burnished metal


tygermama  asked:

Are there any fic out there where Baze Malbus is basically the Wolverine of the Star Wars universe and everywhere he goes, he ends up with a new young lady to teach the art of being grumpy and kicking ass too? Cause I think there should be

Oh god so I may… have started writing a thing?

Baze wakes up, which is the first surprise. The second comes at the feel of desert under him, similar but wholly different to the sands of Scarif. For an overwhelming second he thinks he’s back on Jedha, but he knows Jedha’s land in the very core of him, and this isn’t it. This is something very different.

It takes him the whole of the suns trek across the sky to learn just how much.

Niima Outpost is small, ragged, and untrusting. But it does have water. Foul, sour water, but water nonetheless. Baze has had worse. It also has information, which Base finds infinitely harder to stomach.

It takes him a while to understand what the wrinkled stall-holder is telling him—he’s somehow skipped not only years but an epoch—but in the end it’s clear. Or as clear as it can be. Because while almost three decades seem to have passed, they’ve also passed him by. The face looking back from the burnished metal plate behind the stall-holder is no older than the one that fled Jedha’s destruction. His knees certainly don’t feel the weight of his lost time.

That first night is spent mostly sleepless, his back to a wall and head spinning with his circumstance. His hands feel too empty in his lap, missing the reassuring weight of his repeater canon like a lost limb. He can’t help but curse whatever power—the Force, his head whispers traitorously even as he growls it into silence—transported him here for not bringing his firepower with him. It would have made earning passage off Jakku easier.

Which is what he must do. Because if he’s here, the burning sands of Scarif already fading into memory, he must believe that somewhere out in this future galaxy, Chirrut is as well. And if nothing else in this new time is familiar, the need to find his way back to his husband very much is.

- - -

He wakes to find a dusty, waif of a girl trying to pick his pockets. This goes about as well as expected. Even as he grabs her Baze feels a sharp pang of nostalgia for the streets of Jedha where the urchins knew well enough to avoid him, even if the worst they ever faced was a hot meal and Chirrut’s calm education on the difference between assassins and tourists. Not that he is much of either right now, out of time as he is.

The girl twists and hisses in his grip like a feral tooka and Baze has to work at making sure he doesn’t accidentally snap her toothpick of a wrist as he rises to his feet.

“Stop that,” he says mildly, not very surprised when that just gets him a feral growl and renewed thrashing. Baze rolls his eyes and lifts the girl into the air until she tires herself out. It doesn’t take long. The rags she’s wearing do nothing to hide the lack of meat on her bones.

“Are you finished?” he says after she goes limp, hanging like a particularly angular vine in his grip.

A second, and then finally a nod.

Baze lowers the creature to the ground and is unsurprised when she takes the opportunity to scarper. The kick to the groin however…

Baze groans as he slowly unfolds himself. The girl has disappeared into the growing rush of the early-morning market. Baze would curse her if he weren’t so very mildly impressed.

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SGA WIP Sharing

Excerpt from my old WIP, Fortune and Glory, in which John is an adventuring archaeologist and Rodney is a concert pianist whose life has taken a turn. Fusion with Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Because @randommindtime is giving me thinky thoughts about it again.


He took several menial jobs, and degraded himself on more than one occasion, until he landed his current gig playing piano at Club Obi Wan. He made shit wages but got to eat for free. It was no concert hall. He played popular tripe like Blue Moon and Red Sails in the Sunset, accompaniment for the stable of scantily clad dancing girls and the blonde tomato that was the star of the show. (Willie Scott was an American, a fact made apparent by her big mouth and deplorable lack of manners.)

Meredith – he was going by Rodney these days, a way to distance himself from his mistakes and the person he used to be –finished off Anything Goes with a flourish, not that anyone cared. Willie made an immediate beeline for Lao Che, the owner of the club and a high-ranking member of the local crime syndicate, not to mention Willie’s sugar daddy. She simpered over him and Rodney just rolled his eyes. He didn’t know what her story was, mostly because he just really, really didn’t care, but it was obvious to him that her appeal was already starting to wane with the boss.

Normally Rodney paid little attention to the goings-on in the club, apart from those that affected him directly, but his gaze lingered on Lao Che’s table as he made his own way back towards the kitchen. Lao Che was sitting with his usual bodyguards, and one of his sons who sported a heavily bandaged hand and looked worse for wear. There was another man, too, wearing a white tuxedo jacket and slouching in his chair in a way that marked him as an American. He was incredibly good-looking, with his dark hair sticking up in haphazard cowlicks and a smirky tilt to his lips.

Rodney flushed and made himself look away, tugging nervously on his own gray tuxedo; the club orchestra always wore gray. He wanted out of this stupid, fish-eating country in the worst way but he was done compromising his morals to do so. He figured he only had three, four months tops before he’d saved enough for a boat ticket home. After that, if he never saw rice again it would be too soon.

He was almost to the kitchen when all hell broke loose. Women were screaming, one of Lao Che’s men was on fire, and it seemed like every employee pulled out automatic weapons. Rodney dropped to the floor and laced his hands protectively over his head as the guests started to stampede and bullets started to fly.

“Oh, God!” Rodney’s heart was pounding and he felt very strongly that he didn’t want to die in that stupid club. He didn’t know what to do and remained frozen with indecision until a man dropped to the floor in front of him, his white shirt stained red with blood. Rodney choked off a scream and scuttled backwards on his hands and knees until he fetched up against the wall. Someone stepped squarely on his hand and he cursed, cradling the bruised appendage to his chest. Thank goodness it hadn’t been a stiletto heel.

Through the mass of humanity rushing around pell-mell Rodney spotted Willie. She was also on her hands and knees, and seemed to be chasing something across the floor. She picked up a chunk of ice in one spangled glove but lost it when someone knocked into her arm. Rodney lost sight of her after that, but then a little glass vial filled with blue liquid came skittering in his direction. He snapped his hand out and snatched it up, even though he had no idea what it was.

“Stay there!”

Rodney looked up and saw the handsome American pointing at him. He looked pretty bad – sweaty and flushed, his tuxedo jacket torn and stained. Maybe the vial was his. Rodney tucked it into the pocket of his jacket for safe keeping.

Balloons started dropping from the ceiling, triggered too early: white and black and red and pink, so many that the entire club floor was lost beneath them. Somehow the American made his way across the room without getting shot, though he did have to exchange blows with one of Lao Che’s bodyguards. He was clearly a tough customer and Rodney was no fool. Things at Club Obi Wan were a little too hot for his liking and he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to fight past the guns and the mob to get out. He was going to need some help.

“Give me the antidote,” the American demanded when he got close enough. He held out his hand, which was noticeably trembling.

“Antidote? Antidote for what?” As soon as he asked the question Rodney knew the answer. Whatever business dealings this guy had with Lao Che had gone south and the boss had poisoned him, one of his favored bargaining techniques.

“Never mind. Get me out of here and you can have it.” Rodney gave him an appraising look. “And you’d better hurry.”

The American scowled but didn’t argue. Instead, he grabbed hold of Rodney’s wrist and dragged him towards the nearest window. Gunfire spat at them from across the room and they both dropped to a crouch.

“This is suicide!” Rodney snatched his hand back. “There’s no cover!”

Except suddenly there was. The American pulled him behind a decorative gong just as more people started shooting at them. Bullets pinged musically off the burnished metal surface and the ropes that held it hanging must’ve gotten severed because the whole thing dropped to the floor with a clang that Rodney could feel in his fillings.

“Let’s go!” the American hissed at him. The gong was rolling towards the window and they went with it, keeping low and out of sight.

“Not the window!” Rodney protested but there was no stopping their forward momentum, particularly when the American grabbed hold of his shoulder and pushed him.

They crashed through the window and Rodney kept his arms up to protect his face from the broken glass. There was a momentary weightless feeling before he plummeted downward, his mouth pressed tightly shut to keep from screaming. He and the American hit an awning, which collapsed and sent them rolling onto the next one with similar results. Rodney kept waiting to feel himself splatter across the pavement, but the successive awning bouncing had slowed their velocity enough so that the last one held. He sat there mute with terror and incredulity, staring back up at the window they’d fallen from.

“It’s okay, buddy.” The American did a fancy backwards flip off the awning that would’ve been more impressive had he not stumbled when he landed, staggering drunkenly under the effects of the poison in his system. Rodney stared down at him and all of a sudden his terror morphed into anger.

“Are you whacky? You could’ve killed me! I could’ve died!”

“Well, you didn’t. But I still can, so the antidote please?”

Rodney glared, but he scooted forward to the edge of the awning and carefully lowered himself down to street level. Just as his feet touched concrete more bullets were fired from the club window in their general direction.

“What did you do to these guys?” Rodney pressed himself up against the side of the building. The American ignored him, glancing up and down the street until he broke out in a wide grin.

“There’s our ride!”

anonymous asked:

ok um if u wanna do category 5 number 3 for sara n mila 👀👀👀👀 ill lov u forever

Category 5, number 3:  “You’re my room mate and you’re really hot, but we’re both guys/girls and this is new to me” sex

@anonymous Thanks for asking for SaraMila!!!! Because I love girls so much lmao, have some soft and cute dorm sex. ;) 

(No more requests at this time! Will open it up again once I’m done with what I have. Thank you! ❤️❤️❤️)

She tastes like lipgloss, is the only thought running through Mila’s head as Sara kisses her. That artificial, sugary sweet cherry that she paints onto her lips every morning before class. Mila could spend forever watching her do it, and in fact has wasted a lot of her time doing so, laying in her cheap dorm-provided twin bed for longer than necessary just so she can stare at the sight Sara makes as she applies her makeup.

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First Impression

This is my commission for @keyofjetwolf, who asked for “Pharah and Mercy double dating with Tracer and Emily, which I decided to take as the first time Pharah and Mercy met Emily.  entire OW universe is here 2,074 words

Mercy sat in front of the mirror in their bedroom, trying to arrange her wayward and uncooperative hair. No matter where she put it, it always seemed to be sticking out, somehow, as if exploding from her head like a thousand tiny ideas. She sighed. It wasn’t as if Tracer or Emily would be paying attention to her anyhow. They were caught in that beautiful first flush of love, where everything your partner does is fascinating and beautiful and perfect, and you hang on their words and the tilt of their chin and the wave of their eyelashes.

She heard Pharah spit her toothpaste in the bathroom, somewhat less fascinating but somehow much more loved than their early years together.  She emerged, her deep cologne wafting into the bedroom.

“Do not be teasing Lena too much tonight, schatzi.” Mercy looked over at Pharah with gentle chiding “They are new together, you know.”

“I do not know what you are talking about,” Pharah adjusted her tie in the mirror, “I am never anything but fair to Tracer.” She grinned at Mercy. “It is not any fault of mine that she deserves correction.”

Mercy smiled. “Fareeha.”

“No one is more delighted than me that she is seeing someone who is not actively trying to kill us. Or her. Although,” She leaned in and kissed Mercy on the temple, ‘She has not known Tracer very long, so we may want to give it time.”

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kuipernebula  asked:

As much as I want to be self-indulgent and ask you to write something involving my favorite Noir Babe Zevowc, I'll instead ask: Older!Tamlin talking to Rey about the force

The Zabrak is old, with dingy white skin only marginally paler than his horns and tattoos that have faded to ghosts overlaying his features. It seems as if the bar was built around him: a comfortably dingy cantina that’s as good a place as any to wait for Finn and Poe.

As he pushes Rey’s drink over to her, he nods at her lightsaber.

“Haven’t seen one of those for a long time.”

Rey shifts in her seat, embarrassed. Few people know what this is, let alone comment on it. 

“It’s not really mine.” She brings her glass up, as if to hide her face. “I’m just holding onto it-”

The Zabrak nods. “For a friend.” He runs a grimy cloth over the countertop. “S’alright. I understand.”

Rey narrows her eyes. “I’m sure.”

The Zabrak shrugs, turns to the counter behind him, moved a cracked pair of salt and pepper shakers shaped like some bird out of the way. From a vantage point high above, the blank eye sockets of a Clone War-era helmet look at them balefully. 

“All these years,” He says, perhaps to Rey, perhaps to himself, “And the galaxy can still surprise you.” The Zabrak leans back, finagles an almost-empty bottle of wine off the shelf. “There’s still some stories left to be told.”

As he brings it over, Rey swears she catches something in the folds of his robes- a glint, perhaps, of metal, a burnished grip. It can’t be.

“You’d best look after your friend’s… item.” The Zabrak says, pouring out a glass for himself. “You might be holding onto it for a long time.”

The Lady of the Lake

b-boop5 submitted: 

My bday is also Sept 2! Bday smut is always a perfect gift! Thank you!

Originally posted by painfulblisss

Mmmmm birthday smut! Happiest of days, @b-boop5!! Your delicious little slice of Everlark perfection was written especially for you by the inimitable @titaniasfics. Enjoy!

The Lady of the Lake

By @titaniasfics

Summary:  The Everdeen family have been the only occupants on Lake Vivian since her grandfather built their home fifty years earlier.  However, fate brings a new neighbor to their shores. How will she adapt to this new situation?

Rated M

So many thanks to @akai-echo, for the inspiration and for prereading. All mistakes are mine.

This is my lake.

I’m exaggerating a little but not much. My family’s small house has been on this lake since my Grandfather, Emmett Everdeen, bought the land for a song and built our house along its shores.  Because it’s a small and obscure mountain lake on the outskirts of a small town, you’d think people would eventually forget that it’s there. And most have - there are only a handful of visitors from town who park at the public boat launch and go out for an afternoon of bass fishing, or the occasional troop of teenagers who will fool around along the lake’s edge, leaving wet footprints and empty beer bottles that are fastidiously cleaned up by me the very next day.  I can’t help but feel a proprietary possession towards the small lake, even though I technically don’t own anything more than the plot of land my family’s house rests on. After all, it’s only ever been the Everdeen’s cottage on Lake Vivian and town folk always treated it as ours.

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Dean gets early-onset Alzheimer’s when he’s 49. That’s the doctors’ best guess, at least, and Sam makes sure they get three, four, five opinions, under the names they’ve got the best insurance coverage for. It progresses fast, which is maybe a mercy. Sam doesn’t know anymore. He hopes, he thinks it’s one for Dean, puts an end to the months he knows exactly what’s coming and has to wait for it. Helpless. 

They don’t just sit. Dean won’t let Sam take him hunting, not when he can’t trust the fibrous nets of nerve between his temples, but they go back to a couple of places where Dean feels like being, go fishing, look over the edge of the Hoover Dam. They stop for a night at Lost Creek, wander out to the edge of the woods and kick weeds along the highway. Dean wants to eat a bullet there, but he isn’t gonna do it without telling Sam and Sam won’t let him, clocks him in the side of the head and holds him down in the gravel beside the Impala till he promises. 

‘There might be a cure,’ Sam says, hours later, back on the highway, when they’re both bruised and aching and cried out. Dean just sets his jaw and brushes his knuckles across Sam’s forearm. 

Once things get bad Sam can’t calm him down anymore. He’ll find Dean in the library running his hands over the tables, over their corners and legs, agitated, angry, getting splinters in fingers that are growing soft and uncalloused. Some nights he startles awake in the cot next to Dean’s bed and hears him breathing harsh and fluttery like a hunted animal, back forced up against the headboard, fingers wound in the sheets. Sam’s hands on him help, and that’s OK, Sam’s OK with that. But it’s not, it’s maybe, he wonders just how long that’ll be enough. 

One night in the pitchy predawn when Dean’s hair is silver gossamer in the moonlight Sam goes, finally, to the box under his bed and pulls out the amulet, not the one from the show but the real one. So this is how it ends up happening, he thinks, and grips it so hard the horns of the little god dig into his palm. He’s imagined giving it back to Dean a hundred times, a thousand, but it’s never seemed quite right, not quite. But any of them were better than this. 

The teeth in his chest soften their gnawing, a little, when he sees it against Dean’s chest, the burnished metal heavy against the grey of Dean’s chest hair. Sam lets his fingers linger a little, drag over Dean’s tattoo. 

Dean looks down. 

Samuel!’ he says, gruff, himself, blinking surprise. 

Sam cries. 

littlesnowcat-deactivated201507  asked:

Just wondering, what culture would you say Khajiit clothing would suit? My main Skyrim character is a Khajiit and when I draw her, I can never seem to make her outfits work. The outfit board thing you made for Demir looked amazing and made me wanna research different culture fashions. Unfortunately, I can't seem to find one which fits. Sorry if this is not one of your strong points, seeing as how you find Khajiits difficult to draw and all. Thanks <3

hooo boy, this is a difficult thing to tackle honestly. Doing the research for my own purposes and mucking it up is one thing, but giving advice on it and mucking it up is another. I will admit I did just spend the past couple hours (maybe more???) looking it up and trying to pin point some stuff. 

I could try to offer a bit of help, but I won’t offer anything I would call concrete because I am by NOOOOO means an expert on this sort of thing (maybe some day but certainly not now) 

The thing to understand is there is never one single culture behind the inspiration of a fictional culture (especially in the ES verse). You can definitely make connections but chances are there are several behind an idea, not to mention any creative or original ideas added in. 

Even with my Demir research I was looking at several different cultures, there wasn’t a single one I drew from.

If anyone reads this and I totally miss something, screw something up, say something incorrect, etc PLEASE let me know and I’ll fix and/or address it. Also if you have any input on the matter that will help me or other people, please leave a comment. 

Under the cut because its a LOT of word vomit

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((Yep, almost done with this. Idk what to do with this but it makes a nice addition to my usual digital art. This is a burnished copper repousse plated with chrome (hehe thats me) and colored with sharpies. Couldn’t find a white sharpie, though, so the eyes are white-out :3 I still havent decided what color to make the background! Please send me an idea if you have a good one! Also if you were wondering why it’s vibrating, it’s because I took pictures at slightly different angles in order to show the details that would blend away if it was just one static picture.

TL;DR I haven’t been updating lately because I joined drama last month, and we have a play in 2 weeks so that has taken up a lot of my time which I normally reserve for drawing. I might show some clips of the play later when it happens, like me dancing in my pretty blue dress ^_^))

The fact that Sherlock is a girl’s name wasn’t what Sherlock wanted to say. It was meant to be an icebreaker, that was all. A joke to break the tension. Then maybe it would be easier for Sherlock to let the actual secret slip out.

A quick ficlet based on what I half-expected to happen before Sherlock boarded the plane.


Not again, John thinks as the car pulls up to the runway, where a white jet waits. There are a few figures milling around on the tarmac. Mary is at his side in the car, her hand wrapped around his, though her gaze is out the other window.

He is careful to keep his feelings quiet, but that is the thought at the forefront of his mind: Sherlock is leaving again.

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1924 Three Diamond Ring, 18K Yellow Gold, $13,500
1.52ct Old Mine Cut Diamond (I/SI2)
0.82ctw European Cut Diamond Sides (G-H VS2-SI1)

The most impressive diamond gypsy ring ever.  Gypsy rings were most popular from around 1890 to 1910, and are usually on a much much smaller scale. They get their name from the setting technique used, in which metal is burnished around the stone. But I actually have never known why this method is called gypsy setting.

This one’s a hefty piece of jewelry. It measures over 8mm wide at the face. The inside is engraved H. Cape to V. Cape 1924.

i am my brother’s keeper

[closed to @uchihasavior]

Day 0:

Picture this: a bluebird, in a gilded cage. The door is ajar, but the bird keeps to the perch on the other side of it, huddled. Its wings are pristine, legs in perfect health, but it does not fly away. It sings a singular note: melancholic.  On the floor: its dead companion. The blood on the bluebird’s beak is still fresh from where it has torn its mate’s throat apart.

Poetic, isn’t it? Sasuke wishes it was that clean, that elegant, but like everything in his fucking life so far, the singular moment he’d been waiting for is disgustingly pathetic and tainted red by his brother’s doing. There’s no sun parting the rainclouds or people waiting on the sidelines, there’s just him with a hell of a lot of broken bones holding together bruised flesh (he is so tired), and there’s his - brother, Sasuke can’t divorce the word from the monster that fell.

He slides down the stone, limbs lead, but when he turns to look at the body he realises: Itachi’s still bleeding from a gash on his arm, a sluggish but steady drip down to the stone below. He sucks in a breath, shoulders going rigid, is the fucker playing dead, but his brother doesn’t move even after three agonizing minutes of anticipating death. He’s alive. He’s still alive, after the whole spectacle of it all. Sasuke can still feel the cold tips of Itachi’s fingers brush against his forehead and cheek like he’s tracing all the tears he’d made Sasuke shed.

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