The strange young man was perhaps the worst rider that Sansa had ever seen.
“Gods be cursed four-footed demon in human form,” he yelped as the horse nearly threw him again, bucking in a circle. “Whose brilliant idea was it for me to ride?”
“Yours, Padfoot,” another young man said, laughing from a safe distance on his much calmer steed. “You said that it had been long enough that you should probably try again, and the direwolves might not enjoy the Dog’s company.”
Source: thepaperplaneofexistenceDarcy meets Daenerys and decides she likes that face. It’s a cute face.
“Why are we doing this again?” Darcy asked her mother.
Ivy Lewis had the sort of elegance that came with being thirty-odd since Julius Ceasar was a twinkle in his mother’s eye, which should have paired oddly with the faded Black Sabbath t-shirt and dye on her fingers. She merely smiled and went back to her attempts to work the wire dipper.
“June asked us to help make them for her granddaughter’s party,” Neal explained. Sadly, in Darcy’s opinion, Neal wasn’t in his usual art clothes. (Which usually meant shirtless. Vintage clothing could be a pain to replace.) The former bootlegger was showing off, delicately hollowing out eggs and carving the shell. Aunt Lucy was painting them, bright blues and dusty roses.
“I don’t think those will be useful for an Easter Egg hunt,” Peter the FBI agent muttered. He’d accepted Neal’s explanation of Mom, Myrnin, and Darcy as siblings, thank god, and Lucy as Mom’s girlfriend. Sadly, Cap hadn’t been able to make it. (And how Aunt Lucy knew Cap would be a very interesting story, Darcy knew. Myrnin would make sense, because Myrnin and Mad Science were an OTP. Bright, bouncy Aunt Lucy who pretended to be a lot sillier than she was?)
“They are for the educational exhibit,” Aunt Lucy said gently, her smile hiding her fangs. “They are hoping to raise money for the houses that shelter the families of the patients. They have a gallery of spring celebrations, and we volunteered to make them.” Aunt Lucy was best known as a session pianist, but she had a love of art. Supposedly she’d learned the trick in the Russian Imperial Court, which… well. Aunt Lucy was a shit liar.
“Any treasures there?” Agent Burke asked. She might have used Mozzie’s “Suit” nickname, but, really, Coulson deserved it more. “Grumpy Suit”, maybe?
Mom tilted her head. “Mostly folk art. Sadly, the attempts at getting a Fabrege Egg failed.” Mom had one of the missing ones- she’d made an effort to rescue lost works during WWII. (The Amber Room, when Neal finally asked Mom, was something that made her frown and mutter dark, dark things. Usually that meant That Asshole Dracula was involved.)
Grumpy Suit looked relieved, and Neal grinned.
Darcy decided to see what they would say if she made a vampire smiley face on her egg.
Source: irenydrawsdeadpeopleVimes wakes up in the shadow of a barricade and immediately assumes the worst. But then it turns out this Enjolras lad’s got all the good parts of Ned Coates and Reg Shoe with very little of the bad, and his second-in-command reminds him a little of Dr. Lawn, and it’s funny, but he gets the feeling this revolution might work out after all.
Javert, meanwhile, finds himself drawn quite against his will into a discussion of the finer points of the law with one Captain Ironfoundersson…
(You can blame this thread for the nonsense above! Don’t ask me how the timeline works, it went all wibbly-wobbly for comedic purposes, okay. ALSO LOOK, A CROSSOVER THAT DOESN’T END IN TEARS!)
One! Day! I’m gone for ONE DAY AND ALL THIS HAPPENS HOW
ANYWAY the Time Monks can make the timeline do whatever is needed we know that, I DON’T CARE WHAT THEY DO because we’re at the barricade and that’s JEHAN AND NO ONE IS DEAD, so I accept it all, I WANT THE WHOLE NOVEL.
I am ABSOLUTELY THRILLED to have been even a small part of this conversation. :D
Verranice drawings, too, btw.
I HELPED.
Labyrinth AU: in which Rumple is the
sneaky littleworm.He hummed and pressed one hand to his chest, fingers twitching and tapping at imaginary keys. ”I’m just a…”
“A what?” she asked, warily.
He pushed his grimy face close to hers and inhaled with deliberate relish, his breath hissing across her cheek warmly as he breathed out. She stepped back, but not before she caught the scent of wormwood, bitter and strong. Eyeing her, he paced backward, his odd appearance melting him into the wall. Belle swallowed, then tilted her chin up - mulish, her father fondly called it - and hoped it made her look unafraid.
Palms poised outward, as if to placate, he smirked.
“What, what.” He tutted. “I am not a what.”
(via oldandnewfirm)
Source: hazycosmiclove
