#so my fic premise is that

[secretagentspydetectiveninja]

posting this with absolutely no context

[tragedy-machine]

Listen, listen, listen, imagine Charles making a grand romantic gesture to confess to Edwin, he makes it really special, VERY obviously romantic

They're talking, they're bantering, and eventually, Charles sees his chance and tells Edwin, "I love you"

Edwin blushes and naturally says it back

And Charles is super happy, like "Yes! I finally did it, we're finally dating!" ...meanwhile, Edwin did not get that it was a date and a romantic confession

So we see them go about their days and solve cases while Charles thinks they're together and assumes Edwin is too shy to kiss him, but he's waiting for an opportunity to do it one day because he really wants to, but he can be patient for Edwin

And Edwin is just like, "Charles’s been more affectionate with his touch recently, I don't know what that's about, but it's nice"

[weaselmcdiesel]

Once there was a space cadet who rose through the ranks of a fleet of cosmic conquerors. His unmatched strength and overwhelming charisma quickly landed him a spot among the elites of their crew. One day, however, the cadet's heart of gold caused him to waver before a helpless enemy. Realizing the brutality of his race of conquerors, the cadet refused to partake in any more mindless killing. His crew quickly turned on him, ready to wipe him out of history for his insubordination to the empire. A magical cat oversaw the entire ordeal and used her powers to transport the dashing young man out of harms way. It wouldn't be long before the cat's cloaking magic would wear off and the empire would locate them. The pair knew their lives would be changed forever. With the cadet's legendary combat abilities and the cat's unwavering support, they would go forth as exiles into the cosmos, to build a new crew founded on the virtues of friendship.

Or at least, that's what karkat and nepeta were roleplaying about

[unicornpopcorn14]

Do you ever stop and think of how Chuuya's life before the PM was one of constant violence and brutality?

And how he might have been touch-averse early on in his life for how every touch he's known was vicious and barbaric?

Do you ever think about how this might be Chuuya's first experience of actual, gentle touch since he'd been picked up by the sheep??

Do you ever consider that the reason he looks so shocked aside from his ability getting swept away, is because this isn't a chokehold or a preparation to attack, but a mere hold?

Do you ever think about how No Longer Human might have taught him that gentle touch can be just as powerful as violent ones??

Oh, by the way,

Do you ever stop and consider that the reason Chuuya was reeling every time him and Dazai closed proximity isn't only because he doesn't stand Dazai but also because he absolutely hates the contact?

Do you ever think of how Dazai might have known how much Chuuya wasn't used to gentle touch and tormented him by doing shit like this just so he can see Chuuya's visceral reactions every time?

Do you ever imagine Chuuya trying to get used to gentle touch and even try to initiate some as payback?

And how he's come to appreciate and embrace it by doing so?

[gossippool]

okay but the agony of logan loving and having to kill his own universe's wade and then falling back in love with him in another universe

[gingiekittycat]

Headcanoning that Crowley invented plants so that no one could live without the light from a star

Headcanoning that Crowley designed the Garden before he Fell

Headcanoning that God kept the design with one small addition of a tree in the middle called the Tree of Knowledge as a slight at Crowley’s thirst for answers

Headcanoning that Crowley's angel name was "Eden"

and God kept the name too

[one-vivid-judgment]

Tan proposes by making a list of 100 reasons why Fang should marry him, and it ranges from the sweetest love confessions to "So I made a bet with Phum and if I don't marry you before he marries Peem I'll owe him 1000 baht, and I'd rather spend my money on you so please?"

Q proposes by putting up a house worth of sticky notes explaining everything he loves about Toey, including the art comparisons he made while talking to Peem about him.

Phum proposes by taking Peem on a road trip to every lake/river/beach/general water space in a ten kilometer radius. By the time they come back, he's already on one knee, waiting for Peem to come out of the shower, and he says something like "I want to make you feel as happy and safe as the water forever."

Chain proposes by buying a penguin plushie and leaving it on their bed with a note that says "Guin says it's confusing that his two dads have different last names, you should take mine instead."

Mick proposes super casually. They're playing video games together and he just has an epiphany—because Matt's hair looks super greasy and he has pieces of popcorn stuck between his teeth and yet Mick still thinks he's the cutest thing ever, and he simply cannot let this man go.

[spirk-trek]

Promises to Keep | Cover art by Caren Parnes for Jenna Sinclair's fan novel (available to read here on Ao3), 1995

Feedback from two anonymous fans below the cut because I thought they were so sweet :)

"Last week, two repairmen were in my house and one of them came into my dining room, which is covered with Trek memorabilia. He twisted his hands, lowered his head and muttered that he was a Trek fan, too. 'I like the guy with the visor,' he said, speaking to the floor. 'And I like the robot, a little. But what I really like,' he pointed up and at the original cover of Promises to Keep that I have framed on the wall, 'are those two fellows Kirk and Spock. Do you like them, too?' Needless to say, he did an excellent job installing my air ducts, and I kept him supplied with lemonade throughout the day."

"Until you read the novel, you cannot possibly understand the symbolism of this gorgeous color artwork. Both Spock and Kirk are drawn in exquisite detail and with the accuracy of a camera lens. And yet, the camera would not capture them so -- because this is how they appear in their melds: perfection. Flawless, timeless, handsome, sensitive. Unbelievable. The closer you look the more fine features you see. Tiny vessels in the whites of Kirk’s eyes, impeccably trimmed strands of Vulcan hair. Truly a piece to be treasured."

[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.

[i-like-books-and-women]

Oh the crippling reality of small fandom means if I wanna read the fic I'm probs gonna have to write it

[edenfire]

💗🏥 Shuake Week- Day 6 - Wound Tending 🏥💗

I've always really liked the idea of goro waking up after the engine room with a bullet wound in the chest. he miraculously survives, and akira has to take him in and tend to him, while hiding him from shido's men😳💦

(also yes, goro is wearing akira's pj pants😌💞)

[forsakenmissives]

art for a fic idea i have wherein arthur is a merman distrusting of humans and merlin is a human distrusting of water.

!! lineart under the cut :3

[bignostalgias]

[timeshareindestin]

thought too much about buck’s affinity for inflicting pain on himself because he probably doesn’t know what it’s like to not feel it at all and eddie building a life around treating pain to make up for that he caused and almost opened google docs about it

[access-point]

Everyone thinks that Qrow is the one likes to collect rocks, trinkets, and shiny things. Mostly because of how often he's seen doing it, and slightly because of the running joke that crows do the exact same thing.

But the fact of the matter is: Clover is the one with a four-leaf clover charm, a horshoe, and a rabbit's foot. That's not one, not two, but three different trinkets right there. Who's to say he doesn't have more good luck objects? Who's to say he doesn't have a pair of special, lucky dice? Maybe a shiny gold coin that he secretly carries around in his pocket? Maybe even a piece of decoration or jewlery (a ring, perhaps?) that's encrusted with a jade, a gemstone believed to bring good luck?

TLDR: Clover is the one who collects trinkets, not Qrow. Qrow is just the one to find them for him, because everytime he sees something like that, Clover is all he can think about, so he takes it to bring back to him.

[lansplaining]

i just can't get over the fact that JGY had more success bonding with Jin Zixun than with Jin Zixuan. literally where do people get the idea he could have been this amazing, loving big brother. he had the chance and super did not take it!!