#This got completely away from me

[ianashas-palace]

So what if they flirted even more in Leblanc

[marshmallowgoop]

no thoughts just Heiji Hattori (HD)

[thelongestwalk]

just imagine it: dungeons and drag queens dating sim

[doodlesdreaming]

Shooters are not my kind of ga-

*discovers Ghost and Soap*

Bloody hell….

[xiaojuun]

"you might as well quit asking." SEMANTIC ERROR EP. 6

[potionbarrel]

playing with colors and lines :o)

[topaziraphale]

"Stop saying Crowley won't help Aziraphale in S3 he'd go back to him in a HEARTBEAT and nothing would stop him" I get it no one likes the idea of Crowley being bitter after what happened for a long period of time but like can we at least acknowledge that he's currently going through probably the most emotional pain in his life since falling? Can we agree that he's opened his heart entirely - something you couldn't pay him to do unless the world is literally ending and he's desperate - to Aziraphale, and got shot down? Can we understand that he did it AGAIN only to lose Aziraphale again? Not that what Aziraphale did isn't without Crowley's own shortcomings (hiding the truth of Heaven's cruelty from him) but like,,,,

The appeal here isn't Scorned Crowley Doesn't Love Aziraphale Anymore, or Never Wants To Help Him Again, the appeal here is Crowley learning enough self respect to not just walk back right to Aziraphale like nothing happened after Aziraphale has had a pattern of consistently refusing him. Going years ping-ponging between "We're not friends I don't even know him" to "That's what friends are for right?" and "We're friends, why would you even say anything?" and "Friends? We're not friends. We are an angel and a demon!"

Like I get it, Crowley is a heartbreakingly forgiving person. Of course he's gonna forgive Aziraphale, I'll be surprised if he didn't forgive him by the time he walked out the bookshop door, but gdi he could at least grant himself the luxury of being at least a little irritated for longer than however long it takes to make a globe and some books float and angrily cry out to God in his flat. But due to the change of pace and dynamic that is establishing part of the conflict for Season 3, I just really like the idea of him for ONCE prioritizing himself and being like "Okay, fine. We'll get back at it when you're ready, then," instead of just taking Aziraphale back like his words and actions meant nothing to him, when clearly they have an effect on him.

What is Aziraphale going to learn if Crowley just accepts what he did so quickly, like he always has the entire time they've been friends? Idk maybe I'm just projecting too much darkness on their dynamic but I mean, if the pattern of Aziraphale pushing Crowley away/disrespecting him one day and then being fine with his friendship the next + Crowley never stopping to be like "Hey, that's not cool, at least give me a little credit" or smth was fine all along and will continue to be fine in the future, then why, after 6,000 years of being friends and loving this demon, can Aziraphale still not accept that Crowley is just fine the way he is, and instead got excited to promote him to an angel in a heartbeat once the opportunity presented itself? You can't blame all of it on Heaven when Aziraphale has demonstrated his free will/defiance to Heaven so many times. Or, I don't know, I guess maybe we can? Maybe I'm just craving too much angst to the point where I'm letting it cloud my analysis of canon. Idk.

[hardly-an-escape]

Fluffbruary Day 26

gonna try to do a little daily drabble just to get the creative juices going while I work on longer WIPs. no guarantees that it'll be every day.

Dream/Hob • rated M • fluff | woolly | care package

Hob smiles when he unzips his suitcase and sees the surprise Dream has left for him. He must have snuck it in while Hob was in the loo, just before the Uber had arrived, because it definitely hadn’t been there when he’d packed last night.

It’s nothing fancy. Just a plain little bag, labeled with his name in Dream’s distinctive spiky handwriting, the black marker feathering a bit where it’s soaked into the cheap brown paper. Dream’s embellished it with doodles of birds and trees, so it looks like Hob’s name is growing out of a tiny black-and-white forest.

Inside is a packet of Hob’s favorite biscuits, and one of sour gummy worms. A miniature instant photo of the two of them together, which Hob recognizes from Matthew’s last birthday party. A pressed flower from their garden, carefully taped to a square of card stock with washi tape. And best of all, a new fountain pen – one of the nice ones Hob’s been eyeing for a while but hasn’t found an excuse to buy.

He flips over the card with the dried flower. On the other side is a short handwritten message: I love you. Work hard. Think of me.

Hob’s insides turn to goo. He hadn’t thought it was possible to fall even more in love with his husband than he already is, and yet he’s standing here in a boring hotel room feeling as though he’s just drunk a bottle of champagne.

I love you. Work hard. Think of me.

As if he could do anything but.

He fishes his phone from his jacket pocket. Dream answers on the first ring.

“Did you find your present?” he asks without preamble.

“Yes. I love you so much. My darling, you would not even believe how much I love you. You are, bar none, the best thing that’s ever happened to me –”

“Did you find all of your present?” Dream presses.

“Yes?” Hob says uncertainly. “It was all in the little bag, right? The doodles are so cute, by the way.”

“Look farther. Under your clothes.”

Hob obediently digs deeper in his suitcase. At first he doesn’t see it, but then his fingers encounter something unfamiliar. It’s small, but firm, and heavy for its size. For a second he’s puzzled – then he realizes what it is and bursts into laughter.

“You maniac, did you pack me a butt plug?”

“I thought you might get lonely.” He can hear the smile in Dream’s voice.

“I’m only going to be gone for three nights!”

“Yes. Three long, lonely nights. In the wasteland of Bangor. Without your husband to comfort and please you after your long days of toil.”

“It’s just an academic conference, my love, not manual labor.”

“I’ve seen how you medievalists get. All those heavy books. You might strain yourself if you don’t find a way to relax.”

Hob laughs again, and rejoices in Dream’s laugh in return. After all these years, it still sends a shiver down his back.

“I really do love you,” he says.

“And I you,” Dream answers softly. “But I must go. Matthew is almost here. He promised to come distract me from my woeful solitude. I believe he is bringing Die Hard.”

“Have fun. Tell him I said hi. I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”

“Till then, my love.”

“Bye, darling.”

prompt list!

[ask-mirage-mews]

Tea and Stories (ft. Omni from @omniandco)

[snezfics-n-shit]

[tariah23]

This is such a harmful sentiment to push considering that you don’t necessarily have to be “attractive,” (beauty is subjective, yada yada) in order for men to want to harm you in the slightest… like man, what…

[fisheito]

finally listening to the h-scene audio after 1.5 years on mute

yakumo: gasps and whimpers in the whiniest brokenest way me:

[foxilayde]

Taking a break from Thanksgiving thots to ask how you envision OTTR Leto meeting reader?? I haven’t given it much thought before this moment and now I’m desperate to hear your thoughts on the beginning of their relationship

I think about this one all the time.

You met Leto in Venice. Ocean Front Walk Venice, CA.

It gets hot in the Valley.

So hot that when you’re getting off your shift one blazing afternoon in downtown Los Angeles, the prospect of sitting in dead stop traffic on the 60 to Jurupa Valley, in your busted Honda Civic, only to go home to a stifling house with no AC…. Is anything but appealing.

So you do something unexpected. You are going to cool down, and you’re going to treat yourself while you do it. You’re going to pretend your life is ab-fab (absolutely fabulous) if only for one evening.

You take off from the parking lot of your job and instead of heading east, you go west. You stop at Neiman Marcus and you buy a dress. One that is too expensive to actually keep. So you wear it out and tuck the tags with every intention to return the next day. The dress looks amazing tho, it’ll be a shame to say farewell. It’s a classy little black cocktail thing that goes well with your plain black work shoes.

You get a little touch-up at the makeup counter to refresh your lipstick and spray on some Diptyque, and you head back to your car. You google, “open houses ocean view near me” and you take off to the coast.

You park your car a few blocks away from the listing. If the agent sees that heap, they probably won’t let you step inside. I mean this house is listed for nearly 15 million dollars. You shouldn’t even be walking down this block. You feel almost guilty for parking anywhere near this neighborhood.

There’s about 5 or six other people in the house looking around. The agent smiles at you and hands you a brochure when you enter. A glossy embossed thing listing the amenities as well as her contact information. You feel a little overdressed. The men are in tommy Bahama shirts and the women are in Lulu Lemon leggings.

You get a glass of free champagne and you help yourself to the charcuterie tray, looking around the house with appraising eyes, trying to nod your head at the bannisters and balconies like “hmm yes, maybe this will do.” Truthfully the house is beyond gorgeous. It’s ocean adjacent and has it’s own deck, pool, hot tub rooftop lounge, bedroom balcony… the kitchen is a thing of ART. The whole open concept and glass everything makes you feel so utterly out of place.

But its not like buying it was ever in the cards or the intention. the AC works, that’s all you care about, and you step outside the living room patio balcony, the ocean breeze hits your face in the most cooling fantastic sort of way. You audibly sigh and close your eyes breathing in the air. A voice from behind you startles you.

“Refreshing, isn’t it?” You nearly drop your glass, surprised by the man’s proximity.

God. He is handsome. Slick backed hair, mirrored aviators, a thousand watt smile, movie star jaw, and a dark navy suit cut, sewn, and ironed by Giorgio Armani himself. He looks like a magazine advert for Ray Bans. Now this, this is the type of man who buys a 15 million dollar home. Not you. The way he’s smiling at you now seems like… like joke or something. Like he’s laughing at you. He can smell the Honda Civic on you, can clock your shoes as Margiela knock-offs… heat creeps up your face despite the cooling breeze.

You look down at the floor and smile politely. “Excuse me” you mutter and go inside to investigate another part of the house.

You run into him again in the closet. Literally, you bump into him in the grand walk in. He’s probably going to need a closet this big for his collection of fine Italian sartorials. “Sorry” you mumble, ducking out. God he smells good.

You head back down to the kitchen to grab more cheese and crackers. Another bonus of open house crashing along with the free AC and free sparkling wine. Free food.

You’re midway through shoving another Brie covered cracker into your mouth when you see him again, in the kitchen, examining something attached to the marble countertop. His glasses are hanging from the center of his undone silk shirt. Those eyes.

You cover your cracker-full mouth and gulp. He’s so fucking cute furrowing his brow at the contraption and he spins the lever of it with one hand and smiles. He looks up at you.

“Pasta maker.” He points to it before shoving his hand back in his pocket. “You ever use one like this? It’s old school.”

You shake your head, still swallowing cracker.

“Wonder if it comes with the house…” He muses, looking up at the recessed lighting. He points up. “They all come with this now, you notice that?”

You shake your head again.

He tsks and continues, “Can’t stand it. I like something softer, y’know. These are harsh. You get up at 3 in the morning to get a glass of water and you want to kill yourself.”

You shrug and take a sip of sparkling wine. You wish you could talk to him but you can’t. You can feel yourself on the verge of saying something fucking stupid and it’s best to just not speak at all. So you look up at the recessed lighting with a curious face, trying to see the harshness, as he put it.

“Something hanging, like right over here,” he indicates over the island. “Something with yellow light. Soft, capiche?”

You smile at the word. It makes you more comfortable for some reason. “What? Like the Tiffany lampshades in the pool hall?” You offer with a smile.

He grins the most dazzling smile at you, stepping a foot closer and nodding. “Not exactly what I had in mind, but keep talking.”

“I was thinking more Venini myself.” You offer, taking another sip. He nods at you with appreciation.

“Tasteful. And soft. I’m listening.”

Your cheeks hurt from smiling at this point and you take a few steps to the living room gesturing near the sofa.

“An Arco floor lamp in the corner right here.” You submit to him, looking back over your shoulder with a wink. He chuckles.

“Took the words right out of my mouth.”

“And for the foyer,” you stride over to the front entrance, “A Sputnik. Right in the middle.”

“Gold or silver?” He asks.

“Bronze of course.” You reply with an affected air.

“How silly of me, dear.” He puts his hand over his heart.

The real estate agent makes a remark on what a gorgeous couple you are and how you just “fit the house”.

You start to protest but the man puts his arm around your shoulders and thanks the agent saying, “whatever baby wants, baby gets.” Winking at the woman and KISSING the side of your head. Which makes your face turn hot instantly.

He is… good at playing along, isn’t he. Well isn’t that what you were doing already? cosplaying as someone who could afford the house, and now you’re cosplaying a couple with this man whom you don’t even know the name of? Jesus—Just go with it, you suppose. Enjoy the pretending before you have to go back to the heat of Jurupa Valley…

“Now what about the dining room?” He asks into your ear in a deep voice, arm still over your shoulder.

“Hmmm,” You’re slowly running out of lamp styles, but you can’t let on. “How do you feel about Venetian glass, darling?”

“Inspired. Really,” he squints his eyes at the recessed lighting over the dining table. “We are in Venice after all.” He laughs with a toothy smile. “You have fine taste…” he leads.

You give him your name. He repeats it before telling you his. “Leto”

“I should have known you would have fine taste by the dress you’re wearing.” He compliments, picking up a glass of sparkling wine on the marble counter and gesturing your dress up and down.

“Thank you.” You blush. It’s not even yours. It’s on loan. You’re returning it tomorrow and you feel like a fraud.

Leto bites his bottom lip in contemplation then takes a step towards you, his hand making its way towards the nape of your neck with stern concentration on his lips. Oh fuck he’s about to kiss you. You make the split second decision to let him, closing your eyes gently, puckering your lips, holding your breath, and leaning in slightly.

But he doesn’t kiss you. You feel the slide of glossy paper down the back of your neck and the settling of it under your dress. He was tucking in the price tag of the dress for you. Jesus fucking Christ. You step back, embarrassed. He pats your arm. You cover your your brow, feeling your face get hot once again. So much for searching for that cool breeze by the coast!

Leto chuckles pleasantly. “Hey, hey, don’t be embarrassed. Happens to the best of us.”

God he’s probably giving you the benefit of the doubt. Probably thinks you just have so many new designer dresses that you innocently forgot to take the tag off… but if he had, would he have tucked it back in like he did? Or would he have just plucked it off?

“You like the house?” He asks, still jovial like the most embarrassing thing in the world didn’t just happen to you 5 seconds ago.

“It’s amazing. Perfect, really. The location, the style. It’s a dream. I have always wanted to live in Venice… the energy here is unbelievable.” You look around at the pristine grandiosity. The sun is close to setting now over the ocean and you sigh wistfully at the stunning view. “Whoever gets it is a lucky duck, I’ll tell you that.” You say, cheersing the sun itself before knocking back a sip of wine.

Leto watches you watch the lapping waves. “Let me buy it for you?”

You nearly choke on your drink. “Leto?! The house??”

Leto nearly doubles over in laughter, holding up his hand in apology, “No. No. I’m sorry, I— I meant the dress.”

Your face goes hot again. He knows! He knows you’re planning on returning it. Shit, he probably saw you pull up in your Civic!

“Please let me buy it for you. It suits you perfectly and it’d be a shame for anyone else to own it.” His eyes are so soft and kind and pretty and you almost want to cry.

“I… I can’t let you do that. It’s already on my card. I promise I won’t return it though, after that compliment, how could I?”

Leto nods. “At least let me take you out to dinner? Give you an excuse to show it off?”

Your heart nearly sinks. He’s probably the type to insist on picking you up. And he’s going to, what? Drive to the IE to do that?

“I live kind of far away…” you trail off, cringing slightly.

“I can send a car for you.”

“Leto, No, I—“

“Do you live father than a car ride? I can send a plane for you if you’d prefer?”

You laugh, but the returning stare isn’t a joking one. He’s fucking serious.

“I promise I won’t try anything funny. I just… want to pick your brain for more design ideas.” He grins and scratches the back of his neck, “It doesn’t have to be a date. Could be a business dinner? You would be my consultant…”

“Oh really? Consultant?” You cringe.

“Or it can be a date. A proper one. The best meal of your life. The Barber of Seville at the LA Operahouse, dancing, desert, a starlit walk on the beach outside my brand new house.” He grins. God what a fantastic smile.

“Sound like a 5 hour date.” You assess.

“What? You want longer? Because I will have a hot tub by the time this date rolls around and that can add up to 2 hours.”

“Two hours? Ambitious.”

“Agreed. But if done properly…” he winks and hands you a business card with his number on it. “Just think about it. I’ll be around.” He takes a deep breath, surveying the house and you, “I could stay and play house with you all day but I have a sudden urge to get ahold of my broker.” He takes your hand and kisses it.

“Nice meeting you Leto… Atreides.” You read off of his card.

“The pleasure was mine, gorgeous.”

Once he leaves, you have to go out to the balcony again for a breath of fresh air.

[uncanny-tranny]

There's something so insane to me about being able to create and recreate vintage or even ancient music, clothes, fabrics, building architecture, anything, really.

I watched this video about a lady who knit a WWII-era vest, and it was really unique, because the cable work would eat up yarn, when there were shortages of fibers. This pattern would have likely been used by people to send overseas to soldiers, and now it's being created in a time where this war has been over for generations. What were the people making this pattern thinking of? What about the people making the vest? Could they fathom a world where world wars didn't happen back to back? Could they imagine what peace felt like, or did it fade like a distant memory, a faint friend? All we have now are the remnants of their efforts, a "simple" vest that would warm the bodies of countless people the knitter would never have imagined were here on earth with them.

We're reaching across time to learn about other people - we're reaching our hands out just to grasp anything tangible. And when we've take hold of something, all we can do is say I love you I love you I love you

[roseofcards90]

The fact that people were so willing to completely dismiss what happened in After Pain and Harrow after they saw It's Not My Fault and Deep Cover paint Mu and Kotoko in a worse light really shows that some people don't have literary comprehension 😭

[actual-changeling]

i'm mentally playing around with the good omens worldbuilding and i can't stop thinking about them not being able to heal their own corporations/bodies.

they're not entirely human, their occult/ethereal essence shapes and changes it, so what if when it does get injured they can't miracle it away or fix it? like the paintball stain on aziraphale's coat just that he isn't trying to get crowley to do it for him, crowley has to do it for him because he can't.

we see aziraphale heal anathema's broken arm after she hit the bentley the car accident, and i imagine it would be a little like that.

aziraphale breaks his wrist in some stupid way, like falling from a ladder while putting books away or stumbling, the kinda thing that has him trying to deal with it alone out of embarrassment. however, they have plans the day after, and crowley comes by with a bottle of wine and immediately notices something is off (hard not to with the way he is pressing his arm against his chest).

cue to crowley sitting him down on the couch in the backroom, and they're very, very close together. aziraphale is having trouble holding still because crowley is kneeling in front of him, no glasses, all open care and concern, and it's killing him.

"angel, if you don't-" "i told you, my dear, it's fine."

the look he gives him in response is entirely unimpressed, and he gently pokes his wrist and says nothing when aziraphale flinches in pain.

"right, fine, it's broken, just fix it. please."

every single time aziraphale says 'please' it's a silver bullet to his heart, eating away at him from the inside out; he would have done it no matter what, yet he can't tear his gaze away from the plea in his eyes. a soft blush spreads across his face, and it's too close to a confession for comfort, so crowley finally blinks and focuses on the fracture in his bones.

fixing it is simple, one cleanly aimed thought and a careful caress of his palm less than an inch above the skin, and the bones knit themselves back together without complaint. when the pain bleeds away, the tension in aziraphale's shoulders does, too.

"thank you."

"don't," he answers, more reflex than real bite, and they realise at the same time that with the miracle done, they're holding hands now. crowley savours the few seconds it takes aziraphale to pull away as if he's been burned, face turning away, and he expected it, he really did, but it still stings. he gets up and resists the urge to put his sunglasses back on, locating the bottle of wine he had abandoned rather quickly.

"right then, do you want to-"

"stay."

neither of them needs to breathe, and yet the air in the room stills in trembling expectation, confused.

"i- i meant- let me get the glasses."

crowley does not move (or breathe. or blink. or think), simply watches as aziraphale hurries away, tasting the disappointment bitter and familiar on his tongue but swallowing it before it can spill. expectations are never a good idea, causing pain neither of them can miracle away, and the undying optimism living in his chest is a curse aziraphale's blessings are powerless against.

he turns, ready to sink into his usual spot and drink the uninvited thoughts away, when a tentative touch makes him freeze once more. aziraphale's fingers are curled around his, their hands pressed together with enough plausible deniability to allow the squeeze he gives him to linger.

they're standing in the middle of the bookshop, holding hands, and crowley tastes the unspoken gratitude in the air between them, stronger than the sour heartbreak could ever be.

it rips a whispered angel out of his throat, more exhale than word, and maybe if one of them was a little bit more courageous, if the world was a little bit less dangerous for the two of them, aziraphale would have leaned over and left a kiss on his cheek before hurrying away.

maybe crowley would have pressed his fingertips to the lingering mark and blushed the same shade of rosé the bottle he had brought carried.

maybe the rest of the evening would have felt... different, saturated with all the confessions they cannot make, not yet.

maybe the next time aziraphale needed crowley for a healing miracle, the thank you was accepted without comment.

maybe if you believe in it enough, in one universe or another it did happen like that.

perhaps even in this one.