#i think there is another fic with this premise

[milounyo44]

Negative Positive Angler fanarts&other things I didn't want to make a separate post about

Wowzie I haven't logged on Tumblr in forever my bad 😭 very heart warming to see people still stumbling upon my Serirei valentines day comic!! I promise I'll make another one next year, but better 😭💕! I'm mostly active on Twitter&bsk (mostly Blade NU:Carnival fanarts at milou_nyoo) but I think comics fit better here so I'll try to at least come here when I draw new comics (hopefully soon) (+ the likelihood of finding the np_angler fandom is higher,, I really like this show,, i want to draw more,,)

I've been watching Negative Positive Angler recently and although the fandom is quite small there's this adorable TakaakHiro fic that I really wanted to illustrate, so (with author's consent) here's a rendition of one of the scene in And All the Lights in Your Room Look Like Stars by jasperaptor on Ao3. (Please check out the fic and show author some love!! The fandom/this pair has 3 fics, they made 2 of them 😭🫶)

The show's premise is very typical (man finds purpose and joy in life after finding out he's going to die soon, fishing variant, bc yes this show is 50% about fishing, it's well done too) but idk I think we all need a classic slice of life with a sad twist for this new gen of anime. The characters are all a breath of fresh air and I think it's one of the anime I look forward to the most every week. It's simple but it got me and I can't escape. I want to see Hiro and gang happy together 😔😔😔.

[hardly-an-escape]

Stormy Weather, or: Outside, the Wind (Inside, the Light) | Dream/Hob | 1600 words | Rated T

tags: I recently spent an evening without power therefore I must put the blorbos in a Situation, love confessions, first kiss, getting together, power outages, Hob Gadling throughout history, gratuitious use of mildly accurate Middle English

The wind tears around London like a living thing, a wild animal, a predator, intent on the hunt. It chases birds into their nests and people into their homes, moans around corners and rattles shutters, sending piles of leaves whirling into miniature hurricanes and whipping branches into a frenzy, sharpening its claws on roof tiles and telephone poles.

Except in Hob Gadling’s flat.

The New Inn, and the cozy home above it, is in one of those old buildings that’s actually been loved and maintained – thanks in no small part to Hob’s own care and attention. The walls are thick and strong, the roof is solid. The shutters may rattle, but the windows are double-pane; the curtains and carpets are warm and soft, and no drafts encroach on the sanctity of his living room, where Hob and Lord Morpheus, King of Dreams, are having a movie night.

It’s part of Hob’s concerted effort to introduce the Prince of Stories to the stories he’d missed during his imprisonment. Tonight it’s Blade Runner – the final cut, of course – which isn’t necessarily one of Hob’s personal favorites, but seemed to fit the stormy, rainy vibes of the weather. They’re installed on the couch, with hot chocolate and wine and snacks, which Dream has deigned to pick at. Harrison Ford is eating noodles and wandering through wet, moodily-lit streets. The wind is howling outside, but they’re safe and warm and surrounded by soft things and life is about as good, Hob thinks, as it ever gets these days.

And then his lights flicker. Once, twice; there is the impression of a sort of electrical last gasp, and the room is plunged into darkness.

The wind whips and the shutters rattle. A volley of rain spits itself against the windows.

“Bugger,” says Hob.

Dream says nothing, merely brings his wineglass – which had already been cradled in one elegant hand – to his lips.

“Hang on,” says Hob. “I’ve got some candles around here somewhere.”

He gropes his way to the kitchen. In one drawer he unearths some beeswax tapers and several tea lights, which he arranges on a plate. He rummages in one of the deeper cabinets and makes a triumphant noise as he discovers his prize behind disused mugs and a fondue set from the 1980s: a pair of old-fashioned brass candlesticks equipped with round reflectors, highly polished to catch the light and bounce it back out into the darkness.

“You are remarkably well-prepared for an event such as this,” says Dream, as Hob lights his various prizes and returns to the living room with his hands full of flickering flames.

“Well, you know,” Hob demurs. “When it comes down to it, I’ve lived a lot more of my life without electricity than with it.” He arranges the tea lights on the coffee table and sets the brass candlesticks on a nearby bookshelf. “You never really get out of the habit of preparing for the worst. Although I will say, these beeswax ones beat the hell out of the old tallow jobbies we had when I was young. Got ‘em from a local bloke who keeps bees not half a mile away, isn’t that cool? A beekeeper in the middle of London. There, now,” he says, and having arranged the lights to his satisfaction he plops himself back down on the sofa.

Outside, the wind wails. The lack of lamps on the empty street below and the gentle candlelight within make the night seem even darker, and turn Hob’s living room into something even softer and cozier than it already is.

Dream’s face, in the flickering candles, seems even more otherworldly than usual; and Hob, for his part, truly looks as though he belongs in another century. The very shape of his face has changed, somehow, into something older; taking on a new appearance in the candlelight the way a man’s tongue might curl differently around the syllables of another language.

“I miss it, sometimes,” he says lowly. “This kind of world. Before the wires and the phones and the cars. It was… quieter.”

“You speak often of your delight in change and progress. Do you truly long for your past lives?” asks Dream.

“Yes and no,” answers Hob. “Some things are better now, no question. Antibiotics, wouldn’t want to live without those again. Vaccines and X-rays and chemotherapy and antidepressants – almost all the medical stuff. Mass transportation. Cars and planes have never been safer. Honestly, I’ve never understood the people who moan about the olden days and oh, life was simpler back then. Don’t they know how many people died? How many kids? Because they caught a cold or fell out of a tree or had a case of the runs that lasted a little too long?”

He leans forward to adjust one of the candles, which is dripping unevenly, and when he sags back into the couch there is just the hint of a frown between his strong brows.

“And yet…” he says, staring into the flames, voice quiet. “Nights like this. I do sometimes think…”

Hob trails off for a long moment.

“There was a rhythm to life, back then,” he says finally. “You counted hours by the church bells and days by the tasks that needed done. And there was so much that needed to be done… cows milked and fields planted and clothes knitted or mended. And it was all so important, so… necessary. Regimented. But in the in between time – Christ! your time wast thine.” As he speaks, his voice has slipped into an older register: his Rs grown rounder, his vowels longer, curling from his mouth to mingle with the candlesmoke hovering over his coffee table. “I remember fair hours as a lad, even into my manhood, of which I spent lyende in th’ fields, watching ants in th’ grass. And later, too, we’d hie us to bed with the sonne, the fire banked in the hearth. An’ it happen that if we awakened before dawn, ’twas a simple thing to pass the time in simple ways, be it in prayer or in pleasure…”

The innuendo in his words is clear, but Hob is not looking at Dream; his eyes are unfocused as he stares into the middle distance, revisiting the past via candlelight. Until one of the wicks lets out a small pop, and flares, and he shakes himself, coming back to the present.

“God, sorry,” he says, voice back in the 21st century. “Woolgathering. I’ll go on for an age, me. More wine?”

But Dream’s eyes have also gone unfocused, his lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling with unnecessary breaths as he stares – no, gazes – at Hob. He, too, must shake himself into the present moment at Hob’s offer of more wine. He silently holds out his glass.

“May I ask you a personal question?” Dream says.

“Anything. You know that.”

Dream pauses. Sips. Outside, the sound of the wind has not abated; has grown, if anything, even more dramatic. There is the muffled sound of branches scraping against the side of the building.

“Why,” asks Dream finally, “do you pretend to yourself that you do not want me?”

Hob chokes. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Why do you pretend thus to me?” Dream pursues. “Who has known you longer than any being on this planet or any other; who can know your innermost dreams?”

“What do you mean, other planets?” Hob demands. And then: “Have you been peeking at my dreams?”

“I need not peek, as you put it, to see the truth of the matter. It is writ plain on your face and in your every word and deed. I merely wonder why this truth has hovered before us for over six hundred years and you have yet to press your suit. Do you doubt, after all this time, my affection for you? Do you find me – unworthy?”

Dream sounds, impossibly, almost uncertain. Even vulnerable. Hob sighs heavily and leans forward, elbows on his knees and face in his hands.

“I – God. Dream,” he stammers. “Yes, Christ, I am full of doubts. You stormed away from me when I implied you might be lonely, I… I have never, once, thought I had a suit to press at all. What on earth has brought this on? Now, of all times?”

“I do not know,” Dream murmurs. “Perhaps… this darkness is working on me, as well. Perhaps I am as susceptible to candlelight and nostalgia as the next anthropomorphic personification.”

He smiles, a little quirk of the mouth that contains worlds, and Hob leans over, listing helplessly into Dream’s space as the tapers flicker.

“Fuck,” he whispers, pressing their foreheads together, turning his head to butt his cheekbone against the sharp line of Dream’s nose. “Art thou rēal? Speak you treue?”

“Aye, my Hob,” answers Dream. “Min herte is treue and bilongeth to you.”

A sob catches in the back of Hob’s throat at the words. “Fuck,” he whispers again, “Dream, I’m yours. I am. I always have been. My Dream, min sweven, my leof. Alwei, allesweis…”

Their mouths find each other, then, finally, lip against lip and breath against breath. They kiss for a long, long moment, desperate and hungry and soft all at once, as outside the wind howls coldly around the corners of the New Inn, and inside the light cast by Hob’s candles bathes their whole little world in a cozy glow.

“Take me to bed,” murmurs Dream against Hob’s mouth. “Make me your lover. Show me how you pass the time by candlelight, and in darkness.”

“Oh, darling. Dearheart,” Hob answers. “Nothing in this world or any world past could make me happier.”

And he suits his actions to his words.

[thormanick]

Me back in January: writes a fanfic where Kaveh becomes a “mad scholar” bc his accidental (Traveler-esque if you would) experience with Irminsul goes wrong and so he is sent to Aaru village (with Alhaitham trying to find the solution to his problem)

Kaveh’s canon lore from the event: so yep basically his dad at some point got messed up mentally by a diadem and lost his life in the desert

Me, viewing the said fic from a new angle now:

Someone at Mihoyo really woke up one day looked at Kaveh and chose all possible kinds of violence didn’t they

[rotisseries]

we need some byler reality tv/game show aus. fake dating to pose as a new couple looking to buy a home so they can get on an hgtv show or something. cooking show contestants with a perceived rivalry, idk. put those boys in Situations

[inksandpensblog]

are you a “self-insert/oc fixes everything” fan or a “characters watch/read their own story” fan

[windor-truffle]

soooo I'm in the final dungeon of the main arc now 😅😅😅 sorry for not posting for so much of the story, hopefully I can come back and explain my many thoughts about it later, albeit very out-of-order. But I've always loved the endgame, so here's my very biased thoughts on a few of the skits at least:

ajskdsjf great question. I'm just gonna let Asbel pitch my long fic for me from now on 😅

On that point though, this is just further proof of that recurring character trait in which Asbel doubts his own virtues (probably because he "doesn't know [his] own feelings very well"). The backstory skit prior to this really drives this home:

Even I, an angst-loving fanfic author writing this exact premise, didn't have him go that far, though like Asbel I can't say with complete certainty that no possible universe could exist where this happens— extreme degrees of isolation, manipulation, and insanity could maybe get him to that point. But from my own fanfic take on his character, which I try to draw from canon evidence as much as possible, Asbel doesn't reach the "i wanna destroy the world" level simply because he's NOT like Richard, or Lambda for that matter— he's actually quite opposite from them as their foil.

Asbel's never been shown to harbor resentment or want revenge— not at Hubert for usurping him, not at the unknown Fendelian soldier who struck down his father. There's no skits in which he joins Richard in despising Cedric, even though the man murdered the king and tried to kill Asbel's dear friend too. Even Asbel's KO quote in battle isn't resentful, lamenting that "[he]failed everyone" instead of cursing his enemies for striking him down. I genuinely cannot think of a moment in canon in which Asbel seems to hate someone, but maybe my confirmation bias is blinding me to a good example (funnily enough, the closest moment I can think of rn is a skit in L&L in which Hubert tells him that Raymond's been stalking Cheria, and Asbel responds with a forced compliment laced w barely suppressed rage bc he doesn't want to insult Hubert's family 😅 but that's still more indicative of protective jealousy than resentment).

Asbel does get angry and defensive sometimes, but any hate he has is nearly always directed inward— for example, he doesn't swear vengeance against all monsters after one kills Sophie, he instead vows to make himself stronger so he'll never fail to protect someone again. He's driven by a sense of justice and protecting others rather than getting even or inflicting pain, he empathizes readily with his enemies even when they've hurt him or his loved ones, and he refuses to accept a reality in which others must suffer (and if anyone should have to suffer, he'd always rather it be himself; that's what it means to protect someone).

In short, I think that if Lambda had been with Asbel and forced Asbel to choose between saving himself or saving the world, Asbel would always choose the world. Even if he had lived through additional horrors bc some bastard author wrote him into a miserable role-swap AU 😅

[laugtherhyena]

I'm curious, so when Linuj put out what each person would do in the foundation if they all got out of the academy, he put Kizuna as a receptionist. It always felt like a bit weird, I kinda thought she'd be real bored doing something like that, but what are your thoughts?

Oh yeah, Kizuna having to sit in a reception all day answering calls and filling up papers? She would absolutely be bored out of her mind doing that. I could totally see her leaving her post whenever boredom gets too big to go after others from the cast just to chat or gossip, the proceed to get scolded by Tsurugi for not doing her job.

Something that bugs me about adult Kizuna is that she has the exact same clothes as Sdra2 Minako in that design, down to the star earing and the placement of her the foundation ID card.

In one hand i find it kinda cute that the two have similar tastes, but knowing how much Linuj dislikes her I can't help but think he didn't bother designing something for her and just gave her the same look as her mother, it's really a shame he took the lazy route there because the others have really neat designs :(

But back to the receptionist thing, as much as i like Kizuna i really can't think of what else she could be working at in a place like the Kisaragi foundation, she's far from the smartest person there and she doesn't have that much patience either to deal with something like negociations or mediating.

The one way i could see her having a different role is if she was working as the assistant of some other character or as a team with them, but as a standalone job? Yeah, I can't picture anything other than a simpler role like that.

[newlacesleeves]

uh oh i think the universe wants me to write another incredibly self indulgent fan fiction

[abeinginsand]

Keep thinking about TJ purposefully acting like Beary/Barry in order to calmly interact with the teens while they played verbal among us...

Consider TJ, Grant, and Nicky discussing some plans and come to the conclusion that they need Terry to use some disguise and a dash of appearance magic to pretend to be Barry. Its to get some information/infiltrate on another plane.

But they haven't told Lark or Sparrow yet! Frankly, they've been avoiding bringing it up, thinking maybe they could try and do this thing without them knowing. No need to start a fight, right? Especially from Lark. They assumed he'd have the strongest reaction. So, they keep procrastinating--TJ most of all. The day of the 'show' arrives. Nicky and Grant have gone on ahead of him as he finishes preparing. He's taking awhile with the prep due to anxiousness--performance jitters maybe or could be that sinking feeling in his stomach? Either way, he's finally adding the gilded head piece--a sleek crown of shimmering gold. And that's when the twins walk in to the storage room. They immediately spot someone dressed a lot like a certain cult leader. Lark stops at the entrance and glares over to who he assumes must be Terry--sure there's all the shitty fabrics that evil geezer used to wear on him. But he can still see the familiar brown watch Terry likes to wear on the person's left wrist. That one that TJ had the rest of them carve their names into (on the inside of the watch band). He's about to bark out a question (mostly like a 'what the fuck are you doing' sorta question)-- Except, his sibling casts something first: "Poison Spray"

[miaoqing]

finally found the fanfic someone edited and sent to the uni newspaper as an original story ... i fucking KNEW it was supposed to be bingjiu omfg

[the-coffee-fandom]

It annoys me when some writers say their stuff was stolen and it can be just the smallest thing like a headcanon or a super common idea and they’ll act like they own it.

[swiftfootedachilles]

what do i have to do to get people to read my stuff actually like im not about to get in everyones faces begging for attention but i dont understand how im expected to make FREE fandom content without much feedback on my work

[hetchdrive]

I’m normal about Farscape this morning (lie)

[noellewrxtes]

It was hard to neatly quantify Shisui’s feelings on the whole affair, but if he had to try it would probably go something like this:

The first and most obvious bullet point was that Shisui loved Itachi, and had for a long time. He loved the way his lashes cast delicate shadows across his cheeks in the afternoon sun. He loved the way he leaned his weight against Shisui after a particularly rigorous sparring session, boneless and completely at ease. He loved the sound of his voice, the subtle changes in pitch that indicated tone, how it raised a note when he was amused, how it lowered and slowed when he was drowsy, drifting in and out of sleep. He loved the gentle line of his shoulders, the curve of his spine, the way he looked delicate to the point of seeming fragile but was strong enough to hold his own against some of the most powerful shinobi in the world.

So Shisui loved Itachi, but the thing was that he also loved him in the normal way, the way a best friend should—his sense of humor, dry and cutting and so bizarre at times that one could miss the joke entirely if they didn’t know him; the faces he made when Shisui teased him and the way he always knew the verbal punches to throw back to make Shisui bark out a laugh; the fact that he knew Shisui better than anyone in the world, that they were so familiar with each other that they could share an entire conversation in one glance, and that bone-deep, lifelong friendship was more important to Shisui than anything. It wasn’t difficult for him, then, to make peace with the fact that Itachi didn’t seem to return his more romantic feelings and wasn’t likely to start any time soon. That was fine.

Life went on. He dated other people. He buried his feelings as best he could, and if his overt acts of affection for his best friend sometimes danced too close to the line between amicable and amorous—well. Itachi never seemed to mind, so why should anyone else?

But then Itachi had kissed him, and things got a lot more complicated.

[01tsubomi]

mfw i spent yeeeeears in college aaaaaagonizing about how to turn a short fanfic of mine into a full-length original work and was working on it with my professor and through all the editing became really embarrassed of the original fanfic version thinking it was immature and shallow but could also never make the rewrite work so i moved onto other projects and then today after a very long time reread both of them only to find that the original fic is concise and heartfelt with clunky execution but solid and gripping emotional beats and the novelization is overwritten self-obsessed garbo

[sanchoyo]

whys ygo the only fandom I’m in that’s really populated with crackships/rarepairs out the wazoo. Like there’s ofc A Lot of popular ships but no one looks twice at ‘weirder’ ones like ones where the charas never spoke. More fandoms could learn from this 😔