heavy brow

10

“The Kubrick Stare, sometimes referred to as the Kubrick Glare, is a common camera shot of an actor in most of Stanley Kubrick’s films. The Kubrick Glare has been called the “heavy-browed look of insanity”. It symbolizes that the character in question is either really, really pissed or really becoming deranged, and the person they’re looking at is really, really screwed. Other times—usually when combined with a smile—it means they’re feeling really, really clever. Either way, it’s really creepy and ominous.”

anonymous asked:

I just like to think about the way Alec would instantly lose his shit if Magnus hit someone (not with magic, although that's the way to Alec's heart and other parts of him wink wonk) I just really love Magnus not even bothering because they're so close and he's stronger than like.. everyone in the room so he just hit whoever it is who's challenging him and decks them in two seconds flat

i’ve written about magnus using hand to hand combat before (more than just once but i have to find the others and make a tag for that)

but god i fucking love this idea and you know alec lightwood would absolutely love it. i don’t even think it would be about not bothering. i think as satisfying and as good and as incredible magic is, sometimes magnus just likes it.

he likes the feeling of his fist connecting with someone’s body. he likes to watch as their expressions change because they’re so damn used to warlocks fighting with magic and only that, and here he is ready and eager to leave them in tatters without a fucking lick of magic. here he is strong enough to end them without even the smallest hint of it.

so really i imagine this so fucking often, someone pushing him, trying to physically intimidate him and goad him. the look he’d get on his face, head tipped down and his brows heavy over his eyes that were sharp as shards of glass. he’d just fucking appraise them, a hint of a smile on his lips, the room gone a dead cold kind of quiet because so many of them knew.

and then it’s so fucking quick because he’s so fluid and he’s so fast, his fist connecting hard with bone and flesh, the sweet crack of knuckles to skin. they hit the floor with a heavy thud, a hush spilling out around him. and he drops down, grabbing their shirt and wrenching them up off the floor, looking them right in the eyes. “do you want to rethink that?”

the first time, alec’s eyes would be saucers although it would be no surprise to him. he knew how strong magnus was, he knew he was a skilled fighter in every discipline. but still to see it… god it would rip through him something fucking awful. his breathing gone heavy and his throat so god damn dry. later it would be different, it’d still affect him but he’d smirk, crossing his arms over his chest and just waiting for it. but the first time he’d be ruined and when magnus glanced at him he’d just see this man looking at him and wanting so much

anonymous asked:

Wait, what whitewashing is in Star Wars Rebels?

okay listen up for my all time BIGGEST PEEVE:

Ahsoka Tano is introduced in The Clone Wars as a brown character. She is Togruta by species, but she is heavily coded as a brown character.

 With a big nose, strong jaw, heavy brows, and large lips, in addition to brown skin, she is very clearly a person of color. It’s an imperfect representation (she’s a non-human and voiced by a white woman), but still. She is obviously meant to be a brown girl.

This is important because she is a WONDERFUL CHARACTER. She is dynamic, and vibrant, with flaws and struggles.

You can tell she was introduced to develop Anakin, but she takes on a life and conflict of her own. She grows from a small, untrained, brash, and unsure bby Padawan

to an older, confident, and mature leader.

In short, she is an expert character and a wonderful representation of women of color in science fiction, and we are lucky to have her.

UNTIL FUCKING STAR WARS REBELS COMES ALONG.

Star Wars Rebels takes place before the original trilogy, so that Anakin is already Vader, but Princess Leia is a teenager that occasionally makes appearances. Ahsoka is now several years older.

But I don’t recall that growing up makes someone white!!!!!!

That’s what she looks like in Rebels. You can blame the passage of time or the change in animation, but what I see is that Ahsoka’s face was lengthened, her jaw was softened, her nose was made whiter, and her brow got less heavy. In some scenes, you can even see that her skin tone is lighter.

For the record, both of those scenes take place on ships, in the exact same lighting.

And even if “she’s still technically brown,” and “maybe it’s just that she grew older,” it’s still Not Okay! Because Clone Wars GAVE US a blueprint of what Ahsoka’s supposed to look like. In one episode, she encounters an illusion (or hallucination? vision? unclear) of her future self. Here’s a comparison of the Clone Wars vision, the Rebels version, and the original Ahsoka.

Look at that jawline! The heavy brows! The lips! THE NOSE! My brown girls is v brown on the left and right, and the center is like they wanted to include brown characters, but aside from keeping the skin color they didn’t want her to actually look brown.

TLDR: Ahsoka was a wonderful brown character who was very CLEARLY and heavily brown coded, and Rebels whitewashed her because they couldn’t fucking commit to brown characters.

“That Can Only Mean One Thing” - Kurt/Blaine

please disregard the clunky title I literally listened to nothing but Hotline Bling on repeat the entire time I was writing this

Inspired by – don’t click if you’d rather be surprised! – this post, have young twentysomethings Kurt and Blaine working together in the Vogue.com offices, with a side order of Rachel Berry and Adam Crawford and a dash of “social media mishap” for dessert

4300 words | AO3

“Kurt, where are you? You know I have an extremely limited amount of time between my diction class and my next rehearsal.”

“Rachel, I would be able to meet up with you a lot faster if you didn’t call me every two minutes! I texted you that I was still finishing up. You could’ve just texted me back. Or relaxed and waited like a normal person,” Kurt hisses into his phone, hurrying down the hallway of the Vogue.com offices with a stack of thin files in one arm. Stress has been high ever since he clocked in this morning, the lifestyle and entertainment department working to finish up preparations for the party happening the following night.

“You would’ve ignored me if I texted! I would have gone ahead to the restaurant if I’d known you would be late–”

“You still could,” Kurt mutters. “The funny thing about having a job is that sometimes, important things come up that are out of your control. You wouldn’t know anything about that, but you could at least be sympathetic.”

Rachel’s voice is getting louder, but also echoing in a strange way that makes Kurt pull the phone away from his ear. “Kurt, I don’t think I’m being unreasonable here–”

“You? Unreasonable? Never.”

“–but, honestly,” she continues, suddenly turning down the hallway towards him and ending the call to confront him in person, “I thought having a job like this would make you more prompt.”

“Scratch that,” Kurt sighs, closing his eyes so that he can’t see Rachel tapping the toe of her knee-high black boots impatiently. “Who let you in?”

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||❥ a moon without stars (m)

w o n w o o ! s c e n a r i o

cr. 

word count: 18, 194 [ sorry not sorry]

genre: oh my god, it’s everything. angst + smut + fluff + romance + drama lord have mercy.

includes: the tale of Y/N’s first love, jeon wonwoo, and their relationship that builds up to an unplanned pregnancy. he helps his uncle out with mechanic stuff nd works part time as a body piercer. Y/N is a florist. mature themes nd shit, cried over this more than i needed to. enjoy!! :))

✎ don’t rlly have anything 2 say other than have fun reading, the soul has been sucked out of me!! jeon wonwoo destroyed my feelings!!


He is quiet, still like a marble statue that encases ivory bone and hot scarlet. He is impassive, a heavy brow left without a single crease nor a wrinkle, the ink that churns in indolent pupils murky, yet clear with your image that reflects in similarity to a mirror. His lips are beautiful, decorated in lovely shades of rose, yet they are not curled in a signature smile that flutters a heart or preludes a giggle. That is because, above all things, the boy is gobsmacked, perhaps even a little enraged.

Therefore, Jeon Wonwoo’s lips are plain straight. No, if they were to smile, you would burst like a water balloon, sprinkling the earth in droplets of solace. But it is not solace you feel when his face finally cracks, when his eyes flare in smoky streaks that practically engulf your lungs with desolation.

There is a click in your mind, an instinct to clasp your palms to your stomach as Jeon Wonwoo points his chin toward the floor and swears. Your words are still echoing around the room, burrowing within couch cushions and empty coffee mugs. They are permanent reminders that will forever linger, steeping around your limbs and tugging softly at your clothing. They remind you that your life will never return to normal, if normal even existed to begin with, and that sometimes, life can only prevail if a mistake is there to kindle it.

He will not hurt me, you acquaint in the sealed tomb of your skull. He will not lay a finger on me even though he is confused and angry. Every syllable that ricocheted behind thick bone only amplified how your chest ached, like someone’s fist had enclosed around your heart, squeezing it while the organ beat frantically. His fingers carded in exasperation through sable black hair, a groan so deep and desponding spilling in fashion to liquor from his lips. Still, you knew he would never bruise your flesh out of anger, out of spite perhaps starting to brew. You are beautiful, and Jeon Wonwoo does not bruise beauty.

Instead, he leaves it.

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Songbird

Ch.1 Mystic Messenger Mafia AU

ch2║║ch3║║ch4

Word Count: 1,609

[VIOLENCE/MURDER]


      It was what you had come to know as a typical night. The city was wet from the earlier rains, causing a moonlit highlight on the bricks and asphalt. It also kicked up an unpleasant stench, but one you had grown familiar with in all of your years of living here.

     “Alright, kiddies. Time to work,” a burly man clapped his gloved hands together before throwing open the back door of the truck.

     Barrels and barrels full of bootleg lined the inside. Thousands of dollars of product for the family to profit from, brought over on a meat truck they used frequently to disguise their hauls. But from where? The shipping yard, you guessed. Now if you could just figure out when it docked…

     “What are you thinking about?” the boy next to you asked.

     You hadn’t realized he’d been watching you. He scratched his hair underneath his cap before straightening it with a smile. Yoosung, or ‘Lucky’ as he was known, was always smiling. He seemed to practically skip instead of walk. Not the typical mafioso wannabe. But neither were you. In any case, he’s the closest thing you had to a friend right now. And you needed that.

     “That it’s cold as shit and I wanna get this over with,” you huffed.

     Lucky and some of the other boys popped up into the truck. They all shifted the barrels in their spots as if to weigh the contents before proceeding to move them. They had to roll a few of them down before you could start to dolly the liquor inside the small storage warehouse.

     “Attaboy,” the driver said gruffly and condescendingly. His wide hand pat one of them on the back as they wheeled a barrel away.

     “Turn the lights off, you nitwit,” the beautiful brunette, your capo-Jaehee, seethed as her heels clicked around the side of the truck and stopped in front of the driver.

     “S-Sorry, right,” he nodded before scrambling to the front to turn the headlights dim.

     “This is the last job for tonight, so make it snappy,” she played with her gloved hands, seemingly annoyed, “well go on!” she urged you.

     You picked up the pace and wheeled the barrel Yoosung placed on the dolly for you. A single one wasn’t too heavy, but do 5 or 6 in a row and boy were you feeling it. Towards the end of the truck you felt beads of sweat on the back of your neck.

     “What’s her deal tonight?” one of the boys whispered as you all worked to shift the hooch inside the storage room.

     You glanced back to see Jaehee and the driver. It looked like she was scolding him, all while gesturing to the truck.

     “Probably in a rush to get to the club to see ‘Pretty Boy’ sing his little heart out so she can drop her panties,” one of the guys joked and pretended to sing into a mic dramatically.

     “Shut the fuck up, idiot,” another one smacked him in the back of the head, “if I have to listen to any more of your stupid jokes tonight I’m gunna stuff ya in one of these damn barrels.”

     “Alright, alright, lay off,” he rubbed his head with a sour face, “I was only tryin'a lighten the mood.”

     A flash of headlights washed over you before being turned off. You all stopped to watch a black car pull up by the truck. You and Yoosung both paused, gripping your dollies and watching as a man in a brown trench coat stepped out and straightened his collar. Bits of red hair peeked from his hat and a serious expression plagued his face.

     “Shit, what’s he doing here?” one of the guys whistled menacingly.

     Though you had only seen him a handful of times, you knew who it was. Saeyoung, the Underboss. Or as people liked to call him-‘The Mad Hatter.’ You believed him responsible for countless hits over the years. And now you all stood to watch, though some of the outfit stayed back in the warehouse, exchanging quiet glances and pretending to work.

     “It’s a wonderful night, isn’t it?” Saeyoung and his two body guards met Jaehee and the driver.

     “It’s a bit too cold if you ask me,” Jaehee replied.

     “Ah, but it’s a clear night,” he looked up to the sky, “star, after star, after star. An endless void. If you look long and hard enough you can get lost in it. How many do you think there are?”

     He returned his gaze to the two of them, his solemn face unchanging. Neither of them spoke.

     “I asked you a question,” he turned to the large man, “how many do you think there are?”

     “Stars? I-uh…” you could almost see the man begin to sweat.

     “You can count, can’t you?”

     “Well ya, but I-I don’t know-“

     “Of course you don’t. There are too many up there. Maybe a simpler question, then? Since you can count and all..how many barrels am I missing from this truck?” he gestured to the meat truck.

     “Missing?” his big belly heaved with his now labored breathing.

      Saeyoung’s fist swung into the mans gut and sent him coughing to his knees.

     “Now, now. You’re good with numbers, remember? I’ll give you a second to count them in your head before telling me. And you’d better tell me. Or things are only going to get worse for you.”

     The man started to sob at Saeyoung’s feet, “I don’t know nothin’ about missing barrels I swear on my kids life,” he pleaded.

     “I don’t like liars,” Saeyoung grabbed the mans hand and pulled the glove off, “shall we count together? Maybe that will help.”

     He singled out the mans pointer finger, while the driver looked up to Saeyoung’s face in terror. His wet eyes were pleading.

     “One…” Saeyoung bent the finger back in a swift motion. The snap of bone was like a dry twig breaking under your boot.

     The cry in pain filled the empty street and the body guards stuffed the man’s mouth with a cloth before holding him in place on his knees. He struggled for a moment but quickly admitted defeat.

     “Two,” another snap of his middle finger, “three…”

     Even with the cloth to muffle, you could hear the pain bellowing from his chest. Tears streamed down his stubble-heavy face and his brow pinched together in agony. It took everything in you not to stop him. The cold metal of the gun on your thigh had never been more apparent.

     “Four,” the pinky was the last one and it broke easily, “four barrels. Now do you remember?”

     He let the mans hand fall before stepping back. The cloth was pulled from his mouth before shoving him forward into the damp asphalt. Shaking and nodding at Saeyoung’s feet, his right hand was a mangled mess now.

     “Good, I thought so. Now you won’t forget that number,” he tossed the glove at the mans face, “get out of my sight.”

     With his good hand he palmed the glove and clambered to his feet all while stifling sobs. Wobbling slightly and almost running into Jaehee in the process he started to walk fast in the opposite direction down the silent street.

     “Hm…I changed my mind,” Saeyoung reached into his coat and pulled a pistol to aim at the man.

     The truck blocked your view but the sound of the shot and the thud that followed were telling enough. Your legs were suddenly jello and a pair of hands held you up.

     “Keep it together,” Yoosung whispered as he grabbed you. You were just noticing his eyes had glassed over slightly and there was an indent where he must have bitten his lip.

     All you could think about were flashes of Saeyoung’s face as he held a gun to your head. ‘Lemme show you what we do to rats and pigs,’ he’d say, his sadistic grin being the last thing you see before he squeezed on it.

     “Someone clean that up,” Saeyoung gestured to the body before turning to one of the men, “you, get this truck out of here.”

     He handed a wad of cash to Jaehee, explaining that she was to deliver it to the man’s wife. It was to help her get by, at least for a little while, without a husband.

     He took long striding steps back to the car. His gloved hand opened the door and he turned to you with a smile before getting in.

     “Hey, Lucky! Both’a you, be in the wind before the bull arrives, huh?” he waved and got into the back seat.

     The bit of food in your stomach was trying to make it’s way up but you took some sharp breaths to calm your nerves as the car drove away. No wonder there wasn’t a soul at the station willing to try and infiltrate this syndicate. They all either laughed at you or turned a cold shoulder when you brought it up. Not even the feds were willing to acknowledge this level of organized crime was going on. Businesses and citizens alike accepted that this was just the way things were. And here you were, a cop gone under cover. A rat. A bull. The regret was like a thick syrup that clung to you. This was the first time you realized you were probably going to die. But there was no turning back now.

     “Come on, there’s still a bit of work to do…” Yoosung pat you on the back with a solemn face. It was the first time you’d seen him not smiling.

Tears On Our Tongues

The ride home after the woods

A SnowBaz fic for the Carry On Countdown


Simon

When we get back to the car, we both sit in an extremely awkward silence.  Neither of us seems to know what to do.  After all, that was possibly the most pivotal moment of both of our lives.  Where do we go from here.?

           Lips and tears and heat and fire.

           When I turn to nervously look at Baz, he’s staring straight ahead, his jaw set and his brow heavy.  He’s gripping the steering wheel with both hands, but doesn’t make a move to actually start the car.  Rain is beginning to dot the windshield, and I can see my own breath whisper into the air.

           Baz is so tense, like he’s only just fully realizing what has happened.

           Lips and tears and heat and fire.  His lips on mine.

           “Um,” I murmur, breaking the silence, “do you want me to drive?”

           He blinks like he’s snapped out of a daze and takes a breath.  “No,” he says without looking at me, “it’s fine.”  He turns the key in the ignition, and I notice his hands shaking.

           “Baz,” I reach out and touch his arm without thinking. “I’d really prefer if I drove.”

           He doesn’t flinch at my touch like I expect him to.  He just stares at my hand on his skin with an odd expression, like he’s trying to figure out something complicated.  Like he’s thinking how did that get there?

           It’s not looking like he’s going to move, so I open my door and walk around to the driver’s side, and only then does he actually get out of the car.  He doesn’t look at me as he passes, barely brushing me with his coat on the way.

           When we’re both in our seats, I start the car and turn us around, heading back the way we came.  I turn on the heat because it’s freezing in here, but not the music. As much as I want to break the silence, I can’t ignore the fact that this isn’t just the normal we-kissed-what-now kind of awkward.  This is the you-almost-killed-yourself-and-as-a-result-we-kissed kind of awkward, which is slightly heavier than the normal awkward.

           Lips and tears and heat and fire.  His lips on mine.  Tears on our tongues.

           I sneak a glance at him.  He gazes at the window.  Not out, just at.  

           “You okay?”  I know it’s a stupid question, of course he’s not, but I have to ask.

           He shrugs and very slightly shakes his head.

           “I know it sounds dumb,” I say quietly, “but it’ll be alright.  You’ll be okay.”

           He doesn’t look at me.  I’m starting to wonder if he ever will again.

Baz

I nearly killed us. I nearly sent us both up in flames and then had him against a tree snogging the life out of him.  And here he is asking if I’m okay.

           Point for him though, because I’m not.  Of course not.

           Lips and tears and heat and fire.  His lips on mine.  Tears on our tongues.  His mouth, so full of heat.

           I’m not okay, and now I’ve let him see in graphic detail exactly how not-okay I am.  I could not have made myself more vulnerable in front of him, and the thought makes me want to curl into a ball, erase the whole thing, make it never happen.

           Except for the kissing.  That part can stay.

           Even though I have no idea if he meant it.  It might have been a final attempt to pull me out of my suicidal funk.  Even the kisses after the fire was out were probably just pity kisses, albeit very desperate pity kisses.

           “Baz,” he says quietly, and I feel him glance at me, “how long… um, how long had you wanted… that?”

           “Forever.”  It comes out without a thought.

           “Oh.”

           “Since fifth year.”  Both are true.

           Simon thinks for a moment.  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

           “You had enough reason to hate me.”

           “I don’t hate you.”

           “You did.”

           “I always thought you hated me.”

           “I did,” I nod, “until I loved you.”  His head whips to face me and I scrunch my eyes shut.  I can’t believe I just said that.  “Until I didn’t hate you anymore,” I try to fix it, but I know it’s too late.  It’s out, it’s in the air between us, and it’s going to stay there forever, taunting me with how he’ll never say it back.

           “Baz -”

           “Please,” I grit through my teeth, a tear squeezing out of my eye, “I can’t.”  The tear makes its way down my cheek until it drips into my mouth, and the taste is like Simon.  I will probably forever associate the taste of tears with kissing Simon.

           “Okay,” he whispers, and we’re quiet for the rest of the drive.  I try to keep my sobs silent, but I’m sure he’s hearing them,

           I could have killed him.  If he’d died, it would have been my fault.

           Tears on our tongues.

           When we finally pull into my driveway, I climb out of the car as soon as we’ve stopped.  I hear him call after me, but I don’t pause.  I slam the car door and start stalking towards the house.  It’s so over for me.  I thought I was ready to die in the woods?  I hadn’t been kissed by the boy I love who will never love me. How am I supposed to live with that?

           His footsteps on the driveway are quick like he’s running after me.  I keep moving, tears blurring my vision.

           He catches up to me at the doorstep, throwing himself between me and the door, blocking my entry.

           “Get out of the way, Snow,” I mutter, looking down. We’re under the porch light now, he’ll be able to see what a mess I am, and I can’t look at his expression.

           “Baz, please.”

           “Please what?” I snap.  “What do you want?”

           I make the mistake of glancing at his face and I find tears running down his cheeks.

           “I want you to know that you’ll be okay,” he sobs, “and that I want you to be okay.”

           “I nearly killed you, Snow,” I say, shuddering, “how can you possibly want me to be okay?”

           Lips and tears and heat and fire.  His lips on mine.  Tears on our tongues.  His mouth, so full of heat.  Flames licking at my vision.

           “You wouldn’t have,” he shakes his head, “you were going to spell me away, and for some reason, that’s more upsetting than if you’d tried to kill both of us.”

           “What makes you think I would have saved you?”

           “It was in your eyes.”

           Right now his eyes are full of something I don’t recognize.

           He takes my hand tentatively.  “I need you to know something,” he tells me through his sobs, “because you probably think that it was a sympathy kiss.”

           That’s exactly what I’m thinking.

           “Please never think that.  Never think that the first kiss, or any kisses after that were out of sympathy.  I kissed you because I wanted to, a lot more than I realized.”  He sniffles, his eyes pleading.  “I’d kiss you again right now, and tomorrow morning, and every day after that and none of it would be out of sympathy, and I need you to understand that.”

           I’m shaking like a leaf.  Because I’m tense, because I’m cold, because I’m in some kind of shock, because of Simon’s words.

           “You’d kiss me again?” I choke, unable to believe what I’m hearing.

           He goes pink and he’s smiling and crying and laughing all at once, and I finally recognize what’s in his eyes because it’s exactly the same thing as what’s in mine.

           He doesn’t answer with words.  He stands on tiptoe and takes me by the lapels of my ruined suit, pressing his mouth into mine and it fits like we’ve been doing this forever, like it’s second nature.  His lips taste like tears again and I’m certain that the taste of tears will always be bittersweet to me now, a reminder that no matter how bad it gets, Simon Snow kissed me because he wanted to.

           And he would again.  He is right now.

           And he would tomorrow morning, and every day after that.

Domestic Drabbles - 6: It’s Not London (Part 2)

Well. Here I am again. I was going to wait a couple days to write this, but any sort of angst makes me SO SAD. So I had to finish it. So enjoy (:
Shoutout to @baz-n-simon, the bestie <3


Simon

Oh. Oh.

I roll off of Baz, but I don’t let go of his hand. He sits up and hangs his legs off the bed, so I do the same.

“You don’t have to go to Oxford, do you?” I ask. “You’ve already been here for over a semester.”

Baz stares down at his empty hand. “He says I have to transfer after this semester is over. Or he will refuse to pay for my school.”

I squeeze his hand harder. “Baz.”

“I’ll drop out,” he says, clenching his empty hand into a fist.

“No. You can’t.”

“I can, Snow. And I will.”

I let go of his hand and run my fingers along his shoulder. He shivers slightly and looks at me. His eyes are heavy, and the grey reminds me of storm clouds right before the rain.

“I don’t want to be the reason for you not finishing school,” I say, and I feel my eyes becoming equally heavy.

He furrows his brow and frowns at me, then stands up. He walks to the middle of the room and stares up at the ceiling. He takes a deep breath, and I watch the muscles in his shoulders briefly tense up, then flatten out and relax. And I think about how I want him to do that again. And then about how perfect his shoulders are; strong, yet graceful. And then I look at his hair. And think about how I want to run my fingers through it.

“Come back over here, Baz,” I say.

He lowers his head and runs his fingers through his hair but doesn’t turn around. He makes a small sound, something that might be a sniffle, and I immediately stand up and make my way to him. I stop behind him and wrap my arms around his chest. He stills momentarily, but seems to relax, placing one of his hands over mine. I lean my forehead against the nape of his neck and kiss him there. And then again. And again.

“Baz,” I say, and I lean my head against his shoulder.

“You’re the reason I’m in London, Simon,” he says suddenly, and the words echo through his back. “And I don’t want to leave. I love it here.” He grips my hand, then sniffles deeply. “I love it here,” he says again. “I love it here. I love it here. I—”

“I love you,” I say. And I startle myself. Those are words that I’ve never said before. They’re foreign, yet familiar. And they feel strange, but taste good; like tapioca pudding. And Baz would kill me if he knew I thought of it like that.

I feel Baz inhale sharply, like I just punched him the chest instead. He grips my hand tighter, and I feel his tears drop onto my arm.

I bring my head up and kiss him on the back of the neck again. And again. And again.

“I love you, Baz,” I say in between a kiss. The words echo in my mouth, and they feel less strange this time. And taste even better.

He gently pushes my arms away from his chest and turns around to face me. There are a few tears on his cheek, and I wipe them away. His eyes are still heavy, but they seem to be startled. They dart across my face, from my eyes to my mouth to my cheeks and then back to my eyes. I wrap his hands in mine and tilt my head to the side.

“I…” He seems to be speechless, and I want to laugh because it’s always the other way around. I don’t though, and instead, I tuck a few loose strands of his hair behind his ear.

“Simon,” he says, staring deeply into my eyes. He lets go of one of my hands and slides his against my cheek, running his thumb along my cheekbone. I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t.

“Do you want to snog?” I ask. And Baz looks at me like I’ve offended him; like I said the worst possible thing at the worst possible time. But then he tries to fight the grin that’s forming on his lips. And he fails.

“Yes,” he says, and then he kisses me.


(Part 1) - (ao3)

A longer preview of my next Shance fic

The small hiss of cold air releasing from the pod was the first sound Lance heard in thousands of years.

 While it felt like mere seconds to him, he could feel a deep aching cold in his bones that spoke of too much time in a frozen sleep. The little intake of air as the lid to the pod opened was practically tropical across his chilled skin. His own first gasp of breath pulled warmth into his lungs like a sunny day warming his body from the inside out.

 The big, strong arms that caught him helped a bit too.

 "Are you all right?“ Came the deep voice from the firm chest at his hands. He breathed in the man’s vanilla-like alpha scent, chasing out the last bit of cold from his body and giving him the motivation to open his eyes.

 When he did, Lance practically swooned. Of course he would have dark, sexy eyes under a heavy brow, a chiseled jaw, and a rugged scar across his nose. Did someone tap into his brain while he was asleep and make all his fantasies come true?

 "I am now that you’re here, handsome,” Lance purred, his voice pleasingly rough from disuse. He even threw in a wink and an appreciative squeeze of the man’s bicep.

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The demon paced back and forth, worry heavy on his brow because the one he gave everything for - hisgracehiswingshishome - was late.  What if something happened to him?  Maybe the others discovered Dean hadn’t abandoned his brother, hadn’t left him to rot in hell or earth?  

Maybe they had him captured, tortured, punishing him for treating Sam like maybe he was still worth something.

Maybe he was waiting for Sam to save him - and then here was Sam, failing at that as he failed at -

“You’re not the prettiest when you scowl, ya’ know?”  A cheery voice broke into his not-so-cheery thoughts, and gold eyes met the bright vibrant greens of Dean.  Who was safe, and not harmed, and perfectly fine.

“You are here…”  He muttered, wide eyed, and Dean chuckled at himself, scratching the back of his head.

“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that, there was a hold up and -”

Dean didn’t finish his sentence, Sam pulling him into a desperate hug with the angel still upside down, his own, leathery, feather-less - graceless - wings folding around his brother as well.

“You had me worried.”  Sam mumbled, feeling stupid for the panic still zinging through him and were his shoulders shaking?

Dean just huffed softly, Sam flinching at the sound, ready to pull away but then Dean’s arms encircled his shoulders and head, the angel pressing a soft kiss to Sam’s chin and petting through frazzled brown hair.

“Nothing to fear, Sammy, I’m here, you’re here, and no angel in heaven or demon in hell can stop me from seeing you, ‘kay?”  Dean said, soft and gentle like a parent to a child and Sam curled in closer to Dean.

“I to you.”  Sam muttered, after a few minutes of enjoying the warmth that always gave him such comfort.  Dean pulled away at that, pressing another reassuring kiss to Sam’s forehead before coming to land on his feet, stretching his wings out and grinning.

“Alright, ‘nough of this corny shit, let’s go see a movie.”

-

au where sams a fallen angel turned demon and deans a sneaky bastard who always shirks his duties to visit sam bc sam was his favourite and the only angel dean ever considered his brother so fuck the rest sams chill af

The Girl in the Pond Pt. 3 (Bones: Marvel AU)

Characters in this chapter: Steve Rogers, Female Reader, Peter Parker, Wanda Maximoff, Tony Stark, Nick Fury, Natasha Romanoff

Warnings: Language, Talks about dead body, Violence

Pairings: None. (Eventual Steve Rogers x Reader)

Summary: You are a forensic anthropologist working for the Smithsonian Institute in Washington D.C. when you and your team get recruited by the FBI to aid one of their top field agents, Special Agent Steve Rogers. Together, along with  your colleagues/friends you put faces on the voiceless and throw the bad guys where they belong.

Author’s Note: So this is my first Marvel AU series and I’m quite nervous on how this is going to turn out. The series is going to be based on the TV show Bones and since the show is 12 seasons long I’m just going to base the series on some of my favorite episodes including the series finale coming out in the upcoming weeks. I only hope I do it justice. I want to thank @mrs-squirrel-chester​ for convincing me into writing this and for not only being as awesome beta but because she also made this kick-ass edit above.

(P.S: Yeah this part is super long sorry!)


“Rogers! Wait up!” You shouted, catching up to Steve who was walking across the institute’s lawn. The heels you were wearing were getting stuck to the dirt so you decided to kick them off, and jog over to Steve.


“So what do you want to do first, confront the Senator?” you asked, walking alongside him once you caught up. 


He stopped in his tracks and turned to you, face grim. “Listen, Bones, I know…”


“Don’t call me Bones!” you interrupted him.


“Right,” he sighed. “I know we talked about you coming out in the field and all…”


“Seriously Rogers?!” You pushed him in anger. “You fucking bastard,” you spat. You couldn’t believe he lied to you.


“Bones, listen to me!” Steve grabbed your hands to stop you from hitting his chest. “With a case this big, the director is going to create a special investigation. And if I get all my ducks in a row, then maybe, just maybe I could lead it,” he explained fully.


“Not sure what that means, but I think I could be a duck,” you replied.


“You’re not a duck, okay,” he blurted out in annoyance. “On this one we go by  the book. Cops on the street, Squints in the lab.”


“Oh yeah?” you asked, crossing your arms at him. “Well in that case, the Smithsonian will be issuing a press release identifying the girl in the pond,” was your simple reply.


“You do that and Fury will kill me!” he whisper-yelled at you. “What the hell are you trying to do?”


You looked into Steve’s baby blue eyes through your lashes. “Me? I thought it’d be clear to a top agent. I’m blackmailing you, doll,” you cooed while batting your eyelashes.


“Blackmail a Federal Agent?” Steve asked, still in disbelief as to what you were telling him.


“Oh yeah,” you replied with a sweet smile.


He folded his arms across his chest. “Well I don’t like it.”


“You’re not supposed to like it.” You let out a chuckle.


“Fine.” Steve let out a sigh in defeat. “You’re in.”


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Blade’s Edge

Sooo, I wrote some original fiction stuff. It’s an idea that’s been bouncing around in my mind for a while: a Norse Mythology / Fantasy Rivalmance, type deal. The characters aren’t human, but I have’t precisely settled on what they are yet. This is the first draft of the first chapter (maybe?) so it’s pretty rough, but I’d appreciate feedback. 

___

The sounds of battle had long ago died on the wind, yet the morning sky was drenched with the blood. The great chamber of the palace, which once was a warm, bustling place, seemed empty now. Only a few servants remained—the old, the sick, the women. Most of the men had marched with what was left of the army.

Though the braziers were lit, Astrid, Lady of the Golden Hall, was freezing. The chill in her bones was not due to the heavy fog that hung around the palace, but the defeat carried on the air.

She could hear the drums of the Gotalanders as they marched on the palace. It would only be a matter of moments before they burst through the silver gate of the city and made their way to the Palace of the Kings. Astrid shifted in her seat, and looked down at the boy in her lap. Erik, her baby brother and recently crowned king of Trondhiem, fidgeted and glanced up at her.

“Asta, I’m tired.” His small voice saw swallowed up in the silence of the chamber. 

She gave him a small smile, and resisted the urge to brush a lock of unruly hair back from his forehead. He was king now, even if not for much longer. “I know, your majesty. But do you remember what I told you about being like Papa?”

When the little boy nodded, she continued. “Well, sometimes—”

Before she could finish, the great doors the hall groaned and swung open to the sound of marching boots and the clank of armor. Astrid straightened in her seat, her arms wrapping protectively around Erik. Row after row of soldiers in gleaming ring-mail marched into the hall in perfect sync. They lined the ebony inlaid walkway to the dais, the tips of their swords thumping against the wood in one, deep reverberating noise. A man appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the bright light of the antechamber beyond. Astrid could only make out his form as he stalked towards them, a victor confident in his might.

He was tall, like all the men of his cursed kingdom. His broad shoulders were accentuated by the leather armor he wore over his ring-mail. Around his narrow waist hung his sword belt, on which rested a wicked looking blade with a hilt curve to look like a thorn.

Astrid felt the hairs at the back of her neck prickle. Though she could not yet see his face in the gloomy hall, she knew exactly who this man was: Einar Silver-Tongue, second son to King Ulf of Gotaland, the Terror of the Jutes.

~*~

Astrid paced the length of the king’s receiving chamber, her eyes unfocused as she tread back and for across the finely woven rug. She had just put her brother to bed with a promise that everything would be alright.

A lie.

Perhaps.

She didn’t know. All she knew was that he would be coming soon. Einar Silver-fucking-Tongue. After marching his armies across her brother’s kingdom and into the Golden Hall, Astrid was sure he would strike her head from her neck and dash her brother against the unyielding walls. But instead, he’d let them live. Once the palace was secured, he’d disappeared back to the front lines of his army with nothing but a promise of return.

Asta shook her head. She hated feeling toyed with, hated this cat and mouse game Einar was playing with them. Rather swing the ax than have it hanging over her.

She turned towards the fireplace, holding out her hands for warmth that wouldn’t reach her bones. Behind her, the heavy oaken doors swung open. Her spine stiffened, though she refused to turn to him—refused to let him think she feared to have him at her back. She could hear Einar moving about, removing cloak and gloves perhaps, before the creak of leather encased adamantine signaled he’d taken a seat. Still she refused to face him.

“Come now, Princess. This is no time to act a girl. We have things of import to discuss.” His cool, silken voice sounded just behind her, the level tone belied by an undercurrent of steel.

After a moment, Astrid turned, finally meeting his gaze. He sat, indolent and at easy, legs spread wide and arms resting along the back of a plush backed-bench. His dark hair brushed his shoulders, framing his angular face in shadows. Startling amber eyes watched her from beneath heavy brows. Watched, and…appreciated? It was difficult to tell, but something masculine and possessive lurked in his glittering gaze. 

She felt her mouth pucker in distaste. He was handsome, and she hated him for it. A monster should show himself to be one, not masquerade as a god.

A flick of the wrist: a command to sit. She frowned but found herself gingerly sitting at the edge of the bench, as far from him as possible—though not far enough that she wasn’t within his reach. A shock of heat travelled down her arm where his fingertips brushed her shoulder.

“You have something to discuss with me?” She asked, lifting her chin.

A corner of his mouth quirked up at her imperious tone. “As a courtesy, I wish to inform you I will be assuming the regency of King Erik. He will be sent away to the north in order to safeguard his person during this unstable time. You will remain here.”

The causality with which he dictated her life was insufferable. Gnashing her teeth, Astrid shot up, hot fury roaring up her spine. “You will do no such thing! Erik stays with me.”

One moment he was seated, relaxed, the next, he stood before her, inches away, his big body towering over her to intimidate. “My armies occupy your kingdom;your father is dead and your king a mere child,” he hissed, amber eyes flashing green. “My boot is at your throat, princess—you have no right to issue orders to me,” 

She bared her teeth at him, fists balled at her side to stop herself from scratching his eyes out.

“I will not allow you to take him from me,” she seethed. “Secreted away until he conveniently dies of cold and neglect, or your assassin’s blade.”

Einar sneered at her accusation. “If I was going to kill him, I would have done it already.”

She glared up at him, hating him all the more for reminding her of her weakness, that she and Erik were in his clutches. “Yes, you should have. Because I vow to the Norns that I won’t stop until your throat is under my boot, Prince Einar.”

His hand shot out, tangling in her thick tresses and yanking her head back. The motion brought them closer, each of her hard, heavy breaths pressing her against the solid wall of muscle that was his chest. She gripped his shoulders, trying, but unable to push him away.

“Do not think to threaten me, Astrid.” He stared down his aquiline nose at her upturned face. “I hold your life in my hands.”

“Freeze in Hel,” she spat, squirming against his grip.

Einar banded his free arm around her, pinning her arms between them and hauling her against him. “Cease this petulant mewling, and make me an offer worthy of consideration.”

“Let go of me! You have no right!”

“It’s trite but true, Princess, might makes right.” He snapped, squeezing her closer.

They stared at each other a long moment eyes blazing. She was painfully aware of the closeness of their bodies, and the fact that no man had ever dared touch her like this before. 

Suddenly he released her. Only a quick step back stopped her from falling to the floor at the loss of the stabilizing strength of his arms. Stabbing fingers through his dark hair, Einar stalked to the other side of the room before pouring himself a drink.

Astrid sent him a baleful look. “You may be regent, oh conqueror, but I am Erik’s guardian. And he will stay with me.”

He watched her over the rim of his—her brother’s—goblet, amber eyes apprising. She shivered.

“It is my pleasure that you will stay here.” He took a deep draught, before slamming the metal cup on the table. “Very well. King Erik will stay here, with you as his guardian, while I see to the running of the realm as it is integrated into the Gotaland Empire.”

Again he moved rapidly to stand before her, and much to her chagrin she found herself taking a step back.

“But, I will need something in exchange for this leniency. Something to ensure you don’t turn back and bite me like a rabid dog.”

Astrid didn’t know whether the trembling she felt was fear at the sudden silken, dangerous tone of his voice or anger at being likened to a rabid bitch. Regardless, she raised her chin in defiance, her words mocking. 

“My kingdom is at your disposal, my prince, what on Midgard could I possible give you more?”

Astrid was dismayed to see that instead of snapping back at her a wicked grin slowly spread across his lips as his eyes flashed green. Her stomach dropped; she had played right into his hands. 

“You, my sweet, I will take to wife.”

Before she could object, before even, his words had truly registered. Einar’s mouth crashed against hers as he hauled her bodily against him. Astrid made a noise of protest, her fingers curled into claws against his shoulders. His lips were demanding, dominating, sending scorching heat down her throat and racing throughout her body which each pass of lip against lip. He pressed his thumb to the corner of her mouth, forcing it open to him, forcing her to submit to his tongue. Astrid gasped at his forwardness, her eyes fluttering closed.

She felt too hot, to confined in her own skin. She wiggled against him, maddened with the feeling of–of something. He groaned in response, deepening their already impossible deep embrace. 

“Asta?” Erik’s small voice behind her was a shock of cold water. “I heard shouting.”

 She wretched herself away from Einar and slapped him across the face so hard his head snapped to the side. Instead of looking cross at her assault, he gave her an indulgent, smug smile, before turning to Erik and giving a courtly bow.

“ King Eirk, good evening.” He turned to Astrid, eyeing her with a masculine satisfaction that made her want to slap him again. “I’ll leave you, my dear, to inform his majesty of our arrangement.”

it was a chorus so sublime

Summary: “I miss Him,” says Anne, her voice lost to the arches of the cathedral, trapped here in this limbo of life and death in a war-torn galaxy. “That’s why I came here. I was wondering if He’s still watching over us.”

“There is no doubt in my mind,” says Aramis, his voice thick with something she can’t place, looking directly at Anne as though her presence is what is solidifying this conviction.

LITERALLY CANT BELIEVE @parlegee CONVINCED ME TO WRITE ANNAMIS SPACE DYSTOPIA AU THE WEEK BEFORE MIDTERMS!!! anyways here u have it just in time for valentines day, can u actually believe me. the premise is like ….. star wars mixed with the hunger games mixed with like …. gothic cathedrals and catholicism???? gosh who knows but its HERE and i am SORT OF HAPPY WITH IT so im posting it. did u know the doc name for this was “the nunnery sceneTM but every time i cry it gets faster” bc that was indeed the name and this is indeed a version of That Scene, which my good friend @emilybrontay said “was kind of Holy, phil,” and she is Correct. love yall!!! can u believe annamis invented romance!!! also titles from florence and the machine bc mother florence wrote a whole discography about this ship, guys.

The stars are shining through the crumbling gaps in the building’s domed ceiling.

Anne can see them, count them, watch as they twinkle and shine at her almost in mockery, silver and gold against the ink blue of the sky. Her feet make muted sounds against the gravel as she steps across the stone of the old church, down through the pews and towards the front. Great big slabs of marble are lying buried into the ground, cracks not webbing but tracing patterns around them. It’s almost artful in its destruction, deceptively beautiful, spanning across the floor and sneaking under her feet. There is dust choking the once-shimmering gold and bronze gilding of the arches, flying high into the sky above her like someone has thrown a swath of the industrial glue she’s seen Constance use on broken plates over the architecture.

Most of the glass in the windows is shattered, blackened. Anne wonders if it used to be stained.

She feels her hands raise up to cradle each other at the elbows; there’s a cool blanket that’s seeping in through the gaping blast holes in the architecture, brushing against her cheeks, and the silky fabric of her dress is not conducive to remaining comfortable in such weather. She thinks that perhaps she should go back to their safehouse, change into something more sensible; her jacket and circlet are lying on the table, she knows, easy to reach, ready for her to don again tomorrow. The clasps of her boots would not be that hard to fasten, and she would be ready to face the galaxy, the clothing bringing with it the seamless, trained ability to armor herself with words.

The sounds of her slippered footsteps should be echoing more than they are, Anne thinks. It feels as if she is being swallowed by the vast night sky above her. There’s already a lantern at the front of the cathedral, by the confession box. The mesh itself is destroyed, left in tatters – one side of the box has great black streaks running across it, and in the warm orange half-light Anne cannot tell if it is dust or the fingerprints of a burn, the flames of the explosion having dragged their hands across one of the most intimate spots in the church.

She sits down.

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anonymous asked:

Hey :) I am a big fan of yours and your art tutorials haven been incredibly helpful in my journey as an artist ( i still have a lot to learn :D but i feel much more confident now) I usually draw Supernatural and occasionally Hannibal, but my best friend watched Sherlock with me and I wanted to make an art calender containing different fandoms as a christmas present. My problem is BC's face is far from standard and i'm really struggling with the sherlock portraits. Could you maybe help me? <3

So I actually find him a little easier to draw because of his distinct features! Here’s my old tutorial for studying faces which I’ll run through again with BC’s face.

Once you’ve set up as many lines as you need you can start analyzing shapes

He’s got really heavy brows that look like wierd trapezoids haha ;; and his eye shape is similar but with a curved underside

The bridge of his nose is pretty wide and about the same width all the way down. Ends in a V shape 

Really pronounced cupid’s bow. Pretty much looks like 2 triangles connected at a point

And yeah! Just put it all together.

If you’re having trouble drawing portraits from different angles I’d be happy to take a look at what you’ve got and give you some feedback. My inbox is always open!

Angst, pt13

The aliens, a green, bipedal humanoid species, tossed you in a makeshift cell back at their camp. You’d been holding Ti close to you during the walk to the camp, murmuring assurances and keeping pressure on the wound, but you needed to look at it. And you needed to treat it. And you needed to focus, which you weren’t sure you were capable of doing, the panic in your chest was so heavy.

“Ti.” You propped him up in your lap and lifted his shirt to assess the wound. It was a jagged tear, like nothing you’d seen before. Your brow furrowed, and you reached for the med kit on your hip, grateful the aliens hadn’t taken it, as they had your communicator.

You cleaned the wound and ran the tricorder over it. Mostly superficial, but the jagged nature of the cut had lent itself to a lot of bleeding, and Ti was weak. You bandaged him up as best you could given your limited supplies, and gave him a light dose of painkiller, just enough that he would be comfortable.

As your son slept in your arms, you observed the village. The aliens were industrious and busy, every one engaged in some kind of work. They paid you and Ti no regard, far too involved in their chores and tasks.

“Y/N!” You heard a hoarse whisper and turned toward the outskirts of the village. Jim, and a team of red shirts were assessing the scene. Jim gestured to you, in some sort of strange sign language. It took a minute before you caught what he meant - they would create a diversion and someone would come for you and Ti, so be ready to run.

You roused Ti just enough to earn him there was going to be some pain and then rose, lifting him into your arms with a grunt. He was heavy. Jim’s brow furrowed and when he realized what it meant that you were carrying your child, he blanched, and turned back to the away team.

When the diversion went up, Jim ran toward you, opening the cage and pulling Ti from your arms. You ran beside him, not daring to look back.

“Scotty, three to beam up at my coordinates. One injured! Now!” Jim gasped into his communicator. As you saw the golden ribbons of the transporter wrap around you, you felt a stabbing pain in your back and looked down to see the serrated blade of a dangerous looking spear sticking out of your chest.

You fell against Jim and gasped with the burning pain of it. “Promise you’ll take care of Ti!” The worst bubbled through the blood at your lips as you collapsed into a void of darkness.

“Y/N!!” The last thing you heard was Jim screaming your name as Ti started to sob.

Here’s a super quick redesign I did of Sugilite (just scribbled it on the chalkboard) because her original design was pretty racist and had terrible choices (the heavy brow, the ogre teeth,etc etc)

I figured this design would have some homages to Nicki’s style and I thought it’d be nice if Garnet’s hair+Amethyst’s hair would be longer hair with a looser but still present curl pattern

Clegane, Sandor

“The Hound”

13th Level (Man-at-arms 12 / Brother of the Kingsguard 1)

The right side of his face was gaunt with sharp cheek-bones and a grey eye beneath a heavy brow… his hair thin, dark. He wore it long and brushed it sideways, because no hair grew on the other side of that face. The left side of his face was a ruin. His ear had been burned away; there was nothing left but a hole. His eye was still good, but all around it was a twisted mass of scar… Down by his jaw you could see a hint of bone where the flesh had been seared away.
— A Game of Thrones

There is only one man who wears a helm carved like a snarling hound, and they say his looks improve with the visor down. Sandor Clegane is as vicious as he is ugly, able to kill a knight or a butcher’s boy with equal ease. The Hound has no friends and no love. He does however, have very powerful patrons.

Sandor is an impressive warrior, so much so that Queen Cersei entrusts him to bodyguard her son. Cersei chose well, though his manners could do with a little polish. This grim and terrifyingly efficient guardian would say he works for the heaviest purse and the winning side, but a hound is a strange emblem for a man purely moved by mercenary reasons. Dogs can be strong or weak, fast or slow, but the one characteristic they all share is loyalty.

Sandor has no reason to develop any such quality. At best cold, at worst murderous, the Cleganes are not renowned for their sense of honour. Sandor’s older brother, Gregor Clegane, is the reason for Sandor’s ruined features. When Sandor was seven, he took one of his brother’s toys — a gift Gregor was too old to play with or value. Gregor, a full grown squire at the time, discovered the theft. He found his little brother, picked him up, and twisted his face into a brazier full of hot coals in retaliation, leaving Sandor permanently scarred. The boys’ father hushed the matter up and Gregor was knighted four years later. From that time on, the Cleganes barely acknowledged each other.

At the Hand’s tourney, when Gregor is unhorsed he flies into a murderous frenzy, and it is the Hound who steps forward saving Ser Loras and forcing Gregor to back off. Sandor matches strength with control, and ferocity with restraint. When the king commands them to cease, Sandor instantly goes to one knee, though it gives his brother a potentially fatal advantage. This is not the act of a man looking out for himself, but of a man who knows what loyalty really means. Sandor is ready to lay down his life for the king he respects, yet sneers at the concept of chivalry. No one knows better than Sandor Clegane how false the vows of knighthood can be.

Brave, strong, and loyal, Sandor consistently demonstrates the qualities of a good man behind the attitudes of a bad one. By the double standards of Westeros, it’s a winning combination. Beat a hound badly enough and it will learn to bite first in self-defence, but somewhere under all that anger is a worthy beast despite its uncertain temper. Desperate to protect himself, the Hound covers his decent nature by snarling at the world, as though he sees is better qualities as a weakness others will exploit. His underlying need for some kindness or recognition is revealed when he confides the secret of his disfigurement to Sansa Stark. Sansa is a child, innocent and reckless, with no great amount of common sense. No one knows why Sandor tells her his secret, possibly not even himself. Perhaps some part of him is desperate to make her understand the world behind the banners and trumpets of court and kings, to see the killer beneath the bright armour of a knight before she suffers a similar fate.

Sandor makes Sansa look at his destroyed face and admit that a terrible wrong was done to him. Once, long ago, the brutal Hound was an innocent child, just like everyone else. This is important, because no one else has admitted it in all Sandor’s life. He needs to hear it from someone with no connection to his situation, and yet, even this is a greater vulnerability than Sandor can admit. Having revealed so much of himself to another person, he threatens to kill her if she tells anyone.

Still, even after so threatening a bark, the Hound does not bite. After the death of her father, when Sansa is abused and tormented by Joffrey, Sandor shows her occasional deep kindness. Beaten by Joffrey’s knights, she is forced to recognise that vows do not a true knight make, the very same conclusion Sandor reached when he was seven. He never beats her at the prince’s bidding. He is no storybook hero to risk all for her, but neither is he a brute to punch her with mailed fists. Sandor Clegane is a killer, not a torturer; he kills because he is ordered to, not because he needs to inflict pain. It is this that marks the difference between Sandor and his brother.

Sandor is a complex man, hardened by a world more ugly than he could ever be. He laughs at foolish ideals all the time, particularly those of Sansa, at least until they are torn to shreds in front of her. Once she has lost everything, he tries to show her the lessons he had to learn alone: how to survive, how to keep going when dreams are dead. He tries to protect her and help her to protect herself. In that way, he is almost like a true knight — or a loyal hound.

– A Game of Thrones, Deluxe Edition Role-Playing Game and Resource Book

The Other Red Star

(Bucky x Reader {Asset 492})

Prologue:

“You should keep your distance like your cyborg friend.” Asset 492 warned Steve in a more or less empty tone as she flicked the serrated edge of her gaze to Bucky who stood beside Rogers, unapologetically pointing a loaded Ares-16 automatic at her.  

“I’m not scared of you, trust me I can handle dangerous.” Rogers brushed off with genuine abandon as he stepped closer towards her lowering his shield and outstretching his other hand towards her like he was trying to coax a wild animal to sniff his fingers.  

Bucky, on the other hand, understood the woman that stood still before them the second he got a good look at her eyes. Unflinching. Unemotional. Unnatural. He knew what they were dealing with. Steve believes in the innocence of a victim’s soul, and Bucky knows for a fact that this Asset harbors no such purity. She is a killer, sure, they all were on some level, but what scares Bucky, makes his skin crawl and his heavy heart pound, is the fact that she is a murder. She felt no guilt. He’s searched the eyes of enough like her to know the difference.

“Oh I’m not dangerous,” Asset 492 disagreed gently as her head cocked to the side a tick and her eyes simmered in a blackness that boiled just in between the folds of her misleadingly bright irises. “I’m fatal.” 

For the first time since 1944 Bucky feared someone else other than himself. 

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I am super super super super super late in getting this out! A fic for @mllekaren A request for a SanSan comfort AU set in a hospital. Please enjoy.


Her eyes were massive and bloodshot, her mascara had run and her eyeliner was smudged. She was trying to salvage what was there as she sat in that cold, sterile waiting room. Her hands were shaking, her mirror shifting and making her tissue rub to hard at the already sensitive region. She knew she could just go to the bathroom and take care of it all in one swoop, but she was too afraid to leave her seat. She would leave and something would happen and she wouldn’t be there. She had to stay in her seat. She couldn’t move. Moving meant more trouble.

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