I jsut

So …Sherlock Holmes gets questioned “You and John Watson, just platonic?”

in the actual same building where Oscar Wilde was interrogated about his sexuality

and in response goes goes dead silent

while standing in the same courthouse

where Oscar Wilde gave a famous speech about the line “I am the love that dare not speak its name”

……………………………. in 1895

someone do a bookstore 1x1 with me where one of them works at this lil book cafe and since the customers know how to take care of themselves they’re usually just sitting near the window reading as they have their free hand perched on the shelf

but one day this new face comes in and he’s a traveling photographer who’s looking for some muse but he notices this pair of shining eyes behind a book and delicate glasses and he just goes near her and gently pushes the book down and takes it carefully

“oh hey that’s my favorite book” and he smirks like the confident freelancer he is and the attendant just smiles and takes it back and says “that’s nice” and continues reading

and he panics and doesn’t /understand/ why his charm didn’t work and basically he rents this shitty ass apartment across the street and spends a month trying to get to know the attendant, which turns out to be the best month of both of their lives

also while I firmly believe that all human beings are born with the innate capacity for tremendous, earth-shattering love

actually loving is something you have to work on. It requires practice, it takes contentiousness and habit-building and carefulness and empathy–we are born into this world immensely selfish, crying out for only our own needs; we have to work backwards from that, to expand our awareness. To realize that there are other people in the world just as needful, as complex, as you yourself are. And then to fall in love with them, to stay in love with them, as you love yourself when you are complicated or crude or selfish or hateful.

we differentiate love from lust or affection or any number of shades of feeling because love is–something set apart. It is natural, instinctual, but also made, worked, shaped. Something of our choosing, an act of self-creation, and also something beyond us, though we haven’t quite finished arguing about from where.

(I don’t actually care–biology, theology, psychology, doesn’t matter to me. A little something of our own, and a little someone beyond our control. Of this, the world is made.)

and I don’t know, there’s something trembling and true and lovely about that idea. That we work on even this, confounded by it thousands of years later–we write hymns to the unsolvable puzzle of it, though the words have hardly changed down the centuries and the melody is always something you can hum. I love you I’m not worthy, I don’t understand, I don’t–

it happens anyway, a stupid glorious accident that we take and set alight, and turn into love.


“If you don’t get out of (Y/N), I’ll get you out of her!”

Requested by: ohmyfrostiron