to put this into words but if you’re an american from the NE you get it)

But like, here are some examples of this that I love:

Every time Steve reveals something from his childhood and who ever he is talking to feels themselves aging from the pure trauma of hearing these things

Like he will tell “funny” (read: traumatic) stories from his childhood about like falling off his bike and absolutely destroying his knees, and he dragged his bike home while his knees are dripping blood, and then he couldn’t find the bandaids so he taped paper towels to his knees. He thinks this is funny because he remembers seeing how silly he looked with big bunches of paper towel on his knees. His audience is horrified by the fact that he didn’t even mention finding his parents for help, he automatically did it himself.

He will also talk about the weird beliefs he had or didn’t have like he didn’t have a tooth fairy so when a kid came into kindergarten and showed everyone the coin he got from the tooth fairy Steve cried hard enough to need to go lay down with the nurse because he thought a monster stole the kid’s tooth. He thought something similar about Santa.

He will surprise people with the random things he does or doesn’t know how to do. He blew everyone’s minds when he just knew how to best get blood out of clothes (Nancy had thought he was lying when he told her he could save her clothes in 83). But then they get really sad about why he knows this.

Steve does know how to get most stains out of fabrics and he knows a decent amount about cooking. He doesn’t know how to iron clothes. He knows how to wash dishes or clothes by hand but using the machines ended badly too many times. (He flooded his kitchen with bubbles the first time he tried to use the dishwasher, and he ruined multiple shirts in the washer).

He watched Robin put a shirt in the bathroom before a shower and she explained it was to get the wrinkles out and that changed his life.

I also think he and Eddie met multiple times as kids but they don’t realize it for a while because when Steve talks about the interactions with Eddie a lot of the time he talks about it like the other boy was making fun of him. Eventually he shares a specific enough story that Eddie realizes that the boy with the gap in his teeth who kept leaving things on Steve’s chair at daycare was him. And then Eddie has to explain that he wasn’t bullying him, he thought Steve was pretty and wanted to be his friend.

[shima-draws]

Catching up on more recent FT stuff and um

EDO LUCY HAS A KID?

EDO LUCY AND EDO NATSU ARE MARRIED??? AND HAVE A DAUGHTER?? NALU CANON???

Also oh my FUCKING god look at him. He’s such a proud dad I’m going to throw up I love him so much

And the fact that Natsu gets attached to her IMMEDIATELY and goes into overprotective Dad Mode when she’s not even his daughter, technically (and Gray too over his own Edo kid 🤧)

Natsu: I’ve decided I’m taking her home with me. No objections

HOMIE DEADASS IS SIGNING THE ADOPTION PAPERS ALREADY. It was love at first sight. Natsu loves her so much he wants to kidnap her. Shut UP,

[liam-summers]

BtVs 3.07 | AtS 1.03

Bonus🎶

[crismakesstuff]

pushing my deblan propaganda on here again

[cto10121]

Book Fiyero: *immediately recognizes Elphaba and stations himself at the backdoor to prevent her from evading him, stalks her halfway across town to her aerie (even though at that point in time she was only a college friend he hadn’t seen in five years), insists on seeing her again, instinctively goes to comfort her when she first cries, gets sucked into increasingly deep and fraught conversations with her about collateral damage and freedom fighter terrorism, calls her the “most individual, the most separate, the most real” DURING AN ARGUMENT, says he adores Elphaba’s looks IN THAT SAME ARGUMENT, doesn’t understand Elphaba’s “being born with a talent or an inclination for goodness is the aberration” comment because (implied) he sincerely believes Elphaba isn’t evil, changes his mind about the plight of the Animals all by himself but doesn’t mention it to Elphaba because he is afraid she would distance himself from him, buys scarves for both his wife and Elphaba even though only Elphaba likes scarves, is so concerned for Elphaba and her dangerous Lurlinemas Eve mission that he stalks her instead of staying at his club or just leaving town altogether, and is so worried about her that he returns to the aerie just to see her*

Also Book Fiyero: Am I in love with Elphaba?

[metacrisisdoctor]

I remember this girl I have drawn even although I know her well in my dream I know her well, I know. She is my s...

— John Smith's Journal of Impossible Things

[rewritingcanon]

hot take (maybe?) but sirius was walburga’s fav child because he was the most like her at his worst

[tortor-sauce]

“why does everyone always look at you that way?”

[outislovescomics]

What if I run into oncoming traffic.