dresses by limb

Holes - A Nessian Fic

For @feyre-cursebreaker who asked for Nessian + silence and to be based on this delightful and not at all soul destroying piece of fanart by @meabhd. This is what I came up with. sorry it took a while! Thank you @widowshulk and @pterodactylichexameter for reading this over for me! 

Title: Holes

Summary: Nesta returns to her rooms and finds an exhausted Cassian alone there, waiting for her, a letter for her held in his hands. 

Teaser: ‘Shreds remain of those once beautiful wings. And they had been beautiful. Strange how she only realises that, lets herself think and fully appreciate that now that they’re almost gone. They had been alien and frightening and upon first seeing them she had wanted to keep them, both of them, away from Elain. Those hulking brutes with the unnatural wings looming over them, ever present shadows at their backs.’

Link: AO3

Nesta finally makes it back to her rooms, smoothing down the front of her dress, cursing her overly long limbs and the difficulties they cause her. The door to her bedchamber is slightly ajar when she reaches it however and she pauses, one hand outstretched. Chewing her lip she wonders if she ought to fetch someone, sure that she had left the doors firmly closed before leaving. Then she decides to hell with it, the mood she’s in she almost wants someone to be in there, try something, give her an excuse to hurt someone.

Opening the door, hoping it appears as though she had never questioned doing so, she strides purposefully into the room. And is almost immediately brought up short by what she finds inside.

Cassian sits alone on the edge of her bed. Her first impulse would have been, should have been, to snap at him and demand that he leave, now. His scent fills the cool air like a heady perfume, clinging to everything, drenching her in him. He perches on the bed as though it’s only right for him to be there, as though he belongs here, in her chambers, the one part of this damned kingdom that is wholly hers.

She should fold her arms over her chest and coldly ask him to get out but…But the words won’t come. They lodge and stick in her throat and she can’t get them out. Above her surprise and indignation at finding him here of all places is the horror that builds over the sick churning of her stomach. It throws up new emotions that she can’t contend with and doesn’t understand.

This is the first time she’s seen him since Hybern. The first time she’s seen him since she was Made and he was broken. The first time she’s seen him since everything between them was shattered, he no longer the cocky, self-assured army commander who came to her to deliver his High Lord’s messages; she no longer the cold, indifferent human woman who had sneered at him and pushed him away because that was easy and what he represented, what he offered, was hard.

Standing in that doorway, seeing him there, before she even opens her mouth, before either of them speaks, she knows that everything has changed between them. The dynamic they once had no longer exists and nothing about this is easy anymore. Least of all pushing him away. They’re…connected now. In a way she can’t explain but the thick vein of emotion that pulses inside her like a river rushing through her blood and bones and heart is more than she can stand and she can’t look at him like this and just send him away…She can’t.

His wings are draped out on the bed behind him, tattered black silk pooling over her soft lilac sheets. Her heart launches itself up into her throat as though for a moment it had thought of going to him, gifting itself to him, as though that would help. But at the last moment it changed its mind, lodging there instead, and no matter how hard she tries she can’t swallow it back down again where it belongs.

His wings. His wings.

She had been there in Hybern, had seen him flare them wide to protect his brother, but…She had never expected this. This ragged ruin, both of the wings and of the male they belonged to. She had thought the Fae would have healed him, had thought they could have healed anything, had thought he would be alright but…

Shreds remain of those once beautiful wings. And they had been beautiful. Strange how she only realises that, lets herself think and fully appreciate that now…Now that they’re almost gone. They had been alien and frightening and upon first seeing them she had wanted to keep them, both of them, away from Elain. Those hulking brutes with the unnatural wings looming over them, ever present shadows at their backs.

Now…Now he seems…diminished. Smaller somehow, so much smaller, so much less without them. There’s an empty space behind him, and within, which should be filled by those wings and the howl of wind that rushed past them whenever he took flight. Instead there are holes that can never be filled by anything else. She can see the tattoo that runs the length of his spine, the detailed Illyrian markings set down in a thin column, usually covered by his sword or blocked out by the vast expanses of black membrane. It feels like a secret that she should never have known, a secret that the world should never have been able to see. It feels oddly personal, oddly intimate and a part of her wants to trace the dark, swirling markings with her finger while the other wants to look away.

It hurts, she realises with a jolt. She hurts for him, for what he gave up to protect someone he loved so fiercely. There’s a deep, aching sadness that lies deep in the hollows of her heart, filling them with his pain as she looks at him.

For the first time she wonders, truly wonders, what it would be like to fly. Then she wonders what it would be like to fly and be told that you never would again. She finds herself gripping the doorframe for support at that.

She sees it again in her mind’s eye, the blast of power that had torn him apart and his scream…His scream had ripped through her and sometimes echoed in her dreams, a hideous melody to accompany her own death and rebirth. There had been nothing but silence in that Cauldron when it had torn her apart and shoved her back together again without a thought, without a care, that she would rather have drowned in there than returned as she was. Her own screams had been empty, her throat and lungs flooded by the Cauldron’s black waters and no sound had ever managed to break free of the iron cage she had been held in.

In her dreams, though…In her dreams there is Cassian. His voice manages to break through to her even as she feels her heart stop beating, feels herself die. His voice rings through her, shattering along her bones as though it is her that he screams for in those moments. His voice fills the emptiness that had haunted her inside that Cauldron. Terrible as it was, she thinks she would prefer the silence. She never wants to hear that sound, that agony from him, ever again.

Nesta realises she’s still hovering in the doorway and hasn’t moved. It’s as though she’s been fixed to this spot, bidden to stare at those ruined wings for the rest of her days, the worst kind of torment. She considers turning and simply leaving, chased out of her own rooms by the spectre of the male that made her feel….What? Perhaps that he made her feel anything at all is enough.

Then he turns to her and she knows that she can’t leave him, any more than she can ask him to leave. His wings, his torn, ruined wings are nothing compared to his eyes. They hold all of the vast, black emptiness that she had drowned in until it had killed her. But this…This hollow darkness in him she finds she can’t walk away from. Even though every instinct within her newly Made body screams at her to run from it, she finds herself walking towards him instead.

Hesitantly, she sits down on the bed beside him. His eyes remain fixed on hers for a long moment before he looks away again, visibly wincing as he shifts his wings with the movement. Nesta watches him feeling, for the first time in her life, a hopelessness that tunnels her out until she feels as empty as he is. Even in that hovel, unable to provide for her sisters, unable to hunt as Feyre had, unable to do anything to help them she had not felt this hopeless. She had had her plan, her spite, her bid to see what their father would do if they did indeed begin to truly starve and die. She had had something, bitter and cruel and meaningless as it might have seemed. But in the face of this…She has nothing.

What could she say to him now? I’m sorry. It will be alright. They will heal. So will you. He would only snarl at her for every one and then likely leave. She doesn’t know why, doesn’t know why it causes her soul to shrink back, pressing itself hard against the very edge of herself in horror, but she can’t bear that. She can’t bear him walking away from her just now. So she says nothing. She only sits there beside him, letting the silence stretch.

He doesn’t break it either, it simply endures between them. Until she looks down and notices a piece of paper held limply in one of his hands. Glancing up at him he refuses to meet her eyes and she considers leaving it, pretending that she hasn’t seen but then she sees a word, the single word at the top of the page and she finds she can’t look away. Slowly, she reaches out, the tips of her fingers lightly scraping his hand as she closes her own around the paper.

She gently pulls it free and he offers no resistance, allowing it to slide from his loose grip without protest, as though he barely notices. There are only three words printed on the note, in a hand she knows is Cassian’s, big and bold and clear, the ink pressed into the paper as firmly and meaningfully as though it were skin, the nib of a quill the needle, the words a tattoo, a commitment, whenever they’re set down by his hand.

Her name is printed at the top and on the line below he has only managed two words. ‘I’m sorry.’ The space beside them is filled with a single black dot that has melted through the thin paper. As though he had placed the quill upon its surface, intending to write more but it had become stuck, suspended in silence until it had pierced the paper and he had given up.

A hard lump forms in her throat as she stares down at those words that he had written, words that he had written for her and tries to understand. Glancing at him she feels something throb and pull deep inside her chest and she hears an echo in her head, like a half-remembered song. ‘I will stand on that battlefield again, Nesta Archeron, to protect this house—your people. I can think of no better way to end my existence than to defend those who need it most.’ Instead he had watched while she had died and…And perhaps that hurt him almost as much as those ruined wings.

The lump in her throat forms itself into tears that stain her eyes.

Blinking rapidly she turns to look at him again. His eyes are still distant and unfocused, fixed on the same spot they’ve been whenever he hasn’t been looking at her. She follows his gaze to the huge window that cuts a chunk from her bedroom wall to reveal the world beyond. Lacking glass, like all of the windows here, it provides free access to the waiting skies beyond.

Tension ripples within Cassian’s muscles at her side, as though he’s fighting something deep within him that roars for him to launch himself from that window. It terrifies her that she doesn’t know if it’s because over five hundred years worth of instinct burns in his blood and urges him to spread the wings the wind that sings to him does not yet know he’s lost and fly. Or if it is because he knows they’re ruined and some part of him longs to fall. She doesn’t know.

Again, words fail her. She doesn’t even understand what she’s seeing, what she’s feeling, so how can she find anything to say to him to express that? Instead she lets instinct drive her, heedless for once of thought and consequence, she shifts a little closer to him. Both hands loop around his arm, holding onto him, anchoring them, him to her and her to him. She feels less lost when she has something to hold on to. Despite the deadened cold that haunts his eyes he remains warm. That dares a faint flicker of hope to pulse inside her.

Slowly, he turns his head to look at her, dragging his gaze away from the beckoning heavens that are slowly fading from a clear blue to a rich, velvety purple. Inviting, even to her, who has never felt the sky lightly kiss her cheek as it embraces her, to him…But he looks away from it and looks down at her instead. For a moment she’s afraid that she’ll find that emptiness in his eyes again, that he’ll allow her hands to slip away from him as easily and indifferently as he had allowed her to take the note from between his fingers. And she knows that she can’t bear that, can’t bear it if he pulls away. She knows that that, above everything else that has happened to her these past few weeks, would break her.

He does not pull away. His eyes soften as he looks down at her, her armour of ice and steel melted away from her like a shed skin. They remain on the bed, clothed and separated by a healthy distance, neither breaking the silence between them, but as she looks into those raw, unguarded hazel eyes she has never felt more vulnerable in her life. She has also never felt so safe.

Swallowing hard she feels the tear slide down her cheek before she realises that she’s given herself permission to cry in front of him. As though on instinct, as though he can’t help himself, as though he barely even realises that he’s doing it- a call from her soul answered without thought by his- he reaches up and softly wipes the tear away with the ball of his thumb, as he had done all those weeks ago.

Drawing a ragged breath into her lungs, the gesture, the intimate contact, gives her the burst of near reckless courage she needed to move in closer. She doesn’t stop until her body presses against his and she’s struck by how much larger, how much stronger than her he is. But she has never once looked at him and seen a weapon or a male made to hurt or to wound. She has only ever thought of him as a shield, as a safe point, as the one she would run to if she felt threatened or scared.

It’s only when she presses their bodies so closely together that she might have been determined to fuse them into one that she realises he’s shaking. Looking up she sees with a jolt of surprise that he’s crying, silent tears streaming from his eyes and falling quietly down into her lap. Nesta finds herself weeping as well as he gently rests his forehead against hers, leaning on her even as she leans on him. For all that he has lost and everything she has become, she cries with him.

The crumpled note she had held so tightly in her hand, ink now blurring, falls from her thoughtless fingers to the floor at their feet. Nesta wraps her arms around his chest, pulling him closer, holding onto him, and he wraps an arm around her, tucking her close to him.

They break the quiet between them at the same time, with the same words. Their voices are a blend of rough and soft, high and low, but both raw and tempered by the same fire when they whisper into the silence as one, “I’m sorry.”


classyswifts  asked:

oh my god thank you so much! it was ADORABLE i was smiling the whole time i read it! i would love a part two but if you don't want to then that's totally fine! like i tell dave i like zac?

AN: i am once again so so soooo sorry about not posting. i totally forgot i had it sitting in drafts. anyways, heres the much awaited part two.

Daves POV

“Thats… great!” I pushed out angrily. Y/N had bounced over to me, a huge smile on her face. Normally, I would have worn a smile to match seeing as hers was to beautiful not to smile back at, but this time I knew something was off. This was her ‘wow i met a super cute guy’ smile. A smile I had come to hate seeing as I was literally head over heals in love with this girl. But that wasn’t even the worst part. Y/N hadn’t developed a crush on anyone. She had found herself crushing on Zac, my costar and best friend. Well, second best friend. Y/N was my best best friend.

I felt heart sink into my stomach as the words left her mouth, her beautiful full lips continuing to ramble on about his eyes or some shit like that. I balled my hands into fists and tried to breathe normally but I felt like i wanted to cry. But I sucked it up and put a smile on my face as I listened to the girl I loved tell me about how she loved another. With each word she spoke I felt my heart beat a bit faster, anger pooling inside my chest. I had been so caught up in looking happy, I hadn’t even noticed that (y/n) had stopped talking. She shot me a sideways smile before asking if i was ok. I nodded quickly before blushing and spewing out some bullshit excuse as to why I had to leave. My feet were moving before I had really even finished speaking. I moved slowly to my dressing room, limbs basically numb. I felt a lump in my throat and my eyes burned with unshed tears. I yanked the door open and locked it behind me, sitting on the small plush couch that I’d usually cuddle with (Y/N) on. Dammit. All i wanted was to wake up next to her in the morning, her hair rather messy and her smile lit up by the early morning light shining through the curtains. Was that to much to ask?

(Y/N) was aloud to date any one she wanted, right? Besides, its somewhat my fault that i never told her how i felt. Maybe then she would’ve looked at me the way she does Zac. God everything is so fucked up.

AN: if you want one last part, I PROMISE I will get it up. THese are so fun to write!

From the Missing Pages, Chapter 10

When Regina stands up to Leopold, she finds herself alone for a few days–and she decides to spend those days with Robin.

For @regal-believerxrizzlexaddict​ who requested Robin asking Regina about a childhood memory involving Daniel; for @glindalovesshoes​ who prompted Regina helping Robin with a robbery and she proves to be quiet helpful; and Regina using a glamour spell to get away from the castle to spend some time with Robin; and for the anon who requested “high Regina.” And for @stick-to-the-lasagna-lady, @x-wishesonfallenstars-x for helping me through this chapter, and finally, for the lovely @rcgalbeliever, who prompted the phrase “Heaven help me” form my prompt list, and made the gorgeous art above!

Keep reading

for 2k15luke’s tour!5sos night

tour takes an obvious toll on all the boys, their intense schedule leaving little room for well-deserved sleep in between interviews and shows, but none of them struggle quite as much as luke, who’s dark circles seemed to deepen with each early morning wake-up call, exhaustion evident in the lines of his face. he would always insist he was fine and yeah i got lots of sleep babe, but all too often he would struggle to keep his baby blue eyes open long enough to make it to bed and you would find him passed out on whatever half-comfortable surface he was nearest to at the time, whether it was slumped over in his chair, his face resting dangerously close to his bowl of cheerios, or crashing on the hard leather coach in the center dressing room, his long limbs draping over the edges, or even laying on the bathroom floor, still wrapped in his towel with water drops clinging to his pale chest. towards the end of tour it becomes a daily thing, and you had long since stopping trying to maneuver all 6 foot + of your boyfriend back to bed, so you do your best to make him as comfortable as possible wherever he ended up: draping a blanket over his sleeping figure or pushing a balled-up sweater under his cheek as a make-shift pillow, letting your thumb drag along the high point of his cheekbone as you press a kiss to his forehead, letting him catch up on much needed sleep.

A British company has produced a “strange, alien” material so black that it absorbs all but 0.035 per cent of visual light, setting a new world record. To stare at the “super black” coating made of carbon nanotubes – each 10,000 times thinner than a human hair – is an odd experience. It is so dark that the human eye cannot understand what it is seeing. Shapes and contours are lost, leaving nothing but an apparent abyss.

If it was used to make one of Chanel’s little black dresses, the wearer’s head and limbs might appear to float incorporeally around a dress-shaped hole.

Actual applications are more serious, enabling astronomical cameras, telescopes and infrared scanning systems to function more effectively. Then there are the military uses that the material’s maker, Surrey NanoSystems, is not allowed to discuss.

The nanotube material, named Vantablack, has been grown on sheets of aluminium foil by the Newhaven-based company. While the sheets may be crumpled into miniature hills and valleys, this landscape disappears on areas covered by it.

“You expect to see the hills and all you can see … it’s like black, like a hole, like there’s nothing there. It just looks so strange,” said Ben Jensen, the firm’s chief technical officer.

Asked about the prospect of a little black dress, he said it would be “very expensive” – the cost of the material is one of the things he was unable to reveal.

“You would lose all features of the dress. It would just be something black passing through,” he said.

Vantablack, which was described in the journal Optics Express and will be launched at the Farnborough International Airshow this week, works by packing together a field of nanotubes, like incredibly thin drinking straws. These are so tiny that light particles cannot get into them, although they can pass into the gaps between. Once there, however, all but a tiny remnant of the light bounces around until it is absorbed.

Vantablack’s practical uses include calibrating cameras used to take photographs of the oldest objects in the universe. This has to be done by pointing the camera at something as black as possible.

It also has “virtually undetectable levels of outgassing and particle fallout”, which can contaminate the most sensitive imaging systems. The material conducts heat seven and a half times more effectively than copper and has 10 times the tensile strength of steel.

Stephen Westland, professor of colour science and technology at Leeds University, said traditional black was actually a colour of light and scientists were now pushing it to something out of this world.

“Many people think black is the absence of light. I totally disagree with that. Unless you are looking at a black hole, nobody has actually seen something which has no light,” he said. “These new materials, they are pretty much as black as we can get, almost as close to a black hole as we could imagine.”



What if the Potters had found themselves on the flip side of the prophecy, and Neville had been The Chosen One? They might have had their chance at happily ever after.

FFN    AO3

Chapter One: Deadly Stairs and Rumors


It’s a crisp, biting cold. They don’t have a proper coat for Harry, so he’s sure to get sick again, but Lily, frankly, doesn’t give a damn about the risk. They can go out in the street and take a walk around the square, so they do. James holds her hand as she pushes the pram-the one they’d been given and have only really used inside. It’s awkward, pushing it one handed, but they manage. She breathes in a deep, intoxicating breath because they are outside and waving to their neighbors, because the air is cool and refreshing in her lungs, because it’s over.

It’s over.

She wakes up to shattering glass and a swearing husband. Heart racing, wand in hand, she runs into the hall, tripping over her baggy flannels, which she still calls his but in reality confiscated from him sometime in seventh year.

Lily surveys James: long limbs sprawled on the stairs, glasses knocked clean off his face, covered in eggs and tea. She’d been up all night with a fussy, feverish toddler and James-her sweet husband-must have been bringing her breakfast in bed.

Had been, he tells her as she straightens his glasses on his face, until he’d noticed the Prophet headline and stumbled on the stairs, dropping the bloody tray.

They stay on the stairs, backs against the knobby spindles, hands intertwined, digesting every word.

The cat is breakfasting on tea and sausage and eggs; they pay him no mind.

Their attention is instead focused on the Prophet’s front page, which boasts, simply, You-Know-Who Is Dead. Really, it’s a full page spread with very little to substantiate such a claim: only spotty details, inconsistent reports, and-what stops their hearts-a line about the Longbottoms.

Such a detail wouldn’t register as the important thing for most people, but for them, the Potters, the other half of the damned prophecy that had halted all their lives, the flip side of the same coin, it means everything.

They don’t dare believe it.

Harry has woken up and is still fussy and clingy, although his fever seems to have broken.

They take turns walking the usual circuit around the house to keep him calm. They are grateful for the distraction, really, but it can only keep the need to know what’s happening at bay for so long.

Have you heard? An owl comes from Emmaline, telling them what she’s heard: that Frank and Alice are dead, that Voldemort is gone, but adding, hastily, that these are just rumours. She wanted them to know, but she hasn’t heard from anyone else-she means Dumbledore, they know-to make sure it’s true.

It’s the limbo, the not bloody knowing that’s eating their stomachs from the inside out.


As she does every morning, Bathilda stops by with biscuits for Harry.

She hasn’t heard from Dumbledore, either.

Lily scrambles to make tea.

Harry sits on Bathilda’s lap, munching happily away at the tray of biscuits left untouched by the adults.


WWN is full of speculation, but it’s chaos; everyone is celebrating but no one knows what’s actually happened.

James wants to leave and find out for himself, but he can’t because it might not be true and what a damn foolish risk to take.

Sirius shows and stems off the impending row. He’s been there, he’s seen it all, and he tells them every horrible detail.

The ruins of the little cabin they’d been hiding away in. Neville, rounder than Harry, bloodied forehead but alive, wrapped in Hagrid’s arms. His grandmum-solid, stately, domineering Augusta Longbottom- broken on the floor, weeping over her dead, heroic children.

Frank and Alice are dead.

The cost is terrible, it’s too high, and Lily reels.

Frank and Alice can’t be gone.

Frank, who stepped on her toes at the wedding and Alice, who twice saved her life.

Three times, Lily corrects herself. Alice has now saved her life three times.

She lets the horror of it wash over her.

She will never smile that sweet smile again, and Frank will never belt out his obnoxious, boisterous laugh again. They are gone, their comrades and their friends, and it rips her apart.

And there’s this: Lily hates herself for being relieved that it isn’t the Potters in the Prophet this morning.

It’s over.


After lunch, a quiet affair in the sitting room, Sirius leaves to go check on Peter, to track down Remus. They’ll be back for supper, he tells them, and she tells him to bring whiskey.

Harry ate a solid lunch and he settles into a deep, contented sleep.

James is holding her hand as they stand against the cot. She’s not sure he’s let go since this morning, actually, but she’s not complaining. They stare at him, this piece of them, their breathing, alive, bundle of energy and love they have been trying so desperately to save.


They haven’t spoken yet, but they don’t need to. Shock is slowly, by degrees, giving way to relief. Their new reality is setting in.

It’s over.


They don’t make it to the bed, taking each other instead hard and fast and glorious against the door. She feels like she’s seventeen again, and he is intoxicating, as always. He tastes like salt and peppermint tea and freedom.

They sink to the floor, finished for now, adrenaline still pumping, and the dam within Lily finally bursts.

Throughout all of this, these last two years-she’s cried only a handful of times, the last of which was when Dumbledore himself came to tell her about Marlene. Now, though, she cannot stop. She doesn’t want to.

He holds her, runs his hand up and down her back. Her shoulder is soon wet with his tears.

It’s unhurried this time, on the floor, tender and sweet. They’re giving, rather than taking, pouring all they’ve got into this moment. Gradually, kiss by kiss, whisper by whisper, everything aching inside Lily unfurls into a peaceful, satiated calm. They drift to sleep where they are, half dressed, a tangle of limbs and tear streaked faces, curled together on their bedroom floor.


She wakes up to the sound of Harry’s happy chatter, which is drifting from his room across the hall. She untangles herself from her sleeping husband, reluctantly lets go of his hand, and goes to Harry.

Harry is safe.

It’s over.

It’s over, but it feels an awfully lot like the flip side to another coin. The end of the war; the new beginning for them that she’d long hoped for but didn’t really believe would come true.

They can move into a bigger house, though she doubts they will because, despite everything, this has become home.

They can travel now that it would be a holiday rather than an escape. She wonders if they could pull Christmas in France.

She’ll surprise James with Cup tickets for next summer. They can go camping-Harry would like that.


James comes into the kitchen, kisses his wife, scoops up Harry from his spot on the floor and blows a raspberry onto his belly.

Lily puts a casserole in the oven and tells him the boys probably won’t be here for an hour or more.

He asks her what she wants to do, and she knows they’ve come to the same conclusion:

It’s over. Our lives are reordered. We are free. We can do whatever we want.

They decide to go for a walk.

A British company has produced a “strange, alien” material so black that it absorbs all but 0.035 per cent of visual light, setting a new world record. To stare at the “super black” coating made of carbon nanotubes – each 10,000 times thinner than a human hair – is an odd experience. It is so dark that the human eye cannot understand what it is seeing. Shapes and contours are lost, leaving nothing but an apparent abyss.

If it was used to make one of Chanel’s little black dresses, the wearer’s head and limbs might appear to float incorporeally around a dress-shaped hole.


Rest here.

Via QuantumBlog.

Scientists Develop a Darker Black

Really dark black is apparently the new black. From The Independent:

A British company has produced a “strange, alien” material so black that it absorbs all but 0.035 per cent of visual light, setting a new world record. To stare at the “super black” coating made of carbon nanotubes – each 10,000 times thinner than a human hair – is an odd experience. It is so dark that the human eye cannot understand what it is seeing. Shapes and contours are lost, leaving nothing but an apparent abyss.

If it was used to make one of Chanel’s little black dresses, the wearer’s head and limbs might appear to float incorporeally around a dress-shaped hole.

Actual applications are more serious, enabling astronomical cameras, telescopes and infrared scanning systems to function more effectively. Then there are the military uses that the material’s maker, Surrey NanoSystems, is not allowed to discuss.

You can read the rest here. The obvious question is: how much more black can this be? And the answer is – none. None more black.


fanfic; joker/harley; suicide squad; harley doesn’t like competition

The music in the club drowned out most things, but not Harley’s agitated tapping of her heels against the polished floor.  

Quit it,” the Joker ordered distractedly, still immersed in his card game. One of the more braver or stupider men playing against him in their high stakes game risked a glance at Harley, but the rest of them resolutely acted like she doesn’t exist.

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I love these two pictures. The first one, Steven tells Peri she should write a song, and in the next one Peri performs her song.
It’s nighttime by the time she sings. She must have spent at least an hour or two on her song!
Like, 5 episodes ago she wouldn’t have even thought about doing something like this, but she put time into writing it, dressed up in her ‘limb enhancers’, and sang while they were all relaxing around the fire, and I think it’s nice. Rock on, Doot.