square boots

anonymous asked:

It looks like harrrys underwater facing downwards and somebody's in front of him

It’s definitely two different bodies (I mean they might both be his body but it would be his body twice then) cause the hands and feet aren’t facing the same way as the back and head.

ETA: I am very very wrong lol. Apparently those are not heels and are square toed boots. Wow. Hahah

anonymous asked:

For the flash-fic prompts, Ahsoka and Obi-Wan having an adventure?

This one is a little rough, but I hope you still enjoy it, Nonny!

             “Does this sort of thing happen a lot?!” Ahsoka demanded, ducking down behind an overturned table, and another volley of blaster bolts shot past her head.

             “More than I like to admit!” Obi-Wan called back, and he jumped over his own table-shield, and planted his boot squarely in an approaching guard’s face. The woman fell back with a shout, and Obi-Wan spun to redirect a blast bolt that would have otherwise hit him square in the back.

             “I thought you said this was a peaceful, diplomatic mission!” Ahsoka shouted, darting out from behind her table, lightsabers already a set of coloured blurs in the air as she made her way towards where the panicked slaves had hidden themselves behind a row of large colums near the double doors, when the initial fight had started. “That why we didn’t bring back up!”

             “It was supposed to be!” Obi-Wan replied, grunting as a blow from another guard narrowly missed his face. “Anakin and I― Oof!― Though it would be good for you to see what―” He cursed and sent another two guards flying across the room. “Normal Jedi life was like!”

             “Well, that worked well!” Ahsoka snapped, ducking behind the largest of the collums. A child, no older than five, stared up at her with wide, silver striped eyes.

             “Don’t worry,” Ahsoka said gently, “We’re here to help you.”

             Thankfully, this group of slaves was an anomaly, a ‘gift’ of sorts, in an attempt to bribe the planet’s ruler into joining the Seperatist cause. As such, no one had thought to fit them with control chips, just chains, and those were easy to deal with.

             Once all five of the young people had been freed, Ahsoka scooped the Noorian girl into her arms. “I’ve got them, Master Obi-Wan!”

             “One minute!” There was a shout, and then the room fell quiet. Obi-Wan heaved a sigh, and disengaged his saber. Ahsoka looked around. The room was a mess, but all the guards were either dead or unconscious.

             “Are you alright, Ahsoka?” Obi-Wan asked, walking up to her and giving her, and then the others, a concerned once over. Ahsoka nodded.

             “I’m alright. And none of the kids seem too hurt. Just scared and underfed.”

             Obi-Wan nodded. “Good. Let’s get out of here. I would like to be long gone by the time reinforcements arrive.”

             Ahsoka nodded her agreement, and turned to the rag-tag group. “Come on, let’s get you all cleaned up, and then figure out how to get you home.”

             As they all walked, Ahsoka glanced at Obi-Wan. “Master Kenobi?”

             “Yes Ahsoka?”

             “You said things like that happened a lot to you?”

             Obi-Wan gave her a wry smile. “I’m afraid this trip was a better example of a typical Jedi mission than I had hoped to show you.”

anonymous asked:

i think the hands are his because of the rings, but like what's getting me is the boots, I don't think they're square boots like people are saying because you can see the outline and it's definitely regular boots upside down and its impossible they could be his if he's sitting leaning back on his hands, but they're also boots that are like iconic harry styles boots so im just so confused, but its harry so I would be disappointed if it wasn't some confusing dramatic shit, he is so iconic i love

“i would be disappointed if it wasn’t some confusing dramatic shit” shajsgahsh his impact


002 – Babysitter

He’s tired and cranky and oh so tempted to drag his feet along the gleaming floors and slouch forward because every step sends a fresh lance of aches through protesting muscles. But to loosen one’s posture in the corridors is to invite the wrath of the Marshal, and having just escaped a training session with him, Nyx is in no mood to return to feeling like a ping-pong ball battered around by a group of Hobgoblins.

He’s so tired (and perhaps just a touch dehydrated, if he’s being honest with himself) that for a moment he honest to gods thinks he’s hallucinating the small form running straight for his legs in a mess of wind-tousled hair and flailing arms. But Scientia’s kid does collide with him and rebound with an “oof”, sprawling on the floor at his feet and panting like he’s run a marathon. Given the fine tremble in his limbs and the seriously red face (any moment steam’s bound to come out of his ears or his head will pop off his shoulders and rocket into the clouds far above the Citadel’s rooftops) maybe he has.

“Ignis, right? You okay kid?” He asks, prying thin shoulders up off the floor as he crouches beside him if only to give the kid an easier time at breathing. A shaking hand reaches up to fix glasses that have been knocked askew in his tumble, so much like Scientia that Nyx is given a glimpse of him in adorable miniature, and then he’s prattling on a mile a minute between huffing and puffing for breath.

He only needs to hear the words courtyard and accident and Prince to know why the kid’s just about signed his own admittance to the medical wing to find a Glaive (in training), hoisting the slight boy into his arms and taking off at a jog just the wrong side of leisurely to avoid funny looks by those he passes. Honestly – the King might as well quit beating around the bush and hire him as a babysitter already, with how often he goes to his son’s rescue.


He laughs. Hysterically. So hard that he has to wipe tears from his eyes and clutch at the stitch in his side, and then grab Ignis and hold him at arm’s length when the kid boots him square in the shin for the “audacity” (he’s seven, a kid his age shouldn’t know such a word for crap’s sake). There the Prince is, a tiny little speck twenty-seven floors up, curled up on the window frame of the office belonging to one infamously bad-tempered Clarus Amicitia. He’s almost tempted to shout up if Noctis is enjoying the view, but he’s not that much of an insensitive asshole, and Ignis is probably too young to appreciate sarcasm. He doesn’t want the kid busting into tears.

Okay. Time to act the hero, Nyx. You’ve got this. Just aim high and keep climbing. He shakes out his fingers, rolls out any tension in his shoulders, and slips one of the kukris from his belt. He holds it at an angle, lets his eyes glance along the blade as he lifts it higher, and higher again, looking for the perfect handhold to aim for. Finding it more than half the distance below Noctis isn’t great, far from it, but hey. The Marshal is always harping on about finding a lesson in even the small things. Good experience, right? Doesn’t matter that his muscles are screaming bloody murder, right?

On the plus side – if he goes splat on the ground at least they’d carve on his gravestone that he died in service to the Prince of Lucis.

“I’ll be back in a minute. Stay right here.”

“Where else –” The rest of the kid’s words are stolen by the electric-snap of magic bursting along his skin and through his bones, yanking him from here to that someplace other where gravity is non-existent and the general rules of physics don’t apply. And then he’s back at the Citadel again, blinking away the blue clouding his vision and holding onto his weapon for dear life, scrabbling along the brickwork with his free hand until he finds the gap and anchors himself to the wall. He ignores the temptation to look down, knowing full well that seeing any distance between his feet and the ground will make him upchuck in ways the merry hell of warping hasn’t succeeded in just yet. Another handhold to locate, another calculated toss of his blade, laughter because it’s the only thing keeping him from screaming at himself for this idiocy. Another warp, then another, and another, and another.


By the time he’s carefully easing his feet onto the windowsill and bracing his hands on the frame, he’s less concerned about the Prince accidentally kicking in the window and more worried that he’s about to paint the detailed glasswork with every meal he’s had in the past week. But he does his best to keep the queasiness from his face as he fixes Noctis with what he hopes is a cheery smile and oh so slowly inches his hand down to wiggle his fingers in front of the boy’s face.

“So. Wanna tell me how you wound up stuck up here?”

“I… uhm… I sneezed?”

He blinks once. Twice. Three times for good measure. Absolutely sure he didn’t hear that right, but Noctis is the picture of sincerity (and barely contained panic), and the absurdity of the entire situation almost has him laughing again.


Instead he grabs hold of the Prince’s arm quick as a striking snake, hoisting him up to balance on his hip and just as Noctis starts screaming, Nyx jumps from the windowsill and straight into what he sincerely hopes is his last warp for the rest of the bloody year.


Much to his despair, it isn’t his last one of the year. And accidental-warping-by-sneezing isn’t the worst predicament the young Prince lands himself in.

And the King never does hire him as a babysitter, but he somehow still ends up being the one who hauls Noctis and Ignis out of trouble. Every time.

And all before he reaches his seventeenth birthday.

Smith and Wesson Model 586 L-Comp in .357 Magnum with a Houge extended cylinder release.
A 7 round double action revolver with a ported barrel which decreases muzzle flip.
This makes for a great conceal carry choice due to it’s shortened 3" barrel and squared ‘boot’ grip.
Manufacture- @smithwessoncorp
Photo taken by- @theyankeemarshal

Watch Out Below (20)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19

You were so stung by your fallout with Thorin that you could not bear to be around the others. You watched from afar as they sat whetting and staring listlessy at weapons they would not get to use while sulking over their king’s tainted condition. When you had returned to the great hall, Dwalin had sent you a knowing look but you could see a rare ting e of empathy in his eyes, too. It did little to help however as you huddled in the corner and longed for home.

Keep reading

Divided: Part 4

Pairings: Bucky x Reader, Steve x Reader

Warnings: Angst, fluff

Word Count: 2821

Summary: You know in your heart of hearts that you shouldn’t go after Bucky Barnes, but you have questions and he is the only one with answers. 

Authors Note: Heyo, so I gave a lot of information in this one so it’s a little long, but make sure you pay attention, shit’s gonna be important later. I know the first chunk was already given in the preview, but it’s been adjusted and stuff has been added, so take a look. Hope you guys like it!  Tagging is open, they’ve just been moved to the bottom, just ask if you want to be tagged :D

Divided: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12

The clock blinked 9:00am as you zipped up your leather jacket, grabbing the black hoodie from your bed. You pull the dark fabric to your nose, inhaling the last traces of his scent, now melded with your own over the last week. You retrieve your scorpion dagger from your bed side table, sliding it into a case, and resting it in the back pocket of your dark jeans.

Moving towards the door, you open it swiftly. Your footsteps halt as you’re met with the tall figure of Steve Rogers. He looks at you, shocked by your sudden appearance, his knuckles still raised, readied for his interrupted knock. “Are you going somewhere?” Settling back on your heeled boots, you square your shoulders against him.

“I have the next three days off.” You say plainly, pushing past him and shutting your door behind you, locking it. You start down the hallway, Steve following closely behind you, “You never leave the compound? Where are you going?” You move quickly down the hall, heading towards the elevator.

“I’m just taking a few days to myself Steve, seeing a friend.” “Y/N, is everything alright?” You stop spinning to face him. To be honest you weren’t sure if everything was. Here you were lying to Steve, not lying, just withholding information. You weren’t sure you were making the right choice, but you had to know. He’ll be happy in the end, you think sadly, if I’m right.

“I’ll be back in a few days, I just…” you sigh, “I’ll call you, ok?” He nods, moving to kiss you. You respond to his lips, your arms wrapping up around him. You feel his warmth, the determination of his grip. The insistent way that his lips move against yours as his arms wrap tighter around you, begging for your presence with him.

But you were miles away, your thoughts, your responses. You finally pull away from him, his arms relinquishing their pressure. You look at him, giving him a warm and loving smile as you call for the elevator. He smiles back, half-heartedly, sadness still in his eyes, he stares down at you through his thick lashes.

The elevator arrives and you step inside, winking at Steve as the doors close.


You look around the street, making sure you were at the exact location that Bucky had left you. Your hands knotted into the plastic handles of overflowing grocery bags, your tired eyes hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses. After a 12-hour flight, your body felt stiff and tired, you were never able to sleep properly on planes.

You close your eyes softly, thinking back through the pattern of turns that Bucky had taken to lead you to this spot. You begin down the street, going through the pattern backwards, finally coming to a halt in front of a dilapidated apartment building. You look up, trying to recall how many flights Bucky had walked you down.

4? Or was it 5? You glance at the two floors, scanning the windows for the newspaper and cardboard that Bucky uses. You finally spot his windows on the fifth floor. Taking a deep breath, you head into the building, beginning your climb.

As you arrive on the fifth floor, you listen at each door, unsure of which is Bucky’s. The lack of sound in the third and final apartment confirms your suspicion. You swap one of the bags into your other hand, raising your knuckles to wrap at the door. You listen intently. There wasn’t a single sound in the apartment. Well he has to show himself at some point, you think, settling yourself down against the wall next to his door.

After about an hour of waiting, the large brunette comes up the stairs, halting mid step, foot still raised as he freezes at the site of you. You jump hurriedly to your feet, smiling as you make nervous eye contact with him. “Hi,” you start, his foot comes down on the step as he finishes his ascent, moving past you to unlock the door.

“How did you find me?” he growls, clearly angry by your presence. “I’m a trained special agent” you state, feeling that the answer was obvious, “I… uh… I paid attention. Sounds, turns, number of steps… Pretty simple actually.” You shrug, grinning at him sheepishly. His jaw tenses at your casual tone as his fingers dig in his pocket for his keys, his attention focused on the door unwilling to look at you.

“I uh… I brought your sweatshirt back,” You quickly set down the grocery bags, hurrying to pull the hoodie from your bag and offer it to him. He looks at it in your hand, seeming slightly surprised as he smirks at you, before his eyes flick up to you, raising an eyebrow. “You came all the way back here to return my sweatshirt?”

Hearing him say it, you suddenly realized how insane this plan had been, but at this point you were in too deep. “Well… not exactly… I… well…” His blue eyes fluster you as you try to remember your original plan, what in the world had compelled you to do this? “Thank you!” you blurt out finally, “I… I never got a chance to thank you. So I’m here… to say thank you… and cook you dinner… as a thank you.”

He stares at you, his face painted with amusement, clearly entertained by the oddity of the situation and your inability to speak. He sighs, shaking his head as his keys click in the door, swinging it open. He bends down, picking up the plastic sacks of food you had set down and walks into the apartment without another word, leaving the door open behind him.

You wait outside the door, unsure whether or not an invitation had been extended. “You going to come in or are you gonna say thank you a few more times?” He calls from inside the apartment. You grin nervously as his teasing, taking a deep breath before following him inside.

He sets the bags on the counter and turns to face you. Both of you nervous and awkward, not entirely sure how to proceed. You move to his fridge, pulling out the bottle of whiskey and unstoppering it with your teeth. You grab the ice tray from the freezer and fix both of you a drink. You hand him the glass, his expression unchanging as he curiously watches you.

You take a big gulp of the whiskey, relaxing into the familiar burn in your throat. “Ok!” You smile, moving towards the counter as you begin to unpack the bags, he responds by repositioning himself in the kitchen, moving out of your direct path, but still hovering close by.

You reach for a knife in his butcher block, feeling him tense behind you as you spin the blade in your hand. You smile slightly, taking note of his apprehension towards you. You move your blade quickly, deskinning an onion and chopping it into small pieces, the knife flashing in your right hand with ease. You turn to look in the cabinets for a pan, before realizing Bucky had just pulled one for you, setting it on the stove.

“Thanks” You smile, throwing some olive oil in the pan with the onions. “Can I help?” He grumbles, moving to help unpack the sacks. With very little instruction, you and Bucky work comfortably in the kitchen, preparing the recipe for your family’s spaghetti and meatballs together.

After a bit of time and some light conversation, Bucky brings the finished plates to the table as you pull a magnum of red wine from your duffle.  You pull a small army knife from your back pocket, using the corkscrew to open the bottle as you bring it to the table. “I can’t help but wonder,” He teases, making note of the various small weapons you have throughout your person, “How did you ever get through airport security?”  


You sit in front of Bucky smiling softly, at the story he had just finished about finding a quiet farmer’s market in Bucharest, empty plates between the two of you, as you sip on your glass of wine. The meal had been comfortably full of tentative conversation that evolved with the aid of the whiskey and large bottle of wine.

You had told Bucky about how you became an agent, how they found you performing vigilante acts in your small home city, invited you to train with SHIELD. You explained how you were guided by Natasha when SHIELD fell, becoming a new asset of Cap’s division of the Avenger’s Tactical Initiative.

In turn, Bucky spoke of his travel over the last year since SHIELD had fallen and he had escaped Hydra. He was hesitant and careful what information he gave you, but seemed comforted by his ability to participate in the conversation. You did not push for information, responding excitedly when he talked about hiding out in Paris briefly, immediately asking about tourist destinations. He smiled at your willingness to normalize his year as a fugitive, passing it off as no different than a college kids back pack tour.

“That was delicious, thank you, I can’t remember the last time that I…” “Ate properly?” You interrupt him, the wine making you bolder, he smiles slightly at your joke. “I was going to say, enjoyed a home cooked meal, but I guess the two are one in the same. Anyway, thank you.”

You nod, smiling as you blush behind your wine glass, finishing the last of it with a long sip. Bucky sits forward, raising the large bottle to refill your glass, “Be careful, Scorpion, how many glasses have you had so far?” You laugh at his concern and the teasing use of your alias, nodding in thanks as he refills your glass. You bring it delicately to your lips as you smile, taking a long sip before speaking.

“As my grandmother used to say, ‘Anni e bicchieri di vino non si contano mai.” He smiles at your words, tipping his own glass back to meet his lips, how perfect his lips were, pink and full, the way he pouted them slightly when he was thinking… You shook your head, biting your lip slightly, shaking away the drunken thought.

“Age and glasses of wine should never be counted,” Bucky translated, “your grandmother sounds like a wise woman.” He smiles, swirling the dark liquid in the glass. “You speak Italian?” You nod your head, “I’m impressed.” You smile approvingly, not sure what it was about him that put you at ease as you relax into the comfort of his presence.

“Bucky,” you lean forward, suddenly emboldened by the alcohol in your blood, This is why I came, I have to know. Your eyes lock on him, though your mind is slightly hazy. He focuses on you, noting the change in your demeanor, “Why won’t you let Steve know you’re ok?” Bucky immediately tenses at your question, the easy air of the night evaporating as he sets the glass of wine down, his fingers rising to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“I know you said it’s complicated, but Bucky, he misses you so much. I know he puts on a brave face, but it’s been hard on him, adjusting to this time, I know it has. If he had you back, if he knew you were alright…” “I’m not alright.” Bucky whispers, a sharp tone to his voice as his eyes remain closed. “But Bucky…”

“No Y/N. You don’t get it do you? I’m not alright. Hell, I’m not even me half the time. I’ve spent the past few years of my life being forced to do hydra’s bidding, they lived inside my head, replaced me, controlled me. I killed countless people. Sometimes I was present, sometimes I wasn’t.” His voice rises as his fist clench in his lap.

“And Steve… You think it would be good for him to have me back? He’d take one look at me and realize I’m not his best friend anymore…” He stands up forcefully, moving over to the kitchen, turning his back to you as he leans on the sink. “He’d finally see me for the monster that I’ve become.”

You stare at him, noticing the defeat radiating from his posture, the pain in his voice echoing in your ears. “Bullshit.” You spit out finally, his head rising in shock as he turns to face you, “Excuse me?” He blabbers, surprise etched in his expression.

“I said, that’s Bullshit… Steve knows exactly what you’ve done, who you’ve become, he also knows that’s not you, that the person you are is still here. Bucky… I have sat across from you all night, laughing and relaxed, I have never once felt fearful while in your presence. You know why?” He raises his eyebrow, silently asking you to continue.

“Because ever since I’ve known Steve I have known about his best friend Bucky. The guy that always had his back, that would go out of his way to be polite and protect the people he cares about… I’m not saying you’re the same Buck, lord knows we all have our demons, but you aren’t lost. You haven’t lost what makes you, you.”

You stare up at him, biting once more at your lip, nervously awaiting his response. The silence seems to go on forever, before he finally breaks eye contact with you, shaking his head slightly, “I’m just… I’m not ready.” You understand, knowing not to push him. You know better than most how intimidating Steve can be, his constant and unwavering moral compass could make Mother Theresa feel like a lying thief.

“It’s getting late… I have an early flight… I should probably…” your words trail off slightly as Bucky looks up at you, a pained expression flashing across his eyes. You make to rise to your feet, the sudden movement causing your head to spin slightly, your exhaustion unaided by the intoxicating effect of the wine, you stumble slightly, losing your footing as you step forward.

Bucky moves quickly forward, catching you in his arms. You feel his warmth against you, cut by the cold of his metal arm as he presses you firmly to his chest. Your brain feels cloudy as his scent, the one you had grown so accustomed to, washes over you. You smile up at him, his piercing blue eyes gazing down at you.

“Woops, guess grandma didn’t always know best.” You stare at him, head swimming at the site of him, acutely aware of his large body pressed against yours. He smiles slightly, helping you right yourself as he hesitantly releases you. You immediately feel a dull ache where his hands had pressed against you, wishing for his warm pressure once more. “I should…” You mumble, not wanting to overstay your welcome, “I should get going.” You move to your duffle bag, reaching in it to retrieve his hoodie, offering it to him once more.

He shakes his head, arms crossing across his chest, his muscles pulling tightly against his shirt with the action. “Keep it, I hear airplanes get pretty cold sometimes.” He smiles softly as you hesitantly pull the sweatshirt back against your body. “Thank you,” you nod, slipping your arms into the sleeves as you pull it on, causing a small smile to pull at Bucky’s lips as he takes in your appearance as you collect your belongings from his apartment.

“Anyway,” you start, moving towards the doorway, Bucky dragging his feet down the hallway behind you. You unlock the door, coming to stand in the hallway as Bucky leans against the door frame, sadness evident on his face. “Thanks again… for saving me, I mean.” You nod to him and turn to walk towards the stairs.

“Y/N,” he calls after you, halting your steps as you turn back to him raising an eyebrow. “Would you… will you come back?” He looks at you hopefully, the shadow of the Bucky you were coming to know flashing again in his eyes, “It’s nice to have someone to talk to.” His eyes flick away from yours nervously, “I don’t get to talk to people much.”

You felt a knot form in your stomach at his words, you fight the urge to drop your bag and incase him in your arms, giving him the human contact that he is deprived of, selfishly wanting to feel him pressed against you once more.

“Of course Bucky,” You smile softly at him, causing a small grin to pull at the corner of his mouth. “Same time… two weeks… But you’re cooking this time.” You wink at him as you turn away, seeing his smile widen at your words. You start down the stairs, glancing back to see him watching you as you leave, smiling broadly before closing the door, the deadbolt clicking into place once again.

Part 5

Tags: @imhereforbvcky @heismyhunter @iamtal @nickel5socks @ohmygoshbucky @person0thats0not0a0people0person @spacegaystrashcompactor @creideamhgradochas @shamvictoria11 @awclintno

“Now, half this bounce is 90 percent mental.  If you calculate the specific tiggerjectory of your stripecelleration diviferous by the square boot of your rebounce, your vertical situituation indicator and your striperconic springertia should rica-ticachet your hydraulific fusilliage into an accelermetric de-orbit….. any questions?”