#and beautifully written

[justvibingwhilecrying]

I read like, basically every fic in the Swansea x daisuke tag God I'm so

[eatmyson]

this one's inspired by @cringefailvox's time has changed the metaphor!

It was such a good read and I couldn't stop thinking about these three ever since.

[vickillaman]

People expecting a character like Caitlyn who has shown so many times her clear disdain for communicating her feelings verbally, to have lengthy conversations and never ending apologies for everything she has done wrong is a bit disappointing.

Caitlyn is a politician’s daughter. She knows that words are always there to smooth the rough edges of the conflict or to make promises that another age won’t see coming to fruition and, essentially, mean nothing without the action following.

People offer their sympathies and she just doesn’t acknowledge their words, Cait just moves past it and changes the topic or tries to make up a plan to just do something, to fix and salvage.

She shows, not tells.

She doesn’t say a word as she rushes to bring her father in a tight embrace after being on the brink of death and allowing herself to stay like that for a few moments with a person she thought she’d never see again.

She doesn’t say a word as her eyes are slowly drifting lower as if preparing herself to face yet another of her mistakes that she can’t erase. She’s reaching out to gently graze her fingers over an injury and the spot that she hit the person who she loved so much in, sorrow and remorse all over her face.

She doesn’t say a word as she puts every obstacle out of Vi’s way to make sure that nothing would stop her to free Jinx: to free the person who tormented her mind even before she knew her name, to get her out of the cell and out of the punishment Caitlyn was determined to bring on her with all the rage and ferocity of a grieving daughter.

She doesn’t say a word as she gives up her inherited sit in the Council for a Zaunite who she faced in a fight that she barely got out of alive by sheer luck and is there to represent the interests and stand for the rights of the city she poisoned and regarded the residents of with a loss-reinforced contempt and prejudice.

Why would she need to say anything when she shows so much?

And why would you, as a viewer, rob yourself of the opportunity to appreciate the nuance of the character like that?

[arctik-fox]

insp. Forgetting is a kind of mercy, by nerdylizj

[crabgirlfriend]

“WTNV walked so [insert whatever media] could run” no. WTNV did not walk, it was fucking running marathons while other media was crawling on the ground gasping for air. it’s still running and the world needs to catch up

[tinartss]

something something two guys walk into a garden

[pricetagged]

Idk how to label this. Wifehunter John?

The idea of possessive/obsessive John manipulating a situation and stealing a wife for himself struck me, so just coughing the idea up while I sneak away for a coffee before I actually have to start work in 20 mins 💖 entirely unedited, abrupt ending

Masterlist l Part Two

________

For someone married to his job, he has put quite a bit of thought into what he is looking for in a wife. Namely, that she's already married.

His reasoning is threefold. He can admit to himself, firstly, that it satisfies his need for control. Competency. He's a busy man with a demanding job. Not quite retired yet, no time to build his own from scratch. With this, he gets a wife boxed up and ready-trained. Broken in.

Secondly, the need for control bleeds into his saviour complex. She'll need a shoulder to cry on, someone strong and capable to get her back on her feet. She'll be feeling a little fragile. Needy. Perfect.

And thirdly, it does something wild to his jealous, possessive streak. The idea of taking something precious, of breaking her bond to another man and tying it to him? Delicious. The idea that she used to be someone else's, that he has to imprint himself onto her knowing that in doing so he is erasing the imprint of another man? It has his teeth aching, grinding even as heat rises in his belly. Stirs at him.

The idea swirls lazily in the back of his mind, never quite finding the right time or right partner. He bats at it a few times, lazy cat playing with the notion, seeing how far it can stretch before it snaps. Eyes up pretty things everywhere he goes, glancing down at their left hands just to check, but nothing quite tugs on that string. Until one day it does when he's outfitting the security system at your house.

It's side work. Cash in hand, word of mouth. Something to keep him busy when on mandated leave. Something to keep in mind as his retirement from active duty creeps closer. And your husband is a real piece of work, all blustering braggadocio energy. Young buck, not knowing his place in the herd. Not knowing that he'd be better scratching his antlers off on a tree than going head-to-head with a gristled thing like John.

It's like John's energy, his presence in the house, sends alarm bells ringing in your husband's mind (Be the man. Don't back down. Puff up your chest and strut). And it plays so perfectly into John's hands because your young buck doesn't realise that what he's really doing is fawning. To John. (Look at me, be impressed by me!) He makes his biggest mistake in putting you down in front of him, trying to sidle up to John and create some kind of desperate camaraderie. Ordering you to bring tea to the men at work. Rolling his eyes at your attempts to talk, to ask questions about the work being done. Waving you off so he can stand and watch the proceedings. Like he could supervise. Like he has any clue what he's doing.

Only the promise of the long game keeps John from levelling him with a hard look, from calling him outblike he'd love to.

He hears you both in the in the other room, having swatted the young buck off like a particularly virulent pest. Noisy and bothersome. Not needed - or wanted- in this home. And entirely too stupid to realise that John wasn't being jocular in his dismissal.

You've been scribbling away for the past few days, something occupying your time, keeping you happy and hidden away in the kitchen.

"You're not serious, are you?"

"Well, yes," he hears the slight quaver in your voice before you find your footing. You've got at least a bit of spine. Good. "You said that I should find an occupation. Not just 'laze around the house playing housewife'. This is what I-"

"Oh come on, I didn't mean- You don't think that this is viable, do you?"

"Well... I love gardening. And I'm good at it. And there's no reason that it can't be more accessible for people, especially with the current economic-"

He cuts you off with a scoff. "Dear, just- I don't want you to be disappointed. I think you don't quite understand the time and effort this will take. And you know nothing of marketing, publishing. Why don't you put that away and start on dinner?"

And oh, isn't that delicious. He can taste it now, that idea that has been swirling. It's thick, almost tangible on his tongue. The tension in the house, the bitter lacryma of stifled tears. The slight acidity of words you left unsaid. It has his mouth watering, pupils dilating.

And when he's packing up that evening, tools and materials tucked in to the heavy workman's case, he swings by the kitchen on his way out. Catches the way something is jutting out slightly from the bin, lid slightly askew. When he pulls it out he realises it's some kind of notebook, carefully (lovingly) bound. Pictures pasted, mindmaps and notes and plans scribbled in the margins. Your gardening tips. Kitchen scraps, window boxes, rooftop plots. Urban gardening. It's deeply thoughtful, well researched.

A labour of love, lying in the rubbish.

Sweet, clever little thing. That just won't do.

He leaves your house with a little piece of you tucked away in his toolkit and a nice plan forming. He'll be back, of course, not quite finished with his work. He'd planted a few little links into the system he'd almost installed, projecting not just to the monitor in your home but also in his. Got to keep his eyes on you, keep you safe and cared for in ways that your useless husband can't.

Finding that book was a boon. He'd say it was divinely ordained if he believed in all that. It weighs heavy in his toolbox as he whistles out the door.

Now, how to get you alone and return it to you..

________________

This idea may have been done before? I'm not sure, sorry! I've seen a lot of possessive John floating around. Tagging @stellewriites because I said I would last time, and you've been so encouraging of my nonsense.

Anyway I've got like 4 long-form WIPs that I'm working on, so I may never actually write this one but thought I'd share since that image set I just reblogged made me feral 💖

[peculiaritybending]

Aziraphale’s face after Crowley kisses him makes me feel sick, not exaggerating, not a silly haha hyperbole, it actually makes my stomach churn. He just looks so broken up about it, he’s almost crying. I know that if Crowley had said yes to going to Heaven with him he would have kissed him back but he couldn’t. There’s a look of guilt there and just pure pain, he looks at Crowley in a way that says “please don’t make me feel this, not now” and the worst part is because of how complicated his reaction is, I feel it could be mistaken for one of disgust which disturbs me so much because Crowley may believe that’s how it made him feel. The fact that Aziraphale doesn’t kiss Crowley back but also isn’t the one to pull away and instead briefly holds Crowley during this kiss haunts me so much as well, god.

[ky-landfill]

[absolute-flaming-trash]

Watching multiple cracks in Alastor's composure only for him to narrow his eyes and/or smile a bit wider afterwards is one of the most delightful while simultaneously horrific things put to media that I've seen in a while.

It just builds on such encroaching dread as the episodes continue, because you can see it very clearly in his eyes that he remembers shit that bothers him, and stores whatever happened to act upon for later.

[avoiltaire]

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Turtle Takedown Teamwork.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[enden-k]

the doodle i did for the 2nd chapter of the fantasy AU 🫶

[faiell]

inspired by a scene from this heaven of mud by @garagepaperback

Sitting near but far, legs spilled off the edge of the bed, Potter turned to look at him. There were two wide windows on either side of the bed, drapes drawn back. The lights in Draco’s bedroom were off but it didn’t matter, the flat being in the city. Draco learned it was called light pollution- It meant you couldn’t see the stars. It meant it was much harder not to see what was right in front of you.

Potter looked beautiful. It should have ended months ago, preferably before it started.

[crossaik]

watched all the movies recently

[petaltexturedskies]

A soft light rising above the level meadow, behind the bed. He takes her in his arms. He wants to say I love you, nothing can hurt you but he thinks this is a lie, so he says in the end you're dead, nothing can hurt you which seems to him a more promising beginning, more true.

Louise Glück, from "A Myth of Devotion" in Poems 1962-2012