23rd November 2013
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When the Justice asks if they want a picture, Mako answers yes for them and hands her camera over. They shuffle together awkwardly, rings just visible on their crossed arms. Stacker Pentecost and Hercules Hansen’s official wedding photo ends up looking like one of two friends who used to play rugby.
Mako unhappily scrolls through the photos after they leave the courthouse while Chuck peers over her shoulder. He doesn’t see anything wrong with their fathers’ pose but he’s a boy, and while on review Stacker and Herc are leaning into each other, it isn’t romantic enough for Mako.
12th September 2013
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Thank you fictionalfix for posting your favourite socks from Elementary and making me think that one of the other scheduled chores that Sherlock performs is picking up new socks. Because they either die a horrible death in the washing machine or get used in the furthering of Joan’s self-defense training. Have a ficlet.
On average it takes sixty-five seconds from the moment Joan steps into the brownstone to reach her bedroom, assuming that she isn’t delayed by a detour to the kitchen and doesn’t check in on him, and ten seconds to ten minutes for her to notice any books or materials he has placed within it for her edification. Today Joan notices the addition in fifteen seconds and, half a minute later and a total of a minute and fifty seconds after walking through the door, she appears at the sitting room entrance.
"Neon zebra stripe socks Sherlock, really?" He should have anticipated that she would bring them down with her, but Joan’s aim is getting better and they land squarely in his lap.
"We lose, on average, one sock per fortnight to the washing machine. Since we both abhor wearing mixed socks, thus condemning the odd ones to either be used as blackjacks or soft projectiles in our martial practise sessions, I got some new ones to make up for the ones lost since you moved in." Half of that she already knows; he’d asked if the bean- and rice-filled socks were an acceptable substitute for tennis balls two weeks ago.
"You haven’t complained about the stripy ones though," he points out, idly stripping the socks of their packaging and rolling them up.
"They’re normal stripes. Not neon pink zebra ones," Joan says, catching them easily enough when he aims at her and idly tossing them from hand to hand for a moment.
"If you want, you may swap the objectionable pairs for some of the striped ones I got for myself."
He probably deserves the face full of sock, since Joan has shown no appreciation for more ostentatious objects of clothing, but he’s pleased to know that it takes twenty-five seconds for Joan to reach his bedroom from the sitting room.
8th July 2013
Photoset reblogged from This is not a blog. No, seriously. with 11,671 notes
Someone needs to write copious meta on why Mark Ruffalo decided that he needed to smile while he said “that’s my secret, Captain!”
Because I have just been staggered with many possibilities and I can’t decide which one I like best and my heart is hurting because Bannerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
Earlier, he had almost told his secret to Ms. Romanova, who had faced him with wary eyes and her hand on her gun. The staff had been working its magic on him then, energy coiling into his veins and bringing his anger up to the surface, making him uncaring as to the presence of the others in the room. The entire incident ends up not mattering in the end, but it’s telling that even then he was willing to reveal his secret.
For all that Tony complains he is the only one to do his homework on everyone else, he wasn’t.
Bruce had done his reading too, went for extra credit and read between the lines of their files. Even the one on Steve Rogers; though there was never any doubt that he was one of the best men Earth had to offer. So Bruce knows he’s a good guy, one of those people who stands up for the kid on the wrong side of a bully’s fist, the man who was trusted with the heart of a nation and kept their hope safe.
Everyone brought in for the initiative is a good person, even when their files are written in red and blood puddles between lines that cross and double cross each other.
So when Steve– when Captain America calls him Doctor Banner on that ruined bridge, suggests that getting angry might be a good thing for once, Bruce decides to share his secret. It eases that feeling in his chest, not enough to lessen the anger nor be called happiness, but enough to make him smile as he tells the truth about himself.
It’s an ugly truth, all twisted and green and huge just like the Other Guy is - which is why he keeps it a secret and plays it close to his chest. It makes him no friends to let everyone know he’d otherwise be the Hulk all the time, that it’s just sheer will and desire not letting that anger show, to not be a reflection of his father. There are close to forty years worth of tangled hatred carried in Bruce’s heart, iron chains that weigh him down and make him even angrier that he can never escape his childhood.
Usually Bruce finds that Benjamin Franklin is right, that only the dead can keep a secret. He hopes that isn’t the case with the four people standing in front of him, despite that two only have their wits and weapons to protect them and a third is still human with easily torn limbs.
But as he says those words, reveals that he’s always angry, a few of those chains drop away, clinking to the ground, and his secret feels safe with them.
A burden shared is a burden halved as the saying goes and Bruce starts to believe it might be true.
Later, when they’re eating shawarma, Hawkeye– Clint asks him if he really is angry all the time and he smiles and laughs and replies, “more or less”. There’s a silence around the table at that, which he breaks by continuing, “isn’t everybody?”. There’s a change in the quiet then, an undercurrent of agreement, and Bruce feels a little lighter still and knows he’s told his secret to the right people.
14th April 2013
Photoset reblogged from I did it all for you with 57,008 notes
“The White & Black Knights” 1911 A1 .45 Autos
By Mike Dubber Engraving Studio
What if instead of angel blades the angels all had unique engraved guns? And these ones belonged to Michael and Lucifer? And somehow after the apocalypse Crowley got a hold of Michael’s black gun and was like, “This archangel gun matches my suit quite nicely.” And no one knows what happened to Lucifer’s gun, it just disappeared.
My mind slipped sideways to Good Omens and how a conversation in someone else’s fanfic set around the Eastern gate might have gone.
"You gave a flaming gun to the humansss?” Crawly hisses at Aziraphale as he slithers up his leg, seeking refuge from the rain now falling, “What were you thinking?”
"Well, they did look awfully cold with nothing but fig leaves. None of the creatures outside of the Garden are exactly friendly and they’ll be needing extra food soon enough. Don’t give me that look," Aziraphale says as Crawly slithers across his shoulders to stare at him with those slit snake eyes, "my grace will fade from it quickly enough and they’ll be left with a very fancy club to hit things over the head with."
"And what will you sssaaay when Himsself quesstionsss you asss to where your weapon isss?" the Serpent asks, coiling himself closer to the angel’s warmth.
"Well, I quite fancy I saw a serpent in the grass over there," Aziraphale waves his hand towards a patch of grass that, by most definitions, was not under the purview of the Guardian of the Eastern gate, "And as I was chasing it away, I must have tripped and lost it in the grass."
At the lazy glare the snake around his neck gives him he amends, “The rain put out the flames you see. Angelic weapons are mighty hard to find when they’re not on fire.”
"Whatever you sssaaay angel. I’m sssure you wouldn’t ssspeak a falsehood to your Lord." Crawly’s tongue flickers over the skin at Aziraphale’s collar as he replies before they both lapse into silence, Crawly dozing in the angel’s warmth while the Guardian of the East gate gazes over Earth and the two small figures in the distance as the first peal of thunder booms in the distance.
2nd April 2013
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Sometimes, when it comes to Joan Watson, the deductions Holmes makes are utterly incorrect. Joan is somewhat vindictive at proving him wrong.
(Or: Holmes tries valiantly to impress Watson with his deductive reasoning, but she always ends up walking away and proving him wrong.)
PGish; 4k; Joan Watson/Original Female Character, Joan Watson & Sherlock Holmes; with guest appearance from a Harry Watson
Far too long to post to tumblr, but I do have extended author’s notes under the cut.
2nd March 2013
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Gen, R (for language) Supernatural fic with cameos and world mechanics from Holly Black’s Modern Faerie, Good Omens and a fourth stealth fandom.
Author’s Notes: I only know Supernatural via osmosis. I apologise for any inconsistent characterisation because of this. Inspired by a certain Queen/ACDC mashup. Also available for commenting on AO3.
After the first day criss-crossing the city tracking down Luis’ contacts, frustrated equally by their unhelpful answers and having to wait outside half the time, Dean admits driving the Impala around is all but impossible. He complains to Luis that night, cups of espresso and reference books covering the table, and gets a broad grin back.
“You’re in the city now, better get used to it,” he shrugs and then nods toward the back of the coffee shop. “You can park out back. I’ll get a glamour put over it.”
And that’s creepy thing about this hunt. They’re working with fey.
Not directly of course and there’s no way you’d find either Dean or Sam going under a hill, but all the magic and weird shit makes him want to break out the iron chain and the instant oatmeal sachets.
He edges it out the back the next morning though, after Val stomps in and flicks onto Dean and Sam’s table two 7-day passes and tells them how to renew them.
25th November 2012
Photo reblogged from I did it all for you with 3,952 notes
The babe shrieks as the first set of lines the child would receive in its lifetime are cut into its skin; lines that would scab and scar in only a few days, recognition that the child had survived the first day of its life. Those cuts would be carved again after the ritual exposure, subtle whisperings of family and prophecy, reopened and carved deeper over and over during its lifetime until in old age they were sunken deep into their flesh.
Once made, they could never be altered, as immutable as the path to Urd’s Well. They were future and history together as one, their meaning only legible to those who wrote them into cerulean skin.
A cresting circlet for ‘son of kings’, a bisected line for ‘betrayal’, broken patterns on both cheeks for ‘lost’ and ‘mourned’ – a pleasing symmetry. Three encircling bracelets foretell and retell great power.
All children of Jotunheim have tears cried over their wriggling bodies at this first ceremony, but the fortune of this young one floods the channels on the elder’s skin, creating rivers on the icy realm for the first time in hundreds of years.
Sorrow itself is carved on the Prince’s skin and Boðólfr weeps as his knife cuts through the young flesh, the heir’s terrible fortune forever engraved upon him.
28th September 2012
[So far I haven’t flopped the Marauder’s names, mostly because James, Sirius and Remus can kind of be handwaved as gender-neutral. Peter can’t. If I’m prodded into properly publishing this set of ficlets on AO3 I’d probably switch them all over to something more suitable. (Probably. 50/50 chance that I still wouldn’t except for Peter and Lily.)]
Petra liked being a rat. She was nothing much normally; short, a little bit too soft around the edges with thin hair that was neither brown nor blonde and forever spilling her breakfast down her front. Entirely forgettable, especially when she stood beside Sirius or James. Even when she was walking with Remus other students would come up to ask the prefect a question, entirely ignoring that Petra had been in a conversation with her.
A rat was still small and easily overlooked, and rats were never considered as a particularly regal animal, but as a rat Petra’s fur is glossy and tipped with dark brown. She is slender and nimble enough to fetch the knuts and sickles which have found their way down into the springs of the Marauder’s favourite sofa in the common room. Even getting messy is easily taken care of, a few quick swipes of her paws and everything is neatly taken care of – which is more than can be said for James, who has to find something to rub against, or for Sirius, who can’t help but scratch herself with her hind legs.
The best thing though, Petra thinks as James feeds her a bit of candied almond, getting sugar all over her charms homework, is that no one complained when she went to bed early, complaining of stomach cramps or a headache, and came down as Wormtail. The rest of them don’t exactly exclude her, but it’s easier to be the centre of attention, to receive the little pets and touches they exchange everyday when she’s in her animagus form. Remus gets antsy when she reads with her head in her lap for more than an hour, but will happily spend an entire afternoon with Wormtail in it, one hand lazily stroking her fur while she holds a book in the other. Even Sirius, who always spends twenty minutes each morning coaxing James’ hair into submission yet only spends five on Petra’s if she asks, will sit down with an old toothbrush and brush her fur until she wriggles away, skin tingling from over stimulation.
Even Linden, who summarily dismisses the four of them as pranksters and valiantly ignores all of James’ attempts at flirtation, laughs and announces, “What a clever rat!” when Wormtail runs along the back of the sofa and nibbles at his hair.
16th September 2012
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minionier replied to your photo: After five years of sharing a dormitory together,…
Do it and I will want to send you yummy things even more than I do now, which is quite a lot.
Three Four sentence fic, same r63!universe, because why not poly!Marauders?
They’re cousins, of a sort, so of course Sirius gravitates towards James on that first night at Hogwarts, especially since Gryffindor isn’t the proper House for a Black heir (even if they are a girl) and there are no other familiar faces.
Their friendship cements however, at breakfast the next week, when James ponders out loud how best to prank the Slytherins and Sirius literally jumps in to add her ideas, nearly upsetting a jam pot into her lap and elbowing her neighbour in the face. (Later, that same girl, oatmeal still visible on her collar, quietly sits next to them in History of Magic and softly requests if she could join in on their plan – they need a third wand, so they say yes.)
It changes, late in third year, from good natured camaraderie to something softer and altogether more frightening when James finds her in the bathroom during a break, her arms half furred and panicky sobs seizing her chest — it takes most of Charms, a constant whispering stream of reassurances and the soft fall of James’s lips against hers that Sirius calms down enough to concentrate on the exercises they’d been working on to turn her arms back to their human form.
11th September 2012
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After five years of sharing a dormitory together, privacy doesn’t really matter: which is why Sirius is stretched out on her bed, half-asleep and still in her robes, watching Remus get undressed.
Her stretch marks catch the light –a network of scarring that runs underneath the bites and scratches of a full moon, a silver filigree that marks where her thighs, hips and chest have grown into curves– and Sirius has to stifle a laugh at that thought.
Remus hears the noise anyway, Sirius shaking her head when she looks askance, but finishes brushing out her hair and putting on her nightclothes – patterned skin catching the light and Sirius’ eye – before sitting next to Sirius’s head, hairbrush in hand.