#it's about the HANDS

[prideandprejudice]

Pride and Prejudice (2005) | Red, White & Royal Blue (2023) ￫ (requested by anon)

[patroclusdefencesquad]

losing my FUCKING mind

[pdouwes]

Wait for me? I will.

[sokkastyles]

I take off my hands and I give them to you,

but you don't want them so I take them back

and put them on the wrong way,

the wrong wrists.

Tonight you're thinking of cities under crowns of snow

and I stare at you like I'm looking through a window,

counting birds.

Imagine standing in a constant cone of light.

Imagine surrender.

Imagine being useless.

The stone inside you still hasn't hit bottom.

- Zutara + Seaside Improvisations by Richard Siken

[chronicowboy]

sorry but i'm never going to be over stede reaching for ed's hand and asking if this is okay and ed saying it's perfect like

[just--another--wallflower]

[raayllum]

Local boyfriend doesn’t know what to do with return of Moonshadow girlfriend

[likesummerrainn]

Chasing the Magic: The Nigel McGuinness Story

[scorchedhearth]

[felicitykings]

17.21 Trust In Me | 17.22 Blindside

HOLBY CITY (1999-2022)

[wwane]

[belovedblabber]

17. noticing their individual quirks for anyone? :D

Thank youuu! I went with Corin and Faolán as per the followup, thank you for caring about these two nerds<3

And oh lord this got sort of long. I put some of it under the read-more. Also sorry for any weird formatting, it pasted weird and I didn't have the patience to adjust things. Anyway this takes place in the point of their backstory that I like to call 'the yearning zone.'

---

Corin hummed out of tune when he was thinking. Snatches of songs that might be recognizable, if hummed with more skill.

Faolán had noticed the quirk a long time ago, and he wished he could stop noticing it. Because it was endearing, and endearing meant trouble. He didn’t want to be endeared to his employer.

  ‘Employer.’ Who was he fooling? Not even himself, anymore. Friends. Allies. What was Corin to him?

  The man he depended on, now. Their daily rhythms quietly entwined until he couldn’t easily think of living a day without the other man’s presence.

The truth was that he’d noticed so many of Corin’s quirks by now, and each one lodged in his chest and threatened him with the thing he knew but stubbornly refused to name. Because he was stubborn. God knew Corin pointed it out to him near on the daily. But never in annoyance. Always with that particular smile and an undeniable fondness.

  ‘You are,” Corin had said just yesterday, “without a doubt the most stubborn man I have ever met."

And he’d said it in a tone that had something else sitting in it. Saying one thing when he meant something else, and Faolán didn’t want to guess at what that something else was because then he’d start hoping for something he was still trying to deny he even wanted.

And now, here, morning was making its leisurely way towards noon, bathing itself in the spring sunshine. And Corin was humming something that didn’t sound like much of anything. Butchering some poor innocent snatch of folk song as he quietly set his pouches and powders and trinkets in order. Fussing over a little talisman here, adjusting carvings there, nicking his finger and clucking his tongue in what Faolán knew to be an expression of mild but overall unconcerned frustration.

Corin was so rarely truly ruffled. He smiled so often and laughed so easily, as if everything was an in-joke between him and the world.

It took someone who truly knew him to know how much of a struggle maintaining that was. Because Corin DeHaven was a man who always wanted to be somewhere else. It was etched into his bones. As much as he seemed to love every little thing around them at any given time, to the point of absurdity, and as much as there was no act in that wonderment, he wanted, terribly for something that he couldn’t have anymore

Faolán knew. He saw. Even if nobody else seemed to.

Corin’s voice shook him from is reverie.

“You’re picking at your fingers,” he was saying, smiling at Faolán from his spot sitting oh so casually on a half-rotted log. “Which means you’re thinking about something that’s got you in some sort of tizzy. As does the divot.”

“The divot?”

Corin tapped between his own brows. “The divot. You get a good one going right here, when you’re caught on something.”

“I’m reading,” he said, pointing at the book in his lap.

“You haven’t turned the page in 10 minutes, and you’ve read that part already besides.”

“I-have you been watching me?”

“Of course I have, just because I’m doing something doesn’t mean I can’t watch you at the same time. You’re good to watch.”

What was he supposed to say to that?

Corin stood up in that easy unfolding motion of his, all long legs and unhurried ease, then made his way over to Faolán and crouched down in front of him with a smile and that bird-like tilt of his head. And then, terribly, he took both of Faolán’s hands in his scarred and nimble ones and turned them over thoughtfully, toying with his fingers.

“You’ve picked the skin raw, at the tips of your fingers and around your nails. You do that, when your mind is troubling itself. So judging by the damage here something hefty is on the mind today, clearly.”

Faolán couldn’t think past the way it felt to have his hands so gently cradled in Corin’s. It was a terrible and acute reminder, of his desperate ache to be touched.

“I’d give a penny for your thoughts, you know,” Corin was saying. “Thoughts are like dinner, sometimes they’re better shared.”

Faolán tried and failed to scoff at the saying. Corin and his damn kitschy sayings. He wished he didn’t find them so charming.

He looked away from Corin’s hands but that just left him caught in those eyes keen gray eyes. Which was worse?

“I was thinking,” he faltered, Corin’s hands toying with his words and Corin’s eyes stealing them away. “I was thinking that your humming is terrible and that I can’t remotely tell what song that’s supposed to be.”

Corin laughed, eyes crinkling. “It’s a love song, but I can’t remember the name.”

“Why a love song?” Faolán asked despite himself, voice too breathless for his own comfort.

“Because I was feeling inspired by the sights of the day. Leave your hands be, Faolán Hassard.” Corin let go of his hands and stood up, smiling with an adoration that made Faolán’s heart crack. “You deserve to be treated gently, you know. Maybe someday you’ll believe me when I say that.”

It wasn’t until later, when he was lying in the dark staring up at the patched canvas of his tent, that Faolán realized he did know the name of the love song Corin had been humming.

He closed his eyes and didn’t dream.

[asoftspotforangels]

some of my favorite woven tapestries, by Cecilia Blomberg:

Point Defiance Steps

Mates

Rising Tides

Vashon Steps

[catlaila]

justice for kabru. they put my man in the wrong genre. bro was meant to be playing psychological games with light yagami and instead he’s playing yaoi mind tennis with a blonde himbo

[phantom-shell]

Fiddleford found one of his old shirts