Good things about Young Justice: Aqualad is the most dignified, majestic 16 year old there ever was, you can tell he’s been hanging around royalty for years, he’s like if a young Idris Elba had gills. Which means that when he gets ACTUALLY snarky it completely blindsides you.
so apparently cogman in tf5 is supposed to be polite and dignified and drives the old english human dudes’ car, but he has anger issues
and all i can see is this
cogman:[listening to classical music while driving] so, sir, how’s your day-
random human: UR BUTLER SUCKS
cogman: excuse me, one second
cogman: [rolls down windows to car, there’s inhuman screaming. he’s running over humans with the car CLASSICAL MUSIC IS BLARING THE SCENT OF A RAGING ALPHA IS UPON US RUN HUMAN RUN AND DONt LOOK BACK YOU FOOL]
cogman:[clears throat] sorry about that now where were we…?
Lieutenant Eggsy rubbed his hand as he plodded down the hall to the kitchen. Training had not gone well; the recruits were clumsy, didn’t understand sword-work, didn’t like spears, and one had almost been trampled by a horse. Eggsy had saved the man, of course, but it had been a near thing. Spooked horses just… calmed down around Eggsy.
People didn’t. He’d made the recruits nervous (again), and his corporal had insisted Eggsy go to the kitchen for noon-meal instead of the hall, so the other soldiers could reassure the recruits that the lieutenant did not eat people who displeased him without his sitting too near. Which was ridiculous. Eggsy sat at the officer’s tables, not the soldier’s. Or, he was supposed to. He preferred to rub elbows with common men than bother with the commissioned officers. But he knew he made people nervous, and anyway he didn’t want to talk to anyone. He’d just eat his noon-meal with the servants and hope they didn’t get jumpy too.
Eggsy was the first lieutenant to make it all the way up from the rank of militiaman. He was hard and strong and famous in the army for being harsh but fair. The captain left most of the work of running the arm itself to Eggsy while he danced attendance on pretty ladies and used his rank to get extra wine from the merchants who passed by occasionally. (Not that Eggsy cared about pretty ladies, he was far more interested in men–who never seemed to catch his drift when he tried to find out if they were interested back.)
But Eggsy was tired, too. He was so tired. So he’d go and eat, and when he came back he’d watch the recruits train some more before going to help with the horses. The stablehands weren’t scared of him, at least.
Galahad fell in beside Eggsy. Eggsy didn’t know why Galahad was so obsessed with him; it bordered on uncomfortable. But he was the one in charge of the fort, so Eggsy could hardly tell him to clear off.
Eggsy was in his thirties, so he supposed Galahad was in his sixties. He was still a powerful man, though, tall and straight-backed and -shouldered, with only some gleams of dignified silver in his brown hair. There were lines on his face, hard lines, but they made him look dignified instead of old. His mind was still sharp and his body still strong; Eggsy admired him greatly, especially after seeing him spar against three other, younger knights at once, and beat them.
But it was still uncomfortable, the way he watched Eggsy, like there was no one else in the whole world and Eggsy was simply fascinating. Which he wasn’t, he was quite sure of that.
They walked in silence, until they came to the last corner that would take them to the kitchens. Then Galahad stopped, and put his hand on Eggsy’s arm.
“Lieutenant… I have a question,” Galahad said in a low voice, staring at Eggsy in that funny way again.
“Yes, sir?” Eggsy asked warily, just as quietly.
“Do I make you uncomfortable?”
Eggsy hesitated. He didn’t want to offend, but if Galahad was offering to back off…
“The truth, please.”
“Yeah. Yeah, you do. Sir.”
“Ah.” And suddenly he just looked… so sad. Old and sad and as tired as Eggsy felt. “I apologise.”
He put his hand on Eggsy’s cheek, gently, and just looked at him for a minute. Then he nodded and walked away.
Eggsy bolted to the kitchens, where there were no knights and their strange ways to mess with his head.
Notes: Happy birthday Patty! And thanks to @txf-fic-chicks for throwing this fic party. Set after Fight the Future.
She holds the handle on the heavy hotel room door when she
goes out for the night, lets the latch slip into its cradle. Mulder is just next door, most likely
napping. Her new perfume trails down the
hallway, wallpaper hugging the scent of loamy fields and bejeweled queens, neat
bespoke suits and desperate paisley bursts of repressed desire.
The swipe of her credit card at Penhaligon’s produced a
manic tingle in her fingertips this afternoon - the bottles lining the wall like preening debutantes, their crystal
ball-capped necks encircled in satin ribbons. Happy birthday, she thought as
she signed her name to the thick receipt paper, smiled at the round-toned shop
girl. I am alive and in London, Arctic basements full of alien viruses be
There’s something briefly thrilling about the idea of Mulder
sleeping while she explores the city alone. But there is another kind of thrill when he comes through the revolving door, combs his way through tea-time
armchairs, a paper bag in hand.
“Hot date?” he asks.
It’s trite and smirky, but it also tells her he’s noticed certain things; knee-high
black boots, the black wrap dress knotted at her waist, the extra sheen of her red lipstick, so bright it could scar a water glass for life.
kebarr said: I got an idea from that image Stephen posted with Mavi in her car seat at the airport. I noticed she had cute little pigtails. So I’m requesting, a prompt where Oliver fixes his daughters hair into cute pigtails. :)
“Okay, how’s that?”
“They’re wonky, Daddy.”
He can’t win. He’s been attempting it for at least twenty minutes now, but it’s surprisingly hard to get pigtails to match up. It doesn’t help that Ava’s got thick hair like her mother which is far harder to control, especially when it’s freshly clean and escaping his fingers. The way it slips between his digits reminds him of the time Felicity surprised him with a silk nightgown and he surprised her with satin sheets - and it ended with her very un-seductively slipping straight off the bed and onto the floor.
“What are you smiling at, Daddy?”
He recovered quickly. “You, sweetie. Right, one more try, then it’s just the one braid for tonight.”
I fell in love with Prague the moment I arrived. I remember standing in the tram as it rattled on & sighing at how beautiful all of it was. On february 23rd, as we all sat in Cafe Klarov with two pots of Moroccan mint tea sitting between us, I wrote in my travel diary:
“Today we walked up hills that were paved with cobblestones & flanked with souvenir shops. Prague is so, so beautiful. When we arrived, it was as if early summer had melted with the late winter air.”
The balconies seem like the kind that the man in Italo Calvino’s story looked up to as he shouted “Teresa!” Old european. Beautiful. Used & weathered, but in a dignified way. Like wine, perhaps – it gets better as it gets older. I remember a man with a towel wrapped around his waist leaning on his balcony. Sam said he could smell his soap from where we were standing.
We went for a free tour and our guide was a seemingly quiet irish man who had fallen in love with the city the moment he set foot on it many years ago. He decided to stay. At first he was quiet, asking us the usual things; Where were we from? Who are our favourite Irish writers? How long will we be in Prague? But the moment the tour started, it was as if a firecracker was set off. His arms spread out & he boomed “Welcome to Prague! I love this city! I loove it!" He walked us through the streets, always energetic, always gesticulating his passion and love for the city. Looking at him, you understand how a beautiful thing can change a person. How it can make the quietest person break through their bubble of silence because their love for that beautiful thing demands expression.
The room we were staying in overlooked the river and the castle’s spires could be seen in the distance. The water sparkled. The swans loitered near the banks glamorously as if they knew they were treading on the waters that belonged to one of the most dignified & beautiful cities in the world.
Prague is a city touched by artists. Beautiful things just exist without reason or excuse. The sun would flood through the crack between two walls of buildings and paint everything in golden light. Baby-faced angels sit on banal windows. Saints and quiet women with flowers in their hair and hands are painted on walls. I remember looking up to see a window filled with moss.
Prague was a city that went through fierce revolution and pain but today exists quietly in its beauty and wisdom. It exists like a dignified old woman who went through tragedy but lives a polite, comfortable life. She keeps her best jewelry in her drawer but she can’t hide her grace, her beauty, her wisdom and her acceptance.
Prague taught me to always look up, because that’s where the beauty is. You have to keep your head up. Look at the spires. The castle in the distance. The angels. The paintings. The budding flowers and naked branches. The sun.
Goodbye today to an amazing old cat. The life of a feral cat is tough. I started feeding him years ago, just leaving out a can of food when I saw him near the house. After a while, he would come when he heard the dogs let out in the morning and sit and wait carefully for his breakfast, then dinner. Of course, you hang around long enough and you get a name, and – well, I’m ashamed to say it was the unimaginative “Blackie.”
Well, he soon became “Lord Blackie” and then “Mister B.” It took me nearly three years after we met before he trusted me enough to touch him. After that, he graciously allowed me to rub his ears and pet him (and then fix him, which he was none too amused with but we worked it out, haha.) He often followed me quietly around the yard and waited patiently on the door mat for dinner every night. He never wanted to be a house cat (although I offered him that choice several times over the years…) I built him and the other ferals and dumped cats a safe space with heated beds and clean cat shelters in the garage, and he snoozed the winters away. I adored him; he was never anything but dignified and ruled his domain with a quiet, patient iron paw. He had a soft spot for kittens and tolerated my Corgis snuffling him in the yard. Well, most of the time. Sometimes it’s just too much snuffling even for a dignified old gentleman to tolerate.
Mister B was one of the rare feral cats that lived a very, very long life. Out-thought and out-survived everything that the world threw at him, but cancer doesn’t quite work like coyotes and cars, otherwise I think he could have out-smarted it too.
I cannot thank my amazing and kind Mobile Vet Clinic enough for being called on such short notice, and letting him go with minimal stress and understanding for his personality. He got to go in his space, in the sun, in his yard he’d ruled over for so long.
I took a break from studying and suddenly…there was a chapter. I got a little request thing queued for today because I reached 900 followers! Yay! One hour after my exam, it will post. I’ll show mercy from my angst this way~ NSFW request prompts!
Chapter Eighteen: The Rain Falls
The silence of the room was
astounding. It made the insides of his ears ache: in shame or guilt
he was not entirely sure.
Side by side with his brother in arms,
shoulders brushing occasionally with every uncomfortable shift, they
both faced the most horrifying sight: Makarov’s calm disappointment.
Sitting behind his desk like a
dignified banker, the old man sat with his hands folded, pools of
papers all over the polished oak desk. The aged quill sat in the ink
pot, raggedy as it was the day Gray brought in the brown eagle
feather as a gift for the Master.
The flicker of candles cast wrinkles
in a strange shadow, eyes shining with deep emotions of betrayed
trust. After all, his two favorite upcoming assassins had failed
“So, Bora got away…with heaps
of information on the Strauss scandal defense…and paperwork
on Erza’s observations of Duke Everlue.” The restrained anger rang
in his stressed words, knuckles creaking from the strained grip.
Beside the desk stood the stoic Laxus, eyes gaunt and barely
contained in his emotions.
The old study had once been bustling
with fresh books and jokes the day before. The walls of dusted tomes
and maps a thing of comfort to the two assassins in training. Now, it
was a show of how much they failed in their growing responsibilities.
It was as if they had flat out
declared that they no longer saw him as their Master, and denounced
his teachings in the ways of Fairy Tail. The hurt trust was clear in
the older man’s eyes more than anything else.
In a piss poor effort to lighten the
absolute dishonor, both Gray and Natsu pointed at each other with
pleading faces. “It was his fault.” They both snapped,
legs quivering from the deafening silence afterwards.
Laxus gave a ruthless snarl behind
bared teeth, the true anger of a Dragon Assassin shining through. The
blond man looked closer to Dragon Force more so than ever before.
The pink haired man shuddered, hoping
that Laxus kept his anger under control. When in Dragon Force, blind
rage could easily break bones. Though he had not found the trigger
for his own, Natsu knew that the Force was a gift not to be trifled
with and used only as a last resort. Igneel had taught him that much.
Laxus never had training from an
actual Draconian descendant. Thus, his Dragon Force could very well
be unstable as madness. After all, it was just submitting to the most
basic desires of humanity: survival aggression being the most