#it's about the pining

[lesbiansluffy]

edwin x charles - down bad

[rhinocio]

oops

[triassictriserratops]

Beautiful day to remember that Katniss and Peeta were in their underwear when they were making out on the beach. So there could be a potential pining period pre-kiss but post bed sharing where they sleep together in their underwear because it’s too hot. And Katniss gets addicted to being able to lay her head on his bare skin. Both of them are trying not to think of the beach kiss.

My darling Anon, you have granted me the privilege of absolutely making your day by telling you that SHE WAS ALREADY ADDICTED TO LAYING HER HEAD ON HIS BARE SKIN IN CANON.

SUPPORTED BY THE TEXT.

I rush over to where he lies, motionless in a web of vines. “Peeta?” There's a faint smell of singed hair. I call his name again, giving him a little shake, but he's unresponsive. My fingers fumble across his lips, where there's no warm breath although moments ago he was panting. I press my ear against his chest, to the spot where I always rest my head, where I know I will hear the strong and steady beat of his heart.

[partywithponies]

So I have a really elaborate headcanon for the movie Bill, so elaborate that now every little fanfic I imagine in my head actually takes place during an entire sequel movie I made up inside my own head, and I've been talking about it with @quillandrapier at great length and now I have so many Thoughts I may explode so I'll share the general idea of my elaborate headcanon here:

Anne, Gabriel, and the other "cockney players" who stayed behind in London form a kind of vigilante gang behind Bill's back to rescue Croydon out of a sense of guilt that he's the only one being punished, Anne shoots Ian in the arm with an arrow or something on brand for him, and in the chaos they manage to get Croydon away, and some criminal underworld contacts get him a job working in a butcher's or a baker's under a new name where he can lie low for a bit until they find a way to smuggle him out of London so he can really start again under his new identity, and he actually gets a taste for working in a shop, people actually appreciate him, and he obviously has good cake ideas, and maybe he spend a lot of time in the kitchens at his father's house as a young boy, watching the cooks and bakers? I get the feeling he was always a lonely child. Anne starts sneaking out to visit him, at first just to keep an eye on him and make sure he isn't going to do something stupid and blow all their covers, but they get really close, but they both think nothing can come of it because she's married and he's leaving London forever any day now, so they're both just quietly Pining and Yearning. Meanwhile Anne, Gabriel, and the cockney players have developed a taste for vigilante-ing and have starting freeing young boys and people who did it out of self defence from the chop and have become both wanted criminals and local heroes. Bill is still completely oblivious that it's them. MEANWHILE meanwhile Bill and Gabriel are also getting really really close, but Bill's too stupid to realise that they're in love and Gabriel's getting very frustrated. Eventually they finally get word that Croydon's to be smuggled out of London to the countryside tomorrow and Anne suddenly realises she can't bear it and announces she's going with him. She runs off with Croydon and leaves Bill and the kids a note apologising and explaining everything, and Gabriel takes this moment to finally give Bill a kick up the backside and make a move on him.

[tragicalwisteria]

golden.

Remus rolled his eyes, "Look, you had to know this was bound to happen when you decided to walk into our meeting all cocky and shit, so get the fuck out." He shut up the whimpering, pitiful mass at the door with a swift flick to the temple- he'd face the consequences later, he wasn't supposed to terrorise every single curious individual interrupting their meetings (especially James, who often popped in to discuss a new prank- he'd have to understand that now was not the time), but he was never one to follow the rules, was he now?

Remus stalked back into the room, met by a giggling Sirius, who was failing miserably to cover up his laughter with the back of his hand. He mock-curtsied then sprawled himself over his chair, brushing the stacks of books on it to the floor, eliciting a disgruntled sigh from Sirius,

"I was sorting those for the library you insufferable git."

"Oops?"

Sirius' delicate laughter slipped out like tinkling fairy bells rustled by the wind and echoed throughout the cosy room, their little alcove where they would spend an afternoon every week in blissful oblivion of the deteriorating society around them, their escape into a world of utter peace. No they weren't doing drugs- well sometimes they were- but often they simply basking in the other's presence and the warm sun which almost always cascaded through the sheer, tulle curtains, falling on Sirius' face, causing him to glow an ethereal orange, his eyes sparkling, pools of liquid silver, crinkled ever so slightly at the creases, each long, dark eyelashes individually illuminated. His glossy black hair spilled over his shoulders- Remus could spend all day simply studying Sirius' features, each attentively carved by the most meticulous and painstaking hands, modelled from the silhouette of the most exquisite angels. All while determinedly avoiding Sirius' piercing gaze, his lips curled up in a questioning, "What?", laughing, brushing it off (keep it casual Lupin, don't fucking mess this up).

When asked why they would uphold this strange and trifling ritual to such a strict standard Remus would remark, hurriedly, "I just like spending time with my best friend!" although this was mainly to bruise James' ego (one had to do that sometimes to avoid his head physically inflating- Remus was always happy to oblige). As much as he hated lying to Lily (not out of any moral concern, more to his being an abysmal liar), there was no other option. She couldn't know the real reason.

Sometimes, Remus would sit in an armchair, tucked up in the most wonderfully bizarre fashion, upside down, one leg over the arm, one arm settled over his chest and the other fully extended, holding some book as far away from his slowly reddening face as possible, his glasses slipping down, or rather up, his nose, his curls brushing the floor near where Sirius would sit, devoting himself to his art, cross legged, sketchbook in hand, charcoal pencils on the floor near him, stowed carefully in their case- the slightest movement would break them, or so Sirius thought as he sketched away diligently, tongue sticking out, eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly (Remus would watch him, watch his pencil move across the paper in swift, random, jerks, slowly forming a beautiful figure- he was utterly mesmerised by the process.)

Other times, Sirius would sit at the piano and play, as he was now- Remus would watch his hands glide gracefully over the creamy ivories, barely skimming it, his touch light, gentle- Remus wondered who else had played this piano before him, whose hands had graced these keys- who had listened to the mellow, warm, soft sounds flowing from the instrument, let it wash over them as Remus did now, watching it pooling at his feet, pleasant, golden, sparkling in the hazy, summer light- the room painted a comforting orange, warmth seeping from all corners of their hideaway, they were at peace, untouchable, anything could happen (but would Remus let it?).

For now he would fill his heart with simple melodies, lulling him to sleep, under the sleepy gaze of the sunset, with slivers of dark blue peppering the sky, the faint outline of stars dotted around like freckles, soft.

[breadedsinner]

No-pressure writing ask: what's a line or a scene you've written that you still think about because it makes you happy?

Thank you for the question!

I have definitely brought this one up before, but that just goes to show how happy it makes me:

*

Dusk swallowed the sky, shades of orange and purple melting together, and stars emerged from the ether, as if commanded by the resplendent brown of her eyes. As if called to her, so they might frame her form, so they would illuminate her face. A few scattered lanterns shed a dim light across the city streets, but they paled in Hawke’s radiance.

Sebastian felt his chest tighten. It was not as though he was not aware that she was beautiful in every conceivable way, or that his admiration for her was morphing into something new, just as evening falls into night; inevitable, a little frightening, but quietly glorious. But in that moment, it was all the clearer. Everything was clearer, as darkness enveloped all but her. She was a beacon, a star in this time of uncertainty.

A wistful “Maker,” slipped out of his mouth. A heavy lump formed in his throat. His tongue tingled as the words began to form, but he choked on them. Was he really going to ruin this perfect moment?

 “What is it?” said Hawke, her laughter slowly petering out. “Is there still something on my face?”

“No, it’s just,” he swallowed, pushed down the fear. He was certain she felt something for him, he had seen her wandering glances, heard her rare laughter, felt her edges soften. Around him, only with him. If nothing else, surely a few weeks of heartache would be better than a lifetime of regret, something that already clung to his feet like a looming shadow. But shadows did not creep so, in the pure night. “I love you.”

[nirikeehan]

Happy DADWC Friday Niri! How do you feel about some Thalia/Blackwall with "campfire" and "stormy days" from the Cozy October prompts? (I am perhaps inspired by the rain that finally hit the PacNW today to tamp down all this smoke)

Thank you! I feel like it's PINING O'CLOCK, my favorite time of night!!

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 575

---

Thalia sits by him at the morning campfire, watching him brew coffee. 

He offers to share, and she wrinkles her dainty nose. “I’ve never had any.”

“Never had coffee?” He scoffs into his chipped tin cup, the one that’s been with him for three campaigns and years of running. He forgets, sometimes, how young she is. 

“Where I come from, it’s proper to drink tea.” Everything about this drips with privilege: her upbringing, her cultured accent, the fact that she’s never had to be awake and awake fast. 

It should grate on his nerves, but instead he finds it endearing. There’s so much for her to learn, so much he could teach her. The thought stirs something deep in his gut, a twist of desire he thought he’d done away with long ago.

“Here.” He passes her the cup, filled to the brim with the thick, black liquid. “Try it.” 

Thalia raises it to her mouth. He brews it strong and mean, nothing to sweeten it. He watches her lips pucker, her brow furrow in distaste. She forces a swallow and sticks out her pretty pink tongue. “Blech!”

He laughs and takes the cup from her. “It’ll put some hair on your chest, that’s for sure.”

“Not sure I need that,” Thalia quips, and their gazes catch. 

“No,” he says quietly. “I’m certain it’s fine the way it is.” 

Thalia’s averts her eyes, cheeks growing rosy. He’s not sure why he bothers to flirt with her. It comes easily, a habit that never dies, run by muscle memory. Maybe it’s nice to know he hasn’t completely gone to seed, that women still notice. He’s almost certain no man has given her proper attention before — though given her time spent under the watchful eye of the Circle, perhaps she’s gotten the wrong sort. He’s not given much thought to mages and the goings-on in their towers, but he would like to smash his fist into the face of any Templar or Enchanter who might have mistreated her. 

Distant thunder rumbles overhead, and he says, “Storm’s a-brewing.”

“I suppose that’s why they call it the Storm Coast.” Thalia grins. 

“Never bloody stops, truth be told.” 

Thalia tilts her head. “You’ve been here before, Warden Blackwall?” 

“Once or twice.” He can’t tell her the truth — that two men died here, years ago now. That he still knows the exact spot, not far from here. He gulps his coffee and grits his teeth against the acidic taste. 

“If it’s another day of downpours, I’m not sure how I’ll stand it.” Stifling a yawn, she lifts her arms over head, stretching nimble limbs. He watches the litheness of her body, the unpretentious way she arches her back. She has none of the charms of more worldly women, ones who’ve learned to take advantage of what they have to offer. 

“We could take a day off.” He could invite her back to his tent, sit her on his knee, peel the damp clothes from her alabaster skin. Touch her softly, make her coo. He imagines her stretched out on his naked torso, arms around her, as they listen to the patter of rain on the canvas above. 

Preposterous. He thinks so, even before she giggles. “The Inquisition? Take a day off? Warden, I confess I sometimes find you quite strange.” 

 “I suppose I may be that, my lady.” He swallows the rest of his coffee in one hard gulp, like medicine. 

[laika-the-church-grim]

Are you a "sord beeg" Berserk fan, a "homoerotic tension" Berserk fan or a "learning to deal with trauma" Berserk fan?

Give me 2 with a side of 3 please

[cunning-and-cool]

idk man but something about Stanley "taught himself extremely advance physics/math/probably many other things while running a relatively successful business" Pines and Stanford "is wanted in almost every dimension with a judicial system of some kind" Pines is sooo fucking funny to me

[phantom-shell]

Fiddleford found one of his old shirts

[unsung-idiot]

don't show him modern technology; it won't end well

bonus under the cut:

[time-woods]

Accessorize ! Accessorize ! Accessorize !

based off of how my dad got his ears pierced))

[introvert-slushie]

Currently thinking about how much Ford tries to hide his hands a lot when he can…behind his back with this stance. Due to how often he’s been bullied for it.

And also, how Mabel is one of the ones who Ford feels happy about showing his hands to because she thought they were cool looking upon first shaking his hand, instead of him being judged for his six fingers.

[ID: Gravity Falls screenshots. The first three are of Ford with his hands crossed behind his back. The last two are of him shaking hands with Mabel, and letting her paint a turkey on his hand. He's smiling in both. End ID.]

[artsymeeshee]

The magic 8-ball

[noodles-and-tea]

PART 1 / PART 2 / PART 3 / PART 4

[heshmmity]

f4f (fag4fag)