648 WARNINGS: LOTS OF SMUT AND LOTS OF LOVE
the build-up. You were writhing, limbs trembling at every move taking heavy
breaths and feeling the burn of hot sweat all around your body. His hand held
yours down on the surface, so as to not let you move too much when he’s
concentrating in making you feel better than he’s ever made you feel before.
help but think he was doing a good job.
“He said monstrous things and lied with stunning disinhibition, and when the civilized world recoiled in horror, he seemed to take sadistic pleasure in every minute – win or lose, the run was pure glory for him, a Sherman’s March of taboo politics and testosterone fury that would leave a mark on America forever.”
~~excerpt from “The Madness of Donald Trump” by Matt Taibbi, Sept.19, 2017, Rolling Stone magazine
When they find Strucker’s base, it’s abandoned. HYDRA has already moved out, cleared the harddrives and shredded the files. There’s pieces of surviving documents – something about twins – but for the most part, it’s a bust.
Until they find the scepter.
Steve can’t begin to fathom why HYDRA left it behind; it makes no sense to abandon something so powerful. Something so… compelling. The blue in the gem swirls and dances, so like the blue of the Tesseract, but somehow different. He approaches it, to secure it, he insists, but there’s something in it calling him, resonating in his bones as he reaches out–
Pain lances through him like lightning, and he screams.
He wakes with his face in the snow, someone having carried him out of the base and out toward the jet. The base is secure, he’s been informed, and the scepter contained. No one else, he’s told, was hurt.
They head back to New York to figure out where Strucker might have gone to ground and to plan their next steps. Steve goes home, and crawls, exhausted and sore, into bed.
The Bridge of Lies
In Sibiu you can find Romania’s oldest cast-iron bridge. The Liegende Brücke(Lying bridge) had been installed in place of a wood bridge in 1859. The wood, Liars Bridge go its name from the stories and tall talk of the nearby hagglers. The new name was in vain, the unwritten tradition proved to be stronger, and the Liars Bridge kept its name. Today it’s the pride of Sibiu. On one side of the bridge you can see the date of the structure, on the other the Saxon blazon, which impictures two swords put in crossway and a crown on top of them. This meant a lot at previous times, it meant that the Saxons accepted the King of Hungary and Transylvanian monarchs’ jurisdiction.
The first time it happened it was out of pure luck. Or some twist of fate.
Had Lena not woken up in the middle of the night they could have bypassed each other and been on their merry way without ever being aware of the others presence.
Lena just had to wake up right at the exact moment at this time on this night.
She lived in the middle of downtown, police sirens were just a part of the usual ambience of the city. Right up there with noisy neighbors, dogs barking and cars honking for seemingly no reason. But for whatever reason the wailing sirens were closer than usual, just outside of her window, four police cars whizzed by and screamed as they went, jolting her out of sleep.
She groaned, pulling her pillow over her head to block it all out, they seemed to be circling the apartment. The screaming amplified by the empty streets and echoing across the buildings like a cavern.
Silently letting loose a string of curses under her breath she sat up, yawning and smacking her lips as she glanced over at the clock.
Which read three in the morning.
“Oh my Goooooood….” she whined, flopping over on her side.
The two happiest places on earth are the Google results for “sandor clegane and arya stark fanart” and “sandor clegane and sansa stark fanart.”
In case it’s not clear, metaphorically, the Hound the only dog in the kingdom fit to fuck a lady wolf. And/or he can catch a little bird in his jaws and just carry it around for a while in it, meaning it no harm, eventually being coaxed to let it go, where it lies stunned for a bit and then regains its strength so it can fly away.
Furthermore, the big old Hound looks mean as fuck, but he is gentle enough to adopt tiny stray newborn wolf puppers that get lost on their way home from King’s Landing and keep them alive until they can survive on their own.
He is perfect and amazing and I want to see the pack hunt something together next season (yes Ghost you too) and also, Clegane needs to get laid, badly. They are meant for each other. COME ON.
In honour of me having actual followers now (you guys are super cute) here is another headcanon :))))
• Andrew and Neil get very good at navigating their respective issues of course, especially in bed • SLEEPING, I mean. Though obvs yes re. sex too • like, Andrew rarely goes sleep before Neil is in bed anyway, because insomnia is a thing • but they have an unspoken understanding sudden weight on the bed when Andrew is asleep is a recipe for Murder • and while they’re big on communication, bed is a place that’s reserved for a…more physical communication (yes or no?) • because that safe space can get poisoned so easily by bad memories • it’s easy really – if you know that your touch isn’t welcome when it isn’t explicitly invited then you don’t touch! And you make the effort to get it right when it’s someone you hate (love) (107%) • but literally no one in the world gets it right all the time okay • especially when you share a bed • neither of them are clingy sleepers anyway, but there’s no way over the course of a life together that Andrew doesn’t get woken out of nightmare by an unwelcome touch at least once • (Neil is hard asleep and dreaming himself, the soft kind of dream where it’s all warm sheets and sunlight and skin and the lingering smell of coffee, nothing to do with Exy and everything to do with the man next to him and their Lazy Weekend Morning Routine™) • however, when a fist collides with your chest, you don’t stay asleep. What you probably do is fall off the bed violently, pulling most of the sheets off with you and cracking your head on the bedside table on the way down • instantaneous adrenaline surge. Also, ouch. He lies there stunned for a moment contemplating his impressive future black eye • Andrew is now awake all the way, also experiencing the same dizzying rush of adrenaline, the ghost feeling of fingers clenching around his wrist keeping his heart in his throat a little. He has to lean over the edge of the bed to see if Neil is still alive • there’s enough light from the window to see him lying there looking back up at Andrew, eyes wide open, a mix of lingering surprise and creeping understanding written across his face. He doesn’t move or speak, waiting for Andrew’s permission • “Are you bleeding?” • “Only internally.” • “Are you staying down there?” • “Why, d’you want me to?” (he would. He’d stay there all night if that was what Andrew wanted) • “Come here.” • Neil gets back into bed, pulling the bedding back up with him. They don’t say anything else, though it takes both of them a long time to get back to sleep • (Actually, Neil whispers sorry into the sheets a long while later, his hands curled together into his chest where he lies facing Andrew like he can control them better that way. • Andrew doesn’t reply – he isn’t sorry, because feeling guilty is a waste of time. He also knows that holding Neil responsible for what he does in his sleep would be stupid, and Andrew isn’t stupid. • Neil understands this truth from the fact that Andrew didn’t make him stay on the floor. They’re a matched pair) • Neil develops a really impressive black eye. He doesn’t give a shit • Andrew gives anyone who mentions it his trademarked Bored Murderer Stare until they shut up
“I came to the gym to work out
but holy god I can’t stop watching you do one armed push ups that’s so hot” AU.
Notes: Shameless Kanda’s body appreciation. That’s it. That’s the fic.
If Lavi wants to be honest, he doesn’t
like going to the gym. Gym memberships are expensive;
and whenever he has deadlines (which are annoyingly often) he definitely does not
go enough times to make the price worthwhile. But, he has to admit, it is a lot
more comfy than exercising in the open weather where it’s prone to cold gusts
and rain. Another reason is that he isn’t really good at a lot of the gym
machines—he’s almost ashamed to admit he only uses one, the treadmill, because
he can’t seem to get the hang of lifting weights or whatever. It’s a rather
love/hate relationship to keep fit, it does give him something to do when he’s
bored, and so on a particular random Thursday evening when he’s decided too
many words have been read in the past five hours, he heads off towards the gym.
It’s methodical in the changing room—the
search for an open locker, taking out his change of clothes and dumping his
stuff in—as it should be, but for some reason today his hand pauses on the
hinge on an empty locker and his gaze is affixed to his right.
With a mission to empower men of all body-types and turn the fashion industry on its head, The EveryMan Project is making waves as a fashion photo project that directly challenges hyper-masculinity and body shaming within the industry. Amidst the incredible reception to the project, Allsaints Brand Elevation Manager, Alejandro Guillen reached out to The EveryMan team to collaborate on a photo shoot styled completely by Allsaints. Did you know Allsaints went up to XXL? Neither did we. Which is exactly why Guillen saw The EveryMan Project as a way to highlight and celebrate that. See the unpublished photos below. “With our first shoot, our goal was to start planting seeds of body positivity & self-acceptance,” says EveryMan Project founder and photographer Tarik Carroll. “We are beginning to see those seeds grow into new life, and by collaborating with Allsaints, we offer a new perspective within the fashion industry to showcase a diverse “real male aesthetic.” Behind the stunning photos lies the true heart of the project: the stories. Models from the Allsaints shoot opened up on set about their personal struggles with body image issues –from being told by record labels they’ll never be marketable based on their body type, growing up as a large queer black kid in Brooklyn, to finding confidence in becoming a plus-size male Instagram Style Influencer.
In Beacon, New York, lies a stunning, gothic mansion – once a mental institution, one that has not opened its doors in over a quarter century. Yes, Huffington Post Arts here, with your daily dose of ruin porn.
The space, dubbed Craig House, was the first American privately owned psychiatric hospital, specializing in progressive attitudes towards mental health by promoting techniques such as talk therapy and “intense recreation.” The facility, led by a doctor named Jonathan Slocum, was the chosen destination for the rich and famous seeking asylum, though the reality of life at the institution was far darker than its reputation.