glare pieces

  • Vex: Okay. One question that Grog just whispered to me.
  • Laura: *glares at Travis*
  • Vex: How much is a platinum worth?
  • Shopkeeper: How much is a platinum? A platinum is worth ten gold pieces.
  • Tiberius: She is displeased.
  • Vex: We may have a lot more money than I thought we had, because Grog's been HIDING MONEY in the bag of holding.
  • Laura: *Glares at Travis*
  • Grog: It's really shiny.
  • Laura: *is not amused*
  • Travis: I'm in trouble, Matt. I'm in trouble. She's rEALLY mAd.

“…I can fix that.”

Based off this

Moral of the story: Don’t let Hiro go on solo missions without the team + Baymax behind him.

Based on this awesome post by the always lovely @talortut! (I’m not ignoring the prompts in my inbox, guys! I promise! This post just spoke to me on so many levels, lol)

“This isn’t a game, Lance!”

There was a fire in Keith’s eyes that Lance matched with his own piecing glare. “I’m very aware of that, Keith!” He shouted back, arms flailing about in exasperation.

“Oh, really?” Keith questioned through a biting laugh. “Because you frolicking around through a bunch of fucking space flowers none of us know a single thing about sure as hell says otherwise!”

Lance’s blood was boiling. “They were fucking flowers, Keith! God, what’s the big deal?”

“Are you serious?” Keith spit out, crossing his arms. “We don’t know how our bodies react to space plants, Lance! We can’t exactly form Voltron and save the fucking universe if you get yourself killed!”

Despite his best efforts, Lance couldn’t keep his face from falling at Keith’s words. Of course Keith only cared about Voltron.

“Oh, don’t go crying about this, Lance.”

The annoyance dripping from Keith’s tone was enough. “Fuck you, Keith,” he hissed out, eyes narrowed dangerously. He turned on his heel and stormed towards the door to leave the room, not missing the grumbled “fucking blue paladin” from Keith as he shoved the door open.


Lance was jolted from sleep by a sharp, stabbing pain in his stomach, but when he tried to investigate with his hand, he found that he couldn’t lift his arm. A few moments of wiggling told him that he couldn’t move his entire body; it felt as if there was a giant weight crushing him to the bed.

Panic shot through his body as sweat rolled down his temples. His stomach was lurching violently, and his heart was hammering against his chest fast enough to have him gasping for breath. His mind said “move!”, but his limbs wouldn’t cooperate- they couldn’t cooperate. The pressure was too much, and Lance’s throat was beginning to tighten.

He opened his mouth to call for help, but the only sound that came out was a burning wheeze that left him coughing harshly until his eyes watered. Panic was seeping into every crevice of his body now. Each cough rattled his lungs painfully, and the the pain within his stomach was only intensifying.

Keep reading

Eyes and Skin

The first time Cullen and the Inquisitor are intimate it’s a mess of tongues and teeth and lips, tangled limbs and clothes discared without care, soft sighs and pleased growls.

And then, his hand takes her marked one, and she freezes, eyes open wide, because he clealry wants to remove the half glove she always has on that hand. The glove which saves her from glares and murmures, the piece of cloth which shields a dreadful, unknown spell from the rest of the world, allowing her to walk, sometimes, without feeling a sort of strange, magic crafted weapon.

And now his lips are ghosting just a breath away from that glove, from that magic.

He senses her hesitation and stops, looking at her, waiting for a word. His hands are so much bigger than hers, she notices, wondering if his Templar training will be stronger than his passion - than his affection - and he will be horrified. Scared. Disgusted.

Cullen rubs gently his tumb against the glove, exploring gently the surface.

A silent asking for a permission. 

And when she, reclutant and scared to see him looking straight at that green thing, nods slowly, he kisses her palm, lingering there.

A silent thanks.

He takes off the glove slowly, gently, giving her time to change her mind. When her bare hand stands in front of him, the emerald light casting a faint glow on his face, he kisses even kinder the wounded skin. And her wrist. And every inch of her skin.

His eyes never change, the tenderness and the other stronger feeling still there, untouched, a soft, golden look which sees the woman in front of him. 

Nothing more, nothing less, and it’s all that matters.

The Inquisitor understands she can love that man until her last day of life.

Not sure what is this. But likes, reblogs, comments, are always loved and very much appreciated!

Request: Ota reencountering MC years after she broke up with him while pregnant.

His voice echoed in the studio as he shoved the half completed sculpture to the floor. A loud smashing noise flooded his ears, bringing no sense of satisfaction as he glared at the pieces.
Nothing worked.
It just wasn’t working out.
His career was fine. The dark themes the angel painted up was well received by the public - a sort of painful mocking to the scars of his heart every time he watched his sadness being loved by all those who didn’t understand or try to understand him. Ota bent down to clean up the shards on the wooden floor, absentmindedly tracing his finger along the sharp edge, feeling the sting as it pressed against his skin, just lightly enough not to draw blood. Ota sat back and sighed.
He had gotten used to existing without you. But this wasn’t life. This wasn’t living life. This was survival.
He was surviving.
But he wasn’t happy.
Ota gazed up at your painting on the wall. The bird looked bloody and broken. There was a fine layer of dust from when he had last brushed it. The crushed rubies caught the light and sparkled like a fresh trickle of red along the feathers. Ota raised his hand and winced, noticing the accidental nick on his index finger. A spot of blood twinkled and he stared blankly at it, heart and mind numb.
“That looks beautiful, Ayaka.”
You praise your daughter as she climbs onto your lap and hands you a crayon drawing of a fluffy brown dog.
“Can we get a dog, mommy?” She asked quietly, snuggling up to you. Her golden hair rolled over her shoulders in wavy locks, and you stroke her head.
“Maybe when mommy gets a better job, okay?” You try to avoid the topic. A single mother working trash jobs here and there doesn’t get very far.
She was very obedient and considerate to the condition of your living, and for that you were grateful. Ayaka never caused too many problems. Quite unlike her father, you often thought with a longing pang in your heart.
“But I want to name her Koro. Is that okay?” Your daughter peeked up at you through her long lashes, and the round, honey coloured eyes drew you in with such a look that you found yourself unable to refuse.
“Of course,” you breathe out, chest tight and strained. “Of course you can.”
Fame was great. He made good money day in and day out.
Not like he really cared for it.
Ota remembered all too clearly what this fame cost him. When he had been offered this international chance back then, he had a long conversation with the manager about the possibilities of this life. He had always suspected that you heard the discussion of how the market would be negatively influenced if he dragged around a girlfriend.
And then right after that, you left him.
Left him, gave him nothing to remember you by.
You cleared yourself out of his life, left no contact address, no number, no trace that you ever existed in his life save from the silver pendant - lightly scratched and worn - your first ‘collar’.
Ota traced the bandaged finger along the pendant that hung around his own neck now, the bloody red stone a tiny faceted bump under his touch.
He missed you.
You had been so careful not to be found. Taking your savings, you had hidden out in the southernmost point of Japan, on the edge of the coast. There, a family friend let you live in the basement for a kindly reasonable price. It was quite the simple place, chilly during the winter and so out of the way that mail took a good three weeks to reach the address. There, you had your daughter, and raised her with your own two hands.
She deserved so much more.
Too many times have you considered delivering her to Ota, a father that could give her everything she deserved - the best education, the toys, the clothes, the upbringing suitable to her heritage.
But Ota couldn’t have a girlfriend. He’s most desirable if he stayed a bachelor, and that’s precisely what he needed - to be desirable. What would they say if one day he showed up with an ‘adopted’ child, a little girl that looked everything like him, from the colour of her hair to the enchanting qualities of her eyes?
Ayaka was stuck in the middle of nowhere with you, taught to be frugal and to seek out discounts, to wear clothes until they’re way too tiny or when the threads break loose in six too many places. She had the luxury of a new box of crayons once a year on her birthday, but Ayaka’s doodles ground those away to nubs by the time she was six months into each age. The walls were papered with her drawings, most of them cherry blossoms and brown puppies, grey cats or little angels with feathered wings.
After putting your daughter to bed, you stare at the picture taped to your wall. A bluebird in a cage.
It was achingly familiar, and you remember the shock when you first saw it, the tears that burned in your eyes as your daughter worried asked if you were alright.
“I love it so much.” You had said softly. “I’m just happy.”
Even Soryu and Eisuke couldn’t find you. Ota became more and more interested in the auctions, especially after Eisuke recovered his beloved sister. He had the tiniest sliver of faith that that too could happen to him. That sort of miracle.
For six long years, there were no miracles.
Ota felt like he had aged decades in these six years. The angelic smile felt glazed over his features, a hard shell fused onto his face.
Where are you, Koro?
You get up in the morning and make breakfast.
Ota wakes up, glaring at the woman in the bed beside him.
You sit Ayaka down and braid her hair as she munches through a bowl of cereal.
Ota throws out the used condom and dresses himself.
Ayaka walks with you to school, ignoring - as always - the stares of the other children being dropped off by their fathers.
Ota plasters the charming face of an angel over his own scowl, greeting the model as she sauntered out of his bedroom.
Ayaka waves goodbye to you, smiling with her perfect angelic face, hurrying up the stairs with her little backpack.
A little bit of flirting, and the model is out the door, leaving him to his own thoughts and the scent of sex lingering in the air. Ota threw open the windows and breathed in the fresh breeze.
“Sorry, babe, I gotta have a word with my brother here.”
Baba slipped up to the bar counter, smiling cooly at the actress that was speaking to Ota.
“There goes my entertainment for tonight.” Ota frowned. “What do you want, old man?”
“I think this is much better entertainment.” Baba nodded with an air of importance.
“What?” Ota took another long drink of whiskey from his glass, every movement still smooth and elegant. In this sort of bar, he needed to look smooth and classy, not angelic.
Baba reached into his suit pocket and drew forth a picture.
“Isn’t she beautiful?”
Ota glanced down at the picture of a girl, about five, golden blond hair in long braids, wearing a plain blue sundress.
“I’m no goddamn pedophile.” He snapped.
“I think she looks beautiful, Ota. Look again.”
The honey coloured eyes fell to the photo and stared into the eyes of the girl in the image.
“She looks just like you.” Baba said quietly.
Ota looked bored as his gaze flicked up to Baba’s face.
“I use condoms.”
Baba laughed.
“Calm down there, old sport. I just wanted to point out the similarities.”
“And you have. She looks like me. Your point?”
“I think you be interested - just a little bit interested - in her mother.”
Baba handed him another photo and Ota yelled as he leapt from his chair to his feet, throwing the stool backwards onto the floor with a clatter.
“Shhhhhhh!” Baba grabbed him and sat him back down on another stool, glancing around to see if people heard them. The startled diners went back to their business as they saw nothing else wrong.
“Where is she?!” Ota demanded. “This. Her. Where did you- Who- No. She’s where? Her-“
“_________ takes her,” Baba touched his finger to the picture of the girl. “to the park every Sunday. I’ll bring you down this week.”
“She is…”
Ota stared down hard at the picture of the child. There was a chill in his spine, a thrill almost. The girl’s face was hauntingly familiar, the shape of her eyes reminiscent of yours, the colour of them the soft ripples of purified syrup.
Ayaka’s feet swung happily back and forth as she sat on the swing set, drawing with the stub of her overused pink crayon. The cherry blossoms were blooming now, and she was excitedly sketching one of the ones she had found on the ground.
You sat on the bench, watching her from a little distance, letting her sit in her own world. There were few people who came so early on Sunday mornings, and it was a small town. It was very safe here.
“There she is.”
Baba’s voice made Ota shake even more as the two of them observed the girl from a distance. The sun danced on her shining hair, the same way as it did on Ota’s in the same moment. He took a deep breath, and looked past the child to the mother sitting on the bench.
You looked beautiful to him, the same sweet plainness that made you so fantastically amazing. You looked tired, and his heart ached as he longed to rush forth to hold you in his arms again. But he wasn’t young enough to be that impulsive anymore.
Ota stood behind the grove of cherry trees, wondering about the best course of action. He wanted to go up to you, to question you, to demand answers that he had wanted for six whole years.
Ayaka hopped off the swing and ran over to the cherry tree to pick a new flower. She eyed the branch on the ground, a little thin one, with lots of clustered blossoms still on it, and picked it up in her small hand.
Ota watched her inspect the branch, surveying it carefully just like how he appraises auction items. Seemingly pleased, she was about to leave when she spotted him. The curious honey eyes fixed on him, and Ota felt as if he was being watched by a hawk.
“Good morning!” She said politely.
Ota felt his heart skip a beat as he heard her voice. Soft and sweet, chirping a greeting to him like a little bluebird.
He saw you rise from your bench, noticing that your daughter was speaking to someone.
You ran up to Ayaka to see who she was talking to.
“Hello, pretty lady.”
Baba joined Ota, breaking the silence.
“Hello, Mister!” Ayaka piped up again, and you grab your daughter’s hand. “Mommy?”
“Baba.” You said weakly, feeling your knees threaten to give out from under you. “A-And Ota.”
Ota choked your name out from his throat. You were so close, so close to him. Just a step away.
Yet he couldn’t make himself approach you.
“Long time no see, pretty lady.” Baba said cheerfully. “And little sakura princess, what’s your name?”
Ayaka glanced at you and you nodded stiffly.
“Ayaka, Mister.”
“Awww, you don’t have to call me Mister.” Baba patted her head merrily and she giggled at his friendliness. “You can call me Uncle Mitts!”
“Uncle Mitts!” She smiled brightly, and Ota flinched at the way her face lit up in the same angelic look he saw in the mirror in his childhood. “And this Mister?”
Baba grinned.
“You can call him Da-“
“How about we go to my place. Have tea.” You cut in with a hurried question that sounded more like a command.
“That sounds good.” Ota said slowly, unable to take his eyes off your face. You avoid his gaze and lead the way, holding tightly to your daughter’s hand.
You laid out the tea. Ayaka was sitting on the couch, playing patty cake with a very excited forty-year-old Baba. Ota was pacing around the small room, looking at the all the crayon drawings.
“Baba, do you mind?” You ask quietly, and he nodded. “Ayaka, go show Uncle Mitts your sketchbook.”
Your daughter nodded and grinned at Baba, skipping along as she led him to her room where she stored the whole stack of drawings.
Ota whispered your name like a prayer, inching closer to you.
You raised your hand and he froze.
He just stared, drinking in the beauty that he thought he had lost forever. He needed you. The soft voice, the support, the precious presence that composed his home and heaven.
You seemed unable to say anything but his name, meeting his gaze evenly with watery eyes. The first of the tears spilled down your cheek and the impulsiveness in him burst through. He closed the space between the two of you, wrapping you into his arms. Your hands hung limply at your side, face pressed against his shoulder. Ota’s grip was tight.
“I thought I would never see you again.”
He sounded so weak, so helpless. Your heart throbs in agony as you try to shove him away before your resolve would crumble.
“Don’t hold me like this, Ota.”
“Please, _________. Please, I-“
“Don’t hold me, Ota.” You feel your body shaking, the tremors shooting through your skin into his touch. “I. If you do this… I. I can’t let you go again.”
“Don’t let go.” Ota murmured. “Please. I can’t. I- You left me once. I can’t let you slip away like that again.”
Your words falter and you let yourself indulge in the embrace of the man you had loved for so long.
“I know why you left. My career is stable now. I need you in my life. I’ve always needed you.”
Ota’s face was pleading, older now, but with the same pained, sad expression that he had seven years ago, when you first spent the night with him in his studio. Your trembling hands stroked his hair, like you did seven years ago. A single teardrop slid along his cheek.
“I missed you. So much. So much. So much.” The rich honey eyes bore down into your own, and you let yourself be clutched closer to his warm body. “Please don’t leave me again.”
“Don’t leave me again.”
“Ayaka… it would be difficult for her.” You shook your head. “I don’t want to put this kind of change on my daughter.”
“She’s mine too, isn’t she?” Ota asked quietly.
You bite your lip and nod slowly, a blush filling your cheeks.
“I found out after I left.”
“I am her father, and I want to be her father figure. I want to raise her, ___________.” Ota assured firmly. “You took my daughter away from me six years ago. Isn’t it about time you let me in on this kind of stuff?”
Ota smiled hopefully at you.
“How could you take Ayaka away from me like that, Koro?”
Your heart flutters in your chest.
“It’s been so many years, Ota… I…”
“I love you, ________.”
He stared at you, long and hard.
“I love you. That has never changed. Whatever I’ve done, whomever I’ve been with, no one takes your spot in my heart.”
Your heart thumps hard in your chest, reminding you of the feelings that had never subsided, the emotions that never died, the need for this man that stood before you.
“Give me some time. I promise. Let me in back in your life and I promise you it will not be the wrong decision.”
A faint smile tugs at the corner of your lip, and he notices.
“Answer me, Koro, or do I need to punish you?”
Ota cracks a smile, a smile more genuine than he had felt in the past half a decade. You feel your lips curve up, and Ota hugs you to him as hard as he could.
“I love you too, Ota.”
Baba brought Ayaka back to the room, the girl riding on his shoulders happily until she spotted Ota’s arm wrapped around you, the two of you sitting on the couch. She clambered down and scrambled to your side.
You pull your daughter onto your lap, and try to give your most reassuring smile.
“Ayaka, this is Ota. He… He is your dad.”
The pretty honey eyes narrowed at the man.
“I don’t have a dad!” She snapped, and you watched Ota recoil at his daughter’s words.
“Ayaka, that is rude.” You look at Ota apologetically. “Be nice to your dad. I know it’s strange but-“
“I don’t have a dad!” This time she screamed, and struggled off your lap. Ayaka glared at Ota, a smaller version of him pointing and shouting at him. “He was never nice to us! Why do I have to be nice!?”
“Ayaka, I’m really sorry. I didn’t know where you and your mommy were until-“
“You made mommy cry all the time!” Ayaka shrieked, her words as sharp as her high pitched voice. “You’re so MEAN!” She was crying now, a spill of tears along her young face. You knelt at her side and embraced her.
“Shhhh, it’s okay. Ayaka, listen to mommy.”
She buried her face against your shoulder, and her eyes peered over you to glare at Ota as she hugged you protectively.
“He’s bad, mommy.”
“No he’s not.” You murmur softly. “I told you before. I chose to leave him. Dad is really busy.”
“But he makes you cry at night.”
You stroke your daughter’s hair.
“I cry because I miss him. And now dad is back, and mommy can be happy.”
“Are you happy?”
“Yes, I am very.”
“He makes you happy?”
Ayaka narrowed her eyes challengingly at her father.
“If you’re nice to him, it makes mommy happier.” You kiss her forehead gently. “Please?”
She pouted.
“Be nice to mommy.” She grumbled at Ota.
Baba smiled.
“She’s your daughter through and through, Ota.”
Ota chuckled warmly, feeling his heart soften in the most previously unthinkable way towards the girl.
“Of course. I love your mommy.”
“Make her happy.”
“I will.”
“I don’t wanna call him dad.” Ayaka turned to you, whining. “I don’t know him.”
“You will get to know me.” Ota said as he nodded to her. “I plan on bringing you and mommy to live with me.”
“Can I not call you dad?” She shuffled her feet around, twisting her hands together. “It’s weird.”
“Call me whatever you want.”
Ayaka bit her lip, a little habit she picked up from you, and sank deep into thought.
“Koro.” She said quietly. “You are Koro.”
Baba burst out laughing, and Ota shot him a dirty look. He turned back to his daughter, a little annoyed, yet the innocent and determined look in her eyes melted straight through him.
Anything for her.
This was his daughter.
And right away Ota knew that he would lay down his life for this girl to step on if she so wished.
This was his daughter.
And he was finally going to get to know her.
“Call me Koro.”

Hope you liked!
I love you Ota.

Glaring at the piece of paper we’ve been using to track all his medication.

Harry went to the vet today and got the last of his stitches out. His eye has healed well and he’s back to his old self!

Little Used Spirk Evidence

I feel that when people defend spirk to people outside the fandom or just people who don’t exactly see it they tend to forget one rather glaring piece of evidence. 

All the above examples show that Kirk loves the Enterprise, more than he does practically anyone or anything else. 

Now let’s look at what he did in The Search for Spock.

That’s right. 

He BLEW UP the ship he was so in love with. Moreover, he probably didn’t even expect he would ever get another ship like her, let alone keep his rank if he wasn’t just thrown in prison for disobeying orders and such. Anyone could argue that he wasn’t just doing it for Spock - that McCoy was in danger too. Or they could even say that Kirk just loved Spock in a platonic fashion. And you can really believe anything you want but, to me, this looks pretty darn romantic.

I realize this is a very heat-of-the-moment scene but it’s nonetheless a scene in a movie. They wouldn’t have included it just so it looked cool. They obviously wanted/needed to express something here or that footage would be on the cutting room floor because it didn’t do something for the movie overall. 

So, believe what you want but I do think that the subtext is clearly there. 

Sebastian and Ciel once again.

Sebastian- Lets anger the young master today. 

Sebastian- *puts cats into Ciel’s room* 

Ciel- *walks in and glares*

Ciel- Fudge you piece of caramel!

Sebastian- DAMNNN Ciel! Back at it again with the sweets!

Ciel- Shut the fudge up and stop trying to be cool by using trendy comments.

Sebastian- Bitchhhh I am already cool, unlike you. 

Sebastian- *slams pie into Ciel’s face*

Sebastian- Looks like dessert is a bit early today young master.